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#the funny part is that this is not at all what a tourniquet is meant to be used for. but it is now
sanjarka · 2 years
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an unnecessarily long analysis of the song my limb by hayley williams within the context of katniss and peeta's love story that no one asked for
DISCLAIMER! THIS IS CHAOS AND I'M SLEEP-DEPRIVED.
/i have a very detailed everlark playlist that is currently the most important thing in my life, and i've always wanted to discuss more about why each song made the list because they are all genuinely special to me. i do have few pretty short posts that touch on this, however this song is too good for me to not overanalyze it/
verse one:
if you gotta amputate, don't give me the tourniquet
you wish that i would run away, sever what isn't working
but i'll let my body bleed out, leaning to my left side
if your part of me is gone now, do i wanna survive
the key subject here is a sense of codependency that exists in this particular relationship [from hayley williams ➛ whether it’s with the band, whether it’s in a relationship, i can’t see the beginning and the end of myself and the other. and that is what “my limb” is about]. it's about being so intertwined with someone that you might as well consider them a literal part of you - your actual limb. and how you can't cut it off and move on without it even though it's bleeding out and putting all of your other parts at risk.
➛ because if he dies, i'ill never go home, not really. I'll spend the rest of my life in this arena, trying to think my way out
this type of imagery appears repeatedly throughout katniss and peeta's love story. while the behavior described in the song is meant to be damaging to oneself, it's crucial to note that the codependency that does happen in katniss and peeta's relationship does not come from a toxic place. their wound is external. it is not their own nature that is unhealthy, but rather the nature of the world in which they live in. there is no conditions for healthy relationships in their current reality.
these two children have a genuine bond that they are continuously being forced to break and resist. they are continuously put in life-or-death situations, where they have to chose who gets to live and who gets to die. and yet, despite the obstacles, they both keep putting each other first.
the fact that this is something that has remained consistent in their relationship, that they choose and protect each other even when they shouldn't, is not only sensible given their circumstances, but also quite powerful, and gives this verse a more ”positive” interpretation.
chorus:
my limb, my limb, my limb, my limb (don't let go)
my limb, my limb, my limb, my limb (let go)
my limb, my limb, my limb, my limb (don't let go)
my limb, my limb, my limb, my limb (don't let go)
the repeating lyrics of the chorus continue the theme of self-sacrifice. they are a direct mirror of the berries, the beach, and the suicide kiss - all of the pivotal everlark moments that confirm that they aren't letting go of each other.
verse two:
funny, of the two of us, you always were the gentle one
shy little rabbit, teething on a shotgun
or the tragedy of peeta's hijacking and how he was unconsciously preparing himself for it.
i am not implying that it was his fault or responsibility, and i don't believe it was necessary, nothing was. however, there is a reason why certain narratives include certain people.
and when we look back at the story, we can see how it was almost predictable. that it was foreshadowed, not only by the conversation on the roof in the first book, where he tells us that he wants to prove that the capitol doesn't own him, but also by who he is as a person. then we can see how his hijacked and true selves are entangled with one other.
/before i go into my thoughts on how the two are linked, i think it's important to briefly (don't trust me) talk about how i perceive peeta, as well as how frequently he is misunderstood and why this occurs/
because of the unconventional portrayal of their personalities - which stems from the fact that they are not restricted by their gender - both him and katniss are frequently characterized as a "surprise" in ya and literature in general. they definitely go beyond our preconceived notions of how men and women should behave.
however, i've noticed that when certain people (mostly the mainstream media and the more casual fans) try to delve deeper into this topic they end up reinforcing stereotypes rather than breaking them. they say - she's the tough one, he's the gentle one, and any other characteristics placed onto them rarely stray far from these two images.
but no one is just one thing. by failing to recognize that there is just as much softness in katniss as there is roughness in peeta, you are just merely making them switch gender roles instead of going beyond them.
/and like. i get it. obviously, those who have just seen the movies or read the books once aren't going to dive that deep into who katniss and peeta are, but such viewpoints are still prevalent, and they certainly don't help them/
then there is the infamous you could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him quote.
peeta tends to be often looked upon as some sort of a saint with no flaws that never does anything wrong. which, apart from the fact that it isn't true, also provides you a very dull and unreleastic character to work with. when he is described in this way, he loses his complexity, which he has a lot of.
maybe we can partially blame some of those feelings on katniss for putting him on a pedestal at times, but then we create a whole new problem in the general perception of thg because of people's unwillingness to understand that katniss's point of view is flawed, just like she is, and that it isn't the absolute truth.
that pedestal exists, not to say that peeta is actually perfect and that she can't deserve him, but rather, as a reminder that she feels in debt to him - because he saved her life and continues to do so. as a reminder that young people in love tend to idolize each other a little, that understanding other people comes from understand yourself too and that she has just started that journey! her perception of herself is damaged and just plainly wrong at times.
that pedestal exists because at the end, katniss is quite a sad girl with an utter lack of self worth who doesn't see herself as being deserving of goodness that she so clearly sees in peeta.
so, while absolutely wonderful, and kind, and good, he is not without flaws. he isn't perfect.
and neither are his feelings for katniss (and he exists outside of them). it doesn't make them any less complicated because he was aware of them in a way she wasn't. they don't make his narrative any less confusing and painful. it doesn't mean he is any less afraid of them. katniss runs away from them because she already knows what love can do. peeta is seeing love for the first time, trying to prove to himself that it does exist and that he doesn't have to be like his parents.
although he appears to be more emotionally mature than katniss he is still just a child. a traumatized, insecure, stubborn, lonely, prideful, scared child that is also just trying to survive. his emotional maturity wasn't created from a good and safe place. he grew up with an abusive mother, a father who repeatedly betrayed him by failing to protect him, distant brothers, and as a result of that he feels insignificant and unneeded.
much as katniss survived by numbing herself out, in the years after her father's death, by letting her feelings happen outside of her, i feel as though peeta did the exact opposite. that he grew fixated on attempting to comprehend everything and everyone. that he became obsessed with overthinking and overanalyzing his thoughts rather than feeling them. his drawings and paintings are an escape form and his ways of surviving is escaping.
there is this sense of loneliness that follows him, is stuck to him, that affects the type of relationships he builds with other people - distant ones.
/unpopular opinion i think/ peeta has always struck me as more closed of than katniss. sure, he is social, and friendly, and calm and funny and confident but that's the image he shows to other people. every time katniss mentions seeing him at school, she always says how he was surrounded by friends, yet they never show up, and we don't even know their names. even his friendship with delly doesn't feel like anything more than an ancient childhood memory to me. he doesn't appear to have someone he can confide in or count on. he doesn't let people in. he too has walls.
it's just that, while katniss's walls are so obvious, peeta's are unexpected and hidden. regardless of how far away we think katniss is from others, she still enters this story as part of a team. gale and her are reliant on each other. they are partners. while i doubt they spend much (if any) of their time talking about their feelings, they are aware that they are needed - by each other and their families. peeta does not have an equivalent to that.
so when i think of him, i don't picture a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve and is naturally open. we can see how good of an actor and liar he is, so him being open is him making conscious decision to do so and not something he can't control.
peeta goes through life hiding from others whilst katniss hides from herself.
it takes actual hard effort for him to let people and in many ways i think that katniss is the first one with that privilege. that she is his exception. and that it wasn't instant. that it did happen slowly.
we may be inclined to think the opposite considering how fast he admits to his crush for her, but that isn't the same as actually opening up, and he isn't admitting it to her but for her. he admitted his feelings to the capitol, not to katniss because they were useful for protecting her.
and then it's them talking on the roof, and protecting each other in the arena, and the cave kiss, and not wanting her to die or for him to die as a liar, and the berries and thinking that it's real (because it was), so he confesses to them in a way (still not directly) and when he is met by an extremely confused katniss he shuts her out for 6 months before apologizing and admitting to them again. (repeating) it was a conscious choice on his side.
other people see his love for katniss, not because he doesn't know how to hide it, but because he wants them to see it - it's the only time honesty was beneficial for him.
/and because he wants her to see it too. because even when he believed that her feelings for him were platonic he couldn't escape that he felt safe with her. he notices how protective of him she is and realizes that no one has ever protected him before. no one had ever looked at him like he was precious, but she did. so he wanted her to have his trust. and there is still so much he keeps hidden. he is still opening up slowly.
we rarely see him being comforted by katniss and being the "weak" one. and it has nothing to do with her. he's the one who isn't prepared for it. he is apprehensive about being looked after. katniss may be challenging in this area too, although not as much as peeta. because her home was once a happy and safe place and being with peeta reminds her of those times while peeta is experiencing feeling safe for the first time. that's terrifying. he must be strong and and he must be capable before he can even consider himself worthy of love. so it will take a long time for peeta to break that, to allow himself to show sides of him that are fragile,messy and ugly.
➛ his face takes on a special look when he concentrates. his usual easy expression is replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. i've seen flashes of this before: in the arena, or when he speaks to a crowd, or that time he shoved the peacekeepers' guns away from me in district 11. i don't know quite what to make of it.
there's a reason this is one of my favorite quotes. you can see that (still slow) progress here. to me, katniss is indirectly saying that she wants to be a part of his inner world. that she recognizes its intensity and desires its privilege even if she doesn't yet completely understand it. and peeta is on his way to granting it to her/
previously i highlighted a few of his flaws, but what is the loudest is this tendency to hide from others which results in bottling things up and letting them fester inside of him, particularly anger.
i keep thinking of that scene in cf where he finds out katniss and haymitch have been lying to him and he smashes a lamp across the room. and, unlike katniss, we almost never see peeta lose control of his emotions and that isn't a positive trait really.
he, like the rest of us, never learned how to express anger in a healthy manner because, after all, it's supposed to be terrible, right? however, this is not the case. anger should not be associated with hurting or lashing out at people. the way to deal with anger is to let yourself feel it. not to repress it. but how can i expect peeta to be any different when the first attribute he associates with his mother is anger? and the one thing he wants to prove to himself is that he isn't like her. he can't be like her because he isn't like her, so he buries it deep within himself, leaving us with a flood of rage that is begging to be released.
and that is what worked so well in his hijacking. this is it. this is the shy little rabbit teething on a shotgun.
his hijacking is a tragedy, not only because he dreads becoming a piece in their games as a form of defiance, but also because it creates a complete lack of self control in a character who prides himself on it - the one thing he's certain is entirely his.
you take an abused boy and abuse him some more, then you take away his agency, rendering him powerless over emotions that aren't even his, while giving an outlet to those that are, that had been waiting for a moment like this one. you take that anger, that he is so deathly afraid of, and you make it his primary way of communicating. you make him hurt the one person he trusted the most, felt safest with and then you blame her for everything. you make his hurting her fault and her responsibility.
and clearly, we know that the only real culprits of this crime are snow and the capitol and no one else but them, but hijacking works with the already existing insecurities and fears of its victim. it feeds off of its host. and considering that, it couldn't have found a better one.
verse two:
guess we were collateral damage, kissing in the crossfire
limpin' over dead leaves, i wish that they would cover me
THE! SUICIDE! KISS! i will literally never shut up about its importance.
by that point in mj katniss has avoided confronting her feelings for peeta, attempting to keep them hidden - even warning us that if necessary, she will murder him. however, when the opportunity to fulfill her promise presents itself, rather than becoming his killer she becomes his savior. despite the fact that ”betraying” him at this point would have been a forgivable act to do, she resists it by stomping on all of her previous words. she places his life before hers and begs him to stay with her. it reveals katniss's desperation to save peeta when being forced to pick sides - and how every single time he wins. how he, along with prim, is her greatest downfall.
for peeta, no other event has had such a tremendous impact on his current state. his episode is over in a matter of seconds, and he is more alert than he has ever been during mj. the significance of stay with me is that is tied to the moment in cf where katniss asks him the same thing. but what is it about this particular moment that wakes peeta up and that influences his recovery in a such a positive way?
well, before that scene in cf, katniss has told us that her choice and freedom is with gale, but when she is under the effect of sleep syrup and is forced to let down her barriers, the person she asks for is peeta. she shows that she does want and does need peeta, but that she believes she isn't allowed to, as if her desires aren't her own. she "surprises" us, again, as she did in mj (by saving peeta). she tries to fight against herself, her hopes and impulses both times, but she fails - and peeta notices that!
i believe it was the first time peeta trusted in katniss's (romantic) feelings for him. from this point on they've (k+p) begun to change in subtle ways and they look like more of couple - spending more time together, the impossibly good embrace they share on the train, the rooftop scene, the fact that during the quell, katniss is completely unconcerned about cameras in relation to her feelings for peeta...
so, he slowly allows himself to believe that what they share is real (it always was). and that's why the memories of that moment bring him back in mj.
essentially, both scenes show us the separation of katniss's words, actions and feelings.
both scenes consist of peeta choosing to believe katniss again after a period of feeling ”betrayed” by her and of katniss unconsciously freeing herself from the limiting expectations that she and others had built for her.
that is why the ''suicide'' kiss serves as the ultimate testament of their devotion for each other and the one that puts everything else into perspective.
!BUT ALSO! this part (in the song) kills me since it's obvious that the relationship in the song is doomed. that it never actually had chance to survive. and how scary it is that that was almost katniss and peeta's fate.
some may believe that katniss loving peeta was a safe decision. snow wanted it, demanded it so it should've protected her because it would have made him happy or ”slowed” down the revolution. but that's simply not true.
the revolution, the war, were always going to happen. it was stirred up by the berries, definitely, yet it existed before that, it was unavoidable (for good reasons) but even if we ignore that, even if by ”convincing” snow of her love for peeta katniss could have stopped the war they are still prisoners to snow. they are still awaiting a destiny not unlike finnick's one.
and it is hard to imagine all the ways snow could've used them just to prove it. it would still be heartbreaking to go through that with one another even if they didn't love each other.
but they do! so it would be even worse.
in the canon universe they are in so much pain during because they do love each other. intensely. it was never a safe choice. it was never an easy way out. they can't win.
/from the valley song, the bread, the dandelion, the berries, the pearl, the beach it is always real. ultimately katniss and peeta were both punished by katniss showing how much she actually did love him/
their love was stolen from them. taken, tainted corrupted and transformed into something evil. it was twisted so that they couldn't want each other. so that they can't choose each other because it would be for snow and not for them.
/but it cannot be!!! actually loving someone and showing it can never be for snow. those berries are an act of defiance for him because they are an act of love. their love is freedom/
so while they did they did get the best possible ending, there was still so much that was taken away from them. you can't escape the feeling that they deserved much more than they've got. that they were cursed from the moment they were reaped. that their love story will always somehow be a bit of a tragedy.
/but it will be okay. they have each other/
anyway... if you're still reading, thank you and i'm sorry.
/and obviously these are all just my opinions and you may not see it like i do and that's fine. this has been living inside of my head for way too long so i'm just glad it's finally out/
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katnissmellarkkk · 3 years
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Chapter Four
“Dang it!” I bellow eight days later, as my body gives way and topples over, having used too great of force to yank a now dead primrose from the ground.
Yesterday morning I had come outside to discover the yellow evening primroses, the flowers Peeta had planted upon his arrival back in Twelve, had all but died.
And I didn’t even notice. I’ve been so distracted with everything else going on in my life—namely Peeta and his blonde companion—that I entirely forgot about the flowers. The flowers that my sister was named for. The flowers meant to represent her when she was no longer alive to represent herself.
The idea that I could forget the plant, that I let myself lag on the simple duty of keeping them alive and watered and healthy, felt as if I had let my little sister down all over again. It felt as if I’d failed Prim a second time.
And it’s more than I can handle. I can’t even endure the thought. The very implication that I am, in any way, dishonoring my sister’s memory is entirely unbearable. Even if it is just me implying it, inside my head.
But in any case, it looks like the primroses are too far gone and I don’t have even a chance at resurrecting them back to life. I took too long to notice their wilting, I was too caught up in other things, that I let the plants die and now there’s no going back.
For a split second I consider returning one of my mother’s many calls to ask for gardening advice. She has always had a green thumb and been able to grow whatever she set her mind to. I never had any of those skills. I was a hunter by nature, not a nurturer.
No, that was Prim. The soft and gentle one, who loved animals, who could heal any wound she could identify, who could garden and grow herbs just as well as our mother.
And I miss her so much. I miss my little sister so very much that I almost breakdown into tears right then and there, right in front of the dead primrose bush outside my house.
“Katniss?” I hear someone call in the distance. I recognize the voice instantly.
And rapidly get up and make a beeline towards my front door.
Unfortunately he’s determined to catch me. After eight solid days of evasion, Peeta is dead set on catching me at any given opportunity before him.
It’s almost funny how once upon a time it was him who wished to avoid me. It was him who craved distance between us, who acted icy and detached at every encounter, whether forced or by chance.
Now it’s him trying to force an encounter between us, trying desperately to make up for hurting me, trying to still be a part of my life, even after I pronounced our relationship finished.
The bread he left on my doorstep—that I immediately tossed in the garbage—is proof of that. The cheesebuns he left on my counter who met their demise to a flock of birds on my back porch is proof of that. The cookies he baked and passed through Greasy Sae when I went to trade at the new, rebuilt Hob is glaring proof of his efforts.
I did actually eat those but I made sure to do it in private, where Peeta would never know if his token was accepted or not.
Because I don’t want him to think we’re okay. I don’t want Peeta to believe me and him can still be friends, with Bailey Robyn, the uptight, controlling blonde still lingering over his every move.
Okay, maybe I’m being a bit overdramatic. Bailey isn’t residing over Peeta’s every action. She probably doesn’t even know he’s made all these treats for me. And she surely wasn’t sitting by his side in the corner of Greasy Sae’s booth when our eyes briefly met before I stubbornly stormed out.
But I feel like she is. I feel her presence overcast in every one of Peeta’s actions, in every deed he partakes in, in every moment I run into him. Maybe it’s only inside my head but it’s enough reason for me to avoid Peeta. It’s enough reason that I wish to stand by my words eight days ago and cut him directly out of my life. With a chainsaw if necessary, I wish to cut the invisible cord that has tied me and him together for so long now.
“Katniss!” Peeta calls again, his arms grasping my waist just in time to prevent my escape into the house.
“Go away,” I mutter under my breath, ire and ache still seeping off me even after a week separating this moment here with our last interaction.
“Why are you upset?” He asks, a little breathless now from the race to my front door. But even tired, concern still manages to leak into his tone. His blue eyes still show anxiety for my well-being.
And it’s still not enough to thaw me.
“You know why,” I say rigidly, pulling my front door open and shoving his hands away from me.
“No, no, I mean,” he quickly tries to correct his question. “I meant, what’s happened out here that has you upset?”
I audibly huff, my eyes about as warm as a popsicle in a snowstorm. The last thing I want to do is stand here and recount just about anything to Peeta, especially in regards to the way I’m currently feeling.
Especially after the last time we spoke about our feelings, when I chose to let him in and allowed him to see the vulnerable parts of me that I never trust anyone with.
Only for him to turn around and side with Bailey over me.
But knowing how persistent Peeta can be when properly determined—his intensity to train like a Career, Brutus’ murder and him warning District Thirteen about Snow’s incoming attack all fly to the top of that list—I merely gesture widely to my backyard, where the dead flowers lie.
It only takes Peeta a moment to click it all together, to his credit. Though I’m hesitant to even offer him that right now.
“I’ll replant them,” he instantly offers, like a dog begging to fetch his owner a carcass bone.
“Don’t bother,” I say, about as rude and uninviting as humanly possible. “It’s not your responsibility.”
I’m just stepping into the house when Peeta’s hand shoves on the door, hard enough to keep it open. For a split second, I contemplate putting all my strength behind it and slamming his fingers in the door. But even as mad as I am—even as wounded as I am—I won’t physically harm Peeta.
After all, he already lost his leg once about I tied it in a tourniquet. I may have saved his life but I also cost him half a limb and that thought alone stops me from nearly taking his fingers off too.
“Katniss, I want to,” he pleads and his eyes are so big and blue and I feel my heart involuntarily melt a bit upon at the sight. “I want to replant them.”
I release an unconscious breath, for the first time in over a week not completely hostile towards the boy with the bread, who in my eyes, completely turned his back on me. Or so it feels. “I’ll just end up killing them again, Peeta. I’m serious. Don’t even bother.”
“Then I’ll tend to them,” Peeta throws out, getting more and more desperate the more I refuse, it seems.
I’m about to brush off his offer once again when another voice joins us. “Oh, let him do it, sweetheart. The boy needs a hobby besides baking,” Haymitch chimes in, standing at the bottom of my porch, looking drunk as ever.
“You love that baking is his only hobby,” I shoot back at the paunchy, old man.
“Well, not anymore. Since you two started fighting he’s been making me fat. I need a break.”
I’m about to come back with another comment, probably one to suggest Haymitch doesn’t have to eat everything Peeta brings, when we’re joined by a third presence.
Of course, she has to join us. Bailey can’t seem to let Peeta go anywhere without her nowadays.
“What’s going on?” She murmurs, looking around at all our tense body language. Well, at mine and Peeta’s tense body language. Haymitch is currently sitting on the bottom step of my porch now, as relaxed as Buttercup is in the window.
Peeta opens his mouth to respond but then shuts it again, glancing back at me. I don’t know if it’s the fact that he doesn’t wish to discuss his offer to help me with his girlfriend or if it’s the fact that he clearly knows I dislike the notion of Bailey in my business, but either way I’m a little pleased when he closes his mouth and adverts eye contact away from the blonde.
Instead it’s my drunken mentor who elaborates. “The girl’s flowers died. Your boyfriend just wants to replant them.”
To my utter astonishment, Bailey seems amendable to the idea. “The flowers for your sister?” She inquires, looking right at me. I shoot her a quizzical—and perhaps slightly unfriendly—look out of the corner of my eye but she continues on anyway. “Peeta, you should help her plant them again. Especially since you let them die-“
But I’ve heard enough from her—and everyone else here, for that matter—and I turn to Peeta, my hand still holding the doorknob tightly, ready to slam it shut. “Fine,” I cave, my tone anything but grateful. “Go ahead and replant the primroses. If that’s going to help you, then go for it.”
I don’t wait to hear a response from any of the parties now camped out on my property. Instead I shove Peeta’s fingers off my door—first time I’ve touched him in eight days—and throw it shut with such a force I feel the walls in my entryway shake.
“She’s always been a spitfire,” I hear Haymitch mumble as three sets of footsteps make their way further from my porch.
I barely catch Peeta’s response. If I hadn’t been standing by the door, unintentionally listening to hear what they may be saying, I would have missed it altogether.
“That’s the best thing about her.”
/
It’s just mere hours later before I’m disturbed once again. This time not by a crew of three but by one solo intruder.
“Sweetheart?” Haymitch barks, evidently not too keen on the fact that I decided to turn every light in my house off after returning home from the Hob.
“Go away,” I mumble out, knowing well and clear that he can’t hear me from upstairs. I’m in my bedroom, lying in the safety of my own bed, in my own private sanctuary, where I do not wish to be disturbed by anyone at any cost.
Of course, it only takes a few minutes of bumping into things and cursing for Haymitch to track me down. “Girl, it’s six at night?” He says incredulously.
“So?” I snap, as he turns my light on, effectively blinding me.
“Did you just forget about dinner tonight?” He asks, his voice neither kind nor hostile. In all honesty, he just sounds puzzled.
“Why are you in my room, Haymitch?” I murmur, rubbing my eyes until they adjust to the beaming brightness and pulling myself upwards now. Off his dismissive glance, I let out a deep sigh. “I wasn’t hungry.”
Of course, we’re not really talking about me skipping a meal. I highly doubt Haymitch truly cares if I miss dinner by my own accord. He surely wasn’t too interested in my meal intake when he brought me home from the Capitol and dropped me off on my doorstep.
No, we’re referring to the weekly dinners me, Peeta and Haymitch have at the old man’s pig sty. The same dinners I’ve brought Delly along to, that Haymitch is constantly passing out drunk during, that Bailey has been crashing nonstop since arriving here in Twelve.
When I came home from trading at the Hob tonight, I decided I was done with those dinners. I don’t need to subject myself to bossy Bailey any longer, and my resolve to keep Peeta out of my life as much as humanly possible is still strong. Despite the fact that I agreed to let him plant the primroses in my garden again and tend to their growth, I still don’t wish for us to be friends. I still don’t want to subject myself any further to him and Bailey’s exhibits.
And I figured no one would mind my absence anyways. At least not for a few dinners. I knew eventually Haymitch would try to push me to come back and Peeta would probably ask me very sweetly to join again, but I didn’t think the first night I skipped would be a huge production.
And okay, maybe there is a small part of me who deep down hopes if I refuse to come, Bailey may be disinvited in order to make me feel welcome again. It’s a long shot and not one I’d consciously admit to counting on, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small, minuscule part of me wishing for that to happen just the same.
Haymitch glances at me suspiciously now. “You’re always hungry, kid.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re the most enthusiastic eater I know.”
Okay, he is blatantly confused apparently. His drunken goggles are blurring his perspective of reality, it would seem.
In any case, I flop backwards on my bed and roll away, hoping if I ignore my mentor long enough he’ll just evaporate into thin air.
But for some reason, Haymitch is weirdly dogged tonight. “Come on,” he urges, shaking my shoulder a bit too roughly. “I know the boy always says you’re just like me, but this little display is over the top, Katniss.”
I roll my eyes. “Why do you even want me at those dinners, Haymitch? You have Peeta and Bailey there.” I can’t stop myself from throwing the extra emphasis on Bailey, as immature as it may be.
However, the old man isn’t interested in dignifying me with a response. “And Delly. And Johanna. And Annie Cresta.”
That catches me completely off-guard. “What?”
In the time since the war ended and I returned to Twelve—or rather, was exiled to Twelve—no one from the other districts have visited. I have barely seen anyone I know in the last few months, outside Haymitch, Peeta and Delly.
“Some of which are anxious to see you at dinner,” he adds, gesturing for me to get up.
I shoot him a mordant glance. “Johanna’s anxious to see me?”
“I said some. Meaning Delly and Annie,” he clarifies. Off my still hesitant expression, he reaches down and tugs on my wrist, trying to get me out of bed.
“Fine!” I exclaim, feeling strangely embarrassed now as I realize that our roles are suddenly being reversed. I’m the one who always forced him out of bed, who made him come to meals, who fought with him to hurry up and get moving.
In the end, I don’t bother cleaning myself up or trying to appear presentable. Johanna and Annie won’t care and Peeta doesn’t get to care anymore.
And it wouldn’t matter anyway. Even if Effie Trinket or my entire prep team were here, I’d never stand a chance of looking anything but plain next to Bailey.
It’s not that I care that she’s so blatantly pretty. It’s just that her looks are one more thing about her presence to be bothered by, and that list is getting long and extensive. Even after her apparent approval of Peeta gardening my primroses, even after no negative interactions in eight days, I still sense hostility with her. And I still can’t stare at her without feeling my stomach churn.
Because every time she’s around, I know I’m about to be the odd one out. For whatever reason, outside of Delly, the people I care for, hold a deep affinity for Bailey Robyn.
And it bothers me above anything I can express. It bothers me beyond words, beyond measure, beyond any sense of feeling.
“Look who I found,” Haymitch announces as we enter through the threshold of his filthy residence.
“Katniss!” Annie exclaims and tosses her arms around my neck, despite the fact that we’ve never been too close. I can’t even remember the last time we had a conversation in person. The only true communication between me and Annie is the letters she sends, the ones filled with details of her life in Four and Finnick’s son. The ones I rarely respond to, but always read just the same.
Still, despite the fact that Annie might as well be a glorified stranger to me, I return the embrace, instinctively at first and then, simply because I want to. Because no one besides Peeta has given me any sort of affection in months and I miss it. Now that Peeta has put conditions on our relationship, I am hungry for any physical touch at all.
It shocks me to realize, in that moment, just how completely starved I am, for closeness.
I hug Annie for far longer than I think anyone watching anticipated but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seems to welcome it too.
Then again, her husband died and left her with seemingly no family at all to help raise their baby. So perhaps she’s just as desperate for a human touch—I suppose besides her son—as I am.
I don’t receive the same welcome from Johanna, unsurprisingly, but as soon as me and Annie break apart, she shoots me a satirical glance and pulls on a piece of my hair.
“Ow!” I exclaim, my thick brows furrowing in confusion. “What was that for?”
“It was sticking up,” she explains with a shrug and then smirks. “Did you just roll out of bed and come here?”
“Did you?” Her outfit is just denim pants and a low cut t-shirt. Not that different from my attire.
“Yes. And I’m not ashamed of it.” She runs a hand over her hair which has grown out to about length with her shoulders. “But I know how to use a hairbrush, at least.”
I roll my eyes as she nudges me. “This is dinner,” Haymitch deadpans as he makes his way to the table. “Not a Capitol Beauty Contest.”
Jo examines the unwashed table as we follow the grumpy man’s lead. As of right now, the table is completely void of substance. “Doesn’t dinner imply food?” She asks and Annie laughs lightly, suggesting she was thinking along the same lines.
“Haymitch doesn’t believe in cooking himself,” I retort, earning a look from the old man. “He’s waiting for Peeta to arrive with food.”
“You’re more than welcome to provide the meal, sweetheart.”
“And what are you providing?”
“The residence the meal is served at.”
“And what a residence it is!” Exclaims a completely different voice, a higher pitched soprano.
And like clockwork, three blonde heads round the corner of the dining room, abruptly joining the party.
Delly looks as enthusiastic to be walking with Peeta and Bailey as I am to be in their company right now. Which she further evidences by hurrying to the seat at my right.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a grin,” Haymitch remarks as he pulls out a bottle of white liquor and pours it into a half-clean glass.
“Wonder why that is,” I murmur out loud before thinking better of it. After all, Haymitch seems to care for Bailey more than me nowadays. I should probably not stir the pot before the food is even presented before me.
But he doesn’t reply back. Even if he did, I doubt I’d notice anyway.
Because, in the flash of a second, the attention of the room is completely shifted.
I knew Bailey was coming with Peeta. She’s practically glued to his hip at all times of day, almost as if she’s afraid to let him out of her sight. But it would seem that Haymitch did not inform Johanna or Annie about Peeta’s new relationship, effectively catching them both by surprise at the additional dinner guest.
And there’s little room for doubt to anyone with eyes that they’re together. Their hands are practically singed as one, in an airtight grasp, her manicured nails intertwined with his long fingers.
For a split second I wonder if that’s what my hand looked like inside Peeta’s last week. I wonder if this is what Bailey saw before her, when she caught us roaming through town at the crack of dawn.
“Barley?” Johanna says in a shocked voice.
It takes a moment for her comment to compute in my brain. “Bailey,” I correct, trying to be helpful. Though I’m unsure where she even managed to get the name Barley at all. Especially if Haymitch didn’t warn her about the girl Peeta was bringing and I strongly suspect he didn’t.
Jo looks at me like I’m insane for the amendment before turning back to Bailey and Peeta. “You’re dating Bailey Barley?” She say incredulously.
Bailey Barley? Is that a nickname? Now I’m the one who’s completely lost at sea, feeling like there was a good chunk of time I somehow missed.
Bailey’s blue eyes stare into Jo’s now, not exactly friendly but not as belligerent as I’ve seen her before. As I saw her last week.
I don’t know nor do I understand what they’re silently communicating, but I do comprehend one thing without a doubt.
Johanna knows Bailey. Somehow, someway, Johanna knows Bailey even more than I do.
Peeta doesn’t seem too confused though. He doesn’t even seem fazed by the exchange at all. Instead he drops Bailey’s hand—not soon enough, in my opinion—and moves to set some kind of meat and potato meal down on the table.
“Where did you get the meat?” I ask abruptly, recognizing it as deer. I just shot my first in a long time only the other day. How on Earth did Peeta get deer meat around the same time I did.
“I traded a cake for it. At the Hob,” he explains nonchalantly, avoiding my bewildered eyes now.
I just stare at him for a second, debating on even further commenting.
The Hob is where I traded the deer after killing it. Peeta literally baked a cake and traded it for meat, just because I wouldn’t speak to him.
He literally traded a cake so I could eat the meat that I hunted myself.
Something about that scenario vindicates me slightly. And I have to wonder if I’ve become sadistic with time and solitude.
My attention though is pulled back to Johanna and Bailey now. “What’re you doing in Twelve?”
Bailey takes her seat, between Haymitch and Peeta, with grace. “Peeta and I met in the Capitol,” she states simply. “I decided to come here and spend some more time with him. Get to know him a little better.”
As if to punctuate her words, she places one dainty hand on top of Peeta’s and gives it a squeeze.
I can’t even fight my eye roll.
“I see,” Jo murmurs, casting a sideway glance at me, none too subtle. “Well, it looks like you did... that.”
Delly snickers into her water glass and I don’t miss the way Bailey shoots her an irritated glance. Peeta seemingly does though. Haymitch is already too tipsy to care if an actual fight breaks out among us, his white liquor kicking in quick.
Annie on the other hand, who I’ve always believed to often be oblivious to all those around her, decidedly cuts the tension here. “Well, I’m hungry. Peeta, pass me a plate.”
And just like that, we’re having one of the most awkward meals I’ve ever had to endure.
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disgruntledspacedad · 3 years
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Exit Wounds
pairing: Steve Murphy x Javier Peña, buddies or pre-slash, up to you. Not part of the Better Love ‘verse.
summary: Steve comes to several realizations all at once. Steve Murphy POV.
words: 1.9k
warnings: 18+ - violence (beyond canon-typical), GSW, ambiguous ending, ANGST. You really probably shouldn’t read this one at all, my dudes.
a/n: unbeta’d. For those sharp eyed readers, there’s a slight canon change regarding Brady’s murder.
“Stay back,” Steve mouths, lifting a hand to Javier’s chest. Behind him, Steve can damn near feel Javi rolling his eyes, but he keeps still, both of them hardly daring to breathe as they pause at the corner of the stairwell. 
Feo is waiting for them. Steve just knows it.
Dread and anticipation are rising in him, age old instinct and adrenaline converging into a single minded awareness that sharpens every sense. Steve’s heartbeat thrums in his ears. Reality glitters around him. Javi huffs softly at his shoulder, eager, impatient. 
It’s like having a superpower. 
Carefully, Steve edges his gaze just around the corner, and leaps back as a single round grazes just past his left ear. He feels the zing of displaced air before he’s even aware of the crack of gunfire. 
“Shit,” he hisses. 
That had been close. 
“Think you found him,” Javi supplies helpfully. 
Above them, there’s a scuffle, receding footsteps. Javi doesn’t wait - he’s already tearing around the corner, glock extended, giving chase.
Steve leaps at his heels.
He’ll never admit it, not to anybody and especially not to Connie because she worries, but this is Steve’s favorite part of the job. There’s something primal and evocative about chasing a bad guy through the streets of Medellín. It calls back to that little boy in Memphis, playing cops and robbers with the neighborhood kids until long past the streetlamps had lit. It awakens that visceral sense of masculine justice that’s simmered just beneath the surface of Steve’s thoughts since he could remember; the burning need to protect, to avenge, to do the right thing.
And fuck, it’s just fun.
He grits his teeth and digs in, running for all he’s worth. Chases in Medellín are all sticky heat and creaking rooftops that pop beneath a grown man’s weight, the smell of spices and gunpowder and unwashed bodies. The air is thick like soup. It stagnates in his lungs, stifles his breaths. His heart pounds wildly. Sweat pours down his back and clings to his shirt, and Steve basks in it all, loving every second. 
Javi ducks into one of the zócalos, taking a short cut on a hunch. Steve follows. The world narrows, the entire cramped room smelling of tortillas and goat milk. The darkness inside is a stark contrast to the midday Medellín sun, and Steve barrels into the tiny kitchen table before his eyes can fully adjust. A child shrieks, and Javi pauses just long enough to wince toward her mother as Steve staggers to his feet. 
“Sorry,” he bleats, already stumbling out the door.
Outside, they are faced with a choice. Stairs going up to the rooftops. Stairs going down into the alleyway. Absolute silence. 
Steve takes the street and Javi takes the high ground. There’s no discussion, no pause to consider, no flicker of eye contact and a question. Steve and Javi move as one unit in two bodies, working in seamless tandem that comes from surviving and thriving together in countless life or death scenarios.
Feo is not in the street, it’s apparent immediately.  Steve has gone the wrong way. 
Well, win some, lose some. The comuna is built into a slope, like so many comunas are, and Steve makes for the top of it, determined to get a better view. Maybe he can cut Feo off while Javi herds him forward, though it’s unlikely. 
He reaches the top of the hill and whirls, shading his eyes against the sun as he glances over the rooftops, searching. 
Javier shouts in Spanish. Steve cranes his neck toward the sound. He’s close.
There.
A shot rings out. That’s nothing new - shots are always ringing out in Medellín. It’s practically how the sicarios say hello. 
But this time, it’s different. This time, Javier staggers back like he’s been punched in the solar plexus, and Steve’s world converges into two undeniable facts - dread, and absolute certainty.
Javi’s been hit. 
Somehow, Steve has the sense of mind to radio for backup with medical, an instinct honed from years of beats in the shadier neighborhoods of Miami. He doesn’t bother listening for the garbled response, he’s just running, tearing down the hill with one ominous thought replaying through his mind. 
He can’t see Javi anymore.
Steve shakes away the implications and focuses on what he can remember - where Javi had been standing, the direction of his voice. His lungs are burning, heart pounding painfully in his chest, but Steve’s totally unaware of that. It shouldn’t be possible, but he’s flying, feet hardly hitting the ground as he tears through the comuna, making his way once again toward the rooftops.
His best friend’s life is on the line.
And isn’t that funny? If you’d have asked Steve an hour ago, he’d have laughed in your face at the idea that Javi was anything more than his work partner. Javi’s an asshole. A self-righteous, arrogant, hypocritical, sell-you-to-the-fucking-cartels-on-a-whim cuntstain of a human being. Yeah, Steve can admit that Javier Peña is a decent agent. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. There’s also the fact that Javi knows all of the best dives in town, and that he’s always good for a drink after a long shift, and sure, maybe he’d stuck up for Steve that one time with Messina, but friends? Yeah, that’s a long shot.
Except now, it’s not.
The stairwell Steve’s been climbing ends abruptly. He’s standing on a three foot square platform, looking up at a ten foot wall.
Shit, shit, shit.
Javi is right there, just on the roof above him.
Steve doesn’t think, he just leaps, the tin edges slicing his palms as he scrambles for the ledge. He kicks his feet hard, banging his shins with enough force to bruise as he rolls gracelessly onto the roof. Later, when Steve tells Connie that it was a feat of athleticism that would put the best of his college buddies to shame, he’s not lying.
And there’s Javi. 
Steve drops to his knees beside the body. Javi’s lying crumpled on the ground, curled on his side in a fetal position that is far more vulnerable than Steve is comfortable witnessing. 
“Javi?” Steve calls, shaking his partner hard as he hauls him over onto his back. “Shit.”
Javi doesn’t answer. The concrete beneath him is a pool of red blood. It’s smeared all over Javi’s pink shirt, an ominous, dark stain originating from somewhere near his shoulder. 
And it’s still pumping steadily from the wound. 
Steve catches a breath, reminds himself that this is a good thing. Dead people don’t bleed. 
Automatically, he presses one hand over the most saturated part of Javi’s shirt. Hold pressure. It’s basic first aid, but basic first aid is prioritized in the academy because it saves lives. Steve punches his palm into Javi’s shoulder for all he’s worth. 
But Javi’s still not moving, not responding. Carefully, Steve cups his free fingers gently over Javi’s mouth and nose. Soft, quick breaths pulse hot against his skin, and a tight bubble of tension bursts in Steve’s chest. 
Javi is breathing. Thank fuck, Javi is breathing.
Blood spurts through the cracks Steve’s fingers, warm and deep crimson, and Steve has a sudden, wild thought that it’s much more slippery than he’d have thought, more like motor oil than water. He’s seen blood in this quantity before, many, many times, but never this close, never fresh and red on his bare hands, never gushing in slick rivulets from the body of his partner and friend. 
Steve flashes back to that one sting gone horribly wrong in Miami, to being held at gunpoint in the doorway while Brady bled out onto the dirty motel carpet. 
He shakes it away. Not this time. Never again.
He shifts his position, tilting Javi’s head to the opposite side so he won’t choke and exposing the wound so he has better access to it. He can’t see the edges, and hell, he’s definitely not looking, but the blood seems to be coming from the juncture of Javi’s neck and shoulder, just to the edge of the kevlar strap of his tac vest. 
Fuck.
An inch to right, and Javi would have walked away with a massive bruise, maybe a broken clavicle. An inch to the left, and it would have all been over.
“Of course it would be your shoulder, Javi,” Steve bites out between gritted teeth. It it were an arm or a leg, he’d have already used his belt to make a tourniquet. But that’s not an option here, and by the way Javi’s breathing - fast, quick little pants that are quickly turning his lips blue, Steve wonders if there might be something wrong with Javi’s lung, too.
Fucking Christ. 
“God, get here already,” Steve mutters under his breath as he presses both palms into Javi’s chest. Shit, the bullet’s gone all the way through. Steve can feel the heat of Javier’s blood seeping into his jeans. 
‘All bleeding eventually stops,’ he remembers Connie saying after a terrible shift at Ryder. Her tone had been flippant and thoroughly blasé, cynical like the humor of all nurses who work trauma call is cynical. At the time, Steve had brushed it off as a one-off, a ruthless, humorless joke made out of frustration. 
With a slow dawn of horror, he suddenly understands exactly what Connie had meant. 
“Fuck,” Steve mutters desperately, pinning Javi’s body between his knee and his fists, locking his elbows and pressing both hands as hard as he’s able into the wound in a desperate attempt to staunch the bleeding. 
His wild thought of ‘where the hell are they going to land the chopper?’ is cut off as Javi shifts and groans.
Steve panics. Javi’s lost a lot of blood, far, far too much blood. It’s all over Steve, all over Javi, all over the concrete, and Steve has just now gotten it under control. 
Javi needs to be still, dammit. 
“Don’t you dare fucking move, Javi, you hear me?” Steve’s voice is brittle as he leans in close to Javi’s ear. 
And oh god, somehow, the situation is suddenly so much worse now that Javi isn’t completely out, now that Steve knows that in some capacity, Javi is aware of what’s happening to him. 
Fuck.
But Javi just huffs one shuddering breath, and then goes so completely still that Steve’s heart lurches in his chest. 
“And don’t you fucking die, either, you hear?” Steve shouts into his ear.
Really, that’s more important than anything. 
Javi grunts something in response, a word that Steve, in his frazzled state, doesn’t quite catch. Later, when he relives this day over and over again, Steve thinks it might have been “asshole.”
The ensuing silence is stifling. They lay there on that rooftop for an eternity, Javi sandwiched between Steve’s fists and his knee, Steve’s back and arms burning with tension. Javi’s breathing speeds and shallows. His entire face is ashen now. Little beads of sweat have broken out on his forehead. His blood is cooling, congealing dark between Steve’s fingers.
“Please, god, please.” Steve hasn’t prayed in years, but this is different. Important. He’s not asking for anything for himself. Not for Connie, even.  
He’s begging for Javi’s life.
In the distance, the blades of a chopper are beat, beat, beating against the wind.
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lydiabeckett · 3 years
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                      ❝ 𝐍𝐎𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 was noticing but she was disappearing.                       nobody was noticing but she was already gone. ❞
Type: Self Para.
Date: April 12th, 2021.
Mentioned but not featured: Eleanor Hirsch, Georgina Livingston, Jasmine Volkan, Jack Adler, Theodore Carlson, Holliday Carlson, Christine Beckett, Gabby Livingston.
Featured: Thomas Beckett, Declan Carlson, Dr. Jeanine Pierce.
Trigger Warnings: Depression, physical abuse mention, abandonment, transplant mention, panic attack, trauma.
Nobody was noticing but she was disappearing.
There was a lot to say about enduring trauma during childhood. Something that branded you. Skin deep. Raw. Effective.
Most of the days Lydia didn’t know why she came into the world.
Her mother had been cruel. Calculating. Manipulative in ways Lydia wasn’t sure to be possible for a mother to be. Where Lydia considered herself to be a hurricane, Catherine had been a tsunami. Receding at first. Apparently apathetic, before coming and sweeping it all away.
Lydia wouldn’t admit it, but she missed her, she missed her sisters the most, but she missed her, and what kind of person could she be when she was missing a person like her?
She remembered clear as day the day her mother left her behind. No second thought. As if she was something to be scrapped and left in the junkyard. She remembered the tears streaming down her face as she begged her mother to stay until her voice went hoarse, she begged for her to take her along for the ride as well. It wasn’t just the bags, but something in Lydia knew that her mother would never come back and she was sure that she wasn’t enough to make her stay. 
She cried and begged as the rain fell on them, thick and unforgiving. Lydia sobbed as her hair got swept on her face and the sobs turned into hiccups until there was nothing left in her. Lydia remembered feeling numb. A whole lot of nothing inside of her. Suffocating her. She just wanted to be gone.
Still, stupidly maybe, there was a part of her that still loved her father. 
The man was violent on his best day, Lydia had been branded over and over again just because. He was a drunk too, and never sustained a job. Part of her didn’t blame her mother for wanting to leave that all behind. The other part of her beat herself up in wondering why the woman hadn’t taken her along.
A twelve year old mind didn’t know much about realizing when something was wrong. When her mother left, she had taken to herself to fill in her shoes, taking care of a man who couldn’t take care of himself. After all, if it wasn’t for him, Lydia wouldn’t have existed right? Maybe in some ways she still resented him for putting her in this world, but still. She took care of him.
For years she did his laundry, she fixed the house, she had multiple jobs and concentrated on spending the most time she had free away from home. In places she felt safe. With Eleanor in the Hirsch residence, even though she felt deeply undeserving of being there, with Jasmine and sometimes even with Gabby. How in the hell she had friends when she barely could maintain herself standing, escaped her comprehension.
Life did move on though, and once it was time, she would say she didn’t feel bad about leaving the man behind, but she did. Nevertheless, there was a bigger need for all of that. The need to get out covering the real quest to run away. 
For the next few years, Lydia found her father in every man she came across. They were all undeserving of her in some ways, but they felt like home, and she didn’t recognize home in softness, in kindness or love. Home for her was harsh, violent, brutal and cruel, and times it was like she masochistically sought out home in every person she encountered. She would like to say that there was a balance, but sometimes there weren’t. Her suffering was offered and for free. It took her a long time to plant the seed of not deserving it, and she was sure that the seed had not sprouted just yet.
Daniel was the one she spent most of the time with. Daniel was undeniably charming. Daniel was powerful. Daniel made a submissive out of her in no time at all. Daniel didn’t take long to show what he was there for and when she didn’t flinch, pull away, or blamed him, Daniel kept being egged on by her helplessness.
Unlike her father, Daniel didn’t need alcohol to raise a hand and strike it down as hard as he could. Unlike her father, Daniel was sociable, funny, the way he wrapped his arms around her during dinner parties in front of his friends would make anyone believe that they were exchanging devotion, love, but it was possessiveness, obsession, submission and fear. 
Five years she had stayed there, five years in the same loop. Wake up, breakfast, work, fight, rinse and repeat. No man could look at her funny. No woman could look at her funny. She wasn’t isolated inside their work space, because he could see her everywhere. She knew where she was at all times, and Lydia was stupid enough to confuse this for caring, for love, even though she knew that if it was something she wasn’t openly gushing about with Eleanor, than it must be wrong, right? 
It took him almost killing her to make her walk away. She remembered waking up at the hospital and a nurse telling her that Daniel had been there every day, holding her hand, waiting for her to wake up. What a man he portrayed for other people. What about her? There was nothing left for her there anymore and she prohibited his visitors, any visitors and once she felt capable enough, she ran away, again. Pulling out a duffel bag and ending up God knew where.
She couldn’t breathe again.
She came back.
Not for him though. She quit her job at the publishing house and she found Holly. She would never admit for a woman so stoic, but Holly had been a lifeline for her. Her and her spunky little boy who Lydia never thought could fill her heart so much. 
It was incredibly scary how Declan could see right through her. He was imaginative, observant and bright. Sometimes a little difficult, but hey, what kid wasn’t? He was the one who asked her what she loved to do and it shut her up, she replied “hanging out with you” but soon enough came “and writing”. If she ever managed to finish her first book, she knew she wanted a dedicatory to him, for the last three years he had been helping her continuously see the good in life and know, maybe, somewhere deep inside that she wasn’t meant for all that hurt, after all.
She never thought about being a mother before. Thinking about the times her father would look at her and say that she was “just like your mother”, and being just like her mother meant a lot of things and being unable to carry that title was one of them.
By then Lydia had already witnessed how much of a hurricane she could be. How much she was able to sweep into people’s lives, cause destruction and walk away without flinching.
Lydia remembered seeing two blue lines in a pregnancy test when she was still with Daniel. Never two blue lines made her so scared or put things into perspective. The sudden pregnancy was short-lived and Lydia resigned to life with him. Motherhood was not for her. How could she guide a child, when she couldn’t even set herself straight.
Still, Declan had shown parts of her she had never seen before. She had been able to open her heart fully and let him in. There was a connection between them and a real friendship. She loved the little man, and she always made sure to stay on top of her game when she was around him. He had brought her so many people just by being the reason she returned to Catalina.
Georgina, Jack, Jasmine, Eleanor, Teddy, Holly… the list went on and on and when she saw herself surrounded by so much--- it was suffocating, at times. Yet, she was eager to be better.
Maybe he was the reason why she had decided to test to know if she was compatible with her father.
He had come up to her in the kitchen with a bright smile while Lydia was cooking for him and asked him “why are you so sad Lydia?” It took her by surprise. Not to butter her own biscuit, but she had been excellent at wearing a sturdy mask when around people, even if her own thoughts were cloudy most of the time. She could have laughed it off and just told him that she was not, but she knelt down to his level and hugged him. “My dad is sick buddy,” the blonde confided and he hugged her back, the kind of comforting and trusting hug only a kid is able to give. 
“Miss Beckett, are you ready?”
She was snapped from her thoughts by the nurse who came to call her. 
She went in that morning to test herself. They said it was a simple blood work, but it was much more than that and knowing that she would need some time to recollect herself before entering the real world, she asked Holly if she could take some days off, which was unlike her to do. Nobody knew she was there. 
She didn’t tell Eleanor, which was also unlike her, but she was afraid Ellie wouldn’t understand why she was doing it. The brunette had been the one who got front row and center tickets to the Lydia shit show, something she had not signed up for and she never wavered, not for a moment. Eleanor’s repetitive words of her not deserving that and of her father not deserving of anything from her were echoed in her mind, over and over again. She didn’t want to disappoint her best friend. So she didn’t tell her.
Taking a deep breath, Lydia followed the nurse down a long and well lit white hall. She hated hospitals. She really hated them. Every time she stepped in to visit her father, she got nauseous at the clean smell and how there were just people dying everywhere in that building.
She did put her brave face on that morning and once she was seated, another nurse came by and tourniqueted her arm before the recognizable pinch of the needle happened making her face screw up at the sudden pain, she hissed. The nurse had a smile on his face, and she bet that it was a reaction he had predicted many times. Once she was good to go, they directed her back to her father’s room to wait for the doctor.
Her father was sleeping and whenever he was sleeping he was almost peaceful.
She had shared with Georgina that her father’s condition was getting worse. It was funny when in the times she needed for a mother, Lydia went directly to the woman even though she was only a few years ahead of her. It was a shame that Georgina had gotten into her life too late to replace a mother that was never there, but she was thankful nonetheless. She promised she’d take up on the offer and promise of a talk, if needed, but she was unsure now, unsure that her thoughts and feelings could ever be put into words.
For someone who wanted to be a writer, Lydia was a shit communicator.
Her father had been put into ventilation for now, and the bills were sucking the life out of Lydia and her bank account looking fairly dry nowadays. Maybe if she could just finish this, she could get rid of him for good.
She would never admit it though, that there was a small part of her who wished he would be a better father after this. Bridge the gap between them. Maybe a liver transplant could change one’s personality? She hated that she was holding up on such hope. Still, absentmindedly her hand reached out for his and she wrapped it. It was calousy and hard, they were never meant for tenderness and had never shown them. Remembering the way he asked for her forgiveness the last time he was away made her stomach flip and her throat constrict. The sound of the door opening made her turn around startled, a hand flying to her chest, but it was just Dr. Pierce. She breathed out in relief.
“Lydia, did not mean to scare you, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine, I’m just a little jumpy,” Lydia smiled and put her hands inside her jeans pockets.
“You should go home and rest up a bit, I’ll be calling you in a few hours with the results, we’ll process them as quickly as we can, but we are a little backed up,” there was an apologetic tone in Dr. Pierce’s voice, to which Lydia just nodded.
“What will happen if I am compatible?”
“Those chances are high, so you should definitely be prepared. We’ll bring you in and do some more tests to know if you’ll be able to withstand the surgery well, and probably no longer than tomorrow we’ll be doing your surgery,” she explained, Lydia nodded along to let her know she was following up. “I do need to tell you again, though, your father might not survive the surgery or even recover if he does, there is a lot of damage done over the years and during the extensive period he spent in the hospital waiting for this, so even if he goes through surgery, he might not have a good recovery or even one at all.”
It was a reality check, she knew. Didn’t make her feel any less shitty though. Lydia nodded again.
“You’ll call me, right?”
Dr. Pierce confirmed once again and with a kiss to her father’s forehead, Lydia all but ran out of that hospital.
She stopped outside, catching her breath, she didn’t like the taste that the Doctor’s words left in her mouth. She had waited too long in her indecisiveness and now she might as well take the knife and kill her father herself. 
She didn’t go back home, she walked around the island, wherever her feet wanted to take her. Her mind was clouded and she felt as if she could cry at any given moment. It had been days she had not been sleeping well and the concealer was doing a poor job at hiding the dark circles under her eyes. She had gotten a bit thinner as well, but she didn’t feel hungry and food made her stomach feel queasy. Nobody had quite warned her before that guilt was an all consuming feeling. It was eating her from the inside out.
It was hard to know how long it really took or how long she was walking around, but at the first chirp of her phone, her heart started hammering loudly inside her chest. She picked up and sure enough Dr. Jeanine Pierce’s voice hit her ears.
“Lydia, your tests are back, I was wondering if you could come by my office so we can have a word?”
She was there in no time, whistling down a cab as her head went a million times per hour. Was there something wrong? Was she not compatible? Was she sick too? Her mind was so busy that she almost tripped on her own feet as she got out of the cab and rushed inside. Her heart was in her throat and it was hard to swallow. Lydia rushed through the hallways to get to Dr. Pierce’s office, a place she had grown quite used to. She waited outside after identifying herself, feet tapping impatiently on the floor making her receive some looks, thankfully, her entrance was permitted quickly.
“What is it?”
She was out of breath and it showed.
“I don’t know how to say this, Lydia, but while you and your… father are compatible,” the way she said the word father made Lydia’s eyebrows furrow, “it seems that there is no correlation between the two of you. If you’re comfortable with it, I would like to take a DNA test to confirm it, but it doesn’t seem that biologically you are father and daughter.”
Lydia had heard about them before. Moments that shift your whole world.
Most people talk about them in a good light, but she wasn’t sure that was one of those. It became rather hard to focus on what the woman in front of her was saying, even though her lips were moving. She had said something about a DNA test and Lydia just nodded, not really knowing what was happening, but going along for the ride. She signed papers, she was taken down the same hall she did earlier and this time around, she didn’t feel the pinch and she was sure the nurse could see that there was nothing behind her eyes. Not fear, or pain, or relief, or joy, it was just void. A whole lot of nothingness.
She was returned to the doctor’s office and while she started speaking again, all Lydia heard was Charlie Brown’s teacher's voice. No words meant anything to her. 
It did take a while, but it all returned, all at one. Her breathing suddenly grew shallow, constricted in a tight throat. Her mouth was dry. Impossibly dry. 40 days in the desert dry. Her eyes tried to focus somewhere. Anywhere, but it was all blurry. Was that what a panic attack felt like?
Dr. Pierce must have noted because she wasted no time. She had something calming about her. She was already into her 60s so she had long acquired that motherly soothing tone in her voice, but Lydia didn’t want to listen. She tried to breathe in deeply, but it wouldn’t pass through her throat. Her eyes would have been rimmed with tears had she not felt the complete void of any water inside her body. The air around her felt dry. The chair felt hard. The metal felt cold. Dr. Pierce’s hands felt weird and suddenly, everything went black.
She woke up a few hours later, dizzy and not knowing where she was. There was an IV attached to her body, pumping fluid for a much needed hydration. Still everything was fuzzy and as she looked frantically around her, Dr. Pierce was the first one to get into her line of vision.
“Calm down Lydia, you passed out after the test, you’re in the hospital, you’re fine,” she explained and her breathing came down, she needed to be out of there.
“H-How long was I out?”
“5 or 6 hours? Looked like your body needed some rest and since you had your father listed as an emergency contact, I had no choice but to keep myself here,” she smiled kindly.
Back in New York, she had Eleanor listed as her emergency contact, but recently, with a few changes that were made to her health insurance, she had forgotten to put her name on it.
She attempted to get up, already in a rush to go back home. Or to Holly’s home, to her room, but was pushed back by Dr. Pierce’s gentle hands.
“Calm down, I need you to stay here for observance for another hour or two, and was able to rush your results and I don’t want you passing out on me again, okay?”
Lydia nodded and Dr. Pierce took out an envelope from her lab coat and opened.
“You and your father share no DNA,” she said, and Lydia couldn’t help but frown, a strange feeling happening on the tip of her stomach, “my guess is that you weren’t aware of it?” Lydia shook her head in response. “You are still compatible if you wish to follow through with the surgery, but I understand that this is a lot to process. Do you have anyone who can help you do that?”
She had people, but no one that could understand how those news had sunk her heart to her stomach. Still, she nodded, unable to voice it out loud.
“I’m still gonna need you to get back to me by the end of the week, okay? Even though he is not your biological father you’re still his next of kin and quite possibly, the only one who can see him through this.”
Dr. Pierce spoke from an oblivious place. A place of someone who didn’t know what hell her childhood had been and how that man… that stranger, was responsible for screwing her up so badly, maybe beyond repair. She was speaking from the eyes of someone who maybe didn’t have a fractured relationship with her parents, or with her children. Those were the facts that made Lydia not reboot and press her lips together with a nod.
“Can you let me out? I’m good, I promise, I just don’t want to be here right now.”
“Sure, but you understand that you are leaving against medical orders, right?”
Another nod.
It still took a long time to get through bureaucracy and be released. She didn’t spend much time after she was, not really bothering a visit to her father’s room. If she could even call him that ever again. She knew she hadn’t processed that. Maybe it was an elaborate prank and she would be laughing about it later.
She walked impatiently through the doors until she was in the parking lot and took a deep breath, taking her phone from her pocket so she could call… who?
Eleanor had been clear that she didn’t like the man. She had a good family despite some strangeness that happened every now and then. Lydia wouldn’t know how to explain what she was feeling now.
Georgina was wise beyond her years, but this wasn’t something she could relate with. Not when her parents were magical and her siblings were tight. Besides, this was a part Lydia hadn’t fully disclosed for her yet, because if she was 100% honest, she hated that look in her face. That look that made Lydia aware that if Geo could carry all her burden she would. Sometimes it might have felt like, but she was not her mother, and the last thing Geo should be doing was wasting her time with someone like her.
Jack was a good friend, supportive and Lydia had thought about him in many less friendly ways recently, so he wasn’t someone she could just reach out about this.
Her friendship with Jasmine had just started to blossom again. They were just learning to be around each other again. There was no way she would cloud that with her darkness.
Teddy… no. It was better if he didn’t know she was so distasteful.
She returned her phone to her bag.
It felt like pieces were slowly falling inside her brain like a painful tetris game.
Her father was not her father.
Could she even call him father now? Should she?
All that pain, all the times he hurt her, everything she had endured thus far. A lie. A fucking lie. Why had her mother not taken her? Why had she left her in the care of a total stranger?
Did she even have a father? What if he was some dead beat? What if he was just dead?
For a million questions there were a million more and it was overwhelming, but no tears came. She felt like she could cry at any time, but nothing.
Lydia felt numb, stale, cold, empty.
Just a wave of nothingness sweeping through her in the middle of a parking lot.
But for every wave that crashed on shore, another one was already on the way.
Soon it would swallow her whole.
Right now Lydia was as unimportant as she felt. As hopeless as she felt. Still, her face was stoic, her breathing was normal again.
Maybe not feeling was the best thing she could ever hoped for, after all, with just a few words her world had been turned upside down.
Lydia turned her phone off. She didn’t want to be found. Not for now. Not for a while.
She started walking away, without really knowing where to go. It was hard to admit but it had been some time since she had been slipping away from people’s lives. meticulously. Carefully. Gently.
Maybe this was the final nail on the proverbial coffin.  
Nobody was noticing but she was already gone.
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hopelikethemoon · 4 years
Text
New Year (Javier x Reader) {MTMF}
Title: New Year Rating: PG-13 Length: 4500 Warnings: Mild Angst (PTSD, mentions of blood and injury, and PINING)  Notes: You can find the Maybe Today, Maybe Forever Timeline here. Set on New Year’s Eve 1991. Summary: Reader rings in the New Year with the Murphys and Javier. 
Taglist:  @grapemama​​  @seawhisperer​​ @huliabitch​​​ @pedropascalito​​​ @rogrsnbarnes​​​@thewallpapergoesorido​​​ @twomoonstwosuns​​​ @gooddaykate​​​ @livasaurasrex​​​ @ham4arrow​​​@hiscyarika​​​ @plexflexico​​​ @readsalot73​​ @hdlynn​​ @lokiaddicted​​​ @randomness501​​​@fioccodineveautunnale​​  @roxypeanut​​​ @just-add-butter​​​ @snivellusim​​​@amarvelousmandalorian​​​ @lukesrighthand​​​ @historynerd04​​​@mrsparknuts​​@synystersilenceinblacknwhite​​​ @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead​​​@exrebelshocktrooper​​​@awesomefandomsunited​​​ @ah-callie​​​ @swhiskeys​​​ @lady-tano​​​ @beskar-droids​​​ @space-floozy @cable-kenobi​​​ @longitud-de-onda​​​ @cool-ultra-nerd​​​ @himbopoes​​​@findhimfives​​​ @pedrosdoll​​​
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Getting shot was not a pleasant experience. You were actually really fucking lucky. A few inches over and the bullet would’ve hit some fairly vital arteries in your leg. As it was, the doctors had lauded Javier for his fast thinking. His belt had made a handy tourniquet. Things could’ve been a lot worse if you hadn’t been with him.
You hissed a little as you sat down at the table, propping your leg up on the chair beside you. “Thank you again for inviting me. I had all these plans to go down to the bar and ring in the New Year getting drunk, but…” You gestured to your leg. “I can’t drink much with the meds they have me on.”
Connie stopped what she was doing, turning to give you a look. “You shouldn’t be drinking at all on those meds.”
“A beer or two isn’t going to kill me.” Your brows raised upwards with a playful challenge. “It’s a holiday, Connie. I’m going to drink.” You looked towards Steve then, chewing on your bottom lip. “Did Javi say if he was coming?”
“Who knows with him,” He shrugged as he sat down at the table across from you. “I’m sure he’s got plans of his own.” 
Javier probably did have plans. And while you couldn’t blame him for wanting to ring in the New Year having fun somewhere, there was a part of you that was a little disappointed at the prospect of not seeing him. You hadn’t seen much of him since the shooting. Sure, he’d come to the hospital while you were stuck there — but aside from that, he’d been scarce. 
“Well, he would be wise not to rub it in.” You quipped, before a grimace marred your expression as you readjusted your leg. “Steve, I’m telling you… don’t get shot.”
“Steve better not get shot.” Connie said as she approached the table with a bowl of salad. She playfully swatted the back of Steve’s head, before leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. Steve curled his arm around her hips and pulled her in close so he could press a quick kiss to her lips. 
The Murphys could be sickeningly sweet, even if you knew the truth. Connie was miserable in Colombia and you were certain that a part of her deeply resented Steve for dragging her along into this mess. Things were definitely strained between the two of them. Adopting Oliva hadn’t eased that tension. 
A knock at the front door stirred you from your thoughts. “That’ll probably be Javier.” Steve remarked as he rose to his feet and vanished around the corner. 
Your heart beat a little faster, but you tempered yourself. “I wish I could help, Connie. I feel like a slug on a rock right now.”
“That’s certainly an interesting comparison.” She laughed, sitting a trivet down on the table before returning with a hot plate of vegetables.
You laughed brightly, “I couldn’t think of a better one.” You turned when you heard Javier’s voice. He and Steve were just around the corner, all hushed voices and whispers. “Are you guys going to lurk or join us?” You questioned. 
Javier appeared around the corner, brows furrowed with annoyance over whatever he and Steve had been discussing. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m here.” He approached the table, stopping beside your chair. He hesitated, fingers clenching and unclenching, before he reached out and curled his fingers around the back of your chair. “How are you feeling?” 
“Like I got shot.” You deadpanned, a faint smirk playing over your lips as you looked up at him. “And Connie’s trying to deny me alcohol.”
“You’re on pain medication.” She chided.
You rolled your eyes and Javier chuckled quietly. He released his hold on the back of your chair, offering a fleeting touch to your shoulder that left you feeling warm all over. “You look good.” He told you. 
“Thanks.” Your eyes flickered towards Steve who was holding a bottle of Old Parr. “You brought it!” You slapped Javier’s arm, grinning up at him. 
“I brought it to ring in the New Year.” He grumbled, jaw clenched tightly as he shot Steve a look.
He took a step away from you, peeling off his leather jacket. He pulled the carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and tossed them down on the table. Javier draped the jacket over the back of the chair beside you. You caught the look he gave Steve, before he busied himself with prying a cigarette out and lighting it up. 
Sometimes you couldn’t tell if the pair of them actually liked each other or were seconds away from murder. 
If it came to blows, your bets were on Javier. You had seen, firsthand, what he had done to the guy who shot you. He could take on anyone. 
“I got cleared to start back at the office next week. But I won’t be approved for fieldwork until mid-January at the earliest.” You stated, breaking through the awkward tension that was hanging in the air of the kitchen. 
“Good.” Steve said with a slight nod. “The office has been a lot less fun without you around.”
“I’m flattered.” You said with a mock bow. “Honestly though, I’m losing my fucking mind being stuck at home.” 
Javier sank down into the chair beside you, blowing out a puff of smoke. “I’m just a call away.” 
“Calling you? Do you want me to go crazy?” You teased, taking in the way he was watching you. Sometimes you thought you knew what he was thinking, but other times… maybe you were afraid to know. “I have a phone too. I think you know the number.” 
Steve cleared his throat. “Speaking of calling people, Javi…. Connie mentioned that Mariana hasn’t heard from you.” 
“Ohhh.” You whistled teasingly. “So, who is Mariana?” You questioned, looking between Steve and Javier curiously. 
Javier looked pissed off. “Some fucking nurse Connie’s been trying to set me up with.” He shrugged a shoulder. “I dunno, Murphy. She doesn’t sound like my type.”
“Is Connie trying to set you up with her co-workers too?” You let your head fall back as you laughed. “She had me all set up to go out with a doctor before this happened.” You gestured to your leg.
Connie shot you a look. “He’s a very nice man. And a good doctor.” She shook her head. “Plus, he has no plans to leave Colombia so you won’t have to bow out at the first mention of going stateside.”
You huffed. “That wasn’t the only reason I broke up with Lance.” 
“You were too good for Lance.” Javier said pointedly as he took another drag from his cigarette. He’d leaned back in his seat, an arm slung coolly over the back of the chair. 
“I wouldn’t go that far.” You laughed. “I mean, he was squeaky clean and that is just not my type.” Lance had been a wonderful partner, but you both wanted different things from that relationship. Different people. 
“And he was CIA.” Javier smirked at you, before looking towards Connie. “Not everyone is meant to be in a relationship, Connie.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “That’s just the excuse you use, Javi.”
“I actually thought about inviting Mariana.” Connie remarked as she sat down beside Steve. 
You tensed, suddenly dreading the prospect that you were about to become the third — er, fifth — wheel. The thought of them inviting some woman to hang all over Javier for the evening made your stomach turn. 
Javier’s jaw clenched. “You didn’t.”
“Jesus, Javi.” Steve laughed, shaking his head. “No. We didn’t. I figured it wasn’t fair to Mariana.”
You relaxed a little, rubbing at your leg just above the bandage. The thought of ringing in the New Year while the Murphys tried to fix Javier up with some woman did not sound like fun. And given the way Javier relaxed — it hadn’t sounded like a good evening to him either. 
“You should’ve invited her,” You remarked despite yourself, just to piss Javier off. “Look, Connie. You’ve got to let me pre-screen these women. They’ve got to have the intestinal fortitude to put up with his bullshit.”
He flipped you off, but it was offset with a glint of mischief in his dark eyes. “You want a shot?” Javier questioned. 
You nodded, coloring rising to your cheeks. 
Javier passed his cigarette to you as he got up and you took it from him. You inhaled a puff, letting it rest between your lips for a moment before snuffing it out in the ashtray in front of you. 
“You really shouldn’t be drinking.” Connie tsked. 
“One shot isn’t going to kill me.”
Javier returned to the table with two shot glasses that he’d scrounged out of the Murphy’s cabinets. He grabbed the bottle of Old Parr off the counter, twisting the top off and pouring you both a shot. 
“What are we toasting to?” You questioned with a grin, picking up your glass. 
Javier rubbed his lips together thoughtfully. “Ah, I’ve got it.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “To not being set up by Connie and Steve in the New Year.”
“Real funny.” Steve remarked and you snorted as you laughed.
“To that.” You clinked your glass against Javi’s and knocked it back with a satisfied hiss. “Speaking of being set up,” You started, looking up at Javier. You weren’t done tormenting him yet. “When are you going to tell me the story of that fiancé of yours in Laredo.”
Javier groaned, “Come on. You gonna break my heart like this, baby?” He sank down into the seat beside you, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s ancient history.”
“I’m just impressed that someone got you that close to the altar.” He ran your finger around the rim of your shot glass, eyes fixed on his face. You had tried to get the story out of him for years. You had little pieces of it — her name, that he’d left her the morning of the wedding. But outside of that, you knew very little. 
Javier glared at you, dragging his tongue over his teeth before he shrugged. “I was young and stupid. Not making that mistake again.”
“Marriage isn’t the worst thing in the world.” Connie remarked, shaking her head. “Both of you are the worst commitment-phobes.”
“I am not afraid of committing.” You snapped, shooting her a look. You weren’t. Lance had been a testament to that. You’d made it a year with him, before you finally threw in the towel. 
“You ran the second Lance suggested—“
You cut her off. “I ran the second he suggested I leave my job.” You corrected her, rubbing at your forehead out of frustration. “I’m in it for the long haul here. My job is infinitely more important to me than some stupid man.”
“You started this,” Javier reminded you, flashing you a smug grin as he got up again. “You got any beer, Murph?”
“In the fridge.”
Connie folded her arms against the table and stared at you, “Can’t you try to find someone? Consider it a New Year’s resolution, maybe?”
“If she doesn’t want to find someone, why push her?” Javier questioned as he returned, sitting a beer down in front of you. You hadn’t even needed to ask for it. 
“Thanks.”
“You would say that, Javi.” Steve remarked, laughing a little as he leaned forward to pick up some of the salad with the salad tongs.
“I’m just focused on work.” You insisted. “I don’t need someone.” Your eyes flickered towards Javier, keenly aware of the way he was staring at you. Again, impossible to read. “Lance was fun and all-“
“Was he?”
You snorted. “No. He was boring, but the point is… I tried the whole relationship thing. It just doesn’t work with where I see my future.” You shrugged. “You guys work,” You gestured between Steve and Connie. “But it’s just not that easy for the rest of us.”
Javier nodded his agreement. 
You reached for your beer and took a swig, sloshing it around in your mouth before you swallowed. “This was a long-winded way of telling you not to set me up with anymore doctors or contractors or whoever you think is perfect for me.” 
Connie sighed heavily. “Fine.”
“Thank you.” You smiled at her, before changing the topic. “How is Olivia settling in to life as a Murphy?”
“She’s good.” Steve shrugged. “She’ll make an appearance before the fireworks, I’m sure. Her sleep schedule is off this week with Connie’s work schedule.” 
“She can’t miss her first New Year’s with us.” Connie added. “My parents sent the cutest little headband with the new year on it.”
“Cute.” You grinned. “Take lots of pictures. I hear they grow up fast.”
 ———
 “We should be able to see the fireworks from here.” Steve remarked as he pulled back the sliding curtains and slid the glass doors open to lead out onto the balcony. You were a little envious of their view of the city. Your apartment wasn’t terrible, but you had a glorious view of a carpark. 
From the sofa, where you had your leg propped up, you could see straight out into the inky darkness of the city. There were a few street lights glowing below, but the sky was dark and perfect for fireworks.
“Three minutes!” Connie cheered, offering Steve a flute of champagne as she joined him out on the balcony. You could tell she was really trying to make this a special moment for both of them. They deserved something good. 
You tilted your head, glancing towards Javier where he was perched on the arm of the sofa at the other end. “You know, I had plans to be ringing in the New Year down at the bar. Instead I get this.”
Javier looked your way, “Is this better or worse?”
You hummed thoughtfully, rubbing your lips together. “I dunno. I guess you guys are fun.” You couldn’t help but grin at him. “Steve didn’t think you were going to come tonight.”
He shrugged, “I debated not coming. But I figured you could use the company.” 
“Thanks.” You smiled, taking a sip of your beer before leaning forward to put it on the coffee table.
“One minute!” Connie shouted in from the balcony. 
You rolled your eyes, lips parted to say something snide to Javier but the sudden crash of the fireworks bursting across the sky caught you off guard. Your heart raced, panic gripping tightly at your throat. 
The sound made you nearly jump out of your skin as the colorful lights danced across the sky. Connie and Steve seemed enamored with the lightshow, but for you — it sounded like a gunshot.
It sounded like pain. The flash of red fireworks, reminding you of watching your blood spill across hot pavement. The night sky was an eerie reminder of the darkness that had encroached, trying to take you with it. 
“Shit.” You muttered, blinking blearily as you realized that you had knocked your beer off the coffee table. Had really you reacted that severely to the fireworks?
The Murphys were entirely oblivious out on the balcony, but Javier was at your side. “Hey, easy there.” He reassured you as he crouched down beside the sofa. He looked up at you, brows furrowed with worry, before he used the fist full of napkins he had snatched off the coffee table to clean up the spilled beer. “You okay?”
You flinched again as another round of fireworks lit up the sky. 
You were very much not okay. You could hear your pulse drumming in your ears.
“Yeah.” You offered with uncertainty. 
Javier reached out and squeezed your shoulder, “Hey, just focus on me.” 
You blinked slowly, jerking again as another crack of fireworks illuminated the night. “I’m focusing on you.” You whispered, meeting his eyes. 
You had never been particularly drawn to dark eyes, but there was something about his that made you want to get lost in them. There was a lot about Javier that made you want to get lost in him. For awhile now. 
He gripped at your forearm tightly, “It’s okay. Just focus on me. They’re just fireworks. They can’t hurt you.”
You swallowed thickly and nodded. “It sounded like gunfire.”
“Yeah.” He frowned. “I was there too.”
You looked down at where he was holding your arm, frowning. “You’re bleeding.” You caught the sight of the glimmer of red on your arm where he was holding you. 
“The bottle broke.” Javier explained, pulling his hand away and wiping it off on his jeans. “It’s alright.” He glanced down at the ground. “I’m gonna clean this up.” 
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He gave your good leg a light pat before he pulled himself up off the ground. 
You swept your fingers through your hair and sank back on the sofa, sighing heavily. You could still feel the burn of adrenaline in your veins — fight or flight driving you. Every boom of the fireworks made your pulse quicken, but you tried to focus on your breathing, on Javier, on anything that wasn’t the flash of color in the night sky. 
“I need another beer.” You mumbled, dragging yourself off the sofa. What you needed was to get away from the open door. So you retreated into the kitchen after Javier. 
You were hobbling, gingerly putting weight down on your bad leg as you limped your way towards the fridge. 
“I could’ve gotten that for you.” He quipped, rinsing his hand off in the sink. 
“I am perfectly capable of getting my own beer.” You told him, grabbing a new beer out of the fridge. You snatched the bottle opener magnet off the refrigerator door, popping the top off. 
You hated how fucking stupid all of it was. You got shot and now you couldn’t even enjoy fireworks because they sounded like gunfire. You couldn’t just ignore it, like you did with everything else. 
The nightmares. The cold sweats when a car backfired. Fucking fireworks.
“I thought I was fine.” You admitted quietly. 
“It takes a minute.” Javier clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Don’t give yourself a hard time.”
“Yeah.” You sighed, taking a sip of your beer. The fireworks were still loud outside of the apartment, but they were less jarring without an open door in front of you. “I fucking hate this, Javi.” You whispered. “Everyone treats me like I’m a fuck up because I got shot.”
“You’re not.” He moved towards you, stopping right in front of you. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, from just how close he was. “We were both blindsided by that asshole.” Javier rested his hands on your shoulders. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. Okay?”
You shook your head slowly, before lifting your gaze to meet his. “It’s just bullshit.” 
“No. The fact that they all underestimate you is bullshit. But you've never been one to let them know that they’re getting to you.” Javier pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, holding your gaze. “Just don’t rush back into the field. Take it easy. I’ll chew ‘em out if I’ve got to.”
You smiled at him, “Thank you Javi.” You took a step forward, curling an arm around his waist. “You’re a good friend.” You whispered. 
He rubbed his hand over the small of your back, letting you linger against his chest. It was nice to be held — even if it was a fleeting moment. You could hear his heart beating beneath your cheek, the scent of his cologne clinging to his shirt. It was nice.
You pulled back, looking up at him. Without really thinking it through, you rose up on your toes and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Happy New Year, Javi.” You whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek to wipe away the dusty pink lipstick that had been left behind. 
“It’s fucking 1992.” He huffed and laughed, giving your waist a brief squeeze before he retreated across the kitchen to grab a paper towel to wrap around his hand where it was still bleeding. You couldn’t blame him for putting distance between the two of you. “Can you believe that?”
“Insanity.” You laughed, taking another drink from your beer before you hobbled over to the table, sitting down and stretching your leg out in front of you. You’d put far too much weight on it. It hurt like a son of a bitch.
Your brows furrowed as you caught him rubbing at his cheek where you’d kissed him. Had you gone too far? Neither of you had ever had any issues with being affectionate with one another — but a little flicker of worry still managed to work its way into your mind. Maybe it was too much. 
What was that silly superstition? Was it that the first person you kissed on New Years would be the same person you kissed on the following New Year’s Eve? You’d never really put much stock in those stupid superstitions… and it was Javier after all. 
Could you lay the blame at the foot of drinking while taking pain medication?
You hated yourself for harboring any feelings for him, outside of being your coworker and friend. But it was hard to ignore the way your heart fluttered sometimes around him. There was something there, but you tried to avoid acknowledging it. 
“The three of us are hitting the bar the second this leg heals.” You remarked, wanting to move on from the stupid mistake you’d made. “I can’t take much more of this.” 
“What? Don’t want to be hop-along?”
You flipped him off. 
“You sure you don’t want to go out with Dr. Wonderful instead?”
You pretended to puke. 
“Only if you go out with Mariah? Mary Anne?”
“Mariana.” Javier rubbed at the back of his neck and laughed awkwardly. “Yeah, that’s not happening.” He approached the table, pulling a chair out and turning it around so he was straddling it as he sat down. “I’ll let you in on a secret.”
“Oh?” You grinned as you took a sip of beer. 
“I’m pretty sure Mariana was looking for more than I was interested in.” He raised his brows suggestively. 
“Javier!” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “You already fucked her? Seriously? Come on man.”
He shrugged. “What can I say? I did call her, but… she was looking for something I don’t think I’m made for giving.”
You pushed your fingers through your hair and leaned an elbow against the table. “I get that.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “No wonder you looked like you were going to crawl out of your skin when they mentioned inviting her.”
“I would’ve shit a brick.” He laughed, pulling the paper towel off his hand to examine the wound. 
“Did it stop bleeding?” You questioned. 
“It was just a knick.” He waved it off. “Hell of a way to ring in the new year.”
You chuckled, taking a sip of your beer. “I really hope 1992 isn’t as crazy as 1991 was. Let getting shot be the worst thing the 90s have planned for me.”
“We can only hope.” Javier said quietly as he stared at you. 
“What’s that look for?” You questioned. 
“Nothing.” He raked his hands over his face and sighed. “I should probably get out of here. You need a ride?”
You shook your head slowly, “They offered up the guest room.”
“Nice.” Javier swallowed thickly and your eyes were drawn to the bob of his Adam’s apple. Had he been hoping for a different answer? The same one you wanted to give him?
What would happen if he drove you home? Your mind wandered down an interesting path — a path that led nowhere good. Going home with Javier Peña was a terrible idea. Even if the temptation was real. 
Just seconds ago he had told you that he had fucked some nice little nurse friend of Connie’s, with no intention of ever seeing her again. And you were — what? Thinking it would somehow be different for you?
You worked with him. You couldn’t just do that shit. Even if you wanted to. 
“Thanks again, Javi.” You smiled softly at him. “For the Old Parr, cleaning up my mess… keeping me alive.”
He winked at you. “I only saved you ‘cause I couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck with just Murphy in the office again.”
You tilted your head back and laughed. “It all has to do with Steve, doesn’t it?” Your shoulders shook as you laughed. “Get out of here, Javier. Drive safe.” 
“Happy New Year.” He offered, hauling himself out of the chair reluctantly. He stepped around the table to give your shoulder a squeeze. “Get some sleep.” 
“See you next week. Hopefully.” 
“I have no doubt that you’ll be there Monday morning, raring to get back into the field.” 
He wasn’t wrong. 
Work was a great distraction. 
You’d clearly had too many days stuck in your apartment. That was the only explanation for your bullshit. Of all the men at the DEA, it just had be Javier-fucking-Peña, didn’t it? The one man that absolutely had to be off-limits. 
But it was hard not to harbor feelings for him. The way that he had looked down at you after you had been shot was still burned into mind. The way he held your hand on the ride to the hospital. The gentle way he brushed his fingers over your forehead and begged you to stay with him. And for a fleeting second, you had been convinced that maybe your stupid infatuation wasn’t one-sided. 
“Where’d Javi go?” Steve questioned as he strolled into the kitchen with their two empty champagne flutes. 
You chewed on your bottom lip briefly, before taking a sip of beer. “Home.” 
Steve frowned, looking truly concerned then. “Are you okay? Did Javier say something to you?”
You arched a brow. “Was he supposed to?”
His shoulders sank and he shook his head. “No, you’ve just got a funny look on your face and we both know he’s an asshole.”
You laughed, looking down at the table. “Nah. I’m the stupid one here. Fireworks triggered me.”
“Shit.”
“It’s fine.” You held up a hand to stop him. “I’m just gonna sleep, I think.” 
“You sure nothing happened with Javier?”
You hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t he seem off tonight?” 
“Probably had something to do with Connie joking about inviting the woman he didn’t call back after fucking.” You grabbed onto the side of the table to help yourself stand. “You definitely spared Mariana.” 
Steve’s hands went to his hips as he shook his head. “He’s a jackass.” 
“Yep.” You nodded in agreement, downing your beer and throwing the bottle away. Why had Steve thought Javier had said something to you? Goddammit, if they’d gotten themselves in trouble with the DEA in the brief period of time you’d been off — you’d kill them.
As it was, without you they only had half a brain cell to share between them. 
That had to be what they were all hush-hush about. 
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punnyadt-goreny · 4 years
Text
My favorite part from Night Watch on mob controlling.  Vimes strolls into certain doom, but instead of following the established plot where the hero dies a poetic but pointless death, he stubbornly takes the situation and turns it upside down.(Trotzkopf@AO3) 
“He walked back down the stairs. The squad were standing around looking nervous. “Prisoner in the cells?” said Vimes.
Corporal Colon nodded. 'Yessir. Sarge, Snouty says that up at Dolly Sisters—'
“I know. Now here's what I feel is necessary. Take the shutters down, unbar the door, leave it open and light all the lamps. Why isn't the blue lamp over the door lit?”
“Dunno, sarge. But what if—”
“Get it lit, corporal. And then you and Waddy go and stand guard outside, where you can be seen. You're friendly-looking local lads. Take your bells but, and I want to make this very clear, no swords, right?”
“No swords?” Colon burst out. 'But what if a bloody great mob comes round the corner and I'm not armed?'
Vimes reached him in two swift strides and stood nose to nose. “And if you have got a sword, what will you do, eh? Against a bloody great mob? What do you want 'em to see? Now what I want 'em to see is Fatty Colon, decent lad, not too bright, I knew 'is dad, an' there's ol' Waddy, he drinks in my pub. 'cos if they just see a couple of men in uniform with swords you'll be in trouble, and if you draw those swords you'll be in real trouble, and if by any chance, corporal, you draw swords tonight without my order and survive then you'll wish you hadn't done either because you'll have to face me, see? And then you'll know what trouble is, 'cos everything up until then will look like a bleedin' day at the soddin' seaside. Understand?”
…Vimes stepped out into the evening air. There were people hanging around out there, in little groups of three or four, talking among themselves and occasionally turning to look at the Watch House.
Vimes sat down on the steps, and took a sip of his cocoa. He might as well have dropped his breeches. The groups opened up, became an audience. No man drinking a nonalcoholic chocolate beverage had ever been the centre of so much attention.
He'd been right. A closed door is an incitement to bravery. A man drinking from a mug, under alight, and apparently enjoying the cool night air, is an incitement to pause.
“We're breaking curfew, you know,�� said a young man, with a quick dart forward, dart back movement.
“Is that right?” said Vimes.
“Are you going to arrest us, then?”
“Not me,” said Vimes cheerfully. “I'm on my break.”
“Yeah?” said the man. He pointed to Colon and Waddy. “They on their break too?”
“They are now.” Vimes half turned. “Brew's up, lads. Off you go. No, no need to run, there's enough for everyone. And come back out when you've got it.”
When the sound of pounding boots had died away, Vimes turned back and smiled at the group again.
“So when do you come off your break?” said the man.
Vimes paid him some extra attention. The stance was a giveaway. He was ready to fight, even though he didn't look like a fighter. If this were a bar room, the bartender would be taking the more expensive bottles off the shelf, because amateurs like that tended to spread the glass around. Ah, yes...and now he could see why the words 'bar room' had occurred to him. There was a bottle sticking out of the man's pocket. He'd been drinking his defiance.
“Oh, around Thursday, I reckon,” said Vimes, eyeing the bottle. There was laughter from somewhere in the growing crowd.
“Why Thursday?” said the drinker.
“Got my day off on Thursday.”
There were a few more laughs this time. When the tension is drawing out, it doesn't take much to snap it.
“I demand you arrest me!” said the drinker. “Come on, try it!”
“You're not drunk enough,” said Vimes. “I should go home and sleep it off, if I was you.”
The man's hand grasped the neck of the bottle. Here it comes, thought Vimes. By the look of him, the man had one chance in five ...
Fortunately, the crowd wasn't too big yet. What you didn't need at a time like this was people at the back, craning to see and asking what was going on. And the lit-up Watch House was fully illuminating the lit-up man.
“Friend, if you take my advice you'll not consider that,” said Vimes. He took another sip of his cocoa. It was only lukewarm now, but along with the cigar it meant that both his hands were occupied. That was important. He wasn't holding a weapon. No one could say afterwards that he had a weapon.
I'm no friend to you people!' snapped the man, and smashed the bottle on the wall by the steps. The glass tinkled to the ground. Vimes watched the man's face, watched the expression change from drink-fuelled anger to agonizing pain, watched the mouth open . . .
The man swayed. Blood began to ooze from between his fingers and a low, thin animal sound escaped from between his teeth.
That was the tableau, under the light - Vimes sitting down with his hands full, the bleeding man several feet away. No fight, no one had touched anyone ... he knew the way rumor worked, and he wanted this picture to fix itself in people's minds. There was even ash still on the cigar.
He stayed very still for a few seconds, and then stood up, all concern.
“Come on, one of you help me, will you?” he said, tugging off his breastplate and the chain-mail shirt underneath it. He grabbed his shirt sleeve and tore off a long strip.
A couple of men, jerked into action by the voice of command, steadied the man who was dripping blood. One of them reached for the hand.
“Leave it,” Vimes commanded, tightening the strip of sleeve around the man's unresisting wrist. “He's got a handful of broken glass. Lay him down as gently as you can before he falls over but don't touch nothing until I've got this tourniquet on. Sam, go into the stable and pinch Marilyn's blanket for the boy. Anyone here know Doctor Lawn? Speak up!”
Someone among the awed bystanders volunteered that they did, and was sent running for him. Vimes was aware of the circle watching him; a lot of the watchmen were peering around the doorway now.
“Saw this happen once,’ he said aloud, and added mentally “in ten years' time”. “It was in a bar fight. Man grabbed a bottle, didn't know how to smash it, ended up with a hand full of shards and the other guy reached down and squeezed.” There was a satisfying groan from the crowd. “Anyone know who this man is?' he added. 'Come on, someone must...” A voice in the crowd volunteered that the man could well be Joss Gappy, an apprentice shoemaker from New Cobblers.
“Let's hope we can save his hand, then,’ said Vimes. 'I need a new pair of boots.”
It wasn't funny at all but it got another of those laughs, the ones people laugh out of sheer frightened nervousness. Then the crowd parted as Lawn came through.
“Ah,” he said, kneeling down by Gappy. “You know, I don't know why I own a bed. Trainee bottle fighter?”
“Yes.”
“Looks like you've done the right things but I need light and a table,” said Lawn. “Can your men take him into the Watch House?”
Vimes had hoped it wouldn't come to that. Oh well, you had to make the best of it...He pointed randomly at figures in the crowd. “You and you and you and you and you too, lady,” he said. “You can help Fred and Waddy take this young man inside, okay? And you're to stop with him, and we'll leave the doors open, right? All you lot out here'll know what's going on. We've got no secrets here. Everyone understand?”
“Yeah, but you're a copper—" a voice began. Vimes darted forward and hauled a frightened young man out of the crowd by his shirt. “Yeah, I am,” he said. “And see that lad over there? He's a copper, too. His name's Sam Vimes. He lives in Cockbill Street with his mum. And that's Fred Colon, just got married, got a couple of rooms in Old Cobblers. And Exhibit C there is Waddy, everyone round here knows Waddy. Billy Wiglet there, he was born in this street. Have I asked you your name?”
“N-no...” the man mumbled.
“That's 'cos I don't care who you are,” said Vimes, letting the man go and looking round at the crowd. “Listen to me, all of you! My name's John Keel! No one gets taken into this Watch House without me knowing why! You're all here as witnesses! Those of you I pointed out, you come on inside to see fair play all round. Do the rest of you want to hang around to see what happens to Gappy? Fine, I'll get Snouty to bring you out some cocoa. Or you can go home. It's a cold night. You ought to be in your beds. I know I'd like to be in mine. And, yes, we know about Dolly Sisters and we don't like it any more than you do. And we've heard about Dimwell Street and we don't like that, either. And that's all I've got to say tonight. Now . . . anyone who still wants to take a swing at a copper can step right up, if they want to. I've got my uniform off. We'll have a go, here and now, fair and square, in front of everyone. Anyone?”
Terry Pratchett - Night Watch
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eugenesmorphine · 4 years
Text
The Corps-Woman // Robert Leckie Imagine
Taglist: @alienoresimagines​
AN: Not my favorite Imagine I have written but oh well.
Words: 1,235
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   Today was the day. The Marines are being shipped to Guadalcanal. I was the only female going out to the Pacific theater. Not as a Marines but as a Corpsman in the Navy. I was a nurse with extremely good skills, and instead of being stuck on a ship helping the men, I decided that I wanted to go out into the action. I had the most skills out of most nurses anyways, and the Marines were short Corpsmen. So why the hell not. I wanted to help these men, I know I could. So that is what I wanted and that is what I was going to do. And no Japanese soldier was going to get in my way of saving these men.
  I was placed within the men of H Company. The Higgins Boat I was on was jam packed with sweaty, sea sick men. I locked eyes with a man that stood next to me. His eyes had fear in them. But the look of adrenaline glazed right over them. I nodded towards him, he smiled slightly back at me and nodded back. I glanced down at his name tag. 'Leckie' it read. Funny name, sounded like 'Lucky'. He was pretty skinny, but built. His jawline chiseled. He was quite handsome. His face and just him in general stood out to me in a different way. I don't know what way, but in a way where I would remember that face and name so much different than anyone else. I looked back out on to the water. Waiting until we hit the sand.
  We thought that we would be fighting some Japs when the ramp dropped as we hit the shoreline. I held my M1 carbine tightly between my fingers. Ready for anything. Though, when the ramp dropped, no Japanese soldiers were to be found. Just other companies of Marines. That meant I needed to immediately either set up my station and or find the other station with the few other Medics and Corpsmen.
   I looked around as I made my way up the shore. Finalizing my thought that I was in fact the only woman. I wasn't surprised. But I wanted and wished that there might've been. I sighed and continued up the beach. Men giving me strange looks as I removed my helmet, my hair was in a tight bun fit to standards. It was clear that many believed that I did not belong here. Their words meant nothing to me. I know I would be caring for many and saving their lives. They were absent minded and didn't know any better. They were men. I didn't care all that much.
 I reached the station, starting with small talk among the other Medics and Corpsmen. Though, among the words, I was able to keep pretty quiet. Keeping to myself as best as I could. Filling my med bag with the materials I needed and probably extra. Morphine, scissors, bandages, gauze, anti-clotting powder, tourniquets, gloves, IVs  and needles, anything I could get my hands on basically. I filled my bag up and nodded to the other goodbye. Now I had to make my rounds, walking around fixing bumps and bruises while we waited on word from the higher ups. It wasn't too bad. Except the catcalls, few insults, the horrid heat, and many other minor complaints. Oh and the fact that the entire Japanese army was scattered within the woods we were about to walk through were blood thirsty for our infantry men and everyone in between.
  As I walked, I felt and heard a man run up behind me. Out of spite I turned around to face the sound and presence of the man behind me. That face. 'Leckie'  The name danced across my mind as I saw his face. He smiled at me. I gave him a slight smile back.
  "Can I help you Leckie?" I asked, scanning his body for any possible injuries. When I realized there were none, I looked back up with a slight confused look across my face.  He still had his smile on his face.
  "Can i just say Miss L/N, you are a real pretty Corpsmen," he spoke softly. I looked around, checking to see if any men were staring or laughing. But there wasn't. Was he being serious right now? My face heated up and I swallowed. This here was no place for love or whatever this Leckie guy was trying to offer or get.  Or was Leckie just trying to be a jackass? He was a pretty cute jackass none the least. I turned and started walking, Leckie now at the side of me, still awaiting my response.
 "Oh, well thank you Leckie, you aren't too bad yourself," I responded, giving him a small smile. In which he gladly returned. His smile was warm, and his eyes had a warm look to them. I just melted into his eyes. Not realizing and paying attention to the stump that was right in front of my feet. Which I completely tripped over. I would've eaten complete shit if Leckie wasn't there to grab my arm in order to yank me back up to my feet. My face got even redder in which now it was from embarrassment.
 "Looks like you've fallen for me Miss L/N," Leckie said, a smirk across his face. I laughed, looking up at him.
///////
 Little did I know at the time, but meeting that man, would change my entire life. From there, Leckie and I grew close. I joined his little squad and we all became close friends. I had  started to catch feelings for the man, in whichI didn't know he felt the same why I did. It was until Melbourne until we really interacted together. He danced with me, walked around town with me. He even kissed me at the end of the night. My heart was filled. It couldn't be better.
  When Leckie and the rest of our squad got hit, and Chuckler was missing. I was the one to go and take care of almost all of them. When I was taking Robert off the field after he was hit pretty bad, a Jap had shot me through my shoulder. Just missing one of the main arteries. Earning both me and Robert a ticket home. We stuck together on that boat and on the way home. It was there when he asked me to go home with him. Life went on from there. It was amazing.
  It was just a few months after that Leckie had asked me to be his wife. Of course I said yes! And not even three months later, we had our big New Jersey wedding. Our squad came and our families did too. It was absolutely amazing. The ceremony was perfect and the reception was beautiful. My life was getting better each day Robert was in it. Every day we spent with each other. I'm ready to spend my life with this man, no matter what. Like my vows stated to him, through sickness and health, for better and for worse, for richer to poorer, till death do us part. I will stay with Robert, and be his wife.
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fericita-s · 4 years
Text
The Next Right Thing
@the-spastic-fantastic and I are going to continue the story of Young Agnarr and Young Iduna and call it When All is Lost. We are obsessed with their story and keep brainstorming timelines and moments and reasons they might have done what they did. We’ll have a master list of all the stories, in chronological order, but we’ll jump around as we tell it.  We’ll (mostly) be canon compliant.  Today’s story is the first time they meet. For the Ring in the Season This Year by @the-spastic-fantastic read here. And a big thank you to her for reading and editing and generally helping me get through this story!
***
Iduna climbed a tree to better see the dam and the ceremony that was about to take place. She was supposed to be gathering berries for the feast, but to stay invisible while doing so.  The feast was for all of the Arendellian laborers and engineers, and the handful of Northuldra delegates that had already been part of the dam construction. Most of the Northuldra people would remain hidden in their villages, still suspicious of these southlanders.
There had been arguments among her people about this ceremony, as there had been about the dam all throughout its construction.  Her oldest brother thought it was just a way for the Arendellians to see Northuldra and how it could be controlled. He had been in the delegation sent to Arendelle, and warned of its military prowess of fast ships and superior weapons.  Her father thought it was a genuine offer of peace and partnership, but thought the dam ostentatious, even harmful to the rhythms of the forest and river they had come to live by. The salmon would no longer be able to make their pilgrimage upstream, the bears might stop coming to find the fish, and without their fur what of Northuldra's ability to trap and trade? He urged his son that the most prudent course of action was to befriend these neighbors, even if they did not give them their trust.
So she was supposed to gather berries for a feast she couldn't even enjoy, for a people who may or may not even be good, on a day when she would much rather climb trees and play in the wind. As she crested the topmost branches, she saw the dam in its entirety.  It was beautiful; a gleaming structure with arches and designs in the masonry. She had tagged along to help Anja mend some scrapes and smashed fingers among a work crew during construction, but now - from here, she could see it all at once. She wondered what else these people knew to make, and how she could learn about it.  She wasn't sure if they were good or bad, but they were interesting.  The soldiers from Arendelle did some marching and then stood still. Now the Arendenllian King was making a speech, but she was too far away to hear.
She climbed back down, and followed the stream looking for berries to add to her basket.   No berries, but she did find some boska growing in the crook of the stream. She pulled it up, pleased that she could give it to Anja for her medicinal stores.  Boska wasn't very useful now, but soon when the days were shorter and the weather biting at their skin, all of Northuldra would want some to ward off fevers and runny noses.   As she placed it in her basket, she heard a crunch behind her. She turned.
"Good morning, miss, my name is Prince Agnarr, and I'd very much like to find my way back to the soldiers and my father, but I got lost. Could you point me towards the dam?" He was holding on to a vine, which was attached to the neck of a sheep in a crude but effective collar. 
Iduna raised an eyebrow and looked at his strange clothes.  Lost? He was her age, maybe even 15 or 16.  How could someone practically grown get lost? And why was he holding on to a sheep? And why was he wearing a coat that looked like a dress in the back?  
He seemed to understand her expression and smiled in an abashed way. "Oh pardon me, do you speak only Northuldra? I'm still learning it, but I can try." He cleared his throat and looked up at the tree, as if the words would come from there. "Buorre idit, mu namma lea Agnarr."
Iduna cut him off. Mercifully. "Are you speaking to me or to the sheep? That sounds more like animal noises than anything else. And why are you holding on to that poor sheep?"
He laughed, relieved to be communicating, even if the questions indicated she did not think him intelligent.
"I'm rescuing it? It got away from the flock, and I saw it happen even though my father and the soldiers didn't, and I know there are bears around so I thought I better save him before he got into trouble, but now I seem to be in some trouble."
"We let the sheep wander. They see to their own meals, and we rarely lose any to bears."
"Oh." Agnarr suddenly seemed younger, unsure of himself. He adjusted his coat on his shoulders, his collar at his chin. Iduna noticed how the coattails flapped out and then back in, not  unlike the sheep’s ears as it tried to pull away. "I thought I was being helpful. My father always tells me to try to be, but I rarely find things to do that he thinks are helpful. And now he'll be upset I missed the ceremony without even a lost sheep to show for it.”
 Agnarr knelt down to untie the sheep, and gave it a scratch behind each ear. "Be gone with you then, found sheep, and may you ever stay out of the presence and stomachs of bears."
The sheep ambled off, in no great hurry to find his flock or avoid bears.  Agnarr stood and brushed his hands on his waistcoat. Iduna drew her shawl tighter as the breeze grew stronger.
"The wind here seems to have a mind of its own."
"It does! Sometimes it plays with us- like a mischievous friend.  I’ve even managed to get it to send flowers or herbs to my mother and Anja.”
“Really? Nothing like that can happen in Arendelle.  No magic at all.  We've heard rumors of trolls, but no one has seen one recently.”
Iduna wanted to show this boy, who had been so kind to a sheep, her wind spirit. She thought it would be funny to see his ridiculous coat flapping down by his head. Then the tails would really resemble ears. She sang four notes, clear and high. It was different than music Agnarr knews – haunting like a bukkehorn, but not as resonant. The sound was airy, like it was wind.
Before the last note sounded, she was up in the air, as if an invisible giant had her by the ankle.
She laughed.
“Are you alright? What's happening?”
Iduna laughed again. “It’s a game we play! She won't hurt you.”
Agnar smiled up at her, her hair brushing the top of his head from where she dangled by an unseen force.  He felt a rush of air by his feet and then - 
It was a glorious feeling, bouncing in the air, almost like flying, sometimes like falling. “What’s your name?” He had to shout to be heard over the rush of wind and leaves that swirled around them.
“Iduna!” she shouted, and he thought he had bever heard a more beautiful name. It sounded like the notes she sang. 
“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance Lady Iduna,” he bowed towards her, a difficult feat while being tossed about by a wind spirit, and came up with leaves stuck in his hair. 
She laughed again, and there were leaves in her hair, pinecones in the air, and a feeling in his chest that meant he was quite pleased indeed.
***
That night Agnarr looked for Iduna at the feast. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t at the reindeer games the next morning either, so he set out, hoping to find the place where they had played in the wind. He might not find her, but as long as he didn’t find a bear it would be a fine trip. He tried to imitate the song she sang, but couldn’t get the notes right. No matter, he would ask her to show him how to do it. And perhaps he could show her how to do something, since so far he had not done much to impress her.  Surely he had some skill or knowledge she might be interested in? He had made it to the river below the clearing where the games were held, and was deciding if she would rather hear about the trade routes of Western Europe or the medicinal benefits of saunas when he heard a scream.
All at once, everything was on fire. A shout from hundreds, the cry of warriors meeting the clanging of metal in the distance.  A fight had broken out, he was sure of it. Branches on fire fell down around him, boulders crashed into trees, shockwaves scattered pine needles on the forest floor. Agnarr looked up towards the clearing, where the game had been just moments ago, and saw his father through the rubble of trees and strewn rocks. His father, falling through the air and then lying very still on the ground, his limbs bent into impossible shapes on the ground. Her heard Lt. Mattias shout “The King is murdered!” and he ran towards the sound, thinking it made no sense; if he could just get there he could find his father, not this foreign shape on the ground, but his father, commanding and giant once more. But as he began to sprint, a boulder slammed into the ground behind him, and he fell to the ground. Everything went black.
***
Iduna heard the screams from the river. She was still trying to obey her brother’s orders to stay hidden, and do a better job of it than yesterday when she befriended the future monarch of Arendelle.  At the sound,  she dropped her washing and ran. The fear in her felt like the wind spirit, tugging and pulling her to run and find her mother, her father, to see if her people were safe, if they were being attacked or doing the attacking. She tripped over a body and tasted dirt and blood. As she tried to right herself, she saw that it was Agnarr - with blood coming down his forehead, painting his whole face so that he too looked on fire.  She put her hand on Agnarr's chest, relieved to feel the rise and fall. The knot on his head was large, but protruding out, not inward. The blood was not stopping, so she untied her hair leather and bound it around his wound. She picked up his head and put it in her lap, brushing his hair from his forehead and away from the makeshift tourniquet. Fire was leaping from branch to trunk and boulders as big as her home continued to fall. What could have made the fire and earth act in this way? Had they been angered? 
“Help!” She shouted at no one in particular, “Help!” Then, desperate and uncertain if the Wind Spirit would come, she called out in four high notes.  The effect was immediate. A gust of wind pushed her up as she held on to Agnarr. It was hard to breathe in the smoky air, and the wind took what breath she did have out of her lungs, but she held on and urged the wind to take them somewhere  safe. Her head hit something wooden, and she looked down to see a cart with the Arendellian crest on its axel and supplies in its bed. She heaved Agnarr into the bed, wishing the wind hadn’t left before helping her with this part.  She cushioned a blanket under his head, and then, hearing soldier’s voices, took another blanket to hide under.
“The Prince! Get him out of here!” More shouts and some grunts from reindeer, and then the cart was bouncing along, making rough turns to avoid new boulders and trees thrown down onto the path. She tried to stay silent but coughed as the smell of smoke became overwhelming. Now the smoke became a mist, full of vapor and no longer tearing at her eyes and scratching her throat. She risked a look over the blanket and saw that no one was driving the cart - the reindeer ran in a frenzied state, toward the tall stones marking the Northuldra border, and then past. 
Iduna reached up for the reins, pulled as hard as she could and managed to control the reindeer, jumping down from the cart and tucking the reins under a round rock. She was desperate to get back to her family.  But as soon as she touched the mist, something strong pushed her back. “Let me in!”  She rushed again.  Again she fell back.
“Stop that! I have to go back!”  She got up and ran once more, and this time the force knocked her several feet back. She ran to the edge of the mist, and sang the four familiar notes. She had trouble making the sound, her voice so sore from smoke and emotion choking her. It sounded like Northuldra rushed at once, but why? Had they planned to attack all along? Was that why she was sent to the river to wash?  Was her family being attacked, or was her family attacking?
A low sound from the direction of the cart caught her attention, and Iduna's heart beat fast. The mound where she had so quickly stashed the reins turned and opened and stood up; she saw that it was a troll. A particularly fat troll, who seemed alarmed. 
“Who was angered the spirits? Why do they close this gate?”
Iduna knew she should feel astonished, but the surprises of this day were so complete she no longer felt any emotion except terror. “I don't know! I think my people may have attacked, or been attacked, but I must get back to find out!”
“No, no,  this is deep magic, older than even trolls.” As he made this worrisome announcement, several more trolls rolled up, a small one hopping into the cart with Agnarr and placing a crystal near his head.
The largest trolls had a low, rumbling conversation while Iduna walked back to Agnarr, watching as the smaller troll moved the crystal and muttered words she could not understand. He then turned and spoke to her. “He will heal. But he will not remember this. I can fix the wound but magical wounds can be stubborn; there will be other things he forgets.” Before she had a chance to reply, another troll began to speak.
“The spirits are angry and the forest is sealed. As much for this world’s protection as your forest’s punishment. You must take the young prince home, and find a way to live among those people. You cannot return, perhaps ever. I have not seen this magic, and it must be watched. Brave Flemmy will stay and be our guard.”
From the looks on the other troll faces, Iduna could tell this wasn't good news.
“How will I know if I can return? My family . . . everyone is still there.” Her voice was rough, and the troll the others were calling Pabbie placed a mossy hand on her cheek.
“The mist keeps you safe. It contains the magic. There may come a time when all that’s lost will again be found. There may come a time when magic will be redone by even greater magic.”
Iduna thought of so many questions at once, she didn’t know what to ask.  If the magic kept them safe, what of the people inside the mist? Had fire consumed them all? Were the spirits angry with her people, the  Arendellians, or both? She remembered the anger in her brother's voice as he'd denounced the ceremony, and shivered.  Could her family have betrayed the alliance? Iduna climbed into the cart, gave the reindeer a pat, and brought her shawl over Agnarr. 
Pabbie turned to the troll he called Flemmy.  “The life of a guardian will be lonely, but trolls care for the earth in this way. You will become one with the earth, and we will help make it so.”
 One by one, the trolls were rolling past the large troll, placing grasses on his rounded back.
"Wedged  but not forgotten" each troll whispered into the troll’s ear, solemnly placing a tuft of grass on him. The troll made a sound like a sigh, and seemed to turn into a mountain, his grasses gleaming, his fungus shiny.
Pabbie raised his arms to Iduna. "Be at peace. Go to Arendelle and you will find a home, a life, even joy again. Just do the next right thing and it will come."
It felt like a blessing, but she found herself obeying it as if it were an order.
"The next right thing.” She coughed and wiped her eyes. “ The next right thing is to take this cart back to Arendelle. To get this prince to his castle.”
Iduna felt for Agnarr's steady breath, snapped the reins, and urged the reindeer on.
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spider-bih · 6 years
Text
Ugh P.6 [Peter Parker] [Soulmate AU]
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Pairing: Peter Parker x Female!Reader
Warnings: Cursing, more angst, mentions of pain etc
A/N: I don’t know shit about helping patch someone up. Also- I’m an ass and I know it and I’m not sorry asdfghjk I love you guys! Seriously, when I wrote the first part to this, I had no idea it would lead here or become so well liked! <3 This ones a little long to make up for the shit I may or may not pull 👀
Part 5.5, Masterlist
There he was, fingers weakly tangled into the end of your shirt, gently pulling with what strength he had left. He was face down and obviously beaten. Why did you always meet in such frustrating or bad ways? The first time was because you screamed. The second because he slammed his foot upon his own and broke his toes- and now this.
He was bleeding.
“God- you idiot.“, you whispered to him after you’d calmed yourself. It seemed like he loved to find you at the worst times- like he lived for causing you pain and frustration. Slowly, you pulled him further into the alley, not wanting him to be seen in such a state. Any thug would take the opportunity to kick him while he was down and you would not have that. You weren’t sure if you could protect him- but you’d try. You’d try with all your might, and damn anyone who had the audacity to try you.
Still- he was bleeding- quite a bit too. What were you supposed to do though? You couldn’t pick him up and drag him to your place- not only were you sure you couldn’t carry him that far, he was also still in the suit. People would go ballistic if they saw you dragging a bleeding Spider-Man into your apartment. You also weren’t about to undress him. Skin tight suit? Yeah, no chance he was wearing anything under. Plus you weren’t even sure how it came off. You were stuck in this alley with a bleeding boy.
That thought struck something in you. He was just a boy- a fifteen or sixteen year old boy. Just a boy, risking his life daily to save the people of Queens. You wondered now, who saved him? Who picked him up when he was down like this?
Did heroes need saving?
Now you wondered if anyone else knew of his secret. If anyone helped him patch up or let him vent about the bad side of being a super-hero. Surely it wasn’t all rainbows- surely he’d seen things no one his age should have to.
Surely he was still fucking bleeding. You dug around your bag, searching for anything to help, but you had nothing. No extra shirt or any kind of string or fabric to make a makeshift tourniquet of some sort. All you had were textbooks, notebooks, some pencils and a half empty water bottle. The only helpful thing would be water, but he wasn’t awake to drink. The lenses of his mask were shut, telling you he was unconscious. His breaths were shallow and you were growing scared. What were you supposed to do? What- oh hey. He had a bag clutched in his other hand. Maybe it was his?
Sure enough, it had been his. It held his clothes, some school work and thank goodness- some first aid supplies. Obviously you couldn’t clean him in a dirty alleyway- and you couldn’t drag him away in the suit, so you did the next best thing. You dressed him in the clothes he had in his bag, managing to figure out how to remove the gloves and shoes of his suit, as well as his mask. You slipped those back in his bag and then proceeded to put his bag on his back so you could move him. To say that you struggled would be a huge understatement. He was heavier than he looked, and you guessed that must be because he was more muscular than he looked- he sure as hell felt muscular. You had to lean his front against your back and drape his arms around your shoulders. It took a few tries to lift him up though- you even dropped him once but no one needs to know that.
You had to ignore the stares some people gave you as you trudged along with a bruised and unconscious boy slumped against your back. You stumbled and almost fell three times, but somehow you made it. For once you were thankful for the dingy old elevator in your apartment building. You’d have died if you had to drag him up eight flights of stairs. You were even more thankful to find your apartment vacant. No one was home- your parents were still at work. Still, you needed privacy just in case. If your parents came home early to you patching him up on your couch, the questions and lectures would be endless. You couldn’t just tell them that your soulmate was a super-hero. They would freak out just as much as you had. With that said, you trudged along into your room, letting him fall off your back and onto your bed. He bounced a bit and landed face first, for a moment he began to slide off, and so you had to pull him fully on the bed. You scrambled around your room, looking for rags no one would notice going missing and something to hold some cool water. His bag only contained some bandages, peroxide and what looked like gauze. You couldn’t be sure, but it wasn’t everything you needed.
Once you grabbed what you needed- or what you could find that was useful, you propped him up against your headboard and pulled off his shirt. It clung to him a little because he was still bleeding- and honestly you were sure you were covered in his blood but that didn’t matter right now. He was starting to grow pale, you needed to stop him from bleeding. However, you couldn’t do that so easily since his suit was still on. You just needed to top off- but how did it come off? You didn’t like the idea of undressing him- but quite honestly this was life or death so you had no choice.
“This is such fucking bullshit..”, you murmured as you tried pulling his suit off. This wasn’t how you wanted to kick off your three-day weekend. Your fingers dug into his suit at his neck, attempting to pull or tug it down, but it wouldn’t budge. You searched his back for a zipper and his sides- and his front- but you found nothing. You were starting to panic- you could feel him fading, “C’mon- get up- please for the love of everything just get up and tell me how to take this stupid thing off! You asshole! Get up!”, you started shaking him, grabbing his face in your bloody hands. This- this right here was what you were talking about. You didn’t even fully know him but you were losing your living mind. He couldn’t die here- not in your home- not in your arms- not ever. “Please, Peter..”
It was as if you saying his name struck something in him, because he groaned lowly and started trying to speak. He must’ve been punched in the mouth because he was bleeding from his lip and spoke a little funny, “Where...you.. why? I-..gotta go-”
“No. No you don’t. You’re hurt, you stay here and you let me fix you- god.. how do I fix you? I can’t get the suit off. How does it come off?”, you made him look at you, trying to ignore the way his brown eyes seemed to look glossy. You didn’t know anything about first aid, at least not anything extensive- but you guessed you’d have to learn in the moment.
“Button.. the button..”, he tapped at his chest lazily, “M’sorry...ngh..hurts..”
“I know. I feel it.”, you said, but for once you weren’t too mad. Him feeling pain meant he was alive, so you’d bear through it with him. You tapped at the spider on his chest, surprised when his suit grew in size and simply slid off him with a small hiss. “Wow. I would have never found that on my own.”, you murmured- only to gasp when you saw just how bad his cut was. It was deep and long, running straight down his side. How had he managed to get cut this deep- but not have his suit ruined- hell did it matter? It was still bad and you could feel how much it was hurting him.
“You.. you have to..clean it..first.”
“And then?”
“Stitch..stitches or..suture..”
“What? I can’t- I can’t do that! I’m not a nurse or a doctor- you have to go to the hospital!”
He swallowed and slowly shook his head, “No.. no no.. I can’t..they’ll.. call cops and..my Aunt will.. and Mr.Stark... I can’t..please.. you have to.. I can’t.. myself..”
You stared at him- hating that he was right. If some teen shows up to the hospital this beaten, cops will be called- DCF will get involved and it would be an entire shit show for him and whoever his family might be.
“It’s like..sewing..”, he spoke drowsily when you were still silent. The clock was ticking.
“It is not! This is skin and muscle and god- you’re bleeding so much what the hell, Peter?! This is insane! I don’t- we need a suture kit and disinfectant and- just- I didn’t- ohmygod..”, you started panicking again.
He pointed to his bag, to the front little pouch you neglected to check. It must be hiding what you needed, “Please..”, he pleaded with you. He had no one else right now and he was too out of it to do it himself, “I can’t do it.. please..”
You grabbed the suture kit from his bag with shaky hands. Could you really do this? You knew how to sew, yes- but a suture? For a wound this big?
“It just.. has to close.. so my healing..can take over..”, he grunted out, and you could feel his pain beginning to fade, “Gotta..gotta be quick..please...I’m begging you..”
This was crazy- this was too much- but you had to do it. You had to or he’d die, right here- right on your bed and in your room. You couldn’t blame the world if he died now because it’d be your own fault for refusing to do this.
You started sterilizing the needle and cleaning out his wound, hissing with him. You could feel his pain, so it was difficult to work, but it also made it easier to avoid hurting him more. You cleaned out his wound until your bowl of clear cool water turned bloody and dark and your blue rag no longer looked blue. The disinfectant stung- but it was doing it’s job. Now to suture.
“This is going to hurt..”, you whispered to him.
“..it already does..”, he replied, and you didn’t know his words had another meaning- just as yours had another meaning to him.
The yells he had let out in your room when the pain got to be too much shook you to your core. You bit your tongue to the point of bleeding just so you wouldn’t scream with him and also so you could focus on something other than your aching side. His pain was your pain and fuck- it hurt so bad. It hurt so much- but somehow you pulled through. Somehow your shaky inexperienced hands managed to close his gash.
Somehow you saved him.
You lay on your back next to him, catching your breath and desperately trying to ignore the burn in your side and the copper taste in your mouth. You were sure he was asleep- all that yelling and pain had to have worn him out. It had worn you out as well but you couldn’t sleep. Your hands were caked with dried blood, some of which was smeared on your face and shirt. Your nose was filled with it’s copper smell and a slight whiff of the disinfectant. Your hair was a mess- your teeth were bloody and you were exhausted. Is this what your life would be if you let him in? Would he come to you late at night- bloody and broken and in need of fixing?
Who would have fixed him if you weren’t here? What would have happened?
You sighed and turned on your side to look at him. His coffee brown curls were a wild mess on his head. His face was bloody and bruised, eyes shut as he slept soundly next to you on his back. His bare chest rose and fell with his breaths. This was it- this was the moment- the one everyone talked about. Stubborn soulmates were a thing, and it seemed like you were one of them. All stubborn soulmates had a story to tell- a moment they could describe in vivid detail. It was when they’d started falling for their soulmate- when they’d given up the fight they didn’t know they were putting up. Whatever the universe had in store with you, you were sure you could take. He was right, you were supposed to be his. It made sense now- he wasn’t just a hero. He was a boy- a boy who’d seen such sad things and felt such loss. He needed saving too and that’s why the world made you to be his. You weren’t strong enough to lose him and you never would be- but you were strong enough to lift him when he fell. To bear his pain with him and fix him when he was broken.
“I can’t leave you.. I can’t not want you..”, you whispered to him, starting to drift off now.
This time though.. he didn’t hear you..
Part 7
Ugh Tags: @leilei-draws, @i-larb-spooderman, @sarcasticvodka, @jinxstarfire, @hollandroos, @cubedtriangle, @hufflebuffpitch, @reigna-a, @spideythewebsitter, @lionfart, @iamaliceinwonderland, @sneakered-salamanders, @cerealwaterandfishsticks , @johnsonxstilinski, @incoherent-smiles, @profmmcgonagall, @thatcrazywhovian09 , @the-redthread, @nicunt, @twentyjuanpancakes, @jaib2-blog, @sleepless-trainwreck, @darlingimawriter, @tmrhollandkay​, @what-the-heck-life​, @spiderman-2013​, 
Permanent Tags: @o-brienwrites, @spidergirlwanab, @thumper-darling, @mydearestsammy , @bagginsofbagend, @hofsten , @cosmetologynerd , @timelord-sorcerer, @i-love-superhero, @mendes-holland, @dangerousluv1, @malumplaylist, @faithful-music, @melli-chou​, [Hope I didn’t forget anyone :/]
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ax100 · 7 years
Text
[VLD][Uliro] Tourniquet
Title: Tourniquet Rating: T Characters/pairings: Uliro, mentions of the other Paladins, mentions of Allura and Coran Summary: Shiro patches Ulaz right back up. Ulaz helps Shiro put himself back together.
Also on AO3!
cross posted on tumblr bc I think people are lazy to follow links lol (@selina sorry not sorry for making this pop up on your dash again lmao)
Hope you enjoy! :)
“This is unneeded,” Ulaz says, exasperated, as he tries to yank his arm out of Shiro’s grasp. “I am capable of doing this myself. I’ve treated myself for worse injuries in the past.”
“I know,” Shiro replies, his brow furrowed with intense concentration as he holds on strong. In his other hand are a pair of tweezers, pinched around a cotton ball saturated with a homemade ointment Coran swore up and down would help Galra wounds heal faster. “Stop—Ulaz, hold still! I might accidentally stab you with this, and then we’ll have an even bigger problem on our hands.”
The thought makes Ulaz pause, and Shiro takes the opportunity to flash him a small, hopeful little smile. “Let me take care of you?” he asks. “Please?” he tacks on, giving his best puppy dog eyes for good measure. He doesn’t actually know if it’s a look Ulaz can appreciate, but it doesn’t hurt to try.
Ulaz scrutinizes him for a moment, his eyes narrowed, and Shiro is almost sure he’ll be shooed away, but then is pleasantly surprised when Ulaz just sighs in defeat and looks away. His lips are pulled into a thin, straight line as he resigns himself to his fate. It isn’t exactly the wholehearted ‘yes’ he’d been hoping for (there’s a low noise emanating from Ulaz that sounds suspiciously like soft growling), but at least he’d stopped moving.
Huh, maybe the puppy dog eyes do work on Galra.
Shiro gets right to work and dutifully starts dabbing the ointment around the wound. There is no reaction—no flinch or hiss or flattened ears—and Shiro’s not sure if it’s because this is one of those medicines that miraculously doesn’t sting or because Ulaz is just used to the burn of disinfection.
Honestly, Ulaz was right. The scrape on his upper arm, while large, isn’t deep, and certainly not life-threatening. Just a scratch, really. He had gotten it a few hours ago when he had been thrown by his game across the rocky terrain of the planet he had been hunting on. At most, it’s just a bit of an eyesore, as patches of fur had been sheared off here and there, but nothing that needed more than a little disinfecting.
While the humans and Alteans were fine with food goo and what passed as vegetables most of the time, Galra were primarily carnivorous, a point that was brought to light only after Lance had jokingly pointed out that Ulaz seemed to stare at Allura’s mice an awful lot, like he wanted to eat them. The room suddenly went very quiet when Ulaz admitted that he did.
From then on, Allura had permitted him to go out on regular hunting trips. Every few days, he’d fly out in a pod and come back a few hours later with nothing more than a sack of neatly trimmed meat slung over his shoulder (he had been explicitly forbidden from carving on the ship). He always gave a portion of his kill to Hunk to cook, remembering that humans were omnivores and needed it too. And while he always sat down with the other inhabitants of the ship for meal times, he never ate in front of them—Alteans, as a race, were vegetarian (and whatever food goo was considered as) and would probably not enjoy the sight of him devouring raw, bloody meat at the dinner table. The thoughtfulness was much appreciated.
“All done,” Shiro announces as he secures the bandage into place—it’s some kind of Altean plant-based material that doesn’t need any adhesive, clinging onto Ulaz’s fur with little help. “See how fast it went once you stopped squirming?”
Ulaz snorts. “Unnecessary,” he says, but there is approval in his eyes when he looks at Shiro’s handiwork. “Hm. It’s quite neat.”
“First aid training at the Garrison,” he gives as explanation, standing up to empty the floating pan filled with used cotton balls into the trash chute at the corner of the room. “They had us wrapping bandages so much, I could probably do it one-handed with my eyes closed.”
That seems to impress Ulaz. “A useful skill to have in combat.”
“Well, they were probably thinking more along the lines of accidents, not fighting,” Shiro admits, plopping down next to Ulaz on the bed again. He only comes up to his chin, even sitting down.
Ulaz makes a sound of acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything more. He takes on a faraway look, as if he’s fallen deep in thought, as he stares at the wall directly across them. A few beats of silence pass before he turns to Shiro again. “Thank you for tending to me,” he quietly says.
Shiro smiles at him as he feels warmth stir in his chest. “You’re welcome,” he answers, then remembers something. “Oh, one last thing.”
Before Ulaz can react, Shiro leans towards him and presses a kiss to the top portion of the dressed wound. He pulls back and almost laughs at the look of utter confusion on Ulaz’s face. (Although to anyone else, it probably just looked like an angry glare.)
“Just kissing the boo-boo away,” he says, grinning like an idiot.
A blank stare.
“’Boo-boo,’ another word for ‘wound.’ Children use it,” he explains, then shrugs. “Kisses help them heal faster.”
Ulaz’s brow just wrinkles even further, like he’s trying to figure out the medicinal properties of kisses. “This was also part of your training?”
“Wha—no!” Shiro breaks out into giggles. “It doesn’t actually work. It’s just something that parents do to their kids.”
Ulaz suddenly jerks back with wide eyes and makes a strange face; it makes him look slightly constipated. “…and you…to me…?” he flounders in a strangled voice.
Shiro blinks. Now it’s his turn to be confused. Did he say something wrong? Ulaz is staring at him with wide eyes, shoulders tensed up and fur standing on end like a frightened cat, and it’s a bit unnerving. Shiro backtracks, trying to recall what he said.
And then it clicks.
He wouldn’t have been able to stifle the laugh that bubbled out of his throat even if he tried. Ulaz had explained it before during one of their many talks about the cultural differences between humans and Galra—social roles were a lot more rigid and defined in Galra culture, which meant that for Shiro to do something for Ulaz that normally a parent would do for their child…
“It doesn’t mean what you think it does,” he says quickly, noting the way that Ulaz is now glaring at him with his ears flattened against his head, obviously not getting what was so funny about the whole situation. Shiro, riding a sudden wave of fondness for this adorable 7-foot-tall alien, tries to pacify him by grabbing his hand, threading their fingers together. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just trying to be cute.” He brings the back of Ulaz’s hand up to his lips and kisses it.
Ulaz still looks pretty suspicious about the whole thing, but he starts to visibly relax now that he’s sure his lover isn’t implying that he sees him as his offspring. Still, he grumbles something under his breath in Galra, probably about how there’s nothing cute about it. But he’s probably not that annoyed, since he doesn’t extract his hand from Shiro’s grasp. Shiro, out of respect, tries to keep his giggling to a minimum.
After a while, Shiro nudges him. “Move a little,” he says. Ulaz is still a bit miffed, but doesn’t argue. With some maneuvering, they rearrange themselves so that Shiro is seated between Ulaz’s legs, his back leaning against the Galra’s chest.
It’s a position Shiro often seeks to be in. Back on Earth, it was actually quite rare that he got to be the little spoon, being as big as he is by human standards. And while having a partner much larger than him can be intimidating in many ways (not to mention the fact that said partner is also Galra), Shiro finds that he actually really likes this. It makes him feel small. Pampered. Well-taken care of.
He makes a contented little sound as Ulaz rests his chin on top of his head.
“You are incorrigible,” Ulaz sighs. The words are exasperated and fond in equal measure.
Shiro can feel a clawed hand gently trailing down his left arm. A question.
“Really? Lots of people back on Earth say I’m quite the role model.”
He takes the hand gently in his own and leads it down to rest on his abdomen. An answer.
Ulaz’s other hand creeps in from beside his other hip to join its partner, and the fingers thread together. The warmth and weight of his palms is pleasant on Shiro’s stomach.
“Hm, that does not bode well for the rest of your race then,” Ulaz murmurs as he nuzzles closer, making Shiro chuckle. Seated this close, he can both feel and hear the rumbling emanating deep from Ulaz’s chest—purring, he realizes.
His laughing gradually dies down and they find themselves settling into tranquil silence. Shiro slowly leans more and more of his weight against Ulaz until he’s practically sagging against him. Ulaz doesn’t stop him, and even goes as far as spread his legs more so Shiro can shuffle back even further. His clawed thumbs start drawing little circles on Shiro’s stomach.
Shiro closes his eyes takes a deep breath. The smile on his face feels easy and natural. He feels warm. Contented. Happy. Ulaz continues to purr away behind him.
They stay in that position for a long while.
Eventually, Ulaz shifts, making Shiro’s eyes flutter open. And before he can ask him about it, he suddenly feels thin lips brush against his shoulder. They drag up and press a soft kiss to the dip above his clavicle, right at the junction where his shoulder meets his neck.
The sensation is muted through the layers of his clothes, but Shiro still feels his entire face flood with heat as the kisses work their way up the side of his neck—slow, unhurried. The purring is even louder now. He can feel his heart rate start to pick up.
“Um, Ulaz?” He only gets a grunt in return. “Are you—“ He gasps as Ulaz’s lips seek out the sensitive spot behind his ear. He looks over his shoulder as Ulaz pulls away slightly. “Are you scenting me?” he asks, flushed and breathless and slightly bewildered.
It’s true—he recognizes these as the motions that Ulaz goes through when he complains that Shiro ‘doesn’t smell like him anymore’ and it ‘must be rectified,’ but usually, it’s just him pushing his nose around into the little nooks and crannies of his shoulders and neck, but the kissing. Well, the kissing is new.
Ulaz’s doesn’t say anything, just reaches up to brush the white tuft of hair away to kiss Shiro’s forehead, then leans down to do the same to his lips. Tender. Gentle. Loving. Shiro’s not sure if a blush can spread all the way to his heart, but that’s what he feels.
Ulaz nuzzles against the side of his face and gives his cheek a little lick—the Galra way of showing affection—before turning him around fully. Even sitting on his thighs, Shiro isn’t quite eye level with him; Ulaz has to lean down to gently knock their foreheads together, yellow eyes meeting gray. “I’ve been told that kissing can accelerate the healing process,” he says, his tone teasing.
Shiro chuckles. He’s already opening his mouth to tell him that he’s supposed to be the one ‘kissing the boo-boo away’ when he takes a good look at the way Ulaz is regarding him. It’s…almost sad, somehow. The words die on his tongue as it dawns onto him that Ulaz isn’t referring to his scrape.
Suddenly, something occurs to him, and his hand flies up to his shoulder--
From when a creature had latched onto him with its jagged teeth.
--trails up to his clavicle--
Broken under the weight of a crowbar in the arena.
--and settles on his neck.
Electrocuted by a guard for misbehaving.
“Oh,” he breathes out as his hand falls back down to his lap. The realization settles like a heavy stone in his stomach. He’s staring downwards, directly at Ulaz’s crotch, but it doesn’t awaken any heat within him. He feels naked all of a sudden, with all his scars and the wounds inside him on display for the world to see. His heart is thudding in his chest. He’s not sure anymore from what.
“Shiro?” Ulaz calls out to him softly. The concern in his voice is open and raw. Big, clawed hands come up to gently grasp his trembling, balled up fists, the thumb brushing over white knuckles.
His eyes slam shut. He’s on the precipice of a panic attack; his mind is starting to go into overdrive, and all the thoughts start coming in starts and stops in a disorganized jumble, no rhyme or reason to them, fast and frenzied, threatening to overwhelm--
“Breathe, Shiro.” Ulaz’s voice is barely above a whisper, quiet but unwavering.
The words sound distant and muffled, but he does as he’s told—opens his mouth to take deep breaths. They’re stuttering, at first, and for a moment, he fears that he’s drowning, but he shakes the thought away and tries to focus on something other than the roaring in his ears.
The touch of Ulaz’s forehead against his own grounds him.
He takes notice of the thumbs still running back and forth across his knuckles. They trail over them in a way that’s predictable. Steady. Coherent. He latches onto that, tries to match his breathing in time with their rhythm.
“I am here,” Ulaz murmurs. “Come back to me, Shiro.”
And he does.
It takes a while, but eventually, he does manage to re-center himself. His breathing gradually evens out and the tension in his shoulders drains away, leaving him feeling a bit lightheaded and weak. His skin feels slightly clammy from the thin sheen of sweat that has formed. But he’s okay.
“I’m here, Ulaz,” he says. He slowly opens his eyes, gray eyes meeting yellow. “I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” the other apologizes immediately, looking ashamed. His grip on Shiro’s hands is tight. “I did not mean to upset you.”
“It’s okay. I know you didn’t,” he tries to reassure him, giving a tired smile. “I’m…okay. Not good, but okay,” he says truthfully, grimacing a little. “It’s something that needs to be talked about, I guess. But not right now. Okay?” He tries for a smile again.
At Ulaz’s slow nod of understanding, Shiro rises up on his knees so that they’re really eye level with each other, and places a hand on Ulaz’s cheek. “It’s alright, Ulaz. I forgive you.”
Ulaz blinks slowly and takes a deep breath as he leans into the touch. Hesitation flickers over his face for a second before he turns his head a little to kiss the palm of Shiro’s prosthetic hand resting on his cheek.
Slow. Unhurried. Reverent.
Repentant.
The feeling that rushes through Shiro makes him gasp. It’s an action that carries so many implications that he finds his mind reeling again. But somehow, it’s different this time. In an instant, the last dregs of the haze that had settled over him in the aftermath of his almost-panic attack clear, and suddenly, things make sense. He finds himself hyperaware of just how close they are to each other, of the places where they touch and what Ulaz is trying to tell him with each of them.
Of the steady exhales fanning out over his skin, intimate in their proximity, telling him, ‘I am here. I am with you.’
Of the arms lined with corded muscle braced on either side of him, strong and elegant, silently reassuring him, ‘You are safe with me. I will protect you.’
Of the thin lips trailing over old wounds to reaffirm his unspoken oath, ‘I will help you heal.’
Of the bright eyes that meet his, a gentle request in their depths:
‘Let me take care of you. Please.’
He takes a shuddering breath. He is overcome, as overwhelmed as he had been a few minutes ago, but this time, for a completely different reason.
The healing process is a long and painful one. And on some days, it feels like it will never end, that he’ll never be able to rise up from the things that were done to him, that he’ll never be able to bare himself to another person again—physically, emotionally, anything, everything. Sometimes, he doesn’t know if he’ll even be able to handle being touched ever again without feeling like his blood has suddenly been turned into acid.
Ulaz knows this. He understands this. But he has always communicated his love for Shiro gently, using quiet words spoken in dim light, and even in the moments when they are together but do not talk, he touches Shiro like he’s something precious. And in the past, this would have made him recoil, would have made him choke and burn from the inside. But now, with new meaning, Ulaz’s touch makes him light up with new life; it soothes the dark ache deep within him. And while the batting average is not at a hundred percent, and there are still days when the contact sears his skin, it’s getting better.
He’s getting better.
He doesn’t bother wiping up the tears that have started to fall. He smiles—laughs even—and leans forward to kiss him. ‘Yes,’ he tries to tell Ulaz through their shared contact, pouring his whole heart into it. ‘Please stay.’
And he keeps going, melding their lips together, again and again—a soothing balm for their injuries, both past and present.
Kisses help the wounds heal faster, after all.
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juniperblank · 5 years
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Common Misconceptions About CPR (and some other First Aid actions)
Some of you may ask "what do you know OP?" Well my friend, my mom was on a medical internship, my grandma was a nurse up until recently, and my father currently IS a nurse. Lastly, I have certification fron Red Cross that expires next year. Most of the kids at my grade level are CPR certified due to the fact that the science teachers we had last year had a unit on it, which was personal to one of them. We were talking about it while at a music festival, kids from last year who were in our advanced choir this year. Our director and teacher, who is also CPR certified, piped up that it's nothing like you see in movies. It really bugs you once you know the truth.
First of all, don't do CPR on someone who has a pulse. CPR is meant to jumpstart the heart and breathing. It isn't to get some water out of the lungs or something like that, it isn't for drowning unless the person has recently lost their pulse and breathing. Check for pulse and breathing no more than 15 seconds, no less than 5. You want to be certain, but you don't have much time. Your chest compressions must be between the nipples, the middle if the ribcage. Doing it too high is ineffective, doing it too low will not only be ineffective, but will break the sternum, the bone that connects to all the ribs in the middle. If you search up this term you will see a tiny little part at the bottom not linked to any rib. Thats the part you may snap. Not to mind that you will be going two inches deep on the ribcage (you may not even think you can go that low, but you can) to reach the heart and the main purpose of the ribcage is so you can't reach the heart. What I'm trying to say is you may break some rib while performing CPR. Put your dominant hand down flat, then your other hand over it. The hand on top will close around the dominant hand. Some close their dominant hand, some dont. Either way, this is what you put on that aforementioned area to begin compressions. Remembee, two inches into the chest (if you get the course they will have dummies that click when you push deep enough, and trust me that distance will stick with you) and awfully enough, do it to the beat of Stayin Alive or Another One Bites the Dust. These are 100 BPM which is around a heartbeat. As you start compressions, if there are people around tell them to locate an AED and call 911 or your emergency number. If you are alone, quickly call the number before starting CPR and keep it on speaker while doing chest compressions. Do 30 of these at a time. Do not bend your elbows or bounce up during this time. Make sure your hands keep touching the chest. Go straight down onto the chest; do NOT go on an angle. After 30 compressions, go to rescue breaths. Rescue breaths are pinching the nose, putting your mouth on the other persons fully and making sure their chest goes up. Do this twice. Go back to compressions. Repeat until an AED or ambulance shows up. I cannot teach you the exact details of an AED, because they're a bit specific. This one of the two times you will stop CPR, but will go back to it immediately afterwards if the person doesn't wake. Scratch that- there are three reasons to stop CPR. An AED, an ambulance shows, or the person wakes up. CPR including rescue breaths isn't some romantic lifesaving thing, it's lifesaving and terrifying and exhausting. The person under you has no pulse or breathing, and you have to keep going and going. Unless there is someone else who can perform CPR to quickly trade off with you, you may be there for a long time.
Now let's talk the Heimlich maneuver. The Heimlich is used correctly in most media- if someone is choking. However, it is rarely done correctly. If you see someone who appears to be choking they are likely attempting to cough something out or trying to. Ask them if they are choking. If they can verbally respond, they aren't choking but likely experiencing a breathing problem. Urge them to cough what is causing them the blockage. If they do not respond verbally but nod or motion yes to you somehow, you need to ask if you can perform the Hemlich on them. Weird, I know. If they consent then it's game time. First, you stand at their side, leg in front of them to catch them if they fall. Locate the shoulder blades. With the bottom part of the palm of your hand, hit between the blades 5 times. It will hurt the person. Next, get behind them. Use one leg to support you and the other, again, to catch the person. These next actions will resemble the Hemlich you may've seen before in media. Locate the belly button. You may have to ask them to point it out. Lace your fingers together EXCEPT for the thumbs. These will need to stick out in a spike like form to actually do something to the diaphragm. Stick the thumbs above the bellybutton and push in and up. Do this 5 times too. It will be uncomfortable for the person you are performing the Heimlich on, but so is choking. Repeat the pounding on the back 5 timed and the stomach compressions 5 times until the person can clearly speak and tell you they're fine, or until you can clearly dislodge the item.
The last thing I'll be talking about is seizures. If someone says that you need to hold the tongue of someone having a seizure, resist the urge to puch them. You can't choke on your tongue. Do NOT touch someone having a visual, twitching, seizure. A seizure can be many things. It can be just staring in one place, it can be what many think it is. There was a kid in a class of mine last year and the next who had seizures frequently, and while they weren't Grand Mal, they weren't just simple little things either. Let me tell you, the first couple times being around that is terrifying and frankly chilling. But a seizure is losing control of your body likely because the brain is overwhelmed, that person isn't comfortable either. Unless you are the person who is taking care of them directly, don't stare, don't say anything to them when they regain control. Let them have their time. If someone us having a seizure, move everything away from them so they don't get injured or injure someone else. Only touch the person if the are standing or sitting, as to ease them down gently so they don't injure their head. I saw my scuence teacher do this quite a few times, and he would always rush to the aid of this kid if he heard they were having a seizure. I cannot begin to explain how awesome this teacher was, and funny as hell too. Try to find information about the person having the seizure to determine whether ir not this is their first time. If it's someone's first seizure, call your emergency number after 1 minute of the seizure continuing. Only do so for someone with regular seizures after 5.
I really do recommend getting certified. It can cost a lot of money, though. Each Red Cross certification? 150 dollars. I was lucky it came to me for 5 since it was school-funded. It holds amazing lessons from people not only certified, but liscensed to teach this. I can't offer every bit of information. You can learn what to do in an extreme allergic reaction, asthma attack, how to apply a tourniquet, how to treat burns, and so much more you may not know. You would be protected by the Good Samaritan Law and will have to renew certification every 2 years. I think it's worth it.
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latoyarubalcava3546 · 6 years
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'King Of Instagram' Douche Dan Bilzerian Ran, Filmed Himself, & Pestered Cops For A Gun During Las Vegas Shooting
If you're not familiar with Instagram star Dan Bilzerian, frankly you're probably better off.
The self-proclaimed King Of Instagram is a rich d-bag who posts primarily about his leisurely party lifestyle jetting around tropical islands surrounded by women in bikinis. Basically, he feeds off envy. Think Scott Disick without the charm.
He's also a gun nut who often posts pics of his insane collection (above) and brags about what he would do if someone broke into his home.
Related: He Was Also Sued For Kicking A Woman In The Face
Well, apparently he was present during the Las Vegas shooting -- and the videos he posted of his experience paint a different picture of his fight or flight response.
While other concertgoers were helping strangers to safety, making tourniquets, shielding their loved ones, Bilzerian just ran.
Well, he didn't JUST run. That part is understandable. It was chaos.
But the reason we know he ran instead of helping anyone else is because his hands were full. Of his phone. While he filmed himself for clicks on Instagram Story.
He begins his video with him telling his 23 million followers:
"Holy fuck this girl just got shot in the fucking head!"
He then picks up the vid again in his car, saying:
"Stupid ass me didn't bring a gun."
FUCK stay out of Las Vegas! #activeshooter http://pic.twitter.com/CrfyiDVx4W — Dan BiIzerian (@iDanBilzerian) October 2, 2017
Bilzerian was mocked for his cowardice online, by both social media users and think pieces in the Washington Post.
Related: This Is Also The Guy Who Threw A Porn Star Off A Roof
Even Marine vet and Medal of Honor recipient Dakota Meyer had something to say, posting on IG:
"This is why children shouldn't classify heroes by their followers or their photos. @danbilzerian, this is what kills me about people like you. Always playing 'operator dress up' and so so tough when the cameras are on. A woman just got shot in the head and you are running away filming; that's not what operators do. Please stop trying to be someone your not. People are dying, you're running away not helping them and pretending it's worthy of a video is disgusting."
In response, Bilzerian called Meyer a "retard," posting:
"So I wake up this morning and the news is talking shit saying some Marine was saying that I was a pussy for running away and that I should have stood my ground when the guy was shooting at me with a machine gun. So, I mean if we follow that retard's logic we'd probably have 600 dead if everyone stood their ground instead of running for cover."
We doubt Meyer meant to just stand there; plenty of people helped their fellow citizens without taking the time to post to the 'gram.
Related: Here's Just One Story Of Someone Who Saved Lives
The backlash from all over pushed Bilzerian's pal to post a previously unseen moment from that night -- the social media star finding cover then when some cops run up asking one for a gun.
When he tries dropping his creds, the cop, who is a little busy at the moment, says:
"No, get the fuck away from me right now! I don't care! I don't know who you are!"
Watch that moment (below):
Dakota Meyer cue @danbilzerian running towards the hotel and shooter. Asking a cop for his pistol and being rejected which is understandable. That was funny af. Ask yourself does this look like the actions of a coward or a man trying to help? Calling him a coward was maybe premature and harsh. Dans methods won’t be in police training manuals either. Certainly creating conversation. Wouldn’t it be better served to bash the shooter? #f1firearmsA post shared by F-1 FIREARMS (@f1firearms) on Oct 4, 2017 at 8:32pm PDT
This is Bilzerian's evidence that he was being a hero. Bothering police. We guess he's going to say if he'd actually had a gun that night he would have been able to take out the shooter.
He told People:
"It was a pretty strong wake up call. This stuff can happen without warning anywhere. It's not smart to get caught without a gun."
Even after all this, he still believes he could have helped with ANOTHER gun, and that he would have been able to return fire without causing more loss of innocent life -- and wouldn't have been mistaken for the damn shooter himself.
And some of his followers do, too. They're calling him a hero. Seriously.
Related: Country Musician Who Survived Has A Different Opinion
Bilzerian drew even more controversy after posting a photo apparently of the dead shooter Stephen Paddock, a closeup of his bloody head after a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The photo has not been confirmed, but the floor does match what we've seen in other pics of the suite.
We won't show the pic on this site, but you can find it still live on Bilzerian's Twitter feed HERE. We do not recommend looking. At anything he posts really.
What do YOU think of this "hero"?
[Image via Instagram.]
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Text
'King Of Instagram' Douche Dan Bilzerian Ran, Filmed Himself, & Pestered Cops For A Gun During Las Vegas Shooting
I look younger now than when I was in my early 20s
If you're not familiar with Instagram star Dan Bilzerian, frankly you're probably better off.
The self-proclaimed King Of Instagram is a rich d-bag who posts primarily about his leisurely party lifestyle jetting around tropical islands surrounded by women in bikinis. Basically, he feeds off envy. Think Scott Disick without the charm.
He's also a gun nut who often posts pics of his insane collection (above) and brags about what he would do if someone broke into his home.
Related: He Was Also Sued For Kicking A Woman In The Face
Well, apparently he was present during the Las Vegas shooting -- and the videos he posted of his experience paint a different picture of his fight or flight response.
While other concertgoers were helping strangers to safety, making tourniquets, shielding their loved ones, Bilzerian just ran.
Well, he didn't JUST run. That part is understandable. It was chaos.
But the reason we know he ran instead of helping anyone else is because his hands were full. Of his phone. While he filmed himself for clicks on Instagram Story.
He begins his video with him telling his 23 million followers:
"Holy fuck this girl just got shot in the fucking head!"
He then picks up the vid again in his car, saying:
"Stupid ass me didn't bring a gun."
FUCK stay out of Las Vegas! #activeshooter http://pic.twitter.com/CrfyiDVx4W — Dan BiIzerian (@iDanBilzerian) October 2, 2017
Bilzerian was mocked for his cowardice online, by both social media users and think pieces in the Washington Post.
Related: This Is Also The Guy Who Threw A Porn Star Off A Roof
Even Marine vet and Medal of Honor recipient Dakota Meyer had something to say, posting on IG:
"This is why children shouldn't classify heroes by their followers or their photos. @danbilzerian, this is what kills me about people like you. Always playing 'operator dress up' and so so tough when the cameras are on. A woman just got shot in the head and you are running away filming; that's not what operators do. Please stop trying to be someone your not. People are dying, you're running away not helping them and pretending it's worthy of a video is disgusting."
In response, Bilzerian called Meyer a "retard," posting:
"So I wake up this morning and the news is talking shit saying some Marine was saying that I was a pussy for running away and that I should have stood my ground when the guy was shooting at me with a machine gun. So, I mean if we follow that retard's logic we'd probably have 600 dead if everyone stood their ground instead of running for cover."
We doubt Meyer meant to just stand there; plenty of people helped their fellow citizens without taking the time to post to the 'gram.
Related: Here's Just One Story Of Someone Who Saved Lives
The backlash from all over pushed Bilzerian's pal to post a previously unseen moment from that night -- the social media star finding cover then when some cops run up asking one for a gun.
When he tries dropping his creds, the cop, who is a little busy at the moment, says:
"No, get the fuck away from me right now! I don't care! I don't know who you are!"
Watch that moment (below):
Dakota Meyer cue @danbilzerian running towards the hotel and shooter. Asking a cop for his pistol and being rejected which is understandable. That was funny af. Ask yourself does this look like the actions of a coward or a man trying to help? Calling him a coward was maybe premature and harsh. Dans methods won’t be in police training manuals either. Certainly creating conversation. Wouldn’t it be better served to bash the shooter? #f1firearmsA post shared by F-1 FIREARMS (@f1firearms) on Oct 4, 2017 at 8:32pm PDT
This is Bilzerian's evidence that he was being a hero. Bothering police. We guess he's going to say if he'd actually had a gun that night he would have been able to take out the shooter.
He told People:
"It was a pretty strong wake up call. This stuff can happen without warning anywhere. It's not smart to get caught without a gun."
Even after all this, he still believes he could have helped with ANOTHER gun, and that he would have been able to return fire without causing more loss of innocent life -- and wouldn't have been mistaken for the damn shooter himself.
And some of his followers do, too. They're calling him a hero. Seriously.
Related: Country Musician Who Survived Has A Different Opinion
Bilzerian drew even more controversy after posting a photo apparently of the dead shooter Stephen Paddock, a closeup of his bloody head after a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The photo has not been confirmed, but the floor does match what we've seen in other pics of the suite.
We won't show the pic on this site, but you can find it still live on Bilzerian's Twitter feed HERE. We do not recommend looking. At anything he posts really.
What do YOU think of this "hero"?
[Image via Instagram.]
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