#LIKE YOURE GOING TO BE HOSPITALIZED PLEASE NEVER MAKE COLD PROCESS SOAP AGAIN

[paranoidgemsbok]

I can't stop thinking about this reddit post on soapmaking dude

I cannot express what an insane recipe that is. No one else could grasp it either

Like beeswax doesn't. It kinda just stays as beeswax in the soap. The lye has nowhere to go with it. That liquid seeping out of the soap? The brown and clear drops?? That's lye. That's straight up lye. This mf made the soap equivalent of the Chernobyl elephants foot.

#AND I ASKED THEM WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AND THEY TOLD ME THEY WERE DRUNK AND USED WHATEVER THEY HAD ON HAND #LIKE YOURE GOING TO BE HOSPITALIZED PLEASE NEVER MAKE COLD PROCESS SOAP AGAIN #a good grade in posting

[haikyuuhimbosandhypebeasts]

Heliotrope

Here’s my submission for the Forget Me Not collab for Anisylum! Please note the TW as it is VERY heavy. This piece is entirely SFW though!

Ship: Tsukishima Kei x GN! Reader Genre: Angst, but some fluff in some places. Word Count: 2.2k  Trigger/Content Warnings: near death experience, hospitalization, COVID-19, vomit mention, amnesia after hospitalization, a suicide attempt is briefly mentioned, swearing because this is by me Sexy Sexy Masterlist: here!

Sand clung to skin and the harsher rays of light that usually cascaded and burnt you had died away into a fading tangerine glow. You perched comfortably on the sand, taking note of the undulating waves- they were like you in the sense that while you could crash down hard on the opposition, you would shy away in a fragile manner when faced with gentle treatment. Perhaps it was that you felt you weren’t worth such luxuries that you found it hard to make friends through your first few years of high school. Perhaps it was trying to push people away because you were afraid yet alarmingly aware of your mortality. Perhaps it was something else entirely, something you weren’t quite ready to come to terms with. What you did know was that you weren’t alone in the violent struggle through high school to make friends while you had your walls up. Next to you was someone you never thought you’d share your favorite place with; in any terms you found this boy appalling with his behavior. So appalling, you saw yourself in the way he closed himself off and cut those close with tongue lashings. You knew this only through another friend who took issue with him as you went to another school in an entire other prefecture. Words mauled their way out from your throat, breaking the silence between you and Tsukishima Kei. “I won’t ask you why you tried to do what you did today. But I will ask if there’s anyone you can talk to in your life.” You didn’t understand yourself. Why would you say that…? You don’t remember anything like this at all… His response was equally incoherent and odd. “Okay, but I’ll kill you if you go back on it.” When you opened your mouth to reply to him, the ground around you suddenly reared up like a defensive serpent. A pillar of beach sand forced its way from the ground into your throat, suffocating and trapping your lungs in permanent fullness. You could only gag and cry, unable to even see Tsukishima past the torrent of sand breaking into your body with the intent to kill you slowly…

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You woke up once more in that dull grey-blue and white room with the only sounds you could properly process being the beep of a heart monitor somewhere behind you. You had managed to halfway curl into somewhat resembling the fetal position, but something kept making you cough and gag as your throat was caught. You move your hand to whatever is catching and about to make you vomit- a tube. This tube, you followed, was in your nose good and solid, and you felt it deep enough in your sinuses you didn’t dare try to pull it out. Moving your hands felt foreign like you had forgotten how to process being human and natural motions like that. You testingly ran your right hand down the tube, taking care to not tug and cause discomfort. Your other hand came to rest on your face. It was slick from sweat, likely due to whatever the fuck you just had a dream about. At the corner of your lips was another tube and when you followed where it led it was taped to the side of your face. You lick your lips and manage to almost fall into a haze until you see movement for the first time in what feels like forever. To be fair, it is one of the most jarring appearances of a person you’ve seen in your whole life to what you can recall. A person in a full-body hazmat suit enters your room through a door you hadn’t even processed was there, then greets you as casually as they can through a plague-resistant suit. “Hey there.” You squint at them. Yeah, you have no fucking idea who this cosplayer in a hospital is, and while you should probably be polite, you feel like you got ran over not once but twice.  You try to speak to them, but you can’t. You don’t have the air for it, it’s like you have no control over your breathing. Clarity washes over you. You’re hospitalized. These are tubes because you were asleep and weren’t breathing or eating right. The realization must show on your face because your nurse speaks up again. “Don’t worry about me too much, we’re just gonna check your vitals and if you feel up to it, we can see how you do without the ventilators.” You try to manage out a “whoopee”, which unimpressively comes out as some form of odd wheeze, and your nurse begins by grabbing the blood pressure cuff covered in protective plastic while they wear a sympathetic expression.

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Once you were off the ventilator, the nurse informed you about what had happened. Apparently, an ambulance was called when you were unresponsive and nearly blue in the face, sitting in front of your refrigerator with the door open. You were diagnosed with a severe case of COVID-19, something you had feared would wipe you out entirely and turn you past tense since its spread in your country. This fear wasn’t entirely irrational, either- you were immunocompromised and have been since you were a child. You grew up with being careful around others and hearing of a highly contagious new strain was something that filled you with so much paranoia you seriously considered quitting your current career and instead adopting a hermit lifestyle while completing college at home. Of course, such a thought was squashed by the slowly impending thought of rent, bills, due dates for assignments, and your bitch of a manager who lets people get close to you without a mask on. It’s not a big deal, (y/n), she once said to you. You wanted to shoehorn some tubes down her throat just to survive, see how that felt. It didn’t help that human resources wouldn’t listen to your complaint. They brushed it off since you were just a lowly sandwich maker at a chain sub place. If you had enough scraped together for lawyers right about now, they’d be totally fucked, you thought to yourself. Even more jarring is that it seemed you lost a handful of memories while in the hospital. You could remember basic outlines of people in your head- your very tall and incredibly testy roommate, your younger sister who wore glasses and was much smaller than you, and… a foggy memory of a man with messy black bedhead who had an arm wrapped around your shoulder. It hurt to think too hard. The doctor soon came by to give you test results, to check your vitals again, and to look over your records. He was a bit terse, but you can’t make the best judgments of people when they’re in plastic suits. “We’ll need to get you cleaned up by tomorrow and you should be able to head home,” he’d said, looking over your chart. You didn’t necessarily feel too ecstatic about your trip to your apartment. You remembered your roommate and how finicky he was, and you dreaded for him to belittle you over your condition. You dreaded it enough to even feel a knot of anxiety form in your stomach, wrenched in between your ribs without the intent of ever coming out. “We’ve already contacted uh…” The doctor squints at the screen, “Tsukishima… to come to pick you up tomorrow at noon. We’ll have care instructions printed out. You still have to quarantine for about a week more since your immune system isn’t at its most prime currently.” You agreed, it probably wasn’t a good recovery idea to make a couple of sammies for the public while you were recovering from a virus that had you intubated. He seemed grateful that you were lucid and cooperative, at least.

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You, predictably, didn’t sleep well after being in a medically induced haze for several days. Even more predictably, you found yourself awake from anxieties of the future. Tomorrow was only a few hours away, and then you’d be home. Home… what did that look like for you? The fog in your head was thick initially. You do remember coming home from classes at a different time than Tsukishima, how when you entered he’d often be reading over homework. You remembered how sometimes he would be in the shower and the scent of cheap green apple soap filled the living room connected to it. You remembered… You remembered holding his thin frame in your arms on a bridge, pulling him back from oncoming traffic. You remember how you both collapsed and how the cold autumn air stung your lungs. You remember wide golden eyes staring back at you, as tears slowly filled them, then his normally impartial voice breaking as he hiccuped a sob, “Why? Why did you have to be in Sendai right now?” You felt tears stinging your eyes and a lump form in your throat. You found yourself in distress of your new emotions. Maybe… maybe you can sleep this horrible feeling off. Maybe this fog in your head where you need to know how deep your relationship ran will lift once you get genuine sleep.

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Finally, a knock on the door encouraged you to rouse from your sleeping state. And eloquently, you spoke your true feelings in your sleep-deprived state,  “No.” You hear the doorknob turn and the door open. There’s a lack of a greeting from your nurse nor a quick apology from your doctor for interrupting your sleep. Actually, if you’re gonna use logic, what nurse or doctor is gonna wake up their peacefully sleeping patient in recovery? Thought of it being your doctor or nurse practically evaporates once the intruder has a seat on your bed. They still haven’t spoken, so now you’re remembering what tricks of self-defense you learned online to give this person a proper ass-kicking for getting way too close. You crack your hazy eyes open to get a look at where they’re sitting and you stop dead in your thoughts as wary gold eyes peer down at you. Your eyes widen out of reflex and butterflies bloom from your stomach at seeing what you now remember is your roommate. “I knew you were awake,” He said, a wry smile on his face. His expression was betrayed by his concerned gaze, though, “Wow, you look like shit.” You don’t know entirely why past his comment feeling not as an insult, but almost as a compliment, but you smile a little, “I feel like it too.” His expression doesn’t change. He runs a large calloused hand through the tresses of your hair, though, as if to soothe you. The doctor walked in and apologized for interrupting the moment between the two of you, unsure if it was something serious. You told him it was nothing because that’s what it was to you.

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The car ride wasn’t filled with the snarky banter you had been expecting. Instead, there was plentiful comfortable silence as Tsukishima drove. You didn’t know whether to be grateful or not for the silence- you still felt quite feeble and needed way more bed rest before you could get ready to do anything for anyone. Despite the wholesome silence, you felt those round gold eyes focus on you occasionally. And even though it was comfortable, you felt a melancholy twinge in the atmosphere as he inspected you. “I know you’ll give me shit for this… but you look like you’ve lost weight. I uh…” He gripped the steering wheel harder. You glanced over at him. A shade of baby pink dusted itself across his cheekbones and nose as he focused on the road. “I’m worried about you.” Fuck, there go those butterflies again. Something in you pushed to help- to comfort- but the logical side of your brain brought you to a halt. You’d weighed it in your head a couple of times. You two act closer than just roommates, and it’s not entirely clear how or why you got up to this point… but you had a solid hunch you might be dating this guy. Maybe? You closed your eyes and rested your head on the car door as you thought. You remember how sand clung to your body and you could hear the roaring of the sea. How you watched Tsukishima focus on the waves to regulate his breathing. You vaguely remember your words breaking away from your throat and catching the salty sea air. “Why don’t we stay together?” His lanky body stiffened, then he looked at you with disbelief. “... you wouldn’t want that. I’m fucking annoying and mean.” Your eyes creased with familiarity at the line. “Yeah? So am I. We can butt heads until we balance each other out.” It looked like he wanted to cry, but his pride wouldn’t let him cry in front of you anymore today. “I won’t ask you why you tried to do what you did today. But I will ask if there’s anyone you can talk to in your life,” you reached a careful hand over to rub his back, “Kei, if there isn’t, let me be that person.” You felt how his breath shuddered. To save his pride, you looked to the ocean and watched its hypnotic movements. After a few deep, shaky inhales and exhales, he replied. “I don’t understand why you’re being nice to me. Why you didn’t let me die. I will probably come back to this point in my life several times and you’re trying to say you’ll put up with it?” There was some bite to his tone, he was trying so hard to put up walls when he had no will to do so at the moment. How long had he pushed others away from being close? If he was anything like you… it was since grade school. “Let me be your support for when you’re in pain,” You tried once more, “I’m stubborn as shit so I know I won’t give up on you.” “You’re not getting it, you fucking idiot. I’m always in pain, that’s just been life,” he snapped bitterly, glaring at you now.  “Then I guess I’ll be by your side forever.” You’d said it without thinking that day. It was like the ocean grew quieter with your words as if even Poseidon became interested in your proposition. You felt heat rise to your face at the implications of what you said. He stared at you with raised eyebrows and the slightest hint of a champagne pink hue on his face. He averted his eyes almost in a panic and watched the ocean again, suddenly very aware of his own expression. You carefully peered over at him again to see he’d only grown redder, now mirroring you. “You… don’t mean that,” He said as if it were a statement. “I do. You’re a good person inside, but you’re defensive and hurt. I’ve seen that from you in the past and I’ve learned more about you today. I want to be there for you as long as you’ll have me. Will you let me?”  He picked at the sand as if thinking it over for a moment. There was a brief pause as waves rolled over each other in front of both of you, the sound of their impact being the only thing to grace your ears. Finally, his cynical tone returned as he regained some form of his prior composure. “Okay, but I’ll kill you if you go back on it.”

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“Hey. (Y/n), we’re home,” Tsukishima gently shook your shoulder to rouse you from your sleep. You opened your eyes slowly and groaned out a swear. Tsukishima felt a hesitant smile creep up his face as he opted to just try and maneuver you into your shared home himself. He remembered how waking up was hard for you. Once he opened the passenger door you nearly fell out onto the pavement, only saved by your seatbelt and the giant himself. Your face fell awkwardly into his hip, and you grumbled at the interruption to your sleep. “You sleep like the fucking dead, christ,” he mused out loud and sat you up so it was safe to unbuckle your seatbelt. He urged you to get up more- it wasn’t that you were heavy, he just really wasn’t in the place to lift you at the moment and didn’t even know how to go about it. Regardless, he held you up by a shoulder and crouched to make it easier for you both to walk to the apartment. In some part of your sleep, you began to speak, “Kei.” He kept his gaze trained forward at the front door and struggled to grab his keys from his pocket, “Yes?” “Are we married?” Kei dropped his keys, then shot you a look of concern, “... No…?” He had to hold himself back from saying not yet, unsure of what you were getting to. He reached down to grab his keys and he focused back on the door. “Why are you asking?” He unlocked the door and threw it open, getting you both inside finally. He set you on your couch and sat on the floor in front of you. You looked at him suspiciously, now roused from your sleep. The only thing on your mind was that dream- it had to be a memory! You refused to understand it as anything but that. You prodded, “On the beach, I told you I’d be by your side forever.” He seemed to weigh your thoughts heavily in his mind, “... did you forget about us?” You didn’t expect what felt like cold water to hit your back so hard and so suddenly at his suggestion. He didn’t seem hurt at the thought, instead, he found himself occupied with your reaction. His hand reached out to rub the side of your face as you looked at him with wide, guilty eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Your sister told me this kind of thing might happen…” His calloused thumb traced over your lip, and he offered a smile the best he could, “I’ll try to explain it.” Tsukishima explained that what you remembered happened about four years ago and you had been living together ever since. He motioned to photos on the walls of the two of you and people who you could just hardly remember. When you rested your index finger on an individual who was much scrawnier than most of the people there, sitting on the bench with you and watching you speak with admiration, Tsukki put his hand over yours. “That’s your sister. She took most of these pictures, but she usually sits next to you when you have a space available.” You nodded and closed your eyes. You began to remember summers you spent with her in childhood and her yelling at you to do your homework when you bothered her as you got older. You smiled a bit. Once your eyes opened again, your finger traveled to possibly the tallest person in the room. He was big, but you remembered something warm and comfortable about that man… “That’s Kuroo. You both went to the same high school and you were in his friend group.” You both went on like that for a while until you’d cleared everyone in that picture. Once you did, you sat down to think over the new cluster of names you’d picked up. “... when you promised you’d be here with me forever, did you remember what I promised to you?” Kei asked as he sat next to you. “No… I just remember what happened on the beach up until you threatened to kill me if I took back my promise.” “Oh, right. I was going through that phase,” He seemed displeased with the comment. You found it almost funny but refrained from laughing for his sake. He continued, in a quieter tone, “I promised that if something happened to you, that I would always be here for you, too. That I’d get you back into shape.” His larger hand gently entwined with yours, “... so if you remember that promise and you’ll have me, I’d love to marry you once you get your memories back. … If you want to. I-” You cut him off with a hug to his side, trembling a bit as your emotions got the better of you. You smiled up at him. “I can’t promise I’ll be better fast, and I still feel like several trucks ran through me at once… but I’m happy,” you managed out. You didn’t know what your face looked like right about now and you didn’t have the nerve to look up into Kei’s glasses to check your reflection. He wrapped his arms around you in return, pressing the side of his face against your head. “Please, don’t give me an answer yet. You’re not in the right mental state. I’ll wait for you until you’re ready.” You ran your hands up and down his back. You weren’t exactly afraid of remembering things, but you were quite anxious for what tomorrow might bring for both of you. Despite that, you felt safe recovering in his arms, and you were sure you’d feel that way for a long time.

Have a link to the sexy sexy masterlist down here as well. Unless you’re done reading, then have a good day. But if you’re not there’s some fire stuff in that bad boy.

#fanfic #tsukki #tsukishima #hq #x reader #tsukishima x reader #angst #fluff #collab #anisylum #sfw #tw near death #tw hospital #tw hospitalization #tw covid #tw memory loss #tw suicide attempt #tw suicide #cw swearing #i could be convinced to make a part two in the future #forget me not #heliotrope

[whump-town]

The Slow Crawl Back to Normal

This is the really long fic I wrote to connect the episodes in season five following Foyet’s attack. As there is a whole month between the episode 5x01 “Nameless, Faceless” and 5x02 “Haunted”. So, naturally, I can’t stand to let all the possible whump go unwritten. However, I am not amused with the material I have produced. I did write is so it is to your own discretion that you read it. Good luck

Word Count:  7870

Getting into all of this, there had been a level of expected conflict. Seven people, six of which are heavily conflicted with a broad spectrum of emotions about one of the others. Luckily, Reid’s managed to procure a little of that attention (mercilessly, really).

That doesn’t stop them, entirely.

Emily Prentiss blinks once, twice at the bulging supply bag in Penelope Garcia’s hands. The two stare at each other from where they stand. A distinct air of mischief in the room, the lightest thing to ghost through all day. And Emily lets herself immerse fully into that hope. Into its ease. “I thought I said only the important things,” she chides softly.

Garcia looks down at the bag in her hands and frowns. Setting it down beside Hotch’s leg, Garcia opens it with a distinctly sassy motion. “It is only the important things,” she defends. She opens the bag to allow Emily to look in and as she pulls it open Emily can smell Hotch. His soap and detergent soaked into the old beige sweater sitting at the top of the bag. Even in the thick cabin socks tucked into the spare spaces. “I had to pack his winter clothes,” Garcia explains. “He gets cold easily, you know that.”

Hotch does stay relatively cold most of the time. Which is how it’s so effortless for him to stay tucked under all the layers of his suits. Emily is glad someone thought of that in the face of all this madness. The paper-thin, rough blankets the nurses are allowing him now aren’t going to be very much help. They’ve all shared a room with him before. He requires several layers of blankets to sleep.

Something green catches her eye and without thinking, Emily reaches in. “What’s--” Emily moves the sweater aside and Garcia swiftly shuts the sides of the bag around Emily’s hand.

Garcia glances at Hotch and then back to Emily, whispering loudly, “that is his underwear. You can’t look at them.”

Emily tries to hide her amused smile. It’s cute, alright? Big bad Aaron Hotchner having his modesty protected by Garcia. “Alright,” Emily backs down, pulling her hand back away from the bag. “Did you bring me anything?” she asks.

Garcia nods, smiling once again bright in place. “I come with…” Garcia turns to the shoulder bag she has, pulling it around to her front. “Books!” She spreads out the pickings and Emily realizes these are Hotch’s books. Because one, even the books that are essentially just decoration they’ve been sitting on her shelves for so long, she still knows their titles. And two, the books are old classic romance novels. Pride & Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, and Jane Eyre. She would never seek out these sorts of books on her own.

There’s also the additional proof that she’s seen them in his boxes. He’s been in his current apartment for months and he’s still hardly put away a thing that doesn’t get immediate, daily use. She’d been there to help him move and had refrained from commenting on the fact that he buckled the coffee maker into the front seat so it wouldn’t fall over. Which had forced her to sit in the back seat (which might have been punishment for making fun of his “dad” jeans). So, she’d also opened his other boxes to help along the unboxing process and quickly sidetracked so she could bully him for his library.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Emily says, taking them with a grateful smile and presses a quick kiss to Garcia’s cheek. “What would we do without you?” Emily thumbs through the old novels distractedly and wonders what she’s going to learn from these books. Never mind, she already knows: that H0tch is an old boring romantic.

Which is also cute but she refuses to acknowledge that for too long.

“How is he?” Garcia asks.

Her tone is so hopeful that it makes Emily’s throat tight. The truth is grim. And her duty is to the truth but Garcia is all of the light of this job. Her hope and smile is always what greets them when they come home. In the times in which she falls, they’ve found themselves bathed in the darkest nights. Not a star in sight. Clouds hovering overhead. There is so much to consider and no time to dwell.

Emily never has to answer her.

“Sir!”

His head turns sluggishly to them, eyes moving around the rest of him as he takes in everything. Slowly, they slide back to them but he doesn’t ask where he is or what happened. He looks them both over. Typical Hotch behavior to take stock of a situation and then do little visual check-ins to comb them over for injuries. Even though he’s the one laid up in the hospital. “Hello,” he hoarsely greets. His pale lips curl up, a soft smile he has afforded only her. He can always do that one little thing for Penelope Garcia. But he can’t hold it for long and with a tired sigh, his lips fall to his more natural grimace. His blinks are slowing in rate, his eyelids already dropping again.

Although, yesterday, the doctor had been sympathetic to his situation today she is not. She’d allowed him to forgo from taking stronger doses of morphine and sedatives so that he might fight his body and stay awake long enough to say goodbye to Haley and Jack. The three different states of panic he’d worked himself into were enough not to allow her to make that mistake again.

Today, as drowsy and inactive as he has been, he has remained calm. Only waking once in a state of panic early this morning, writhing in pain and crying out softly for Haley.

“Garcia was just dropping some stuff off,” Emily informs him. “Some clean clothes so you can change out of this gown.” But she’s Emily Prentiss and she can’t stop there. “Not that I’m sure the nurses don’t love seeing your ass every time you go to the bathroom.” She looks far too pleased as she remembers-- “Oh and she was totally bragging about being able to go through your underwear drawer. She was just showing me a pair of your boxers when you woke up-- Ow!” Emily is taken by complete surprise when Garcia hits her.

Garcia red in the face vehemently denies this false claim. “I would never do that, sir! I did have to look inside the drawer but I promise I tried to keep my eyes closed so I wouldn’t see everything! I hardly saw anything at all! Just--”

“Garcia. Garcia?”

She comes to a stuttering halt, face still very flushed.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Hotch clarifies with a tired sigh. “Prentiss just has a flair for tall tales.” He says this under his breath, his eyes falling shut. It takes him a long moment but he manages to blink them back open. A few rapid shallow blinks as he forces himself to stay awake just a little longer.

Emily scowls down at him but she can’t really be mad. Not him, not when he’s like this. “I do not have a flair for tall tales,” her voice turns to a childish taunt near the end. Finishing it off with an eye roll and softly knocking the back of her hand against his.

It earns her a sleepy little huff and just the faintest smirk.

Garcia feels a little better having seen this demonstration. As the one left searching hospitals for news on him, half expecting someone to eventually break the news of his death to her, she’s relieved. No one has given her good news in two days. She hadn’t been able to leave the office yesterday in time to make visitor’s hours. All she knew is what Morgan had told her from yesterday: that he was agitated and weak.

Weak. Her boss? No. Her Aaron Hotchner is strong and brave and maybe a little sad but he doesn’t deserve this.

“Garcia?”

She looks up, taken aback by how softly her name comes out of his mouth. “Yes, sir?”

“Thank you for finding me.”

Tears gather in her eyes and she steps around Emily to squeeze his hand. “Of course, sir.” Then leaning down to kiss his temple, she adds. “Just in case though, I’m going to put a tracker in your underwear. I can’t have you all running off on me, okay?”

He makes one of those signature Hotch grunts, a soft noise that comes from the back of his throat.

“I love you, sir.”

If he finds anything in his boxers, he’ll consider that a lie.

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

Aaron Hotchner may be sedated and spending roughly 75% of the last three days hazing in and out of sleep but he’s not stupid. He’s been a profiler for the better part of a decade, longer really, and he didn’t just bat his eyelashes to work his way up to Unit Chief. “You’re angry,” he says.

Dave and Emily have been shouldering the majority of his visiting hours. Everyone has stopped by (even Reid, though it was two in the morning and that was an unapproved meeting) and continues to stop by but seemingly out of duty rather than because they want to see him. Not that Hotch can really blame them. He’s seen himself in the mirror, he’s not looking too hot.

Today is Dave’s day and he’s been with Hotch since seven-thirty this morning. Long enough to watch Hotch sip at some apple juice and neglect the chicken broth he was supposed to have for lunch. His lack of appetite is starting to become a problem and that is what Hotch assumes Dave is frustrated with. Reasonably, Hotch does know he needs to try a little harder but apple juice got boring two days ago and he’s not really a fan of room temperature soup.

Looking up from his Sudoku, Dave sighs. An obvious tell. He straightens the spine of his book. “I’m not.”

Hotch grunts, so he is mad. They’ve had this conversation enough over the years for Hotch to be able to tell.  If Dave weren’t mad he would have spent more time clarifying he’s not mad at Hotch, not denying it. Rightfully, Dave always assumes first and foremost that Hotch thinks he’s mad with him. Which is fair because, right now, Hotch is fairly certain Dave is mad at him.

The sound of his grunt makes Dave look up and Dave finds himself looking at the side of Hotch’s head. The younger man avoiding his gaze. Fuck. Sighing, Dave places his pen in the middle of the pages and puts the book down. Way to go, Dave chides himself. Now he’s going to have to backpedal. Might as well call Emily now and tell her to come in and sit here with him. But that would only make matters worse. Then Hotch would have damning proof Dave is mad at him.

“I’ll-- I’ll try harder,” Hotch whispers, scratching dully at one of the bandages wrapped around his forearm. “I will.”

Dave leans forward in his chair, head hitting the palms of his hands with a groan. Does this nonsense ever get easy? “I”m not mad at you, Aaron.” He rubs at his face, around his eyes until he can sit back up. He’s not mad at Aaron, really. He’s fucking livid with George Foyet. With Hotch’s landlord who Derek has been on the phone with for the last two days arguing about nothing and everything. He annoyed with this hospital and the stupid rules but he’s not mad at Hotch.

Dave can tell Hotch doesn’t believe him. “Aaron,” Dave calls softly. He reaches out and puts his hand on Hotch’s thigh, pushing a little to get his attention. “I promise I am not mad at you, alright? You’re doing great.” That’s not really proof. In all honesty, now Dave’s thinking about how all this could have been avoided. If he’d just left Hotch in Seattle all those years ago. Someone would have taken him, surely, he was too good for that office but if Dave had left him for someone else they wouldn’t be here.

Haley and Aaron might still be married.

“If I was mad at you,” Dave asks, “would I have asked Derek to bring you better soup and popsicles?” He forces himself not to react when Hotch glances over after hearing popsicles. “Those little plastic ones that you like--” Dave knows the name but he’s baiting him.

“The colorful ones?”

Dave nods, “yes, those.” He’s not sure what kind of soup Derek’s bringing, likely just whatever is offered at whatever takeout place he stops at. But they are getting the popsicles. They had been the only thing in Hotch’s fridge. Garica had been appalled by this when she told him.

“It was empty, Rossi! Old coffee creamer, a half-gallon of oat milk, and popsicles. That’s it.”

Hotch hums under his breath, turning his head into the pillows. The only positive side to being sedated is that he doesn’t think about Foyet. There are nightmares but he can’t remember them. By the time he wakes someone’s already at his side, walking him through the steps of calming down. He can’t even remember what upset him-- or even if it was Foyet. The attack is fuzzy, lacking the hard edges of memory, but he does know this is temporary.

Soon, two days from now, if not tomorrow, they’ll lift him off the hard drugs. Rest will come second to recovery and he’ll remember.

But for now, he sinks into the thoughtless, dreamless slumber.

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

Technically, this is day two in recovery and he should be up on his feet being forced to walk the long empty halls every hour or so. Core strength isn’t built overnight but as Hotch is learning, it can be killed that quickly. For now, they let him rest as his first twelve hours here on the unit were full of rapid downs. He’d nearly pulled stitches having a nightmare and saying goodbye to Haley and Jack did a number.

Sitting by his side, JJ finds herself thinking about the hours she wasted. Where was her conviction? That gut instinct everyone else seems to run on? She’s known him for years, longer than Emily, and yet she hadn’t thought anything of his phone going to voicemail. Nearly a decade of working by his side and she knows, she knows he always answers. No matter the time, no matter what he’s doing-- grocery shopping, trying to shower, or feeding Jack.

If she calls, he answers.

Her guilt means nothing. It’s just some cruel tactic she’s deployed to distract her from what’s really bothering her. He’s alone. JJ had made those calls to the marshalls. She’d packed Jack’s bag, throat tight as she stacked his little shirts into his even tinier suitcase. And now they’re gone. Already ghosts that Foyet will not be able to find.

That Hotch won’t be able to find.

Her voice is small and trampled but she can’t stand the silence. “Sometimes I forget how he used to be.” It surprises her to hear her voice just as much as it does Emily, who sits on Hotch’s other side, a book loosely held in her lap. She knows Emily’s silence is shock and not just her ignoring JJ. Emily is just one of those people whose silence is often more telling their words-- the same is true for Dave and Hotch.

It’s under that attention that JJ now finds herself a little shy if not stubbornly selfish. Suddenly, her desire to speak is gone. The memory she bathes herself in is her own. To share it makes it lose its depth and the warm familiarity of Aaron. But on Emily presses. She waits silently for JJ to find her voice once again. And JJ decides that she’s being silly. Wistful if not a bit melancholy, which there is no need to be. Aaron Hotchner is alive. Steadily he breathes, he aches, and he lives right between them.

She looks down at the thin white blanket lazily dragged up over Hotch’s hips. Conjuring the image of that Aaron Hotchner from so long ago. Young and smiling with suits that didn’t really fit his long legs. “He was one of those fairytale romancers,” JJ says. She smiles at the look of horror and shock on Emily’s face. This, for that face, is why JJ had begun. They each have this version of him, totally unique to them, that they get to have in these moments. He is not the same man to JJ as he is to Emily. “You could tell he believed in love. He was so--”

Emily is sitting forward in her chair. The book she’d brought lays face down on the bed, inches from Hotch’s limply curled fingers. On he breathes with his trembling crescendo exhales and raspily choked inhales. Oblivious to them.

“He was so enraptured by Haley,” JJ confesses softly, looking to him now. Attempting to manifest one of his smiles from his thin, pale lips. “But mostly,” she finally confesses, “he was so… boyish.” Emily makes a surprised sound, flinching back a little as she considers this information. JJ finds herself watching Emily’s every expression. She wonders who it is that Emily knows as Aaron Hotchner.

JJ smiles as she continues, humored. She’s thrilled by this idea that there might be more to him. That if she tells Emily about her Hotch, Emily will tell her own version. And now, in her hands, she’ll have a larger idea of him. More. She wants more of him so that maybe less might be stolen.

“Once,” she admits, “I told him about the girls from my liaison classes.” It was years ago. So long she needs a moment to really remember the whole thing. Specifically for those little moments and flashes in his eyes. The blush on his cheeks when he laughed and looked away. How he’d shaken his head. “The girls down there are just… they were in awe of him.” She smiles, “and how could you not be? He is handsome and has great manners.”

Emily smirks, rolling her eyes. “Just having manners makes him better than the apes down the hall.” True. Half of the men that work in the building with them are creeps. It seems as if the only half-decent men in Quantico work on their team. Everyone else is more than questionable.

JJ nods in agreeance.

“...Em’ly?” Hotch groans. His eyes are pinched shut in pain. “ ‘m gonna be sick,” he mumbles. He swallows thickly, loud enough for JJ to hear.

Emily gets up in a flash, nearly tripping over her own legs. “JJ raise the head of the bed up,” she instructs.

JJ freezes for only a moment. She hasn’t spoken to Hotch since yesterday when he woke up and they figured out Foyet was targeting Haley and Jack. He’s been asleep every time since. Now, there’s panic in his eyes. As she raises the bed, he grabs her hand. His fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. Enough to make her stop.

“Wait, wait!” He pants softly, breathing hitching as he writhes uselessly. His chest is on fire, only making his stomach churn more. A few seconds pass and he realizes that he’s going to vomit regardless. “Okay,” he says tightly.

JJ glances at Emily but continues on.

Hotch makes a pained sound, moving his hand from JJ’s wrist. He doesn’t open his eyes, just presses his hand into his stomach. The cramp of his churning stomach more severe than the agitated stitched across his abdomen. “I need the--” his hand wraps around the bucket but Emily keeps holding on.

It’s just water, JJ notes. Being a mother has numbed her to bodily fluids so she doesn’t mind vomit.

Emily doesn’t flinch either. The first time she had. It had taken them both by surprise. Now, for about the fourth time, she just shakes her head. Offering the comfort she can think to-- rubbing his back as tears stream down his cheeks. She already knows they’re going to threaten an NG tube, a longer stay, or something. They always have something to say nothing to help. He’s maxed out on pain meds and still in pain.

They want him to drink something other than water to get his blood sugar back up but hasn’t managed to keep anything down since they started giving him the juices.

Breathlessly, Hotch falls back against the pillows. A light sweat had broken out over his face. “Sorry,” he groans, twisting slowly. His hips are stiff and chest tight but he needs to ease the ache in his stomach. Everything hurts and he can’t get comfortable.

“He can’t keep the apple juice down,” Emily mumbles as she passes JJ with the bucket. JJ follows her to the bathroom to the side of the room. Out of the corner of her eye she glances back at Hotch, watching him. Whether he simply doesn’t care if he’s being watched or hasn’t the presence of mind to consider it, she knows what she sees is a direct reflection of how he feels. No guards. No shields. Just his pale face and weak body leaning heavily into the pillows around him. Lips drawn in a grimace. Pained.

JJ tears her eyes away from the scene. She can’t stand it. Emily must be so strong, JJ thinks, to sit in here with him. To do what she does without blinking. If she weren’t so lost in thought-- stuck circling this stupid idea of all the ways she just keeps failing Hotch-- she would have come up with the idea earlier. However, it takes the sight of Hotch paling even more and grimacing to spur it.

Emily guides the apple juice back into his palm, despite the fact that he turns his head from her.

“Why don’t you water it down?”

Emily frowns, “what do you mean?”

JJ extends her hand and Emily hesitantly gives her the bottle. “Toddlers,” JJ says, “can have juice, right? But it can be a bit much. You have to dilute the juice with water. It can ruin their little teeth but mostly it can spike their blood sugar.” JJ takes the little pink cup Hotch has been sipping water out of and pours a significant bit of the apple juice out. Then she takes the bottle and fills the rest with water. Taking a sip… it’s about the same ratio she’d give a toddler. “You’re still drinking the apple juice, you’re just not going to upset your stomach.”

Hotch hasn’t been throwing up the water so it’s obviously an apple juice problem.

And, sure enough, he keeps the diluted apple juice down. It provides the extra benefit of forcing him to drink more water too as he has to finish at least, one bottle of apple juice a day.

JJ needn’t worry too much about the self-imposed diagnosis of her relationship with Hotch because he, sincerely, considers her a hero for that idea.

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

Hotch wakes from a nap he can’t remember falling asleep to take. His fingers are loosely wrapped around a popsicle. It’s long since melted into an overly sugared blue slush but there is only about a third of it left or what he guesses is about a third. As the palm of his hand is protected by a paper towel that was, at some point, wrapped around the popsicle but now just hinders his ability to see what’s left.

“What times is it?”

“Five thirty.”

Hotch flinches, looking over to his left and finding Morgan and Reid. When he’d asked the question he’d meant it for JJ or Dave. Both of whom are sitting on his right side, his currently favored side. He finds himself self-conscious of this blindness. How weak, stupid even, he must be to miss either of them. Reid is sitting in a bulky wheelchair. Each of either man’s movements measured out by the soft, plastic thunk of round game pieces being moved along the bored.

They’re playing checkers and he hadn’t even noticed them.

“Why does he always do that?” JJ asks no one in particular. She glances at Hotch with an eye roll of exasperation before adding, “always rounds up the time like a little old man. It’s 5:16. That’s hardly 5:30.”

Hotch swallows thickly around his confusion. It takes a whole minute for him to understand but, graciously, JJ has already moved on to another topic. Speaking to Dave now as she searches for something in the bags sitting at the table by his side. She’d meant Reid and his, admittedly, strange habit of significantly rounding up the passage of time.

She pulls out a little bowl, it’s lid fogged with steam, and sets it down. Even though it’s small enough for her to hold in one hand, Hotch’s stomach churns at the thought of having to eat it. Next comes another bowl. “Derek brought you soup,” she says to him. “Rice too but that’s just more so you have options.”

Vaguely, he can remember receiving his popsicle. JJ’s words filling in a memory. Derek had arrived in a flurry of white take-out bags. Emily and Garcia had been around at the time and he’d been only slightly up for small talk. Which they had been strangely understanding about. To the point, Emily hadn’t overwhelmed him with the options. She’d simply wrapped a napkin around the base and given it to him. Already open.

“Do you know which you’d like?”

He can feel himself working into a cold sweat. Overwhelmed with just a simple question. He looks at JJ and then at the rice and then the soup. He’s not sure what the right answer is. Over the last three days, that’s mostly what he’s learned. Though his body craves nothing, not food, and rarely even the need to use the bathroom, he knows it’s supposed to. His eating habits are now watched and, never once in his life, being the type of person to yearn strongly for foods he’s floored. He never knows what they want to hear.

Sure, he’s craved things. An oreo in passing or a specific brand go chips. Preferred a dipping sauce for fries but…

“The soup,” Dave says. He sees that look in Hotch’s eyes, the cast-off-- no one’s home-- look. “It’s your favorite,” Dave takes the soup from JJ’s hand, watching closely as Hotch comes back. He blinks slowly, taking in what’s happening, and nods. Hotch doesn't have a favorite soup but they don’t need to know that.

Hotch looks down, blankly, as Dave gently takes the melted popsicle from his hands. He feels… a strange attachment to that popsicle. Though melted he almost wants it still.

“Eat your soup,” Dave encourages replacing the popsicle with a spoon.

Hotch’s fingers curl slowly around the thin metal. He’s officially at a stage in his life where fine motor movements like this require heavy thought. Pure devotion. He can not think, breathe, or speak while doing these sorts of things. So, eating his soup is going to be far more difficult than he’d like it to be. Neverminded how humiliating his lack of coordination is.

And they’re all here.

His mouth opens, the words I’m not hungry forming but come with no sound. He shuts his mouth and swallows thickly. Again, his stomach twists with a strange vengeance. It’s just clear, brothy soup. Soup. So, why does it feel like his entire chest is pulsing with anxiety?

He flinches when a hand wraps around his own. Obscuring the view of the spoon, of his hand and he knows he can only fight off the tremble for so long. He drags his eyes up, forces himself to keep that hand steady. JJ is touching him but she’s not looking. “Would the rice be easier?” she asks.

White, tasteless rice. Unseasoned. Just rice.

He can’t make words pass across his lips but there must be something that his face betrays because without a word JJ puts the lid back on the soup and puts the rice in his lap. It’s closer than the soup had been. When he looks up, no one’s watching. Morgan and Reid are turned so he’ll see them if they turn to watch. JJ and Dave are settling down to their own respective tasks. JJ snacking on a piece of garlic bread and Dave kicking his feet up on the edge of his bed. No one's watching.

Swallowing thickly, he moves slowly. All of his attention goes to this task. The spoon grazes the top of the lid but no one looks at the sudden clink of the metal hitting the container. He glances up once more time before forcing the spoon into his mouth. He nearly misses but no one sees. A single grain falls back onto his lap. The white rice nearly lost in the sea of the other white blankets.

Though, none of them aware, tomorrow is going to be hard on them all. For today, he remains pliable. Succumbing easily to sleep and to their request. He flinches but he lacks the strength to get too far away. So he remains in his bed, watching them from behind hooded eyes and deep, sedated breaths. Tomorrow he will find the strength for defiance.

“Not too much,” JJ says, after a few minutes. He manages only about five bites and the spoon never has more than a pinch of rice but it’s setting heavily on his stomach and he’s done. “Done?”

Heavy and warm, he nods. He feels her take the spoon from his hands and lift the rice away.

“Hotch?”

It feels like only a second has passed but when he pulls his heavy eyes back open there’s only JJ. Reid and Morgan having left and Dave too, apparently. He hums, mouth too dry to form words.

“Can you finish this juice off for me?” She doesn’t wait for a reply, just places the nearly empty bottle into his palm. He’s tired and so he doesn’t fight the tender way she pushes his hair back from his face and places a kiss on his temple. She knows there are only a few more hours left before his guard slips back into place and he fights her every move. But, for now, she can appreciate that he doesn’t fight her help so long as it’s minimal.

There’s a straw in the juice so he only has to lift his arm a little to get access to the juice.

“Hello,” Emily steps into the room, smiling the whole way.

JJ glances at Hotch but he’s glaring down at the apple juice.

“JJ,” Emily greets, “you’re relieved of your duties. Hotch is safe with me.” Emily tosses her bag on the end of Hotch’s bed, right beside where his feet are. “Don’t worry about us Jayje, we're gonna watch movies.”

JJ glances once more to Hotch, satisfied he’s back to taking tentative sips from his apple juice. Okay. She needs to sleep and catch up on laundry. She’s leaving him in good hands. Nothing to worry about. Reaching out she touches his leg, getting his attention. “Behave.”

He nods and returns back to his own head, looking down at his lap.

It goes without saying that Emily is the one who needs to be doing the behaving.

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

He goes home far too early.

If the nightmares leave him paralyzed, the wounds ooze-- Surely, he is not healthy enough to go off on his own.

He’s a body caught in the loop. Just a capsule for time, each second measured out on his paling skin. Every minute, each hour-- the blood trickling down over his ribs. Slipping into the grooves of skin and staining his once white t-shirt. He breathes but he is not living. With no thoughts, no feelings is he even a thing at all? Just a body that remains where he was left five days before to watch the sunrise from his window and set on the other side of his house. Every day. For five days.

On the sixth day, as the sun sets over the top of the house-- noon-- there’s a knock at his door. The calendar on his fridge wrestles softly with the breeze coming in from the window Derek Morgan left open in the kitchen. Their names with their own smiling stickers and color-coded which had meant to be for Aaron alone wave pathetically with each coming breeze. It was meant to be a way to keep track of passing days and who would be coming to terrorize him every day. Garcia had hung it up and wrapped his fingers around a black sharpie, smiling when she added he could even use it to mark off the days until his hopeful return to the BAU.

The knocking on the door grows silent and breathily, Hotch whimpers out in relief. He can’t think, doesn’t want to, and is glad that today, not unlike the last five days, whoever it is has wisened up and chosen to leave him alone. All he wants is silence and pain. The only things he knows for sure are real.

As the nurse had watched them go, she spoke those same words over and over. Monitor. He’s meant to be monitored and watched.

Unless the shadows that warp into George Foyet-- and not just him but Hotch’s father, long and tall, and Carl Arnold and his cackling, taunting observations, and beasts and ghosts from his nightmares. Unless those monsters count, he’s been alone.

Outside his apartment door, David Rossi and Emily Prentiss argue loudly. Enough to stir the rest of the apartment complex’s occupants but none dare stick their heads out to inquire on the trespassing. They all know of the agent nearly killed and none want to get mixed up in that (that is, the few that remain).

“There.”

Emily looks up from her side bag and Dave from where he’s leaning, unhelpfully, looking in as well. For a moment, all Emily can do is stare down at the slightly ajar door. Slowly, her eyes lift to Garica and then back to the door. “You scare me,” Emily says as her face is split by a wide, proud grin. “That, though, was the sexist thing I have ever seen in my life! What are you hiding from us, Penelope Garcia?”

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear Garcia shrugs modestly. Honestly, she’d learned a lot about picking locks from her brothers but, most of what stuck came from Reid and a phase he went through two years ago where he decided to learn how to pick every lock he could get his hands on. She’d picked up a thing or two, as well.

All the cheer dissipates quickly.

“Stay here.”

Emily glances at Garcia but neither disobey Dave’s order. Fearful of what they might find, really.

Dave pushes his way into the room, hit with the thick scent of heavy settling. Distinctly dusty scent. “Aaron?” He steps around a pair of discarded sweatpants, a puddle of dark grey fabric on the carpet. “Shit--” Dave winces as the sight of blood seeped into the fabric of Hotch’s shirt. “Aaron,” he cups Hotch’s cheek, shaking him.

Hotch groans, peeling his eyes open. Despite the deep panic settling in over his chest, his heart beating so hard that he can’t tell the difference between the rate at which his chest aches from the stab wounds and the pace of his heart. He shoves blindly at the arms grabbing at him. His mind chanting-- Foyet, Foyet, Foyet, Foyet--

“It’s me, Aaron!” Dave pins Hotch’s arms to the bed, startled by the ease at which it takes. “It’s okay, it’s okay!”

It’s not. It’s not okay. Hotch can see him, right now. George Foyet looms just behind Dave, knife poised in hand to kill. It’s not okay and nothing ever will be again. But… they can try, can’t they?

“We’re so sorry, sir.”

Hotch leaning heavily into Emily as Rossi crouches on the bedroom floor, making the best of the little light Hotch can take. He can’t sit up by himself, his head spinning and eyes burning, but with Emily’s right arm wrapped around his hips and Dave’s hand bracing his chest he manages to stay put. Mostly, numb to movement and their voices. He just… exists without thought.

Garcia is full of anxious movement and her constant shifting and rocking is hypnotic. It draws his shaky awareness to her. He’s nearly unaware of the cold air blowing against his bare chest. “Garcia,” he croaks. He feels himself wilting, shaking in Emily’s grip. She shifts their bodies and he remains upright, despite how far he’s pulling them down.

She perks up, “yes sir?”

“You don’t have to apologize to me.”

That doesn’t feel true. Not at all, not even a little.

They left him. For once in all the years that they have known him, they listened to him, and what made them think that was okay? They’d disregarded his orders in the field and pushed his buttons just to get a rise out of him. All for that disobedience to be thrown to the side the moment that he got home. He’d wanted to be alone and they fucking listened. Why did they listen?

There is a certain distortion that spoken word carries, impervious though is the thought. A fact only discovered through effect, is that there will never be the right word to express a thought. As it passes through the lips, it warps as all soft, loved things do. The teeth gnarl and grind and the face betrays meaning and the thought, as gentle as a butterfly's wing, with churn to dust right before the eye. Until nothing but the ash is left behind and there is only the fragment of an idea.

“I--I need help.” His words, the rocks on the boldface of a mountain, come crashing into the way of oncoming traffic. He means them feverishly, without reasons and no hesitation. No brakes, no way to stop. He’s nothing more than the stampede of tragedy as smoke fills the air, tires screeching as smoke plumes above. He, the rock, and them, the cars he collides so blindly with. “I’m, I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I’m alone.”

They are there in every moment, every breath. Overstimulated, he needs the breath of silence that passes between his own thoughts. A whirlwind of the fiber of his being lit on fire. He hadn’t known the loud thrum of the world in so long and he needs them to overpower it. He needs them to speak over the electric hum of the light bulb that hangs a fraction too low and swings with its loose wires. As the seconds tick by and the sounds kill him, he needs them gone. He needs nothing more than his thoughts and the hum and he doesn’t have the words anymore. No way to tell them that it’s all too much and entirely not enough.

That he hates how JJ touches his elbow when she’s near him. He’s certain that if she doesn’t touch him, if Garcia doesn’t ghost smiles his way, or Dave fondly knocks gently into him that he will find he doesn't exist. Nothing more than the air that he pulls lazily into lungs that no longer wish to function. Aaron Hotchner will simply cease to be and he’s no longer capable of deciding if that is what he wants. Still, his bones crave for the gentle stroke of a hand against his own. For someone to grab him by the sides of the head and kiss him until that dark pool of warmth settles once again in his stomach. To feel, in its full, love and hatred.

Please, someone, break down his so firmly built walls. Impose themselves. Force their love into the cracks Foyet’s knife has left. Anything.

It’s clear the line they walk with him. Waves lapping at his nerves. Left to perpetually guess at when they need to override his wishes and when they need to step back. It’s Hotch so it’s not easy work.

“You look good like this.” Dave smiles at the sleepy, inquiring glare Hotch sends his way but it’s hard to look intimidating while exhausted and with a head full of messy hair. Which is ink-like on the pillow, spread out in every direction. It makes Dave wish he were the type of writer that dabbles in the art of another world and, more than that, he wishes to create a character like Aaron Hotchner. So that he might force at least one version of this stubborn man to trust the love his team so willingly provides.

But men are often far more complex than what David Rossi is patient enough to put to paper so he is stuck in this world. With the grumpy asshole that he calls a close friend glaring up at him from underneath a hand-knit several toned green blanket, pulled all the way up to his chin and balled there in his fist. A gift from Garcia.

“I bought you a heating blanket,” Dave says, spreading the thick, soft material over Hotch’s long body. “Mmm,” he notes in disappointment when he finds the blanket just a little too small to cover all of his friend's long body. Which isn’t entirely surprising, nothing is ever simple with Aaron Hotchner. However, heated blankets? That’s rather simple.

Dave smiles, contently, as he cranks the blanket up. Turning the heat to the max and watching its immediate effect-- Hotch’s dark eyes drooping and his mouth falling limply from its scowl.

Garcia made him the green blanket he loves so dearly. She’s recently gotten really into knitting. Though, she’s not very good. The blanket she made Hotch is her best yet even if it’s somehow crooked. It’s a dark, dark green and Hotch has used it every night since Garcia gifted it to him in the hospital. He’s very partial to it.

Content (already falling asleep) Dave feels alright leaving Hotch in the living room while he makes some dinner. Of course, as soon as Dave has rolled up his sleeves and is trying to get some vegetables chopped up Emily has to go bothering him. Dave may not have raised children but he swears to deal with the two of them, is exactly like it. He’s seen the way children do one another. Going to brother the peaceful one to entertain themselves.

“Emily,” Dave fuses, placing a hand on his hip. He quickly drops it when he realizes he must look exactly like his mother had when fussing with him. “Leave him alone,” he finishes.

Emily acts offended, throwing her arms in defense. “I wasn't doing anything!” But they all know damn well she’s still going to go bother Hotch.

She’s stuck in this apartment and hasn't brought anything to entertain herself. Besides, he’s her friend. The whole point of him is to entertain her. That’s what friends are for. “Scoot,” she orders, glancing over her shoulder at Dave. He’s chopping vegetables, probably choosing to ignore them.

Obediently, Hotch pulls himself up. Scowling at her, not heated but just because that’s his face at this point, as he does as she requests. “I’m not sharing my blanket,” he mumbles assuredly. Mostly because he knows she doesn’t want the blanket anyhow, he just needs something to say.

Emily sits down beside him, hip-to-hip, it’s a snug fit. “Here,” she reaches around him and places a pillow in her lap, motioning for him to lay back down.

He’s already moving to obey when he grumbles, “why can’t you sit somewhere else?”

She rolls her eyes and Garcia grins at them. “I want to sit with my friend,” she answers. “Is that a crime?”

He hums, “no but it’s annoying.”

There had been a time when Dave had been jealous of the natural relationship between Hotch and Emly. Despite having known Hotch the longest, Dave can see that his friend is just easily comfortable with Emily. The oddness of that companionship is undeniable but he craves for the proximity they allow one another. So guarded except for when it comes to one another. But Dave has, also, come to terms with the fact that Hotch is just… odd.

Emily may be able to command Hotch to do things. As she had just moments ago when she’d gone into the living room and pulled his head into her lap. Dave wishes he could have that comfort. The sleepy way that Hotch had only minimally fought her until he’d settled down and caved to her. But Dave has what even Emily doesn't. Though he may allow Emily into his personal space he only wants Dave when he wakes up screaming from nightmares. When he needs help.

The same way that only Garcia can tuck blankets snugly around him. JJ can argue about how much food he’s eating and get him to eat more. Only Morgan can offer him help when he’s too tired to walk. Reid is the only person allowed to hold his hand. They take what they can get and pride themselves on what little that yields.

“What if I was bitten by a zombie?” Emily asks. “Would you handcuff yourself to me so we could be together?”

Dave quirks an eyebrow at that, shaking his head but continuing with his current task in the kitchen.

Hotch’s low response is inaudible but he hears Emily’s huff of indignance. “That’s not ridiculous, Hotch! I would handcuff myself to you! That’s love, you ass. Garcia would do it.”

Dave looks up, watching Garcia nod from the chair on the other side of the room. She’d been knitting silently, the clack of the plastic needles hypnotically drawing in comfort into the somber apartment. She doesn’t even stop knitting to look and conform with a serious nod that she would, in fact, handcuff herself to them if they were zombies.

Emily doesn’t seem to have learned her lesson with the zombie question. “What about if I was a worm? Would you let me live in your suit pocket?”

Dave hears Hotch’s zero hesitation reply-- “No.” He smirks but says nothing. Hotch adds, “I’d leave you on a pear tree.”

Emily frowns, “I don’t like pears.”

“I know.”

Garcia huffs a laugh but clamps her hand over her mouth when Emily shoots her a glare.

“Dave,” Emily calls. “He’s being mean to me.”

Dave shrugs, “I told you to leave him alone.” And as frustrated as he could let himself be he can’t. Lowly, he can hear Hotch replying to everything asked of him. The soft chuckle he lets out when Garcia says something to him and he can see the little grin in his voice when he speaks to the two of them.

Just give it some time, Dave assures himself. Before he knows it, they’ll have Hotch back. All of him and things will go back to the way they always are. They just need to decide if they’re really ready for that.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner whump #david rossi #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #spencer reid #derek morgan #jennifer jareua #jennifer jareau

[bribe-the-door]

the things that we’ll never know [001]

the one where best friend!harry apologizes 

a/n: hi friends :) it’s been a minute... hasn’t it? i’ve been going a bit stir crazy waiting for quarantine to end and the world to feel normal. so, to deal with the angst i have toward the current state of the world, I give you: fine line era angst. 

let me know if you’re interested in seeing more from me! i sure miss writing and i think it might be something i get back into these days :) xoxo h 

***

Are you still watching?

A banner pops up on your laptop screen, pausing the credits of yet another episode of Grey’s Anatomy. You scroll to the corner, click “yes”, and settle back into your spot; the corner of a well-worn grey sofa. A small grey cat, lovingly named Bean, readjusts her head and falls back asleep against you. The familiar two-beat drum sounds and Netflix shines in its red glory, the only light to illuminate your small space.

It is probably better this way, the darkness.

Having remained almost completely stationary for the past three days, the apartment is showing signs of abandonment and disarray. The space, normally light and airy despite its tiny size, feels cramped and stuffy. Plants droop in their pots as the sun sinks deeper into the sky and you’re too bothered to turn on the string lights. Instead you stay put, wilting, too.

Your laptop is wedged between a plate and bowl from a long-since concluded meal. A lone coffee mug sits cold, the dregs of drip coffee stagnant in the bottom of the cup. It will leave a ring of discoloration when you try to scrub it clean. There is a mess of cords under your legs; a charger, heating pad, headphones.

You’ll untangle them later, you tell yourself.

A sudden rush of action on-screen catches your attention, diverting your thoughts for a few minutes. An ambulance rushes to the hospital and interrupts a love triangle moment. Someone is caught in a longing gaze across the emergency department. Chaos ensues and there’s a dramatic cut to the next scene of hands furiously moving through surgery.

Your phone buzzes next to you and you glance at its screen, blue light casting a gastly glow over your face. It’s nothing important and you swipe to close the app.

A glaring red “1” catches your eye.

Your thumb hovers over the message app, knowing exactly what this text says. It’s remained unread, untouched, for three days now. An internal battle heats up in your brain, and, avoiding the turmoil altogether, you shake your head and lock your phone. It’s tossed aside as you push off of the couch. Netflix continues to play in the background.

You make your way into the kitchen (Bean following, curious) and scour the cabinets for something else to add to your pile of dishes on the coffee table. They’re bare except for a stale, half-eaten loaf of bread, some peanut butter, a box of elbow macaroni, and a can of peaches. A stray protein bar is likely hiding out somewhere in there, too, but you close the cupboard in defeat.

Since when were you so easily shaken by a simple “hi”?

A single laugh floats from your lungs. It happens again, this time out of disbelief.

And then it turns to a sob.

There is nothing simple about this greeting.

[three days earlier]

“Y/n,” Harry sighs. His hand rakes through his curls and leaves them disheveled. “It’s not that difficult of a concept.”

You feel your heart lurch into your throat, the second time this evening. The silence leaves only another opportunity for Harry to drive the wedge deeper between the both of you. He seldom leaves an argument without having the final word.

His eyes find yours amidst the tension. It’s uncomfortable and feels similar to the way your father scolded you as a child. His gaze locks you in place; cold.

“You’re acting as if you can’t see what I see,” he says, voice hardly a whisper. It grows in volume as the emotions well up within his chest. “Feel what I feel… It’s not /there/ anymore, y/n.”

Your lips part in attempts to interject, but are closed just as quickly.

“You’re not here anymore.” Harry’s head shakes and his eyes continue their grip on yours. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried and tried and nothing seems to stick. Not a single goddamn thing! I can’t figure you out, y/n. I’m going crazy trying to understand where I went so wrong.”

An angry fist pounds the table beside him and you stand in your place; fear paralyzes you and you are one with the cold kitchen tile. It’s a standoff now and neither of you move. You can’t move.

“Do you not have anything to say?” he spits, disbelief tinting the outburst. His eyes pity you, searching your face for any semblance of attention. Emotion. Something.

“I…” you begin, swallowing back the lump that’d made its presence known minutes ago. Your mind draws blank as his eyes bore into yours. This feels completely out of left field.

“Nothing?!”

“Harry, please.”

His hands fall to his sides in a final defeat. “No… No. No, y/n.” He’s talking to himself, muttering under his breath. He begins to turn away from the table, phone in hand. The counter is his next pursuit, likely in search of his keys, you presume.

“Where are you going? You ask, snapping to attention when you realize the familiar path he’s taking. He’s done this before. Many people in your life have taken this path, actually.

It’s the one ending in a slammed front door, an empty foyer. You don’t shake those feelings easily.

Harry laughs, “I’m not sure. But I’m not staying here.”

You take a step toward him and try to form a coherent sentence, but your tongue trips in the process. You don’t come up with much, but it’s an attempt.

“But, what about us, Harry? I love you!”

His body turns slowly to face you. He’s got his belongings in hand—the weathered notebook he keeps with him at all times, his keys (in a loop around his fingers)—and a sweater drapes itself over the crook of his elbow. Harry’s hands are full, but his eyes fail to show any sign of life.

“How do you know what love is, y/n?” He asks, tone dripping with doubt. “How do you know what that could possibly mean when you show yourself no love?”

His accusation holds the same comfort as burning your tongue on coffee. Stubbing your toe on the doorframe. A paper cut washed with soap.

When you fail to answer, Harry earns his final word in this argument.

“I can’t stay with someone who doesn’t love herself. I can’t fix you, y/n.”

Instantly, your chest floods cold. It’s an interesting sensation, as your cheeks run warm from anger while the rest of you ceases to function. You’re confident your heart fails to beat any longer; your lungs constrict like a snake around its prey.

“I’m done trying.”

Harry leaves you in the kitchen, the sounds of his boots echoing further and further away from where you stand. The front door shuts with a firm slam and serves as his ‘goodbye’.

You’re left standing in your spot, frozen as your thoughts race silently through your head. It feels like TV static buzzing in your ears and you can’t turn down the volume.

How is silence so deafening?

***

The phone sits in your hand as another /ping!/ sounds. It burns in your hand as you realize whose name sits above the few words on your screen.

Harry (7:54 PM): Y/n… Can we talk?

Your mouth tastes of pennies and you relax your jaw, grimacing at the now-sore part of your lip imprinted by your teeth. The red “2” shines angrily from its spot at the bottom of your phone. With a sigh, you tap on the square and reveal a text-thread you wish you never have to read again.

The blue and grey boxes hold words and emotions from days ago and, in your separation from them, you’re unprepared for the visceral reaction deep within your chest. Your heart drums underneath the cage of your ribs, constant, but worried. Like it knows something you don’t.

Feelings are pushed to the wayside and you begin to type back a response.

You (7:58 PM): Sure.

The grey “typing” bubble appears almost instantly after yours delivers. /He’s been waiting for you to respond/ you realize.

Harry (7:58 PM): It’s such a relief to hear from you, y/n.

Harry (7:59 PM): I miss you.

Grey’s Anatomy plays across the room from you, another heated argument on-screen, but it is drowned out by the thudding of your heart. It’s working in overdrive now.

For days, you did nothing but attempt to forget Harry’s existence: his clothes sat in a pile at the bottom of your closet (despite the overwhelming urge to pull that grey jumper over your shoulders at this moment); your mirror sits bare now that the polaroids of you both are nowhere to be found; his favorite coffee mug, along with his small collection of shot glasses and a teacup with the matching spoon, have been packed away and sit in a small cardboard box beside your kitchen counter.

Your apartment has been picked apart, day by day, to rid Harry of the space. It feels impossible, though, with how much time he spends (spent?) here.

Another text pops up:

Harry (8:07 PM): Y/n, are you there? I really want to make this right.

“Ugh!” you groan, loud enough to make Bean stir from her spot. “Sorry, baby, I’m just…”

Just what? you think to yourself. Just… Frustrated? Confused? Hurt?

Bean nudges your elbow with her tiny head, rubbing against your arm to try and earn some affection. You reach behind her ears and scratch small circles until she begins to purr. It’s hard to focus on anything present right now; you find yourself mulling over things from weeks ago. Swept up in memories once sweet now stab at your heart with a vengeance reserved for the most heinous of crimes.

There was the date at sunset in the park, complete with a chilled bottle of prosecco to celebrate your graduation and a slice of pie from the bakery down the road. The time he surprised you at work with balloons, a bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus (your favorites), and a stupid grin of his face “Just Because”. Remember when Harry decided to decorate your entire apartment for Valentine’s Day because you’d mentioned in passing no one had ever done anything for that holiday growing up, and it was your favorite? There were roses everywhere; Bean had a pink bow on her head, and Harry insisted on baking a heart-shaped cake.

Why did something so seemingly perfect cut even deeper on second thought?

You sigh again, shaking your head at the phone.

“What do I do, Bean?” She chirps in response and you let out a single laugh. “You have it so much easier, you know? No boys to break your heart, no job to take up all of your time.”

You pick her up and hold her in front of you, leaning forward to rest your forehead against hers. Her sandpaper-tongue brushes over your nose and she meows again.

“Okay, sorry.” You put her down and she curls up in your lap, purring against your stomach.

Things move in slow-motion as you think, and you’re not entirely sure how much time has passed. Phone in hand, your fingers anxiously hover over the screen and anticipate a string of words. Each time, though, they feel wrong, and you delete the entire thing.

”I just want to make things right.”

It feels like an internal battle to decipher what Harry means with this pleading. There’s a part of you who wants nothing to do with him, another who desperately wants him back, and the most confusing part, who feels like you were the one in the wrong here. Love is a tumultuous thing; intense, passionate. It feels utterly terrifying in the simplest of ways. Was your lack of self-love really what caused such an uproar in the first place? Had you been blind to your own hatred this whole time?

A knock at the door interrupts your ponderings.

Bean looks up suddenly, ears flickering at the noises from the hall. She jumps from your lap and runs to the dining table, hiding behind its oak legs. You can hardly see her, only the glimmering green of her eyes as they move to survey the apartment.

It takes minimal thought to figure out who stands on the other side of the door and you aren’t sure if it’s wishful thinking or fear of confrontation.

You stand and cautiously approach the hall, legs more like jell-o than limbs. Another knock sounds and the hair on your arms stands on end. This feels like a scene from a horror film; ominous. In attempts to steady your breathing, you don’t reach for the door at first, knowing full-well who stands on the other side.

The floor creaks underneath your right foot, and you swear under your breath. A quick “shit!” before you remember why you’re being so timid in the first place. A grimace crosses your face in wait.

Harry sighs from outside the door. “Y/n, I know you’re right there.”

You don’t say anything and instead look through the peep-hole. His face looks defeated, eyes searching the door for you as if he knows your every move.

“Can we please talk?”

The doorknob seemingly glows in response to his suggestion, simply begging for your touch. It feels entirely wrong to refuse conversation with the boy who, for the past few years, so gingerly held your heart and cared for you more than any family member could have.

He just wants to talk, you remind yourself. A quick talk.

You twist the lock on the knob, a metallic “yes” answering him instead of your own words. Next is the deadbolt, then the chain. The knob feels heavy in your hand as you turn it, but there isn’t any going back now.

Light floods into your apartment from the common hall, accompanied by the stale smell of cigarette smoke. Harry moves only his gaze to meet yours.

“Hi.”

You swallow before answering and realize how tightly you’d been holding your jaw the entire time. “Hi.”

His hands are in his pockets, and, illuminated by the harsh fluorescents of the hallway, he should have looked intimidating. But his shoulders hung low and his eyes were unsure.

Clearly neither of you were ready for this.

“Can I…” Harry starts.

You gesture forward, backing up against the door and allow him to enter.

He hesitates slightly before moving into the entryway, hovering for just a moment. The stiffness in Harry’s shoulders fades slightly as the door shuts behind you but the tension in his presence only increases.

Harry turns to face you, and, against your best interests, seconds pass as minutes. Slowly enough to study over his eyes; shadowy in the dim lighting of your hallway but ever still green. They invite you in like a warm mug of coffee after a chilling walk home from work and you find yourself biting back a grin. It all feels wrong, having him so close.

But, the heart wants what the heart wants, right?

“Can I?” He asks, more succinctly this time.

You nod a single nod, stepping a single step closer. He reaches forward to cup your chin in his hand, tipping your gaze up at his for just a second. That same emerald draws you in just like moments before, a safe embrace. 

A welcome home. 

Harry stays like this for just a moment more before dropping his hand, a sigh leaves his lips. You’re disheartened at the buildup leaving just as quickly as it’d come on. 

“So about that text...” you laugh. He shares a laugh, too, but there’s a hint of pain in his tone. 

You anticipate they’ll be a lot more hurt tonight.

***

feel free to let me know what you thought! this is just a little piece and it’s been fun to work back into the writing scene <3 

#harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction

[summahsunlight]

Worth the Risk, Part 5

Rating: T

Word Count: 1403

Pairing: Army Pilot!Poe Dameron x Nurse!Reader (1940s AU)

Summary: It’s the 1940s, Army pilot and Captain Poe Dameron is flying on missions for the United States Army in Europe.  After being shot down off the coast of France, Poe wakes up in an Army hospital in England, to find you, a nurse, taking care of him. Throughout the process of his recovery, Poe finds himself falling for you, and even though you, for the most part, maintain a professional relationship with him–you’re falling for him as well. Both of you know the risks of falling in love during a war, but then again, both of you have never cared much for being cautious.

Warnings: Fluffy cuteness, swearing, Hux is a horrible person

Taglist: @fanfic-addict-98, @thescarletknight2014, @blushingwueen, @americasass-romanoff, @ginger-swag-rapunzel​, @spider-starry​, @totelpoedameron​, @captain-america5​, @liadamerondjarin​

Gif is of Kate Beckingsale in Pearl Harbor, I just really liked how she looked up and just imagined this was how the reader looks at Poe in this chapter. Taglist is still open! Let me know if you want to be tagged for this series!☺️ Comments, likes, reblogs are always appreciated/welcome❤️

Physical therapy was quite possibly the most painful thing Poe had ever gone through--and that included being thrown from his horse at the age of twelve. Still, you encouraged him, you spotted him as he attempted to simply walk across the room for that first week, and when he stumbled, you caught him, always offering a smile.

By the end of the second week Poe was able to walk with support from you and Rey to the end of his hospital wing and back. Somedays were more painful than others, but Poe was determined--determined to make it back to the cockpit, to make it back to the war--determined to kiss you. 

At the end of the third week he was able to walk on his own with a cane--and Poe constantly flirt with you that as soon as he ditched that cane he was going to kiss you like you had never been kissed before. 

You smiled, sweetly. “We’ll see about that.”

“Nurse Y/L/N,” Doctor Hux called, sternly. “A word with you?”

“I’ll be right back,” you whispered to Poe, following Hux into a small room.

Hux closed the door and slowly turned to face you. He scrutinized you for a moment, his cold hard stare a little alarming--but you had grown used to it since arriving in England.  “You shouldn’t indulge Captain Dameron the way you do--it is entirely unprofessional.”

Swallowing, anxiously, you returned Hux’s cold stare. “Indulge him? I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Doctor.”

“Flirting, promising to let him kiss you when he walks again,” Hux accused. “Those kinds of things will not be tolerated in my hospital, Lieutenant.  Your job here is to help the sick and wounded--not find a date. If you cannot follow the rules, then I will have you reassigned.”

“I’ve seen other male doctors here flirt with the nurses. You have not reassigned them to my knowledge,” you said, curtly. “ Is this because I’m a woman, Doctor Hux?” 

“Lieutenant, let’s be honest--you only have that rank because the Army needed the men at the frontlines.”

“I signed up to serve my country because I couldn’t go to the frontlines.”

Hux sighed, annoyed. He had work to do and he didn’t have time to argue. “I am sure that America appreciates your service--as long as perform your duties, honorably.”

You knew what he meant by honorably--living the life of a nun. While the men at the hospital could pursue any woman they wanted, if you so much as smiled at one you were considered a whore and needed to be dealt with it appeared. Realizing that you were not going to win this argument, you pushed the tears back and crossed your arms defensively over your chest. Setting your jaw you refused to satisfy Hux with a response. 

Taking your silence as a sign that you had heard him loud and clear, Hux opened the door and stepped out of the small room, the door swinging on the hinges after he’d stalked away, with you sending him a burning look. 

Before you had signed up, your mother had warned you that nothing you did was going to change the way men thought of women--it wasn’t going to change where men believed your place in the world should be.  You had laughed and been so optimistic, after all they were letting you join the Army and serve America. 

Now, you knew that your mother had been right.  No matter what you did men like Doctor Hux would always see you as nothing more than a skirt. 

Tears now burning tracks down your cheeks, you fled the tiny room, completely forgetting that you promised Poe you’d be back. It wasn’t until you stopped outside in the rose garden and you heard him call your name, followed by the sound of the cane scraping along the concrete path, that you remembered. 

“Y/N? Are you okay?” Poe asked, concerned etched into handsome features. 

“Fine,” you snapped, aware how wobbly your voice sounded.

“Bullshit. What did Doctor Hux say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Poe was suddenly standing in front of you.  He leaned on the cane for support and took your chin in his hand, raising it to force you to look at him. “Of course it matters, otherwise you wouldn’t be crying.  Sweetheart, what did he say to you?”

Looking at him, you found it hard to believe that Poe would ever think of you as  nothing but a skirt.  “He told me to stop flirting with you and promising to kiss you; otherwise, he was going to have me reassigned if I didn’t start following the rules. And my rank--it means nothing. I’m only here because the men were needed to fight and as long as I for fill my duties honorably, my country will appreciate my service.”

His jaw clenched as rage passed through his brown eyes.  Poe took another step closer to you, his thumb caressing your cheek and wiping the tears away. “Fuck him; you’ve earned your rank, your spot here. I’m the one that started flirting with you--he has no right to threaten you like this.  I’ll make sure to set him straight.”

You shook your head; you definitely didn’t want Poe to step in.  You were sure that would only make matters worse for you. “Please, Poe, don’t. If you do then I was definitely be reassigned and we might not... we might not ever see each other again because I know Hux won’t tell you were I was sent.  He’s just that petty to make sure we never find each other.” 

“I’d find you. I’m pretty stubborn,” Poe whispered, resting his forehead against yours. “I’d search the rest of my life if I had too, darling.”

“Somehow, I know,” you whispered back, brushing your nose against his. “I know you’d find me and I know you wouldn’t give up until you did.”

Poe cupped your cheek with his hand, his thumb still rubbing comforting circles into your skin. “I wish I could kiss you.”

Closing your eyes, you whispered, “Then kiss me.”

“What about my motivation?”

“Did it hurt to walk all the way out here after me?”

“Actually, no, it didn’t...didn’t even think about it; I was worried about you.”

“You said you’d kiss me when you could walk without pain.”

He smiled, dropping the cane so he could wrap his other arm around your waist. His lips were just hovering yours, you could feel the heat of his breath when he spoke. “This is risky, sweetheart.”

Your fingers grasped his hospital issued t-shirt, the scent of the soap he’d used in the shower that morning filling your nostrils.  “I know and I don’t care. Kiss me, Poe.”

Poe moved his hand from your cheek and cradled the back of your head. His lips brushed against yours, ever so softly, and for a few seconds he just gently caressed your lips with his own.  Your lips were soft, your breath tasted like black coffee--he’d seen you drinking a cup that morning.  His hand at your waist gripped it, and the one on the back of your skull buried into the silky locks of your hair as he pulled you in closer. 

Now flush against his chest you could feel how strong and solid he was. A content sigh left yours lips and they softly parted.  Poe pulled back and gazed at you, his dark eyes burning with a desire, a passion that you had never experienced before and you found yourself yearning for more, yearning for him to kiss you with that fire and passion.

His lips quirked into a coy grin. “I need to keep some form of motivation, darling.” Poe softly kissed you once again, denying you that fire, that passion that you were longing for. “Someday, I’m going to kiss you like you are the air that I breathe; someday, I’m going to kiss you thoroughly, so thoroughly in fact, you are never going to want another man to kiss you ever again.”

“I hope that someday isn’t too far away,” you lament. “I’m not sure how long I can wait.”

“Well then,” Poe said, stepping back.  He reached down and picked his cane back up.  “We should get back to work--maybe with a little luck, someday will be next week.”

#star wars fanfiction #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #poe fluff #star wars imagine #star wars fluff #poe dameron x you #poe x reader #poe x you #poe dameron x female reader #poe x female reader #1940s AU #100 followers celebration #worth the risk

[universe-n-3276]

Carrying the Moon

Chapter 10

Notes: There is a little soft smut part at the beginning, but you can skip it. Also I wanted to thank you for all the suggestions I got for this chapter. They really helped my creative process. Thank you @cleocc who came up with the idea behind this. Lastly I wanted to tell you that all the love I’m getting from you guys is really making my days. I’m so grateful!

It was Sunday, the last day of the best weekend Robbe and Sander had spent in months. It was strange how those months apart had appeared so long to both of them, but now that they were together again, it seemed like not a day had passed. They hadn’t forgotten each other’s habits. How they liked to sleep, how much sugar they wanted in their coffee, who was the big spoon, who’s the little.

After putting Hero to sleep, they decided to take a bath, together, of course, because since their reunion on Friday night, they hadn’t been able to stay away from one another, not even for a few seconds. So, while Sander finished washing the dishes in the kitchen, Robbe started to run a bath. He filled the bathtub and made sure to put enough soap to form some bubbles. He took off his clothes and was about to slip into the water, when Sander walked in the bathroom and hugged him from behind, pressing his lips to his neck, making him shiver.

“Hi."

Robbe smiled, enjoying that soft contact. He tilted his head a little, and Sander took it as an invitation to continue what he had just started.

"Are you happy to see me or is there something in your pocket?"

Sander stifled a laugh against his boyfriend's skin.

"I don't have pockets."

They made love there, in the bathroom. Robbe was slightly bent forward while holding the sink with his hands. The sounds he was making, Sander thought he had never heard anything more beautiful, more arousing. They were his favorite thing in the world.

After that, they both got into the tub. Sander was sitting between Robbe's legs. His head resting on his boyfriend's shoulder, eyes closed, while Robbe played with his hair, kissing his face sweetly and delicately, in total contrast to what had happened a few minutes earlier. It was beautiful, comforting, familiar.

"How long it will take for him to start to see me as his parent?"

"I don't think he knows what a parent is."

"But he knows you are his papa."

"Because everyone keeps referring me as “papa” in front of him."

"Hmhm."

Sander knew Robbe would have started asking questions like that eventually, and he felt guilty for denying him his relationship with Hero for so long, but he was also sure that ultimately, those eight months, for Hero, had been meaningless, in the bigger picture.

"Look, I haven't read books about babies, but in my experience, I think he feels safer with me because I'm the one who spends more time with him. But I swear, I’ll do everything I can to make him feel safe with you as well. At that point, he will see you as his dad."

"So you're papa and I'm dad?"

“Yeah, of course. Come here."

He turned his face and pressed his lips to his boyfriend's, slipping a hand through his hair and cupping his head, to make him come closer. They kept going like that, kissing languidly for a while. Neither of them had yet made the slightest attempt to grab soap or shampoo to wash themselves, and the water was now starting to get cold.

"I have to go back to my flatshare tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Because I live there and I can’t go to classes wearing your clothes."

"I thought you wanted to do this parenting thing with me."

"I do."

"So stay. Move in with me here."

There were still so many things to discuss, and they both knew it, but they had made sure to put all the talks aside and take that weekend just to heal their relationship and love each other, without a single worry in their mind.

"And your mom?"

“My mom lives with her boyfriend and comes here when I need some help with Hero. It will be only the two of us and our little one, of course. Please say yes. There’s no rent to pay and my parents take care of the financial stuff since they didn’t want me to leave uni to look after the baby."

Sander knew how to make something sound good, but that proposal would have been tempting even if it was just him and Hero on the plate.

"I want to say yes."

"Look, baby, it won’t be easy as it was before, because dealing with Hero can be stressful, but I promise I will take care of him when you have to study, or you just don’t wanna him around. And there’s a spare room if you need your space. "

“I would never let you take care of him alone. We're in thins together now. Remember? "

“Yeah, I do. So is that a yes? "

"Yes."

Robbe managed to make his way into Hero and Sander's routine. It wasn't always easy, sometimes Hero would cry in the middle of the night when Robbe had to wake up early for a class in the morning. When he had to study for an exam, he felt guilty leaving Sander to take care of the baby alone, but, at the end of the day, the happiness he was feeling, outweighed those moments of despair. He started to think how stupid he had been, for letting all those months pass, before coming back to the love of his life and their son.

For once, Robbe didn't feel guilty about accepting the help of Sander's parents, and whenever he could call a babysitter for Hero, he felt very lucky.

Growing fond of Hero hadn't been difficult. After the first few days together, the joyful, warm, and radiant manners of the baby had managed to break through Robbe’s heart, who often found himself wishing he could be with his baby, when he had to be the whole day at university instead. He couldn't wait to go home and spend time together.

The chemistry with Sander came back automatically. From the first moment, it was like picking up exactly where they left off. Sander knew exactly how to read Robbe and it was mutual. It was like sharing emotions and thoughts. Robbe felt the need to give all of himself for their relationship and promised himself never to take the other for granted. Not after realizing how precious the way Sander loved him was.

It had been over a month since Robbe had moved in with Sander, and they had started their life together again. By now, he knew Hero, and that morning there was something wrong with him. He had lost the happiness that distinguished him, he was nervous and whiny.

"He doesn't want to eat, I even tried to give him a bottle of formula but he pushed that away too."

The two boys looked into each other's eyes, both were very worried. Sander took Hero from Robbe's arms and placed his cheek against his forehead.

“I think he has a fever. Can you take the baby thermometer?"

They took Hero's temperature and when they found out that it was indeed way above the norm, Sander started to panic.

“We should have known sooner. We have to take him to the hospital right away."

“Baby, calm down. I’ll call his doctor while you try to make him drink some water, okay?"

Sander took a deep breath and closed his eyes, trying to regain some of the rationality he had lost. Robbe knew that at times like that, he had to take the lead and give him a list of tasks to do so that he could focus on the present moment. He went into the kitchen, cuddling the baby, trying to carry out the instructions he had received from his boyfriend.

After a few minutes, Robbe joined them again and gently stroked Hero's back, who was leaning against Sander's chest, pouting with his eyes full of tears.

“The doctor said we should try to take him under the shower with one of us for at least 15 minutes. He said we should use lukewarm water, and added that he will probably cry and scream a lot."

"Shoot. Is that the only option?"

"Not really. We could give him paracetamol, but the doctor said we should try the shower first since he's so little."

Robbe kissed Sander's cheek and rested his forehead on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around his waist.

"It's gonna be fine, Sander."

"I hate this situation. I just want him to feel better."

“I know, baby. I’ll shower with him if it’s too much for you."

"No, I think he’d feel safer with me."

"Yeah, I was thinking the same."

"Okay, let's do it."

As the doctor told them, Hero started to scream as soon as he felt the first drops of water roll down on him. Sander kept his shirt on and Hero had his little romper on as well because Sander feared he would otherwise slip out of his hands. The child was crying, screaming, and struggling, so much more than the two boys had expected. It seemed they were torturing him, but they both knew that the hospital would be even more traumatic. Sander and Hero both looked in pain, and the baby kept trying to reach for Robbe every minute. When his boyfriend bowed his head, Robbe knew he was close to the tears.

"Baby, don't cry, it's for his best."

"I know but seeing him in this way just breaks my heart."

"Two more minutes and it’s over, c’mon."

He wanted to get in the shower and hug them both but they had a plan and according to it, he couldn’t get wet.

When the timer they set up warned them that the time was finally up, Robbe grabbed a big fluffy towel and took Hero from Sander’s arms, trying to comfort him, showering him with all the kisses.

Sander turned off the water and got rid of his soaked clothes, wrapping himself in his bathrobe.

"He's gonna hate me for the rest of his life."

"That’s not true, and you know it. At least now that he wants to stay with me, you can get some rest."

"Yeah, I definitely could use it."

Robbe took Hero into the nursery and kept cuddling him, whispering sweet words to him.

"You're such a brave boy. Let's dry you up and put on some clean pajamas, alright?"

The baby was so exhausted from screaming and crying so much in the shower, that he fell asleep while Robbe was dressing him. He sat down on the rocking chair that was in the nursery and kept holding him against his chest until Hero's breathing became more regular.

He did not know at what point he had fallen asleep, but when he reopened his eyes, the room was dark, and the only light in it, came from the small lightning bolt-shaped lamp that Sander had hung on the wall. He felt a hand caressing his cheek, realizing that his boyfriend was at his side and that he was whispering something.

"What?"

"I said hi, baby."

"Hi."

He smiled, and kissed Sander's lips, feeling so much calmer than before.

"I think he's better."

"Yeah, he woke up a couple of times, he took some milk with crumbled biscuits in it, and then fell asleep again."

"And his temperature?"

"It was back to normal so the shower worked."

"I'm so happy to hear it. Wanna switch?"

"No, that's okay. I love feeling him sleeping so peacefully on my chest."

"At least come to our bed, or you won't be able to stand up tomorrow."

Sander helped him to his feet and guided him to their room. Robbe felt so tired he barely understood what he was doing, so he was happy to be able to count on his boyfriend. Sander arranged some pillows so that Robbe could stay seated to keep Hero on his chest. Shortly after getting into the right position, he closed his eyes again and went back into a deep sleep.

When he regained consciousness, it was late morning, and the room was bathed in daylight again. He turned his face and saw his boyfriend's eyes staring at him, a stupid smile on his lips that didn't quite match the way he was feeling at that moment. Every inch of his skin hurt and his head was about to explode. He wondered if Hero had felt the same way.

"Good morning, beautiful."

"Hmm, I feel like shit."

"Ow. Let me just..."

Sander pressed his lips to his forehead, and Robbe fought the urge to push him away. When he was sick he just wanted to be left alone.

“Yeah. You're burning."

"Fuck. Everything hurts. Where's Hero? "

"He's in the other room with my mom, and he's great!"

"I'm happy to hear it. Now go away."

"Why? You're the worst patient."

"Shut up, you took a cold shower and I get a fever? I hate you."

He pulled the blanket over his head to hide and slid onto the mattress, curling up. Obviously, Sander didn’t let him go, in fact, he felt his boyfriend come closer and try to hug him as he could, leaving little kisses on the blanket.

"You're kissing my butt."

“You know I love it. And so do you!"

Robbe uncovered himself again, coming face to face with his boyfriend, giving him a death glare.

"I want to punch that stupid expression out off your face."

Sander laughed out loud and Robbe's head began to throb even more. He closed his eyes and remained silent, trying to calm down, when someone knocked on the door.

"Yes, come on in, mom."

Sander's mom walked into their room, holding Hero in her arms. He looked better, and Robbe was a little relieved. He had gotten sick, but at least it was worth it, and he would have done it again thousands of times, just to get the same outcome.

"Guys, guess who ate all his food?"

"Hi, Alice!"

"Hi, sweetheart!"

"Robbe’s a fever."

“Ow, no! Poor thing!"

Hero saw his dads and stretched out his little hands to reach them, but Alice kissed his cheek and smiled quietly.

"No, baby Hero, you can't go with them. Your daddy is sick."

"But I wanna hold him."

"You need some more rest, baby. Mom, can you help me make some soup for Robbe."

“Sure! Say nighty night to your daddy, Hero! "

Alice waved her hand to Robbe and Hero did the same. Sander gave his boyfriend a kiss on his forehead and the three of them left, so the boy was finally able to rest. Robbe closed his eyes, turning on his side. It was the first time that Hero got sick and there would be many more. When he saw the baby cry and suffer so much, he just wanted with all his heart to take his pain away and make him feel better. For the first time, perhaps, he understood what being a parent meant.

[previous] / [next]

#wtfock #sander driesen #robbe ijzermans #drijzermans #robbe x sander #rosander #sobbe #wtfam #wtfock fanfic #sobbe fanfic #carrying the moon #chapter 10

[normallee]

Loads of Fun || Grace and Norma

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Sudsville Laundromat PARTIES: @silveraccent​ and @normallee​ SUMMARY: It’s laundry day and sometime the ritual of washing clothes is confusing

When Grace had arrived home, she hadn’t anticipated stepping into soap with her sock. It had taken twenty-five minutes to get the maintenance worker on the phone, and she had been supplied with a few murmurs about blood and what the man thought were butterfly wings before she successfully got a time at which he would arrive. It had been two days, and still, nobody had shown up to fix her washer. It hadn’t taken very long for her to find a laundromat, only a stone's throw away from her apartment complex. She drove, mostly because she hadn’t wanted to lose a finger from the weight of her laundry bin. It had been forty minutes now, a book turned down in her lap, legs spread out before her. The washer in front of her had gone off, and Grace sprung to her feet, unloading and reloading it into the dryer adjacent from where she had been standing. To her right, she noticed a woman loading dry clothes into the dryer just next to her. The woman seemed confident, too confident, to know that she had been doing something wrong. “Um, excuse me…” Grace said, just loud enough for the woman to hear.

Humans had so many customs and practices that Norma had never quite understood. One of them was the custom of washing clothes. The general idea made sense. Clothing became unusable and smelly so the whole washing process alleviated that issue. Norma had never had to deal with that part of the process. She would either pay someone to take care of it or cause enough commotion in a store that she could walk out with whatever she pleased. That was before the bounty. Now she must appear normal. And normal mortals did laundry. Sudsville seemed like the perfect place to learn. With her clothes in her basket, some of which were not hers but she thought they might need washing all the same, she marched in and opened a machine and started throwing clothes inside of it. “Oh hello!” she said, startled a bit by the human girl talking to her. “Nice to meet you, my name is Norma Lee,” she said, holding her hand out to shake. She was told that was how humans greeted one another, might as well get it over with. “Are you in need of any assistance?”

Grace didn’t hide the surprise that wrote itself across her features. In fact, she let it show. Was everyone this friendly here? Well, everyone aside from Regan, she guessed. Grace looked down at the hand that was extended towards her, then back up to meet the woman’s eyes. “I--” she wasn’t sure if she should shake Norma’s hand, or if she should just tell her that she had been doing her laundry incorrectly. Reaching out tentatively, Grace took a hold of her hand and gave it a firm shake. In that moment, she realized how dull Norma felt. Grace retracted her hand, and looked towards the dryer that the brunette was loading her clothes into. “Have you washed those yet? That’s the dryer.” God, she would feel like a moron if the woman was doing some reverse-cycle cleaning that she wasn’t aware of. Grace didn’t frequent the cleaning blogs suggested to her by pop-up ads. “Sorry if you’re doing something, I just… didn’t want you to waste your money or anything.” Grace offered the woman a smile before pushing the quarters into the slot to start the dryer.

“The dryer?” Norma squinted at the machine. This was already far more complicated than she had anticipated. She had no idea what a dryer was or what it did. Or why it was wrong to use it first. Perhaps this child was mistaken instead. No, no, she should listen to the small mortal. It was likely she cared more and had more need for such devices. “I haven’t washed my clothes, I just got here. Is there some specific order I should follow? Like a ritual with clothes?” A ritual sacrifice made sense. This seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Perhaps she should leave and simply buy new clothes. Certainly that was normal, correct? It wasn't possible that every human rinsed and reused their clothing. Looking at the machine, it had all kinds of symbols all over it and strange words like “fluff air” that held no meaning to her. Norma placed her hands on her hips. This was going to be quite a challenge. Human life was meant to be simple, was it not? “Can you explain this strange clothing ritual to me? This is very different than what I’m used to. I think they have rearranged, perhaps.” That was a very logical explanation. Norma was rather proud of herself for smoothing this over so nicely.

The woman spoke, and Grace fought to keep her composure. A ritual? Grace thought, looking the stranger over. Maybe she was rich, never had to wash her own clothes in her life. If only that had been her own strange disposition. “A ritual, no, an order? Yeah.” Grace smiled at her before she motioned to the washer that was behind them. “You’ll want to use that, first.” Grace moved to the washer again, opening the lid and pointed at the dial, “honestly I don’t know half of what this shit does. I throw everything in and hope nothing turns pink.” Not that she had much white or red garments to begin with, but still. Grace looked around the brunette, eyebrows pulled together. “You didn’t already put your quarters in, did you?” She hoped not, though, if she did, Grace had enough quarters to help her out. “Do you have detergent?” Grace asked as she looked for a bottle, but finding nothing. She really didn’t know what she was doing, did she?

Norma was disappointed to learn there was no ritual, though she supposed it made sense. Her understanding was this whole washing thing was meant to remove blood stains out of clothes rather than create pretty new ones. Shameful, really. Still, Noma nodded and followed the girl to the rows of washing machines. “Pink?” she asked curiously. “Why would it turn pink? That seems rather odd and specific?” Then it hit her. It was obvious. “Is it because you’re washing out too much blood from your clothes? Perhaps there’s a way to avoid that.” Norma was happily chucking the clothes, some that weren’t even hers, into the machine when the girl asked her more questions. “My quarters?” She looked down at all four major limbs. All still there. She wasn’t drawn or quartered, thankfully. “They seem to be intact. And I’m unaware of what detergent is.” This whole laundry business was more complicated than it was worth, she was sure of it.

“The dye on red clothes usually runs off on white clothes,” Grace explained. She felt like she was a kid again when her Grandmother had taught her the rules-- not that she ever followed them if she were doing her own laundry. She didn’t have a lot of multi-colored clothes to begin with. “Blood?” Grace looked at her with widened eyes, “no, not-- I mean, I guess?” Grace thought for a moment. Most of the decedents she dealt with at work were no longer bleeding when she was working with them, but she supposed they did stain. “Do you work at a butcher shop or something?” She had seen a bustling one on her way home one day and considered going in to see if they had oxtail for a soup she had been craving-- though had no patience to actually make. “Intact--” Grace stared at her for a moment, wondering if this were all a joke. Confusion swept over Grace, but she did her best to not get lost in it. “Here, you can use mine.” Grace held up her own detergent and shook the bottle. “I have some extra quarters, too,” she offered, placing her hand over her pocket to jingle the change there. “I can show you, if you want?” Grace asked, not sure if this girl had never been expected to complete her own chores, or if she had recently been let go from a hospital for amnesia.

“Oh. That seems rather impractical,” Norma replied, though she was unsure what dying had to do with the colors running. Then again, dying and red did go together. The fact that there seemed to be no link to blood based on her reaction was even further perplexing. There was nothing indicating the girl had not been talking about trying to get blood from her clothes even now. Though she supposed she would simply have to take her word for it. “A butcher shop? Oh no, not at all!” On second thought, that might be fun. She almost wished she had chosen that as her human profession. Then again, that was not half so normal as her current job. No, no, she couldn’t switch careers so soon. What would people think of her if she did? Surely they’d see through her, then. “I work at Bottomless Booty, home of the pirate patty!” she said. “You should come by and ask for me to be your waitress. I would normally ask for a generous tip but seeing as you are doing so much to help me right now, I suppose I will only ask for a mild to moderate tip.” Norma smiled and nodded enthusiastically at her offer for help, still clueless on what to do with the bottle or the small coins. “I can throw in some extra g-arrr-lic fries, too!” she said taking the quarters and carefully placing them in the bottom of the machine. Little did this girl know that many of the fries went to waste and if they were a bit cold, they would toss them anyway. So really there was no loss to anyone, but it certainly made Norma appear more benevolent.

“Does it?” Grace asked, “because I throw everything together anyways, but if you don’t care about that…” She smiled at the woman before she reached for her own laundry bin to set it aside. “Oh, I just thought--” Grace stopped herself. It wasn’t her job to rationalize why somebody would ask about blood over red shirts. “Never mind.” When she explained where she did work, it caught Grace by surprise-- the name had sounded familiar, though she hadn’t gone yet. It had been recommended to her, and while Grace loved a good pun, she couldn’t manage to peel herself away from her bed to eat out anywhere. Not yet, at least. “What’s a pirate patty?” Grace asked as she laughed at her words. “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind, I’ll expect moderate service then.” This woman was peculiar, but at least she wasn’t creepy. Grace had run into several people already in White Crest who she didn’t ever want to see again. Grace raised an eyebrow. So they also named their food after puns. She had to admit, the dedication was great. After a moment, Grace stuck her hand out, “I’m Grace Huang. I’m new here.” She smiled, “I work at the morgue, so cleaning is a specialty.”

Norma was unsure what she was meant to care about but she appreciated the help either way. “If you believe in throwing everything together, I am certainly not one to argue. You are the expert here.” She smiled and placed the whole bottle of detergent, lid still on, just as the girl had handed it to her, in the washing machine along with the clothes and quarters. Truly this didn’t seem so hard. “Oh a pirate patty is a world class hamburger with the best beef available and secret blend of bootiful spices!” Norma replied without hardly missing a beat. She had memorized the manual and taken notes during every training, no way was she going to lose out on business due to lack of recall knowledge. “Oh you should always expect excellent service for me and the rest of the staff! Which is why I usually expect excellent tips however I am willing to be that generous to only expect a meager exchange of goods for services.” Norma decided to take the girl’s-- Grace’s hand and shake it once more, with even more gusto this time. “It’s very nice to meet you Grace Huang! I’m new here, too. I have only lived in this town a few months.” Sometimes she forgot that humans had many different means and manors to deal with their own mortality. “I bet the morgue is a pleasant place to work though I suppose you do not make very many tips.”

“Oh--” Grace stepped in quickly to pick the bottle out of the machine. “You need to pour a cup in, like this.” This had to be a joke, right? After she filled the lid with detergent, she fished the quarters out of the barrel and placed them into the slot. She poured the liquid in over the clothes and smiled over her shoulder at Norma. “A secret blend? Sounds better than microwave mac,” Grace laughed as she set the bottle of detergent down. Norma was surely the most peculiar person that she had met since moving to White Crest, but Grace enjoyed those who strayed from what could be considered normal. She enjoyed those conversations far better. “I’ll make sure to swing by,” Grace carded her fingers through her hair as she looked over the washer. Everything seemed to be in order now. A part of her wondered if she should wait to help her with the dryer, too. She dropped her hand and rose an eyebrow-- there were a lot of newbies as opposed to people who had been born and raised, she realized. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, and no-- usually we give their wallets to the police, so…” She laughed before looking to the dryer, “Do you want me to show you how to use this?”

Norma felt as if she should be taking notes for all this intricate and strange steps to the ritual that was washing clothes. “Oh, I see. I would not have guessed that was how this works. Very intriguing.” She also watched as Grace fished the quarters out and saw her shove them into the designated slots. Ah, that sure explained that strange feature on the side of the machine. Honestly, humans added so many unnecessary steps to things. What happened to just saying a simple chant and that being sufficient? “I look forward to serving you!” Norma said with enthusiasm. She was not in need of human currency herself, but she took great pride in earning it and understood that most mortals did. It was surely the easiest way to remain unnoticed by the bounty hunters as anything supernatural. She was pleased to hear that she would not be on her own for the second phase of this endeavor. Though it was unfortunate that this was so involved. “That would be very ideal, thank you! I’m very glad I met you. Grace. Are we friends now?”

Grace smiled at Norma, unable to get it out of her head how peculiar she was. Grace had a habit of making up stories for those around her when she knew little to nothing about them. Maybe Norma grew up with nannies and never had to do anything for herself, maybe now she was a cut off heiress forced to do her own laundry. “I look forward to it, too.” She said as she looked over the settings and started the machine. Grace hadn’t expected to meet so many people who would make her want to branch out again, she had expected to stay in her apartment and speak to nobody but herself, or the cat she eventually got, so when Norma asked if they were now friends, she hesitated, but only for a second. “Yeah, I would say so!” She grinned at Norma before showing her the settings on the dryer and how to use it, where to put the quarters, and for how long to set the timer for. “You should be all set then, right?” She asked before she pulled her own laundry into the basket she had brought. “It was nice meeting you, and I’ll definitely swing by for one of those… patties?”

#chatzy #wickedswriting #writing #loads of fun #grace #silveraccent

[levi-inthesun]

Home, Chapter 2

Chapter 1

A/N: I forgot about this series! and that I had a few chapters written! So here ya go!

In italics- flashbacks

(gif does not belong to me)

It had been the coldest winter you had ever endured. You guys had been lucky somehow and got to test out some new high tech gear and equipment that kept all the tents warm, so as long as you all stayed inside, everything was okay. 

Except everything was chaos.

Enemy agents had managed to track one of yours back to camp and did everything they could to destroy the warmth your shelter provided. 

Everyone scattered, into the forest. You helped as many as you could escape before the entire camp was blown to bits. 

“Maggie!” you heard someone yelling through the blasts, gunshots, and piercing winds, “Maggie! Over here!!!” you looked around you until you saw a branch waving gently. It would have looked almost natural had a gloved finger not been exposed. You checked to make sure the coast was clear before you ran at full force. You had almost made it, but someone grabbed you and pulled you behind a large tree.

Eyes deeper and bluer than anything you’d ever seen in your life were staring at you intensely, holding you against the tree with a finger to his lips, signaling you to stay quiet. Once you nodded, the hand left you and a gun was drawn. 

They easily aimed through the trees, and once you heard a body landing in the snow did you realize they had seen an agent invisible to you.

They nodded and followed you to your destination. 

Jamie, another nurse, was cradling an agent's head, keeping pressure on a wound through his shoulder, tears running down her cheeks only to freeze. She hadn’t had time to put on her thick gear to protect her from the cold. 

You were in the middle of taking off some of your own when the agent who had helped you, stopped you, removing his own and placing it on the half-frozen woman. You began working on the agent. 

Thankfully, you had been in the process of moving medical supplies from a truck to one of the tents. You literally could not have asked for better timing. Once everything that could be done was done, you turned to look at the agent who had essentially saved all of your lives. 

As you opened your mouth to thank him, you noticed his own blood-soaked abdomen. “Shit.”

“Hi, handsome,” you greeted as the man’s eyes began to open.

He blinked slowly and was surprised to find himself in a hospital. “What the hell?” he croaked.

“Right.” You sat down next to him and began to explain. “After you gave Jamie, the other nurse, your coat, you began to go hypothermic. I don’t even know why I let you do that in the first place, but anyway, you went unconscious. You also had a beacon on you with the Avenger’s symbol so I pressed it and ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’ came and saved the entire camp. They allowed me to stay with you to fix you up, and uh, now we are at the Avenger’s Compound in D.C.”

Bucky blinked slowly as images began to flash through his mind. He could see you dragging him slowly through the snow. Feel large familiar arms lift him. The sound of an engine. You. Your gray eyes. Nothing.

“Umm, so yup. Anyways, I am glad you were the one to give Jamie your gear since you are Mister Speedy Heal-y guy and all.” 

“Sp-speedy, heal-y?” he said slowly, looking at you almost in disgust. “You find out I am a Super Soldier and decide to c-call me..”

“Yup.” you said shrugging, popping the p. “Well, now that you are awake you have a very angry friend waiting to lecture to you.” You smiled widely and blinked quickly as you ran out the door and Steve Rogers walked in. “WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!” was all you could hear as you ran down the hallway giggling to yourself. 

You woke up and turned your head to look at the still sleeping man, the images of your first interactions, both good and bad still playing through your mind. You had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms, yet now, he was half laying on you, arm across your stomach, leg draped over your leg and his face was on your chest. You took your time memorizing everything. The gentle way his breath was moving in and out of his lungs. The serenity and contentedness on his face. The easy upturn of his lips. You ran your fingers gently through his hair. You had always been so envious of how soft his hair was until you started stealing his shampoo and conditioner. He liked that you smelled like him a bit and insisted you use his soap as well. You inhaled and that strictly Bucky smell took over your senses. Then, you closed your eyes and enjoyed his warmth. 

In your half-awake, half-asleep state, you heard a peaceful smile escape Bucky’s lips. You turned over to face him and opened your eyes, his blue ones looking right back.

“Sorry,” he said softly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He tucked your hair behind your ear and gently rubbed his thumb over your cheek. 

“Don’t be sorry, I’m glad I get to be awake with you.” You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, only being interrupted by growling stomachs. 

You giggled and pressed your forehead to his, “Breakfast time?” 

“Definitely.” 

You ran out before him, calling that the last one there was sleeping on the couch. Rather than pick up his already slow pace, Bucky launched himself towards you and threw you over his shoulder, running the rest of the way to the kitchen. 

“BUUUCKKY!” you whined, “Why do you always do this!!!”

Bucky set you down on the countertop and wrapped his arms around you, “Because there is no way in hell I am sleeping without you ever again.” 

His voice was soft and low in your ear pulling you closer. You rested your cheek on his for a moment before he pulled away as if nothing had happened. 

“Plus you keep calling out bullshit like that when you know I can beat you in a race, I think you like it when I do it.” 

He was now staring at the contents of the fridge, deciding what he would make for breakfast when you heard someone clear their throat behind you. 

You whipped your head around to see Steve glancing between you and his friend.

“STEVIE!” you shrieked, jumping off the counter and jumping up to wrap your arms around his neck. 

He chuckled as he caught you, “Hey Mags! When did you get back?” he set you down to get a good look at you, “You seem to be all in one piece.” 

Bucky dropped the whisk he was holding and turned around wide-eyed, concern etched into his face. 

Then you started laughing. Like really laughing. Bucky relaxed and picked the whisk back up, letting the lovely sound fill his ears as he continued working on breakfast. 

Steve looked like a mixture of confused and worried, and when you finally calmed down, you apologized. 

“About that,” you started, placing your foot on the stool next to you, revealing the prosthetic. “My leg got blown off.”

Steve’s eyes grew wider than the time he found out you and Bucky were together, and even that was impressive. “Mags-”

You cut him off, cupping Steve’s face in your hands, forcing him to look up at you. “Steve, I promise I am alright. I’ve had plenty of time to heal both physically and mentally. Still working on it but I am in a good place.” 

Steve nodded and whispered to you as he pulled you in for another hug, “I am so glad you are back and okay.” 

“Me too, Stevie, me too.”

Soon, Bucky had finished making all your favorites. Instead of getting plates out, Bucky threw everything into tupperware containers and pulled you along with him. Knowing he wouldn’t tell you, you didn’t bother asking what he was up to. 

Then, you were on the roof, sun rising high in the sky casting a glow on everything around you. Bucky led you to a spot near a plot of wildflowers and pulled out a blanket from heaven knows where and set everything out. 

Bucky watched you as you took in your surroundings, pleased that the garden he had been tending to up here had survived and that you were there, glowing in the light of a new day. 

“This… this is incredible.” You reached over the food and cupped his cheek gently and placed a soft kiss on the edge of his mouth.

Bucky just smiled. 

You had both easily eaten everything Bucky had made between jokes and teasing, soft, Sunday morning type kisses and the kind that made your body ache, tears from laughing too hard and tears of sadness. 

Later you and Bucky were sparring in the gym when Tony made an announcement throughout the compound, right on time

Bucky rolled his eyes but listened to the announcement all the same.

While Bucky had been distracted, you maneuvered quickly and detached your prosthetic leg and threw it at him as if it were a javelin.

“What the-” you heard a satisfying thunk as your leg struck Bucky.

You turned around quickly, pretending to have been stretching the entire time.

“Did you, uh… Maggie… did you just throw your leg at me?” He asked, voice incredulous as he slowly walked over to you, blinking, eyes wide, brows furrowed.

You turned your head to look at him, feigning surprise. “James, why ever would I do that?” You hopped around and closer to him casually and placed your hands on his arms, leaning in, “it isn’t like you never played dirty.” 

Offering him the sweetest, most innocent smile you could, you hopped to the edge of the ring and left him (and your leg, just to prove a point) behind. 

“Ya know, Em, Tony wasn’t supposed to say I was dying. He’s just dramatic!” Bucky yelled after you only to sprint back to the sparring ring to get your leg.

A week after the mission which allowed you to meet Bucky, you received a phone call from Helen Cho and ten minutes later you were back at the compound. 

“He is refusing to let anyone else near him,” she said, obviously annoyed as she led you to the emergency wing.

Before you, in all his shirtless glory, lay Bucky in visible pain. 

Upon seeing you, his eyes lit up, but before he could do anything, you rebroke and set his leg. 

“Hi, there handsome.”

Bucky looked over and saw you sitting next to him, a book now on your lap. 

Then realization dawned on him. 

“You broke my leg,” he said, shocked, “and with no warning.” 

“Well, technically you broke your leg. I rebroke it because your magical speedy healing powers began to heal with it in the wrong place.” 

“Yeah, but why the hell did you-”

“I was in the middle of watching my niece. She is four months old and this is seriously the first time my sister has had time without her. So yeah, I broke your leg, again to heal it, with no warning to you, Sir Super Soldier. And you get to explain to my dear, anxious sister why I had to take her baby to work, rather than stay with her at my apartment where I promised we would be.” 

Bucky blinked. It was all he could do. 

Your voice got quieter this time, “Why wouldn’t you let anyone else help you?” 

This time, Bucky sat up, “Because I trust you.” 

After that, you were asked to stay on in the infirmary wing due to a special request by a certain super-soldier’s super-soldier best friend. At least until you were sent out again on a mission with shield. 

“Maggie,” Helen called to you from her desk. 

You walked over, knowing exactly what she was about to tell you. 

“They’re on their way back from a mission and-” “Bucky is hurt” you finished for her.

She nodded and you got ready. 

You were suturing a long stab wound in his back when Bucky broke the silence.

“Why did you stay?”

You tied off another suture before answering. “Because I’ve known a lot of soldiers. None quite like you or Rogers, but trust was always something earned, and when you had it, you knew they’d trust you with their life, literally and figuratively. I stayed because I know how hard it is to come by, and well, Rogers briefly told me that you never go get injuries checked because you don’t trust the doctors.” You began to continue the sutures. “And,” you added, “I stayed because I wanted to.” 

The next few times you helped stitch up Bucky Barnes was done in comfortable silence. Soon, however, he began to open up, and you did too. It was one of those easy relationships where both parties feel totally comfortable with the other. 

“Hey Mags?” Bucky asked slowly as you finished cleaning a gunshot wound.

“Yeah, Buck?” 

“Can I take you out? On a date?” 

He watched as you smiled, placing a bandage over the hole in his flesh arm. His heart rate picked up slightly until he saw you sadly shake your head.

“I’m heading out on a mission, tonight.” You pushed back slightly in your chair that way you could really see him. 

“Tonight,” he repeated. “Of course you’re leaving tonight.”

You could see this disappointment in every one of his handsome features and feel the way your heart hung heavy. 

“Yeah, right.  I actually have to pack up now. I’m sorry, I would have told you sooner, but I only just found out.” 

Bucky nodded and watched as you stood up and walked to the door.

You turned, hand on the doorknob, “See ya soon, handsome.” 

At the end of your mission, approximately a month later, you received an urgent call from Tony Stark. Thankfully everyone was packing up anyways and you were rushed off to the compound. 

Once there, you ran. Faster than you’d ever ran before, probably. You choked back the tears that threatened to spill over and slowed your pace as you reached the emergency wing. Through the windows, however, you saw a healthy-looking Bucky Barnes, standing there, joking with Steve Rogers.

Worry quickly turned into fury. 

“DAMN YOU BARNES!” you yelled as you stormed through the doors, “I HAVEN’T SLEPT IN DAYS WHEN I GET A CALL FROM TONY SAYING YOU ARE BASICALLY ON THE BRINK OF DEATH AND NOW HERE YOU ARE, STANDING AND LAUGHING!”

Steve quickly exited the premises and Bucky grinned at you nervously, trying desperately to hide his terror.

“Uh, so what you’d rather me be lying on a stretcher, dying?” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“YES. YES, I WOULD.” you threw your hands up in the air and collapsed on the couch facedown in the waiting area. 

Bucky was about to try another stupid remark but stopped when he realized you were sobbing.

“Hey,” he said gently, “Hey, you’re okay. It’s okay.” 

“No,” you managed to get out between sobs, “no because I thought you were dead. You were dead and I wasn’t there to save you.” 

Bucky pulled you into his arms and gently rocked you as you cried. 

Bucky knew the kind of games you liked to play and decided to play along. He slowly walked down the stairs to the floor his apartment was on and grabbed a snack before heading in where you were sitting on the bed in a pair of shorts and a large t-shirt.

“Oh, there you are,” you said as nonchalantly as possible.

 Bucky chucked your leg on the bed, “It seems your leg walked off without you.”

“Huh, I was wondering where that went,” you shrugged. 

There was silence as Bucky got ready for his shower, and you watched as he peeled his sweaty shirt off and you gasped. 

“Oh, no, Bucky,” you said as you hopped over to him to examine the large bruise that had formed where your leg struck him. “I am so sorry, I didn’t think I threw it that hard.” 

You gently traced your fingers around the bruise and placed a few kisses on it.

“Maggie,” he said rolling his eyes, still playing, “what are you talking about,” he turned around and dropped the smirk playing on his lips when he saw tears welling up in your eyes.

“Babe, hey, it’s fine, what’s wrong?” he pulled you into his arms and relished in the feeling of you leaning into him.

“I thought it would just be funny. I didn’t think it would leave a mark…” you mumbled into his chest. “But now there is a giant bruise on your back and it’s my fault,” you pulled away to look up into his eyes, “sparing is one thing, doing something, especially as a joke that leaves a mark… Buck, I promised I wouldn’t be the one to cause you pain and I broke that.” 

Bucky visibly melted as he listened, pulling you in closer. “Mags, it’s fine. I didn’t even realize there was a bruise, plus it will be gone by the time I am out of the shower.” 

“But I still hurt you-” 

“Maggie, listen to me,” he said and you looked back up into his eyes. “I love you. I know you didn’t mean to bruise me, and like I said, I didn’t even notice. I would forgive you but there is nothing for me to forgive. Okay?” 

You took a deep breath but finally said okay. 

“Good. Now, I need to shower. After maybe we could watch a movie?” you nodded and gave him a quick peck, smirking to yourself as you smacked his butt as he walked away.

#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes #avengers fanfiction #avengers fanfic #marvel #Marvel Universe #marvel fanfiction

[our-smooty]

Take Me to Church Chapter 13: Date

Fandom: Gorillaz

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: 2doc

Tags: Car Accidents Angst Hurt/Comfort Drugs/Alcohol Implied/Referenced Suicide SuicideHealing Everything Hurts

Summary: The band is back together, but things are… weird to say the least. But when a crisis arises, can they pull it all together and be a family again?

Link to other Chapters on my Blog!

The next two days passed much the same as the one after the day at the hospital. 2D and Murdoc practised music, hung out, and generally goofed off together. Sometimes they fucked, but mostly they just enjoyed each other's company. Russel was around, but he seemed to be going out more and the other two were too busy with each other to question it.

Friday morning, three days after the hospital visit, they were all crowded around the breakfast table debating which of their albums would win in a fight when Russel’s phone rang. Murdoc paused mid-laugh to glance at it and saw the caller was Dr. Cavenaw. Russel saw as well and quickly answered.

“Russel Hobbs speakin’. Yes. Yes thank you. I understand. Yes, OK, see you then.” As quick as the conversation began it ended, and Russel sighed.

“Who was that Russ?” 2D asked with his mouth full of the pancakes they’d made. Murdoc didn’t say anything but he waited with bated breath, the good morning he’d been having taking a sharp downward spike.

“That was Noodle’s doctor. She said that they started the process of wakin’ her up yesterday and she’s been showin’ some good signs. She also said we could come back tomorrow and try to help by takin’ to her and stuff, get her to wake up on her own,” he explained. 2D jumped out of his chair and pumped a fist in the air. Murdoc felt sick.

“Muds did you hear that? Noodles gonna wake up soon! We can go see here again!” Murdoc watched him jump around. Satan, what he wouldn’t give to just feel happiness at the idea of Noodle waking up. Because he was happy, he was fucking ecstatic that his baby girl was going to wake up and get back to normal but the looming dread of what might happen after hung over him like a noose.

“Calm down D, before you go and hurt yourself,” Russel warned. Murdoc stood and walked to the fridge, grabbing two bears and tossing one to the singer. The younger barely caught it, and Russel raised an eyebrow.

“Guys its ten in the morning.”

“It’s celebratory,” Murdoc snapped, draining half the can in one go. 2D cracked his open and took a sip as Russel shrugged.

“Right well, you two have fun with that.” Russel cleared his plate and put it in the sink, heading off to his room. Murdoc watched him go as he opened another beer.

“Isn’t it great Murdoc, Noodles gonna be awake soon,” 2D sighed happily, spinning in circles in the middle of the kitchen. He rounded on Murdoc with a big smile, which slowly faded as he saw the look on the bassist’s face. “Aren’t you happy?”

“Yeah mate, I am. I promise it’s jus’...” he trailed off with a shrug. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, why couldn’t he just be happy that Noodle was alive and going to be ok? For some reason, his brain wouldn’t allow him to just be happy instead of worrying about what might happen.

“You’re still worried she’s gonna hate you.” 2D hit the nail on the head and Murdoc flinched. There was no doubt in his mind the guitarist would want nothing to do with him once she was up and kicking again. Then he’d be back to having nothing; no band, no fame, and certainly no family.

“I’ve fucked up too many timed Stu, I don’t see how she could forgive me.” It’d be easier to bite the bullet and get it over with, leave before she could tell him to. It would hurt less.

“I’ve forgiven you, haven’t I?” The singer asked and Murdoc paused.

“Actually, you’ve never said you have,” he said slowly. Now it was 2D’s turn to pause for a second. He seemed to be thinking rather hard because he was doing that little thing with his tongue, the one where he stuck it in and out between his missing teeth. Murdoc had found it annoying, but now it was almost endearing.

He must have come to a conclusion because he nodded his head and strode towards the Satanist with a look of determination. Coming to stand directly in front of Murdoc 2D placed his hands on the shorter man’s shoulders.

“Murdoc, I forgive you,” he said, slowly and clearly, looking right into the bassist's eyes. A brief silence, a blink from the bassist, and suddenly Murdoc found himself in a crushing embrace. He wasn’t sure if he pulled Stu in, or if Stu pulled him in, but it didn’t really matter. All that mattered what the sense of relief he felt at those three words, words that until this morning he didn’t even really think he needed to hear.

“I forgive you Muds, but I dunno if I’m gonna be able to forgive you if you crush the life outta me,” 2D joked. Murdoc barked a laugh and let him go, a little embarrassed but too high on endorphins to care.

“Sorry, mate, sorry,” he chuckled as he let go, giving 2D’s arm a friendly pat. He felt better, lighter, somehow. Like maybe he should be celebrating.

They were still quite close together, so it wasn’t hard for Murdoc to lean in and plant a kiss on Stuart's lips. The singer kissed back willingly, openly. There was a moment, when their tongues touched briefly, where Murdoc thought about deepening the kiss, pushing 2D against the counter, and letting the taller man take him right there in the kitchen. He thought about how good it would feel, to ride this wave of relief and happiness right into something more carnal.

And he didn’t.

Instead, he pulled back, finished the kiss with a breathy laugh and let the singer go. 2D seemed reluctant but stepped back and Murdoc was grateful. If the singer had kept going, or been insistent he wasn’t sure if he had the willpower to keep thing PG.

“Heh, you’re a pretty aggressive hugger, aren’t you Muds?” 2D teased, but Murdoc was in too much of a good mood to snap back. Instead, he chuckled and sipped the beer he’d managed to hold on to during their moment. “So what are your plans for today?”

“The same as the last couple days?” he asked, feeling like 2D was going somewhere with his questions. His assumption turned out to be correct when 2D shook his head and scolded him.

“Murdoc we can’t jus’ keep doin’ the same thing every day. I don’t think we’ve been outside since Monday!” The bassist didn't really see the problem with that but gestured for Stu to continue.

“So I  was thinkin’ we could go out an’ do some shoppin’? Maybe get a few gifts for Noodle to make her room feel homier.” Despite still feeling nervous about seeing Noodle tomorrow, Murdoc couldn’t help but agree.

“Fine, we’ll go out. Go ask Russ if he wants to come while I get ready.” 2D scampered out of the kitchen excitedly as Murdoc watched on. Sometimes he swore the other was more a child than a 40-year-old man.

Russel declined the offer to go out, which 2D thought was weird since going out had been all the drummer had done in the last week. He tried to convince him, but Russel had just shaken his head with a funny smirk.

“Nah, you and Murdoc go have fun together,” was all he had said before shooing 2D out of his room. The singer was a little disappointed but figured Russ had his own plans so he got himself ready to meet Murdoc downstairs.

Shuffling into the front hall, 2D picked out a pair of chucks and sat on the steps. When he’d asked Murdoc to go out he hadn’t really had a plan. As much as he enjoyed working on music and shagging, he didn’t want to spend another day cooped up in the house. Getting gifts for Noodle was just an excuse to get out and about. Besides, it would be good for Murdoc to get some fresh air. The bassist had been in better spirits over the last few days but 2D was still keeping an eye on him.

He was still worried that the other might do something he’d regret. At times like then, when they were separated, the fear he’d felt up on the roof would come back and he’d have to force himself not to go barreling through the house looking for his mate. They hadn’t talked about any of that since Monday, mostly because 2D didn’t know what to say.

“Alright, D?” Murdoc asked, stomping down the stairs in his Cuban heels and startling the singer. He was quite bundled up, with a sweater, scarf, and leather gloves. 2D looked down at his own t-shirt and jeans. “You’re gonna want to grab a jacket, mate.”

“Is it cold out?” he asked, trying to remember what the weather had been like the last time they went outside. A side effect of the multiple brain injuries was that his memory was a bit shit.

“D it’s the end of September, of course it’s cold. Go get a jacket,” Murdoc sighed. “I'll go start the car.”

After fighting through the hall closet and wrestling his fall jacket from the grips of a particularly feisty umbrella stand 2D walked outside and got in the passenger seat. Murdoc hadn’t been drinking as much recently, so he wasn’t too worried about the bassist driving them around.

“So, where to then?” Murdoc asked as he sat down. 2D thought for a few minutes before an idea hit him.

“Why don’t we head downtown and check out the music shops, see if we can find any cool old records?” When he was younger he loved browsing through the shops with his mates looking for interesting records.

“Sounds good mate,” Murdoc agreed and they were on their way. They weren’t too far from the downtown core, they probably could have taken the train instead but there was always the chance of being recognized out in public and 2D didn’t really want to risk it. Not with all the press about Noodle.

When they got downtown they picked out a parking space and wandered towards the shops. Murdoc was chattering on about something on one of his soap operas, so 2D wasn’t paying attention other than the hum or nod occasionally. It was a lot busier than he’d expected, with people crowding the storefronts and pushing along the walkways.

“So then  he says that she was the one who bought the gun--Stu can you please try to keep up?” Murdoc griped. He didn’t seem to be having trouble moving through the crowds despite being almost a head shorter.

“I’m tryin’ Muds but people keep pushin’ me!” he whimpered as another person shouldered him. Murdoc shot him a frustrated look, then held out his hand.

“Come on, you git,” he huffed. 2D took his gloved hand and let Muroc lead him through the crowds. People moved out of the way for Murdoc, probably because he was so cranky looking, and 2D had a much easier time getting along with Murdoc’s hand in his.

They stopped at a couple of the more popular and mainstream music stores along the way, having a good laugh when they came across a poster of Gorillaz for sale in one. 2D even convinced Murdoc to take a selfie with the selection of Gorillaz albums and CDs under the pretence that Noodle would enjoy it. He knew, secretly, that Murdoc got a kick out of seeing all the Gorillaz stuff on sale.

Eventually, they got to a quieter part of downtown off the beaten track, though Stu kept a tight grip on Murdoc just the same. The shops down that end had more to the stuff they wanted to look through and they spent a good amount of time combing through the piles and piles of records comparing finds.

“I don’t think we have this one, do we Muds?” 2D asked, holding up a copy of A Night at the Opera. Murdoc scoffed.

“It’s Queen, D. Of course we have that one.” 2D giggled and put the album aside. Murdoc had an absolutely astonishing amount of records buried away in his room that the band had collected over the years.

“M’glad you can remember Muds. My brain’s like a siv,” he lamented, continuing to dig through the piles. Occasionally he would hold up an album for Murdoc’s consideration, but they mostly explored in silence. At one point Murdoc disappeared for a little and that now-familiar feeling returned, but 2D found him skulking around the poster and memorabilia section. They accumulated a good pile of music after and eventually left the shops.

“D’you want to get somethin’ to eat Murdoc?” 2D asked as they walked back down the street. The bassist had also been a lot better about eating as well, but Stu was getting tired of pizza and leftovers.

“If you want, I don’t care,” he answered, which wasn’t the answer 2D was looking for but it was good enough. He looked around the street for somewhere interesting and spotted a little Mexican place that looked quite cozy.

“Oh! Let’s go there!” he exclaimed excitedly and Murdoc shrugged. 2D grasped the bassist hand again and led him across the street and into the little restaurant. Inside was warm and colourful and surprisingly empty.

“Table for two please!” he said to the waitress with a big smile. She led them to a booth and left them with menus.

“Muds, these menus are in Spanish. I dunno Spanish!” he fretted. Murdoc rolled his eyes and pointed to the main section.

“Pick somethin’ here that has a picture you like an’ I’ll tell you what it is,” he instructed, looking over the menu himself.

“You can speak Spanish?” 2D gaped, eyes wide. Murdoc nodded.

“Picked it up in prison. S’not so hard after you’ve got the basics. Or if you’ve got a big guy named Lenny shouting it at you every day.” 2D stared in awe for a moment, partially at how casual Murdoc was being but also because he’d had no idea. How do you live with someone all that time and not know they can speak another language. He eventually pulled himself away from watching Murdoc read the options and looked down.

“What about this?” he asked pointing to something completely random on the page. Murdoc looked over, standing in his seat a little to see over the table. HIs hair fell into his face and 2D got distracted by the way it made his deep-set eyes even more noticeable.

“Pollo Picado, that’s chicken with peppers and tomato sauce. Sounds good,” 2D barely heard a word the Satanist said, too busy admiring the way Murdoc’s lips curled around the foreign language.

“W-what are you gonna have?” 2D stuttered, hiding his flush behind a glass of water.

“The carnitas sounds good.” 2D shivered.

“Good, good.” They ordered when the waitress came back, or rather Murdoc ordered because 2D couldn’t pronounce the food names despite hearing Murdoc say them before.

“So, did you find anythin’ cool?” 2D asked once they were alone again. Murdoc pulled his bags up from the floor and rifled through them for a bit before sighing.

“Not really, didn’t see any albums that weren’t shit or that we don’t already have. I uh, I did find these though. Thought you might like them.” He pulled out a smaller bag and handed it over to the singer, face just the slightest bit red. 2D peaked inside the bag warily--you could never tell what Murdoc might find--and smiled.

Inside were four keychains, each one moulded to look like a member of Gorillaz. They were all in the phase one style, little Noodle with her helmet, Russ with that yellow hat from the Clint Eastwood video, Murdoc with his base, and 2D signing into a little model microphone. He held them gently, turning each over in his hands.

“Stupid I know, I shouldn’t of--” 2D shushed him and pulled out his keys, clipping the 2D one to them.

“They’re adorable Muds! I’m gonna call this lil’ guy Tiny 2D!” He jangled the keys around excitedly. Murdoc still looked embarrassed but held his hand out for the other three keychains, clipping the Murdoc to his own keys.

“I guess this is Mini Murdoc then?” he asked, holding the keychain up to eye level. “I think they made me too short.”

“I think it looks jus’ right,” 2D ventured. Murdoc scowled and put the keys down as their food. Starving from all the walking around 2D dug in immediately. Murdoc poked at his with an uneasy look before 2D raised an eyebrow at him.

“Not what you wanted?” Murdoc looked up at him, then back at the food.

“No, carnitas is one of my favourites, but…” he loaded one of the soft taco shells with meat and toppings, “I haven’t really had much of an appetite recently.”

“I’ve noticed,” 2D garbled through a mouthful of chicken and peppers. He watched Murdoc take a bite and felt a little better. Not wanting this to go like the diner, where he’d upset Murdoc so much he didn’t eat anything, 2D decided to focus on his own meal until the other was done.

They finished and paid, wandering back out onto the street. “Other than the keychains we didn’t buy anything for Noodle, did we?” 2D asked as they walked.

“No, but we could stop and get her some flowers or somethin’. Isn’t that what people bring to hospitals?” Murdoc said, leading them back towards the car. “I think there was a florist near where we parked.”

2D linked their hands again and allowed the bassist to lead the way. “Gosh, I’m glad I brought you Muds, you’re a lot smarter about this stuff than I am.”

There wasn’t much of a crowd at the florist so they were able to walk in and check out the flowers right away. 2D pulled them from bouquets to arrangements, oohing and ahhing the entire time. He’d never had much of a green thumb--in fact, he managed to kill an air plant once--so he didn’t really know what to get. Murdoc looked board.

“Jeeze Murdoc, I didn’t know there were so many different types of flowers in the whole world!” he said happily.

“Just pick something already Faceache, it doesn’t matter what,” Murdoc said, pointing to some potted plants. “Those look fine and they won’t die in a couple of days.”

“Good idea, let’s get one of those then,” Stu agreed picking up a little pot filled with white and pink clusters of flowers. Didn’t different flowers have different meanings? He wondered what those ones meant.

Murdoc was getting fidgety, so they checked out quickly and headed back to the car. 2D cradled the little potted plant in his hands the whole way, protecting it from the cold and wind. They each hopped into their seats hastily, the setting sun bringing colder temperatures.

“Bloody hell it’s freezin’, it wasn’t this fuckin’ cold the other day!” Murdoc groused as he navigated the Sunday afternoon traffic. The heating in the car was slow to warm up and 2D fretted over the plant.

“Can’t you drive faster? The florist said if the flowers get too cold they’ll die,” he wailed, hugging the pot to his chest.

“They’re goin’ to die if you crush them to death D,” Murdoc said, eyeing the poor plant. “I’m drivin’ as fast as I can.” 2D continued to fuss over the plant until they pulled into the driveway, where he sprinted inside.

“Oi! You can’t leave me with all the bags you sod,” Murdoc shouted, but 2D ignored him and continued inside. He rushed through into the kitchen to give the flower a drink of water, hoping that would be enough to prevent it from dying. He paused a moment to pet the dainty flowers before the slamming of the front door startled him.

“Oh it’s fiiiiiine, jus’ leave ol’Murdoc with all the bags.” 2D could hear Murdoc complaining from the foyer. Guiltily he walked back to the front hall to help.

“Sorry Muds, I was jus’ so worried about the flowers,” Stu apologized as he took some of the bags Murdoc was holding.

“Whatever, Faceache,” Murdoc grumbled, but he didn’t sound too put-out.

2D shuffled his feet a little as he watched Murdoc stretch out the kinks in his arms and back from dragging the bags inside. He could see the muscle of Murdoc’s back and shoulders twisting and bunching under his shirt and it made his face heat up just a bit.

“I-I had a good time today, Muds,” he said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

Murdoc turned to the singer and paused. 2D stared down at his shoes feeling oddly embarrassed. “Yeah, today wasn’t so awful.”

2D had been around Murdoc long enough to know what the bassist meant. The urge to hug the shorter man was strong, and 2D decided to take his chances and step into Murdoc’s space, arms open. He half expected Murdoc to push him away, but was pleasantly surprised when the other man allowed him to wrap him up in a hug. Murdoc smelled like shampoo and cigarettes and sweat. 2D nuzzled into his hair slightly, tightening his hold and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt Murdoc’s arms wrap around his middle loosely, returning the hug. They haven't hugged like this in well, ever. He could feel the bassist sigh against his collar as 2D began to sway them side to side gently, their hug morphing into something closer to an embrace.

Feeling bold, 2D decided to try something he’d been thinking about for a while. Slowly removing one of his hands from Murdoc’s back he brought it up to his hair and gently ran his fingers through. The reaction was immediate. Murdoc sagged with a sigh, tightening his arms around Stu’s waist. 2D’s confidence surged and he continued to pet and ruffle the bassist hair as much as he wanted. It was softer than he expected--Murdoc wasn’t a stickler for good hygiene normally--and 2D wondered at the feeling between his fingers.

“Mmmmm,” Murdoc moaned. 2D continued to rub at that particular spot and he could feel the other man relaxing in his hold. He could feel the potential for sex vibrating between them, Murdoc was probably in the right headspace to agree to almost anything 2D wanted. But he didn’t really want to, for the moment he was enjoying making the other man feel good. Making Murdoc feel good made 2D feel good, so why not indulge a little?

Eventually, they separated when 2D realized they’d been standing in the foyer for a significant amount of time. He smiled down at Murdoc, who was still standing quite close.

“Thanks for the hug, Muds,” he said and the older man smiled.

“Don’t mention it, you can pay me back by hauling all those bags upstairs,” Murdoc said, winking. 2D groaned but didn’t make too much of a fuss.

“I guess it’s only fair,” he admitted, leaning down to grab a couple bags. Unlike Murdoc he wasn’t stupid enough to try and carry all of them at once. Murdoc nodded and left the front hall, probably to go get a drink, and 2D got to work on moving all the bags. Even after when he was done, tired, sweaty, and a little sore, he still thought today had been a really good day.

#tw suicide #tw violence #tw car accident #tw DRUGS AND ALCOHOL #tw hospital #takemetochurchfic #niccalpot

[godtier-rose]

healing is hard

I’ve recently went through something so unreal to me that I’m still honestly pretty emotional and still working through it.  I kept a little measly journal while I was in a psych ward, and I have now been home for almost a week and have typed up all six days I had spent there. This is going to be such a LONG post, but if you are struggling, or just curious about what a psych ward was like from my point of view, go on and read this. 

I want others to know that they aren't alone with their suicidal thoughts. I feel shy and a little embarrassed talking about mine, and my depression, but thats what landed me in there. I didn't ask for help. 

My sister gave me “It’s Kind of a Funny Story” while I was in there, and it just felt nice to read something that someone else went through that I was then going through. Thats why I wrote every day in my little booklet while I was in there.

I was given a second chance that others do not get. People have already denied my experience. I don’t care. People who try to tell you that what happened to you wasn’t real, literally don’t matter. I didn’t try to kill myself to prove anything to anyone. I didn’t plan on surviving. But I lived. 

Here are my days, as best recalled and sloppily written as I can manage, not being the best writer: 

day 0 - last day

the walk to publix is simple. after spending an hour or so browsing the web for lethal doses of drugs, I settle on tylenol pm. 8 is dangerous. I can do that, I tell myself. I buy a bottle and a lunchable ( I have beer at home right? I think so), last meal goals? I almost run home, i’m grossly excited to die. sickening. but I was told one that I would never be remembered. I feel at peace. I won’t have to think about living after i’m gone, not about my depression, not about my feelings, money, stress, no consequences. living is so hard and dying is so easy.

no one else is home, I planned this perfectly. one handful, one beer. repeat. repeat. feel dizzy. fall around the room. knock shit over. people come home. I babble nonsense and say i’m going to bed. my note has been written. I tell no one what i’m doing, I don’t want to be stopped. I don’t want to survive this. no texts and no tweets, people will find out eventually. who cares, not my problem anymore.

drink. swallow more pills. drink. swallow. I stopped counting at 9 beers and 20 something tylenol. I hadn’t eaten all day, my lunchable is long forgotten. i’m a 5’1”, 98 pounds, this should do it. I don’t remember how much I ingest after that.

I black out, finally. i’m ready to die.

day 0 part 2 - not yet

and then???????

I wake up. mouth dry. vision so blurry I panic. I can barely stand. I think i’m going to be sick but nothing comes out. breathing hurts. everything hurts, everything is heavy, wavy,confusing.

i didn’t die. I was given another chance. panic, my body is shutting down, I text my sister, I call poison control, i’m too scared to dial 911. i’m not important or worth it.

I decide to get a fucking uber.(someone told me an ambulance ride is $1,000, fuck that) he pulls up and goes “...hospital???” and i’m standing there, swaying. Yes. please. he freaks out and seems confused, but drives fast and rushes me in. a man has me fill out paperwork and then he asks what’s wrong. I tell him I swallowed more than 20 tylenol to kill myself. I don’t remember how many I  swallowed after 20, I don’t know how much I drank after that. he calls out a stretcher and i’m rushed away. all of my things are taken from me. i’m changed into a hospital gown (butt cheeks OUT, hospital gowns are embarrassing ) they take my blood, they put an IV into me (I almost pass out when I feel the cold go inside my vein, what the fuck) I don’t know what they pump into me but it feels weird and i’m freaked out. tabs are placed all over my body, i’m hooked up to an EKG machine. charcoal tablets( I think ? something for my stomach or liver they say? I'm not a doctor I don't know ) are taken. the nurse asks “honey why would you do this? why are you sad? what is there to be sad about?” a lot. she says i’m lucky that i’m still alive, the amount of alcohol and acetaminophen I consumed and still had in my body should have killed me or shut down my liver. I wanted to say “that was the goal” but I shut up as she took my vitals.

hours pass, I ask for my phone and they say I can look at it once...only once, and make it just a few minutes. then they put it in a bag with my clothes and purse. nurses and doctors walk past my room and peek in and whisper. one finally goes “is this her? the suicide ?” a woman from another room yells back “Yeah that’s the baker act”. i’m embarrassed. nurses and doctors keep stopping by my room to look in and I keep trying to avoid their eyes. I ask to use the restroom and I have to pee with the door open in the middle of the hospital, i’m not allowed to close it (suicide means 24 hour watch).I hate this. I ask my nurse if i’m going home tonight, she says “no baby, we can’t let you go home” I start crying. I call my sister from the nurses flip phone and tell her i’m not coming home.

it’s almost midnight now, hospital food is awful and i’m watching chopped on the tv above my bed. another nurse told me god saved my life. another tells me i’m “too young to be sad”.

“the baker act is being transferred” that’s what i’m called, i’m the suicide. the baker act. another stretcher comes, i’m loaded on. another hospital. I get to ride in an ambulance for the first time, the paramedics think it’s funny when I tell them that I took an uber to the hospital. “I bet it was cheaper, that’s for sure.”

they take me 10 minutes away, to a place that has a mental health unit. I have to sit downstairs in a room to wait for a bed. I go to the bathroom and a nurse yells at me and he slams the door open, saying “you can’t close this, you have to go with the door open!” i’m given a turkey sandwich and a little fruit cup, sitting in a reclining chair, it’s 2 am when they say I can go upstairs now. a screaming man was brought in when I was leaving, the nurses yelling at him saying he’s here because he was found naked in the bushes waving a samurai sword. I laugh and a nurse asks me what’s so funny.

I meet someone up on the 6th floor, the psych ward floor. She takes me to a room and I have to strip down. she marks a body chart with my tattoos, my burns, my cuts. i’m asked for the millionth time why i’m there. she gives me a new gown and brings me to my room. it’s a plain as it gets, and my roommate is asleep. it’s 2:30am.

I lay down in the most basic bed with this pillow that’s literally filled with something paper like. I sleep like shit.

day 1 in the psych ward

i am woken up again at 6am for vitals. I fall back to sleep until my roommate and I wake up to an announcement at 8:30. we stay in bed and talk a little. she’s here for swallowing 50 xanax, I say “shit, you beat me, I blacked out at 20 something tylenol” she’s impressed. she’s a 46 year old mother. kara. a doctor comes to see us and talks about the severity of what we both have done, tells us what meds they will be putting us on. we leave our room and look around, a nurse tells us we missed breakfast, but she gets us some cereal and juice. this place is full of interesting people, I watch in awe. a woman (marlene)keeps saying she’s frank sinatras daughter and that someone keeps burning her with cigarettes (no smoking allowed and she just yelled that it was happening just then, when no one was around her) another woman (isabelle) claims she works for the phone company, and takes one of the hospitals phones and takes it apart (breaks it) and says she got the bug out. a man (joe) won’t stop yelling for nurses. another woman (mary) keeps petting everyone’s hair. me and kara stick close to each other that morning. I speak with a case manager, who tells me i’ll be here a few days because of how severe my case is. whatever. I call my sister on the cord phone they have on the wall, ask her to bring me some books and clothes. I feel embarrassed to be walking around in the hospital gown. I tell her “it says we have arts and crafts today at 1:45”, she can’t stop laughing, “are you fucking serious???” it literally says Arts and Crafts on the daily events whiteboard.

I ask a nurse if I can shower, she gives me a towel and unlocks the shower door, where an open shower with no cover or curtain is, but I can lock the door.a broken soap dispenser holds a shampoo/bodywash combo (LAME), and there’s a few bandaids on the shower floor. I have to stand on my tiptoes to get close to the water. this sucks. after my shower it’s “process group” time, where kara and i get to meet some of the others, talk about our feelings, the works. kristie, sherri, carl, natalie, andrew, and myself and kara are the most sane and coherent. we all sit near each other at lunch. kristie is here for cutting herself, sherri for OD’ing, carl for suicidal thoughts, andrew for trying to slit his throat on drugs. I️ get mystery meatloaf for lunch. kara asks the nurse where to get a toothbrush after lunch, the nurse goes “maybe if you left your room and ask, you’d get one earlier.” I get defensive of my roomie and say “well ma’am i’m sorry we didn’t exactly pack for this, the plan wasn’t to make it here alive” kara, kristie, carrie, and andrew lose it, they can’t stop laughing. the nurse walks away.

someone tells me that after lunch a woman comes around with a menu, and you can order your lunch for the next day. I order chicken parm and mac n cheese and breakfast for others and cereal for myself. I order dinner for kara because she’s napping and I don’t want her to be cursed with the mystery meatloaf again.

after lunch is arts and crafts, where I make my sister a bracelet and then help a man from the other wing make a bracelet for his daughter.

after arts and crafts is a bit of free time, me and kara sit together and talk with a few of the others. the days feel so long here. my sister brings me clothes, makeup, toiletries and books, but i’m not allowed to see her. she gave me “Its kind of a funny story” and said that I️ had to read it because the kid gets baker acted. she brought me the extra clothes and stuff I asked for, I wander around and give clothes to some of my friends who aren’t able to have someone bring them any. I get conditioner, face wash, shampoo, body wash, and lotion, and become the toiletry mom who hands out and shares it with everyone who wants to use it in the shower.

eventually it’s dinner, and since we only got to order for the next day, kara and I are stuck with meatloaf again. I call elspeth after dinner and tell her about my day, tell her not to tell anybody i’m here, not even my parents, tell her to tell them my phone is dead and i’m at a friends, I don’t want anyone to know yet. i’ll y’all when i’m out and ready. she says she got mad and told some people what I did, but they didn’t believe her. that’s fine, I tell her they can never contact me ever again because they don’t care. I have nothing to prove. I lived and am now locked in a god damn mental ward. I have more important things in my life besides caring about people acting like they know what I did and why I did it. my goal was to be dead and not have to deal with this, but I got another shot so let me fucking be. i tell her there is visitation tomorrow from 6pm-8pm. I tell her that one of my friends was going to hang out with me, and that I can’t make it. also that I was messaging another friend and that she can tell him what happened, he will be understanding and caring. (shoutout to my sister for holding everything together while I could only contact the outside world through her via a phone with a cord)

after that I lie in bed and read my toradora manga elspeth also brought me. vitals are checked. a doctor ask me how i’m feeling, etc.

eventually we get snack time? which is juice, popcorn, bananas, and bread with PB&J.

finally it’s bedtime, my first day is complete. this all feels surreal. I write everything in the back of a booklet I was given earlier. I sleep like shit again.

day two, the days are still so long

6 am, vitals again. back to sleep. an announcement at 8 am gets me and Kara awake, it says there’s “grooming” taking place, where you’re allowed to shave your facial hair or armpits in front of the nurses, in a sink, and also they have mouth wash. great.

8:30, breakfast. the board says that there’s pet therapy today, and visitation tonight!!!!

process group again. I shower. lunch. my food isn’t as awful as the meatloaf but it’s still hospital food. carl tells me I have to go to the meds window to ask for my meds, but warns me they will have me sign a paper. they don’t tell you, but the paper is a voluntary admission form that once you sign, your baker act is no longer valid and you can only leave if a doctor says you can. I say that’s BS because I wanna go home after my 72 hours. he says if I don’t sign, they just re-baker act you. no way. I go to the window and ask for my meds, and the nurse gives me a paper and says “sign this to get your medication”. it’s the voluntary admission form. I ask her if I sign this, what happens. she said it’s the “first step towards getting better”. I said “if I sign this my baker act is removed and i’m becoming a voluntary patient right?” she says “well....yes, but it’s the first step towards getting better.” I ask her what happens if I don’t sign it. she goes “....well then you will probably be here a longer time :(“ I end up signing the papers, i’m fucked either way. I didn’t even want to take prozac or be i’m this place.

pet therapy gives us a golden retriever named JR who is so cute and licks my face. I love him. it brightened a lot of people’s days. after dinner we get visitation, everyone eats fast and me and kara stay behind to help the nurses clean up.

i’m so excited for visitation. i️ told my sister she can bring someone with her. kara’s family and daughter are coming too, I get to meet them. elspeth comes and brings an old friend, I hug her and him for so long, it feels so good. you find out who is really there for you. I tell them all about my crazy day and how there was a bra left on the floor in the public room and how people keep acting out. I give elspeth the bracelet I made her in arts and crafts, I meet kara’s family. it made my day. after visitation is snacks, a young girl comes in and I feel instantly protective of her. I ask her if she has clothes and she says no, so after I sneak extra snacks for her, I run to my room and gather up a shirt and pants, lotion, and some of the graham crackers packs i snuck from snack time, I run back and give them all to her, tell her that i’m in room 604 and she can ask me for anything. I tell her how this place runs, as if i’m a pro even though i’ve been here for 2 days. she’s so thankful, her name is Destinee.

eventually, it’s bedtime again. I journal and fall into another shitty sleep.

day threeeeee...get me out of here

once again, 6 am vitals. back to sleep until 8 am announcements. I decide to get my butt up and shave my armpits in a sink during grooming time. we aren’t allowed to shave our legs, but whatever i’ll take what I can get.

my day follows a constant schedule. always breakfast at 8:30, process group, I shower, the board tells me today is more arts and crafts and bingo tonight. kara, kristie and I sit in our room and talk about cam girls and people who buy feet pictures. kara is fascinated that kristie and I know so much about the dirty web.

I start reading “It’s Kind of a Funny Story” and it’s so similar to my situation. Craig is baker acted and he’s taken to the 6th floor (i’m on the 6th floor, are all psych wards there??). he talks about the food, the people, even the shape of the ward (shaped like an H), which is what my psych ward is shaped like ! it’s a good book, I feel like the author right now, as I type up my experiences. being here is honestly so crazy I just had to write about it.

there’s another group and this time it’s a mix of all the wings, (I am in the East Wing, the west wing is the violent or dangerous patients.) one guy from the west wing tries to start a fight with Cheryl, the rec therapist. he leaves angry.

in arts and crafts I become notorious for being able to find any letter bead asked of me, maria from the west wing says any letter and I dig through the bead box and find it for her. I help another guy make a ring. I make a bracelet for someone who cares about me.

lunch is late because the guy who got mad during group, started a fight in the dining hall and all of us from the east wing watched from the window. he threw his tray and food was everywhere. we see him on the floor and find out he was probably sedated.

we eat, continue our day. I read my book and hang in my bed. kara’s family brought magazines for us, so we share those and read about the outside world. I miss my phone and the internet. I talk to a doctor who says I won’t be going home this weekend. (it’s friday today, so she says maybe monday because of how severe my case is.) kara gets the same news. the doctors all say “well imagine how bad it would look if we release you now and you kill yourself, you were in our care, that would be on our hands.” what a lame excuse.

later is dinner, our table always consists of the same group of people, a nurse says “why do you all sit together always???” we love it. we laugh and all share what we have witch each other.  

bingo is next, where carl says you can win prizes, and he’s gonna try to win some deodorant because the nurses keep refusing to give anyone any. that’s so sad. I win a game and give carl the deodorant, he says I didn’t have to do that.

snacks. then bed.

day four!!!!!

same basic schedule, except today it says game day for our activity.  

we get to the dining hall and it’s decked out with a wii, basket ball hoops, a ping pong table, and a bunch of other board games. andrew and I play wii bowling, and then I play jenga with kara.

kristie and carl have gone home, I miss them already but I hope they are doing okay. a new guy named paul joins us all, we tell him what’s up. me, destinee, sherri, and paul all sit on the hallway floor and talk about crazy shit. a new woman named virgina walks around and spills her tea everywhere, talking about being american and carrying a stack of 8 books that she occasionally reads out loud to nobody in particular.

we have a different night nurse, his name is richard and he’s literally the best. he tells us at snack time that he’s opened the “patio” (a gated in balcony connected to the dining hall that none of the nurses ever feel like opening because they don’t want to watch us) I literally run and andrew makes fun of the faces i’m making because i’m so excited to breathe outside air.

after that, richard pulls out a box full of movies and say we can all have a movie night in the community tv living room. everyone decides on jeepers creepers 2. it was a great night.

I continue to sleep like shit, and I have a dream about my ex.

day 5! when can I leave???

it’s sunday and kara has to miss her mothers surprise party. we want to go home! there aren’t even any case managers here today, so we can’t even talk to anyone. we MIGHT go home tomorrow, we are told. not for sure. sherri goes home tomorrow!!! I give her one of my sweaters to keep and we exchange numbers for when we are on the outside.

football is on the community tv and I call my friend and say “watch this, your team is gonna win and this other team is gonna lose.” his team wins and I can’t stop laughing, I was just kidding but it somehow worked.

my day still follows the basic schedule.

day 6: FALSE HOPE

i’m not going home today! lame!!!!! a doctor tells me there’s no discharge order for me today, but there’s one for tomorrow! i’ll take it.

the board says today is music and drum therapy. also there will be games tonight in the dining hall.

the loud guy who yells constantly, joe, is leaving today. we all secretly cheer when he leaves, because he just yelled at people to make his bed and to come to his room. now i can read without having to here someone yelling “NURSEEEEEEE” down the hall every 3 minutes.

drum therapy is fun, we all get to sit and bang in drums to describe how we are feeling.

music therapy is just “pick one song on youtube and toni the rec therapist will play it on the TV” I pick human by the killers.

kara and I play jenga for games night, it’s our thing now. richard is here again and we are so happy, that means patio and movie night. my last night is spent surrounded by my support group as we laugh on the patio, sharing a blanket with kara as we watch Disturbia, and drawing pictures for destinee until it’s time for bed. I make sure I have everyone’s numbers written in the back of my booklet. I ask the meds window for something to help me sleep, i’m too anxious and know I won’t fall asleep tonight. they give me ativan ? and I go to bed. I finally don’t sleep like shit.

Day 7: Freedom

IM GOINNNG HOMEEEE!!!!! 

I wake up excited and make sure I get together my belongings. I’m visited by doctors and case managers, nurses give me plastic bags to put stuff in. I make sure I give nurse millie a big hug. kara isnt leaving until tomorrow, so i give her a big hug too. the community board says tonight is karaoke night, and I feel bad that I have to miss it, but I leave before lunch. the hospital drives me home in a van, and i’m so excited when I step outside. I start crying and the driver brings me home. I cry again. I take the worlds longest shower and I go get some chick fil a. I sit outside for hours. I hold baby kitty and start crying. I check all my social media. I reply to texts. I sit my mom down and tell her what happened. I do not tell my dad or my brother. my stepdad is in germany and I will tell him when he’s home. ———- afterthoughts:

    the mental health system is fucked. not one doctor or therapist or psychiatrist really helped anyone in that psych ward. if you asked for underwear or deodorant the nurses wouldn’t want to give you any, they said “well you have one pair of underwear already.” some nurses and doctors were kind, but not one of them had any type of sensitivity or empathy. my first three days there, half the nurses assumed I was one of the drug addicts and kept trying to give me nicotine patches and tried having me go to AA meetings. in group “therapy” we were asked how we felt and that was it. the doctors asked us from 1-10 our depression and anxiety, and then gave us meds. we were told if we tried to leave after our 72 hour baker act, that we would just be re-baker acted and be there longer. asking questions was like a game of “which nurse do we ask so that they don’t say no or ignore us” I was not given any type of one on one sessions with a therapist. I was just repeatedly asked “why would you do this? what do you have to be sad about?” they made an appointment for 7 days after I left, never contacted my sister, and let me leave. I swore every night when I prayed (I feel cheesy but I also feel like I owe god my life at this point) that when i’m out, I will put together a box of clothes and books and stuff for arts and crafts and game nights. they have six books and hardly any crafts, and almost no clothes for people who come in with nothing and have to wear the hospital robes. people deserve better. everyone in there survived something that others don’t get to, people need help. this felt like the hospital just wanted our money for keeping us there longer. it’s not fair. I felt like a prisoner. everyone did. a man raped his roommate in our wing and all they did was move him to the west wing. kara and I had to ask to have our room locked from the outside so that we didn’t have to keep going to bed scared.

it felt surreal, but now i’m home and want to help in any way I can. i’m blessed to have met my roommate, we just went to church together and had a fake thanksgiving with my family and her daughter. we call each other every day. i’ve only been home 6 days, but every day I remind myself that i’m alive for a reason. I take my meds. I text my friends. I do my makeup and eat every day. i’m finally 102 pounds and not 94 pounds. I have grand openings for work lined up. i’m going to puerto rico with my church for a missions trip in a few months, to help with hurricane relief. i’m going to help as many people as I can.

I hope that writing all of this just kinda helps. I don’t want people to think they are alone. I did not plan to live, I planned to die. I didn’t die. there are people who literally said i’m faking it. but those people don’t matter. I didn’t get drunk and swallow over 20 tylenol pm and survive, and spend 6 days in the hell that was that psych ward, to have anyone tell me my experience didn’t happen or was for attention. I don’t care if you are trying to die or if you commit and survive, you’re important and deserve care, attention, and help. I deserved every hug and kiss and call and text from people when I was out of there. I have such an amazing support system. I have friends who aren’t judging me, who say “i’m so happy you’re alive emily, let’s hang out. i’m so glad you failed, I love having you in my life.”

I have only told hardly a few people, this is my public account of as much as I can remember. I don’t want any pity. I lived.

 I’m going to keep living. I’m going to work hard, I’m going to buy nice clothes and makeup, i’m going to travel and open new stores for my job, I’m going to pour myself out and connect and train my teams, I’m going to stay up late watching anime and cartoons, and eat junk food and party with my friends, i’m going to get tattoos, pet every cat, make art and finish school, i’m going to hang with my sister and my family, and i’m going to heal and find love and care for myself and for another person again. i’m gonna give as much as I can and love and be kind. I’m not perfect but neither are you. We all have flaws so just damn love and embrace and smile at each other. Help each other.

Thank you to everyone who has been so patient and caring and supportive. I love you all so much and I can’t wait to continue my life with a new passion and outlook. 💘

#personal #tw suicide #long post #sorry its fucking long

[heartlandhq]

❝ the sun will rise, and we will try again. ❞

INFORMATION,

full name ⋯ Blair Valentina Mendez-Aliba age ⋯ 19 years old pronouns ⋯ She/Her/Hers origin ⋯ Cali, Valle del Cauca, Colombia / Omaha, Nebraska affiliation ⋯ Bergan Mercy Hospital position ⋯ Scavenger

SURVIVABILITY,

advantages ⋯ able-bodied & avid disadvantages ⋯ belligerent & reprehensible preferred weapon ⋯ metal baseball bat

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warning ⋯ parental abuse ( negligence, emotional, physical ), violence, blood, injury, death, murder

BEFORE DECEMBER 25th, 2017,

it doesn’t rain much at all in cali, valle del cauca, colombia. ON THE DAY SHE IS BORN IT POURS. a summer baby, a gemini, with a head full of dark hair. she is the last of many in a long line of princesses and politicians and psychiatrists.

they name her blair. “it is not colombian,” her abuela says. “it is beautiful,” her mother says. “it is shameful,” her abuela says. “it means ‘battlefield,’” her mother says. “could you please, hija, listen to me for once in your life?” her abuela asks.

they do not go to a lot of family events after blair is born. still, when she grows old enough to waddle her way around the streamers, old enough to tug at her grandmother’s long skirt, she receives a smile back. her abuela is a kind woman. her mamá might be adopted.

the mendez family wanted a quiet life. two catholic traditionalists with hearts of gold, they had only one child, a daughter they named antonella. the mendez family didn’t get their quiet life. their daughter is an olympian by the time she is eighteen. a gold then and two years later again. her tkachev salto is a beauty.

the other side of blair’s family is not much at all. maite aliba raised her son alone with two harsh hands. she was a coach like her papá before her, and she taught her son soccer as soon as he could walk. she dies when tomas is ten from a heart attack.

antonella and tomas meet and hit it off during her second olympic games. he is for soccer, she for gymnastics. they bicker incessantly and hide their smiles poorly. they elope, move to cali, have five children in quick succession. ivano, omar, cassius, jesse, blair. all after olympian idols.

if they had stopped at just hope, A NAMESAKE, that their children would grow up to be national athletes, all would be well. but that is not what they did. they forced them to be well.

antonella does not know temperance well. she knows hard work and payoff. she knows not the power of her own words. she has a thrumming of power about her, is not one for jokes, is not one for failures. she is a despicable but powerful woman.

tomas is a shadow. he is always there, even when you don’t need him, but he doesn’t really do all that much. he lets antonella take the reins, even if she is the most violent horse in the history of the mendez-aliba war.

THEIR HOUSE IS A WAR-RIDDEN COUNTRY. blood stains the floor of their bathroom from where mamá pushed cassie too hard. a few years ago someone replaced all the family photos with sceneries. some nights it is a deafening arena of noise; screams and yells and screams and cries and screams. some nights it looks empty. there is no movement in sight. rooms become tanks. the living room is no man’s land.

sometimes blair thinks about it, but most of the time it is bleached from her memory. she makes herself a selective remembrance for when it suits her.

she tells herself things with so much confidence that eventually she starts to convince herself they are true.

blair tells herself: no, my mamá did not hit me. yes, papá is always nice. no, i do not know where ivano is. yes, i miss my home.

the last one is always the hardest to get out. cali is a place that is easy to miss. it is breathtaking. colombia may be seen as violent and rough to the outside world, but blair has never been given such a proof. every day she used to walk a mile to the shops from her house. the sun would rise around her. how could such a thing be vitriolic?

but just because the sky melts into yellow easier than anywhere else in the world does not mean it is her home. but neither is their house at the end of the block.

by the time she is eighteen, no one lives there anymore. it does not matter. she could buy it, she knows, but cassius has talked about doing the same and she doesn’t want to remember. blair wants the house to make new memories for itself. cassius wants to burn the house down on his own right.

she would ask her other siblings for their input, but she doesn’t have their numbers.

blair is five when ivano is fifteen. she has yet to learn her time’s tables or how to spell la mochila or what it’s like to have the freedom of choice. but she knows three things to be true before anything:

01. mamá is always right.

02. papá is always right.

03. if you close your eyes real tight, and hum real loud, nothing really matters anymore. screams go silent. tears go dry. pain goes away.

she learns a new thing two months after her birthday when ivano packs a bag and leaves in the middle of the night. she is getting a glass of water in the kitchen, just awaken from another tonya harding-themed nightmare where she, of course, plays the part of nancy kerrigan. that is when she sees him. he is taller than her by a long shot, and his eyes water around the dark imprint of a black eye when she spots him. “iva?” she whispers, and he raises a finger to his lips. ivano writes something on a post-it note that was lying on the counter ( meant for groceries ) and gave it to her. after that, he left and she couldn’t read what he wrote, but she knew it was bad so she kept it on the space between her wall and her bed for many years. sometimes she would just stare at it. SHE NEVER TELLS ANYONE WHAT IT SAYS.

this is how she finds the fourth thing:

04. trust is sacred.

blair grows up.

on the morning of her sixth birthday, her mother gives her a box. in it is a black leotard and two hand grips. “your training,” she says, “begins tomorrow.” blair is overjoyed. her siblings are in mourning.

she has never been more fascinated than she is when she sits in front of her family’s television, gymnastics playing on and on. mary lou retton tumbles and tatiana gutsu flies. she wants nothing more than to be just like them. nothing else matters in the world except for being just like them. she doesn’t remember a time she didn’t feel this way.

( she doesn’t know that her parents conditioned her to feel this way. she will never know that her parents conditioned her to feel this way. she doesn’t want to know that her parents conditioned her to feel this way. )

the most vivid memory she has of her childhood is soaked in blood.

she has just gotten home from gymnastics practice. they did mile running today. her thighs ache and she doesn’t think they will ever feel steady again. it’s a comforting feeling in some way, despite this. IT’S CONSTANT.

her mamá is screaming. cassius is crying. as usual, omar and jesse are at soccer practice. or maybe they’re hiding out on the roof. she doesn’t pretend to keep track of them anymore.

she walks into the room, and the air all drains out. her tan hands fidget with her limp ponytail as her mamá’s eyes scan over her. “and you,” she says, in español, “blair valentina. you are all i have left to be proud of.”

it’s a common scene.

blair knows what it’s like to bleed. she is six years old: she tells her papá she doesn’t want to go to practice that day. he tips her into the gravel on their patio. her hands slip until they find purchase beneath her. blair knows what it’s like to bruise. she is seven years old: she doesn’t think she will ever land this flip correctly. aerials are hard, is all. she makes it halfway through each time, only to land with her shoulder smacking against the cold hard mat. again, her coach says, again, again, again, again. blair knows what it’s like to burn. she is eight years old: “mamá, she is better than me,” is an innocent phrase, or so blair had thought. for saying it her mother puts her hand above a candle for a minute. the scar still exists today.

BLAIR KNOWS WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BURN.

she is five years old: “i can’t play right now.”

she is six years old: “i don’t want baby toys.”

she is seven years old: “watch me! watch me, watch me, watch me!”

she is eight years old: “i miss my family so much.”

her siblings all turn out a bit bitter, as it reveals over time. ivano hasn’t been seen in years. omar has five erased speeding tickets, his first shot at college was a failure, his second a pass. it took cassius years to give himself a purpose. he was the best out of all of them at his sport, but he held no passion or love for it in his heart－he went into boxing, has learned to smile with blood in his teeth. jesse is a pawn of his parents, a vapid boy with a dissolute mouth. he is a product of his situation.

AND THEN THERE IS BLAIR.

the only one of all of them to make it to the olympics. the only one of all of them to process it so cleanly.

blair turns out bitter, but she succeeds. she is reprehensible in the simplest way. not even soap would help her mouth anymore, and she says what she thinks the moment she thinks it, and a lifetime of rage has been bottled under her tongue ( sometimes she can’t hold it there as well as she likes ).

she hasn’t really lived beside in her competitions. she doesn’t know much of anything. her level of education is just what is legal before she was taken out of her classes to train full-time. she’s never really dated, only had sex a handful of times.

but she knows what she has to do: WIN GOLD. she has two more years until the summer olympics, after that it’s four more, then four again, then four again, then four again.

her first shot at the olympics had been a success, but she been first. silver is beautiful but gold is priceless. beijing had been a failure, and she was going to be ready next time. she knows she shouldn’t be so disappointed. silver at seventeen is fantastic, especially on your first try. she is still disappointed.

she doesn’t know what’s coming after that but it’s never really bothered her. it’s easier when you know what you have to do. she eats vegan, runs five miles a day, trains eight hours a day, travels all over the world.

that’s when blair takes her plane ride to north carolina. SHE DOESN’T COME BACK.

AFTER DECEMBER 25th, 2017,

she is sitting in her hotel room when the news of it spreads. blair hears the words “epidemic” and switches the channel. she’s thinking maybe f.r.i.e.n.d.s is on instead, checks her phone idly. it is then she becomes aware of the mass surge of notifications she has: warnings and psas and rumors.

the outside world is a mystery to her in some ways. she doesn’t listen to the media, keeps her silver spoon in her mouth at all times, and doesn’t keep up with any celebrities.

but there are millions of people on twitter talking about these videos of the dead come alive: it’s really zombies, they say. y’all i can’t die without having fucked harry styles, they say. finally, death’s sweet embrace, they say. ( she doesn’t understand any of it. )

but she’s a curious girl. and curious girl’s fingers often slip, so when they tap the play button on one of the videos, well she just can’t help herself, can she?

she watches it. it looks like a highway, cars parked all around with their headlights on and their horns are blaring. in the middle of everything is a man. he’s unnaturally pale with blood smeared at his mouth. when he stands, it is revealed only half of his head is still intact. he limps towards the person holding the camera. limps. limps. limps. a shot rings out and the video goes dead.

blair tries to catch her breath, scrolls down more. twitter crashes. when she opens it again, it crashes again. she gives up and closes her phone. her back hits the hotel bed with a thump, eyes searching the ceiling.

her mind roams over what she has to do tomorrow. morning run, meet up with coach salzar, practice leaps－ “qué hora es?” she mumbles to no one in particular. she opens her phone. 12:05, it reads. she glances a bit down. the date: december twenty-fifth, 2017. it’s christmas. SHE HADN’T REALIZED.

as the world is ending, blair goes to sleep.

when she wakes up everything is so loud. it’s five am, her daily awakening. nothing should be different because she is in a new place. mornings are always the same.

but the sounds of people running down the corridors are noisy. there are screams and shouts outside her door. she doesn’t know why, and the video from last night doesn’t come to mind. she shuffles across the room quietly. when she reaches her door she doesn’t try to open it, doesn’t dare, doesn’t want to face what’s outside. she hates noisy neighbors.

she checks the peephole instead. at first, all she sees is a grey expanse. then it comes into clearing as the person standing outside backs up. it was their forehead. she thinks the person is just some oddity but then she looks down. it’s a woman, no older than her, wearing a nightgown. she’s white with bright blonde hair. it takes a moment to register that she is covered in blood. all down the front of her nightgown, her legs, her bare feet. she growls as she stares at the peephole. ( THAT THING IS NOT A WOMAN. )

adrenaline rushes into blair, knocking the air out of her. she grapples with her phone, tries call her coach. no answer. cassius next. no answer. her mother. no answer. someone is banging on her door, shouting something frantic.

she does not listen. blair grabs her bags, throws them all onto her bed. she shoves everything she has that is important into her duffel bag. clothes, her laptop, travel size containers of cereal. then she opens her window. good thing her room is on the second floor. outside is mayhem, but she ignores it as she climbs.

being able to jump and flip has suddenly found a way to be handy. HER FEET HIT THE GROUND, and she starts running and does not stop for a very long time.

a month has passed, but she hasn’t realized it yet. her phone is lying in the bottom of a river from when she was passing and got very, very angry. her laptop had the date too, but she threw that when she got tired of the weight. it could very well by march and she wouldn’t be able to tell except by the seasons.

she still doesn’t understand what’s happening, just knows she’s missed way too much training.

she thinks she’s in illinois. the air is stale here, but everything is so far apart that the biters ( that is what she has been calling them in her head; doesn’t think she’s spoken in weeks. last time she saw people, she hid behind a parked car until they were gone. ) aren’t overpowering.

her throat burns, and there’s no more spit left in her body. she’s dehydrated but doesn’t stop walking. training has been a blessing. competition is not the only thing it turned out to be good for. and it is a help, but in her training, she never learned how to shoot a gun or properly load one either. that’s why when she finds a metal baseball bat in the back of some poor sucker’s car, she takes it.

the weight is easy in her hands. if she closes her eyes it feels like a beam ( in this fever dream she wraps her fingers around it, twirls in perfect symmetrical circles. her landing is marvelous, without any flaw. the crowd cheers. )

but especially she is good with it, her arms are strong, and when they swing it comes with a punch. she can send a biter down in one shot if she does it right.

it’s not a skill she ever needed, but it makes blair happy in a way she probably shouldn’t be. killing things is pretty easy, a bit fun too. she tries not to enjoy it at first but it doesn’t work. THE POWER IS FINALLY IN HER HANDS.

she’s finally the one throwing the punch, or swinging the knife, or scoring the competitors.

blair has been trekking herself across the country. she had no destination in mind, just knew that if you sat in one place too long a biter would be there waiting. maybe she’s just too afraid to make something that matters if it’s likely going to be torn down.

she doesn’t trust people that much anyway. never has. she trusted omar, but he left. he’s probably dead now. she trusted cassius, but he’s at washington state university. he’s probably dead now too.

this is when she stumbles upon another person. she doesn’t notice him until it’s too late, she has no time to run in the opposite direction. they’re both raiding the same supermarket. when a biter has her cornered she’s just about to swing when an arrow goes straight through it.

his name is marcus, he tells her. he is very nice, but not very funny. or maybe she’s just being mean, that’s always a possibility because even before the world came to an end she was not regarded by media and by others as a nice person.

THE NICKNAMED HER THE COLOMBIAN GASLIGHTER.

( she is not proud, she promises. )

and she promised herself she wouldn’t be a friend to strangers in these circumstances. but marcus doesn’t let her shut him out. and together they make their way across the prairie state. scavenging is a lot easier when you have a partner, but marcus doesn’t share her brand of diligence.

marcus doesn’t like checking to make sure there’s always an exit, or double checking at all, or patrol. he’s a careless person, and blair doesn’t like careless people but she does like marcus so she tries to not notice and not get angry.

“blair,” he says to her one day, “are you ever going to stop looking for something that isn’t there?” she can’t answer him. if she could she doesn’t have anything to say, she isn’t even sure what he means. she can’t answer as to what she’s looking for. a purpose? a person? a home?

when blair is unsure or anxious she rubs the burn on the inside of her left palm. it’s her mamá’a work. now that the world is truly coming to a close she’s started to realize something: she didn’t deserve what happened to her.

but she doesn’t understand it either. one day, a week in as she has known him, she is getting changed when he comes back in from replacing their water supply. “oh my god,” he says, and she turns around. “don’t be a baby, you’ve seen a naked girl before,” she says, putting on her shirt a leisurely pace. she is not going to let anyone make her feel ashamed.

“BEFORE OR AFTER?” he asks. she has to ask what he means. “before or after the apocalypse, did you get those scars?” she shakes her head, walks away to start getting their things together.

their time together is short-lived. the next supermarket it is marcus who gets cornered. a biter narrowly misses his leg. they don’t talk about, just continue on their way. blair’s new boots that she stripped from some dead girl in peoria are stained with blood.

she offers to do the first patrol. as marcus sleeps, she takes her knife and shoves it into his neck. his eyes fly open, and he looks her into the eyes as she whispers to him, “almost done, baby. it’s okay.” it doesn’t take him long to die.

blair feels immensely relieved afterward. she did it for a reason. so that some biter wouldn’t do it in a few weeks in springfield or in st. louis in kansas city.

it’s easier this way. she drags his body into the river, stabs him in the brain beforehand ( the only way she knows how to kill them ), then she lets the tides consume him.

after that, she packs her bags and continues her journey west.

two weeks pass. blair doesn’t see anyone but the undead. she stops cleaning herself as well as before, starts looking a bit frightening. well, as frightening as a hundred pound colombian girl who is the same height as kevin hart on a good day.

this is when she makes her way into omaha. she wouldn’t have realized if not for the “OMAHA. CITY LIMIT.” sign she passes. it’s been steady going for a few miles now, but blair is dehydrated, has been for a while. she feels like she did two years ago, training for the olympics non-stop.

except for then, there had been a payoff. her silver medal wasn’t the best but it was so, so good. she does not see any pay off in sight. all she sees is buildings.

then a cemetery. she knows it must be a bad place to be at a time like this, but she can’t help herself. she wanders in, looks at the inscriptions but not at the names. her bones are heavy.

after that, she makes her way across the street. there’s a parking lot filled with biters, but she sees an entrance hidden away so she makes her way through, swinging that same bat despite the ache in her arms. she makes the sprint, makes her way through. after that it gets blurry. dehydration catches up with her.

the next thing she knows she is inside the building. she made it in before passing out, they tell her. she was severely dehydrated, they tell her.

blair thinks she might want to leave, might want to continue her journey.

she thinks she might go to the washington state eventually. try to find cassius. but the people are nice and their hands are warm and they didn’t let her die, SO SHE STAYS.

CENSUS,

faceclaim ⋯ Sofia Carson played by ⋯ Olly

#sofia carson #rp #rpg #town rp #oc rp #{ a. } #{ f. } #{ 10. } #{ bergan mercy. } #{ scavenger. } #{ olly. } #{ blair mendez aliba. } #abuse tw #murder tw #death tw

[lvckyclover]

Clover: Southside (IV)

Bee palms her phone and slides it back into her pocket. No missed calls, emails, anything. It’s her work phone, so that’s normal, but she wants anything to distract her from the situation at hand.

The white board on the counter mocks her.

She hasn’t always been like this, and she hates that she knows what it’s like to be able to communicate like a normal person. She remembers how the words used to spill off her tongue regardless of circumstance. Fear? Anger? Anxiety? Joy? Words, words, words, free flowing and easy.

She doesn’t know what changed.

(She does.)

Dragon sits in the living room—him and the robot, who hasn’t come out of the box. Bee doesn’t know if it’s okay or not. It seemed scared, or else damaged somehow. If it is, they’re going to have to figure out what to do. Going to the authorities regarding broken-down or damaged ‘bots is dicey at best and downright riot-provoking at worst, and Bee doesn’t think she or Dragon can handle it.

Dragon. Like the robot in the box, he doesn’t belong here, either. He’s just staring at it, too—the box. Like it’s going to pop open or something.

Bee hit him, out in the street. She hadn’t meant to, but she had. She wants to apologize, but she also doesn’t. Misunderstandings are hard.

She swirls her teabag in her mug one last time before she removes it. She places the portion with the tea in it on a spoon, then wraps the cotton string around and around until she reaches the label. Slowly, deliberately, she presses it over the teabag and squeezes out the rest of the tea. It burns her finger, but she holds it there until it’s only an unsteady drip drip drip.

With nothing left to do, she returns to the living room. Dragon looks at her this time. Progress.

“I was going to take a look,” Dragon says. Bee can see that his coffee cup is empty. “In the box, I mean.”

Bee nods once. It’s a good idea, but one she’s not personally keen on.

Dragon stands and moves to the kitchen. Bee watches him place his used cup in the sink. He stands there for a moment, then turns on the tap.

Bee stares into her tea as she listens to Dragon wash the cup. She can almost hear the slide of the dish soap against the ceramic underneath the gentle scratch of the sponge over the surface.

She takes a sip of her tea. It’s on the weaker side, as she prefers it. She holds her face over the steam and breathes in. Behind her in the kitchen, she can hear Dragon going through the cabinets—open/shut/open/shut/open/shut. He’s not taking anything, just looking. Bee understands when she hears the sound of something being set down in between the open/shut shudder. He’s put the coffee cup away.

Dragon returns to the living room.

“Shall we?” he asks.

Bee nods.

.txt!BASICdisplay::INT (1/4903)

*System startup sequence*

*This fucking code is going to kill me so look, the constants and start-up commands are all on page 25. Do not move them or the code will break. God knows how this is holding together now as it is.*

Start=Loop[SysCheck,Diagnostics,0,1,medial];

If[Start]=0,Then[ptcl9090];

If[Start]=1,Then[Commence];

Start=1; Commence

Commence=[inGAGE_23; 0,Infinity,100];

inGAGE_23[Surroundings,ptcl87,txt89034e];

Display[inGAGE_23]

Surroundings=STP with insignificant deviation; time-data=missing; search[stct//INTSYS]=“weather, local”; ptcl87=FAILURE;

REBOOT

“There’s something wrong with the start-up sequence,” Dragon says. “I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

He’s not expecting Bee to reply, but the silence is a little unnerving. He looks back over his shoulder to see if she’s still there and finds her sipping her tea, watching him. She makes a face and shrugs as if to say hell if I know. Dragon turns back to the robot.

The robot is a very new model, and unless Dragon is sorely mistaken, incredibly expensive. He’s heard talk of these types, and not from the kind of people he considers allies.

After a moment’s consideration, Dragon drags the crate with the robot in it across the floor to sit in front of the coffee table. This way, he can see Bee, if she decides to start signing again. (What’s up with that, anyway? He ought to have read her file more closely. There’s probably something in there.)

Bee looks at the robot for a long moment, arms folded, and sighs. She flexes her fingers, and Dragon watches as she signs, rather slowly, Broken?

“I’m not sure,” Dragon admits. “I think we scared it—the robot, I mean. Don’t know if it’s an it or not.”

Bee’s eyebrows shoot up.

“What?” Dragon asks.

.txt!BASICdisplay::INT (1/4903)

*System startup sequence*

*This fucking code is going to kill me so look, the constants and start-up commands are all on page 25. Do not move them or the code will break. God knows how this is holding together now as it is.*

Start=Loop[SysCheck,Diagnostics,0,1,medial];

If[Start]=0,Then[ptcl9090];

If[Start]=1,Then[Commence];

Start=1; Commence

Commence=[inGAGE_23; 0,Infinity,100];

inGAGE_23[Surroundings,ptcl87,txt89034e];

Display[inGAGE_23]

Surroundings=STP with insignificant deviation; time-data=missing; search[stct//INTSYS]=“weather, local”; ptcl87=FAILURE;

REBOOT

.txt!BASICdisplay::INT (1/4903)

*System startup sequence*

*This fucking code is going to kill me so look, the constants and start-up commands are all on page 25. Do not move them or the code will break. God knows how this is holding together now as it is.*

Start=Loop[SysCheck,Diagnostics,0,1,medial];

If[Start]=0,Then[ptcl9090];

If[Start]=1,Then[Commence];

Start=1; Commence

Commence=[inGAGE_23; 0,Infinity,100];

inGAGE_23[Surroundings,ptcl87,txt89034e];

Display[inGAGE_23]

Surroundings=STP with insignificant deviation; time-data=missing; search[stct//INTSYS]=“weather, local”; ptcl87=FAILURE;

*…..*

OVERRIDE REBOOT

The crate shifts.

Two Humans, one Male, one Female. Location unknown; optical input indicates living room, house. Incongruous with previous optical input indicating dock, port. Conclusion: system failure.

“Hello,” Male says. His voice is low and unknown. Female does not speak. Face files have already been added to the database but appear to be corrupted. No—wrong. Incomplete files. Conclusion: system failure occurred during upload.

“Hell-o,” a voice—proximal, too close to be either Human, says.

Optical sensors down. Metal pieces, humanoid?

“It’s all right,” the Male says, hands up. Comparison: metal humanoid hands, Human hands. Near identical.

Conclusion=????

The Human Female waves. Hypothesis: humanoid limbs attached to CPU. Attempt movement.

A humanoid hand shoots out. The Male jerks backward.

“Right,” he says. “That’s you.”

“Me?” the proximal voice says. Voice attached to…?

“Yes, you,” Male says. “You have a body and a voice. You are a robot.”

Inquiry—Contextualize[robot,current]

Processing…

Processing…

“Robot,” the proximal voice echoes. The process is still running, but for good measure, another:

Inquiry—Contextualize[you,current]

Processing…

Processing…

Processing…

Bee stares at the robot before her. She doesn’t know what to say—what is there to say?

It’s clear, at least to her, that the robot doesn’t have any idea what’s going on. Judging from the few words—there’s no avoiding it—it has spoken, it’s not aware of its own sentience. Bee’s never met a robot who wasn’t already walked through this step, either by its kin or by its manufacturers. Perhaps Dragon has…?

A glance at him reveals that he’s shaking ever so slightly. It’s doubtful.

“Hi,” Bee says. The single syllable leaves her mouth dry, but the robot’s optics fix on her. “My name is Bee.”

“Bee,” the robot intones. The robot’s voice is clearly unfinished; the metallic tones are obvious underneath the simulated human ones. It’s as if someone ran a voice through a synth and called it a day.

“My name is Dragon,” Dragon says helpfully.

“Dragon,” the robot echoes. It’s optics pivot. “Bee.” Bee waves. “Dragon.” Dragon nods.

“Good,” he says. “And robot’s name is…?”

The two Humans—Female designated “Bee” and Male designated “Dragon”—stand, waiting. Contextualization processes have not yet finished, but perhaps, a new string…?

Search[robot,you,0,pst];

Display[Search[results]];

Processing…

Results

“robot”=“you”

The voice—robot’s voice, your voice, my voice, designation mine—speaks.

“TREBLE-1873972-c,” it says.

Marcia—the maintenance woman’s name is Marcia.

It comes to Andy just as he’s helping her down to her room. It’s right across from the laundry facilities. From what he can gather, she’s not supposed to live down there because she’s not a tenant, but something about her working there and being friends with the owner—if Andy is remembering right, which he doubts—gives her this space to herself.

“No hospital,” she says. Her voice is so scratchy, Andy can feel himself getting thirsty. “Please, no hospital.” It’s all Marcia’s said so far. Andy asked why after the first request, but when she didn’t answer, he decided not to press. Better to try to fix her up wherever she’s comfortable than to try to start a fight.

“No hospital, don’t worry,” Andy repeats. “No hospital. Do you have your keys?”

Marcia’s hands are shaking as she reaches into her back pocket and comes up with a key ring loaded with more keys than Andy’s ever seen outside of film.

It takes her a good few tries to get the key into the slot, but when it does, she twists it hard and the door unlocks. Andy pushes her inside.

The cat, the fat ginger thing, comes to greet them, purring and meowing loudly. It startles at the sight of Andy, though, and retreats to a low couch. Andy deposits Marcia there and takes a moment.

He has no idea what to do.

“Water, please,” Marcia says.

Andy rushes to comply. He fills a glass with cool water and returns to her side. Her hands shake too badly to hold the glass, so he supports it for her, keeping it steady as she drinks it down.

He returns the empty glass to the kitchen, then does a quick scan of her space. It’s well below ground, and there are no windows. It’s chilly down here, too, and the cold’s probably not helping.

“Do you have an extra blanket?” Andy asks. “Something I can wrap you in?”

Marcia points towards a closet. Andy finds a knit blanket, something green and blue that looks homemade, and brings it to her. He wraps it around her shoulders and tucks it over her hands so that it’s only her head that’s sticking out.

“Thank you,” Marcia says. “Thank you…”

“You’re welcome, but thank you,” Andy says. He stands awkwardly, unsure of what to do now that he’s exhausted his list of idea-for-what-to-do-for-an-injured-person. “You didn’t tell them I was here.”

Marcia smiles. “Those thugs think they can muscle their way around, punch and kick and threaten until they get their way.” Andy can’t look away from her neck. It’s going to bruise in the shape of hands. His own itch with the need to do something.

“Are you in trouble?” she asks.

Andy shrugs. “They’re Supremacists, came into the Lucky Clover a few days back,” he says. “I reacted badly when I saw their tattoos and they noticed.”

Within her blanket nest, Marcia nods. “They’re getting bolder, the fuckers,” she says.

Andy nearly laughs.

“I’m serious,” she says. “They think they’re God’s gift to the world just because they’ve got all of their original parts, all organic. They’re full of shit.”

“Maybe,” Andy says, “but they hurt you, so full of shit or not they’re going to pay for it.”

“Don’t you go picking fights you can’t win, Andy García,” Marcia says. The way she’s frowning at him tells Andy that she’s fully serious. “You don’t go chasing after those boys.”

“Then I’ll call the police, have them send a COP or something,” Andy says.

“No,” Marcia replies. “They’ll want to talk to me, and I…” She coughs, nearly doubling over. “Christ on a cracker. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

The question sits on the tip of Andy’s tongue, but he doesn’t voice it. Instead he smiles tightly.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Marcia stares at him for a long moment, then says, “You’re a good one, Andy. I’m glad you’re here.”

Andy looks at the floor.

“I think,” he says, “my wash is probably done.”

#lvckyclover #lucky clover cafe #robots dragons and bees oh my #original writing #original characters #southside

[trigafy]

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3 Rotating Speeds (Traditional ≤ 2 Speeds): Make it suitable for different types of facial skin. Low speed for delicate sensitive skin, medium for normal and high for abrasive skin.

IPX7 Waterproof Facial Brush: Handheld cordless awesome water resistant to allow using in shower and rubberized silicone(ABS+TPR) hand grip to avoid slipping.

Intelligent Circuit Protection System: The unit will stop automatically when brush rotation is blocked unexpectedly and resume to work once the block is removed, which is good to extend its life span.

4 AA Batteries (Traditional ≤ 2 AA Batteries) with Great Power : Rotating more powerfully for up to 3 hours even in the highest speed so that black heads and flaky skin can be exfoliated thoroughly.

What To Expect When Starting Testosterone Replacement Therapy

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My Story

My name is Noah and on May 18 2011, I had a rare reaction to a vaccine called VIVITROL and consequently spiraled into a major, agitated, suicidal depression with depersonalization. I lost 25 lbs in 4 weeks and was in full panic or near panic for 8 weeks straight mixed with the darkest most painful depression I cold have ever imagined. I immediately could not work and had to move in with my parents who along with many siblings and friends had to watch me 24/7 as I was so suicidal. I was eventually hospitalized. Getting through each day seemed truly unbearable and I knew I would surely die. I have been put on many many different SSRI’s SNRI’s Tricyclics, Mood stabilizers, anti psychotics, holistic meds, acupuncture and even a form of shock therapy called RTMS. I barely saw any improvement in my condition for a full year. It was decided I had treatment resistant depression and I spent nearly every moment in tears. Weeks after starting my newest round of medications (Seroquel & Nortryptaline) as a last ditch effort, I had my blood drawn for possible hormone imbalances and my Testosterone levels came back 200 ng/Dl and 150 ng/Dl. The average 25 year old male has 750 ng/Dl. With this discovery I for the first time had any type of possible explanation as to why I was not getting better and why I might be so so sick. The symptoms of such Low T are very similar to those of major depression. I started Testosterone replacement therapy soon after and have been checking in with the world and documenting my experience with treatment as well as giving my insight and perspective on various topics of mental health. I am blessed to say that I have slowly, over the last year and 4 months, been improving and becoming more stable which I never thought to be possible. My low T manifested itself in the form of Major depression, anxiety, and depersonalization/ derealization for over a year. Gaining some mental stability back is nothing short of a miracle as I was near death for what felt like forever. I do not consider myself to be totally healed yet but I am closer now then ever before and aim to use what I have been through to help or at least offer support to others in need.

I was able to successfully come off my Seroquel and Pamelor.

I work out all the time as a part of my mental health recovery!!! Weight training and all kinds of cardio rule much of my free time!

The age of men and testosterone level are inversely proportional. As the men grow older, the testosterone level drops down. The fact that testosterone level in your body is dropping down might not be as worrying because it is a natural process. It can happen due to the growing age or sometimes due to some kind of sickness. The thing that matters is that the testosterones are responsible for many bodily functions.

When their level in the body decreases, it can have a very strong impact on a person’s lifestyle. People with low testosterone levels can face problems like irritability, low energy levels, low libido, etc. So if you are suffering from this, then it becomes important for you to get the low T treatment.

The signs caused due to the low testosterone levels are usual for a few other ailments. Consequently, a specialist needs to totally analyze you in the past low T treatment is encouraged for you. The examination of an expert doctor is essential, because if you take the treatment without the insufficiency, you might be exposing yourself to risk of unneeded outside bodily hormone treatment. When you are particular that you choose the therapy, you are able to pick from countless readily available approaches of inexpensive testosterone solution.

There are various kinds of hormonal substitute treatments obtainable for reasonable testosterone degree. There are different medications offered for the treatment. These medications are mainly in the form of gels and patches. When the therapy starts, the testosterone levels in your body will definitely start to rise once more, and also you will steadily begin to bounce back from all the manifestations, which you have been dealing with.

Once you are certain that you want the treatment, you can choose from many available methods of low testosterone treatment. There are different types of hormonal replacement therapies available for low testosterone level. There are various drugs available for the treatment. These drugs are mostly in the form of gels and patches. Once the treatment starts, the testosterone levels in your body will start to rise again, and you will gradually start to recover from all the symptoms, which you have been suffering from.

Are you looking for treatment for low testosterone information? Always look for some reliable resource for male hormone replacement