#that’s the real problem though she knows my nightly routine and always starts crying

[vengeance-is-sworn]

My cats wailing at me likes she’s dying and idk how to explain to her my being in the bathroom is only temporary while I get ready for bed

[anothertimdrakestan]

Tongue Tied - Tim Drake x Reader

Words: 2.4k

Requested? Yes! From a lovely anon!

“Hello lovely author, may I please request a Tim x reader who start as nerd friends, then she finds out about him being Red Robin before he can tell her, and then Red Robin saves her one day and she lets slip that she knows it's Tim. With her smarts, she's able to help him with cases and missions, and the batfam is impressed by how smart she is. You can choose whether it's a romantic ending or not, that's up to you. I just feel like smart Tim needs to be seen more. Thanks😊”

LINK TO PROMPTS & MASTERLIST -> REQUESTS ARE STILL OPEN!

When I tell you I love me a smart reader I LOVE ME A SMART READER! Thank you so much for the wonderful request! Strap in dear anon you set me up for a long one and I really said “get in the car!” I hope you enjoy ; )

In the midst of a mental breakdown you let the flashbacks ensue, that’s the only correct way to lose your mind as everything you thought you knew crumbled around you right?

First you remembered “meeting” Tim Drake-Wayne for the first time. You always put meeting in quotes because you’d been in love with him for months and had sleuthed out his favorite coffee shop just to stumble into him. And because you’re you, nothing can really go as planned can it? Your plan to stumble into Tim was taken more literally when he caught you from tripping as you tried to enter the store, as you pulled yourself from his chest you felt your cheeks redden immediately. 

“Oh my gosh I am such a klutz I’m so sorry” he looked flustered himself, nervously fidgeting with his sweatshirt sleeve. “Oh uh, no problem, are you okay?” he up from his jacket to meet your eyes, and though he’d never tell you his heart melted on the spot, his brother Dick defined it as “love at first sight” but that seemed too cheesy. “I’m fine! You going in here too? This is my favorite spot!” you shook off the nerves, making your way into the cafe. Tim followed you in, and to your surprise paid for your drink. Sitting at a little bar you pulled out some of your college textbooks before you realized Tim and slipped into the seat next to you. 

“You in college?” his voice made you jump, your head jolting up. “Oh - no! I just think this kinda stuff is interesting. Math can predict everything ya know!” you slid your textbook between the two of you, feeling Tim’s shoulder lightly brush yours as he leaned in to read it. “Totally! Like even the golden ratio in nature!” Tim explained excitedly. 

That day turned into texting every single day and hanging out whenever Tim could, and it slowly developed into a best friendship. 

How did you not see the red flags like how Tim could rarely, almost never hangout at night? Or how he’d have strange bruises scattered across his body. Tim always looked dead tired but you knew he didn’t do any activities after school, to be honest the math just didn’t add up, so you took to investigating before making a conclusion - as any good scientist would. And because he’s a messy teenage boy investigation was easy.

While over at the manor Bruce had called Tim to W.E. for some sort of emergency press conference about his younger brother Damian biting a reporter, the interview was only supposed to be a half an hour. So, Tim left you with snacks and Youtube in his room while he threw on a suit and tie, which he looked like an absolute five course meal in - that wasn’t the point. You took the opportunity the riffle through his room, not exactly sure what you were looking for as you pawed through stacks of overdue assignments and dirty clothes. 

With deep breaths you relived the moment that hadn’t stopped playing in your head, finding his Red Robin suit. Throwing open his closet you stifled a laugh at his pajama pants and ratty t-shirts but you choked on air when a deep red and black suit fell from the top of his closet onto your face. Thinking it was some sort of halloween costume you held it up and realized what you were touching. It made sense, the late nights, bruises, frantic cancellations, it all added up except that Tim was the sweetest person you knew, the most loving soul you knew was kicking ass while you struggled through trigonometry. 

Unable to comprehend what was happening you put everything away and went home, shooting Tim some bullshit excuse about your family as your ran up to your room and began making a list - comparing Tim’s absences to Red Robin sightings, googling photos of Red Robin and drawing comparisons to the way he held himself like your best friend. There truly was no denying - Tim Drake was the Red Robin. Then it hit you like a truck - Bruce Wayne was Batman. And you assumed all of Tim’s adoptive family were vigilantes as well. You didn’t sleep that night, trying to make google searches that didn’t give anything away while trying to make a list of everything you discovered. 

Tim was Red Robin. You still couldn’t wrap your mind around it. So you sat in your room at 4am, crying. Because Tim was probably out risking his life for years without you knowing. Everytime you yelled at him for cancelling plans was probably because he was out saving lives and he took all your anger, he let you berate him for scrapping his knees when it was probably the fucking Joker whooping his ass. Is it right to apologize? To tell him what you found out and try to move on with the friendship. Is this like a “now that you know I have to kill you” kinda thing? You weren’t exactly ready to die. 

It seemed like Tim’s secret to keep, it was difficult at first to keep the facade that you didn’t know what he was doing at night, you just tried to always be understanding and appreciative of all the time he made for you. You fell back into the lull of best-friendship, Robin or not, Tim was the best person you knew.

“You’re in love with her Drake” Damian chided, almost annoyed with Tim’s ambivalence on the topic of his life long crush. “Am not, she’s my best friend. It’s not my fault you don’t understand friendships demon” Tim spat back, keeping his head down to hide his blush. “I’m with the demon, you practically worship the ground she walks on” Jason called, drinking straight from.a carton of milk as Dick cried out in disgust before adding his own opinion to the mess that was Tim’s love life. “Sorry kid it’s 3 to 1 which means you have to ask her out for real, remember last time?” Tim glared at the mention of his failed date proposal where you thought he was speaking in strictly hypotheticals. “You can’t out vote me on my own feelings” Tim groaned. “All in favor of allowing us to out vote Tim?” The three raised their hands again as Tim stomped up to his room, he planned on going on a peaceful patrol to plan his dream date for you.

A couple weeks into knowing Tim’s secret you learned that if you climbed to the roof of your apartment building you could see Batman and whomever he took out for patrol flipping around the city late at night. It had become a nightly routine and you’d grown to be able to identify the hero by their style of movement, your notebook filled with notes and sketches about each boy or girl. Then when you hungout with Tim you could match a vigilante’s mannerisms with one of his siblings, it was simple science really. Then you began taking down notes about whoever the Bats were fighting if it was public, discovering little facts and trying to slip Tim subconscious knowledge, it was the least you could do to help your favorite boy on earth. 

But that wasn’t enough, you wanted in on the excitement of crime fighting, to have more knowledge than was on broadcast TV. So you took to the streets of Gotham armed with pepper spray, a pocket knife, and a notepad. You learned tidbits of information that you poured over, working it together until you’d solved a case, then you’d slip hypothetical ideas to Tim throughout the hours of hanging out. You felt like a real life hero, and you were getting better by the day. 

“Jeez Tim it’s like you’ve been working double time! You’re solving cases before they’re even on B’s radar, what’s your secret kid genius?” Dick was stretching on the BatComputer while Tim feverishly typed in his newest solve. “Well I hangout with Y/N! She’s like a good luck charm dude I also get the best ideas when I’m with her! It’s pure magic bro I’m telling you” Tim explained as he frantically finished his report. “Lovers do have that effect! So when are you gonna tell her you’re in loveeeeee” Dick cooed as Tim shook his head. “Shut up Dickwing I’m working” was all he could give Dick without blushing or mixing up his words. He just had to plan something perfect.

But it never was perfect was it? 

Kill Croc was out in the sewer, and you’d taken it upon yourself to help Tim out, you knew people who knew some of the people that helped out Croc and you were determined to find him first at any cost. That’s how you accidentally ended up in a dirty drug deal. 

“Hey Timbers, you’re gonna wanna get to my location asap, I’m pretty sure your girlfriend is in trouble and it would be rude of me not to offer her saving to you” Jason heard a scramble from the other side of the comm as Tim confirmed he was on the way. He watched carefully as you searched for an escape from your capture, normally he would’ve busted the drug dealers for capturing teenagers by now but he was feeling magnanimous, deciding to give Tim the opportunity to save an unsuspecting but terrified Y/N. 

There were definitely no clear exits, you cursed yourself for getting too close. You were not Red Robin, you played the long game you didn’t rush into the arms of armed drug dealers in the name of the law. Your heart was beating out of your chest as they pointed a gun at you, forcing you to walk towards a sketchy delivery truck with the other kids. “Ooh totally not gonna happen!” a familiar voice cheered as glass windows shattered, none other than your best friend stood with a grin. He looked hot as fu- not the time, not the time. 

“Come any closer we’ll blow her brains out!” you felt a loaded pistol connect with the back of your head as you froze, begging to any god to live and promising not to be a field agent ever again. “That’ll be pretty hard without your gun dumbass” Tim called as four batarangs knocked the guns out of all the guy’s hands. Red Hood, who you knew was Jason Todd, burst through the back windows, guns raised. “I thought we had a deal you sorry bitches. Now let these kids go or I’ll show you what blowing brains out really looks like” the men froze, letting everyone escape. 

“Too late for us, but we’re taking the pretty girl with us!” one of the men had picked up their gun, aiming it straight between your eyes and firing. You screeched when a flash of red jumped in front of you. Almost in slomo you watched the bullet connect with Tim’s body. Your scream was deafened by Red Hood’s guns as he knocked all the men completely out. Rushing to Tim’s side you pulling his head into your lap. “Tim! Oh my god Tim are you okay!” you cried as Red Robin pulled off his domino mask to reveal a very confused Tim Drake. “Kevlar, I’m fine, bullets pack a punch but it just knocked the wind out of me, how did you know who I was?” Tim sat up, showing you the bullet sized dent in his suit. 

“We should go somewhere else and I can explain” you smiled sheepishly, letting Tim put his cowl back on as he loops his arm around your waist, pulling you to the top of the nearest building. 

“YOU’VE KNOWN FOR MONTHS” Tim looked shocked as you explained how you figured it out and how you’ve been helping him out for weeks. “Should I have told you? I’m really sorry I just didn’t know I felt like you’d tell me when you were ready” you flinched at Tim’s shout and he calmed down. “To be honest I don’t know, you’re one of few that know who I am, but I’m glad you know, makes this even better” Tim added the last part softly, placing his hand on your cheek to lift your lips to his. Your eyes widened in shock before fluttering closed, kissing him back. The build up of months detangled itself in a night, and kissing Tim was just as perfect as you’d imagined all those years ago. 

“So you’ve really been solving all those cases and you didn’t even tell me! You’re totally amazing at it!” Tim added, almost as if he’d been thinking during the kiss. “Yeah it’s pretty fun, you’re still gonna let me help right? I’m not stopping now!” you poked Tim’s chest while he thought. “I mean I’m pretty sure Babs needs a partner, but no ground work, you saw how well that went tonight, but it’ll be good to have a partner who finally knows everything” Tim exhaled, letting everything off his chest. 

“Partners!” you smiled, leaning in to seal the deal with a kiss. 

“This is totally epic” you stood stunned as the BatCave shined in all it’s glory. “I mean yeah it’s pretty cool, look this is my actual suit, I bet the one you saw was an older model!” Tim let you around the cave, showing off his favorite parts. You squeezed his hand trying to convey how excited you were. “I’m gonna be a better detective than you soon Timmy” you teased as Tim showed you the ropes of the BatComputer. “In your dreams babe” he rolled his eyes. “Babe huh? Didn’t realize you asked me out” you scrunched your nose at Tim while he blushed. “Oh uh, see I meant to, but yeah, I definitely should do that like-” you cut him off “yes Tim I’ll be your girlfriend you idiot” you laughed at how tongue tied the loveable boy was. You weren’t going to pretend like you didn’t get flustered around him either - you practically tripped on your own feet the first time you met him, but look how far you’d came from there. 

From friends to partners to lovers and probably everything in between, you were finally Tim’s in every way, working side by side was the best thing to ever happen to both of you. That’s not quite right. Tim Drake himself was just simply the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And you to him. And that’s truly love at it’s finest. 

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Jigsaw // Blue: Part Two

Jabberwocky

A/N: Moving right along with Blue- Billy learned that not all of his memories can be trusted, but one powerful one strikes through. But even as he finds answers, two questions still remain: where are you, and how did this happen?

Warning: Psychological trauma, brief mention of sexual abuse, language, another angst fest.

Word Count: 4,038

Prompt from: @its-my-little-dumpster-fire

Billy’s life had always been ruled by routine. In the home, in the military, in the workforce; there was always somewhere to be or something to do and an allotted amount of time in which to do it. It was no different in the hospital. He’d wake from dreams, covered in sweat and breathing heavily, and minutes later his door would open. If it was a therapy day, Dr. Dumont would come in, her shiny dark hair twisted into a tight bun, her face twisted up by her sugar-sweet smile. She’d undo his cuffs and they’d clang against the bedrails. He’d rub at his wrists and either sit up in the bed or drag himself to the chairs by the window- wherever Dumont decided to hold the session that day. She’d ask her questions and push his buttons, then she and her smile and her hastily scribbled notes would leave the room. Like clockwork, a nurse would come in with medications rattling in a paper cup held outstretched in a shaking hand. The meathead orderly assigned to protect the medical staff from Billy did little to assuage their fears, even though he’d never done anything threatening; it seemed that his presence alone was enough to incite an involuntary reaction.

After the medication was dispensed, the frazzled nurse would leave, practically tripping over themselves to get back to the safety of the hallway, but the orderly would stay, standing guard by the door while Billy was allowed an hour or two of “physical activity”. He’d been cleared recently to do light body weight exercises; pushups, sit ups, dips. That time slot was filled with equal parts frustration and determination as he worked daily to build back the muscle that was lost to months of atrophy. He’d roll the sleeves of his hospital issued hoodie up his scrawny forearms, and drop to the floor to exert himself to the point of fatigue. His current counts were at 24 pushups, 52 sit ups, and a whopping 13 dips- a far cry from his former physique, and while it was better than the 0, 0 and 0 that he’d been capable of when he started, the bottom line was that over the last decade or two, Billy Russo had grown accustomed to power. Feeling this weak was just as detrimental to his mental state as everything else that was working against him, and improving his stamina and rebuilding that muscle was the one thing that Dr. Dumont had suggested that he wholeheartedly agreed with.

The rest of the day was just as regimented: shower, back in the cuffs, meals, back in the cuffs, out of the bed to take a goddamn piss, back in the cuffs until morning. Lather, rinse repeat. There wasn’t a lot of wiggle room in the routine, but there was a lot of time to think. Normally he’d dissect every detail of his dreams, searching for something he recognized, something that would bring the shadows to light. Usually he’d rack his brain, pick through the shards and try to find anything that could solve the riddle of the skull. But that had taken a backseat ever since you started stumbling through his nightly visions; ever since he realized that he couldn’t trust his own memories, even the ones he felt sure of. You threw a wrench right into that routine.

It took him a full week to finally come to terms with the fact that he hadn’t taken you to the Marine Ball; to believe Dr. Dumont’s insistence that he hadn’t come back from deployment until well after the ball had come and gone. If it hadn’t been for the flash of a memory that caused him to fall out of a pushup- an incident that happened that had actually delayed his unit on that deployment rather than getting them home ahead of schedule- he’d probably still swear to himself that he could remember the way his white gloves slid over your blue dress, or the way your lips tasted like your tears. But when he relayed that vision in a session, Krista had confirmed it, showing him military records that backed it up. “So you see, Billy?” She tilted her head, that sinuous smile twisting her features, “You see? The ball...it was a dream.”

“Yeah.” He’d answered monotonously. “Yeah, doc I see.”

She nodded with what he assumed she meant to be encouragement, but just came off as condescension. “Good. I know it’s hard, but sifting through and recognizing reality is what’s going to bring all your real memories back.”

Billy’s left leg bounced erratically as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “She is a real memory,” he snarled, ignoring an itch on the bridge of his nose. “She’s real she’s...she’s somewhere and…” his nostrils flared and the sound of his breathing was amplified by the mask. He pounded his fist against his knee to stop the shaking and to prove his point. “Look I know I didn’t take her dancin’, but don’t you sit there and, and, and tell me that she’s some fuckin’...some figment of my fucked imagination, okay doc? ‘Cause…’cause I know…” his fist pounded the center of his chest. “I feel it...I know….”

“Billy,” she held one up palm facing him. “Billy, please stop that…” she tilted her head and pumped her hand in a cautious gesture, the way one might approach a rabid stray, a beast on a broken leash, something that should be put down. “Billy, I’m sorry. You’re right, she is real. She’s a real person.” He froze on her words, fist falling to his lap. “She’s real, Billy. There are photos of the two of you…”

“Lemme see.”

She shook her head slightly, not a single hair falling out of place. A flash cut through his mind, so potent that it made him wince- a clear, cloudless sky, a soft blue scarf, and your hair glinting in the sun, falling in your face. “I don’t have them with me, Billy, they’re...I have some of them in a file in my office, but-”

“Go get them.” He nodded toward the door before both hands landed on the top of his head. “Go get them. Go I wanna...I want to see them.” I want to see her.

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea, Billy, she… she seems to be a … a trigger for you, for your-”

He stood with such force that his chair fell backwards and for the first time since these little sessions started, he thought he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. Good. “I said,” he spoke through tight teeth. “Go get the fucking pictures, Krista.”

Her hands were both up now, and she rose slowly. “Alright. Okay.” That little flicker was back under control as she raised her chin. Billy paced a few steps back and forth impatiently. “Billy?” He turned in her direction, blinking at her from behind the dark black paint he’d splattered around the eye holes in his mask. “I need you to sit back down, okay? Sit down, please, and I’ll go grab the file and the pictures, and I’ll come right back.” He watched her swallow, a lump moving down her throat. The fear might be gone from her eyes, but he could still smell it on her and it filled him with satisfaction. She’s always makin’ me talk about fear and nightmares and shit… He was glad to give her a dose of her own prescription.

He adjusted his neck and shoulders, a slight pop coming from the tension as he bent to right his chair, sitting back down in it like he had nothing but respect for proper decorum. Cracking his knuckles and working his jaw, he kept his eyes on her. “I’ll be waiting.”

She hurried to the door before regaining her composure, yanking at her skirt and running her fingers over her hair despite the fact that it was still perfectly in place. Her heels clicked down the hall until he could no longer hear them, and as soon as there was silence it was replaced by a whooshing sound as blood rushed in his ears. I knew it. I knew she...I knew it. He felt his pulse quicken at the thought of getting to see you, see your face with his eyes and not just in his head. Another flash tore through his brain, and somehow he knew what pictures Krista was about to come back with. A statue, some gibberish, your laugh as his arms came around your waist and his lips found the spot on your throat that made you gasp his name.

“Billy,” your voice hit his ear like a chime on the breeze as you twisted in his grasp to face him. The sky was clear but the early spring air was still crisp and your breath puffed out from your lips, a pink tint coloring your cheeks. You placed your hands on either side of his face and smiled at him. “Billy, there’s kids all over the place, you gotta keep it together, lieutenant.” The flicker in your eyes told him that was the last thing that you wanted- him to keep it together- that what you wanted more than anything was for him to ravish you right there in the park, take you right there in the grass to the right of the sidewalk where your feet were planted.

He shrugged. “Not my kids, not my problem.” His fingers combed your hair back from your face as he waited for your reaction.

You snorted and shook your head, reaching for his hand. “Come on, we’re not even there yet. You said I could show you my favorite part of the park. We’re almost there,” you tugged on his hand and he let you. “And then later, you can do all the things you’re thinking right now, Russo.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He answered, trying to keep his tone even and professional.

You led him a few more yards down the winding path until it opened up and a large bronze statue came into view- toadstools and a rabbit with a pocket watch, Alice holding court atop the largest mushroom, and the Mad Hatter leaning on the one directly next to her. You spread your arms wide, hand still holding his. “Ta-da!” Your grin pulled your pink cheeks up, your scarf coming untied at your dramatic gesture. “My favorite place.” Pulling him closer, you wrapped your arm around his waist. “With my favorite person.”

Billy looked over his shoulder playfully. “Someone else here I don’t know about?” When he turned back to you, you were shaking your head, a wistful look in your eyes. “What? What are you lookin’ at me like that for?”

“You know damn well what, Billy.”

The door handle turning and the click of Krista’s heels re-entering the room yanked Billy back to the present. He fought the urge to stand again, but he brought one hand up to his face and peeled the mask back, staring at the manilla folder in her hands. He tapped his thumb anxiously against his pointer finger. “I still don’t know if this is the best idea, Billy,” Dr. Dumont crossed the room slowly, fingers slipping inside the folder’s opening to rifle through the charts and notes and whatever other information she was hoarding on him. “But,” she sighed. “Maybe it will help.” She regained her position across from Billy and he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, so that there were only inches between them.

Krista opened the folder fully, flipping through the first few layers until she got to a smaller envelope. She pulled that out, shutting the folder and sticking it under her notepad. Billy watched her unwind the string that kept the envelope shut, heart pounding against his ribs. He sucked in a breath as she extracted a stack of three photos from the paper sleeve. Billy’s throat went dry and he nearly choked on a breath. Thumb and finger of his left hand still tapping together, he reached silently with his right hand, eyes trained on the photos. “Can I…” suddenly all the rage he’d felt before drained from him and it was replaced with desperation, with need. “Please…” He felt a furrow form in his scarred forehead as his mouth twitched downward.

Krista looked down at the images in her hand and then back up at Billy before handing them over carefully. “Here,” she whispered, folding her hands over the items in her lap and eyeing him quietly as he gaped at the photos in his shaking fingers.

The world spun and the air was punched from his lungs as he tried and failed to keep his eyes from watering. It’s...it’s her… she… An anguished sob fell from his lips as a sledgehammer hit his heart. His thumb brushed over the glossy print out, tracing over your face as though he could feel your skin through the photo. You were smiling, a big one, the kind that would nearly shut your eyes. Your soft lips were stained a muted pink, and one hand was raised to try to keep a breeze-blown strand of hair from getting in your mouth. You were tucked tightly against Billy’s chest, your other arm wound around his back, the pose seeming as natural, as right as anything in the world. He panned over and up a few inches to take in the image of himself- of the man he used to be. His thumb came up to block himself out, focusing only on you. He flipped to the next one- same pose, but his own fingers reached up to keep the hair from your face, closing around yours and causing your smile to change just enough to scrunch your nose a bit. He felt that hammer hit his heart again, little fissures bursting open. She’s always smilin’... He squeezed his eyes shut and felt a tear fight its way through his lashes. She’s...fuck I miss her… “Where is she?” he mumbled quietly, flipping to the next one.

“I don’t know anything damn well,” He responded, smirking down at you.

You rolled your eyes and raised on your toes to leave a quick kiss to the corner of his grin. “You got that right.” You turned toward the statue and took a few steps closer, Billy following you, hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I used to come here a lot when I was younger, you know?” You sniffed against the cold.

“Yeah?” he stepped next to you, looking down to watch your face as you told him about a piece of your past.

You nodded, reaching out to run your hands over the smooth patina of the closest toadstool. “Yeah. When I got old enough to leave home on my own? I’d come here to get away from…” Your smile became sad then, and you shook your head slightly.

Billy understood. You’d told him about your step-father; about the way he treated your mother, and the things he’d say to you as his eyes lingered a little too long on parts of you that he shouldn’t be concerned with. His arm came around you wordlessly and he tugged you closer to himself. He couldn’t protect you then, but he could now, and he vowed to himself that he would. You leaned into him, your arm going around his back, hand finding its way into his pocket, and he was struck by how good it felt to know that you trusted him, even with things like this.

You cleared your throat. “Alice had Wonderland, and I had Central Park. I had this statue. I’d come here and just...daydream. Sometimes I’d bring my sketch pad and draw.” You gave a light squeeze around his midsection before disentangling yourself from him. He dropped his arm, letting you go so that you could take another few steps before bending down to the concrete circle that ran around the edges of the whimsical sculpture. Billy kept his eyes on you, following you closely. You ran your fingers through the words that were engraved into the sidewalk and a grin came back to light your eyes. “The Jabberwocky,” you said fondly before looking up at him.

“The what?” he looked down at the ground as you sat cross-legged, and joined you after brushing some dirt away from the spot. You continued to trace the letters and he followed your fingers.

You laughed to yourself. “The Jabberwocky.” You indicated the engraved text. “It’s a poem...it’s a nonsense poem, about a monster that Alice fought on one of her adventures. All made up words...Bandersnatches and vorpal swords…” you laughed again and looked up at him. “But I loved it. I figured if Alice could slay a monster, so could I.”

Somewhere in the distance the shrieking sounds of childish delight echoed through the fields. Blue and red balloons bobbed on strings in tightly closed fists. Happy families strolled the pathways as blossoms and buds started opening on trees and shrubs. But all he could see was you. “You could. I believe it. Viper sword or not.”

“Vorpal sword,” you corrected, scooting closer.

“Whatever,” he grinned at you before standing, extending a hand to help you up. “Hey, it’s chilly, you wanna get movin’?”

“What do you remember, Billy?” Krista’s voice cut through the clear sky and pulled him back to the overwhelmingly white room.

“She, she, she took me to the statue...in,” his free hand ran over the top of his head before he dragged it down his face, fingers running through the ridges of the scars on his cheeks. “In the park. It was…” He flipped to the last photo and a weight dropped into his stomach. “It was right before I left...she wanted...wanted to show me her favorite place.”

You pulled back on his hand to get his attention. “Wait, Billy.” He turned back to you, raising one eyebrow. “Wait, I-” you dug in your pocket for your phone, unlocking the screen and opening the camera. “I want a picture of us. Here.” You waved your hand towards the sculpture, and let it fall to your side. “I… you’re leaving, Billy. In a few days and…” you bit your bottom lip. “And I want a picture, before you go.” You looked up at him pleadingly. “Okay?”

Billy felt something swim through his chest then, something he’d never felt before, and suddenly he hated the fact that he was shipping out. “Yeah. Anything you want, here…” he held his hand out for your phone, the other arm slipping around you to pull you close, more swiftly that either of you anticipated and it drew a laugh from your lips. He smiled and snapped two photos in quick succession, the sound of your laughter mixing with that new feeling in his chest. He snapped a third one, but he hadn’t noticed that you’d turned to look up at him, still looking at the camera.

“Billy,” you whispered, and he handed you back your phone, turning to face you. You took it and stuck it back in your pocket without looking at the pictures, and he noted the way your eyes swept over his face- as though you were trying to memorize every curve, every angle. “Billy, I...can you do something else for me?”

“Yeah,” he answered, tilting his head. “Yeah, I told you, anything you want.”

“This is something I need, Billy...I…” you rarely stumbled over your words, hardly ever hesitated, so he knew that this was serious. “Billy, I need you to promise you’re coming back, okay? I...I care about you, Russo. I...I need you.”

He recognized that new feeling then at your words. It was need. He needed you, too. Needed this, needed this feeling, this trust this… “I promise.” Everything else faded as he reached for you then, as his hand conformed to the back of your head, lips crashing to yours to validate the promise, to show you that he needed you just as much. You responded immediately, grabbing fistfuls of his thick hair, bending your body closer to his, pressing your chest against his own until he swore he could feel your heart beneath your scarf and your coat. He kissed you hard, but not aggressively, with urgency, but without rushing, taking his time to let his tongue explore your mouth while his lips parted to allow yours to do the same; taking his time to kiss you so thoroughly that you couldn’t possibly question how he felt and how seriously he took his promise.

As he pulled away, you gasped to catch your breath, and your tongue flicked out to wet your lips, like you were still chasing the taste of his kiss. “Wow,” you breathed, falling into him.

His arm tightened around you has his hand rubbed a small circle on your back. He dropped another kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair. “Yeah, wow.”

“I...I...I promised her I’d...she needs me and...I…” He stood then, but slowly this time, his chair staying put. “I told her I’d come back to her but then...I didn’t...I didn’t, did I?” He looked to Dr. Dumont for answers, eyes falling to the folder she still held. He pointed to it. “What else is in there? What else? Did I...is she...where is she?”

Krista shook her head. “These were the last photos of the two of you that she shared on her old social media accounts, Billy. It…” she shrugged. “It seems like you two broke it off while you were away. Does that...do you remember that?”

Billy sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “No.” He said it angrily, though he didn’t know who he was angry with. “No, I wouldn’t have…” He shook his head quickly in agitation. I...why would I? No. No I wouldn’t have… “No. I didn’t...I...I love her I wouldn’t… I didn’t.”

Krista sighed. “I don’t know what happened, Billy. These are the last pictures you took together.”

He pointed to the folder again, taking a step closer. “What else is in there, huh? What else does it say?” The hand he pointed with came to his head, gripping the top. Come on, fucking think...what did I...“Emails! I...I...I remember she sent me emails, while I was over there. And, and, and I...we talked on Skype sometimes. There’s...in there... you have phone records? What else is in the fucking folder, Krista?” His cheeks were wet and his bottom lip was quivering and he hated how every time a piece fell into place three more questions sprang up. “What aren’t you fucking telling me?” He caught his reflection in the window and froze. He looked crazed, like an animal. Like a monster. Like a jabberwocky.

She stood, tucking the folder and the notepad under her arm. “Billy, I think that’s enough for today.” She held her hand up again. “You’re doing really well, Billy. You’re remembering things more clearly.” A small shake of her head made his top lip curl. “I don’t want to interfere with that.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re almost there, Billy, can’t you feel that? You’ve almost solved it.” She reached for his arm and placed her hand there. He yanked it away as though she’d touched him with a hot poker, but it didn’t seem to phase her, that stubborn fearlessness back now that he was drowning in questions again; now that she had him on the ropes once more. “Hold on to those pictures if you want, if you think it will help.” Of course I want them...of course it helps… “I’ll see you in two days, Billy.”

With that she was gone and he was left with the photos in his hand and his reflection in the window. He walked over to it, looking down at the world 18 stories below; at the streets he used to walk through with you. What fuckling happened...how...how did this happen to me?

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @lexxierave @thebbtongue @thesumofmychoices @gollyderek @zaffrenotes @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @lysawayne @audreychaz @roses-in-your-country-house @traeumerinwitzhelden @luminex3 @songtoyou @songforhema @ymariejp @belladonnarey @breanime @stories-you-wont-hear

[dreadhaus-literature]

{January Collection} #14

A Different Kind of Holy

Monday’s Theme: Obsessive Love

This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Someone who actually answers your prayers?

Monica didn’t know when He’d started listening to her. That timeline was a little blurred, because anytime she asked He just smiled, brushed her cheek with the tip of His wing and told her, “I’ve always been with you, silly girl. Don’t you know how Guardian Angels work?”

Monica didn’t think they were supposed to work like this.

It started off small, insidious, like smoke from a fire too small to be a threat--but small fires always grow. Monica had lost her faith years ago and it haunted her, annoyed her, filled her with a pointlessness she didn’t know how to combat, but faith from birth was a hard habit to break. Why was she talking to some imaginary guy in the sky, again? No one was listening.

Except...Someone was listening.

Are you familiar with what they say, about listening too closely in a silent room? Be careful, because you might start to hear things you shouldn’t, and they might start to notice you right back--the same goes for speaking. Be careful what you say when you think you’re alone, because someone is always listening, and they might start to notice you.

He noticed.

From the darkened corner of her bedroom He began to watch, to listen, using her voice the same way a flower soaks up water and sunlight. The more she spoke to nothing, the more He came closer to her, latching onto each spoken word as a dying man grasps a life preserver in the center of the deep blue sea. He could taste the desperation in her tone, the way she wanted someone, anyone to be real, to answer her, and He found Himself compelled to do just that. Someone had to give her what she wanted. Why not Him?

And so, one night, He appeared...and never left.

At first Monica was stunned, but ecstatic. Someone was listening to her! There was a Heaven, there had to be, where else would He have come from? He was an angel; He had wings with a span longer than her entire body, feathers soft as silk and black as night. His hair was long enough to brush against his ankles and moved as if sentient, as if He was floating beneath the ocean waves; Monica loved to hold her hands near Him just to watch in awe as His hair reached for her, curled around her fingers, her wrist--tying them together. He was unfathomably tall, so that He had to duck through doorways and when He lay in bed with her, His feet hung off the bottom of the bed--though that didn’t ever seem to be a problem for Him, because He curled around her protectively every single time so that she couldn’t move. His body seemed carved from marble, all sinewy muscle and untouched beauty, and His fingers ended with sharp nails longer than any she could ever hope to grow. Those nails sometimes bit into her skin when He listened to her prayers, but Monica hadn’t thought anything of it; it was just a coincidence it happened every single time she mentioned someone else in her life.

Right?

Monica had asked His name one day, but He’d feathered His thumb over her lower lip and smiled as He explained, “Your sweet human mouth could not pronounce my given name, little girl. You may call me Angel, if you’d like.”

Angel was beautiful, breath-taking to behold, so that the first few times He appeared Monica did have trouble finding her breath. He looked like the Elves of fairy tales; His skin was ethereal in it’s iridescence, His ears long and ending on a point sharp enough to seemingly prick her fingers on, and His smile betrayed teeth sharp and straight like a pixie’s was rumored to be. She could barely take His attention, and it seemed she had all of it. The way He smiled at her, the way His curious, obsidian eyes glowed when He looked at her--she could only see herself reflected in those dark pools and she was flattered. He never spoke of anyone else, and Monica had asked--

“You’re...just my guardian angel, right? No one else?”

It might not have been appropriate to ask, and she didn’t know what she would have done if He’d told her that wasn’t how it worked, but He’d trailed His long, sharp nail down the rise and fall of her nose with a soft chuckle. “You have my entirety, Monica. This is what you want, isn’t it?”

Monica had said yes at the time...but she didn’t entirely know what she was agreeing to.

As time went on, Angel seemed to change. Not toward her, but Monica’s life was more assuredly not the same as it had been. Interested young men suddenly vanished after Monica told Angel about dinner and movie dates. Friends over the computer suddenly never signed on again after Monica got into slight disagreements with them and told Angel about them in her nightly prayers. The more time passed, the more Monica couldn’t chalk it up to coincidence and it seemed as soon as she accepted what was happening, Angel stopped trying to hide what he was doing.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Angel asked one evening as he was licking the blood of one of her friends from his clawed hands. “Someone who answers your prayers? You told me what they’d said upset you. Now they can’t hurt you anymore.”

Monica had been stunned to silence, a thought sent up to the friend she’d just lost--but it was a thought that couldn’t stick, because Angel stepped closer, that wealth of dark hair surrounding her, blocking out the room around her as he searched her face, confused.

“Please don’t be afraid, Monica,” Angel’s pleading sounded musical and Monica couldn’t find it in her to turn away from that beautiful face. “I just want to take care of you.”

The first time Angel kissed Monica, he’d also left the blood of her murdered friend staining her cheek.

Eventually, Monica learned not to make friends. She learned not to date. And like most sufferers of Stockholm Syndrome, she told herself she was happier this way. After all, it made Angel happy. He hated when she spoke of others, and he’d convinced her that other people didn’t need to hurt her to be a threat.

“They’ll hurt you eventually, little one. I cannot stand for that.”

But as long as Monica never spent too much time talking to anyone else, they didn’t have to die and Angel could be happy with the web he was slowly spinning around his captured prey.

It wasn’t to say that Angel wasn’t enough for Monica--he was everywhere, at all times. Monica was never alone, and she’d almost forgotten the feeling of what loneliness even was. When she woke up, there he was, his body curled so possessively around hers she couldn’t move and had to ask him to get up. During the day as she moved around her home he followed, and she often felt the brush of his fingers along her throat, her arm, her own hand, as she went about her daily routines. He wasn’t around in the same sense as another human being, and she was a little afraid to ask where he was when he wasn’t physically right beside her--but as soon as she spoke his name, or spoke at all, he manifested so startlingly close he stole her breath.

He seemed the most happy when she called for Him. He was always breathless Himself as He caught her up in His eternal embrace, her smaller frame nearly lose amongst the loose cloth of His clothes, the swirl of His hair, the seeking fingers at the end of long, covetous arms.

“You called for me, little one,” He exhales against her hair, nosing to find the shell of her ear. “It is me you want, isn’t it?”

Angel is a vocal being, and He likes for Monica to be, too. He does whatever He can to hear her voice, and that sentiment truly does mean anything. He doesn’t care what she’s saying as long as she’s talking to Him, crying for Him, moaning for him. He’ll spend hours inside her, moving within her the way a snake moves over water, burying Himself so deeply she’ll feel the evidence of it in a month’s time.

“You’re all i need, Monica.” He’ll lace his fingers with hers as she’s gasping for air, her body on the verge of giving up He’s been fucking her for so long. “Can you tell, it is you I’ve loved all this time?”

It is love, but it is a love all-consuming like fire. He is her Guardian, but He is her Guardian the same way a gilded bird cage is still a cage.

“You’ve told me you loved me too. You’ve told me this is what you want. What you’ve asked for. You cannot take it back, now.”

Monica doesn’t know if Angel is who He says He is. Do angels behave this way? She’s never met another, so she has no way of knowing. All she knows is what He tells her.

“You’ll be safe as long as you stay with me, my love. I promise. we have the rest of eternity for me to prove my devotion to you.”

Monica had no doubt He would. A Guardian Angel never breaks a promise, Angel says.

[starryeyed-char]

Freckles, Flaws, and First Steps

Wow my title isn’t one word for once. This is a one-shot for the below prompt from @alexandrbello which I got a while ago. Sorry for just posting this now, my life has been w i l d. Hopefully you guys are glad to see some writing!

AU where lance had freckles but is ashamed of them so he hides them and then he runs out of whatever he covered himself with and anxiety, then keith comfort and klance, lots of klance please, thanks

You got it.

Lance had always been an outdoorsy kid.

It wasn't surprising, considering how close his house was to the beach. Growing up, the ocean was practically part of his backyard.

No matter what, if Lance wasn't at school or doing any number of chores, he could be found at the beach. Rain or shine, night and day, whatever the circumstance, no one could stand between him and the shore.

His older brother liked to joke that Lance could swim in the ocean before he could walk. Lance's sister complained that he tracked sand into the house. And his parents were driven near mad by his never ending sneaking out so he could collect seashells, or do something else of the kind.

Pictures of Lance as a child, with his freckled face and bright smile full of his missing baby teeth, were hung all over the house.

However, when Lance got a little older... well. His sudden growth spurt came with its fair share of acne, sending him into his awkward years without warning.

Lance had never been one of the most popular kids, though he had a decent amount of friends. But the abrupt changes made him the subject of a lot of teasing.

Lance became fixated on his appearance. He tried every facial routine he could think of, getting into numerous ridiculous hygiene habits that amused his family to no end.

But it worked.

Face masks were his saving grace, and after wearing them every night to what seemed like no end for a while, they began to fix his problem.

Due to all the crazy practices he entertained, Lance now got compliments on how clear his skin was, how smooth, how attractive a young man he was growing up to be.

He still wasn't satisfied, though.

Because the freckles that'd dusted across his nose and cheeks for as long as he could remember now just seemed like more blemishes to him. More imperfections that he should get rid of. But no amount of skin routines would make them go away.

He didn't plan it. Lance's sister had asked him to get her phone from her room, and the makeup was just... sitting there. He took it on a whim, used it once, and... after that, he couldn't stop.

He just looked so much better without them. Finally, there was nothing in his appearance for people to use against him. Nothing that couldn't be easily hidden from other people.

He never told his sister, and she never asked, but she knew. Lance knew that she did. It was in the sad glances she cast his way, the pointed looks at where his freckles were supposed to be. And the way that from that point on, she bought him foundations and concealers perfect for his skin, masking both the freckles and the fact that he was hiding anything at all.

And that was just the way it was. He'd wear makeup during the day, a face mask at night, and not let anyone see him in between.

Until he ran out.

In retrospect, Lance should've realized he'd use up his stash eventually. But that didn't stop him from panicking. He didn't even notice that the amount of makeup he kept in his bathroom was dwindling until it was too late. He'd always thought they'd visit Earth before he got himself in this situation.

Allura had given him all sorts of Altean facial creams, but he'd been too scared to ask her about makeup. He knew for a fact Pidge despised any sort of cosmetics with a passion, and he hadn't been able to find anything at the Space Mall the few times they'd been there.

Lance was racking his brain for other possible solutions when a knock sounded at the door.

“Mierda.”

“Lance? You in there? This isn't the first time you've skipped breakfast, but if you don't hurry it up we're going to start training without you. And then you'll whine that you weren't included.”

Lance resisted the urge to curse again. Anyone but Keith. Back at the Garrison, Lance had always shut himself in the bathroom to do his morning and nightly routines, but he was sure Hunk had his suspicions. Pidge too, probably.

But Keith? Seeing him like this? Lance definitely did not need that.

“Um, I'm really not... feeling well. I think maybe I better sit out on training, for today?” With luck, he'd be able to sneak out on a pod and find some place where he could get the space equivalent of makeup. If they caught him coming back he'd just say he was meeting up with some alien girl.

“Lance, Lotor's on the move. We can't slack off on training just because you're feeling a bit under the weather,” Keith told him, sounding nothing short of exasperated. “I know you're tired, but we've got to power through it.”

“I... really don't think that's a good idea,” Lance replied, already ducking inside his bathroom, returning to his search. Surely he must have something he could use. “I'd probably just get in your way? It's fine, just train without me, I'll work extra hard tomorrow. Promise.”

Lance could practically hear the frown in Keith's voice. “Lance, what's going on in there? Are you okay?”

“Told you, I'm just sick!” Lance said quickly. “Nothing to worry about. Just go ahead and start training, Mr. Fearless Leader.”

Socially oblivious as Keith was, it didn't take much for him to notice that Lance was speaking way too high and fast for him to be as relaxed as the words would imply.

“Lance,” Keith warned. “What are you not telling me?”

Lance shook his head, though Keith couldn't see it. “Nothing! I swear! I just don't feel so well, there's no need to—”

“Are you hiding another injury?” Keith interrupted, voice now angry. “Lance, if you need to use a pod then just do it! You're going to get yourself killed, thinking you can take care of this stuff yourself.”

“Well, I highly doubt a pod could fix this,” Lance muttered to himself, forgetting that Keith could hear everything he said.

The silence stretched just long enough for Lance to realize his mistake, before Keith spoke again.

“That's it.” His voice shook. “I'm coming in. You better not be bleeding to death when I get in there.”

Lance immediately locked himself inside his bathroom, just as he heard the telltale swish of his room's door sliding open.

“Keith, I'm telling you, I'm fine! Go back to the others!”

“I'm supposed to be the leader now, right? So, let me in! That's an order!” Keith pounded on the door.

Lance was really starting to panic now. His breaths came in short, heavy gasps as he sunk onto the floor. He didn't want any of them to find out, not like this. Not ever preferably, and especially not Keith.

What if they'd tease him about it, like they did with every other flaw he had? What if they did exactly what the kids at school had, all those years ago? Lance wouldn't be able to stand it.

Just another thing to add to the list of why he was different than everyone else.

He hated the way he looked, but in their eyes he was cool, handsome. Or... he hoped to be.

But if they saw him like this, at his worst, saw the real Lance... if they knew how ugly he was, underneath the mask he put up...

Lance felt tears welling up in his eyes, which only increased at the thought of how stupid it was that he was crying over this, like a quiznaking baby.

“Lance?!”

With a resigned sigh, Lance opened the door, only to bury his face in his knees again.

Keith only took a step inside the bathroom, looking around. “Wha— oh my god, you're okay. Well, you're crying, but... why are you crying?”

Lance let out a short laugh at that, but it was probably equally hysterics. He looked up, and Keith's eyes widened when they landed on Lance's face. “You happy now?”

“Woah,” Keith whispered. If Lance hadn't hid his face again, he might've noticed that Keith was blushing. “Since... since when do you have freckles?”

Lance picked up an empty bottle of foundation and promptly chucked it at him, but there was no real force behind it. Keith dodged easily. “Since I ran out,” he said bitterly.

“Ran out...?” Keith looked down at the bottle on the ground beside him, then slowly brought his gaze back to Lance. “You mean to tell me you've been covering your freckles with makeup this entire time?”

“Several years, actually,” Lance corrected. “But yes, that includes the whole of our space adventure.”

Keith whistled. “Dude, I thought you couldn't keep a secret to save your life, the way you always run your mouth.”

Lance snorted, ducking his face further down as more tears welled up in his eyes. “You'd be surprised.”

Keith didn't respond for a moment. Then—

“Why?”

Lance glanced back up, against his better judgment. “Why what?”

“Why'd you hide them?” Keith asked, looking genuinely curious, much to Lance's surprise.

“Why?” Lance echoed. He gestured at his face. “They're ugly. I'm ugly.”

Keith's eyebrows furrowed. “You actually believe that?”

“It's what I've been told,” Lance mumbled with a sigh, leaning his head back against the walI. “I hate them. I wish they'd just... disappear.”

“But why?”

“Have you not been paying attention?” Lance glared at him. “They're ugly! I wish I didn't have any stupid freckles!”

Keith hummed, and sat down beside him. “I don't know. I think freckles are cute.”

Lance gaped at him, thinking he must've misheard. “Wh... I'm sorry, what?!”

“You heard me. There's nothing wrong with them. They're cute.”

Lance stared at the ground. “Well, that's what you think, but I still... I don't like them. They just... I see them when I look in the mirror, and I see everything wrong with me. They remind me that I'm far from perfect. Every flaw, everything I try to pretend isn't there. I know it's stupid, but I guess... I guess I feel like maybe if I hide them, and forget about them, maybe I'll be able to forget about all the other stuff, too.”

“I'm not going to tell you you're not flawed, because you definitely are,” Keith began, and Lance rolled his eyes. “But, so are the rest of us. None of us are perfect. That's what makes us human— our flaws are a part of us. Just like your freckles are a part of you. There's nothing wrong with that.”

Lance laughed, rubbing at his eyes. “And here you don't think you're a good leader. Last time I checked, you couldn't even listen to advice, let alone give it.” His smile was small, but at least it was there. That was enough for Keith. “And I hate to break it to you, Keith, but you're not actually a human. Half alien, remember?"

“Well, Allura and Coran are both full-on aliens, and they're not perfect either. Everyone on this castle has their fair share of issues.”

“Oh, really? What's wrong with Coran and Allura, then?”

Keith schooled his features into a perfectly straight face. “Their ears,” he said, in a terrible British accent. “Are hideous.”

Lance snorted.

“I mean, really,” Keith continued, now grinning. “You're expected to hide your freckles and they just walk around with those pointy abominations visible all the time? They look like elves!”

Lance was full on laughing now. “And now you're making jokes? Who are you, and what've you done with the real Keith?”

“In all seriousness, though, you wouldn't want me to cover it with makeup if my skin started turning purple, would you?” Keith asked.

Lance shook his head, looking confused by the very idea. “Of course not. That wouldn't matter to us.”

“Even though I'd hate it?” Keith pressed, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Well, yeah, of course I wouldn't— oh.”

“Exactly. You don't have to be uncomfortable around us, Lance. We're... we're almost like family, at this point. You shouldn't have to hide parts of yourself from us.” Keith told him, then sighed. “But if you want to, I can try and help you find something else to cover them.”

  Lance considered this. “No, it's... it's fine. I think you're right. Maybe flaws are something to be proud of, not hidden. Why pretend to be perfect if you know it's impossible, right?”

Keith smiled again. “I can tell them not to ask, if you want.”

“I think I want to hear what they have to say.”

Keith led Lance out of his room by hand, going towards the training deck where the other four paladins were waiting.

Shiro just did a double take, but ultimately acknowledged it with nothing more than a friendly smile and nod Lance's way.

Pidge just took one look at him and grumbled something about how it was unfair that she only ever burned in the sun.

Hunk patted his shoulder, giving him a look that plainly said, 'I totally knew, but I'm glad you're doing this.'

Allura walked right up to him, face curious. Lance felt Keith tense beside him as she openly stared. “I didn't know humans could have markings like these...”

Lance nodded, trying to keep from growing anxious. “They're called freckles.”

“Freckles,” she repeated, as if testing the word on her tongue. Finally she grinned, reaching out and pinching one of his cheeks, pointing at the pink Altean markings on her own face. “We match!”

Lance let out a breath, and felt Keith squeeze his hand. He couldn't help but smile.

He still had a long way to go in terms of accepting himself, and facing his fears. But as far as first steps go, Lance felt this was the right direction.

[ghost-chance]

A New Lease on Life - 5: You Can't Set a Broken Soul

Trigger Warnings: The usual, bad coping methods, minor bullying including self-bullying

Suggested Listening: Avril Lavigne "Nobody's Home"

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5: You Can't Set a Broken Soul

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February 8, 2016

"Why'd you have to leave, Amber?" Aaron muttered into a mostly empty glass of cheap beer. "Why'd you go out on your own like that? You were safe in the shelter…"

Amber stared in dismay from the dark corner of the skeazy bar. Aaron would never have been caught dead in a place like this, much less drunk on cheap alcohol. He HATED the stuff, hated the memories it always brought forth—memories of the friends and family he lost to the can and bottle. Though truth hurt, Amber knew without a doubt he was drinking over her—her senseless, needless death had driven her best friend to drinking.

"Aaron…" she whispered, inching toward the bar. "Aaron, I'm sorry…" As though she hadn't even spoken, the barkeeper laughed derisively behind his newspaper.

"Dis's ruh-DICK-yulus,"- the portly man drawled thickly. "Dis ahticle says ova half da people who died in da twista was ig-NOR-in da sirens—any dumb bee-itch who'd go out in weh-da like dat dee-zerves—"- Without warning, Aaron's heavy glass stein crashed onto the counter, shattering from the impact.

"SHUDDUP!"- he slurred angrily, clumsily launching himself over the counter at the barkeeper. "You di'n't- know'er—you got no right to judge'er!"-

As the two grappled and traded blows, the ceiling violently tore away. Amber turned fearfully to the gaping rafters, her heart racing. Clouds gathered in the barren skies forming menacing grey thunderheads. Blue and green lightning cracked from cloud to cloud racing the rolling thunder.

Her lungs tight from fear, her ears aching from the plummeting air pressure, Amber fell to the ground, scrambling into the nearest corner and staring up in horror. Though torrents of rain fell, though the power flickered and failed, though wind tore through the bar like a vengeful ghost, the patrons never budged, staring blankly through their drinks as though the world weren't coming to an end. She was alone—alone with the demon that killed her and haunted her dreams.

Sirens wailed in the distance; a familiar sputtering roar deafened her. Grey-green clouds split in a merciless, mocking grin. As the world fell away around her, Amber screamed unheard pleas to the merciless winds, certain she'd breathed her last.

Amber shot up in bed with a panicked shriek; as her racing heart calmed and the phantom ache in her skull faded, the blanks filled themselves in around her. Old, stained brick walls, vaulted concrete ceiling with exposed ducts, pipes, and wiring, the distant rumble of a passing subway train, slow whirring and beeping from the ridiculously advanced machinery around her…she was safe.

"Not again," she rasped, pulling the patched quilt around her as she waited for the shaking to stop. "Damn night terrors…gettin' fuckin' old."

She glanced wearily over at the clock. It was four am…she'd gotten five full hours of sleep. In her previous life, she was useless without nine to ten hours a night; now she was lucky to get three. The hourly trains triggered nightmares and kept her awake fighting a constant barrage of graphic memories and chills that had no basis in temperature. Five hours of uninterrupted sleep? 'It's like Christmas,' she thought sarcastically, picturing a decent night's sleep packaged up in a box with a big red bow.

Without further ado, she disentangled herself from the sheet and quilt, rummaged under the cot for her folded clothes and basket of toiletries, and padded out of the room barefoot. After a quick stop in the bathroom, she set up the coffee maker on autopilot, staring blankly through the scratched wooden table as the percolating machine hissed, dripped, and belched. After downing a cup of sweetened, creamed tar-juice, she set up a second cup with only sugar.

Stopping only to deliver it to the still slumbering genius, she hit the showers, choosing the farthest stall from the door as usual. That one had a working lock. The room's fixtures had obviously been salvaged from somewhere, but fixing the warped, vandalized locks apparently wasn't very high on Donatello's list of priorities. Maybe because the lair once had only male residents and most men weren't all that concerned about being seen in the buff by other men? She cringed, wrenching the elastics from her tangled hair; she still wasn't sure if Mikey had barged in on her on purpose, but she wasn't willing to risk a recurrence.

The moment the water started up, she started humming loudly to block out the sound. She'd once loved the sound of water—had once slept deepest when rain was falling—but that was before her fear of severe storms became a fear of even the lightest rainstorm, and long before she was killed and given another life. Now the sound of rain terrified her and the dripping showerhead sent chills down her spine. As she lathered up her hair, she thought back to better times, better days, and a soft voice that once lulled her to sleep with songs of their youth.

The roar of water rattling the overhead pipes ripped Donatello from his hard-earned sleep. As his eyes blearily cranked open, he again cursed his decision to leave the ceilings in the lair unfinished; even a suspended ceiling could muffle the noise a little. Scratching his neck, he hoisted himself up in his bed and fumbled for his glasses. As his eyes focused, the blurry splotch by his alarm clock solidified into a mug of steaming coffee. The coffee was prepared far too sweet, as usual, and he nearly sprayed it all over the clock's display once he realized what it read.

"Four-thirty in the morning?" he groaned, digging his knuckles into his aching eyes. "You've gotta be kidding me...this can't go on." As his bedroom was the closest to the lab, he was always woken several times nightly. Every time Amber cried out in her sleep, every time she thrashed around and fought the demons haunting her dreams, every time she woke up screaming herself hoarse, he was woken by the noise. Every time her nightmares deprived him of sleep, he spent the rest of the night struggling with his own thoughts and feelings. Sorrow at her condition—guilt about being unable to save Kimber's life—resentment over lost sleep and interrupted work—disgust at himself for resenting Amber when she clearly wasn't responsible…the list went on and on.

With every day that passed, he became ever more certain that Amber wasn't as well as she tried convincing herself. Every time the subway rumbled overhead she fell into another panic attack, and sometimes even a flashback. Several times daily she'd turn up missing without any word of where she was going, and more often than not he'd find her tucked beside the running washing machine or wedged into the foot-well of his desk, shaking violently and smothering tears in her knees. She was getting worse every day…and for the first time in his life, Donatello was faced with a problem he knew was beyond his skill.

Amber wasn't a broken machine—she was a broken woman. He couldn't fix her.

"It was down in La-wheezy-yan—AH!- Jus' about a mile from Texarkana," an off-key voice echoed from the bathroom. Donatello sank into his usual seat at the battered table, staring through his coffee cup. "OW! In them ol' cotton fields back home–DAMMIT!" The water had long since shut off; every now and then, the song was interrupted by a cry of pain or curse, signifying that Amber had moved on to impatiently wrenching the tangles from her hair. She still wasn't used to Kimber's body, especially the second set of posts in her ears and the ring on the left one, and routinely snagged them in the bristles. Between oaths and verses, Donnie dozed off at the table, nodding into his empty cup.

"Ah, shoot." The sudden phrase startled him awake, and in the blink of an eye, he was crouched before his chair brandishing his empty coffee cup as a weapon. Amber stood in the doorway to the kitchen cringing in embarrassment. "I woke ya up again, didn't I?" She brought the coffee carafe over to refill his cup as he slouched back into his seat.

"Yeah," he answered honestly, trying to stretch the crick out of his neck. "No big deal, though…not like you do it on purpose." She shook her head with a wry smile and made her way to the kitchen sink. As she passed by, he realized something was different…he stared in surprise. Instead of just keeping her hair in a high, messy bun, she'd separated it into twin tails at her nape and braided them tightly. She'd discovered the other day that even though her hair still smelled fruity, the red was starting to fade. Apparently she was so excited to be returning to her natural color that she changed things up a little. With her hair still so red, though…He winced. Breakfast was going to be a disaster.

"So," he attempted, striving for a casual tone and failing. "What's with the change?" She ducked around the open cabinet door to meet his eyes.

"You noticed?" she smiled brightly as she mixed up a huge bowl of pancake batter. "I got sick'a fighting my hair all day so I went back to basics—before I got here, I usually wore my hair like this. I'm lazy like that." She dug a package of wilting blueberries from the fridge, picking out the stems as she tossed the berries into the bowl. "After all the change an' drama, it's a real comfort havin' my braids back."

"It's…" He scrambled for words between the worries. "…cute. Maybe you should wait until the dye fades, though. I just know—"

"S'up, Angelcakes?" Mikey called out from the doorway. "What's for—Whoa!" Donatello cringed, retreating to the coffeemaker; he knew this was going to happen. "Blueberry pancakes?! Sweet!"

"Wait, what?" Donnie muttered dubiously.

"Yup!" Amber grinned, mixing in a little extra sugar as Mikey dug out a pair of battered skillets and spatulas. "They were about dead anyway, so I figured why not? It'll be a nice treat." As Michelangelo fried pancakes and Amber scrambled eggs, Donatello watched silently, hoping that his worries really were unfounded.

About halfway through the bowl of batter and eggs, Leonardo and Splinter sat at their places, conversing over morning tea. Right as the stove burners were switched off, Raphael lumbered through the door to the coffeemaker. Halfway there, he pulled a double-take, gaping at Amber's braids in disbelief and derision. He said nothing, retreating to his seat with a steaming mug of coffee. When Amber bustled to the table to dole out breakfast, he struck.

"So," he asked snidely. "Where's da meat, Wendy?"

"Hey, now," Leo began, but Mikey cut him off.

"Don't be such a jerk, Raphie," the youngest scolded, playing with the end of a punch red braid. Amber's comforted smile warped into a deadpan glower a moment later when she felt both braids lifted up at either side of her head. "Too many freckles! She looks more like Pippi Longstocking!"

"Hardy, har, har," she grumbled, setting the two platters down a little more roughly than necessary. While Raph and Mikey bantered over which was a more accurate resemblance, she retreated to the living room with yet another cup of coffee. Donatello was used to Raph and Mikey's antics—he'd been the butt of their jokes more times than he'd like to admit—but this time, he was pissed. He loaded her untouched plate and his own with pancakes and eggs and dug for flatware in the drawer.

"She's been nothing but helpful since she arrived," he reminded the two troublemakers coldly. "She cooks, she cleans, she picks up after your ungrateful asses, and right when she starts to relax, you tease her!" He shot them both a glare as he left. Sometimes they absolutely disgusted him, Raph especially. He found Amber on the cot in the lab, lying on her back with her head dangling over the side and brushing through her long loosened hair. Though he'd only seen them once, he already missed the braided tails; why eluded him at the moment. "Hey."

"Hey yerself," she shot back with a grin, wrestling her hair into a high ponytail. As she sat up and fastened the coiled mass into a sloppy bun, he pulled up his rolling stool and held out her plate.

"You forgot this—dig in." Moss green eyes scrutinized him seriously. He avoided her eyes, passing the plate and flatware. "Don't mind them. They're just—"

"It's okay, Donnie." Confused, he finally met her eyes; she didn't really seem upset anymore. "If unflatterin' comparisons and immature folks were all it took to ruin my day, I'd'a- died a hermit. This body? It ain't me—I was short, fat, clumsy, partly crippled, an' I started goin' grey before I hit drinkin' age. I've been called much worse'n- any'a that. It's no big deal." She halfheartedly scraped a chunk of egg around on her plate while Donatello let the description sink in. "B'sides, Aaron used to say much worse…an' he's—was my best friend. I'm used to gettin' shite from people, and I'm more than willin' to give it back." She shot an up-to-no-good grin up at him. "I'll get'em-…but not 'til they've let their guard down. Meantime, let'em squirm."

"If you're sure, Amber," he relented, then paused for a bite of his own pancakes. "Forgive me for asking, but…before twenty-one?" She chuckled.

"Yeah. Lots'a early grey in my family. My uncle Bart went shock white while he was in high school; findin' my first silver at nineteen was lucky, considerin'." She took another sip of coffee before adding, "It always hit the redheads worst. I wasn't a redhead, but there was enough red in my hair to turn me into a brown skunk." He couldn't help but grin at the mental image.

"It didn't embarrass you?"

"Course it did," she answered honestly. "For a while, I kept my hair cut above the neck an' never went anywhere without a hat or hair-scarf—couldn't afford dyein' it all the time. Course, then everyone jus' assumed I was goin' bald and started pullin' me aside to talk about the cancer I was supposedly dyin' of. I finally had it when my roommate Mercy dragged me to a cancer survivors group shpeal; flipped'er off, flashed my stripes, an' walked home. Apparently the granny-hair spoke for itself." She finally gave up on pushing her food around and passed the plate back to him. "Guess I'm not really hungry; help yourself. I better get to work, right?"

"Amber," he scolded, latching onto her arm and anchoring her in her seat. "You have to eat—you skipped breakfast and lunch yesterday, and the day before you only ate an apple! You're not getting adequate caloric intake like this—at this rate you'll—"

"I'm not starvin' myself," she argued. Against her will, a memory played through her mind's eye: City Hall's basement, Aaron crouched before her with a bowl of soup, coaxing her to eat even though her stomach felt full of concrete. She fought to keep control but that memory had a dozen more on its heels; together, they swarmed her. "I'm just not hungry! Trus' me, I spent my whole life hungry when I shouldn't be—"

"You should be hungry! If you keep this up you're going to—"

"I don't need a nanny, Donnie!" she burst out vehemently. "I'm a grown woman, not some anorexic tweenager.- If I ain't hungry, I ain't hungry, an' no amount'a shovin' food at me's gonna make me hungry!"- Without another word, she stormed out intent on silencing her memories with manual labor.

"I just don't know what to do, April," Donatello muttered into his palms as she watched him with worry. Beyond the lab's closed blast door, Amber was hard at work in the dojo, waxing the floorboards to mirror brightness on her hands and knees…for the fifth time in as many days. "She hardly eats anything and guzzles coffee like it's water," he ranted harshly. "She barely sleeps, wakes up screaming, then spends the whole day and most of the night cleaning everything in the lair in the least effective ways possible—she intentionally wears herself out every day, then crashes in the early hours, too sore to do anything! She's having panic attacks more and more often and she's been spacing out for hours at time—the other night we found her wandering the sewers barefoot talking to someone who doesn't even exist in this reality!"

He fell silent, choking up. She and Mikey had been washing dishes when someone dropped a glass, and the sound had somehow flipped some hidden switch in her brain. She walked barefoot right through the shards like a zombie and somehow found her way out the front door, muttering the whole way about hungover friends and neurotic dogs. When they finally found her—after following what felt like a mile of bloody footprints—the sight of her adamantly arguing about music with 'Aaron' silenced the long lecture he'd planned. "She's going to kill herself at this rate, April," he confessed weakly, dropping his hands to dangle helplessly between his knees. "…and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"Donnie," the older woman murmured leaning forward for a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder. "You're a brilliant guy and a talented engineer, but you can't just 'fix' people—if someone's broken, you can't reconnect some wires, tighten a lug nut or two, slap on some duct tape and expect them to work again…and if those injuries aren't physical…" She trailed off, avoiding his eyes. "…Broken bones heal quickly once you immobilize them, but there's no way to set a broken soul. It's not your fault."

"You're waxing poetic on me, April," he teased halfheartedly. "I'm not Mikey; you don't have to play down the gritty details." Finally, she met his eyes, her own serious.

"She needs to see a doctor, Donnie…a psychiatrist. I think Amber has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder…and it's only going to get worse."

Just outside the shuttered door, Amber silently slid down the wall and landed in a boneless heap. She wasn't supposed to have heard that conversation, she was sure of it, and she wouldn't have heard it if she'd not come to apologize for taking Donatello's head off earlier. Now her overreaction and subsequent attempt at apology had exposed her to a secret discussion and triggered a plethora of fears. Even as she fought to rationalize away the knowledge, stubbornly scolded herself that PTSD wasn't caused by something as minor as a natural disaster, she knew it would explain so many things.

She'd never been in a war zone, had never seen battle, and had never seen her comrades fall one by one—she was a janitor, not a soldier!—so how could she have developed something even seasoned warriors weren't guaranteed stricken with? She'd insisted her whole life that she wasn't weak, that she could handle ANYTHING given enough time to work through it…yet she was completely broken by something as stupid and meaningless as a storm.

'Am I…' she though disjointedly, tears pricking her eyes behind her glasses. 'No…I am…I really am weak after all.' Without a word she stood, dusted herself off, and wandered out the front door, stopping only to grab a battered flashlight from the kitchen counter. A walk wouldn't fix her intolerable weakness and it wouldn't fix her, but maybe it would at least give her time to think. A line of music echoed down a storm drain from a passing car, reminding her of a time when she didn't feel so lost. 'Where were they going without ever knowing the way?'

Tolkien was right: not all who wander are lost, but she knew she wasn't among them.

Words (Midwestern Twang unless otherwise noted)

- Adding 'er to the end of a word - Means 'her' - Adding 'e, 'is, or 'im to the end of a word - Means he, his, or him. - Adding 'em or 'eir to the end of a word - Means them or their - B'sides - Besides - Di'n't / Din't - Didn't - I'd'a - 'I would have' - Know'er / Judge'er - Know her / Judge her - La-wheezy-anna - This is an awkward pronunciation of "Louisiana" sometimes heard in the Midwest. In the South - or other areas NEAR Louisiana - people generally pronounce it "Loozianna" or "Loo-ee-zee-anna." IRL, I pronounce it "La-wheezy-anna" because it's how I was taught, and it always drives Cold up the wall because he grew up friends with a family FROM Louisianna. At first, it was just a habit; NOW I keep that habit just to annoy my hubby. ;P - Shuddup / Shaddap - Shut up, the first being a common mispronunciation and the second being more of a Southern/Midwestern slang pronunciation. - Tweenager - Slang term for someone just old enough to be a pain, but too young to be considered a teenager; generally such persons are older adolescents. - Worse'n - 'Worse than' - "Dis's ruh-DICK-yulus" - 'This is ridiculous.' A highly twisted version of the Southern Drawl, perhaps from Arkansas. An odd way of defining the difference between the Midwestern Twang and Southern Drawl would be this: 'In the Midwest, we say as much as possible with as few syllables as we can, while in the South, people say as little as possible with as many syllables as they can.' The South tends to stretch words out and add extra syllables to words, while the Midwest tends to crop off syllables and mash words together, and both tend to warp pronunciations of common words. - "Dis ahticle says ova half da people who died in da twista was ig-NOR-in da sirens—any dumb bee-itch who'd go out in weh-da like dat dee-zerves—" - 'This article says over half the people who died in the twister was ignoring the sirens - any dumb bitch who'd go out in weather like that deserves [to die].’ Twisted southern drawl. Unfortunately, there was a LOT of this after the tornado I went through - people would openly blame those who were killed for being careless or for not seeking the 'right' shelter, never considering that they didn't know all the facts OR that the dead person's loved ones might be hearing their ranting. - "If I ain't hungry, I ain't hungry, an' no amount'a shovin' food at me's gonna make me hungry!" - 'If I'm not hungry, I'm not hungry, and no amount of shoving food at me is going to make me hungry!"

A quick rant: Developing PTSD does NOT mean you're weak, broken, worthless, damaged, or any other horrible things we often convince ourselves it means. PTSD is just your brain's way of recovering and adapting, and it's actually a healthy response to trauma. It's not exclusively a 'warrior's illness'—anyone can develop it regardless of whether or not they've been deployed. While it can be hard to accept that you 'got it from' a car accident, witnessing extreme violence, or in Amber's case, weathering a hell of a storm, what caused it has little to do with personal strength or weakness. If you start showing signs of PTSD, TALK TO YOUR DOCTOR. Don't put it off, don't talk yourself out of it, and for Pete's sake, don't do what I did—don't spend months staring out the window, ruminating on why you lived when so many others died, and hoping to waste away into nothing—the longer you wait to seek help, the longer it takes for you to heal, and healing IS possible.

Putting away my soapbox now. Also, the song Amber sings is called "Cotton Fields"—it's a Southern folk song, and if sung in a slow, bluesy manner, it can put kids out like a light

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