whumpadventureprompts:

“You’re bluffing,” says Whumper.

“No I’m not,” says Whumpee, trying to stop the tremble in the hand holding the knife to their own throat. “I’d rather die than be recaptured.”

“Everything you’ve done so far indicates that you want to live,” says Whumper. “You’re bluffing. Put down the knife.”

Next

Previous

AO3

…

He woke up slowly. It felt like swimming through a fog, his limbs heavy, and every part of him aching, but finally he managed to reach the surface and blink open his eyes, confused for a moment why it was so dark, before he registered the soft fabric pressing against his head. That’s right, he’d flopped face down onto the couch. Evidently, he’d been so out of it he hadn’t shifted at all in his sleep, which was… unusual.

Because usually his “sleep” wasn’t all that restful to begin with.

Then he registered the soft humming coming from the kitchen, and the tension he wasn’t even aware of having leaked out of his shoulders, his breath coming easier at the simple sound that broadcast Patton’s presence to the ship. He managed to sit up, yawning and stretching until his shoulders popped, feeling immensely better than he had been as he stood, shuffling his way into the kitchen, keeping a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He tried to talk, but his voice came out as a dry croak. Still, that got Patton’s attention, who spun around, face lighting up, before creasing with worry.

“Kiddo? You ok?” He swallowed hard, clearing his throat, not managing to speak, instead instantly bursting into tears, Patton’s eyes going wide. “Virgil!” Patton chirped in alarm, pulling him into a seat at the table, hopping onto the table himself, to be at Virgil’s eye level, not that he could currently meet his eyes. Virgil’s arms were resting on the table, his head buried against them, shoulders shaking from the force of his sobs. He didn’t know what to do, besides run his little paws through Virgil’s hair, cooing softly.

“S-orry… I don’t kn-ow why… I’m f-f-fine….” Virgil gasped out, not even crying anymore, just fighting for air.

“you’re not fine. We all know you’re not fine, Virgil. It’s ok to be not ok.” He shakes his head, finally emerging from his arms, Patton stifling a trill of alarm at how dark and… and empty, Virgil’s eyes look. The same look Virgil had given him the first time the smugglers had returned him to the cell, right before he passed out, and it scared him. “please, Virgil. Just… whatever it is, let us help you.” Patton pleaded, reaching out slowly, wiping away his tears, pressing his fluffy little forehead against Virgil’s, nuzzling against him.

“Logan says you’re not eating enough.” He started gently. “Is that right?” Hesitantly, Virgil nodded.

“yeah.” He whispers.

“ok. Why is that, kiddo?”

“I don’t… I don’t want to waste your food, your supplies. I already take up so much space and I don’t… deserve it. I don’t do anything to deserve it. T-to deserve this. I’m used to n-not eating, anyways.”

“And you aren’t sleeping enough?”  

“I can’t. I… I can’t, I close my eyes, and I’m right back there, I’m there and it’s so real, and I can’t stop myself, and I h-hurt-“ He breaks off, shaking. “I hurt you. And if it’s a night you’re not w-with me, I can’t r-rest until I see you, because I know it isn’t but it feels so real, I h-have to make sure it isn’t r-real.”

“How much are you supposed to sleep and eat, in a day, Virg?” Patton asked softly, and he drew away, running his hands through his hair with a heavy sigh, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling.

“Supposed to get at least eight hours of sleep a night. And… eating probably four times what I am now. But I’m usually too anxious to eat, anyway. It just… just comes back up.” Patton made a small clicking noise, that meant worry, and Virgil flinched. “I’m sorry.” Patton shook his head, resting a hand on Virgil’s arm.

“there’s nothing to be sorry for. I wish you’d told us sooner, before it got this bad, but I understand why you didn’t. I know how hard it is, to trust us with information about yourself. I know you worry, what we could do with it, do to you. And none of us fault you for it, honey.” Virgil looked to be on the edge of tears again, as he looked back down at Patton before looking away once more.

“I want to. I… just… I’m scared, Patton.” Patton’s heart broke a little at how small Virgil sounded, his voice wavering.

“I know, Virg-“

“no, I… I’m scared because I… I still keep thinking… I… what if this isn’t real? It’s all… all just part of a new game, their last hoorah before…” He took a deep breath, shaking his head. “I know it doesn’t make sense, but I can’t stop… it’s just… like this is a dream and when I wake up, it’ll be on the table, or-.” He whispered, cutting himself off, though clearly what hadn’t been said was the worst of the possibilities, based on his face. Patton ruffled his feathers. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, how to help Virgil, and he didn’t have time, right now, to focus on whatever the human wasn’t telling him.

“I’m scared too, sometimes. It’s… it’s easier for me, cause I’ve known Logan and Roman so long, and I have you, too. I feel safe, with all of you around. But… but sometimes I can still feel their hands on my feathers, I can hear them, I need the light on, to sleep, otherwise I panic and forget where I am.”

“patton… why didn’t you say?”

“Because you have enough on your shoulders, and I have Logan and Roman to help carry the burden on my mine. You don’t need to go through this alone, Virgil. We all will help. We all want to. You just have to start letting us. Start… talking, to us, and stop trying to pretend that everything is ok, because it isn’t. Nothing is, nothing about what happened to you, or me, is ok. Do you understand that, Virgil?” Virgil’s breath hitched, and his gaze stared firmly at the floor, refusing to answer. “virgil. You didn’t deserve it. You know that, right?” He tried again, voice a squeak as Virgil again refused to look at him.

“I must have. I… why me, then? If I didn’t deserve it then…” Patton practically vibrated with indignant rage, stomping his foot in frustration, making Virgil jerk, startled eyes finally meeting his.

“You will not bad talk yourself on this ship, mister! You are kind and compassionate and wonderful! And sometimes the universe is just… just… fucked!” Virgil’s eyes widened at Patton swearing, using an earth curse word he’d muttered a couple times and had to, red faced, explain to him. “sometimes it’s just random and bad things happen to good people. And you’re a good people, Virgil. You’re one of the best people.” And Virgil was crying again, silent tears dripping down his face, and then he was folding over from the force of them, huddled into a ball on the chair, breaking again for an entirely different reason, because for the first time he was letting himself start to believe that what had happened wasn’t entirely his fault, his tears only growing as Patton stayed, though he couldn’t shake the shame and disgust at himself that coiled in his gut, because if Patton knew, if they knew what he’d had to do to survive, there was no way they would ever trust him. And he knew, he was going to have to tell them, or the guilt would eat him alive.

…

Logan was surprised, to hear voices coming from the kitchen. It was nearing the night cycle, and he’d realized he hadn’t eaten much of anything, all day, any kind of meal schedule having fallen apart with the recent ocurrances, and he hadn’t heard Roman come out of his room, yet.

He stopped when he rounded the corner, freezing for a moment, before tucking his arms carefully behind him, having promised Virgil he would only mind weave in his presence if given permission, as it unsettled him to have information about himself recorded.

Because that was, Virgil, sitting at the kitchen island, a softly steaming mug held lightly between his hands, a slight upturn to his lips as Patton chattered about everything and nothing in particular, just filling the air with words and chirps, though Virgil seemed to be following easily, having no trouble understanding the occasional words in Patton’s native tongue. He noticed, too, a plate set aside, that looked to have the remains of toast with jam and a more than half empty bowl of porridge, which is more than Virgil usually ate at a meal, in an entire day, sometimes. Especially important since he was already weakened from his illness and still very much recovering. Then he gently cleared his throat, making his presence known, not missing how Virgil flinched, jerking to look his way, relaxing mostly, not completely, upon realizing who it was.

“Virgil. It is a relief to see you up and about. I’m also glad to see Patton coaxed you into eating a decent amount.” Virgil’s cheeks reddened slightly at that, a human sign of embarrassment, and internally, Logan winced. He hadn’t meant to offend, and he couldn’t afford to lose progress.

“yeah. He’s, um, going to help. Try and get me on a normal diet, I guess. You were right, about the not eating enough or getting enough nutrient, thing. So.” Virgil shrugged, face still red, though he didn’t seem upset, and Logan relaxed.

“That is good. If you don’t mind, I would like to ask you about your normal diet back on earth, so I know better what nutrients, exactly, you’ve been lacking and the best way to go about reintroducing you to stable meals. We will have to go slowly, too much food or too much richness will only make you sick, at first.” Virgil nodded.

“I know. We learned a little about it, health and nutrition and stuff, in school. The food pyramid and all that.” Logan’s brow creased and he tilted his head, thinking.

“I am unclear what stacking food into a tower has to do with proper calorie intake.” Virgil huffed, amusement crinkling his eyes, and Logan relaxed further, chancing a small smile back. The action still felt unnatural, like he was threatening a friend, but Virgil’s own upturn of the lips banished that thought quickly.

“The… the sleep, thing, might be a problem, though. I… I don’t know how to fix that.” Virgil mumbled.

“Well, we can start with what the problem is.”

“Nightmares. Vivid ones.” Patton answered for Virgil, who had paled slightly at the mere mention of ‘problem’.

“I see. Nightmares, which are the result of your years of trauma and abuse. Do they center on any particular thing?” Virgil paled further, and Logan could see his breath coming in slightly faster gasps. “You do not need to answer, Virgil. I understand it is difficult.” Virgil took a few deep breaths in and out, though his hands gripped the edge of the table hard.

“It’s ok. I just…” Virgil glanced at Patton, then away, fast enough he almost missed it, and his brow furrowed further. Patton was the one Virgil was understandably the most at ease and trusting with, if it was something he didn’t wish to discuss in front of Patton… it must be deeply unpleasant, and something the ampen didn’t already know, or he wouldn’t be so afraid to share it.

“Patton. Can you check on Roman? He could use your emotional intelligence right now.” Patton looked at him in confusion at the abrupt change of topic, before looking back to Virgil, who sighed, smiling softly.

“It’s ok. Go see him.” Patton hesitated, but finally relented, giving Virgil a quick hug before letting him set him on the floor, stopping beside Logan.

“be careful with him. I just started getting through, Lo.” Patton pleaded softly, and Logan nodded.

“I promise, Patton.” He waited until Patton had vanished down the hall, before turning his attention back to Virgil, noticing how he had hunched in on himself slightly, shoulders tense, as if waiting for an impending strike. Carefully, he slid into the seat opposite the human, examining him with worry, though he looked better than he had.

“Virgil? What is it?” He asked softly, after a few long moments of silence. Virgil took a deep, shuddering breath.

“There's… something else. That i… it wasn’t just…” he took another deep breath, and Logan hesitantly rested a hand lightly atop Virgil’s, making sure he knew he could pull away. He didn’t, instead looking up at him, though his hair nearly obscured his eyes.

“it’s bad, lo… I can’t…”

“It’s ok, Virgil. Take your time.”

“I can show you. It’s… I can’t… it hurts.” Virgil whispered, and he could see his eyes glazing over, could see Virgil slipping away. He squeezed his hand lightly, trying to help center him. He only took a moment to decide, knowing whatever it was wouldn’t be pleasant, but he needed to know if he wanted to help, and he was prepared, this time, he could steel himself against it.

“Alright. Show me.” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in and out, initiating the Vidi.

Set in @delimeful ’s wonderful WIBAR AU. Virgil gets sick, and the others struggle to help him, not only with his illness, but the clear underlying emotional issues.

Next

AO3

…

It was quiet, on the Mindscape.

Logan was reading, absently twirling his fingers and hands as he studied, recording information, though he was certain most of it would prove false, as it was the little that was reported about humans. Most were comparable to ghost stories or urban legends, but there were a few that seemed more credible, that he hoped would give some more insight into humans in general.

Roman was off working out somewhere, sparring, he insisted it was just to keep sharp, but they all knew it was because he didn’t trust the human on board not to go feral and kill them any second, despite Virgil’s rather shy and withdrawn personality. Still, at least he was getting his aggression out elsewhere, and not by actually fighting or snarking at the true object of his emotions. He was doing better, still, Logan would give him that, but there was a long way to go.

He could hear Patton pitter pattering about in the kitchen, chirping and warbling to himself, making his lips twitch up into a smile. It had been far too quiet, without the little Ampen aboard, too much silence to drown in. It was a comfort he hadn’t realized he’d grown accustomed to, hearing Patton hum and chirp and sing all day. Now it was also a relief, a steady reminder their friend was back home, safe and sound, and he frowned again, thinking of how close they had come to losing him for good. That they would have, had it not been for Virgil.

Speaking of…

“Patton?” He asked, stepping into the kitchen, the Ampen stopping his trilling as he set the kettle on the stove, giving him one of his warm, happy smiles, that seemed to actually light up the room.

“Yeah, Lo? Everything ok?” Patton’s antennae twitched slightly, and he focused back on the present.

“Yes, I believe so, I was simply wondering if you’d seen Virgil today. He is usually awake by now. I was hoping to discuss some… perhaps sensitive topics, that I picked up on during our vidi.”

It was true. He hadn’t seen much, with how fast it had all turned, and spiraled out of hand, and though Virgil and him had been having question and answer sessions, the ones he really wanted to ask seemed more… personal. So, he’d kept them to himself, and simply continued his observations, and studied up on the information available to him.

And what he’d noticed was… concerning, to say the least. He was certain the human wasn’t sleeping enough. Unlike most species, humans could run on limited sleep for an extended period of time, but he was slowly becoming aware that just because humans had the capability to do something, didn’t mean it was natural or good for them to do it. They could survive grievous injuries that would have killed any other species, but it came at great physical and mental cost. They could survive intense radiation, but they would sicken slowly and die. They could imbibe substances that a single sip would be deadly to himself, but even in small amounts, it inhibited a human’s survival instincts and weakened them.

So just because Virgil was running on, at his best guess, four to five hours of sleep a day, didn’t mean that was anywhere near the healthy range of a human’s normal requirements. He’d noticed some of the side effects so commonly, he’d thought they simply were how humans were, until the Vidi gave him glimpses at others, who lacked the bags under their eyes, the deep bruising, that Virgil always had. Virgil was often unsteady on his feet, “light headed” he called it, he often stared out into space for minutes at a time, without registering anything that was said or happening around him, he ran into things, doorframes, corners of furniture, he stumbled and often had to lean against something to regain his balance.

The other issue was his diet. Logan was absolutely certain that Virgil was not eating nor drinking enough. With his permission, he’d taken his heart rate, he’d calculated how many calories his body must burn, at the least, throughout a day. With no physical activity, no exertion, the very base level of sleep, Virgil was missing at least hundreds, if not nearly a thousand, necessary calories, and that was if he were in a relaxed state, which he never was. The human was endlessly jumpy and frightened and twitchy, and he had admitted that his heart rate was much higher than it should be, most of the time, due to his constant state of high alert. But despite this, he ate nearly the least at meals, always pushing food around his place, making excuses to take small portions, at least half the time Logan was certain he hadn’t eaten at all until he was forced to at their daily dinner together, and only then because he didn’t want to upset Patton. Based on his limited understanding, Virgil was immensely underweight and incredibly sleep deprived, both dangerously unhealthy states for humans.

“oh! I peeked in on him a bit ago. He’d just woke up, said he was going to take a shower. I’m kinda surprised he isn’t out here yet.” Patton frowned, his feathers fluffing in distress.

“I see. I’ll go check on him, Patton. Save me a cup?” He smiles as Patton’s face lights up again, only half surprised as Patton jumps at him, hugging him. He carefully supports the Ampen, holding him close, allowing his head to rest against Patton’s small, fluffy shoulder.

“Thanks, Lo. For looking out for him.” Patton mumbled, as Logan let him go, setting him back down on the counter.

“Of course, Patton. It’s the least I can do. He deserves to not only be safe, but feel safe. I am happy to help make that happen.” Patton’s feathers pulsed his trademark light blue, a sign of happiness, that made Logan’s hands flutter, trying to record the warmth in his chest, as he turns away.

…

He woke up with a groan, pushing the cupboard door open, jumping as his door opened, hitting his head against the back of the cupboard at the sudden movement, breath speeding wildly, before he registered Patton’s head poking in, concerned eyes on him.

“Hey, kiddo. Just checking in. Everything ok?” He sighed, but pushed back his exhaustion, summoning a small smile, making it as reassuring and genuine as possible, not difficult, faced with a small ball of fluff.

“I’m alright, Pat. Just catching up on some zee’s. Was gonna go shower.” Patton nodded, hopping into his arms for a quick snuggle, before chirping a happy goodbye and vanishing out the door.

He slumped back against the pylon behind him with another groan, rubbing his hands across his face, then up into his hair, wincing as he felt his hair stick straight up, matted with sweat. He’d stayed in bed far later than usual, but he hadn’t slept more. The night had been plagued with nightmares and sleep paralysis, filling him with terror so deep he couldn’t even scream, could merely panic until he passed out once more, tossing and turning restlessly.

He felt shivery, cold, and his head spun just a bit as he stood, his stomach turning at the motion, vertigo rocking him as he leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to get his bearings.

“fine. I’m fine.” He muttered, taking a few deep breaths in and out, before making his way to the door, listening for a few moments to make sure he couldn’t hear Roman anywhere nearby, he didn’t think he could handle the Crav’n in his current state.

Which was normal and healthy and perfectly fine. He had to be fine.

He made it to the bathroom with minimal stumbling, his vision barely swimming in and out, as he stripped, and turned on the water, hot enough it would probably burn any other members of their little band, but he just sighed in relief as he stepped in, letting the water run over him, soothe the aches building in his muscles. He let out a sigh, halfheartedly scrubbing at his hair, zoning out as he watched the steam.

As he watched, it seemed to form a shape, to swirl into a nebulous form, and his breathing stuttered, heart stopping, as he stared in fear at the suited figure, one of his captors, a needle stabbing down towards him, and he flinched back, the world blurring and swirling and fading out around him, static roaring through his ears, his heart racing as static filled his vision as well. Distantly, he heard knocks, someone maybe calling his name, then he felt his legs give out, his head hit something hard, and the world went black.

…

“Virgil? Are you alright?” He heard a loud thump, a crash, and his eyes widened, knocking again. “Virgil? If you do not answer me, I am going to enter. Virgil!” Nothing. He threw open the door, breath catching, freezing in place at the sight.

Virgil was sprawled across the bathroom floor, unconscious. His breathing seemed somewhat labored and shallow, and he could hear the slight wheeze to it from the doorway. What caught his eye first were the endless collection of scars, all across his body, covering nearly every inch of his skin, and it turned his stomach, it made him sick, the level of trauma and abuse Virgil must have endured. He’d known it wasn’t good, known he’d been a lab rat, an experiment, a being to harvest then sell off the parts once he was drained dry, but knowing it and seeing the scars, the marks of old burns from the stun batons, was something else entirely. And nothing Virgil had said had indicated the violence against him to be to this extent. He felt another surge of appreciation, for Virgil having protected Patton.

The second thing, that finally forced him into motion, was the small pool of red forming around the human’s head, likely where the back of his skull had impacted with the floor. Quickly, he grabbed a towel from off the rack, and rolled Virgil onto his side, wiping away the blood from his neck and hair, to see where to apply the pressure. He breathed a sigh of relief as he located the wound, surprisingly small, given the amount of blood loss, and he was confident a few moments of pressure would easily stop it.

“ROMAN!” He shouted with all his might, voice shaking and unsteady, hearing the crashing footsteps of the Crav’n immediately, the being sliding into the doorway mere moments later, scales raised to their extremes, teeth bared, ready to fight, no doubt hoping for an excuse to fight the human.

“Logan? What’s-“ Patton darts in around Roman’s legs, eyes widening as he instantly is at Virgil’s side, trembling, eyes wide as saucers.

“I need help. Roman, he’s heavy, I need-“

“Ok. Ok, teach, I got you. Let’s get him dressed, then I’ll move him to the couch. What’s… what happened?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I knocked and heard a crash, when I entered, he was like this. I suspect it has something to do with his malnutrition and sleep deprivation.” He answered, focusing on carefully pulling Virgil’s hoodie over his head, hands clenching sharply as one brushes his forehead. “he’s burning up.”

“That’s what happens when he’s… when he’s sick. Humans get all hot and shivery and sometimes their stomach hurts and they can’t eat. But that only happened on the… on the ship. When… when it was really bad.” His voice wavered, feathers flattening.

“I would suspect that he has been feeling ill for a couple of days now, if it’s grown severe enough to make him pass out. His normal temperature is around 98.6 to 99, I would estimate his to be closer to one hundred and three. Has he seemed off to you, Patton?”

“He’s spent less time with me. Less time out of his room. I thought he just needed some space, but… but he was trying to hide he was sick, wasn’t he?”

“Why would he do that? Did he think we’d just abandon him like some deathworlder would an injured comrade?” Roman snorted disdainfully, helping pull pants onto the human, though Patton could see the concern hiding behind his outrage.

“Contrarily, he probably didn’t want to be a burden. To use up more of our resources and time. He constantly sees himself as lesser, as the least important of the group, therefore the one who should take up the least space, least time, least amount of food. Surely, you’ve noticed, Roman.”

“I…hadn’t. I’ll take him now, Pat.” He mumbled softly, gently shooing him back as he scooped Virgil into his arms, surprised at how light the human was, his head lolling limply against his chest, his cheeks flushed, while the rest of his face was even paler than usual. He could feel the frantically rapid beat of his heart, his eyes flicking uneasily under their lids, and his scales flattened in concern. As much as he didn’t trust the human, he didn’t want to see him hurting, either. And if what Logan said was true, Virgil had not only been hurting, but hurting himself, out of, what? Loyalty? Worry? He just couldn’t get a handle on him.

Then again, he hadn’t tried very hard to get to know him, or to give him a chance. But there was something in seeing him so vulnerable, without the usual piercing stare and silent slink, that made him soften a bit, made him remember that despite being one of the most fearsome creatures in the universe, that Virgil was essentially a child, by human standards. He was so thin, too. He could count his bones, under that hoodie. No wonder he was always cold, he had no layer of fat on his bones.

And those scars…

Well. It was enough to almost make him rethink his view on Virgil, at least, as he laid him down on the couch in the common area, Patton immediately taking a seat by his head, brushing his hands soothingly through Virgil’s hair, as the human shook, muttering something in his sleep that was undecipherable, though the tone of fear was impossible to miss, as his hand clenched against the fabric.

“We need to break his fever. Blankets, Roman? I’ll get you a washcloth and water for his forehead, Patton. If he wakes, he is likely to be disoriented or possibly even hallucinate, because of the fever. However, I have no doubt he will calm immensely upon registering your presence. You are… his lifeline, Patton.” Patton nodded, continuing to focus on Virgil, doing the coo chirp pattern used to soothe babies, one of the first things Virgil had mimicked back to him, back on that awful ship.

“He’ll… he’ll be ok, right? He just needs some sleep and he’ll be okay?” His voice trembled, and Logan’s hands clasped behind his back, eyes darting as he looked for the right words to say.

“I don’t know. There’s so little information, Patton, I keep looking and there’s just… not enough, to help him, in any meaningful way. There’s no way of knowing if this is just a ‘flu’ or if it is something more severe. I know his heart rate is high and his breathing rasping, but I don’t know if that’s the result of the illness or simply stress, I would give him medicine, but I don’t know what he can have, what would be helpful, and I don’t know what to do if it’s something we aren’t equipped to handle!” He exploded, pacing the floor somewhat frantically, hands flailing wildly, wincing as one smacked the wall. “I don’t know what to do, but wait.” He said, softer, taking a deep breath and rubbing at his hand, looking up as Roman came to stand before him, gently patting one of his arms.

“It’s ok, Lo. No one expects you to have all the answers. We know you’ll do your best. You always do.” Logan nodded, pulling himself together somewhat, striding off to the kitchen, Roman heading down the hall to raid the extra blankets from the closets.

“you’ll be ok, kiddo. I promise.” Patton murmured, nuzzling against Virgil’s cheek, giggling as Virgil mumbles again, leaning into his touch, hand unclenching, face relaxing minutely. When Logan came back, he huffed fondly, Patton curled up against Virgil’s shoulder, just a ball of puffed up blue feathers, pulsing soothingly.

Next

Previous

AO3

…

He looks up at the sound of quiet footsteps coming down the ramp, only half surprised to see Virgil, who wraps a blanket around his shoulders, before sitting down beside him with his own, head deep in his hood, dark eyes shining as he looks up at the stars.

“How is he?” Comes the soft question. Patton looks up at the stars as well, a soft breath escaping his lips.

“Lost. It must be terrifying, to go from having no choices, no power to make your own decisions, to having complete control over your life. He doesn’t know how to use that, anymore. Doesn’t know what to do with it all, what to do with himself.” Virgil huffs, arms wrapping around his knees.

“Yeah. I was… a bit like that. When I first joined up with you. It seems silly, now, that I was ever scared of you, Pat, but I was. I was terrified, what would happen, when you found me.”

…

He hadn’t been invited on board. Patton and Logan hadn’t even known he was on board. They’d had a brief stopover, to refuel, on his home planet, spent barely twenty minutes there, total, at the small waystation, not many people enjoyed spending time near the presence of wraiths.  

Virgil himself included.

He doesn’t know, still doesn’t know, how he found the courage to sneak aboard, when no one was looking, it wasn’t all that hard, he just slipped into the shadows and slipped into the hold, trying desperately to contain his fear so it wouldn’t spiral out and affect anyone else, so it wouldn’t seep through to them, so they wouldn’t notice anything amiss.

He hated the planet, after all. Hated the cold cruelty of the place, the eerie darkness, the icy fear always trickling down his spine. They fed off negativity, off fear, and there was no one easier to scare and frighten and torment than him. No one to protect him, from the others. No one to stay for. He saw a way out, and he took it, intending to simply slip off at the next stop, whatever that was, and find a way for himself, maybe beg, do simple chores for pay, do something. He hadn’t intended to be found.

He’d been hiding out for maybe a week, in the storage hold. He was cold and hungry and tired, huddled in the corner, behind some crates, curled around himself, shaking. He’d felt fuzzy and strange, and realized that was probably due to the whole not eating thing, but he couldn’t find the bravery to go scope out, to scrounge for food, he just had to hope they’d set down soon.

An arm on his shoulder had woken him. He’d screamed, hoarse and cracked, woken out of his light, fitful sleep, warm hands on him, and he was afraid, waiting to be thrown into a nightmare, into whatever hell world they’d chosen this time, curling tighter, arms coming up to cover his head in the meager defense he could provide for himself.

“please… please don’t… please… s-sorry, s-sorry…”

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s ok, I’m not gonna hurt you, kiddo. You’re burning up, when was the last time you ate anything?” He’d shrugged, scared out of his mind, breath speeding, because he was caught, he’d been caught, and what were they going to do with him?

“dunno. L-last st-op. Imma… wraith.” He mumbled, waiting for the fear, the derision, the pain.

“Oh, baby. Can we get you upstairs?”

“What… what’re y-ou gonna do, w-ith m-me?”

“Get some food in you, to start, and some water. Then get you all cozy on the couch, with plenty of blankets and pillows, something to bring down that fever of yours.”

“Y-you’re not m-m-mad?”

“Of course not. You were scared enough to stow away, to leave your own planet behind and hide out in a ship you had no idea how friendly or cruel the occupants of it were. I think that speaks for itself, kiddo. I’m not mad. I just wanna help, ok?” Patton had asked, and he’d hesitated for a long moment, before nodding.  

“O-ok.” He’d realized his teeth were chattering, flinching as he felt arms around him, lifting him gently, as he passed out.

It had taken him a long, long time, to open up to any of them, to say anything without prompting, really, he was quiet and meek and half shadows, most of the time, unable to keep his form physical with the endless fear creeping through him. No one was allowed to touch him. Not even Patton. Any sudden movement sent him tearing from the room, and he spent most of his own time locked in his own, still convinced that they would send him back, jettison him off, kick him off at the next planet and never look back.

It was Logan, oddly enough, that wore him down. He always said what he thought, always pointed out the obvious, always answers with the truth, no matter how hurtful or blunt it is. That pure… obliviousness… to the concept of deception, was what finally convinced him, that they truly did want to help, wanted to let him have his space, wanted to just… be there.

He’d never had kindness before. He didn’t understand, kindness. He didn’t understand why they were being so nice to him, when he hadn’t done anything besides flinch and hide and recoil from their touches, their gazes, their attentions.

That’s what had led to him sitting on the middle of his bed, huddled in his blankets, shaking as he sobbed, not looking up at the soft knock on his door, letting out something that might have been a strangled ‘come in’. For once, he didn’t flinch away, as Patton entered the room, as he sat down on the very edge of the bed, looking at him with soft concern and warm care, and he just… broke. He fell into Patton’s arms and just broke.

…

He comes out of his own thoughts at Patton slipping a hand into his, and he smiles wryly up at the moon, shaking his head.

“sorry. Just…” He trails off with a sigh, closing his eyes for a long moment, trying to steady himself.

“I know, Vee. They’ve come so far, already. And you… I’m so proud of you, Virgil. I really, really am.” He looks away, face red, hiding the small smile in the blanket around his head, smile growing as Patton rests his head on his shoulder, nuzzling against him.

“Pat, you’re making it really hard for me to nostalgically mope.” He mutters, Patton laughing softly against him.  

“Good.” Patton says, wings uncurling and stretching out behind him as he yawns.

“Should you head in, Pat?” He asks, amusement coloring his tone, as Patton shakes his head.

“Roman wanted to stay outside. I wanna let him get as much fresh air as possible. aThey’ve been… confined, for too long, Virg. They’ve been through so much, I just wanna let him have whatever he needs.” Virgil smiles fondly, laying his blanket on the ground behind Patton.

“Alright. Lay down.” He orders, gently pushing Patton’s shoulder, who goes over with little resistence, a little giggle, stretching one wing out, resting Roman atop it, curling his other wing over him as he lays down, holding him close, Roman’s hands gently curling into his feathers, nuzzling against them, snuggling into the softness. He smiles as Virgil tucks the other blanket tight around them, before leaning down and kissing the top of his head softly.

“I’ll keep watch, Pat. Sweet dreams.” In the blink of an eye, Virgil vanishes into the shadows, though Patton knows he hasn’t gone far.

“G’night, Virg. Love you.” He mumbles, already slipping asleep as the cozy warmth seeps into his bones.

…

He wakes up screaming. For the first time in a little over three years, he wakes up screaming, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth, swallowing down the sound, choking on it, praying no one else has heard him, he doesn’t want to bother them, and he buries his head in his hands, trying to get a grip, because it wasn’t real, he knows it wasn’t real.

The white hospital bed. Firm, cold shackles against his upper arms and wrists, holding them tight to the armrests of the chair. An IV in his arm, pumping him full of vitamins and minerals and a mild sedative, something to keep him still against the sharp stings of pain as they carefully peel off every scale. He watches in quiet, morbid, fascination, as his arms turn from gold to crimson, as he starts to shiver, even the heating light they have on above him not enough to keep him warm, against the blood loss.

It’s still another hour before he’s hazing in and out of awareness, another half hour before they call a stop, binding his injuries with curt, steady motions, guiding him back to his small room, nothing more than white walls, floors, ceiling, a hard bed, a warm blanket, it must be night, because the uv rays are off, as they emotionlessly deposit him on the bed, as always, locking the door behind them without a word.

Tomorrow they’ll take more scales, until he doesn’t have any left. He’ll be sick and shaking and unable to keep any food down, they’ll hook him to more IVs to keep him alive, until his scales start to regrow and just when he’s starting to feel alright again, they’ll pluck him clean once more.

That’s his life. That’s all it’ll ever be. A sickly, half conscious life, hazed over with fever and pain, dying slowly from lack of contact, lack of socialization, lack of touch.

…

A knock on his door has him jolting, a strange foreboding in his chest, a tightness to his lungs, and he hears someone speaking, but they sound a million miles away, and he’s petrified, he can’t seem to move a single muscle, he’s frozen in place, though his mind is screaming at him, to do something, anything, he can’t, as his vision swims, he can’t.

All he can hear is the chiming tone that tells him its time to get up for the day, to put on his loose, white clothing, to quietly eat his meal, to sit on the bed and wait silently for them to come retrieve him, to keep his eyes down and his hands in front of him, to make no motion until told, otherwise they’ll be forced to retaliate to protect themselves, regardless of whether he’s attacking or not.

He’s never attacking. He’s too scared, too well trained, to attack, to try anything, at this point, he knows it would be useless. Even if he bit one, two of them, sent them shaking and convulsing to the ground, there would be more, and he can’t fight through them all, can’t make it out of this facility, wherever it is, doesn’t even know if they’re on a planet or drifting in space, and there’s no point to resisting. Better to be compliant and meek and do as he’s told.

Another soft knock, voice a bit louder, more concerned, gives him enough, shocks his mind, his system enough to break out of his stupor, to move, to stumble, stagger, trip over his own feet through a tilted, spinning world speckled with dark spots, to make it to the door, fumbling with the locks before finally managing to undo them, knowing that voice will somehow make this better, will somehow keep all of that from happening, will somehow get him out of here, where there’s no space and air and light and he can’t breathe or see or speak.

The door opens and he falls, though warm arms catch him, the voice inhales sharply, speaking, though he still can’t hear, he should be able to hear him, he can get the sense of what he’s saying, but not the words, and dimly he registers the arms moving, scooping him up, off the ground, and he clings to the voice, as they carry him somewhere else, somewhere open, more space, before sitting down, though not letting go.  

He registers counting, a slow, steady rhtym, one he knows, one he uses, one he tries to emulate now, in fits and starts, feeling a hand softly running up and down his arm, shivering as it touches his scales, phantom pain making him flinch, and the movement stops.

“N-no… D-d-don’t…” He can’t choke out more than that, but they seem to understand, resuming their gentle up and down motion, especially light and gentle over his scales, slowly soothing him, because no one besides his crew, his friends, his family, are allowed to touch them, and only they have ever been this gentle with him, and as his breathing finally starts to even, his heart rate starts to beat normally, copying the rhythm it can feel from the warm body pressed against his, his vision starts to clear, and he slumps forwards, the tension leaking out of him as he presses his head into Logan’s chest, trembling as he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Janus?” Comes the soft, quiet question, and he nods, even that motion takes too much effort, too much energy, but he summons his words anyway.

“yes. ‘M here.” He mumbles, feeling Logan’s own relieved breath, his arms wrapping securely around his back, holding him close, as he realizes tears are slipping down his cheeks, unbidden. “sorry. Didn’t… didn’t mean to wake you.” Logan shushes him, slowly rocking him back and forth.

“No. I’m sorry. I should have realized, today’s events would be triggering. One of us should have checked up on you, after you settled Remus.” He shivers, folding tighter against Logan, exhaustion from the fading adrenaline and panic attack shattering his normal walls.

“If he hadn’t been there… Lo, if he hadn’t-“ He breaks off, choking on his words, on his fear. “I can’t do it again. I c-can’t… I didn’t know, then, but I do, now, and I c-can’t-“

“Shh, shh, shh, I know, I know, Janus. But you don’t have to. You will never, never have to go through that again. You’re safe, you’re safe, Janus, and we, I, will never let that happen to you again. I promise.” Logan murmurs, gently running his thumb in circles against Janus’s cheek, the other wrapped around his waist to keep him steady. “I promise. I’m not letting go, alright? Get some rest. I’ll keep anything from harming you, while you sleep, I promise.”

“N-not… Y-you and P-patton and Vi-rgil, c-can’t let them… can’t h-ave y-y-you-“ He can feel Janus already starting to drift, unable to hold on to awareness, after such a strong attack, plus his already elevated exhaustion and worry and stress, his words making his heart ache, because despite everything, Janus was focused on them, worried about them, getting taken, keeping them safe.

“We’re all ok, Janus. No one is going anywhere. No one is leaving. No one is going to hurt them. I promise.” He murmurs, relaxing himself as he feels Janus’s breath even into deep, long, inhales and exhales, going fully limp against him, smiling down at the sleeping Naga, at the trust and faith his friend has in him, to not need locked doors to keep him safe, when Logan is right there, watching over him.

He forgets, sometimes, where Janus has come from. How long, he spent in that endlessly cruel monotonous captivity.

He came so far, so fast, and even now, he masks his pain so well, hides behind that wicked smirk and smooth surety, and its so easy, to forget when they first got to him nearly eight years ago he barely spoke a single word for three months, nearly convincing all of them he was mute. It took him longer still, to understand choices, they had to introduce them slowly, starting with ‘would you prefer A or B’ type questions before moving to open ended ones.

It’s easy to forget, just how brave he is, acting as their inside man when necessary, posing as a buyer to get onto smuggler’s ships, playing the part he hates more than anything, no doubt terrified beneath the surface, because if anything went wrong, in most cases, they wouldn’t be able to get to him in time. But he never backs down, never says no, and Logan knows that Janus would rather perish than fail to free whomever they held trapped, and it scares him, his reckless, fast paced bravery, scares him. Because he is just as terrified of losing Janus as he clearly is of losing them. It makes him hold on a little tighter, continuing to rub Janus’s back, to murmur softly to him, keeping him company through the rest of the night.

@fortheloveofjanus

Continued from here

CW: Suicidal character, past character deaths, past murder, past trauma

“My name is Echo.” The stranger said as the carriage started to move. “I’m Calder’s younger sibling.”

Angel’s heart stopped in their chest. “Y… you…” They breathed, mind racing and yet numb all at the same time. Suddenly feeling weak and dizzy, Angel put their face in their hands.

“Are you okay?”

Angel yelped involuntarily as Echo touched their shoulder. They pressed themself as far away from Echo as they could, tears of fear streaming down their cheeks. “I’m sorry— I— please don’t hurt me— just take me back— don’t tell Calder— please, please don’t tell them—”

“Angel— Angel, stop.” Echo interrupted. “I am Calder’s sibling, but we are related only by blood. We don’t speak to eachother. We have no familial relationship.”

Angel’s mind processed this information slowly, unsure what it meant for them. “S-so… so this… isn’t a test of some kind..?”

“No. Angel, I am acting of my own accord.”

“… I wouldn’t bond to Calder and I won’t bond to you either— I’d sooner die than subject myself to that again—”

“Stop, stop— I really don’t know what you’re talking about. What do you mean bond?”

Angel hesitantly relaxed a bit. Maybe Echo really didn’t know. “I… If you’re trying to trick me into opening my eyes, it won’t work— I won’t do it no matter who you are.”

“What does opening your eyes have to do with bonding..? What is bonding?” Echo’s voice was gentle, not demanding like Calder.

“I… I-if I open my eyes, I will irreversibly bond to the first person I make eye contact with.” Angel said quietly, shrinking back as they felt Echo shift in their seat.

“Why..?”

It occurred to Angel suddenly that Echo might not know what they were or anything about their species.

“I-I’m an Avian.” When Echo didn’t say anything, Angel continued. “Avians… we have an ability to bond to the first person we see— which is supposed to be our mother. I-if the person we are bonded to dies, then we bond again to the next person we see— which is supposed to be our chosen mate. There are traditions and safeguards in place among the Avian people to make sure that it happens that way… but…” Angel trailed off, a tear falling to the ground.

“But sometimes things go wrong..?” Echo offered, placing a gentle hand on Angel’s shoulder.

“When… When we bond to someone, we’re compelled to take care of them— to keep them safe… and, to a lesser extent, we’re compelled to obey them. We become linked at the soul and we can tell when they’re upset, or sad, or in pain. But we also share in their joy. We know when they die and it’s… it’s like… a part of us dies with them… We’re only meant to bond twice… but we are able to bond an infinite number of times…”

Echo was silent for a moment. “And you’re not bonded right now..?”

“No…” Angel whispered. “I’ve… I’ve already bonded three times— I… I’m tired…”

“Three times..?” Echo’s voice was laced with incredulity as they withdrew their hand. “But you’re hardly older than twenty! I mean… aren’t you..? Or do you age differently?”

“I’m twenty-three… I… things went like they were supposed to at first… I bonded to my mother, then, when she died four years ago, I bonded to… to my mate.” Angel’s voice cracked. And then there was a tragedy that struck my tribe— not many of us made it through… my mate died… I… I lived… Disease destroyed my tribe. I had to flee. I got… I got lucky… the first person I saw after my mate’s death was a human— but they were kind. They knew my culture, too…“

Echo shifted closer to Angel, causing them to flinch a little bit, but Angel didn’t draw away.

"Hayden… the human I bonded to… they weren’t angry that I had bonded to them… usually humans are. They’re not used to it… they don’t like it— especially when it’s forced upon them without their consent, like it was with Hayden… I didn’t mean to look at them… I… I sort of just thought I’d become sine vinculo— alone without a bond. I didn’t expect them to be there… If… if they hadn’t been there… it was my fault… it’s all my fault…” Angel broke down into sobs, hugging themself.

Angel didn’t fight the warm embrace that Echo surrounded them with next. They leaned into it, sobbing uncontrollably as Echo rocked with them.

After a few long minutes, Angel started to quiet down a bit. “What happened to Hayden..?” Echo asked softly.

“They… Calder ki…” Angel fought to get their breathing under control. “Calder killed them.” They breathed.

Echo didn’t say anything for a moment. “… I’m sorry… I know I’m not Calder— we’re nothing alike, but… I still feel somewhat responsible for their bad choices…”

The carriage began to slow and Echo released Angel from their embrace. “Come on. Let’s get out.”

Angel didn’t move as Echo tried to guide them out of the carriage. “Kill me…” They whispered, closing their eyes tighter.

“I… I’m sorry, what?”

“Just… just kill me… you said you want to help me— kill me. I can’t… I can’t do this again… Please— I can’t live with my eyes closed for the rest of my life and I can’t bond with someone else just for them to die again!”

“… I’m not going to kill you, Angel.”

“Why not?” Angel asked, desperation creeping into the edge of their voice.

“There’s another solution. One that doesn’t involve your death.”

“What is it?” Angel allowed Echo to help them out of the carriage.

“… I… I don’t know yet.”

Angel pushed Echo away, stumbling back and falling to the ground. “No! No, there isn’t another solution! Calder wants me to bond with them. If I bond to anyone else, they’ll kill them too! I can't—” Angel pressed their face to the dirt. “You don’t understand— I can’t do it again! I can’t lose someone else!”

Angel fought back as someone— probably Echo— pulled them up off the ground. “Calm down— calm down, please, everything is going to be okay.”

“No! No it isn’t! It’s not okay— it’s not—”

Echo began to stroke Angel’s wings gently and Angel stopped yelling, their tone quickly losing it’s passion.

“It’s… it’s not okay…” Angel breathed, starting to have difficulty thinking as their body relaxed.

Angel found themself leaning into Echo, an odd sense of peace sweeping through their limbs.

“Just calm down.” Echo insisted softly. “You’re scared and upset— I understand— but you’re not thinking clearly. You don’t have to die. There is another solution. We just need to think of it, okay?”

“I don’t like this…” Angel whimpered.

“I know… I know, but it’s going to be okay.”

“Why did you even break me out..?” Angel asked, finally able to get control of their breathing.

“Honestly..? I don’t trust Calder. I heard they were up to something and decided to check it out when they left town this weekend. Then I found you. I don’t know what Calder wants with you, but if they were keeping you locked up in sensory deprivation it can’t be anything good.”

“They… they want me to bond to them and… and something after that, but they wouldn’t say what.”

“Let’s go inside, Angel. You can rest and we can talk more later.” Echo led Angel across the threshold into a building. Angel couldn’t tell very much about their surroundings as Echo led them down halls and finally stopped inside a room.

“This is a guest room. There’s some clothes in the dresser if you find some that fit. Theres an adjoining bathroom as well. You can open your eyes once I leave the room, right?”

“… I can.”

“Good. Then I’ll leave you here for now. I’ll knock before I enter so I don’t take you by surprise.” Echo steadied Angel against a wall before leaving.

Continued from here

CW: Drugging, implied sex trafficking/prostitution, head trauma mention, poor self image, discussion of past trauma, passing out, implied suicide attempt

“Where… where am I..?”

Atlas turned from the window to look at Val. “You’re awake.” Relief swept over them.

“Wh-who… what’s going on?” Val struggled to sit up, their tone rapidly becoming more upset.

“It’s okay— you’re okay. We’re back at my house.”

Val grasped the edge of the blankets near their chest, their eyes flickering over the interior of the room. “D-don't— You don’t have to dru-drug me again— I can— I’ll be good— I won't— I won’t try to get away anym-more— I’m sor-sorry—”

Atlas sat at the end of the bed, mentally kicking themself as Val flinched. “I’m not going to drug you. I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t believe you—” Val whimpered, shrinking back against the pillows.

Atlas took a steadying breath. “Val— listen, you might not believe me, but it is true. I swear on the soul of my father that I will not hurt you and that I only want to help you.” Atlas extended a hand, open and palm up, to Val. “I can see that you don’t trust me. I know I’ve made mistakes with you already and for that I am deeply sorry. Can you forgive me?”

Val’s eyes fixed on Atlas’s hand, their muscles tense. “I-I… I f-forgive you…” And they reluctantly and gingerly placed their small hand atop Atlas’s.

Atlas didn’t really think Val had forgiven them, but they found the gesture of trust— however small— reassuring. There was hope that things could change. One day, Val would be okay.

“Can you get up? Are you strong enough?”

Val struggled and managed to get their feet on the ground from the bed, but when they tried to stand, they had to sit back down.

“May I help you?” Atlas stood and Val flinched again.

“I don't— d-don’t want to be carried…”

“Then I won’t carry you. If you lean on me, do you think you can walk a short ways?”

“I-I… I-I can try…”

Atlas helped Val to stand and led them out of the room into the hallway. Val was slow, but Atlas didn’t try to pick them up. “Right in here. Come on. Sit down.” Atlas helped Val to the table and to a chair.

Val sat down, taking a shaky breath as they looked around the dining hall.

“I’m going to bring you something to eat. And I want you to meet the rest of the household if that’s alright.”

Val nodded lightly and Atlas disappeared into the kitchen. “Six? Would you find Seven and Emery and join me in the dining room please?”

Six, a short werewolf with bangs obscuring most of their face, nodded and left the kitchen.

Atlas made something for Val to eat and came back to the dining room just in time to see Six, Seven, and Emery come in through a side door.

Val started to tremble a little bit as the three new arrivals sat at the table.

“Val? I’d like to introduce the rest of the house. This is Six—” Atlas motioned to the werewolf with bangs covering their eyes. “They don’t really talk much. This is Seven, Six’s litter mate—” Another werewolf, who looked identical to Six aside from the fact that their hair was brushed out of their face, gave a curt nod. “They have an… interesting attitude, but they’re sweet at heart. And this is Emery—” A tall lanky vampire with red hair and brown eyes waved at Val. “They’re a social butterfly. Six, Seven, Emery— this is Val. They’re a shapeshifter.”

A chorus of hellos resounded from the trio. Even Six chimed in, albeit quietly.

Val whispered a hello in response.

“Val, you don’t have to share anything if you don’t want to, but I’ll let you alone with them now if you’re okay with it.”

—

Val nodded weakly, unsure if it was a proper response, but then Atlas was gone and they couldn’t change their mind. They didn’t trust Atlas, but… well… they didn’t really want them to leave, either…

“So I’m Seven.” Seven kicked back in their chair. “Me and Six were born at a mill. There were so many litters that they just named us by number. That’s why we’re Six and Seven. There used to be One, Two, Three, Four, Five, and Eight too. Then Two died when we were born. The rest didn’t make it out with me and Six. Last I saw them, Three was still alive, though.”

Val didn’t know what to do with this information, so they just stared. Why was Seven sharing this with them?

“Atlas is a good human— one of the only good humans. You seem like you don’t trust him, but you can. And you should.”

The vampire— Emery cut in. “Don’t be weird, Seven. They haven’t even been here for twenty-four hours yet. Talking about trust and shit… Anyway, my name’s Emery! I’m a vampire— obviously. When I got turned, I thought I was a monster. I tried… well… long story short, things weren’t good for me— y'know— mentally. But Atlas helped me take control of my life again.”

Val looked at Six, almost expecting a story from them too, but they didn’t speak.

“Six… suffered a traumatic brain injury.” Seven said, following Val’s gaze. “They can understand everything, but… they can’t really put together more than three or sometimes four words at a time…”

“I-I’m sorry…”

“It is… okay” Six said, haltingly.

Seven gave a reluctant nod. “It’s good to have a new addition to the house. Your name’s Val, right?”

Val nodded. “I-I’m a shapeshifter. I’ve li-lived with a human called Knox all my life… they… they helped me learn how to u-use my magic to make people ha-happy…”

No one said anything then for a long minute.

“How so?” Seven asked, finally.

“We-well… I… People… I become different things to suit different people’s t-tastes…” Val stopped, uncomfortable and uncertain. They didn’t dare meet anyone’s eyes. “I… I-I’m sorry— I—” Val stood to leave the room, but suddenly their vision blurred. They collapsed.

Taglist:@villainsvictim@wolfeyedwitch@dragyouthroughthewhump@someoneelsebolg

Continued from here

CW: Slavery, past trauma, drugged

Taglist:@villainsvictim@wolfeyedwitch@dragyouthroughthewhump@someoneelsebolg

Val’s eyelids felt heavy. They couldn’t seem to move… their thoughts were moving at a snails pace. Val opened their eyes to a blurry world.

“Val?”

The voice sounded distant. It took Val several minutes to realize they were looking up at a face. They tried to speak, but their words came out in an unintelligible slur.

“Shhh… you’re alright.”

Val leaned into a gentle touch on their cheek. They didn’t try to speak again, but fell back asleep.

—

“They still sleeping?” Seven leaned in the doorway, looking in at Atlas and Val.

“Yeah… I’m… I’m actually starting to worry. The doctor said they’d only be out for about two hours. It’s almost been three.” Atlas stood from their chair.

“Don’t worry too much yet. I’m sure they’ll wake up soon.” Seven came into the room, looking down into Val’s face. “They’re pretty for a shifter.”

“And you’re pretty for a mutt.”

“Hey! That’s derogatory.”

“So is shifter.” Atlas shrugged. “If you want to be called a werewolf then you’d best call them a shapeshifter. Or, even better, Val.”

“That their name?”

Atlas nodded, sitting back down. “Y'know, when we got to the doctor, they lost it. No reason either.”

“Stress?”

Atlas shrugged again. “I really don’t know. I suppose I just hope they’ll get better with time and some serious therapy…”

“Well… they can’t be any worse off than I was.”

“You don’t know… You didn’t see…” Atlas trailed off. “… Knox— their… the person I bought them from… I don’t know all the things they did to Val or made them do, but it wasn’t good…”

“Human?”

Atlas gave a vague nod.

“Humans fucking suck— except you, of course.”

“Don’t make snap judgements, Seven. There are good humans. There are bad werewolves.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Seven turned to walk out.

“Hey.”

Seven stopped.

“I mean it. Just because you’ve had bad experiences doesn’t mean all humans are like that. Don’t give up on us that easily.”

Seven left.

thewhiitelotus:

This house

This house is haunted

Malicious memories mounted on molding walls

Vacant eyes strip me down to the nerve

Sensitive bone exposed in all the wrong places

A hoarse voice in a whispered tone

Recalls the heartache and trauma that resided here

The ceilings drip grief and pain onto the dingy carpet

Stained with opportunities passed and missed chances

My feet are heavy dragging through these halls

A fresh wound behind each door

Infected and woefully covered by a too-small bandage

Angry and red around the edges

This house is quiet now

A breeze disturbing dust stirs a feeling deep inside my chest

Physical, tangible, anxiety, so thick that i could lose myself in it

It may be silent, but i can still hear the cries that echoed in these rooms before

I can still see the blood stains that were wiped clean a decade ago

The floorboards that sponged up all the tears

Now cracked and dry and peeling

But they still smell of sorrow

This house

This house is haunted

Malicious memories mounted on molding walls

Vacant eyes strip me down to the nerve

Sensitive bone exposed in all the wrong places

A hoarse voice in a whispered tone

Recalls the heartache and trauma that resided here

The ceilings drip grief and pain onto the dingy carpet

Stained with opportunities passed and missed chances

My feet are heavy dragging through these halls

A fresh wound behind each door

Infected and woefully covered by a too-small bandage

Angry and red around the edges

This house is quiet now

A breeze disturbing dust stirs a feeling deep inside my chest

Physical, tangible, anxiety, so thick that i could lose myself in it

It may be silent, but i can still hear the cries that echoed in these rooms before

I can still see the blood stains that were wiped clean a decade ago

The floorboards that sponged up all the tears

Now cracked and dry and peeling

But they still smell of sorrow

i’m the time traveler, not the traveler’s wife,

bearing the weight of the past instead of the ring.

you love Back to the Future 

when it’s the DeLorean and Marty,

but not when it’s me

sobbing for Fridays on Tuesdays

and relapsing down memory lane.

despite how i dig my heels into today

and you swear it’s no longer that way,

my time machine is a brain

i misuse to abuse myself 

and push you away 

over things i resent,

and you can’t erase,

over things you regret,

and things you can’t change.

- “back to the future”

The apartment is beautifully clean. Every mug in the cabinet is lined up with the handle angled to the left. Every stainless steel surface is kept polished, the countertops have nothing but a bowl of decorative fruit painted in cheery colors, the coffee table has been sanded and freshened up to erase old rings of coffee stains. Quinn lounges on the couch, comfortable but refusing to pull the throw blanket off the back of the couch to cover their chilly arms because it’s sitting so perfectly where they laid it.

Knuckles rap quietly against the front door. All wandering thoughts about how elephants are cute when they use their trunks to drink water are erased in an instant. Wary brown eyes flit to the door. They are shirtless, freckles and scars on display to the empty, cold room. The patio door is in their bedroom, and the nearest window will creak if they try to push it open quickly. There is a gun under the coffee table, and one in the cabinet above the sink, and a knife in the entryway drawer, but none of those will really do much good if Quinn doesn’t have enough time to strategize. They don’t even know who’s there.

Pajama pants brushing against the sofa cushion as they swing their legs to stand up, the spy shakes their head to get their curls out of their face. They showered this morning and took care to curl their hair like they were undressing a wound, cleaning it, and redressing it. Now they’re wondering if that was a mistake. It was certainly stupid to have changed into pajamas this early in the night, to have not even bothered to grab a shirt. What if this is someone who expects them to be playing the role they used in some random mission months or years ago? What if it’s someone here to kill them? Do they really want to die wearing plaid?

The soft knock comes again. It’s oddly respectful, like the sound of someone unnecessarily asking for permission before entering a mausoleum.

The handle is cool under their swollen hand. It always seems to be too warm and tender, the other not so swollen but far more stiff, and it just gives the most awful cracks and clicks when forced to move. Quinn doesn’t spare the attention to frown down at their ugly crooked fingers as they turn the doorknob and crack the door open.

Exhausted dark eyes. Aquiline nose, bushy eyebrows, collarbones standing out under the neckline of a white T-shirt.

He watches them calculating whether there’s any point in closing and locking the door. Oscar doesn’t speak yet. Quinn yanks their fingers back from where they’d curled around the edge of the door to peek; their hands go behind their back, and they keep the door in its position with the side of their foot pressed up against it instead.

“I need to come inside,” He says in his low, urgent but patient tone. He’s staring right into their soul. A sickly sweat beads at the back of their neck and sticks to their hair.

But the door swings open, and Quinn stands aside only to close it again once he’s in. They lean back against the door with their hands safely between their spine and the wood.

Oscar leans heavily on the kitchen counter as soon as he reaches it. He’s tracking blood across the floor, and more drips down his neck, flowing maybe from somewhere under his hair. He is wearing his uniform pants, but not the shirt that would make any fed stick out like a sore thumb. He looks like he was tossed out of a moving car and didn’t find a safe place to crash for days after that.

He turns to them, and they consider that he might expect them to rant at him, or stare at him impassively while they wait for an apology, or try to kill him. Something rational for the very clever, very dangerous Quinn Mae to do. All they can manage is to watch him, respectfully avoiding eye contact when he almost establishes it, too scared to bolt or to stand their ground.

“…Your place is different.”

They don’t look around. As clean as it seemed to them before the knock came, they recognize now how unacceptably filthy it is. The dust on the windowsill. The papers scattered across the desk - is there anything sensitive there? - no, it doesn’t matter, he knows everything. The throw blanket isn’t really at the perfect angle. They’ve let themself fall apart, they’re obviously not recovering very well. They haven’t even been doing missions, and Oscar will know that, of course, because he is an expert in Quinn Mae.

“Haven’t… haven’t kept up, I missed trash day and - no healers around to help when, when I can’t… you know.”

His eyes are on them again. Quinn endures the inferno of his judgment and breathes through the feeling that they’re going to faint. They’re fed, hydrated, rested, healthy. They don’t faint anymore.

“What?”

Glancing up, they finally meet his gaze only to find that it holds confusion and hesitance, not judgment. Although he isa remarkable actor when he wants to be.

“Um. My place.”

He blinks. “You think it’s bad? Messy?”

It must be a trick question. Their breaths come a little quicker. His eyes go to their chest, and they know that he can see their fear plain as day. “…Yes. Yes, it’s… clearly.”

They are consumed by his calculating eyes, and they do not quail under the gaze that they grew used to while working under him.

Oscar thinks about the time he watched Major nearly beat Quinn to death, and their pleas for Oscar to just leave, their swearing that it was their fault and they had it handled. He thinks about how many months it took to earn their trust, to manipulate them into feeling safe with him, and then how they thanked him for pushing until they told him their most painful secrets. He thinks about the last month and a half that he saw them at work, when they were taken from him because he wasn’t getting results from them anymore, and they were given to Davian. How Quinn rapidly deteriorated into a humiliated, doe-eyed bedwarmer, a source of entertainment.

The time when Davian dumped them on the floor of Oscar’s office and told them they were allowed to do one piece of paperwork for their old boss. How Quinn took the paper offered to them by Oscar with shaking hands, and focused so hard to getting every detail right because they were desperate for a chance to get to work again, to think critically, to be useful for their mind.

Once again, he scans the room and sees no big project. No pieces of taken-apart locks on the coffee table, no corkboard with plans and pictures and blueprints, no books lying open. It’s like someone dipped their hand into Quinn’s mind and scrambled it all up, hollowed it out, until they were nothing but tensely waiting for the next threat to loom over them.

Oscar is the one who did that. And Oscar is the threat now looming over them.

He’s never had a chance to… never wantedto feel it up until now. But the weathered and weary fed looks back at Quinn and sees what a deeply important, powerful person they were striving to be, and how far down he struck them. What he took from them. Their hands are at their sides now, unconsciously no longer being protected. They look small and uncertain, but still dependent upon the rules he established when he was breaking them. Oscar was in charge, he was aware of everything, and all they had to do was try their best to do excellent work for him. The air of the room is almost charged with expectation. They want him to tell them what he’s here for. Tell them what to do. What the latest threat is, what he’ll do to them if they don’t comply.

“Would you give me your hands if I told you to?” He asks, not sure whether he’ll be angry or relieved if they say no.

A second of hesitation is all that they’ve built up in their recovery. One second of clear apprehension before they hold out their hands to him, even stepping forward so they’re in easy reach.

Oscar runs his hand over his face, scratching at his scruffy chin. When it becomes clear with the increasingly awkward silence that he’s not going to break their fingers on a whim this time, a blush burns across their cheeks. Quinn pulls back and leans against the door again, arms somewhat folded, hands near their core.

“It looks like you were kicked out,” They croak. “Or you escaped.”

“Escaped?” He counters, feigning confusion. It’s more out of pride than anything, but they see the deceit alone.

“You were trapped too. I was slow to figure that out.” He hears in their tone that they loathe themself for being slow, and it’s absolutely not true, but it’s the painful truth to them. “Looks like you just barely got out, tried to survive by hiding out with warlocks, got kicked around. Now you’ve come to me because, ironically, you need my help.”

He doesn’t look impressed. He is, but any reaction that he gives will be read as an act. So he waits to hear what else they have to say.

“It looks like that’s what happened. It makes sense that that would be how it went. But I’m not going to believe it.”

There it is. He knew they’d be wary. Of course they would, he betrayed them. He’s a well-trained liar.

Their heel bumps against the wall as they back up just a fraction more. They look like they want to escape, but they’re the one holding the door shut. They’re the one trapping him in here right now. He wonders if they want him here, if they need it somehow.

“It’s not very original to come back playing the victim,” They add. “Why would I believe you? Why would I help you? After everything?”

They might have meant it as an accusation. It doesn’t sound like one. It sounds like they’re questioning themself more than him. Oscar wishes that he could hold them and let them cry it out, or let them reel from whatever numbness they might have been using as a shield since they got out.

“I just need to be here.” He doesn’t advance, but Quinn’s breaths get shallower like he’s closing in on them. “It’s a last resort. I’m not asking you to do anything, go anywhere. Just let me rest here.”

The apartment smells like them. He wants to collapse onto their bed and breathe into their pillows and pretend none of this ever happened, that he never did anything past befriending them and sleeping in their bed.

It does seem to strike them as odd that he’s not making them leave, or ushering more feds in here to haul them back to the facility. “I’m not… I’m not going to fall for it again. Fall for you again. You’re really here to try the long game again? Do they really think so little of me, that I’m that stupid?”

He feels like he’s sinking toward the floor. Oscar sighs. “You can use your magic to see if I’m being honest. I don’t care. Where can I crash?”

Their stiff, pink-tinted sore hands curl slightly around their sides in a self-soothing hug. “…I won’t get on the bed.”

That twists unexpected guilt in his gut. The exiled fed nods slowly. “Do you want me to take it?”

Quinn has no idea what to do with any of this. They shake their head, opening their mouth then seeming to think better of whatever came to mind. “Um. Yes. Sure. Are you hurt? I mean… you won’t die in there, will you?”

He must look even worse than he feels. Oscar shrugs. “If it hasn’t happened yet, it won’t tonight.”

what is the moment of weakness that haunts your character? were they begging? crying? numb and expressionless when they should have been emotional? did they hurt someone innocent? did they break a promise? why does that memory still haunt them?

the everyday little moments that give a traumatized character pause. they don’t outright scream, or cry, or verbally enforce a boundary. there’s just a tiny flinch and eyes going distant. holding their breath. getting hypervigilant and going very still. little signs that they haven’t really moved on from what happened to them.

“Dad. Thank you for taking the time to sit down and talk with me.”

Lux smiles briefly, one elbow propped up on the breakfast bar. His other arm rests in his lap to avoid straining the shoulder that’s giving him troubles today. If he’s amused by her suspicious politeness, he doesn’t show it, aware that that would only make a teenager bristle. “Sure. What’s up, Pen?”

His daughter twists the end of her braid anxiously, auburn hair glinting in the glow of the overhead kitchen light that’s been dimmed to its nighttime setting. “So. There’s this thing tomorrow.”

His eyebrows twitch upward in surprise. “Are you waiting until the last minute to tell me about a school dance again? Papa won’t have time to run out and get you a dress, I don’t think anyplace will be open for much longer.”

“No. Not a dance. It’s a… like a book fair.”

He props his socked foot up on one of the bar stool’s horizontal bars, propping his head up with his hand. It’s been a long day, but he’s tired in a good way. “Like a book fair? Except different.”

“Yeah. Yeah, different.” She’s avoiding his eyes.

“Okay. Different how?”

Penelope traces circles in the countertop with her fingertip. The house is quiet except for Emory snoring in the bedroom. He crashed hard, leaving the door open and his shoes on, as soon as he got home from work.

“Um… it’s not for books.”

“No?”

“Mnh mnh.”

Blue eyes follow the invisible patterns she’s drawing, then search her face. “What’s it for, then?”

“Um. It’ll be really safe, Dad. They’ve had stuff like this before, for years, and it’s always fine. There’s lots of people going. And it’s on TV, so nothing bad can happen. And Vicky’s dad is going, he’s gonna drive us, he’ll stick around.”

Something she thinks he’ll find dangerous? He tips his head with curiosity and budding worry. Instead of asking a million questions, he waits for her to spill.

She finally looks up, senses a lot of tension that she neglects to notice comes from herself, and sighs as if he’s putting a burden on her by not agreeing already. “Lots of people use magic out in public now, Dad. It’s in stores, built into signs. You can buy a trading card with magic glitter for fifty cents at the school shop.”

Predictably, Lux has gone rigid. He straightens up slowly as she rambles defensively.

“My friends use it. A couple of them. Okay, one of them, but her friends talk about it. It’s a thing, Dad.”

He’s with her. He’s listening. Lux can’t help wishing, though, that Emory would wake up right now and come out to hear this. Handle it. He’s more rational about magic. More removed.

“I know it was different back when you were young,” She continues, trying to catch this in time before he gives her a hard no. “There was prejudice and stuff. In history class, like last year, they changed it from saying the war ended in ‘96, to saying the war didn’t really end for lots of years after that. ‘Cause people were still getting killed in the street and there was propaganda and stuff. But it’s not like that anymore. It’s safe to have magic now.”

Tears are budding in his eyes. Lux looks like he’s watching her die right in front of his eyes, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Like everything that she’s saying is horrifying instead of a list of resounding victories and awesome social changes.

“Dad? Can you say something? Please don’t cry.” She says it like he’s being embarrassing, but worry is under there somewhere. He’s always had smiles for her, or at least an explanation for why he couldn’t give even that much.

“I don’t know what to say,” He breathes, speaking slowly. “This is - an event like this, it’s never happened in the… mainstream. Out in daylight.”

“Yeah, it has! Last-”

“No, not anything like a fair. Not planned ahead of time. It could be a trap. The tide could be changing back, they could televise - it’s not that many years ago that there were riots and murders on TV.”

“Like, thirty years ago, Dad. That’s more than - more than a quarter of a century.”

“Twenty-five years ago, maybe. That’s being generous. I - you don’t know… there’s still tension. Things could blow up. There’s still hate in their eyes, sometimes, just walking by people on the street.”

“Yeah, but they’re bigots, Dad. You’re, like, remembering a different world.”

“You were born in that world, Penny. We were - I barely survived it. Saw a lot of people who didn’t. They didn’t even callus people in textbooks before you were old enough to be reading them. What is this fair, anyway? Talking about magic? Some kind of civil rights… rally?”

“What? No. Civil rights? It’s just… people show off what they can do. Like show and tell.”

Lux sits back further on his stool as if repelled. “They’ll be using magic? Multiple people, all at once? They’re going to die. Something’s going to happen, this is… what’s wrong with… wait.” He looks ill. “Pen. Please. Please tell me you weren’t going to go there and use your magic.”

She’s been caught red-handed. Penelope stands abruptly, her stool screeching back across the floor. “You sound like a bigot, Dad. You can’t make me hide it. That’s, you sound like a magiphobe. You can’t tell me not to use it.”

He looks like she’s just picked up a scorpion from the floor and is about to eat it as it twists and tries to sting her. “You can’t go. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed. You don’t - this isn’t something to argue about. You can’t go.”

Her face is going red, hands balled into fists. “I amgoing. Ten in the morning, I’m getting picked up, and I’m gonna go. I’m gonna use my magic. It’ll be fine.”

“No. Em-” Lux’s hands are shaking. His husband appears, groggy from sleep, so quick that it must have been the stool scraping the floor that summoned him. “Em, listen - listen to her, argue with her, I need, I n-need - I need some. N-n-need some.” Giving up on finishing his sentence, he gestures to the door, already heading for it to go get fresh air and have his meltdown far from where she can hear it. “Tell her - no. N-no matter what.”

“Sure, Curls,” Answers Emory as he sits on the stool Lux left unoccupied. Penny stands flustered, mentally preparing to do her best to convince him, waiting until her Dad is out the door before she picks up her rant where she left off.

content warning: discussion of past child abuse and past torture.

“Dad, I have a project I need help with.”

Lux nods, sitting on the couch with his plate of reheated leftovers. The smell of parmesan mixes with the familiar, almost musty smell of their old, soft couch. He loves being home. “Okay, pumpkin.” She rolls her eyes at the childish nickname, and he adores her teenage annoyance. “How can I help?”

Pen sits in the armchair. She usually flops, so her more measured movements catch his attention. She means business right now. Acting none the wiser, he cuts a slice of lasagna with the side of his fork.

“It’s a project about family history,” She starts and watches him for a reaction. Lux raises his eyebrows but doesn’t look up at her yet.

“Oh yeah? Family tree or something?”

“Uh huh. I don’t actually know anything about it. You and Papa had moms and dads, right? I mean, I know Grandma.”

“Yes. And yeah, you know Mom.”

“So what about your Dad? We can start there.”

He looks up at her now. She has no notebook or laptop before her to take notes or look at her project. He doesn’t suspect that she’s lying about it - just that she’s more curious than she’ll admit.

“Okay. Uh. He was born in 1974.”

“Wow. Old.”

Lux rolls his eyes, now. “He was young, really. Seventeen when the war started.”

Her mischievous energy turns somber at the mention of the war on magic. It’s boring history to most kids, but to her, it’s something that makes her dad get quiet and grim, something that must have been horrifying but that she’s never heard details about. A shadow that hasn’t been permitted to cast darkness over her.

“Was he in the war?” She asks, leaning forward. She’s hungry for understanding.

“Yes.”

A staredown. Lux is aware that he’s just gotten cagey, and that really, he should be able to at least give her this much. Her history. Not her family by blood, but still, it affects her.

He adds belatedly, “It’s… difficult to talk about.”

“Why? You weren’t in the war. You were a baby.”

“No, I wasn’t even born yet.” Scratching at his back through his shirt, Lux shifts to set his plate in his lap instead of on the couch cushion beside him. It’s warm. “But you can understand. He was seventeen when he joined the war. A lot of violence for a kid that age to see. Something in him broke. Or that’s what Grandma says, at least. She says he used to be kind. Gentle.”

“So he wasn’t gentle. Was he, like, abusive or something?”

Her dad hums, delaying his answer by looking around the room. Picture frames that hold so many photos from over the years, always updated with the latest memorable events and trips. Emory’s book collection, plants that are watered and sung to (to the great annoyance of the teenager in the house), snacks piled atop the fridge. She is accustomed to a standard of life that Lux didn’t believe he’d ever get to see himself, as a teenager, let alone provide for someone else. Abuse is just a concept to her, a thing that happens to less fortunate people.

“I can answer specific questions,” He offers. “It sounds like you already have theories. I can talk about it if you can try to be… um, gentle about your reactions.”

She looks worried and skeptical at the same time. She’s not used to him talking about the old painful things he remembers, so she never seems quite convinced that they’re as big of a deal as his subtle reactions seem to convey. Still, she nods. “Sure, Dad. Specific, okay. Did your dad hit you?”

Old, retired memories poke at him. Lux allows them to come forward in gentle waves, ebbing and flowing, no particular memory given a spotlight. “Yes.”

Penelope looks almost stunned at his straightforward answer. “Like, a lot? Punching and stuff?”

“Mmhmm.” He takes a bite of his lasagna, happy to find extra chunks of ground beef. Emory is amazing.

“Why? Were you a bad kid? Did he get drunk?”

She’s seen these things on TV. Lux thinks about how he wants to answer. “I wasn’t a bad kid. I was nervous and quiet, out of the way. Well, sometimes I threw fits. But kids do that. You don’t hit them for it. And… yes, he’d drink sometimes. But he didn’t have to be drunk to be willing to hurt someone.”

“Uh. Okay. So he was messed up from the war? Did he kill a lot of people?”

Another bite. Not as much meat this time, and this spot was a little cold. Maybe they need a new microwave. “That’s what Grandma says, that it changed him. He was very proud of the number of warlocks he killed. I hope that it was his training that made him hate us so much, that he wasn’t always that bad.”

“Oh. He - he hated you for having magic?” She looks stricken at the thought of the hatred stemming from prejudice, not just from Lux being some kind of wild, frustrating bad kid.

“He hated it more than anything.” Mixed in with his thoughts about his dinner are flashes of feeling very small and hurting very much. “There are, um.” Is this appropriate to say to a sixteen year old? He glances at his phone on the arm of the couch. He could reach out to his therapist to ask. But he wants to decide on his own, as a father. He’ll try not to offer up too much. There are plenty of experiences he never wants her to imagine could happen to someone. “You’ve seen my back. Under all that scarring, before most of it, there are some lines from him.”

Lines, scars, on his back from his dad. Penelope’s eyes lock onto his shoulder as if she can use her gaze alone to turn him around and pull up his shirt, inspect the damage and find secrets buried there. “Your dad whipped you?”

Lux nods, meeting her eyes.

“But he didn’t do all of that. Someone else did the rest?”

“We’re talking about family history,” He guides, shoulders beginning to throb.

“…Right. Yeah. So… um. What did he do in the war?”

Now he’s more playing with his food than eating it. “He was a sniper.”

She looks impressed for a second. One of her Wednesday night shows has cops and a sniper that she has a crush on. Lux doesn’t ruin her fun by getting upset about a show that he doesn’t have to be in the room to see.

“Was he good at it?”

Lux nods. Scratches at the bit of beard at his chin. “One of the best.”

“Wow. Did he have medals?”

A memory of the display case that seemed to take up the whole hallway, glass daring him to break it and get punished, awards and bullets on display to brag about how his dad planned to kill him too one day. “Yes. He lost friends. Did some things that got him awards for bravery.”

“Wow! So, like, if I look him up, will I find his name ‘cause he’s got those?”

He’s lost his appetite. He hides it by cutting up more bites that he won’t eat. “I don’t know.”

“Did he hit Grandma too?”

She’s being too forward, but Lux won’t stop her yet. He can roll with the punches. In his mind he sees the cabin and blood that has stained him for so many years. “Yes, honey.”

His quiet, distant tone slows her down. Penelope shifts and straightens her hoodie.

“You don’t have any questions about Papa’s parents?” He asks, already suspecting the answer.

“Already asked him,” She mumbles, fiddling with her phone now, not really reading anything on its screen.

“Oh.” Her sheepishness wins him back a little. Lux takes another bite, and it’s meaty again, and not too close to room temperature. Maybe he is still hungry. “What do you really want to know?”

Pen looks up, changes to sit sideways, then changes back. “I don’t know. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s okay that you have questions. Ask me anything.”

“Okay. Anything?”

“Anything.”

Penelope leans forward, eyes locked on his. “Who is the Hunter? To you?”

She was waiting to let that one loose. Lux tries not to think about how his father would react in a situation like this. He’s tried for years to imagine how this conversation might go, and worked to avoid her ever having an understanding of the topic. Better for her to be ignorant than to know about him. But it sounds like she already knows something.

“He is… a man who hurts people.”

“Did he hurt you?”

That’s got to be pretty obvious. “Yes.”

“How? What did he do?”

“Um. Well, my scars are mostly from him. I’m not going to be able to list it all out for you. I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Your back?” She asks for clarification, and her dad nods. “Why did he - who was he, though? Why you? How old were you?”

“He just… picked whoever he saw that he wanted. I was a stranger to him. I was a couple years older than you. He was… like a serial killer.”

“Well - you’re a survivor, not a victim, Dad, and - and I think your scars look cool.”

Lux cocks a brow at her clumsy attempts to offer comfort. She’s cute. “Thank you.”

She nods graciously. “But. Why didn’t you just kill them with your magic?”

“What?”

“Your dad. The Hunter. These guys that were hitting you and your mom and stuff. Why didn’t you just make them stop?”

The smell of parmesan is starting to make him feel nauseous. “It’s not… it wasn’t that easy. Abuse victims-”

“Survivors,” She corrects.

“-kids who are being hurt, they can’t fight back. Most of the time. And it’s not their fault if they can’t.”

“No, yeah, I didn’t say - it’s not their fault.”

“I was afraid of him. Them. I’ve gotten better, you haven’t seen me like that, but I used to have a stutter, and shake, and my magic wouldn’t work when I was scared. And I was always scared. I couldn’t relax in the living room like you are right now, I had to sneak past and try not to get noticed by my dad. I was, I was nineteen in a cellar with my arms… my shoulders are how they are because of that.”

As he paints context into the base truths she’s always accepted, she looks at his shoulders again.

Lux sighs, absolutely full of aches and bad memories now. “I love you, and I never want you to be scared to ask me things. But I don’t want you to be familiar with the life I knew. So please only ask questions if you really want to know, and just… give your Dad a break right now? I can help with your project later. Give you a timeline and fun facts. There’s more than just the bad stuff. I’m. If I keep talking now, I’m just going to be venting. And that’s not okay for an adult to do.”

Penelope stands now, looking more than eager to go. “I know, Dad. I’m not a kid.”

She is. She is so young, so clumsy with her sympathy, and so earnest. Lux shakes his head. “I know you’re not. I’ll see you after I finish my dinner and clean up, I’ll bring you some ice cream while you do your homework. Okay, honey?”

“Yeah. Okay, Dad.” One more glance toward his back, and she’s gone, pulling her phone back out of her pocket and opening up some app where the kids post pictures and talk to each other.

Lux sinks back against the cushions and closes his eyes, breathing through the wave of doubt and guilt that comes after a landmark conversation with his daughter. He’ll update Emory about it as soon as he’s processed it himself.

[ignores all my plot threads to write more standalone pieces] TW: aftermath of abuse.

Taglist <3 @bloodybrambles,@wildfaewhump,@ishouldblogmore,@lektric-whump,@that-one-thespian,@raigash,@burtlederp,@rosesareviolentlyread,@eatyourdamnpears – and @ashintheairlikesnow is the writer of Jax’s children and their unmentionable mother.

“Basically…” he says, sitting on his hands on the folding chair, “I can’t do it on my own.”

Hari looks at him over her reading glasses. She hadn’t paid much heed to his appearance when he sat down, and she rectifies that now at hearing such an unusual response to how can I help?

Mr Gallagher looks to be between thirty and thirty-five. His face shows haggard signs of wear, but her instinct tells her this is not from the simple trials of life, and he is likely younger than he appears. His hair is cropped short, but with a longer part on top that sits shaggy over his forehead to one side. He has a lip ring, an eyebrow piercing, and two studs in his visible ear. He’s wearing a denim jacket with a wool collar and a black bandanna around his neck.

“Can you tell me more?” she says, keeping her voice kind. She has learned not to judge people in this job, and more importantly, never to seem like she could be. It’s hard enough to come and seek advice; one wrong word and some people never try again.

“Uh, yeah.” Mr Gallagher scratches the back of his head, avoiding her gaze. “I have two kids. They’re great. They’re my whole world. But they’re getting bigger, and we’re all living in my dad’s flat with him. They don’t have their own rooms. My eldest, she’s…uh, she’s started school. I figure she’s going to ask, soonish, about everyone else having their own rooms.”

This is a concern Hari has heard many times, from parents with limited finances, making do in houses they can’t afford to leave. “You think she’ll want her own space?”

“No.” He glances at her, measuring her reaction. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, and his eyes shift away. “She doesn’t. But that’s its own problem, you know? It’s not good for her to be around when I‘m… I have my own stuff that I don’t want her to see, to have to see.”

“You need your own space,” Hari says. “I see, yes. That is just as important. It is immensely difficult to focus on yourself when your children are present.”

The reassurance doesn’t seem to affect him. “Sure,” he replies, not going as far as to agree. “And my dad, he’s put up with – my baby boy, he’s running around now. He keeps my dad up at all hours.”

She nods. She wonders, as she always does, where the mother is. She never asks. There is always something, if the other parent is not mentioned.

“What can we do to support you?” she asks, when it seems he has explained his situation to his satisfaction.

“I dunno really. I don’t know what you can really do. Just thought you might have – some ideas.”

He isn’t asking for the moon, which is always her fear. She’s been working with the charity for four years now, and some parents come in demanding, or simply desperate for a magic fix. To them, Hari, in her cardigan and reading glasses, is an austere being of immense power. She is a font of peerless wisdom. She is more than a volunteer with a few training courses under her belt.

“That’s alright. I know more about what we can offer than most – I hope.” The gentle humour, like the kind words, seem not to scratch his stony surface. She imagines him with his children, serious and careful. “Why don’t you tell me what your ideal outcome is?”

It’s odd to watch a grown man talk with his eyes on his knees, sitting on his hands, but that’s what he does. There’s a slight ripple in his nose from this angle. “I guess… The kids having their own space they can grow up in. But also, being able to make that work. I can’t do it alone, but dad isn’t moving out for it, and mam can’t either, she’s got her whole life out in the sticks. So it’s kind of impossible.”

“Impossible is fine,” she reminds him. “The ideal is a larger house, enough bedrooms for everyone, and support for you?”

His mouth lifts at the corners, but it’s not a smile. Perhaps it was once, before time hammered it into a different shape. “Sure,” he says again, enigmatic. “As long as the kids are happy.”

Hari smiles a little more sincerely, beyond her default polite pleasantness, to hear that phrase. It’s one of her favourites. Parents and carers alike have that driving principle.

“Of course. But in an ideal world,” she returns carefully to that word, to the reminder that they are talking simply about what he would want, if he could disconnect from crushing realism, “I hope you would also be happy, Mr Gallagher.”

He looks away again, shrugging a shoulder awkwardly, still sitting atop his hands. “Sure.”

Nothing more follows the word, and Hari finds her smile stuck for a moment as she tries to think of what to say next.

He’s difficult to read, she realises. That’s why she feels so nervous, overanalysing his every gesture and word. She can’t pin him down.

Deep breath. She’s had reticent parents before.

“I’m going to ask another question, and it may sound judgemental, but I want you to know it is not said with that intent. This is a genuine question, not a judgement.” She pauses, resting her hands on her knees. “What makes you feel that you can’t do this alone?”

He snorts, arms twitching like he wants to fold hem. “Well, that’s easy. I have PTSD, night terrors, chronic pain, I can’t keep to a schedule, I lose track of time constantly, ADHD basically, although without all the other shit it wouldn’t be so bad, oh, and I was fucking stalked so I’m kind of paranoid.”

Again, he hits her with a direct look, searching for something in her response. She frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He coughs a sudden laugh, empty of humour. “Yeah, people usually are.”

She gives him a moment, but he’s done. He’s finally opened up and given her the real problem, and she’s relieved to hear it.

“Mr Gallagher,” she says slowly, settling back into her kind, professional manner, “let me reassure you that you are not the only parent we work with who has experienced trauma. Parents often come to us feeling as though they are failing their children simply by having their own needs as human beings. I’m not saying I have worked with someone who has had your exact experience, but I can say that I have heard and helped families many times where the person who needs help the most is not the child. What we can do—”

“How many times?”

Hari’s mouth hangs open for a moment before she gathers herself. “I can think of a dozen with the service now, half of which I have met personally.”

“And they have – what, PTSD?”

“PTSD, anxiety, depression, agoraphobia, gender dysphoria…”

“ADHD?”

“Not currently, but many times in the past.” She finds herself smiling, really smiling. Underneath the aggression, she is starting to get a sense of the vast fears he has been hiding. “Parents do not simply cease to have their own lives and their own struggles when children are born.”

He breathes another, very different laugh. “Yeah.”

She gives him another moment.

“…So, what would you do?” A look. A measure of her response. Is he assessing her for competence, she wonders, or for risk? “With someone like me.”

Hari meets his gaze without judgement, without threat, simply acknowledging him. His eyes are hazel with a glimmer of sunlight from the window to their left. He looks tired, as parents here always do. “I would suggest they join our mental health support group, where they can meet other parents experiencing similar difficulties. I would refer them to the Play with Meaning scheme, where you and your children can attend workshops to help build secure relationships. And I would also strongly recommend that they seek one-to-one counselling—”

“Got that one,” he interrupts. When she blinks, he grins. “Yeah. For me and for the kids.”

She smiles back. “Then you are already ahead of the curve, Mr Gallagher, and I’m glad to hear it. I have one other suggestion, or question, really. Do you have friends who are parents?”

“Uh.” She’s surprised him. “Uh, no. I’m kind of a young dad, if you hadn’t noticed. And we didn’t exactly… Go out much. Still don’t, really.”

“I think it may help,” she says gently. “All parents doubt they are doing the best for their children. Again, I’m not saying your experiences are directly comparable to anyone’s, but – some aspects of what you’ve told me about are, in my experience, something everyonefeels.”

She can see it now, with the shock of hearing those words cutting past the barriers. She can see the vulnerability, the genuine need for help, the fear that he’s a failure. For whatever reason – and parents, she knows, will always find one – he believes his every need subtracts from his children’s own.

Then he recovers, and the shutters go back down. “That’s…” Life-changing, she thinks. She hopes. “Okay. That’s good to know.”

friendlylocalwhumper:

the everyday little moments that give a traumatized character pause. they don’t outright scream, or cry, or verbally enforce a boundary. there’s just a tiny flinch and eyes going distant. holding their breath. getting hypervigilant and going very still. little signs that they haven’t really moved on from what happened to them.