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bitchdafuqyousay · 3 months

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Dr. Smiles

It was underneath a building, a back alley entrance and down several flights of stairs so it was underground and hidden, you wouldn’t find it unless you were looking for it. Bronco made his way down and pushed open a thick metal door into a brightly lit room. Another nasty place. But in a different way than the complex- it was sterile as hell. Smelled like bleach, medicine, and god knows what kind of chemicals and drugs. Maksed the smell of blood.

And right there in the center of the room was the human incarnate of medical malpractice. He’d gone to medical school, never finished, dropped out. But it was less of a choice to leave and more the result of a condition he got himself into. Got involved with some nasty people, did some awful shit for money and to save his own ass, then got burned for it by the people he did that shit for.

Figuratively and literally.

They threw him under the bus and he got acid dumped on his face.

Half of him was still handsome, the other half was damn near melted off. He lived, somehow, despite his insides getting burned some, and scurried off to Roanapur to live amongst even more batshit, nasty people who live for crime and don’t know anything but. But it got him away from his previous problems so hey fuck it, a win is a win even if it sucks.

That's not to say he wasn’t a good medical practitioner, though. Fucker was a genius, really. He could patch you up, put you back together so you’d be all fixed and ready to go after. Pat you on the head and give you a lollipop on your way out. He was a good- no- the bastard was great; an absolutely incredible doctor. If you were sick or injured you could come to him anytime and he’d help out.

For a decent fee, too. He wasn’t expensive, all things considered. He’d even help a person out for less than a dollar if that’s all they had. Sometimes he didn't even take their money, just do him a favor when the time comes, or if you’re a normal person stuck on this goddamn hell hole of an island bring him a gift and he’ll waive fees.

Lots of kids and ladies around here brought him home cooked meals, mended clothes or gave him clothes they’d made; and that was how they paid him to keep them in relatively good health.

But, all that didn’t make him a good guy by any means.

As often as he did house calls and stitched up a poor street kid for free; he did absolutely heinous shit at the same rate. Make his pockets heavy enough he’d get absolutely evil. Bring him a dead body you want gone; he’ll get rid of it- in little pieces in trash cans or dissolved in chemicals and acids. Bring him some poor live bastard you want gone, he’ll cut 'em up and get rid of them in the same way. He’ll even cut someone up alive if you want him to. Hell, he’ll even film the whole thing for you for a bit of extra cash. He’ll torture, humiliate, vivisect, dissect, and take a person apart on or off camera; and he’ll have fun doing it.

He liked it. The doctor liked doing that to people, he practically got off on it.

Bronco cleared his throat awkwardly to get the man’s attention. He was here to make sure that the bodies (that Hans so helpfully created) had been dropped off by the hired collector and about to be… cleaned up.

The doctor finally acknowledged Bronco’s presence, turning to face him and tilting his head. Bronco was glad he was wearing that face mask; bright yellow with a cartoon smile on it, covering his actual mouth. Which was totally fine, he hated Dr. Smiles’ real smile, he hated it more than Hans’. It was as cold and sharp as the scalpels he used to cut people open. Speaking of, there was a stainless steel table slightly behind him on the left with a tray on it. Full of syringes and knives and forceps. And some awful looking scissors and a sparkling plier. Made him uncomfortable knowing that those were used on people. Live people. Big bone saws, cleavers and a fucking chainsaw were used on the dead people. Take them apart and get rid of them. “Clean” shit up.

The freak just kept them in his office, where he… greeted… people. Showing off some of the stuff he used to make others writhe in agony before sending them straight to their maker. And it was kept next to a bowl of fucking candy.

God, this guy was weird. Bronco almost hated him.

“Oh, hello, Bronco. How are you?”

His warbled, gravelly voice was totally flat, no inflection at all. A statement that would’ve sounded cheery and welcoming from literally anyone else felt dull and void from this guy. Bronco tried not to stare at the permanently half closed, milky eye on the right side of the man’s face, or the still raw looking flesh that splayed across his forehead, nose bridge, and the bit of visible cheek.

“Fine, saw Hans yesterday. So I could be better. But I’m alive so I could also be worse.”

“How unfortunate.”

Bronco wasn’t sure if Smiles meant it was unfortunate that he saw Hans Faust, or if it was unfortunate that he was still alive. It could swing either way.

“Yeah, right. Anyways. I-”

“Need to check on the gentlemen that got dropped off to me earlier.”

“...Correct.”

Smiles hummed in affirmation, and waved for Bronco to follow him. God, he didn’t want to. But he did anyway, trailing slightly behind the shorter man as he pushed open a set of stainless steel double doors into a hallway. The hallway was significantly less clean than the Dr.’s front office. Dark and dingy, with flickering overhead lights. The walls, floor, and ceilings were concrete; and said concrete was stained with god knows what sorts of bodily fluids. Bronco hated imagining people getting dragged down this hall from the front to the operating room where they’d get cut open and divided into pieces. Put on copious amounts of drugs to keep them conscious but paralyzed, unable to fight but still aware of everything happening to them. It was more of a lab than an operating room, and the guy who ran it treated humans like lab rats if someone paid him well enough to do so.

Bronco tried not to stare too hard at the stains. When people got dragged through they left marks, but the good Dr. always cleaned his front room, but never this hallway. Added to the fear factor. Smiles liked that.

Fuckin’ freak.

Goddamn sadist.

At the end of the hallway was another set of doors, Smiles pushed one of them open, stepping to the side to let Bronco walk in first. Bronco hated that. He didn’t want this creep behind him.

Yeah, Jesus help them all, Smiles had for sure gotten the bodies. They were laying on two tables in the center of the room. Eyes wide open and directed at the ceiling, but not seeing a damn thing. He’d started his work on one of ‘em, split the man’s abdomen open and had taken a whole bunch of stuff out of it. Organs and some of his ribs were missing; making the chest look partially deflated.

“Easier to cut them up like this, less stuff in the way, less splatter. If you take out the insides in the big parts. You can just hack off limbs.”

He suppressed a shudder at the memory of Smiles saying that to him once, prompted by the horrified look on Bronco’s face. That was the first time he’d had to meet the guy in his domain. He could feel the other man staring at him, observing, waiting.

“I’ll be done soon. They’ll be all clean and ready for disposal sometime tomorrow morning.”

“Right.”

“I’ll dump them myself. No need for a collector.”

“That’s great, when did you start doing that?”

“When I decided I wanted more time to rifle through them and take things I liked.”

“They were already stripped of their valuables and belongings, though?” His voice lilted at the end, turning what should have been a statement into a question.

Dr. Smiles shifted his eyes from Bronco to the naked bodies laid out on his operating tables and shrugged, a little, wheezing like huff escaped him and Bronco recognized it as a small laugh.

“That’s not what I mean. I don’t care about that. I want souvenirs.”

Bronco had had a hunch that that’s what he meant, but he’d wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But he shouldn’t have bothered, he should’ve known. Dr. Smiles meant pieces of the bodies.

“...Right.”

“Your current owners have already put down their deposit, but I want my pocket completely filled by tomorrow afternoon.”

Owners? Fucking prick.

“Make sure that happens, Bronco. Or I’ll get a mediator of my own.”

Bronco couldn’t suppress his shudder this time; he shuddered at the threat and his name coming out of the Dr.’s mouth.

“Oh. No, don’t fret too much. If they don’t give me my due it won’t be your fault, I know that.” He reached out and placed a hand on Bronco’s shoulder. The blue latex glove felt like a brand on his skin, burning through his shirt all the way down to the bone. He wanted these scary motherfuckers to stop touching him, always grabbing at his arms and shoulders.

“Don’t t-”

“I won’t send the undertaker to your address, I promise.”

He took his hand off his shoulder and lifted it instead towards his face, God, don’t do it. Bronco didn’t want him to do what he was about to do. But he did it anyway; Smiles grabbed the edge of his mask and pulled it down, revealing his entire face and that awful smile.

“Just to the people that hired you. I can’t guarantee you won’t be there with them when I do, though. Ah, I mean, if I do.” The smile stretched to the point that it looked as though it’d tear the scars around it, rip open his lips even more than they already were, until more bones than just his teeth were exposed.

Bronco turned away from him and started heading to the door, he’d noted the threat and would remember it for the rest of his fucking life. So why even bother responding to it?

“You can always stay and watch, Bronco.”

There was a purr to his voice, absolutely awful. Like it was an enticing and seductive offer.

“Absolutely fucking not, Dr. I’ll be damned if I stick around to watch you cut up those poor bastards and get off doin’ it.”

An awful laugh followed him out the door, “Feel free to take candy on your way out, any one you want, though I don’t like the grape flavored ones much so I’d appreciate it if you took a few of those.”

#sometimes she writes #oc writing #Dr. Smiles #my ocs #love this guy fr he's my favorite right after Hans #bronco once again dealing with freaks #Bronco #my writing

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piedelune · 11 months

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From the Depths | ממעמקים

Part 1: Abyssal Plain

Chapter 3: The Weight of Absence

@fuure and I proudly present chapter 3 of our multi-part Newmann fic, From The Depths!

Authors: @fuure & @piedelune

Fandom: Pacific Rim

Relationships: Hermann Gottlieb x Newton Geiszler

Rating: Mature

Chapter Summary: Hermann's days are dotted with strange and alarming interactions with the elusive Dr. Geiszler -- until one day the man disappears completely. Anxious to keep Newt from being listed as AWOL, Hermann has to use the memories he absorbed in the Drift to track him down.

Excerpt:

Hermann passed his hand over the cardboard lid of his memory box, and stole a furtive glance at Newton. He was so handsome in a better-styled outfit that it almost felt unfair: gone were the wrinkles, the sloppy necktie, the hand-mended leather jacket and black pinstripe jeans, the chunky steel-toe boots. He had a waistcoat over the dress shirt that flowed seamlessly with fitted, straight-leg trousers and nicer, pointed-toe boots with a hint of a heel.

Hermann wrenched his eyes from Newt’s tapered waist and forced a smile. His palm, damp from anxiety, flexed over his cane’s handle; he longed to apologise for the bad vibes and clear up the misunderstandings that were clearly abundant between them, but he didn't want to scare him away. He certainly didn’t want to become nonverbal again.

"I've… just been trying to get in touch with you for a while."

Newt sighed. "Yeah…"

"You're looking smart," Hermann said after a pause, then the rest came without thinking. "B-because, when I saw you that night last week, you looked —"

“You know, looks like I got everything last time I was here. You have fun with your dusty books, my man, I'ma head out."

"Newton, just wait a second — w-wait, damn you!" Hermann snapped, his voice cracking as he hurried over. «For the love of God… please listen to me… for just a minute…»

Why am I always chasing you?!

☣️ READ IT HERE! ☣️

#pacific rim #newmann #newtmann #hermann gottlieb #newton geiszler #fuure #piedelune

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npcemi · 10 months

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Welcome to my Meet Cute where Jason is a hopeless romantic whose inner voice is essentially a Jane Austen novel. Part 3

So, shorter update now that I am back from the hospital.

Jason strolled leisurely up the steps to Wayne Manor, his mind burdened with memories of the past. The Manor held an air of discomfort for him, despite the family's efforts to mend their relationships. Bitterness still lingered in Jason's heart, especially in regard to his connection with Bruce. Though the man-made occasional strides to bridge the gap between them, there were moments when Jason found his attempts lacking. Steeling himself, Jason hesitated before approaching the grand door.

Drawing in a hesitant breath, Jason knocked on the door, which swung open to reveal Alfred Pennyworth, the esteemed butler of the Wayne family. Alfred possessed a kind and even temperament, his patience akin to that of a seasoned hunter. He was the most respected figure among the Waynes, and his retribution was feared even by Damian.

"Master Jason, it is good to see you. I was concerned you might not come," Alfred greeted him with a soft, grateful smile. Jason's brow furrowed, for he had not received an invitation nor sent word of his arrival tonight. By all reasonable measures, he should be an unexpected guest.

"It’s good to see you too Alfred." Jason's voice carried a tone softer and more hesitant than usual. He followed the butler through the elegant expanse of Wayne Manor.

"Everyone is awaiting your presence in the drawing room, Master Jason," Alfred informed him, guiding him down the hall before allowing Jason to proceed on his own. Jason's heart quickened its pace, for Alfred's words hinted at something beyond his comprehension. What did Alfred mean by "everyone was waiting for him"? Jason had come to the manor seeking advice on how to handle the invitation to the grand opening of the new FentonWorks building, which had recently emerged near his domain of Crime Alley.

Approaching the door to the drawing-room, Jason found it opened by his brother Richard, who ushered him inside. Consternation washed over Jason as he took in the presence of those assembled within the room. Richard, Cassandra, Barbara, Timothy, Damian, and Bruce--all directed an unnerving gaze toward him.

"Guys, what is this all about?" Jason's voice remained smooth and composed, concealing the turmoil within.

We’ve been concerned. You haven’t been acting like yourself, despite you saying the pit rage™ has been quieter," Barbara spoke with a soft and gentle tone, while nods of agreement circled the room.

Richard placed a reassuring hand on Jason's shoulder. "Ever since the Gala at the beginning of the summer, you haven’t been mopey and more aggressive on patrols." Jason was astonished by his brother's accusation. There was no conceivable way his demeanor had taken a downward spiral. The scandalous implication revolted him.

"Since the Gala? What happened at the Gala?" Barbara inquired.

"The redheaded Fenton woman rejected Todd," Damian interjected, his voice sharp and unfiltered.

"I was not rejected! I simply asked Jazz to join me for coffee the next day, if she was interested. Obviously, she was not. No cause for concern," Jason retorted, growing weary of his youngest brother's insistence on contradicting him.

" That’s not why I’m here, I have this invite…" Jason attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction, only to be abruptly interrupted. "Yes, that is why we invited you here," Damian interjected once more, cutting off Jason's intended purpose for visiting Wayne Manor.

Jason retrieved the invitation he had brought, showcasing it to the group. Everyone's attention focused on the piece of paper, which invited him to the grand opening of FentonWorks Gotham Branch. The names on the invitation included Red Hood, Harvey Dent, Oswald Cobblepot, Selina Kyle, Waylon Jones, Dr. Pamela Isley, and Dr. Harleen Quinzel.

"Oh," the collective dismay echoed from their lips, as the true cause of Jason's worries became apparent.

_______________________________________________________________

So for the next chapter, I haven't decided which POV I want the Fenton Works Gotham Branch grand opening to be. pros for Jazz's POV: Danny is chaos and we get her internal monolog when meeting Redhood

Pros for Jason's POV: Danny filtered through Jason's lens would be pretty funny. Jason's internal monolog angst.

#jason todd #jazz fenton #dpxdc au #dpxdc #dp

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deadpuppetboi · 7 months

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Goretober Day 8: Mutation

It has been approximately three days, fifteen minutes, and twenty-eight seconds since the pain had surfaced.

Shivers had previously plundered the figure's body, beginning in the late hours of the night and continuing until the early hours of the morning. Each time their heartbeat was the same time their pain ransacked their complete body. Their backside had two bumps that grew by a few hours as the figure yelled out in pain.

Dr. Emile Dorian chose to keep a safe distance from the figure rather than administer pain medicine.

He thinks this a significant development, his gaze drawn to the figure straining to stand on their two feet. Or, as the figure continued to yell, claws, cut talons scraping the concrete ground with vigor. Their clawed hands grabbed their arms, feathers flapping in exasperation. Their breathing became more agile, as did the jerking of their body, which bowed awkwardly to the will of the pain that gripped them.

This figure, this creature, was one of, if not the, doctor's most successful experiments.

He's never tested on birds previously, preferring to focus on primates, felines, and the occasional canine. But never, ever birds. Birds had never occurred to him to test the limits of the T-99 Mutigen, but he had an inkling that it may work. Twenty years were spent researching how he could birth a new line of creatures from animals and develop an anthropomorphic creature that was not a true man but only a copy of one.

He had days to study birds beforehand, spending time on a normal park bench feeding the local crows to make an informed judgment. A few had arrived, while others had flown away, clearly unable to trust a human man.

He hadn't expected to form a relationship with any of them, especially the one in front of him, Corvus. The sweet little animal, definitely the runt of the litter, accepted whatever food was supplied to them to help them grow as large and strong as their brothers. But it's naïve to have to believe a human man solely because they've been fed something new and pleasant.

Corvus' shouts broke the doctor's stream of thinking, his gaze drawn to the bulges on their back, which were moving rapidly.

They made a motion to ask for help before snapping their body forward, claws digging at the ground, and shrieked. Their back tore away, and two slots of flesh and feathers tore away, revealing something painful and damp. Blood spilled from the unexpected breaking, bones popping out of place as two enormous appendages sprang through. Black feathers tore and flew around, falling softly as the appendages grew, overshadowing the humanoid bird as a whole.

They suddenly relaxed, finally allowing their bodies to mend as their wings reflexively spread out. They finally let go of their meaty prison, and the blood poured as they calmed themselves, the pain no more than shock coursing through their veins. They barely heard the heavy steel door open, a recognizable figure entering inside to study the mutation up close.

"Father," Corvus mumbled, in a language incomprehensible to man but known to birds

“Father, help-”

The sound of Dorian's cane hitting the concrete ground below caused the figure to abruptly shudder. Their newly developed wings wrapped themselves briefly before settling down, as though like a blanket over their trembling body.

"Speak, Corvus," Dorian said authoritatively, "speak as if you've been speaking my tongue your entire life."

The figure slowly opened its beak, its throat straining as it fought to say the right words. Their beaks closed for a minute, their dark eyes shaking as they battled to find the words to communicate. They made a move to speak, issuing a chirp before stopping, their gaze catching the doctor's hold on his cane stiffening.

“…hurts…”

They finally croaked in clear English, a whimper dying in the back of their throat.

“It hurts.”

#tw abuse #tw gore #tw blood #tw animal abuse #oh yeah I had a dc oc #I just forget to talk about them lmao #goretober #goretober 2023 #corvus #detective comics #dc #dc oc #batman #batman oc #batman the animated series #btas #dr emile dorian #my writing

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bethanydelleman · 2 years

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Mary Crawford is no “Seductress”

I get so annoyed with people calling Mary a “seductress”. We see women who might fit that title in Jane Austen, most notably Lady Susan (she’s also by far the most successful), but Mary is just attractive and she isn’t often doing it on purpose.

When the Crawfords first arrive at Mansfield, Mary does try to flirt with Tom, but he shows that he isn’t interested and she gives up pretty quickly, no mending pens here. Then she falls for Edmund BY ACCIDENT. She is almost annoyed at herself, he’s a younger son! Not the type of guy she prefers! We can see that Edmund falls in love with her very naturally, no arts and allurements required, just some harp and witty comments:

A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and both placed near a window, cut down to the ground, and opening on a little lawn, surrounded by shrubs in the rich foliage of summer, was enough to catch any man’s heart. The season, the scene, the air, were all favourable to tenderness and sentiment. Mrs. Grant and her tambour frame were not without their use: it was all in harmony; and as everything will turn to account when love is once set going, even the sandwich tray, and Dr. Grant doing the honours of it, were worth looking at. Without studying the business, however, or knowing what he was about, Edmund was beginning, at the end of a week of such intercourse, to be a good deal in love; and to the credit of the lady it may be added that, without his being a man of the world or an elder brother, without any of the arts of flattery or the gaieties of small talk, he began to be agreeable to her. She felt it to be so, though she had not foreseen, and could hardly understand it; for he was not pleasant by any common rule: he talked no nonsense; he paid no compliments; his opinions were unbending, his attentions tranquil and simple. There was a charm, perhaps, in his sincerity, his steadiness, his integrity, which Miss Crawford might be equal to feel, though not equal to discuss with herself. She did not think very much about it, however: he pleased her for the present; she liked to have him near her; it was enough.

Women like Lucy Steele, Isabella Thorpe, and Caroline Bingley go out of their way to try and attract men, but Edmund actually requests to hear Mary play her harp for him. Mary is pretty and fun, she doesn’t have to try to attract Edmund. She is also out of his league financially, so the idea that she would have to try is kind of silly, Edmund is reaching and she’s stooping. Now, we know that morally, Edmund is superior, but in the eyes of the world Edmund would have been a champion for getting someone like Mary as a second son.

Also, as I will always point out, the reasons she falls for him are very good. She likes that he’s honest and upright. But my main point is, she doesn’t even want to attract him and she spends the rest of the book trying to decide if she actually wants him or not, because of his finanical position.

#mary crawford #edmund bertram #mansfield park #jane austen #mary is not a seductress #she doesn't know what she wants #also both people involved are hot #hotBertrams #Edmund is the finest in a party of 16 #is it so strange that hot people fell in love?

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jojoandthejobros · 2 years

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TW: CONTAINS DESCRIPTIONS OF BODY HORROR

So I have an idea for the DnD campaign that I will be DMing.

Chthon the god of chaos, intrusive thoughts, and insanity can bring other things, people, etc. into the universe that campaign is in. Seeing into different universes and pulling different things, people, etc. from them requires to you to go completely insane to where it breaks the forth wall, etc. Only the highest leveled characters that serve Chthon could do that stuff. Chthon's goal in the campaign is to raise Romulus (the god of rage and destruction) to life and wreck as much havock as possible.

Chthon is taken from my current DM's campaign and he OKed the fact that I could have my campaign basically be an alternate universe from his. Chthon canonically has brought people, things, etc. from different universes (Darth Vader, Dr. Strange, the Borg) into the campaign.

One of the things that I plan on having Chthon bringing over is basically multiple horror themed Spiderlings (Spider-Man, Spider Gwen, etc.). They have most of the same abilities as regular Spiderlings, such as walking on the ceiling and walls, web shooting, and Spidey Sense. What makes them different is the way that they look, walk, etc.

Example:

You enter a dark cave to escape the rain for a while. It was raining ever since 10 minutes ago and it was raining really hard. Your clothes are soaked and you didn't want to get sick, so you went to the closest thing that could protect you from it. You decide to look for something to start a fire. Maybe if you were lucky, you could find some flint. You already have some bits of steel from your broken sword (you decided to save the pieces to mend it back together if it was possible, you're sure because you're not a blacksmith. But it would save you some money and the sword itself meant a lot to you)

As you search for some flint, you hear the cracking and popping of joints all around you, you turn and look with your torch as something or someone scurrying away from the light. You eventually are able to get a glance of one on the ceiling. It's pale hairless skin stretched over it's bones and very little muscles. It would have been less unsettling if the creature had hair on it until you hear something right behind you. You instantly turn to see what looks like to be a human, or what used to be a human crawling on the ground, limbs bent unnaturally to look like a spider. It looks similar to the bald one, but covered in dirty, straggly body hair that made you want to puke. It screeches at you and shoots sticky webbing at you and you are stuck to the nearest wall. You wiggle and writhe, desperate to escape. You would have rather been outside in the rain if you had known that this would happen.

If you use this idea, please give me credit. Reblogs are welcomed and very much appreciated.

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j-hawthorn · 3 years

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Quiet in a Storm

(Sam Vimes is wounded, and Sybil and Havelock have a quiet time with their idiot man. You can find this on AO3 here)

Sybil sat in the drawing room staring into an empty wine glass. Her abandoned dinner now cold in the dining room. Rain bashed against the windows. Watchmen milled about, whispering quietly between themselves. That sweet Cheery sat beside her, their knees touching. But Sybil didn’t notice any of it. She barely registered when Dr Lawn came in, drying his hands on a towel. Most of the watchmen left the room. Cheery stayed. When Sybil looked up she noticed Carrot standing politely in the doorway.

Mossy pulled up a chair to sit in front of her. Sybil rolled her shoulders back, head high. That Ramkin steel bolt slamming into place. The duchess locked eyes with the doctor. And took Cheery’s hand in hers.

Mossy Lawn sighed, rubbing his forehead. ‘Okay,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve done what I could. He’s steady and asleep. But...it was close. He lost a lot of blood, Sybil.’

Cheery’s grip on her hand tightened, but Sybil just nodded, ‘I’ve had a room made up for you. I would feel better knowing you were close at hand. Should you be -’ she faltered, then shook herself. ‘Should you be needed.’

He simply nodded, getting to his feet. He left with Carrot, the pair speaking low. Sybil sucked in a sharp breath, clapping her hands together, ‘Right! Cheery, dear, I think everything is as sorted as it can be. Best you be off back to work, or home, or...something. Thank you for sitting with me, I truly appreciate it.’

‘Of course,’ Cheery said softly. She flashed Sybil a small, frightened smile before heading out. The door clicked quietly shut.

Sybil sunk back into the sofa, face in her hands. She sobbed. Great heaving sobs that made her ribs ache. That blasted man! Hands shaking, she fumbled through her pockets for a hanky. A hand landed on her shoulder. Sybil looked up and went to speak, but all that came out was another loud sob.

Havelock Vetinari drew her in close, arms around her shoulders. She cried into his chest, his hand on the nape of her neck. He smelled like rain. His robes wet and cold. Havelock shivered as he held her, but didn’t move. How long they stayed like that she didn’t know, but eventually Sybil calmed. She sucked in long, slow breaths, shifting to lay her head on his shoulder.

‘You need to have a shower,’ She said. ‘You’re freezing.’

‘I’ll be fine-’

Sybil angrily shook her head, ‘You’ll catch a damn cold.’

Havelock took her hand in his, bringing her knuckles to his lips, ‘I will be fine, Sybil. I don’t have a change of clothes -’

‘Yes you do, you always have spares here. They’re in the bedroom. Sam always grumbles about them in his drawers-’ she stopped, tears falling again.

‘I hear the culprits have been caught,’ he said softly. ‘Have you gone to see him?’

Sybil shook her head. They stood together, hands clasped tight and went up stairs.

The bedroom curtains were drawn and the room was silent except for the pounding rain, and Sam’s shallow breathing. Letting go of Havelock’s hand, Sybil silently picked her way over to the bed.

Sam looked awful. Pale and swollen, his face was a mess of bruises and cuts. He lay on his back, bandages on his chest visible just above the line of blankets. With tender hands, Sybil lifted the blanket.

She sighed deeply, tears welling, ‘Oh Sam.’

Carefully she lay on the bed, gingerly stroking his hair. Havelock sat on the opposite side, looking over Vimes. He placed his hand lightly on the commander’s shoulder. Sybil watched his thumb move back and forth over Sam’s skin, the touch so tender it made her heart break.

You blasted fool, she thought, pressing a kiss to Sam’s cheek. You can’t do this to us.

‘...Sybil?’ Sam’s voice rasped, barely above a whisper. He haphazardly patted her thigh, and cocked a small smile.

‘Sam Vimes, I’m going to skin you,’ she hissed, kissing his cheek. She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, ‘You bastard.’

‘Yeah...sorry,’ He muttered. ‘Come here,’ He lifted his arm with a wince.

Carefully Sybil tucked herself against his side, crying softly as he kissed the top of her head. She looked up to see Havelock lean in, and whisper something in Sam’s ear. The commander grunted, then turned his head, cheek pressed to Havelock’s. The men grew still, and Sybil closed her eyes, listening to the sound of her husband’s heart.

When he and Havelock pulled apart, Sam frowned, plucking weakly at the Patrician’s top, ‘You’re soaked to the bone man, get in the shower.’

‘Oh for goodness sake,’ Havelock rolled his eyes, standing up.

‘Yer got some kit in my middle drawer,’ Sam yawned, kissing Sybil’s head again. ‘Taking up more space than you ought, by the way.’

Sybil smiled, eyes still closed, and she listened to Havelock wrench open a drawer, muttering to himself. Sam chuckled. His breathing hitched a little and he coughed. Vimes winced, hissing through his teeth.

Hushing him, Sybil kissed the underside of his jaw, cupping his cheek. ‘Go back to sleep, Sam,’ she whispered.

‘Yeah...I will. When...when he gets back,’ Sam said, voice strained.

‘Darling-’

Sam sighed, ‘I just need to know you’re both here...’

‘I was so frightened,’ Sybil winced, voice breaking. ‘Sam, you...you could have-’

‘Yeah. Yeah I know,’ he hugged her. It was one armed and weak, but the contact made Sybil’s pain ease just a little. She settled on his chest once more, listening to the beat of his heart and raggedy breathing.

The door to the ensuite opened and Havelock limped out. He was not dressed in own clothing. Instead he was swamped by one of Sam’s jumpers, Sybil’s mending visible in large chunks of off coloured wool. His wet hair stuck up in all directions. Sybil snorted, watching him open a cupboard to pull out extra blankets. Passing one to Sybil, Havelock wrapped his around his shoulders, laying down next to Vimes.

He kissed Sam, stroking his cheek with the back of his fingers. While her men were distracted, Sybil got up, getting changed into a loose nightshirt. In the few minutes it took her, Sam had already started to weaken. His head lolled onto Havelock’s shoulder, eyes half closed.

Settling beside him, Sybil stroked his hair, kissing by his ear. ‘We’re both here now. Go to sleep my love.’

Vimes gave a small grunt, lifting a hand weakly. Sybil took it, laying beside him. Her thumb ran over his skin, and he seemed to relax and soon his breathing evened in that slow rhythm of sleep.

‘Thank you for being here,’ Sybil whispered into the dark.

‘Of course,’ Havelock replied, the rain nearly drowning out his voice. ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’

‘Havelock-’

‘He’ll pull through. I know it.’

She smiled sadly to herself, holding her husband’s hand tight, ‘Of course he will. I’ve decided he will, and I get what I want.’

Havelock chuckled then. They fell into silence, listening to the storm rage outside.

‘You always do, my dear Sybil. You always do.’

#sybil always gets what she wants #you best watch out Sam Vimes #Writing sybil sad made me sad #I love her #Sybil/Vimes/Vetinari #vetvimes #discworld #my writing #also on ao3 #Sybil Ramkin #Sam Vimes #havelock vetinari

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thecreaturecodex · 4 years

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Demon Lord, Abraxas

Image © Paizo Publishing, from Book of the Damned. Artist unknown.

[Commissioned by @tar-baphon. The last of the demon lords I have in queue, thank god. Don’t get me wrong, I like Abraxas specifically quite a bit. But these quasi deities are a lot of work, and I’ve gotten somewhat burned out on them. I have no plans to return to this vein for a while.

Now, Abraxas himself... this is an entity with a lot of history, although it is somewhat mysterious. Its role may have been as a Gnostic angel, an apotropaic symbol, or even the true name of God. Or maybe all of these to different people. It has since been demonized, as seen in the Dictionnaire Infernal, which PFRPG borrows heavily from. It may even be linked to that most magical of words, abracadabra.]

Demon Lord, Abraxas CR 30 CE Outsider This green-skinned horror has a head like a fanged bird skull, with a membranous crest growing from the back of its head like a crown. From the waist up it is roughly humanoid, but in place of legs it has two thick serpents, each with draconic crests of their own. It clutches a metal shield in one hand and in the other, a whip that appears to be made from a living snake.

Abraxas Master of the Final Incantation CE male demon lord of forbidden lore, magic and snakes Domains Chaos, Evil, Knowledge, Magic Subdomains Arcane, Demon, Memory, Thought Favored Weapon whip Unholy Symbol demonic face encircled by a serpent, two snake tails emerging from its mouth Worshipers drow, arcane spellcasters, spirit nagas Minions mariliths, fiendish and monstrous snakes, xacabras For information of Abraxas’ obedience and boons, see Book of the Damned

Abraxas is among the most powerful of the demon lords, and he is the keeper of untold magical secrets. He favors magic that results in destruction and pain, and claims to be the author of a wide number of spells. Despite his focus on devastating magic, he is often calm and self-possessed in demeanor, and has a reputation (carefully cultivated) of being easy to deal with. He takes an interest in the mortal world, and often answers contact other plane spells—although he always has ulterior motives behind how he answers questions. His cult is relatively widespread among amoral researchers and magic-users, and most major cities have at least a small shrine to the Master tucked away in the corner of a library or archive.

Abraxas is never caught unprepared in combat, and he typically does ample research on creatures he feels could threaten him in order to tailor his tactics. He has access to every arcane spell in existence, although he must prepare them ahead of time. He typically looses his shield to fight on his behalf while using barrages of spells. If magic is insufficient to power through a combat, he uses his intelligent whip, Sophia, and his bites to inflict grievous damage to enemy ability scores, leaving them broken and drained. Abraxas possesses knowledge of the Final Incantation, which utterly unmakes magic, but using it suppresses his own magical abilities. The Final Incantation, unsurprisingly, is a weapon of last resort for Abraxas.

Abraxas’ Abyssal realm is Pleroma, a land of mists and veils. At first glance, it appears a paradise of knowledge and peace, but its custodians extract grueling labor and unfathomable prices from those who come to seek enlightenment. Abraxas often maintains the guise of a distant but kind overseer here, who cultivates worship in himself even as he directs his underlings to torment. One of his favorite lies is to claim to be an avatar of the Monad—aeons are commonly kept as prisoner in Pleroma and forced to serve Abraxas through compulsions.

Shield of Abraxas—Minor Artifact The Shield of Abraxas is a +3 bashing heavy steel shield. Its enhancement bonus applies to both its shield bonus and to its attack and damage bonus when used as a weapon. It may be released to fight as a dancing weapon, during which time it still provides its shield bonus to the wielder’s AC, as if it were an animated shield.

Sophia—Minor Artifact Sophia is Abraxas’ whip, which serves the Master as much as a majordomo and advisor as she does a weapon. She is a +3 deadly unholy whip with an Intelligence 10, Wisdom 20 and Charisma 20. Sophia speaks Abyssal and can communicate telepathically at a range of 100 ft., has 60 ft. darkvision, and can move under her own power. She has 10 ranks each in Bluff, Diplomacy and Sense Motive. Her special purpose is to defend Abraxas and his cult—in pursuit of this purpose, she may cast divine power at will. Abraxas may use his mind siphon ability through Sophia, but this is not an inherent property of the weapon.

Abraxas CR 30 XP 9,830,400 CE Large outsider (chaos, demon, evil, extraplanar) Init +10; Senses darkvision 60 ft., greater arcane sight, Perception +49, true seeing Aura unholy (DC 31) Defense AC 48, touch 23, flat-footed 38 (-1 size, +10 Dex, +4 deflection, +20 natural, +5 shield) hp 752 (35d10+560); regeneration 20 (deific or mythic) Fort +31, Ref +32, Will +33 Defensive Abilities Abyssal resurrection, freedom of movement, superior spell resistance; DR 20/cold iron, epic, and good; Immune ability damage, ability drain, charm effects, compulsion effects, curse effects, death effects, electricity, energy drain, pain effects, petrification, poison; Resist acid 30, cold 30, fire 30; SR 45 Offense Speed 50 ft., climb 20 ft., swim 20 ft. Melee Shield of Abraxas +48/+43/+38/+33 (2d6+16), Sophia +48/+43/+38 (1d4+16 plus 2d6 unholy plus mind siphon), 3 bites +45 (2d6+7 plus poison) or 3 bites +47 (2d6+13 plus poison) Space 10 ft.; Reach 10 ft. (20 ft. with Sophia) Special Attacks Final Incantation, venom mastery Spell-like Abilities CL 30th, concentration +43 (+47 casting defensively) Constant—detect good, detect law, freedom of movement, greater arcane sight, true seeing, unholy aura (self only, DC 31) At will—astral projection, blasphemy M(DC 30), cloudkill M (DC 30), destruction (DC 30), greater dispel magic, greater teleport, harm M (DC 29), mind probe (DC 27), prismatic spray M (DC 30) 3/day—fire storm M (DC 31), horrid wilting (DC 31), quickened mass inflict pain (DC 29), moment of prescience, summon demons 1/day—dominate monster (DC 32), foresight M, implosion (DC 32), mage’s disjunction M (DC 32), power word: kill M, prismatic sphere M (DC 32) Spells Prepared CL 20th, concentration +31 (+35 casting defensively) 9th (6/day)—mass hold monster (DC 34), meteor swarm M (DC 34), time stop M 8th (6/day)—discern location, greater prying eyes, polymorph any object (DC 33) 7th (7/day)—finger of death M (DC 32), greater scrying (DC 32), waves of exhaustion 6th (7/day)—disintegrate M (DC 31), greater heroism, repulsion (DC 31) 5th (7/day)—cone of cold M (DC 30), feeblemind (DC 30), mind fog (DC 30), overland flight 4th (7/day)—bestow curse (DC 29), crushing despair (DC 29), enervation M, greater invisibility 3rd (8/day)—displacement, haste M, tongues, vampiric touch M 2nd (9/day)—fox’s cunning, mirror image M, scorching ray M, touch of idiocy 1st (9/day)—identify, mage armor M, magic aura (DC 26), magic missile M 0th—acid splash, arcane mark, light, mage hand, mending, message, prestidigitation, read magic, resistance M = Abraxas can use the mythic version of this spell or spell-like ability in his Abyssal domain Statistics Str 36, Dex 31, Con 42, Int 41, Wis 33, Cha 36 Base Atk +35; CMB +49 (+51 disarm or trip); CMD 73 (75 vs. disarm or trip) Feats Combat Casting, Combat Expertise, Combat Reflexes, Craft Construct, Craft Magic Arms and Armor, Craft Wondrous Item, Double Slice, Greater Two-Weapon Fighting, Heighten Spell, Improved Disarm, Improved Shield Bash, Improved Trip, Improved Two-Weapon Fighting, Magical Aptitude, Multiattack, Quicken SLA (mass inflict pain), Quicken Spell, Two-Weapon Fighting Skills Acrobatics +45, Bluff +51, Climb +36, Diplomacy +51, Fly +43, Intimidate +48, Knowledge (arcana, dungeoneering, engineering, geography, history, local, nature, nobility, planes, religion) +60, Linguistics +53, Perception +49, Sense Motive +49, Spellcraft +57, Stealth +44, Swim +36, Use Magic Device +55; Racial Modifiers +10 Knowledge (all) Languages Abyssal, Draconic, Infernal, 35 others, telepathy 300 ft. SQ armed casting, demon lord traits, gnosis, item masteryEcology Environment any land or underground (Abyss) Organization solitary (unique) Treasure triple standard (Shield of Abraxas, Sophia, other treasure) Special Abilities Armed Casting (Ex) Abraxas can perform somatic components for spells while wielding a weapon and shield. Final Incantation (Su) Once per day, Abraxas can invoke the Final Incantation, which unmakes magic. This is treated as a mage’s disjunction spell at CL 30th (DC 40 for magic items), except that creatures take 5 points per spell level of damage for every spell on them that is dispelled. It has a 60% chance to dispel antimagic auras and destroy artifacts. Once he uses this ability, Abraxas cannot use any spells, spell-like abilities or supernatural abilities for 10 minutes. Gnosis (Ex) Abraxas treats all Knowledge skills as class skills, and gains a +10 racial modifier on all Knowledge skills. Item Mastery (Ex) Abraxas can use all spell trigger and spell completion items as if they were on his spell list. Mind Siphon (Su) A creature that Abraxas strikes with Sophia has its mental abilities drained. If the creature succeeds a DC 40 Will save, it merely takes 1d4 points of ability damage to its highest mental ability score. If it fails, it takes 1d6 points of ability drain to its highest ability score and loses the use of one of its highest level spells, if it is a spellcaster. When Abraxas uses this ability against a spellcaster, it gains a spell slot equal to the level of the spell lost. This is a mind-influencing effect, and the save DC is Charisma based. Poison (Su) Bite—injury; save Fort DC 45; frequency 1/round per 6/rounds; effect 1d6 damage to the ability of Abraxas’ choice; cure 2 consecutive saves. The save DC is Constitution based and includes a +2 racial bonus from Abraxas’ venom mastery ability. If in an antimagic field or similar effect, Abraxas’ poison is an extraordinary ability that deals 1d6 Con drain. Spells Abraxas can prepare and cast spells as a 20th level arcanist. He does not gain any other abilities of the arcanist class, such as arcane reservoir. Superior Spell Resistance (Su) Abraxas can allow spells to bypass his spell resistance whenever he chooses, even if it is not his turn. Three times per day, if a targeted spell fails to overcome his spell resistance, he can choose to reflect it on its caster, as per a spell turning effect. Venom Mastery (Ex) Abraxas gains a +2 racial bonus on the save DCs of any poison spell or effect he creates. Creatures immune to poison are still subject to poisons produced by Abraxas unless their poison immunity comes from a mythic source.

#demon lord #abraxas #pathfinder 1e #commissions #gnostic

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cayenne-twilight · 4 years

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Emmy: I’m not forcing you to dig up old trauma, but how much could it possibly hurt to try and reconnect with them? Des is your brother, after all, even if you didn’t quite grow up together. Not to mention Randall who was your best friend for years in high school. I know it took a lot to forget them, professor, but things are different now and I suggest you give mending your relationships a chance.

Layton: I suppose you are correct. Deep down I do believe I would like to reunite with them and catch up. Though I would need some time to steel myself beforehand, I could certainly invite them over for tea one day.

At the same time, elsewhere:

Desmond after three martinis: let’s break into the history museum, shall we?

Randall, having already made up with him over the whole manipulation thing: oh you know Angela and Henry don’t like me doing crimes, Des.

Desmond: oh cooome oooon, they have loads of priceless relics cooped up in their archives that no one would miss.

Randall, laughing: Whatever, let’s go. Dr. Triton is going to be *so* mad heheheh

#professor layton #emmy altava #hershel layton #randall ascot #desmond sycamore #descole #jean descole #henry ledore #angela ledore #clark triton #Henry: he should have been back by now #Angela: Randall! you don’t have to enter your own home through the window #Randall followed by Des: you do when you’re smuggling in ancient idols babey #Angela: >:(#and Randall slept on the couch that night #but it was worth it #he thinks #CT read the tags

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divinebronzegoddess · 16 days

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Grey Reflections: Episode 23—Unfair Advantage

If you would like to “Buy Me a Glass of Wine,” you can click this link or the ***DONATE*** link at the bottom of the menu on the left. All previous disclaimers apply. Episode 23—Unfair Advantage CHRISTIAN We all believe that we have just witnessed the latest evolution of Sophia Loren Taylor. I only saw the back of her—twice—looking down from a high vantage point, and she looked and sounded like a…

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mauserfrau · 4 years

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Bordertober - Time For Two, Part 1

Tyreen’s view of waking up at Dr. Black’s. Contains medical/injury material, Tyreen being gross and some vaguely hinted at Troyreen. Note that Part 2 is shaping up to be more obvious about this. Probably nothing graphic, since I’m planning to recut all of the Dr. Black shorts into a single story. Oh, and I put her H/C post at the bottom.

Waking up at Dr. Black’s had been embarrassing more than anything else. She’d had no idea where she was the first few times she came around. There were now two holes in her torso and two in her right arms. She couldn’t do anything for herself. Ugh-- that part was the worst. Troy gave her a bath with fucking people wipes. She got sacks full of doped up skag pups and chickens for food. She did not get to toilet herself. Nope, stuck in bed except for leg stretches twice a day, no complaints, ring the bell if you need anything.

And then that woman, leaning over her, poking her with clamps and sounds because she couldn’t use her hands. Well, it took the fever rolling off of her for Tyreen to take notice of it, but Dr. Black seems to keep all of her dexterity in those fingers of hers. The rest of her had some mild form of dyskinesia, probably an old injury pretty far down her spine. It happened to make her look like easy prey, but Tyreen figurds not devouring the person who procured her pain meds might work out better in the long run.

Meds meaning she slept a lot. Actually, Tyreen wasn’t sure that she’d ever slept so much in her whole life. She spent most of the days under for a few restless hours at dawn or dusk spent ticking over a third-hand ECHO and feeling her guts lurch at random as the moon smirked down the operating theater skylight. She made it to the bottom of a music swapping forum she’d been eyeing and listened to old school synth jazz while reading Vonnegut or something called “Pirate AU Fanfiction” which she didn’t realize was derivative until she found the one starring Arthur Gordon Pym of all characters.

So it wasn’t like she was bored. Hell, the weird thrum of her body knitting back together could have kept her occupied.

The stillness in her bones though ached worse than her bullet wound.

Tyreen sighed. She ran her hand down her torso to the sore, bruised place trailing off from her entry wound. She pressed ever so lightly until her belly twinged and her toes curled.

This didn’t so much remind her of the fact she was going to be wearing a lovely S&S Munitions bullet for the rest of her life. It reminded her of that other itch she couldn’t scratch, the one that was going to take talking instead of prowling to fix.

~*~

Dr. Black at least took hints. Tyreen bitched at her about being woken up closer to noon than not exactly once. Next time? Dawn hadn’t even cracked

She got her vitals taken and her bandages changed. The IV came out and that was the only blood that leaked out of her that day. Her wrappings still got all sticky and rheumy, but they weren’t brown anymore in that way that kind of made her want to suck on them.

So, a lot of next times later, it finally happened: “Well, you’re healing up nicely if I do say so myself. What do you want to do first?”

Weird. Tyreen never asked Troy what he wanted to do when he started improving after a spell or a fall. She squinted at Dr. Black. “Is that a trick question?”

“Well, I don’t recommend BASE jumping for obvious reasons, but no?” Not that Dr. Black sounded sure of this.

“I need my hair washed. That dry shampoo made it all sandy and shit. Then I wanna go outside and, you know.”

“I’m out of chickens, sorry.”

Tyreen rolled her eyes. She’d actually meant piss on a fence post and scope out the best vantages for ambushes, but she was getting hungry too, so of course the woman had to mention. “Whatever. Hair first.”

“Well, your brother and me already figured out how to do that since you’re still not cleared to shower because germ transfer. Get ready.”

The two of them maneuvered her onto one of the rolling stools and pushed her into the kitchen rather than any of the bathrooms-- for a woman living alone, Dr. Black had at least three according to her hallway.

Tyreen’s impression of the kitchen was what it smelled of some unfamiliar grassy-brown spice and eggs. Most food didn’t tempt her anymore, but there was something about the whiff of a runny yolk that got her tongue to stir. Anyway, the stainless steel sink had been scrubbed out and Tyreen knew where this was going. She groaned.

She’d been all of four the last time anybody washed her hair for her, let alone in a sink. Sink salons were for babies.

Troy’s hand rested on her shoulder. “It’s just for a couple of times. What else have I been doing for you? And did the world end, Ty?”

“Fine. I want two washes and extra gooey stuff.” She meant conditioner, but she flicked her tongue over her lips pronouncing it gooey stuff like a drunk her.

Troy blinked way too hard, but he nodded and finished wheeling her over.

So much for innuendo getting her anyplace today. He was probably stuck in his own head for a change. Contemplating caring for her. Like it was… like it was that big of a deal after all the trash that had happened.

Just like when they worked on her, Dr. Black handed over the equipment and he used it, though this time, easy on the instructions.

Troy bundled her up in a towel, wet her and worked the first round of shampoo in slow, scratching over the residue on her scalp and using the dish sprayer to double rinse. The whole time he leaned over her, face tight with concentration. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes and Tyreen couldn’t say she wanted him too, not even when he went for the wet/dry trimmer and neatened up her unintentional undercut.

“You want anymore off?” he asked the window and not her.

“Just get the really messed up part in the back.”

“OK, turn.”

The hum of the trimmer felt kind of nice on her damp skin; that and the way he combed his fingers over her fuzz after, even though the next spritz got her free of snibbles, would have without his intervention.

For the conditioner, he let that set and combed her out, streaking the remains of her bangs down her forehead, then rubbing them away from her eyebrows when they got too close.

Tyreen sighed up at him.

Since she caught his eyes, he did manage something resembling a smile and his fingers dragged against her for the last round of rinsing.

With him and her both patted dry, she finally got hoisted back to a sitting position, her hair dropping once more down her cheeks before she reached up, scruffing it out and sneezing by some coincidence.

Dr. Black stifled a laugh.

Dr. Black

Dr. Black was a small, fat woman with a crooked jaw and a crooked smile and a penchant for wearing hoop skirts with no panties underneath.

-Says her full name is Calvin Decker Black

-Has at least one ex-husband and is possibly using his name???

-Probably not a doctor, but close enough

-Good at working with what she has; absolute kludge queen

--Has an affection for out-of-date equipment, but can run almost any test off of her ECHO. Somehow. Don’t ask. ---Speaking of which, carries the Twin’s genomes around on hers and has heavily notated them. Heaven forbid that got into the wrong hands.

---Recognizable ECHO device with a formal Delft print

--Sometimes uses medical equipment for secondary purposes, i.e. pointing with a sound, employing that nice steel vomit tray as a casserole

-Cheerful, enthusiastic, curious, bit of a spazz, insensible to gore.

--It’s possible to get her and Mouthpiece going at the same time. Mind your eardrums.

-Loves food. Pretty good cook. Rather more fond of food other people have prepared.

-No, she doesn’t eat her patients! Any human flesh stored in her fridge is from other people, you silly.

--Yeah, I can’t in good conscience recommend her ‘famous breakfast scramble’.

-What’s she doing in the CoV? She’s the person who walked Troy through patching up Tyreen after Satellite. They couldn’t leave her running around after that. Apparently joined their caravan without complaint and has been riding around with them ever since.

-Has been known to dress up and give sermons or go out in the field for negotiations.

--Ugh. Torture takes so long. Don’t make her do that. We could have steak instead.

-Is mostly still around for Troy mending purposes nowadays.

#bordertober #border-tober #borderlands 3 #fanfic #fanfiction #medical ccontent #tyreen being gross #Tyreen Calypso #Tyreen Calypso PoV #Troy Calypso #original character #oc: Dr. Black #vauge Troyreen #domesticity #also OC headcanon

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 4 years

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S.T. REWRITE - S2:E6; Chapter Six, The Spy - [Pt. 3]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

Will’s connection to a shadowy evil grows stronger, but no one’s quite sure how to stop it. Elsewhere, Dustin and Steve forge an unlikely bond.

||3rd Person POV||

The cubes of meat hit the wooden boards with a wet slap. Traveling along the abandoned tracks is Dustin and Steve, each carrying a bucket of butchered meat. Their bait.

"All right, so let me get this straight," Steve sighs, looking at the boy just paces ahead of him. "You kept something you knew was probably dangerous in order to impress a girl who... who you just met?"

Dustin rolls his eyes, sighing irritably as he throws more bait on the track.

"All right, that's grossly oversimplifying things."

Steve shakes his head.

"I mean, why would a girl like some nasty slug anyway?"

"An interdimensional slug?" Dustin smirks. "Because it's awesome."

Steve picked up his pace, making his way to Dustin's side.

"Well, even if she thought it was cool, which she didn't, I... I just..." he shrugs, his lips forming a tight-lipped smile. "I don't know. I just feel like you're trying way too hard."

"Well, not everyone can have your perfect hair, alright?"

"It's not about the hair, man," Steve says, shrugging once more as he lazily kicks a stray pinecone from his path. "The key to girls is just... just acting like you don't care."

Dustin looks at him curiously, not expecting the insight.

"Even if you do?"

Steve nods. "Yeah, exactly m. If drives them nuts."

"Then what?"

"You just wait until, uh..." he pauses to throw another chuckle of bait behind him. "until you feel it."

"Feel what?"

"It's like before it's gonna storm, you know? You can't see it, but you can feel it, like this, uh... electricity, you know?"

A spark of recognition flickers across Dustin's face, and he nods eagerly.

"Oh, like the electromagnetic field when the clouds in the atmosphere--"

Steve shakes his head, an unimpressed look on his face. He head flicks to the side, sweeping away a stray lock of hair tickling his forehead.

"No, no, no, no, no. Like a... Like a sexual electricity."

A look of surprise crosses Dustin's face.

"Oh,"

The longer the day stretched on, the more Steve is bewildered at the ever-changing events he could never have foreseen. Nevertheless, he gestures to Dustin as he continues.

"You feel that and then you make your move."

There is a brief pause before Dustin asks simply.

"So that's when you kiss her?"

Steve's eyes widen, and he can't decide whether he should roll his eyes or laugh.

"No, whoa, whoa. Slow down, Romeo."

"Sorry." He mumbles.

"Sure, okay, some girls, yeah, they want you to he aggressive. You know, strong, hot and heavy, like a..." He shrugs once more, looking back at the boy who had begun to lag shyly behind. "I don't know, like a lion."

Dustin hums thoughtfully, his gloved hand reaching inside the white steel bucket as he listens.

"But others, you gotta be slow, you gotta be stealthy, like a..."

His mind travels back in time for the briefest of moments, his heartwarming at the memory of sneaking innocent moments with Nancy Wheeler. He finds himself smiling.

"Like a ninja."

"What type is Nancy?"

And just like that, his smile falters.

"Nancy's different. She's different than the other girls."

"Yeah, she seems pretty special, I guess."

"Yeah. Yeah, she is."

"But this girl's special, too, you know. It's just, like, something about her."

"Woah, woah, woah. Hey, hey, hey" Steve says, stopping them in their tracks and he turns to face Dustin.

"What?"

Steve studies the boy's body language, eyeing him suspiciously.

"You're not falling in love with this girl, are you?"

It is clear to Steve that Dustin has grown shocked and slightly uncomfortable.

"Uh, no. No."

His suspicious stare lingers, but he continues them down the tracks.

"Okay, good. Don't."

"I won't."

His attention returns to the tracks and laying the bait but his thoughts continue to spill from his lips.

"She's only going to break your heart, and you're way too young for that shit."

A thick silence settles between the duo once more, a common theme so far. His thoughts now louder than ever, amplified in the silent autumn air and Steve feels his pity for the boy growing. The kid's got heart, he can tell, and despite his better judgment, he feels a soft spot growing for him.

"Fabergé."

It's Dustin's turn to give a quizzical look, his brow quickly quirks.

"What?"

Steve gestures to his full head of hair, failing to meet Dustin's eye.

"It's Faberegé Organics. Use the shampoo and conditioner, and when your hair's damp... It's not wet, okay? When's its damp..."

"-Damp."

"You do four puffs of the Farrah Fawcett spray."

Steve doesn't have to see the look on Dustin's face to know the kid is grinning madly. He can hear the smirk in his voice, Dustin is clearly holding back a snicker and already Steve is beginning to regret his decision.

"Farrah Fawcett spray?"

"Yeah, Farrah Fawcet." Steve halts once more, making sure he towers over the boy as he jabs a finger in his face. "You tell anyone I just told you that and your ass is grass. You're dead, Henderson. Do you understand?"

Dustin nods, suppressing his smile as he avoids Steve's gaze.

"Yup."

A new silence blankets the air, with it a new sense of commonality, and understanding. It's comfortable. Another smirk tugs at Dustin's lips as they continue their journey, laying slabs of meat.

"Farrah Fawcett, really?"

Steve shrugs.

"I mean, she's hot."

The tension melts away in the wake of their forming bonds of friendship, they share a smile and an occasional nod. They are each surprised by the unexpected comfort each other’s company brought. Unbeknownst to the pair, the farther they ventured, the closer they got to the decaying tunnels beneath their feet. And to their right, a bright yellow flag planted in the dirt, a marking made earlier by Hopper and his team that signaled rotting earth and decay.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Hopper's fingers release the button as he lets out a defeated sigh. He sits in his truck, radio in hand and he has sent their secret code to El, letting her know it was him. But his shoulders sag, he knows what he has to say needs to be spoken aloud, no translated. Guilt has been a heavyweight on his shoulders since their fight, his inability to mend their mistakes and all the things left unsaid. His time in the tunnels crosses his mind, and how fearful he was when he believed he wouldn't make it.

Not by death, so much. Of course, it was frightening, but what really bothered him - scared him - is what would happen to her if he never saw her again. Not only the way they had left things but what would become of her? How would she stay safe and who could truly know how to take care of her, nurture her. The last thing he wanted was to leave her on her own, and he certainly didn't want to risk going inside and dealing with the problem at hand, without talking to her.

Or least letting her know he was sorry.

So here he sat, his body hunched forward as he lay against the wheel, the radio grasped tightly in his hand. His voice shakey and his heartbreaking. He took a deep breath, and let the words spill out.

"Hey, it's, uh... It's me. I know that I've been gone too long, and uh... It's-- I just, I want you to know that it's not about you and it's not about our fight. Okay?"

His garbled voice rings out in the empty cabin, no one around to hear him but the several boxes are strewn around the room.

"Something came up, and I will... I will explain it all when I see you. I just... I just want you to know that I'm not mad."

His grip on the radio and his own hand grows tighter, he clutches it tightly like a lifeline. He can no longer fight the tears that threaten to spill, and his eyes go red and puffy.

"I'm just sorry. About everything."

The hot tears sting his eyes, he has to stop to collect himself as best he can but it is almost no use at all. His heart lurches, but for the first time in a long time, it is alive. He wishes with all his might that he can be there with her, comfort her. But he knows he can't. He continues to battle the enormous lump in his throat but it is winning.

"I don't want you to get hurt at all. And I don't want to lose you."

He chokes on his tears, but he feels the soft rumble deep within his chest where a weak chuckle forms. He sniffles and speaks once more into the machine.

"Just make sure you heat up some real food. Not just Eggos. And I want you to eat all the peas, even if they're mushy and gross. And..."

He sighs, knowing more than anything he intends to and will keep his next promise. He would move mountains to keep it, and has every intention of showing her, and himself, that he will be there for her.

"I will be home soon."

The monitor clicks off, and the car and the empty cabin go silent.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"This is him last week."

The photo on the projector slides into place and shifts into focus. A map of Will's brain, for the most part normal, but sprinkled across the grayscale map is several flurries of activity. Patches of red.

"And there are the hippocampal abnormalities we had discussed. Nothing out of line with what we've seen from others suffering from post-traumatic. But..."

The medical team is gathered in one of several conference rooms as one member of the staff tasked to the Byers case reviews with the team, including Dr. Sam Owens. The man sighs in worry, his elbow is propped up on the wooden conference table and he massages his temples worriedly as the slide changes. It's another map of Will's brain, but there is an extra flurry of activity that frightens them all.

"this is Will from last night. And as you can see, there are now abnormalities I'm the limbic and paralimbic areas. And this..."

The man grows increasingly unsettled, and with great reluctance he advances the slide. Aside from a few select spots on the brain, the picture is enveloped in red. The Brian is drowning in the virus and there is more red than black.

"is from an hour ago."

Not a soul in room remains still, every lab coat shuffles uncomfortably. And suddenly the papers in their hands have become overwhelming captivating. Attempting to hide his own discomfort, Owens turns to his team and gestures around the table.

"I don't hear any suggestions."

A colleague of his looks up from his papers, though his fingers still nervously fiddle with the edges of the files.

"We have bigger problems than the boy."

"Do we?" The man snaps.

"We can't keep delaying the burn." Another adds.

Agitated, Owens leans forward, his palm smacking the table.

"You're talking about putting... putting a Band-Aid on this." He stutters.

The first man speaks up.

"Right now, a Band-Aid is the best option."

"It's our only option."

Owens looks around the room aghast at his colleagues. They merely stared back, silently taking a stance.

"And if it kills the boy?" Owens spits.

"Then quite frankly, Sam, it kills him."

Owens stills in anger and disgust and jabs a finger in the man's direction.

"Say that to me again." He threatens.

The doctor that stands by the projector reluctantly speaks up.

"The rate this is spreading, he'll be lost by the end of the day. What we do or don't do won't change the outcome."

"We have to start the burn." The other states.

Owens takes one last look at his team, his eyes hold nothing but disgust. Huffing, he grabs his things from the table and jumps to his feet and storms for the door.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to think." He spits.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"What the hell is taking so long?" Joyce sighs.

She and Bob sit side by side to the right of Will's bedside. Her leg bounces up and down at an almost unnatural rate and she nervously wrings her hands.

"Hey," Bob assures. "doctors take forever, always. Just try and relax. Just be patient."

He reaches forward, briefly rubbing her knee in an attempt to soothe her nerves however he can. Taking his words to heart, Joyce takes a lingering breath and she tries to calm the storm of nerves in her stomach. But with every passing second, her nerves return. With every beep of the monitor is a harsh reminder than another second has passed.

Finally, she sighs as she shrugs the blanket off her shoulders.

"You know, I just..."

She slips through the door and marches to the end of the hall. The two guards stationed in from of the closed double doors tense as she approaches with no intention of stopping.

"Let me through. Let me through!" She orders, struggling against their arms.

"You know we can't do that."

"I need to talk to--"

"He'll be with you shortly."

"You said that an hour ago!"

Bob soon joins her side and attempts to calm her, and across the hall staring through the door is Will. He lays perfectly still on the bed, and the heart monitor starts to race beside him. With every beep of the monitor, his vision fluctuates. He is seeing but not with his own eyes, he is a passenger in his own body and yet all he can focus on is the gun holstered in the guard's belt.

《•••》

The figure, who had been properly equipped, aimed his device and a violent spurt of fire erupted from the end.

《•••》

Anger. That's all he can feel.

《•••》

The vines writhed and shrieked violently as they shriveled up.

《•••》

Will.

《•••》

Will convulsed uncontrollably, his limbs on fire, spreading as rapidly as the flames in the hub below.

《•••》

Will.

《•••》

He saw the visions. Like he was navigating the dark and cold tunnels, they never stopped moving and he knew they were out to kill.

•••

Will was panting heavily, but he slowly turned around coming face to face with the monster. It towered over the school, looking directly at Will.

《•••》

"Will?"

A warm hand touches his arm and he falls back to earth. The spike in his heart echoes in the room with the speedy beeps of the heart monitor. He hadn't registered that Mike had been speaking to him, trying to reach him. He looks to the boy who is watching him concerned.

"What's wrong? Are you hurting again?" Mike asks.

"Uh..."

Will tries desperately to speak but the things he wants to say don't come. Instead, he feels the undeniable urge to sit up. He does so, and more words come to his brain but they are not what he truly wants to say. There is a wild, demanding itch in his brain that he must extinguish.

"I saw something."

The itch subsides.

Unsuspecting, Mike listens intently with worry.

"In your now-memories?"

Against his better judgment - the small, dying voice in the corner of his brain that grows small and smaller yet - he continues to scratch the itch and he nods and leans closer.

"The shadow monster." He whispers. "I think I know how to stop him.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

The sun has reached it's highest point when Dustin arrives at the familiar landscape of the old scrapyard, Steve by his side. He wears a proud grin as Steve gazes across the yard, nodding in agreement.

"Oh yeah. Yeah, this will do." Steve begins his descend down the small hill, shedding his sunglasses. "This will do just fine. Good call, dude."

His grin widens significantly, his chest welling in pride before he falls ik line with Steve. The two continue to sprinkle their bate trail behind them to the center of the yard. They dump the remanents of meat in a pile when they hear an approaching voice call out to them from the hill.

"I said medium-well!"

Dustin is relieved to see Lucas, he is beaming down at them as he sends them a wave. But his stomach plummets when he sees Max standing at his side. The two begin their descent down the hill and Steve wonders aloud.

"Who's that?"

He looks to Dustin when he doesn't answer, he sees the concerned and disbelieving glance he wears at the redhead. Suddenly, his mind clicks.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"You told her?" Dustin hisses.

Lucas and Dustin are huddled behind one of several abandoned vehicles exchanging hushed words. After proper introductions, Max and Steve have set to work and begun to build their base.

"So what?" Lucas says.

"'So what?'" Dustin laughs dryly.

"You wanted to tell her, too."

"But I didn't, all right? You know why?"

"You're chicken?" Lucas retorts.

Dustin rolls his eyes at Lucas's weak jab, and his anger only grows.

"Because not only does that put us, and Max for that matter, in danger, but Y/n especially! You know, my sister, the escaped experiment that the government lab could snatch up on any old whim? That sister?"

"They agreed to leave her alone, remember?"

"Like their word means shit! They faked Will's death to cover their own asses for fuck's sake. They don't exactly strike me as the caring, honorable type. Who's to say they won't ever change their minds and decide they want her back!"

Lucas shrinks back, regret flashes across his face as he takes in his words. He sighs.

"Look, I'm sorry about that, alright? I didn't think about it like that, but it's already done. And for what it's worth, I don't think she's gonna tell anyone."

"You don't know she won't tell, we just met her! What if she slips up? What if she's cornered and the information is forced out of her?"

It's Lucas's turn to roll his eyes, and he scoffs.

"Dude, you're spiraling. None of that's gonna happen."

Dustin sighs and shrugs his shoulders apathetically.

"Maybe I am and maybe it won't. The point is, we all agreed not to tell her and to look for Dart."

"Who you conveniently found."

"Are you suggesting that I'm lying?"

"I'm saying you have a creepy little bond with him."

"Yeah, that was before he turned into a Demogorgan."

"And you haven't heard from Y/n?"

Dustin's face scrunches up in anger at Lucas's mention of his sister.

"No."

"Or Mike?"

"No."

"Will?"

"No."

"Hopper?"

"No! No one is around. Why do you think I'm with Steve Harrington? Something's-"

"Wrong." Lucas finishes, sighing. "I agree. Which is why need as much help as we can get."

They both hear a soft grunt from across the yard and they rise to their feet and peek through the vacant window of the car. Max is piling several sheets of metal against the bus closing off weak spots underneath.

"She didn't believe me, anyway." Lucas says.

A small smirk forms on Dustin's face.

"You probably didn't tell it right."

They share a weak laugh and rise to face each other and Lucas extends his hand.

"So, we good?"

Dustin's eyes fall to his friend's hand and he smiles weakly.

"Hey!" A loud crash behind Dustin startles them and they turn to find Steve glaring at them."Dickheads! How come the only one helping me out is this random girl? We lose light in fourth minutes. Let's go."

They only stare at him as he retreats to the bus, reluctantly following. Steve gestures for them to move, his voice increasingly rising in anger.

"Let's go, I said!"

They pick up speed and each grumble a response.

"Alright, asshole!" Dustin snaps with a whine. "God!"

"Okay! Stupid."

+++

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upstartpoodle · 4 years

Text

Not Alone

Rating: T

Relationships: Dwight & George (platonic), past George/Elizabeth

Summary: A rewrite of the scene in 5x04 between Dwight and George at Elizabeth’s graveside, as requested by @ticketybooser.

***

The gloomy, labyrinthine corridors of Trenwith were filled with nought but echoes and draughts, and to the mind of Dr Dwight Enys as he climbed to the top of one of the old house’s many staircases with no small degree of trepidation in his heart, it seemed that the grim quiet of his surroundings was made all the bleaker by lone figure standing at the window of the little room to the end of the passage, staring down at the sunny driveway below. Dwight paused in his approach at the sight, steeling himself for what was undoubtedly to be a long and difficult day, both for himself and, more importantly, for his new and most unexpected patient. For what he would have to do today, he would need great strength—strength enough to support the both of them. Without that, any treatment he tried would surely fail.

After taking in a few deep, calming breaths, he headed towards the open door to the room, slowly, cautiously, making sure that his footsteps could be easily heard. He saw the line of the figure’s shoulders tense at his approach, shrinking nervously in on himself. George Warleggan—or more properly, now that he had been knighted by the King, Sir George—he thought with a sad sigh that he was barely able to bite back in time, may once have stood in that very room, surveying his ever-growing kingdom. Now though, huddled there as he was, in nothing but a thin nightshirt and his silk dressing gown, hair in disarray, skin as white as candle wax, he far greater resembled a ghost haunting its place of death than the baronet, peer of the realm and man of considerable fortune that he was. Or perhaps, now, had once been. It was an almost intolerably cheerless sight, but Dwight forced himself to endure it—what help would he be, after all, if he could not even face his own patient?

“George” he said quietly as he came to a stop beside the ailing man. He was mindful not to stand too close, keeping firmly to the opposite side of the large windowpane, but George remained rigid and wary at his presence nonetheless, watching him out of the corner of his eye with a timidity that seemed ill-fitting on the face of a man who had once seemed to him to be utterly indomitable. It reminded him of the way a wren might watch a cat prowling too close to its perch, cautious and ready to flit away and hide the moment he was given reason to.

“What was he doing here?,” he asked. His voice was high and thin, with a nervous edge to it which Dwight had become all too well acquainted with in his time treating the man, and which caused him no small amount of displeasure to hear. His hands, the doctor noticed, were balled up into fists, knuckles kneading anxiously at the low windowsill as he stared down at the spot which Ross Poldark had recently vacated, a deep frown drawn between his brows. “Ross? Why was he here?”

Dwight loved Ross dearly, despite his past (and indeed present) foolishness, but in that moment, he couldn’t help but curse his friend for his poor timing. He had observed in his patient a tendency to swing, in varying extremities, between two moods—one being an acute agitation and distress, and the other an equally alarming melancholy, the grip of which seemed to be nigh unbreakable. The account he had been given on his arrival at Trenwith had suggested that George had started out the day quite calmly, but it was clear that Ross’ sudden appearance had triggered some measure of the former mood in him.

Of course, both were concerning at the greatest of their extremes—in the case of the first it tended to surface as a panic so severe he seemed to lose all sense of what surrounded him, and in the second as a worrying, silent emptiness, where it was almost impossible to encourage him to speak or respond or even acknowledge that they were there at all; either way he was trapped within his own mind—but this distress, however mild it might have been compared to some of the incidents Dwight had witnessed, concerned him. He had taken the news of his patient’s relatively placid mood as a sign that he might be well enough to start the long and arduous process of confronting the delusion which had lodged itself in the man’s mind. Cary Warleggan was impatient to see his nephew returned to his former self, and his frustration with George’s continuing insistence that Elizabeth was still alive and well despite Dwight’s treatment was hardly something which he had shied away from sharing with—or perhaps more accurately taking out on—the good doctor. As quickly as Cary wished him cured, however, Dwight knew that it would take great delicacy and care, not force, if he ever wished to succeed in bringing George back to himself—especially so considering the wounds, both physical and mental, that had been left behind by the brute that had previously attended him. As such, he couldn’t help but worry that the step he had planned to take today, when compounded with the added stress of Ross’ arrival at his home, might, instead of guiding him onto the path of healing, cause him to regress.

“There was something he wished to discuss with you,” he said, truthfully. There was no point in trying to evade the question—even in the thrall of that pervasive illness, George was just as single-minded as he was when well, and attempting to obfuscate would only cause him further upset. “A matter of business.”

“Business?” The word was echoed as if it were completely foreign to him, as if he hadn’t taken his father’s provincial interests and turned them into a veritable empire, as if that same empire hadn’t once all but consumed his waking life before Elizabeth, before all this. It was a stark reminder of how thoroughly broken he had been—hollowed out until there was barely anything left, the remains shattered into pieces—and Dwight was once again struck by how insurmountable the task that lay before him seemed. Even if he could mend him, he doubted he could put him back together in the same shape he had been before.

“He wanted to make you an offer,” he replied gently as questioning eyes turned to face him. “For Wheal Plenty, to my understanding. There was a bad accident there—a collapse—and your uncle made the decision to close the mine.”

“And he was sent away?” George turned away from him and back towards the driveway, almost as if he were expecting to see Ross turn around and come riding right back up towards the house. He hadn’t stopped kneading at the windowsill, his movements more restless and troubled than before.

“Yes. Now is not the time for such things.”

“But he will come back!,” George cried suddenly, almost explosively, had it not been for the frantic quality of his tone that spoke far more of distress than of anger. “He will always come back, precisely where he is not wanted! Why can he not let us be?!”

Dwight swallowed a sigh. He knew well enough that a frank and honest answer to that question, to which he could only provide the vaguest of speculation, would do little to help or comfort his suffering patient. Instead, it fell upon him to nip this agitation at the bud, to find some way of soothing his stress over the situation before he could upset himself too greatly.

“I shan’t allow him to bother you, George,” he said, keeping his voice calm and low. “Nor will your uncle. He shall keep him away if I am not here to prevent it.”

George let out a strangled sound which might have been intended to be a laugh. There was a slightly hysterical note to it that only served to make Dwight more concerned.

“He didn’t keep away that man, nor the girl,” he retorted—from a previous conversation he had had with Cary, the doctor guessed that he must be referring to Ralph Hanson and his daughter, the former of whom seemed to be lingering about Cornwall in general and the Warleggans in particular like a bad smell. By contrast to Dwight, his voice was high and panicked. “He didn’t keep away the other doctor. He let him in and then stood by and allowed him to—”

He cut himself off abruptly at the mention of Penrose. Dwight straightened up, alert. George had not once spoken of the man to him, nor, as far as he was aware, to any other. True, he was not particularly loquacious in his current state—especially when the severest of his melancholic moods had him in its grasp—and their conversations, if not entirely one-sided, tended to be kept rather simple on his patient’s part, but he had noticed that that particular topic, should it be brought up, was met with anything from straight refusal to discuss it to outright panic. As such, Dwight had taken care to steer clear of talk of the man in the hope of preventing unnecessary distress when he was still so fragile—far too fragile to face those memories head on.

Unfortunately, while that decision may have reduced such risks in some ways, it did little to quell the damage those memories did when they did surface—which usually tended to be at the worst of times, at the smallest of things, or else when he was sleeping. Only a few nights’ past, he had received a frantic summons to Trenwith in the small hours of the morning, informed upon his arrival that George had, confused and panicked upon waking from some nightmare, somehow managed to barricade himself into one of the rooms on the upper floor of the house and was both refusing to come out or to let anybody else in. Dwight had spent what had felt like several long hours sitting in the corridor outside trying to calm him down and coax him out from the other side of the closed door. By the time he had managed to convince him to let him in, he had been thoroughly incoherent, having wound himself up to the point of utter exhaustion, but the few muttered, fragmented phrases Dwight had caught upon taking him back to his bedchamber to rest had spoken well enough of what—or rather who—had been the source of the trouble.

While his reaction now was not so severe as it had been then, however, it was clear that the thought of the man—and in particular, the prospect of his return—was causing him no small measure of distress. He had shrunk even further in on himself, shoulders hunched, head bowed, his messy curls tumbling across his crumpled brow and into his wild blue eyes. There were tears pooling in them, Dwight noticed, but, stubborn as he ever was, he refused to let them fall. A muscle in his jaw, tightly clenched, ticked at the effort, his whole form trembling slightly as he fought to bury down the flood of emotion that was threatening to consume him. It was, in many ways, a reminder of the man he had once been—private, closed-off, determined to hide the part of himself that was human and vulnerable behind a deep, impenetrable wall of haughty aloofness—but to Dwight, it indicated that George, despite his quiet tolerance of his care, did not entirely trust him—not enough to prevent him from trying to control and mask that vulnerability in his presence, however unsuccessfully. That did not greatly surprise him. After all, he suspected there had only ever been one person whom he had ever trusted with such things, and she was well beyond being able to aid her ailing husband.

To gain that trust, Dwight knew, would take a lot of time and patience, but in the meantime, it was clear that his all too fragile charge was in need of kindness and reassurance. He reached out carefully, making sure that George was able to gauge his intentions—he had discovered fairly quickly into his taking on of the man’s case that sudden touches were liable to cause him panic. His fingertips came to rest on the other man’s biceps, mindful not to grip. George gave an odd start at the touch, his nervous little movements coming to a sudden stop. He made no move to pull away, however, and after a short moment, Dwight, ever so gently, encouraged him to turn about to face him. He obliged, rigid and trembling, but his arms flew up to his chest, keeping the doctor firmly at arm’s length, when he tried to coax him a little closer. There was surprising strength in the gesture, for a man who seemed so frail and unwell, yet Dwight could feel him shaking beneath his palms, whether from the effort of it, the fear of some form of reprisal, or perhaps a little of both, he did not know.

“He shan’t return here, George,” he said softly, feeling the smooth silk of his dressing gown underneath his touch as he ran his thumbs up and down his arms in a slow, soothing gesture, trying to calm the man’s quivering. “I shall see to that. I shan’t allow anyone to hurt you whilst you are under my care.”

At this, George’s eyes, which had been fixed firmly on the floor, snapped up to his face, wide and confused, searching. There was something in his gaze—something so raw and wounded that it almost hurt to look, but Dwight forced himself to meet it, so that he might see the truth of his words in his own eyes.

“Why?,” George whispered. “You’ve every reason to hate me. Why would you…?”

He trailed off, unable to finish his own sentence. He looked so lost, so helpless in the face of his assurance, as if the thought of being shown care was completely alien to him. Dwight frowned, careful to keep his own sadness from showing upon his face. He understood why George might think it, but he did not hate the other man—had never hated him, not like Ross did. That feud, as far as he understood, was deeply personal on both sides, and rooted all the way back in their childhoods. On Dwight’s part, it was true that he had never been particularly fond of George, and that Ross’ enmity with the man had often put them in opposition, but he had never harboured any true dislike of him. Despite the distance there had been between them, he had seen enough of the way that George had acted in the presence of Elizabeth and his children to know that he was not the unfeeling monster Ross liked to imagine he was. Ross, he thought, seemed to have forgotten long ago that George was a human being, flawed and imperfect as the rest of them, just as capable of feeling love and loss and hurt, and no more deserving of the pain that had been inflicted upon him than any other. Dwight, however, had not. How could he, after all, with that wounded, fragile creature, so unlike the man he had come to know over the years, stood before him? And more importantly, what kind of man would he have been if he had turned away and allowed him to suffer alone, without aid or care or hope of recovery? No, he could never have brought himself to be so cruel. Not for anyone.

“Because you are my patient,” he said, honestly, “and it is my responsibility to see to it that you are kept safe and cared for whilst you recover. I shan’t do you any harm, and nor shall I allow any to be done to you. That, I promise you.”

George stared up at him at the admission, wide-eyed, uncertain. For a moment, Dwight thought he was about to say something, but before he could speak, there came a little cough from the doorway, and with a slight start, he shrank right back into his shell. Taking care to mask the frustration he felt at the intrusion, Dwight turned around to see Trigg, the footman, standing by the door with his usual air of inscrutability, face studiously blank as he regarded the doctor and his ailing employer. Dwight raised his eyebrows at him quizzically.

“Yes, Trigg?,” he asked. “What is it?”

“Forgive my interruption, sir, but Mr Warleggan said that you had given instructions that you would be out for the day,” came the obsequious reply. “I was told to fetch Sir George so that he might be made ready for the outing.”

He felt George shift under his gentle grip, manoeuvring himself so that he was partially shielded by Dwight’s arm. Whether it was the appearance of Trigg himself that had caused this reaction (Dwight knew that the man had probably played some role in Penrose’s treatments, even if it had been little more than fetching and carrying the necessary supplies, and that he had definitely played a role in forcibly sedating him on at least one occasion before Cary had turned to him for assistance—that confession he had drawn from the elder Warleggan like blood from a stone some days ago), or else any number of wild thoughts about what “readying him” might mean, or even the prospect of leaving the house, he did not know. Likely, he suspected, it would be a mixture of all three.

“Thank you, Trigg. If you could allow us a little privacy for a moment, we shall be with you presently.”

With a neat little bow of the head, Trigg disappeared promptly from the doorway, but his departure did little to soothe Dwight's charge. The expression on George's face was one of deep anxiety, and once again, the doctor privately cursed the man's interruption. It was not the way he had wanted to introduce the prospect of leaving Trenwith to his patient. He had known, of course, that there would be no way to wholly avoid worrying him—Penrose's cruel treatment had left George disposed to worry about anything and everything, to the point where even coaxing him onto the lawn for a little fresh air had been a struggle at first—but he had hoped that, had he been able to introduce the idea gently by degrees, he might have kept the man's distress to a minimum. That, however, was clearly not to be, and he would simply have to make as best of the situation as he could.

“What did he mean?” George's left hand, which had been placed flat on his chest to keep him at arm's length, had found the lapel of his coat, and was clutching at it with white knuckles. There was a suggestion of that wild panic in his voice that he had only just managed to tame, eyes flicking towards the door where Trigg had been moments before. “What do I need to be made ready for?”

His expression was so crumpled with bewilderment and distress that, for a moment, Dwight toyed with the idea of leaving the outing for another time. George was already very fragile and he did not want to cause him too much strain—his aim was to mend him, after all, not break him. He was sure that Cary would protest—he wanted the delusion gone as soon as possible, ostensibly due to concern over the family's reputation and secretly, Dwight suspected, because he hadn't the slightest idea of how to care for his nephew whilst he was in such a delicate, dependent state. Unfortunately, this meant that he tended to mishandle the situation. Cary thought of the illness as he might have thought of an infestation—some foreign thing that had lodged itself where it shouldn't and had to be forced out like rats from a hole. Dwight, however, was more inclined to think of it as a cage, an iron fist which had him trapped in its grasp, unable to look to the future, to move forward. The longer the delusion remained, the tighter that fist would squeeze, until he shattered under the strain of it, broken and beyond the reach of any who might be able to put him back together. For that reason alone, Dwight knew that it would be unwise to put it off. He could delay, again and again and again, and each time he might think to try and tackle it again, George would be no less fragile for allowing the delusion to linger. No, it would be best to face it now, so that he might begin to heal.

“I had intended to take you out today,” he said, keeping his voice calm and measured. “To St Sawle Church.”

George frowned, his brow upturned in worry and confusion. He was tugging slightly on Dwight's lapel. The doctor allowed it without comment. It was more for comfort than a means of getting his attention, he knew.

“Why?” came the agitated enquiry after a long pause. Dwight was careful to keep the frown from his face as he contemplated what he should say. He'd no wish to lie to George, but to tell him the whole truth would do nothing but ensure his complete refusal to come, and to say nothing at all would lead to naught but suspicion and mistrust.

“There is something I need to show you there,” he said. “I cannot promise you that it shall be pleasant. In fact, I suspect it shall be painful and difficult, but what I can promise you is that, once it is done, it should help you get well again.”

At that, George's expression crumpled. The panic, gradually fading from his eyes, was being replaced by a look of resigned despair. It occurred to Dwight, suddenly, that he had probably been given such platitudes under the brutal care of Dr Penrose.

“Must I go?” The pleading note in his voice was almost childlike in quality, but the desolate look in his eyes told Dwight that he didn't really believe he had any sort of choice in the matter, and that was a state of affairs that the doctor could not allow to stand as it was.

“I shan't force you to,” he replied carefully. “Look at me, George, look at me,” he added, his tone coaxing and gentle when the man refused to meet his gaze. “I promise you that if you wish to remain here today, then that is what we shall do. But I urge you, if you wish to recover, this cannot be avoided for long. It may be hard, but what is easy is not always what is best for us. All I can ask is that you be brave.”

Had a passing stranger seen this moment, they would likely been surprised to learn that before them lay the very same man who had once stood against an armed mob with naught but a handful of men and a few firearms in order to defend his family, but Dwight thought he saw a shadow of him, however faint and brief as, after several long moments of stillness and silence, he gave a short, sharp nod, his jaw clenched tight. Dwight smiled at him encouragingly. Good, at least there was something of him still in there.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now come, it shan't do for us to keep Trigg waiting, shall it?”

***

With a great deal of time and effort, they had managed, between them, to coax George into some warm clothes suitable to ward against the autumn chill, and outside the door of Trenwith and into the carriage. The journey to St Sawle Church was not a long one, and could, as a general rule, be easily traversed on foot by a reasonably healthy man. For George in his current state, however, Dwight thought that a walk or ride there, where they might encounter all manners of people with whom the thought of interacting could well be distressing for his frail charge, would perhaps be too taxing, especially considering that he had no idea what state he might be in on the return journey. What he intended would be stressful enough for his patient without adding extra sources of worry along the way.

The carriage slowed to a stop outside the church in barely any time at all, jolting the both of them as it came to an abrupt halt. Dwight turned his gaze towards George. He was dressed neatly enough in his usual clothing, but, with his head bowed, staring forlornly down at the hat clasped tight in his gloved hands, he looked no less fragile and unhappy in his Sunday best than he had in his nightshirt and dressing gown. They hadn't been able to do anything about his hair, which was still a disorderly mess of tangled curls. He wouldn't let anybody near it—at least, not without descending into a sharp, intense panic from which it was extremely difficult to calm him down. He had had similar reactions before to touches to his shoulders as well, and his wrists, and from this, Dwight suspected that it was related in some way to Penrose's rough treatment. He knew from experience, after all, how easily the smallest of things could dredge up memories of that kind. In the end, he had simply told Trigg to leave him be. George had looked so pathetically grateful at that that it had almost shattered his heart to see the once proud man fallen so low.

“Come, George,” he said, standing from his seat and moving to open the carriage door. “We have arrived.”

George did not move, save for his nervous kneading at the brim of his hat. It was only until Dwight had alighted from the carriage and had turned about to wait for him to follow suit that he shuffled carefully along the seat and made to step out onto the path below. He was a little unsteady on his feet, and he staggered slightly, unbalanced. Dwight's instinct was to grab hold of him to stop him from falling, but he forced it down—he'd no wish to distress the man with any sudden touches. Instead, he confined himself to a slow, light touch at his elbow, waiting until he had righted himself to withdraw.

“Thank you” George murmured, after a long pause. Dwight gave him a slow nod of acknowledgement in reply.

“It is not too far now,” he said. “Are you ready?”

George's eyes flickered from the ground upon which they had been fixed, up to the church, and then down to the myriad of gravestones surrounding it. From the apprehension in his gaze, the doctor suspected that, somewhere beneath the delusion, he knew exactly what it was that Dwight had brought him there to see.

“I-I don't—” he stammered.

“I will be beside you the whole time,” Dwight reminded him gently. “I shall be here to help you. It is just a little further.”

George tore his eyes away from the graves to meet his gaze, lost and afraid, but nevertheless, he followed in Dwight's footsteps as he began to lead him into the churchyard. Their pace was slow and unsteady, and Dwight had to keep checking over his shoulder to check that George was still behind him. He took care to send him the odd word of encouragement, coaxing him carefully on when he faltered. It was a relief, he thought, to see the churchyard nigh empty, for he knew that his charge, whilst in his right mind, would have hated to be seen in such a state.

It was just as they rounded the corner of the church to where their destination lay that George slowed to a stop, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to go any further. He had spotted the gravestone. They were close enough to make out the name it bore, and it had been enough to halt George in his already slow, unsteady path. He looked lost and bewildered, clutching tight at the brim of his hat like a frightened child. It seemed as if he did not know whether to go backwards or forwards, whether to approach, or to run and hide and forget.

“A little further,” Dwight said, trying to keep his tone gentle and encouraging. When George made no response, eyes fixed firmly on the gravestone ahead, he knew that words would not be enough. He lifted his arm, offering it to him to grab hold of. “Take my arm. This will not be easy, but it is a necessity.”

The movement was enough to tear George’s eyes away from the grave. He gazed down at the proffered arm, timid and uncertain. Dwight kept carefully still, waiting. A long moment passed in which neither of them moved, and he thought George might reject the offer, but then, with some trepidation, the ailing man crept forward, hand reaching out to clutch faintly at his elbow. The touch was barely there, feather-light against the fabric of his coat.

“Come,” Dwight said, with an attempt at an encouraging smile. “Just a little further.”

The going was slow for such a short distance, but eventually they came abreast of the grave, slowing to a staggering stop when George could go no further. Dwight felt his patient's grip at his elbow, barely noticeable before, tighten like a vice.

“But I-I saw her only yesterday” he protested. His brow crumpled in confusion and distress as his eyes fixed on the name on the stone, then onto the date below it. His voice was faint, a slight tremor to it as he desperately tried to make sense of the sight in front of him.

“In your memory,” Dwight replied, slow and quiet. He knew that George would fight against it, that his mind would twist and turn to find ways of denying it, and so he, in turn, must remain calm and patient if he stood any chance of guiding his charge towards the truth. “And memories should be cherished, but not mistaken for what is real. However painful that is.”

George shook his head. Letting out a wounded little noise that Dwight just barely heard, he drew back, almost imperceptibly, caught between the urge to back away from the grave, and the strange transfixion the sight seemed to have over him.

“But I – It-it can't – She isn't – ” It seemed as if he could barely form a coherent thought, his distress was so great. He turned to Dwight, wounded and bewildered, and the doctor felt his grip on his arm lessen as he pulled away. “It must be a lie, a trick. She cannot be – Why would you show me this?”

Dwight let him retreat, but he kept a hand hovering just above the man's bicep, so that he might take hold of him if need be. George was in a deeply fragile state, and he worried that he might collapse, or else do himself some injury trying to get away, should it become too much for him.

“Because it is the truth,” he returned, gently. “A painful and difficult truth, but the truth nonetheless.”

George let out a pained whimper which sounded like a half-attempt at the word “no”. He was still shaking his head in tiny, jerking little movements, his eyes fast filling with tears which he refused to shed. Dwight stared at him sadly. It was not enough, he knew, to simply tell him it was so. Slowly, carefully, he reached out and took George's hand in a gentle grip, waiting to see if he would pull away. When he did not, Dwight tugged at it lightly, trying to encourage him to step forward.

“Come,” he said. “Just a few more steps.”

George stared at him with wide eyes, now frantically shaking his head. He had realised what Dwight wanted of him, and he stood firm, refusing to move.

“No.” At any other time, there might have been considerable force behind his refusal, but as it was, it came out more like a plea. His voice shook, though he made no attempt to remove his hand from Dwight's grasp.

“Just a little further, George,” he repeated, running his thumb soothingly over the other man's knuckles. “You've come this far already. I need you to be brave for just a little longer.”

George stared into his eyes, jaw clenched so tight in his fight to hold back his tears that Dwight wouldn't have been surprised if it shattered. Then, after a long moment, he bowed his head and allowed himself to be guided forward, his gaze fixed firmly on the movements of their feet. It was only a few steps before they were inches away from the gravestone itself. Carefully, Dwight took the hand cradled in his own and placed it atop the stone. He could feel it shaking beneath his palm.

“You can feel it, can you not?,” he said, gently. “You can see it. Does that not make it real?”

“But—” George's eyes flitted over the stone, as if trying to take every detail of it in, to find some tiny thing which might prove it to be a lie. “But I-I saw her. Many time's, I've seen— Why must it be that she is the lie?”

“They cannot both be true,” Dwight reminded him softly. “You know that.”

George shook his head. His grip on the headstone was so tight that Dwight was sure his knuckles must be bone white behind his leather gloves.

“She shouldn't be—,” he gasped out, and there was a vehemence to his words that was only slightly dampened by the unsteady, lost look shining in his eyes. “This shouldn't be—”

He could not finish the thought, lips drawn tight in a trembling line, breath ragged as he fought to contain the emotion that was threatening to overcome him. Dwight, however, caught his meaning well enough, and he looked away across the path leading up to the church, his own jaw clamped about a sudden rush of feeling. Elizabeth should have been alive and happy, with her family, not dead and buried beneath their feet, but if there was one thing he had learnt in life, it was that death did not care about “shoulds”. It was a brutal lesson—one which he had learnt battling both people and disease—but never had it been cemented more in his mind than when he had walked up that very path, rain pouring down upon him, Caroline trailing behind him, beyond tears, and a little coffin cradled gently in his arms, as if its inhabitant were merely sleeping, and the slightest jostle would have disturbed her. Oh, how desperately he had wished for that to be true then, but he had known no amount of wanting would bring Sarah back.

“If there were any fairness in this world, Elizabeth would still be with us,” he murmured. He was glad to hear that, despite the dark turn of his thoughts, his voice came out quiet, but strong. “But wanting it does not change the fact that she is gone, no matter how strong that want is.”

George, who had seemed almost frozen in place as he listened to his words, tore away from the grave, almost as if he had been burnt, as he whirled abruptly around to face him. His pale eyes glistened in the autumn sunlight as he met Dwight's gaze with a desperate, almost feverish intensity—pleading, though for what, the doctor was not sure either of them entirely knew.

“Sh-she could have— She needn't have—” He stumbled, trying to find the words for a sentiment he could barely express. “If she hadn't had the child— If I hadn't—”

He spoke the last words with such pain that he could barely choke out another sound, his hands, which were now clutching at the brim of his hat so tight that it looked as if he might crush it, shaking violently. There was a maelstrom of emotion in his eyes, each to greatly entangled to even begin to set them apart, but if there was one that shone through, clear as day, it was guilt. In that moment, it seemed so powerful that it might well crush him into dust. Dwight felt his throat constrict as he met the man's gaze. His thoughts flashed back to the vial he had found on Elizabeth's dressing table that awful night—the vial to which he suspected, though could scarce believe the purpose of. Should he tell him? But no, he couldn't, not here, not now. George was not ready to hear such things, and even if he were, Dwight doubted that vague suspicions would do anything to help him. Once he knew the truth, perhaps—if he ever knew the truth—he would ensure that his patient knew it too. If nothing else, for better or for worse, George deserved to know exactly why his wife had died.

“There is no fault here,” he said. He prayed that time would not make a liar of him. “Loss, but no blame.”

Given the thoughts that were rushing through his head, the platitude sounded weak to his own ears, and it was clear from the expression on his face that, no matter how reassuring he had tried to be, George did not believe him. He turned away from him, back to the gravestone, eyes fixed once again on the elegant inscription before him. With one trembling hand, he reached out, barely touching the carved “E” of her name as he traced the shape of it with the tip of his finger.

“She will be cold down there,” he said, and Dwight could hear the tears that he was still stubbornly holding back thick in his quivering voice. “A-alone in the dark. She was afraid of the dark.”

It took all of Dwight's willpower not to jolt at his words. George barely seemed to realise what he was saying, but to Dwight, it was proof. Proof that the memory—that one horrible memory that he had tried so hard to push away that he had crumbled under the strain of it—was not buried so deep as to be lost completely. Beneath the comforting lie that he told himself, he knew. He remembered. All he needed to do was get him to face it.

“She told you that, do you remember?” he asked, careful to keep his voice as calm and measured as it had been before.

For a long time, George made no response. He was busy tracing the letters of Elizabeth's name. Despite his ongoing battle, a single tear seeped, unbidden, from the corner of his eye and trailed down his hollow cheek, but still, he refused to let the rest follow in its wake.

“I held her hand” he said eventually, so quiet that, for a moment, Dwight thought he must have imagined it.

“Yes” he replied, just as softly. He watched his patient carefully, hovering close by to support him if need be. He didn't like the way he was shaking, as if the strain was becoming too much for him.

“I— She—” It was no longer just tears which were making George's eyes look misty, his gaze losing focus as he started to fall into the memory. He swayed dangerously, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “She was cold— I-I can't—”

Dwight caught him deftly before he could crumple in a heap on the grass below them. Too soon, he thought. George wasn't ready to face that memory—not yet, not here. He would have to confront it soon enough, but now...he had done enough for now.

“It's alright, George,” he murmured as he staggered against him, his breathing too fast and too shallow at the sudden touch. “It's alright.”

That, he thought, was the closest thing to a lie he might have said, but what else was there to comfort the man? He adjusted his grip so as to keep him upright, and though George flinched at the movement, he seemed too overcome to push him away. Strain and exhaustion had quashed what vestiges of his pride remained, and he allowed himself to slump against the other man, one hand gripping tightly at the lapel of his coat.

Dwight let him lean against him until his breathing slowed and his trembling calmed. He glanced about him over the top of his head, glad to see that they were still alone in the churchyard. He was acutely aware of how vulnerable his patient currently was, and how much it would have alarmed him, in his right mind, to risk being seen in such a state. They should return to the carriage, he thought, but he wasn't sure George would be able to make it so far without having time to compose himself.

“Come,” he said, gently encouraging George to right himself. “I think we had best get inside the church.”

George pushed himself upright, but he did not let go of his lapel, still tightly clenched in his gloved fist.

“Is there more?” he asked. His voice was hollow, and his gaze was directed towards the floor, rather than his face.

“No.” Dwight shook his head firmly. “It is over now. I simply wish for you to sit down and rest for a little while before we return to Trenwith.”

George made no reply, his eyes, still fixed firmly on the floor, suddenly full of a kind of empty despair which reminded him, despite the bright sunlight rather than the dim gloaming, and the safety of the ground rather than the edge of the cliff, all too much of the occasion which had started all this. Once again, he knew that it fell upon him to lead him away from that despair.

“Come” he said again.

Slowly, carefully, Dwight shifted so that his arms were rested protectively around his shoulders as he began to lead him in the direction of the church. Despite the padding of his coat, he felt no less bone-thin than he had in nothing but his nightshirt on the clifftop, held fast to keep him from falling. He wondered why it had never truly occurred to him before that George was really a rather small man, slight of build and short of stature. But then, he supposed, he had—or had once had—such a presence about him, such a formidable force of personality, that one barely took notice of the fact. Well, there was none of that now, he reflected grimly as he glanced down at his fragile charge. All of that—all his strength and stubbornness, all that rage and ruthlessness—had been gutted from him, leaving nothing behind but that poor wretched slip of a shadow in his arms. He thought back to the day he had first seen George, back during—good God—Julia’s christening, all those years ago. He had understood why, then, underneath his velvet coat and neat hair and pretty smiles, Ross had found such a formidable opponent in him, why he was a man whom most did not dare cross. How greatly all their lives had changed since then.

The church was blessedly empty as they staggered inside, and Dwight praised the lord for small mercies as he guided a trembling George to the nearest pew and encouraged him, wordlessly, to sit. The man sank down onto the bench, spine bowed as he buried his face in his hands, like a willow forced to bend its boughs before a strong wind. He made no move, not even the slightest acknowledgement, as Dwight came, cautiously, to sit beside him, but his shoulders were shaking violently, and with an unpleasant jolt, the doctor realised that he had finally, finally begun to cry.

Time ticked on, the silent church filled with nothing but the sounds of the wind outside, the scrabbling of starlings in the eaves above them, and George's quiet sniffles, muffled behind his hands as he tried, in vain, to mask them. Dwight was not sure how long they remained there—the doctor and his weeping patient, neither saying a word to the other—but after a while, he noticed a slight lessening in his charge's trembling. Slowly, he reached out and pressed the flat of his hand against the small of his back. He half-expected the gesture, just as he had the offer to take his arm, to be shrugged off, but though George let out a startled little noise at the contact, he made no move to withdraw from the touch, save for an almost imperceptible twitch.

“I didn't show this to you to be cruel,” Dwight said. Quiet as his voice was, it still echoed strangely about the walls after so long of silence. “I know that it is painful, and pain is powerful, but it is also needful. It reminds us that we are alive. We cannot avoid it, nor should we try.”

For a moment, George made no move, no sound, and Dwight begun to wonder whether he had heard him at all, lost in the harsh grip of his grief as he was. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head from his hands, face pale and wan, his eyes very red. He did not turn to look at Dwight, but instead stared straight ahead of him, unseeing.

“If this is being alive,” he said, and his voice was thick with emotion he could no longer repress, “then why should I wish to live?”

It took all of Dwight's willpower not to inhale sharply at his words. As much as he might wish to be, he was not surprised by them. How could he be, when he had been the one to pull him away from the cliff edge that had so nearly been the end of him? If anything, he had dreaded them. He was painfully aware that, though he had prevented him from falling that evening, George was still teetering on a precipice which he might tip over at any moment. For that was what the delusion was, Dwight saw—a poisonous comfort, a gilded cage which kept him from tumbling into the abyss as much as it prevented him from turning away from it. With that strange security which he had been clinging to beginning to break down, it would be his, Dwight's, duty once more to keep him from falling over the edge.

There was something different this time, however, something which gave him pause. The way he had asked whether it would matter if he fell, that time on the clifftops, had been bleak and despondent, the words of a man resigned to the thought that his life was not worth living. Now, however, it was less despairing and more beseeching, as if he desperately, genuinely wanted—needed—an answer to that question which he couldn't seem to find within himself. He needed a reason, Dwight realised, a reason to keep on fighting. In a moment, his thoughts flashed, unbidden, to that terrible time in the aftermath of losing Sarah. He wondered, if there had been no Ross, or Demelza, or his dear Caroline, if he would have been inclined to ask that very same question.

“You still have your children” he said, quietly, gently. Thinking of Sarah made him think of Ursula, and of Valentine. Ursula was too young to know what was happening, though Dwight thought from the nature of her cries that the strange absences of her papa had not gone unnoticed. Valentine was even more affected, all too aware of the cloud that had descended over his home and family, of the loss of his mother, and of the fact that he was fast losing his father too. It was a harsh reminder that it was not just the life and soul of one man that depended on his aid and success. More than ever now did the fear of failing weigh on his mind.

“My children.” The words were soft, barely audible. Still, George stared blankly ahead of him, the quality of his gaze a little glassy, but there seemed a little more light in his red-rimmed eyes. It was a response, of sorts, and thus encouraged, Dwight continued on.

“Elizabeth may be gone,” he said, “but she lives on in them. They have already lost their mother. They need their father more than ever. For their sake, if not your own, you mustn't give in.”

“My Valentine, my Ursula.” He still had that faraway look in his eyes, but Dwight knew that he was thinking on his words. For all his faults, George loved his children. If their need was not enough to bring him back from the brink, he doubted anything else could.

“For them, you must at least try to keep fighting,” he continued, the hand on the small of his back travelling up to rest between his shoulder-blades. “And for Elizabeth as well. She wouldn't wish to see you so lost. For her, you must try to find yourself again.”

This time, George finally turned to face him, eyes shining. He looked adrift, like a ship that had lost its anchor to the depths of the sea, afraid of falling into dangerous currents that it could not steer away from.

“I don't know how.”

The admission was small and faint and frightened, so unlike the man he had come to know, but Dwight thought that, somehow, it was one of the most brutally honest things he had ever said to him. He reached out, taking one of George's hands carefully in both of his own.

“All I can ask is that you try,” he said. “I shall be there to help you. You are not alone anymore.”

George stared up into his eyes for what seemed like an age, then down to their joined hands. After a long moment, he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Dwight smiled, sadly. It was no wonder he had fallen into despair, with nothing and no one for company but his own misery, guilt and his unfeeling old uncle pushing him forward until he broke. Now, however, it would be different. It would not be he—Dwight—who left the vulnerable man lost amongst the waves. No. Whatever happened, whatever stood in his way, he would make George Warleggan well again.

#poldark #poldark fic #dwight enys #george warleggan #poldark s5 #poldark au #scene rewrite #fic #mine #my fic #fic request #fic prompt #ticketybooser #tw suicide mention

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newyorkthegoldenage · 4 years

Photo

Dark Victory by George Brewer Jr. and Bertram Bloch. Directed by Robert Milton. Scenery by Robert Edmond Jones. Costumes by Elsa Schiaparelli. Opened at the Plymouth Theater on November 7, 1934, and closed on December 29, 1934.

Judith Traherne………………Tallulah Bankhead Dr. Frederick Steele………….Earle Larimore Alden Blaine…………............Ann Andrews Josie………………................Myra Hampton Leslie Clarke…………...........Dwight Fiske Dr. Parsons…………….........Frederick Leister Miss Wainwright……………..Mildred Wall Miss Jenny………….............Helen Strickland Michael……………...............Edgar Norfolk Postman…………….............Lewis Dayton

This play made the rounds of Broadway and Hollywood, with Tallulah Bankhead rejecting it as a screen vehicle and Katharine Hepburn initially agreeing to play it in summer stock before changing her mind. Then Jock Whitney convinced Bankhead, his sometime-lover, to star in a Broadway production, telling her that Maxwell Anderson had doctored the script.

The play, which Robert Benchley described as “Camille without all the coughing,” was a four-handkerchief weeper about a spoiled, hedonistic socialite who discovers she has not long to live. (One newspaper reported that several members of the first-night audience passed out due to the intensely realistic medical examination scene.) She falls in love with her doctor and mends her wicked ways before succumbing bravely to her fate.

Dark Victory received generally good reviews, especially for Bankhead’s performance, but did not do well at the box office. Variety thought that Depression audiences wanted lighthearted entertainment to make them forget the grim realities of life: “Tragedy has a place in the theatre, but it seems so much vexation has plagued the people that they prefer to be amused instead of going through an ordeal.” Regardless, the play ran only 51 performances because Bankhead discovered that she, too, had a life-threatening illness (unlike the play’s heroine, she recovered).

One person who caught the play during its brief run was Bette Davis. She persuaded Warner Brothers to produce a film version, with George Brent (with whom she was having an affair) as the doctor. Davis openly admitted to having emulated Bankhead’s performance. She was nominated for an Oscar but lost to Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind.

Photo of Bankhead as Judith Traherne by Mortimer Offner

#Dark Victory #Tallulah Bankhead #tragedy #weepers #1930s #theater #Broadway #Bette Davis

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angryteapot · 5 years

Text

Murphy’s Law v. Bruce Banner

Characters: Reader, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Vision, Helen Cho (mentioned), Bruce Banner

Word Count: 1740

Warnings: None, I think? Let me know if I need to add anything.

Summary: Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong; but can Bruce Banner reverse that law and make you happy?

A/N: Anon requested “Bruce Banner where he sees her cry for the first time and he’s like ‘no no no please don’t cry’ cause he thinks he did something wrong but it’s really because he makes her so happy? maybe involving a first kiss?”

Prompt bolded in text, hope you like this, sweet anon! <3

You know that whole ‘whatever can go wrong, will go wrong’ thing? Yep, Murphy’s law was in full effect for you today. You woke up agitated and in pain from sleeping wrong, stubbed your toe on the leg of the bed, and very nearly fell in the shower but twinged your ankle in the process of trying not to fall.

While most of your clothes were in need of a wash, at least your favorite shirt and legging were clean. Well, they might have been clean, but you soon discovered that there were a few holes that needed mending. Wonderful.

Walking down the silent hallways to the main kitchen, you were hopeful that some coffee and perhaps a muffin would put your day back on track. You arrived to find Nat slumped over the counter with her eyes closed, Bucky cooking eggs and bacon, and Vision making a fresh pot of coffee.

Rubbing your tired eyes you greeted, “Morning guys. Where’s the rest of the team?”

Nat didn’t even bother opening her eyes before grumbling out, “Short notice PR event. We weren’t invited.”

“Good. Ain’t in a mood to deal with squabbling idiots anyways,” Bucky spoke what you were thinking, harshly flipping the sizzling bacon as he grouched.

You slumped down next to Nat at the bar counter, using her arm as a pillow. She pat your head limply as Vision set down a steaming cup of coffee in front of you.

“Mmm, thanks Vis, just what I needed.” You hummed your appreciation at him as you took your first sip. Blegh. You nearly spit out the ‘coffee’ as you choked down the sip. It was incredibly watered down, yet still managed to taste like tar. You sighed and discreetly pushed the mug a ways away from you. So much for your hopes of coffee uplifting your mood.

Nat gave you a sympathetic smile while Bucky just silently laughed from his place at the stove.

“How’s the breakfast comin’, Barnes?” You lay your cheek on the cooled countertop, wishing for a delicious breakfast for your grumbling stomach.

Bucky winced, looking slightly put out. “I dunno doll, it’s not lookin’ so great. Eggs look rubbery and bacon is mostly fat. Sorry sweetheart.”

You slid off the stool, ruffled Nat’s hair and walked around the counter to grab a muffin. “‘S okay Buck, it’s the thought that counts. Thanks for the coffee, Vis.” You side-hugged a pouting Bucky and oblivious Vision before shuffling your way back to your room, a mystery muffin in hand.

You took a bite of the muffin, gagging in angry disappointment - it was a bran muffin. You were going to punch Tony when he came back for even thinking of buying those bland monstrosities.

Tossing the muffin in the trash can as you walked into your room, you flopped on the bed, playing a few games and reading, until your alarm went off, signaling that it was time to spar with Nat. You sighed wearily and changed into your gear.

* * *

Well then… today was definitely not your day. The ankle you twinged in the shower? Yeah it was definitely bruised and swollen now. Your shoulder was slightly out of place, and you probably had a bruised rib or two.

Sparring hadn’t been any more brutal than usual, but your hadn’t been focused, and you got sloppy and made mistakes that led to injuries. Trying to look on the bright side of things, you told yourself that at least you would get to see Bruce in the med bay.

* * *

You were pouting. You knew it wasn’t dignified, but you were frustrated. Bruce hadn’t been in the med bay, and it was Dr. Cho that had scolded you for being so careless. You liked Helen, but Bruce held a special place in your heart and always made you smile.

All in all, it was just an awful day and you were in no mood to socialize. The others had come back from the PR event and declared a movie night, but you didn’t feel like joining them, instead opting to sulk in your bed for the rest of the night.

You were barely getting settled in when you heard a soft knock on your door. Close to tears of frustration, you groaned and shuffled over to answer it, opening the door to reveal… Bruce.

Bruce - with a sweet smile, holding a tray with two mugs of hot tea and a plate of, what looked like, his rarely-made scratch cookies. Bruce’s gentle, hesitant voice was like a soothing balm to your ears, “I hope I’m not bothering, I just heard you were having a bad day, and I wanted to cheer you up. Is that okay?”

Now let’s get one thing straight - you never cried. You hated crying. You tell everyone that you were dead inside that you ‘lost your tear ducts in the war.’ But with all the frustration of the day, and this sweet gesture from your favorite person? Yep - waterfalls here we come.

Bruce looked shocked, and rightfully so, because he had never seen you cry before. Not once, not even when you had fractured nearly every bone in your body, on that one mission everyone refused to talk about.

“Oh, no no no, please don’t cry sweetheart, I can’t stand to see you cry.” Bruce quickly put the tray on your desk and wrapped you in the warmest, tightest hug you’d ever received.

He said it so tenderly, so sincerely, words fierce with affection and worry. His warm hug and puppy dog eyes, paired with the sweet nickname, had you clinging to him and crying harder. He picked you up effortlessly and laid you on the bed, still in his embrace, swaddling the both of you in your softest blanket. You tried, and failed, to not focus on how strong and sweet he was.

Bruce held you tightly, and you cried into his shoulder until the tea went cold and your tears finally abated. He looked down at you with a sad smile, and you nearly cried again at how tender and worried his gaze was, and god, you were so hopelessly in love with him.

He saw the tears well up in your eyes again, pain gripping at his heart as he stroked the tears away with his thumb. He felt so helpless, seeing you hurting, and there was nothing he wanted more than to kiss your pain and frustration away.

Bruce’s mind was racing a mile a minute, weighing to pros and cons of his next decision. It would change everything. You were his best friend, one of the few who saw Hulk as part of him, not as a separate monster that needed curing. When Bruce was feeling frustrated and overworked, you were the one who breezed into his lab with a joke and a sandwich for him, looking over his notes.

You were to the one that casually pointed out his mistakes and fixed equations, the one that stayed up with him after Hulked-out missions and brought him down from his nauseous, nightmare-filled mindset in the aftermath. You never saw him as a monster, or as someone replaceable. You didn’t see the scientist with seven PHDs, you didn’t see a giant green rage monster, you saw him. Bruce steeled his nerves and decided to take the plunge, hoping he wouldn’t ruin everything.

Hugging you tighter, his hands soothingly stroking your back, his gentle voice broke the silence. “I know you’ve been having a rough day, and I don’t want to add on to it, but I can’t hold back anymore. Not with those pretty eyes staring up at me while you’re finally in my arms.”

Your breath caught in your throat, heart pounding at the implication of his words, but you kept your hope carefully caged.

Bruce took a shaky breath, steeling himself for his next words, the ones that would change everything. “I - I love you. So much more than I could ever put into words, and it hurts me to see you sad. I want to kiss all the pain away from the sad pout.”

He ran a trembling finger over your bottom lip with such reverence. “I understand if you don’t feel the same, I really do, but I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. I know it doesn’t make much sense - you and I - but I promise that I’ll never stop trying to make you happy. But if you want to forget this ever happened, we can do that too, go back to being best friends and nothing more.”

He warily looked at you, internally facepalming himself at his rambling, afraid that he just ruined his friendship with you.

Your heart was about to beat out of your chest, sadness long forgotten, joy filling you with the knowledge that he loved you too. You smiled up at him through glassy eyes and whispered, “Y’know, for being a genius, you can be pretty oblivious sometimes.”

His affronted look was soon transformed into shock as you tightened your arms around him and softly met his lips with your own.

Bruce froze for a few seconds before his brain came back online, deceptively strong arms tightening around you as he kissed back, pouring all his long-held emotions into the passionate kiss.

Was saying ‘I love you’ bold and too soon, seeing as how he’d never really been in a serious relationship? Probably. Was bruce acting wildly out of character, declaring his love and being affectionate? Most definitely, but being so close to you was making him loopy, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Were you both going to panic about the new change in your relationship later? Probably. But for now, you continued to sweetly kiss until you were both smiling too much to continue.

After stealing another quick kiss, because he could do that now, Bruce went to reheat the tea and cookies he had brought. While he was gone doing that, you took the moment to do an excited wiggle, laughing to yourself that you finally landed the stupidly sweet scientist you had been pining after for years.

A little while later, with full bellies and content smiles, you both lay swaddled in blankets and each other’s arms, slowly drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

Your day may have started off badly, but it had ended in the greatest joy you’ve experienced - being loved by Bruce Banner.

#anon #requested #bruce banner x reader #bruce banner #reader insert #bruce banner fic #fluff #cuddling #bad day #bruce banner x avenger!reader #natasha romanoff #bucky barnes #vision #avengers fic

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