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vitalityofficial · 3 years

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Vitality LORE ACT 1 - The Girl: Prologue

VITALITY LORE // A1 - The Girl

Summary: We are introduced to a young girl whose life is about to change forever. After suffering a devastating loss, a mysterious man will eventually come into her life and begin his dark path of vengeance. The girl is only the beginning.

Warnings: Death, Cursing, Mentions of Blood, Bullying, Depression, PTSD, Anxiety

Wordcount: 1,778

School had been out for an hour now and all her friends had gone home. Why hadn't her parents come yet? They never took this long! And why haven't they called? She took her phone out, dialing her father's number and it rang and rang before going to voicemail.

"Dad! I'm still waiting. Are you okay? I'll wait for fifteen more minutes and if you aren't here, I'll walk home! I'll take the special kimchi route, okay? I love you!"

The 'special kimchi route' is a series of alleyways littered with various family-owned shops - one of those shops owned by an older woman who had the best kimchi dishes around and one her family ate at often.

The girl frowns after the fifteen minutes are up and finally hops off the swing, grabbing her book bag and sighing. "Traffic must be bad today," she reasoned, leaving the gated school property and making the long trek home. She still found it odd that neither had contacted her, but her mother's cellphone was being repaired and her father was old and sometimes didn't pick up service well. They lived far up in the hills - the rather "poor" part of Seoul, tucked far away with the main city in the distance - and any nearby payphones were broken and left to rot.

As she walks and walks, she can't help but to hum a happy tune, feeling perky despite everything. Her birthday was in 5 days and her parents had promised to take her to Busan for a whole week! Her best friend had moved there last year and the two didn't get to keep in contact so it was the perfect way to celebrate a special day.

"You! Child!" A gruff voice spoke from a darkened corner and she yelps when a frail hand grabs her arm, spinning her around. "Grandma! You scared me!" She laughs, hugging the older unrelated woman. She was a well-known resident to all in the small neighborhood and the girl's family was very familiar with her.

“It’s so awful, child! Truly terrible!” The elderly woman murmurs, her eyes wide and pupils as big as saucers. The girl frowns and a look of concern comes over her face - word around was that Grandma was not well and often spouted eccentric things but the other residents often did their best to take care of her as there were no known relatives around. “Are you okay, Grandma? Shall I help you home? It’s getting chilly out.” The girl softly grabs her hand, guiding her in the direction of the woman's house.

“I am so sorry, my sweet girl. You are to endure so much pain and it is not fair for you were destined for so much good.” The old lady rambles as they walk but the girl brushes it off, use to it. When they reach the final hill - which happens to split off into a fork - the girls home on the right and a cliff just across the weather-beaten road and the woman’s on the left - they are overwhelmed by the flashing lights of multiple police cars and an ambulance.

“What’s going on?” The girl panics as she takes everything in, immediately dropping the old lady’s hand as she rushes towards the commotion. She had never seen so many people gathered around this area and to her horror - right in front of her house!

"Was there an accident? What happened?" She pleads with an officer, who immediately stops her from crossing the tape barrier. "It's not safe, young lady. Please stay back!" The female cop grasps the girls shoulders, pushing her back. It wasn't soon enough though as the girl peaks around her, seeing a trail of blood that went over the cliff edge - something truly abnormal and mortifying.

“That’s my home! Where's are my Mother and Father?” She was panicking now - something clearly wasn’t right. Her parents were never late picking her up from school or activities and to come home to this...mess...The girl knew now that something terrible had happened and there was no hiding it from her. “Mama? Papa?” She screams desperately, tears instantly flooding down her cheeks.

The officer gave her a solemn look before turning to her superior, the two whispering among themselves for a couple of minutes. When they returned, the woman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and guided her away from the commotion, sitting on a bench with her - a bench the girl often sat on with her Father when they ate breakfast and waited for the school van to pick her up each morning.

The officer didn’t waste much time breaking the news. “My dear, I am afraid your Mom and Dad had an accident and are no longer with us in this world.” Though her voice was gentle, it was clear that breaking such awful news to a child wasn’t something she did often, or even wanted to do.

The girl sputtered, unable to form any words. She looked around for the Grandmother but the woman was nowhere in sight now. “Mama...Papa?” She cries out weakly - the thought of never seeing them or speaking to them ever again filling her with an overwhelming sense of despair, leaving her gasping for air.

Everything went black then.

7 Years Later - (2016)

“Yah! Chaewon! Are you even listening? Hey! Watch out!” A firm hand grabs the girl's arm and yanks her backward just as a delivery scooter races past, beeping madly. “Are you spacing out again? What is with you?” Areum looked at her friend worriedly, the rapper of the triangle kimbap she was holding in her opposite hand crinkling loudly.

“Huh? What did I miss?” Chaewon snaps out of her funk, a tentative smile on her face. Areum groans in response, rolling her eyes as she takes a bite of her snack. “I said,” she begins with her mouth full of food, “I was thinking of asking Kangdae out. Isn’t he handsome, yeah? He’s not like the other boys in our class.”

“He’s a bit dumb, isn’t he?” Chaewon mutters. Sure, he was cute and had muscles but he wasn’t exactly known to be bright and was at the bottom of their class in terms of grades unlike Areum, who was in the top five.

Areum groans and smacks her friend on the arm. “Don’t be so rude, Unnie! He’s not stupid, okay? He just doesn’t really like studying but he’s a good person! He wants to get into music and he’s really good at it too! You should listen to one of his tracks he’s produced!” She goes to pull out her phone, biting her lip as she scrolls through some files.

“Maybe another time, yeah?” Chaewon waves dismissively at the cellular device her friend holds out to her. “I have to get home.”

“Let me walk you!” Areum offers, linking her arm through Chaewons. She was understandably concerned about her friend - who had been experiencing sporadic blackouts for a couple months now - and wanted to make sure she got home safely. “I mean, you did just nearly get shit on by a scooter while having one of your...moments.”

Chaewon shook her head, “No! I’m fine! Plus you know how my parents are.” Areum pouts, grumbling. “They have to be the lamest parents on earth if they won’t let their daughter bring a friend home. We’ve been besties since forever and I’ve never even met them! Ugh...”

"Yeah. They’re...strict and really embarrassing, to be honest. You’re not missing out on much.” Chaewon huffs, checking her phone for the time. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” She forces a smile at her friend, pulling her school blazer around her tighter as suddenly a chilly breeze whipped through the air. The two said their goodbyes and went their separate ways.

As Chaewon walked, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for being so distant lately. Areum had been a true friend to her ever since her move to Gwangmyeong. She was the first student to welcome her. The first to defend her against the snotty students who picked on Chaewon for being sullen, quiet and “weird”. Prior to the...incident, she had no real issues with bullies and was rather well-liked by her peers. She had since become the opposite version of former herself - the girl her parents adored was gone and she had no proper concept on how to defend herself or react to the other student's harsh words and actions.

So why was she so rude at times? Why did she lie to someone she considered her best friend? Chaewon had come to the conclusion that it was a defense mechanism of sorts. The only way she could deal with everything was by lying about her life outside of school. It made it easier to pretend - the façade she had created was an escape, albeit still very bleak, much like the truth.

The sounds of the city center grew more distant as she reached the iron gates of her “home”. Her slender hand gripped the cool iron and pushed it open slowly, the squealing of the metal sending a shiver down her spine. Laughter could be heard flittering from the playground behind the old stone building that housed 13 other kids just like her:

Orphans.

The Seojun house for orphans wasn’t too terrible - the food was edible on most days and the rats and roaches were few and far between as of late. The couple who ran it weren’t the kindest and had clearly become burnt out after running the institution for the past 20 years. If they hadn’t been getting a good sum of government money to run it, they most definitely would have abandoned the ominous place long ago. What made the place tolerable were some of the staff, like Mr. Kim.

“Welcome home, Miss Lee!” Mr. Kim - the designated maintenance and security man -- greets Chaewon with a cheery smile as she approached the front door. He even stops raking to open it for her, bowing and motioning with a hand for her to enter as if she were royalty.

“Ah! yes! Home sweet home! Thank you, Mr. Lee.” She manages to muster a smile, bowing as she walks through the familiar doors and sighing loudly. Her smile falters as she is out of the caretakers sight and the familiar sense of dread slowly overcomes her once again.

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datauthorress · 5 years

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Ashes of Night [Chapter 5: Discussion]

Pairing: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character

Summary: A young college student stumbles upon a man from the past, right in her very apartment. The man doesn't know why he's suddenly 119 years in the future, but maybe this is a second chance at a better life.

Warnings: Mentions of past self-harm.

Shelby was up early, unable to sleep any longer. She fed Kirby and Ghost, afterwards allowing Ghost to rest around her shoulders, occasionally flicking his tongue out near her cheek. It was his version of a kiss. He knew she was upset. She stroked the top of his head gently, before she went into the kitchen to make something for breakfast. She had a movie going on her laptop, something about some guy going to his old home to find out how some woman killed his wife. As she stirred eggs in a bowl, there was a knock on her door and she answered it, seeing Tripp and Dennis standing there.

“Hey,” Tripp said softly. “Can we come in?”

Shelby nodded and allowed the two inside her apartment, shutting the door behind them. She went back into the kitchen to start making French toast.

“Where's Arthur?” Dennis asked.

“Asleep.” Shelby replied, coating a piece of bread in egg and setting it on the skillet. “The drinking and the roofie knocked him out. He won't remember much when he wakes up.”

“That woman who drugged him....she admitted to it after five witnesses saw her slip the pill into his beer.” Tripp said.

“Then why didn't anyone come forward and tell someone before everything went to shit?” Shelby asked, irritation in her voice.

“Ah, well, two of them thought it was just their imagination and the other three said Arthur would be fine.” Dennis replied. “Obviously, they were wrong.”

Shelby shook slightly, keeping control of her anger. That was how people got hurt. Arthur could've gotten hurt, assaulted, or worse. And all because nobody wanted to come forward to help him. Figures. Humans were selfish creatures and didn't care about anyone else as long as it didn't affect them. She took a deep breath and put more egg-soaked bread on the pan until it was full.

“Go fucking figure.” she spat.

Tripp came forward, gently touching her cheek. “How's that face?”

“I'm fine. Sore, but I'm fine.” Shelby said, flipping a piece of French toast. While the others were cooking, she began cutting up some fruit for a fruit salad. The next half hour was mostly silent, as they ate and shared a few thoughts among each other.

“I'm sorry, Shelby.” Dennis apologized.

“What for?” she asked, getting up to put the cutting board and the knife in the sink.

“I....might've told Arthur about your wrists.”

Shelby paused, holding the handle of the knife in her hand. She was quiet, before she slowly turned to Dennis, rage in her eyes. “You told him what?”

“I....I told him about your wrists. I didn't know if you had told him yet, or-”

“My wrists are none of your fucking business, Dennis!”

Dennis flinched as the young woman shouted at him, obviously quite angry with him. Shelby gritted her teeth, tightening her grip on the large handle of the knife. “It took me three years, three fucking years to even let you guys in to tell you what hell I went through! And you know what? It's not getting any fucking better! My sister constantly abuses me, and harasses me on every social media we share. I had to fucking delete AND block her because my anxiety was so bad. I'm not ready to tell Arthur about my 'so called past'. I was abused. Big fucking deal. It happens to most people, and my abuse isn't valid. So, the next time you think about telling someone about a personal matter I have, fucking think it through!”

Shelby turned back to the sink, her shoulders trembling.

“Shelby-”

“Shut up! Just fucking shut up, Dennis! I'm sick and tired of your whining and your bickering about shit that I do, and you getting into my personal business!” she shouted again, raising the knife in her hand. “Fucking leave it alone!”

She brought the knife down on the counter, blade down first and suddenly screamed.

The knife clattered to the tile floor, blood splattering across it. Shelby had put the knife down so hard, her hand slipped and ran down the blade of the knife, cutting her left hand open, quite deeply. Tripp quickly grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her hand, as blood gushed from the wound and tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Dennis, stay here! I'm taking her to the hospital!” Tripp said to his husband, grabbing Shelby's purse and helping her put her shoes on before he quickly guided her down to his car.

Once they got to the hospital, Shelby was a bit light-headed from blood loss and pain. She was quickly taken to the back and set on a bed, where a couple of nurses and a doctor came in to inspect her hand. It had sliced through deeply, even all the way beside her thumb. The wound was cleaned and stitched up, as well as wrapped up. The doctor wrote her a prescription for pain medication and had her stay just so she could blood back in her body. Once she was released, Tripp drove her home and helped her inside.

“Jesus.....how many stitches?” Dennis asked.

“About ten.” Tripp replied, setting her down at the kitchen table. It wasn't even fucking noon yet. “I'm gonna go grab your medicine, be back soon.” he said, heading out again to get her medicine.

Shelby sat silently for a long moment, before she sniffled and got up, walking down the hallway to Arthur's room. The door was open, but the bathroom light was on and she heard retching noises. She knocked on the door, alerting him of her presence and walked inside, seeing the older man hunched over the toilet, vomiting anything and everything he had in his system.

Shelby grabbed a clean washcloth, and got it wet, making sure it was cold. Ignoring the pain in her hand, she knelt down beside him and placed the wet cloth across the back of his neck. Arthur jumped and shivered visibly, groaning softly.

“C-cold...” he groaned.

“I know. But it helps.” Shelby sighed softly, rubbing his back with her other hand.

After Arthur had finished throwing up, Shelby got him a cold glass of water and a couple of aspirin to help with his hangover. He swallowed the pills down with water and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He glanced down at the young woman, and noticed the bandages around her hand and wrists. “What happened t' yer hand?” he asked.

“I'll tell you later. C'mon, there's food left.” she said, leaving the bathroom.

Arthur followed her out into the kitchen, where she gestured to the food on the counter. He made his way over to the counter and grabbed up a plate, watching as she walked over to the two men he had met last night.

“I think we're gonna go ahead and leave....we've got some stuff to do today.” Tripp spoke.

“Okay.” Shelby nodded.

The two exchanged hugs, but she didn't hug Dennis. She only gave a nod to him, and turned back to the kitchen once the men were gone. “We're going to get my service dog today. They finally was able to get him through approval.”

“Finally?” he asked.

“Yeah.” she replied.

“What happened t' yer hand, darlin'?” Arthur questioned, his eyebrows scrunching in worry.

“Had a little accident with a knife a few hours ago, some stitches, but I'm fine.” she replied, sitting down at the table and sipping down the rest of her soda. “Arthur....do you remember anything from last night?”

Arthur swallowed the fruit in his mouth, thinking deeply to what happened. The last thing he remembered was....ah, yeah. He remembered talking to Shelby that morning, about going up to South Bend for the day and going out for a drink afterwards. But after that, he didn't remember anything. It was just....nothing.

“I 'member when we talked about going up to South Bend....but after that, I don' remember.” he replied, shaking his head.

“I figured as much....” Shelby sighed heavily, running her good hand through her hair. “You were drugged, Arthur. Roofied, by a woman.”

“Drugged?” he questioned, shock evident in his voice. “By a....wha'?”

“Roofied, or Rohypnol. It's a drug that's used in other countries to treat sleeping, but here, in the US, it's a date-rape drug. It causes a person to seem like they're drunk, dizziness, loss of motor skills and muscles, and even unconsciousness. It's a widely used drug that people use to rob or sexually assault their victims, most times to sexually assault and the victim, 99 percent of the time, doesn't remember what happened.” Shelby explained, her fingers curling into fists. “The woman who drugged you admitted to it, but not before her and I got into a fight.”

“Jesus.....I can't believe this.....” Arthur shook his head, rubbing his temples. His headache was still there, but it was going away, slowly but surely. He was tired and a bit sluggish, but he felt fine otherwise.

“I'm sorry I couldn't stop it from happening, but you weren't hurt or assaulted, so....” Shelby's voice trailed off, and she looked away, a bit uncomfortable.

“Have ya ever....?” he began, but didn't want to get into her personal business.

“No, never. I don't go out to bars very often, so I've kept myself from getting drugged.” she replied. “Well....are you done eating?”

Arthur gave a nod and went to his room to get dressed. He was....concerned. Shelby was acting a bit odd, much more than usual. The way she explained how her hand got wounded, just didn't seem right. He wanted to know what really happened, but there was no way she would tell him without some convincing. He was worried, but he would not force her to tell him anything until she was ready.

He met her in the living room, where she had all of her paperwork in a filing folder and looked absolutely ready to go. She would have gotten her service dog a month ago, but there was a higher up within the company that was giving Shelby more trouble than she needed, until the higher up's boss forced them to get the application through, since it was a necessary for Shelby's PTSD. They locked up the apartment and headed off to South Bend.

When they got there, they informed the receptionist that they were there and the receptionist happily put them through, congratulating Shelby on her approval. The two adults waited in the waiting room, Shelby bouncing her leg nervously. Soon enough, around 1:30, a young woman, a bit older than Shelby, came out with a clipboard.

“Shelby?” she called.

Shelby and Arthur got up and headed into the room, introducing themselves. The woman was extremely happy to be the one to help them, as the last person who was helping them was the one who denied the application.

“Why was the application denied?” Shelby asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Morgan, I believe her name was....said that 'I know that girl. Even now, she's such a piece of shit and deserves to suffer'.” the young woman replied.

“Morgan....oh, oh....” Shelby frowned.

“What is it?” Arthur asked.

“I went to school with a girl named Morgan. She severely bullied me into believing I was nothing.” Shelby replied, and shook her head. “How did she manage to get into a job like this?”

“Well, she lied on her resume and said she enjoyed working with animals, especially service dogs. But what we didn't know is that her father had a service dog because of the war and she frequently abused the dog, to where it attacked her brutally and the dog had to be put down. Her father eventually committed suicide because of violent nightmares and Morgan blamed the dog ever since. Said she wanted to 'cleanse the world' of violent animals....especially Pit Bulls.” the young woman replied with a sigh. “Morgan has since been institutionalized.”

“Holy shit.” Arthur blurted.

“My thoughts exactly.” the young woman nodded. “Are you ready to meet him?”

Shelby nodded and the woman left the room, soon coming back with a beautiful white German Shepherd, about three years old. His eyes were a beautiful chocolate brown and his bushy tail was wagging in excitement. The young woman let the shepherd walk over to Shelby, sniffing her knee, and then her hand.

“Hi, boy.” Shelby said softly, smiling gently.

The big animal gently placed his large paws on Shelby's lap, leaning up to lick at her cheek. Shelby's eyes watered and she stifled a sob, reaching up to scratch behind the dog's ears. The dog whined softly and licked at her cheek again, as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“H-he's perfect.” Shelby whispered.

The other woman smiled and nodded. Within a half-hour, the paperwork was sighed and put on record and Shelby named her service dog Panzer, after her mom's old dog who passed away from old age. Panzer was smart, friendly and didn't allow anyone to pet him unless Shelby said it was alright. As soon as they got home, Shelby made sure Panzer went to the bathroom and cleaned up the mess he made, before she and Arthur headed up to the apartment.

Panzer and Kirby sniffed each other, before she rubbed herself against his front legs and Panzer gently nudged her. Shelby smiled softly and kicked off her boots near the door, before hanging up her shoulder purse.

“Shelby?”

The young woman glanced over at Arthur, arching a brow. “Yeah?”

“Wha' really happened t' yer hand?” he asked.

Shelby paused for a moment, before she let out a barely audible sigh. “I got mad at Dennis and I slammed the knife down, enough for my hand to slip. Ten stitches, and this all happened before noon.”

“Jesus Christ.” he said softly.

“Yeah, well.....my emotions get the better of me sometimes.” she shrugged, and once more, Arthur found himself hating the way she just dismissed the situation. “I'm gonna email my professors about what happened, and to let them know you might have to come with me to school for a couple weeks. I can't really lift anything too heavy with my hand, as the stitches could open if I put too much pressure on them.”

The older man closed the distance between them, his hands coming up to her. Shelby was startled as his large hands enveloped her wrists, brushing over the faint but still visible silvery scars there. Her skin was too pale compared to his, but he could see the scars all too well. Shelby glanced down for a moment, looking uncomfortable.

“Ya know you can talk t' me, right?” He said, thumbs stroking the inside of her wrists lightly. “I'm not pushing ya, darlin'. But I am worried 'bout ya.”

“You shouldn't be....I'm okay.” Shelby said quietly.

Arthur gave her a look that clearly said 'Really'. Shelby looked away once more, letting out a quiet sigh. She couldn't keep it hidden forever, and Arthur was bound to find out sooner or later.

“I....I used to self-harm.” she replied after a few moments of silence. “From the bullying in school, to my sister tormenting me....it just became too much. When mom and dad found out, I was in a really bad place...they helped me get the courage to go get some help, and....I'm doing better. The urge still comes sometimes, especially under moments of intense stress, but I haven't self-harmed since I was 23.”

Arthur glanced down to her wrists again, running his thumbs over the silvery scars gently. He knew she was ashamed of the scars, but everyone went through a bad time. She seemed a bit relieved, like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. He slowly brought up a wrist to his lips and placed a gentle, whisper of a kiss on the skin there. Shelby's cheeks burned a soft shade of red.

“Yer a strong woman, Shelby. Don' forget that.”

Shelby couldn't help but relax at his words.

#fic: ashes of night #Shelby Hartford/Arthur Morgan #arthur morgan x original female character #red dead redemption 2

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firemedicdiaz · 7 years

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Finding Home

Fandom: Star Trek (AOS/TOS). Pairing: ReaderXBones. Prompt: Requested by Anon – reader is triggered by something and breaks down, and Bones is there to comfort them. Word Count: 3619. Warnings: anxiety, panic attack. Rating: Teen+. Author’s Note: Being triggered into a full-blown panic attack is something I would not wish on even my worst enemies. I know there are a lot of you out there who have anxieties, past traumas haunting you, and PTSD. It’s so hard to deal with. If you ever, EVER need to talk, I’m always here to listen. Shout out to @starshiphufflebadger for helping inspire me for this fic, too! The actual trigger and situation preceding it were her ideas. Flashbacks in the story are denoted in italics.

Finding Home You’re sitting across the table from Leonard in the mess hall, picking at your replicated dinner as the two of you engage in small talk about your respective days. You roll your eyes as he goes off on a rant about the red-shirts again, and you gently remind him that his job would be awfully boring if the operations crew never got themselves injured. He reluctantly agrees and falls silent, letting you go on about your work in the geology lab instead. “So there used to be an ocean there?” the doctor asks, turning the facts you’ve given him over in his mind. You smile as he makes the connection and feel a flush of pride for him – he’s clearly been listening to you when you’ve talked about work, whereas most people tune you out as you bore them to tears. “Right,” you say with a nod. “You remembered that pale-colored sediments are indicative of deposition and lithification in anoxic environments! It’s so nice to know that someone actually listens to me sometimes.”

He grins at you and takes a bite of his dessert: peach cobbler, his favorite. “You’ve got a lot of interesting things to say, darlin’,” he says with a wink. “Some people just refuse to be educated.” You blush at his words, the compliment warming you, the unspoken acknowledgment of your brilliance making you feel giddy. You’re just wondering how to reply to his words when a sudden, high-pitched deafening noise fills your ears. Dropping your utensils, you clasp your hands over your ears to drown out some of the noise, glancing around frantically. Moments later, a bright, strobing, red and white light joins the fray, overwhelming your vision. You feel your chest tighten reflexively, putting your heart and lungs in a vice as panic suddenly overwhelms you. The fire alarm brings you immediately back to the worst night of your life and the panic of those around you fades into the background as your own anxiety paralyzes you. You’re eight years old. You’re in the back seat of your parents’ car with your twin sister, on your way home from dinner with some friends in the next town over. It’s pitch black and just below freezing outside. A torrential rain is pounding on the roof of the car and ice is beginning to form on the road. The lights on the highway are few and far between, and you hear your dad mention something about it getting really slippery. The next thing you know, the inside of the car is illuminated in bright white by the headlights of a transport truck barreling toward your car, out of control. You hear screaming and a colossal crunching noise, and the last thing you remember is pain as your seat belt bites into your chest and belly, holding you in place as the car is thrown off of the road and rolls down a steep hillside before coming to a rest at the bottom of the slope. You’re crying, scared and confused as bright red and white lights flash in the night around you – ambulance lights illuminating the tree tops overhead as you’re carried up the slope your car had rolled down by paramedics, strapped to a hard board of some kind and unable to move. One of the men is trying to reassure you, but he won’t tell you where your mom, dad, or sister are and it’s terrifying you. Two days later, you wake up in a hospital with a doctor standing over you, examining what you quickly realize is a cast on your leg that covers from your toes to the top of your thigh. One of your arms is in a cast, too, and everything hurts. You’re crying as the doctor finishes his exam, begging for your mom and dad. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the doctor says gently, putting a hand on your shoulder. “They were hurt very badly in the accident. We did everything we could, but we couldn’t save them. They’re gone.” Your sister is gone, too, you find out moments later. There’s no one left but you. You’re alone – completely and utterly – and the last memory you have of your family is that of their screams and their faces, contorted in of panic, illuminated by the lights of that transport truck. “Y/N!” A familiar voice calls over the din of the fire alarm. “Talk to me, sweetheart!” Your chest constricts even more at the term on endearment – the same one the doctor had used when he’d broken the news to you all those years ago – and all you can do is drag in ragged, shallow breaths as a strong pair of hands grips your shoulders. You can’t see through your tears and your head is swimming, dizziness and a gnawing physical agony drawing you closer and closer to passing out with each moment. “Come on, we need to move,” the voice beckons again. “I’ve got you.” Recognition breaks through the fog of sheer panic that’s blanketing you – the voice belongs to Leonard McCoy. You fight to control your breathing as the flashbacks continue, throwing you back into the fray of the emotions you felt on the day you lost your family, the acuity of the feelings erasing the years that have passed in which you’ve had time to grieve and freshening the pain. You’re too breathless to even yelp as you’re swept off of your feet and carried out of the mess hall in Dr. McCoy’s arms. He’s speaking to you, trying to break through your panic, but to no avail. You cling to him desperately, your chest heaving as he joins the queue of people calmly leaving the mess hall to get to their assigned muster points. Everyone is moving quickly and in an orderly fashion, and it doesn’t take long for the doctor to carry you out of the mess and into the hallway. Unfortunately, it’s more of the same thing and in an even smaller space, and your grip on Leonard tightens as the sensory overload drives your panic further. You’re burying your head in his chest, trying to calm the assault on your senses, and you don’t even notice that he’s barking at people to get out of his way, citing a medical emergency. He rushes you to the nearest muster point, holding you to his chest and wishing he could get you somewhere private and secure but knowing he needs to stay put until the alert is called off. He murmurs to you softly, but loudly enough that you can hear him over the din. Seconds stretch into minutes and you feel like you’re on the verge of passing out. Eventually, though, the lights stop flashing and the normal bright-whites at the top of the corridor come back on. The sirens stop blaring and an announcement by the chief of engineering, Mr. Scott himself, comes on overhead. “Sorry ‘bout tha’, folks! Mandatory fire drill. Well done – you can all carry on with your day now.” The doctor swears under his breath as he turns with you still in his arms, immediately striding toward med bay. “Hold on, darlin’,” he reassures you. “I’ll give you something to help calm you down right away, just try to breathe for me.” “No!” You cry weakly, pulling harder on his tunic. “I don’t w-want to go to medical. Please!” Your anxiety and desperation push him in the opposite direction and against his better judgment. He brings you to the turbo lift instead, still pushing through crowds of crew members milling about in the wake of the fire drill. Those standing in front of the doors part to let the two of you through and the doors slide closed in your wake, leaving you alone in the lift. “I’m taking you back to my room, sweetheart,” the doctor promises. “But you’re going to have to work with me to control your breathing, okay? Can you please try that?” By way of response, you attempt to drag in a breath. It’s probably a good sign that you’re able to focus on his words even a little bit, but the little spark of good is lost in a sea of grief and anxiety and you only get so far as to take a slightly deeper breath in, holding it as the lift stops on your floor. You hold it, your body beginning to tremble from the lack of oxygen, until you can’t bear it anymore and then you breathe out in a rush, sawing another breath in raggedly as you reach Leonard’s quarters. The door opens for the two of you and the doctor immediately carries you over to his bed, setting you gently down on the mattress. You refuse to let go of his tunic, holding yet another breath as you claw at him. The gentle thump of his knuckles against your sternum serves as a tactile reminder for you to breathe and you gasp again, this time keeping up the rhythm of inhale, exhale as Leonard reaches up to gently extricate your hands from his shirt, holding onto them with his own instead. “Talk to me, sweetheart,” he murmurs gently, squeezing your hands to give you something tangible to hold onto. “What’s happening?” You shake your head as your anxiety suddenly becomes compounded by shame. Tugging your arms against the grasp he has on your hands, you try to pull away but he doesn’t give in. You begin to feel trapped and your fear spirals, your breathing almost immediately becoming uncontrollable all together. You’re breathing in great, gasping sobs, barely getting any air, and thankfully Leonard realizes what’s happened. “Okay, okay, darlin’,” he soothes, letting go of your wrists and watching you pull away and put your back to him so he can’t see your face. “Hey, Y/N, listen to me: breathe.” His voice is much more urgent now, his tone a little sharper, but it’s enough to break through your terror. It takes you a minute or two to get your breathing under control again, but when you do, it’s coming easier than it was before your anxiety had precipitated a minute ago. Leonard soothes you softly, his hand rubbing your hip as you lie facing away from him. “That’s a good girl,” he says quietly. “Just keep that up. In… and out. You’re doing great.” He's not asking about what set you into a tailspin, and for that you’re eternally grateful. You’re just not ready to talk about it yet, not while the adrenaline is coursing through you, making your body work overtime, driving you to what feels like the brink of madness. “Just going to check your pulse here, darlin’,” Leonard explains a moment later and you nod, feeling him stop his petting and reach for your wrist instead. As he measures your heart rate, you reach up with your shaky other hand, wiping your tears away before any more of them soak into his blankets. The moisture that’s landed on the fabric already, however, is liberating his comforting scent – rosewood, cinnamon, and disinfectant; an odd but strangely endearing combination that puts you at ease a little with its familiarity. You feel him release your wrist a moment later and his hand is immediately back at your side, his thumb stroking your hipbone lightly in a slow, soothing rhythm that you find yourself attempting to match your breathing to now that you’re thinking a little bit more clearly. “Keep doing what you’re doing,” he encourages you. “You’re okay, Y/N.” You nod slowly, trying your best to believe him, and you close your eyes. You’re more tired than you’ve ever been in the wake of the worst of the anxiety, but even as you begin to settle, you find yourself unable to sleep. You just keep breathing with Leonard rhythmically stroking your hip and eventually moving up to pet your hair instead. His touch is like an anxiety pill and you find the feelings melting away, leaving you calmer with every passing moment. After a half hour or so, your tears dry up and you turn over so you’re on your back, turning your head to face Leonard. His expression is unendingly sympathetic and his caring almost breaks you again, but you manage to hold it together. You take a shaky breath, averting your gaze a little, and reach out to twine your fingers together with his. “Can you pull up my personnel file?” You ask him. He looks a little confused, but he reaches out and plucks his PADD up off of the bedside table nevertheless, unlocking the screen and typing your details with his free hand, the tablet balanced on his lap. “Look through my pre-admission psych evaluation,” you instruct him. “I just… I’m not ready to talk about it right now, but it’s all in there.” Leonard nods, accessing the pertinent part of your file, reading in silence for several long minutes. You don’t know exactly what’s written in the paperwork, but you know that your whole life history is summarized in its pages for him to see. You can’t bear to watch him, his shocked and pained expressions, and so you glance away, your eyes tracing the riveting on the ceiling as you try to catch up on some deep breathing. You feel sick to your stomach from all of the emotion and you run a hand through your hair, shivering from the exertion of it all. It’s at that moment that Leonard looks up and he frowns, reaching out to gently stroke your forehead. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly. “I had no idea.” You nod. “I don’t talk about it much,” you offer. “Sometimes I just get flashbacks. Certain sounds or sights will trigger those memories and…” You gesture to yourself, to the state that you’re in with your hair disheveled and your face splotchy from the crying. Leonard sets his PADD aside and leans forward to gently kiss your forehead. “Those lights,” you croak. “When the flashing started… it reminded me of the headlights I saw just before we were hit. It was like I was right back there again.” He nods and smooths your hair down, taming the locks that have liberated themselves from your hair tie. Gently trailing his fingertips over your cheek, he slips his hand down along your jawline and neck, resting his palm ultimately on your chest, the weight of it reassuring you and giving you something to hold onto as you navigate your way out of the swirling maelstrom of emotions. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” you whisper, closing your eyes against the onslaught of shame you’re suddenly feeling. “Oh, Y/N, no,” he says softly. “Don’t say that, sugar. I’m glad I was here for you.” Your shivering is growing increasingly violent, your body’s coping mechanisms becoming strained by your tiredness. You swallow thickly, choking back a fresh wave of tears, and sigh. “I want you to get some rest,” the doctor expresses. “You’ve been through a lot today.” “I don’t know if I can sleep right now,” you mumble, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to chase away the trembling. “Well, why don’t you get changed out of your uniform first, see how you feel,” he suggests, moving to stand up, leaving the spot on your chest that his palm has vacated feeling cool. You shift around, sitting up as he crosses the room and opens the closet door, reaching for something on the rack above the hangers. You watch him as he pulls a couple of articles of clothing out and returns to your side, holding them out to you. “They’re going to be way too long for you, but they’ll be comfortable,” Leonard says lightly. “Go on and get changed, I’ll bring you some tea.” You shakily get to your feet as he heads to the kitchenette, slowly peeling off your dress and folding it carefully. You set it aside and unclip your bra. Your boots come off last but your socks stay on to keep your feet warm as you step into sweatpants that are far longer and looser than is reasonable. Stooping down, you roll up the bottoms of each leg so your feet can touch the floor unhindered and you roll up the waistband, too, securing it with a tug on the strings and a tight bow. With that done, you slip the shirt he’s given you over your head, rolling up the sleeves, too, reveling in its softness. Leonard returns as you finish up and he sets the tea mug he’s brought with him down on the bedside table, gesturing to the bed. He folds down the blankets, encouraging you wordlessly to crawl beneath them, and pulls them up again once you’re settled. He stands over your seated form, his gaze lingering on the dark circles under your eyes as you fidget with the blanket in your lap. “Drink that, it’ll help,” he instructs you quietly, his tone soothing. “I’ll be right back.” As he retreats, you pick up the mug and sniff at the tea in it, making a face. It smells unappetizing, but you know that whatever it is will settle your stomach and help calm you; Leonard always deliberately picks what sort of herbal tea he brings you when you’re not feeling your best, usually with good results. Taking a tentative sip, you groan – it tastes even worse than it smells. Still, you manage to choke down half a mug full before Leonard returns and he smiles proudly at you as you set the remainder aside. “How’s that?” He asks, taking a seat at your side and setting his med kit down in his lap. “Better,” you admit, feeling the nausea beginning to settle. “Good,” Leonard says, his tone relieved. “Now, feel free to say no because as your boyfriend I don’t want to push you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but as your doctor, I’d really like to give you something to help relax you and put you to sleep. You need your rest, darlin’, and it’ll help that headache, too.” You furrow your eyebrows, confused because you hadn’t mentioned your headache, but you quickly realize that you’re rubbing your neck, trying to ease the tension in the muscles there. Leonard has always been extremely perceptive and you can’t help but smile softly. You hesitate a few moments, your anxiety paradoxically pushing you not to accept the offer of an anxiolytic, but you eventually nod. “Thank you,” he says gratefully, his relief evident on his features, the for being reasonable hanging unspoken in the air. “Okay, darlin’, lie down for me.” You acquiesce easily, shuffling down the length of the bed until you can lie back with your head on the pillow. Leonard is smiling softly at you as he unzips his kit, his practiced hands pulling out the appropriate vial and assembling the hypo within seconds. You turn your head to the side, away from him, and squeeze your eyes shut in anticipation of the hypo. The sting is preceded by a gently stroke of his fingers, and followed by a careful rubbing. “Mmm,” you sigh, turning your head back to face him again and blinking your tired eyes open to meet his beautiful hazel gaze. “Thanks, Lee. You always know how to take care of me.” He chuckles, the sound reverberating in your ears and warming you as the medication begins to steal away vestiges of your consciousness. “I love you, Y/N,” he murmurs in response. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.” You hum softly in acknowledgement of his words as you’re drawn into slumber. As your body relaxes and your breathing evens out, Leonard’s hand slips to your neck, his fingertips resting at the pulse point there, counting the now-slower beats to reassure himself that you’re alright. He’s still by your side when the first of the night’s many bad dreams claim you a while later. He shakes you awake gently and pulls you tight to his chest, murmuring reassurances as he presses kisses into your hair. He’s warm, vital, and grounding as you fight to remember that you’re not that child anymore, that orphan without a tie to anyone. He’s there and he’s alive, as the heartbeat thumping softly in your ear where your head is pressed to his chest tells you. Every time you lie back down to try to sleep again, you remind yourself that he’ll still be there when you wake up, and eventually, as though your mind has heard the reassurances enough, you drift off one more time and stay that way until the chime of Leonard’s alarm wakes you up in the morning. Fear grips you for only a second before you come to feel the arms around you and you realize that those flashbacks, those nightmares hold no power over you now; you’re home.

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