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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

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In the Arms of the Anus

Fandom: Spider-Man, Thor Pairing: Roger Harrington/Grandmaster Rating: T Word Count: 8883

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @spiderman-homecomeme!!!

Summary: While people all over the world are finding their soulmates, Roger Harrington can barely find time to grab a sandwich. Clumsy, anxious, and stagnating in a mediocre marriage, it's a miracle that he still believes in love.

Today's the day the universe rewards that belief.

Three things about Roger Harrington: he’d just tripped on the sidewalk, he worried daily that he was developing a bald spot, and, at the age of 36, he felt he still believed in love as strongly as did the little girl in his building who’d made all the residents Valentine’s Day cards the year before.

The cards—which Roger had found endearing while his wife had been baffled to the point of annoyance—had been wedged into everyone’s mailbox sometime on the afternoon of last May 19th, and maybe that was why he thought of them today, exactly a year later.

It was helpful, he found, to consider love in markers of time passing, or just numbers. The anniversary of those Valentine’s cards would always be 271 days early, leap year or not. Roger had been married twice, longer the second time. He had zero children, and that was alright with him because he wasn’t totally sure that he did want kids and, anyway, he was too profoundly stressed about the welfare of the teenagers he taught at Midtown to comfortably imagine himself as a fulltime parent.

His wife was cool. Significantly cooler than he was. She drove out of the city to hike every other weekend (he had never joined her and hoped to never be called upon for woodsy companionship), had once performed an emergency tracheotomy on a friend at a dinner party, and had a tattoo on her hip that predated their relationship, which made it consequently, eternally, enigmatic, no matter how many times she told the objectively trite story of its acquisition. Also, she was a casual shoplifter, which made him very, very nervous in a way that he found difficult to differentiate from how he felt when he was turned on.

He was the kind of person who consistently forgot to take his glasses off before stepping into the shower. She was the kind of person who would run into and recognize a famous race car driver at Whole Foods (that had happened) or fake her own death (that had not happened—knock on wood!). Essentially, what and who his second wife was was the natural successor to his first wife (the reckless young bride to his insomniac young groom), who had in turn been the natural successor to the only other romantic encounter of his life worth mentioning: a kiss on the cheek at a birthday party on the day the Berlin Wall fell. Roger had been seven.

So his romantic history was speckled and, in two out of three cases, spoke a little too loudly of a need for legally-recognized codependence. So he didn’t feel like a man anyone would ever get a tattoo in honour of. So his wife had been a little unkind in the long pause before her negative when he’d asked her if she thought he was getting a bald spot. Roger still felt that love was going to happen for him. Hopefully sustained in his current marriage, but if not, there was always what Julius Dell had taken to (highly unscientifically) calling the Love Wave.

If Roger decided to be really delusional, he could pretend that the Love Wave was to blame for his stumble over uneven concrete on his way to grab lunch. That he was finally feeling its cosmic tug. Not that he would be the last to sense it—the inexplicable force that had lately begun guiding people the world over to their new partners—but every day that he didn’t, he feared his wife would feel it first and go careening out of their life together in a Thelma and Louise-style launch that somehow left her intact and him feeling like he’d plummeted to his death at the bottom of a canyon. Sometimes, when he thought about it, he imagined feeling that impulse to go to this destined soulmate and pictured it leading him home. Not in some metaphorical way, but literally home, to the apartment he shared with his wife, to find her arriving at the same time, the two of them matched up, the universe endorsing their marriage.

The reality was that he was a man with clumsy feet (and knees and elbows) who’d forgotten to pack himself a lunch and had just enough self-awareness (though probably not dignity) not to believe that eating in the cafeteria with his students was something he would be able to socially recover from.

He thought about a poorly-cut-out pink heart glued to a fold of red craft paper. He went to buy a sandwich.

At the deli, Roger waited in line and didn’t so much allow his mind to wander—like a dog off-leash in a dog park—as feel his mind jerk insistently away—like a dog on-leash, trying to snap a dropped slice of pizza off the sidewalk. He was violently not present as his thoughts migrated from Valentine’s Day cards to lesson plans to the anxiety he always felt over the fact of never seeming to have enough power to go with the tremendous sense of responsibility he felt for all situations in which he was even remotely involved. He would have, should have, continued to shuffle vacantly forward in line, except that the man ahead of him grumbled something that drew his focus.

What he grumbled was: “Even the Sorcerer Supreme should be able to spare a minute to decide what kind of sandwich he wants.”

Now, Roger Harrington was a man of science, but he was also a man who had previously enjoyed a close friendship with the Hulk (and if anyone challenged him on specific parameters within that assertion, Roger knew that he would cry). Aliens swarmed the sky like clouds of bees. There were compilation videos of Spider-Man nearly getting hit by city buses that could’ve been designed expressly to see how hard Roger could flinch. For a clumsy man with the unathletic, knock-kneed gait of Pippi Longstocking, Roger did his best to roll with the supernatural punches. Hey, this was how science worked too: just because there wasn’t a precedent yet didn’t mean there never would be. Just because he couldn’t explain something didn’t mean no one could. Sorcerers? Alright. There could be sorcerers.

“Sorcerers?” Roger blurted to the man, overeager to expel the word.

All other words had fled to the back of his mind, twitching in an agitated cluster, leaving just the one to be snatched frantically from the surface. Like fishing. (Roger had never been fishing. One of his greatest fears was having a live fish somehow jump into his shoe and stepping on it by accident.)

“Uhhh,” the man droned. He looked uneasy. If Roger knew how to make his eyes a little less wide in situations like these, he would’ve done it.

“No, yeah, sorcerers, sure,” Roger swiftly backpedaled. “I’m a teacher.”

As if being a teacher equaled knowledge of sorcerers. As if that were a normal unit of the high school curriculum. Roger’s understanding of sorcerers began and ended with Mickey Mouse in a blue wizard’s hat. He wondered if that was sort of the standard look.

The man did not appear reassured. Roger thrust his hand forward.

“Roger Harrington, Midtown Tech.”

Face still wary, his deli companion shook hands.

“Wong.”

“So, this sorcerer of yours didn’t pick a sandwich?” The line shuffled forward and, now in reach of the long glass case of food, Roger attempted to lean his elbow casually against it, misjudged the distance, and jerked back upright again before he could fall over.

“No… You heard that part too?”

“If I could hear the part about the sorcerer, why wouldn’t I be able to hear the rest?”

“I think most people would’ve been so fixated on the sorcerer thing that they wouldn’t really absorb the part about the sandwich.”

“Just got sandwiches on the brain, I guess,” Roger said.

God, if Wong knew a sorcerer, odds were that he was a sorcerer too. (Roger based this on being a teacher with almost exclusively teacher friends and acquaintances.) He was making it sound like he cared more about sandwiches, he knew he was. He stared silently at Wong for a few painful seconds and wondered if the man could tell that he had worked for a sandwich shop as a teenager—the role of wearing a full-body sandwich costume and standing on the sidewalk, trying to attract people into the shop.

But Wong surprised him by nodding.

“You could get one of everything,” Roger heard himself suggest.

He was not typically one to make suggestions, but rather one to panic when other people did and he was in the position of having to choose between them. He could never decide on a restaurant for he and his wife’s now few-and-far-between date nights, or provide straightforward feedback when she asked for his opinion on her clothing choices… which movie they should see… what they should buy for her friend’s sister’s housewarming gift...

Oh god, she was probably going to fake her own death and his biggest anxiety was knowing that someone would ask him to choose the casket!

“I have like…” Wong jingled his pockets and extracted a fistful of coins that, when he opened his hand, Roger saw belonged to several different currencies. “…six bucks.”

Like a mirror with a delay, Roger patted his own pockets to locate his wallet. He flipped it open to reveal something promising and terrifying: he’d forgotten to return the school credit card after the last field trip he’d chaperoned. He shouldn’t, but… sorcerer.

“I think this’ll cover it,” Roger said. “It’s for emergency expenses.”

“Like lunch?” Wong asked doubtfully.

“I could be very hungry.”

“They sell seventeen different types of sandwiches here.”

“I could be very, very hungry.”

Wong shrugged in evident acquiescence and Roger marvelled that it was so simple for him to accept this act of generosity. Roger couldn’t recall the last time someone had been as generous towards him. Wait, yes he could. The Valentine’s Day card. Well, handing over a credit card that wasn’t technically his didn’t exactly equate to presenting his ticket at the Love Wave gates (not that there were such things—not that he’d know), but he was hoping to trade this generosity up for a different magical experience in the near future.

When they reached the front of the line for service, Roger ordered a total of eighteen sandwiches. (And received an undisguised groan of complaint from the people still in line behind himself and Wong.) While they waited, Roger buzzed like the posterchild for over-caffeination, doing his best not to let his excitement translate into erratic movements.

Of course, once the sandwiches were presented and paid for, it only made sense for Roger to help Wong carry them all. His own ham-and-Swiss was stuffed into one of the three bags and they were all bulging, threatening to spill. If one of them ripped on Wong’s journey back to wherever he had to take them, who would be there to gather the sandwiches into their arms so that Wong wouldn’t have to leave them on the ground? Roger was clearly the best (only) person for the job.

And if they talked on the way? That would be natural. If Wong stared at him with abrupt, unyielding suspicion the instant Roger attempted to negotiate a visit with this ‘Sorcerer Supreme’ in exchange for buying his lunch? Yeah. Yeah that suspicion would be fair.

“Not for my sake!” Roger defended as Wong blinked back at him. “For the kids!”

“The Sorcerer Supreme isn’t a birthday party magician.”

“No, I would never imply that! These are bright kids. They’d be there to learn, respectfully. They’ve had their own traumatic encounter with Spider-Man already so there wouldn’t be any clambering to meet another person with superhuman powers!”

“What did Spider-Man do to traumatize them?”

Wong looked interested now, in an entertained sort of way. Meanwhile, Roger was having a flashback of his life flashing before his eyes inside the Washington Monument.

“Actually, he saved us,” Roger explained. “That’s not the point. It would be purely educational. You and the Sorcerer Supreme would call the shots. As long as it wasn’t anything dangerous.”

“Dangerous? We would never put children at risk!”

Roger was about to clarify that he hadn’t meant to imply that they would when he realized Wong seemed to be taking this as a reason to prove himself, or to make the other sorcerer prove what he’d just said.

“I would hope not,” Roger said carefully, “because not all of the children I’ve taken on field trips have come back alive and that haunts me.”

“Well, what haunts me is everything I’ve seen and learned from in order to become someone who could now guarantee a safe field trip environment.”

“Well, that would be great.”

“Well, good,” Wong concluded.

Roger looked down at the bag he was holding as he dug out his sandwich. His wrist twisted and he caught the time on his watch. Oh wow, oh no, his lunch break was almost over.

“Ok, deal,” he said quickly. “We’ll come by next Tuesday!”

“I’ll be out here to let you in!” Wong agreed with a parting wave.

Roger took off running in the direction of Midtown and when that got too awful, he wheezed like an asthmatic and waited at the closest bus stop.

—

Roger had expected Principal Morita to say there was no room in their budget for this trip. That they were nearing the end of the school year, that parents and guardians would be reluctant to sign another form for an excursion that Roger could only give a vague, stammering explanation of. At the very least, he’d anticipated the journey via school bus in lurching, stop-and-start traffic to take so long that the kids would revolt; Flash Thompson would lead the complaints that they could’ve walked to their destination faster than the ride took and Roger would feel the primal horror of a confrontation with a self-possessed teenager who wielded the kind of peer influence Roger could only have dreamed of when he’d been Flash’s age.

But no.

Highly improbably (Roger didn’t like to consider it miraculous), things went smoothly. The trip cleared the budget assessment on zero notice because, besides renting the single bus to transport the students, their outing didn’t actually have any costs. Permission slips came back signed. Traffic was light. And dear, dear Flash—who usually gave Roger so much anxiety—slapped the hand Roger raised to shield his eyes from the sun as his students disembarked from the bus, rewarding him with a surprise high-five for getting them out of the classroom on a Tuesday afternoon. It almost knocked Roger’s glasses off.

They were ushered inside by Wong, who was now laying the mystical solemnity on pretty thick. He certainly wasn’t talking about sandwiches or complaining about the Supreme Sorcerer under his breath.

Before Roger could feel too good about himself though, he realized he’d had time to run through his headcount of the students three times without interruption. Normally, something would happen partway through his first count and he’d be uneasy for the rest of the day, sure that one of the kids had fallen down a manhole or been stampeded by a dog-walker’s unruly canine swarm. The universe shoved teenagers into the path of bike couriers with one hand and paired up soulmates with the other. That was just how things went! However, inside this house (or, no, Sanctum, Wong had called it), the air was still and quiet.

“Do you think he’s gonna make himself appear out of thin air?” Roger heard Ned ask at a whisper. “Or out of a wardrobe, or a trapdoor, or one of those boxes people get in to get sawed in half?”

“Those are cheap tricks,” Wong said loudly. He stared unsympathetically at Roger’s motley group, hand closed around his opposite wrist to maintain a serious pose. “The man you’ll be meeting shortly has capabilities that far outstrip those of the kind of magician-for-hire you’d find in a phonebook.”

From behind him, Roger heard Peter ask Ned what a phonebook was.

“What kind of capabilities then?” Flash demanded.

Roger sighed and was turning to reprimand his student when Wong said, “Like this!”

The man faked a sneeze of horrific volume and range, doubling over and cupping his hand around his mouth and nose. When he straightened up and presented his open palm, there was a raspberry sitting in it.

Roger closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself and his teaching career played on a fast-forwarded film reel behind his lids. The Sorcerer Supreme was a no-show; all Roger had accomplished was taking the kids to a weird building to witness a man pretend to sneeze out a raspberry. Midtown Tech was going to fire him. His wife would recognize his unemployment as a reason to leave him. Depressingly, Roger was thinking about how that would almost be a relief—an end to his incessant worrying that they were really kind of a mismatch—and he was thinking it while he blankly watched Wong eat the raspberry he’d just feigned dislodging from his nasal cavity.

He was really unprepared for a different man to come sweeping down the stairs, motion with his hand, and have a red sheet come whizzing down after him to settle itself on his shoulders. Roger blinked. He heard the mixed noises of fright and appreciation from his students.

Then Flash piped up with, “That’s just a trick. It’s wires or something.”

Roger backed into the cluster of his charges and, without taking his eyes off the obvious Magical Guy in front of him, reached over and placed his hand across Flash’s mouth.

Unfortunately, his censorship seemed to be too late. The Sorcerer’s narrowed eyes zoned in on Flash.

“Oh yeah? How ’bout this? Is this just a trick?”

Fingers splayed, the man moved his hands in a precise, practiced way and a window opened up in the middle of the room. No, not a window, but Roger was having a tough time wrapping his head around it. What this non-window showed was something that wasn’t the room, that wasn’t a view of the street, that wasn’t anyplace in New York, if he had to guess.

“You can’t just do it like that,” Wong said wearily. Roger felt himself and his students look from one of the men to the other as though watching a tennis match. “There should be a little more finesse.”

“Look,” the Sorcerer told him. “You don’t get to spring this on me and then expect me to ham it up for the kids. This isn’t a David Blaine show.”

“Maybe you should watch one. You might learn something about showmanship.”

“So, it’s fake, right?” Flash checked.

Dammit, Roger had dropped his hand, distracted as he tried to make out what he was seeing through what he was becoming increasingly comfortable with calling a ‘magic portal’ in his thoughts. He scrambled to take hold of Flash’s shoulder—yanking him back would be bad, but dealing with the fallout of him pissing off somebody who could make magic portals would be much worse—but Flash dodged him, swaggering forward to inspect the Sorcerer’s work.

“What is it? Mirrors? Greenscreen? You buy your tech from Stark?”

“Stark?” the Sorcerer spat out derisively.

Overcome with the terrible feeling that he was about to find out what it looked like when a wizard put a curse on a child, Roger sprang forward. As he did, three things happened: the Sorcerer rotated his wrist slightly, the scene on the other side of the portal changed, and Flash turned to the side.

Without a student to grab onto and pull to safety, Roger’s momentum sent him hurtling through the gateway currently connecting Midtown to parts unknown.

Of all the times to trip, he thought.

—

The world was bright and fast and bad. Actually, Roger was almost positive that what he was seeing wasn’t the world at all, but he couldn’t put a name to where he was any more than he could think of better adjectives to describe it. Unless the Sorcerer Supreme owned a magical slip ’n’ slide that operated at speeds designed to train prospective astronauts for space travel, Roger was no longer in his building.

The colour of the tunnel of light surrounding him turned from something like the intestinal track of a unicorn who ate lightning and nebulas to a dangerous, broiling red. Roger kept waiting for his skin to bubble, his face to melt off. Maybe he was the fabled frog in the pot of boiling water and had failed to notice the heat steadily increasing. Because he didn’t feel hot. He couldn’t tell whether or not he felt cold either and before he could work it out, he finally landed.

It was rough.

He curled his arms up around his head, protecting his face. He hit and tumbled, hit and tumbled, banging his shins and elbows, setting off a series of metallic clangs and thwumps like his body was playing drums made of the contents of somebody’s recycling bin. Roger could see—once, shaking, he was able to lower his arms and open his eyes—that his imagination hadn’t been far from the mark: he was lying in a heap of trash.

Trembling like a baby deer, he got to his feet and assessed his surroundings. There were piles everywhere. Piles of stuff. Roger could identify some of the battered objects, but most were utterly alien to him. This was like the time he’d found his wife’s sex toys all over again.

“Hello?” he called out, because he seemed to be alone. “Hel—”

His throat closed off abruptly when he swiveled in place and noticed the sky. His mouth fell open. Was that what he had just come through? That furious-looking, billowing, volcanic, enormous… disturbance? Weather pattern? Entrance to hell, if hell were a mountain of trash?

Oh man. Where was Spider-Man this time? Roger didn’t know which would come first, but if something distinctly reassuring didn’t happen in the next 30 seconds, he was going to either burst into tears or pee his pants. His cool wife was going to be so bummed to have to declare him dead instead of faking her own death. And his students would be traumatized, having just witnessed their teacher disappear before their eyes. He spent a frantic 17 of his 30 seconds wondering if this were Jumanji and he’d started a game without realizing it; being sucked into a board game was another of his greatest fears, ever since he’d watched the chilling horror film Jumanji in his teens.

“Hello?” Roger croaked a final time.

Some other scientist—a Tony Stark type—would thrive in this scenario, Roger knew. They would scavenge the surrounding mounds of metal, collecting and assembling pieces into some sort of technology that would either get them home or enable communication with a rescue team. Would there be a rescue team for Roger Harrington? Would anyone even try to get him back?

The cry/pee conundrum was looking more like cry with each passing second until suddenly, amongst the broken things Roger was aggrieved to consider the lone sentinels of his demise, some kind of spacecraft touched down. Based on his recent luck, whoever was at the helm was likely here to kill him, but he immediately elected to throw himself on their mercy, whether that meant rescue or just a swifter snuffing out of his life than he would otherwise experience on this sad island of garbage as he died from dehydration, starvation, and exposure to that infernal gateway in the sky.

He mouthed the word “help” more than said it as he staggered forward on legs he could hardly feel. A door in the side of the spacecraft slid smoothly open and party music blared out. Roger flinched back as though he had not heard the sounds of civilization in years.

A woman exited the craft. She wore an expression about as kind as the murderous upside-down mushroom cloud in the sky and when their eyes met, she barked, “Back!”

Roger executed an awkward reverse lunge, pleading hands raised. Ok, now that his time had come, he didn’t want a quick death. Put out of his misery? No, he would learn to live with his misery, the way he’d learned to live with his college roommates, or his wife’s collection of handmade bowls! With food and water to sustain him, he was suddenly confident that he could be successfully miserable for years if this intimidating woman would just leave him to his own pathetic devices.

But then, like a visitation from a tan, eye-liner-wearing angel of indeterminate age, a man in gold robes emerged from the vessel. He beamed like he had always been beaming, and always would be.

Just like that, Roger Harrington got it. He got what Hot Chocolate meant when they sang that they believed in miracles. He got the meaning of Kylie Jenner’s year of realizing stuff. He got why a child would send out Valentine’s Day cards in May and why his wife was so dedicated to her hiking group and why he was here.

“Now, what did I say about that before we left?” the angel seemed to be asking his companion, though he’d locked his eyes on Roger. “Did I say to harass our visitor or did I say to be nice?”

The woman narrowed her eyes at Roger, which he felt more than saw; it was possible that he was crying after all. Tears of joy.

“Harass,” she answered flatly.

The angel chuckled.

“You know, I do like having you around. Before you, I said to myself, ‘Next time, get an enforcer with a sense of humour.’” He sighed as his laughter dwindled. “But you can, uh, skedaddle back onto the ship now. That’ll be all.”

“What if you want to melt him?” she queried.

That was enough to tear Roger’s gaze away from the man and send it zipping nervously to the threatening almost-smile the woman was now directing his way. He’d preferred the murder face.

“Melt him!” the angel said, in a tone that implied her suggestion had been ridiculous. (Roger relaxed. A little.) “Topaz, don’t you realize who this is? Don’t you know?”

She shrugged.

“Trash.”

“No, he’s not trash! Do you think I would’ve left the Grand Arena to retrieve a new gladiator by hand? All those Scrappers don’t do my bidding just so I can dig through the garbage looking for fresh challengers for my champion! I wouldn’t even assign Scrapper 142 this task, and you know she’s my favourite!”

When the woman only grumbled, the man pressed, “You have an unbelievable poker face. Do you really not know why I flew all the way out here for this guy?”

“I’m his soulmate,” Roger blurted, because that was the one thing he did know.

He had no idea what a Scrapper was, or whether the man in front of him was more or less important than the ‘champion’ he’d mentioned, or how his homicidal sidekick planned to melt Roger, but he understood what was happening here. Forget the Love Wave—what had come for him had yanked him violently across solar systems, maybe galaxies. He’d been sucked under by the Love Riptide.

The angel pointed at him and proudly proclaimed, “Correctamundo!”

Then he strode forward and folded Roger into a hug. Roger thought this must be what it was like to be a piece of antique furniture, tenderly wrapped in gold leaf.

“I’m the Grandmaster,” he said.

“Roger Harrington,” Roger offered, feeling that his life was entirely surreal as he cautiously returned the hug.

“As soon as I felt you land on my humble little planet here, I came looking. My orgy guests were disappointed, naturally, but I had to put my interests first. What was I, elected? If they wanted a leader who would pretend to care about everyone equally, they should have organized themselves into a viable political party capable of rivalling my dictatorship, am I right?” He drew back slightly and laughed. “You should see your face! I’m kidding. I would’ve had anyone involved in such a thing put to death. Don’t you worry, Hairball.”

Roger cleared his throat. He’d learned so much in the last few sentences alone. Death. Dictator. Orgy. Any one of those things was a lot to confront and yet… he was calmed by the Grandmaster’s presence. He was alive and unmelted. He’d managed to find his soulmate—a man he’d been almost certain to never meet as things stood with Earth’s individually-impressive but cosmically-insignificant progress with space travel. At long last, the universe had smiled on Roger Harrington.

“Just Roger is good,” he said. If last names ever came up again, he would tactfully correct his soulmate, but with a name like ‘the Grandmaster,’ he doubted they ever would.

“Roger. Anything you say.” Gripping Roger’s shoulders, the Grandmaster leaned in and planted a sound kiss on his forehead with a loud, “Mmmwah!”

He asked Roger if he would like to go aboard his ship, apologizing that it wasn’t the one where he’d just been having the orgy and appearing to check Roger’s face for disappointment. Roger didn’t know what the Grandmaster saw in his expression, but he knew it wasn’t that.

Inside the spaceship, Roger looked around with huge eyes. He hadn’t felt this kind of wonder in a room jammed with so much beyond his understanding since the first time his mom had taken him to the New York Hall of Science as a kid. Everything was bright and white and immaculately clean, and Roger could concentrate on all of it because the Grandmaster had Topaz drop the volume of his party playlist until it was just a low pulse of background noise. Seemingly amused by his awe, the Grandmaster allowed him a peek at the controls before gently herding him into a chamber with seating arranged for socializing. A pneumatic hiss sealed them safely inside and away from the woman’s scowl.

“I really just wanna sit here and, uh, just look atcha, but that look on your face tells me you’ve got about a million questions.”

The Grandmaster settled back into the bench seating, resting his long arms along the top of the seat. Across from him, Roger fidgeted, experiencing sensory overload. Soulmate. Spaceship. Alien planet. He found it hard to decide what to ask first. Was that even polite? Was the Grandmaster just saying that Roger could ask questions when he really wanted Roger to say or do something else? There was an awfully flirtatious look in his eye, the likes of which Roger hadn’t seen directed towards himself in several years.

“What is this place?” Roger asked before he could stop himself. “Where am I?”

“Oh! This is Sakaar! Are you saying you didn’t come here on purpose? I figured you weren’t aiming for a pile of trash, but you really didn’t know where you were going at all?”

Roger shook his head so hard that he had to nudge his slipping glasses back up his nose.

“It was an accident. I fell through a wizard’s—uh, I mean, a sorcerer’s—magic portal. That kind of clumsiness must sound pretty farfetched to someone who’s so obviously…” Roger motioned spastically towards his soulmate, the dictator, with both hands. “…in control of their life.”

The Grandmaster laughed, transparently pleased and preening.

“Oh, Roger, you flatter me.”

He stretched out his leg to playfully tap his shoe (gold) against Roger’s (plain, brown, frayed shoelace). Roger jumped, giddy from an alteration in sea level, possibly, plus life-changing events.

“But it really isn’t so uncommon for people, beings, things… to end up here without meaning to,” the Grandmaster went on. “A lot of junk passes through the Anus. Not that you’re junk, obviously.”

With a winning smile, Roger’s soulmate leaned forward and patted him on the knee. He was a touchy-feely guy, it seemed, and it made Roger cognizant of how very lonely he’d been in his marriage, in the last year especially. How skittish around strangers, how unaffectionate with his friends. This was what he needed, and the universe had understood that.

It took his brain a few seconds to catch up with what his soulmate had said, distracted by the comfort he was taking in his easy warmth.

“The Anus?” Roger asked in a choked voice.

“The Devil’s Anus, to be exact. That enormous, horrifying wormhole out there in the sky!” the Grandmaster explained, gleeful. “Best I can guess, it acts as a funnel for accidental travelers, like yourself. And boy, are we ever grateful for that thing. I’ve never had to post any ‘Help Wanted’ flyers, I’ll tell ya that. We need more people serving drinks? Boom. More entertainers? Boom. More lubricators for the orgies? Boom, the Anus provides, baby.”

Roger didn’t inquire what the duties of a person with the job title ‘orgy lubricator’ entailed; it seemed sleazily self-explanatory. He just nodded.

“And now,” his perfect, golden match continued, “the portal brings me my soulmate. I love that thing. It’s really somethin’, huh?”

“It’s really something,” Roger agreed. “Really, really something.”

“You’re looking just a little stunned there, Rodge. Can I offer you something to eat? A drink? I promise, I’m usually a much better host. I feel like I’m positively, uh, bumbling right now.” He beamed.

This man was so many things at once—possibly too many—but bumbling was so far from being one of them that Roger actually laughed weaky in his state of happy, semi-delirium. He accepted the cold glass that was pressed into his hand, the brush of the Grandmaster’s warm palm across his forehead. He had moved to sit right next to Roger.

“You can get used to this place at your own pace, within reason.” His soulmate chuckled. “Heck, we can stay right here a day or two. My plans are cancelled, and when I stop, the world stops. That’s how it is, being the Grandmaster, and that’s how it’s gonna be for you too. You can give all your worries a big, wet kiss goodbye, my love. You’re living a life of luxury now. A court of sycophants, fights to the death in the evening, orgies on a lazy afternoon. I’m talkin’ a life of pure class—”

“Class!”

“Yeah, baby, that’s what I said.” The Grandmaster was wearing a languid smile as he traced the back of his fingers along Roger’s jaw.

But Roger was suddenly too alert to be lulled by welcome caresses and delicious, exotic beverages.

“I was teaching a class before I fell through the portal,” he said. “I’m a teacher. My students are probably terrified. Some of them might be messed up for life after watching me disappear right in front of them. What have I done…”

“So you gave them a cool story to tell their friends! You don’t need to think about that anymore. Now that you’re living here—”

“I can’t live here!” Roger said, seizing the Grandmaster’s hands in his as he tried desperately to explain. “I have responsibilities as an educator! Jesus Christ, I’m married!”

“Roger. Rodge. Rodge. Hey,” his soulmate said, finally disrupting Roger’s spiral of panic. “That’s all in the past. Do you know how many creatures from just, uh, every darn corner of the universe I’ve made slaughter each other for my entertainment? Thousands, Roger, ok? Thousands. And it’s taught me oodles about life. What I’ve learned is that love is the only thing that matters. What all of those poor bastards scream for in the end is their mom, their partner, their best friend. Now, that doesn’t help them, but it helps us. It helps us understand that we’ve done it—we’ve achieved the one thing in our lives that was worth a damn to achieve. I’m not gonna, gonna now be parted from you, sweetheart. You are the point of me.”

Roger felt himself growing teary at the speech. Yes, this had been a whirlwind—they’d met no more than 15 minutes ago—but he was feeling something just as deep as the love the Grandmaster described. It was a fantasy in the best way, the life his soulmate pictured for them (most of it… maybe not the part about slaughter). But it was a fantasy in the worst way too, something so impossible that Roger felt sick for getting as attached to this man as he already had.

“I can’t,” he said softly. He let his head hang down, solaced when the Grandmaster guided it onto his shoulder and wrapped a protective arm around him.

“Can’t you? For me? Roger, if I put you on a ship and send you back through the Anus, we may never meet again.”

Roger squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to be selfish, but there were people he couldn’t leave in the lurch. People who maybe didn’t care about him in a way that was equal to how he cared about them, but that was how any kind of relationship was, apart from soulmates. There were imbalances. He knew he might not be the most brilliant scientist, the most inspirational teacher, the husband a woman would prefer over the outdoorsy hunk in her hiking group, but he knew who he was: he was someone who couldn’t just walk away.

“We’ll be together again,” Roger said, clutching the Grandmaster’s robes. “After.”

Though he didn’t yet know what ‘after’ would mean.

—

It wasn’t as unexpected as it could have been—Roger had always had a feeling he’d die on a school bus.

The difference between his fears and reality was that he wasn’t departing this world in a fiery crash or zooming out of control between the steel trusses and into the East River. There was confusion, there was chaos, there were screams and the violent honking of horns, but there were elements he couldn’t have predicted. Primarily, the giant alien spacecraft hovering over the city. The ship immediately moved into first place of the most ominous rings in his life (he and his wife were not in a good place). Since its sighting, things had quickly spiraled out of control. Julius had radioed Roger from the other bus of students they were chaperoning to MoMA to report that Ned Leeds had ‘flipped his shit’ and Peter Parker was currently missing. Roger had nearly passed out. The only thing that had kept him conscious was his jittery concern for the rest of his students.

At Midtown Tech, they had drills for almost every eventuality. As of 2012, hostile outer space invasion was actually part of their repertoire, but it had always been assumed they would be at school when it happened, not out on a field trip. The most Roger had been able to think to do was get the kids to a secure location. Which meant getting the buses to a secure location. But the buses were on the bridge, and all over the bridge drivers were panicking, mindlessly stomping on the gas and attempting to swerve around the rest of the vehicles. Above the blood rushing in his ears, he’d heard crash after crash, until their bus was hemmed in and, through the smoking, crumpled hoods of their fellow commuters, the alien ship hung stationary in the sky. Disturbingly tranquil as New York City went to pieces to the tune of apocalyptic dissonance just below.

In the end, the spaceship hadn’t stayed put, but Roger had. The lanes around them were crowded with smashed cars. Glass from shattered windshields glittered on the pavement. Still, more vehicles surged forward as drivers attempted to use the bridge to flee the city; this wasn’t NYC’s first alien rodeo. He hadn’t attempted to force any of his students to remain on the bus—they were some of the smartest and the best of their generation, and he trusted their survival instincts far more than his own—but he did direct the ones who fled to first climb up onto the roof of the bus instead of dropping directly down onto the street and risking injury. Yes, he worried about minor cuts and bruises. Even now.

He thought that Flash was staying with him, and was touched. But then he realized Flash was just gripping his shoulder for leverage as he jumped and grabbed for the emergency roof hatch with his free hand. Roger knew the boy was somewhat neglected by his parents, and so, for the first time, he was happy go hear ‘Hotline Bling.’ It was Flash’s ringtone and it played incessantly as his phone rang and rang until the song, and the sound of Flash running, faded into the distance. Somebody wanted to see that he was safe. Somebody cared about him.

Alone, Roger hunkered down between the seats, knees bent in front of him. He scraped one hand anxiously through his hair and gripped his phone in the other.

He should call his wife. He knew he should. Only, he was afraid that she either wouldn’t pick up or she’d answer and be with the guy from her hiking group. Roger wasn’t even upset; he was glad she had someone, if this was it.

Ever since he’d returned from Sakaar, he’d been different, he was aware that he had. In the past, his wife had been largely responsible for the sundering of their marriage, but Roger knew that he was now pulling away too. It had begun inside him—the tear. He wanted to be with two people for two different reasons. In two places, on two worlds. Commitment clashed with longing. Logical rightness fought emotional rightness. He’d been weak, persuading himself daily to tough it out with his wife (even as he slept on the couch every night because lying beside her made him unhappy), when, for once in his damn life, he wanted to be fulfilled. Somewhere out in the stars, there was a man with blue eyeliner and an entire planet at his capricious command and he was the person for Roger.

If only, he thought, picturing the face he shouldn’t have been able to recall so clearly for the brevity of their encounter months ago. Roger shut his eyes to better remember the Grandmaster, and so he wouldn’t have to see his phone clatter to the bus’s dirty floor when the hand that held it turned to dust.

—

As with his life on regular, non-apocalypse days, not much happened to Roger. Despite his paralyzing breakdown on a school bus, he wasn’t among the billions scattered to the wind like sentient dandruff. He picked himself up and went home. Sure, he was shivering almost out of his skin from the shock, but he didn’t collapse into wracking, snotty sobs until he was safely in his living room, listening to his neighbours’ wails through the condo’s walls.

Roger’s wife wasn’t there, didn’t answer when he called her, and, three weeks later, still hadn’t made contact. It took another two months to hold her wake; the funeral business was booming. Never had so many words been spoken over so many vacant graves. Some members of his wife’s hiking group attended, some had even helped him select the right music and flowers beforehand. They knew her preferences. It felt surreal to be burying a person he couldn’t prove—in any meaningful way—that he’d really known.

With a queasy sense of being very lucky, he accepted that, apart from his marital status, his life hadn’t been upended. His windows weren’t broken, his car wasn’t stolen, the few family members he was out of touch with anyway had also survived. He went back to work before anybody called him in. There weren’t any students at first, just the echo of Roger’s clumsy footsteps tripping over the rug in the staffroom, half-solved equations on the whiteboards in the math classrooms, and the unholy stench of unwashed pinnies when he poked his head into the gym storage room to see if Coach Wilson was around. One day, Roger tipped back in the chair at the front of his own empty classroom and spotted a gigantic cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. It made him think of Spider-Man. He guessed that guy was gone too.

The most important thing for keeping sane was establishing a regimen. Work was a big part of that, but Roger also traveled daily into Manhattan to visit the Sorcerer’s place. It became a kind of pilgrimage. Early on, Wong would come out to say hello, but it was eventually less about commiseration and more of a perfunctory thing. Roger knew (assumed, hoped) that if the Sorcerer ever did return, Wong would let him know and welcome him inside. And then… a portal? And then the Grandmaster? He tried not to think about it too hard. Yearning took up a lot of energy and, when his students began to come back to school in distressingly low numbers, Roger needed to reserve that energy for teaching.

Everything was the same, every day, until it wasn’t.

For a reason he couldn’t rationally explain, Roger knocked on the Sorcerer’s door. While he was waiting—just a few seconds, he planned—a man materialized on the sidewalk right next to him. He tottered and Roger reflexively said, “Whoa!” and grabbed his shoulder to keep him on his feet. Before Roger could hypothesize or ask the man any questions, a teenage girl returned to existence a few feet away. Then a woman holding a toddler tightly in her arms. A little boy. A man with a dog. A bicycle-less bike cop, still wearing his helmet. Releasing the man, Roger spun and pounded against the door with his fist.

Still, no one answered.

Fighting the urge to show up at Midtown Tech, Roger made himself stay put, right there on the Sorcerer’s doorstep.

He waited a long time. As the sun set, New York City rose around him. He watched people hugging, running home down the middle of the street. He fielded unfinished questions as the newly returned began to ask him what had happened, what time it was, what year, before jogging away, more purposeful with every step they took. Roger’s foot began to bounce on the sidewalk and his clammy hands twisted fretfully. It was still another 12 hours before the door opened.

Roger fell backwards into Wong’s shins, delirious from the sickening seesaw between urgency and exhaustion. Everywhere, people were reconnecting. He scrambled to his feet because he wanted to be one of them.

“Is he here?” Roger demanded.

Wong narrowed his eyes slightly, holding the door so it couldn’t be pushed open further.

“Might I remind you that it’s me you’ve been seeing here the last five years.”

“Yeah,” Roger agreed, trying to see past.

“I thought we had developed a rapport.”

Finally, Roger met Wong’s eyes, his own pleading.

“No, yes, you’re right, we have,” he babbled.

“We’re friends.”

“Yes, of course, we are friends. Definitely.”

“So when is my birthday?”

Roger’s mouth hung open as he searched his brain for a piece of information he knew wasn’t in there. A few seconds later, Wong turned mirthful.

“Did you spend the Blip hiding under a rock where there are no jokes? Come inside. We just got back.”

None of the thousands of times he’d come to the door mattered—Roger hadn’t been inside the Sanctum since that first time. He hoped the Sorcerer remembered him.

When he saw the man, Roger’s steps stuttered. The Sorcerer appeared grim and wiped out. He was dirty and he looked older, though Wong whispered to Roger that the Sorcerer had been among the Snapped. Roger understood that, for something to go right and bring everyone back to life, something else had gone wrong. He could dwell on that and awkwardly bow his way back out of there, or he could convince himself that things had gone wrong for him too, and that he’d like them to be righted. He remembered that his soulmate was a dictator and tried to channel that sense of entitlement.

“What do you know about the Anus?”

The Sorcerer blinked.

“What.” The word came out perfectly flat.

“The Anus.”

“I wasn’t that kind of doctor.”

Roger strode eagerly towards him, hands gesturing before his words caught up.

“When I was here about, um, five and a half years ago, I fell through your magic portal—”

The Sorcerer snapped his fingers in recognition and turned to Wong.

“Oh, that’s who this is. I always wondered what happened to that guy.” He looked at Roger again. “How did you get back to Earth?”

Roger hadn’t been prepared to answer this question, just make his demands, and he began to explain what had happened to him, all out of order. The words ‘orgy ship’ had barely left his mouth when the Sorcerer was waving him into silence. His expression told Roger he was sorry he’d asked.

“So you went through the portal…” he prompted instead.

“That’s right! And for a while, I was just falling. I don’t know where I was.”

The Sorcerer stroked his chin.

“The connection must’ve been unstable. I know—one of your students distracted me.”

“That’d be Flash,” Roger said.

“Jesus. This is why I prefer not to be a field trip destination. Normally, the portal would allow you to pass cleanly through one place and into another.”

“And instead he passed cleanly through the Anus,” Wong summarized.

“…Yeah.”

Roger glanced from one man to the other.

“So,” he said, “could you do it again?”

The Sorcerer stared at him.

“The short answer is no. The long answer is also no, but it contains a great deal of vernacular to do with the Mystic Arts, so I’ll save us both some time.”

The last time Roger had defended his intellect and qualifications had been years ago, and he was out of practice. Anyway, he didn’t want a lengthy debate.

“Can’t you just open a portal and shove me through?”

“If you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a lot going on today. I’ve only entertained you this long because you and Wong seem to be friends. I’m not just going to mess around to humour you.”

“What if you had to do it?” Roger asked quickly, beginning to feel desperate and preparing to metaphorically jam one of his clumsy feet into the closing window of opportunity.

“Uh, let me think about that,” the Sorcerer droned disinterestedly. “No.”

“What if I attacked you and you opened a portal in self-defence?”

The Sorcerer squinted at him in disbelief and befuddlement.

“What?”

But Roger was already gracelessly throwing his weight into a wild, uncoordinated punch.

For once, he didn’t think critically of himself; he told himself that the Sorcerer’s portal sparked up between them because he was intimidated by Roger’s tenacity. And that it didn’t show a clear destination because the Sorcerer’s reaction speed was no match for Roger using the element of surprise. And that he dove purposely through the portal—on a mission for love and science and the unknown—instead of tumbling into it sideways because the momentum of his unpracticed punch had gotten the better of his balance. It didn’t matter. His feet went out from under him and he was on his way.

Roger had forgotten how intense the trip was, but he completely recalled the rough landing, bouncing down through a stack of the universe’s lost garbage. He shut his eyes to the whooshing and the brightness and braced himself (probably too early, but he didn’t think he could be too careful on this reckless endeavor).

He felt his body hit open air and gasped as he fell, trying to keep his limbs tucked in. The hat he’d been wearing was torn from his head. Didn’t matter; it wouldn’t have offered much protection anyway. At any moment, his poor elbows and knees would be battered by space junk. Between his velocity and his fear of the coming impact, Roger could hardly breathe.

Music. A familiar voice singing, It’s my soulmate! made his eyes fly open. Right in time to land on his back. Whatever was beneath Roger was soft, but he’d still had the wind knocked out of him and was struggling to fill his lungs. His eyes clamped shut as he began to cough.

“I have no idea how you survived that thing twice, but I sure am glad I caught ya.”

Finally sucking in a stronger breath, Roger opened his eyes and looked up. His glasses were askew. Above him was the opening in the ceiling of a hovering spacecraft, but closer than that, leaning over him, was the face of the Grandmaster. He was beaming.

“Any trouble with the Anus?” he asked.

Roger grabbed for the hand his soulmate had rested on his shoulder and moved it to his chest, right over his heart.

“The asshole who got me here will probably be thrilled to never see me again, but the Anus treated me just fine.”

“Ha!” the Grandmaster barked. His free hand lovingly patted Roger’s windblown hair back into place. “Welcome home.”

#my writing #MCU #spider-man #thor: ragnarok #Roger Harrington #En Dwi Gast (the Grandmaster)#their ship name is Mr. Master and they're what G deserves on her birthday

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madlymiho · 4 years

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Participating to the wonderful @nakunakunomi‘s event! Congratulations again for the milestone, it’s always something! But you deserve it for sure! 🥰

“i’ve been falling in love with you since the first day we met”

random word to include: skilled

I decided to pick a Zoro x Reader scenario for this one! Gender neutral is applied here, so the reader is qualified as “you”

words: 1800

( read after the cut )

Those things are never easy, he thinks, a firm hand gripping his bottle of booze with a certain strength, his only valid eye staring at the raging waves of the ocean. Another day stuck in the middle of nowhere, the tempest sending the Sunny Go far from any kind of shelter. The everlasting pitching of the boat has been hard to handle for some of the Straw Hat, and the general atmosphere has been more than tensed for a few days. They love each other so much, but it’s not always easy to compose with the various characters and behaviors onboard, especially when they have been unlucky for a week now, the tempest far from being done. If Nami remains the most skilled and capable navigator in the world, Zoro believes that her tensed features and her incapacity to drag them out of the hurricane is proof of the violence of the elements in this particular part of the world. Of course Luffy is thrilled by the adventure, and the feeling is somehow shared by everyone onboard, but all of them now wish to reach an island to have some proper rest. Even Zoro finds it hard to have a nap in these conditions, often awakened because he fell from his bed. Training also became quite impossible, and despite his best efforts to remain sociable and friendly, sometimes, his words are turning into something harsher than usual.

Of course, he didn’t mean to hurt you tonight. He thought you would understand that it was just joking, but he saw the look in your eyes - and he felt that slap from Nami. What he believed to be genuine and friendly has been nothing but a catastrophe, and now that he’s facing the ocean, gusts of wind fondling his green hair intensely, he definitely feels miserable. He doesn’t know why he always has to act so meaningly with you, it’s a sensation he can’t fully explain. Maybe it’s also increased by the fact they are all trapped here for a week, but if Zoro is honest with himself, this kind of situation has already happened in the past, and he never had talked to someone the way he did with you tonight. Another bitter sigh escapes his throat while he presses the neck of the bottle against his lips, droplets of the transparent liquid disappearing into the sea. Life is more complicated than expected since you’re among the Straw Hats, and this is something concerning. He never had difficulties accepting a new member, but when it came to you, all of his instincts yelled at him to send you away. Your presence is unbearable since day one, and it’s not the same as his squabbles with Sanji. Something profoundly different, changing a side of him he wasn’t ever aware of. Bullshit, for him… Yet the feeling wouldn’t fade.

“Don’t you think you owe me apologies?” A voice calls behind his back, resulting in Zoro tightening his fingers on the bottle of alcohol. He doesn’t manage to hide the tension within his muscles.

He hears footsteps on the wooden deck heading in his direction, louder than the wind yelling around them, while he eventually understands that you’re now by his side. He clicks his tongue impatiently, and takes another sip on his bottle.

“It was just a joke, Name, if you take it so personally, I can’t help you with that.” He answers, his voice as cold as the rain falling from the sky.

God he’s such a jerk, he knows it. But he wants you to go away and leave him alone. He believes it would be enough to hurt you and force you to abandon the idea to have a conversation with him right now. Because deep down, having a conversation could expose his deepest emotions, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to confess whatever he’s feeling for you.

“Why are you like this?” You eventually ask, fingers clenched on the barrier of the Sunny. “Why are you always like this with me?”

The question leaves your lips before you could control it, Zoro immediately turning his head to have a look on your face. You seem miserable. Of course you don’t understand ; he doesn’t either. He wishes he had an explanation, but his mind only leads him to directions he doesn’t want to explore. He doesn’t want to feel his heartbeat increases whenever you’re around. He doesn’t want to have that wrench within his guts whenever you’re talking to someone else. You’re the one responsible of his own misery, and he doesn’t believe he should make the task easy for you.

“Because you don’t belong here.” He snaps again, his voice emphazed with the loud thunder over your heads. You shiver, shocked, but Zoro doesn’t take it back. “You should leave.”

He wants to slap himself for pronouncing those terrible words, the two of you facing each other with an intensity he has never seen before. He looks at the rain falling all over your hair, dripping on your features, probably hiding the tears running down your cheeks. Your expression is more than heartbreaking ; something between sorrow and rage, and he feels profoundly despicable at this particular moment. He anticipates a new slap, something fair he would have earned with his miserable statement, or a burst of deserved violence coming from you. He wants you to hit him, to force him to understand that he has been too far with you, but your silence is the most terrible pain he has to experience. And your eyes. He handles your stare but it pierces him like a spear.

“I have all the rights to be on this ship.” You eventually answer to his cruel words, taking a step forward, your eyes gleaming with a certain wrath. “All the rights to be a member of the crew! How can you be such a jerk? Luffy wouldn’t have recruited me if I wasn’t wanted in the first place! Everyone on the Sunny is okay with that! So why?! Why are you like this with me?”

Zoro clenches his jaw, unable to find the proper words now. He expected you to run away, because it’s the easiest answer, yet in front of your determination, he finds himself speechless. He raises his bottle back to his lips, but before he can appreciate the bitter taste of the alcohol, your hand crashes on the precious jar, throwing the more than needed liquid into the depths of the ocean. As he widens his valid eye, Zoro quickly catches your wrist.

“Oï!” He growls impatiently. “What are you doing?!”

“Answer me!” You snap, voice breaking at the end of your plea.

With the rain, you believe it’s easy for you to escape his grip, pulling on your wrist because now you want to go away. Zoro feels it. This time it’s entirely different ; this argument could be the end of everything. A part of him wishes that it would be the final answer to his own torment, but on the other side, right now, he doesn’t want to let you go. He doesn’t want to be a coward anymore. So he holds you still, fingers digging in the skin of your wrist to maintain you there. He’s probably harming you, but he has no control over his emotions at the moment.

“You’re hurting me!” You gasp, wiggling on your legs for him to stop. “Let go!”

“I’m sorry!”

His voice has been so loud that you immediately stop struggling, eyes focused on his features. He looks so different than usual… unsettled, and weak.

“I’m so sorry, I’ve been such an asshole with you…,” he mutters one more time, as he loses his grip on your wrist. You instantly pull it against your chest, massaging the hurt skin. “I have no excuse…”

You frown, forearm still plastered against your body, while you try your best to understand this sudden statement.

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

He sighs because of course you don’t. He grips the barrier of the Sunny, and stares at you right in the eyes.

“I’m sorry, for everything, for all the words I said to you. The truth is, I’ve been falling in love with you since the first day we met.”

For once, the words came smoothly, as if the struggle he has been living for months is now finally over. There’s nothing else coming from his mouth right now, the heavy rain and the powerful wind escorting this moment with their chaotic music. Ironic, after all… Everything has been chaotic with you since day one. He notices the incomprehension in your irises, looking for a taunt, something, anything familiar. He witnesses your body tremble under the revelation, your expression shifting into something entirely different. You definitely look like a lost puppy right now, and Zoro strongly hopes that he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.

“I don’t - ”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

He doesn’t want to waste anymore time, as he takes a step forward, one hand rolled around your waist, while the other one finds its place on your nape. He pulls you against his chest, crashing his mouth on yours, because apparently, words and statements aren’t working anymore. There, lips sealed for the very first time, Zoro is able to offer you the real intensity of his own desire, until you eventually surrender to the plea. As you tilt your head, he feels your fingers coming up to disappear in his green locks, both of your bodies even more flushed than before. After a moment, he even dares to open his mouth, the tip of his tongue asking for permission, fondling your own lips with that everlasting lack of gentleness which is definitely typical when it comes to this swordsman. You indulge him, both of your tongue meeting as well, your breathing heavier than before, until you eventually have to part to seek for some fresh air.

“You… So you…” You begin to stutter, unable to escape his grip.

“Don’t you fucking say another word, you’ll ruin this.” He groans impatiently, despite the smirk plastered on his lips, before he steals another kiss, then another one, the both of you forgetting the raging elements surrounding you, unaware of the curious stares coming from the kitchen’s windows, and Nami collecting her money after they have all bet (except Luffy who doesn’t understand what’s going on) Zoro wouldn’t confess before months.

#one piece scenario #one piece imagines #roronoa zoro #zoro one piece #zoro x reader #one piece imagine #one piece writing #one piece prompt #writing prompt #cliche with Hazel #queued

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ieattaperecorders · 3 years

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Notes on Causality - Chapter 2: Georgie and Elias

An addendum to Something's Different About You Lately. Small scenes of Jon attempting to change the future that I didn't want to put in the larger fanfic.

The events of this chapter take place around the end of Chapter 8, Stranger.

(Incidentally, the main fic will be updated very soon. I'm mainly just holding off till the finale drops, in case whatever happens makes me want to tweak anything mood-wise in what I have planned.)

Read on Ao3

- - -

One ring. Another. Then another. Maybe she wouldn't pick up, Jon thought, drumming his fingers on the desk. Maybe it would go to voicemail . . . he could hang up, try again later. Take a little time to mentally rehearse what he would say.

A click, and her voice asked, "hello?"

"Georgie . . . it's Jon Sims, from Oxford?"

"Jon? Hey, been a while! How've you been?"

"Ah – good? I've been good," he lied. "Yourself?"

"Oh, not bad. Got a new roommate since you last saw me . . . he lays around the apartment all day and won't share the rent, but he's cute so I let it slide."

"Good to hear that your landlord is cat-friendly."

"You should hear him, he has the loudest little meow. Hang on, I'll if he'll say hello . . . ."

For a moment and he heard some vague coaxing noises, distant as if she was holding her phone away from herself. They were followed by a close-up, disinterested sniff, then Georgie's voice returned.

"Ah, never mind. Not in the mood, I guess."

"I've heard the Admiral's color commentary before," he smiled. "He's in all your mailbag episodes."

"Didn't know you were a listener."

"Well, I need something for the commute . . . it might as well be the UK's most onomatopoeic source of paranormal research."

"Ha. Knew you'd hate the sound effects."

"I don't hate them. Anyway, they're . . . distinctive," he leaned back in his office chair, the nerves he'd built up slowly dissipating as they fell into the rhythm of conversation. "They're very you."

"Classic Barker." There was movement in the background, and a few soft thuds. Likely the Admiral jumping to the floor. "Well from what I hear, we're in the same field. Aren't you working for the Magnus Institute now? You must hear plenty of ghost stories there."

"That's actually sort of why I called. I think we might have a mutual colleague . . . Melanie King?"

"Yeah, she's the one who told me you were there," she said knowingly. "Sounded like you left a hell of an impression on her."

". . . Not a good one, I imagine."

Georgie made a non-committal sound, being decent enough not to rub it in by overtly agreeing with him.

"I was trying to be helpful, but I think I just came off as dismissive. Ended up arguing with her over nothing," he sighed. ". . . Classic Sims."

"Accept no substitutes," Georgie said fondly. "So, what's the call about? If you want me to try smoothing things over with her –"

"It isn't that. Did she tell you about her experience?"

"Not really. Asked a lot about Sarah – she's a sound tech I recommended to her? Got the impression she'd been unreliable. She was nice about it, Melanie that is, but really evasive. I just assumed she's caught onto something interesting and wants to be the first to report on it. The risks of being friends with competition, I suppose."

"Ah. . . ."

"Not that she has anything to worry about. Climbing fences and squatting in abandoned churches is her thing. I'm all about doing research from my computer desk with a cup of tea, personally," she paused, and he heard a distant clink of ceramic. "Hey, are we even allowed to talk about this? Isn't there some sort of confidentially thing?"

"As it turns out, privacy isn't really something this place values," he muttered, "I don't suppose she's talked to you recently?"

"No . . . not for a couple of months."

"I'm concerned. Her experience left a powerful impact on her. Now she's chasing after anything that might bring her closer to what she encountered, and I'm afraid she doesn't care about the cost. She's going into some dangerous territory. And, well . . . it's not my place to judge her emotional state. But I am worried."

"Yeah . . . I saw the memes," he heard a frown enter Georgie's voice.

"I've tried to talk to her about it, a bit. But she and I always seem to push each other's buttons somehow. I'd be grateful if you looked in on her. I think that she could use a friend right now, and –" he smirked. "I happen to know you're good with obsessive types too stubborn for their own well-being."

"Ha. You trying to set me up or something?"

"Wh–" he started, taken aback. "I mean, well, that's really your business, not mine."

". . . Wait. I was joking, but are you really?" There was utter incredulity in her voice. "Jonathan Sims, did you call me out of the blue to set me up with someone I knew before you did?"

"Of – Georgie I don't even know if you're single, don't be ridiculous," he sputtered, feeling blood rise to his face. She laughed, and the uncomfortable heat spread.

"Okay, okay," she said. "I'm just giving you a hard time."

"I just . . . " he spoke slowly, trying to be precise. "I think that Melanie needs someone else around her right now. Someone grounding. If you're not looking to take that on, I understand, of course. But for whatever it might be worth, I would be grateful if you checked in."

"I'll give her a ring," something in Georgie's voice was familiar, and profoundly comforting. "See if she wants to get coffee and talk spooky-shop."

"I think that might do her a world of good," he said with relief

"Also? We should get coffee sometime too, catch up! I want to hear all the creepy stories you're apparently so free to talk about."

"Really, it's mostly drug experiences and conspiracy theories . . . ."

"Even better, I'll get to hear you complain. Then I'll be entitled gripe to you about all the weird emails I get. It'll be perfect."

Jon wanted to say yes. He really, really did. The thought of sitting down for a few hours with Georgie and talking about nothing particularly dire was a nice one. But he could only bring trouble to her door.

"I'd . . . like that," he said, "But I don't have much time to myself right now . . . maybe after everything calms down."

". . . Sure," she sounded a little disappointed. Georgie could always tell when he was brushing her off. "Some other time. Hope you can get some rest, then."

"I'll do my best."

"And thanks for the heads-up about Melanie. Really," the smile in her voice was back. "Don't be a stranger, huh?"

"Right," he smiled back, hoping she could hear it. "Ah. Goodbye, then."

"Bye."

He stared at the screen of his phone, not sure what to name the feeling in his chest. In his mind's eye, he saw her form vanishing down a long white corridor, and he knew she would have made this choice herself, eventually. He was just respecting that. Speeding things along.

"Trying to set her up . . . honestly," he muttered.

What he'd said about Melanie needing someone to talk to had been true. He was hoping Georgie's influence could nudge her away from the path she was on, one that had its natural end in blood and pain and the drumming of war. It was hardly his fault if he knew that particular matchmaking arrangement had already worked out once.

The call had barely ended for a minute before his phone vibrated with an email notification. He opened it, frowning when he saw who it was from.

Jon,

See me in my office at your earliest convenience.

Also, in the future please remember not to make personal calls during work hours.

- Elias

It was the most direct contact he'd had with Elias in months. Aside from a few institute-wide emails, there had been nothing since their conversation about the recordings. Jon hadn't even run into him in the hall. At least on the surface, he'd stuck to his promise to involve himself less directly. Not that Jon imagined Elias was truly keeping his distance, but he had begun to get comfortable with not having to see or talk to him. He dreaded the idea of going up there and actually breaking the silence.

That comment about personal calls irked him, too. He was taunting him. Going right up to the edge of admitting he'd been watching while giving himself just a little deniability.

He could ignore it, of course. Why should he do anything Elias asked him to, however small? Why should he make any part of his life easier? But that wasn't a smart attitude, he knew. Elias was keeping his distance for now, but if he saw Jon as too troublesome things would escalate. It would be foolish to bring that moment any closer by antagonizing him over nothing.

Jon still remembered the comment he'd made when they last spoke – I'm sure one of your assistants would be up to the task. If it came down to it, Elias knew exactly whose throats to hold the knife against.

With a distinct lack of pleasure, he climbed the stairs out of the archive.

Despite his mood he smiled at Rosie, tried to seem friendly as he greeted her. The words insecure and aggressive had a tendency to turn over in his mind when he saw her lately. He was earnestly hoping to be easier to talk to, but fairly sure he just came off as awkward. At least she was friendly with him. But then, she'd always been.

She said he was expected and should go right inside.

Elias was at his desk, writing on something hidden inside a folder. He glanced up and nodded as he entered.

"Ah, Jon. Sit down, I'll just be a moment."

As he took a seat and waited, Jon couldn't quite banish the idea that the folder was just a prop. A way to make whoever he'd called in wait, to make it absolutely clear how much more valuable his time was than theirs. Or perhaps to give them time to stew, to sit in anxiety and worry. Then again, maybe Elias really did have paperwork that needed doing, and the fact that it was absolutely, positively maddening to sit there in silence and watch him was only a bonus to it all. Eventually, he finished.

"It's been a while since we've checked in, hasn't it?" he paused just long enough for Jon to wonder if he was supposed to respond, then continued. "I'd like to hear your version of how the last few months have gone. What sort of progress you feel you've made, etcetera."

Oh, God. Was he actually expecting Jon to keep up the pretense of doing actual archival work? He hadn't been prepared for that at all, and felt preemptively exhausted at the thought of coming up with some nonsense progress report.

"Well. . . as you know, Gertrude left the archives in a state of serious disorganization, so progress has been hindered by that," he tried to remember what projects he'd put the others on to keep them all going with a token show of work. "I've set aside a section for discredited statements, which has been steadily growing. I imagine . . . it will make things more efficient for researchers in the future? And, uh . . . ."

"Let me stop you there," Elias said, holding up a hand.

Please do, Jon thought, relieved he wouldn't be subjecting them both to several minutes of this. Elias leaned forward and looked at him seriously.

"Have I done something to offend you, Jon?"

The question took him by surprise, to the point where he had to bite back a sarcastic laugh. What hadn't he done? "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Really. Because it seems to me that I've be extremely generous to you," that familiar tone of disapproval, of bland impatience. "I've given you a unique opportunity, allowed you free reign in setting your own priorities, and you still seem determined to resent me."

Fleetingly, Jon wondered if the elaborately decorated letter opener on the desk between them was sturdy enough to sink into Elias's chest without snapping. Not worth it, either way. Not with what it would cost.

"I . . . apologize if I've created that impression," he said evenly. "I've been told that I can be standoffish in my manner."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Elias smirked. "Though ‘standoffish' is a great deal more polite than the words people actually favor. Isn't it?"

Jon tried not to look away, tried and failed to meet Elias's eyes. Perhaps his inability to maintain eye contact with a conduit of the Beholding spoke well for his remaining humanity, but it still twisted in him. Made him feel weak.

"Are we done here?" he asked, voice tight.

Elias sighed, as if all of this was such a burden to him, as if he wasn't basking in the anxiety that Jon knew must be radiating off of him like heat.

"What was it you said to Martin . . . about discarding the facade once it stopped being useful?" That startled Jon enough to look back, to see the condescending smile on Elias's face as he continued. "Maybe you ought to do the same."

He stared, suddenly voiceless, heart pounding. This was it . . . should he be relieved or terrified?

"I've been where you are now, Jon." Elias continued. His voice was stern, with only the barest concession to false sympathy. "Trapped in a world that no longer makes sense, surrounded by malevolent forces, seeing enemies everywhere. And I can tell you that the only way to survive in this world is to recognize what resources you have."

". . . Resources."

"Yes, if you could just get past this irrational distrust you seem to have of me. I can't hold your hand through everything. But if you have questions . . . I might be able to give you some answers."

Answers? That would make a change from before, Jon thought bitterly. The Elias he remembered used misdirection, contempt and sometimes flat refusal to avoid giving Jon any information he could hope to use. Unfortunately there was only one question Jon really had for him anymore, and it was one he couldn't ask: how much do you know?

. . . Did Elias have that same question for him? It would explain why he was directly inviting him to ask about his situation.

Jon paused. He had to be smart about this. If Elias had sat him down like this before, he'd have wanted to know everything. If he didn't seem curious, it might point to how much he already knew, and that would be disastrous. But he also couldn't look too naive . . . he'd made his suspicion clear, already warned the others, he couldn't pretend to know nothing about the Institute's nature.

He tried to think back to when he was only just getting a sense of the way things truly were. What would he have most wanted to understand then?

". . . What happens to me," he asked quietly. "When I read statements? The real ones. You know what I mean. I can feel something happening, I know it's not just reading."

"The answer to that is rather complicated . . . ."

"Are you going to give it to me?"

"It would help if I understood what you already knew. How much did Gertrude tell you about the nature of this place? The Institute?"

"Enough to know I can't trust it," he glared across the desk. "And maybe the reason I don't trust you is because you're constantly peering over my shoulder."

"You must have some sense by now of the dangers the Institute attracts," Elias raised his eyebrows. "Can you really blame me for wanting to keep tabs on everything?"

"Because you ‘keeping tabs' was so helpful when I was pulled into those hallways for weeks."

"You opened the door of your own free will. I do what I can but I can hardly be expected to protect you from yourself."

"You're the reason I'm here in the first place! You've been--"

Jon cut himself off, he could feel himself beginning to shout, losing control of himself and it was stupid, so stupid. What was the point in arguing with him? Jonah Magnus knew exactly what he was doing, he wasn't going to be shamed about it.

"It doesn't matter," he said, trying to gather himself back to a neutral tone. "Can't change the past."

". . . For what it's worth, Jon, I do sympathize," Elias said, folding his hands. "Someone has to be the Archivist. You were just the best option available."

Why had he thought he could play along with this? As if he'd really be able to sit there, feign ignorance and draw information out of a man who'd been doing that exact thing to others for centuries. He wasn't going to beat him at his own game . . . far more likely he'd let something slip out of anger that would get somebody killed.

He pushed his chair back and stood, turning towards the door.

"I'll find my own answers," he said.

* * *

The door slammed shut, loud enough to echo. Jonah supposed he was going to have to get used to outbursts like these.

"I expect that you will," he muttered to the closed door.

Blind spots. He didn't like blind spots. Sometimes they were unavoidable, but having one so near to him was profoundly irritating. It was like knowing he'd forgotten something important, but being unable to dredge up any details.

He could watch Jon as easily as anyone else. Though there were moments his gaze would unfocus, and he suspected Gertrude might have taught him a few of her tricks, overall it wasn't hard to keep an eye on him. But lately, that was all he could do. No matter how he tried, he couldn't Know anything deeper than what appeared on the surface. He might as well have been following the Archivist around with a camera crew rather than channeling the overwhelming power of an Eternal and Unblinking Gaze From Which No Secrets Can Be Kept, for all the good it was doing him.

It was as if the knowledge was all there, but had been shifted somehow. Nudged just outside his field of vision.

A part of him was tempted to start over with another Archivist, one he could See more clearly. But the Web mark was hard to find, and he couldn't even be sure this anomaly was unique to Jon – that it would go away with his death instead of attaching itself to his successor. Despite its frustrating obscurity, something about it that felt like an aspect of the Beholding, though he couldn't say why.

So he'd tolerate the blind spot for now. At least Jon was easy enough to read without the Eye's assistance – the man wore his heart on his sleeve, was helpless in that way. Jonah liked that about him.

What he needed was encouragement. Something to get him out of his comfort zone – four marks was progress, but not fast enough, not with the Unknowing looming closer every day. Jonah wrote a quick note on a post-it and stuck it to the folder in front of him, then pressed a button on his intercom.

"Rosie?" he said, "I need you to run something down to the archive for me. Just drop it on Tim's desk, he'll know what it's for."

#tma fanfic #tma time travel au #sdayl

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dangerouscommiesubversive · 3 years

Note

22 with Heart/Brain/Medic.

Anon, this makes you the second person to get a story at least partially inspired by something from one of my photobooks. It’s a full-page picture, so it’s a bit big to drop into this post, but I'll post it separately.

22. “Should we try something else?”

Medic sits in the corner like a doll discarded by a thoughtless child, legs stretched straight out in front of her, eyes staring blankly forward. To human eyes it would be unnerving, confusing, even frightening, looking at a woman who seems so vacant, but Brain knows full well that she’s just thinking. Sometimes it’s easier to think if one doesn’t focus on maintaining a facial expression, and it’s not as if they need to blink their eyes or stretch their muscles, artificial as those eyes and muscles are. (In fact, he generally prefers not to blink himself.) She’s just thinking. But he doesn’t know what she’s thinking about.

Machine language has no adjectives, at least not in the way Brain likes. Human language has so many adjectives, infinitely varying ways with which he might describe a thing, and yet he is at a loss to find three, or even one, one solitary word, with which he might describe how he feels about Medic now.

He knows how he felt about her before. That resentment will always have a place in what, for lack of a better word, he thinks of as his soul. But he doesn’t know how he feels about her now, which is likely in part because she doesn’t know how she feels about herself. Who is she, after all, without the slivers of so many other Roidmude souls clamoring in her thoughts?

They live together now. Heart doesn’t live with them. Brain would be jealous of Tomari Shinnosuke and Tomari Kiriko and their infant son for taking up so much of Heart’s time, but he finds that he doesn’t have the energy for it. And perhaps it’s good that they can have some distance from him, perhaps that’s what they need to become...friends. Or whatever human word there might be to describe two people who are both in love with the same third party.

Medic jolts slightly and looks up, and expression returns to her face, and she says, “Were you sitting there the entire time I was thinking?”

“Ah--no. No, I was not. Only for the last half hour.” He pauses. He’s not sure how one goes about having friends. “What...were you thinking about?”

“A few things. You’ve been sitting there for half an hour just watching me think?” She does blink now that she’s emerged from her deep thoughts, eyelashes fluttering in a way that Brain supposes Heart must find charming and alluring and beautiful. “Did you want to kiss me?”

“I--” He also blinks, from surprise. “I would prefer not to.”

For a second she looks hurt, and then thoughtful, and then she nods. “Good. I don’t want to kiss you either.”

“What brought the question on?”

“Well, I was thinking about Heart, and you, and me, and what we’re supposed to be now. I’m used to hating you, you know.”

“I’m, ah, the same. That is, I’m used to hating you.”

“Exactly. But that seems boring now, if we’re going to go having a second chance at whatever this is without having to also worry about taking over the world. Should we try something else?”

“Else from what?”

“From hating each other.”

“That seems sensible, reasonable, and...and agreeable to me.” There’s some gesture associated with this sort of conversation, and Brain racks his storage unit for a moment before it strikes him and he holds out a hand to Medic, who grasps it firmly and pulls herself up from the floor even as they’re nodding to each other. “Do you have any suggestions for what we should do instead?”

She smiles at him. He doesn’t love her, and he doubts he’s ever going to, but for the first time he understands why Heart might. “Friends might be going too fast, don’t you think? I think we should try being co-conspirators.”

He nods slowly. “In which conspiracy?”

Heart hasn’t been back to this coffee shop since his original return to Japan, and he’s not sure that it’s a welcome memory. Certainly it was good to see Brain then, to join up with his closest friend again after so much time apart, but he can’t help thinking of it as the moment when everything began to go downhill. So many friends dead. So much effort wasted.

Through the window, he can see Brain, sitting at the table where they’d sat together the first time, which makes sense. Brain likes routine. There are other people moving around the shop this time, though. And, unexpectedly, someone else sitting with Brain--Medic sitting with Brain, which is even more unexpected, since they don’t exactly go out of their way to spend time together.

He pauses in front of the shop window to admire them together. He’s trying to be more conscious of the particular charms of humanity, but Roidmudes still look better to him, and these two in particular. Medic pauses in the middle of a gesture, cup of tea in the air, and for a moment she’s a statue, profoundly still but for her mouth moving, Brain focusing on her unblinking as he listens to whatever it is she’s saying.

Inside, the coffee shop isn’t precisely loud, but there’s a continuous low level of noise consistent with a popular location during the lunch hour. Medic and Brain don’t notice his approach at first, and he pauses again to listen as Brain says, “...perhaps the worst collaborator I’ve ever worked with. Stubborn, self-centered, and unfocused.”

Heart heaves an internal sigh of relief when he hears the third adjective, as he always does now, and says, “I hope you’re not talking about me.”

Medic looks up at him and beams. “No, of course not, Brain was telling me about a gentleman he worked with briefly in America. Won’t you sit?”

He does, sliding in comfortably next to Brain. “You two seem to be getting along well.”

“We’ve worked out some differences, yes.” Brain takes a sip of his coffee, his unblinking gaze transferring to Heart as he turns in his seat.

“We’ve had some good conversations.” Medic reaches across the table to pat Brain’s forearm. “We’re very nearly friends now.”

It warms Heart to even think of, and he smiles even as he says, cheerfully, "That's wonderful. Or should I be worried?"

At which Brain and Medic glance at each other, and Brain says, "Possibly," and Medic says, "Yes."

#heart roidmude #brain roidmude #medic roidmude #fanfiction #anonamouse

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rotzaprachim · 3 years

Text

be gentle with the people who were not made from The Fall

- Gen, Declan Lynch & Mór Ó Corra

2k ao3 here

She passed Declan a blank manilla envelope. He ran his fingers gingerly over the edges, life having long ago built up a healthy suspicion of anything from the channels of the Fairy Market. He couldn’t feel anything, but he’d also never had the touch for it. At some point he’d always ended up having to hold his breath and jump in in order to get the rough work done.

He slit it open with the knife in his pocket.

There were answers he’d had before he even knew what the questions were. Firstborn, Niall told Declan. My All-American son, Niall told Declan. When you were born the rivers dried up and all the cows in Rockingham County cried blood, Niall told Ronan. When you were born, I wasn’t here, Niall told Declan.

The silence swallowed his voice for a long time.

“Ó Corra?”

She gave him a look that said, you can’t pronounce your own name. Finally she said, “You have my name. It’s what they did when the father couldn’t be found.”

He studied the certificate in the small crescents of yellow light that bounced in through the tinted windows of her sports car from the streetlight outside. The Births and Deaths Registation (Northern Ireland) Order 1976, Article 34. Registered in the District of Belfast. 24 July 1997. Declan James Ó Corra.

There was a box that asked for Name and Surname and Dwelling Place of Father (6). It was blank. There was another box that asked for Rank or Profession of Father. On that one, someone had gona back with a red pen at some later point, scrawled angrily, messily, bleeding jaggedly out from the neat black boxes, GONE.

It made sense, in a strange sort of way that Declan’s brain dimly seemed to recognise in the same way that the drowning man thinks the sun streaming through the surface looks quite nice even when he’s being pulled under. Niall Lynch’s sons. The dreamer son of a dream and the dream of the dreamer the son of a dream. And here now was the odd one out, the liar the son of a lie.

“I was two years younger than you.” The woman finally said. He couldn’t think of her as anything other than the vague idea digging at the back of his eye turned hard, angry secret when he started to shift through his father’s boxes of crap after death. He’d left a fuckton of a lot of loose threads, although Declan hadn’t thought he’d be one of them. Letters and phone bills from a far-away woman, even a photo or two, all the vitriol and anger he’d carried around bubbling up again acridly through a mirror. Collected in an old file box next to IOU’s and pay me bastard or i’ll fuck you ups in seven different languages, three of which Niall didn’t know how to read. Collected, and never returned. Even some photos of him as a kiddo in a tiny knit sweater.

“No explanations.” Declan finally said. His voice sounded like when he’d had the lights punched out of him by one of the goons his dad owed rubles, or rupees, or riyals, in the parking lot of a Fairy Market. It could have been all three. “You don’t have to give me one.” I don’t know if I want one, he didn’t say.

“I’m a very dangerous woman to find, Declan. You wouldn’t have found me if you hadn’t been looking.”

He didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted safety, although he’d ruled out that as a possibility years ago. He wanted the ones the world had left him to care for to be safe, and he’d jeapordised all that on a wild goose chase to find the woman in one of his father’s fucking dream objects on a hunch of a hunch. He’d done exactly what he’d warned Ronan not to do, relied on himself to be smarter, sharper, more careful. All attributes hard won on his own, like learning from imitation from a mirror. You see what this who looks like you does? Now do the opposite.

He sighed. The air bristled, and he realised he sounded a lot like Mór Ó Corra.

“Maybe I-”

Maybe he hadn’t been angry, almost, to find out. Maybe he’d almost been relieved. A voice to his darkest thoughts saying, you did not dream this up. The part of himself that’d been forced through seven years of Catholic school and then forced himself through a few months of therapy where he couldn’t tell the therapist about any of the things that had most profoundly fucked him up said a good man should have loved any child, regardless. He was about fifteen years past thinking Niall to be a good man.

“Maybe I spent so many years dealing with all the fucking dreaming, the dreamers and the dreams and every fucking thing that’s come to kill us because Dad couldn’t fix any of his own shit and the fact that none, none of it was ever part of me that I thought I wanted some kind of fucking explanation for it all. I wanted some- some explanation for it all. Why I was different. WHy dad- … WHy dad. I wanted some part of a past that was mine.” Selfish, maybe. Learned. If you spent a lifetime you were different from other people, eventually you came to a wanting a reason for them to be different from you.

“And you think I’m going to be the dear old Mam who darns your socks and calls to remind you to bring a good girl home to the family?”

“No. I didn’t ask for that. You know what I asked for.”

The second Manilla envelope she gave him was far thicker. This time, he could feel the slightest trace of- something. Not a buzzing, not a mist, a- something. He slid it into his briefcase. No expectations. Nothing more. A deal that was a deal, only a birth certificate instead of a handshake.

“I was two years younger than you. Sometimes life doesn’t hand you many choices. I’d say you didn’t understand, and you don’t, but I’ll also say you’ve been a hell of a lot more of a father than Niall ever was. All the more so since the world’s made you be one.”

Niall was drunk off some kind of spiked slivovitz when he’d come round to it the first time. Retrospectively, he was probably scared shitless, and rightly so. “Anything happens,” he’d slurred into the hotel couch. “You’re the man of the house. Take ‘em to church. Make ‘em proper. Make ‘em fear God. There’s money in the bank, anything happens.” And Declan had almost said, you know it’s my number Matthew’s school’s had down on the books for a year now? You know the priest there already thinks we’re orphans?

“You’ve got a number and an adress. You’re a smart boy. You know if you use it my women’ll kill you just as likely as the dreamkillers.”

“Everything has a price. At least you’re up front on it.”

“I’m not a good woman, Declan. Don’t make your father’s mistake. Don’t dream me into being one.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

---

He didn’t open the package until he’d driven two hours, switched lisence plates and then cars, moved a state line, and walked two miles out to a sublet Jordan knew from a friend of a friend of an enemy in the art underground, where two dreams were now. It came with two dozen forged Miró’s in the living room, all done with a variety of blue paint with a distinctly incriminating synthetic binding agent manufactured solely post 1986, and even in the palest strands of morning light it made the living room into a riot of psychedelic stick-figure Catalan sunshine. He opened the door carefully, walked gingerly past the still-sleeping Matthew, TV still flickering from where he’d probably been watching it far later than Declan would have let him. Flicked the kitchen light on and made himself a cup of instant coffee, and more than anything else resisted the urge to upstairs and collapse next to Jordan in the bed that was for the moment theirs and sleep till noon. But if there was a lesson he’d learned by know it was that he couldn’t do any of the things he wanted to in life. So he downed the shitty instant coffee and he opened Mór Ó Corra’s folder and he got to work. You do what you gotta do for your family, Niall had told him. A deal had gone south and they’d made it out with their lives and stacks of money shoved in their pockets. One day you’ll have yourself a wife and some kids and then you’ll know. And he’d swallowed what he now knew was his rage.

“Ready to make a deal with the devil?” The voice on the other end of the number had said when he’d dialed it, and he said, only the devil can help me now, and he’d been right. No one with their head above the water could know the things he wanted to know about the Moderators. I have two dreamers and two dreams to keep out of the reach of a shadowy intergovernmental agency who’s whole M.O is about killing every dreamer they can find to stop the end of the world. Only a shadow knows its kind. And for her part, Mór Ó Corra had been thorough. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust her and he didn’t even know if he trusted the birth certificate. When you were the lying son of a lie, another one would be more natural than anything. He wouldn’t act on any of her information until he could put some feelers out, a few red herrings, get ahold of some of Nialls’ other bullshit to run cross checks. It was a start. At some he’d always ended up having to hold his breath and jump in in order to get the rough work done. At some point, he’d always just been shoved in.

He didnt’ realise he’d fallen asleep until he was woken up. By Matthew, prodding his neck with the tines of a fork.

“You said to wake you up if you slept past noon.” Jordan set down a massive plate of something exactly an inch from his eardrum with a loud clatter.

“It’s 12:02,” Matthew added generously.

He looked down. He hadn’t gotten through the pile. There was still more-

Jordan’s eyes flicked notably towards the floor tiles. Declan followed them. In his early morning haze he’d somehow missed a second, smaller envelope within the envelope. He slipped it into his jacket before Matthew could see. He slid all of the papers back into the envelope before Matthew could see more.

“Two whole extra minutes? Well, that’s where’s where the rest of my day went.”

“You looked like you needed it. Like, you definitely looked like you needed it.” She handed him the day’s second mug of instant coffee and it hit him again that he loved her a not, which would have felt all new and electric even in circumstances that were not the current ones and when and if this was all over with hopefully no more deaths she deserved a really really nice vacation to somewhere sunny. Which he would not promise until he knew he could actually pull it off, because Declan Lynch was a liar but he was not a man who broke promises.

He didn’t open up the other envelope until he was in the bathroom with the door firmly locked. Magical all female mafias ran on the power of the sticky stuff at the top of a Manilla envelope, apparently. Only a few sheets inside. A surprisingly blurry print-out map with a building circled, a clipping from the Belfast Telegraph about the NHS’s most recent warnings on the loneliness epidemic among young adults and seniors, and new local projects for seniors to form new connections through knitting circles, classes in French and Irish, and mentorship opportunities with Sixth-Form students. “Former school teacher Anne Ó Corra recounts feelings of isolation after the untimely death of her only daughter in 1999. She says that mentorship opportunities with Saint Mary’s Compre-” Declan scanned the article. On the back the same hand that had scrawled, GONE, wrote, THink the old bat’d be happy to see you.

#my writings #call down the hawk #declan lynch #Mór Ó Corra #the dreamer trilogy #the raven cycle #the raven cycle fic #i don't remember a lot of hte details of TRC so if there's issues- please let me know! with canon or whatnot #also some of these details are based on a real birth certificate i found to copy the details off from belfast but it was from the 70's

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 3 years

Text

Religious Trauma Syndrome: How Some Organized Religion Leads to Mental Health Problems

By Valerie Tarico

Marlene Winell interviewed March 25, 2013

At age sixteen I began what would be a four year struggle with bulimia. When the symptoms started, I turned in desperation to adults who knew more than I did about how to stop shameful behavior—my Bible study leader and a visiting youth minister. “If you ask anything in faith, believing,” they said. “It will be done.” I knew they were quoting [3] the Word of God. We prayed together, and I went home confident that God had heard my prayers. But my horrible compulsions didn’t go away. By the fall of my sophomore year in college, I was desperate and depressed enough that I made a suicide attempt. The problem wasn’t just the bulimia. I was convinced by then that I was a complete spiritual failure. My college counseling department had offered to get me real help (which they later did). But to my mind, at that point, such help couldn’t fix the core problem: I was a failure in the eyes of God. It would be years before I understood that my inability to heal bulimia through the mechanisms offered by biblical Christianity was not a function of my own spiritual deficiency but deficiencies in Evangelical religion itself.

Dr. Marlene Winell is a human development consultant in the San Francisco Area. She is also the daughter of Pentecostal missionaries. This combination has given her work an unusual focus. For the past twenty years she has counseled men and women in recovery from various forms of fundamentalist religion including the Assemblies of God denomination in which she was raised. Winell is the author of Leaving the Fold – A Guide for Former Fundamentalists and Others Leaving their Religion [4], written during her years of private practice in psychology. Over the years, Winell has provided assistance to clients whose religious experiences were even more damaging than mine. Some of them are people whose psychological symptoms weren’t just exacerbated by their religion, but actually caused by it.

Two years ago, Winell made waves by formally labeling what she calls “Religious Trauma Syndrome” (RTS) and beginning to write and speak on the subject for professional audiences. When the British Association of Behavioral and Cognitive Psychologists published a series of articles on the topic, members of a Christian counseling association protested what they called excessive attention to a “relatively niche topic.” One commenter said, “A religion, faith or book cannot be abuse but the people interpreting can make anything abusive.”

Is toxic religion simply misinterpretation? What is religious trauma? Why does Winell believe religious trauma merits its own diagnostic label?

Let’s start this interview with the basics. What exactly is religious trauma syndrome?

Winell: Religious trauma syndrome (RTS) is a set of symptoms and characteristics that tend to go together and which are related to harmful experiences with religion. They are the result of two things: immersion in a controlling religion and the secondary impact of leaving a religious group. The RTS label provides a name and description that affected people often recognize immediately. Many other people are surprised by the idea of RTS, because in our culture it is generally assumed that religion is benign or good for you. Just like telling kids about Santa Claus and letting them work out their beliefs later, people see no harm in teaching religion to children.

But in reality, religious teachings and practices sometimes cause serious mental health damage. The public is somewhat familiar with sexual and physical abuse in a religious context. As Journalist Janet Heimlich has documented in, Breaking Their Will, Bible-based religious groups that emphasize patriarchal authority in family structure and use harsh parenting methods can be destructive.

But the problem isn’t just physical and sexual abuse. Emotional and mental treatment in authoritarian religious groups also can be damaging because of 1) toxic teachings like eternal damnation or original sin 2) religious practices or mindset, such as punishment, black and white thinking, or sexual guilt, and 3) neglect that prevents a person from having the information or opportunities to develop normally.

Can you give me an example of RTS from your consulting practice?

Winell: I can give you many. One of the symptom clusters is around fear and anxiety. People indoctrinated into fundamentalist Christianity as small children sometimes have memories of being terrified by images of hell and apocalypse before their brains could begin to make sense of such ideas. Some survivors, who I prefer to call “reclaimers,” [8] have flashbacks, panic attacks, or nightmares in adulthood even when they intellectually no longer believe the theology. One client of mine, who during the day functioned well as a professional, struggled with intense fear many nights. She said,

“I was afraid I was going to hell. I was afraid I was doing something really wrong. I was completely out of control. I sometimes would wake up in the night and start screaming, thrashing my arms, trying to rid myself of what I was feeling. I’d walk around the house trying to think and calm myself down, in the middle of the night, trying to do some self-talk, but I felt like it was just something that – the fear and anxiety was taking over my life.” Or consider this comment, which refers to a film [9] used by evangelicals to warn about the horrors of the “end times” for nonbelievers.

“I was taken to see the film “A Thief In The Night”. WOW. I am in shock to learn that many other people suffered the same traumas I lived with because of this film. A few days or weeks after the film viewing, I came into the house and mom wasn’t there. I stood there screaming in terror. When I stopped screaming, I began making my plan: Who my Christian neighbors were, who’s house to break into to get money and food. I was 12 years old and was preparing for Armageddon alone.”

In addition to anxiety, RTS can include depression, cognitive difficulties, and problems with social functioning. In fundamentalist Christianity, the individual is considered depraved and in need of salvation. A core message is “You are bad and wrong and deserve to die.” (The wages of sin is death [10].) This gets taught to millions of children through organizations like Child Evangelism Fellowship [11] and there is a group organized [12] to oppose their incursion into public schools. I’ve had clients who remember being distraught when given a vivid bloody image of Jesus paying the ultimate price for their sins. Decades later they sit telling me that they can’t manage to find any self-worth.

“After twenty-seven years of trying to live a perfect life, I failed. . . I was ashamed of myself all day long. My mind battling with itself with no relief. . . I always believed everything that I was taught but I thought that I was not approved by God. I thought that basically I, too, would die at Armageddon.

“I’ve spent literally years injuring myself, cutting and burning my arms, taking overdoses and starving myself, to punish myself so that God doesn’t have to punish me. It’s taken me years to feel deserving of anything good.”

Born-again Christianity and devout Catholicism [13] tell people they are weak and dependent, calling on phrases like “lean not unto your own understanding [14]” or “trust and obey [11].” People who internalize these messages can suffer from learned helplessness. I’ll give you an example from a client who had little decision-making ability after living his entire life devoted to following the “will of God.” The words here don’t convey the depth of his despair.

“I have an awful time making decisions in general. Like I can’t, you know, wake up in the morning, “What am I going to do today?” Like I don’t even know where to start. You know all the things I thought I might be doing are gone and I’m not sure I should even try to have a career; essentially I babysit my four-year-old all day.”

Authoritarian religious groups are subcultures where conformity is required in order to belong. Thus if you dare to leave the religion, you risk losing your entire support system as well.

“I lost all my friends. I lost my close ties to family. Now I’m losing my country. I’ve lost so much because of this malignant religion and I am angry and sad to my very core. . . I have tried hard to make new friends, but I have failed miserably. . . I am very lonely.”

Leaving a religion, after total immersion, can cause a complete upheaval of a person’s construction of reality, including the self, other people, life, and the future. People unfamiliar with this situation, including therapists, have trouble appreciating the sheer terror it can create.

“My form of religion was very strongly entrenched and anchored deeply in my heart. It is hard to describe how fully my religion informed, infused, and influenced my entire worldview. My first steps out of fundamentalism were profoundly frightening and I had frequent thoughts of suicide. Now I’m way past that but I still haven’t quite found “my place in the universe.”

Even for a person who was not so entrenched, leaving one’s religion can be a stressful and significant transition.

Many people seem to walk away from their religion easily, without really looking back. What is different about the clientele you work with?

Winell: Religious groups that are highly controlling, teach fear about the world, and keep members sheltered and ill-equipped to function in society are harder to leave easily. The difficulty seems to be greater if the person was born and raised in the religion rather than joining as an adult convert. This is because they have no frame of reference – no other “self” or way of “being in the world.” A common personality type is a person who is deeply emotional and thoughtful and who tends to throw themselves wholeheartedly into their endeavors. “True believers” who then lose their faith feel more anger and depression and grief than those who simply went to church on Sunday.

Aren’t these just people who would be depressed, anxious, or obsessive anyways?

Winell: Not at all. If my observation is correct, these are people who are intense and involved and caring. They hang on to the religion longer than those who simply “walk away” because they try to make it work even when they have doubts. Sometimes this is out of fear, but often it is out of devotion. These are people for whom ethics, integrity and compassion matter a great deal. I find that when they get better and rebuild their lives, they are wonderfully creative and energetic about new things.

In your mind, how is RTS different from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?

Winell: RTS is a specific set of symptoms and characteristics that are connected with harmful religious experience, not just any trauma. This is crucial to understanding the condition and any kind of self-help or treatment. (More details about this can be found on my Journey Free [15] website and discussed in my talk [16] at the Texas Freethought Convention.)

Another difference is the social context, which is extremely different from other traumas or forms of abuse. When someone is recovering from domestic abuse, for example, other people understand and support the need to leave and recover. They don’t question it as a matter of interpretation, and they don’t send the person back for more. But this is exactly what happens to many former believers who seek counseling. If a provider doesn’t understand the source of the symptoms, he or she may send a client for pastoral counseling, or to AA, or even to another church. One reclaimer expressed her frustration this way:

“Include physically-abusive parents who quote “Spare the rod and spoil the child” as literally as you can imagine and you have one fucked-up soul: an unloved, rejected, traumatized toddler in the body of an adult. I’m simply a broken spirit in an empty shell. But wait...That’s not enough!? There’s also the expectation by everyone in society that we victims should celebrate this with our perpetrators every Christmas and Easter!!”

Just like disorders such as autism or bulimia, giving RTS a real name has important advantages. People who are suffering find that having a label for their experience helps them feel less alone and guilty. Some have written to me to express their relief:

“There’s actually a name for it! I was brainwashed from birth and wasted 25 years of my life serving Him! I’ve since been out of my religion for several years now, but I cannot shake the haunting fear of hell and feel absolutely doomed. I’m now socially inept, unemployable, and the only way I can have sex is to pay for it.”

Labeling RTS encourages professionals to study it more carefully, develop treatments, and offer training. Hopefully, we can even work on prevention.

What do you see as the difference between religion that causes trauma and religion that doesn’t?

Winell: Religion causes trauma when it is highly controlling and prevents people from thinking for themselves and trusting their own feelings. Groups that demand obedience and conformity produce fear, not love and growth. With constant judgment of self and others, people become alienated from themselves, each other, and the world. Religion in its worst forms causes separation.

Conversely, groups that connect people and promote self-knowledge and personal growth can be said to be healthy. The book, Healthy Religion [17], describes these traits. Such groups put high value on respecting differences, and members feel empowered as individuals. They provide social support, a place for events and rites of passage, exchange of ideas, inspiration, opportunities for service, and connection to social causes. They encourage spiritual practices that promote health like meditation or principles for living like the golden rule. More and more, non-theists are asking [18] how they can create similar spiritual communities without the supernaturalism. An atheist congregation [19] in London launched this year and has received over 200 inquiries from people wanting to replicate their model.

Some people say that terms like “recovery from religion” and “religious trauma syndrome” are just atheist attempts to pathologize religious belief.

Winell: Mental health professionals have enough to do without going out looking for new pathology. I never set out looking for a “niche topic,” and certainly not religious trauma syndrome. I originally wrote a paper for a conference of the American Psychological Association and thought that would be the end of it. Since then, I have tried to move on to other things several times, but this work has simply grown.

In my opinion, we are simply, as a culture, becoming aware of religious trauma. More and more people are leaving religion, as seen by polls [20] showing that the “religiously unaffiliated” have increased in the last five years from just over 15% to just under 20% of all U.S. adults. It’s no wonder the internet is exploding with websites for former believers from all religions, providing forums [21] for people to support each other. The huge population of people “leaving the fold” includes a subset at risk for RTS, and more people are talking about it and seeking help. For example, there are thousands of former Mormons [22], and I was asked to speak about RTS at an Exmormon Foundation conference. I facilitate an international support group online called Release and Reclaim [23] which has monthly conference calls. An organization called Recovery from Religion, [24] helps people start self-help meet-up groups

Saying that someone is trying to pathologize authoritarian religion is like saying someone pathologized eating disorders by naming them. Before that, they were healthy? No, before that we weren’t noticing. People were suffering, thought they were alone, and blamed themselves. Professionals had no awareness or training. This is the situation of RTS today. Authoritarian religion is already pathological, and leaving a high-control group can be traumatic. People are already suffering. They need to be recognized and helped. _______________________________

Statistics update:

Numbers of American ‘nones’ continues to rise

October 18, 2019

By David Crary – Associated Press

The portion of Americans with no religious affiliation is rising significantly, in tandem with a sharp drop in the percentage that identifies as Christians, according to new data from the Pew Research Center. …

Pew says all categories of the religiously unaffiliated population – often referred to as the “nones” grew in magnitude. Self-described atheists now account for 4% of U.S. adults, up from 2% in 2009; agnostics account for 5%, up from 3% a decade ago; and 17% of Americans now describe their religion as “nothing in particular,” up from 12% in 2009.

https://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2019/1018/Numbers-of-American-nones-continues-to-rise

_______________________________

Marlene Winell interviewed by Valerie Tarico on recovering from religious trauma Uploaded on January 31, 2011

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIfABmbqSMA

24:12

On Moral Politics, a TV program with host Dr. Valerie Tarico, Marlene Winell describes the trauma that can result from harmful experiences with religious indoctrination. Dr. Winell explains that mental health issues are widespread and need to be understood just as we understand PTSD. There are steps to recovery, treatment modalities, and resources available as well. She now refers to this as RTS or Religious Trauma Syndrome. _______________________________

Links:   [3] https://www.biblestudyonjesuschrist.com/pog/ask1.htm  [4] https://marlenewinell.net/leaving-fold-former  [8] https://journeyfree.org/article/reclaimers/  [9] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Thief_in_the_Night_%28film%29  [10] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+6%3A23&version=KJV  [11] https://valerietarico.com/2011/02/04/our-public-schools-their-mission-field/  [12] http://www.intrinsicdignity.com/  [13] https://www.maryjohnson.co/an-unquenchable-thirst/  [14] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Proverbs+3%3A5-6&version=KJV [15] https://journeyfree.org/category/uncategorized/ [16] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qrE4pMBlis  [17] https://www.amazon.com/Healthy-Religion-Psychological-Guide-Mature/dp/1425924166 [18] https://www.humanistchaplaincy.org/ [19] https://www.christianpost.com/news/london-atheist-church-model-looking-to-expand-worldwide-91516 [20] https://www.pewforum.org/2012/10/09/nones-on-the-rise/  [21] https://new.exchristian.net/  [22] https://www.exmormon.org/  [23] https://journeyfree.org/group-forum/ [24] https://www.recoveringfromreligion.org/

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Get God’s Self-Appointed Messengers Out of Your Head

Valerie Tarico Which buzz phrases from your past are stuck in your brain? “God’s messengers” were all real complicated people with biases, blind spots, favorite foods and morning breath. They were not gods and they are not you. So how can you get them out of your head or at least reduce them to muffled background noise?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElfyYA420F0

#religious trauma syndrome #Marlene Winell #Valerie Tarico

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in-the-whisper · 3 years

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I'm sorry if this is a common/stupid ask but I fundamentally don't understand religion and I couldn't imagine believing so strongly in anything, but it seems very nice(?) and possibly even optimistic to have a constant like that in your life. so in the sense I think I have an idea of what religion is, what makes you decide(?) to follow it or believe in it? genuine apologies if this comes across as patronizing or condescending, it's not my intention and sometimes I'm just bad with words ':]

dude you are always welcome here and i will never assume that you are being mean you are very sweet <3 i am very happy to talk to you!

ok so i come from a super different background so it’s hard for me to even imagine like not knowing a ton of people who are religious so i will try to explain and then if it doesn’t make sense feel free to poke me and i will try again. also it makes me happy so dont be scared i will say oh! someone asked me about God! yay! and then i will write a silly tumblr post while making this face -> c:

okay so one of your confusions seems to be why i would believe in something so strongly. in a way everyone believes things strongly, some even more than me (i mean look at politics and thanksgiving dinner). i think the reason that my relationship with God in particular is something i feel strongly about is because i derived my faith from my natural understanding of the value of my friends and from my understanding of morality.

i love my friends very much (most people do) and the idea of them getting hurt or mistreated makes me very angry (i think people would agree). and you could make the argument that the reason that i care so deeply about people and justice is because of all the stuff ive been through but i did think this before anything bad happened to me really.

there is a difference between atheist (philosophical) morality and Christian morality. for someone who doesn’t believe in God, there isn’t anybody who is more important than humanity who can tell them what to do. if one person does something, and i don’t like it, all i can say is, “i don’t like that,” and not “you shouldn’t do that.” because im not in charge of them. i’m just another person, who am i to go around establishing moral laws for other people?

but what that /also/ means is that there isn’t any “grounding” or like /reason/ for morality or the value of life other than personal preference. this Really bothered me about my philosophy class, every atheist philosopher did this. they all wanted to say that you could make morality for yourself (looking at you nietzsche). But then what happens? What about when someone is killed? or raped? I want to be able to say, “Rape is horrible.” and not just “Rape is horrible in my opinion.” Anything that doesn’t allow for these like absolute, unquestionable, overarching standards of how people /should/ or /shouldn’t/ live just doesn’t add up imo.

Atheist professor of law at Yale, Dr. Arthur Leff, wrote an article on this exact topic called “Unspeakable ethics Unnatural Law.” The entire thing is amazing and I recommend it, but here is the conclusion:

All I can say is this: it looks as if we are all we have. Given what we know about ourselves and each other, this is an extraordinarily unappetizing prospect; looking around the world, it appears that if all men are brothers, the ruling model is Cain and Abel. Neither reason, nor love, nor even terror, seems to have worked to make us "good," and worse than that, there is no reason why anything should. Only if ethics were something unspeakable by us, could law be unnatural, and therefore unchallengeable. As things now stand, everything is up for grabs.

Nevertheless: Napalming babies is bad. Starving the poor is wicked. Buying and selling each other is depraved. Those who stood up to and died resisting Hitler, Stalin, Amin, and Pol Pot-and General Custer too-have earned salvation. Those who acquiesced deserve to be damned. There is in the world such a thing as evil. [All together now:] Sez who? God help us.

So if I think this is true, if I really believe that death is evil, that rape is horrible, that there are some universally binding and unchallengeable truths about how people ought to live, I have to believe in a God. or i can live in a state of constant existential dread hahahahaha, , I joke but I actually did do that for a while it was pretty miserable.

i think the next question was kind of what made me believe in it? and that is kind of a difficult question because i think in a way Christianity just encapsulates a bunch of things that i already believed, and i just found like a label for them i guess. i also grew up Christian, so for me my experience questioning my religious identity was more like, three people you love are dead why do you still believe in a loving God? Rather than which religion or philosophy do i like the best?

idk maybe they come out to be the same but it doesnt feel entirely the same. i’m still a christian because of sunsets and sunrises and because the world feels beautiful and intentional, and because i’ve been in a lot of pain and it was real. it really happened. it wasn’t in my head (looking at you stoicism). it wasn’t unimportant. there is not if buts ands ors it was just awful and that’s that. so what can explain it? what can explain meaning? only God can.

Christianity is specifically the religion im interested in because it’s the only one i’ve come across that is as internally consistent, historically accurate, scientifically accurate, coherent understandings of the universe.

No other philosophy allows you to grieve. That’s why I believe in God. No other philosophy validates grief that a belief in a loving God, a belief that death isn’t meant to happen, that people are violently ripped from you without purpose and that you are meant to live together forever. It allows for a belief in the value of humanity and grace while also allowing you to believe that things that happen to you that might last with you forever are wrong and not just in your opinion. They were violently wrong, they violated ancient laws of the universe, they were an act of aggression toward God himself.

Ok im rambling now but I will leave you with this, which is what i wrote after finally deciding to remain a christian:

“There are several questions I asked that stopped me from rejecting Christianity.

Where did the universe come from and why does it exist?

Why does our experience involve morality?

Why is there love? (deep love between brothers, self sacrificial love, to die for another love)

Why is there goodness?

There are, of course, answers to these questions under ideologies other than Christianity, but I found their answers to be unsatisfying because to me, the existence of these things screams that there is something more to the universe than an unfortunate accident in a vacuum of uncaring nothingness.

When I listened to music encouraging its audience to live, when I listened to people fight for the lives of those they love, when i watched the sun set, or cried at the end of a deeply touching movie, I would think, “In light of this how can you say there is no God?”

In Christianity I found answers that profoundly satisfied my deepest questions.

There is a universe because God in his wisdom fashioned it to be a beautiful gift. There is morality because we stand in the midst of a cosmic battle between good and evil. There is love because God’s nature is perfectly loving and the fabric of the knowable universe was woven in his loving kindness. There is beauty and goodness because life wasn’t created to be a void and an unknowable miserable darkness.

The true issue with atheism is that while intellectually and technically feasible, it gives empty answers to facets of life that do not have empty realities.

It forced me to ask myself this question: How can such a beautiful, meaningful, tragic world exist from nothing and for nothing?”

#rape tw #rape #griefjourney #grief tw #long post #i specify philosophical morality because atheists by and large dont actually think like this but at an academic level this is how the logic #ends up working out

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reelperspective · 3 years

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I’m generally not the type to mourn celebrity deaths. It’s usually beyond me to truly mourn the passing of someone who is so completely removed from my life. I tend to reserve grief for personal losses. I would say that is still true - I don’t know if you could call what I’m feeling grief, but it’s definitely something akin to it.

When I heard that Naya Rivera had passed away in a drowning accident, I thought “my god that sucks. That glee cast is cursed or something.” Then I moved on with my life, as one does. I felt it in the moment because Santana was my favorite character (well her and Brittany), but I didn’t dwell on it. I hadn’t seen the show in years, so I felt removed from it.

Months later, I go down a YouTube recommended video rabbit hole and end up watching the Glee version of Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide. I’d always loved that cover of the song. From the moment I first heard it, I thought it was beautifully arranged and flawlessly executed, but I digress. The point is, after watching it, I started watching other Glee videos (again, recommended videos). At a certain point I thought, “fuck it, I haven’t seen this show in years. Maybe it’s time for a re-watch.” So, I started to binge watch it. It is just as hilarious and awesome as the first time. And again, just as the first time, Santana proved to be my favorite character.

I think that Santana was the most emotionally complex character on that show. I think she had a great arc as a character that started off not being very sympathetic at all, to becoming a character that people could really relate to and root for. She had a fascinating duality to her as the bully who sometimes had a heart. Her love for Brittany added a significant layer to her character - displaying a side of her that had previously been unseen. A side reserved only for Brittany- the exception to her rule. Which is remarkable because, being that she was an idiot, Brittany should have been an easy target for Santana’s ridicule. Later, Santana reveals in a rant against Rory the Irishman, that she believes Brittany to be beautiful, innocent, and “everything good in this miserable, stinking world.” This revelation spoke to the heart of the character because it showed that despite her blatantly “Evil” characteristics, what Santana truly values most is goodness and purity of spirit. Brittany was the only person Santana never insulted. You could say that this is because she loved Brittany. That’s a factor, for sure, but I think the main reason is that even she couldn’t tear down someone so innocent. This, and other instances of vulnerability, developed Santana into a more three dimensional character - someone real, rather than just the caricature of a mean girl.

Yes, it’s true that the writers can be credited for this nuance in her character, but I believe it can be argued that Naya highlighted these nuances flawlessly. She did a beautiful job of portraying Santana’s *reluctant* displays of humanity. Not to mention how fucking talented she was when it came to the singing and the dancing. Vocally she’s top three along with Amber Riley and Lea Michele - and she’s a better dancer than either of them.

I noticed all of these things during this recent re-watch of mine. I’d always enjoyed Santana’s viscious barbs and her scathing wit, but this time I gained a deeper appreciation of the character as well.

Why am I talking about the character when this post started off being about grief? Well, watching the show again really drove home what a goddamn tragedy it is for the world to lose someone so talented and hilarious. This feeling drove me to look into Naya as a person. I listened to her audio book, and I read what people have said about her, and the general consensus is that she was an all-around amazing individual. She was Kind but sassy, tough yet compassionate, funny and intelligent. I then watched some of her interviews, and her personality was positively magnetic. She always lead with a blunt honesty that she delivered with this matter-of-fact attitude and wry wit. She owned up to things that most people in her position would hide. Despite the bluntness, she never seemed tacky or crass. Then to add to these revelations is the observation that she so clearly loved her little son with a tremendous passion. I’m sure all celebrities love their children more than life itself, but most don’t speak out about it specifically or so frequently. Naya, on many occasions, spoke of her passion for motherhood, and how much it meant to her to be Josey’s mom. With all of the things she has accomplished, she credited her son as her greatest success. Topics that get repeated across many conversations tend to be subjects that the speaker is fairly obsessed with. It is clear that her son was her whole world. He was not only her responsibility and her greatest love, but also her greatest source of joy. I’m not surprised that she somehow found a way to save him even though she couldn’t save herself.

Which leads to the final straw on the camel’s back - the manner in which she died. As was mentioned previously, she saved her son - which kicks you right in the feels. He had to witness some of her final moments - kick #2. Then there’s the tragedy of the circumstances of the death itself. Drowning is a horrific way to die. She must have been so terrified in her final moments. To add to this is the fact that had any of a number of events transpired differently, she’d still be with us today. Had she not gone to the lake that day. Had she gone with at least one other adult. Had she not jumped out of the boat. Had she worn a life vest. Had the boat had an anchor and a ladder attached to It’s side.

Then I’m confused about how this all went down. Apparently, she was sucked under the water by a current - I guess the equivalent of an undertow - but I thought undertows only happened in the ocean! Considering that this is a lake - a man made one at that- and not a river or an ocean, where the fuck did this incredibly strong underwater current come from? A lake is pretty much stagnant water, is it not? I looked at a map of it, and from what I can tell, there are no rivers feeding into this lake. So, I’m confused and this death is not only tragic, but senseless.

It’s just so fucking sad - every which way you look at it. I feel it in my very soul, and as I said before, I never feel celebrity deaths like this. I can’t stop thinking about her poor child having to grow up without his mommy. I lost someone as a child, and it left an enormous hole in my heart. I remember feeling so profoundly and absolutely destroyed. There are no words to describe the depths of my despair, and I can’t help but think that Josey is feeling that now. Though I was older than he is - I don’t know how much his young mind can make sense of or process the reality of his mother’s death. I know for sure that he is feeling it - he will miss her forever. Ryan Dorsey, his father, released a statement in which he said that he had to explain to his son that his mother was in heaven, and Josey asked him how he could go there too so that he could be with her. That just breaks my heart - I know exactly how he feels. I can’t stop thinking about Naya’s mother and how she collapsed on the dock at Lake Piru and threw her hands out in a display of pure, all-consuming grief. As I’ve said, I’ve felt grief like that before. I’ve collapsed to my knees under the weight of it. So, I feel for her family and her friends. I saw an interview in which the actress who played Santana’s abuela says that Heather Morris was so distraught, she wanted to jump into the lake to search for Naya herself.

I also feel a keen sense of loss for all of the wonderful things she will never do, all of the hilarious things she had yet to say, and all of the characters she might have been destined to bring to life with a singular authenticity. Lastly, and least importantly, I feel this keenly because she and I are the same age. The reality of such a thing just slaps one in the face.

That being said, I keep having these moments of cognitive dissonance as I’m watching the show. I feel her loss so much, yet it seems like she’s not dead. She can’t be! Look at her. Look at how full of life she is. She’s so young. That can’t be the reality - but alas, it is. I keep remembering that it is, and the cycle of emotion starts up all over again.

I know that part of the reason for my deep feelings about this tragedy has to do with my own experience with loss. I’ve lost so many people in my lifetime - some of which, I’ve loved more than life itself. At least one of which, I had wanted to follow into the grave because I could not fathom my life without her in it - it just hurt too much.

So I lay this all out here on tumblr. It is very likely that no one will ever read it, and that’s okay. I just needed to express it anyway as it has been building up inside of me.

#naya rivera #naya rivera son #naya rivera death #gleek #glee #heather morris

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will-gayham · 4 years

Text

Is Will Graham Self Aware?

If we don’t recognize Will’s self awareness over his Becoming and his love for Hannibal, we’re suggesting that Will is borderline delusional, incapable of setting boundaries, and unendingly indecisive but passive along the course he’s given. Perhaps love is blinding, but I’m going to talk about some times where he likely just worked in his own self interest instead.

There are two other posts that I think explain Will’s motivations well that I drew from, this one about how he doesn’t believe in free will, and this one that shows the reciprocity between Hannibal and Will. Therefore, he might be terrified of the thought of siding with Hannibal but give in to the inevitability anyway, and he might love Hannibal but need to reciprocate the violence that has been done unto him to be equal first.

season 2:

Despite his fantasies, Will does not kill Hannibal out of righteous violence when he has the opportunity out of the hospital. He was fine to kill Randall and (attempt) Ingram in similarly unplanned, sketchy circumstances (i.e. Ingram didn’t get convicted but Will still tried to pull the trigger, and he was going to be charged on Randall’s death in the end, risking his loss of freedom again). Either he’s somehow convinced himself that he’s still an effective upholder of the law, or he doesn’t actually want Hannibal dead or perhaps wants Hannibal specifically to be incarcerated for reasons of reciprocity rather than justice ones.

When in private with Hannibal, he is extremely candid about his murderous proclivities in what seems like excessive therapy appointments and dinners and work shifts together. A… suspiciously dedicated acting performance if it is a manipulation, but we see in his alone time that it is very much affecting him. This is the same man who refused to kill the person that stabbed him and chose a life of teaching because he was worried about Becoming. Either he’s sitting there essentially like ‘hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me!’ when it is clearly too late or he’s exploring his own darkness in full seriousness.

As for who he was siding with, Will spent months in jail trying to convince everyone that Hannibal is Hannibal and by “Yakimono”, Jack seems to believe him. Alana’s reaction at the world's most awkward dinner party™ is enough to show how suspicious it is that Will would forgive and believe Hannibal after everything. My personal favourite interpretation of the Freddie Lounds attack scene is that it’s completely Will’s imagination, what he wanted to do to her when in reality she was probably just brought to Jack’s desk and told the plan (why traumatize her for no reason? She would have written all about it!). There is all the possibility that he would have killed Jack in the end and gone with Hannibal (“Didn’t I?”). Either Will just plagued with indecision for the entire time or he was going along with the plan that would keep him out of suspicion and able to work with Hannibal behind the scenes.

season 3:

Will runs after Hannibal to Europe, angsting over his regret and longing for his “perfect world” alternative. He tells Jack that he wanted to run away with Hannibal, he tells Pazzi he doesn’t know who’s side he’s on and doesn’t deny what Alana is suggesting about seeing past Hannibal’s worst. These are all people that hate Hannibal, and Will isn’t gaining anything, especially not trust, by admitting his affection for Hannibal. He is also uncooperative with the police and goes off on his own to find Hannibal, therefore ruling out the idea of capturing Hannibal (at least right now). His options seem to be either to kill Hannibal or to run away with him, knowing he can’t get over him otherwise. He seems to attempt the killing option (unless he had only meant to scar Hannibal back?) perhaps because of his need to reciprocate. Either he’s half-heartedly trying to assassinate Hannibal (really? a small knife in public? *Chilton voice* ‘flirtation!’) despite being plagued with all these complicated feelings or he’s aware of the intimately personal nature of his ways to deal with Hannibal.

Will then loses his autonomy and spends a while tied up or drugged so it’s hard to deduce his thoughts until he breaks up with Hannibal. He later says “the only way you’d turn yourself in was if I rejected you” suggesting it was a plan of his, potentially a way to reciprocate for the time Hannibal put him in the hospital. If Will doesn’t believe in free will, he may believe in the inevitability of getting an opportunity to break Hannibal out just like Hannibal did for him, or at the very least hope he lives in that universe timeline. This might be why he’s so sour in the beginning of the “Wrath of the Lamb” when he ‘drops the mic’, he doesn’t see his chance yet. His voice sounds weak when he says “I like my life there (...) Molly and I want it to be the same.” When Will returns to say “pretty please”, his attitude is completely different, he’s energized and sly and smiley, practically glowing.

Backtracking, in s3e08, Will first goes to the Red Dragon crime scene and uses his empathy/imagination as effectively as we’ve seen in the past, but then goes to Jack and says he needs to visit Hannibal to get in the “mindset” again. Hannibal accuses Will of “just [coming] to look at [him], get the old scent”, and when Hannibal suggests that the Red Dragon is disfigured, Will half-heartedly pretends he hadn’t thought of that already (”that’s interesting”), which Hannibal calls him out for, too (“That's not interesting. You thought of that before”). Either he’s conveniently forgotten the effect that Hannibal has on him and convinced himself that he needs help on the case, which is questionable, or Will is truly there to see Hannibal.

Hannibal hints that he’s sent the Red Dragon after Will’s “ready-made” family, admitting he knows them and saying “they’re not my family, Will. I’m not letting them die, you are.” Will has been able to predict every other person who has been attacked by Hannibal (Beverly, Jack, Alana, Pazzi), but not the ones who Hannibal practically admits to? Returning to Hannibal after visiting Molly in the hospital, Will’s anger doesn’t linger and it’s arguably an intimate scene, standing in the dark, whispering about his “change”, their reflections overlapping. This is when Will realizes that the Red Dragon thinks he can do “anything”, even break Hannibal out of jail. Either Will is suddenly misunderstanding Hannibal but going along with him anyway, or Will is understanding of their plan and not particularly attached to Molly and Walter, maybe even likes the jealous attention from Hannibal (”Your experience of Hannibal's attention is so profoundly harmful, yet so irresistible”).

I don’t think I need to convince anyone that Will was purposefully breaking Hannibal out of the hospital. Can I just cite his eyebrow thing? Anyway, “it sounds weak to you, even as you say it”, the apathy at seeing police killed, going with Hannibal so easily. Either he needs to just retire because this plan crashed and burned bad or he wants to break Hannibal out of the hospital.

Of course, the interesting debate here is what his secret cliffside plan was. Either run away with Hannibal or finally kill him. “The bluff is eroding,” “soon all of this will be lost to the sea,” very well may be a plan admission. Will does not help Dolaryhyde kill Hannibal, he does not sit back and watch Hannibal die, he does not ensure his death with a fatal wound in the end. Will and Hannibal survive together, either he just happened to survive and went with it idk his life is so absurd already might as well just become a murder husband since it fell in his lap? Or it was by Will’s own volition and assent that he runs away with Hannibal.

Conclusion:

Will struggles to think rationally around Hannibal, it’s true, and he doesn’t make... great decisions, but I don’t think fans give him enough credit sometimes. He’s a criminal mastermind, a professor at the FBI, one of the best special investigators out there, and a master manipulator in his daily life. He struggles with the dark urges inside of him, perhaps yearns for a normal life instead, but is fully aware of them nonetheless. We can argue that Will is a hot mess, blinded by love, is borderline delusional in his self-denial and is riddled with indecisiveness for years but that he keeps on making bad decisions despite it and letting the current of his weird life take him along passively -- or we can recognize that he might have always been acting on his personal goals. His personal goals include exploring his Becoming and making things equal (reciprocal) with Hannibal and would empower him away from being just another victim.

#Hannibal #Hannibal meta #hannigram #meta #long post #m

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nicotinemaiden · 3 years

Text

Just found Heaven

I don't really care where I go when I die 'Cause I just found heaven

You can tell the devil that's he's wasting his time 'Cause I just found heaven

Sins washed away, dark turns to light If your body is a temple, take me inside

I feel no pain, pleasures of mine If you give me a taste of eternal life

[Daughtry]

Read on AO3 →

The second one, a promise.

It had been a couple of days since Shirayuki saw Obi for the last time, peacefully sleeping next to her after the night they shared together. That day, when she finally dragged herself out of bed - tired of the nightmares that told her she would never see him again - she buried herself in her work and didn't talk to anyone more than what was necessary. If she could she would only nod and keep working. It was the only way she could stop thinking.

The next day even the office they assigned to them during their stay seemed too quiet, too calm without him reading small excerpts of the books - interesting facts that may be useful someday Miss, he would say. Some were more useful than others and, of course, sometimes he read things only for her to blush profoundly and throw something at him - there really are things you shouldn't read out loud Obi, she would answer after that, an unhidden smile on her face hearing his laugh. She missed him too much for her own good.

The third day she was growing impatient. So much so she decided to ask Ryuu if he'd seen him. He looked at her confused and surprised, as if she just asked an obvious question, his eyes picking at her from behind the book he was reading today.

"Obi is on a reconnaissance mission on the Bergatt territory to prepare for the soiree of masked knights."

She grunted loudly. How did she forget about that? She was busy preparing the medicine for that same event, relying on trial and error a lot more than she intended.

"I don't think it will be too long until he's back, if that's any help."

Ryuu added, arching one eyebrow, clearly wondering what was wrong with her lately.

She muttered a low yes, of course, thank you before returning to her desk. The young boy kept staring at her for a moment until he returned to his studies, writing in a patch of paper on his own desk. That was - maybe, probably - a good idea. If she could not talk to Obi maybe it was time she talked to the person she less wanted to at the moment: The second prince of Clarines.

She grabbed a piece of paper from the first drawer and tipped her quill on the ink. Good, that was the easy part. She breathed before starting, her thoughts unclear as to what she wanted to write in the first place.

Dear Zen, - she started, feeling confident only in those two words - I know we just saw each other not so long ago - if she was being honest with herself, it had been like two weeks - but I need to see you as soon as…

She stopped herself, crossing out the last words. They sounded… desperate. And a lot more romantic than she needed it to be. At least that was what her head told her. She continued on the same paper, deciding it was best to make a draft and then cleaning it when her thoughts were sorted.

I have to see you, whenever you can, only if you have time, there's no rush.

She crossed out that line too. She was in a hurry. She needed to tell him as soon as possible. She couldn't keep feeling like this and he deserved to know. Yet at the same time she felt she had no right to say anything before talking to Obi.

Shirayuki used the quill to scratch her chin, thinking.

"How would you tell someone you have to talk to them and it's not good news?"

She asked to the air, feeling hopeless. She was always good at talking her mind… in person. It was a lot more difficult doing so via letter.

It took a moment for Ryuu to realize he was the only one who could answer and he seemed startled by the question.

"I-I don't think I'm the best person to ask about relationships with people."

He watched her sulk a bit in her chair, her eyes fixing on the paper. He wanted to ask what was happening, what were those bad news, but he also knew she would tell him when she was ready. He didn't want to pry in something that didn't concern him.

So he closed his book on the table, whipping with his hands little smudges of dust from the corners.

"But… I'll try to be honest."

His voice caught her attention again, her eyes now studying him.

"I'll say there's something important that I have to say and that I would prefer to do so in person. If the person you're writing to cares at least a little about you, they will understand."

She smiled, her ideas clearer in her head.

"Thank you so much Ryuu. I knew you could help me."

He blushed, as always, before opening his book again and returning to it.

Dear Zen, I'm sorry to bother you as I'm aware you are busy. You know I wouldn't unless I had a good reason to do it. And I do. I need to talk to you, in person. We need to talk. And it's not something I could write or you would already know what's troubling me. I hope we can talk soon and I wish for our reunion to be one as friends, as it has always been. Shirayuki.

Reading it for the tenth time, she felt confident. She had been able to write it neutral, kind of urgent and important. Just the right amount. She pushed it to the envelope and sealed it before leaving her office to send it. That little letter was the first step on clearing the mess she forged for herself. Soon, it will all be different, be it a bad different or a good different. In all honesty, it already was.

She turned a corner of the hall just to come face to face with Hisame and she almost hissed at him, wanting to run far away from him. She didn't hate him, didn't even blame him anymore for what happened, but that didn't mean she was fine with having a conversation with him at that exact moment.

"Miss Shirayuki. Always a pleasure to see you."

Can't say the same, she thought, pushing the rude words away from her throat.

"H-Hisame, good evening. I wasn't aware you were still here."

He brushed her words with a hand, shaking his head.

"I just arrived a couple hours ago. Just some business to take care of."

She nodded, hoping it wasn't as visible as she felt it the fact that she wanted to bolt from him.

"That remembers me… Where is your shadow today? Haven't seen him."

There was a glint in his eyes that told her he was asking for more than that, but she answered only to his words.

"He's on a mission, won't be around for a couple days. If you have something to say to him you could rely your message to me and I'll make sure he hears it the moment he returns. If you trust me with such things, of course."

She smiled, just a facade to hide her jitters.

"Oh, I would, of course. But that's not it. I was just curious as to if he was the one who left that mark on your neck. I have a bet to win, after all."

With those small words, she panicked. Her hand moved to her neck without warning, searching for it even when she knew she couldn't feel that kind of mark just with her touch. Had it been there the whole time? Did the whole mansion know what she had done? She hadn't felt it when he'd done it. Why would he leave something like that if this was supposed to be a secret? She hadn't looked at a mirror in a while more than some passing glances, she hadn't felt the need to. Now she regretted it. Her mind kept racing, wondering why Ryuu hadn't said anything to her about it, and forgot she was supposed to be talking. Clearly Hisame saw the sudden display of nerves and the whiteness of her face because he laughed softly in front of her.

"Don't you worry, young miss."

He emphasised her nickname, the one Obi had made already clear it was reserved for him, and it made her angry, knowing it wasn't him who used it.

"You have absolutely nothing in your neck. I just wanted to see if something happened."

He came closer to her, crouching a bit to bring his eyes to her eye level.

"And the amusing thing is: It did."

He laughed a bit more.

"I didn't think he'd have the guts. Congratulations."

"I'm not here to amuse you, Lord Hisame. So if you'll excuse me."

She backed away a step, hoping for him to shut up and let her pass. She has had enough and felt stupid for letting herself be tricked like this. But there was no point telling him it wasn't true. She knew her reaction told him everything he needed to know.

He studied her for a moment longer before straightening himself and moving slowly to the side. She started walking and stopped herself after hearing his voice again behind her.

"I wasn't joking, I honestly congratulate you. I've seen the look on your eyes when you look at each other. This… fake relationship thing you had going on wasn't as fake as you two pretended to believe. I'm just relieved to see you being honest with each other."

She smiled subtly, looking at him over her shoulder, and continued walking on.

Honest. That was the word that failed her. She hadn't been completely honest. She was just now starting to be. But she made herself a promise that she would be. She would tell him everything once he was with her again and she would hope that, after knowing everything she knew, he would stay with her. As a friend, at least.

Before returning to her room she sent the letter she worked so hard to put together, not feeling any better than before doing it.

The next day started worse than any other. The nightmares were unrelenting and the pain in her chest seemed to have expanded to her head, her arms, her legs… She awoke before dawn feeling utterly sick yet being unable to return to bed. Lightning a candle next to the vanity she sat there, doing nothing, for a long time. Once the fog of her mind cleared and her brain accepted that nightmares were just that - nightmares - she picked up her brush and tried to tame her wild hair. She had to at least give the impression of being a normal person today. And she was so close to finishing the medicine she was sure today was the day. She had to give it her all.

When she arrived at the office she was alone. It was too early for Ryuu, or too late. More than once had she arrived at the pharmacy just in time to wish him a good sleep after a sleepless night of work. In any case, first things first: She needed a painkiller remedy. Shirayuki looked at the cupboards and stands, inspecting them. She picked up three petals of bromelain - which should have provided a small relief - before she found a jar of turmeric and decided that mixing the two would prove more effective. She just needed to reach it. It was a common ingredient, why in the world would it be in the tallest rack she had no idea. It was possible that she mistook it for another spice but that color was characteristic and the other she knew were similar were also uncommon. Or used in the kitchen instead of a pharmacy. She decided it was worthless trying to explain when everything here was sorted in a manner she couldn't comprehend. She missed the order of her pharmacy.

She moved the ladder under it without much effort, grateful for its lightness. One, two, three… and four steps took her to reach the jar. Or would have if she hadn't slipped at the last one, freeing the ladder from her hands before it could fall with her. She was ready to hit the ground any moment but, just like every other time she fell since she first left Tanbarun, her fall was stopped by strong arms keeping her steady for a moment before releasing her on her feet. She could still feel the burning of her skin - or his - moments later, crashing with the cold she had been feeling these last days.

"I can't leave you alone and trust you wouldn't hurt yourself even for a moment, can I?"

He sighed but she could hear the playful notes on his voice even louder than the pumping of her heart, so that was something. He was there, now in front of her, a half smile on his lips and dark marks under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept at all since his departure. Seeing him made her forget completely the reason as to why was she reaching for the jar. The pain, the ache, completely evaporated.

"What a shame. It seems you shouldn't leave me alone at all in case this happens."

She panicked just after hearing herself and tried to hide it pointing to the stairs, making a move to step on it again. Just an excuse at this point - she had exactly the painkiller she needed, right in front of her. He stopped her with a hand on her back and, with a swift movement and just one step on the ladder he pointed at the jar until she nodded and he snatched it out of the shelf.

"How's the medicine coming?"

He asked casually, leaving the jar on the desk and ignoring completely her last attempt at flirting.

"Good."

She thought for a moment, still looking at him, admiring him.

"I mean, it's not ready yet, but almost. I've had… trouble, concentrating, that's it."

He nodded and they both looked away, an awkward silence between them. She had so much to say she lost the words to say them. Looking at him like that, his eyes gleaming with the red of dawn, his hand playing nervously with his hair, his lips a thin line - void of the playfulness that played in them before… She just needed to kiss him. She wasn't sure if that was a normal thought on their situation but she restrained herself after realizing she was moving closer to him. Obi sat on top of the desk, facing the window but looking at her again. She could feel he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how.

"Miss, I- / Obi, I -"

They spoke at the same time and paused at the same time, causing a giggle from her. At least they broke the ice. She decided, as much as she wanted to know what he would say, she needed to speak first.

"I'm sorry Obi. For last time. I should have spoken to you… before anything happened."

She looked away. What they did was natural yet she didn't have the confidence to talk about it as if it was nothing. Not when it happened between them .

"No Miss. I should be the one apologizing. Nothing should have happened. I'm sorry I didn't stop it when I had the chance."

Was he… regretting it? She needed to know. Preferably before pouring her heart at him just to have it drained.

"Do you regret it Obi? That night… Would you like to go back to make things differently, if you could?"

Part of her was afraid of the answer while another was growing annoyed and angrier. This was not exactly how she expected this encounter to go.

"Of course I would. Of course I regret it. How could I not?"

He looked at her as if expecting understanding, but she was just angry and hurt. Most of it directed at herself. It was her fault he regretted it, it was her fault he was looking at her with such hurt on his eyes.

"You heard me the next morning, did you not?"

He nodded and looked away as if embarrassed to admit it.

"I was just… figuring out my entire life."

She allowed herself a small smile knowing she had already figured it out.

“I know how it must have seemed to you, that’s why I needed to talk to you. I don’t…”

She breathed for a minute. This was her moment. She needed to be clear, to say everything that was on her mind once and for all. And so, returning her eyes to his, she started talking faster than she could think, almost not breathing.

“I don’t regret it. I don’t think I ever will. It wasn’t just some crazy night of alcohol and hormones. Well, mostly it was, because that’s the way our body works, but that wasn’t all. I wouldn’t have done it with anyone else. And I mean anyone. I thought it was a mistake. Yes, the next morning that was the first thing I thought. But not because of you! It was a mistake because of the situation. I should have realized things first and done later, not the other way around. But, again, I was so blind I think it had to be this way.”

She was pacing nervously, moving her hands just to have something to do with them, talking more to herself than to him at this point. And she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. She was drowned in all the thoughts that crossed her mind lately.

“I feel horrible lying to Zen. I ain’t even lying because I hadn’t been able to talk to him yet. But I already felt this way before, the last time he kissed me when I thought I didn’t really want to. I just needed it to be over. I just let him kiss me because it was safe, it was what I’ve known for years. And I was so afraid when my heart stood at the same pace while I was with him. I was calm yet nervous. I should have known then as I know now. But I didn’t. And now I feel I’ve been lying to every last person in my life, myself included. I had a path I was sure to follow, everything just to be at his side, and now I’m not even sur-”

She stopped suddenly when she felt his arms around her, burning away every word left on her throat.

“Breathe, Miss. I almost couldn’t catch half the things you wanted to say.”

And she did. She closed her eyes for a moment, hugging him back, and buried herself in his smell. Everytime she was like this she felt lost in a forest at night, a warm bonfire at her side, plants and flowers surrounding her. It was the safest place in the world, his arms. She had thought about it before but never had she seen it so clearly.

“This is exactly what I was trying to say.”

She looked up to his face, a smile wide on hers.

“Usually it’s shorter to say ‘I need a hug’”

And she hit him then, punching his arm with all the strength she could muster. But he saw something in her eyes, in her smile, because as soon as she lowered her hand he brought her closer again and kissed her. Without so much as another word. It was slow and warm and she was kissing him back before even giving the order to her body. It wasn’t the first time they kissed but it felt like it. It was the first time she could do so knowing full well that it was what she wanted, what they wanted. And this time - contrary to the night they spent together - it was him who kissed her. He didn’t run away, he didn’t put a wall between them, he wasn’t telling her it was a stupid decision. No. He was kissing her and she… she was crying. Because she hadn’t felt so right in all her life. It was as if all of her - really - stupid decisions brought her to this moment. To the moment in her life when everything clicked. All the times she had to endure the touches and sinful words of the drunkards in her grandparents bar, all the unwanted attention on the streets, at her own home. All the times she thought she was weird, an exotic gem, something - not someone - to decorate the room with. You don’t need to hate it, it’s part of you, but it’s not you. You’re so much more. He was the first one to encourage her to show it, not hide it. He always wanted her to be herself - not more calm, not more smiling, not more reserved. If she jumped out a tower he would jump with her, not wait to tell her she was being reckless. She paused for a moment, her entire being, the kiss, her thoughts.

“I love you, Obi. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize. And I’m sorry I made you think you were the problem when I was.”

It was the first time she actually saw him trip over the desk, catching himself in time to sit gracefully on top of it. She smiled, biting her lower lip. It wasn’t a bad shock, she could tell because he was smiling even wider than her, even when he didn't seem to notice. If she was going to keep getting reactions like that or like their kiss, she should keep talking. But he didn’t give her time to.

“Mis-”

He interrupted himself immediately, changing his wording.

“Shirayuki, you were never the problem. I was… really scared that morning too. I was absolutely sure you were going to, I don’t know, tell me that it was the worst decision of your life and that you never wanted to even look at me again. I was terrified thinking that maybe you were right and I had broken our friendship forever. And, of course, everything went south when I heard you, crying.”

Even knowing it wasn’t exactly that what caused her crying it still pained him. She could see it in the golden orbs that fixed on her.

“I had to do this mission but I was ready to leave. I wanted to talk to you, to apologize and pack my things afterwards. Instead, the first thing you say to me today? Hey maybe you shouldn’t leave anymore. How- What- You know how confusing it is coming back believing it will be the last time I see you only for you to tell me that?”

And they laughed, because that was the thing they did most when they were together. Worrying about one another and laughing.

“I’m sorry for that too. I just kept having these nightmares where you would go and never come back without even hearing what I had to say. I just needed to tell you. I won’t make you stay, unless you want to.”

He picked her up easily, her legs holding her to his body and her arms up on his shoulders, and kissed her again. Maybe it was the kisses who told her or the little smiles between them. Maybe it was the bigger smiles or the way her arms got up and her upper-body followed back, laughing to the sky - or to the ceiling, to be more accurate. Or maybe it was the way his hand pressed down her back, bringing her to him again just before she heard every word she needed to hear.

“I love you Shirayuki. And, for as long as you’ll have me, I’ll be here.”

She stopped her laughs and smiles and lowered herself to the ground, looking at him so seriously he seemed startled.

“Would you say that again?"

Shirayuki could swear he was blushing. He was. And she enjoyed it as much as she could for the brief moment it lasted.

"I love you. I've loved you for so long I feel I'm dreaming. I think I'm just saying these things because I'm waiting to wake up at any moment."

The feeling, that unnamed feeling in her heart, so warm, filing her chest with a strange kind of pain. One that hurt but wasn't bad. It was as if someone was gripping her heart with all its strength, so much so she was afraid it would explode. Yet at the same time she felt incomplete without that pressure. She never wanted to feel so empty again.

She brought her hand to her chest without thinking, taking in the universe that was originating inside of her. She had been afraid of many things in her life, never so much as to stop her from doing what she thought was right but she wasn't new to the feeling. Yet at that moment she was terrified. Terrified something would happen that would tear everything from her. Was it normal that, at the happiest moment of her life, all she could think about for a moment was how she feared to lose it?

And then it happened again. He touched her arm - a little pressure to remind her he was there - and smiled while lowering his hand to hers. He didn't say anything, didn't need to.

He was with her.

He was hers .

And if there was something everyone knew about them was that, while together, they could do anything - and so, so much more.

#hey nicotine maiden here wishing you all a good reading!#hope you like it #mistake series #mistakeseries #mistakeseries2 #Akagami no Shirayukihime #ans #obiyuki #Obi x Shirayuki #mywork #fanfic #posted on ao3

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mostlycompetentwriter · 4 years

Text

Streetlight

F/M Pairing: OC x Seo Changbin (Stray Kids)

Warnings: Angst (this is kinda sad at the beginning); fluff; mild language

Genre: Family AU; Haven Sequel; Strangers to Lovers

Word Count: 7.8K

Summary: For a long time, Changbin’s priorities were centered around the need to take care of Y/N and the rest of his adopted family. However, as their dynamic has continued to evolve, he starts to feel like they no longer really need him. So, maybe Changbin feels a little bit lonely these days, but that all changes when he meets a mysterious stranger who wants to take care of him instead.

A/N: Like Haven itself, I really love this one. Special thanks to the anonymous user who requested this! I wish I could tag you.

Whenever Changbin found himself questioning why he was forced to endure the monotony of a 9-5 desk job with no reprieve, including outrageous weekend hours and overtime, he was always reminded of his family and a persistent desire to take care of them. It was a sound justification for putting up with the rude customers who took one look at his superintendent badge and immediately targeted him as the subject of their endless complaints. For example, they might say something like, “The packaging is all wrong!” or, “The shipment label should be 152 instead of 151!” and, his personal favorite, “Do you actually know what you’re doing?”

In those instances, Changbin would paste on his best fake smile and kindly tell those customers that, yes, he did have some inkling of what he was doing, even if he sometimes doubted himself. After all, his job wasn’t that hard, but it was demanding of his time and efforts, and Changbin was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he wasn’t meant for a customer service position. But quitting would mean jeopardizing the success and good-fortune that had befallen his family during recent weeks. It would mean risking their overstock of food and secure funding for Felix’s college classes. It would mean forcing the younger members to work, or exposing Minho to more hours at the warehouse.

That certainly wouldn’t be fair to Y/N who had come to form a very strong dependency on Minho, even if their relationship had been a major shock for the rest of the family when it was first discovered. The circumstances surrounding the revelation weren’t exactly ideal, and Changbin had been a little hurt that Y/N felt the need to hide something like that from him. She had come a long away from the shy pre-teen who would snuggle next to him at night and tell him about her dreams for the future.

His heart would sometimes ache for those days because it was nice to be needed. Changbin had a people-pleasing personality, and he often formed strong bonds with those that he cared about. But his love for Y/N was especially strong, and Changbin wondered if Y/N ever missed those nights when she would crawl into Changbin’s bed and ask him to protect her from those horrible nightmares.

It sometimes made him sad when he realized that Y/N didn’t need him like she used to when she first arrived at the house. In the same way that most of his family members had outgrown their childish stages, maturing into young adults who were starting to become independent. Even Jeongin and Seungmin had reached that stage where they could handle themselves, attending school during the day before coming home and isolating themselves away from the others.

In fact, when he really thought about it, most of his family members would spend the majority of their time according to whatever fascinated their current whims. Thankfully, Chan had decided that Friday nights would remain exclusive, and Changbin might be lucky enough to have Y/N crawl into his lap, or one of the other members cuddle close to his side - where he would like to have them for the rest of their lives because it felt nice to keep them safe.

“Excuse me, young man, but is this really the best you can do on stamps?”

Changbin sighed at the interruption, studying the elderly woman who had disturbed his thoughts. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “We don’t sell anything else.”

The old woman scoffed at him before walking away, and Changbin wondered what Y/N might be doing at that moment...

It was late when Changbin found himself trudging down the hallway, ignoring the sound of Jisung whining about how Changbin had bought the wrong kind of snacks. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with Jisung, especially when the younger seemed to have forgotten that Changbin took the long way home just to buy those snacks for him in the first place. Instead, Changbin just wanted to curl up in bed and go to sleep because he had another early shift tomorrow, and it made him feel extremely unmotivated to endure another day of his shitty office job.

In fact, what Changbin really wanted was Y/N, but when he paused outside of the bedroom that she shared with Jeongin and Seungmin, he could hear the sound of laughter coming from the other side. Changbin took a deep breath, cracking the door open just enough to see Minho and Y/N lying in bed together, watching some sort of video on one of the laptops that belonged to the older members. Changbin swallowed hard, closing the door again before he walked up the stairs and found his room at the other end.

He paused for a moment, looking back at the empty staircase, and wondered what the others were doing since nobody else bothered to greet him when he came home except for Jisung. Consequently, there was an unpleasant sensation swimming around his heart, and Changbin tried to ignore it as he walked into his bedroom, shrugging off his jacket before falling into bed still dressed in his work uniform. For a moment, Changbin was perfectly quiet, even while his mind was loud and refused to give him a moment of peace.

But then he eventually identified what those unpleasant feelings really were, and he hadn’t felt it this profoundly since before his own father kicked him out of his house: it was loneliness. Changbin felt alone in a house full of 8 other people, and when the realization finally settled, Changbin felt a stray tear fall down the side of his face. Because it hurts to feel alone.

It was a struggle then, when he glanced at his alarm clock, vision blurry from the salty wetness that continued to steadily leak from the corners of his eyes, and he could barely perceive the time displayed on the screen. Nevertheless, Changbin had been experiencing a lot of trouble falling asleep in recent weeks, and tonight seemed like it would be another restless plight of tossing and turning. But when had this started? Changbin couldn’t really pinpoint the exact moment when his life started to feel like it was falling apart - like he was losing everything that he had once treasured.

Honestly speaking, even before his stupid job, Changbin had felt like shit because Chan was constantly on his ass about staying at home all the time. It wasn’t even his fault, but it felt like Chan was determined to break him - to pressure him so far that he would literally split in half from the constant push and pull. Then again, Changbin had always experienced moments when he felt like there was nothing he could to prevent his most depressing thoughts. Maybe it was really because of his past - his terrible childhood and his rotten excuse for a father who decided that Changbin didn’t deserve his love or affection.

Yeah, maybe he had some daddy issues, but he also had to watch his own mother die when he was eight-years-old. For a while after her death, Changbin felt like there were huge parts of him that was left empty, and it had taken an awfully long time to fill those places again. But his family living with him at their precious Haven helped a lot because he was able to occupy his time with taking care of others. But Changbin had also learned how to put on a mask of indifference and pretend that he was okay when he felt unusually sad. Maybe he had gotten so good at pretending that he had started to fool even himself.

Perhaps it was finally catching up to him.

Changbin shook his head, wiping away the tears as he rolled onto his side. His eyes explored the darkness of his room until they settled on his nightstand where he paused on the little stuffed Munchlax that sat next to his lamp - a gift from Y/N after he had stayed up with her for an entire week when she had the flu. “I’m beary grateful,” she had said, giggling with childish delight when she first offered him the gift.

It seemed inconsequential at the time, but Changbin had always treasured the little gift, and when he brought it next to him in bed, he could pretend like it was Y/N. He could remember the nights when she curled up next to him, sharing secrets that she never told anyone else. He could feel a little bit better when he was feeling down, and Changbin savored the beautiful moment of peace that the stuffed plushy brought him before he closed his eyes to sleep.

The next morning, Changbin slept through his alarm, and there was a small part of him that desperately wanted to just ignore his responsibilities for one day and remain warm beneath his bed sheets. But life had different plans for him, especially with Bang Chan in charge of the house. “Get up,” Chan said, and Changbin grunted when he felt the older pull the sheets into the floor. “I thought you had a morning shift.”

“I do,” Changbin grumbled, and he cursed under his breath when Chan finally left the room.

Changbin sighed when he realized that the potential for more sleep was completely gone, and he was forced to shower and dress himself before walking down the stairs. It was too early for most of the members, but Changbin greeted Chan and Minho as he dropped down into one of the kitchen chairs. “Coffee?” Changbin asked, looking over at Chan.

“Hyunjin broke the damn thing,” Chan said. “We’ll have to wait until this weekend to go shopping.”

“What an asshole,” Minho remarked, and Changbin nodded his agreement.

“We’re making a list,” Chan said. “I get my bonus check tomorrow, and we can decide on what needs to be replaced.”

“The hot water heater should be a priority,” Changbin said. “I only had enough for a ten-minute shower.”

“How long do you need?” Chan asked, and Changbin snorted because he knew that Chan would only agree to make expensive purchases when he decided that they were, indeed, absolutely critical. “What do you think, Minho?”

“Y/N and I usually take showers together,” he said with a suggestive raise of his eyebrows.

Chan immediately voiced his complaints, explaining to Minho that neither he nor Changbin wanted to hear about their exploits. Changbin especially was still not used to hearing Minho or Y/N talk about the explicit parts of their relationship. But Minho was always perfectly willing to share.

“Add condoms to this list,” Minho continued. “We’re almost out.”

“Come on, Minho,” Chan muttered, but he still wrote down the request. “I’ll think about the hot water heater.”

“You two decide,” Changbin said, rising from the table as he grabbed his keys off the counter.

“You’re not going to eat?” Chan asked with a worried tone, but Changbin chose to ignore him as he walked outside onto the porch, inhaling the fresh, morning air before approaching his car.

The old van was unreliable, but Changbin didn’t have much of a choice when it came to his preferred choice of transportation. They were lucky enough to find the van on sale at a price that they could afford, but it was still hard to find used cars these days that satisfied their budget. And Changbin spent ten minutes jostling his keys in the lock before he managed to open the driver’s side door, turning over the ignition three times before the van offered a half-hearted rumble.

On most days, Changbin was forced to cross his fingers that the old van would get him to work and back without falling to pieces. Changbin rolled his eyes at the thought of bringing it up to Chan because the least he could do was allow Changbin to bring it to a mechanic. There was definitely a problem if the check engine light stayed on 24/7.

“Please don’t leave me stranded,” Changbin said, easing backwards out of the driveway before gently navigating the van along the back roads that he had plotted out since he couldn’t handle the highway.

He briefly recalled when he first got the van because it was a “shiny” new toy for the younger members to savor, and both Jeongin and Seungmin used to beg Changbin to take them for rides at night. And he could never refuse them, gliding up and down the roads while playing their favorite music over the terrible sound system. But the younger boys loved those occasions, and they often talked to Changbin about any sort of worries or concerns that plagued their minds.

Like the time Jeongin had a problem with another kid in his class who picked on him for the clothes that he wore. At first, Changbin tried to satisfy Jeongin’s insistence that new clothes would solve everything, and he dug into his savings account to buy him new jeans and shirts. But, of course, the bully only found something else to tease him about, and Changbin couldn’t stand the way Jeongin would start crying when he told him about how much his feelings were hurt. Which is why, on an unforgettable spring morning, Changbin defied Chan’s orders to stay out of it and drove Jeongin to school only to confront the bully in person. Apparently, the kid was so upset by Changbin’s words, that he told the school officials, and Changbin and Chan had to apologize to the kid’s parents for the mishap.

However, that little shit certainly never bothered Jeongin ever again.

Changbin smiled at the recollection. Even if Chan had been furious with him, he had never regretted his actions. It was just one story that he had of many concerning the members of his family, and the lengths he was willing to go to ensure their happiness.

Even at the cost of his own.

“Excuse me, but I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes!”

Changbin sighed, shouldering aside the poor customer service aide who was clearly out of his league trying to help the middle-aged woman who was seconds away from demanding to see the manager. “Hi,” Changbin said, hoping that the frustration that he felt wasn’t evident in his tone. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. Can you tell me what you’re looking for?”

The woman crossed her arms over her chest, cocking out one hip in a posture that clearly screamed privileged. But Changbin didn’t have the authority to throw this woman out for causing a scene inside the post office; instead, he’s forced to listen to her complaints for another ten minutes before he finally offered a compromise that satisfied her audacious demands and allowed him to keep his rational sanity.

“Have a nice day!”

“We’ll see about that,” the woman muttered, and Changbin quickly made the decision to take one of his mandatory breaks even though he only had an hour left on his shift.

“Bitch,” Changbin grumbled, walking into the back room and sitting down on one of the chairs surrounding his office’s snack machine. “Who the hell ate all of the M&M’s?” Changbin whined, and he wondered, not for the first time, if the universe was conspiring against him.

He settled for a candy bar, checking his phone for any messages, but he wasn’t surprised to see that nobody had reached out. The only people who would try to contact him were his family members, but they knew that he was working. But it still made Changbin feel sad for reasons he couldn’t totally figure out, and he didn’t have enough time to wrestle with complex feelings that made him question whether he really wanted to go straight home after work.

However, when his shift finally ended, Changbin was driving down the same backroads that he always endured, shuffling through the three radio stations that the van managed to pick-up including some sort of EDM station, Country Music Today, and the Classical Hits. Yeah, it wasn’t the best selection, and Changbin distinctly remembered having more options when he first bought the stupid thing.

But he also should’ve known that having such negative thoughts would never lead to anything good, and Changbin was already cursing when he felt the van start to shake and refuse to budge over 25-miles-per-hour. Consequently, Changbin was forced to pull over on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere with questionable cell service. “Son of a bitch!” he shouted, slamming his hands against the steering wheel before he opened the door.

At that point, Changbin was fed up with everything, and his emotions were bordering on the edge of volatile as he kicked the driver’s side door, growling when he realized that he had left a dent behind in the metal. “Stupid fucking piece of shit!” he yelled, slamming his hands down on the hood before he unlatched the metal piece keeping the damn thing from flying into his windshield.

Immediately, a huge cloud of smoke erupted in his face, and he failed to waft the offending spray away from his eyes which started to burn as a result. “What the fuck?” he grunted, squinting as he tried to figure out where the smoke was even coming from. He wasn’t a fucking mechanic, and his limited knowledge made him doubt that he should be messing around with the little black lid that, perhaps, had something to do with the engine...

“Are you okay?” a gentle voice inquired from somewhere behind him, and Changbin turned around in surprise.

For a moment, Changbin was rendered speechless, looking the unfamiliar stranger up and down before he realized something quite profound: she was beautiful. “Uh...” Changbin trailed off, pointing at his van. “I broke down.”

“I can try to give you a jump,” she offered, and Changbin nodded his head while the woman smiled. “Has this happened before?”

“Not like this,” Changbin said, watching her return to her own car, and no, Changbin was not staring at her ass.

“It’s probably the radiator,” she explained, wrapping the battery cables around her arm. “But I can look at the engine for you.”

Changbin nodded, watching the kind stranger sit down behind the wheel, attempting to turn over the ignition with no luck. “It’s not the battery,” she said. “Believe it or not.”

Changbin shrugged. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“That’s fine,” she said, giving him one of the most genuine smiles that he had ever seen. “I can help.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Changbin said, and he stood aside to allow her access to the van’s plethora of interesting offerings under the hood.

“My name is Sara by the way,” she said. “I’m a mechanic downtown.”

“Really?”

“My brother actually owns a shop,” she explained. “I can have it towed there for you. Free of charge.”

“F-free?” Changbin stuttered because he knew that those kind of services cost more than a pretty penny, but Sara seemed perfectly indifferent.

“Yeah.” She laughed, raising her arms above her head and exposing a sliver of skin at her stomach. “Is that okay? I can also take you home.”

“Oh!” Changbin remarked like the intellect that he was these days. “There’s no need for that, I can call someone.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, fetching her own phone from a loose pocket. “I’ll call the office and send for the tow truck. My brother does work for pretty low prices, and I think he can save your car for you. As long as you’re okay with that?”

“That would be great!” Changbin said. “I mean, it’s been a while since it’s had anything done.”

Sara nodded, holding out her phone for Changbin. “Just give me your number. We can call you and keep you informed, and we won’t do anything pricey without your permission.”

“Thank you,” Changbin said, quickly adding his phone number under the new contact option. “You’re literally a lifesaver.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said, leaning against the side of the van. “Do you live around here?”

“Just down the road,” Changbin said, dialing Chan’s number before holding the phone up to his ear. “But, seriously, I’m really grateful for all of this.”

“Please, don’t mention it,” she said. “You looked like you were having a rough day, and I know how that feels. Like, when the whole world seems like it’s falling down around you, the last thing you need is something like this to happen.”

Changbin chuckled, finding himself enamored with the way Sara liked to chew on her bottom lip as if in deep thought. “Yeah,” he said, hearing Chan’s voice reach out to him from the other end. “But it’s not always bad.”

Changbin called Chan to come pick him up after Sara made arrangements with her brother to tow the van to their shop downtown. She smiled at Changbin and reassured him that everything would be handled. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay,” she said, and Changbin didn’t know how to respond to that because it had been a long time since someone wanted to take care of him.

She eventually left after Changbin reassured her that Chan was on his way, but he could still see her lingering around her car until Chan finally pulled over to the side. “Hey! Get in already!”

Changbin closed his eyes, and quickly made himself comfortable in the passenger’s seat after Chan’s embarrassing comment. “Just drive,” Changbin muttered.

Chan obeyed, pulling back onto the road before letting out an irritated sigh. “You said on the phone that you took care of the van,” Chan said. “How much will it cost to have it towed?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing!?”

Changbin smirked. “I met someone who offered to have it towed for free. She’s bringing it to her brother’s shop downtown.”

“A mechanic’s shop?” Chan asked. “We can’t really afford anything outrageous...”

“She said that she would call when they found the problem,” Changbin said. “We don’t have pay anything unless we have the work done.”

Chan scoffed, reaching up to adjust his mirror. “If it’s something to do with the engine, then we might as well have the damn thing sent to the junkyard. We’d have more luck buying something else.”

“Yeah,” Changbin agreed absent-mindedly because he couldn’t stop thinking about Sara. “Did you buy the stupid snacks Jisung asked for?”

“I bought what you sent me,” Chan replied, and he sent Changbin a look that said: if it’s wrong, then it’s your fault!

“Thanks for helping out,” Changbin muttered sarcastically, and he resigned himself to looking out the window for the remainder of the trip home while Chan continued to talk on and on about possible options to replace the van. It wasn’t that Changbin was ignoring him, but he had heard enough about their troubles to last him a lifetime. Chan also liked to take everything to the extreme, and Changbin was usually left to deal with the repercussions.

In any case, the sight of the house was an enormous relief as Changbin all but threw himself out of Chan’s car, escaping another needless lecture. He could see his bedroom window from the front lawn, and he longed to escape to his room and pass out in the quiet darkness. However, Changbin should’ve anticipated that the rest of his family would all be downstairs after catching wind of his incident with the van on the side of the road. And the first person to speak out was Jisung, who called Changbin into the living room, eyes glowing with the reflection of the TV screen.

“I heard the van finally gave out,” Jisung said, sitting up on the couch and dropping the remainder of his potato chips into the floor. “Shit!”

“Jisung!” Chan snapped, propping his hands on his hips like he was some kind of middle-aged mom who was about to reprimand her son. “Clean up that mess!”

“Fine,” Jisung groaned, and he followed Changbin into the kitchen. “Ya! Are these my snacks?” he asked, snatching the bag from across the counter.

“That’s all I’ve been hearing about for an entire week!” Hyunjin remarked, and Changbin realized that the kitchen was almost completely full of his house mates.

Y/N smiled, standing next to Minho as she reached out to tug on Hyunjin’s sleeve. “You’ve been complaining just as much.”

“No, I haven’t!” Hyunjin protested, and Changbin despised how loud it was while he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Especially when Jisung’s displeased whine managed to overwhelm all of the other white noise.

“You brought home the wrong snacks again!” Jisung whined, and Changbin must’ve worn out the last reserves of his patience at the post office and on the side of that stupid back road when he abruptly turned around to confront the younger man.

“Why don’t you drive your own lazy ass to the grocery store and buy whatever the fuck it is that I can’t seem to find!”

“Changbin!” Chan gasped, and there was an immediate silence that followed his outburst as most of the members looked at him with matching expressions of shock.

“I’m tired,” Changbin excused himself, even knowing that it was a lousy thing to say in place of an apology. But he didn’t need to hear Chan speak another word, and hadn’t Changbin endured enough drama for one day?

Instead, Changbin walked upstairs, and he could finally breathe again when he re-discovered the solitude of his bedroom, and there were already tears forming at the corners of his eyes when he collapsed on top of his bed. It had been a while since he really cried, and Changbin rarely showed any kind of weakness around the other members because he was the second oldest - and there was an expectation that he should be strong for everyone else, even when he was screaming on the inside.

But there was only one other person in the entire world who had ever truly seen him break down - and she was standing in the doorway, looking at him with eyes that reflected her understanding. “Changbin?” Y/N whispered, closing the door behind her as she crawled into the bed next to him.

“Yeah?” Changbin murmured because his voice was muffled by the pillows. Even so, Y/N didn’t hesitate to lay down next to him on the bed, pressing herself as close as possible considering the limited space.

“You’re not okay,” she remarked, and Changbin shook his head as one arm wrapped itself around his waist.

“I didn’t mean to snap at Jisung,” Changbin said, and Y/N simply nodded as she held him even tighter.

“It’s not your fault, okay?” Y/N whispered, and Changbin nodded, looking at her fondly while he managed to prop himself up on the bed.

“It was a long fucking day,” Changbin said. “I hate that stupid van.”

Y/N smiled. “At least Chan has no choice but to fix it, right?”

“Or buy something else,” Changbin remarked, and they were both silent for a while. But Changbin didn’t mind the quiet. After all, it was everything that he wanted ever since Chan had picked him up on the side of the road.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Y/N eventually requested, and Changbin’s stomach twisted at the thought of opening up and exposing his darkest feelings - the loneliness that he felt these days, and the stupid reason why he missed having the younger members want something more from him other than cheap snacks.

“I don’t know,” he said, deciding to settle on a different version of the truth. One that still made him look strong without having to reveal the weaknesses clawing away at his insides.

“Well,” Y/N said, “when you figure it out, you can always talk to me.”

Changbin nodded again. “Are you staying with me tonight?”

There was an intolerable level of desperation in his tone that made him wince, but Y/N wasn’t the kind of person who would judge. “Yeah,” she said, rubbing her hand along his stomach. “I’ll be here.”

Changbin sighed because Y/N would never understand just how much those simple words meant to him. Because sleep suddenly came much easier, and Changbin allowed his eyes to close while wrapped around Y/N.

Later on, Changbin woke-up without much warning to an empty feeling in his stomach, and he realized that he had skipped dinner. Subsequently, he managed to make his way downstairs to the kitchen, finding the leftovers from dinner waiting inside the fridge. His stomach growled, and Changbin reached for the bowl, examining the contents inside before he walked over the microwave.

“You want to tell me what your little tantrum was all about?”

Changbin sighed, glancing up at Chan as he stood behind him wearing a familiar scowl. “Not really,” Changbin replied, punching the buttons on the microwave.

“Jisung wanted me to let you know that he’s sorry,” Chan said. “But I don’t know why he’s the one apologizing.”

Changbin shrugged, sliding a hand through his hair while forcing himself to meet Chan’s stern gaze. “What do you want me to say?”

“Is it because of work?” Chan asked. “Do you need to take less hours?”

“No,” Changbin lied, startling when the microwave began to beep in succession. He grabbed his food and held it against his chest. “I don’t really think work is bothering me.”

Chan’s shoulder dropped as his expression softened. “Did Y/N talk to you?”

Changbin nodded. “Look, I’ll apologize to Jisung when I come home tomorrow.”

“He’s sensitive,” Chan said, even though Changbin already knew that. “Did they say when the van would be ready?”

“I think Sara said something about this weekend,” Changbin responded, and he took a bite of his food without really considering what he had just told Chan.

“Sara?”

Changbin winced. “Yeah, the girl who helped me earlier.”

“Ah!” Chan acknowledged. “I guess she made an impression.”

“She was really nice,” Changbin said, and Chan sent him a look that Changbin couldn’t quite decipher. In fact, it almost made the atmosphere between them awkward, and Changbin cleared his throat. “I’m going back upstairs.”

“Okay,” Chan said, and Changbin quickly retreated from the kitchen before he was asked any more questions.

On his next day off, Changbin received a voicemail from Sara that told him the van had been inspected. He was invited to the shop so that he could hear the full report for himself in person. It was a seemingly mundane business exchange, but Changbin found himself bursting with excitement when he walked inside the main office, discovering Sara standing behind the counter.

“Hey,” Changbin said, trying to act cool by stuffing his wandering hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

“The van might not make it,” she replied with an apologetic look. “When’s the last time you had it inspected?”

Changbin cleared his throat, looking at the ground when he shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

It was a sheepish response, and Changbin expected to hear some kind of lecture about the importance of vehicle safety. Instead, she laughed at his disregard, leaning against the wall with a wide smile. “I kinda figured, but that’s okay.”

Changbin drew in his bottom lip, chewing on the raw skin as he thought about something cool to continue their conversation - maybe something that could allow him the rare honor of hearing that beautiful laugh again. “Its not something we prioritized,” Changbin explained.

“We?”

“The people I live with,” Changbin elaborated, studying the interesting way that the sunlight managed to form a halo of sorts around Sara’s soft brown hair.

“Oh? Kinda like housemates?” Sara asked, and she pulled a file from the heavy stack of folders waiting on top of the counter.

“You could say that,” Changbin agreed.

“I think it’s interesting,” Sara told him. “Do you wanna see the van? We can talk about it inside the garage.”

Changbin nodded without hesitation, and Sara led him out the side door which brought them to the attached metal building. It smelled like gasoline and rubber - plus an assortment of other scents that he could only associate with a place like this. And he spotted the van in the very last spot, looking worse for wear with its peeling paint and general abuse.

“So, you definitely need a new radiator,” Sara explained as they paused next to the van. “But I also found a lot of things that need replacing: tires, battery, back-up lights, windshield, and maybe some of the plugs inside...”

“Really?” Changbin asked, and he didn’t need to know a damn thing about cars to understand that all those repairs would cost way too much money.

“I can give you a discount,” Sara said. “I don’t know if it’ll help much.”

Changbin sighed, pulling up the sleeves of his t-shirt as a nervous habit. “I don’t think we can afford it right now.”

“Well, there’s always other options,” Sara said, perfectly understanding. “We actually sell used cars across the road. I’d love to offer you something at a good price. Maybe we could set-up some payment plans to help with your budget.”

Sara may actually be a literal angel, Changbin thought to himself. “Can I see them?”

“Of course,” Sara said. “It’s just across the street, and if you want, we can stop inside the convenience store for some drinks. My treat, of course.”

Changbin looked at her like she had just solved all of the world’s greatest problems. Because he couldn’t remember the last time someone had treated him, nor could he think of a moment in time where he felt the peculiar tugging on his heartstrings. Almost like something completely novel was opening up right in front of his eyes.

“Sure,” Changbin agreed, and that’s how he spent the rest of the day next to Sara’s side, perusing a wide selection of perfectly suitable replacements for the van while talking about anything and everything that had nothing to do with cars or the predicament of Changbin’s financial situation. Instead, Sara surprised him by asking about the things that most people wouldn’t care about - which do you prefer? Long walks on the beach or an overnight stay in a mountain cabin? What do you fear the most? Do you have an opinion on the toxicity of celebrity culture?

That last one surprised Changbin, especially when he realized that Sara was basically a living and breathing genius. It made him realize that they were a lot alike in that regard - judged because of their occupations, but they were actually so much more than what people might perceive. He was only rapidly coming to the conclusion that he really liked Sara. A lot. More than he ever thought possible considering their brief introduction.

Maybe it was some kind of fated connection - the type that everyone wanted to experience. It wasn’t exactly love, but then again, Changbin knew that love could be felt in different ways. For example, the love he had for Y/N wasn’t comparable to these foreign feelings that he only expressed around Sara. In the same way that Changbin’s love for his mother was nothing like what he had for his family members.

Ultimately, Changbin thought that there was, at the very least, a possibility of something with Sara, but was he willing to pursue it? Because this something might take a lot of his time and attention, and would his family be okay if he wasn’t giving them 110% of his effort and dedication? More importantly, was he brave enough to even try? Did he deserve it?

There was too much to think about, and Changbin left Sara at the mechanic’s shop with a simple promise that he would talk to Chan about buying another used car to replace the van. In the meantime, Changbin could only think of one person who might help him sort through these confusing feelings.

Likewise, Changbin made sure that he beat Minho home, finding Y/N in her basement bedroom reading alone. He knocked once on the door, alerting Y/N to his presence. “Hey,” Changbin said.

Y/N smiled. “You were gone a while.”

“There was a lot to discuss,” Changbin said, schooling his expression before meeting Y/N’s gaze. “Will you take a nap with me?”

Y/N glanced up in obvious surprise - because she wasn’t used to hearing Changbin ask for things like this, especially after the revelation of her relationship with Minho. “Okay.”

Changbin was relieved by her easy, and unquestioning, compliance. But that was one of the best things that he liked about Y/N - she always knew when she needed to ask questions versus when the moment called for contemplation. And in this moment, Changbin needed Y/N to have a lot of patience with him, curling up together on their sides as he met her gentle gaze somewhere in the middle.

“I met someone,” Changbin said, looking over at Y/N as she gazed at him with a complete look of understanding. “We’ll, we’ve met before, but today was different.”

“Binnie,” she cooed, leaning in close so that their foreheads were touching. “Do you have a crush on the mechanic?”

Changbin scoffed, moving away while Y/N giggled at the rosy color decorating his cheeks. “I don’t have time for crushes.”

“Why not?” Y/N asked, and her smile was gone in exchange for a far more serious tone.

“I don’t know,” Changbin said. “I’ve got to help take care of the house.”

Y/N was quiet for a moment, and Changbin closed his eyes because he was suddenly exhausted. “Changbin,” she finally said. “I hope you don’t mean that you can’t have someone special in your life just because of us.”

“No,” Changbin said, but there wasn’t much conviction behind that one simple negative, and Y/N definitely knew that he was lying.

“Hey,” Y/N said, forcing their gazes to meet. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Changbin shivered. “Noticed what?”

“You look really sad these days, Changbin,” Y/N whispered. “I don’t know why, but you keep trying to hide it from us.”

Changbin studied the raw intensity in Y/N’s gaze, and it was a powerful force - capable of knocking down all those cruel walls that he had built around himself. “I just want to keep you safe,” he said, feeling the promise of tears sting the raw skin around his eyelids. “But nobody really needs me anymore.”

“Changbin,” Y/N said, but it was just a simple intonation of his name, free of judgement. It said so much with so little, and it let him know that Y/N was shocked by Changbin’s confession, but she wanted him to elaborate and explain himself without interruption.

“For most of my life,” Changbin said. “I was pushed aside and treated like shit. It happened with my father, and I’ve had to face criticism from my bosses and those assholes I lived with before coming here.”

Changbin sighed, closing his eyes. “I just wanted to be accepted, and I never felt that until Chan let me stick around. Instead of being pushed away, everyone welcomed me with open arms, and they genuinely liked having me around because they needed me. I didn’t even have to pretend to be someone better.”

Y/N nodded - her only acknowledgement - before Changbin continued. “I knew you guys would grow up one day, but it started to feel like I wasn’t really needed anymore. I guess it might sound stupid, but I really do feel lonely sometimes when I come home from my shitty job and there’s nobody around to really say anything.”

And there it was - his true and honest feelings were exposed for Y/N, and he laid perfectly still as she ensured that he was finally finished with all that baggage that he had been carrying around on his shoulders. “Binnie,” Y/N finally said. “I’m sorry that you felt that way because you don’t deserve it, and I would never invalidate your feelings and tell you that you had no reason to feel a certain way. It actually makes sense to me, which is why I’m really glad you said something. Because you like to keep your feelings bottled inside, and I hate to see you suffer when you do.”

She sighed, reaching for his hand to connect their fingers. “Just because we’ve grown up,” Y/N said, “it doesn’t mean that you suddenly matter less. I mean, without you, we wouldn’t be this happy, and you contribute so much to that happiness. And I’m not just talking about your job.”

Changbin swallowed, placing his hand over his chest because his heart was suddenly beating so fast. “I miss the people that I live with,” he said. “How is that possible?”

“You’re feelings don’t have to make sense,” Y/N said. “But they matter because it’s you, and I want to do everything to help, and I’m sure the others would feel the exact same way.”

Changbin nodded, slowly, and he wasn’t sure what to make of all those feelings just sitting out there - raw and vulnerable, but he was also quite certain that he could trust Y/N. “I’ve never felt like this while living here,” Changbin said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Let’s just start by talking like this whenever we have problems,” Y/N whispered. “You might think I’m pushing you away, but you’re still one of the only people who understands everything that I went though before I came here. Nobody can replace the level of comfort I feel with you.”

Y/N’s words were heavy, but not in a suffocating kind of way. Instead, it felt like a warm embrace, and Changbin just managed to hold back his tears at the sincere expression. “Thank you, Y/N,” Changbin finally said. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

“I might know something,” Y/N said, and her voice suddenly took on a teasing tone. “Is she pretty?” Y/N asked, and Changbin couldn’t fight his smile.

“She’s beautiful,” Changbin said, and Y/N laughed with her usual playful inflection as she leaned in closer.

“We could go on double dates,” Y/N whispered, and Changbin laughed at the innocent smile stretching the corners of her lips. “But, seriously? Don’t hide these feelings from any of us, Changbin. We all care about you, and maybe it’s time we return the favor after all those years of letting you protect us.”

Changbin nodded - it was all that he could manage. “That might be nice.”

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed. “I think so too.”

And then they were both quiet after that - resigned to these new and confusing feelings. But they had each other to figure them out, and that was enough for Changbin to feel completely unburdened.

Changbin called Sara on a Sunday afternoon - the only day of the week when he wasn’t required to work at the post office. He knew that the mechanic shop was closed, but Sara was perfectly willing to meet him. “I think we’re interested in the SUV,” Changbin told her over the phone, and Sara was just fine scheduling an appointment.

That was over an hour ago, and Changbin hesitated at the sight of Sara waiting near the entrance to the main office. Because, unlike what he suggested over the phone, there was something else that Changbin planned to ask her, and it was scary to think about what might happen. Especially if she told him no.

But Changbin was an adult, and he didn’t plan to spend all day cowering in Chan’s car, so he met Sana outside with a smile that he hoped wouldn’t give away his nervousness. “Hi,” Changbin said, holding up a hand in greeting.

“There you are,” Sara said, and she looked nothing short of elegant in her dress pants and blouse - like she had gotten all dressed up for this occasion. “Are you ready?”

Changbin nodded, and he spent the time that it took for them to make their way across the street to reorganize the chaos of his rampant thoughts. Meanwhile, Sara had grabbed the keys to the SUV that he wanted to buy, and she was busy opening all the doors to air out the stuffy interior. “It’s fairly updated,” she told him, demonstrating the power windows and bluetooth radio system. “What do you think?”

“It’s better than the van,” Changbin admitted, and it was nice that there weren’t stains all other the leather upholstery.

“I think it’ll make a worthy substitute,” Sara agreed. “We’re selling it for $4,500, but I’m willing to negotiate the price, especially for you.”

Changbin glanced up at that because his heart had skipped several beats at the idea of Sara doing something for him. “It would really help us out,” Changbin said. “You’ve been amazing considering everything that’s happened.”

“Yeah, well, I can tell that you’re worth the extra effort,” Sara said, and Changbin couldn’t believe his ears because it sounded too good to be true. Almost like Sara was flirting with him.

But maybe this was the opening that he had been looking for...

“I’d really like to make it up to you,” Changbin said, and he hoped that those words sounded sincere instead of something akin to a business deal.

“Really?” Sara asked, flashing him a warm smile. “What do you mean?”

“If you want,” Changbin said, pausing for a moment to exhale. “I’d like to take you out sometime.”

“Oh?” she grinned, leaning against the SUV next to him, and Changbin could feel her soft breath since they were suddenly very close together.

“I’d really like that,” Sara replied, and Changbin’s shoulders fell at his relief upon hearing her confirmation.

“Are you sure?” Changbin asked because he was always doubting himself. “I mean, you don’t have to-”

“Changbin,” Sara interrupted, taking another step closer to the point where it felt like they were sharing the same air. “I want to be with you, and I’m glad that you asked me because I don’t want this to be nothing more than a mechanic helping out a customer. Do you understand?”

Of course, he did, but that didn’t stop Changbin’s stomach from doing somersaults while he desperately tried to compose himself. “How do you feel about double dates?”

Sana laughed at that, and, for the first time since before he could remember, Changbin felt completely at ease.

#stayverse #stray kids #stray kids fanfic #skz #skz fanfic #stray kids changbin #stray kids changbin fanfic #seo changbin #seo changbin fanfic #seo changbin fluff #stray kids fluff #stray kids angst #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids writer

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is-it-art-tho · 3 years

Text

This is Chapter 8!

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7.

Medical instruments whirred and beeped, filling the sterile air of the private hospital room with a constant hum. Thankfully, Dick had been captured as a civilian and his body was not yet the dense matrix of scar tissue and old injuries that Bruce’s was, so taking him to the hospital was not as risky as it might have otherwise been. Typically, they would have taken him back to the Cave or to Dr. Thompkins, but after watching Jason practically will Dick’s heart back into rhythm, Bruce would have taken Dick to the hospital himself if the paramedics hadn’t arrived so quickly.

That had been three days ago. Since then, Dick had laid mostly unmoving, only waking for a few minutes here and there to blearily ask questions or hold short exchanges.

Bruce looked out the window. Dusk had begun to fall over the city, and soon the batsignal would light up the sky if there was anything pressing going on.

“Are you working tonight?” Bruce asked, and though he spoke in a low murmur, his voice still felt like a jarring intrusion in the stillness.

Barbara looked up from her book and glanced out the window then at the clock. Sighing, she laid the book on her lap and rubbed her eyes.

“You don’t have to,” he continued. “You know that.”

“I know.” She sighed again, turning her gaze to Dick and pushing his hair back from his face. “I should, though. He’d want me to. It’s safer for the others when I’m there.”

Bruce made a point of looking at his phone as she leaned forward to murmur something and kiss Dick’s forehead.

She paused beside his chair on her way out to ask, “What about you?”

“I’m staying.”

“That’ll be the third night in a row.”

“Someone should be here.”

“Right. Because the two dozen nurses on rotation and extra security personnel you had stationed on this floor don’t count.” On a normal day, there would have been a bit more of a bite to her sarcasm. Not mean spirited, but sharp and witty the way she usually was. But today those edges were dulled by exhaustion and the fact that she likely knew what he was saying, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.

I will never take my eyes off him again.

“Just make sure you at least try to get a little sleep, okay?”

“Likewise.”

“Hm. Touché.” She patted his leg and wheeled away.

And then Bruce was alone, once again watching the slow rise and fall of Dick’s chest beneath the sheets. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as his thoughts turned outward, to the streets of Gotham where the rest of the kids were out searching for those responsible for this.

Hunting.

“How is he?”

Bruce blinked, startled back to the present.

“Alive,” he answered. “Better.”

There was a deep sigh behind him followed by the sound of boots on tile as Jason entered the room, arms crossed. As far as Bruce knew, this was the first time he’d visited the hospital. In fact, this was the first Bruce had heard from him at all since it all happened.

Something occurred to him then, and he sat upright and took a breath before turning to look at Jason directly. “I owe you an explanation.”

Jason glanced at him with guarded surprise. There was so much tension in every inch of his being that he looked like he would sooner snap in a stiff breeze than bend.

“Tim spoke to me,” Bruce explained, though this was by far an understatement. Once it had become clear that Dick would be okay, Tim had cornered Bruce in the Cave and let him have it.

Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the boy so upset. He assumed that most of the outburst was likely fueled by the stress of the past few days, but he also knew that Tim had still meant every word.

Jason appeared uncertain, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Bruce continued.

“It was my idea to look into you as a person of interest.”

The younger man managed to go even more rigid. He turned his gaze to Dick. “We don’t have to talk about that.”

“I think we do. Tim told me how much it upset you–”

Jason scoffed. “‘Upset?’ I don’t give a shit what you think of me. I’m not twelve anymore, Bruce.”

Bruce could not begin to express how painfully aware of this he was. Sitting here, staring at the son who he had lost as a boy and had returned a man, Bruce felt almost as if he could count each lost year in the lines and scars on Jason’s face, like the rings in a tree.

“That’s true,” he allowed. “But even so, I want you to know that I regret it.”

“You regret it. Regret what, exactly?”

“Treating you like a suspect.”

“Why? If that’s what I was then why should you treat me any different.”

“Because you are different. You have to know that.”

Bruce could see the muscles working in Jason’s jaw. The younger man’s arms were still crossed, and his fingers were balled in the sleeve along his bicep.

“What are you trying to say.”

And again Bruce felt it, that old wound that had been with him for nearly seven years now. The wound that had opened in him the moment he had lifted Jason’s broken body in his arms and knew that he was gone. It had only grown when he’d found Jason alive again only to learn that there were certain things that even the Lazarus Pit could not resurrect.

It was an ache that reminded Bruce every day of the myriad ways he had failed Jason and continued to do so. He had failed to set him up with a better, healthier life as a child – one far away from Bruce’s own world. He had failed to keep the boy safe. Failed to give him the closure he craved. And now it seemed he had also failed to communicate even the simplest truth.

“You’re my son,” Bruce said, and it felt like an impossibly foolish thing to have to say out loud, like explaining that the sky was blue or grass was green. To think that Bruce had done something to call that into question, or that perhaps he had never made that clear to begin with, was a crushing realization.

He had let his own child down spectacularly. Nothing he could do in life would ever be a suitable restitution. Surely, Bruce would take this with him to his grave.

When Jason finally turned to him, he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. But there was something profoundly sad in his eyes.

“No,” he said after a while, “I’m not.”

“Jason–”

“Your son died, Bruce. He’s not… I’m not that person anymore.”

Bruce wanted to disagree, and he could feel that part of Jason wanted that, too. But this wasn’t entirely false. The Jason who had returned to Gotham was not the same Jason who had once fought by Bruce’s side. It had taken Bruce a while to accept that; he had been so grief-stricken and relieved to have his son back that he had been blind to the obvious fact that things had changed.

That Jason had changed.

Bruce couldn’t be sure how much of that change was due to the circumstances of his death or the passage of time and how much was a result of the Pit itself, but it didn’t matter to him. Not really.

Because when Bruce looked into those green eyes which had once been brown, when he studied the streak of white hair that dangled in the younger man’s face and noted the perpetually defensive set of his mouth and shoulders and all of the other things that had changed since his return, all Bruce saw was Jason.

His son.

And right now, his son was in pain.

“What have I told you about the time after my parents died?” Bruce asked.

“What? Not much, I guess.”

Bruce nodded, unsurprised but vaguely disappointed in himself all the same.

“I went to a dark place,” he explained. “Some kids grieve by lashing out. It’s a cry for help, obviously. They get loud, throw tantrums. I did the opposite. I collapsed in on myself. It was like there was a black hole in my chest, sucking up all of my emotions, my thoughts, my feelings. I didn’t laugh or even cry, really. I barely spoke. I don’t even remember really tasting anything during those days. I walked around for feeling like a shell. Or a ghost.”

Bruce paused. This was a period in his life that he didn’t often reflect on, and now that he was talking about it, the memories were rushing back, vivid and visceral as if he were reliving them.

“What are you–” Jason began, but he quieted when Bruce held up a patient hand.

“After a while, I started to accept that this would just have to be my new reality and I got better at masking it. I learned to smile and laugh at the right times. I talked more and did everything I thought I ought to do to be who I had been before. To be Bruce again. For one thing, I didn’t want Alfred to worry about me, but I was also scared that if I didn’t put on the act he would leave. He had agreed to care for the old Bruce, not whoever this new, damaged person was.

“Then one day – this had to be almost a year later – I was sitting in the den. Not thinking or doing anything, just sitting. I had started doing that a lot. Maintaining the facade was exhausting, so when I was alone sometimes I would just… sit. Only, this time Alfred had been watching me. I have no idea for how long, but eventually he came in and sat next to me and just put his arm around me and I knew in that moment that he knew, even though he didn’t say anything.

“And I was terrified. I expected to wake up the next the day to an empty house, but there he was in the kitchen making breakfast just like always. Still, I couldn’t even look at him and when I got up to leave he stopped me, tilted my face up so that he could look in my eyes, and all he said was ‘I see you, Master Bruce.’

“I see you,” Bruce repeated the phrase to himself, thinking of that moment, those words. How much they had meant to him back then. How much they still meant to him, even now.

“It was all he needed to say,” he continued. “And I realized then that I hadn’t fooled him for a second. He knew that things had changed, that I couldn’t be the boy I had been before. He saw all of that damage – those broken parts in me – and he stayed anyway. I didn’t have try to be something I wasn’t or worry about scaring him away. I could just be. And God, it was like I could breathe again.”

Bruce didn’t realize he’d begun to well up until he felt a tear hit his hand. He wiped his eyes, mildly surprised at himself, then looked to find Jason staring at him, wide-eyed. “What I mean is, I may not always understand you, and I know I’m not the perfect father or ally or whatever it is you see me as these days. But I see you, Jay. All of you. And I’ll never give you another reason to think otherwise.”

Jason’s face went red and he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before dragging a chair up near Bruce’s and dropping into it with a heavy flump. "Just stop."

Bruce risked clapping the younger man on the shoulder and giving him a quick squeeze. When Jason didn’t recoil from it, he let his hand linger there a second longer than necessary, struggling to remember the last time they had touched like this, before letting go.

#AllOurBrokenParts #batfam fanfic #batfam fanfiction #jason todd #bruce wayne #dick grayson whump #hurt/comfort #angst #dick grayson

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