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eyrieofsynapses · 1 year

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Hey, Leverage peeps. Y’know how Sophie is introduced playing Lady Macbeth in Shakespeare’s Macbeth? I (re)read the play recently for a class (yes, I'm a literature nerd who voluntarily takes classes involving Shakespeare, sue me), and it got me thinking.

Because, guys… there's definitely meaning behind that choice. Lady Macbeth's character is an ambitious and manipulative woman who pulls her husband's strings to gain power, only to be consumed be guilt. Sound familiar? Yeah. There’s a lot of parallels.

I'm guessing many of you haven't read the play, so I'll explain the bare bones of what you need to know for the meta. Macbeth is a play about a general/nobleman named, of course, Macbeth. At the beginning, he encounters three witches—they're the origin of the "double, double toil and trouble / fire burn and cauldron bubble" phrase—who prophesize that Macbeth will become king. Macbeth describes his encounter to his wife, Lady Macbeth, who coerces him into murdering the current King Duncan. They work together to kill Duncan, and Macbeth ascends to the throne. He has numerous other people killed to keep his throne safe.

(Trigger warning for suicide mention! Skip to the next paragraph if you don't want to read.) Both he and Lady Macbeth are consumed by guilt as the play goes on, though, and she goes more or less insane and eventually commits suicide. (Trigger warning over.)

If you've ever heard of "out, out, damned spot," that's Lady Macbeth agonizing over the metaphorical blood she can't get off her hands.

So, how does this work with Sophie? Here's the thing. Lady Macbeth is known as one of the characters, if not the character, that coined the "dangerously ambitious woman" trope. She's determined to secure Macbeth's position on the throne, mostly for the power it'll gain her as Queen, and she pulls his strings over and over to get him to murder his way there.

Sophie is, of course, a grifter. Her entire skillset is designed to manipulate people—oftentimes rich and powerful men—to get what she wants. She isn't necessarily ambitious so much as obsessed with stealing artwork and other valuables, but she enjoys the downfall of most of her marks. She luxuriates in the power of making people do what she wants them to.

And yet Lady Macbeth does eventually succumb to the guilt of everything she's done… just as Sophie comes to recognize and regret the pain she's wrought. Remember The King George Job?

"Nate: I know what you're thinking, but it's not the same thing.

Sophie: Oh, no. Of course it's not. I stole from one rich man to sell to another rich man.

Nate: No one got hurt.

Sophie: That I know of. How do I know that innocent children were never used to shift my merchandise?"

(transcript)

In the same scene, she also says this:

"Listen, I know I grifted from filthy-rich wankers who hardly ever missed the money, of being taken for a ride. But this, this whole Moreau business has got me thinking. Keller steals from the rich, too, and a little girl ends up in detainment for it."

She comes to recognize her past wrongdoings via the work she does with the crew, and at the same time begins to redeem herself for it. That prevents her from becoming consumed by guilt as Lady Macbeth does. The theme, however, remains consistent.

It's also fascinating that Sophie refers to Nate as a "white knight, black king" in the very same episode as her initial (awful) performance as Lady Macbeth. White is often associated with purity and innocence, thus implying a “pure knight.” Macbeth himself is a noble and well-respected "knight" (technically general and nobleman, but it follows the same concept) before Lady Macbeth coerces him into murdering King Duncan. This parallels neatly with Nate as a “pure knight,” or an “honest man” (as Macbeth was before the play began).

Then, of course, we have "black king." Black is a color frequently associated with sin, darkness, etc., and thus Macbeth could be seen as a "black king" himself: someone who has done great wrongs to reach his position of power. He’s turned into that “black king” by Lady Macbeth. Nate, meanwhile, is called the "black" chess king. He is metaphorically “corrupted”—arguably, by Sophie and the crew. (Of course, in Nate’s case, the “corruption” is a good thing and leads him to become a better person. But the parallel itself still stands.)

Chess is about strategy, manipulation, and cleverness. Sophie and Lady Macbeth are both very good at manipulating people into doing what they want them to for power's sake. Nate is often referred to as the master chess player, where "chess" is the metaphor for cons. Yet realistically, Sophie is the best at playing "chess" with people. Not to mention that the king is, in many ways, not a powerful piece. It can only move one square at a time, and if it's captured, its side loses. The queen is the most powerful piece on the chessboard. And here's Sophie, referring to Nate as a chess piece.

(There's something to be said here about how Sophie manipulates Nate both for his own good but also to her advantage, specifically in The First David Job and The Second David Job. But for the sake of keeping this meta at a reasonable length, I’ll leave it for now.)

"But Synapse!" I hear you cry. "Sophie's really bad at the Lady Macbeth speech in the first episode, but she's fantastic in the last one! If she became a better person, wouldn't it be the other way around?"

Fair point, friend, and it's something I've been trying to figure out myself. Here's my proposal:

I'm not an actor, but from what I understand, acting requires you to deeply empathize with your character. Conning isn't dissimilar, but in a way, Sophie knows that when she cons, it is not her. She's hiding everything she is for the sake of deception.

Regular acting, on the other hand, requires you to be exposed about yourself and who you are. You have to be willing to be vulnerable for your audience. And Sophie truly does not know how to be vulnerable, or indeed who she is at all. Of all the characters on Leverage, she's always been the most mysterious about her past and her true depths.

In The Nigerian Job, Sophie claims she's gone to a civilian life and dropped her grifting. She's questioning the very thing that she loves to do, uncertain of herself and where she's going with her life. Her ambition and drive have been, if not lost, undermined. We know that Sophie is a paradoxically compassionate and maternal person just as much as she is a master of the con. When she joins up with the crew, she near-immediately falls into a momfriend role to Parker, Hardison, and Eliot, and she’s an exceptional teacher.

Perhaps she struggles to find kinship in Lady Macbeth's motivation in that first episode. She can't act what she doesn't understand. Plus, she has no outlet for the side of her that desperately wants to do good, and maybe that’s showing through in her inability to embrace being bad.

But in The Long Goodbye Job, Sophie aces her performance when she's doing it for a con. Yet at that time she is arguably far less like Lady Macbeth than she is in the first episode. So what changes? What about the con makes it so much easier?

I'd say it's a few things. Firstly, Sophie's newfound stability. She knows who she is, and she knows that she is not Lady Macbeth. Her desire to teach and support others has a) been discovered and b) is being fulfilled. She's found that her love for manipulation is most satisfying when directed at people who are maliciously uncaring and contradictory to her own morals. Thus, the ways her personality overlaps with Lady Macbeth's can't be destabilized by Sophie's internal war over how much she really is like Lady Macbeth. She knows who she is, and she knows what parts of Lady Macbeth she can relate to and what parts she has to truly act out.

Moreover, she's acting for a con: she knows the character she's playing does not truly represent herself. Her mask is complete, rather than requiring pieces of herself to be exposed.

Compare Sophie's performance in The Nigerian Job to the part of Lady Macbeth's soliloquy she's attempting to recite (yes, I'll explain the bits of the soliloquy that I reference, don't worry):

"Sophie: Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst! Make thick my blood;

Sophie: Stop up the access and passage to remorse, that no… (she hesitates and restarts her line) That no compunctious visitings of nature"

(transcript)

Versus the original soliloquy:

"Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me, from the crown to the toe, top-full Of direst cruelty! make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature’s mischief!"

(Macbeth, Act I, Scene V, lines 45-55; I’ve bolded the lines Sophie recites)

Note where Sophie trips up: she loses the word "cruelty" from "of direst cruelty" first, and then she hesitates on the lines "stop up the access and passage to remorse / that no compunctious visitings of nature / shake my fell purpose". If the latter line is gobbledygook to you, it basically means "stop me from feeling guilty so my guilt can't get in the way of my awful plans."

So where is Sophie hesitating? On the maliciousness of Lady Macbeth, and on her desire to feel no remorse. And what do we know about Sophie? That she is a) still inherently kind, and b) that she does feel remorse for the pain she's caused—or at least that she learns to feel it over the course of the show.

By the way, it's interesting that Lady Macbeth's bit about "take my milk for gall" is excluded too, because it's sort of like her saying "turn any motherly feelings/kindness I feel into cruelty." Compare that against Sophie's maternal attitude. It's probably not massively significant, given that there wasn’t a need for more than a couple lines for the writing of the show, but I find it interesting.

Now, compare this to Sophie's performance in The Long Goodbye Job:

"Sophie (wonderfully): Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, fill me from the crown to the toe, top-full of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood. Stop up the access and passage to remorse."

(transcript)

She's completely on-point. I'd say this is both because she's doing it for a con and doesn't feel internal conflict over it, but also because the marks deserve no mercy. The Black Book is full of people who have done awful things in the name of greed. Why should she feel guilt over dethroning them?

TL;DR: Sophie plays a character who simultaneously parallels and contradicts her. Lady Macbeth is manipulative and ambitious, much like Sophie, but also cruel and malicious, which is not very Sophie-like. Yet Lady Macbeth does eventually go crazy from guilt and remorse—and Sophie also has to learn how to deal with her guilt.

This is why Sophie struggles so much in her first performance: she’s questioning her identity in relationship to her similarities with Lady Macbeth. At the end, however, she’s become confident in who she is. She’s also learned to use her skills to destroy those who take advantage of their power to hurt others, rather than good men like King Duncan.

In fact, she’s dethroning people who are greedy for power… people who are not so dissimilar to Macbeth and Lady Macbeth themselves. Sophie has become their antithesis.

Damn, but this show is good.

#leverage #leverage meta #sophie devereaux #macbeth #shakespeare #suicide mention #so apparently SOMEONE in the writers’ room was a Shakespeare fan #also they pulled Gina Bellman partly because she IS a trained Shakespeare actress #and according to the commentaries only a trained Shakespeare actor #can mangle Shakespeare THAT BADLY #because you have to know what you're doing in order to MAKE IT bad #which I find mildly hilarious #anyway don't worry if you don't get Shakespeare #because like. holy shit sometimes it takes a lot of mental legwork to get your head around it #buuut the further I get in the more I understand why his work's so beloved #(and yes. a shockingly large chunk of it is dirty jokes)#(trust me the whole thing about his stuff being So High Brow is bullshit)#and it makes COMPLETE AND TOTAL SENSE #that it would be the Leverage writers of all people who'd be into that #because there's a lot of similarity between how Shakespeare's characters function #and how the way they act and talk reflects their motivations and who they are #to the way the Leverage crew is written and acted #*shrug* I just think it's Neat okay #anyway! now I need to go write actual essays #oh joy. *sigh*#wish me luck

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twistedtummies2 · 2 years

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Good & Evil - Redeemed Villains

Welcome to Good & Evil: A Study of Heroes & Villains. I’m discussing different forms of heroic and villainous characters, different types of protagonists and antagonists, and providing examples of them each from various sources. Today, we’ll be talking less about a type of character, and more about a character arc. These are Redeemed or Redeemable Villains. Redemption is a powerful idea: reform and forgiveness go hand-in-hand with this concept. It’s one thing for a character to say they’ve changed, but they don’t necessarily have to mean it. And for those that do mean it, reformation means nothing unless the world is willing to give one a chance. THAT’S redemption: it’s not simply saying you’re sorry and you’re going to change, it’s that same sentiment actually having substance and being accepted by others. The concept of redemption is another idea that seems fairly revolutionary, but it’s been around at least since the age of Shakespeare, if not longer: in “King Lear,” the main villain of the story, Edmund, is a pretty nasty customer for most of the story…but in his dying moments, he repents and helps the heroes out, giving them a chance to try and stop the damage he’s caused. Indeed, many villains who seek redemption find it too late to enjoy whatever repentance they’ve experienced: even if they are mourned, they still pay the price for their evil deeds early on. Of course, not all villains who face redemption suffer for their crimes: some are able to enjoy the forgiveness and repentance they earn. Seeing these characters go from evil to good is the basis for some of the greatest stories in fiction.

Perhaps the most classical example is Ebenezer Scrooge, the central figure of Charles Dickens’ yuletide masterpiece, “A Christmas Carol.” At the start of the piece, there can be no denying that Scrooge is the villain of his own story, a Villain Protagonist. While he does nothing ILLEGAL, per say, his greed and his disdain for the world around him paint him out as a pretty nasty customer. He cares for nothing but his own profits, scorns the thought of true love, and, of course, sees everything good about Christmas as a mere “humbug!” When he is visited by the spirit of his former friend and partner, Jacob Marley, and the Three Ghosts of Christmas, not only do we come to learn why Scrooge is the way he is, which makes him more human and sympathetic to us…but we also see Scrooge change as a human being, as he begins to realize how badly he’s been living his life, and how his actions and inactions do have consequences on the world around him. In the end, not only does Scrooge decide he’s going to change his ways, but he sets out to earn forgiveness from a string of increasingly more difficult sources of that nectar, earning his chance to become a truly good man.

Not all villains face complex redemption arcs that span a whole story’s length, however. Many engage in what is termed “the Heel-Face Turn.” This when a character acts as the villain for the majority of the story, but towards the end of the tale, something happens that causes them to have a startling revelation. And this revelation inspires the villain to change and become good. Like I said before, many villains of this sort don’t get the chance to enjoy what happens later, but some actually do. For an example of this, look no further than Scrooge’s American Cousin, Dr. Seuss’ classic curmudgeon, the Grinch. In every version of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas!” - from the book to the cartoon to both of the feature-length film treatments (not to mention the stage musical) - the Grinch doesn’t turn good until right near the end of the story. Up until that point, he is a villain, plain and simple: a fiendish ne’er-do-well who revels in the misery he expects to cause, gleefully mocking and mangling the Christmas holiday as he seeks to eradicate it from Whoville. It’s not till AFTER he’s already “stolen Christmas” that the Grinch realizes the error of his ways. This realization strikes him so hard, the Grinch vows to change, and hurries to undo all the wrong he did up to that point.

For those villains that DO have a long redemption arc, the change from Villain to Hero is not always so straightforward. Sometimes they go through several stages and archetypes, as they steadily shift from evil to good. This is most common in television and in long written works with multiple installments; such stretched-out forms of media allow for characters to develop gradually, over the course of numerous episodic appearances. In the anime “FullMetal Alchemist: Brotherhood,” there are a few villains who end up being redeemed in the end (and a few who never repent or reform), but perhaps the most noteworthy is the Ishvalan extremist known simply as Scar. Scar starts off the show as a Villain, plain and simple: a serial killer who goes about killing alchemists in brutal fashion, due to some misguided, zealous beliefs. As the series goes on, however, not only does Scar show more and more sympathetic qualities to himself and his backstory, but he begins to change his morality as a person. He runs the full gamut, going from Villain to Sympathetic Villain to Anti-Hero to Flawed Hero…and finally, one would argue, to a full-blooded, true-blue Hero.

On that note, One of my favorite examples of a Redeemed Villain, and one of the most recent, is Varian from Rapunzel’s Tangled Adventure (a.k.a. Tangled: The Series). This is because Varian actually goes through TWO different story arcs. He starts off the series as a Fallen Hero (more on that setup another time), and ends the show as a Redeemed Villain. When the series begin, Varian is a friend and ally to Rapunzel and Flynn Rider, our main protagonists. However, a variety of incidents and misunderstandings causes Varian to go…well…kind of freaking insane, to be blunt, and he transforms into the show’s first “Big Bad,” acting as the villainous main antagonist for the latter part of Season 1. When we next meet Varian, however, it turns out the young alchemist has had time to cool down and rethink his life choices, and he ultimately decides to turn over a new leaf and try to make up for his past misdeeds. This isn’t an element that goes away, as - post-Redemption - Varian still has to deal with his dark past and the consequences of his actions. He remains racked with guilt, and still has some dark sides to his personality that pop up here and there. By the end of the show, though, he’s truly become one of the Heroes again.

Some characters who face redemption may stop being Villains, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they stop being Antagonists. After all, old habits die hard. Actor John DeLancie has played at least two examples of such a thing: Q from the Star Trek franchise, and Discord from “My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.” In both of these cases, these characters start off the show as chaos-spreading Villains, plain and simple, with few redeeming values to speak of. They’re entertaining, but they’re seemingly pure evil. HOWEVER, after a couple of episodes, both characters face some sort of crisis moment, and realize that maybe their philosophy of life is completely wrong, and there are things they’ve come to value they never valued before. It’s recognizing these new values that allows both characters to reform and seek redemption…HOWEVER, even after both of them “go good,” neither stops being an antagonistic presence. Q and Discord are each chaotic trickster figures: mischief-makers who may not always intend outright ill will towards anyone, but certainly cause plenty of trouble any time they show up. Even when trying to do ostensibly good things, their roundabout methods wreak havoc, and both are still selfish and egotistical creatures who don’t always make the right choices. In others words, while they CAN be Heroic characters, they more often play the role of Anti-Villain or Anti-Hero: still a sign of change, but clearly there are a few bugs in the system that need to be sorted out.

Redeemed Villains are unique because, in essence, they represent what Heroes ultimately represent: hope. However, because of the arc they face - starting off evil and becoming good again - they give us hope in a very different and unique way. Redeemed Villains teach us the basic lesson that it’s never too late to change one’s ways. As long as one is alive, there is always a chance to do something good, something better, with the life one has. On top of that, they also teach us that forgiveness, while not always easy to gain, is almost never impossible to earn: if thieves and murderers can be accepted and forgiven despite their past misdeeds, it makes us feel that we, too, can be forgiven for any trespasses we’ve done against others. Even if we can’t make up for it completely, and even if there’s always a chance we’ll still make mistakes later on, learning from our own wrongdoings is an important part of life. Redeemed Villains, in a way, teach us that, no matter what, there’s always room to learn and improve as people.

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hamilkilo · 7 years

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The Little, Blue Hyundai Sonata

Prompt: AS REQUESTED BY ANON: “hamilsquad x reader where reader gets into a car accident and suffers brain damage and kinda resorts to a child like state and the hamilsquad have to try and take care of her”

Paring: Could be interpreted as Hamilsquad with some Laurens X Reader or Poly!Hamilsquad (Whichever sweetens your tea)

TW: Car accidents, swearing, loss of a loved one, abusive father figure, suicide attempt, reference to depression, suicidal thoughts, regression, trauma, panic attacks, nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety, breakdowns, refusing to eat, temper tantrums, mute, robbed, temporary character death, ambulances, vivid description of car accident/blood?

A/N: Thank you so much to the anon who requested this! I hope this is what you had in mind and I really hope you enjoy this! I hope this meets your standards! As always, thank you for all of your love and support! I love y'all! If you want me to tag something, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! Please enjoy!

Word Count: 6140

You were fifteen when you got your first car. She was a blue, 2004 Hyundai Sonata, and you called her Sonya. Your father had driven her for a few years before you’d gotten her, and he took the new car. You didn’t mind though, you loved her. She had a few flaws like a busted air conditioner and cracked motor mounts-so she shook sometimes and rumbled when it was cold out-but you didn’t mind that. In fact, you loved her flaws. You found the rumbling of the engine soothing on the cold mornings. And Sonya had the fastest defrost you’d ever seen. You loved your car.

Sonya had seen it all. She saw you at your first job at Taco Bell. She saw the mental break downs and panic attacks that led up to your leave. You’d sit on the cloth seats as the engine rumbled low and cry, barely able to breathe.

She saw you get your driver’s license, and she was always there in the nick of time. You’d had several mishaps-you were really good at driving badly. Somehow, she always managed to keep you safe. Her breaks would work just in time, it seemed. As silly as it was, it almost felt like a partnership to you.

She saw your first kiss, too. She saw you lower your standards and French Charlie Lee in an abandoned church parking lot because you were afraid no one would love you. He moaned into your mouth across her console, and you froze up. After he left, you went straight to Peggy’s place and brushed your teeth. You went home after that and cried with your mom because that wasn’t anything like you’d been hoping.

Sonya saw you get robbed. Well, she was robbed. Some guy smashed her windows in and stood your backpack from the back seat. He stole your copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets with it. She also saw the return of it a month later when the police busted him.

Sonya watched you grow up beside her. She was always there-for the trips to school, the rehearsals, the crying, the screaming, and even the quiet monologues you’d give to the sky from the hood of her car-she saw it all. She was there when no one else was.

Then, your boys came along, and you drove Sonya less because you had no place you desired to go anymore. You’d carpool to work with Alex, go shopping with Laf, you never went alone it seemed, and the boys always insisted on driving. After they’d been with you for a few months, they’d tried to convince you to look for another, safer car. They called Sonya “a tin can” and said you’d be crushed like a sardine if you were ever in a wreck. Of course, you refused. Sonya was your car. You had a partnership with her; she kept you safe, and you kept her safe. And maybe, just a teensy, problematic part of you, wanted to be crushed like a sardine in an accident.

So you kept Sonya, and you drove the way you lived: fast and reckless. You blurred through backroads, jerked and jolted through stops, and you took corners fast enough that you could feel the weight shift… you’d never felt so close to flying before. You rode with your windows down, your hand out to feel the breeze on your skin. Your music was always loud and consuming. It was honestly a gift from God that you never got a ticket in the entire time you drove. Again, you were good at driving badly.

You had stayed late at work that night, finishing up a project that was due tomorrow. The boys wanted to stay up and wait for you, but after a rather long discussion, you had convinced them to go to bed-especially Alexander-and you were glad you did so because you left the office around midnight. It was all going to be worth it though. You were excited to see how your project panned out.

Your car was the only one left in the lot, and you grinned affectionately as you approached. You pressed unlock on the fob, and Sonya’s lights flashed. You got in, and the smell of Lavender Honey hit your senses immediately. Laf had picked that scent out last time you went shopping for an air freshener. You turned the engine over, and Sonya rattled to life, the growl of her engine loud and familiar. You plugged your phone into the aux chord and played your newest obsession, American Pie, over the speakers. You wanted to play it louder, but you couldn’t afford to pay off a ticket for disturbing the peace. It wasn’t too cold out that night, so you rolled your windows down and pulled out of the parking lot. The roads were desolate, and it green light after green light on your way home. You decided to take the back roads so you could crank your tunes and unwind a bit. Work had been stressful, so you decided to treat yourself.

You knew the back roads like the back of your hand. You knew every twist and jut. American Pie blasted out your window as you screamed the lyrics. You pulled to a stop before crossing the main road that intersected the back roads, and you glanced back and forth a few times. You didn’t see any lights coming your way, so you decided to go.

Sonya was there when you first started to hang around your boys. At first, it’d be a short car ride somewhere with one of them, just casual chatter. Then, it turned into longer car rides with the radio down and low voices. At some point, there were late night drives to the middle of nowhere just ‘cause and you’d hold hands on the gear shift. If she could talk, you were sure she’d approve. After all, she knew you just like you knew her.

Metal on metal. Tires screeching. Screaming. Music shorting out. More screaming. Popping noises. Metal groaning. Grinding. Sliding. Crunching. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.

Sonya was there when you sat on her and begged the universe for death. She listened quietly as you sobbed and pleaded. You were tired of the pain… you’d had this discussion before. Then you’d wait for things to get better. You waited years. Half a decade. And nothing had changed. Your tank was near empty. She was also there when you wiped your tears, got back in, and drove home. You were eighteen.

Pain. Blinding. Searing. Screaming. Blood was dripping… splattering. You felt like you were suffocating. The smell of singed hair and burning flesh clawed at your senses Lungs were burning, crumpling, dying. Every nerve in your body was engulfed in flame.

Sonya was there when you cut too deep the first time. You didn’t know it, but you’d missed a spot on the side of the chair where your blood had spilled over that night. She was there when your sobbing mother stuffed you into her passenger seat and drove you to the hospital, despite her fears. You had begged her not to call an ambulance. Everyone would know if she did. You promised you could make it. In retrospect, It was a stupid call, but you’d made it to the emergency room.

“So bye bye, Miss American Pie… Drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry… them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye… singing this’ll be the day that I die…”

Sonya was there when John Laurens first kissed you. He had always been the most affectionate one out of the bunch. You had parked on a backroad after a late night drive, and in the middle of saying something about the stars, he leaned in and kissed you. You had gripped the steering wheel tight in shock, but soon, your hands were in his hair, on his face, down his chest… he was all consuming, and Sonya knew you were happy again because you didn’t speed as fast on the way home.

You couldn’t tell where the metal shrapnel ended and your mangled body began. There was so much blood. Your head was spinning. It was too dark outside. You heard popping of metal settling, dripping of oil and blood. You had to get out of there… but oh, you couldn’t find your legs. Where were they? You couldn’t feel a damn thing but pain in every fiber. You couldn’t locate your legs. You began to panic. Where were they? Did you lose them? Where were you? Everything was disoriented, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you couldn’t find the stars. Blood was running up your forehead. Wait? Up? You must be upside down. But how? You were a sardine… you were trapped in the tin can. You tried to scream, but your voice was hoarse and your throats was raw. Panic strangled you. American Pie was still playing on loop, hauntingly cutting in and out, occasionally screeching. You had no idea how the aux chord stayed in place, but that was the least of your worries. You dug at the seatbelt, but it wouldn’t unlock. Your fingers were trembling, glistening with blood in the very little light available. Little black dots were filling your vision and you could feel your heartbeat, hammering. You began to claw at the seatbelt, desperate and afraid. You had to get out. There had to be a way out of this grave of carnage and warped metal. You didn’t want to die anymore! Things in your life had just gotten better! You weren’t ready yet! Your vision was going black, and you fought and clawed and cried, but to no avail.

Sonya was right by your side when your father screamed at you, calling you useless, pathetic, a disappointment. You had cried so hard and violently that night that you ruptured blood vessels in your eyes. You escaped to Sonya, with a quick lie that you were going to church, and you drove to an abandoned road, where you perched on the hood and swore at the sky. You trembled from the cold and the hurt that tore at you, but you kept screaming until you were hoarse. Then you lied back against her windshield and stared at the sky, wondering when you’d get to finally fly up to the stars.

She was there when your mother died, too. It was a sudden thing. She caught bronchitis. It wasn’t a big deal. You’d left with your father to go get dinner. When you came back, she was dead in the bed. You never recovered from that. You spent countless hours crying alone in your car. Then, you finally stopped crying. You liked to think that when you died, you’d leave an echo of yourself on the backroads, speeding with Sonya and blasting music. You’d blur down an old, forgotten road, and maybe the smell of Lavender Honey would linger after you’d pass. You were still looking for the blur of your mom. She had to be somewhere. But until you found her, you had Sonya. Sonya was a part of who you were. She was an anchor, a constant.

Sonya was there when you died on the roadside in her ribcage of tattered steel, and the paramedics had to bring you back several times. She watched them work, for what felt like hours, cutting away at the little tin can she was with the jaws of life. She was there when they loaded you up on the gurney into the back of the ambulance, unconscious, maybe even dead. Sonya didn’t know. She was just a little, blue, Hyundai Sonata, after all. Then, you were gone, and she was left, completely split in half by the collision caused by a drunk man doing over a hundred miles down the road with his headlights off. He had died on impact, but you weren’t so lucky.

When you came to, you were confused. You didn’t know where you were. Everything was bright and white… a chemical smell singed your nose and burned your lungs. Everything hurt, and you were crippled by fear. You looked around for anything that could be familiar, anything that could explain what was going on.

Your eyes settled on four men, passed out in the hospital chairs. You recognized them. This wasn’t Gilligan’s Island. You didn’t have amnesia. You stared at the boys, wanting to wake them up, but not wanting to put forth the effort to try and speak. So you stared at them. Then you fell back asleep.

When you woke back up, someone was holding your hand and weeping. They kept whispering things you didn’t understand, and every now and then, they’d kiss your face gently. As you became more awake, you recognized the quick, blurry French. This startled you. Laf had never been one to cry. Herc and John were more of the criers. John cried during Nemo, for crying out loud. Herc cried during Old Yeller, but that was expected. You did, too. Laf just shrugged it off. He said it was sad, sure, but he never cried. And then there was your big, strong Frenchman, weeping over you in a hospital. Whatever it was, it had to be bad. You glanced down and sighed in relief when you saw that you still had all of your limbs.

You looked down at him. He had buried his face in the crook of his arm, his hair in a very messy bun. His shoulders shook with sobs, and it pained you to see him like that. You pulled your hand from his, wincing at the fiery pain that coursed through you with each movement, and caressed the side of his face. He looked up at you with bleary eyes, then he cupped your hand to his face and scrunched his eyes closed. His usually carefully groomed facial hair was a bit out of control and his eyes were rimmed red.

“Mon ange,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “Je suis désolé. Je suis très, très, très désolé.”

He began to speak quickly in French, and you watched him, borderline alarmed, as he rambled on and clutched at your hand like a life line.

At some point, the others came back, and Herc pulled Laf into his arms as they both cried together. Your usually verbose Alex was completely silent, the bags under his eyes darker than usual. Laurens had collapsed on the side of your bed, arms draped around you, sobbing. You felt like you should be crying, too. But you couldn’t. You just watched. You felt a sense of cold and withdrawn. It wasn’t a big deal, really. You were still alive.

You got bored of watching them cry and searched for another source of entertainment. You spotted a pen and pad of paper on the table next to your beside, and you quickly scooped it up. Your muscles ached, but your boredom overcame pain. You began to sketch and color absentmindedly on the pad until they finally stopped crying.

“Y/N?” Hercules had whispered, and your hand paused in acknowledgement before you continued to color. “How do you feel?” You shrugged, still not looking up, and continued your work.

“Honey,” John tried this time, cupping your face. You still didn’t look up. You were busy. “Are you in any pain? Do I need to get a nurse?”

When you didn’t reply, John let go of your face and watched you, looking for a sign that you were there.

Even Lafayette tried. “Mon ange, please. We need to know that you are okay. We’re worried about you.”

About thirty seconds passed of silence so tense and tangible that it could be cut with a knife. Then, Alex exploded. “I can’t fucking do this!”

Without any such explanation, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door. John started crying again, but you just kept coloring. They didn’t try to talk to you for a while after that.

You were in the hospital for a week, and you hadn’t spoken a word. The psychologist had come by to evaluate you, but you merely ate soup and stared at her. She eventually explained that you were in a psychosis as a coping method from the accident. You figured she was wrong though, you just didn’t feel like talking. It required too much effort. So you colored on the pad.

The doctors had changed your bandages and sent you for X-rays and follow ups several times. You’d eaten an obscene amount of jello-which you didn’t even really like but were forced to consume-and you’d probably watched the same Friends episode they kept rerunning about ten times. You’d glance at the door every now and then, but Alex hadn’t been by. In contrast, John never left your side unless Herc physically carried him from the room and took him home to make sure he was taken care of. Usually, when that happened, Laf would stay with you, stroke your hair, and talk to you in French. Even though you didn’t tell him, he knew it comforted you and that you enjoyed it.

Eventually, Alex came to see you. He didn’t say very much. He apologized for being away and told you how much he loved you, but most of his visit was spent in silence as he just sat beside you and held your hand. You continued to color with your free one.

They finally released you to go home, and Herc wheeled you from the hospital. However, when he got to the car, panic seized your chest. Flashes came back. The metal. The screaming. The smell. You were trapped in the memories like a sardine in a tin can. You clawed at your hip, trying to get the seatbelt off. It wouldn’t come off. You couldn’t get it off.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

You felt something grab your hands, and you began to struggle, but the grip was too strong. You opened your eyes to see Herc holding your hands, crouched in front of you. You looked down at your hip. There was no seatbelt, just bloody, red lines in your flesh from where you’d clawed just a second ago. Blood was caked under your nails, but Herc didn’t seem to mind.

He held onto your hands as you trembled, wanting to cry, but unable to. The tears were stuck. They wouldn’t come out. “Y/N,” he murmured as he ran his hands up and down your arms. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you, okay? You aren’t there anymore. You’re here with me, and I promise I’ll keep you safe. Okay? I promise.”

You shook your head, then looked down at your lap. You picked up the pen and started coloring again. Herc sighed and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number, and after a brief conversation, he wheeled you back into the hospital, much to your relief. That was, until the nurse came up beside you and gave you a shot. Within minutes, you were calmed down. They sedated you. Herc had explained it was for your own good, which he was probably right, but it still pissed you off. You fell asleep as they wheeled you back outside.

When you woke up again, you were in your bed, and Alex was wrapped around you. Everything ached, but waking up with him was nice. You’d missed this in the hospital. You’d missed him. You stayed there and stared at him, just watching him sleep. You felt like a total creep, but you loved the way he smiled softly as he dreamed. You found it cute how he would gently nuzzle into you every now and then. He was adorably affectionate in his sleep.

The door creaked open, and Laf peeked in, seeing you were awake. “Mon ange, you’re awake!” He whispered excitedly. Then, he beckoned to you, “Come eat! I’ve made waffles! Your favorite!”

You were indifferent about the waffles, but you were interested in coloring again, so you crawled out of bed. Alex reached out for you, but you were already gone. You followed Laf to the kitchen, where you grabbed your pad and pen and continued your work. He sat a plate down in front of you, but you completely ignored it. You didn’t feel like eating.

“Y/N?” Laf purred as he leaned his chin on his hand and watched you from his seat beside you. “Aren’t you going to eat?” You shrugged, still coloring. He didn’t say anything. He just watched you work as the waffles got cold.

Eventually, John came inside from a jog, and he greeted you with a kiss on the cheek. You didn’t even look up.

“John,” Laf murmured, “Elle ne mange pas.” You may not be speaking, but that didn’t make you deaf either. You knew he had told John you weren’t eating. You didn’t see the big deal. You had better stuff to do.

“Y/N? You need to eat,” John said softly beside you, but you ignored him. Why were they all so keen on interrupting you? You were trying to have a good time.

John sighed before he sat down and began to cut up your waffle. When he finished, he speared a piece and held it up to your lips, but you didn’t react. It was as if he wasn’t even there. Suddenly, the pad disappeared from beneath your hands, and your eyes snapped up to his.

“You can have this back when you’ve eaten,” he said sternly. All logic flew away. You lost it. You slammed your fist on the table in outrage, then you swept the plate to the floor. It shattered, sending waffle and syrup everywhere. You stood in the middle of the carnage, panting and shaking with rage and anxiety. You just wanted to color. Why couldn’t they just let you have that one fucking thing.

“Y/N! Don’t move!” Laf instructed as he rushed to get the broom, glass crunching under his shoes. He came back and began to sweep while you stared at the notebook John had in his hands. John was staring at you in shock.

“Hey, what happened? Is everyone okay?” Herc came into the kitchen, a pair of pajamas slung loosely on his hips, his chest bare. He had just come from the shower. He saw you standing in the middle of the broken glass and glanced at the other two for an explanation.

“She won’t eat,” John finally forced out, exasperated. “She threw a temper tantrum.” It pissed you off, the way he talked like you weren’t there, but you wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t say anything. You might as well not even be there, after all.

Herc glanced at Lafayette, whose head was ducked as he swept. You had a hunch that he was hiding his emotions. Once he had cleared the glass, he put the broom away and didn’t come back. You probably really upset him. You didn’t really care.

“Y/N,” Herc tried as he sat you down st the table. You still stared at the notebook John clutched. “We’re just trying to help you.” You were still mad about the whole sedation thing, but that could be overlooked if you got back to coloring soon.

John sighed and handed you your pad, knowing he was only making things worse. You sighed happily and continued to color as the other two stared at you. They didn’t have to say it out loud for you to know what they were thinking. That car accident really messed you up. Maybe it did. You didn’t care.

A week had passed, maybe two or three… you weren’t sure. All you knew was that you were never alone. The first few days were rough. You’d had several melt downs, you threw things a lot, but they wouldn’t relent until you’d eaten something. You eventually realized it was easier to eat a few orange slices than to throw an entire tantrum. So you ate small portions of what they would put in front of you. Each day they’d rotate in and out. Each one keeping you to the same schedule. You’d wake up, eat a banana. You’d color, they’d watch you and try to talk with you. Eventually, it’d be lunch time, and they’d place a PB&J in front of you with some milk and apple slices, and you’d nibble on the sandwich, eat half the slices, and if you were in a particularly bad mood, you’d throw the glass of milk. Somehow, with all of your rage and aggression, the boys never once yelled at you or lost it on you for breaking all their stuff. They never screamed at you the way your father had. Then they’d lead you to the bed for a nap. You’d sleep until the boys came home. You’d eat dinner with them. You’d all sit together on the living room, you coloring, then doing their own thing… every day was the same thing.

You had nightmares a lot now, too. You’d bolt straight up in a sweat, usually screaming. That was the only time you’d ever use your voice. Even in your tantrums, you were quiet… but the nightmares… you couldn’t stop screaming. You’d wake them all up with your screams and crying, and they’d get you one of your prescribed sleeping pills. They’d hold you, whisper to you, comfort you’d until you fell back asleep. But the nightmares always came back.

Alex was watching you late one night. You always stayed up with him, afraid to go to sleep. Afraid of the nightmares. The boys understood this without you having to say a thing, and they left you beside a typing Alexander as you scribbled away on the pad.

“Y'know, you talk in your sleep,” he had said as he causally typed. Your coloring paused, but then you shrugged it off and kept going. He continued. “It’s the only time I get to hear your voice anymore, aside from when you’re screaming… Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, you’ll breathe my name in your sleep, soft, like a secret… and you’ll whisper about love, and death, and everything in between. Shit, I’m making this sound more poetic than it is. Sometimes, you mumble about penguins in space,” he laughed as his fingers hovered over the keys. “But when you whisper my name… oh,” he breathed, covering his face with his hands, “I think that you’re coming back to me.”

You didn’t say anything when his shoulders began to shake, and his breathing was a bit more jagged. You just let him cry on you, his laptop forgotten on the seat next to him. You just colored.

It had been maybe a month. You could tell that your boys were exhausted. You were a handful. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t feel anything. You liked it that way. They’d spent all of their time and energy taking care of you. The feeding, cleaning, cooking… not to mention the emotional toll it took on them to see you this way. They were trying to be patient. They didn’t want to rush you. But it was hard when you wouldn’t even look at them, let alone speak to them. They were getting tired of sweeping up broken glass… but they loved you, so they kept doing it. They kept hoping that you could somehow come back from this. But as time dragged on, they began to wonder if you ever really would.

You got a phone call one day, out of the blue, from an unknown number. No one had called you when your boys explained your unwillingness to speak. John was out in the yard, gardening, and you didn’t want to disturb him. You answered the call, curious. You didn’t say anything, you just put it on speaker and put the phone on the table as you continued coloring.

“Y/N?” That was all it took. You dropped the pen. He wasn’t calling you. He couldn’t be. He hadn’t spoken to you since you’d left. Not a phone call, text, nothing. Why now? “Hello? Y/N, if you’re there, I want you to know that I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I know we didn’t leave things on good terms… I know that I screwed up…” his voice cracked, and you felt your chest clench. “But you’re still my daughter, okay? And I still love you. When I-when I heard that you had been in a car accident, I couldn’t breathe. It destroyed me. And I know I’ve been a shitty dad, and I know I should’ve called, and I’m sorry. Y/N, I’m so sorry…” he was sobbing on the other end. Something he’d only done at your mom’s funeral. “But I’m calling now, and I’m worried about you. I know how bad you were after your… after she… and I need to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself. You need to be eating, and drinking lots of fluids… and make sure you’re sleeping enough… Don’t forget to take your meds, okay?”

You didn’t say anything. Your chest was too tight. You couldn’t breathe. As much as you hated it, it felt so damn good to hear your father’s voice. That pissed you off, but you couldn’t say anything.

After you said nothing, he sighed, “I don’t expect you to ever speak to me again. I know I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry for that. There’s no fixing that. But I want you to know that I still love you, okay? I do, a lot. So hang in there, take care of yourself. Alright? Love you, Y/N. Bye.” The line went dead, and it felt like a balloon popped in your chest. Air rushed your lungs, and you could breathe again. Then you began sobbing. You cried for the first time since the accident. You looked down at the messy coloring, and your face flushed. How dare he call you and apologize! He thought a call would make up for his years of bullshit? He didn’t even bother to come fucking see you! You died on the side of that road, and he never even thought to come visit you! He couldn’t even be bothered to actually come down to make sure you took care of yourself. He just figured a shitty phone call would get the job done!

In a rage, you began to rip out the pieces of paper, tearing them to bits. The drawings were incoherent swirls and patterns anyway. It all meant nothing anyway. You ripped each page out, shredding it and screaming.

You felt hands on your shoulders and you were pulled into a chest. You stopped ripping the papers and began to sob as John held you.

“Y/N,” his voice caressed you, “Did something happen?”

Your body shook with sobs, and you finally managed to stutter out, “I just really fucking missed you, John.”

And like that, everything broke. You couldn’t keep it together. You wailed and clung to John like a child, who, admittedly, cried as well. You were finally coming back. You just sat on the floor, surrounded by bits of shredded paper, sobbing.

“I don’t know what to do, John,” you rambled, unable to shut up now, “I’m just so scared all the time. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I don’t want to be broken. And I don’t know how to be anything else right now. And I’m sorry that I’ve been such a burden-”

“Stop it,” he blubbered as he grabbed your face between his hands, “You aren’t a burden. Don’t say that. We love you, so taking care of you is in the job description. Okay? Don’t ever think of yourself as a burden.”

You started to cry harder. You didn’t feel like you deserved how kind he was being to you. “It’s just not fair. Everything was starting to get better. I was starting to get better. And then I had to go and fucking die. And now I’m back, but I’m in pieces, and none of it makes sense anymore, and I can’t breathe. I’m still trapped in that tin can, a sardine out of water. I don’t know how to escape. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to do anything!”

John pulled you against his chest and held you there, gently rocking you back and forth. “That’s okay, Y/N. It’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to not know what to do. And yeah, what happened wasn’t fucking fair, but we have to move forward. We have to rebuild. And if words of love were enough to take away every broken bone and scar on your soul, then I would utter every word I know to express to you how much you are loved… but I know that won’t fix it. It’s okay, though. You’re going to get there. I promise. You’re going to get to a place where you’re okay someday, and we’ll be there with you. But for now, it’s okay to be broken. It’s okay for you to be in pieces, just let me hold you here until you’re ready to put yourself back together. We’re not leaving you. Not now, not ever.”

And true to his word, he sat with you on the floor until you managed to cry yourself to sleep in his arms.

Sonya had always been there for you. It had been a while since you’d last seen her. But eventually, you were able to ride in the car without needing a sedative or a paper bag. It had been a few months since the incident. For some reason, the boys had saved the pieces of your totaled car at a junk yard. They knew how much you’d loved little, blue Sonya.

She was a disaster when you saw her your last time, just as you had been a disaster when she saw you her first time. She mirrored who you used to be. She was dented, scratched up, crushed, broken, and all around just a mess of scraps and jagged metal. Still, she was your baby.

The boys hadn’t said so, but you knew they had brought you here to say goodbye. You traced your fingers over her dented and warped hood, the place you used to sit. It was cold beneath your fingers. Usually, It was warm from the engine beneath it when you’d sit on it, but then again, you figured her engine couldn’t run anymore. The driver’s side door was completely gone, and the passenger side was caved in. She was split clean in two in the accident. You saw the gear shift where you had held hands on one of your first dates with the boys. You got flashbacks of who you used to be, where you’d gone, in Sonya. You’d been a lot of places. You’d flown to the sun and back with her.

But you didn’t want to fly anymore. You knew what it meant to fly too close to the sun and crash back to the earth. You couldn’t handle that again. And besides, you had nothing to search for anymore. You had nowhere else you wanted to be. You had your life here. You’d found love. You’d found the ability to move on. You’d found yourself again. You were on your way to being okay. No, scratch that. You were on your way to being happy. You didn’t need Sonya to fly anymore. And her, being the perfect partner in the relationship, understood that because she understood you. She had watched you grow up after all.

You walked back to the car where your boys were waiting, and Sonya sat in the junkyard. She’d seen it all. She was an old car, after all. But she had truly seen it all when she watched you drive away with your boys. She knew you were happy. Well. As much as a little, blue, Hyundai Sonata could know. And you were going to miss that rumble on the cold nights and driving with the windows down. You were going to miss the feeling of flying with the wind in your hair. You were going to miss Sonya. But when you glanced over your shoulder, you realized that it was just a pile of metal scraps; just the shell of the car you loved so dear. She had watched you grow up now, and she was so proud that you didn’t need her. You weren’t fifteen anymore, and you didn’t need to fly when you had your life on the ground. And just like that, she wasn’t your Sonya anymore. She was just a car in the junkyard.

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