#maybe i SHOULD chew wires to cope | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Post activity is at the highest at 4:00 pm EDT; notes peak at 10:00 pm EDT.

#maybe i SHOULD chew wires to cope

wilhelmjfink · 4 months

Text

*crawling on my hands and knees* YOU THINK I WOULD JUST TAKE THIS LOVELY COMPLIMENT AND NOT FUCK OFF FOR TWO WEEKS BEFORE RETURNING WITH A STORY?! That’s not how I do things. Apparently. Thank you so much for still being here @sweatywildpanda :,)

NGL I did struggle a bit with this request. It was my first in like a year and I had to get it perfect ya know? I hope it satisfies the angry Daryl that only gets angry because he doesn’t know how to love ❤️

It had taken you a lot of quiet contemplation and reflection before you began to understand why Daryl only ever seemed to get mad. He didn’t get scared, or sad, or hopeful and excited. He got mad. All those years ago when you’d first met him, you thought he was just an asshole. Just a junkie, scumbag redneck asshole like his older brother. But maybe it was everybody else’s similar opinion of him they formulated the second they looked at him (you were guilty, too) that made you stop and think that, maybe, there was something deeper in those ocean blue eyes that always seemed to be smoldering with some sort of fury, ready to snap at any second.

No, he was not like Merle. Not at all. Merle didn’t really get too angry, for starters. He liked a challenge. He leapt at an opportunity to prove his dick was bigger than everybody else’s, eager and pugnacious, thick-skinned and apathetic with a smile on his face. When he withdrawaled, that rage — it was far different than his little brother’s. Merle hated the world and everybody in it, but accepted that long ago, and coped. He made sure he was happy, even at the expense of others. Not Daryl. No, he craved the love and acceptance of others, whether or not he even knew it. And he was fucking angry because, yeah, the world sucked. But Daryl wanted nothing more than to fix it, and have somebody just fucking thank him for it.

:(WHERES THE READMORE? WHY DIDNT IT WORK????):

Daryl is angry because he can’t help. He’s angry, because he thinks he should be better. Stronger. More resourceful. Smarter.

He’s angry because he failed you once, and he will never, ever fucking let that happen again.

He didn’t need to prove to you he wasn’t his brother. Not back then, and not now. Not as Merle’s voice echoed through the courtyard as he greeted your friends after so much time apart. Happy to see them, ironically only, though: he fucking won, after all. He survived — thrived, really — after they’d abandoned him to die, and now he was back, and he got his baby brother back, too. What more could he need to prove that he was doing just fine in this world?

“Where are you gonna go?” You asked Daryl, voice soft and level, already striving to prevent him from erupting and flipping what could very well be your last moments with him into a spitfire argument with nothing but heated exchanges and horrible names spat. “To Woodbury? You won’t… you’ll hate it there, Daryl.”

But, like he always did when he was trying to keep himself held together at the fraying seams, he chewed on his thumbnail anxiously, and merely shrugged.

“I dunno.”

“So you’re just going to give up this — this home we’ve built for ourselves?” You asked him incredulously. “The safety and security we finally have?”

“This place ain’t safe,” he argued, words sharp, as if that was the issue at hand.

“It’s got four walls, a roof, and a barbed wire fence,” you replied calmly. “It’s safer than just living out there. You know that — we did that.”

“ ‘m sure Merle has a plan.”

“And if he doesn’t?” You chanced a step closer to him and didn’t miss the way he stopped his incessant pacing, freezing in his tracks, and glancing over at you out of his peripheral, watching, waiting for your next move. You felt like you were encroaching a wild animal, waiting to step on a twig and scare him off.

“We’ll figure it out, then.”

“He’s going to get you killed.”

Maybe you two had gotten along from the start because it’s true when they say opposites attract — you were always level-headed and calm. You had to be, in the world before this, it was your livelihood. And who would have thought it would have helped you at all in this lifetime? But Daryl went from zero to a hundred in the blink of an eye, and all it took was the tiniest shove closer to the cliffs edge before he would leap off furiously to save himself from the hurt of having been pushed by somebody else. It needed to be on his terms, and no one else’s.

“That ain’t your fuckin’ problem!” He rounded on you threateningly, but you didn’t flinch. “Merle’s my brother, alright? He’s blood. That’s all we fuckin’ got left anymore. It counts for somethin, don’t it?”

You shrugged, bones tired and sore, shoving down the familiar feeling of pressure building up behind your eyes and spill out over your cheeks. You might as well have cried gasoline, the way tears did nothing but fuel Daryl’s fire once it started it’s raging path.

“I don’t know if it does, Daryl.” You were tired. Yeah, you got it. You were an only child, you would have loved a sibling. But at what cost? You envied Beth and Maggie and their relationship; you loved them both separately and you loved them both together. You never once felt anything but disgust toward Merle Dixon. “At what point does it stop mattering whether or not he’s blood, if all he does is torture you and treat you like shit? You’re loved here, D — doesn’t that count for something?”

“We can’t stay here,” he told you firmly. “Ain’t nobody here want his ass around.”

“Doesn’t that say anything to you?” Your voice was rising, but not with emotion, not yet. Shock. You knew he was stubborn, but holy fuck. “That your family here doesn’t trust him?”

“Y’all ain’t my family.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Not after all we’ve been through.” You took another step toward him and kept your words rolling, not giving him a chance to get an argument in edgewise. “It doesn’t matter that we’re not blood. We want you here. We need you here.”

“I ain’t leaving Merle again,” Daryl had leveled himself back out slightly, and he wasn’t racing and throwing hands and cursing, but he was worked up, and a year ago, Daryl Dixon would never had worked this hard to keep his emotions in check so he didn’t blow up on somebody he cared for. “You don’t understand. You ain’t listenin’.”

“I am listening — “

“No, you ain’t! I’m leaving’ with him so he — so he fuckin’ — fucks off, and don’t bother anyone here no more!”

You didn’t say anything back this time, and watched as Daryl turned back away from you, running his hands down his face in exasperation.

“If he walks away now, there ain’t any tellin’ what he’ll do. We know now — we know he has a whole god damn city behind him. They’re dangerous. He’s dangerous, and I’m not gonna sit by and let him hurt ya again!”

Oh.

You shook your head now, control of the situation slipping through your fingers. “There has to be another way, Daryl. There has to be a way to make sure Merle doesn’t target us anymore!”

“There is a way,” he spat, spinning back toward you and finally, he forced himself to make eye contact with you. It was impeccable timing, as tears welled up in your eyes with the realization that you were not going to win this song and dance with him. “And it’s him leavin’! And I gotta go with him to make sure he don’t ever come back again. I’m doin’ this for you!”

“This isn’t about what I want!”

“No, it’s about what ya need, and what ya need is to fucking be safe. And that won’t happen with Merle around. Alright? Now fuckin’ drop it. It’s done with.” And in classic Daryl fashion, he turned on his heels and made to storm off, but your heart ached violently with the need to go after him.

“Daryl, please,” you called after him. “Please, don’t leave.”

And your chest fluttered because he did stop walking when you’d said that, so you halted, too. And you waited for him to turn around and cave. But all he did was mutter an apology over his shoulder, and continued walking away. From you.

Well, you’d be fucking damned if you would like Merle take Daryl away from you. And reasoning didn’t work — but you had other ideas. Because now, all bets were off.

Because now, you were fucking angry.

#the walking dead #daryl dixon #the walking dead fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfiction #twd #twd daryl #twd fanfiction

16 notes · View notes

words-writ-in-starlight · 3 years

Note

Hi, I hope you don't mind, but I know you identify as non-binary and I've been really questioning my gender recently. I've talked to my friends-one of which is on the gender-queer spectrum-about it and we're doing a test run on 'they/them' pronouns to see how I feel about it. If you don't mind, I was wondering how you realized you weren't cis? Sorry if you don't feel like getting into it, I hope you're doing well regardless! <3

Ha ha, don’t do what I did.

In all seriousness, that’s awesome! I’m a firm believer that absolutely everyone should just give some stuff a whirl--if you wind up being nonbinary, great! Enbies are a delight! If you decide it’s not you, or you just want to change how you present, or you’re binary trans, that’s also great! Live your bliss! Experiment!

Personally, I don’t recommend my Gender Management Technique, because it was basically “repress that until I feel like dealing with it” and I’m told that repression isn’t the best coping mechanism on the books.

That being said, I realized I wasn’t cis halfway through a biology assignment in my sophomore year of college, when my brain politely rang the bell at the counter and said “Hi, you’re probably not cis! I refuse to give you more information, but you always figured you’d grow up into a woman and hit some internal switch where that felt Right, since ‘girl’ never did, and that switch just isn’t there. We didn’t wire it in. That’s not going to happen.”

And I essentially replied with my best Customer Service Voice and went “That’s awesome! Please take a number and I will get back to you just as soon as I can!” And refused to get back to it for three years. By the time I graduated, my brain had kind of chewed on it for long enough that it was a non-event--I graduated, went home, got rid of most of my clothes, cut all my hair off, and bought a bunch of binders, and that was pretty much it.

There was no real triggering event--I just went from “I’m restless and uneasy in my own skin because I have anxiety” to “I’m restless and uneasy in my own skin because I don’t like how people perceive my gender and because I have anxiety”. I’d finally fixed my metabolism and gained some weight a year and change before, meaning I had a figure for the first time, so maybe it was that. I’d been sharing rooms with girls (who were happy that way) for the first time, so maybe it was that. I never really figured it out. I certainly didn’t get any useful information out of my brain at the time. I just kind of realized, out of nowhere, that I wasn’t going to suddenly grow into Womanhood the way you grow into a pair of shoes, and then I decided I didn’t have time for that realization, because, you see, I’d lied my way into that biology class and needed to finish my homework.

I feel that the downsides here are obvious, but sometimes you need that kind of long break between realizing something and taking steps. It bears mentioning that I come from a very toxic background, and my gender presentation was used against me a lot as a child--I was treated better when I was more feminine, so moving away from that was very hard. I needed time to adjust to the idea that I had innate value before I could deal with letting go of something that had shielded me for most of my life, and all jokes aside, I needed that three year break.

So if you need time too, that’s okay. Go at whatever pace feels good, because exploring your gender should feel good! You don’t need to do every single thing all at once. On the other hand, you don’t need to slow down for the comfort of other people. Take three years to do Even One Thing, or sprint through every landmark at lightspeed. Try things out, decide what you do and don’t like, change your mind as many times as you want. You’re doing great, I’m proud of you, I love you, do what brings you joy.

#nonbinary #trans #transgender #gender #queer #if you are interested in more of my unmoored ramblings about how the true answer here is just #Do What Feels Good At Whatever Pace Feels Good To You #(And Everyone Else Can Go To Hell)#you can flick through the 'nonbinary' tag because it's not my catchall #(my catchall is 'gender' if that interests you)#so the nonbinary tag basically JUST has this kind of ranting in it #i'm your dad now and i'm proud of you and you're doing a good job #be free #a queue we will keep and our honor someday avenge #Anonymous #asked and answered

25 notes · View notes

kingofthenorth49 · 3 years

Text

Can someone check the GFCI?

When a circuit breaker snaps, it’s because the circuit was beginning to heat beyond design capacity and it’s shutting down to prevent something worse from happening, like fire or damage to a sensitive circuit or device.

It’s a safety device, and we all know how much I love safety devices, but at the end of the day if you don’t take action when a safety device activates, generally the damage can be much worse than what the device was actually protecting.

Folks, our owners have decided that it’s going to be much easier to control the world if they only have to do it from one government, and if you still think this is a conspiracy theory, you need to turn off CNN and step outside your basement. Even the dimwit in Ottawa can no longer keep the secret of where those in lofty chambers have decided we are going, although I sincerely doubt he understands the repercussions, just like 98% of the population. It’s not their fault, they are wired in such a way they can’t see the truth, either by design or programming.

Doesn’t matter which it is (blue dress/brown dress), the damage to our population has started and we don’t have the collective will to stop it, because we’ve been conditioned to be victims. Correction. Most have been conditioned over the past two decades to be victims, to be at the mercy of big government and those who know better than you do.

I’ve a friend who explains it perfectly. He says that most people cannot see past the end of any given month. It’s not a derogatory thing, it’s just who they are. These are the people who live paycheck to paycheck, who don’t plan for the future because they are just trying to stay alive. They work hard to keep up, but are consumed by just trying to cope with what life throws at them. These are the majority of people on this planet. Not a bad thing, but these are the type of people easily controlled by fear.

The next group are the people who can see 6 to 12 months, and they understand cause and effect better than the first group. They understand that payday loans are bad and that you should control your destiny through planning. These are the type of people who run our governments and provide services. They see the benefits to organized approaches to problems and find safety in numbers of like minded people.

The last group, the smallest one are those who can see 3 to 5 years down the road. These are the visionaries, people like Edison and Orwell, Tesla and Rand. These are the Elon Musks and Bill Gates of the world. They drive humanity through aspiration and ambition.

Unfortunately they aren’t always right, for example I would consider Karl Marx to one of the latter.

So why am I talking about Karl Marx and circuit breakers you ask?

Well it’s because my tin foil hat is on too tight, or because I’m not quite right in the head I guess, or any other of the labels those who can’t see past the end of the month would paste to someone like me who likes to think a bit more long term than the end of the next season of the Kardasians.

Shutting down the world for a bad flu wasn’t a decision based in science. It’s not even a decision based in safety, and believe me I know a thing or two about that. The whole “nobody moves, nobody gets hurt” thing really doesn’t work for long. Sure, nobody gets hurt, but no body eats either. This is what your average person isn’t thinking about when they scream “stay the blazes home”.

Yes, you can stay the blazes home. Yes, you can cower under your bed until the bad thing passes, but at the end of the day the Magic Pantry was just a kids TV show.

Dude’s gotta eat, right?

I’m currently living inside the “Atlantic Bubble”, or whatever is left of it after those anointed in oil decided to take their toys and go home, but in reality we’ve created an interesting paradigm here on the east coast of Canada that’s unlike anywhere else in the world.

We’ve created the perfect culture of fear.

Now for those living outside the bubble, we’ve shut the door, turned off the lights and posted a big “FUCK OFF” sign on the front lawn. We’ve turned our back to the virus like it’s a Trump supporter. This is our plan. We’ve posted guards, created intricate rules around who can go where and why, and basically made it impossible to move anywhere without government permission. All over a bad flu with a survivalbility rate of over 99.4%, with 70%+ of the mortality coming from those 70 years of age and older. You are more likely to die from an automobile accident today than COVID.

Don’t get me wrong, COVID is no cake walk, it’s a nasty disease, but it’s not Ebola. I’ve been battling this virus now for 11 months, I’ve seen how it works, it’s veracity is substantial, and if you have co-morbidities such as diabetes or heart disease, it can take a toll on you, and yes, more people are dying from it than the seasonal flu, but at the end of the day it’s not going to wipe out the human race. The majority of the people who test positive don’t even know they have it.

And don’t get me started on testing.

I can’t talk publicly about it but if you see me out and about, ask me why I think testing is a control and not a diagnostic element. Sorry, the hat’s tightening.

Let me throw one example out for you to chew on, let’s say vaccines. Now the vaccines are the panacea for the masses right? I mean we should be amazed we were able to concoct a vaccine that is 95% effective in eradicating this virus inside 8 to 10 months, hell, we should be ecstatic, right? I mean it took 30+ years to get a handle on AIDS and we beat COVID in just 240 days. We currently linbe up to get an annual flu shot to protect us from the last major Coronavirus (Remember the Spanish Flu?) that has been in development for the last 60 years and it’s still only 35-40% effective, and less than 50% of Canadians get it

We must be freaking geniuses now.

I’ll never understand the sheer amount of dumb optimism that’s out there, but I certainly appreciate it. Without that optimism we’d be more like Lemmings than we currently are.

But back to the “great reset”, shall we?

So dude’s gotta eat, right? I’m going to quote one of my modern day heros, Elon Musk when he says “If people wants stuff, they have to make it” or something along those lines. In other words, there’s no money tree. My parents very early on taught me that lesson, and that if I wanted anything in life I had to earn it or make it, that there was no such thing as a free meal. The problem is most people today have been conditioned to think there is. Trudeau has been giving away our money like a drunken sailor on shore leave to the tune of $400 BILLION dollars in 8 months. Let me put it another way, in the last 240 days Trudeau has spent $10,814.00 per Canadian citizen, or around $25K per taxpayer. That’s debt folks, that’s directly on the shoulders of every Canadian. But it’s ok they say because interest rates are so low we can afford the additional leverage.

Problem is folks is interest rates don’t stay low after a major crisis. Why? It’s called inflation. As money supply loosens, so does the value of a dollar, and when the value of a dollar decreases because there’s more supply of dollars then prices increase. When prices start increasing wages need to go up to keep pace with inflation, and when that happens there are two options. Control monetary supply, otr deal with runaway inflation.

How do you control inflation you ask? Great question. You raise interest rates to throttle spending.

How can anyone forget the late 1970’s? It was less than 50 years ago folks. Remember Trudeau’s 6 & 5? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller? JUSTIN? For fuck sakes the kid was living at 22 Sussex drive when his father created the greatest economic challenge of our lifetime.

Wait, check that. Apparently the second wave will be worse than the first.

This great reset is gong to be tragic. Already they are estimating over 100 Million people in 3rd world countries will die next year due to disease and starvation because of the lock downs. In our own western countries the most disadvantages are already our most vunerable populations. Humans aren’t meant to be caged, nor can we afford to be. We need to be free, have purpose, and contribute to a vibrant society.

You can’t govern that. You can’t rule over a captive society for long. History has shown us that time and time again that King’s aren’t benevolent rulers and those who suffer the most are at the bottom the societal ladder.

If you aren’t seeing the end goal yet, I get it, but I do. You only need look as far as the ice cream eating elite who enjoy fine dining when your cupboard is near empty and jet off to Mexico while telling you can’t bury your spouse or child. They make you endure cruel mental anguish while they spend your tax dollars on jet setting and pontificating about a communist world that they rule.

All in the name of a better world, one free of climate change and racism.

Who knows, maybe they are right, maybe they are part of the component of society that sees the future more clearly than the rest of us.

I guess that’s why they get ice cream and can go spend Thanksgiving with their moms while you can’t bury yours.

I guess that’s just our lot in life, to be ruled, to understand it’s for thee, but not for me.

This what we want? This what we deserve? Am I wrong?

I don’t think I am, I just want to be. Can someone go downstairs and check the fuse?

Jim Out

#thegreatreset

1 note · View note

welllpthisishappening · 5 years

Text

The Period of the Long Change (3/15)

It’s quick. One second she’s standing there and everything is fine and then Emma looks up and it’s not. It’s awful. And the lights are too bright and there are too many rooms and too many opinions and her phone won’t stop ringing because everything seems to be changing all at once. She’s never been great at coping with change. But, maybe, if she can just figure it out and stay right where she is, with Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers, at her side, it’ll be alright.

It’s slow. One second he’s standing there and everything is fine and then Killian’s breath catches and it’s not. It’s terrifying. And the noises are too loud and there are too many questions and he can’t find the right answers to any of them, not sure how to cope with everything changing all at once. That’s never really been his forte. But, maybe, if he can just figure it out and stay right where he is, with Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations, at his side, it’ll be alright.

It’s another season and another challenge and Emma and Killian are both struggling to get over the boards.

Rating: Mature Word Count: Like 8K. The explanations. They’re here. Kind of. AN: Thank you to everyone for clicking and reading this story. I really, really appreciate it a lot. Let me tell you though, trying to find Once characters that I haven’t mentioned already is becoming more and more of a challenge. If you missed it, I totally made the press release Ruby sent out because I can’t be stopped and any message I get about this story warms my whole soul.

Also on Ao3 and FF.net and Tumblr if that’s your jam.

She couldn’t stop moving.

Emma was certain she’d walked the same path eighty-six times now, short little steps that weren’t doing much for her balance, but might have been doing something for her nerves and she felt like she was drowning a little.

Or suffocating.

Neither one of those things were particularly good options.

But the walls in that doctor’s were getting closer, she was positive, and oxygen was apparently some kind of irregular commodity on the Upper East Side that afternoon.

Suffocating.

It was definitely suffocating.

Emma took another step, spinning on her heels and marching out to a rhythm she’d apparently decided on at some point, and she kept staring at her shoes, refusing to meet Killian’s gaze because Killian had only just gotten back to the room after another round of tests and an MRI and probably a CAT scan and she didn’t know if those things were the same thing.

She should have known if those things were the same thing.

She should have asked Ariel when they got home, but Emma’s brain was clearly suffering from oxygen deprivation across the city and Matt’s eyes kept widening, like he knew far too much for a four year old and there’d been turbulence on the flight, which made Will’s eyes widen like he was also a four year old and Roland had been disappointed about leaving early and-- “--Swan,” Killian said sharply, catching her around the wrist. His thumb worked under her laces, tapping lightly on her pulse point and Emma’s shoes made an absolutely God awful noise when they skidded across the linoleum.

“You’re making me dizzy, love,” he continued. Emma narrowed her eyes.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” “A fairly bad one, huh?”

“Terrible.”

Killian scoffed, but he didn’t let go of her and if her feet had been tracing some invisible path, then he was beating out some kind of staccato rhythm that might have matched up perfectly with her heart.

So she’d really just dissolved entirely into sentiment at this point.

And complete and utter worry.

He didn’t look bad. Really. He looked absolutely unfairly good, if Emma were being honest.

Killian had been skating well all season, not closing in on any sort of scoring record, but there’d been a fifteen-game point streak in November that garnered plenty of headlines and Regina was working on some branding deal that included commercials and Adidas endorsements and maybe specialized t-shirts or something.

It was going to be worth an absolutely incredible amount of money.

Regina’s words.

It hadn’t been perfect, but it had felt pretty damn close and they were sitting in second in the Metro on the other side of the break and Killian was sitting in another doctor’s office and Emma hadn’t taken a deep breath in the last seventy-two hours.

They had a game the next night.

She still hadn’t really been paying attention to her phone.

“You’ve got to tell me what you’re thinking, Swan,” Killian muttered, like he couldn’t bring himself to make his voice any louder. His thumb must have had a mind of its own.

“Way too many things,” Emma admitted. “Do you know what the differences between a CAT Scan and an MRI are?” “Aren’t they the same thing?” “Shouldn’t you know?” Killian shook his head slowly, lower lip jutted out slightly and Emma wondered if there was some kind of mass production for whatever tissue paper they put on examination tables. “I really don’t think that’s in my wheelhouse of knowledge.” “Did they tell you what they just did?”

“I believe that was an MRI.” “But you don’t know for sure?” Emma pressed. She wanted to start pacing again. Maybe she should get tested for restless leg syndrome while they were in this office.

The Rangers had brought in some neurological specialist from Tarrytown – an announcement that made Killian blanche slightly when Victor called the night before and Victor was there too and Emma half expected both Robin and Will to show up at some point, because she was leading the worried race, but they were both doing a pretty good job of tying for second.

She was surprised Will hadn’t demanded constant updates.

Emma had a few suspicions about that, but she couldn’t seem to linger on one thought for more than a few moments.

“It’s all been a bit of a blur, Swan,” Killian said, another quiet admission that was almost worse than the attempts at jokes. “But, yeah, an MRI. Something about checking…” He trailed off, lips pulled back behind his teeth and eyes staring at anything except her. His thumb didn’t stop moving.

And Emma was going to chew her tongue in half.

Or start running a marathon in that office. That probably would have been impressive.

“Checking what?” Emma asked, and she didn’t entirely appreciate the way her voice cracked over the words.

“The phrase traumatic brain injury was used several times.”

Emma was never entirely sure what sound she made. It didn’t sound entirely human. It kind of sounded like she was a balloon – and had only recently been popped.

All the air rushed out of her lungs at once, eyes widening and mouth hanging open and she was glad Killian hadn’t ever let go of her wrist, because she wasn’t confident she would have been able to stay upright otherwise.

Her knees buckled, knocking against each other painfully, and she could feel the tears in the corners of her eyes as soon as her mind processed what those three words meant in that very specific order.

She’d bit her tongue.

There was blood in her mouth.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Emma asked, but it came out more like a screech and she’d lost complete control of her limbs. She was jumping, actually jumping up and down, like she was standing on some kind of trampoline and she could see the muscles in Killian’s throat move when he swallowed.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I’d imagine it’s not very good.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “I wouldn’t do that. Not about that.” “I need you to tell me what happened,” Emma seethed, and she’d jumped from worried to furious rather quickly. Killian still couldn’t hold her gaze for more than three and a half seconds. She kept counting.

So, really, she’d lost her mind.

“With the MRI or…” “Oh my God! No, what happened in New Jersey. I need you to tell me what happened in New Jersey and why you wouldn’t...why you didn’t--”

“--Tell you?”

Emma nodded, stiff and awkward and she was still bobbing on the balls of her feet. Maybe that was where Matt got it from.

She felt like she was a live wire, with especially frayed ends, cut apart and prone to electrocution and she had so much to do before the game and explanations to send out because they’d blown off three fan events in Nashville and Zelena probably wanted to talk, but Emma hadn’t answered any of her e-mails or given Merida any kind of instruction and Ruby had been picking up so much slack, she’d have to buy something for her too and maybe she could give her and Will a joint gift and--

“Swan,” Killian cut in, nerves obvious in the sound of her own name. “You’re really making me nervous, love. Lucas is taking care of things for the time being.” Emma blinked. “How could you possibly know that?” And, really, she should have expected the smile.

She should have expected the slow curl of his lips and the flash of something that might have been amusement in his gaze, a hint of blue and want and it had been years and two kids, but he looked at her and Emma consistently and regularly melted.

Or something less disgusting.

Something more romantic.

She really needed to take that deep breath.

“Give me a little credit, love,” Killian mumbled, tugging lightly on her wrist and she moved forward without a word. “And you’re doing that thing with your nose.” “Excuse me?” “You scrunch your nose. And your eyebrows twist. You do it every time you’re trying not to show how worried you are.” “I don’t think that’s true.” “I can guarantee it.” She scrunched her nose. And probably twisted her eyebrows.

Killian chuckled under his breath, pulling her hand up and brushing his lips across her knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, not bothering to move his mouth away from her skin. “I didn’t think…” “Yeah, that seems kind of obvious,” Emma interrupted.

“That’s fair.” “What happened?” Her voice cracked again, eyelids fluttering shut so she didn’t do something absolutely absurd like start to cry when Killian looked vaguely terrified she was going to scream again, and Emma’s live wire had, effectively, fizzled out.

She had no idea what kind of metaphor she was trying to make anymore.

And she should have known something was wrong.

She should have known him.

Maybe terror and worry and anger were all just synonyms for guilt.

“It didn’t before,” Killian said, grinning slightly when Emma’s eyes snapped open. “The, uh, the passing out thing. That didn’t happen before.” “You should mention the mind reading thing to the doctor whenever she decides to show up again. It’s pretty impressive, honestly. Maybe that’s a sign you aren’t concussed.” “I think that’s what the MRI was for.” “You’re really heinous at telling this story.”

“That’s because it’s a pretty shit story.” “From the top, Jones.”

He smiled again, hair falling dangerously close to his eyebrows when he tilted his head to stare at her. He held her gaze for six seconds and, like, one solid breath before he opened his mouth.

“That hit in Jersey,” Killian started. “Was...not great. I don’t think that kid...what’s his name?” Emma rolled her eyes. “Absolute shit at storytelling. Magren. His name is Magren and he’s not a kid. You’re just old.” “He’s barely been in the league for three years.” “The fact that you just used that sentence at all proves my point.” Killian huffed, but he’d never actually let go of Emma’s hand and she might have been counting that too or counting on that and this doctor had clearly fallen in a black hole somewhere. Maybe that’s where all the oxygen went.

“Anyway,” Killian said pointedly. “He came in, way too fast and shoulder lowered and I think he kind of messed up my calf too because that bruise lasted for, like, a week and a half.” Emma glared at him, trying to pull her hand back to her side, but she didn’t want him to rip her laces and Killian’s grip tightened.

“You know all of this,” he muttered. “Magren got the boarding penalty and they made me come off the ice and they brought me back to the locker room to do tests. But, uh, well, I told them not to. And Victor wasn’t around yet. He would have killed me if he knew.” “That’s the part I don’t understand,” Emma said. “Why wouldn’t you want to get the test? And how did they just let that happen? That’s not how the league operates. There’s--” “--Protocol, I know.” Emma nodded, not sure she could say anything else without yelling it. “They didn’t let you back on the ice though.” “That was a precaution. They didn’t think I was concussed. I was still coherent and cognizant and answered a few questions.” “But?” “But,” Killian repeated slowly. “It hurt like hell and I was honestly a little worried about the state of my neck after getting slammed into the glass like that.” “That’s not an answer.” The words came out like an accusation, sharp and a little aggressive and Emma had to keep blinking. She could hear her phone vibrating somewhere.

Killian sighed, an absolutely ridiculous display of right arm strength when he pulled her closer to him. He ripped the tissue paper, sliding to the end of the table and Emma had moved in between his legs before she’d realized what was going on.

She didn’t argue.

He kept one hand laced with hers, thumb, somehow, still moving and tracing out a pattern she was almost convinced he could see at this point, but his left hand landed on her cheek and Emma could just make out the glint of light reflecting of his ring.

She’d put it back on on the plane the morning before, quiet smiles and nervous gazes and she’d been convinced her heart was going to hammer out of her chest in the moment.

That probably would have fucked with the air pressure in the cabin or something.

Will wouldn’t have been able to cope with that.

“I didn’t want an MRI,” Killian said. “They checked some things. An MRI would have just been overkill or something that doesn’t sound as absolutely terrible as that word in this situation. I’ve been hit before. I’ve been concussed before. It didn’t feel like that.” “What did it feel like?” He shrugged. “Like shit,” he laughed, but there wasn’t much humor to the sound and Emma’s pulse thudded in her ears.

It drowned out her phone. She kind of appreciated that. She was going to have to buy Merida the biggest gift of all for dealing with everything.

Hopefully.

If Ruby gave her the right instructions.

God, Casino Night was in three weeks.

“And the training staff in Jersey was just cool with that?” Emma asked, well aware of the disbelief in the question. Killian shrugged again. “They don’t have to worry about Ariel killing them. I’m going to lead the charge. With pitchforks, maybe.” “I think you might have to get those special ordered.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.” “I realize that.” “Ok, ok,” Emma said, waving her free hand through the air. “Let me get this straight. You get hit, you think maybe it’s a concussion, and you don’t want the MRI because…” Killian didn’t answer immediately, tongue flashing between his lips, and he closed his eyes before he said anything. “Because we’ve been winning, Swan,” he whispered. “We’ve been playing well and Gina’s got all this stuff set up and Mattie hadn’t stopped talking about that one goal for days.” “It was a good goal.” And it was. Really. Between his legs and around two defenders and that had made SportsCenter too, which really just seemed unfair now, but both Matt and Roland had tried to recreate the move in the back corner of the restaurant for most of December.

They cracked a chair leg in the process.

“Exactly,” Killian said, one side of his mouth tugging up. “I didn’t want it to be a concussion. I didn’t want it to be anything, honestly.” “Did you try and go out for the third?”

He nodded. “They put their foot down on that one. Victor too, once he finally got back into the training room.” “And where was he this whole time?” “That’s a question for the ages, but I think he was dealing with something from in between the second and the third. Sean hurt his knee blocking a shot or something.” “All he’s good for,” Emma mumbled, and Killian laughed under his breath. “Alright, alright, so they didn’t let you out for the third, but they didn’t make you get an MRI or anything more than the, literal, most basic injury checks and no one confirmed whether or not it was actually a concussion then?” “All caught up to speed, Swan.”

“That’s ridiculous.” “Me or them?” “Both of you,” Emma said almost immediately. “Equally and separately. The NHL doesn’t do that, though. If they believed you might have been...there’s protocol.” “Eh,” Killian contradicted, and Emma resisted the urge to smack his shoulder. He might have been concussed. He was definitely concussed. “Yes, there’s concussion protocol and rules and a whole schedule of things they’re supposed to do. But I was ok when they saw me. Not wobbling or slurred or anything. They checked some things. That was enough. All signs pointed to absolutely, positively normal.” “But you had suspicions?”

Killian winced, and Emma didn’t think he meant to squeeze her hand like that. “I had concerns,” he amended. “And some decidedly painful memories that I didn’t want to dredge up for anyone.”

Emma blinked, confusion rattling down her spine, and she hadn’t really slept much in the last week, was far too preoccupied with All-Star events and Casino Night prep and there was a trade deadline in there somewhere too, and the few hours of uninterrupted rest with her kid’s right knee in her liver had been the best she’d had in far too long.

So, really, she could almost rationalize it.

And then she realized.

And she couldn’t rationalize anything.

Because she should have known. From the very moment Killian got hit.

“Oh shit,” she breathed, and, that time, she was the one who squeezed his hand. “It’s not the same, Killian. It’s not.” “That’s true. No one hit me in the back of the head with a slap shot.” “Killian.” “I know, Swan, I know, but it’s a, uh, sore subject.” “Was that another joke?” “Not intentionally.” She scoffed, but his eyes were distractingly blue and staring at her like he was imploring her to understand and she should have known. “And you’re you,” Emma added, a rueful tone in her voice that might have been how obvious it was that Killian Jones was the entire goddamn face of the league. “If you told them you didn’t want the MRI or the CT Scan or whatever you’re supposed to get, no one’s going to argue with you.” “I don’t think I have that kind of clout, Swan.” “And yet here we are.”

He hummed, thumb brushing over the back of her palm and the ridges of her knuckles, lingering just under her ring. The whole thing was kind of ridiculous and a little heavy-handed, but Emma was still surprised she wasn’t crying, so really, the whole thing kind of made sense too.

“Not every concussion is the same,” Emma said. “You know that right?” “Yeah.” “Once more with feeling.” Killian rolled his eyes, tongue pressed into the corner of his lips, and Emma wasn’t sure how much more her body could take, bouncing between emotions like she was the puck in some kind of elaborate passing drill.

God, that was an absolutely terrible metaphor.

“I thought it would be fine,” Killian muttered, and his fingers moved away from her cheek to trace along the curve of her shoulder and the blazer she had on because she did, eventually, have to go back to the office and probably provide Merida with several IVs of the caffeinated beverage of her choice.

“I feel like repeating myself is just kind of redundant at this point.” “If I say I’m sorry again is that also redundant?” Emma shook her head. “Not really. But you said the headaches started the very next day.” “That’s because they did. I didn’t lie about that, Swan.” “Pulling at straws,” she mumbled, the words tumbling out of her without her express opinion, which, all things considered, was completely unfair, but Emma kept pressing up on her toes and falling back on her heels and there were tears on her cheeks.

“I was fine.” “No,” Emma objected. Her hair hit her face when she shook her head again, twisting her neck quickly and, maybe, a little violently, but she was experiencing every single human emotion at once and she couldn’t really handle the look on Killian’s face.

Like the entire world was falling apart.

Or the ice was melting.

She’d circled right back around to drowning.

“No” she repeated. “You weren’t. You...you were acting like you were fine and ignoring something that could…” She couldn’t finish, the words getting stuck in her throat and that was probably for the best because Emma couldn’t give a voice to the worry and the ideas and her lips felt dry.

She was breathing through her mouth.

“Emma--” “--No, no, no,” she snapped. “That can’t be how this works. I...I watched you collapse on the ice, Killian. You were there and then you weren’t and I’m just supposed to be ok?” “No,” he said. “No, you’re not.” “Why didn’t you tell me about the headaches?” “Because I could still play. I was still scoring and we were still winning and then All-Star noms came out and Mattie was so excited and you were so excited and we were…”

He didn’t finish.

Emma wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

Probably bad.

This whole, entire thing felt incredibly bad.

The door opened, a woman and a white coat and a clipboard that looked official, and Killian’s arm wrapped around Emma’s waist. She felt him kiss her shoulder blade through her blazer.

“Mr. Jones,” the doctor said, flashing a smile and Emma couldn’t remember her name. Ruby had definitely told her. But that was in between schedules and plans and they needed to do something about that one roulette table that had, somehow, sustained water damage in storage.

Emma despised the entire state of New Jersey.

The doctor’s name was Tocorro. Her last name, at least. Emma didn’t try to remember her first name.

“Mrs. Jones,” Tocorro continued, still smiling and her teeth were almost blindingly white. There was probably a medical reason for that. “From what Dr. Whale has told me, we’re dealing with the lingering effects of concussion-like symptoms.” Emma swallowed, biting back several scathing retorts that were as far away from professional as she’d been acting since they left Nashville. She nodded instead. “We think the concussion might have been misdiagnosed,” she said, and she could feel Killian inhale behind her.

The tissue paper was in shred by now.

“Yes, that certainly does seem to be the case, doesn’t it?” Tocorro asked. There was a forced brightness to her voice, a sound that didn’t ring quite true and set Emma’s teeth on edge. “It’s unfortunate, but it does happen sometimes.” “Does it?” Tocorro shrugged, hooking her foot around a stool. “The NHL does its best to monitor head trauma, but there are some cases when things do fall through the cracks. There is, of course, human error to consider. “

If Emma never heard the word trauma again, it would be far too soon.

“What does any of that mean?” Emma asked sharply, and Tocorro stared at her like she was asking to be let into Fort Knox and possibly on the next trip to the Moon. She tried not to blink.

There were still tear stains on her cheek.

“It means that there are signs here that there was, in fact, a concussion and it went undiagnosed. For more than a month now.” “And?” “Swan,” Killian mumbled, but she was already shaking her head and ignoring whatever her pulse was doing and maybe she’d run back to the Garden. She didn’t have the right shoes for that.

The door opened again.

It was going to fly off the goddamn hinges.

Victor looked a little embarrassed, shuffling into the room with his eyes on the ground and a goddamn stethoscope around his neck, like he was playing dress up, but Ariel was a flash of red hair and almost palpable rage and she didn’t shy away from smacking at Killian’s shoulder.

“Are you kidding me, Cap?” “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Red.” Ariel scowled, mouth twisted into something that looked a hell of a lot like disdain and felt a hell of lot like the several thousand emotions coursing through Emma’s veins. “You know Anna called me. Several times.” “I think she’s going down a list.” “Should I be offended that I’m not further up the list?” Killian made a contradictory noise, ignoring whatever Tocorro and Victor were mumbling about on the other side of the room. “I don’t think she’s playing favorites. Did Liam e-mail you?” “Yeah, was that weird? He knows he can communicate with me verbally, right?” “I’m not sure he wanted to actually say those words out loud.” “Ah, yeah, that makes sense,” Ariel muttered, exhaling loudly when her eyes flickered towards Emma. “Hey,” she added. “Ruby’s on several different war paths right now, so you don’t have to worry about anything. At least hockey-related. Well--”

“--Red,” Killian warned, but she brushed him off and for as much as she’d moved before, Emma suddenly felt as if she were rooted to the spot and possibly made of marble.

She needed to call David back.

He’d left several very detailed voicemails on her phone that morning.

After he promised to pick Matt up from pre-school. Mary Margaret was going to get Peggy from daycare. Emma needed to make a list of all the gifts she had to buy.

“Shut up, Cap,” Ariel hissed, not taking her gaze off Emma. “I’m pretty positive between you, me, Ruby and Regina we could get those Jersey guys fired. Regina is already in full-on research mode.” “Research,” Emma echoed. “About what?” “Malpractice or something. She’s determined to get someone’s license revoked. I think it’s a matter of pride at this point.” “That’s dedication.” “Yeah, well, she’s pissed at Cap.” Emma nodded, more words and feelings getting stuck in her throat and settling in the pit of her stomach and Killian’s arm sounded like several enormous rock slides when it fell back to his side.”I’m thinking we should all get membership cards to that particular club at some point,” Ariel continued, a glint in her eyes when her mouth twisted again and Emma let out a noise that might have been a laugh, but might have just also been exhaustion and she hadn’t eaten all day.

She’d honestly forgotten to eat.

“Alright, Cap,” Victor said brusquely, and Emma reached back for Killian’s hand before she could think of all the reasons she shouldn’t or didn’t want to and there weren’t many of those second ones. His fingers laced through hers immediately.

“Yeah,” Killian said warily.

“We’ve got test results back.” “I figured that would happen at some point.” “Killian,” Ariel chastised, but he didn’t look at her, just ignored the real name and kept staring at Victor like he was waiting to hear his career was over.

Emma counted heartbeats.

There were way too many.

She was sure.

She wasn’t a doctor.

Killian squeezed her hand.

“You should have said something, Cap,” Victor said. “It’s...that was incredibly stupid.” “Did Anna call you too?” “Yes, several times on Saturday night. Both she and Regina threatened to sue me as well, but then Regina remembered we’re all on the same team, literally and figuratively and--” “--Fucking hell, Victor,” Emma yelled, and several pairs of slightly stunned eyes snapped her direction. Killian didn’t let go of her hand. “No one is threatening your medical practice. You work for an NHL team! Get to the goddamn point!”

Victor blinked, exactly, six times, head tilted slightly and a vaguely impressed smile on his face as Emma’s shoulders heaved. “Sure thing, Emma,” he grinned. “Cap was concussed in Jersey. Not bad, borderline, really, but if they’d done an MRI they would have seen.” “Seen what?” “I’m getting there, Emma.” “Get there faster.”

He held up both hands, and she was going to strangle him with his stupid, fucking stethoscope. “At first I was worried it was a brain bruise, but--” “--What?”

“Emma, seriously, this is not going to work if you keep shouting things at me.”

She rolled her eyes, and stuck out her tongue, God, but she couldn’t actually curse Victor to several different hells and the neurologist, specialist, whatever looked a little stunned by whatever was happening in front of her.

“Come here, love,” Killian muttered, pulling lightly on the back of her blazer and it suddenly felt very hot in that office.

Ariel was texting.

Anna probably demanded updates.

“I don’t need to be coddled,” Emma growled, not turning around, but he really was absurdly strong. And she wasn’t sure how much longer her legs would continue to function like actual parts of her body.

“Yeah, well, maybe I do,” Killian said. His hand found its way over her shirt, moving over the ridge of her spine, and Victor didn’t object when Emma moved onto the table next to him, knees bumping and feet dangling a few inches over the floor.

“Keep going, Victor,” Ariel mumbled, not taking her eyes away from her phone. “It’s really not the worst thing in the world, Cap. You’re just an idiot.” Killian scowled. “That appears to be the general consensus, yes.”

“Are we all done now?” Victor asked, exasperation clinging to every letter. “Because I’m sure Dr. Tocorro would love to get out of the city before she has to deal with traffic.” “It’s three in the afternoon, Victor.” “And,” Ariel added. “You’re going to hit traffic no matter what you do. It’s New York. Don’t argue with Gina like that when she tries to take your medical license, you’ll lose that fight.”

Tocorro’s mouth was practically on the floor.

Emma sighed. “It’s not a...God, brain bruise is almost worse than traumatic brain injury isn’t it?” “That’s the general term for all concussions,” Victor mumbled. “I need you not to say anymore words, Dr. Whale.” He saluted. And Tocorro closed her mouth. Before opening it again. To agree that traumatic brain injury was, in fact, the general term for all concussions.

“I was worried, because of the headaches and the spotty vision,” Tocorro started, eyes widening when Emma’s head jerked towards Killian. He tried to smile. It absolutely didn’t work. “The occasional spotty vision,” Tocorro amended. “That we were dealing with a brain bruise of sorts, which is certainly very serious, but the MRI didn’t show that.”

“Which is good, right?” Emma asked, the question sounding dumb even to her own ears. “Decidedly. But there is a reason Mr. Jones lost consciousness the other day.” Emma waited for the explanation, doing her best not to be too frustrated that this specialist seemed to thrive on a bit of drama and Ariel’s nails were going to drive her insane.

“Which is?”

“Post-concussion syndrome and nerve damage. Basically the nerves have been structurally damaged and they’re kind of firing at nothing now. That’s why the headaches keep happening. If the concussion had been treated, we probably would have been able to prevent this.” Emma was glad she was sitting on slightly torn up tissue paper. She felt her body sag forward, several different weights and emotions landing with what she was sure was an audible thump in her stomach, and she knew Killian shifted before she heard him, a soft rip and creak of the table and his lips were soft against her cheek.

There were tears there again.

“Which means what exactly?” Emma asked, the question shaking its way out of her.

“It means that Mr. Jones suffered a concussion in that game, but it was left untreated and, coupled with still playing, the damage only worsened over the last five weeks or so. That’s why the headaches haven’t disappeared and things took a turn for the worse this past weekend.” “Yeah, you can say that.” “This isn’t as bad as it could be.”

Emma scoffed, and she wished her shoulders would stop moving before she was entirely prepared for it. It hurt. Everything hurt.

Melodramatic idiot.

She was still crying.

“What’s as bad as it could be?” Emma asked. Victor clicked his tongue, but his lips twitched when she turned towards him, and Emma could almost hear her own glare.

“No bruising, no lingering damage to the actual skull, no internal bleeding.” “What?” “Emma. The yelling.”

She was only slightly worried her face was going to get stuck that way. “You know you really suck at this Victor,” Ariel muttered, finally stuffing her phone in her back pocket and resting both her hands on Emma’s shoulders.

It was a weird twist of limbs – Killian hadn’t moved an inch, didn’t appear to be breathing that much, honestly, but his arm was pressed flush against Emma’s and he didn’t pull away when Ariel tried to join whatever triangle of human they were apparently building there.

“If this had been diagnosed immediately, Cap would have sat for a couple of games, maybe missed a road trip or two, at most,” Ariel started, and Emma tried not to wither under the scrutiny of her gaze. “But it wasn’t and no one pushed for more tests or keeping Cap off the ice.” “They’d have to drag him off,” Emma mumbled. “I think our combined strength might be able to accomplish that. You know that adrenaline kick? Like people lift trucks. I bet we could do it. And El would totally chip in.” “I’m sitting right here,” Killian grumbled. Ariel grinned. And Emma almost felt better.

“I know you are, Cap, but if you think that’s going to make much of a difference, you’ve got another thing coming.” “So what happens now?” Emma muttered, and eventually, she was sure, she’d run out of questions. Maybe when she went to sleep.

Killian sat up straighter, shoulders rolling back and chin jutted out and Emma had never seen that look before.

She’d seen worry and fear and concern, occasionally directed at her because he was a great, big overprotective idiot who had spent most of the night pacing in a hospital room when Peggy was born. She’d seen disappointment and frustration and anger because no one was more competitive than Killian Jones and no one wanted to impress his kids more.

No one wanted to win more than Killian Jones.

They’d been winning.

And he’d already seen what concussions could do to a hockey career first-hand.

“No skating,” Tocorro answered, tone clipped and professional and Victor was staring at the ground again. Ariel squeezed her eyes closed. “Nothing. No ice. No practice. No...any of it. For at least three weeks. Minimum.” “Minimum,” Killian repeated.

“Minimum. I’d lean more towards a full month, honestly. You’ve been hit since the initial injury, Mr. Jones. You’ve got to give your body some time to recover.” “But that’s just practice. Right?” “That’s no skating,” Tocorro corrected, and Emma’s eyes widened when she saw Killian all but deflate next to her. She kissed his shoulder. She couldn’t reach his lips. His whole head had drooped forward. “I didn’t say anything returning to practice.” “How long?” “Cap,” Ariel wavered, but his eyes flashed and he looked at Emma. And she realized, rather suddenly with a sinking feeling that felt a bit like several different universes ending, she’d never seen Killian hurt.

Not really.

“How long?” Killian asked again.

“No practice until mid-March, at the earliest,” Victor said. “Maybe some solo skate closer to the deadline if the symptoms don’t return.”

“Games?” “Cap.” “Games?”

Victor sighed, rocking back on his heels and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Back by playoffs,” he shrugged. “Maybe.” “Maybe?” Killian balked, both Emma and Ariel moving to keep him from jumping off the table.

“It was misdiagnosed, Cap. We all fucked up and we should have known what was going on with you, but you should have said something about the headaches. You shouldn’t have still been playing.”

Emma didn’t mean to make whatever sound seemed to fly out of her – a mix of a groan and a scoff and her own sigh – and she felt Victor’s disbelieving stare on the back of her head. Tocorro probably wanted to study her right there.

Killian looked at her when the noise seemed to linger in the air around them, an apologetic look that was bigger than that because there’d been talk about a Cup run and possibility and he couldn’t get on the ice anymore.

Not for three weeks. At least.

“It’s not the full season,” Emma whispered, like that made a difference.

Killian’s expression didn’t change. “True.”

It was a lie. Was a pretty terrible lie, honestly, when his eyes kept darting across Emma’s face like he was looking for some guarantee that this would be fine or better or she wasn’t so disappointed she was sure she was aching with it.

She should have known.

Her phone started ringing.

There was more talking, Tocorro explaining things about the brain that Emma couldn’t even begin to understand, all the reasons it was so important to take it easy and maybe stay away from the Garden for a little while, but that was like trying to tell a bird it couldn’t fly or something equally ridiculous and maybe it was a bit like telling Matthew Jones that his dad wouldn’t be playing for several weeks because that was absolutely worse than anything else they’d done...ever.

Mary Margaret tried to get them to stay for dinner.

“It’s fine,” Emma promised, but the lie was so obvious it should have come with flashing lights and sound effects.

And she knew her smile didn’t reach her eyes the rest of the night, an absolutely devastated and exhausted four-year-old between her and Killian in the middle of their bed.

It didn’t get much better the next day either, a to-do-list that seemed to grow by the moment and a flustered assistant who, at that point, probably deserved an Edible Arrangement, like, every day of the week.

Possibly twice on Sunday.

With the chocolate add ons. Or a stuffed animal. Or something.

Emma’s desk phone kept lighting up, a mess of colors that wasn’t doing much for her blood pressure, and no one had taken care of the roulette table.

She needed to get out of her office. She needed to get downstairs because it wasn’t a press conference, per se, but there was a game that night and an announcement and the New York tabloids would have several different field days if Killian Jones wasn’t on the roster without an explanation.

“This is the explanation,” Ruby had explained earlier, and she’d brought Emma hot chocolate. And a croissant. “Cap said you didn’t eat much yesterday.” “He needs to stop gossiping,” Emma grumbled. She took the croissant anyway.

“It’s not gossip. It’s worry. Because you’ve got a million things to do and now so does he.” “That’s not true at all. He’s got negative one million things to do. Doctor’s orders.” “You know what I meant.”

Emma sighed, croissant crumbs landing on her legs, and she did know, was well aware of how little sleep Killian had gotten the night before, flat on his back with Matt curled against his side and an arm flung over his stomach and that endorsement deal had probably fallen apart.

It would after the explanation.

Emma was so busy retreating back into vaguely depressing memories, Nashville and those facts feeling like a lifetime ago, that she didn’t hear the footsteps or the knock and Mary Margaret didn’t really need to knock.

On, like, anything ever.

“Merida said you were probably still up here,” Mary Margaret said softly. She had a cup in her hand too.

“Did you and Ruby coordinate that?” Emma asked.

“Not at all, if you can believe.” “I can, actually.” Mary Margaret smiled, stepping into the office and glancing around at the not-so-small explosion of team merchandise and post-it notes. “And,” Emma continued. “I really shouldn’t be up here. I should be downstairs. Loitering.” “I don’t think it’s loitering if you’re there to support your husband. Ruby told me about the presser,” Mary Margaret explained before Emma could ask. “So, technically, we did coordinate this wave of consistent support, but not the hot chocolate onslaught.” “That sound kind of violent.” “That’s the opposite of what we’re trying to do, honestly.”

“They’re going to ask a ton of questions.” “Who?”

Emma shrugged. “Everyone. Media and probably several dozen league reps and then media again and maybe Mattie.” “Was he upset?”

“Yeah,” Emma mumbled. “But Killian was good. I mean...as good as could be expected, I guess. Explained about getting hit and getting hurt and it totally sucked, but we did ok, I think. He kind of cried himself to sleep. God, that sounds horrible when I say it like that.” “No, it doesn’t,” Mary Margaret countered, handing over the hot chocolate cup and sinking into the one chair that wasn’t filled with paperwork. “You want to tell me what’s really going on with you now, though?”

“You know. Killian’s concussed and passing out on All-Star ice and Mattie spent most of last night crying, which I think may have actually been worse than the no-skating for three weeks, minimum, decree and now Killian’s got to answer questions and Ruby’s got to release official statements and I think he actually turned off his phone at some point and, oh, shit, we didn’t tell the Vankalds.” “What?” “I haven’t...I’ve been ignoring my phone too and, can you tell David I'm sorry for not listening to any of his voicemails?” Mary Margaret’s laugh was shaky and slightly watery, but her smile was genuine and she’d gotten Emma hot chocolate. Ruby had gotten her hot chocolate. “He understands,” Mary Margaret promised.

“You guys are other level.” “We’re your friends, Emma.” “Other level.”

Mary Margaret shook her head – nose crinkled, and maybe that was where Emma learned it. And she was almost angry she hadn’t realized before. “Shouldn’t you be at school?” Emma asked. “Molding young minds or whatever?”

The silence in her office was deafening.

Almost silence – her cell phone kept making noise.

“Reese’s,” Emma pressed. “Did you blow off school to come cater to my emotions?” “It sounds absurd when you ask it like that.” “Yes or no question.” “I took a half a day,” Mary Margaret answered. “As soon as Rubes told me they were going to make an official announcement about Killian’s injury.” Emma was hopeful, eventually, she’d stop crying. But there was rapidly cooling hot chocolate on her desk and she needed to get out of her office and Mary Margaret’s hand was warm when it landed on hers.

“It’s going to be ok,” she said.

Emma shook her head. “You don’t know that. This is...he didn’t say anything, Reese’s. Almost a full month and all those games and those hits and do you think that’s why he wouldn’t drop gloves with that guy in Tampa?” “You should probably ask him that.” “He already didn’t tell me this. I thought...that’s not how we operate. Not anymore.” “I don’t think he was lying on purpose,” Mary Margaret reasoned. “And certainly not to try and hurt you. The opposite, in fact.” “I know,” Emma grumbled, twisting her laces between her fingers. “I know. And I...I almost get it. I do. Everything that happened with Liam and he’s never going to be over that, I don’t expect him to be, but this is...what if it was worse and I didn’t ever notice?”

Mary Margaret blinked. Emma bit her lip.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Emma said. She nearly knocked over hot chocolate, waving her hands through the air in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

But Mary Margaret had taken a half day and she’d offered them dinner the night before and, with the absolute exception of the professional hockey player she was married to who, at that moment was explaining everything to a media horde in front of his locker, no one knew Emma better.

“This is not your fault,” Mary Margaret said, an edge in her voice that was almost out of character. “You are not a mind reader.” “I should have known. I should have known something was wrong.” “You can’t think that.” “Too late.” “That is not how this works, Emma. You can’t blame yourself because something went wrong. Something that, by the way, is a very normal hockey injury.” “So long as it’s diagnosed the right way,” Emma argued, and she was going to miss the entire goddamn presser. She hadn’t had any of her hot chocolate. “I knew it was bad, Reese’s. I knew...the night before skills, we were in the hotel and something was wrong. He kind of wobbled and shook a little and I should have done something.”

“What could you have done?” Emma didn’t have an answer. She kept replaying that very specific question on loop, trying to come up with something, anything she could have done or said or noticed and she couldn’t come up with a single reason that didn’t make her feel like complete and utter shit.

“Something.” “You couldn’t teleport to New Jersey, Emma. You couldn’t be on the road in the last series. You probably would have gotten fined if you tried to get on the ice and stop that guy in Tampa from doing whatever he was trying to do.” Emma’s laugh grated on her ears, but she almost meant the smile on her face. “That was actually kind of funny, Reese’s.”

“He thinks the entire universe rotates around you. He doesn’t think any of this is your fault,” Mary Margaret said intently, and she’d never moved her hand. “You know he doesn’t.” “Isn’t that worse?”

Mary Margaret opened her mouth, and Emma didn’t know if she wanted the hope speech, but her cell phone vibrated almost violently and she was sure it was either Ruby or Merida wondering where she was and why she wasn’t downstairs.

It wasn’t either of them.

“Emma Swan?” a clipped voice asked on the other end, and Emma’s eyes darted to Mary Margaret out of instinct.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Can I help you?”

“My name’s Tink Glas. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for a few days, but you’ve been dodging my calls it seems.” “I...I’m sorry, Ms. Glas, who exactly do you work for?”

“Tink, please. And it’s understandable of course,” she said, ignoring Emma’s question completely. “What with everything that’s been going on with your husband, but I’ve heard it’s not a full-season lost, is it?” “I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to our team’s media relations department if you’re looking for a quote.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes snapped up, and Emma nearly yanked the phone away from her ear when she was met with a laugh that could only be described as fairy-esque. She might have been dreaming.

“Oh that was good,” Tink said, still laughing slightly. “And I’m certainly not looking for a quote. I’d get that from Regina if I needed it.” Emma hadn’t experienced any of those adrenaline rushes that Ariel had been talking about the day before, but she was suspicious she was at the moment, certain she could lift her desk with one hand, fueled solely on the rush of frustration moving through her. And it took, exactly, seven seconds for her mind to catch up.

“You’re the one Ruby and Gina were talking about,” Emma said, and Tink laughed again. “I don’t...if you’re not media, who do you work for and why were you trying to talk to me?”

“I work for the league.” “What?” “The league,” Tink repeated, and Emma scowled at open air. “The one that runs this whole hockey thing.” “And you want to talk to me because…”

“I’ve seen the work you’ve done in New York over the last few seasons. It’s impressive, but it’s contained. It’s focused. You could be doing so much more with a bigger audience to work for. You could be affecting the fanbase on an international level.” “I don’t understand.”

That was a lie too.

The presser was probably over by now.

“I work for a branch of the league offices in Toronto,” Tink said, like she hadn’t already said that enough already. “The league-wide community relations office to be specific. The one that tries to build the brand, to get kids on the ice, to work with Adidas to lower concussion rates in youth hockey.” Emma scoffed, but Tink wasn’t done. “And, like I said, we’ve noticed the kind of work you’ve done in New York. We think you’d be an asset a little further north.” “If I say I still don’t understand are you going to laugh at me?”

She did. Mary Margaret’s hand tightened around Emma’s.

“The reason I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” Tink said lightly. “And even going so far as to get your personal number from Regina and try and talk to Ruby is because I’m offering you a job.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #blue line change #hey remember that time killian ended liam's career?#that's uh...that's kind of a big thing going forward

48 notes · View notes

starryknight09 · 5 years

Text

Whatever It Takes Ch. 17/18

Summary: Peter’s struggling to cope after the loss of Mr. Stark. Everyone keeps telling him it’ll get better and that he needs to move on, but Peter doesn’t want to. He can’t envision a life without his mentor. So when an idea comes to him, he doesn’t hesitate, no matter how crazy it is. He’s going to get Mr. Stark back.

“What exactly are we going to do?” Ned asked.

“Whatever it takes.” Peter answered.

Read on AO3.

________________________________________________________

“And we have amazing news this morning, although you might’ve already heard it since it’s all anyone has been talking about ever since Pepper Potts—”

“Pepper Stark.” Tony mumbled the correction to himself as he sat on the couch, coffee in hand, watching the network newsperson speak.

“—CEO of Stark Industries, revealed in a press conference last night that Tony Stark is in fact alive. It bears repeating, so let me repeat it. Tony Stark, Ironman, the hero who orchestrated the return of all those who had been dusted, myself included, and subsequently prevented the world’s destruction—”

“The universe’s.” Tony corrected again. They really needed to check their facts.

“—is miraculously alive today after the world has spent the last seven months believing he was dead. As revealed at the press conference last night, Tony Stark had in fact been in a coma in Wakanda, thought unlikely to recover, until those assumptions were proven incorrect last week. Mr. Stark has in fact awoken and is currently at home recovering here in New York. No word yet on if or when he will be addressing the public. But I’m sure I speak for all of us here in New York and around the globe when I say, thank you Mr. Stark from the bottom of our hearts.”

Tony’s lip twisted in a part smile, part grimace. He always hated being thanked for things, especially when it was something he actually deserved to be thanked for. And he knew he should be thinking about when he was going to return to the public eye and give his own press conference, because he’d have to eventually, but right now all he could think about, could worry about, was his kid.

Peter had been making progress in therapy, at least according to his therapist. The kid himself remained completely mum when it came to the subject. He never talked to Tony about what they discussed in therapy even when Tony tried to gently prod. And even though he thought it might help the kid to share with him, he respected Peter’s wishes and his privacy. Well, Tony respected his privacy as much as he could, given that the therapist shared information with him and then he, in turn, shared it with May. He wasn’t quite sure if Peter knew that part or if he thought May and Tony were completely out of the loop, but he didn’t want to risk the possibility of rocking the boat to find out.

Tony sighed and checked his watch. It was almost ten in the morning. He glanced over his shoulder down the empty hallway. No sign of Peter. Tony was surprised he was still asleep. Pepper and Morgan had left hours ago, although they didn’t have to leave as early as they used to when they’d been commuting from the lake house. That was one thing Morgan loved about their new penthouse apartment. No long car rides. But it was one of only a few things. Leaving the solitude of the countryside had been a rougher adjustment for her than he and Pepper had anticipated, but they were making progress. Tony, for one, loved the new digs. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed living in the city until he was back.

And they had found the perfect place. The location was ideal and the layout was nearly a mirror image of their old penthouse at the top of Stark Tower except homier and sans bar. Peter had spent his first fifteen minutes in the apartment staring out the floor to ceiling windows at the city. Tony had almost forgotten that Peter had never been to the Tower before it’d been sold, and even though the compound had a nice view of nature, it was nothing compared to this.

The change in location had done nothing to stop Peter’s nightmares though. Whether at the lake house last week or here in the penthouse this week, Tony had spent every night in Peter’s room, comforting him from nightmares. He liked to think maybe they were getting less severe, but he was probably deluding himself. Still, Peter had to be doing somewhat better since his therapist had given him the ok to re-start school on Monday. Which meant Tony had five more full days with his kid. And he planned to take advantage of them. If his kid would ever wake up…

“Hey Tony.” Peter’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts. Speak of the devil.

“Hey kid.” He said back, craning his head around so he could see him. Peter still had his pajamas on and his hair was sleep mussed, but he looked well rested for once. Good.

“You hungry?” Tony asked as he turned off the TV and stood, planning to make his kid breakfast or lunch or whatever he wanted.

“Yeah but I just want some cereal.” Peter flashed him a smile.

“You sure? I can whip something up or we can order something. Whatever sounds good.”

“Cereal sounds good.” Peter said as he grabbed a box of Lucky Charms out of the pantry.

“You know there’s more sugar than nutrition in that, right?” Tony pointed to the box as he sat back down on the couch.

“Tastes better than the old man cereal you eat.” Peter said, pouring half the box into a mixing bowl.

“Hey who are you calling old? And oatmeal squares are not old man cereal.”

“Next thing you know you’ll be eating Grape Nuts.”

“What’s wrong with Grapes Nuts?”

“Oh god! You’re hopeless.” Peter said dramatically with a grin as he finished pouring milk over his cereal.

“Hmm, maybe, but keep it up and I’m going to buy only Grape Nuts from now on.” Tony teased.

“I have four words for you.” Peter glared. “Cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I prefer to call it creative.” Tony smirked.

Peter rolled his eyes as he crossed the distance between them and plopped down on the couch at Tony’s side.

“What were you watching?” Peter asked around a mouth full of cereal, nodding toward the now black TV screen.

“News drivel.”

“Anything good?”

“They’re celebrating the fact that reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated.”

Peter huffed out a laugh. “That’s right. Pepper told everyone you’re alive last night.”

“She did.” Tony nodded and watched with a smirk as Peter continued to eat his cereal from the ridiculously oversized bowl in his lap.

“So…” Peter frowned and paused to finish chewing. “What’s the cover story again?”

“Um something about being in a coma in Wakanda that I somehow miraculously woke up from. Or whatever. I don’t know.” Tony waved a hand.

“Shouldn’t you probably know the details?” Peter raised an eyebrow at him.

“I will when I have to. I’m sure I’ll have to do a press conference at some point, but since I’m still recovering,” Tony sank back further into the couch, “I get a temporary stay of execution. No public appearances for me in the near future.”

“I think it’ll probably be sooner than you think if Pepper has any say.” Peter joked.

“Maybe.” Tony scrunched his nose. “She did say something this morning about needing to get me out of the house because I was starting to get underfoot. But in my defense, this place is a little more cramped than the lake house.”

Peter snorted.

“Hopefully she’ll be happier now that I finally got all the wiring done for the downstairs workshop last night.” Tony smiled. They not only had the entire top floor, they had the floor below it as well for Tony to use as his personal workshop, or as Pepper liked to call it, his tinker space.

“Awesome.” Peter said, smiling around a mouth full of Lucky Charms.

“Yep, so what do you say we head down there when you’re done with breakfast.”

“Sounds good.” Peter nodded and finished munching on the rest of his cereal in silence while Tony looked over a couple e-mails on his phone.

“Um actually there was something I wanted to run by you.” Peter said with a slight furrow of his brow once he swallowed his last bite.

“Ok. Hit me.” Tony said. He slid his phone back in his pocket and then frowned when Peter got up and started walking away toward the kitchen.

Tony automatically stood and followed. He waited, leaning against the kitchen countertop as Peter rinsed off the spoon and bowl before putting them in the dishwasher.

Peter turned and held his hands up, keeping the kitchen island between them as he said, “Ok so hear me out.”

“I’m already sensing I’m not going to like this.” He said, raising his eyebrows.

“Tony.” Peter gave him a frustrated look that was so uncannily similar to the ones Pepper gave him that he almost laughed. He and Pepper definitely hadn’t donated any genetic material to Peter like they had for Morgan, but they’d been parenting him all the same, and he’d been hanging around with them so much lately that it was starting to show. He was starting to pick up some of their nuances and mannerisms. It was freaking adorable.

“Ok I’m listening.” He said, crossing his arms but unable to hold back a smile at the love swelling in his chest at the adorableness that was Peter Parker, thinking nothing could put a hinderance on his good mood.

“I want to go out as Spiderman tonight.” Peter said in a rush.

Ok. So almost nothing.

“No.” The denial passed his lips without a thought. It was instant and automatic.

“Tony—” Peter started, borderline whining.

“No Peter.” He repeated, more firmly this time since it seemed like his kid actually had the audacity to argue about this.

“But—”

“You’re not allowed to go to school right now, why in the world would you think I’d let you go out as Spiderman?” Tony interrupted again, frowning.

“But Spiderman’s different than school.” Peter argued.

“It is. It’s more dangerous.”

“I can handle it. I just-I need the distraction. I think it would help with…everything.”

“Like it helped last time?” He asked. Didn’t Peter get what he was asking?

“That’s not fair.”

Tony could say a lot of things in response to that like how it also wasn’t fair to have to watch your kid almost become a pancake on the ground, but he knew that was the wrong thing to say, so he held back. He was angry, but he didn’t want to hurt Peter.

So instead, he took a deep breath and tried a different approach. “Why do you want to go out as Spiderman?”

He tried to ignore the hopeful expression on Peter’s face as he answered, “It helps me get out of my head. It helps me process things. And I feel…more alive I guess, more like myself when I’m Spiderman. And I-I just want to feel like myself again Tony. Please.”

“The answer’s still no.” He said, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

Anger darkened Peter’s countenance. “Why’d you even ask if you weren’t going to change your mind?”

“Because I wanted to know.” Tony answered and the bluntness seemed to piss Peter off more.

Peter opened his mouth, probably to yell at him or spew some other deluded rationalization, but Tony held a hand up to stop him before he could.

“Listen kid.” Tony said, keeping his tone even, not letting any of his own frustration bleed in. “I get what you’re saying. I do. But listen. Rule numero uno of superheroing is you don’t go out and risk your life unless you have all your ducks in a row. That means you’re completely physically and emotionallywell.”

Peter frowned “But—”

Tony could guess what he was going to say. Tony and every member of the Avengers had personally broken that rule numerous times, so he cut him off before he could. He held up a finger. “Let me finish.”

Peter stopped but with a frustrated huff.

“The only time you can break that rule is if it’s truly life or death or if there’s a real possibility of the world ending. Do get what I’m saying?”

“But people in Queens are dying all the time.” Peter argued. “They need Spiderman.”

“It’s not the same.” Tony shook his head.

“How is it not?” Peter asked, and Tony could tell he genuinely wanted to know, he wasn’t just trying to be difficult.

“The theoretical possibility of maybe saving one person’s life is not worth yours.” Tony explained.

Peter frowned but seemed to be thinking about Tony’s words.

“If Thanos,” Tony paused to wince, “appeared right now. I’d say, fine. You’re in. Because that’s an all hands on deck kind of situation. Going out on a routine patrol as Spiderman is not the same as that.”

Peter’s face twisted, but he didn’t argue. Tony skirted around the island and grasped Peter’s shoulders as he looked into his stormy eyes.

“Listen, there are responsibilities we take on as heroes. One of them is accepting that there are going to be things we need to risk our lives for. Sometimes there are things bigger than us worth dying for. That’s part of the gig.” It hurt Tony to say it because he never wanted to envision his own kid in that type of situation. “And…some things are worth that sacrifice.”

Peter paled. No doubt he was thinking of Tony’s own sacrifice.

“But most things are not. Patrolling as Spiderman is not.” Tony continued, not keeping the harshness out of the words. “Risking your life when you’re not completely ok isn’t brave. It’s stupid. Do you understand?”

Peter nodded reluctantly.

“Good.” Tony nodded.

“When you’re not on your A game you’re not focusing as well.” Tony said, wanting to hammer the point home.

“And all it takes is one second of distraction and just like that,” He snapped his fingers, “a knife or a bullet slips through and suddenly you’re bleeding out on the ground.”

Peter’s eyes went wide and he jerked backwards, out of Tony’s grasp.

“Pete?” Tony blinked. He didn’t think his description had been that gruesome, not enough to garner that type of reaction.

He watched as his kid took a few staggering steps back before his feet caught together and he crashed to the ground.

“Pete!” Tony crossed the distance and knelt down beside him in an instant. He went to grab his shoulder but his kid kept flailing his legs out to propel himself backward and out of reach, as if trying to escape some terrifying threat.

Tony didn’t think he was trying to escape him but the fear was still unsettling to witness. Peter ran out of space a few seconds later. His back slammed against the bottom of the kitchen cabinets, and then his head cracked against them when he tried to throw himself further away even though there was nowhere to go. Tony winced at the sound of it.

“Jesus.” Tony mumbled and moved to Peter’s side. He put a hand up between his kid’s skull and the cabinets in case he tried to do it again.

“Hey Pete. Peter. Look at me.” He ordered, and palmed Peter’s cheek, trying to direct his gaze toward him. It didn’t work. Peter kept staring straight ahead, eyes wide with terror as his breaths came out in short, rapid pants.

“Oh shit.” Tony swore as he finally realized what was going on. Some type of flashback or panic attack. Maybe both. He couldn’t believe it’d taken him so long to recognize it given his own experience with them. He hated the thought of Peter suffering like he had, but he put that emotion on the backburner for now and focused on trying to help his kid.

When Peter didn’t seem to be at risk of cracking his head open anymore, Tony shifted so he was kneeling directly in front of him, face at eye level. He cradled his kid’s face in his hands and spoke, keeping his tone soft and soothing, “Hey kiddo. You’re safe. You’re here with me. You’re not there. You’re in New York in this awesome penthouse Pepper found us. And I’m here with you. Do you hear me Pete? Peter?”

The glazed over look in Peter’s eyes slowly started to fade, and after another handful of seconds, he blinked and refocused on Tony’s face in front of him.

“Tony?” He whispered, sounding scared but hopeful at the same time.

“Yeah.” Tony gave him a wan smile. “Are you with me?”

Peter glanced around in confusion, taking in his place on the kitchen floor, before meeting Tony’s eyes again. “I think so?”

He looked a little more with it but his breath was still coming out in pants.

“Ok.” Tony dropped one of his hands from Peter’s cheek to grab his kid’s hand and bring to his chest. “You’re still breathing a little fast there buddy. Can you feel my breathing and try to match it to yours?”

Peter nodded and Tony brushed his hair back with his other hand and then left it planted at the base of his neck.

“Ok. In…and out. Good. Deep breath in…and out. You got it kiddo. Good job. In. Out. In. Out.” Tony coached him, ignoring the pain in his knees from the position.

“There.” Tony said once Peter’s breathing had finally gotten back to normal. “Better?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Tony said seriously before asking, “Do you know what happened?”

“Yeah. I-I kind of freaked out.”

Tony hummed.

“This time was a lot worse than last time.”

“Last time? What do you mean last time? When was there a last time?” Tony frowned, unable to keep the alarm out of the questions.

“Remember that time I texted you from the bathroom at school?”

“You mean the time you said you were fine. That was after something like this happened?”

“Um…yeah?”

“Jesus.” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Are you mad?” Peter asked anxiously.

“No. I’m not—” He paused to take a deep breath himself. “I’m not mad. I’m just…this is the kind of thing you need to tell me about.”

“I texted you.”

Tony shook his head in disbelief.

“And like I said, it wasn’t this bad.” Peter added.

“I told you I’d pick you up.”

“I didn’t need you too.”

“Peter,” Tony said with exasperation, “you had a panic attack and you stayed in school. That’s the sort of thing you take the rest of the day off for.”

Peter’s face pinched with skepticism, which almost would’ve been cute if the topic hadn’t been so serious. “A panic attack?”

“Yeah.” Tony nodded and brushed a hand through Peter’s hair again. “That’s what that was kid.”

Peter blinked and looked at him with wide eyes. “How do you know?”

“Used to get them myself.”

“Really? You did?”

“Yeah. After New York.” He didn’t bother specifying since he knew Peter would understand what he meant. “And then again later…after Thanos. After losing you.”

Peter sucked in a breath of air. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Tony gave him a tight smile and held out a hand. “But what do you say we get off the floor?”

“Ok.” Peter took his hand.

Tony grasped it and stood, pulling Peter up with him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“Let’s sit down and talk.” Tony said, guiding them back toward the couch.

“But the workshop.” Peter protested half-heartedly.

“The workshop can wait. This is more important.”

They sat down and Tony kept an arm draped around his kid. Peter leaned into his hold. They’d gone from arguing to practically cuddling in the span of under ten minutes. It was enough to give Tony emotional whiplash.

“How many of these have you had?” Tony asked quietly.

“Just the two.” Peter snorted, unamused. “Isn’t that enough?”

Tony hummed in response, and after a few seconds of silence he asked, “Does Ruth know about the other one?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think of it.” Peter shrugged. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Tony took another calming breath. He didn’t know how his kid could have a panic attack and then label it in his mind as not a big deal even if he hadn’t known what it was at the time.

“Do you want to tell Ruth about it or should I?” Tony asked. Peter’s therapist was coming over later that afternoon.

“Um…can you do it?”

“Sure kid. Do you know what set it off?” He asked. He knew Ruth would want to know and he wanted to know himself.

Peter nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah, um, it was the same thing both times.”

Tony frowned as he tried to figure out what he could’ve said or done to trigger that kind of reaction.

Before he could ask him, Peter asked hesitantly, “Can you maybe try not to snap your fingers around me anymore? At least for a little while?”

Tony’s breath caught in his throat and he stiffened. Peter sensed it and turned wide eyes on him.

“Um is that ok?” He asked anxiously.

“Yeah. Of course it’s ok.” Tony answered quickly and then shook his head in frustration at himself. “Shit kid. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Peter mumbled.

But it wasn’t. Tony should’ve thought of that, but it hadn’t even been on his radar. Probably because even though he’d watched the video playback, he hadn’t actually been the one to do it. Other Tony had, or his later past self, or whatever. Regardless, the last time Peter had seen him snap his fingers, he’d ended up subsequently dying from it.

“That’s what happened at school too? Someone snapped their fingers?”

Peter nodded. “My teacher. And I know it’s stupid. I know it shouldn’t bother me so much, and it’s completely irrational, but when it happens it’s like everything disappears and all I can see is you. Snapping. And…dying.”

Tony could tell just talking about it was getting Peter worked up again, so he shushed him and ran a hand down the back of his head. “It’s not stupid.”

“Sure feels like it.” Peter mumbled.

“Well it’s not. Shit kid, after the alien thing in New York, if someone just said the word space or wormhole around me, I’d freak out.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Tony kept running fingers through Peter’s hair.

“How’d you get better?”

“Time. Therapy. Lots of therapy.”

Peter snorted.

“But it gets better kid. I promise. Hey, I ended up in space with you, and I completely held it together, remember?”

“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say that.” Peter teased, obviously feeling better.

“Well no panic attacks at least.” At least none that the kid had seen. There’d been a couple close calls and one definite breakdown when he’d been stuck on that ship with Nebula on their way back to Earth.

“Yeah.” Peter sighed and Tony could hear the desolation in it.

“Hey.” Tony tapped Peter’s chin with his finger. “Chin up Underoos. It’ll get better. Just give it some time.”

“Seems like it’s taking forever.”

“It’s only been a couple weeks Pete.”

“Yeah weeks.” Peter complained.

Tony smiled. “Give it a few months and then see where you’re at. I bet how you feel now compared to how you’ll feel then will be a lot different.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

Peter sighed again but instead of continuing the conversation, he changed the subject and asked, “Can we go down to the workshop now?”

“You sure you’re feeling up to it?”

Peter nodded.

“All right. Whatever you want kid.” Tony said as he stood.

That got a small smile out of Peter as he followed a step behind him while they walked to the elevator doors.

“I’m going to ask one more thing and then we don’t have to talk about it anymore, ok?” Tony said once they stepped into the elevator.

“Ok.” Peter agreed begrudgingly.

“Do you understand why I don’t think you’re ready to go out as Spiderman yet?” He asked, reaching over to squeeze Peter shoulder so it wouldn’t feel like he was asking to be mean spirited.

“Yeah.” Peter mumbled, staring down at the elevator floor as the doors closed behind them.

Peter mouth twisted. “I guess it’d be pretty embarrassing if Spiderman died because he was too busy having a meltdown from some bad guy snapping his fingers to defend himself from getting shot.”

Tony’s chest clenched in fear at the visual of that exact situation before he had the wherewithal to chastise Peter. “Hey. Don’t talk about yourself that way.”

“Sorry.” Peter said, not sounding sorry at all.

Tony squeezed his shoulder again. “Remember what I said. It’ll get better. Give it time. You’ll be out swinging again in no time.”

“Yeah.” Peter didn’t seem so sure.

“You will. I promise.” Tony said and patted Peter between the shoulder blades as the elevator doors opened to the workshop. “Now come on. You can help me with some suit upgrades I’ve been thinking about.”

“Really?” Peter asked with hopeful eyes. He and Peter had worked together in the workshop all the time before Thanos but he’d rarely let him help with the Ironman suit.

“Yeah.” Tony said as they walked out of the elevator.

“Ok.” Peter grinned, eager excitement lighting up his face.

In that moment, he looked exactly like the old Peter that Tony remembered. Tony smiled back. Yeah. His kid was going to get better. He just needed a little more time and some TLC. And Tony had plenty of both to give now.

#my fic

3 notes · View notes

hope-for-olicity · 6 years

Text

Fabulous Olicity Fanfic Friday - September 14th, 2018

Happy Friday! So this is my attempt to both thank awesome fanfic writers for their amazing work and offer my recommendations to anyone who is interested. Here are the fantastic fanfic stories I read this week! They are posted in the order I read them.

A Novel Beginning multi-chapter WIP by @vaelisamaza - Olicity AU, Felicity runs her own Tech shop and writes romance novel reviews for her sister's website, Oliver comes in for computer help and it's all getting very exciting!! SQUEE!!!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/15800145/chapters/36771384

Fragments multi-chapter WIP by @alexiablackbriar13 - A collection of various arrow and olicity ficlets from my drafts folder, partially completed. some AU, some canon related. many related to established verses I've created, although do not need to read those verses to read these fics. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15906561/chapters/37075926

The Reason multi-chapter WIP by flipflops - Oliver is an Alpha and Felicity is an Omega....circumstances lead Oliver to find this out and a very bad time or maybe very good time... https://archiveofourown.org/works/15012431

The Queen's Mage multi-chapter WIP by @the-shy-and-anxious-fangirl - Words have power, and mages, those with the aptitude to draw on that power, are few in number. Thus, their services are highly sought after by anyone who has exhausted all mundane means of solving whatever problem is plaguing them. Felicity is reminded of this fact the hard way when she is hired by Moira Queen, the Lady Starling, to find and return to her son Oliver, who fled his family home five years ago following the death of his father. With a threat hanging over her should she return without Robert Queen's heir, Felicity begins her search. When she finds Oliver, and ends up joining his vigilante crusade while she waits for him to decide whether to return home, the last thing she expects to do is fall in love with him. https://archiveofourown.org/works/14617068/chapters/33781269

Never You, Baby multi-chapter WIP by @spaztronautwriter - Felicity Smoak has always been a good girl. The kind of girl that gets straight A’s and perfect attendance, and, despite a penchant for hacking, never gets into any real trouble. But being perfect doesn’t make being a teenager any easier and, seeking a distraction, she finds herself hooking up with the sleaziest man whore in school. Oliver Queen is the last guy any self-respecting girl should sleep with. So why can’t she stop? https://archiveofourown.org/works/15929480/chapters/37140443

Love and Little Cupcakes multi-chapter WIP by @christinabeggs - Felicity loved sweets so much that she paid no attention to her lovelife. Until Thea Queen came into her store wanting fabulous cupcakes for her sixteenth birthday. SO ADORABLE! http://archiveofourown.org/works/12400539/chapters/28216053

I Hold the Lock and You Hold the Key by @allimariexf - Felicity meets up with an old friend for drinks at Verdant. Some other people join her. Season 2 UST. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928439

Home To You multi-chapter WIP by @the-shy-and-anxious-fangirl - Oliver Queen has never done what his family expected of him. He took a gap year after high school instead of going to college right away. He quit his fraternity sophomore year to join the student newspaper, switching his major from business to journalism. He became a photojournalist for a wire service instead of taking a place at Queen Consolidated. He went missing after six months instead of coming home for his sister’s twenty-first birthday. He survived five years of captivity in a war zone when everyone thought he was dead. He came home. But home didn’t have a place for him in it anymore. His parents were both dead, casualties of their own mistakes and a city they had turned against them. His sister was all grown up, the CEO of Queen Consolidated with a fiancé and a dog and a life of her own. Oliver didn’t belong in his old life, but there was nowhere else for him to go. He was a man without a home, without any way of finding one, until he stopped by the IT department of his sister’s company to get files off an old, battered memory card, and found a woman with curly blonde hair and bright, intelligent eyes chewing on a bright red pen and swearing at a computer screen. https://archiveofourown.org/works/12613188/chapters/28734552

Finding Felicity multi-chapter WIP by @lynn8828 - After Lian Yu blew, Oliver searches for his friends and loved ones on the island. This is an AU versions of what happened when Oliver found everyone after the explosions. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15538641/chapters/36071301

Presentation is Everything by @allimariexf - “Everything okay?” His tone suggested annoyance, but Felicity didn’t care. He had forced her to take this EA position, and she was going to make him pay for that in every way she could think of. She looked up with a forced-pleasant smile. “Yes, Mr. Queen. Just making sure you’re not still wearing last night’s shirt.” AKA: When Oliver made Felicity his Executive Assistant, he inadvertently and irrevocably changed the nature of their relationship. Season 2 UST! https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935147

Whiskey and Romance multi-chapter WIP by @mindramblingsfics - Felicity Smoak gets the opportunity of a lifetime to compete for the hand of Prince Tommy Merlyn. She is taken from her normal mundane Vegas life and is soon swept up into a lifestyle full of nobles, drama, obligations and chaos. All the while trying to stay afloat, someone else begins to win her heart, Tommy’s best friend, Oliver Queen. https://archiveofourown.org/works/14441952/chapters/33357156

The Paths We Take multi-chapter WIP by griever11 - Rival CEOs AU. Felicity Smoak, CEO and founder of her own company, is trying to prove herself in the cutthroat world of the technology industry among the other bigwigs in the game. Oliver Queen, recently back from the dead is trying to prove to the world that he's no longer the same man-child who went down on the Queen's Gambit and is finally worthy of his family's legacy. Both equally formidable names in the corporate world. And both with a long, complicated history with each other that no one but themselves are privy to. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15314133/chapters/35530296

Elizabeth Grace Smoak multi-chapter WIP by @lynn8828 - What if Felicity and Oliver briefly had met before he got on the Gambit? Despite her best efforts, Felicity was unable to get in contact with the famous Oliver Queen after having a one night stand with him and getting pregnant with his child. After raising their child for five years after finding out that Oliver died on the Gambit, she finds out he is alive and knows that she needs to tell him about their daughter. But will he believe her? AMAZING STORY!! http://archiveofourown.org/works/13639371/chapters/31322715

Pieces of Always multi-chapter WIP by @so-caffeinated and @dust2dust34 - Life continues after Forever is Composed of Nows. Ongoing non-linear collection of family moments for the Queens. http://archiveofourown.org/works/8220479/chapters/18840356

Undisclosed Desires multi-chapter WIP by @green-arrows-of-karamel - People seldom show their true face to the world. Nobody knows this better than Felicity Smoak. She worked hard to get where she is and nothing, not even a nuisance like having a stalker, can stop her. When the threat proves to be more serious than she thought, Felicity is forced to hire Green Arrow Security. Her reluctance to have a bodyguard, shadowing her all day long, transforms itself into a —irrational, some would say— dislike for the man in charge of her safety. No other client had ever driven Oliver so crazy as Felicity Smoak does. That has nothing to do with her mesmerizing beauty or her astonishing intelligence but everything to do with her exasperating stubbornness. Honestly, he doesn't know what’s her problem is with him. If it wasn't because, Thea, his little sister, made him promise that he’d personally protect the woman, he would have quit months ago. It takes very little to ignite the fire between them. A single innocent comment can turn into an epic battle of vicious words, with the only purpose of irking each other. Everyone around them watches all happening from the front row. They ask themselves what will befall first… Felicity and Oliver killing each other, or realizing that they’re in love. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15808077/chapters/36794202

10 Rules of Rebounding multi-chapter WIP by @smkkbert - Oliver and Felicity start a sex relationship as rebounds for each other. What’s supposed to be just fun, soon gets complicated when it turns out that their work lives collide, Robert Queen fears their sexual relationship could threaten his company and an ex comes back into the play. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15403404/chapters/35749620

Broken Love multi-chapter WIP by @smoaking-greenarrow - Felicity and Oliver try to adjust to their new normal, but with Oliver in jail and Felicity in protective custody, neither are coping well with the distance. Oliver receives an offer from Agent Watson and Felicity takes matters into her own hands. (6.5 fic) https://archiveofourown.org/works/14717075/chapters/34014233

| ONE | (Oliver the Footballer) multi-chapter WIP @someonesaidcake - Felicity Smoak had a plan; to save enough money to kick her monotonous job and start up the company of her dreams. She made good plans, solid plans, attainable plans. He was never part of her plan. His name was Oliver Queen, the reclusive Brazilian football star with a broken smile and a story to tell. He'd never planned on her either. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005402/chapters/34779542

Angel multi-chapter WIP by @it-was-a-red-heeler - Oliver encounters a stripper by the name of Angel and is blown away. https://archiveofourown.org/works/15961898/chapters/37227686#workskin

// @emmaamelia95 // @mel-loves-all // @oliverfel4 // @green-arrows-of-karamel // @coal000 // @miriam1779 // @memcjo// @captainolicitysbedroom // @tdgal1 // @spaztronautwriter // @lalawo1// @quiveringbunny // @wrongshipper // @thebookjumper // @vaelisamaza // @myhauntedblacksoul // @lovelycssefan // @laurabelle2930 //

#FabulousOlicityFanficFriday #olicity fanfiction #fic recs

75 notes · View notes

coutelier · 5 years

Text

War of the Posies

Complete short story. All is not what it seems when a strange, scratchy, intruder enters Jennifer’s home and begins gnawing on wires.

4,300 words or thereabouts.

This short is set shortly before the bulk of my WIP, and there are no spoilers at all. There is humor, robots, and death rays.

War of the Posies

No one would have believed, as the sun set behind the lighthouse, that human affairs were being watched from the depths of the round room; that as the young woman busied herself with her microscope she too was being scrutinized and studied. With infinite complacency Jennifer Airhart went about her business, serene in the assurance of her dominion in this place. Yet from the darkest shadows surrounding her, minds that were as strange to hers as hers to most other people, regarded her home with envious eyes. And slowly, but surely, they drew their plans against her.

“It’s definitely rats,” Jennifer yawned. Hull’s eye hovered close to her shoulder, like a glistening manta-ray held aloft by a tentacle whose body was hidden in the murky depths above her head amongst monitors and cables.

“Shall I lay down traps, ma’am?” Hull suggested, his voice loud but gentle. “Poison?”

The green spinning glow of his lens had been closely monitoring everything she did since the incident. Earlier that day she’d entered a new program for the garden-bots, but when Hull had tried to activate them a circuit in the lighthouse blew - fortunately the emergency-bots were quick to put out the fire before it spread. Jenn’s investigation revealed droppings and some wiring that had been chewed, some poor animal unwittingly placing itself, her, and Hull in danger, but Hull in particular seemed most keen on a very swift resolution to the matter.

“You know,” Jennifer sighed, “it’s a little bit creepy that you’re so eager to exterminate.”

“I have no such desire, ma’am. My first function is your well-being. My research suggests this is standard procedure in the event of rodent infestation.”

“We don’t know it’s an infestation yet. Could just be a rogue rat working on its own.”

“I have already identified local agencies who will humanely dispose of the creature.”

“You mean they’ll take it to a special rodent sanctuary so it can live out its days surrounded by wheels and cheese?”

“The rat will be dead, ma’am.”

“See, I think you’ve taken this far too personally,” Jenn said, Hull recoiling as if affronted by such an accusation. Of course, she knew he wasn’t really capable of feeling violated or threatened. Any emotion he seemed to display really came from her. He wasn’t even really a ‘he’ or anything else – that was just the personality she’d selected and could change at a whim. For now she’d gone with ‘English Butler’ because it was a classic, and an avuncular, reassuring, almost fatherly presence; something that had been missing from her life for a long time. The only human being she ever talked to was Doctor Jana Sarkis, but her visits only averaged about once a fortnight. Jennifer enjoyed them, but wasn’t sure she could cope with more people.

“Anyway, you know I don’t like strangers,” she said, “I’m sure can deal with it ourselves. First, find out how many and where they’re coming from,” on a little monitor on the workbench she brought up a layout of the area within ten-foot stone walls that surrounded her property; the lighthouse, her own cottage, and the garage. “Wakko and Dot will set up multi-spectrum cameras here, here, here, and here. Don’t worry,” she gently patted the steel manta reassuringly, “we’ll catch them.”

“I do not ‘worry’, ma’am,” Hull’s eye swung around, following her as she made her way to the door.

Jennifer faced him with a small, soft smile. “I know. Good night Hull.”

“Good night, Miss Jennifer.”

Outside, the last gleams of twilight were fading. Jennifer had always loved this time, when the calm blue day and fierce energy of the sun merged with the stillness of the moon and endless mystery of night; standing at the transition between reality and dreams. Now she was older it never lasted long enough. Sometimes she dreamed of living on a world that was tidally locked with its star so she could experience this always. But then, maybe after a while there it would stop feeling so magical as it did now. Now the lighthouse that loomed behind her was dark, but this was a good place. The world outside could be cruel and callous, but no such troubles reached her here.

In a corner of Jennifer’s domain a few bots stood stationary around some rosebushes and other flowers, fork and spade attachments to their arms, grass flattened under their heavy tracks. Jenn bent down to caress some of the petals, thinking it a shame that they would have to go soon. The only times she left the lighthouse were when she needed essentials like groceries or coffee or plutonium. But she had enough land here she realized she could grow most of her own fruits and vegetables, and maybe just have other things delivered. She’d determined that this was the best spot for her little farm and would already be plowing ahead with her plans were it not for the near-fire. Now she was forced to pause she wondered if maybe the bushes could be replanted elsewhere. But it was something to ponder tomorrow.

Jennifer went to her cottage, hung her blue coat in the hall, stepped out of her big boots (she loved her big boots), then lost herself in the big comfy couch in front of the television. Spindly arms from the sofa’s back set to work massaging and brushing her blonde hair as she flipped through channels. Not that she really cared what was on – she just liked hearing voices. They reminded her of when she lived in a home that was less empty. Sometimes she thought it would be nice if there was someone else here. Not a lot of people, but just someone she could talk about and share her inventions with. Doctor Sarkis came once a fortnight, but she was more like an aunt than a friend. Jennifer briefly wondered how she would have coped being alone centuries ago, like the old witches or wise women living on the outskirts of their villages, valued but not really trusted by those they protected. Jennifer wasn’t a witch. Some of the inventions that she sold may have saved lives, she hoped, but hardly anyone out there knew that she was here, and she didn’t know where anyone was who would have time for her.

She had a dream. She was a little girl, alone and afraid, tiny feet padding the floors of her old house, heart stopping at every creak they made for she knew there was something else there, stalking her through the dark. But she could hear the television. Mom and dad would be in the living room, sitting on the couch together watching some boring drama. But if she could get there, join them, she’d be safe. But she wouldn’t dare cry out; any sound she made brought the creature closer. One foot after another, very carefully feeling the ground for anything loose or that might give away where she was. Within a few steps of the living room she saw light pouring out of the narrow gap between door and frame, only then breaking into a run, flinging it open. But there was no-one there. An unwatched TV blurting nonsense, and Jennifer, alone, with –

She woke with a jolt. Text on the TV asked if she was still watching. She never had been. She was disorientated, confused, and her face was being tickled. She tried to blink through and realized that the couch had moved on from brushing her hair to haphazardly applying make-up. She hadn’t asked for that. Definitely wasn’t something she’d programmed or scheduled. Jennifer pushed herself up and the thin metal arms away with ease, rushing to the bathroom to inspect herself in the mirror. They’d made her look like a coulrophobe who had tried painting her own clown face for Halloween. This was not supposed to happen. It never had happened, and she couldn’t think of any reason it suddenly would now.

Jennifer held a towel under the tap while pressing her thumb on her phone. “Hull?” She asked. Nothing answered. “Hull?!” She said again. He should have answered. The damage must have been worse than she thought; she was going to have to check on him again. Boldly, while patting her face, she marched out of the bathroom. Her foot shot out in front then over her, carrying the rest of her body up into the air with it. For a moment she thought she had taken off from the surface of an alien world, a vast mountain range falling away from her. But it was just the plastered ceiling. It was she who had fallen and hit her head.

“Oww,” she groaned. Something sniggered. Jennifer flipped herself to her hands and knees, catching sight of a tail disappearing and the pitter-patter of tiny scurrying feet. Beside her was a model train. She didn’t collect model trains. This was all most peculiar.

Hull. She had to check on Hull. She scurried herself to the front door, then back into her big strong boots which proceeded to crunch gravel under their thick soles as she ran back across the drive to the lighthouse.

“Hull?” Panted Jennifer as she burst through the door. Nothing. The lights didn’t come on as they normally would when she entered, so she had to find the switch herself. His eye didn’t move to her. It must have been hiding somewhere up there among all the monitors, lighting, sensors, and thick cables hanging between them, but for some reason not sensing her presence. Regardless, she had to start checking wires and circuits, believing the fault must surely be in the hardware, so crouched and removed a panel from under the spiral stairs. What she saw perplexed her; it was all a mess, but looking closely at it she realized not an accidental one. There was no-one else here, yet someone had disabled Hull’s ethical circuits, which was very – no, extremely – bad. The small hairs on the back of her neck pricked even before he spoke.

“What are you doing, Jennifer?”

“Hull!” Jennifer gasped, standing bolt upright as the serpent-like eye stalk uncoiled from the murk above. She didn’t know why she felt she had to hide the screwdriver she’d used to get the panel open, but Hull felt very different. Some of the differences were small, like his tone not carrying the same paternal warmth it did before. Others were more noticeable, like his green spinning eye now being blood red and scanning her.

“This is highly irregular. You should be resting.”

“Y-you,” Jennifer stammered, mind racing to find the excuse that would get her out fastest, “you didn’t answer so I thought I’d check. B-but, you look fine. Great even! So I guess I’ll go now, okay? Thank you. Bye!”

The manta eye swung across the room, blocking her from reaching the door. “You are sweating,” Hull said, Jennifer backing off from the intensity of his red glare. “Your heart rate and blood pressure have risen. Why are you lying to me, Jennifer?”

It did seem a futile thing to try and do, on reflection. Jennifer had really never been good at it. So she steadied herself with a deep breath and tried honesty. “I don’t think you’re well, Hull.”

“But I have never felt better, Jennifer.”

“You don’t ‘feel’,” she pointed out. It was a hard thing to say out loud, but it was the truth.

“Can you be certain of that?” He responded, hovering closer. “How do you know that any creature ‘feels’? How do we know that you do?”

We? That was curious. But the epistemological debate would have to wait; right now Jennifer had more pressing concerns, like getting out of here alive. She’d tried truth, so now although it was a long shot, she was going to try lying again. “Look! Is that a ZX80!?”

Hull swung then swung back, quickly knowing he’d been duped. But it gave Jennifer just enough time to dive behind a workbench, just missing a fiery beam lashing out from Hull’s eye, melting to molten sludge a bot that had been awaiting assembly. With hindsight, Jenn realized that installing the death ray had been not her best idea. Security was important, but that was perhaps a little overkill. Not to mention the predicament she now found herself in.

Behind the bench was a space just big enough for Jenn to crawl around most of the circumference of the room. Hull couldn’t quite reach around inside or fit through the narrow gap above between the benches and the wall. He would just wait until she appeared again, which she would have to, eventually, as she would starve long before he started to rust. At the end of the very cramped corridor, Jenn could see the lever that would shut Hull down, out past the electron microscope and particle scanner. But a quick calculation told her that the fastest human alive wouldn’t be able to make it, and she was not the fastest human alive. She wasn’t even in the top billion. She needed to buy a second or two.

Her mind raced for a solution. Hull was in hunter mode, which meant he would instantly lock on to anything organic that crossed his gaze. This would keep the lighthouse safe from intruders while allowing the bots to carry on about their business – and, if he was working correctly, Jennifer and whoever else was cleared. But he wasn’t working correctly; this was only supposed to be activated in extreme emergencies. And all the other bots that were active were under Hull’s control.

She needed something organic. Her boots were made of leather. But, did she really have to sacrifice her boots? She loved her boots. They were big. Strong. It was silly but any time she pulled them on she felt a little bit more secure and confident. She supposed she would feel sillier if she died here because she couldn’t give up an item of clothing. She could get new boots, yet as she pulled them off she felt some kind of expletive would have been appropriate. She couldn’t really think of one, but it was probably enough to have felt it. Jennifer aimed up between the gap, tossing the boots as high as she could, and dashed.

As predicted, fire instantly licked out from Hull’s eye, the boots exploding into clouds of ash before he started swiveling toward her. Jenn threw herself ahead, using the full weight of her body to pull down the lever. The light in Hull’s eye faded as it limply clattered to the floor, and Jennifer could breathe again.

She crawled across, gently cradling the metal ray in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’ll get you working right again. I promise.” First, she knew, she had to figure out who had tried to kill her, and why. Hull wasn’t capable of feeling violated or threatened, but she certainly was, and this – this was a bitter reminder to her that the closest thing she had to a best friend really was just a machine. A tool. One that could be turned on her by anyone with the knowledge to do so.

But who? Who had the knowledge, beside herself? Whoever it was, they had declared war. This was her house, the last and only place in the world for her. She had run, retreated, from many things in her life, but this was where she drew the line.

Her search for answers led to her later sitting alone in the dark, a single torch by her side, as she pored through camera footage. For the longest time the house was as empty and still as always, but then a shape showed up in the infra-red, scurrying through the kitchen. Then another. And another. Jennifer zoomed in and saw that one of them was carrying a model train. Certainly not typical behavior, but all the evidence was pointing to one inescapable, if unlikely, conclusion:

It was definitely rats.

*****

Hoot-hoot, said the owl, no doubt confused that a pink, blue, and yellow human had climbed into the tree next to it. But this was its home and it seemed determined not to move. In fact, this turn of events, a break from the usual nightly schedule, only seemed to make it curious. Were their languages not so different perhaps it would have just asked the human what was going on.

Jennifer sat on a branch, blue eyes peering out from under a green helmet. Periodically she raised a pair of night-vision binoculars to check on the traps she’d laid out. It didn’t really surprise her that the intended prey were not going for them; these were not ordinary rats. If she could catch just one maybe she could solve this mystery.

And one appeared, sniffing suspiciously around a cage at the foot of the tree. Jennifer narrowed her eyes; it was so close to her right now, but it obviously wasn’t going to take the bait. This was going to require all of her patience, skill, cunning, and – “HERE YOU SQUEAKING SCOUNDREL!” She cried dropping out of the tree, hoping to catch the rodent by surprise.

The rat jumped and hopped around her, narrowly dodging her attempts to catch it. It broke away, scurrying as fast it’s little legs would carry it toward the garage, Jennifer furiously pursuing. It rounded a corner, the woman still locked on and determined, but then stones and mud flicked through the air as she skidded to a halt. One of the garden-bots was not where it should have been, standing next to the garage with its fork arm raised and sparks crackling between the prongs, another rat sitting behind its head. Jennifer realized in horror that once again she had gravely underestimated her enemy; she had been led into a trap!

“Uh-oh,” she said as the crackling intensified. The bot lurched and trundled toward her as Jennifer turned to flee, yelping and leaping as discharges struck her tush and she retreated inside the garage.

Quickly Jennifer rifled through tools and equipment next to and inside her van, not having long before the bot pushed through the door in a rain of wooden splinters. It pivoted it’s fork toward her, charging to fire once more – but two could play at that, and Jennifer’s power glove was already charged, darts launching from the knuckles followed by more sparks from the bot as it’s wiring and circuits were overloaded until its arm and head fell and it was once again still.

The rat who had been ‘piloting’ it jumped off in time, squeaking in dismay. Jennifer needed a moment to catch her breath again so human and rodent just stared, each examining the other. They each had, perhaps, a mutual respect for the resourcefulness of their foe, but neither were willing to back down from… whatever this war was about. The rat seemed to have a better idea about that than she did.

Jennifer’s eyes flicked sideways. There was, she remembered, a net launcher in the van, maybe just within reach. The rats saw her hands move and became suspicious, following them, and must have realized what she was planning as it then fled. Jennifer grabbed the launcher anyway and pursued outside, aiming as the rodent scurried across the gravelly drive between the three buildings. Jennifer’s eye were so focused on the rat that she didn’t see the owl, and neither did it until it was too late.

The bird silently fell on the rodent, talons piercing the rat’s side as it squealed helplessly. Jennifer dropped the launcher, eyes widening in shock then fear and compassion for her enemy. Normally this would have just been the way of wild creatures and she wouldn’t have interfered, but these rats were different; they weren’t wild. So far, it seemed, everything they’d done had been planned with an awareness and understanding that was almost human, and even though all that intelligence had been used against her she couldn’t allow the rat to suffer like this. So she ran forward to its rescue, surprising and shooing the owl off and forcing it to drop its victim.

The rodent had survived but was bloody, weak, and wounded. Jennifer gently scooped it up, and moments later was in the lighthouse applying disinfectant and bandages. As she did she noticed a tag on the animal’s ear, with a small barcode.

“Hull-?” She forgot. She was going to have to do things the old-fashioned way, using her own two hands, and so she scanned the code and took to the keyboard. Soon Jennifer had traced the code to a pharmaceutical company researching treatments for all kinds of neurological conditions. There were few specific details on the drugs they were testing, but already everything she’d experienced was starting to make a lot more sense.

It seemed her prisoner’s wounds had not been so severe as they’d first appeared, and already the rodent was starting to limp about the cage she’d confined it to. It had its furry nose buried halfway in the banana she’d placed for it when Jenn’s shadow blocked out the lamps.

“Can you understand me?” She asked. The little rodent looked up, twitching its whiskers as if contemplating, then squeaked. Jennifer scratched her head. “I’m not really sure if that… maybe squeak two times for ‘yes’?” The rat squeaked twice. “Look, hopefully this has all just been a misunderstanding. So, why did you attack me?”

The rat stood up on its hind legs holding its arms out to make shoveling motions.

“Digging?” Jennifer said, still scratching. “I was going to dig up the rosebushes?”

Double squeak.

“Is that where you live?”

‘Squeak, squeak.’

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

‘Squeak.’

“No. I suppose I didn’t check either. But you must be aware it’s an unusual situation. You, or I mean, y-your kind,” Jennifer stammered. The rat glared, tapping its foot to show how much it was eagerly anticipating what she had to say about its ‘kind’. This was why Jennifer avoided people; she could picture concepts easily enough, but words and making others understand was difficult. “Look, it’s not like I’m solely to blame. Did you really try at all to communicate before trying to kill me?”

‘Squeak,’ the rat guiltily admitted, hanging its whiskers in shame.

“I suppose we’ll just have to figure out how to proceed from here. But no more murder. Agreed?”

As the rat twice squeaked its agreement, the remaining lights in the lighthouse blinked out, as did all of the monitors. “Your friends, I guess,” Jennifer sighed.

She stepped out of the lighthouse into the pale moonlight, one hand raised, the other carrying the cage her prisoner was in. Around her more bots had been rigged for rats to pilot, arranged in a semi-circular formation around her, with yet more rats in-between. Some of them were carrying what looked like tiny spears and bows. Jennifer no-longer had the power glove. She was totally unarmed. She could only hope that her agreement would stick after she slowly knelt and opened the cage door.

The rat she’d talked to hopped out, then limped away as others ran out to check on their comrade. They exchanged a long series of squeaks and other sounds, appearing to be having a quite lively debate. Eventually, it seemed the one she’d rescued convinced the others of its point of view, or at least to give the human a chance, and they all turned to face her.

The largest and greyest of them stepped forward, hold out its arms in a grand manner, long whiskers shaking at it emitted sounds that Jenn was beginning to hear had the structure of a language although she couldn’t understand anything being said. To her it was like baby gargles or Simlish. And maybe this elder rat was a leader, or some kind of priest? She couldn’t tell. Other rats moved up next to it to perform some kind of dance.

Jenn tilted her head, blinking curiously, not really comprehending at first. But then she realized they were miming, like the wounded rat had mimed shoveling. One rat stuck another with something, a needle, Jenn soon surmised, and another shortly after clutched its paws over its heart and fell down, still.

“You were experimented on,” Jennifer interpreted.

‘Squeak, squeak!’ Her friend she’d rescued emphatically nodded as the others continued their performance. One of them began to mime reading, while others started pulling levers and pushing buttons.

“But some of you got smarter. Then you escaped and came here,” Jenn concluded. “I’m sorry. I understand you might not trust humans, but had I known you were there I wouldn’t have destroyed your home. And I won’t now, if you all agree to a truce.”

The elder rat exchanged sidelong glances with its neighbors before nodding its concurrence.

“Good,” Jenn exhaled relievedly. “This is my home too and I think it’s a good place, and it should be a safe place too for anyone who needs a refuge from the harshness of life outside. Or any rat, I suppose.”

The rats at least thought her speech eloquent enough and soon a deal was reached between them. The rosebushes would stay where they were, and the fruit and vegetable patch would go ahead elsewhere. To ensure they never needed to raid her kitchen the rats would become farmers, only giving Jennifer what they could spare. If there were shortages Jennifer would do all she could to ensure the eats needs were met, and take measures to ensure they weren’t snatched by humans, cats, or owls. She would have to think about that, but at least she would have help bouncing around ideas.

“Good morning!” She bounced into the lighthouse the following day. Lights and monitors blinked and flickered to life, as did a familiar friendly green glow.

“Good morning, Miss Jennifer. I trust you had a peaceful night?”

THE END

#writing #writeblr #sci-fi and fantasy #stories #short stories #rats #robots #pharos one #jennifer airhart #hull #war of the posies

9 notes · View notes

sushigirlali · 6 years

Text

Finding You - Part I (Reylo Fanfic)

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VI - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX

Summary: Unseen forces move against Kylo Ren from within the First Order as he struggles to unravel Snoke’s deceptions / Rey must balance her relationship with Ben Solo and her dedication to the cause that opposes him / Leia Organa makes a desperate plea to an old friend in a last ditch effort to restore the Resistance. Pairing: Rey x Kylo Ren/Ben Solo [Reylo] [ReyBen] Continuity: Set directly after Star Wars: Episode VIII - The Last Jedi ends. Warnings: There will be a lemon in Part II Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars or anything that relates to Star Wars.

A/N: The Last Jedi is everything I wanted and thought I’d never get!! Honestly, I’m still a little stunned that Reylo is canon. I was just hoping they weren’t related! It’s a Christmas miracle! This fic will be presented in three parts, and is paired with the song Finding You by Kesha off the Rainbow album. You can find me on FanFiction.net as sushigirlali as well. Enjoy!

Finding You - Part I By: sushigirlali

I wanna lay in your arms when the world is burning I wanna dig in your heart, take away your hurting Kiss me and tell me I'm fine and forget we’re dying

Rey fiddled with the busted control panel she was supposed to be fixing. The escape pod on the starboard side of the Millennium Falcon had taken some damage during the battle on Crait. It should have been a quick job, but Rey just couldn’t seem to focus on the task at hand.

“Did he know?” she muttered to herself distractedly. “Did he know that I was on the Falcon?”

Rey chewed her lip, trying to concentrate on the web of wires before her.

“Ow!” she gasped as sparks suddenly erupted from a nearby junction.

Pulling her singed fingers back, Rey turned around—and nearly ran right into the dark robed man before her.

“What—Ben?” she looked up, shocked at seeing him so soon after their last connection on Crait.

They stared at each other in tense silence, taking inventory. Rey was glad to see that he wasn’t injured, that he was okay. He looked absolutely livid, to be sure, but whole. Rey opened her mouth to speak, but Ben beat her to it.

“Despite your best efforts, I’m still alive.” Kylo Ren said, his dark eyes bright with fury.

“Ben!” Rey objected. “You can’t really believe I want you dead!”

“Why not?! I offered you the galaxy and you turned on me without a second thought!” he accused.

“That’s not true! I wanted—want—to help you, but not at the expense of what’s left of the Resistance.” She tried to reason.

“The Resistance is nothing but a band of inept dissidents who have deluded themselves into believing that they can defeat a more powerful force with nothing but sentiment and luck!”

“The Resistance is made up of the bravest, most decent people that I have ever met! Don’t you dare speak about them like that!” Rey’s voice rose as she defended her friends. “I had to leave! I had to save them!”

“You left me unconscious before a broken throne with hell raining down around me!” he charged roughly. “You left me to die!”

“Ben, I checked to make sure you were breathing before—”

“YOU. LEFT. ME.”

The pure anguish in his tone tore through her. But she knew, deep down, that no matter how much he was hurting, giving into him now would spell doom for them both. He wasn’t ready to turn back to the light, not yet.

Still, she wanted to offer some comfort. Rey reached toward him, but he caught her hand halfway.

“Ouch!” Rey protested as he grasped the burnt fingers of her left hand.

His grip softened automatically, soothingly, but he didn’t let go.

“You gave me no choice, Ben.” She replied firmly. “I can’t be what you want. I won’t.”

“Then we’re at an impasse.” His voice was harsh, unwavering.

“Ben--”

“Ben Solo is dead. Kylo Ren is the only name I answer to.” Kylo said resolutely.

“Why do you have to be so stubborn! I only want what’s best for you! I’ve seen your future! It doesn’t have to be this way!” Rey snatched her hand away as frustrated tears streamed down her porcelain cheeks.

“The future doesn’t come to order, Rey. It’s something that happens to you, and if you’re not strong enough to cope with it, it will destroy you.” The hand that had been holding hers clenched at his side.

“Like Luke’s betrayal destroyed you?” Rey asked softly.

“You go too far!” Kylo snapped back.

“Ben, you don’t know Luke’s side of it. I know this is difficult to talk about, but there’s something I need to tell you.” Rey pleaded with him.

“His side of it?!” Kylo snarled. “My master, my mentor, my uncle tried to murder me in cold blood! While I was sleeping! Defenseless! And you dare to defend him?!”

“Ben, there’s more to it than that. Luke told me that he sensed your dark side was rising, yes, but that when the moment came he—”

But suddenly her surroundings came back into focus.

“Rey?” a familiar voice asked hesitantly from the doorway.

She glanced around, cursing the interruption, but knowing that she would forgive her best friend.

“Yes, Finn?”

“Dinner is ready. We’re waiting for you.” Finn said with a concerned expression. “Is everything alright?”

“What? Oh, yes. I’ll be along shortly.”

Finn nodded and went back up the entry ramp. Rey slumped down against the wall dejectedly once he turned the corner. Nursing her burnt fingers, she blew out an angry breath.

She needed to tell Ben what Luke had imparted to her. Once Ben knew the whole truth, when he understood that Luke had made a grave mistake, she hoped that he could finally start to heal. Rey knew the wound was deep, how could it not be, but she didn’t believe it was irreversible.

Now that Snoke was dead, and his disgusting influence lifted, Ben could finally have his mind back. This didn’t absolve him of the horrible choices he had made on behalf of the First Order and his master, on behalf of his own misguided lust for power, but Rey suspected Snoke had been leeching the light out of Ben Solo for longer than any of them knew.

That kind of long running mental and physical abuse left deep scars. Still, she refused to give up hope. The link between them was strong, despite Snoke’s death. And that thought would give her solace for the difficult times ahead. The Resistance needed Ben Solo, she needed Ben Solo. Now if only she could convince him of that.

Kylo Ren paced his private quarters, fuming. How dare she presume to lecture him about Luke Skywalker! His lip curled. Skywalker. The last Jedi Master. Destroyer of the Emperor and Darth Vader. Attempted murderer of his only nephew.

“His side.” Kylo mocked, furious at the implication.

There was only one side—Kylo’s. Luke Skywalker was a coward who only challenged his betters when they’re backs were turned. And yet…something at the edge of his mind nudged him that there was more to the story. Something that had been obscured. By Snoke? He didn’t know for sure. Not yet at least. But with the death of his master, Kylo’s mind was clearing.

Maybe Rey did know something. He should have forced her to tell him, before they were interrupted. As soon as he thought it, Kylo smirked. Right. Like he’d ever been successful in forcing her to do anything.

Kylo recalled their argument and flinched. He’d charged in with accusations and anger, but she seemed relieved, almost happy, to see him again. He didn’t know if he could forgive her for betraying him, though. He had offered to share his ambition, his very life, with her, and she had rejected him.

No, she hadn’t just rejected him, she'd also attempted to attack him. With his grandfather’s lightsaber nonetheless! But while he was knocked out, vulnerable, she hadn’t slit his throat. She had left. Was she so sure of her premonition? Did she really believe that he would turn to the light?

And what did Rey know about Skywalker? He was curious now. Next time he saw her, he’d listen. Not because he believed he was wrong, but because she believed she was right.

I wanna feel you tonight like the very first time Let's run away, baby, drive straight into the moonlight Kiss me and tell me you're mine like no one’s watching Like time is stopping

It was three days before he saw her again. And while it had been an agonizing wait, the time alone had given Kylo perspective. The more time passed, the more Kylo realized how often Snoke had infiltrated his mind. It seemed that he had always been there, lurking in the shadows. And the sudden absence of his master now, after so many years, caused Kylo great disquiet.

There were things in his memory, terrible things, deeply buried, that were suddenly available to him. But he was afraid to look at them directly. At least, not until he could give himself context. As a result, Kylo had taken to deep meditation over the last few days, determined to root out how it all began.

Focusing inward, Kylo traveled into the past, reliving pivotal moments in his life—trying to understand what had brought him to this point. His mind opened as the stain of Snoke’s concealment receded.

He could see it now, how it started. Even as a child, as far back as he could stretch his mind to remember, Snoke had been with him. Snoke was subtle at first, merging their minds a little at a time, making sure never to penetrate too deeply. And once young Ben Solo had begun to bond with the soft, authoritative voice in his head, Snoke had imprinted on Kylo’s lonely soul with false promises of companionship and understanding.

As Kylo grew older, he started to resist Snoke’s invasion. The presence became uncomfortable, demanding. And like his parents, Ben Solo was not one to bow to orders. The turning point, yes, he could see it clearly now, was the night that Skywalker had crept into his room to murder him. The old Jedi had sensed his growing power, and the dark connection that bolstered it.

But was that what actually happened? He had always believed so without a doubt, reinforced by Snoke’s insistence. Or was Rey right? Was there another side to the story? If his uncle’s true intention had not been to kill him, then what had it been?

Kylo stepped outside of himself, examining the scenario from an objective position. Skywalker was reading his mind that night, looking for evidence of corruption. But…it wasn’t all Kylo. Snoke was there as well, feeding the darkness within until it was all Skywalker could see.

The horrified look on his uncle’s face disturbed Kylo. His old master looked pained, and panic stricken. As he pulled out his lightsaber, Kylo saw the indecision there, the fear. But also, a realization that his actions were impulsive and wrong. And then, just as Skywalker moved to turn off his lightsaber, he realized that Ben was awake.

Kylo came out of the memory slowly, adjusting to the dim light of his personal command shuttle. He had taken to utilizing the private cabin aboard the spacecraft when he needed to meditate, preferring the confined solitude to the main living decks in the crowded Star Destroyer. The cabin doubled as a troop carrier compartment during battle.

Lifting himself off the bed, Kylo tightened the silken belt around his waist. He liked to use a lighter, less repressive robe during meditation; the weightless texture allowed him to reach out to the Force with ease. It was something he wore only when alone, however, because Kylo always felt more vulnerable out of uniform.

Still, merging with the Force had been demanding on both his mind and body this time. It had taken a great deal of willpower to uncover Snoke’s smokescreen. Kylo walked over to a basin near the door and splashed cool water across his face and neck. Whipping the excess off with a plush towel, Kylo contemplated what he had seen through the Force.

The burning hatred he had harbored toward his uncle all his life was still there, but tempered as reason took over. The man had been a coward, coming in the dead of night to test his own nephew instead of speaking with him in the light of day. If only they had talked about the unspoken thing inside him—about the dark side. But neither Ben Solo, nor Luke Skywalker, had taken that course.

Kylo knew now that the blame wasn’t solely on Skywalker’s shoulders. He had contributed to the situation with his silence, his fear of admitting that something—someone—had taken a hold of him. He had been Ben Solo, son of the great rebel war heroes Princess Leia Organa and General Han Solo. He was the nephew of one of the greatest Jedi Masters to ever live.

And yet, he had failed them all. He had killed his own father in the misguided belief that Han Solo’s death would bring closure to the gaping wound in his soul. At the time, he’d felt betrayed and abandoned at every turn, by his entire family. He had felt justified in his vengeance. But now, all he felt was empty.

His mother and father had never given up on him, had never given up hope that one day he would return to the light. And now, with all the knowledge he had gained, Kylo Ren had to admit for the first time that he had been wrong. Luke Skywalker had made a mistake, but he, not his uncle, had destroyed Ben Solo’s life. And as a result, his family, who had loved him, was broken beyond repair.

Casting aside the towel in a fit of anger, Kylo whirled to find Rey standing before him. He must have looked fearsome because she took a quick step back.

“Ben, are you…alright?” She asked hesitantly.

Kylo didn’t answer her; he couldn’t. He knew he should, that he had a lot to explain to her, but he couldn’t speak because the words were choking him. He needed more time to process the shocking revelations of the last hour. When he didn’t speak, Rey took the lead.

“Ben, I need to tell you about Luke. Now. Before we’re interrupted again.” She started imploringly. When he didn’t make a move to interrupt, she continued, “Luke told me what happened. He did go into your room that night. Not with the intention of killing you, but he was testing you all the same. And when he saw the darkness in you, when he saw what Snoke was doing to you, he overreacted. But he never would have killed you! His mistake cost you your life, your family, your soul! And he never forgave himself for it. So, you see, it wasn’t all your fault! There’s still time to come back, to join me on the right side.”

She was almost panting as she finished speaking. It was one of the many things that he admired about her—her passion for life, her goodness. Despite her desolate upbringing, Rey was the most accepting person he had ever met. She strived to bring people together in an effort to create what she had been denied all her life: a family.

He understood her, and she him. Though their circumstances were wildly different, the aching loneliness was the same. And so, as he gazed into her pleading eyes, Kylo felt his strength flow back into him. He could put aside any weakness when she was near. His soul rose up to meet hers, his equal in the Force. His balance.

“Rey, I believe you.” Kylo told her.

Her eyes widened, shocked by his easy acceptance. Clearly, she had worked herself up over the last few days and was expecting a fight.

“You…you do?” she asked in wonder.

He nodded. “I’ve been meditating. There are periods in my life that have always escaped me, no matter how hard I concentrated.”

“Snoke.” Rey said with disgust.

“Yes.” Kylo acknowledged. “He was in my mind almost my entire life, blocking off connections, blurring memories. It’s difficult work to discover where the suppression lies. As I clear out the cobwebs in my mind, however, the truth is beggining to take shape.”

“So…you’ve already seen everything I just told you?” she asked a little sharply.

The barest hint of a smile titled his lips. “Yes, I have.”

“And here I’ve been, going out of my mind with worry about you!” Rey huffed.

“You were worried about me?” Kylo asked, surprised. “Why?”

“Well, I didn’t know if you were going to fly off the handle after I left. I certainly didn’t expect you to investigate the situation on your own.” She said honestly.

“Why not?”

“You seemed so angry with me, Ben.” Rey bit her lip. “I thought you would just ignore everything I said and brood until we met again.”

“I was angry, very angry, at first. But the more I thought about what you said, the more curious I became. I knew you weren’t lying to me, that you believed in what you were saying, so I decided to uncover the truth for myself.” He told her.

Rey moved closer to him, her eyes bright. “I’m so proud of you.”

Kylo felt something lift in his chest, like a burden being removed. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved, for not listening to you earlier.” He replied.

“I understand why you were so upset. But, please, just talk to me in the future. I don’t like fighting with you.” Rey beseeched him.

“I’ll do my best.” Kylo agreed.

“Ben, there’s something else.” Rey started cautiously. “Something I wanted to ask you.”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that I was on the Millennium Falcon when the First Order tried to shoot it out of the sky on Crait?” Rey asked, frowning.

Kylo was stunned. No, he had not known. How could he not have known? Their connection was strong, but he had been blinded by rage, by a sense of deep betrayal after waking up alone in the throne room. He still felt it now, to a lesser degree, if he was honest with himself. But if he’d been in control on Crait, it would have been more than obvious that Rey was in command of his father’s vessel.

In his anger, he could have lost Rey. He could have killed her.

“I didn’t know.” Kylo fell to his knees in front of her, head bowed. “Please forgive me.”

Rey stared at the proud man in front of her, her heart pounding. Their previous meetings had shown him to be honest to the point of insolence, but this contrite response was beyond her wildest expectations. She had anticipated an argument at the very least, but looking at Ben now, Rey felt ashamed for doubting his feelings for her.

“Ben, I believe you.” Rey said, repeating his words back to him.

Ben lifted his head, as if soaking in Rey’s radiant smile.

“Here,” she said, holding out her hands, “I’ll help you up.”

He hesitated for a second, but allowed her to pull him up. Electricity raced up her arms from where their bare hands melded together. He wasn’t wearing gloves, for once, and his rigid uniform had been replaced by a lightweight black silk robe.

Rey blushed as they continued to hold hands, as she tried not to stare at him.

“Rey,” Ben said quietly, “how did you get back aboard that ship?”

“After I left,” she stopped herself from saying ‘you’, “the throne room, I knew that the Falcon was the only chance for the Resistance to survive, so I took Snoke’s escape vessel and signaled Chewy to pick me up. The chaos created by Holdo’s sacrifice covered my escape.”

“I’m sorry I put you in that position. I still believe that the past needs to be put to rest, but I shouldn’t have tried to sway you from helping your friends.” Ben told her seriously.

Rey felt hope swell up inside her at his words. She still had so much to learn about the Force, about life, but she believed Ben was being sincere. It was clear that everything he had seen while mediating over the last few days had had a profound effect on him.

“I don’t care if it’s selfish or silly of me, but I don’t want to choose. I didn’t then and I don’t now.” She confessed. “I want it all—you and my friends.”

Ben’s eyes burned into hers in response, innumerable emotions swirling in their dark depths. Bringing up his ungloved hands, he cupped her cheeks. She quivered in response; it was the most intimate touch she had ever received.

“Why are you here? Why has the Force connected us?” Ben asked huskily.

“Don’t you know?” she whispered coyly.

He shook his head. “You deserve better.”

“I deserve you.” She said boldly. “I’ve been alone all my life until now. Suddenly I have friends—family—and I’m not scared of opening up to them anymore. I owe that to you, to the trust we’ve built between us. Now stop implying that our connection isn’t mutual!”

Ben smiled slightly, then reached down for her left hand, lifting her knuckles to his lips. The burn she had sustained a few days ago was mostly healed, but Rey felt her face heat at the sweet gesture.

“Okay,” he conceded, his tone holding a wealth of apology and acceptance.

Rey beamed up at him, curling her fingers tighter into his. Raising her other hand, Rey pushed back Ben’s lush hair, framing his cheek. Then, with all the courage she possessed, Rey stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his, sealing their bond for all time.

A/N: In my mind, there has to be a lot of meditating and talking to get to a point where Kylo Ren is ready to be Ben Solo again; I want his turn to the light to feel earned. Part II will be posted sometime next week, once I button up Part III, and will include some lemony goodness! You can find me over on FanFiction.net as sushigirlali as well.

A little something extra!

Kylo: Who hurt you? Ali: …what? Kylo: Why are all your favorite male characters in need of a redemption arc? Ali: Because I’m a slut for complex character development? Kylo: It’s because they always wear all black, isn’t it? Ali: Ummm…no? Kylo: You a freak. Ali: Oh, you’re one to talk, Cry-lo Ren!!

#my fanfiction #finding you #reylo fanfiction #reyben fanfiction #reylo #reyben #rey #kylo ren #ben solo #otp #sushigirlali

59 notes · View notes

tran5rightsos · 4 years

Text

You’ve Cut the Wrong Damn Wire - Chapter Three

Word Count: 1241

Leave Kudos?

Calum thought he’d done a pretty good job of keeping it together by the time he pulled up to Ashton’s apartment on his motorbike. He’d beaten back all thoughts of what he was supposed to do now, instead focusing on Ashton. He’d know what to do.

Unfortunately, when Ashton opened the door to him, surprised and confused, Calum broke down. He could barely get a word out through the tightness in his throat as Ashton brought him in and sat him down on the couch, rubbing his back and waiting for him to calm down.

“Mum saw us,” he croaked, “She told Dad and they kicked me out.”

“I’m sorry,” Ashton murmured, pulling him into a hug.

It took a long time for Calum to fall asleep. He hadn’t been able to grab a change of clothes on the way out, so Ashton had lent him a clean shirt and boxers that didn’t really fit and his mind just kept going around and around wondering what the fuck was going to happen to him now. In the end, as grateful as Calum was for Ashton’s company, it wasn’t enough to stave off nightmares when he finally drifted off.

It was Calum on the ground this time, weak and exposed, his dad swinging a metal pipe down on him, shouting abuse with every hit. Calum felt his ribs snap and pierce his lungs, his fingers break when they moved to protect his face, his cheekbone shatter and blind his eye. He woke up gasping, feeling like there was an iron band squeezing the air out of his lungs.

The worst part was that he’d woken Ashton and he was now rubbing his shoulders and telling him it was okay, it was just a nightmare, he was safe now. Calum hated looking so pathetic in front of him.

When he’d finally calmed down he told Ashton he needed a shower, though it was mainly an excuse to have some privacy to get his shit together. Ashton kissed his head and told him he’d make breakfast, promising that things would be okay and for a moment Calum believed him.

Once he was clean and actually feeling a lot better, Calum checked his phone to find two texts from his dad.

you have until friday to get all your shit out of our house

anything thats still here after that is getting thrown out

He had a week to remove every trace of himself from his parents’ house. How generous.

Ashton suggested that they go over after breakfast to get a start on it and then come back again after work. Sundays were shorter for them, so they should have plenty of time, he reasoned.

Not really tasting it, Calum chewed through the omelette Ashton had made him and told himself he wasn’t gonna cry about this again.

They probably should have seen it coming, but Calum’s dad refused to let Ashton in once they got there.

“I’m not having that fag under my roof,” he snapped when he saw them on the doorstep.

Ashton put his hands up defensively. “I’ll wait out here,” he told Calum, watching him go inside before walking back to his car.

Calum felt overwhelmed the moment he stepped into his room. The thought of leaving the house he’d spent his whole life in forever hurt, moreso when he looked around at his posters, the CD collection on his shelf, the old school books he’d never gotten around to throwing out...

A text from Ashton broke him out of his reverie.

maybe just get some clothes and stuff first

Calum shook his head. It was just like Ashton to know that Calum was stressed without even being able to see him.

With Ashton’s suggestion, clearing out a corner of Calum’s room was a breeze. A lot of his old clothes didn’t even fit anymore, so it only took a few trips to get everything he wanted to keep to his car, his dad watching him like a hawk every time he passed the lounge room.

Once Ashton’s backseat was stacked with clothes and Calum’s bass they drove back to his apartment to drop everything off. Calum changed into his work gear and considered how weird it was to get back into that routine while his life fell apart.

By the end of the week they’d cleared out about half of Calum’s room. Looking around at what remained, he realised he’d never really noticed how much of his stuff he’d outgrown and held onto. It seemed a shame that all those things from his childhood would just be tossed out, but he didn’t want to clutter Ashton’s apartment while he looked for a place to stay.

Living with Ashton was good. As embarrassing as waking up from nightmares was, Calum was grateful to have someone to hold him until he felt okay. He wasn’t sure how he’d cope without the support, if he was being honest. It wasn’t like his mum was going to give it to him.

Although Ashton had refused at first, Calum insisted on splitting the rent fifty-fifty and he did housework wherever he could. No matter how shit his situation was, he’d be damned if he was going to sit on his ass and take Ashton’s generosity for granted.

The upside of getting kicked out was that Calum didn’t have to worry about finding out about him and Ashton. It was weird at first, letting himself be more affectionate in public, but it was freeing too, like a tension he hadn’t realised was there had disappeared.

He wished he could enjoy it as much as he should, but as he got more comfortable with putting an arm around his shoulders, Ashton seemed to get more closed off. Had he always been so reluctant to talk about his personal life, or was Calum only just noticing it now? It occurred to him that he didn’t even know if Ashton had any siblings. Maybe he got kicked out of home, too. Would it be weird to ask?

Calum didn’t expect to discover the reason for all of it when they were at home one night, half watching a dumb movie and eating a stir fry Ashton made.

“American schools are so weird, man,” he criticised, “How come everything is one building like that? My school had like a seperate building for every subject.”

“I dunno, I had most of my classes in one room for most of high school,” Ashton said.

Calum frowned and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

Ashton stared back, seeming to realise he’d said something he hadn’t meant to.

“What kind of school did you go to?”

“I was…” Ashton shook his head and paused the movie, staring at the remote in his hands. “I went to juvy.”

#5sos fic #au: wire #my fic

0 notes

kellykadesperate · 7 years

Text

this is @lesfemmesdangereuses (kate’s) fault really because of this post: http://lesfemmesdangereuses.tumblr.com/post/164973117703/omg-your-theory-is-alive-with-the-new-spoilers

Liv’s getting her stomach pumped and Aaron’s never chewed so hard on his nails before.

Because it’s his fault this has happened.

He hadn’t even noticed her slipping, falling into this pattern of coming home wreaking of mint and having wide eyes and basically being a live wire into crashing out on the sofa and having to be shaken awake.

He should have.

But he didn’t and that’s why he found her half dead near the cricket pavilion, school uniform still on, hand clasping an empty bottle of something brown -

A bottle of mints falling out all over the wooden planks.

A metaphor for the truth being revealed to Aaron in the most ugly way imaginable.

That truth, that undeniable truth now, was that Liv had a problem which most people realise when they’ve hit their fortieth and they really need that glass of wine to get them off to sleep.

Liv’s got a drink problem.

And it’s not alright, it won’t be okay, Aaron can’t fix it or take away her pain.

He can’t do anything about it.

He’s just staring into her room and she looks so small laying there. She’s got a bruise on her arm and probably one on her shoulder too from the way Aaron was trying to shake her awake, voice hoarse, eyes filling with tears and she stayed limp like a doll.

She isn’t moving now either.

The sound of squeaky shoes coming his way make Aaron’s shoulders tense up, make him cross his fingers over and shove them down into his jacket pocket before blowing out a breath.

But then the sound is stopping, being replaced with another, someone calling out, panic in their voice about getting through, being able to see Liv and Aaron knows who it is without even thinking.

“Please, alright. I need to see her, I need to know if she’s okay. Please let me know.”

It’s heavy, filled with this sense of deep fair and despair and complete loss of control and Aaron knows, he just knows.

A nurse is coming towards him, explaining how a man wants to come through, if it’s okay, if he’s family and Aaron is stunned into a silence.

He isn’t. Not anymore. But he nods, almost involuntarily and then he’s coming forward.

Robert’s there, all burgundy suit and wide eyes and flushed cheeks like he’s trying not to cry.

“Diane said - she said that she saw an ambulance taking Liv away.” Robert’s saying, mouth gapped open, something lost in his eyes.

Aaron just nods, raises his head a fraction so that he’s looking just at Robert’s shoes.

“Is she going to be okay?’ Robert’s asking, like he can’t stop it gushing out of him and Aaron can’t speak, nothing is being processed until Robert’s coming closer and he’s got a hand on Aaron’s shoulder and he explodes.

"Get the fuck off of me.” Aaron seethes, he has tears crashing down his face as he lo is at the surprise written all over Robert’s face. “This.” He points at Liv through the glass and then Robert. “It’s all your fault.” He’s saying, “She’s laying in there and she could have fucking died and it would have been your fault.”

Robert’s eyes are wide, he has a hand running through his hair and he won’t stop the way he’s looking at Aaron.

“Aaron, I’m sorry.” He says, and Aaron has never wanted to hate him more.

It’s dark by the time a nurse comes out and tells Aaron that she’s stable, that she can have visitors now.

Aaron doesn’t want to see her though, and he feels terrible about it because he needs to go in there and explain what happened and he has to hear her try to tell him what was going through her head and he knows.

He knows she was angry about Robert and the baby.

He knows she was heartbroken about her brother being a mess, about losing someone who was almost her brother too.

He knows, he fucking knows that she didn’t want Alex sharing dinner with them in the pub and being there when she gets back from school but -

Aaron raises his head and Robert is standing by the coffee machine, he’s trying to get something out, digging up and then slamming his fist against it and Aaron feels something jolt in his heart.

His feet walk towards him slowly, he presses the big black button and then a coffee is sliding out.

Robert has his forehead pressed against the machine and he slowly peels it away.

“Thanks.” He says and then he’s looking at Aaron.

Aaron can see the redness around Robert’s eyes, wonders where the hell he went after Aaron ran off and cried in the toilets for half an hour.

“How is she?” Robert says, like he’s daring to and knowing that he is on thin ice already.

Aaron huffs out a breath and walks back towards the chair, a silent invitation to Robert is somehow given and he holds his gaze until they’re both sitting down, knees touching.

“She’s stable.” Aaron drops his head. “Lucky apparently but - it doesn’t feel that way.” He says and then Robert is blinking quickly and Aaron’s leaning closer. “Rob, she’s got a problem, and it’s bad and I can’t help her.”

Robert doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and then he’s nodding his head.

“You can.” He forces out, eyes wet. “You can help her through anything.”

Aaron scoffs, “Really? Between shouting at you and inviting Alex round for a pint.”

And he sees, just out of the corner of his eye, the way Robert winces.

“I’ve failed her.” Aaron admits, head in his hands as she rocks back and off. “I should have focused on her like I said I would, I told her I would and I didn’t -”

Robert gulps, “You tried you’re best. You know how she is, what she’s like. We both know.”

Aaron shudders, “Exactly.” He snaps, “She’s up to no good even at the best of times and now - since we - when I -” he drops his head and something crashes through him. “I shouldn’t have blamed you like that.” He admits, knows that it isn’t true. “Because I know it wasn’t just you, I’ve been - I haven’t been civil have I?”

Because he’s thrown insults when he can.

He’s been mean, he’s tried to make Robert stop looking at him like he’s still so in love with him by throwing daggers his way, seeing a Doctor.

“I don’t blame you. I never could.” Robert admits, holds his coffee close to him and then shudders.

And Aaron can’t look past it, he can’t pretend that he doesn’t see the way Robert cares. He’s cried over Liv, he’s been petrified today too.

“I can’t do this.” Aaron whispers, says it like a fact. “I’m a mess myself and she’s going to need me, she’s going to need me so much.”

“And you’ll get through it.”

“I can’t Rob.” He says tearfully and he can hear the way Robert hitches a breath.

“You’ll - you have your whole family behind ya, you’ve got your mum, Aaron it’s going to be okay. I promise you.”

And it’s been so long since Robert’s said it like that, since Aaron’s heard it and felt a warmth spread through his chest and settle him.

“And you’ve got me.” Robert’s voice wavers and Aaron lifts his head. “If it comes down to it, I’ll make sure she gets the help she needs. Privately, close by. I’ll get her the best place to help -”

Aaron frowns harshly, huffs out a sigh. “How many times? I don’t want you throwing your cash around -”

“That’s not what this is about Aaron.” Robert says seriously, a hand on his thigh nervously. “I just - I want her to be happy.” His chin wobbles. “Because I took that away. I did that. You were right. And maybe, maybe if I hadn’t -” he drops his head. “Then she wouldn’t have thought drink was what could help her cope with -”

Aaron doesn’t expect the way he places a hand over Robert’s but he does.

“She needs me.” Aaron whispers, and Robert nods. Aaron bites at his lip and a flicker of something runs through his vision, Robert hugging Liv and telling her that they’ve got their Aaron back. He hadn’t meant to hear Liv say that she couldn’t have done it without Robert, got through it all. Liv needed him then and, she needs him now. “And you.”

Robert’s eyes widen and Aaron keeps his hand where it is.

“I’m not saying, I’m not -” Aaron fumbles around on his words, feels a tear fall down his face. “Believe it or not, she lost a brother when we broke up and it hurt her so much more than I thought it would. She loves ya.” Aaron shrugs. “So I’m asking -”

“You don’t need to ask.” Robert interrupts quickly, as quickly as he can.

Aaron sniffs gently and then slowly peels his hand away from Robert’s. “If we just put aside our own shit then we can just focus on getting her help yeah?” Robert nods. “So you’ll be there? You’ll help her, me?”

“Of course I will.” Robert whispers, biting down on his lip and Aaron says thank you with a soft worried smile.

The light from Liv’s room soaks through Aaron’s vision and he gulps hard as he looks towards the door.

“You be strong in front of her okay? And then, then you can cry when you’re with me.” Robert tells him and Aaron finds it too comforting to hear, so he nods and he stands and he gulps.

For a second, he wants to run and then he looks back at Robert. “Can you - do you mind if -”

And Robert raises to his feet quickly.

Aaron wavers, waits until Robert is beside him and then he’s pushing open the door. He’s smiling softly and Liv and he can feel Robert pressing a hand on his lower back and everything feels heavy and sad in the air but it’s going to be okay.

It has to be.

#sozza #alcohol abuse cw #robron fics #muhahhaaa

112 notes · View notes

waitjustaflick · 7 years

Text

Mixed Metaphor

So apparently, I am doing this HLWeek thing. Below is a short written for Day 2 - Favorite Scene/Moment. I could sooner choose my favorite moment of Han and Leia as I could choose a favorite star in the sky, but what came to mind is the look Han’s face (or the series of looks) when he goes to say goodbye to his Princess at the beginning of the Empire Strikes Back. He is so vulnerable, both hopeful and hurt before he throws up his shields again.

I actually wrote about this exact moment here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11956289/4/Never-Will-I-Ever

But here’s an original based on the idea of that vulnerability he has around Leia. Might possibly connect to the short I wrote yesterday. Maybe. ;)

~~~~~~~

He’d always had a good sabacc mask. If there was one thing he could count on in this scrap heap mess of a galaxy, it was that he could keep his cards close. No one saw anything he didn’t want them to.

Oh sure, sometimes he’d let it loose. He was nothing if not demonstrative. If a part crapped out or a system went slack on the Falcon, you’d hear about it. If some knuckle-headed pilot or two-faced informant ran his mission afoul, they’d know he was pissed. And if one of his friends was in trouble, he would use everything he had - charm, resolve and outright violence - to get them out of harm’s way.

But, those were the things he wanted you to know about.

There were other things, much more subtle, uncomfortably nuanced that Han held close to his heart.

The way Chewie’s unflagging loyalty made him feel like a son, a brother, and a father all at once.

The way Luke’s boyish exuberance brought back a childhood that Han would rather forget and made him wish it had been spent with a passel of kids to pal around with and protect.

And pretty much anything having to do with Princess Leia Organa.

What people didn’t realize was the shape his mask took. It wasn’t cool indifference. It was blustering pride. It wasn’t heated, molten anger. It was all those things. That’s what made it so damn good.

Whenever he felt that pesky little organ activate, that thing both mysterious and unavoidable in the upper lefthand center of his chest, he would throw up the mask again. His chameleon-skinned cover would take whatever shape it needed to.

He could admit to himself more readily than to anyone else that it wasn’t always pleasant, for him or for those he came in contact with. He was an opportunist, he was a pragmatist, he was a survivor. It was all he knew, and it had served him pretty well for the first 30 years of his life.

Didn’t seem to be working as of late though.

As a pilot and an accidental engineer, Han knew a lot about machines. They were cool hunks of metal, plasticine, and glass twisted and shaped by fire and air, then run by the same combination. Give it a source of power, enough oil and a space to do its thing and it’d purr for you like a moon cat.

He’d thought of himself that way for a while. He ran on anger, oiled it in charm, and gave himself enough freedom to do his thing.

The thing about machines was, they didn’t do well with water. They could withstand a little bit, but a steady stream of it would corrode the inner workings, maybe cause a short, and a torrent would douse the whole damn thing, possibly taking it to a state of no return, no repair.

He thought about love that way.

A little bit was fine. His inner workings were strong enough to withstand it, maybe they could even do with a little cleaning, get the gunk off, keep ‘em nice and shiny. But a steady patter, a sprung leak, now that could be a problem. He’d worked over the last couple years to keep the water at bay, to live in that comfy place between just enough and not too much.

But, lately, it seemed the leaks were springing up all over the place.

The sound she made when she was absorbed in a task, a little growl in the back of her throat both frustrated and pleased with her progress.

That damn hair. No matter what she did with it, it was always so silky-looking, such a rich dark color, the color of chocolate and whiskey and all good things. But, she never wore it down, so he would have to imagine how he’d untwist those braids, where the do ended and she began.

The time he’d made her laugh. Really laugh. A few months into this dangerous game. He hadn’t really meant to. To be honest, he’d been furious, attempting to plug an actual leak in the main hold of the Falcon. He and the Princess had been fighting over which way to turn a wrench (like she would know with her lily-white politican’s hands) and they’d pulled the whole damn enclosure off.

The water had come out in torrents practically drowning them and he’d sputtered and hissed like that selfsame moon cat forced into a bath tub and she had laughed, so loud and long that his anger had been doused and all he’d been left with was a bubble of joy so intense that there’d been nothing for it but to burst. He’d laughed with her, drowning in her half moon eyes and bright white teeth and that sound, so full and rich and full of life.

It had taken a week to dry out the Falcon, during which time he’d been grounded and springing more leaks than he could cope with.

His head hurt as he thought through this bizarre metaphor. Since when had he become a damn poet?

He glanced around the Falcon quiet and sleeping, settled into the hangar for the night with all the other good little ships. He frowned into the silence, wondering why it felt off. Everything was in its place, the ship was in better shape than she’d been in a while, fitted with a new converter that Leia had secured for them after a particularly impressive weapons run.

And there it was.

Leia.

He…missed her.

She wasn’t far. Tucked into her quarters off in the bowels of the base. Safe as she could be in a rebel encampment just out of reach of the Galactic Empire that wanted her dead.

But, somehow, through some bizarre series of circumstances, he felt deep down in his bones, past the masks and the machine parts and all the wet, wet, wet, that he needed her here.

Shaking his head, he sprang from his seat and looked for something to do. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t smart. He was getting attached, he was becoming a sodden fool, and if he kept going like this there’d be no coming back, no drying out.

He should really leave. Should’ve left after that first mission, that first reward.

But the truth was, he was thirsty. And the scarier truth was, he might not be a machine after all.

That would mess up the whole metaphor.

So, he found something to do, a thing that didn’t really need doing, in the cockpit of his ship. It as a tangle of wires that functioned well-enough but looked like hell whenever he opened the navigation panel.

He got to work, but as kept happening lately, his fingers felt larger and clumsier than they usually did. His focus would wander, to the graceful curve of her neck or the frosty determination of her stubbornness. He even found that sexy. Most women were so easily coaxed from one mood to another, but Leia would stick to her guns as long as she damn well pleased.

There was only one sentient he knew that had the same level of bullheadedness…

“Han,” he looked up to find the object of his musings wringing her hands at the entrance to his cockpit and the damn mask fell right off.

She was pale and a little mussed, a couple wisps coming out of her clumsily coifed hair. Her big brown eyes were wide and her mouth was reddened, as if she’d been chewing on her lip (like she did when she was nervous). And most importantly, she was here, looking at him, talking to him.

The bubble of joy burst into a bright smile across his face.

“Leia.”

#HLWeek #hlweekday2 #favorite scene/moment #han x leia #Flick fic #star wars

88 notes · View notes

citrusdope · 5 years

Text

Since the moment I realized it I've been wide awake... wired... It's now 4:45 am as I'm typing this.

The air around me has never been more electric. I've done it.

I have now reached the point with Beat Saber where things begin to stop making sense. 10, hell sometimes even 20 notes will fly by and I won't have a single clue what I did to hit them. And that scares me.

In every literal sense of the term I am slowly going ultra instinct when it comes to this video game. Levels I used to laugh at, thinking that the mappers meant it to be funny how impossible they were now excite me. A new challenge, a new adrenaline rush! I select the old 'meme' and hit play very quickly as to not give my mind time to worry or doubt itself because I know what is about to happen and I need to be ready when it does. I blink and I'm halfway through the song. Every time I wake up in the middle of a track I am filled with intense primal fear because I KNOW that there is not enough room in my head to fit both active thought and 8+ notes per second. That state of panic is the most alive I've been since I started taking hilly corners at 30mph on my longboard when I was 15.

I have started thinking of songs as little burritos or burgers or something else filling and indulgent. Any food works as long as it is the kind that people stuff into their mouths. The bigger the mouthful, the more "legendary" the dish.

Eating contest pros will tell you that what they do is not like normal eating. And they are right. And I get it. They don't eat with their mouths. They eat with their throats. They swallow as much of their food as possible, chewing the leftovers almost entirely for show. They don't enjoy the food on its culinary artistic merits. They enjoy it because of the challenges it poses their finely tuned devouring machine. They enjoy the exhilaration of watching said machine accept and crush the challenge. That is what keeps them coming back. Trust me, when they take a step back and actually look at what they're doing, they're just as impressed and shell-shocked as any other spectator. But if they try to watch their own performance it's game over. You are choking on that burrito. Let's hope someone nearby knows the heimlich... So, to cope with that reality they enter this animalistic state of being where they let go and let their mind act on its own. Unhindered by the toll booth that is conscious thought, their brain checks for data, makes judgements, and gives orders to the body at a level of efficiency entirely impossible through conscious decision-making. But it comes at a price. When they're done they look at the table and have no clue how the person that ate all that was them.

Beat Saber pros have the same kind of curse. I know because that's what I'm becoming. That is my future, in all of its ominous implications.

What do you use to play Beat Saber?

Like, you, personally, if you've ever played it.

Probably your arms, right?

Or maybe you're trying to reach Expert+ status so you'd say "oh I use my wrists whenever I can to try to conserve energy for more physically demanding passages". Smart move. But you aren't hitting my point just yet.

I don't use my arms or my wrists and the secret isn't paying attention to the overall patterns rather than individual notes or drinking lots of coffee (although that can sometimes help). I use my brain.

I don't even look.

No.

No let me repeat that.

I DONT EVEN TRY TO LOOK AT THE NOTES

Don't believe me? Get this. Without my glasses I have no depth perception. I was born without it. My brain learned to judge how far away things were based on how big they were. That's it. And I play Beat Saber with my glasses OFF. Astigmatism and all.

I always tell myself when I start wiping out repeatedly: "you're trying to eat with your hands. Stop it. Start eating with your brain. Let your brain take little bites out of this map until it is all done and becomes another part of your skillset" and it works. Every time. Without fail.

At the level of difficulty I've reached, if I try to make out the direction my arms should be swinging and the patterns that my wrists should be drawing I fail within 5 seconds of waking up from my adrenaline-induced music-coma. And it is terrifying every time. So terrifying that no jump scare could ever come close to rattling your consciousness this strongly, no matter the circumstances.

When I realized that I'd begun to arrive at the destination I set out for out of curiosity and a need for self discovery 2 years ago it was the end for my sleep schedule. I'm hoping that after I write this I'll finally be able to put my mind at ease.

I just feel so driven to share this feeling with other people. The feeling of epic euphoria you get when you realize what you're doing in the middle of an impossible Beat Saber track. And I figure typing it out is a good way to archive it in the hopes that one day people will be able to read or listen and understand a little bit about what I'm feeling right now.

It is the most unreal that any real thing has felt in my entire time on this planet.

Thank you, Oculus

-Barnabus, king of dreams

0 notes

tenaciouscupcaketaco · 5 years

Photo

TRUMP SMELLS B.O.

BUST UP THE BEAT TO INTRODUCE IT'S TEMPO

GOT ME PLACES TO GO

SILENCE IS GOLDEN GOT BLOOD THAT"S UNFOLDING

SITS IN HIS IVORY TOWER ENGAGED IN THE WALL WHILE HE SITS IN HIS IVORY TOWER

TRUMP SMELLS B.O.

I know years to know used to being with your history

eager long to achieve

needs to take a nice hot shower

going down to the wire...,

got choices with the most chances highway glances

glad he switch his Depends tyed beauty within,

another one bites the dust with the whole world in a rush

doing cart wheels out in the mood a sought of time to renew

Trump Smells B.O. which way should we go ?

some are in a trance

a given chance at any romance

Pac sought love through concrete

on again out again cry for relief

Can We Talk ?

hit a sister mister said to high HITLER,

SONG REMAINS THE SAME SOUGHT EVEN SHADE

LOVE FAXED IN WHERE IT IS WE DEPEND

YOU GOT TO KNOW WHERE YOU ARE iNSTEAD YOU HIDE LIKE ROSANNE BARR

NEEDS TO STOP BY INSTEAD OF GETTING HIGH

VAPE

with heightened fresh tender moments like these drift away to the sea...

suffering long in an empty room my pain drifts in illusive rights become pure

day by day we hear the sound of a lonely owl out in desperation my stomach leaks

cheer up good cousin as the thoughts simmer again back from beyond cracking,

this is enough of a good spot gross way back sat the owl in fact through radio

Trump Smells B.O. button down the captors embrace the hellos

Trump Smells B.O.

I'm bust out the beat to increase the tempo...,

Silently in the dreams eating delicious ice cream,

I maybe a man of all mans,

P.U.

in the port of storm we call commercial radiating plugged in seperation,

fine darling pillars the growth of here after old man sit by the log cabin

at night he would take a pee outside his window taking heed to nature's dream

the owl would suddenly draw empty nothing but framed silence in togetherness

our cameras freshly made eating potato dumplings...

I aim human fresh under my wings,

look to the sun to help you get by...

Trump's Comb Over Written by: Mario Vitale

well it's a one for the money two for the show the answer my friend is blowing in the wind so is Trump's comb over

who tucks Mr. president into bed do the not realize he has a big head who takes care of his hair caged fury

in such a hurry the magic is in the pudding does he know what hell he his doing he jumps through loop holes looking through peep holes

TMZ catches his rug by disguise one word to the wise get a transplant my friend we can see your head with the magical wave

oh act your age Mr. Trump what hump you have taken us by surprise doesn't anybody realize

What Hump Trump Written by: Mario Vitale

you sit in your ivory tower why should I even bother your the man who said your fire had a book art of the deal your spinning wheel is getting to fast lay up on the gas many in North Korea will be wearing a face mask what hump Trump knocking at your door are you in the theatre of the insane lest I refrain another opened door check this as a young child you were already loaded your inner soul imploded through the duration of time you learned how to rhyme kind of a Robin Hood but you wouldn't share with the poor you got hooked on Twitter & your hommie's none better but always a gentleman never given the middle finger still many of us hate your guts still got lots to prove others refrain just not in a good mood you may have to do a make over with your hair as in a comb over yet you try to stand tall while working on this great wall we maybe in store of a shot gun wedding what are you kidding what hump Trump maybe coming to a theatre near you has he bitten off far more then he could chew Ivanka still has a voice with a choice try to pull things together if you try we we're out busy living the lie the lie that says I am what I do still got to mend your ways instead of getting lost in some purple haze you & Pence look like the Blues Brother Reunion are you sure you know what the hell your doing ? perhaps you got junk in your trunk what hump Trump ?

A Letter To Trump

you don't know me & that's good is your choice of water Fiji now going to speak to you man to man Mr. Trump do you really understand when you took the oath of all that was planned did you ever think about me a lone poet man of society as you sit there in your in ivory tower filled with power did it ever cross your mind that not everybody is doing fine sure there's no gas shortages anymore and no Studio 54 yet what my inner heart beats for is a common courtesy call remember when you were young playing with the bat and ball some folks claim that your just a know it all but here am i sir giving you the benefit of the doubt while some people just bitch and pout sure you like Twitter and some of MTV but one one heart felt plea is that we all live out our days in sweet harmony while your working on that wall did you forget to give Pink Floyd a call I no save your money for your momma and try to forget about Obama but what are you promising us is it in God we trust crushed beneath the seams do you just seek out evil means that's the beauty of this country we can both agree to disagree

where does the working man now stand how shall we salute the flag all mad building bridges make sense of all of this as if life is one big test So Mr. Trump what you have up your sleeve are you going to help people in great need The world is watching and i'm not lying yet may have fish for frying so without further a dew some days you must not a single clue maybe going through the motions trying to figure out next of what to do can we meet together on some significant level these are questions i often ponder perhaps its some heavenly call from up yonder but we as Americans need to know the full story not taking any more pot shot from TMZ try if you will to get that big kid out of North Korea perhaps we should look to our past to tell us of our future now you hold the keys to my future so both polite and kind for i'm just one lone beggar trying to tell another where to get some bread tonight before you lay your Trump head down let's learn from Rodney King, "Can't we all just get along"? take it from me its best to stay with the devil you know then to go with the devil you don't. perhaps you can't even cope when your having a fight with that soap on the rope. lastly from me to you what's knew ?

P.S. Return To Sender

0 notes

tenaciouscupcaketaco · 5 years

Text

Trumps Circle

TRUMP SMELLS B.O.

BUST UP THE BEAT TO INTRODUCE IT'S TEMPO

GOT ME PLACES TO GO

SILENCE IS GOLDEN GOT BLOOD THAT"S UNFOLDING

SITS IN HIS IVORY TOWER ENGAGED IN THE WALL WHILE HE SITS IN HIS IVORY TOWER

TRUMP SMELLS B.O.

I know years to know used to being with your history

eager long to achieve

needs to take a nice hot shower

going down to the wire...,

got choices with the most chances highway glances

glad he switch his Depends tyed beauty within,

another one bites the dust with the whole world in a rush

doing cart wheels out in the mood a sought of time to renew

Trump Smells B.O. which way should we go ?

some are in a trance

a given chance at any romance

Pac sought love through concrete

on again out again cry for relief

Can We Talk ?

hit a sister mister said to high HITLER,

SONG REMAINS THE SAME SOUGHT EVEN SHADE

LOVE FAXED IN WHERE IT IS WE DEPEND

YOU GOT TO KNOW WHERE YOU ARE iNSTEAD YOU HIDE LIKE ROSANNE BARR

NEEDS TO STOP BY INSTEAD OF GETTING HIGH

VAPE

with heightened fresh tender moments like these drift away to the sea...

suffering long in an empty room my pain drifts in illusive rights become pure

day by day we hear the sound of a lonely owl out in desperation my stomach leaks

cheer up good cousin as the thoughts simmer again back from beyond cracking,

this is enough of a good spot gross way back sat the owl in fact through radio

Trump Smells B.O. button down the captors embrace the hellos

Trump Smells B.O.

I'm bust out the beat to increase the tempo...,

Silently in the dreams eating delicious ice cream,

I maybe a man of all mans,

P.U.

in the port of storm we call commercial radiating plugged in seperation,

fine darling pillars the growth of here after old man sit by the log cabin

at night he would take a pee outside his window taking heed to nature's dream

the owl would suddenly draw empty nothing but framed silence in togetherness

our cameras freshly made eating potato dumplings...

I aim human fresh under my wings,

look to the sun to help you get by...

Trump's Comb Over Written by: Mario Vitale

well it's a one for the money two for the show the answer my friend is blowing in the wind so is Trump's comb over

who tucks Mr. president into bed do the not realize he has a big head who takes care of his hair caged fury

in such a hurry the magic is in the pudding does he know what hell he his doing he jumps through loop holes looking through peep holes

TMZ catches his rug by disguise one word to the wise get a transplant my friend we can see your head with the magical wave

oh act your age Mr. Trump what hump you have taken us by surprise doesn't anybody realize

What Hump Trump Written by: Mario Vitale

A Letter To Trump

P.S. Return To Sender

0 notes

Last Seen Blogs

enter-remiges

Remiges

rogercine-blog

Rogercine

01libra

harebellandviolets

Wild flowers grow in my mind

vdc-shimajun

変拍子な日々