#two weeks later i couldn’t even walk unassisted. like. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

itmighthavebeenintentional · 3 years

Text

I’m Ready

Summary: “I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

Picks up right where the show left off. Not technically a fix-it, as I didn’t change anything, but I promise it gets better.

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of (canon) child abuse and neglect, mentions of past trauma, working through trauma, denial, bit of pining (but, like, in a denial sort of way), some fluff, some angst (but not as much as there is fluff)

Author’s Note: So many thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock for endless suggestions, fixes, and beautiful images (header AND dividers!!!). Thanks to all my friends for cheering me on, especially @thoughtslikeaminefield ; I probably wouldn’t have kept going with the story without you.

This is my first Destiel story and my first time posting in a while. Please be kind.

Word Count: 7704

In case you missed it: ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

Dean isn’t sure how long he’s been in heaven, at least not by heaven’s timeframe. Probably years, maybe even a couple of decades. He doesn’t age in heaven, and time works differently, running fast and stretching slow.

For Dean, heaven is a chance to rest, catch up with his massive found family, and just breathe for the first time since he was a kid. No worrying about Sam, no waiting for the next monster to pop out, no prepping for the next apocalypse.

Nothing like heaven to give a guy time to kick his boots off and just relax.

Unfortunately, relaxing has never come easy to Dean. Sure, he can go through the motions (binge watching horror movies, binge drinking, hell, just bingeing in general), but relaxing is an entirely different matter.

Relaxing means letting his guard down. It means giving up his hypervigilance. It means sleeping hard and staying asleep until he wakes naturally and unassisted by attackers. It means spending long moments reminding himself the monster at the end of the book is really gone.

Sam is safe. Everyone he’s ever loved is safe and close, where he can reach them.

Almost everyone.

...

Jake Walker is born on the ninth of July at twenty-one seconds past 9:14 AM. His mother Samantha is exhausted after a two-weeks-early delivery, but both she and the baby are strong and steady. Her wife didn’t faint, none of the medical team ever sounded the least worried, and she heard her son’s first shocked wail as he came into the world. Exhausted, but definitely good.

His mom Betty, on the other hand, is an absolute wreck. She’s been anxious the entire pregnancy, despite good news from the doctor at every visit, and she is terrified that the unexpected early arrival of their son means her worst fears are just beginning.

Betty takes slow, calming breaths, focusing on not clamping down too hard on Sam’s hand. She has to stay strong, calm, for her new family. She has to keep her head on straight, in case—in case —

“Your son is absolutely fine, seems he just had a real particular time he wanted to arrive. Here he is.”

Betty opens her eyes to find a delivery nurse beaming at her, proffering a small, swaddled bundle.

“Never seen such a calm baby. Here, he’s been waiting for you.”

Betty looks down into the startlingly clear, mossy green eyes gazing up at her from the squashed, serene little face, and she feels something click into place in the middle of her chest. Samantha leans her head back against her pillow, letting out a long slow breath as she smiles, and Betty’s pulse slowly finds its way back to something like normal.

“We’ve been waiting for you, too, big guy.”

...

Trauma doesn’t heal in a day, not even in heaven. All the shit Dean remembers — all the shit he tried to forget — everything he ever managed to suppress — drives him from his bed at night, leaving him sleepless on his front porch, staring blankly into the night, or tinkering on Baby in the garage, digging into the perfect engine, determined to distract himself from his spiraling thoughts.

Dean has never been an idiot, no matter how many times he played the fool in life. The people he and Sam couldn’t save, the people he let down, none of those deaths are on him. Dean isn’t responsible for the pain and suffering, but he’s haunted by it all the same.

The problem is, haunts don’t go away on their own. Every hunter knows that.

It’s not that he wants forgiveness; how can he be forgiven for something he isn’t responsible for? He needs to see those people, though, see that they’re okay and at peace. He has to make sure everyone is where they should be, safe and at least content. And even if he ultimately isn’t their killer, didn’t want their deaths, would have done anything to prevent them, he still needs them to know...to know everything.

He needs absolution.

And if the person who needs to hear those things the most is MIA, well, they’ve got a history of not saying a lot of things face to face. There’s always prayer, right?

Dean starts by visiting a couple of people he hadn’t been able to save along the way, feeling strangely like someone following a twelve step program. Objectively, (ie, according to the people he talks to), he’s got nothing to apologize for. He did his best; he made tough decisions in situations forced upon him. They don’t blame him in the least, and most are truly and obviously thankful for his intervention.

Their words don’t make much of a dent in the mountain of guilt Dean carries on his shoulders, but it’s a start.

Once or twice, Dean finds himself looking up at the sky, so far from empty, opening his mouth to call out — an action so common on earth it nearly became reflex —but he stops himself both times. He’s not ready for that conversation.

But he needs to talk to someone closer to him, a deeper connection than the monster victims he’s been visiting.

He’s restless, needs to move a little, needs to talk to…

Someone. He needs to talk to someone. But he can’t. Hell, he can’t even say the name.

Pacing the garage turns to a wandering ramble down the road, past Sam and his family’s house, past Mom and Dad’s house (there’s a conversation or fifty that he’s not ready for), until he finds himself in front of what can only be described as a hobbit hole. He shakes his head, not for the first time, the corner of his mouth tilted up as he knocks on the circular front door.

He’s greeted by bright red hair, a surprisingly crushing hug, and one of the brightest smiles Dean has ever seen.

“Hey, Charlie. Can we, uh...You up for a walk? I was hopin we could talk for a while.”

...

Jake grows quickly and steadily, always near the top of all his growth charts but never alarmingly so. He’s bright, quick to anger and quick to laugh, and fiercely loving. He is both his mothers’ boy, always up for a cuddle or a wrestle, and he loves to build block towers and demolish them with equal abandon.

He makes his displeasure with vegetables known early on. On this particular morning, he introduces his strained peas to the kitchen wall with surprising velocity. Betty knows better than to encourage this attitude, so she hides her smile behind calm, controlled admonition as she offers another spoonful.

Jake looks her straight in the eyes, his smile dazzling and laughter bright, and she knows she hasn’t fooled him one bit. She sighs and lets her own smile match his. He won her over the day he was born; there’s not much point trying to fight it now.

“Come on, babe, eat your peas and we’ll see about some of those stewed apples left over from Mommy’s pie filling. Deal?”

She scrunches her nose and wiggles her eyebrows. Jake’s little eyes widen at her expression, and he tries to imitate it before dissolving into giggles. Betty takes the opportunity to poke a spoonful of peas into his open mouth.

She’s not spent much time around kids before this, but Betty swears she’s never seen a baby look so resigned and exasperated in real life. But she’s played her trump card. He’s too young for the crust, but a couple of spoonfuls of smashed up fruit (apple is his favorite), and Jake is guaranteed to eat just about anything she presents.

“Pie?” she asks.

Jake smiles and opens his mouth wider.

...

“SURPRISE!!!”

The last time he was shocked this badly, Sam didn’t let him forget that fucking cat for years. Or ever, really. Seems like everyone he ever knew is stuffed into his living room, barely leaving room for the balloon bouquets and a massive… That’s not a cake, it’s…

That’s the most beautiful apple pie Dean has ever seen in his entire life.

Dean is engulfed by arms, hugging and patting and slapping his back (was that a pinch on his ass?), everyone eager to get their turn with him, wishing him a happy birthday, saying they can’t wait until he opens his presents, it’s so good to see him, he’s looking so rested!

He manages to extract himself from the wellwishers, citing parental obligations, and finally makes his way over to Mary, smiling warmly and offering him a knife and a plate. His eyes flick anxious from his mom to the golden brown circle of perfection before him, but he can’t bring himself to ask. Mary’s smile widens.

“I didn’t lay a hand on it except to take it out of the box. Happy Birthday, Dean.”

Six plates of pie later, Dean reclines on his couch, letting the relaxed atmosphere of the party sink into his bones. The excitement and crowd of early have begun to wind down, leaving a double handful of family, both blood and found, all telling the most embarrassing, terrible Dean stories they can think of.

It’s possible Dean’s never laughed this hard in his entire life.

He heaves a deep sigh of contentment and props his feet ponderously on the coffee table, draping an arm across the back of the couch and surveying the room.

Donna, one of the apparent party conspirators, tosses him a sparkling grin over her shoulder before turning back to a rather animated conversation with Charlie about the length of Dean’s wig at the LARPing battle. Sam and Kevin are recounting Dean’s worst cooking disasters to Garth’s wife, and Bobby is entertaining Mary with Dean’s disastrous attempt to flirt with the pizza delivery girl who delivered to Bobby’s house most weekends when Sam and Dean would stay with him.

If Dean had to describe one perfect day, this would be just about it, down to the flakiness of the pie crust and the amazing collection of horror movies and original vinyls he’s been gifted. Almost every single person he could possibly want present is there, and since he isn’t dwelling on absence today, Dean decides to push his wandering thoughts out of his head and just soak it all in.

Every muscle in his body hums contentedly, and Dean feels strangely warm and peaceful, but excited, all at once. It’s weird, just sitting here and enjoying the moment, not worrying about the next minute or hour or day or even year. He’s full of pie, he’s got great tunes to look forward to, and there’s nothing to worry about.

He’s happy.

Naturally, that’s when the panic sets in. This won’t last; it never does. Happiness can’t last. He learned that a long time ago.

Sure, it’s heaven, but he doesn’t deserve to be here, so something is going to spoil it for him, for everyone. Probably Dean himself, he thinks as his eyes dart from his mom to his dad. Dean always seems to find a way to fuck things up, couldn’t take care of Sam, couldn’t keep himself alive, couldn’t even keep the Empty from—

“Hey, birthday boy.” Jody’s voice somehow reaches Dean through his darkening thoughts, and he comes back to himself in stages, focusing on the warmth of her hands on his shoulders. She stands behind the couch, leaning down to squeeze his shoulders. “Wanna get some air?”

He nods blindly and climbs numbly to his feet. Jody guides him efficiently out the door and points Dean in an arbitrary direction. They walk for what could be moments or hours as Dean plows through the morass in his mind.

“I get it,” Jody finally says.

Dean glances sharply at her.

“I still have random panic attacks sometimes, wondering if Alex is safe at the hospital, if this is going to be the hunt that gets Claire.” Her eyes are fixed on some point in the distance, and he gets the feeling she’s deliberately not meeting his eyes. “I check on Owen every thirty minutes on my bad nights, and I have to lay hands and eyes on Sean to convince myself he’s really there before I can calm down. It always takes me a minute or sixty to make myself remember where we are, where everyone is, and that there isn’t some big or even small bad waiting around the corner or under the bed.”

Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets, stuffing down his automatic reassurances. The first half of his life was spent avoiding conversations like this, and it took him a long time to unlearn the knee-jerk reaction to brush off people’s concerns with some variation of “Everything’s fine.”

Jody, with an awareness born of decades of hunting and parenthood, senses his discomfort. She slows her steps and catches Dean’s elbow, turning him gently to face her.

“That feeling in your gut when the happiness comes, the panic, that knowledge deep, deep down that everything good is bound to turn to shit.” Jody reaches out and wipes a trickle of moisture from Dean’s face.

It’s not raining, he thinks, frowning. Where the hell did that come from?

“You're going to unlearn it. You’re the toughest bastard I’ve ever met, Dean, and you've been through literal hell. If anyone has earned their happiness up here, it’s you. You’re allowed to be happy, and someday you’ll know it.”

Dean would love to reply right now, to contradict Jody. He’d love to remind her of all the bad calls he made, of all the torturing he did in hell, of all the lies he told...

But this knot in his throat is choking him. And still Jody persists.

“I know how goddamned stubborn you are, but you’re not stupid either. We have nothing to forgive you for. Maybe once you’ve talked to everyone on your list, you’ll see that, too. But in the meantime, take a deep breath, give me a hug, and at least say in your head that you’re allowed to enjoy yourself at your own damned birthday party, even if you can’t admit it out loud.”

And if the damp patch on Jody’s shoulder bothers her as they stroll back to Dean’s house to grab a couple of beers, at least she’s tactful enough to not mention it.

...

Jake takes care of his family. He’s a fairly serious, empathetic toddler, quick to kiss other’s ouchies. After receiving his first Elmo bandage, Jake insists on bandaging his stuffed puppy’s tail, his tyrannosaurus rex’s left eye (“He fight with stegosaurus,” Jake solemnly informs Samantha as he presses the adhesive strip in place), and then an old, almost-healed shaving cut on Betty’s left knee.

“Mama better now?” Jake asks, somehow managing to sound strictly professional and absurdly adorable at the same time. He looks up to Betty for approval, and she wonders how she manages to let him touch the ground at all with how much she just wants to hold him all day long.

“Mama so much better now,” she informs him, careful to stay serious. He rewards her with the golden smile that is the highlight of her days before rushing off to find someone else he can fix up.

Both Betty and Samantha marvel in his quickness to share his snacks. They never refuse an offered Cheerio from him, no matter how damp or sticky (though a few of those disappear quickly when Jake’s attention wanders).

The discussion over a first pet is fairly quick and decisive. Everyone agrees the pet must be something fluffy that can be cuddled. Betty vetoes anything smaller than a cantaloupe, citing her clumsiness and tendency to step on things that should never be trod upon. Jake vetoes cats, saying he just doesn’t trust them, and Mommy and Mama share one of their silent conversations before Samantha speaks up.

“A puppy it is, then, Jakey. Let’s go look up some good breeds.”

Their first pet is a rescue named Garth, at Jake’s adamant insistence, though they're still not sure where he learned that name in the first place. Garth is clumsy, awkward, easy-going, and the most spoiled and cared for pet in the neighborhood.

Jake’s little sister Tabitha comes along shortly before his fourth birthday, and he takes to big brotherhood with an authority and self-assurance that delights every stranger the family meets. When she eventually starts walking, Jake is right by her side, guiding each one of her toddling little steps while a beaming Mommy and Mama follow close behind.

No one is even a little surprised when Tabby’s first whole word is “Hake.” She masters the letter j eventually, but continues to refer to his big brother by the name she gave him for most of the rest of their lives. Jake doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed.

“It was just a matter of time,” Samantha says one night, as she and Betty are getting ready for bed one night not long after Tabby has given Jake his new moniker. “You know what I mean?”

Betty, who has known exactly what Sam means since the day she literally tripped over her future wife at university, smiles and turns down the covers on her side of the bed.

“That’s Jake,” she says. They’ve spent hours, discussing their son’s odd, charming quirks long into the night, offering up phrases like “old soul” and “wise,” and eventually realized nothing they said could ever completely encompass the loving little person they somehow managed to bring into the world.

“That’s Jake,” Sam agrees, and turns her version of Jake’s golden smile on her wife. Mischief sparkles in her eyes, and Betty wonders how she ended up with three people in her life that she absolutely cannot win against.

“Ready to get sweaty, Betty?”

Betty groans but can’t hold back her grin. “You are the absolute worst, and that is exactly why I love you.”

…

Sam manages to shock Dean when he insists on a big family Christmas. His extra years on earth apparently helped the younger Winchester warm to the idea of holidays, finally getting to enjoy them with his son as he never did during his own childhood.

Sam doesn’t have to try very hard to talk everyone into celebrating. Things have been calm and serene, more than a little on the uneventful side, and Dean figures it will add some variety to his afterlife. Something to plan, something to look forward to that won’t be crashed by murderous Elder Gods or various other supernatural entities.

Probably.

Dean secretly loves that feeling of finding the perfect present for someone, something he was never really in a position to do back on earth. He takes a deep breath, proactively reminding himself that this is okay, this is allowed, this is good, that everything is not only okay but actually kind of great, really.

He can be happy. He can. He can do this.

The shade of red Sam’s face turns before he finally dissolves into laughter is a thousand percent worth the degradation of actually gifting someone a signed vinyl copy of Celine Dion’s first solo album.

“It’s perfect, Dean. Thanks, man.” Sam pulls his brother into a hug, and his giant paw slapping Dean in the middle of the back literally knocks the panic right out of him. Deans huffs, at a loss for words, and hugs Sam back perhaps just a smidge too forcefully before letting him go.

“You’ll never top Sapphire Barbie for best Christmas present, but this runs a close second.” Sam shakes his head, still grinning as he reads over the back cover of the album while Mary and John look on, varying levels of confusion and amusement on their faces.

“What’s he talking about, Dean?” John asks. He takes a long drink of his whiskey. “Sapphire Barbie? Some kinda code word or something?”

Sam and Dean glance at each other, their shoulders tensing automatically. For a moment, Dean can actually feel the phantom hunger pains transposed over the current fullness of his belly, and he can see a tiny Sam (still way more hair than necessary), huddled despondent and hungry under a shitty, moth-eaten motel blanket, convinced there would be no Christmas.

“Dean, uh...accidentally got me a Barbie for Christmas one year, it was — a, uh — yeah, he wanted to make sure I got a present, so he grabbed it, and…” Sam trails off.

John huffs a confused laugh, and Dean’s hackles rise at the scoff, so like Sam’s and yet so much more...condescending. John rises from the couch and goes to refill his glass. Sam seems content to let the moment pass, but something in Dean’s gut, something latent and ignored since his heavenly ascension, sparks and smolders bitterly.

“How the hell do you ‘accidentally’ get somebody a Barbie?” John asks, still chuckling, and Dean suddenly realizes he’s real fucking tired of biting his tongue.

“I stole the Barbie. Stole a couple of other things, too. A Christmas tree, some decorations, a baton.”

Mary glances between her sons, confused, before turning to John. “Where were you while this happened?”

A parade of emotions march over John’s face: confusion is followed by slow recognition. Guilt makes a quick appearance only to be chased away by dull, ashamed anger.

Dean can practically see John’s mind flashing through the scenario, recalling more about the hunt than his own sons on that cold, nasty Christmas Eve. He knows the instant his dad reverts to default setting of laying the blame on his eldest son. Dean braces himself automatically, his body viscerally reacting to the familiar storm on his father’s face.

Dean has the fleeting thought that at least his dad is drinking from a glass now; ought to hurt a lot less than being hit with a whole bottle.

“You left your brother to go steal from somebody else’s home on Christmas? After what happened with the shtriga?”

Dean knows true anger, near rage, for the first time in heaven, and the bitter wash of it through him is cutting and all too familiar.

“Pretty stupid thing to do, I know, but I wasn’t even twelve yet, so I wasn’t making the wisest of decisions.”

“Not even twelve?” Mary cuts in. “Sam? Does anybody feel like explaining this to me?”

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean, anything could have—”

But Dean had a lifetime of being plowed under by his dad’s inability to take responsibility, has had way more than enough of shouldering the blame for shit he should never have been left with in the first place.

“I was thinking that somebody should get a seven-year-old something for Christmas, should make sure he has enough to eat. Where were you, Dad? What were you thinking? Because you sure as hell weren’t thinking about us.”

That knot starts up in Dean’s throat again, the muscles tightening against the fear that blossoms in his chest, echoed from decades of training. Sam’s hand finds Dean’s arm, and Dean looks to him. Instead of the caution or reproach he’s expecting, though, all Sam simply nods.

“Say it, Dean.”

Dean stands slowly, facing John Winchester with every bit of strength he’s built, every bit of courage he’s earned from a lifetime of terror, and realizes that the angry, bitter man before him is no more a threat to him anymore than Chuck is. And without looking, he knows Sam stands behind him, solid and resolute.

“I wasn’t even twelve. It was Christmas, and you abandoned us. Yeah, I stole Sam a Barbie doll. You know what I got for Christmas that year? The year before? Every fucking year before that for almost as long as I can remember?”

John opens his mouth, even now unable to admit his faults, but Dean barrels on before his dad can get a word out.

“Not a damn thing from you. Not one damn thing. Not presents, not food, not a warm place to sleep or a word of thanks or approval. Not even a fucking phone call to say Merry Goddamn Christmas.” Dean pauses one last time, and it suddenly feels like he’s towering over the man whose shadow always felt too dark, too large, too suffocating; the man whose respect he used to crave more than food and water.

“What about me, Dad? Huh? What about me?”

Dean doesn’t recall leaving his parents’ house, doesn’t remember driving home, but he finds himself on his own front porch, leaning forward in his rocking chair. He takes in a long, deep breath before scrubbing his hands through hair and leaning against the back of the chair.

A breeze rifles the leaves of a nearby tree, ruffling Dean’s hair. He taps his thumb against the arm of the chair and takes a long moment to breathe in the night air.

Dean lets his thoughts roll around for a while. The stars creep slowly across the black, the crickets chirp, and the breeze continues to tickle through Dean’s mussed hair.

“You and I could write the book on shitty dads, am I right, kid?”

He’s not sure why he decides to talk to Jack. Just nice to have someone to talk to, knowing they’re not going to talk right back.

“Could just cut him out. Dunno how that’d work in heaven.” He thinks a moment, then grins to himself. “Not sure Mom’d let me get away with that. Sam would back me up, though.” Dean grins into the somehow not-empty night. “I would be the guy that brings a family feud into paradise, huh?”

Dean takes in the wilderness around him, the empty house at his back, the extra rocking chair for...a visitor, he supposes. He has learned today that heaven, as perfect as it is, still holds anger and bitterness and loneliness, and he figures that’s to be expected.

“You still did good, kid. You and me, we did good even with our shitty old men in and outta our lives. Glad we cut yours out for good. Guess I’ll figure out how to deal with mine eventually. All I’ve got now is time, anyway.”

Dean pushes up slowly, still surprised at the lack of cricks, pops, and aches that accompanied the action his last couple of years on earth.

“Night, Jack,” he says into the wind. He glances over at the empty rocking chair one last time. “If you see him, tell him —just tell him—”

Dean frowns, shakes his head, and turns his back on the night.

…

Jake’s not a crier, not really. There are inevitable tears that come with bad falls, but Jake sheds tears like it’s a physical reaction that he’s getting out of the way so he can move on.

So when Betty goes to change the sheets in her son’s room, only to find him silently crying on the floor, she panics. Sheets flop forgotten to the side as she drops next to his, reaching instinctively for his still-plump cheeks.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? What happened?”

“Nothing happened, Mama, I’m sorry I scared you,” he sniffles, his eyebrows down low on his small forehead.

Jake has never lied in his entire young life, and Betty is torn because he is obviously upset about something, but his face is full of nothing but truth and confusion.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jakey,” she says, settling on the floor next to him and opening her arms. He instantly climbs into her lap, hooking his own arms around her neck and nuzzling under her chin. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Can you tell me what made you cry?”

“I...I don’t know,” he says, his little voice quiet and heavily confused. “I was playing with Tabby, she was helping me build a tower with my blocks, and then Mommy came to get Tabby for her snack.”

Betty is stumped. Jake has never had any kind of separation anxiety, as far as she can tell. He’s spent nights with both sets of grandparents, even a couple of weekends with aunts, uncles, and cousins, and never shed so much as a single tear.

“You...are you crying because you miss Tabby? She’s right in the next room, baby, you can go with her for snack time, you know that.”

“No, Mama, I —I don’t know why I’m crying. Tabby hugged me, she said she loved me, then she went with Mommy, and I felt...really happy. Like —the happiest ever, and...it was too much happy?”

The last part comes out as a question, and honestly Betty isn’t sure how to answer it.

“Well, baby,” she starts hesitantly, not sure where to lead this particular discussion. “Can you explain what you mean when you say ‘too much happy’?”

He snuggles closer against her chest, his forehead pressing along her jaw. “I dunno. I think...maybe I’m not supposed to be that happy? Is that why the tears came out? Because I got more happy than I’m supposed to get? Was I wrong, Mama?”

Betty breathes slowly, tightening her hold on the little boy in her arms. “You weren’t wrong, Jake. You can be as happy as you want. There’s never too much happy, I promise.”

She feels him shift, and she looks down to meet his clear, green gaze. He studies her carefully, scrutinizing her expression, and she’s reminded why she’s always been so very careful to tell her children the truth, albeit on levels they can understand.

“You pinky promise?”

The proffered pinky is smudged, pudgy, and absolutely perfect. Betty hooks her pinky finger with her son’s, bumping his nose gently with her own.

“Jakey, you have my eternal permission to be as happy as you are capable of feeling. And no one is ever allowed to take that from you. Good?” He nods, and she carefully brushes the tear tracks from his cheeks. “Sometimes feelings are really big, and they’re just a little too big for your body. They have to find a way out, and that’s why the tears come out.”

“Is that why you cry when you watch the kissy movies?” he asks, suddenly smiling. “Your feelings are too big, too?”

“Yup. We’ve got big feelings in this family, Jakey. Better get used to it, kiddo.”

...

More time passes. Dean walks, he talks, he goes through the motions. He heals a little with every conversation, every time he reaches out, and even though some of the wounds feel as fresh as the day he got them, eventually all that’s left are faint scars. He’d never willingly erase the scars, anyway. He earned them, and he’ll be damned if something like a little death and talk therapy could just wipe them away.

Gradually — so gradually Dean doesn’t realize it until Donna makes a comment one night after their regular poker game — Dean learns to not only let his guard down but drop it entirely. He’s shocked to realize the loss of his emotional armor doesn’t even bother him.

Dean works on Baby, drinks with Bobby, teaches Mary how to make an apple pie from scratch, and even manages to have a couple of honest, semi-civil conversations with his father. They don’t exactly reach Andy and Opie levels of father-son bonding, but John does eventually manage to grudgingly admit he fucked up some (a lot). Dean supposes anyone can make progress in heaven if they try hard enough.

He’s talked to everyone he can think of, settled scores, smoothed ruffles, filled himself to bursting with absolution. Dean is so absolved he thinks he might punch the next person who pats him on the back and tells him how much good he’s done for the world.

And still, he comes home every night to that extra rocking chair.

He waits now, waits while he talks with Sam, waits while he walks through the woods, waits while he changes Baby’s oil. He can’t shake the feeling that something is coming. He can feel it around himself, like a suit of armor or a second skin. Nothing terrible, nothing ominous, but something. Which is weird because nothing ever seems to happen in heaven, not really.

Could be he’s just bored, but Dean doesn’t think that’s it. Not entirely.

He talks to Jack nightly now. It’s a habit, something to help Dean talk through and untangle his thoughts into something he can understand. He looks forward to their talks, being able to get his feelings out without being either validated or rebuffed. Just letting some steam off.

He’s done it for so long that he can barely remember the night he started. Dean knows Jack can hear him, but the kid’s been true to his word, stayed hands off and radio silent. He lets mortals deal with their own issues, keeping himself and the supernatural world well away. Even the angels leave people alone in heaven.

Especially the angels, Dean grudgingly admits to himself, late one night after leaving Sam’s house. Instead of going home to that extra rocking chair, he drives Baby slowly, aimlessly, yet somehow ends up back on that same bridge where he met up Sam all those years ago.

He parks right at the end (no traffic in heaven) and strolls out to the middle, scuffing his boots and sending little puffs of dust in the air. His hands are stuffed deep in his pockets, out of habit more than anything else, and he lifts his gaze from the ground up to the full moon in the sky.

“Hey, kid,” he says softly. “Hope it’s goin good for you.Things are pretty good here. I know you know, you’re everywhere and all that,” Dean waves his hand vaguely, then continues, “Just wanted to let you know, I guess. I didn’t tell you enough, but we—I —really appreciated you. Appreciate you. You, uh...you did real good, kid. Then and now.” He pauses, then takes a breath, standing straight and letting all pretense go.“Please tell Cas...he did good, and...I miss him. And I know you’re all taking the hands-off approach, but —I dunno, maybe...he could —stop by? Or…”

The silence around Dean is heavy, comforting like a thick blanket.

Or a tan trenchcoat, he thinks.

“Jack —“

He cuts himself off, though. He spent all this time in heaven working through rivers of bullshit, wearing down mountains of lies and self-loathing until he can finally be honest and open with everyone. And if he’s going to be honest with himself tonight, Jack isn’t who he needs to talk to.

“Sorry kid, I gotta put you on hold.”

Purgatory flashes before his eyes, that sense of loss and being lost, the desperation and certainty that he’d never see his best friend again.

I can’t do this anymore, he thinks. I can’t pretend anymore. And I’m done lying to myself.

“Cas. Castiel. I hope you can hear me. I miss you. I don’t know where you are. Bobby said you were here, that you helped remake this place into something pretty damned awesome, but I never see you. I can feel you sometimes, can tell some things are up here just because you put ‘em there. Someone will tell a story, and I swear I can feel you standing right beside me, can almost hear you frowning and not understanding the joke. I…”

He knows there’s something left —knows he hasn’t found the right words yet. He has no idea what that right thing is, or even what he’s still waiting for, but he figures if he just barrels on, it’ll come to him.

“There was too much in the way, back on earth, in Purgatory. Too much always coming after us, trying to kill us or worse. I got in my own damned way, never knew what to say or how to say it. Didn’t think I deserved...I should’ve…”

He’s not sure what’s more bizarre, that he’s praying to someone who probably won’t respond — probably can’t even hear him — or that he’s doing so in a place wildly opposite from that last time he prayed like this.

Dean isn’t sure how he keeps ending up in this situation, but here he is, gasping out his feelings to the night air, barely able to squeeze the words past that perpetual knot in his throat.

“It’s a lot clearer up here, more room to breathe and think. This heaven you and Jack made...it’s great. Hell, it’s damn near perfect. But there’s no you. And I just can’t see my heaven as right without you. I can’t...I can’t take my forever if you’re not in it.”

A wispy cloud, silver in the moonlight, drifts across an otherwise flawless sky. Dean stares upwards for several minutes, wondering if Cas can see the same stars tonight, wherever he is.

“Maybe...I don’t know if you can come back. Or if you even left. I don’t know how any of it works.”

He’s on the cusp. He can almost taste the next step.

Dean’s at a loss, though. He could be brave: he could say everything he should’ve said in that last moment, everything he should have told Cas.

Or he could take the comfortable path, revert to being a dick and tell Cas exactly how he feels about all this silent treatment, about the no-show in heaven or not telling him about his deal with the Empty until it was too late, about waiting until the last second so Dean would have no time—

Or he could do both.

Both is good.

Metal railings squeak under Dean’s punishing grip. He’s not sure when he grabbed hold of the bridge itself, but right now he needs all the support he can get.

“You left me! You should have told me, given me a chance. Another chance, just one more. I’m sorry, Cas, I knew but I didn’t. I— I should’ve told you, should’ve held you, I could have—“

The tears flow unimpeded, the air squeezed from his lungs in convulsive gasps, but Dean can’t stop now.

“I should have told you everything I felt, every day. I should have trusted you more, and I’m so sorry. You were always family, you were always there for me when I needed you. We both fucked up so many times, lost so much time together. I was so angry at you, at me, at everyone and everything, and I let it get in the way.”

The silence around him is maddening. Here he is, ripping his guts out in the middle of the bridge, and all he gets back is crickets and evening breezes. Dean shoves off the railing, too frantic to stay still.

“Gimme something, Cas, anything! I’m pouring my heart out! I fucked up, and I’m sorry, and I swear I’m gonna do better, but you’ve gotta give me the chance! Just...just give me some sort of answer, please? Let me know you’re there!”

The silence persists.

Just as quickly as Dean’s rage crescendos, it fizzles suddenly. He drops to the ground, back and head slamming hard against the side of the bridge as he lets out a roar of helpless rage. His fists grip his hair, teeth grinding against the wave of helplessness that threatens to overwhelm him.

“I missed my chance, I waited too long, I should’ve said— I should have—“

And then it comes to him.

His hands draw down from his hair, scrubbing his face before steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. He can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize.

“I’m an idiot.” His voice is barely audible, even to his own ears, but he has no doubt his words will reach their intended destination. “This place you built, you and Jack, it’s as good as it gets. I deserve it, I earned it. I got my family, I got the easy life for a while. I got my family. I had my rest. There’s only one thing left in the universe I need, only one person I want.”

Dean stands, dusting himself off and turning his face back up to the stars.

“I’m ready, Cas. I— I love you. And I’m ready for the next thing. Whatever that is. However that is. As long as—”

One last pause.

“As long as you’re there, that’s all I need.”

...

The inevitable day of separation comes: Jake’s first day of kindergarten. Samantha is proud of her guardian warrior, knows he’s going to succeed at everything he puts his little bullheaded mind to. Betty hopes very hard that he won’t be too lonely without Tabitha there with him. Tabitha only knows that Jake’s finger tastes good and makes her gums feel better when she chews on it.

Jake, as always, approaches this monumental step with aplomb and logic.

“I’ll give it a shot,” he says casually as his little sister gnaws on his thumb. “An’ if I don’t like it, I’ll just stay here and take care of Tabby. You an’ Mommy can go to work, then, ‘kay, Mama? I can make nut butter n’ jelly sammiches. But I’ll try it out.”

...

School isn’t so bad, Jake decides on his second day. His teacher Mrs. Harris seems to know what she’s doing (she already knows who she can trust with scissors and glue), and the other kids are nice enough. There’s different toys (“learning tools”, Mrs. Harris calls them), so that’s interesting enough, but—

Something is missing.

“Can you tell me what you mean, Jakey?” Betty asks at dinner that night. “Are there supplies you need? We got everything on the list.” She wipes a smear of sweet potato off Tabitha’s face before looking back to her son. His mouth is turned down in a frown of concentration, like he’s trying to remember something.

“I don’t need anything, Mama, just...someone. I need someone. My friend hasn’t come to school yet.”

“It takes time to make friends, baby,” Samantha says. “It’s only the second day of school. Have you tried asking anyone to play yet?”

“Yeah, and they’re fun and all, but they aren’t my friend. My friend isn’t here yet,” Jake says. Then his frown vanishes with the sudden mood change of a five-year-old, and he turns beseeching eyes on Betty, aiming unerringly at the softer target. “I finished my green beans. That means dessert now, right, Mama?”

Jake decides on the third day that the best place to wait for his friend (he just knows he’s going to show up any day now) is the playground.

“My friend likes the playground,” he murmurs. “That’s good, I like the playground, too.” He eats his lunch slowly, watching the other kids wolf down their food so they can have extra playtime. He’s barely finished his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, though, when he’s distracted by movement on the other side of the play yard. The door to the school opens and the school secretary steps out. Then she turns and gently pulls someone out from behind her.

A small boy stands in the doorway, white shirt tucked neatly into black slacks. His blue tie is a little loose, as if he’s been tugging on it, and his tan jacket is a little too big, hanging loosely around his small frame. His hair looks like someone was in too much of a rush to comb it properly. He clutches a pink piece of paper in one hand and, in the other, a backpack inexplicably decorated with flying, winged slices of pizza.

“Late drop-off, parent had to run,” the secretary tells Mrs. Harris before tiptoeing out of the room.

With an anxious glance at the other children, the boy scuttles forward and immediately trips over his own untied shoelaces.

Jake is at the little boy’s side before anyone else can react, kneeling down to check on him. The prone child is too shocked to cry, both by the fall and by the sudden appearance of this unknown factor. Jake checks him over, then nudges him until he sits up.

“You gotta keep ‘em double tied,” Jake says seriously. “Or else that’ll happen all the time.” Without waiting for an answer, Jake sets about the laborious task of looping each set of laces in turn, rabbits chasing each other around trees and down holes until the shoes are secure.

Jake climbs to his feet and reaches down, gripping the other boy’s shoulders and helping him stand. A dark smear of jelly stains the shoulder of the coat in the shape of a smudged purple handprint.

“Thank...thank you,” the smaller boys whispers. He lifts his eyes hesitantly, and clear blue meets olive green for the first time. “I’m Chris.”

“I’m Jake.” He thinks for a long moment, frowning. Something is settling in his chest, something big and permanent and scary; at first he thinks it’s too much.

Then he thinks back to what Mama told him: you can be as happy as you want.

He smiles at Chris. “You’re with me. You’re the one I was waiting for.”

Hope and just a bit of delight flicker across Chris’s eager face.

“I am? You mean it?”

Jake nods and grabs his new friend’s hand. “Yep. Now you’re here, that’s all I need. And nobody's allowed to take you from me, Mama said so. C’mon, let’s play cars.”

59 notes · View notes

omnivorousshipper · 3 years

Note

Hey Omni! After seeing your content and you mentioning Owen in physiotherapy.

I thought about maybe the crew and his siblings helping him through it!

Aww! That'd be really wholesome! And gosh, Owen would be so embarrassed having to be helped by that many people

~~~

Dom leaned against the doorway leading into the living room and watched as Owen sat with Jack, who excited talked to him. Owen was lifting small weights, working on his arm strength

Every day, Owen was getting stronger. But it also seemed like he was getting just as restless

Owen had been with them for a few months now, ever since they had smuggled him out of the hospital. It had been difficult to sneak out someone who could barely walk out of the country undetected, but they had

And Dom didn't really regret it

The whole time Owen had been in that coma, it had broken Dom's heart to see how much Letty struggled. She would constantly fly back and forth between London and LA to see him

He was family to her, and she wasn't going to let him go

When she had come back, a mixture of tears and a smile, Dom knew it was time to make a decision

They would take Owen in as part of the crew. Whether he liked it or not

Luck seemed to be on their side, because Owen didn't remember anything about them. The Nightshade heist was wiped from his memory and how he had ended up in a coma

Owen had readily accepted their help, especially when he saw how much Letty trusted them

Months later, it felt as if Owen had been part of their crew since forever. Brian and Mia had accepted him and enjoyed how much he and Jack got along. Especially when Owen helped Jack with his ADHD

Dom was just worried what would happen when Owen was completely recovered

Would he want to stay with them?

Dom got his answer a week later

---

"Dom, I keep telling you, you have to wash the pans before putting them in the dishwasher!" Letty complained as she scrubbed at a pan

Dom simply grunted as he worked side by side her to scrub another pan. There was a reason he hated doing chores

They were so focused on each other, it took them a minute to notice they had an audience

"Let? Nic?"

Shutting off the water, they both turned to see Owen standing in the doorway. He still couldn't run, but he was able to stand by himself and walk unassisted

"What's up, Oh?" Letty asked, drying her hands

"Do you remember my brother's number? Or my Mum's?"

Dom blinked in surprise. He didn't even know Owen had a brother

"I have your brother's, but I wasn't sure if he was in a safe place to be contacted." Letty quietly admitted

"Even if he's not, he'll take the risk." Owen nodded. "I need to talk to him."

"Sure, Oh."

Letty handed her phone over and they watched him leave the room, phone to his ear

"Deck?"

Frowning, Dom looked down at Letty

"Why didn't you tell me he had family?"

Letty was still staring at where Owen was, biting her lip

"Because his brother is on the run from the law. He's done a lot worse than Owen and doesn't want to lead that trouble to Owen. I didn't want either of them risking their lives for each other."

"And now?"

"Looks like they're going to do it anyway." Letty sighed

---

It was another two weeks when Deckard and Hattie Shaw showed up

They were having their weekly barbecue. Jack had dragged Owen around the yard, leaving him breathless. Dom had raised an eyebrow when he saw Roman being the one to rush to Owen's side and help him sit

He shared a smirk with Brian, both nodding in agreement about the hopefully, future couple

They were all sitting down to eat when there was a shout from the driveway

"Owen!"

Owen had shot to his feet, but wobbled for a second. The rest of the crew followed suit, Roman standing next to Owen to take his weight if need be

"Deck!" Owen called back instead, not even noticing the protective stance the crew was taking around him

Around the corner came a man and woman, both looking pissed off

"Hatts?" Owen blurted out. He shoved away from the crew and slowly made his way over to the strangers

Dom's eyebrows rose when the two wrapped Owen in a strong embrace. The man cupped the back of Owen's head and brought their foreheads together

It was honestly touching watching the tearful exchange

After a minute, Owen pulled back enough to whisper to the man and woman. He pulled completely away, one of their hands in each of his

"Guys," he called out to the crew in a wide smile. "I'd like you to meet my brother and sister. Deckard and Hattie."

Everyone was silent as they took in two more Shaws

"Fuck. There's three?" Han mumbled, speaking everyone's thoughts

~~~

I hope you enjoyed friend!

#owen shaw #letty ortiz #dom toretto #deckard shaw #hattie shaw #hobbs and shaw #fast and furious #asks #omni answers #omni writes

19 notes · View notes

blankdblank · 3 years

Text

Brother Dearest Pt 61

“What the hell happened to him? He been faking that damn limp this whole time?” One of the Agents at SSR muttered to Chief Thompson who had just come from the lab Sousa’s team had shoved the irritated returned Chief from the shared lab between their floors. Already his own team was off sleuthing in Harlem for backup on the tip that Venom and Eddie had given them. With a huff through the passing group of Agents Sousa moved towards the elevator doors. And didn’t even make it halfway before Thompson stated with a smirk, “Few days near your sweetheart and you’re all upright, perfect example of bed rest to make a man out of a cripple again.”

Sousa simply pressed the button to call the elevator and tapped his cane against his fake shin that gave off an eye dropping metallic echo the men around him looked to. “New leg. Said in some time might be able to run on it. Just breaking it in.” The doors opened and before he could lower the cane the men watched with mouths opening to his unassisted step inside the lit up room. And when he turned he said, “Need it too, back up lab since you’ve been hogging ours has stairs.”

One of the guys asked, “Where the hell did you get a metal leg?”

While another asked, “How could you afford it?” As two more wondered on where the back up lab was that he’d never heard of before.

Sousa replied, “It was a gift.”

Thompson asked, “Let me guess, Peggy’s crime buddy ex squeeze Stark?”

“Baroness Bunny Pear Howlett.”

Thompson asked to their open mouthed stare, “Guess she’s trying to buy her way to the pearly gates before she kicks it. How’d you meet her?”

“I have a drive to get to the lab or I’d stick around chasing fiction and sit on my hands with you and your team.” He pressed the button and the doors closed cutting off the scoffs from the men who circled to talk more about the source of the new leg.

“Still say it’s a plot for points towards heaven. Heard she gained another ten pounds last week.”

Smirks spread and another in the group said to the stunned stare of one of the women on the floor passing notes to one of the Agent that came from another in a different department and floor. “I was her husband I’d have dumped her somewhere out of sight and mind instead of parading a whale around for clout in the papers.”

Down in the lobby Sousa strolled along all the way out to the lot where he climbed into his car and muttered, “Alright, let’s go follow a lead from an alien and his pregnant sister.” He shifted gears to the hum of the engine and pulled out of the lot to start the drive to the Hamptons where Stark’s mansion was located. Stretches of city were swapped for long patches of green with sprawling mansions that he sighed wondering how many years it would take him to save to afford one of these houses if he cared. And how many of these people actually owned these houses outright or had unimaginable mortgages on these marble accented wonders.

He couldn’t imagine a life in the city after his having grown up in a small town, but his sister did need him around. Sure it was just for weekly check ins and a monthly babysitting stop to let her and her husband have the night off. Always where he would be asked about his own future upon their return, now more than ever that his engagement had ended and he was back in town where he was just a floor away from the woman he hadn’t named to his sister that had caught on to his helpless pining. He had missed his sister and now that he had come back the townhouse he had been renting from his friend who had with the first offer stated one day he would be up to selling the place if he had gotten attached. It wasn’t much compared to the farmhouse he had grown up in but by chance if he could build up the nerve to take his chance and ask Peggy out just maybe she might like it for a family home of their own.

Stark’s drive however came into view and he sighed taking the turn and muttered, “Fingers crossed he’s in a helpful mood today.”

Off to the side of the front door he parked and spotted a curtain from above shift in notice of the company and out he climbed to make the walk to the door where he paused to fidget his hand on his cane before giving the front door a knock. Not two minutes later Jarvis was at the door that opened between them with a flinch of a smile, “Chief Sousa, how might I help you?”

“Mr Jarvis, I was wondering if I could talk to Howard actually.”

“Um,” he said to the faint sound of a one sided argument from a female and things being thrown and he stated, “Mr Stark is currently entertaining, however you are welcome to wait in the parlor.” Sousa nodded and stepped through the door that was shut behind them for the stroll through the echo filled mansion to the lushly decorated parlor where Jarvis asked, “Tea?”

“Sure,” Sousa answered and took a seat on the small couch closest to him.

For a few minutes he shook his head and bit back his ache to laugh at the insults fired at Stark until the faint sound of the kettle brought Jarvis back with a tea cart. Upon it with skillful ease he brought together a trio of cups while the tea steeped and asked, “If I may, are you here on official business, Chief Sousa?”

“Unofficially, yes,” that had Jarvis glance up at him, “Guys downstairs are hogging the lab and I was wondering if Stark might loan me use of his.”

That had Jarvis grin, “Oh, how exciting, new gadget?” A door slammed and he set down the napkin in his hand with a grin at him and said, “Pardon me a moment.”

Sousa nodded and watched him stroll out of the room adjusting his vest and tie to gather the belongings left by the door where around the still shouting woman he grinned in draping her wrap around her shoulders and offered her the handbag that had been left with it and stated, “Have a lovely day, Miss DeCoco.” Her thanks was soon followed by another shout to Stark who was now at the base of the stairs to watch her storm to the sports car she sped off in. Once the door was shut again Jarvis was heard to state, “Mr Stark,”

“Ya, I know, I’ll never learn my lesson. Time to go punish myself with a bubble bath.”

“Mr Stark,” Stark turned his head with brows raised and Jarvis continued, “Chief Sousa is here.”

“Oh, perhaps I should get dressed if I’m going to be arrested.”

“He stated he is here to borrow your lab actually.”

“Oh,” he said in a stunned tone and down the steps trotted in his untucked shirt and badly wrinkled pajama pants that lay over the top of his slippers. “Interesting.” To the door he went and strolled in with a grin and said, “Don’t get up, Daniel, how are you?” offering his hand to the man he approached who’d paused in his reach for his cane and shook the hand offered to him.

“Better than you it sounds like. Lovers quarrel?”

Stark shook his head with a grin at the release of hands stating, “Difference of opinions. I’ll send some scarves and a new purse and she’ll be more than happy to apologize.”

Sousa smirked, “So that’s what that was, denial, a lot quieter in my house growing up.”

Stark asked, “So what goodies did you bring to my doorstep? Jarvis says you asked to borrow my lab.”

After a reach into his jacket inner pocket he unfolded the sheet kept there while Jarvis poured the tea, “Part of my case I came back from LA to follow has some vanishing tech from a guy that came from Barbados. Well, I got a tip where to find him and the invisible ship he’s apparently been using to get around.”

“Vanishing tech, lot of people would love to get their hands on that.”

Sousa nodded, “Especially why we have to take him in and find out who else knows how to make it. However I got a tip on a compound to use to interfere with the tech. Pretty common ingredients, just couldn’t get it from her since she’s pregnant and all. Unsafe for the baby.”

Stark’s eyes flinched wider a moment and swept over the Chief asking, “Pregnant? Who gave you the compound?”

Sousa, “Oh, right, forgot to mention, Baroness Bunny Howlett.”

Stark’s face split into an amused grin, “How’d you get her roped into this case of yours?”

“Oh, her brother’s investigation mixed with mine and he caught some tips for me. Peggy knows them fairly well apparently, said they can be trusted and I mean it can’t hurt to try with what I’m up against.”

Stark accepted the sheet and chuckled saying, “Oh I gotta read this. Knew she was holding back on me.”

“Peggy?” Sousa asked accepting his cup of tea.

Stark nodded in response to his and replied, “Bunny. Babies, by the way.”

Sousa, “Must be twins by the size, no offense to her, and they all keep saying girls, as if they know for certain.”

Stark chuckled stating, “Triplets, actually,” parting the Chief’s lips. “She’s got a pretty good instinct on that from what I heard from the Brocks, can always tell a pregnancy before a blood test can by what they say.” Over the page his eyes shifted to the complex equations and diagrams of chemicals needed and reactions followed by one on how to fold the mixture into balloons. “This is way more complex than I would guess a second year student capable. Seems she’s been studying up on her own time. You must have shared a great deal on the tech with her for her to think up a way to counter it.”

“Venom did, apparently.”

Stark chuckled, “Come on Daniel, his name is Eddie. You can’t tell me you think Venom is real, some human eating monster brought on by a bite from a radioactive lizard. Bet it’d be amusing for them to hear you call him that.”

Sousa forced out a chuckle in curiosity if Stark had been let in on the secret, as obviously Peggy knew and only made him wonder why she hadn’t let him in on the fact that those comics were based on more fact than fiction. “Well apparently she’s been helping him to find a way to counter the tech from some diagrams in his own case which could be pretty deadly if they actually make it.” He took a sip and watched Stark read it again.

Jarvis asked after his own sip when he’d sat down, “How is she faring, Mrs Bunny? The papers, have not been particularly kind.”

Sousa caught his gaze answering, “She mentioned she was tired, she’s acting as Judge for some mock trials in school. Seemed to be a bit amused by some of the stories. Said they have a story planned when winter ends and she can’t hide the belly anymore.”

Jarvis said, “Perhaps we might drop in to make certain she is faring well.”

Stark said in a look up from the pages to say, “I’ve tried talking to the Times. Even been trying to stir up some bigger stories, but they are bent on chronicling Bunny’s health with every trash tip they claim to get. Today’s paper has a whole rehash of that frog dissection report and how that would equal a human’s autopsy if they had those results. Just trash, if anything that amount of metal in the body would leech moisture not allow a person to grow twice their usual size.” He lifted his cup and said to Jarvis’ glance his way, “She’s adorable pregnant, you know what I meant, she had to be what, 80 pounds wet, bound to be a reckoning when she puts that story out.”

A few sips later to the share of more plans Stark paused mid sentence at notice of the dark metal limb opposite the socked leg in view and said, “You um, that’s a new leg isn’t it?”

Sousa looked at him and said, “Oh, yes, the Baroness made it for me.”

Jarvis, “It was my impression she preferred not to be named by that title by friends.”

Stark, “She made you a leg? Out of what?”

“Metal, don’t know why gave it to me the second time I’d seen her. Fits shockingly comfortable. Said my old leg had lead in the securing brace that was leeching into my body and this one would be safer for me and help me to run again eventually when I’m used to it.”

Stark asked in a stunned tone, “Really?” Then glanced at his leg again and said, “Well, if you don’t mind I can watch you strut your stuff on the new leg down to our lab.”

“Nowhere near to strutting yet.” He said then joined the others on their feet to make the walk to the lab which gave Stark plenty of chance to steal glances at his eased stride after such little time with it. “So you have everything on the list, right?” His eyes having shifted away from Jarvis in his entrance of the code needed to unlock the lab.

Stark said, “Oh yes,” following Jarvis inside the room that lit up to the flick of a few switches that Sousa looked around while Stark gathered up a few things along the way to a bare station. Including a small device used to test metal contents, “fairly common ingredients by the look of it. Wouldn’t imagine they could do much of anything, but if Bunny says it should work then best to give it a try. No telling what she can pull out of her bag of tricks.”

He settled that helping of ingredients down Jarvis once he’d removed his jacket and folded up his sleeves got to arranging and finding the proper containers listed in your notes to prep and mix all of it in. Then paused at the final note, “Balloons?”

Sousa said, “She said that you have to keep it in latex, anything else it would eat through.”

Stark muttered to himself, “None of these are corrosive when mixed…” then looped around with more ingredients while Jarvis turned in a puzzled circle.

Jarvis, “We have latex gloves, no balloons.”

Stark said, “We have balloons,” pulling a package of grey balloons from a drawer in a desk along the way he added to the spread across the station and made a loop around Sousa to use the metal contents device on his leg. A single sweep of it and his confusion grew to the puzzling readings that there were no known metals in the known universe in it. “What metal did Bunny say she used?”

Sousa turned to see the device in his hand and answered, “She didn’t.”

Stark showed him the device, “Must have made a new one then, because this says there aren’t any metals in it.” After a pause they turned back to the task at hand and the Chief watched the duo work through the intricate directions that seemed to alter the known reactions of the ingredients. All entirely to puzzle the pair all the more on how you of all people had found them out and how this could react to the tech the Chief was up against.

Partway through the lift of a heated beaker underneath the fume hood as per instructions to be mixed into a cooled mixture in a silver bowl Sousa said, “I know you’re dying to ask more about the leg. Go on.”

Stark asked, “She just gave you a leg?”

Sousa said, “Said it’d help me keep up with Peggy. Seems like she just wants to help. Mentioned her relatives escaped a death camp,” that had Jarvis’ eyes on him, “And they’d seen a couple they were ordered to clear I guess and she was a Medic.” Jarvis looked away, “I mean she’s got that Medic rank maybe she wants to be a Doctor or work with the wounded.”

Jarvis asked, “You said Death Camps, her relatives escaped one?”

“Ya, Auschwitz, her aunt and cousin. Met them in France after they stormed Normandy Beach on D-Day. Haven’t met them yet, but if they’re anything like her and her brother should be a trip.”

Jarvis, “I believe Mrs Bunny has the best intentions for her education. And by your leg alone could change the lives of countless former soldiers at the very least.”

The final mixture came with a balloon to be folded over the fingers to pinch two knuckles worth of the creamy mixture that would upon the pinch of the balloon turned right side up to ease a tea spoon of the other mixture that almost had the men gag for the rancid grapefruit odor it gave off before each balloon was tied off and added to a bag for the Chief. “I’ll be damned,” Stark muttered to the sizzle of his having used the same spoon to scrape off the final creamy mixture than within moments ate the spoon he dropped into the mixture entirely. “She wasn’t kidding.”

Sousa peering over his shoulder muttered, “I don’t think she does that.”

Stark smirked, “Oh she has jokes, probably just missed some. She’s a master of subtlety is my guess with her humor.”

“One thing I cannot imagine her to be anything less than subtle. Title demands it no doubt.”

Stark smirked replying, “She married the title, grew up to barely a dime to her name. Could care less about that title so long as she got James out of the deal.”

Jarvis, “It is so pleasing to know she is so deep in love for all the hassle the press has given her since her retirement from the war.”

Sousa asked, “Where’d they even meet anyways, him being a Baron and all?” His eyes scanned between the duo and he asked to their shared disbelieving glance at each other, “What? What am I missing?”

Jarvis, “They met in the war.”

Stark, “Everyone knows this, it was in all the papers. Eddie had custody of her and he got drafted to the Canadian Forces. The hospital on the base Eddie got drafted to Bunny was a Nurse there then it got attacked.” This parted Sousa’s lips, “Eddie hacked off her hair and gave her a uniform, pack and gun and kept her with him while they were sent on their missions. Military counted her as a POW till a couple years later she ran into Victor and James’ platoon they mingled with. Not long after she got shot in the shoulder and was given a field promotion to Medic, E-4? I think. Then the world knew she was alive and safe out of Nazi hands. Somewhere in there they got sent on separate missions then met up at Normandy. That last year they stuck it out then got shipped straight to King George to be medaled and then out to Canada for her to get her GED and they met Truman somewhere in there and then she went on her University tour and settled on Barnard.”

“She got shot in the shoulder?”

Jarvis, “And the neck,” Only widening the Chief’s eyes more, “And there was mention of a facial grazing.”

Sousa, “She got shot three times above the ribs?!”

Stark, “Hard to imagine how badly she could have been hurt without that magnetic powered weapon she made that kept her men safe and was able to take out panzers and planes. Heard they got put on some harrowing details for their reputations.”

Sousa said, “I’m sorry, I can’t get past the she got shot in the face and neck part. I saw her, from several angles.”

Jarvis, “She was remarkably fortunate in her healing scar free from her injuries.”

Stark patted Sousa on the shoulder, “It’s alright Daniel, give it a few more visits and read up on her a bit, head down to The Blue Bonnet in lower Manhattan they’re playing a rerun of their wedding reel and the news clips they have on her in some sort of romantic retaliation for those headlines these days. Even some comics of theirs, helps to build up some socialization with the living mystery she is, well, the whole lot of them are.”

Sousa nodded and took hold of the bag, “Well, um, thank you for this. I have to get back and try to see if I can reach Eddie to plan a drop in tonight on my perp. Be a real thrill to catch my guy before Thompson catches his Weasel Bomber.”

Jarvis, “How have they not caught him yet?”

Sousa shrugged, “He’s got the whole floor except for Peggy on the case and all he’s won is a whole library of books and evidence that actually is from the case Eddie is searching on so they’ve been chasing an imaginary tail. Just ridiculous.”

Jarvis, “Could you not simply inform this Thompson that he is working on irrelevant evidence from an unrelated matter?”

Sousa smirked and said, “No, if the moron can’t figure his foot for a clue he shouldn’t have been given that promotion. But he’s too good at kissing ass than I could ever be to have been chosen against.”

Stark smirked back, “You got that promotion too old man.” Beginning to lead him off back to the front door.

Sousa rolled his eyes and replied, “They were desperate and I was the only one with enough time under my belt.”

Jarvis, “Sometimes necessity can be quite a virtue to have on your side. You have done more than earn the rank and now you have your own team here.”

“Who hate being stuck on my team. Rather be with the fun boys on Thompson’s floor.”

Jarvis, “Well then perhaps one might be traded for Peggy one day and you might have a worthy asset to your team.”

Sousa chuckled and answered, “Baroness has her way it would be best I wasn’t her superior.”

Stark smiled openly at him and clapped a hand on his back, “Well done, I’m hoping you mean in a matter of work positions, bout time we had another member on the team to know how happy you would make each other. And it’s nice to see Peggy gaining some strong women to back her outside of work. Hard to find someone on equal footing for her I would imagine. Plus Bunny has quite the mischievous streak in her. Hell of a pair.”

Sousa asked, “Have you guys seen that Lizard guy they’re putting up a billboard of over on the East Side?”

Jarvis, “Can’t say I have.”

Stark said, “I heard some big wigs have a big order from DC to post some new ‘official PR’ for one of their new show ponies.”

Sousa, “Why do they need a new show pony?”

Stark, “WW2 is over, Cold War is brewing though. Need someone’s face to slap on those posters now that Cap’s been bought out of their use.”

Sousa’s lips parted and Jarvis explained, “Mrs Bunny owns her brother’s image in and out of the uniform. Which the shield we hear is no longer in the Government vaults.”

Sousa, “Someone stole it?!”

Stark smirked and said, “Or someone took it home where it’d be looked after.”

Sousa muttered, “Home, you mean to his sister? What would she have need for that relic? Sledding with the kids?”

Stark chuckled and Jarvis stated in an amused tone, “That would be an amusing and handy use of the old hubcap.”

Stark more for himself than Sousa stated, “Well she certainly didn’t melt it down for that leg of yours. Vibranium would have been picked up by my scanner. No doubt if she’s got it nobody will see where she’s tucked it away. Just by chance he dropped it anyways, one of the last things he touched.”

They paused at the front door and Sousa said, “Victor said she has his pictures up in the library to honor their mother. To not pretend like he never existed. I can’t imagine, said he abandoned her for the war when she was a kid. Why would she have his picture up?”

Stark replied in a hinted solemn but steady tone, “Because she’s ‘not in the business of destroying little girl’s heroes’. What she told me. Why she shares about Bucky to his sisters and mom, he was all she had and he called her a monster. If you ask me, I think she saw him over there. Mentioned once how pitiful his shows were for the troops. If anyone could keep his memory from being trapped in that forever she would. Steve hated that damn show the minute he did it for the boys over there and not people back home who cheered and clapped.”

Sousa, “People who were out there dying, you mean.”

Stark answered, “Then he ran off on his own to news Bucky got taken prisoner. Had his boots on the ground after that till he took a nose dive in that plane.”

Jarvis, “I don’t imagine it would make much difference to put his photos away. He would still be there, all those years together, would still be there. Everything he said, and did, or lack thereof. Sometimes the silence and unanswered questions can be devastating enough.”

Sousa, “I just can’t seem to get a good read on her. I normally have a good radar for people. But her and her family, I don’t know about them.” The bag in his hand was lifted a little bit and he stated, “Thanks again. Let you know how it goes with the balloons.”

Stark said to his back, “Above all, have fun with it. My good balloons are involved.” The Chief chuckled on his way to his car to make the drive back.

Up against the wall you rested your hand in a moment’s pause once you’d hung up the phone after the call from the Blair House, where President Truman and his family were currently living to let the White House receive much needed repairs. He hadn’t asked again on progress of your pregnancy, yet shared he could have another word with the papers to ease up if they continued on like this when he was set for his next event. This call however came with news that out of respect for you they had found another mascot for their propaganda campaign for this new war on the hope front. Steve was at one time all you had and in that prior purchase of the comics Truman had enforced that ownership of everything Cap to sever that government owned tag from Steve’s ear to spare you pain of his face plastered everywhere once again. The big reveal would be at an event smack in the summer break when you would be in Canada and he said that once it did come out something might be done if you wished to show support publicly. But that would not be required.

Princess Elizabeth had responded to your latest letter in the trade off correspondence and even in her gleeful description of her enjoyment of the book you had gifted the couple for their vows the trunk hidden back in Canada kept popping back into your mind. It had been well over a year now since Truman had it sent to you personally that you had moved with you back there and buried like James and Vic had buried their own treasure hoards you had helped them to unearth and go through.

You had asked Peggy about a secret love child but somehow now thoughts of how his children would have grown up next to yours kept showing their faces like tiny prairie dogs you couldn’t shake while your date grew closer. But that tether had come to an end when the two hadn’t been physical, though not entirely fruitless as you learned by means of another Beserker on earth’s skilled studies that a sperm sample had been collected once from Steve and had been kept on ice in a facility. That upon the discovery to a more advanced facility had fallen prey to a freak accident and was leveled and the sample hidden away for when you might want use of it. Along with notes of the several failed tries of fertilization into volunteers by a group of scientists. By their inspection the sample was still viable and now under their care could last much longer and when the others would arrive there would be ample up to acting as surrogate for you.

But that would all be brushed away from your mind for now once again at the kick of your own girls who would send you back to the sketches you had been working up for the Manor finishing touches when you got back. Papers already had been bought before your trip back to Brooklyn and left there to install upon your return. Colored pencils helped to choose paint shades alongside paint swatches the guys had gathered and the duo helped to design some more furniture to go with what would be divided up to fill each of your wings by means of some books they flipped through. Every one of them secured answer that you were calming upon plans of the move. None more so than a mural of sketches on easels now set aside would be painted and hung when the basic paint smells didn’t make your stomach want to turn after the birth. The plans had been solidified nearly and on the page alone the Brocks who had come over the night prior had fallen in love with the changes to your new family home.

State vs Raslo, Tillinghast, Luckstrim

District Attorney Willie Abraham stood in front of the female student playing the 23 year old Christina Flanagan while she recounted her memory of the Defendant Jesse Rasslo on his way about the building in the process of stealing the information of ownership on each of the liquidated assets. “And you are certain it was Mr Rasslo? And not any chance it could have been anyone else?”

“I could point that hideous burnt orange and fuchsia leaf patterned fiasco of a vest he always wears out of a crowd. And if you mean his face I got a good look when he got into the elevator. It’s directly across from the store room I found a hole punch in to replace mine someone had run off with the week prior. Hard to get that ugly mug out of your mind after you see it with all of his tries at playing Casanova anytime he catches wind of a skirt nearby.”

The male student smirked and asked, “And when was the next time you saw Mr Rasslo?”

“Later on at the party. Came in far more gussied up than usual and made it a point to be social. Like he had to talk to everyone in the room. But then that’s when Miss Tillinghast began to try and put on a sort of one woman musical show and I excused myself to the other end of the room where I saw Mr Rasslo talking to Mr Virgil, who then left the room.”

“Did he seem angry?”

“No, determined, like he’d won something. Every time he won something he would get this one look on his face.” From the crowd now Jarvis, Stark and Peggy were added to the mix. All seemingly impressed of these cases they had caught up on with wonder on what two were next. “The same one Mr Gordon got a few minutes later when Mr Rasslo side stepped his way through the crowd to talk to him too. The brothers left and then it was like a switch flipped and Mr Rasslo joined Miss Tillinghast in her one woman show to keep all eyes on them. Only I couldn’t go hide in the toilet anymore as the lines for those grew and then by the time I’d found another for the catering staff in their office we heard the alarm sound and we all started to file out to wait for the cops to arrive to see what was wrong.”

Impressively a large board with the blueprints of a building to stand as example for the company was used by her and the DA in her show of where everyone was by use of markers and taped up sketches of ‘photographs’ taken from that evening by the team that was usually hired. This was what the Defense teams tried to attack and when they had failed in their tries to do so she flashed you a relieved smile in her being excused from the bench to exit the courtroom again now that her part was done.

And next came the pretend 37 year old, who a student with a blanket shoved into his shirt complete with an all crème suit and hat he carried once removed to play up his part of the back story on the gun expert down to a butchered Southern accent. More large pictures were used to discredit the possible bit of testimony that could exonerate the Defendants on trial if anyone believed the malformation of guns as he stated they were formed. The proper analysis of the evidence of trajectory came next along with copies of sketches of the crime scene supplied to yourself, the General, the Jury and the Prosecution to show that things were thrown both on top of one of the casings while a book found underneath Virgil had another bullet lodged inside of it showing that the so called robbery ploy was used to hide the evidence of the true scuffle. Sketches of blood stains on the carpet came next in larger size to show their hypothesis of who died first and how like footprints and arrows that led to the next clues. All of these things were noted by the impressed author of the case who saw that without the chunk of his case he so badly wanted to have gone other ways than this.

“The State rests, Your Honor.” Mr Abraham stated in the conclusion of the testimony of their fourth witness and your eyes shifted to the Defense for wonder on how their witnesses would go the next time you were together and the case with the sound of the gavel was paused to resume at the next date given for a couple days off and you excused yourself for a mini break. The buzz of the crowd waxed and waned in the switch of the teams and comments shared by the Judges, Professors and student Press here for the trial. Of course only to dim again upon your return to show things were headed back on track.

Firske & Hahn vs Glubb Insurance

Four witnesses filled up the remainder of the time. Louis Levard was first. Age 41 who was the GP Doctor Injured parties were sent to by Ins company. With a smile Mr Bressler questioned him after hearing what the injuries were and then promptly frowned beside his partner in Defense Mr Winters to watch Mr Urton stand with human anatomy chart in hand he taped up with help of Officer Browen on the supplied easel to dig into each of the flaws of the statement he had given. The author for this case shifted uncomfortably in his seat to each mistake named and made note of them to be marked later in his report and stole glances your way as others did for the cool expression on your face and occasional tick of your brow to each note you made yourself. Fully by the end of Mr Winters retaliatory questions the crowds could see just why his license was being challenged.

Wallace Walstead of the seasoned age of 51 was next. The Eye Doctor who felt the same fire from the oven he had been seated upon since the moment of being sworn in also with a challenged license. The student’s clear study into the anatomy of the eye led to a shaky but useful dissection of another anatomy chart that proved Miss Hahn’s injuries to her eye were far greater than put on by the Insurance Doctor.

Samuel Strenberg Age 39 came next for the most amusing one yet. Paid for several cases for their testimonies as it was revealed by use of copies of the bank notices added to the case to go with fake court dates and snippets from each trial where they played the satisfied patient. The audience watched with amused smiles while you shifted back in your seat with ample notes being taken to keep from smiling openly to the nearly awed expression on the author’s face to how this one throwaway witness he had written was being used by Mr Urton for the injured parties.

And lastly, smug as hell Bob Kleeman all of 47, Ins Rep on policy for coverage nearly had to be drug off the stand y the end of his testimony within which he defends his stance that since they didn’t go to approved Doctors first to be referred to ER’s afterwards they are responsible for all charges. Even against all the evidence, diagrams and otherwise, he held firm and heated up the room to a degree that had everyone pleased to call it a day by the time the gavel fell.

Into the halls people pooled with excited chatter on how the end of this phase of the case had gone with hopes that the witnesses for the Defense on the murder case would go the next day the court would be called. Stark however found your side and smiled stating, “Very well done on choosing these cases.”

“Oh I didn’t choose them. Just led them a bit out of the gutter.” Your eyes shifted to some of the awed Science students and you said, “I think you might be paraded around a bit today.”

His head shook, “Easy return for the show you gave us. Enjoy your classes. Gladly play show pony in return for today.”

Peggy with a smirk wished you a comfy next class, a sentiment that Jarvis shared in his own amused send off and shift to follow Stark as if to keep him from being eaten by the crowds that pooled around him to grant you a clearer walk with your family to the next class you had.

Pt 62

All –

@sherala007, @mariannetora, @jesgisborne, @knitastically, @catthefearless, @theincaprincess, ggbbhehe4455, @lilith15000, @alishlieb,

Not nsfw(smut) - @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore

X Marvel-Cast - @himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @changlingkhat

Brother Dearest - @thorinanddwalinsdwarrowdam, @swoopswishsward

#Daniel Sousa #Jarvis #Howard Stark #Borrowing Stark's Lab #Hashing up the past #Questions #Mysteries #New Mascot to Come #Failed Baby Cap Experiments #Mock Trials #Peggy Carter

6 notes · View notes

sml8180 · 4 years

Text

Lasting Injuries

I started writing this yesterday when my knee was acting up from an injury I sustained roughly 8 years ago, and it initially inspired me to write this. I HC that Damien didn’t just have a cane for the looks of it, but because he actually needed it due to an old injury. I decided to write a story about what had happened to him, and when I asked in one of the Discord servers I’m a part of what that injury should be, @doctordiscord123 suggested that maybe Will accidentally shot Damien in the knee while showing off a new gun.

This story is the result of that idea, along with SEVERAL odd google searches.

Heads up for the following: Gun violence, poor gun safety, accidental shooting, accidental kneecapping, descriptions of injuries, chronic pain, long term injuries.

Lasting Injuries

William had told Damien that he had something to show him. He’d told Damien to head outside, and wait for him by the treeline, while he grabbed whatever it was he was going to show off from his room.

Damien hadn’t known what he’d expected, but he knew he wasn’t expecting William to show up and show him a gun. It was a brand new revolver, the metal clean and shiny, and Will held it in his hand as if it were meant to be there.

“I got it for my sixteenth birthday the other day!” Will exclaimed, showing off the revolver to his friend. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Damien nodded. He wasn’t exactly a gun person, but he enjoyed seeing his friend so excited. “You do know what you’re doing with that, right?”

“Of course I do! I’ve fired one before, but now I have my own!”

Damien seemed to relax a bit when he learned that Will knew how to handle his new weapon. He’d known it was only a matter of time before he ended up getting a gun, anyways, seeing as he wanted to go into the military some day. Now that his nerves were somewhat calmed, he was curious. “How does it work?”

“It’s simple, really!” Will told him, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “This releases the cylinder,” he mused, pulling back the release to let the cylinder swing out. “And you load it like this,” he narrated, loading a round into one of the chambers, before clicking the cylinder back into place. He stepped back a bit, adjusting his grip on the gun as he went. “You look down the sights to find where you’re aiming, pull the hammer back,” Will looked down the sights of the gun.

Damien trusted that Will wasn’t aiming at him. He didn’t think he should move, until it was far too late. The shot rang out across the manor grounds, and the next thing Damien knew, he was on the ground, unsure of really what had happened. Things seemed to slow as Will set the gun down and ran to him, pulling off his coat and wrapping it around Damien’s knee.

“Just, just stay there, I’ll get help,” Will rambled, sounding shaken as he stood, sprinting back to the manor.

While William was gone, Damien started to feel a sort of burning pain radiating through his leg. It was dull at first, but as the moments ticked by, he could feel it getting worse. Will returned with a couple members of the house staff, along with Celine, who quickly knelt beside him, immediately starting to fuss over him.

He didn’t really remember much after that. He remembered Celine and the two adults fussing over him, making sure that he kept calm. They all brought him inside, and he remembered being loaded into an ambulance, with Celine by his side, holding his hand.

A few days later, Damien was feeling a little more himself. He was still confined to his bed in the hospital, but he was awake and alert. That was when he learned that William had shot him in the knee. William was apologizing profusely, saying he hadn’t meant to, it was an accident, he thought he was aiming at the tree.

“Will, calm down,” Damien consoled. “I’ll be alright, there’s no need to worry.”

Damien didn’t realize just how long it would be until he was up and walking again.

He went through three or four operations in an attempt to repair the damage to his left knee. The shot hadn’t been direct; the round had hit more to the side of his kneecap, shattering part of it, but not shattering the entire joint. The doctors did what they could to piece things back together, but there was only so much they could do. After all the operations, Damien had to go through weeks of therapy in order to even take a few steps. He was on crutches for what felt like ages, he wore various braces for years, and used a cane to get around after that.

He did his best to walk unassisted when he could, being the stubborn man he was, especially when it came time for his mayoral campaign. He wanted to seem strong, he didn’t want the public to see him relying on a cane, didn’t want them to see him limping.

Will had always been apologetic about what had happened; he almost never had a gun out around Damien after the incident. Damien always reminded him that it was an accident. They were just kids at the time, after all, they didn’t know better. He didn’t hold any grudge against his friend.

He’d never admit to Will’s face just how frustrating the lasting toll the injury took on him really was.

There were days where his knee hurt so badly he couldn’t stand. Days where he wouldn’t leave the house because he didn’t want to be seen leaning heavily on a cane with his knee braced. He snapped at doctors, at peers, at his own sister, some days, when the pain and limitations became just too much.

His campaign pushed his limits some days. All the events he went to, the debates, the rallies, and everything else, it all took a toll on his knee. Damien had to be on his feet so much, and he couldn’t just skip out on things; it would make him seem unreliable if he did. He did what he could to stick it out, made as many of the events as he could.

The colder months were a blessing and a curse. The cold often lead to more stiffness in his knee, causing it to be sore more often than not. But, he often wore long coats during colder weather, which he made sure would fall beyond his knees, allowing him to wear one of his braces. It wasn’t his best brace, but it was better than nothing.

It was early spring when the campaign ended, when all Damien could do was wait and hope he’d done enough. He waited inside, his fingers crossed. Justice, a friend from his years in university, was by his side, trying to help calm his anxieties, as well as offering some support to keep Damien’s weight off his injured knee, which was starting to act against the man once again.

Celine rushed in, carrying something behind her back. The results were about to be announced, Damien had to show his face out there, especially if it was him who ended up the victor.

“Celine!” Damien called, as his sister approached. “You said you would be here almost half an hour ago.”

“I know, I know,” Celine stated, placing a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I needed to pick something up.”

“I need to get outside,” Damien told her, already beginning to pull away from Justice. “What did you need to pick up?” he questioned, knowing full well his sister would be following him. He didn’t get an answer, and simply rolled his eyes as he stepped outside, just in time for the man up on the stage to begin reading off the final results in front of him.

It barely registered that it was his name being read off.

“Just a little something for you, Mayor Damien,” Celine finally told him, offering a cane to her stunned brother. The object was brand new, and straight as an arrow; the main body a shiny black, with a silver tip and ornate silver topper.

Damien took the cane in his hands, speechless. It felt as if time had stopped, at least until he felt Celine taking hold of his shoulders and turning him around.

“Well, go on! You need to say something to them!”

The new mayor took a breath, and stood a little straighter as he scanned the audience. Hundreds, thousands of eyes were trained on him. He took a deep breath, and planted the silver tip of the cane on the ground, finding that it felt far more sturdy than his older ones. He took his first steps with it up onto the stage, and felt the wave of energy from the audience wash over him as he walked to the podium with confidence.

They were some of the most confident steps he’d taken since he was a teenager.

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

Dark felt fairly decent when he got up in the morning. His shoulders and neck didn’t feel as bad as they had for some time. He felt like today was going to be a good day.

That was until he went to actually get out of bed. His left knee practically gave out on him.

He thought back to that day so many years ago. When Damien had been shot in the knee. That injury had been a part of him for so long. Even though he was no longer in Damien’s body, he could feel the injury all the same.

Dark sighed, looking to the mess of pink hair beside him, still sleeping. Wilford didn’t remember the incident from what he could tell. It was for the best, really. He always claimed that it was simply his chronic pain that occasionally lead to him bracing his knee, or using a cane. He didn’t mention the damage that had been done by a stray bullet.

So, Dark simply braced himself against the wall, going about his usual routine. He showered, did his makeup, got dressed. He was sitting in the chair in the corner of the room when Wil woke up, strapping his brace into place to support his knee.

“One of those days, Darky?” Wil tiredly asked, getting out of bed and approaching his husband, wrapping his arms around the man’s shoulders and kissing his cheek.

“Mm-hm. One of those days,” Dark responded, returning his husband’s sleepy kiss.

Wil nodded, and picked up Dark’s cane from the corner. Dark took it from him, running his thumb over the topper for a moment before standing up.

“I’m going to head down to the dining room. I’ll see you at breakfast,” he mused, giving Wilford a final kiss to the cheek before making his way out of the room.

He found an odd comfort in the sound of the silver tip of the cane against the wood floors of the manor. It was a familiar sound, one that Damien had found oddly comforting for years, and one that Dark now found oddly soothing. With the brace on his knee, and the cane in his hand, Dark walked with a surprising confidence, despite the lasting injuries that tried to slow him down.

#markiplier egos #tw: gun mention #tw: gun violence #accidental shooting #poor gun safety #accidental kneecapping #description of injuries #chronic pain #long term injuries #Damien the Mayor #Celine the Seer #William the Colonel #Wilford Warstache #Darkiplier #Darkstache #pre-canon #long post

50 notes · View notes

nny11writes · 5 years

Text

Pink Lizard Thunderbolt Incident

Ahsoka was twenty, bored, and taking a bet from Hardcase when it happened.

Her first mistake was being in the same bar as Hardcase. Quickly followed in order by entertaining the bet, her own youthful naivete, and her desire to push limits. Well, actually, her first mistake had been bragging to him about her ability to knock back starshine’s because human alcohol was “weak ass shit”. Hardcase commiserate and had promised to find her something better, after all, clones had a higher tolerance for alcohol as well. When they’d sat at the bar Hardcase had pointed at her and said, “This one can drink irongut, blood mashes, and thinks starshine is weak. What do you have to knock her flat on her ass?”

Ahsoka had laughed, punching him good naturedly until he’d smiled evilly at her and said, “S’amatter? You scared?”

She’d told him to pay for the drink and she’d drink anything.

When it arrived, the first thing she’d noticed was the small cloud hovering above it, little electrical bolts flying between the hovering vapor and the liquid.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, “is that a pica?”

The bartender, an older purple woman with stubby tentacles swept elegantly behind her head, had grinned and winked. “Nope. That is a pink lizard thunderbolt babe. Almost twice the alcohol content. It can literally eat through a human’s stomach, but you togs are built like gastric tanks. If you can drink this shit and remember anything afterwards, I’ll pay for the damn thing myself.”

Ahsoka stared at it in wonder, a stray bolt shocking her finger as she grinned. She probably sounded more excited than she should have as she asked, “Should we have an ambulance on speed dial or anything?”

The woman shrugged, “How should I know? I’m not your mom!”

“Don’t worry, I’ve just sent Kix a message and he is your mom.” Hardcase made a motion towards it. “You gonna chicken out or what?”

The last thing Ahsoka remembers is grabbing the drink. It’s surprisingly disappointing to say she doesn’t remember what it looked like as the cloud dissipated, she had no clue how it even tasted which just seemed like a fucking shame. Then next thing she remembers is waking up violently ill in an alleyway, and bitching on about buzz droids. Later she’ll be delighted to discover that she is still alive and hadn’t had a single thing stolen from her. Much later she’ll be grateful that Hardcase didn’t record a damned thing. Much, much later she’ll have bragging rights beyond bragging rights and a pin up of herself in a thundercloud painted on a LAAT/i.

But that is later.

Hardcase, for his suspiciously reliable sounding testimony, explains that Ahsoka drank it over a twenty minute period and that after thirty minutes she only seemed regular drunk. The bartender was impressed enough to give them some complimentary nuts. About five minutes after that Ahsoka had started rambling about starships, then blasters, then bitching about how cold Ilum was and how she wished her lightsabers were a “cool” color. She had apparently never explained what that was supposed to mean.

Ahsoka had devolved quickly into tattoo designs for herself, and asked several times in a row if Rex would want one too. Despite Hardcase repeatedly saying she would need to ask the Captain. Then got a little teary eyed that Rex didn’t love her, which the bartender took the wrong way but got a kick out of Ahsoka’s hiccuping, “But he’s my best- brother- frien’- dad and I need him!”

Hardcase had assured her that Rex loved her, and that every trooper in the 501st knew she was their collective best-sister-brother-friend-Commander.

She had sniffled and asked if they’d get tattoos with her which Hardcase assured her they would.

They had both been given orders to drink two glasses of water before leaving. Apparently the bartender wanted to keep visuals on Ahsoka for another hour before they left for liability reasons and also because this was the most fun she’d had all week. Which was fair. After the first glass was chugged Ahsoka almost threw up, managed not to, and had loudly declared that was why togrutas were the best.

Hardcase had gotten up at some point to keep Kix appraised of the situation (“I told him you were fine and you were, ‘s not my fault!), it took less than a minute and he had eyes on her for all except the last fifteen seconds.

No one is really sure where she was for the next hour or so.

Ahsoka finds a receipt in her pocket for a kebab, the used end of a death stick with heavy lipstick stains in a shade she doesn’t own, and a crumpled ticket to a concert that had happened a week before. All in all it’s not useful for much except she glad she didn’t root through the trash more thoroughly. Who knows what would have been in her pockets then. She guesses that she stumbled out the back door to wander a bit, but was probably too uncoordinated to get far. Regardless, drunk Ahsoka had still turned around and homed in on Hardcase at the bar.

The first place Hardcase checked was the dancefloor, then the bathroom, then the back alley. He explained in detail how his short life flashed before his eyes and the way he’d debated if he should call in backup to find her. He’d figured she couldn’t get far and did a sweep, he never saw her. Right when he decided to, and stepped into the back alley he found her sitting half hidden by the dumpster and nearly burst into tears. Hardcase then promised to get a tattoo with her and get her food and do anything as long as she didn’t leave his side again for the night.

Ahsoka had apparently said, “Nice.” while patting his cheeks.

Mama Bartender had come out a long while later with waters for them and asked if Ahsoka was still breathing. Ahsoka had tilted her head and shrugged, which was acceptable. A while after that Hardcase had helped her up and they had tried to go back to the barracks. She had been distracted by every pet they came across and asked to touch them. Hardcase had smiled widely as he explained he was not responsible for whatever photos those civvies had taken of a drunk Jedi playing with their pets.

“That’s on the holonet and I can’t stop it.”

Fair enough, although Ahsoka did feel he shouldn’t act so smug about it.

There had apparently been a memorable stop at a bathroom as Hardcase had gone in the single stall with her to make sure she actually peed in the damned toilet and not on her leggings. Apparently someone had thought they were engaged in more sexual games and had been horrified thinking a trooper took advantage of a drunk woman. Ahsoka had laughed herself nearly sick, again allegedly on civvie camera, explaining that Hardcase was her best friend and she loved him but not like that but if he was a girl she would totally have done it. Hardcase stuttered his way again through the explanation that she was drunk and needed to pee. Ahsoka had been offended at the accusation that she was drunk, right up until she tilted and almost brained herself on the sink while bitching about the gravity repulsors acting up again. Then she’d paused before petting the mirror image of her own face and saying, “Ok ’m drunk.”

The karking Coroc’s had been called in the meantime though, and Hardcase had been laughing too much to explain what happened when the two shock troopers arrived. He must have said something though because they were not, in fact, arrested for any of the things the probably should have been arrested for.

The fact that Ahsoka had received two pings with unknown com numbers to have a drinking contest with the Guard was a good indicator that she’d impressed them for all the wrong reasons. Boot and Chide had both assured her they’d welcome her presence as a judge if nothing else because she was funny.

Hardcase just snickered, “F-funny!” in a high pitched wheeze when she asked about it.

Ahsoka had tried to sleep on a bench and Hardcase had at least redirected her back towards the barracks. They made it halfway there before Ahsoka walked unassisted into another alley, leaned over, and threw up. Feeling better she’d again insisted on sleeping, and Hardcase got her to compromise and just sit next to him. There was no way she was being allowed to sleep yet. He kept an eye on her breathing and made sure she wasn’t getting cold.

“I know my ABC’s Commander!” Hardcase said with pride.

She opted to not make the obvious joke considering he’d shepherded her drunken ass around for at least six. Which was generous considering he was the one who had gotten her plastered in the first place.

That’s where she remembers waking up feeling like shit and grateful that she had the day off.

Kix had nearly blown a fuse when they’d returned as he’d assumed Hardcase was being an idiot and had been joking about the punch packed in her drink. Ahsoka had hissed through his rant, hands covering montrals best she could and accepting the pain killers and the electrolyte mix. She got a few hours sleep in the medical bay under his watchful eye before her woke her to eat a nutrient cube and discharge her with a lifelong case of Being a Karking Dumbass. Kix was adamant that it was chronic and would only become more acute with time. Ahsoka had rolled her eyes but didn’t try to argue because...well, she had drunk the damned thing hadn’t she?

She caught another hour of sleep before Anakin had arrived, stomping and shouting and forcing her up to train in the salle with him. As it was his right as her Master to determine how Ahsoka would spend the day off from the GAR. It wasn’t productive considering she spent the whole time cursing at him and he spent the whole time laughing.

“Best core workout I’ve ever had,” Anakin would say fondly, much later down the line when telling the story to embarrass her.

Obi-Wan had arrived afterwards with an evil smile to drill her on her studies, which Ahsoka managed to only avoid by saying, “You drink one Pink Lizard and everyone becomes an asshole!”

Anakin had panicked for a hot minute while Obi-Wan had immediately sat her down. She’d been quickly forced to explain that Kix had seen her and discharged her already, no she wasn’t dying, and no they only ate through the stomach lining of humans according to the bartender.

Anakin had eventually smiled widely, far too manic for anyone’s tastes, looking between her and Obi-Wan, “We’re high tolerance drinkers! That’s our lineage tick!”

“No,” Obi-Wan tried his best to discourage the notion. “I know what you’re thinking and we should definitely not-”

“Yes!” Anakin insisted, only getting more excited, “We need to get drinks together! Now!”

“No,” Obi-Wan and Ahsoka had both insisted, but for wildly different reasons.

“But yes!” Anakin chripped far to happy and loud for anyone to enjoy as he dragged them off towards their quarters. “So what are we having, I know how to get the good stuff in here.”

“Either get me herbal tea or get me another Pink Lizard so I can die in kriffing peace!” Ahsoka snarled and tried to get her arm out from the mechno grip he’d locked her into.

Obi-Wan said, “I second the motion! Let me go Anakin!”

“Cool, I’m thinking jet juice to start then some skee’s and we’ll see how we’re feeling.” Anakin said the same way some people might imply that eating a small desert after a meal might be one step too far.

Ahsoka and Obi-Wan looked at one another in horror, mute from fear.

“How are you still alive?” She whispered staring up at her Master with new respect.

To be fair, she doesn’t actually remember anything after that either, so maybe the respect had been given a bit to quickly. Suffice it to say they, luckily, survived the night. Although perhaps “luckily” is not the right word for the day that followed.

Regardless, Ahsoka looked up at her nose art with a smile and decided that she would never, ever touch a damned pica drink again in her life. She would have also sworn off drinking with Anakin, but that was a foregone conclusion.

Now if she could just get Yoda to come to one of their “our lineage makes poor decisions” nights, she’d swear off drinking forever.

#fanfiction #fanfic #Ahsoka Tano #Hardcase #CW: Alcohol #CW: Binge Drinking #do NOT do what these two idiots did #black out drunk is not cool kids #but it sure makes for fun fic writing #No one deserves to be trapped with Anakin when he wants to drink to excess #not even Obi-Wan I Take Shots in the Middle of Our Mission Kenobi and Ahsoka Fuck You I Can't Tano #star wars: the clone wars #Why yes that is Aetheyta #thanks for noticing #Kix is the Mom friend

11 notes · View notes

jinkisbelly · 5 years

Text

Sorcerers’ Apprentice 17/31

Inktober Day 17: Swollen or a Flashback to them making their soul bond, there is blood mentioned in this as part of the process

w/c: 1.5k

Masterlist / AFF / AO3 (slowly)

Jonghyun softly ran his fingers through Jinki’s long hair as he frowned deeply seeing the strip of white through the black locks. The last few years had proven to be hard on the prophet. The King pushing him harder and longer to produce as many visions and details of the Dark Sorcerers as he could. In doing so the white began to show in his hair near his right temple. Tonight he had arrived with the use of a thick cane he had bought a few months before when walking unassisted became difficult.

After eating some of the bread Jonghyun had baked and drunk the tonic he made for him, Jinki had curled up on the bed using Jonghyun’s tummy as a pillow. He was facing away, but Jonghyun knew his eyes were closed, for he always did when his hair was being played with. Jonghyun lifted his gaze from the back of Jinki’s head to the book on the table across the way. He had found it when exploring the old library, back in the deep reference section. It described a powerful spell called a soul bond, one that connected two sorcerers until they were almost one. It described instances of powers being shared between the two individuals, spells power increased simply by being connected, and being such a deep connection it was painful to break.

They had discussed marriage offhandedly, not serious enough to mean anything. Jinki had smiled so sweetly at the thought, leaning over and kissing his temple with a quick ‘Marrying you would be a dream’, before returning to his book. Jonghyun felt the truth in such a statement, but he also desired to be connected to Jinki in a deeper way. He loved him so much. Never had he felt all consumed by love for another, such a raw and passionate emotion it sometimes left him breathless. Before he lost his courage, he softly called out, “Love?”

The quiet noise Jinki made could only be described as adorable as he turned onto his back, shifting his head to look up at him. His eyes slowly opened, a sweet and warm smile on his face. “Hey~”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I am,” His hand was soft as he intertwined their fingers the best he could. “Thanks to you.”

“I’ve been thinking about something that I’ve been researching lately.”

“Oh?”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Jonghyun’s gaze fell from Jinki’s, chest feeling a little tight in his nervousness. He met Jinki’s eyes as he asked, “Have you ever heard of a soul bond?”

“The memory is vague, but I believe I have.” Jinki moved his thumb on the back of Jonghyun’s hand. “It’s the connection between two sorcerers’ souls, binding them by powerful magic, right?”

“Yes.”

“What have you been thinking about it, exactly, Dear One?”

Jonghyun flashed a tiny smile, breathing out quickly, “For once I wish you’d read me again.”

Slowly, Jinki rose from his thigh. After letting go of his hand he swung a leg over Jonghyun’s lap, straddling him and wrapping his arms around his neck. “I don’t have to use my abilities to read what’s on your mind, Beautiful. I wish you weren’t so hesitant to open up your desires to me.”

“If you ended up deciding you didn’t want to be that deeply tied to me,” He rose his hand to caress his cheek softly. “I don’t know what I’d do. I love you so much Jinki. I know what the crown says about marriage and commitment of it’s sorcerers, but I-”

“I’d leave it all for you, Dear One.” Jinki quickly cut him off, leaning forward to press a few light kisses on each corner of his lips. “You are the only good thing in my life, Jonghyun. I’d have to research what a soul bond is, more than what I know from stories my master used to tell me, but the thought of being so intertwined with you it’s as if we’re one heart,” He grins widely and it knocks the breath out of Jonghyun’s lungs. “It’s exhilarating.”

“So you’ll think about it?”

“Yes.” After sweetly kissing him he whispered against his lips, “I love you more than anything else, Dear One.”

------

It was a few weeks later they stood a step away from each other, reading the other’s expression for any signs of doubt. Soon it would be midnight on the first full moon since they decided this is what they wanted. Jinki looked so bright and warm with the weeks he had hidden away from any of the King’s demands, knowing that they need him well rested if this was going to work. Behind them was the prepared cauldron. Each ingredient was already measured out in separate tiny bowls and Jonghyun’s silver ceremony knife he got as a gift from his Master at the end of his apprenticeship was laying on the dark blue velvet it was stored in usually.

“Are you ready?” Jonghyun quietly asked.

“We can’t reverse this, Dear one, not without a lot of pain.” Jinki caught his slightly curled hand swinging next to his side, intertwining their fingers. “To feel you as intimately as this will allow, so close… I am sure in my decision, so please don’t mistake my intention when asking if you’re sure this is what you want for second thoughts, Jonghyun.”

“The one thing I’m entirely sure of is us.” He pushed up to kiss his lips, bumping noses as he pulled away. “I may not be a prophet, but I know we were meant to meet that day Jinki. I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

Jinki kept hold of Jonghyun’s hand as he led them over to the table, only letting go of it so they could add the ingredients. The old book was open on the small stand they used for the potion book Jonghyun was writing. With each different ingredient added they began to sing until finally, Jinki picked up the delicate handle of the knife. Carefully, he pressed firmly from his the bottom of his ring finger to the end of his palm on his left hand with a deep hiss. Then as he cradled his cut hand he handed the knife to Jonghyun. Once he had done the exact same the knife was discarded on the table.

They pressed their palms together, continuing the song as they lowered their intertwined hands into the brew in the cauldron. Once the liquid had covered both of their hands, they felt it. The exhilarating rush of power and presence as the connection clicked together and solidified. Their breathing hitched just for a moment, hearts pounding rapidly as the felt the full force of the bond.

With their hands still under the brew, they stepped around the small table until they could kiss. Jonghyun’s free hand curling tightly in Jinki’s shirt, as Jinki had his hand pulling him closer on his lower back. The kiss was messy and opened mouth. The feeling of their new bond almost addicting. All the new sensations crashing together and swirling around. All there was to them then was the other man. Nothing else mattered. When they finally pulled apart enough to speak Jinki roughly panted. “I feel so much of you.”

“My senses are going insane. I feel so tingly all over and God,” Jonghyun had a dazed smile on his face, eyes wide as he stared at Jinki, “Do you really see the world like this? Images of the past and future keep coming and going, I- I thought I’d feel overpowered, swollen almost, with everything but..”

“It just feels right.” Jinki laughed, light and airy as he kissed him quickly. “So right.”

When they managed to clean and wrap each of their wounds they couldn’t find it in themselves to tidy up the rest. For they were too caught up in the way everything felt so vibrant and alive. The smallest touch, a whisper against skin, a kiss. All they could bring themselves to do was lay on the bed and explore the feeling of the other’s face against their fingers. The sensations brand new even if they knew the other’s features better than their own some days.

Jinki hadn’t felt that renewed and centered in years, feeling the ebb and flow of their powers swirling around between the two of them. Jonghyun saw the world in such a different light. He could see little images of their lives together, memories so clear and vivid he knew them to be visions of the past. Flashes of ones that hadn’t yet occurred he knew to be possible futures for them. He opened his mouth slightly, about to let the familiar three words roll off his tongue, but as Jinki slowly smiled he knew he didn’t need to say them. For they both knew. They could feel the rush of warm, deep affection for each other.

#jongyu #onjong #jonghyun #onew #shinee #sorcerers apprentice au #the next part is them running away and then as i said before it's ming time ^^#i hope you like this #and i am going to continue to update this until im done and then im doing my last what 5? 6? jjongsmonth fics #my fic

17 notes · View notes

daily-kit · 5 years

Text

The Daily Kit Project, Day 1

Life has taken a massively bad turn for me. If I were the only one affected, I wouldn't really care much. However, I have these three cats, and they deserve a place to live.

What am I talking about? Let me explain...

Through a series of events, most of which have nothing to do with my own choices (though I will admit to my choices being a contributing factor in the eventual outcome), my finances have been hit to the point where even though I’m earning twice the federal minimum wage in the “gross income” column, my actual net income is somewhere below the poverty line. The accounting mechanics of that are not the subject of this post, however, and I won’t bore you with those details.

I had finally managed to secure some extra money (thanks mom!) that wouldn’t be much but would, at the very least, help, as well as gotten the promise of a roommate/possible-future-life-partner for early April, when I got the notice about 10 days before the end of February that I had to pay off an entire $1.7k (Yes, that’s thousand) past due bill to my apartment complex or be out by the end of the month. There was no way I was going to be able to come up with that money, so I’ve spent the last two weeks frantically securing a place to go and a place to put my stuff and a place for my cats.

Yes, I'm homeless. I'm currently "couch surfing," and nearly all my earthly belongings are in a storage unit.

Thanks to “cat shelters” being fundamentally different beasts from “human shelters,” if I take my cats to a facility that would be able to house and shelter them, they’d be sold or put to sleep before I could get a new apartment and retrieve them.

Why “put to sleep”?

Let’s start with the Great Fat Cat Ronnie:

Ronnie is missing an ear and is very overweight. She’s also very sensitive to her specific environment. When I got her from the shelter, they were worried about her eating because she was refusing to eat most of the food they offered and was getting rail thin, and wasn’t especially personable. “Well,” thought I, “This looks like a good cat that needs lovin’!” When Ronnie passed the Munchkin Test (would she tolerate my daughter), I took her home and proceeded to do the Cat Lovin’ thing that Cat Lovers do. My daughter only visits me on the weekends, so what happened really slowly for me was blatantly obvious to her, Ronnie was getting FAT. In other words, her physical health was fine it was her mental health that was causing her weight loss at the shelter. Why?

She was a returned rescue. That’s right, The Great White Pudge had been rescued once, then returned to the shelter she’d been rescued from. That does things to a cat, none of them good.

Between the three cats, she’s reacting the best to the sudden change, but she’s still damn clingy and insists on sitting in my lap whenever possible to reassure herself that I’m not going anywhere.

Then there’s the Street Queen Murphy:

This poor kitty I picked up off the street, literally, back in Nov. 2016. She was so close to death her digestive system was starting to shut down. It took two weeks before she could eat anything without throwing it back up, and a few months before she could reliably use the litter without creating a mess everywhere. She acts tough, but she’s got neuroses and mental issues like crazy (heh). She has problems taking care of herself (she somehow doesn’t know how to sharpen her claws, which at one point led to an infected ingrown claw that I had to break off with a pair of pliers to get out of her pad) and will literally caterwaul if she wakes up and doesn’t see a familiar face. She seems anti-social, because she gets nervous if she’s been held for too long, but she only really turns on the purr if you can get her to sit still in your arms for five minutes while rubbing her belly.

Speaking of, she can’t seem to retract her claws. I used to get my hands scratched to all hell because I didn’t know how to disentangle my hand from her death grip on it because she loved the belly skritches so much she didn’t ever want me to stop.

Then there’s the Liquid Ninja Josie:

Back in early 2016 when I got Ronnie, it was a big deal for my daughter, who’s high-functioning autistic and loves animals.

Naturally, my ex-wife had to get a cat, too. 😒 I have no idea if this was intentionally done by her as a means of “one-upping” me as a parent, but I’ve heard this can happen, even subconsciously. Again, neither here nor there.

Josie was the result of the very expensive adoption process. (Seriously, my entire sunk-cost into getting Ronnie was about $200, and that’s including adoption fees, food, cat furniture, toys, litter, etc.) Josie’s adoption fees alone were more than $200. I’m not saying Josie wasn’t worth the money...OK, getting into weeds that are best left for a later post.

So Josie was adopted into a family that historically was predominantly dog owners.She didn’t appreciate being treated like a dog. The members of the household all wondered why she would scratch and bite. Gee, I wonder.

Anyway, around last Thanksgiving, I found out that they were planning on giving Josie back to the shelter. Having just recently taken in a shelter re-rescue and knowing what that would do to the poor thing, I volunteered to take a third cat.

Around early December, Josie started losing her ability to walk. At first it was just little things like struggling to get up on the shelf I had put her food bowl on, but when I realized she was having health problems was when I found her laying in a puddle of her own urine. The vet wanted to run all sorts of tests, including x-ray and toxicology, but this was around the time my finances were starting to get hammered, so I couldn’t afford it. This was also the seed of my mom’s willingness to help with the money, as she offered to cover some of the costs of the tests, but it would take a few weeks before she could do so.

Before my mom could send the first money, though, Josie’s condition started to improve and she’s now to the point where she can walk around to where she needs to be and use the litter unassisted.

So all three are “issue” cats that are unlikely to be adopted out again, and both Murphy and Josie have health issues that would require lots of TLC and probably appreciable vet bills. They are not good adoption material, and that’s not even considering the fact that all three are “bonded” to my daughter, and she’d be devastated if I had to give them away.

All three of these cats do deserve a loving home, and they’ve finally gotten to the point where they are a loving family of cats. Josie and Ronnie help Murphy stay groomed and Murphy is protective of Josie and will put up with Josie’s kitten-ish behavior.

So yes, in order to keep these three in a good, comfortable, stable home, I need assistance from my fellow cat lovers on the Internet. I’ll be posting an update every day, probably focusing on one of the three cats each day.

I do have a personal Ko-fi account, as well as a Patreon, but those aren’t specific to the cats. If you would like to provide immediate support, you can certainly use one of these:

Patreon

Ko-fi

I am interested in how you would like to support me, though. Let me know in replies and reblogs what service you’d be most comfortable sending money through.

#cat #cats #catlover #catlovers #homeless #homelesscat #homelesspets

1 note · View note

acsversace-news · 6 years

Link

Warning: This recap of the “Manhunt” episode of The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story contains spoilers.

From the beginning we’ve known that Andrew Cunanan fancied himself a man of finer tastes. Even while on the run for a murder spree, he still took the time to purchase just the right Wayfarer knock-offs or order a surf ‘n’ turf meal from a wealthy john. Did Cunanan wear just any old bathing suit? Nope, it was magenta Speedo all the way. And when it came to rat-infested, crumbling junkie motels, you better believe Cunanan asked for an ocean view. Yes, even the lowest of human existences can leave room for glamour.

“Manhunt” continued last week’s premiere with even more backstory of where both Versace and Cunanan had been in their respective lives before the titular assassination. And like last week, it took what everyone knew about the case (from sensationalized tabloid coverage mostly) and filled in the gaps with new facts, genuine insight, and arresting beauty. Let’s talk about it!

We began with an unrecognizable, anonymous man in disguise.

Underneath this ingenious, identity-concealing ensemble was none other than famous fashion designer Gianni Versace. But this costumed ruse would be for neither heist nor romp. No, he was at a clinic receiving bad news about a blood test he’d recently taken. And while this episode was careful to keep things vague, this scene, added to a later scene in which he could barely walk unassisted, was meant to suggest that Versace’s life had once been threatened long before Andrew Cunanan ever pointed a gun at him. You can probably guess what the illness was. But as a reminder, the ’90s were an especially bad time for a specific group of people.

Versace’s diagnosis played heavily into this episode’s central concept. That he’d been able to fight off his illness using state-of-the-art medicines, he’d slapped the grim reaper across its tacky face, and he’d begun to embrace life as only a formerly dead man walking could. Which, as Donatella Versace noted, made his later murder all the more devastating.

But death comes for us all, even those who can afford to have their facial bullet wounds spackled over and their cremains laid to rest so fabulously.

Even when reduced to several ounces of ash, Versace still flew first class. Honestly touching.

We then cut over to Andrew Cunanan, who was currently speeding on the freeway scream-singing “Gloria.” Which, we’ve all done that, and in my case nearly every day. “Gloria” is one of the greatest songs of all time. As we quickly discovered, Cunanan was only just arriving in Miami, so this act of free-wheelin’ joy came after he’d murdered his first four victims. Yep, he was now murder-jazzed, and it was time to spread his brand of awful in a beach community!

Cunanan showed up at the dingiest motel with the most beautiful oceanfront view in Miami. It was clearly a faded stucco hell pit of junkies and, well, other serial killers I’m guessing. Between the presence of a junkie Max Greenfield and a duct-tape gimp mask, this was like if American Horror Story: Hotel had been crossed with Miami Vice. Into it.

Meanwhile the FBI had arrived in town around the same time, but this local Miami detective lady quickly realized they were terrible at their jobs and had not tried particularly hard to catch this gay spree-killer yet. They hadn’t even made any copies of his “Wanted” poster! And as we’d learn later, citizens were ready and willing to report a Cunanan sighting, which made it all the more frustrating that the FBI had been so slow to spread the word. (Thank God for America’s Most Wanted.)

As you can imagine, Andrew Cunanan made fast friends with junkie Max Greenfield, and after a heartfelt scene in which Greenfield’s character talked about his HIV diagnosis, the two schemed openly about how to make quick cash and/or buy some junk to smoke. An enterprising liar and conman, it was almost charming that Cunanan still resorted to turning tricks sometimes. I guess that was easier than, like, check fraud or whatever.

So, sex work for local lonely hearts was now on the menu! Congratulations, Miami fellas!

Except, whoops … there was the pesky fact that Andrew Cunanan was a total psychopath. Which meant that this john’s simple request to be dominated led him to finding himself suffocating under a face full of duct tape and terrorized within an inch of his life while Andrew Cunanan danced around the room in a pink Speedo.

Yeah this was one of the most disturbing scenes I’ve seen in a Ryan Murphy joint, but the terror was effective. The disturbing vibe continued even afterward, as the terrified john sat watching Cunanan finish a lobster meal, waited until Cunanan left, and then debated whether to call 911 and report the assault. Alas, the wedding ring he placed back on his finger suggested why the crime ultimately went unreported. Again: The ’90s really sucked.

But enough darkness, it was time to remember what made Versace famous! In this scene, Donatella urged Versace to change things up and compete with his more goth-inspired competitors Galliano and McQueen, but Versace made clear that he was in the business of joy and beauty and life, especially now that he had his health back. Donatalla couldn’t help but see his point.

And credit to this show for not only producing a convincing fashion show (with convincingly Versace-ish looks) but also even casting a runway model who resembled Shalom Harlow to play Shalom Harlow! Miss her. Come back, Shalom.

As though we needed more evidence that Andrew Cunanan was unhinged, we got this cute scene where he smoked tons of drugs, then went to the bathroom for some quiet time. In this case quiet time involved wrapping his head and face in duct tape and also admiring the intensely insane serial killer wall he’d created in the bathroom:

Yeah, I think we’d recalled Cunanan as being an out-of-control party boy or whatever, but this series has done a lot to prove he was insane in a scary and singular way. Just a bad-time-guy lookin’ for trouble.

We also got glimpses into the romantic life shared by Versace and his lover, Ricky Martin (as himself, jk). And though their lifestyle of hooking up with men together and going to the clubs was nothing they were ashamed of in their private life, we could sense that the straight world would never understand their situation. Versace himself doubted that his partner truly loved him enough to want to be married (which … gay marriage? What a futuristic concept in 1997!), yet they still were clearly everything to each other. It would be romantic if we didn’t know where this was all heading.

We then got another classic Cathy Moriarty appearance, in which we saw the incident when Cunanan sold a stolen coin to her at her pawn shop and she remembered it enough to contact the police after the shooting. And again, she’d even glanced at her collection of “Wanted” posters before making the sale, underscoring again that the authorities’ slow-to-act tendencies toward gay crime had almost directly led to Versace’s murder. But at least we can all continue to count on Cathy Moriarty when we need her!

I loved this brief scene when a drag impersonator of Donatella showed up at Versace’s manor and demanded to come in and hang out. He was polite enough about it, noting that one Donatella in his life was enough, but still. She DID look fun to hang out with. I probably would’ve let her up.

That night, Versace and his lover went out to the local dance club Twist, and Andrew Cunanan followed them there, presumably to shoot him right there in the club. But Versace ended up ducking out before the encounter happened but not before his lover informed him that even at night, even amid opportunities to be around other men … he still chose Versace and wanted to marry him. Again, except for the line of strangers behind them and the bad ’90s techno wafting in the air, this was an incredibly touching and romantic moment. These two.

Inside, a clearly dejected Cunanan was approached by a random hottie, and he responded by having a borderline meltdown in which he listed all the different fake occupations he’d ever pretended to be. Including, of course, serial killer. But while the random hottie had no reason to think Cunanan was being serious about any of them, it was a chilling notion that someone who had spent a lifetime lying about his accomplishments was now going to try to make a name for himself in a more tragic and gruesome way. Ugh, he was the worst.

“Manhunt” functioned best as a continuation of last week’s introduction to the story and setting. And like last week, it relied on visuals and physical performance more than written dialogue, and was just as spellbinding. Tense, funny, emotional, and troubling all at once, this is a fascinating world to explore and I can’t get enough. Obviously it’s a dark story and doesn’t promise to get any lighter by the end of it, but I can’t help myself. That this is even on the air (and executed so perfectly) is enough to give someone a new lease on life. How very Versace.

#acs versace #yahoo #recap #review #article #2.02 #january 2018

96 notes · View notes

birdscreeches · 6 years

Text

Breathing Exercises || Aisha R.

My father had given my siblings and I his asthma. Not on purpose, sure, but that didn’t matter as much as the fact that now we had to live through the curse. Childhoods were bright with afternoon sun and asphalt dust, but at the end of the day it was a room of wheezes, inhalers, and nebulizers.

I remember sitting with my younger sister in my grandparents’ room. We watched TV with the volume up real high so we could hear the cartoons over the loud buzz of the nebulizer. When she’d laugh, the vapor pouring from the mask strapped on her face would puff out in billows like a dragon. When it was my turn, I blew air out, like a silent kind of whistle, and watched the mist spill out while I wheezed from the exertion. I didn’t feel like a dragon so much as completely breathless and disappointed. Even more so when I got scolded for wasting the mist I was supposed to be breathing in and given a mouthpiece attachment in what I assumed was punishment. Back then, I hated the thing, but if I could go back, I’d tell seven-year-old-me, come on, dude. You deserved it. I deserved it. We both did, didn’t we?

The neat thing about the asthma was that when we reached a certain age, it disappeared. My siblings and I grew out of it. We grew a little taller, a little smarter, a little stronger. We grew up and mastered the art of pushing air in out of our lungs, unaided and unassisted. It was almost as if our bodies were telling us that it was kid stuff, really, to have trouble breathing. When my siblings reached twelve, the inhales and exhales were steady and sure.

When I was twelve, my breathing just got worse. My breaths were quiet and shallow. Not so much a rise and fall of my ribs but instead miniscule shifts every half seconds. I refused to take deep breaths, afraid that maybe, I’d rip at the seams. My asthma attacks got worse. They seemed to go past my lungs, now also tremors in my hands and the pounding in my chest and the buzzing in my head. I found my asthma in moments where I couldn’t stand people looking at me, or when the noisy classroom got too loud and so I banged my head against my desk once, twice, thrice, four times in quick succession, again, then again, or when the jacket I always wore for comfort now hid scratch marks and welts I gave myself to shut up the noises that followed from school and now lived in my mind, jeering and heckling constantly.

I called it all asthma until I learned what an anxiety disorder was a year later.

An anxiety disorder is a whole lot of things, but over the years, I’ve cultivated my own metaphor that I used for myself. It goes like this: in every person’s head, there’s the fear dial. You can turn it to tick from the numbers zero to ten. There’s an employee who lives in your head and it will turn the dial when danger is present. Maybe a two for when you drop your phone. A five for sound in the dark. A nine for a shadowy figure in the corner of your eye as you’re commuting home. The dial is important. It’s supposed to be there. Fear keeps us alive. It triggers the fight or flight response, releases hormones that promote fast reactions, and other things that makes me think of gazelles running from cheetahs while David Attenborough’s voice croons in the background.

“A second is all it takes between life or death,” Imaginary David Attenborough says. The gazelle makes a mistake, and claws sink into its thigh. Or the gazelle escapes and lives to prance another day. The gazelle needs fear to run as fast as it does, and we need fear too.

Anxiety is what happens when the employee in your head dies from a heart attack, or something. With its final breath, it scrambles for purchase, grabbing the dial and turning it, one, two, three, ten, past that to a section under it labeled You’re Gonna Die.

I’m now essentially Always About To Die at any given moment. The fear is a constant thrum under my skin with everything I do, and since humans can’t exactly be screaming twenty four seven, it manifests in things like paranoia and over thinking. When I can hear my head past the shallow wheezes of my lungs, I hear the constant litany in my head. Every day, it plays like a PA system in grocery store. Calm, cool, and as a matter of fact, it goes: you’re walking weird you need to fix that because you’re doing it wrong no you can’t eat in front of people they’re all watching you and you’re being greedy you’re not very smart are you you’re not very good at anything really are you you need to leave you need to be gone you need to be quiet everybody is speaking you need to speak louder speak softer speak slower speak faster you need to go to sleep you’re not needed right now go to sleep go to sleep. Good night. Insert grocery theme song here. A part of me knew the words were either wrong or magnifying small things into huge things, but logic didn’t mesh with anxiety. There’s dissonance and then there’s a disconnect. What I knew refused to make amends with what I felt. Here I am in my grocery aisle, screaming at a speaker in the corner. “You’re wrong, I know you’re wrong.” I say.

All the PA says, calm, cool, and as a matter of fact, is, Good morning shopper, did you really have to wake up today or are you just being greedy?

Greed was a word my anxiety loved to throw at me. An intense, selfish desire. Growing up in a Catholic school, greed was taught to me as one of the seven cardinal sins, one of the real bad ones that got you in those VIP hell sections. Greed is when you want too much. When you want for what’s no longer your share. What you don’t deserve. Greed was, apparently, in everything I did. Waking up. Eating. Sitting. Talking. Laughing. Smiling. Crying. Existing. All the other -ings of life. Breathing. If this was anxiety or something else in my head that maybe just wanted an excuse to finally come crawling out, I don’t know. What I did know was that by twelve years old, I started looking at every second I lived in regards to the questions like did I earn this? Did I deserve it?

When I was maybe seven or eight, my parents had signed me up for a summer swimming class, just like the rest of my siblings had when they turned seven or eight in hopes of alleviating the constriction of my airways. Every day for two weeks, I’d spend two pathetic hours in a pool. I was awful at swimming. The water was liquid fear and every inch I submerged was an inch of terror. I was graceless in a pool, and I did so awfully that I had to be taken out of the main class and taught, one on one, how to do something as simple as hold my breath. I didn’t actually get the whole concept that you were only supposed to do it when you were out of the water. Constantly, I was sucking water into my throat and lungs. It was in this class I taught myself the intricacies of drowning. It was here where I learned how to fear it. But it was in my senior year of high school I learned that maybe I deserved it.

I tried my best to avoid pools, but it was inescapable in twelfth grade. Our required PE class was swimming, and if I wanted to graduate, I had to get in the water. For two hours every week, I would drown. The moment I was in the water, my mind went loud with the mumbles: your limbs are moving in all the wrong ways you’re making a fool of yourself you’ll never get better Ma'am is yelling at you just stay under stay under stay under, the usual yadda yadda yadda. I wouldn’t have such a hard time if ten years prior, I just bucked up and learned how to swim. This pain I felt as I gulped chlorine water into my throat, as I cried tears nobody would see, as I flailed and breathed in something I wasn’t supposed to, was my punishment for once being the scared and useless little kid who didn’t want to get into the pool. Stay under. You didn’t deserve to breathe air. Stay under.

I did eventually surface, but it wasn’t my choice so much as my body’s survival instincts. It can’t seem to get with the program. What if, sometimes, I didn’t deserve to survive?

It’s a little capitalistic to subscribe to the concept of deserving things. Of having to work to deserve things. In a lot of contexts, earning things is important. Rewards only come to those who work hard, afterall, but things start to get odd when you apply the same principle to things people just inherently have. Case in point: life, living, and all its permutations. Sure, one could work hard to improve the quality of their life—and if they succeeded or not will not always be because of them, things like privilege and circumstance mucks up the entire system of deserving things even more—but you didn’t have to work to earn the right to live. Nobody asks to be born, and we’re all just here because we are. If somebody gets told they need to reach a certain quota to be alive, that’s an injustice. Prejudice, in extreme cases. Ascribing the concept of having to deserve to live brings up the corollary of who deserves to die. That’s called playing god, and over the course of history, it’s generally frowned upon.

I figure I can play god when it’s just in the confines of my head since the only one frowning is me. One of the ways I cope with the constant stream of noise that sometimes makes sense and sometimes doesn’t, is to use a solid system of deserving. Worth. It filters the noise down to what’s true and what isn’t. If I recited well in class, I earned the right to hang out with my friends and laugh for a half hour or so. If I got a high score in an exam, I earned the right to eat dinner later that night. If I wrote at least five hundred words every weekday of a week, I earned the right to sleep in til noon on sunday. If I didn’t do something right, if I didn’t do something enough, if I got through a day without having done anything to justify my living it, I’d take away things I could do or indulge in. Food. Sleep. Contact. Those were things I had to earn. If I went even further in the wrong direction, I deserved punishment. A punch to the wall of our bathroom for every slip up I did. The next day, I fail a test because I can’t hold my pen correctly, my fingers bruised and shaking. I make up for it with the left hand, and so it goes. This is what I deserved. By ascribing achievement with worth, I silence one voice in my head that tells me I’m selfish for doing one thing. In this, finally, I can breathe. All I have to do to keep on living without the voices suffocating me is to work hard and work right and everything will be okay.

Or it wouldn’t be.

On a given day, I’ve either deserved to live or not. One of the easiest breaths I’ve ever taken was on the top floor of a retreat complex in Antipolo. The building had five storeys along with an open roof and no railing. Just a meter tall concrete barrier. It was seven in the morning. I was seventeen. I was standing on top of the barrier. I walked it like a catwalk for a few minutes before I stopped, looked out into the dawn.

I dangled my foot forward then I did the same but back. I remember thinking about my skull crushing upon hitting the ground below. I remember standing and wondering about myself as a scale. On the end above the safety of the roof would lie all the days I deserved. On the other, the one that hung above a drop that maybe I’d survive if I was lucky, if I earned it, were all the days I didn’t deserve. I never got around to learning what the verdict was because a teacher found me right then. I had to explain with words pouring out like chlorine water that I wasn’t thinking of jumping, which technically wasn’t a lie. I was thinking of falling.

My moment was cut short, but I swear, I felt the scales tip forward. I swear I almost followed it. I swear I would’ve deserved it. I still think I do.

From an objective perspective, my deserving-things system works in keeping me functional and productive. From another perspective, it’s apparently abuse. I understand this, but deny it when it comes to myself. If anybody were to do this to another person, I’d think them evil. When it’s just me, I call it motivation. In my defense, people who are abused never deserve it. Everything that happens to me is something I had coming. Or something I tell myself I had coming. I’m lying to myself, but I’d rather believe in motivation than the possibility I have a problem. It’s not like I deserved to even say this was all real anyway.

Nothing particularly bad has ever happened in my life to have caused this. No traumatic experience at twelve, no definitive history of bullying, no nothing. One of the worst things anxiety has ever done to me was rob me of a reason, and I’m not even sure if the anxiety is real or not. I don’t even want to know. I refuse to see a counselor or a doctor because the prospect of having an answer terrifies me more than having a question. What if I get diagnosed and it’s real? I actually have a problem. What if my cartoon metaphor isn’t just for kicks, but my brain is genuinely wired differently in a way that causes me trouble not everybody else goes through? The implications of it being real would mean things like treatment, therapy, medication, expense. Anxiety never existed past my own body and so the thought of it becoming tangible and real has me crawling back to the safety of uncertainty.

On the flipside is the possibility that really haunts me though; the one I can’t decide on whether or not it’s better or worse. What if I go to a doctor and there’s nothing wrong? What if I’m fine? Every single thing I had gone through was a fabrication. Every terrible thing in my brain was something I made up. I’ve been lying this entire time, and I didn’t even notice. I was a fraud in every sense of the word, not just to everybody I know, but to myself.

Maybe I deserved that; the death sentence of knowing if it was yes or no. But this wasn’t the type of deserving that set my mind at ease. It was the kind that scared me. The kind I’ve been shying away from. It’s this fear that hinders me from moving forward and even beginning to recover. How do you get better from a sickness you don’t believe is there?

My maybe-maybe-not anxiety has plagued me for years and it’s made my life worse. In spite of this, I refuse see if it’s a real issue and I refuse to seek help for something that might be a fake one. I assume that maybe there’s a part of me—perhaps the survival instinct that never got the memo—that wants to get better, that wants whatever the hell this might be out of my head. But then I wonder if there will be anything left behind.

My anxiety dictates how I function. How I sleep, eat, talk, breathe, live. Take that away, and I’ll be years late in the game of figuring out how to exist in a world I never had to earn to live in. Eighteen is young still, so maybe I have time, but it’s daunting. Fear is sometimes a warm blanket to hide under. Something, something about dogs and old tricks. The usual excuse. My guise of I can’t do it actually just a farce to hide the scared shaking, terrified kid who didn’t want to go swimming saying, over and over again, I don’t want to do it. The difference, I guess, is that it’s not as hopeless as I’m making it out to be.

A month ago, urged by a week of monumental stress punctuated by a panic attack each day, I started smoking. My lungs aren’t asthmatic anymore, so physically, I can take it. Every other day I’d pull smoke into my mouth, wait til I could inhale it into my lungs, hold it until I was ready to breath out, like a silent kind of whistle. The dragon of my childhood dreams.

It was the perfect compromise. A smoke was a punishment because I knew it was messing up my health, but it was also a reward because it shut my mind up for a blissful few minutes, the voices steadily trickling in. I liked smoking. It was quiet, it was bad for me, and, ironically, my lungs felt lighter each time.

Maybe, after years of wheezing followed by years of frantic, shaking rasping, I got tired of not doing this whole air thing right. Maybe I started smoking to teach myself how to breathe again. It’s not much but, however misguided, it’s still a step. I figure if I can take one, I can take another. Then another. Then another.

#suicide cw #anxiety #self harm cw #non fic #this is a revision of my essay of the same title a little bit back on the blog

93 notes · View notes

jordan202 · 7 years

Text

The Journey - Part Eight

thank you @jia911 for editing!

sorry for taking a while longer with this one guys, incredibly rough week at work. Previous chapters are HERE.

Timeline for Part 8:

11x08, both Omelia scenes. 11x09 and 11x10. Basically Amelia is dealing with Herman’s tumor and Owen is working on his veterans project with Callie while handling his duties as chief.

The Journey – Chapter 8

Owen walked into the scrub room, trying to ignore the throbbing headache that was assaulting him. Not only had he not got much sleep the past few days, ever since he’d set foot in the hospital that morning things had become increasingly worse.

First, he’d had to solve a feud between Maggie Pierce and Derek Shepherd to then see one of the two soldiers in his project with Callie getting hurt after the orthopedic surgeon had openly stimulated them to compete. Owen knew he had probably overreacted by lashing out at her, but he was far from his right mind. At that moment, his biggest concern was making sure the patient received best medical care for his head trauma. And he was glad he could count on Amelia Shepherd for that.

The chief was ready to exit the scrub room after getting an update on the patient status when he heard her voice, as she spoke almost anxiously:

“I feel like I owe you an explanation. About what you heard last week.”

Owen turned around, carefully listening to what she had to say. He had heard, from someone else, a very personal thing about Amelia and even though he knew it was none of his business to know the details, it touched him that she had taken her time to come forward about her problem. Hearing her share more details made him feel surprisingly concerned for her well being, for her addiction apparently had been much more severe than he would initially guess.

And Owen knew too well himself of how hard it could be to share such a dark part about oneself. Trying to spare Amelia from feeling embarrassed or ashamed, he was quick to kindly add that she didn’t have to say anything else, for Derek had already explained she was doing well in rehab. His instinct had been right, Amelia wasn’t a risk and as her boss that’s all he needed to know. No matter how much his personal feelings pointed otherwise.

“I work for you and I respect you and I like you, so if it’s all right, I don’t care to hang my professional relationships on Derek Shepherd’s reputation.” Amelia spoke, awing him. Owen tilted his head and nodded in agreement, taking in her words with genuine interest. “I needed you to hear from me. I know it’s a choice, keeping me on. I know I am a risk.”

The chief of surgery stared deeply into her eyes. The way Amelia had humbly acknowledged her condition and confessed she respected him and liked him softened him up completely. Owen felt an urge to hold, comfort her and tell her he knew exactly what she was feeling. He understood her pain and somehow, with her childlike manners and sincerity of emotions, Amelia had come to inspire a feeling of protection in him that Owen couldn’t quite figure out. He noticed the hesitation and the vulnerability she felt as she proudly stood sharing her past with him and realized how strong she had to be to deal with the situation in such a mature, graceful way when she was probably in a lot of distress. Owen wanted to make her feel better very badly, to let her know she had nothing to be ashamed of.

“We’re all a risk. We all have something.” Owen explained, determinate to make that courageous woman know she wasn’t the only one. “I mean, I have my own version.” He confessed, surprising himself with how easily the admission slipped his mouth. Somehow, seeing her like that made him feel comfortable enough to be completely honest about how he felt. “And it was different. It took a different toll. It still does, and I push through every day.” Owen looked into her eyes, hoping she knew he was being sincere. “And I’m assuming you’re doing the same thing, unless I see otherwise. Okay?”

“Okay.” Amelia nodded with her head, letting him know she was in accord with what he’d said. As she watched her boss leave, her plans to scrub in were ignored for a moment.

She’d been meaning to talk to the chief since the previous week, but only today she’d had an opening. The neurosurgeon had spent the past few days trying to come up with what she was going to say, but in the first moment she’d had alone with Owen, his presence had made her forget everything about her rehearsed speech.

Amelia didn’t know him that well but the little she did made her feel comfortable enough to open her heart about a subject that was really hard for her to talk about. Judging by what she’d learned about her boss in the previous couple of months, it didn’t surprise her when he comprehensively listened to her. In the end, Owen even added that he had his own demons too.

She thought it was sweet and considerate of him to say that she wasn’t the only one who had their skeletons in the closet, but Amelia wondered how okay he really was. Owen was her boss and he seemed to always be in control of everything around them, be it at the hospital where he ran a busy surgical service or at home, where he was always fixing things and making time to help others. With the exception of one night by the lake when she had been throwing rocks beside him, never had she seen Owen showing any signs of distress or being affected by something. But he was only human and of course he had feelings and his own personal issues too.

The guy was an enigma. He was controlled but intense, strict but understanding, rough but kind. Owen was always available, solved all problems, had everyone’s back.

And Amelia wondered if anyone ever had his.

Later that day, the thought had already vanished off Amelia’s mind as she kept busy carefully looking over some scans she had come to find out belonged to Nicole Herman, a prestigious fetal surgeon who worked in the hospital. Arizona Robbins hadn’t said much about the case when she confessed to have stolen the images and Amelia had no idea who was following up with the treatment plan. She knew it was none of her business to keep digging but the neurosurgeon just couldn’t get past the fact the tumor was one of the most challenging ones she had ever seen.

“Shepherd, you were looking for us?”

Amelia heard her boss’ voice from behind her back and swiftly turned around, before closing the stolen images on the computer screen. Callie Torres stood beside him and at their request, she updated them on their patient’s neurological status. Amelia had heard about what had happened with the soldier and she was aware that her boss was running a program with the orthopedic surgeon to help veterans. It was a cruel reality that a lot of the men and women who fought for the country came back and were left unassisted, especially some who had experienced very traumatic experiences. For the first time, she wondered what kind of things Owen had gone through while serving.

Amelia was too distracted with her own thoughts that she didn’t realize her boss had stayed in the room after Callie left until she heard his voice.

“You have people, right?”

“What do you mean?” Amelia asked automatically, trying to focus back on what they had been discussing instead of the thoughts she was having.

“I just mean…” She noticed when Owen hesitated, as if looking for the right words. “I mean, you’re not trying to…” Once again, he interrupted himself, finally looking her in the eye. “It’s hard to deal with all this stuff on your own.” Amelia knew he was talking about her addiction. “But you have Meredith and Derek, so…”

“Yeah.” Amelia genuinely smiled, deeply touched by his concern. The realization that Owen seemed to understand more than she’d initially considered about going through a hard time added to his comment about having a similar situation earlier that day made Amelia once again wonder what was hidden in the depths of his past. “And meetings.” She added, eager to let him know she was indeed in a better place than she had once been. “That’s what we do.” She intentionally added, taking a while to realize she had just found some common ground with him.

And it alarmed Amelia to realize how intimate that connection could be.

“Right.” She heard him awkwardly agreeing, looking almost shy.

Owen had already turned around to leave when Amelia acted on an impulse.

“Do you?” She asked, belatedly realizing she’d gotten up in her eagerness not to break that fragile but meaningful bridge they were slowly creating between them. “Have people?”

“I’m… That’s… Um, I’m fine.”

Amelia noticed how uncomfortable he looked, at the same time her boss seemed somehow surprised. The fact he denied anything was wrong didn’t surprise Amelia, for she had never expected Owen to instantly open up with her. She had long before noticed how reserved he was, but that didn’t stop the neurosurgeon from speaking from the heart.

“No, I know.” She answered him with a genuine smile, truly hoping she could somehow return what he’d done for her and the support he’d shown. Maybe they could be friends? Amelia surely could use a friend. She liked her brother and Meredith very much but she didn’t really feel like they understood her. Not in the way her friends from LA did, anyway. But judging from what she’d seen, Owen was a person who definitely could. And Amelia desperately wanted to understand him too and reciprocate all the feelings he invoked in her. “But you’re right there, living in that little tin box on my brother’s back lawn… I mean, I keep saying I’m going to move out, but I’m still up at the house, watching them glare at each other.” She confessed, suddenly excited with the idea of spending more time with Owen outside the walls of the hospital. The few times she had, the neurosurgeon had truly enjoyed the way she didn’t really need to say a lot to feel understood. “Let me know if you, you know… If you need people.” She smiled adorably at him. “I’m around.”

“Thanks.” Amelia noticed how her boss’s tone of voice changed and his entire facial expression became sweeter, almost boyish. After seeing him acting so responsible all the time, she realized she really liked this unknown side of Owen Hunt. “Thanks. And thanks for the update.”

As he left, Amelia took a deep breath and slowly let it out. The neurosurgeon could feel her chest pounding and her pulse racing but she told herself it probably had to do with the fact that she had almost been caught with stolen scans.

But later on, as Amelia was already focused back on studying Nicole Herman’s MRI, she failed to notice that it hadn’t exactly been the tumor that made her heart beat faster.

Owen strode around the halls of the hospital, enjoying the quietness of the hour. The past couple of weeks had been hectic with a lot of different things going on.

Along with running his war veterans project with Callie, Owen had to not only take on his usual responsibilities as chief but also log more hours in the ER because of April Kepner’s pregnancy. But the trauma surgeon really didn’t mind. For the first time in a while, he was feeling in a good place.

The fact that he’d just been able to go to one of the air vents and stand there by himself, enjoying the windy ride meant a lot, he thought. That was the secret place where he would take Cristina and up until then, he’d avoided going there because it brought painful memories. But today, it had felt differently. Owen didn’t feel sad or heartbroken anymore. Now, Cristina was gone and even though Owen knew he was over her, that night he’d had the confirmation that after so many years of involvement with his ex-wife in an intoxicating relationship, his heart was finally at peace with their story and the way it had ended.

Earlier, he and Callie Torres had talked and joked for a while. Owen had confessed he’d had one night stands after his ex-wife was gone but he wasn’t really sure he was ready to build something meaningful again. By having just divorced Arizona, Callie understood it well. It wasn’t exactly that Owen didn’t want to, he wanted more than anything to find that one person he could share his life with. But he’d come to a point when he wasn’t sure anymore that he ever would.

Since he was young guy, Owen had always known that in order to be happy, he didn’t really need extraordinary accomplishments. His validation had never come from the things he’d gotten, but rather from things he’d done, learned and shared. While most people tended to overlook and take for granted things like family and roots, those were the ones that attracted him the most. He didn’t need much. A decent, meaningful job, a house and especially a family were everything he’d ever desired.

But Owen didn’t want just any family. He wanted a woman he could connect to, on a deeper level. Someone who could go through life beside him, who could be there for better and for worse. If it was just to have a kid, he could easily get it done by knocking up a random woman. The idea didn’t attract him at all because Owen wanted all or nothing. And he wasn’t going to settle for any less than what he knew he deserved. He thought back about the conversation he’d had with Callie, when she’d wondered if they had already used up all their share of happiness for a lifetime. Owen hoped with every fiber of his being that his friend was utterly wrong, because his heart strived for more than what he’d ever gotten.

As he strode through the halls of the surgical floor pondering about that, the trauma surgeon spotted a dim light turned on in one of the skills lab. Assuming one of the residents had probably forgot to turn a piece of equipment off, he distractedly made his way in, surprised to find Amelia Shepherd silently sitting by one of the distant corners.

Owen’s first impulse was to ask what she was doing, but the woman looked so focused that he didn’t have the courage to interrupt her. For the past few weeks, ever since he’d given the okay for Amelia’s complex plan to operate on Nicole Herman’s massive tumor, it wasn’t infrequent to find the neurosurgeon exhaustively going over the case.

Amelia had carefully explained her surgical approach to him and even though Owen had the medical knowledge to understand the idea behind her list of events, the technology she was using was very edgy. Since neurosurgery wasn’t his field of study, even though he’d heard about the techniques, Owen had never really seen or been in direct contact with a lot of the methods she was using.

“Having fun?” After a few seconds observing her, Owen couldn’t help asking with a sympathetic smile. It was the middle of the night and she was restlessly handling detailed machine equipment as if it were the middle of the afternoon.

At the sound of his voice, Amelia immediately looked up, surprised to find him there. The smile that formed on her lips when they made eye contact made Owen remember the way she had selflessly offered to be there for him in case he needed someone to talk to.

“Very much,” The neurosurgeon confessed. She’d had a rough few weeks and as expected, tried to balance the excitement with her surgical plan and the insecurity that assaulted her every time she thought of actually executing the tumor removal.

Owen approached her with a few steps and Amelia noticed the gentle furrow on his eyebrows at the sight of what she was doing.

“It’s a Cavitron ultrasonic surgical aspirator,” She explained, wondering if he was familiar with it.

“CUSA,” Owen nodded his head in agreement, showing her he knew what she was handling. “It’s the latest model, isn’t it?” He asked, thinking of the check he’d had to sign to acquire the new equipment a few weeks before.

“No, it’s the one prior to that,” Amelia answered as her dimples danced on her cheek. “The new toy you bought for me is carefully kept inside the OR. I wouldn’t let the residents play with it here.”

The way she spoke, obviously excited about the machine at the same time she showed gratitude made Owen tilt his head to gaze at her. The chief of surgery put his hands inside his coat pockets, too eager to stay in her company. Amelia’s passion about that surgery had convinced him to sign off on it from the very start, but the way she donated herself to thoroughly studying and planning for it let Owen know he’d made the right decision.

“I’m glad you liked it,” He confessed, knowing that if possible, he would buy a dozen new machines if it meant she would thank him with that smile every time.

“I was feeling kind of unmotivated earlier this week, but I kept pushing through,” Amelia explained, using the words on purpose because she knew he’d get the reference. Seeing the question in his eyes, she promptly answered. “I don’t know, I was just feeling like I was the odd one out because no one was getting the idea behind what I am trying to do.” Owen frowned, offended and Amelia immediately corrected herself. “I don’t mean you… I meant the residents.” She explained, suppressing a giggle at how he softened his facial expression instantly. “But then I finally got around to find one that seems to be talented enough for this. Edwards saw the idea behind my plan.”

“Edwards is the best in her year,” Owen agreed with a head nod. “You couldn’t have asked for a better partner. It’s never good to try to make things work with someone who doesn’t understand you.”

Amelia wondered how much he really meant with the statement but his words quickly vanished in her mind as she bit her lower lip and mischievously smiled at him, determined to tease the guy. Owen clearly wasn’t familiar with the approach she was using, even though he looked genuinely interested in it.

“Unless, of course you want to be my co surgeon,” She suggested with an evil grin. “I can totally ditch Edwards and work with you,” She added, thinking of the way his hands had once handled the inside of her car. Owen’s entire physical structure seemed perfect for rough handwork, not at all the kind of talent a neurosurgeon could use.

Owen let out a shy chuckle, knowing she was pestering him on purpose.

“I can’t take this opportunity away from Edwards,” He replied playfully, knowing that was not at all the reason why he didn’t engage in neurosurgery procedures more often.

“I’d ditch Edwards for you any day,” Amelia replied unceremoniously.

“Really?” Owen narrowed his eyes in provocation, but deep down he couldn’t help feeling flattered.

“You’re the chief of surgery,” Amelia smiled with mischief, shamelessly speaking her mind. “Imagine how many of these babies you could give me if I fell on your good graces.” She patted the CUSA machine like it was her object of pride. Owen was trying not to think of what he wanted to give her when he heard the neurosurgeon adding. “Do you want to give it a try?”

It took him a couple of seconds to shift his thoughts from his mind to the reality in front of them. Amelia offered a very delicate probe with her hand, anxiously waiting for him to take it. Owen hesitated, frowning heavily at the same time he sat on a stool beside her and then finally accepted the object she was offering.

“It’s not as complicated as it looks,” Amelia got up and patiently explained, looking from her boss to the machinery in front of them. “All you have to do is reach the tumor area,” she showed as she spoke, “and gently use this guy to suck the dead tissue,” She pointed to the probe Owen was now holding, “think of it as playing a videogame.” The neurosurgeon instructed with a smile.

Owen looked from her adorable smile to the computer graphic design in front of them, where he could test his skills at operating the expensive and cutting edge technology. At his first attempt to maneuvering the guiding system, he failed miserable. Amelia smiled with contentment at his frustration. It was interesting seeing Owen struggle with something because he had always been so assured and skilled that she was actually happy to see his hilarious attempts.

“I said gently,” Amelia playfully reprimanded him with a chuckle. “If I did to Herman what you just did I’d give her a stroke.”

“That’s very encouraging,” Owen replied ironically, but kept a genuine smile on his face when he turned his neck to the side.

Amelia’s eyes met his and she laughed once again before telling him to give it another try.

“Gently!” She insisted, unable to withhold the fit of laughter that assaulted her after seeing how clumsy Owen was with a task that required accuracy.

“I am being gentle!” He said grumpily, but Owen wasn’t in a bad mood. Much on the contrary, actually. He’d never known that actually being horrible at something could be so amusing.

Or maybe it had everything to do with the person standing beside him.

“If that’s your gentle, then I don’t want to find out your rough,” Amelia lightheartedly confessed, noticing he seemed to be enjoying their bantering as much as she was. “Finesse is something you really need to work on, chief.” She joked, patting his shoulder.

Owen was suddenly very aware of how close she stood. He was sitting on a very short stool and as Amelia bent over to inspect his work and give him instructions, they were pretty much at the same height. He became painfully conscious of the amazing smell in her hair. In an attempt to distract his body from the responses she was instilling in him, the trauma surgeon resorted to teasing.

“I am still wondering why the residents like you so much,” He was clearly provoking her and didn’t mean his words. “You are not nearly good at teaching as they say. All you do is make fun of me.”

Owen was sure Amelia would pretend to be offended and quickly try to make it up to him. That’s why her response surprised and amused him more than he could ever imagine.

“Well, don’t pin this on me, it’s just that you really suck at this,” She smiled wickedly, making him laugh. “I am not saying you’re bad. You’re like…horrible.” Her eyes met his and she laughed unceremoniously too. “You really do suck at this.”

Owen was having too much fun to be offended. He acknowledged it with a head nod and couldn’t hold his laughter after hearing the delicious sound of hers.

“I think I got your point,” He replied acidly, but the smile lingering on his face was a telltale of his amusement.

“Don’t move,” Amelia instructed. After seeing he wasn’t exactly following her instructions to go easy, not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t, the neurosurgeon lost her patience and came forward, sneakily closing her right hand around his. “Close your eyes.”

At the sound of her words, Owen did as told but what really got to him was the electrical buzz that ran through his entire body at the mere touch of her hand on his. He felt the way Amelia gently held his fingers still, trying to guide him through the procedure.

“Forget about the screen, just feel the movement of the probe first,” The neurosurgeon didn’t realize her voice was nearly a whisper. The lights in the room were very dim so the computer screen could stand out. Owen felt like he was being seduced at the sound of her voice and touch of her hand as she carefully gave out instructions. “Don’t think about it, just feel it… Notice with your senses how it responds to your command.”

How was he supposed to focus all his attention on handling the equipment when all he could think about was turning his head a little to the right, closing his eyes and testing all of his senses on her?

“Like this…” Amelia said with a sweet voice as her hand guided his, clearly satisfied with his improvement. “Excellent, that’s much better.”

“You know,” Owen finally opened his lids. His gaze was far from the computer screen as he looked deeply into her silver blue eyes, recalling the way Amelia was always energetically moving around, “for someone who has a really hard time staying still, you can be surprisingly steady.”

Amelia swallowed hard when she heard the warmth in his voice. His eyes were fixated on hers and not for the first time, she felt like his presence took up the entire room. Her hand was still on his fingers but she slowly released her grip at the same time Owen slowly stood up, suddenly engulfing her with his shadow.

“Thank you for the lesson,” The chief of surgery said without breaking eye contact with her. The intensity of his stare made it really hard for Amelia to breathe.

Owen was mesmerized. His entire rational skills had abandoned him and all he could think about was the way he’d had the chance to kiss Amelia once and held back from it. That was definitely not going to happen again. The chief of surgery knew that if he thought too much about it, he would end up finding a hundred reasons to step back. But Owen didn’t want to step back. Which is why that time, he let go completely, swiftly leaning forward as he allowed his senses to overcome his thoughts, exactly how she’d instructed him.

Amelia saw the fire in his eyes. The signals his body was sending were instantly captured and welcomed by hers. And she’d already closed her eyes, completely ready to embark on the touch of his lips that was surely about to come when the computer screen buzzed, suddenly alarming them.

The neurosurgeon pulled apart abruptly, breaking the magic of the moment. She noticed the disappointment in Owen’s eyes but he was too polite to say anything. At the same time he cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable for the obviousness of what was just about to do, Amelia hurried to explain:

“The program is doing some automatic updates.”

“That’s…” Owen awkwardly looked around, knowing he probably looked like an idiot with his face blushed. “Okay.”

He wondered how the failed attempt of a kiss had completely transformed the bantering atmosphere into a heavy, sexually charged one. And it hurt to realize it wasn’t the first time it happened.

“I should go home,” Amelia rushed to say as she set off the computer. “I have a craniotomy scheduled at nine. Better get some sleep,” She tried to keep a conversation flowing until they parted ways so they wouldn’t have to acknowledge what’d just happened.

“Good,” Owen said, belatedly realizing his reply made little to no sense. Why did she always seem to make him act like a fool?

“Do you need a ride home?”

“Nah, I am good,” Owen dismissed her with a wave of his hands. “I’ll see you around.”

“See you,” Amelia gathered her stuff and rushed to get out of the room.

It wasn’t until she was finally away from his presence that the neurosurgeon allowed herself to exhale the deep breath she’d been holding. The situation between them was getting far too out of line.

At first, she’d been drawn to Owen by his magnetic powerful aura and the enigmas of his personality. But slowly, she’d started to actually feel things for him she couldn’t quite identify. And Amelia realized the more she knew about the man, the more she liked. She had grown from not getting Owen to fully admiring the guy and now even liking him.

Amelia knew better than anyone of how dangerous that could be. The computer buzz had probably avoided a very complicated situation. She forbade her mind to think about her boss. Herman’s surgery was complicated enough to keep her busy and the neurosurgeon surely didn’t need that kind of distraction. Focusing on Owen Hunt at that moment or even giving him the slightest thought had the potential to turn her life into a disaster and Amelia wanted more than anything to remain in control of her emotions.

That was it, she thought. She was in control. Amelia was fully capable of dominating her thoughts and feelings, she’d come this far and wasn’t going to take any steps back. Telling herself she was definitely not going to think about her boss anymore, Amelia left, anxious to leave the hospital and his presence.

But as she drove home through the empty streets that night, a pair of light blue eyes and the way Owen Hunt could easily make her relinquish control like he’d belonged in her life all along were pretty much the only things Amelia could think of.

–

#omelia #owen hunt #amelia shepherd #thejourney #thejourneyfanfiction #omeliafics #omeliafic #omeliafanfic #amenff #greysanatomy #greysanatomyfanfic #greys anatomy

68 notes · View notes

midwifemilktrails · 7 years

Text

The Power of Suggestion

“Women deliver their own babies alone on the floor of small living rooms everyday...I felt like if they can do that why couldn't I?” In the months leading up to giving birth, Paula practiced Hypnobirthing affirmations and listened to guided visualizations to help her stay calm and focused during labor. She also planned to deliver in a hospital with midwives. As her due date approached, Paula’s skepticism of her achieving her desired birth experience in a hospital setting grew. After following her doula’s suggestion of switching to a birth center, Paula had almost exactly the birth experience she had known was possible - supported yet unassisted on the floor (at the birth center).

What had you known about childbirth prior to your own experience?

I was born and raised in the UK where mostly midwifery care and assisted births is the norm. Even in a hospital, the set up feels slightly less "medical" than it does in the US.

Oddly, in my teens I was very much of the mindset that giving birth sounded horrific and if I ever had a child I wanted all the drugs. But I think that was mostly due to the experience of my one 16-year-old friend who ended up with what seemed like a million stitches and a lot of screaming similar to what I had seen in the Hollywood films.

What was important to you in having a natural birth?

Once I was pregnant I became a crazed, birth research, junky and the more and more I learned the more an un-medicated birth seemed like the most stress-free, healthy and in terms of recovery (perhaps this sounds insane) the most likely pain-free option for both myself and the baby.

Talking to my mother who had both my sister and I naturally, it seemed obvious I would be able have a natural birth. By the third trimester there was no question of my capability and in my mind, an epidural or C-section was truly reserved for a medical emergency.

If I am being honest, I think this persistence of wanting a natural birth was mostly out of stubbornness. I felt like the more I learned about it all the more I perceived this pervasive fear of birth as really some crazy construct aimed at up-selling women's anxiety – and well I was like, ‘No, no, no!’

You were planning on giving birth at UCLA hospital with the midwives up until 35 weeks pregnant, what made you decide to have your baby outside of the hospital 'last minute'?

As I mentioned previously, in the U.K. hospital births tend to be a little less intense than those in the U.S. And in my opinion, I think a lot of that has to do with the fact the U.S system is for profit and the U.K. wants to keep costs down as it's part of universal healthcare.

So with this in mind, I felt like the hospital system would be fine. While I had great prenatal care with the UCLA midwives, as my due date loomed and I found out I couldn't give birth in water, I would need an IV (just because) and would be constantly monitored I felt more and more uneasy that I would be able to have anything close to the birth I wanted.

The last straw came when the suggestion was presented to schedule an induction at 39 weeks seemly for convenience. This made me high tail it outta' there and thankfully to Del Mar on the suggestion of my doula, Emma!

You chose to do Hypnobirthing for childbirth preparation. What was inspiring to you about a specific childbirth method like Hypnobirthing?

Hypnobirthing just seemed to make the most sense to me given that really most of labor (from what I had read) is about managing your anxiety and your breathing – two things at the core of Hypnobirthing.

Did you utilize the Hypnobirthing techniques in your labor and birth?

I'm not sure I managed to disappear into ‘a changing colored cloud of love’ [Hypnobirthing’s guided visualization of the colors of the rainbow to help with relaxation and calm], but as soon as my water broke I was very calm, and at no point was I scared.

Did you have any fears around giving birth?

Yes – the obvious fear of the unknown and the slight fear that something might go medically wrong. I was also a little scared of tearing, which reflecting back on it now, once the time came to do the repair after the birth I didn't really care about the stitches in my vagina at all!

You are originally from England and as a writer, you have traveled around the world quite a bit. Do you feel that fear around childbirth is a country specific cultural issue or deeply systemic to human kind – this fear of the great unknown?

I think being from the UK certainly gave me an advantage in trusting midwives and natural birth overall. I also think traveling to developing nations helped me gain some perspective of different cultural practices depending on what’s available to them.

Women deliver their own babies alone on the floor of small living rooms everyday and then pick up and go feed the family. I felt like if they can do that why couldn't I in the ideal environment?

We are very lucky in the Western world but I also think that birth is over-medicalized in many ways. A pregnant woman isn’t sick – she is giving life!

Can you tell me about your birth?

Haha! My birth was a little surreal. Before I gave birth, I read on some dumb blog if you stood naked under a full moon and rubbed your belly it would induce labor.

At 38 weeks there was a full moon, so I decided to give it a go. Afterwards, I went to bed to read a book and 10 minutes later my water broke. I called Del Mar and at that time, around 12:30 am, I was having mild cramping every 10 minutes or so. Jen, the midwife, told me to call back when the contractions were strong and coming every 4 minutes for at least an hour.

Within 30 minutes the contractions felt pretty intense. I wasn't sure if I was just being wimpy, but all I could do was ball up every time a contraction came on. An hour later, the contractions were every 3-5 minutes and I felt I needed to go in.

I arrived at Del Mar around 3:30 am. Jen checked my cervix (I was 6 cm dilated), ran me a bath and checked the baby’s heart rate. My boyfriend turned on my Hawaiian lullaby music and a few minutes later Emma, my doula, arrived.

If I'm honest, once Emma got there everyone but her disappeared from my consciousness. I was in the tub at that point, but then had to get out as the baby's heart rate was a little high, possibly from me overheating. So I moved to the floor with my elbows leaning on the edge of the bed.

At this point, I had a little gas and air [nitrous oxide] to cope with the contractions and was feeling pretty hazy. I just remember Emma in front of me, holding my hand, reminding me of my breathing. At this point, all was very calm.

Jen checked in with me about what I was feeling and how I was doing and popped out for a minute to check in on another mother. My boyfriend went to the car to warm up as the birth room was freezing (apparently) as everyone thought I had hours to go before birth as I hadn't even started to feel the urge to push yet.

However, as everyone left Emma looked at me and gently said, “It's just us now. You can relax.” As she said this, I can only liken the feeling to suddenly needing to poop. So I just followed my body and one push was the baby’s head and the second was her body and ta da! Emma ran around behind me and picked up this naked human – my newborn baby – off the floor. (It was certainly a bonding experience as she is also a close friend and the first person our daughter, Luna, ever saw!)

On hearing my baby cry, Jen raced in and she and another midwife moved me onto the bed and placed Luna on my chest. Emma went outside and knocked on the car window to let my boyfriend know he was now a father!

That is a very fast labor (under 5 hours) and to go to from 6 cm to birth in less than 2 hours! What was your mental state like in labor?

I was just super internal.

I apparently thanked everybody for coming and asked if they were hungry, but I really didn't have a sense of time or what was happening outside of my body. I was just breathing through each new contraction.

How did you best cope with the contractions?

Really deep, low breathing. Once I arrived at Del Mar and Jen suggested I hum to keep my breathing sounds low everything just seemed to click into place. I literally hummed through my whole labor.

There were a few times I slightly panicked and caught my breath but Emma just helped me through the next breath and then I'd be back on track.

What do you think contributed to your fast labor and birth?

I followed ALL of the advice: raspberry leaf tea, 6 dates a day, walked and walked. I also went to a chiropractor to make sure the baby and I were in the best possible alignment.

You basically had the most natural birth one can have - hands off and unassisted except with the help of your friend/doula who scooped your baby up moments after she was born. How do you feel after experiencing something like that?

It was sort of magical! It was the most accomplished I think I've ever felt and the most at peace – like everything was where it was meant to be.

What can you compare the experience of giving birth to?

Um, it's hard. But I guess similar to period cramps in so much as you know it hurts but it's not bad for you. But it was also euphoric and spiritual in a way I hadn't quite expected it to be.

Do you feel there were other events in your life that properly prepared you for the journey that is giving birth?

I'd say on the whole I'm pretty fearless of the big stuff (I'll worry about the small things, like saying the right thing or not being perceived in the right way.) But I lost my dad when I was 20-years-old and had quite a turbulent childhood – I moved to different countries, lived in 5 different cities and got married and divorced before 30. So I feel I'm ready for what the universe wants to throw at me!

Has your birth experience been influential within your community of women and expectant mothers?

Yes! I feel like I'm a little evangelical now in so much as I want to encourage all my peers to be less fearful and more positive in anticipating their experience giving birth. I've also become a resource on natural birth for lots of friends of friends and that feels really special to be able to help them make informed choices.

Some would say that giving birth is also a rebirth for the woman. How has giving birth changed or affected you?

It's made me feel stronger and braver for sure. Also, more in touch with my body as a thing rather than just for looks!

What would be your sage advice or wisdom to impart on other women and mothers?

We are made to do this and you are so much more powerful than you give yourself credit for.

2 notes · View notes

auburnfamilynews · 4 years

Link

Time for an embarrassing story. Just for your entertainment.

While we’re all sitting here quarantined, or sheltered-in-place, or whatever you may be doing, we’re all looking for entertainment and content in some form or fashion. There’s only so far you can get into Netflix before kid’s shows and obscure anime start to look appealing, so we’re going to try to regale you all with a story of self-deprecation and a little Auburn football.

Let’s go back to 2009. November 14th. The scene? Athens, Georgia. Sanford Stadium. Kickoff was a 7 o’clock affair between the hedges as Auburn came in at 7-3 in Gene Chizik’s first season. Do you remember the fun of that season as Auburn started 5-0 and rolled into the rankings behind Gus Malzahn’s offense and an opportunistic defense?

2009 began with the Gus offense fooling ESPN cameras with motion, end-arounds, pump fakes, and more as the Tigers dispatched Louisiana Tech and Mississippi State. Game three was the rain-soaked epic against West Virginia, where Auburn came back from an early deficit and forced four fourth-quarter turnovers on the way to a 41-30 victory over Noel Devine and company.

After an easy Saturday night against Ball State, Auburn hit Knoxville for the first road game of the year and a tilt against Lane Kiffin. Auburn controlled the action from start to finish, and the Vols never really threatened, as Ben Tate destroyed Eric Berry’s night and the Tigers improved to 5-0.

Things were great. Auburn was rolling, and the mirth and merry-making that only a successful football can produce were rampant on campus. Unfortunately, since we were less than a year removed from Tommy Tuberville’s reign, some of his tendencies remained in the football program, and we had a stinker against Arkansas the next week. Ryan Mallett tore us up, we limped home, and the hangover lingered for the next two games.

A cold night at home led to a tepid loss to Kentucky (c’mon, guys) and then we couldn’t handle ourselves in Baton Rouge, where Chris Todd threw for only 47 yards and Auburn fell behind 24-0 before giving up and falling 31-10. Things were fine the next week at home in a win over Ole Miss (maybe the most complete win of the season) and then the next week as Furman came for the annual paycheck game.

7-3. Not bad for Gene Chizik’s first year. “We want a leader, not a loser!” had not begin to ring true yet. The airport screamer’s fears weren’t yet realized. Chizik had formed what looked like a great staff, with recruiters and motivators galore, as well as the then revolutionary mind of Malzahn running the offense. We didn’t see the cracks in the staff yet, and we weren’t quite aware of what would bring the team down three seasons later, but in year one, it was pretty good. After the first losing season since Tuberville’s first year, we would take success in any form. Especially since Alabama was sitting at #1 in the polls in Nick Saban’s third season. We needed something, man. Chizik and company began to give that to us.

So, it brings us to November 14th. Auburn hadn’t had an open week yet, playing ten straight games to begin the season. With the year starting on September 5th, teams would only get one off week in a twelve-game season. It was a rough stretch, but with Auburn not having a break yet, the team was likely feeling the bumps and bruises a little more than other schools around the league.

Georgia wasn’t particularly great that season, either. After the year when they were supposed to dominate — 2008 saw the Dawgs sit at #1 before they got whacked by Alabama — they’d been middle of the road in 2009. Mark Richt’s team beat who they should and lost to who they should. In the end, both Auburn and Georgia would finish at 8-5 in 2009. Both schools were sporting serviceable, but not special quarterbacks, very good running backs, and average wide receivers.

The game? Not so exciting, at least not in my unassisted memory. My friends and I climbed to the top of the upper deck — last row — and sat next to a Georgia fan who aggressively did the Shawne Merriman Lights Out celebration with every little victory for the Dawgs:

It was a lot.

I had to find the box score to remember exactly what happened in the game. The only lasting image that came to me was Demond Washington’s kickoff return touchdown —

— that tied the game at 24-all after Auburn initially went up 14-0 and lost that lead. Apparently Caleb King scored twice in the fourth quarter, and Auburn didn’t have the answer offensively afterward. We lost 31-24. Okay. Whatever, that was now four straight defeats at the hand of the Bulldogs. Mark Richt had our number.

So, what do we do after a loss? Well, if the 2009 meeting in Athens was any indication, we meet with the entire population of the whole world in “The World’s Greatest College Town” and go drink. I think I saw everyone I ever knew that night at different bars in Athens, and we were all drinking like it was the end of the world. Keep in mind that I was only born in 1989, so if you’re not a Georgia grad, you can do your math and figure out that I was not yet of the legal age to consume alcohol. More on that in a moment.

When we left the stadium, we had no idea which direction to head to find our friends. This was before the days of smart phones, and you had to rely on getting a signal for a phone call so that you could somewhat coherently describe your location to someone else in hopes of finding them. The plan was to meet downtown for food and some sort of healing dark liquor. Downtown is north of the stadium, so naturally, we wandered south instead.

Here’s our general route:

Eventually, we made it downtown, but not before walking an extra mile or two and complaining the entire way. The memory of the next few hours involves drowning our sorrows at the Boars Head Lounge and then seeing Brandon Cox and telling him that he wouldn’t have lost to Georgia that night. Somehow my intoxicated brain remembered only the 2005 game in Athens — still somehow the last time we’ve won there — and did not remember the eight (EIGHT) combined interceptions he threw in his last two games against Georgia.

Anyway, it made me feel better. Somehow, though, it got to be late! Imagine that. We endured too long drinking, and now we needed to eat and go home. The process was real, Nick Saban would be proud. So, we head down the road, make our way to Lumpkin Street, and start walking back in the general direction of the house where we were staying. I was told that we’d get ourselves some McDonald’s before crashing, but I’d never get to indulge my late-night craving.

We’re walking, and I feel a particular need to relieve a certain biological pressure. Whatever, I can hold it until we get home. How long will that be? Two more miles? Nope, going to have to pull off the sidewalk and find a dark spot to take care of business.

Enter the Zell B. Miller Learning Center and it’s nooks/crannies.

A campus building that won’t have many people around it? Away from the heart of downtown? Perfect. I asked my group of friends to hang on a second and I skipped back into the dark corners, did my business, and came back to the street to find that they had not waited for me. They were at least two hundred yards ahead, not even noticing that I was absent.

I shouldn’t have gotten cocky, but fortune seemed to deal me a hand that should have played out splendidly. We’d been walking all day, and I was still breaking in the new pair of cowboy boots I was wearing, so my feet were a little sore. I wasn’t pleased about the likelihood of having to speedwalk/jog to catch up with them, especially in my drunken state. And what do you know? I was given a gift from the gods.

I look down into the bushes right in front of the Learning Center, and there’s a rusty, derelict bicycle underneath some foliage. In my mind, I’m going to hop on, speed down the sidewalk, catch my friends, perform a fantastic dismount, and continue along the way.

In reality, I picked up the bike, swung one leg over it, and instantly the wash of blue lights came over me. A police cruiser careened across the road, hopped the curb, and hit me with the floodlight and loudspeaker.

“YOU. ON THE BIKE. DISMOUNT NOW.”

For one wild moment, I considered running. I could’ve disappeared into the darkness of campus and I would’ve gotten away...

Instead, I stayed put. They’d been watching that bait bike and had me like they got several other dumb kids that weekend. I let them come up and start the interrogation.

In typical fashion, the officer asked me if I’d been drinking. What did I say?

Somehow, he saw right through that, and he threw me in the cherrytop.

So now I’m on the way to the Athens Clarke County Detention Center. On the ride, the cop proceeds to ask if I went to Auburn (“Yes sir”), and then to tell me all about his wild days when he was at Georgia, and how he probably should’ve been in the back of a cop car multiple times.

We arrive at the jail. Washed out floodlights fill the parking lot behind a tall chain link fence. It’s a desolate place. Doors open with a loud clank and a buzzer. The fluorescent lighting reveals bags under every eye inside. A bunch of portly cops shuffle around moving as slowly as possible to start the processing. Fingerprints. Mugshot (it’s probably available somewhere online).

My one phone call. Here’s the secret — you actually get as many phone calls as it takes to get the wheels turning to get you out of jail. They just want your money, they don’t want you there any longer than you have to be there. Not really knowing what to do, I called my parents, at 3 AM CST in Montgomery, Alabama. Surprisingly, the phone only rang a couple times before my dad picked up with a surly “What’d you do?”

After that, I happened to call the first bail bondsmen listed in the directory.

That gave me a chuckle. After confirmation that they were processing me, I got to go sit in the drunk tank and wait.

Concrete walls, concrete toilet, concrete water fountain, and metal benches. They took my boots and jacket, and tossed me in with five other college kids. One guy immediately started crying. Another kept talking about how his dad was going to come beat up the cops. One was passed out drunk and never woke up the entire time. I sat there about two hours before my buddy arrived with the bail bondsmen. After seeing who else had been in jail, I started to believe that I was the toughest inmate in the entire place that night. That was before I walked past the other holding cell, where two 6’6, 250-pound men were pushing each other back and forth in the middle of the cell with several other giant guys egging them on. Reality check.

At this point, the sun’s thinking about coming up. We pay the guy $300, and I’m free. A couple hours later, I’ve showered, washed the jail smell off me, and have my marching orders to return in a couple months to appear before the judge. Fun.

Now, the same night that I had would’ve won me a simple ticket in Auburn, and certainly nothing aside from a small fine. In the end, I paid what amounted to a couple months’ rent in fines to the state of Georgia, had to perform community service, and check in with a probation officer for six months.

That Sunday night when I got back to my apartment in Auburn, someone showed me a news article that said something like 50 college kids had been arrested overall that weekend in Athens. I paid my fine and served my nickel at the humane society feeding puppies and hosing out kennels.

I guess the moral of the story is, go to Athens, and you’ll end up cleaning dog shit.

from College and Magnolia - All Posts https://www.collegeandmagnolia.com/2020/3/29/21189219/twelve-hours-in-athens

#IFTTT #Blogger #auburn #auburn fast #wareagle #AuburnFamilyNews #war eagle #sec #football news #aubu

0 notes

selfiecharmedlife · 4 years

Text

RE: So How Does It Feel

A friend of mine visited me on my third night in the hospital. As soon as my caretaker left the room, there was a pause in our conversation and she whispered to me “So...how does it feel?” At the time, I was under heavy drugs and couldn’t really give a solid answer. However, a few other people have asked me different flavors of the same question. I wanted really get down to unpacking my experience in the hospital and first days at home both to answer that question without protective irony and to maybe put another resource out there for anyone also contemplating a vaginoplasty.

As I said in my prior entries, I was not sleeping well in the days leading up to my surgery and was a wreck of anxiety. I picked up my caregiver on Monday evening from the airport and took the next day off work. Prior to surgery, my surgeon requested that I go on a clear liquid diet and bowel cleanse. Before I drank the bottle of magnesium citrate that would glue me to the toilet for the rest of the day, I cried to my caregiver about my cold feet. My aunts (on my mom’s side) and my mom had been sending me passive aggressive texts about how much I was hurting my mother and how worried they were that I would have regrets. Their manipulations worked and I was terrified that I was making the wrong choice. Part of me wanted to run away. However, after I drank that awful lemony liquid, I couldn’t run very far from the bathroom. I was committed.

Early the next morning, my caregiver and I walked to the train station. Along the way, I kept ruminating on the sinking feeling in my gut and how scarred I was of what the next few days would bring. After we got to the hospital and I got checked in, she pulled my head onto her shoulder and told me it was ok to be nervous and even more ok the cry. Right there, all the tears I had been choking down came pouring out as we sat in the waiting room. Even though her daughter had broken our engagement, she was still treating me like her family and I felt like I had a mother for the first time in years. Eventually, they called my name and I went up to the prep room. After signing some forms, talking to doctors and fainting after they put an epidural catheter in my back, they wheeled me off to the OR. I don’t remember much past that. I was joking with the surgical team to help with my anxiety and then I woke up a few hours later.

I don’t even remember being moved from the recovery room to my own private room. I would later find out that I fainted again when the staff moved me to the hospital bed. As they nurses were scrambling to get me stable, they started referring to me with he/him pronouns. Apparently, I met this with something to the effect of “I just cut my dick off, can you please respect me enough to call me a woman.” Go low-blood pressure Morgan! As I came back to reality, there was a sign on my door saying “I identify as female” that my caregiver had made and a note of my diagnostic board requesting that anyone use she/her to refer to me. Tragically, this didn’t stop the misgendering by some of the staff. Being stuck in a hospital bed for days and dependent on someone that is deliberately disrespecting you like that is an awful experience that I would not wish on anyone. Even a week later, it still hurts and has undermined a lot of my confidence especially in my face. Beyond that, I mostly just slept and ate for the rest of the first day.

The second and third days were difficult. I was stuck in a bed and unable to move or feel my right leg thanks to the epidural having been placed off-center. I shitposted on twitter to pass the time and watched a lot of dateline mysteries on my hospital TV in between naps. My lower body was mostly one big bruise which made rolling over or even sitting up incredibly painful. Sleeping was hard and the tight surgical dressing around my thighs and lower abdomen was itchy at first and gradually became saturated in my blood. I had to sit there and wait 48 hours until my surgeon could remove it so by the second night I was sitting in a heavy wet medical diaper saturated in my own fluids. It was disgusting and I felt sick every time I moved. The relief I felt when it came off was short-lived because that was also the first time I would see my vagina. It just looked like a big bloody sore where my penis had been. It was swollen and covered in dried blood. I didn’t even call it my vagina during my stay in the hospital. I kept referring to it as “the surgical site.” When my surgeon left after the visit, I cried alone in my room.

The next major step before being discharged was walking again. On the third day, a doctor removed my epidural and the nurses helped me up once I had feeling in my legs. The pain was excruciating, but I wanted to be out of that hospital so bad. I managed to waddle past the nurse’s station outside my room before my blood pressure crashed (for those of you keeping score, this makes three times) and I was rushed back to my room. I’m a very fit person with a low resting blood pressure. I also lost a lot of blood during the procedure, so I was a fragile maiden there for a few days. My catheter was removed around midnight that night and I had the big girl job of learning to pee again. It was a weird and painful sensation with more blood than urine. Unfortunately, the amount of packing in my vagina eventually put pressure on my urethra and I was unable to pee normally after that first time. I ended up sitting on the hard-plastic toilet next to my bed in tears because a nurse had left me there and I was both afraid to stand on my own and unable to pee. I felt like a disaster of a human and had to be re-catheterized when the backed-up urine in my bladder became too painful.

I was eventually able to walk with assistance and that was enough for me to get sent home on the Saturday following my procedure. My caregiver and I climbed into a lyft and headed back home. The next two days were miserable. I spent a lot of time struggling find comfortable ways to sit, bleeding through my clothes, almost fainting again and crying. There was a moment where I was struggling in the shower and almost accepted that my aunts were right.

It did get much better though. On Monday morning, I had my first post-op appointment. Again, I almost fainted on the drive there because my body screamed in pain whenever the driver took a turn on Rock Creek Parkway. There are a lot of twists and turns on Rock Creek Parkwat. I got into the stir-ups and probed my surgeon and his PA for feedback on how I was doing and told them how awful I felt. After they took out the packing and went over the process of dilating, they left me in the room. I cried in the stirrups before I cried even more while getting dressed. Something had changed though, standing didn’t hurt as much anymore. They had been able to get so much width and depth out of me that the amount of packing in my vagina was adding a lot of pressure. For reference, I am able to get to the second to last dot on the biggest dilator which is apparently much wider and deeper than the average cis woman’s vagina. From that point on, every day has been a massive step forward. I went from being unable to leave the house, to walking assisted, to walking unassisted for short walks, to being able to now walk almost normally.

To answer the question “how does it feel.” If feels flat and that’s wonderful. Every day since I’ve had the packing removed and started dilating has been better than the last. As much as I was dreading the weird alien-looking medical dildos that are now with me for life, having to take time to feel my vagina and stretch things out has helped a lot both mentally and physically. It feels like part of me now and I love it. As the swelling has gone down, I can imagine how it’s going to look and seeing myself in the mirror without a bulge gives me the biggest rush of dopamine. I’ve been smiling for days now even though my abdomen is still a big bruise and I have some significant discomfort. Still, I’m way ahead of where I was told I would be mostly thanks to my level of fitness prior to the surgery. Yes, having low-resting blood pressure did cause me to faint a lot, but having low body fat also meant that there was less tissue to cut during the procedure. As of one-week post-op, I’ve been able to move around well enough to restart HRT and re-feminize my face and figure after the three weeks of discontinuation was starting to show. My pain is also manageable with just Tylenol and I’ve been able to avoid oxycodone.

There is still a lot of work left to do, but I’m *so* glad I did this. For all the pain and all the anxiety, I feel like me right now. I have a vagina now and I really love her a lot even if she’s kinda gross sometimes. I’m looking forward to getting to know each other better and whatever adventures we’re going to have.

0 notes

seniorbrief · 6 years

Text

Triumphs and Tragedies Only Military Families Will Understand

Inspiring Stories

Jen BabakhanJun 21

When military service members return from deployment wounded, the effects of their injuries ripple through their families mercilessly. One nonprofit organization, Hope for the Warriors, has set out to support not only those injured in battle, but the families they return to as well.

Learning importance of hope

Courtesy Robin Kelleher

When Robin Kelleher saw her close friend struggling after the return of her injured Marine officer husband, she knew she had to help her to cope in some way. “At the time, I was dealing with my husband’s back-to-back deployments as well, but I wanted to get my friend out of the house, so I asked her if she wanted to go for a run.” Kelleher and her friend were both runners, and they soon came up with the idea to start a charity run as a way to bring the community together and support Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. The charity run turned into more of a success than either of them expected, and Kelleher knew there was more to be done to support families as they welcomed home injured service members. She was inspired to begin a non-profit organization that focused on supporting service members and their families, and Hope for the Warriors was born.

“The military was training our service members extremely well, but as a country, we’re not prepared for the wounded military,” Kelleher says. “There weren’t services available, and as I researched what gaps there were to fill, I realized there were a lot.” Kelleher says the early days of the organization were at a grass roots level, and she spent a lot of the time working at the dining room table while she was home caring for their small children and her husband was deployed.

Today, the organization has grown to serve more than 13,000 service members with offices across the nation and partners with other companies to provide specialized services. Hope for the Warriors has a simple, but profound mission: to restore families and hope. “Our goal for service members is that they come in with a need, which we meet, but then they become part of our team. We want them back in a serving role again, which is what they want most themselves,” she says. “We offer financial, emotional, educational, and spiritual support. We cover things that no one else will.” Its Warrior Wish program helps to restore families, sometimes in unusual ways. For example, “We had one soldier who lost an arm, but used to love wrestling with his children,” says Kelleher. So the group hired a trainer to teach him how to wrestle with his kids again.

The help for service members extends to family members as well. The organization has a scholarship program for caregivers and spouses to help them be competitive in the job market and earn the income their service member husband or wife lost.

Kelleher admits the work is hard and can take a personal toll. “There have been days I wake up and say to myself, ‘I can’t do this anymore,’” she says. “There has always been a sign from above saying, ‘Yes, you can.’ We’ve stayed humble—we focus on doing good work for good reasons—and I think that’s why we’ve been successful.” Supporting wounded warriors has never been so easy—here are simple yet powerful ways you can help veterans.

Finding the “new normal”

Courtesy Vintage Lens Photography in St. Louis

In 2013, as Mark Daniels, a Marine K9 handler, was deployed in Afghanistan, his wife, Jesca Daniels, was staying at a Ronald McDonald House in North Carolina while her one-year old daughter was undergoing surgery to fix a hole in her heart she was born with. In the middle of the night, the manager of the Ronald McDonald house knocked on her door and told her there had been an explosion, but her husband was alive. “My heart stopped at ‘explosion.’ I didn’t hear anything after that,” she says.

As it turned out, Mark and five other Marines had been hit by a remote detonated bomb on the way back from a patrol. Their vehicle flipped and threw Mark to the back of the vehicle, where he went unconscious, resulting in traumatic brain injury (TBI). Mark was awarded a Purple Heart and offered medical retirement, which he declined because of his desire to continue serving his country. His recovery has been difficult for the entire family, and has put Jesca into the role of caregiver to him as well as their two daughters. “When Mark originally came home he had a lot of memory issues and really bad headaches. He was unable to walk unassisted and required a cane and physical therapy,” Jesca recalls.

Mark’s injuries have taken more than his physical ability. “He’s not the man I married. There are days I miss him and he’s sitting right next to me,” Jesca says. Another military wife offered her some difficult but valuable advice. “She told me, ‘This is your new normal, and he may never be who you married again,’” Jesca says. “It made me realize that you have to decide whether you love the new person enough to fight—and a lot of the time the fight is with myself. The good always outweighs the bad, though, and seeing him become this new person is worth it.”

Hope for the Warriors helped the Daniels have a wedding celebration, something Mark and Jesca, who originally married at a justice of the peace in 2009, never had. “Mark was the one who really wanted a wedding,” Jesca recalls. “He worried that if something ever happened to either one of us, we wouldn’t have memories of our first dance or a special day.” Hope for the Warriors helped coordinate and fund the couple’s dream wedding, which reunited them with both of their families and some of Mark’s fellow Marines.

Today, Jesca and Mark continue to strive to focus on the positive and celebrate the good in life. Jesca insists that Mark continues to celebrate what those in the military call an “Alive Day,” the day they were injured and survived. “It’s a day to celebrate how far they’ve come and to remember those that aren’t here with us anymore,” she says. “I believe that everything in life makes you stronger, even the stuff that completely breaks you.”

Receiving life-changing support

Courtesy Brittany Zurn

Childhood sweethearts Aaron and Brittany Zurn met when he was 13 and she was 11—they began dating three years later. Eventually, they married and had three children as Aaron joined the Marines, working up to become part of the Marine Corps Forces Special Operations, an elite position that requited a seven-month trial period with strenuous physical and mental testing.

Two weeks after the couple’s third child was born, Aaron was deployed to Afghanistan, where he communicated with Brittany daily. So when he went four days without calling or texting in 2014, she knew something was wrong. Then, when Aaron finally reached Brittany, his call left more questions than answers. “He told me he fell from a helicopter and hurt his shoulder and head,” she recalls. “He was heavily medicated and he couldn’t give me much more detail than that.” It turned out that not only did Aaron have a TBI from his fall, but his mental capacity was diminished to that of a 13-year-old and he was suffering from severe PTSD.

An added insult to injury was the financial burden the couple faced as a result of Aaron’s inability to continue serving in the special forces. Aaron’s paycheck was cut in half suddenly, while their expenses remained the same. “When Aaron was injured, Hope for the Warriors was the first assistance check I received,” Brittany recalls.

While it has been a long road for Aaron, Brittany’s life has been turned upside down as well. “I went from a stay-at-home mom taking my kids to the park to becoming a caregiver for my husband,” she says. She now spends three or four days a week taking Aaron to doctors appointments at the VA and hours on the phone with doctors and insurance companies. “I feel like his assistant now,” she says.

For Brittany, the hardest part of Aaron’s injury is the loss of their life-long relationship. “I’ve loved him over half my life,” she says. “Not having the relationship that we had before the injury is like a death, only when someone passes you can heal. With a brain injury, it’s a shadow of what was.”

In an effort to become the healthiest version of herself possible during this trying time, Brittany began going to therapy. “My therapist told me, ‘You’re surviving the loss of your husband, and now you have to get to know this new man.’ It put it in perspective for me,” she says. With the aid of a scholarship from of Hope for the Warriors, Brittany returned to college, earned her bachelor’s degree, and began working full time.

Brittany’s commitment to using her family’s tragedy to help others has proven helpful to her own healing. She offers words of wisdom for those who now stand in her shoes searching for hope. “You’ll go through a time of thinking you can do it all on your own—but take the help,” she says. “Join the support group. Keep doing things for yourself, still shower and get ready every day. Make sure your family fully understands and gets involved as well.”

In the future, Brittany hopes to continue advocating for veterans and invisible injuries like the one her husband suffered. “There’s never enough we can say to thank service members. Traumatic brain injury and PTSD need to have more recognition,” she says. “My hope is that in the future we can find a new normal with a new label that isn’t ‘wounded’ or ‘injured.’” Find out the 60 things every caregiver needs you to know.

Going through the healing process

Courtesy Catherine Bane

After finishing high school in 2003, Catherine Bane was excited to join the U.S. Army as a chaplain assistant. Her grandfather, father, and six of her brothers served in the armed forces, and she was proud to add to the family’s legacy. Her excitement quickly diminished after a sexual assault. “Within the first year of my service, I realized my experience in the military was very different than what my family had experienced in their careers,” she says. “Being sexually assaulted shook me to my core and for many years, changed the way I saw myself.” Worst of all, she had convinced herself it was her fault, she says.

Then, the unthinkable happened: She was sexually assaulted a second time. “I went completely numb inside,” Bane says. Though she struggled to remain positive, her personal relationships continued to suffer. “I moved on with life desperately trying to mask the pain,” she recalls. “Many of my relationships struggled and I was surviving life, but not thriving.”

It was in May 2015 that Bane ran her first Hope for the Warriors half-marathon, and it was there she became involved with the organization that set her on the path to healing she walks today. “Hope has not only helped me to truly face my past and my assaults but has helped me to begin to work through the healing process. Through Hope for the Warriors, I have found a community and family that has helped me to find my worth again,” she says.

Catherine is now married with three children. She and her family enjoy running together, and they set a family goal of running 100 miles in honor of Hope for the Warriors. “We have found that when we move as a family, we grow as a family,” she says. “Setting goals for ourselves as individuals and also as a family has been a wonderful tool for us.”

Today, Catherine is in the process of earning her degree in psychology with a special focus on military resilience. She hopes to use the painful experiences of her past to reach out to others in need of healing. She offers those who have also experienced sexual assault in the military some hard-earned words of wisdom: “The military has a brotherhood and sisterhood so strong [that] there is no place for sexual violence. It destroys the core of what the military stands for. This is your journey; be patient with yourself and never give up. You are worth fighting for, and you aren’t alone in this fight. You can get your life back,” she says. “No matter how you get through this race of life—fast or slow, running on two legs or one, or on a bike—just don’t give up.” Don’t miss 10 of the nicest ways strangers have helped veterans.

Original Source -> Triumphs and Tragedies Only Military Families Will Understand

source https://www.seniorbrief.com/triumphs-and-tragedies-only-military-families-will-understand/

#seniorbrief #seniors

0 notes