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joonie-beanie · 6 years

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Oh, Baby (Namjoon x Reader) Pt. 19

[Pt 1] [Pt 2] [Pt 3] [Pt 4] [Pt 5] [Pt 6] [Pt 7] [Pt 8] [Pt 9] [Pt 10] [Pt 11] [Pt 12] [Pt 13] [Pt 14] [Pt 15] [Pt 16] [Pt 17] [Pt 18]

Pairing: Namjoon/RM x Reader Rating: M Genre: Smut/Mafia-ish AU

Words: 4,988

Summary: You were only supposed to have seen him twice. Only twice, no more, but now you’re getting dragged into situations you never wished for and Namjoon just keep showing up.

A/N: Bet you guys weren’t expecting this update, huh? It’s only been a week and yet the second to last chapter is suddenly done xD Well, I’ve finally gotten motivated to finish this series, that’s why! Last time...I believe we left off with a lot of you mad at me, right? Well...read on and see this time if the ending leaves you feeling any more satisfied.

“Oh fuck.”

Those are the first words that come out of Yoongi’s mouth as soon as he realizes that it’s none other than Namjoon who has just been shot, and not a second later Namjoon sways on his feet.

His eyes shut, blood dripping from his chin as his knees buckle, and he sways forward. Immediately Jungkook, who is stood between you and Namjoon, reaches out and braces the taller, wincing in pain as Namjoon’s dead weight smacks into him. Thankfully, Yoongi is there just one beat later, taking his friend from Jungkook’s grasp and lowering him to the floor.

Despite the sirens blaring—and the additional shot that rings out behind you as Taehyung disables Jeon for good—your mind goes quiet. Suddenly you become unable to speak or move—you can only watch this nightmare play out before you.

On the floor, barely awake, Namjoon shakily lifts his hand and presses it to his chest. Without hesitation Yoongi bats his hand away, eyes frantically scanning the area he had touched for any kind of bullet wound. However, to Yoongi’s surprise he finds no wound, let alone any blood, which can only mean…

Grabbing the collar of Namjoon’s blazer, Yoongi rips downwards, and then repeats the process with his shirt, buttons tearing from the clothing as Namjoon’s torso is exposed. However, it’s not pale skin that greets your unwavering eyes, but a thin, black vest instead.

Yoongi rolls Namjoon onto his side, wishing more than anything that he was in possession of a knife at the moment as he’s forced to maneuver Namjoon’s shirt from around his shoulders—a clear blood stain visible on the backside of the white fabric.

“I fucking told you that we shouldn’t have used one of these old, thin vests,” Yoongi grumbles more to himself than anyone as he spots the point of entry through the back of the outdated bulletproof vest. In his arms Namjoon laughs breathily, but the laugh quickly dissolves into fit of coughs, another small amount of blood escaping from his mouth.

“If we had they would’ve been able to tell I was wearing one…,” he responds to Yoongi weakly, and Yoongi clicks his tongue as he works to undo the buckles on the vest.

“Shut up, you dumbass. Don’t talk.”

Finally undoing the vest, Yoongi discards it on the floor beside Namjoon and takes a look at his friend. Having been heading for the exit with Jeon collapsed on the floor in the center of the room behind them, it makes sense now that he had managed to shoot Namjoon in the back. And from the looks of it, the bullet had struck just below his right shoulder blade.

Yoongi narrows his eyes, palm moving to splay against Namjoon’s skin below the wound. He knows this isn’t good—they need to get Namjoon out of here and get him to help as soon as they can. Being hit where Namjoon has been means it’s not immediately putting his life in danger, but with time that doesn’t mean his condition won’t change.

Yoongi’s jaw clenches, a vein popping out near his temple. At least the old bulletproof vest had kept the bullet from ripping clean through Namjoon’s entire chest…

“Y…Yoongi,” you finally manage to speak, hands shaking where they grip your dress. You return to reality slightly, but your breaths still come out shallow and quick. “Is Namjoon—?!”

Your feet move on their own as you intended to rush to where Yoongi and Jungkook are surrounding Namjoon a few feet away, but you hardly make it two steps before a hand is gripping your elbow, forcing you to stop.

Shocked and inexplicably angry, you whip your head around, prepared to curse or fight or just scream, but when you’re met with the sight of Taehyung—his face contorted with such a look of empathy—your anger disappears. You’re still upset with Taehyung…there’s no way you can forgive him right away for the things he’s done, but…right now you know that he’s on your side, and you don’t have the energy or will to fight him.

Noticing how Taehyung has momentarily stalled you from coming to see your injured boyfriend, Jungkook crouches down and leans in towards Yoongi.

“Hyung…”

“We really need to get him some help,” Yoongi responds, voice loud enough to be heard over the alarms, but quiet enough that you won’t hear his sincerely worried tone.

Jungkook nods, lifting a hand to card it through his hair—a sign of his stress. He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and Yoongi allows his gaze to wander to the young heir for a moment. He worse for wear—bruised and battered thanks to his father—and Yoongi can see the fear that still lingers in his gaze, but he hasn’t given up hope yet.

“Jin hyung is still downstairs, right? Let’s go now, before the cops start arriving.”

Despite his anger towards the current situation, Yoongi nods. He knows that Jungkook is right.

“You’re better with a gun, so let me carry him,” Jungkook says, flipping around so that his back is facing Yoongi and Namjoon. Yoongi looks skeptical—worried that Jungkook is too injured, but the younger flashes him a half-smile, half-grimace.

“I’m tougher than I look, right now.”

Not really having a choice, Yoongi helps maneuver a barely awake Namjoon onto Jungkook’s back. The younger loops his arms around Namjoon’s legs, and Yoongi makes sure that Namjoon’s arms are locked around Jungkook’s neck. He truly feels like dead weight right now, and the thought makes Jungkook cringe.

“Let’s head downstairs and find Jin and Hoseok,” Yoongi speaks up once Namjoon is taken care of. He looks up in the direction of you and Taehyung, and then meets your eyes. For once, the light in your eyes has begun to fade. You simply look sad and defeated, and Yoongi bites his lip. He doesn’t want that…he needs you to be determined right now. They still need to get out of here.

“Y/N,” he says, redrawing your attention. You blink, focusing on him again, wondering when your attention had wandered.

“It’s not fatal, but we need to get moving. Let’s go and get away from this hellhole, yeah?”

Clearly the news that it’s not a fatal wound gives you some relief, and you take a second to inhale a deep, calming breath. Yoongi is right. You need to get out of here, still. It’s not over yet.

“Yeah,” you agree, thankful for his words, and Yoongi nods, turning back towards the door.

“Stick close to me. Taehyung, cover the rear. Let’s go.”

Back in action, your pack of five finally exits the suite, leaving the unmoving body of Jeon Enterprise’s CEO behind. Your pace is cautious, yet swift. Yoongi leads the way, Jungkook directly behind him, and you keep near Jungkook. Taehyung lingers a small ways behind you, eyes narrowed as he watches for any potential threat.

If they had been paying more attention Namjoon’s injury could’ve been prevented, after all…

Finally, a minute or two later, the ballroom comes into sight. Near the entrance greeters are urging people to leave the ballroom—giving instructions on where to wait, and what to do. Save a few lingering guests, the few hundred invitees had cleared out, making it very easy for you to spot Jin and Hoseok in the middle of the dance floor, a passed out Jaehyuk still on the ground beside them.

“Please, sir, you need to leave--!” you hear a member of the event staff urge them as your group nears.

“He’s still out cold! Please trust me, we’ll just wait until the paramedics get here!”

“But we can’t let you stay in the building! We have no idea if a fire has broken out or not!”

“Don’t worry about them!” Taehyung suddenly speaks up, brushing past you and Jungkook. He momentarily tucks his gun away, digging in his coat pocket to show his verification, identifying himself as a member of Jeon’s security unit.

“I’ll stay here with them until the cops arrive. Please, stay safe yourself and don’t worry about them. Everyone else has already gone,” Taehyung points out, motioning to the door. He steps closer to her, blocking Jungkook and Namjoon from her line of sight, and at realizing the other staff members are the only ones left—waiting on her to join—the woman bows and quickly excuses herself.

At her retreat, realizing that the remaining occupants of the ballroom are now leaving and that for the most part the coast is clear, the 5 of you who have just arrived turn to face Hoseok and Jin, who immediately turn their attention to you as well.

“Did you pull the alarm??” Yoongi questions Hoseok, and the younger male raises his hands defensively.

“I’m standing down here and all of the sudden I hear what sounds like a gunshot! The people around me started murmuring and getting worried, so I figured it’d be better to pull it sooner than later. Last thing we need are people hearing even more gunshots to clear up their doubts.”

“Fine, fine—,” Yoongi responds angrily, and then notices the way Jin’s eyes are lingering on the newest addition to their crew.

“Is he…?”

“Taehyung,” Yoongi sighs. “But he’s on our side now, don’t worry.”

Taehyung keeps his face carefully blank as Jin begins glaring at him.

“I have a bone to pick with you later,” Jin hisses, and Taehyung blinks, but isn’t appalled. He had never expected to be able to switch teams without encountering some bridges to rebuild along the way. But either way, Taehyung shouldn’t be their focus right now, it should be—

“Namjoon,” you speak up, stepping out from behind Yoongi and motioning back to the male being carried by Jungkook. Jin’s heart lightens at the sight of you—because thank god you’re ok—but as soon as he looks to where you’re pointing and sees Namjoon nearly passed out on Jungkook’s shoulder, he knows that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

“What happened?!” Jin startles, rushing to Jungkook and Namjoon’s side. Jin can see the dark bruises blooming on Jungkook’s face, but considering he’s walking and Namjoon isn’t, Jin assumes he’d better check on the mafia boss first.

As Jin busies himself with checking on Namjoon’s condition, Hoseok, Yoongi, and Taehyung gather to discuss what comes next. How are they getting out of here? What can they possibly say about Jeon? They don’t have much longer before the police should be arriving, so they really need to hurry.

Caught between the two groups, you can’t help when your attention wanders. Your ears tune between the group discussing your getaway and Jin and Jungkook, who are mumbling about what had happened upstairs. At this point you just want to grab them all and drag them away from here. You need to get out.

“Jimin should be out back waiting for us right now,” Yoongi announces, looking at his phone screen. He turns to Jin and Jungkook, opening his mouth to speak, but you end up tuning him out when you see movement in the corner of your eyes. It puzzles you, since no one of your group is standing over in that direction, and you turn to face the cause of your concern.

Immediately your heart drops.

Jaehyuk.

Having woken up just moments before—the effects of Jin’s drug wearing off—the supposed-to-be-dead man had opened his eyes only to be assaulted by the sound of sirens blaring. Glancing around, he noted the abandoned dance floor, and immediately surmised that his and Jeon’s plan had failed. Anger flared in his chest, palms pushing against the floor as he struggled to prop himself up.

However, it was in that moment that he had picked up on the voices nearby and turned his attention towards them, blood boiling as he spotted the doctor who had tricked him, along with you, the waiter who had bumped in you, the Jeon heir, a male he hadn’t seen tonight and Kim Taehyung. That double crossing motherfucker.

But then…where had Namjoon gone? Wasn’t he the boss in charge of your second rate rescue team?

Scanning the group again, Jaehyuk almost laughs when he spots Kim Namjoon—oh so fearless mafia leader—being carried on the back of Jeon’s son, obviously injured in some way.

Which meant that…now was his chance.

Finally managing to struggle to his knees, Jaehyuk claws at the gun hidden beneath his belt, glad that the damn doctor hadn’t taken it off of him. He can shatter your and Namjoon’s dreams right now. He can win—get his revenge, completely destroy your happy ending.

He snarls, lifting the gun and aiming it on Namjoon. So what if he hits Jeon’s son, right? Clearly the boy had betrayed his father anyway. However—

“Look out!!” you suddenly scream, frantic, as you move towards where Jungkook and Namjoon are standing. Startled, all the other males whip their heads around, eyes finally spotting Jaehyuk as well.

Hoseok, who is still stood closest to Jaehyuk, rushes to knock the gun out of his hand, but not before Jaehyuk changes his aim and tightens his finger against the trigger. But, he’s not aiming at Hoseok, he’s—

Your eyes widen as you realize the barrel is now pointed at you, and you freeze in your tracks, pushing back on your heels as you attempt to scramble in the direction you had come from and avoid his current trajectory.

“Shit--!” Hoseok curses, knocking the gun from Jaehyuk’s grasp, but Jaehyuk manages to pull the trigger before the firearm is smacked from his hand. You feel pain rip through your leg, and as soon as your ass hits the floor you cry out, hands movie to grip your calf, warm blood staining your fingers.

“Fuck!!” Yoongi yells, moving forward and raising his gun. Disarmed thanks to Hoseok, Yoongi fires two rounds into Jaehyuk without remorse, and the man collapses back to the floor, blood beginning to pool around him.

Finally managing to open your eyes—which you had squeezed shut in fear—you look down at your leg. You lift your hands shakily, the fabric of your dress and your palms stained red. It…it hurts, but it doesn’t look like you’ll be in danger of losing your life anytime soon.

“Y/N!” Jin exclaims. Suddenly he’s right beside you, lightly lifting your bloodied hands away from the wound so he can examine it better.

“It just grazed you,” he mumbles after a few seconds, brows furrowed. “Nothing a few stitches can’t take care of. But still, we need to find something to stop the bleeding…”

“What we need to do is get the fuck out of here!” A new voice pipes up, and all eyes are suddenly on Jimin as he runs into the ballroom, hand waving over his head. He stops half way, looking exasperated.

“Cops are coming! I can hear their sirens outside!”

“Fuck,” Yoongi curses, his eyes flitting between where Namjoon is passed out on Jungkook’s shoulder and where you’re currently seated on the ballroom floor, leg injured. Dammit! If he had just been more careful then you wouldn’t have been injured too! But…Yoongi clenches his fist at his side.

“Jin, you have to come with us.”

“Wha--? She’s injured!” Jin responds indignantly, turning to face Yoongi. The second in command sighs in frustration. Taehyung moves past him towards you and Jin.

“I know she is, dammit! But Namjoon--!”

“Then Y/N should come with us too!”

“She can’t! Oh, Jin, don’t give me that fucking look! She has to stay with—”

“Me,” Jungkook butts in, stepping forward. His face is hard. “Someone will have to explain to the cops what happened tonight—we discussed this already. I have to stay.”

“And Y/N is innocent, Jin. Compared to all of us,” Yoongi explains. “She can find a reason to be here—she’s Jungkook’s friend. Hoseok, too--,” he adds in, meeting Hoseok’s gaze, “he’s innocent. He can find a reason to be here. But Taehyung, Jimin—me and Namjoon—we can’t be seen here. And Namjoon is dy—”

“Stop. I’ll come,” Jin cuts him off, eyes narrowing. He motions his head behind him to you, who is now preoccupied with Taehyung—the double-crosser ripping the skirt of your dress and tearing a strip of the fabric away. Yoongi holds his tongue, watching as Taehyung uses the strip of fabric to bandage your wound. It’s a half-assed patch up, but right now they don’t have the time to do better.

“Hyung, take Namjoon,” Jungkook says, stepping forward. Sparing you one last glance, Jin presses to his feet and moves to Jungkook. The younger passes the mafia leader off to Jin, and then moves to your side, Hoseok following right behind him.

Lifting your gaze, you stare at the group parallel to you. Yoongi, Taehyung, Jin, Namjoon, and Jimin…God, you don’t want them to leave now, but you know this is the only way…and it sucks.

“Keep me updated,” Yoongi speaks, meeting Jungkook’s eyes. The maknae nods.

“Same to you…”

Dipping his head, Yoongi turns his back, and the others follow suit. They run from the ballroom, disappearing into a back corridor, and you’re left sitting there—leg throbbing, dress stained with blood. You really, really want to cry.

“Hey…,” Jungkook speaks, kneeling in front of you. He smiles, and then reaches forward, looping his arms beneath your knees and around your back. Careful of your leg, he picks you up and cradles you against him. Lifting your palm, now flaky with dried blood, you press it to his chest and look up at him worriedly.

“Are you okay?”

Your voice is so quiet, so tired, and Jungkook feels his heart ache. If only this night would end already…

“Don’t worry about me. Let’s head outside. The police should be here any minute.”

He purposefully glances to Hoseok, who nods his head in understanding. Keeping pace beside Jungkook, the three of you make your way from the ballroom and out into the cool night air. The area outside Jeon Enterprises is packed with guests from the ball and other patrons who had been in their hotel rooms when the alarm had sounded.

Looking over the crowd, Jungkook spots the police lights reflecting off the buildings in the distance, struggling to make their way through the congested traffic. It looks like it will still be another few minutes yet…

Moving a small ways from the main door, Jungkook presses his back to the chilled brick and slides down to the cement, still holding you in his arms. He rest you in his lap, legs bent, and stares at the top of your head as you begin to shake.

You want to stay hopeful and want to stay determined that everything will turn out alright, but…you can’t keep your hopes up any longer. Your walls crumble, and you descend into tears, forehead moving to press against Jungkook’s chest. You feel terrible, you don’t want him to see you like this, so broken and defeated, but you can’t…you just…it’s too much--!

Jungkook’s hand pets against your hair.

“It’s ok. You don’t need to hold it all in anymore.”

A sob rips from your throat at his words, and you hold onto him as the flood gates open. He pulls you close, heart panging with sadness as you cry your heart out. So much had happened…between getting kidnapped, being held at Jaehyuk’s mercy for nearly a week, and then everything that had occurred at the ball tonight…Jungkook is honestly surprised and proud that you had managed to stay so strong until now.

“God, this sucks,” Hoseok suddenly speaks up, guilt on his face as he crouches down in front of Jungkook. His eyes flit to you, and he winces. “I don’t want to keep adding to the burden of tonight, but we really need to talk about what we’re gonna say when the cops get here. We need a story…”

“Shit, I know…,” Jungkook sighs. How are they supposed to create such a huge lie?

“Any ideas?”

“Well, we’ll have to let them know that it was me who pulled the fire alarm. At least if I fess up to it they won’t have to go looking for the culprit.”

“True, but what about my dad and Jaehyuk? They’re the only two casualties, right?”

“As far as we know…and you—you’re all beat up too. We’ll have to explain that.”

“I’ll just say I got beat up by someone,” Jungkook grumbles. “The main thing we need to agree on is who killed my dad and Jaehyuk. If we don’t decide that then none of it will make sense.”

“I…,” you suddenly voice in, and both males pause in surprise. Raising your head, you wipe your tears. Your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are red, but it seems the release of emotion has given you some of your determination back. Both Hoseok and Jungkook are happy to see the small amount of life that has returned to your face.

“I think I have an idea, if you want to hear it.”

“Right now we’ve got nothing, so go for it,” Hoseok says urging you on. Nodding, you set out to explain your plan. Hoseok and Jungkook listen intently, taken aback by the complexity of your idea, yet when you’ve finally finished talking, they can’t think of a place to change. And that’s a good thing, because it’s at that moment the police finally squeal to a stop in front of the building.

“Well, fuck, it sounds good enough—let’s stick with it,” Hoseok says, pushing to his feet. He reaches down, offering you a hand, and you take it. Jungkook grips your waist, helping you stand, seeing as you can only balance on one leg currently. Once you’re stable on your feet, Hoseok’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, Jungkook presses to his feet as well.

Squaring his shoulders, he peers across the now scattering crowd. The cops are hurriedly making their way towards the front doors.

He breathes deep, and then, just as the police appear in sight, takes a step to the side, blocking the double doors. The cops halt in surprise.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Jeon Jungkook—heir to Jeon enterprises,” he says with confidence, and the police look startled.

“Sir…?”

“I need to speak with you regarding the events that took place within the ballroom tonight.”

Nearly 4 hours later—the clock striking midnight—Jungkook steps through the front door of his silent home, you and Hoseok trailing behind him.

With the building finally having been cleared for reentry 2 hours after the police had arrived, the residents of the hotel had been allowed to return to their room. However, posing yourselves as the main 3 witnesses to the murders that had occurred tonight, you, Hoseok, and Jungkook had been asked to stay behind.

Jungkook, the second of Jeon’s sons, and heir to the company. You, his good friend who he had invited for the night, and Hoseok, an acquaintance of yours who had been working as part of the camera crew. Together, the three of you had explained to the police what had occurred tonight—including the causes of your and Jungkook’s injures, and who you had witnessed shoot Jeon and Jaehyuk.

If Jungkook wasn’t an heir to Jeon Enterprises, you hardly doubt that the police would have given him a second glance, but with the authority and status accompanying his name, the police had compliantly listened to your story. And, luckily, they had seemed to accept it as well. The investigation of the crime scene—which likely would have been extensive and long winded—ended in just 3 hours. The bodies were taken away to the corner, the ballroom was blocked off from the public, and the police decided to call it a night.

Two people were dead, and they already had a story to run with—why keep digging? They can finish up in the morning anyway.

So, after taking your personal information for documentation purposes, the police had released you for the night. Despite the first aid the paramedics had used to treat your leg they still insisted that you come to the hospital for further treatment, but you had refused. And, before they could say more, Jungkook had stepped in to come to your aid as well, assuring them that he had a family doctor on staff who would be more than capable.

The police had been weary, but never bothered to speak back. With a promise to send an escort to pick you all up in the morning in order to take you to the station and officially give your reports, the police had cleared the scene.

“Jungkook!” A female voice rings out, and Jungkook looks up to find their resident maid bustling up the long hall towards him, worry painted on her face. He smiles at her tiredly, allowing her to touch his swollen cheek when she reaches where he’s standing.

“Are you okay?!”

“I’ll be fine. More importantly,” he motions back to you and Hoseok, and the maid’s eyes widen when she sees you passed out against his shoulder, Hoseok’s grip on your waist the only thing keeping you from falling to the floor. And not only that, but all that blood on your dress…

“She passed out due to exhaustion as soon as the police left, but they’ll be staying the night. Please get them each a room, and call up the doctor.”

“O-Of course!” the maid stutters, bowing, and then rushes up the hall, mumbling something about finding a suitable room and how the doctor better not give her attitude for calling him up so late.

As she leaves, Jungkook sighs. “Sorry, you probably didn’t wanna stay the night here, right?”

“Its fine,” Hoseok shrugs, glancing around. “I probably would feel better staying with you guys anyway. After everything that happened tonight…it may sound a little silly, but I don’t think I want to be alone.”

“It’s not silly at all,” Jungkook responds honestly. He feels like he could pass out at any moment. He wants nothing more to get some sleep before a new day of trouble arrives.

“I’ve readied two rooms and the doctor is on the way!” his maid calls to them as she rushes back up the hall, a little out of breath. “Shall I help you with her?” she asks, motioning to your sleeping form, and Jungkook steps back toward Hoseok.

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.”

“O-Okay. Their rooms are in the right wing, close to yours—the first two empty suites on left.”

Jungkook nods, looping his arm around your limp form. Together, he and Hoseok carefully heft you up the hall—the position awkward, but luckily the trek isn’t too far.

Suddenly, the maid looks around.

“Jungkook…where is your father?”

Jungkook pauses.

“…let’s talk about that tomorrow.”

“I’ll be heading out on the first train in the morning.”

Jungkook nods, keeping his cellphone pressed to his ear. On the table beside his bed, his clock flashes 1:32AM.

“Okay.”

“And you’re sure that’s what all three of you told the police? Your story is solid?”

“I’m sure, hyung. I told you exactly what I told the police. They don’t seem to find our lie outlandish, so it should be fine.”

“Alright, good. Then I’ll make sure the building security files are destroyed by the time the police come back to wrap up in the morning. If they notice, blame it on Jaehyuk’s party.”

“Got it. And dad’s security?”

“We’ve got enough money to pay off a few guards, Jungkook. Don’t worry about it—you’ve done enough. Get some rest. I’ll take care of the press, and whatever else. Just focus on your role as a witness, and stop stressing, got it?”

“Yeah…thanks, Junghyun hyung.”

“I should be telling you that, brat. Go to bed.”

“Yeah, yeah~,” Jungkook responds, but can’t help his smile. With one final goodbye to his brother, Jungkook ends the call and pushes off the edge of his mattress, muscles aching. He peels off his shirt, his chest blotchy with bruises and he sighs, flopping back down.

Despite getting what he’d wanted…rescuing you and getting his father out of the picture…he still can’t feel satisfied with the way things had turned out today. After all…

“Namjoon hyung…,” he whispers, and at that moment the phone which he had set down begins buzzing again. He reaches over to grab it, assuming that his brother must’ve forgotten to tell him something, but his heart nearly stops when he sees that it’s Jin who is calling him instead.

He hesitates to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Jungkook? Oh good, you’re still awake.” Jin sounds so tired. “Did things work out with the police?”

“As far as I know,” Jungkook responds, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “They seemed to buy what we told them. They’re coming to get us in the morning so we can officially give our statements at the station, but…it seems like things are finally starting to wind down, hyung.”

“Well, that’s good, at least…”

There’s a beat of tense silence.

“How’s--?”

“How’s Y/N?” Jin interrupts him. Jungkook sighs.

“She’s okay. Like you said, the bullet just grazed her. My family doctor took care of her when we got back here. She’ll be fine.”

“I’ll have to double-check their work later, just to be sure,” Jin says, but Jungkook can’t find it in himself to laugh at the joke.

“Hyung…”

“I know…Kookie. I just…”

“Seokjin. Hyung. Please. How is he?”

The line goes quiet, and Jungkook hears Jin sigh—and it’s not one of relief.

“Namjoonie…he’s…”

At the words that follow Jungkook throws his forearm over his eyes and bites his lip painfully.

“Fuck…”

[Pt 18] | [Pt 20]

#I wonder if I'll get yelled at again....#you know next chapter is the last one right?#hehe #oh baby #namjoon x reader #bts mafia au #jin fic #hoseok fic #yoongi fic #taehyung fic #jimin fic #jungkook fic #namjoon smut #bts smut #i literally hate tagging I hate it so much

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a-mad-scientist-approaches · 6 years

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The Cipher Conspiracy (8)

Here! Have a chapter entirely about Ford!

I estimate at the moment there will be fourteen chapters in total of this, but that may chang, as in the past my estimates have been very off XD.

Adeline Marks is @hntrgurl13‘s, and the Addiford ship is @scipunk63‘s.

She doesn’t have a direct appearance in this chapter, but @missinspi‘s OC Madeline McGucket is still part of the fic, so I’m going to mention her anyway.

AO3 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Gravity Falls, Oregon (USA) ∆

Ford groaned as he straightened up. How long had he been hunched over this desk for?

Too long, he reflected, scanning through the work he had completed.

He made his way towards the elevator, intent on getting himself some food before proceeding to the next step. The doors opened before he could reach them, revealing Bill.

“Okay, smart guy, let’s see these plans,” he said, strolling out. Ford turned around and led the way back to the schematics he had been redrawing.

“We – uh – I altered the gun’s design in Russia, so there should be less chance of it malfunctioning during use now. I just finished making the final copy, so all that’s left is to start constructing it,”

Bill straightened up from pouring over the plans and clapped him on the back. “I knew you could do it, Sixer! A few problematic hangers-on aren’t enough to slow you down!”

“Right.” Ford said, deciding to move past that comment as quickly as possible. “I think I should start putting together microcomputer first.”

Bill nodded, moving around the desk so he could scrutinise the plans more. “Use the precision instrument from China. Calibrate it to, oh, a working range of eight hundred nanometres to two centimetres. Lock it in position five for the circuit board, but position six should do for the rest.”

Ford was taken aback at the sudden rattling off of instructions. “You’ve used one before, then?”

Bill laughed. “Of course not Fordsy, I just know my stuff. Good thing I’m around, huh? Not to say that you don’t know what you’re doing, but, well . . .” he shrugged amiably.

“It’s good to pool knowledge,” Ford finished, choosing to think optimistically rather than be offended.

“Whenever you need me, pal! I’ve got things to do upstairs; you don’t mind if I take over the place for a bit while you’re not using it, right? Catch ya later,”

Ford did not like to criticise Bill: he had, after all, given him the opportunity to prove the full extent of his abilities to the world, if not in quite the way Ford had anticipated while growing up. For this reason, Bill was more like a friend than a boss, a sentiment that Bill had stated when Ford first met him, and which he had kept reinforcing through the years. However, it did irk him slightly that his residency was also morphing into Bill’s base of operations. On the other hand, it was also rather gratifying to see how much Bill trusted him. As far as he knew, no other agents were overseen as much as himself.

Monitored as much as myself.

. . . it was difficult to deny how freeing the weeks away had been. Perhaps he would like a little more breathing room.

That would no doubt occur once he finished the memory gun. Bill just wanted it complete, and then work would resume more like how scientists usually worked: in a less-than-imposing manner. Such as how he and Fiddleford had collaborated.

Speaking of Fiddleford, Ford was sure he would have loved this part.

He set up the machine on the desk, turned it on, and watched it knit together a circuit board with liquid fluidity.

∆

Bill swiped a squeezy toy from a couch as he passed. Making his way to the kitchen, he leaned back in a chair and put his feet on the tabletop. Then he took out his phone, tossing the toy up in the air.

“Ivan! I want an update. One that doesn’t ruin the good day I’m having,”

“McCorkle just had a meeting. I recall that Pines encountered two of Jheselbraum’s agents in Oklahoma . . .” The voice became more reluctant, as if the owner wished it wasn’t him that was bearing this news. “She was meeting one of them. You were right sir, Oracle Division is definitely involved.”

“Hmm. Well, good thing I was expecting that, or this would be really unpleasant for you.” Bill stood up and began walking around, tossing the toy from hand to hand, the phone jammed between his shoulder and ear.

“It’s time to shut Oracle Division down. Don’t blow your cover, Jhezzy’s pup’ll be outta your non-existent hair soon enough. Bigger problems to worry about, et cetera,”

“As you say, sir. I should also mention that Stanley Pines has reappeared,”

“Leave him. He’s out of the game now, or close enough. Besides, he just wouldn’t die. Four rounds of one-sided Russian poker and he’s still around – he’s like a roach! Whose underpants are stitched from luck! Maybe I’ll make him a job offer one day,” Bill mused, bouncing the toy off the wall.

“Yes sir. And what about the other Pines?”

“On track, finally. How long does it take to get some materials for cryin’ out loud? No need to come out here. But be on standby, just in case. Our resident genius is wising up.” The ball thudded into the wall again, but Bill didn’t catch it. He walked away, leaving it to ricochet behind him, where it cracked a glass frame and popped.

∆

Ford’s eyes were burning. He hadn’t blinked in a while. That was it.

Ow. Blinking hurt too.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping his eyes closed. His fingers were trembling.

This was ridiculous. He had not even been working for that long! Granted, affixing the circuit boards to the hard drive of the microcomputer was slightly harder than he had anticipated, but he was getting there. And arranging the trigger mechanism had been frustrating. And positioning the internal reflective mirrors was an ordeal, to say the least. But all in all, he had about a third of the gun constructed (if he counted the tiny wires which he had laid out over the blueprints in preparation for their insertion), and it was only –

What time was it?

Ford opened his watery eyes and tried to make sense of the clock on the wall.

One o’clock? That can’t be right, I got home at one-thirty.

. . . I should really change that display to show twenty-four-hour time.

As he moved back towards the elevator room to find a chair, he realised that standing very still while bent over a table for six hours was not a great decision on his part. Every inch of him ached, even the parts that were not involved in keeping him upright. Sitting burned.

Midway through Ford’s groan, Bill came through the elevator, muttering.

“Those Oracle superiors better be awake . . .” He noticed Ford awkwardly slumped in a swivel chair. “Taking a break already, are we? It’s only been, what-”

“Eleven and a half hours,” Ford croaked.

“Come on, you’ve done longer than that at university!” Bill grinned, striding over to stand in front of him.

“Probably.” He yawned. “Just give me a minute.” A thought struck him. “Did you say Oracle? Like that Oracle Division you mentioned a couple weeks ago?”

Bill stiffened slightly, then shrugged.

“Yeah, they’re causing some trouble that I’ve gotta put a stop to. Banging on about the ‘Cipher Conspiracy’ again. Don’t ya just hate it when people won’t listen? Anyway, they won’t be a problem for much longer. That whole shebang is coming down pronto.” A momentary dark flicker crossed his expression. “I got a special gal who’ll be taking the fall, and when she does, so will the rest of those cage-rattling do-gooders.” He clapped his hands suddenly. “So! You gonna get back to work then, or do I have to find another genius?”

Ford chuckled and Bill laughed, but made no move to leave, and kept staring at Ford expectantly. The amusement fizzled out of the air. Ford suddenly wondered if it had ever been there.

“Well, I was thinking I could get back to it tomo- later this morning,”

“Come on, Sixer, we’re so close! Don’t tell me you traversed the globe for this, only to give up now?”

“I don’t think it would be giving up-”

“No? Sure looks like it,”

Ford stared at Bill, floored. Bill’s expression was the same as always: friendly, encouraging, betraying none of his thoughts.

Slowly, he stood up. He walked back to the desk where the almost one-third of a gun was.

“I knew I could rely on you, buddy!” Bill praised (or perhaps crowed) from behind him. “You’ve got some insane dedication, I think it’s safe to say, which means that device should be raring to go in no time! Got it? This is your ticket to the stars, and my ticket to the throne. It’s going to be great. You’re doing me a huge favour, you know that? You’re one of a kind, Fordsy, one of a kind. Don’t prove me wrong! That head of yours has to be good for something, haha, you know I’m joking. Catch ya later! I reckon you’ll be about half done by then, whaddaya think?”

∆

One third complete. Fully complete, not almost complete. Ford did not consider it a victory. He did not spend too long thinking about why. There was nothing to be gained from that, anyway. Nothing that could be considered important right now, per se. Nothing that, while worthwhile to consider, could probably just be attributed to the stresses of directing an agency. Nothing that could not be overlooked in favour of the . . . probably overall good that would come of the invention. Nothing that –

Ford sighed. He had been staring uselessly at the wall for five minutes now.

It would be better to throw himself into the work, he considered.

∆

God I’m tired.

I need to try harder.

Bill is right, we have waited far too long for this device’s construction, and I need to complete it, although he could be more helpful. He has already shown how adept he is with the machines. There’ll be plenty of time for rest afterwards. What is a few hours’ sleep deprivation in the face of an invention that could change the world? This is a personal challenge that I am entirely willing to accept.

have reluctantly allowed myself a five-minute break to write an entry in this journal. It is this, or fall face-down, unconscious, onto my desk. I am determined that, after two weeks of often having to share a room with Stanley S who cares? that the next time I sleep, it will be snorelessly. Is that a word? silently.

His snoring was strangely reassuring, however. It certainly made things seem less alone, cold, and dark. Or perhaps that’s just what the basement is like all the time.

I may need to head upstairs for a meal soon. I have not eaten since breakfast with Stan yesterday. Stan was a good cook. He made pancakes. Stan made pancakes. Stancakes. I think it may have been inadvisable to become so reliant on him for food.

∆

But what did he mean? Ford unwillingly wondered for the umpteenth time. It was happening every few minutes now, as he impatiently waited for the precision machine to complete another task.

Bill said odd things every now and then. It was just something Ford had learned to live with. Why was he noticing it now?

The answer was obvious.

But then again, no, it was not. Ford might occasionally become irritated with some of his boss’s mannerisms (arrogance), or his way of working (uncommonly close-at-hand), however he had never before felt as uneasy as he did now. He had always had the idea in his mind that while Bill might be his employer, he afforded Ford the same amount of respect he received. That idea was diminishing.

Simple answer.

But was it?

Yes.

I’m noticing it now because I’ve seen what it’s like to be without it.

∆

My mind keeps returning to our goodbye. Stan said to make sure that I did not get too caught up in my work. More occasions than the present one apply to this statement: for instance, once in primary school I became completely engrossed in a science project. It was a volcano with real lava, all contained on a miniature island. When I was unable to test it properly on the day it was due, I found myself having a panic attack. Now, the entire affair seems inconsequential, especially with the threats problems I face in the present. It mattered a significant amount at the time, though, and fortunately Stan knew me far better than I knew my project. He was able to calm me down, and the next thing I knew, the presentation went off without a hitch.

I miss him. And his Stancakes.

I meant what I said when I saw him off at the airport: I was going to come see him when I finished the project.

All the more reason to finish it soon, then.

∆

Ford took the clock off the wall. It was distracting, not to mention discouraging.

∆

The machine was obviously not accustomed to being handled manually: it had made the circuit boards on its own far easier than it let Ford use it to arrange the delicate piece of filament at the end of the gun.

He could feel Bill watching over his shoulder every step of the way. It was like at any moment he was going to snatch control for himself. The tremor had moved to Ford’s stomach now, leaving his hands feeling slow and heavy. Tiny pinpricks of sweat were forming on his forehead, nose, eyes. His glasses were about to give way and fall straight onto the gun, effectively smashing to pieces all his hard work. The microscope lens Ford’s face was glued to in order to see what he was doing would not stand a chance at stopping it. The glasses would fall, and everything was doomed. He might as well accept it now. No. That would be giving up. He did not give up. Bill was unmoving. The damn machine was not tilting properly. The filament would undoubtedly be lost forever in the ensuing chaos brought on by Ford’s crappy eyesight. He had not breathed in for a while. His stomach was lurching now.

In a fit of desperation and frustration, he jerked the controls roughly forward.

Miraculously, the filament slid exactly into place.

“HAH!” Ford shouted – or tried to. There was no air in his lungs for that to happen.

He heaved in a huge breath, straightening up as he did so. His glasses fell forwards and made a gentle tap on the lens of the microscope. Ford laughed hysterically. Bill made no comment. He just stood to the side, silent and watchful.

“Four fifths of the way done!” Ford said cheerfully, turning to him. To empty space.

Bill had left hours ago.

The elevator rumbled down, grating on Ford’s nerves, depriving him of a momentary relief.

Bill caught sight of him and laughed briefly. “Well I can tell you’ve been working! Never seen anyone so tired they put their glasses on the wrong seeing-hole.” He gestured to the machine, which Ford’s glasses were comically hanging off.

“Ah! Yes,” Ford said brightly, jamming them back on his face.

“Almost done I see.” Bill said, looking hungrily at the almost-complete gun. “Let’s get that last stretch over with, pal! I gotta tell you, I am longing for a chance to try it out. You know, you should be proud. It was you who brought all this into being.” Bill swirled an upright finger around to encompass the general vicinity.

“I appreciate it,” Ford said, banging a hand down onto the table to emphasise his statement. The gun jumped half a foot into the air, making a loud clunk as it fell. Ford laughed again when it did not break. The thing was invincible!

“Good to see you’re finally gaining a sense of humour,” grinned Bill.

“Who are you going to test this on? Not me, I hope,” said Ford grinning equally wide. Everything seemed very hearty at the moment. He remembered this feeling – first from university, and now every so often from the five years he had been working with Bill.

“Oh no, Fordsy, you’re my number one! There have been a few pains in the neck hanging around though. I’m sure I can think of someone,”

Ford nodded in agreement. Bill was good at thinking.

“Anyway, time to make that bulb! You’ve got some shimmern to melt down and some specific heat calculations to redo. You see that there? You forgot the indices.” He pointed casually at a sheet of working paper.

Ford managed an acknowledgement through tightly grit teeth and a strained smile. It was becoming painful, actually. How did Bill keep it up all the time?

∆

There had been stabbing pains in his stomach a few hours ago. He only remembered them when he reached precisely twenty-four hours without food.

Coffee counted as food, Ford decided, heating up the kettle.

The kitchen was really bright and his eyes did not want to adjust. He squinted into the –

He glanced at the clock.

- eight AM light rebelliously.

Coffee in mouth.

HOT.

His legs felt really tired. He was fine, but his legs ached. So did his back. And arm muscles. And fingers. Taking a moment to sit down might be advisable.

Ooooohhh it was.

It was rather peaceful up here. Very quiet. Cool. The makeshift forge was making the basement incredibly hot, so until it was at the temperature it needed to be to melt shimmern, he would wait up here.

He should stretch out his neck more. A few cricks, but nothing too painful. It felt especially pleasant when he rolled his head forwards. Quite heavy, too. Maybe he would just lie on the table like this for a moment. Wait for the coffee to cool down. Wait for the forge to heat up . . .

Where are they?

There was blood everywhere, but no one in the chairs. No one in the room. A light was growing – a bright blue-white light. Not emanating from anywhere in particular. Just growing.

Someone shouted his name.

Fiddleford.

Was not with him. He must have found them. Ford turned to go.

There they were. All three of them. Standing just beyond the threshold of the door. They stared at him expressionlessly. Addi and Stan had bloodstains on their clothes. The ever-increasing light threw the colours into sharp relief. Everything trembled around the edges as though it was about to explode. Stan’s left hand was being held by someone he could not see. Fiddleford was looking at a photograph.

Where did you go?

"You were the one who left," said Addi.

A hum he had not noticed rose to a peak. He started forwards, needing to let her know he hadn’t, he was right here, he was going to see Stan so soon, he was going to ask Fiddleford to help on his next project, he was going to kiss her for real one day, he just needed some time, just a little –

A bulb exploded. Sparks. Silence. Dark.

Dark.

Laughing next to his ear.

He jerked upright, lashing out beside him, eyes wide despite the glaring light, but he was alone.

Ford gasped for breath. How long had he been asleep for? Sleeping was – was not good. He scrubbed his face with his hands and downed the cold coffee with a shudder. Better than nothing.

Looking at the clock, he saw it had only been ten minutes. Plenty of time. He had plenty of time. He was not even on a time limit. That was how much time he had.

∆

When shimmern melted, it glowed a bright yellow-white and radiated incredible heat. Ford had to wear goggles and gloves just so he could stand to be near it, and even then he was sweltering.

The lovely tear-shaped pendant gave him one last sparkle before it liquified completely. A flash of a playful grin danced in front of him, the memory of an immense wind determined to drive him back briefly hijacking his senses.

“So much for returning it,” Ford muttered.

“Oops, might’ve forgotten to mention that we needed to use all of it,” shrugged Bill from the other side of the glowing material. “Ah, memories, memories.” Before he sauntered away, he gave Ford a look that was all too piercing.

Then again, a voice in his head weakly protested, everything looks hazy over here. You might be seeing things.

Ford snorted. “I really need to talk to someone that I actually want around,” he informed the blazing liquid.

He grabbed the last machine from China and started to shape molten shimmern, steadfastly ignoring an image in his mind’s eye of Adeline smiling as he had tried to dismantle the very same device he was using.

∆

“Y’know Ivan, he’s really come through,” said Bill, raiding the fridge. “I thought for a while he was going to pull some crazy stunt-” he waved his hands around wildly – “but it looks like he held out. Our genius is back on track!”

“So the device is complete, then?” asked Ivan on the other end of the line.

“It will be. VERY soon. Ol’ Six-Fingers can be amazing if he’s pushed. So anyway, just calling to let ya know I don’t need you to, ah, how to put this delicately,” he swiped a hand across his neck, miming a beheading, “murder him painfully. I mean, I haven’t exactly been keeping everything under wraps lately, but like I said, no crazy stunts, ‘You betrayed me!’, yadda yadda yadda.”

“Very convenient, sir. Is there any word on your solution for the situation over here?”

“Oh, yeah, our very own Agent Marks should be touching down right . . . about . . .” Bill checked his watch theatrically, “now. Once she’s blown off a head or two, you rush to her place having heroically tracked her down with your fantastic FBI training and arrest her. Events, cover-ups revealed, bing, bang, boom, Oracle Division topples like dominoes. And then I’m free to put that memory gun to some use.”

∆

“Sixer!” No answer. Bill frowned and walked back downstairs. “Weren't you . . . hey, Sixer!” Again, no answer.

Bill moved decisively towards the basement entrance.

“Well, well, well, well, well. My memory gun finished yet?” Silence. The entire basement was still. All the lights were off, like they were no longer needed.

“Pines . . .” Bill growled. Not taking his eyes off the dark space ahead, he took out his phone and pressed and selected a contact to call. No answering phone rang, apart from on the other end of the line.

∆

Ford fumbled one-handed with the phone, managing to answer while keeping a set of bloodshot eyes on the road.

“Bill! Yes, I’m here,”

“No, y’see Sixer, that’s the problem. You really AREN’T,”

“The memory gun’s finished. It’s on the worktable. Do you need something? I’m a little preoccupied right now.” Should he be talking to his employer so disrespectfully? Welp, too late now.

He careened around a bend in a move he felt his brother would have been proud of.

“You’re testing my patience, Fordsy. I’m sure I don’t have to phrase my question, since it should be OBVIOUS,”

“I didn’t tell you? I swore I did.” Ford said, genuinely surprised. After a second’s reflection, he reconsidered his position. “Oh. No, I only thought about telling you. That was probably when I got into the car,”

He revved the El Diablo’s engine enthusiastically.

“I’m going to visit Stan,” he informed Bill lightly, speeding past the “Welcome to Gravity Falls” sign so fast it was a blur.

“Why,” stated Bill coldly, in a way which was very emphatically not a question.

“Because I said I would!” Shrugged Ford happily. “I like being around him. I don’t like being cut-off and alone. I think the Cipher Wheel could benefit from a new point of view! Also, I need to return his car.”

He might regret saying most of those things later. He did not at the present moment, however, which was the important thing. It really was amazing what thirty-two hours without sleep could do for an individual’s self-confidence. In fact, this had been nothing; he felt like he could continue without sleep for days more.

“This is a little off-the-rails for you, you gotta admit. Pretty unexpected. A bit of a crazy stunt, you might say,”

“I suppose so. I think I’m overdue, to be honest. I will see you in a few days, sir!”

“Oh, you never know. Anything could happen. For instance, I bet you’re going to receive one heck of a welcome in Sacramento!”

“I’d settle for anything at this point!”

They both laughed. And kept laughing. And laughed some more. Ford ran out of breath first.

“I suppose you gotta make a stand at some point, Stanford! Might wanna scout out the turf beforehand, though. Seeya, kid!”

∆

“Ivan! You remember what I said about painfully murdering Pines? Yeah, let’s do that. He’s headed your way, and I wouldn’t miss him if I were you. In fact, same goes for anyone who gets in your way. We’ve got the means to deal with the fallout now,”

The memory gun glinted as Bill turned it over in his hand.

#gravity falls #fanfiction #spy au #double o sixer au #stanford pines #bill cipher #blind ivan #adeline marks #stanley pines #fiddleford mcgucket #the cipher conspiracy #my writing #ford's survival instincts desert him when he's sleep deprived #so much insane laughter

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call-888-8sparky-blog · 7 years

Text

growing up

It’s a sunny Thursday afternoon. Your mother has just checked you out of your small, very poverty middle school. You’re sad you have to miss Mr. Mitch’s science class, but you know this is more important. The whole drive there she seems brighter, more optimistic about you. You know if she opens conversation with you her hopes will be crushed, so you don’t speak. It’s the least you can do for her.

You guys park the car behind the orange wooden house and make your way up to the entrance. You see your outline in the screen door behind your mother; you don’t look any better from last time. You certainly don’t feel any better from last time. But you go in anyway and sit on the horribly stitched too low-to-the-ground vomit-green couch with your sweet tired mother. You always get there ten minutes early with her, but if it eases her worries you let it happen. On good days you’ll sit and talk with her in the car until it’s time, which you think is more effective than the actual professional sessions. But today isn’t a good day. So you sit in silence in the waiting room.

You entertain yourself by looking around the room, seeing if Mrs. Kim got any new kids self-help books that make these things simple to understand. The window shows the big, peaceful trees that block any idea of this place being right by a busy intersection. You wish you were outside with those trees, to just think in peaceful solitude and quiet. It seems like you never have enough time to yourself; to organize your chaotic thoughts. Maybe you can’t organize them at all, who knows?

A girl walks out into the waiting room with her father. It looks like she had been crying. You never cry in your sessions. Are you supposed to? Something terrible probably happened to her. Nothing terrible has ever happened to you. So why are you here? Dad is probably right; you’re making it all up. After all, objectively, you have a great life. Your parents give you everything you need and most things you want. And how do you repay them? By staying in your room all day, quietly crying until you’re so exhausted you pass out- or by immersing yourself into worlds that aren’t real. It’s a matter of will, you’re just too lazy to get up and go out and make yourself happy. You’re a faker.

A couple of minutes go by, and Mrs. Kim walks into the waiting room. Her round face makes a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. She’s wearing that purple sweater that really highlights how much she isn’t wearing a bra. Combined with her crazy white hair, she really looks like a emotional let’s-talk-about-it child therapist. But you’ve never really been a child, have you? Whatever may or may not be wrong with you made you grow up quickly. Not that it really matters now.

Your darling mother kisses your forehead goodbye, and leaves through the front door. Mrs. Kim asks what you would like to do today with her fake smile. You think she doesn’t really know what to do with you, since you don’t think or act like a kid, and you don’t have some dramatic event to talk about. You don’t mind just doing whatever for an hour, but you’d rather do it at home without an old illogical hippie hovering over you the whole time, or having to make your mother take off work an hour early to pay $20 for you to essentially pet a cat and feel better for about 30 minutes afterward. Speaking of the cat, where is Marvin? As soon as the thought had formed in your head, you see his long orange coat slowly strutting it’s way down the hall. Cat’s always calm you, though Marvin doesn’t come close to Kitty. Kitty’s fully black, so he makes you feel unique and edgy like Emily the Strange. You quietly make your way to the main room; you don’t particularly want to play with toys in the toy room or actually talk in the overly blue, calming, all around trying-too-hard therapy room. So you opt for the couch in the bright orange main room, sitting across from a big wooden where you can draw if you wish. You like drawing, but there’s always ways you can make your work better and it’s never good enough. So you try to redraw parts of you work and it ends up worse than before and you ask yourself “Why is it never good enough? This is your fault? Why can’t you make it better? Why can’t you just be satisfied?” any you cry and tear it up or burn it and then cry harder because you’re still kind of hopeful you can make it better and you spent so much time on it and you want to be proud of it but something is stopping you.

In fact, you feel this way about everything you do or try to do (including what you’re writing right now). You won’t be drawing today.

Mrs. Kim asks what happened to your face. You tell her what you told your mother; that you don’t know. You kept your explanation vague in hopes it would help you out somehow. You were never a good liar. But, to be fair you never liked your face anyway.

But you messed up. You had rolled up your sleeves while walking to the main room. She asks again about the particularly nasty number you scratched onto the back of your forearm. You feel Marvin leap up onto you start kneading your fat, disgusting thighs. God, you can’t even self-harm correctly. You’re so fucking pathetic. There’s no way you can lie your way out of this one.

So Mrs. Kim tells your mother and your mother quits taking you to Mrs. Kim since it clearly isn’t helping, and I guess your mother wants to feel like she can control whatever problem you have, so she just takes you out of therapy and hovers even more so all your precious alone time to cry is taken away except for when you take showers, and because of the accumulation of emotions showers were usually a new circle of hell and left you more broken and lethargic than before.

I guess our mother decided that she was satisfied with her job of fixing you, or at least making sure you wouldn’t hurt yourself (or maybe you just got good at lying?), so your dear loving parents took a weekend to do who-remembers-what; it doesn’t matter. You sit in front a screen until your brain is mush, and suddenly the whole house had turned dark. It was bright when they left. Time doesn’t really matter for you since every second you spend here is essentially going to waste. You find you fathers beside clock. Christ, it’s 1:03 am. Your house is so quiet. You lay on your parents perfectly made bed and stare at the ceiling. Your mind is too exhausted and numb to form any thoughts you can grasp onto except one. You know the one. It’s always in the back, but never in the center of your mind like it is now and never sounded quite so appealing, and, quite frankly, like the most logical thing to do. You’ve thought about this before, and sleeping pills always seemed like the best way to go; to just slow down until everything stops and you’re ‘asleep’. So you walk in a trance to your parents medicine cabinet. They aren’t there, so you look in your medicine cabinet and the house in general. Also no luck. You feel yourself becoming illogically frustrated, like a child who didn’t get a toy that he wanted on a trip to the supermarket. You throw everything out of the medicine cabinet and bathroom, and sink to the cold linoleum floor in tears.

But you (I, we) comfort you, and tell you you’re strong. It might be harder, and hurt more, you can still do it. It’s the least you can do for everyone; mom, dad, Cait. So you go through the mental list of alternate options you made in your head. You decide to be selfish and burdensome one last time. You’d like to die in your parents room; it’s less scary that way. As for the method, well, you’re a coward are okay with leaving a mess in exchange for a quick death. You take your daddy’s pistol out from his bedside table; and unholster, cock, turn off the safety, and aim. I guess the “you” in there used the last of their strength to fight back and sudden moment of clarity hits you - this won’t help anyone. But of course the thought still won’t go away. So a silent blitzkrieg goes on in your head and you cry because you don’t know who to listen to. You want to listen to yourself, you so very desperately want to believe your friends will miss you and your family won’t be the same and the world will be a darker place without you and that someone, anyone wants you and needs you and can help you. But these thoughts are still there, and they won’t just let you go and be happy, and you can’t force them out or bargain with them (yourself). So you sit on the itchy carpet and cry hysterically with a gun in your hand until your body and mind are too exhausted to keep going. What was once a battlefield in your head had died down to silent glares. But you’re still being coaxed into doing it, and it’s been two hours of this struggle you can’t take it. As a last ditch effort, you try to text some free therapist on the internet (you hate making calls and hearing your own voice or making a big deal of it and calling attention to yourself). They tell you that they can’t help you since you’re under 18, and you cry more. You don’t want to die, you truly don’t. You’re laying on the carpet now, staring at the gun in your hands, right by your head. Its 3:21 am now. Why can’t you just do this one last thing? This is the nicest thing you can do for the people you say you love, but you’re too weak a selfish to do even this. You’ll only make everyone hate you more by staying, you spoiled ungrateful bitch, so why haven’t you done it already?

Your phone dings. A friend, Nate, has sent you a link to a song. He usually stays up late and trades music with you. He’s part of what you consider your close group of friends (even though they all secretly hate you), and you even kinda have a crush on him (not that anyone could really love or even want you though).

His text surprises you, so much so that the internal struggle pauses for a moment to look at what’s happening in the real world. In this small moment of clarity, you ask him if you can call and that it’s an emergency. You do this quickly in hopes that you (I) would still be too shocked to notice what you were doing, but that was a pretty stupid strategy since I am you, and can see everything you do and think. Just make it till he responds.

He doesn’t respond, but instead just calls. You answer, and tell him you want to kill yourself but the gun is too heavy. He cries and asks you to put it back and call your mom. You do, but stay on the line for while until it all calms down. It’s 3:49 am now and you repeatedly call your mother. She picks up after the third call and you tell her what happened. She sobs like Nathan did and says that they’re coming home and to hold on till then. You feel guilty for ruining their vacation and you can feel your father getting irritated and exasperated however-many miles away. Nathan asks you to keep texting him until your parents are back. You do. Both the “you’s” in your head have gone completely silent. You’re relieved; it’s like having two parents fighting into the wee hours of the night in your head and you’ve finally decided to sneak out to go hide in your childhood clubhouse and sleep till morning. You fall asleep on the itchy carpet. The gun is in the cabinet.

You’re awoken by your parents unlocking the front door. Your mother hugs you, and she fixes everything the right way this time. You’re prescribed Zoloft, and there was a new therapist for a while - but you left quickly since there wasn’t anything to talk about. You wounds have healed, you don’t cry, and you’re still reclusive and that concerns your mother, but you think she knows deep down that it’s over, and that you’re okay.

#depression #it gets better #suicide #self-harm #selfharm #self harm #god im nervous about posting this #man this is so edgy too #oh well #im doin it #triggerwarning #trigger warnings are dumb tho i just dont wanna get hated on #dont romanticize this #it was rly bad just wanna get it out there and away from me #its all a-ok now

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