all this dad jay content needs to b a series or sumn cuz its so good 😫can u write a fic abt the reader having postpartum depression?
NOBODY IN THE WORLD! ☆ 박종성
"you and I... ain't nobody in the world
you keep wonderin' if you're the one I'm wantin' but you don't even have to try.."
you and i (nobody in the world) - john legend
c/w: postpartum depression, body issues, + insecurities pls skip if that is a trigger <3
you look at the glow of the clock on your dresser, 9 pm. the baby's sleeping, you're freshly showered, shaved, and for the first time since your baby was born, you try.
you put on a little gloss, and a comfortable yet sexy pajama set you never got to wear. you stare at your reflection in the mirror, not failing to miss the stretch marks and scars having a baby left you with. you're still unsure of yourself, feeling disconnected from your own body.
before you can finish your thoughts, your husband makes his presence known, eyes roaming over your figure. he approaches you to wrap his arms around you like he always does, but you can't help but flinch away. not dramatically, but enough to raise concern.
"did i do something wrong?" jay says, concern written all over his face.
your chest tightens, feeling guilty for worrying him. "it's not you, i promise i just ... i don't feel ... touchable. like someone you'd want to touch anymore. i feel icky." you say covering your insecurities with a nervous giggle, but jay isn't laughing.
"baby, of course I want to touch you. I want you. desperately. why wouldn't i?"
you look at your feet, contemplating on whether you should give him an honest answer or not.
"well ... i don't look like i used to." you mumble.
jay lets out a sigh of disblief, stepping closer to you, running his fingers over your stretch marks, hands carresing the softness of your belly.
"you made me the happiest man on earth and brought our baby into this world. it doesn't take anything for me to think you're beautiful, y/n."
your fingers fidget with the edge of your shirt, processing his words. "i guess i keep thinking that if i don't look like the person you fell in love with, maybe you'll stop loving me. i know it's stupid i just— can't help myself sometimes."
jay exhales sharply, as if it hurts him just to think about what you said. he takes your face into his hands, making you look at him.
"i didn't fall in love with your waist, or your thighs. i fell in love with the way you laugh. the way your face scrunches up when you're concentrated. the way you fought through everything just to give our baby life." he begins to say as his hands roam over you.
"this body? i worship this body. because of what it endured. because it holds everything i love most in the world."
you don't say anything, but your breath slows, eyes becoming glossy.
jay's hand reaches for the hem of your shirt, not to undress you yet, but to feel you.
"I was worried you didn't want me like this," you say between light sniffles.
"are you kidding? look at you." he says, spinning you around, causing you to let out a genuine laugh, one you haven't had in weeks. "now, are you gonna let me remind you how beautiful you are?"
you give a shy nod, and jay doesn't hesitate to kiss you, gentle, but deep. full of yearning and desperation.
he guides you to the bed, his hands rubbing over the curves you've hidden from him, the places you've apologized for, but he doesn't let you apologize this time.
"there is nothing about you that i don't want."
when you finally submit, allowing yourself to be touched, loved and desired again, you know it's not just lust.
it's healing, something you're feeling for the first time in months. as he worships you that night, you start to believe, even if for a split second, you are still worthy of being wanted.
Ok so this comes in three parts: evidence of hc from Fabian’s character specifically, where I think it comes from (Hallariel but there’s more to that), and what I think it would mean for him in addition to what we know in canon
(Honestly, with the length of this and the amount of evidence and explanation I try to include, this might be more theory than headcanon)
Ok so first there’s his depression that he clearly has. This is like a known Fabian fact that his emotions are in a general sense not doing great, and I think the more episodic nature of his depression is fairly clear
The thing is, there’s only one instance I would say there is a clear example of Fabian going through a depressive episode, which is the Leviathan incident (you can’t really make a Fabian-centric post without mentioning it, yknow)
However, I do think with the bipolar headcanon, not seeing Fabian’s depressive episodes makes entire sense because, considering both how bipolar has a tendency to work and how Fabian is characterized, the major part of said episodes would probably happen at times when, generally, there isn’t anybody around Fabian to witness these things
For somebody like Fabian who has issues with not wanting to be alone and who tries to hide his issues from other people, it makes sense that the worst parts of his episodes would happen when he’s alone, specifically around night time when there’s no one around and there’s no excuse for them to be unless he’s throwing a party
Additionally, i think his worst episode would probably be after his dad’s death, and, again, given the nature of bipolar, that would probably occur days to weeks after the Prompocalypse battle with Kalvaxus and again wouldn’t be something that we would see since we leave the Bad Kids right after the battle and don’t pick up with Fabian until his dad’s funeral
There’s also the fact that a lot of episodes are triggered by major positive and negative events and that the “switch” between the manic and the depressive episodes can be as simple as minor inconveniences, along with the fact that Fabian seems to take smaller incidents much worse than the other Bad Kids
I think the manic part of it is something I have to explain less, since it’s mostly taking behavior that is often treated as just how Fabian is or him showing behaviors similar to his father and reframing them as manic episodes
Again, back to the Leviathan thing, I think what happens there is a short depressive episode not directly caused by but definitely connecting to his bipolar, and then a manic episode that lasts for the entire rest of the spring break adventure, and then most likely after returning home a longer depressive episode hitting that decides to hide from the other Bad Kids
Specifically, with how manic episodes spur on impulsive decision making, I think Fabian just deciding to multiclass into a bard, while a decision that he sticks with and is overall good for him, was one that was facilitated by his manic episode
There’s also the fact that he has a tendency to act more level headed and calm compared to his friends, including in a majority of battles, but he will every now and then act explosive and impulsive for not very clearly defined reasons in canon
It would be easy, I think, to claim that his bipolar came from his dad, especially since he has an extremely manic energy around him at all times, but I think the “at all times” part is part of what draws me away from him as the parent mostly contributing to it, as I think there would be more examples of him being either calm or even subdued if he were the bipolar one
We don’t see much of Hallariel in canon (I think she shows up in about 4 episodes of season one and we don’t get many lengthy conversations or interactions with her throughout the series), but I do think I have enough to make it at least make sense
For one, I think the postpartum-depression-turned-alcoholism is an important point. Bipolar people are more susceptible to both postpartum mood issues and addiction, and I think those two colliding in Hallariel makes sense, especially since she would have had Fabian while traveling with Bill and even after settling in Solace wouldn’t have known enough about it to go and search any form of treatment or help
Then there’s her less than responsible decision making after she goes sober. Specifically, her getting with Gilear at her husband’s funeral against her son’s wishes. Similarly to Fabian, Bill dying would have almost definitely triggered an episode, and with her attempting to sober up throughout the entire ordeal, it mostly likely would have been more drawn out than Fabian’s would have been. It doesn’t excuse her wild choice in a partner and the fact that she approaches him at her husband’s funeral (excuse in terms of how it affects Fabian at the very least), but I think it explains it better than “Hallariel is just like that/Brennan thought it was funny.” This is the only major example I have, but looking at her other decisions throughout the show, I think they line up with a (heavily unmedicated recovering addict who does not know what bipolar is) bipolar person and make more sense than, again, Hallariel just being like that.
I don’t have much else for Hallariel, but like I said there’s not much of her in canon truly. I have more evidence for her being the source than I do Bill, and he is the one that we have more of in canon, so I feel fairly confident in this assertion
I do think that her being bipolar and Fabian being around that his entire life would explain why he never really thought anything was out of the ordinary regarding himself. From his perspective, he’s much much more normally adjusted than his dad, and acts somewhat similar to his mom. He probably thinks that these issues are something everyone has, at least at the beginning of him living in Elmville, and that it’s just understood to not be a thing you talk about
Depending on how much adventure and fighting the Bad Kids have to deal with in their senior year (which, in canon would be a ton because obviously there’s gonna be a big bad and a plot and everything for senior year, but for this post is assumed to be not much), I think Fabian’s bipolar would be able to become increasingly obviously to the others. Beforehand, it was a lot easier to chalk it up to a mixture of Fabian being his father’s son, the battle itself, and post battle adrenaline, however, if there are less battles it would be harder for Fabian to hide his manic episodes
However, I’m not sure of most of the Bad Kids would actually figure out what they are without outside help. I’m assuming most of them have a lot less experience with bipolar, and there’s a good chance they would attribute it to either Fabian acting like his dad or to senior year throwing him off
That being said, Jawbone absolutely would notice it within like a month or two no doubt. Fabian is avoiding him like the plague still but just from what he’s hearing I think Jawbone is kind of going full guidance counselor therapist mode and hyper analyzing everything he knows about Fabian
I think really what a manic episode would mean for Fabian would mostly be him partying way more than he should be. Like both him planning parties and going to other people’s parties, he doesn’t really care as long he can get drunk and maybe high and out of his head for some amount of time
There would also be an increase in him training, and by increase I mean him pushing himself way too hard and almost injuring himself in the process. Most likely something he got from his dad, and another way for him to get out of his own head for a period of time.
That is all I have for now but I’m always willing to rant about this I love Fabian and I love bipolar Fabian and I think more characters should be headcanoned as bipolar thank you for coming to my ted talk.
I was worried about Othello being covered in the substance™, but @shardkn1ight didn't fuss for a second!
Rated: Explicit
Warnings/Tags: Romance, Established Relationship, Married Couple, Married Life, Aged-Up Mutant Ninja Turtles, Villain Donatello (TMNT), Love, POV Second Person, Babies, Pregnancy, AFAB reader, Vaginal Sex, Rough Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fertility Issues, Pregnant Sex, Pregnancy Kink, Reader-Insert, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Cum Eating, Turtle Noises (TMNT), I have a Biology Degree and I’m Using it, Menstruation, There WILL NOT be any Miscarriages, Depression, Postpartum Depression, Anal Sex, Intimacy Near Child (No Child Harm)
Synopsis: First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes the next step about as smooth as the others arrived. The baby-oriented sequel to Weak Spot.
Also available on Ao3
No one told me the numbering for the chapters was wrong here on Tumblr! 😭
First 💜 Previous
You and Donnie both observed a large fuchsia colored board with similarly schooled expressions. Unlike the aged qualities of those with dry erase capabilities or the older chalk varieties, this tableau exceeded current technology. It was alive with Donnie’s ninpo and displayed statistics about your son. Charts of all kinds splattered the surface along with fervent notes. Those were then tied to reminders and all of it linked to various periodicals about his growth.
You had followed it all since its inception and, for once, were confident that you understood the data.
You inhaled faith and pointed with assertion. “Food’s next.”
“Indeed.” Your mate beamed at both you and his notes. “On a developmental scale, Othello continues to exceed. His locomotion is curious, but not unheard. Muscles and growth are stable. His caloric intake increases. Thus, diversifying his diet is our next area to expound.”
“You would be so good at D&D…”
He eyed you with obvious, though unsaid, insistence that you had once again referenced something he was not aware of.
“Stat points,” was all you said as you turned to look at your son.
Othello was currently laying on the floor beneath a baby gym. He had a ring in one hand and the shape of a star in another. With a pinched expression, he seemed to evaluate their differences. He parsed out that something clearly made them feel different beneath his fingers, but exactly what eluded him. His grip tightened as he worked his little noggin.
You approached him.
He saw you and let go of the star for a wriggle that said his conundrum was great.
“Anything specific we’re starting with?”
“Food diary. Minimal introductions with evaluation days between.” Donnie supplied from back at the board.
You nodded and waved at your baby.
Othello smiled and shook the ring in hand.
The glow behind you shrank and your husband approached under the slow distraction of having shrunk the larger board into a clipboard. “Introduction to food allergens as well.”
“Is that okay?” Your head didn’t exactly whip, but it flew to check.
“Frustrating schools of thought, though research appears to indicate no benefit in delay.”
“Break that down for me a little more?” You knelt.
Othello kicked for you.
“You in there? The gym? Working hard or hardly working?”
Your baby leaned toward the latter and tugged at the framework above him.
“Oh my gosh! So tough! You’ll be going to the Olympics for rings soon!”
He squealed.
Your husband finally sorted his thoughts enough to speak. “It was thought that the best solution to avoid allergens was such. Not as inoculation, but instead exacerbating reactions and causing long lasting ones.”
You nodded.
“Immature digestive systems. Studies for triggers. Children often grow out of common allergens.”
“Got it…”
“I would prefer to trend with knowledge. Small enough doses mean we can treat and assess.”
“Sounds risky for you.”
“Food.” He said with finality.
You knew exactly what he meant.
Food had been quite the topic for Donatello. It was as pervasive in his life as in your relationship. You had met over a sandwich, but it had been more than that. Donnie was searching for said meal as a facsimile of emotion. Eating was both everything and nothing to him. He had found hope as a small abused child by eating the first meal he ever caught himself. Devouring life had given him a taste for one. Starvation and hardship then made calories scarce going forward. Both through warped generosity and waste was he able to find what he needed. He then cast lesser bodily requirements aside, which included food. Nourishment was then reduced to function and it wasn’t until he had a healthier relationship with eating that he was able to have the same with life.
He had preferences now.
He had things he liked.
Things he didn’t.
He had the space to explore them.
He continued to do so.
It was very much common knowledge to you at this point and his mentality extended to your baby.
Othello would have nothing but choice.
Before he even truly knew what one was.
“You know the best way to follow up a workout?” You told your son.
Othello seemed to wonder what you had in mind.
“Food! Can you believe it?”
He couldn’t.
“It helps your muscles!” You reached out to pick him up.
He babbled to you.
“Muscle recovery. Glycogen storage. Reduction of muscle protein breakdown…” Donnie chirped bullet points with amusement.
“You’re going all in on getting swole!” You bounced Othello into your arms.
He cheered with the surrounding excitement.
Something occurred to your husband and he scurried off.
“You ever use a blender bottle?” You asked your son.
Othello wasn’t sure.
“It’s a little like a rattle.” You explained to him how it worked with him on your hip as you prepared his highchair.
Donnie had begun cooking at the stove and gestured to some baby cereal.
“In you go!” You brought your baby up high before setting him down in his chair.
He was snapped in by the highchair’s table with tittering language.
“You’re right!” As soon as he was secure, you got the cereal. “Muscles can’t be milked! What even is that?”
Your mate eyed you again with that confused look.
You ignored him with a smile. “Little bit of safe food to tide you over?”
A few plain oat rounds were sprinkled in front of your son.
Othello knew them well and smashed down a fist to get some circles up to his mouth.
Only one succeeded in entering and the others pressed, already sticky, into his cheeks.
“You got something…” You pointed to your face.
Othello gawked at you as he slobbered over his empty fist.
“You got it.” You pretended as if he did.
He made an affirmative noise and slapped down at his table again to get more cereal.
You watched him methodically try again and again to get more than one grain at a time until Donnie came over, blowing delicately on something piled on a tiny plate.
You gave him room and talked up to your baby. “What’s this? What’s papà got?”
Othello gnashed as he looked between his parents.
Donnie did a sweep of his arm where he brushed a small amount of yellow bits onto Othello’s tray. “Eggs.”
Your son slowly lowered his head to look.
Your husband leaned into you as if it was a secret. “Fully emulsified. Fine curd. Less than two tablespoons.”
You nodded that he had done a good job.
He languished in the affirmation.
Othello was slow to pull his fist out of his mouth, but there was still a pop. He stared at the apparent alien matter for a long moment. Associations were made that things usually placed in this space were edible so he eventually reached out. Synapses revved to make further connections and he curled fingers into the egg bits. They spread beneath his fingers and he felt, what you assumed, was the barely there warmth. It probably reminded him of his bottles and he scooped up some eggs, which he brought over in a twitchy palm.
You and Donnie both hovered as he stared at what he had.
Othello promptly face planted into the mixture.
You turned away so as not to laugh.
Donnie stared on as if he expected the reaction.
You heard Othello ‘mlem’ as he clearly got some egg in his mouth. He teetered again on the unknown. You glanced back to find his mouth open and egg particulate mushed around. Some made it across his taste buds and farther back. He swallowed with the best approximation of a gulp he currently had and announced his verdict.
“Ba-ab!”
Donnie perked, his clipboard popped back into existence, and he furiously wrote on it with a similarly semi-translucent pen.
Othello grabbed at more eggs and smushed them into his beak.
“Not bad, huh?” You bent your knees some to come down to your son’s height. “Do you like it?”
He gnawed at bits of food with a glint in his eye that said he did.
-
“Yogurt day! Yogurt day!” You cheered as you circled the living room with Othello on a march.
“Eggs, sans reaction.” Donnie announced.
“It’s like your milk, but cultured!” You gasped at how fancy that must seem.
Othello’s mouth opened up in awe.
“Then you go, ‘nom!’” You mouthed chomping for him.
He didn’t quite understand the close part, so his jaw hung open.
“Nom, nom, nom!” You chewed the air as you finally headed to the high chair.
Othello saw his seat and reached for it.
“In you go!” You sat him down with your trademark call and adjusted his tray table. “Upright positions in first class, mister.”
He made a few agreeable ‘weh’ noises.
“We have a fine yogurt for you today. Plain and chilled to perfection!” You stepped back with a bow and Donnie slipped in to dollop a portioned scoop for your son.
“Very good!” You clucked.
Donnie chuckled and moved beside you to watch.
“Please, sir! Partake in your meal!” You gestured.
Othello stared at you both before looking at the yogurt mound. It seemed to strike him as odd as he stared for longer than you expected. He then tipped to one wobbling side to view the blob from another angle. He appeared cute to your eye, almost like an art connoisseur appraising a statue. You saw a placard beside it that said something about mother’s bounty and the medium used was goat, even though that wasn’t what you had served him. It was all embellishment and Othello sat back to decide if he liked the exaggeration of it all.
“Ah-h!!” He struck with almost a chop and the entire radius was sprayed with yogurt.
You all sat stiff.
Othello seemed most confused and welled up.
His action was seemingly not his own.
He was now wet with yogurt spray.
He cried.
You looked down at your shirt. “Okay…”
Donnie flickered between actions.
“Let him…” You touched your mate’s arm. “Let him work this one out on his own…”
You went to get a towel.
Othello weeped for his lost food. As you wet the towel, you saw him process that some was still on his hand. When you returned to Donnie to wipe off his tank top, you glimpsed your baby smear outwards as he saw he still had some residue. He painted his tray table as the viscosity of the food eluded him. It was far thicker than milk, but not solid like the other foods he’d tried. It didn’t have the obvious color that hummus had, but as he clinked within his tray’s boundary, he seemed to catch that there was enough of a similarity.
His hand came towards his face, but both depth perception and motor skills were not in his favor.
He dotted his beak and lips with yogurt.
“Didn’t think this was going to be a bath one…” You had moved to cleaning yourself off. “Silly me.”
Donnie was silent as he studied his son.
Now that the yogurt was warmed against his skin, Othello wiped the substance over his face and that dropped jaw caught some of the tangy sludge.
He got a taste and his cheeks peeled back.
His limbs sprung free.
He squeaked confused noises and flopped his tongue as he tried to make sense of the taste.
“No?” You walked over and got a relatively safe looking bit from the edge of his table on your finger and popped it into your mouth.
Your son froze as if to see what you thought.
You pulled your finger out clean and opened your mouth to show him. “All gone!”
His jaw flopped open again and he looked a little like a baby bird.
Donnie thrust a spoon into your periphery.
You took it with a dawning hum. “You want it like this?”
Othello stood firm with an open mouth.
You spooned up some yogurt. “Ahh!”
His tongue poked against his lower lip.
“Ahh-yum!” You fed him some with less of a gesture of putting the spoon in his mouth and more of one to spoon the yogurt into his.
He sputtered on the barely there amount and this time you were covered in both yogurt and spit as he rejected it.
“Not… the spoon…” You spoke around a glop that weighed down your eyelash. “Not yogurt…”
Donnie wrote down exactly that.
-
“Do it.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“He’ll love it.”
“This is absurd.”
“Don-!” You strung out his name to beg.
“We’re missing a key ingredient.”
“We can-!”
“One foodstuff tested every three days! Otherwise, my data-!”
“I wasn’t going to say ‘we can get it.’ I was going to say ‘we can just pretend!’”
Donnie made a thinned out sound.
Othello looked between you from his highchair.
“Just once?” You leaned into your mate’s arm that held the jar. “You watched the video like four times.”
“None of which revealed the comedy you spoke of.”
“It’s funny because it doesn’t make sense.”
He shot you a sharp look that was more dismissive in his ignorance.
“Or maybe it hasn’t ever been funny, but it was a thing.”
“Inferring it is no more.”
“I bet if you started, most people would get it.”
“And we impart this to our son?”
“Just one time!” You jumped away and planted yourself behind Othello’s chair. “Look at this face! He will be so much more willing to try it if you do it!”
“He’s inquisitive.”
“But…?”
“It could skew the results.”
“You think he’ll like it more if you do it?”
“Unknown.”
“Or maybe we’re just making meal time fun?”
You watched that comment strike your mate with some truth.
You tried not to smirk as you ducked down a little to the side so Othello could see you. “See papà?”
You pointed.
Othello kind of looked.
“He’s going to do something real funny, okay? Watch him! Watch!”
Donnie prepared himself.
Othello finally gave him his attention.
You clung to the highchair back.
Donnie prepared a scoop of peanut butter.
His beak crinkled with distaste.
He inhaled a hearty breath.
“It’s-!” His voice pitched.
Othello bobbed some.
“It’s…!” Your husband tried again with a lower tone. “… peanut butter…” He grumbled through the ‘jelly’ as it wasn’t present and he couldn’t let that go. “…time…”
Othello blinked.
You shook down out of sight. “I love you!!”
“And… where he at…? Where he at…? Where he at? Where… he at? And there… he go…” Donnie’s monotone droned on and you felt him offer the spoon of peanut butter to your baby.
You nearly fell over trying to withhold your laughter. “T-the-!”
“I will not dance.”
“Come on…!”
“Hush. He’s about to try it.”
You crawled around the highchair. “He is?”
You caught Othello reaching for the spoon.
“What did I say?!” You crooned.
“I don’t believe such antics had any effect-!”
Your son caught the globule of brown and was immediately struck by how it felt. You and Donnie quieted as he flapped his hand and felt more peanut butter stick. Othello flicked his wrist and found he couldn’t get the spread off as easily as he could other substances. It brought his hands up curiously where he tried to share the matter between his palms.
Donnie stepped away. “I did not thin it enough. We shall try again another day.”
“But it’s already on him…”
“Skin reactions can differ.” He grabbed a paper towel.
Othello rubbed over his hands.
“Wait a second…” You urged.
Donnie was already disgruntled and voiced his concern in a tiny click.
You held a waiting hand.
Othello stared at his coated hands for a long moment, but he rubbed them together again.
He had grabbed about a teaspoon at most, but he spread the peanut butter across one arm then onto his beak. Within what seemed like moments, his entire upper body seemed to have some kind of peanut particulate on it. The texture clearly interested him far more than the taste and he continued to swipe over himself again and again with happy pats to his skin. The stick it caused when he pulled away further delighted him and you couldn’t help but smile as he was soon a buttered version of his regular self. “What’s that?”
Othello jarred.
“Peanut sauce! Pad thello? Peanut ‘Thello and fudge? Dan dan Th’oodles? I’m gonna dig in!” You wriggled spread fingers at him.
Your son cheered success in this measure, though you were sure Donnie wrote down otherwise.
-
You watched as Othello almost carefully picked and placed shreds of cheese in his mouth. It was the most care you had seen your baby eat with. He prized the tiny flecks of cheese and treated them as such. Instead of brute forcing his way through eating, he tried his best to get each piece into his mouth. The chewing was a bit of a problem, unfortunately. The innards of his mouth were too puffy by design and with each attempt, he more so sloshed. Spit and cheese sludge gummed up and slipped around his face, but he continued his best to try and eat each and every bit.
You watched with your elbows craned to a counter and your chin supported in your hands. “We never get to do airplane…”
Othello ate to his own tune.
“You don’t really do well with spoon to mouth. Did we forget to teach you at some point? You always try to grab the spoon instead… or the food…”
He made a rumbling noise of satisfaction as his lips smacked.
You mourned. “Open up for the airplane! Vroom! In it goes! In comes the plane!”
Your son sort of looked at you.
“No time for a flight when there’s cheese, huh?”
He burbled in response and kept eating.
“Did we forget?” You urged past your son and to your mate, who was writing on his clipboard.
“Child led feeding.” Donnie spoke absently.
“How’s it going?”
“No reactions.” He mimed riffling through pages though you know he didn’t need to with his ninpo. “Egg and peanut butter were top allergen concerns. No reaction. Stool is adequate. Skin clear. No vomiting. We continued. Other matter cleared thus far: stone fruit, spinach puree, various legumes, variety of yellow and orange vegetables, and chicken. Tofu is our next target in three days.”
“Stool adequate except for the crazy colors.”
“Normal.” His head tipped.
“I noticed we avoided red stuff. No one wants to see that in the diaper…”
He didn’t speak.
You watched him.
Othello found he had no more cheese and tried to push what was on his cheeks to get more of the substance.
“You okay?” You asked.
“The point was to diversify palate. Increase caloric intake.”
Your lips pushed to one side.
“Nearly 500 calories of breast milk supplemented with a combination of new and approved semi-solids.”
You watched the dart of his pupil.
“He needs to be near 750 to 900 calories total…” Donnie’s lids were a slow curtain drop. “Difficult to quantify.”
“Why?” You tried to meld your voice into the background.
It allowed your words to permeate the buzz of his brain. “He doesn’t eat in such terms.”
You kept the same range. “He seems like he’s doing a lot of it.”
“Bottle.” Donnie folded down light construct pages of his clipboard. “An exact amount. Valued. Exact depletion.”
“Food…?”
“He doesn’t-!” Donnie’s voice pitched.
Othello looked with a press and roll of his head to the back of his highchair.
“What’s consumed versus toyed with…?”
Othello reached for him and there was some cheese on his fingers.
Donnie looked before plucking up the wet bit with a slight shudder.
“Buu-baah.” Your son explained.
Your husband’s lips crinkled, but he waited for Othello to turn away before he furiously wiped his hand off.
He then paused, staring into the napkin he had grabbed with a hard expression.
“He’s well fed. He’s not hungry.” You pushed reassurances through your bond.
Donnie shook his head.
“He’s not.” You tried. “He doesn’t even really cry for food anymore. I might be pattern matching nothing, but I swear he’s been rolling toward the kitchen when it’s food time.”
“It’s not…” Donnie hesitated in balling the napkin.
You started to move, but you felt a force in your ring finger tell you to stop.
“The…” He struggled on both words and breath.
You tried to soothe him from where you were.
“The…” He inhaled and blew out before he managed, “… calories are representative.”
“Of what?”
“Loss.”
Your vision twitched as a squint flashed across your features.
“There is inevitable loss. Entropy.”
The concept dangled over you from school years.
“Order to disorder. His growth. Calorie loss. Thermodynamics. My mind.”
Each phrase washed over you.
Othello toyed with his tray table.
It had to be related.
Food was the important factor.
“I was meant to descend into chaos.” Donnie said simply and turned away.
You saw him clearly.
His posture wasn’t weighed down.
He didn’t look particularly defensive.
To him, it was a fact.
“I changed course. The repercussions were felt elsewhere. The entropy finds me in other ways.”
“In… not knowing exactly how much Othello eats…?”
Donnie nodded.
“It makes the data not so clear.”
“It will continue as such.”
“Because he’s going to grow.”
“And I’ll lose more control.”
You didn’t add any more.
“Continue to do so.”
Othello brushed over his clean plate, so to speak, and looked at you.
“He’s shown preference.”
You grabbed a nearby rag.
“What else will be rejected?”
You wiped your son’s face.
“Hide food?”
Othello feigned fighting you off.
“Waste.”
He seemed to always like the clean end result.
“I eat the excess. I’ve maintained our home.”
You guessed you knew that, but it had never consciously registered.
“What is thrown out, spoiled by fluid or bacteria, has grown…!”
It wasn’t like Donnie ate peels that weren’t appetizing or tried to down bones.
“I see it. In the trash.”
You just couldn’t recall having thrown away anything half eaten, picked over, or expired.
“When I make his doses, I eat the excess. What he consumes does not constitute a minimum serving to prepare, but he also does not eat even that!”
New food was always brought in, but what you hadn’t eaten, only just now, did you realize had always vanished.
“I understand. I do. This is not persuasion. Though I feel it. I watch how he consumes and I feel…” He held a hand up to his plastron.
It shook.
He fisted it.
It wobbled.
He shoved up, nearly punched himself in the face, but spread his fingers at the last second to shove into his eye sockets. “When I ate, I ate all. Whatever need be. What was edible. What was fuel. It was all. It all was. I had to and when you…!”
You felt a needle quick jab at your person.
“When you do not eat, you can be reasoned with. Your motivation makes sense.”
You squeezed a fist and threaded your thumb over your wedding ring.
“A child’s does not. They will be picky. It is in all the books. He’s shown signs! He cares more for the texture of nut butters than quality of flavor! Do I adjust my caloric intake to his? To account? But what of his actions? He treats them as paints or body creams! I cannot consume-!”
“Okay.” You finally broke in.
He again asked you to stay in place in an intangible way.
“Don…?” You both warned and wondered.
He nodded and took a moment.
He went through an exercise Mikey had once inadvertently coached him through.
He emerged smoothing over the cloth over the top of his head.
His mask was set just so, perfect, from his toes to that point and he was a little more in control.
“Entropy,” was his first word as he returned.
“One. Don’t force yourself to eat what he doesn’t if he’s gotten his hands into it.”
He breathed more than nodded, but the action was a dual one.
“Two. Entropy is not punishment. Chaos is not your destiny. You-!”
He caught your meaning like a lifeline. “I don’t believe in such.”
You stuttered on finishing the sentence and smiled. “Right.”
He exhaled out and relaxed a bit more. “What other name would you give it?”
“What part exactly?”
“My past actions. How they return?”
“Trauma?”
He chuffed slightly and looked to his son.
Othello was fighting the restraint of his highchair.
Donnie approached him.
“It is though…”
You earned a quick frown.
Othello looked up expectantly.
“Food insecurity…?”
“Not now. Not encompassing enough.” Donnie dotted his son’s forehead.
Your baby tried to grab him.
“Insecurity?” You teased.
“No.” Donnie dodged and picked Othello up before he realized what was happening. “Close though, eh, byte?”
You looked closely at the upgrade.
“Anxiety?” Donnie bounced him in a better hold in his arm.
Othello settled in the space and wound his fingers through one of the straps of his dad’s top.
“Anxiety…” You felt the word out.
“Generalized. Without origin and meaning.” He looked at you.
“It didn’t come from nowhere.”
“Semantics upon occurrence. You can trace, to what end? You can fear heights having never experienced them or been subjected thousands of times. Fear is boundless.”
You didn’t like that.
“What will you fear?” Donnie addressed Othello. “Not loneliness. Maybe the dark?”
“Not food insecurity.”
“Surely not. Monsters? Your closet?”
“The toilet.”
Donnie gave you a sardonic raise of his brow.
“It can happen.”
“I will speak thermodynamics again.”
“Dirty talk when we don’t have a sitter?”
“As if such laws arouse you.”
“Have you really tried?”
He paused to think.
Othello laid his head heavy against Donnie’s shoulder and contemplated cotton.
“I don’t know.” You were honest on that front and all else.
“When will these anxieties cease?” Your mate had an air of levity to him.
“They say at eighteen, but that’s a load.”
“Parenthood.”
“Is this what you wanted?” You finally stepped forward.
You were allowed.
You made it over to them.
Donnie turned so Othello could see you.
“You comfy in there…?” You outstretched a finger.
Othello lazily reached for it.
You let him get a hold of you.
“It is.”
The corners of your mouth turned up.
“And so much more.”
💜 NEXT 💜
And Soft Spot is back with much thanks to my betas @tmntxthings and @unrestrainedhotsoup
OKAY, I think Tumblr ate your ask @quill-pen because I have searched by drafts & inbox over and over, but I had it saved in a different doc:
"So, we know Connie deals with postpartum depression at least after Starla. I think Bess goes through it too, but it doesn't happen until after she has Georgia. Something about having her first little girl (ya know, she can actually keep) just triggers something in her. It's a mix of remembering the horror and heartbreak of Helena's birth and the terror that she'll turn out to be just like her mother towards her own daughter."
So I know we discussed this a while ago, and I’ve been baking the idea on the oven for a long time.
Considering what Bess has been through with her own mother, then with losing Helena? No wonder this triggered something in her. Those are both traumatic situations by themselves, let alone when paired together. There’s also the compounding factor that, because Bess though she could never have children, she never had a reason to really unpack this with the expectation that she would eventually come face-to-face with these feelings again (literally).
And now, without further ado …
It was an act of either the best timing (or perhaps the worst) that Constance hadn’t been properly buzzed into the building that day.
By now, the bottle-blonde receptionist posed at the stately reception desk knew the redhead by glance alone. Even through the frosted glass panels, thick enough to cloister the luxurious interior from the financial district’s heavy traffic flow, she was still recognizable. From the top of her coppery her head to the pointed toes of her Manolo Blahnik heels.
It helped that she visited multiple times a week, after all. If she wasn’t strolling in to see Elizabeth Scrooge, her fellow Yankee of a best friend that lived upstairs with her infamous English paramour, she was strolling arm-in-arm with the paramour’s twin brother. The couples had been together for years, yet the novelty of spotting the couples in the wild still caused heads to turn (including hers).
Sometimes she pushed baby carriage when visiting. Other times, she strolled in with whom she had come to learn was her mother who, get this, was Bess and Ebenezar’s divorced neighbor.
It was like a soap opera up there, she thought.
That web of connections alone would have already created novel enough gossip for the bored receptionist. Added onto her small novel of social connections was the small, trifling fact that she herself was wife of one of London’s most esteemed billionaires.
While not technically a resident, if anyone had clearance to step over the silken red tape of formality that the property manager insisted upon for other visitors, it was her.
“Come on in, Mrs. DoGoode-Scrooge,” the receptionist spoke into the intercom, her ballet-pink acrylic nail punctuating the blessing with a resonant click.
Constance never had the opportunity to hit the ‘Call’ button before she was waved in. A doorman, standing opposite a neat pyramid of luxury parcels and embossed envelopes of paperwork, stepped up to open the door for her.
Greeting the guard with a smile, she then make her way to the reception desk.
“Good morning, Mona. Are you sure I’m okay to go up? You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
She waved away the concern. “You’ve accumulated more than enough good faith, I’d say. Plus, I trust your company is expecting you, as per usual.”
“My! I’m more predictable than I thought,” she answered with a light laugh.
“Nothing wrong with routine,” the woman said, the pleasantry genuine. Perhaps it was her age or the quiet prestige she wore with the subtlety of an heirloom pearl necklace, but something about the redhead didn’t just beckon respect: it demanded it. “Actually seeing you feels like a welcome return to routine, if I may be honest.”
“Oh?”
“I haven’t seen Mrs. Scrooge in a while. I know she had a little girl on the way, and I meant to congratulate her! But I haven’t seen her since … well, I don’t know.”
By now, months had passed since Georgia has been born.
“She hasn’t even come down to get the mail,” Mona added, sighing as she held a thick stack of envelopes aloft. “Mr. Scrooge has, though he’s been sparse recently as well. It’s very strange.”
“It is,” Constance agreed. She didn’t say any else. While Mona’s concern was appreciated and her observation skills were commendable, it was not her place to confirm or deny any suspicions.
Especially if those same suspicions were what had inspired her visit to their building that very day.
With a final wave, Constance made her way to the lobby’s posh elevator and pressed the correct button. Moments later, the doors opened to a clean, warmly-lit hall accentuated with tall windows and cream-colored crown molding. Tasteful but understated, she thought pleasantly. All looked so normal. Her heels clicked softly upon the polished floors as she navigated around a corner and made her war toward the familiar door.
As she approached, she heard noises. Voices, she ultimately determined. At first, she thought that one of the neighbors most have had the television running too loud.
Constance was still a couple doors down from her destination when the clarity of the voices struck her. Their familiarity was such a sudden realization she nearly staggered back, its impact like the weight of a hammer slamming up into her jaw.
She would have known those voices anywhere, and if she could hear them from such a distance through walls and doors, that meant they had to be shouting. Not bickering; full gulps-of-air shouting.
“I don’t even know the color of her eyes, Bess!” a man’s voice cried from the other side of the door. “She’s my own daughter!”
Since she hadn’t been buzzed into the building, her friends had no idea that anyone they knew might be lingering in the hall. While she had been there to hopefully ask them directly about why they had been so sparse lately, she couldn’t eavesdrop on their private business.
Then, all of a sudden, she heard footsteps stomping a quick path toward the flat’s front door.
“Wait, where are you going?” the woman called, her voice fraying.
“Out. With my son.”
“…Fine! Fine. That’s fine. Go, then!”
The next moment, a familiar man existed the apartment swiftly, his long silver hair loose and flowing over the shoulders of his broad Huntsman coat. By comparison, small diaper-bag he carried was a shade of yellow cotton with tiny blue stripes. Cordell’s bag, she knew. She recognized it from the many playdates he and Starla had been on since he was born.
As he stepped into the hall, he reached back and yanked the door shut behind him without looking back. His expression was pinched with an emotion that, while unreadable at first, became painfully clear as he turned to head down the hall. The man looked agonized.
When he looked up from his trance and saw a spectator in the hall, he froze.
Wolf faced her, looking more like a deer caught in headlights that the ferocious protector he was named for. His blue eyes shimmered with wetness, his mouth slightly ajar in surprise.
“C-Constance?”
Cordell, oblivious to the argument, cooed happily in his dad’s arms.
Both were silent for a long moment in an awkward stand-off. At first, his face was a mask of guilt. Then, steadily, confusion caused his brow to slant.
“H-How in the world did you …?”
“I’m sorry. Mona let me up, and I was about to knock when I heard …”
She paused, realizing than explaining her presence was not the question that needed the most urgent answering.
“I came to check on you two,” she offered softly. “It’s been a while since we’ve all seen you two out and about, you know.”
By ‘we’, she meant their entire Pack of friends, family, and extended family. It would have been one thing if the couple was keeping to themselves in general. Such was the case for many couples preoccupied with the arrival of a new baby. But, as the weeks passed, it seemed more like they were both retreating inward and isolating, even from each other.
There was also the factor that the couple hadn’t shown these isolationist tendencies when Cordell, their first son, had been born. There had still been the inevitable bumps (namely a large argument upon Bess’s conception – something the couple hadn’t thought possible), but the sheer joy of the situation had ultimately prevailed.
Now? There had been no disagreements or public acknowledgement of any unease, which was odd. While a couple was entitled to their own private business, there was usually at least an acknowledgement with one’s close peers that there had been a scuffle or tiff that needed to be addressed. It was by no means a hard and fast rule of the friend group, per say; they were just a group of very close people that trusted each other implicitly.
At this, Connie held aloft a handful of mail for emphasis. A week’s worth of magazines, letters, and congratulatory letters to the couple regarding their new daughter.
When faced with concern and evidence in tandem, he couldn’t argue.
After all, Bess hadn’t been the only one side-skirting inquiring calls or text messages.
Magda and TeTe had both tried to reach out to him several times, and his twin brother was all but cornering him at the office about why he suddenly seemed to have become part of the walking dead.
All with pomp and circumstance was to no avail. Calls were shirked, texts went unread, and Wolf even told his brother on one heated occasion to ‘go fist himself’ before ushing past him to storm out of the office.
After that, he had finally left it alone.
“Something isn’t right, Connie," Adonis had told her later that night, teeth nervously worrying the nail of his thumb while he spoke. "The way he looked at me just now. I know that look. I haven’t seen it in a long time. He hasn’t told me that since … well, since his last relationship. When he was scared she was falling out of love with him.”
Now, those same man’s eyes fell to the floor in shame, a sigh fleeing his lungs in one prolonged exhale.
“So you’ve all noticed, then.”
“We’ve noticed you two haven’t quite been yourselves,” she supplied gently, “Beyond that, we don’t really know what to make of things. We’re not a group that tends to speculate.”
He sighed, deflated. Defeated. “I know.”
Slowly, Wolf glanced back to the door. In real time, he saw exhaustion change into tight-lipped hurt. He lingered there, as if waiting for Bess to come after him. However, the door remained shut, without a peep of life from the other side.
The trance was only broken by Cordell looking up at his papa with wide, inquisitive eyes.
Chubby fingers flexed toward the man’s face, trying to grab at him. He made soft vocalization with each failed grasp, agitation building with each swipe for attention.
Upon noticing his son’s gestures, he immediately began to bounce him in his arms. “Sorry, little man. Have we been still for too long?”
Seeing the blend of his and his wife’s features staring back at him with such innocence brought a fresh sheen to his eyes, and he subsequently buried his face in the thickly corded material of his son’s jumper. She heard him whimper something against the squirmy lad’s tummy, but couldn’t make out the word.
They needed to pivot.
“…Cordell, are you and Papa going to have some fun at the park today?” Her hand came to a stop at the boy’s cheek, which she cradled tenderly. It was as soft as marshmallow under her manicured nails. “You like the park, don’t you?”
The mention of the word not only once but twice made his socked feet pedal in excitement. “Paa!”
“Haha, does that sound fun, Cordell?” Wolf asked, bouncing the bundle of joy in his arms. “Is that what you’d like, my boy? Would you like to go to the park today?”
“Yah, yah! Swee, swee!”
“We’ll most definitely play on the swings. For as long as you’d like.”
As he cheered in delight, Ebenezar’s voice dropped low. “And … maybe you could check on her? To make sure she’s okay?”
His voice was so soft, so timid.
Constance nodded softly. While she wasn’t in position to make hard promises, especially when it came to another couple’s private business, she did know we wanted to talk o Bess even more than before.
Now, Bess was on the one who needed her support, and she would try her hardest to give her what she needed.
As Wolf carried Cordell into the building’s stately elevator and vanished behind polished sliding doors, Constance made her move.
With a preparatory inhale, she tapped her knuckles on the neatly lacquered front door. There was a doorbell she could have rung instead, complete with a golden frame and adorable little RING plaque, but knocking was an old habit from their days living as roommates in their cottage in Pip’s Park. Back in those early days, all four girls (and their beaus) had always knocked on the door to announce themselves, and the habit had stuck.
It also provided the accidental but nice side benefit of immediately indicating if someone at the door was a friend or visitor. If someone rang the bell, it was likely a courier or neighbor. If there was a knock, it meant that family, friends, or the emotional cavalry, had arrived.
One tap was all it took before she heard rustling on the other side of the door.
Not a second later, Bess surged out into the hall, her teary eyes alight with hope. “Wolf?”
Whatever malice had permeated the woman’s being when she had yelled ‘Fine!’ earlier as her husband walked out of his flat had since evaporated. Now, all that remained of her outburst were silvery tear tracks and a telltale redness to the whites of her eyes. She’d been crying. Heavily.
As Bess halted in the doorway and realized the person on the other side of the door wasn’t her husband, she seemed to deflate a bit. Shoulders dropping, she recoiled back into the doorway and began to wipe her eyes as reflex.
“O-Oh, Connie. I-I’m sorry.” Using her sleeve, he dabbed away a pearl-sized tear from her bottom lashes. “D-Did we have something planned for today? Ugh, I’ve been a disorganized mess lately, haven’t I? I’m sorry. Let me—”
“No, it’s alright.” Constance reached into her bag and procured a pack of paper handkerchiefs for her. “We didn’t have anything today, Bess. I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
After accepting the pack and gratefully pulling one free to try her eyes with, she fixed her blue eyes upon her friend. The redness that wreathed each iris made the midnight hue even more striking than usual.
“Really?” she asked, then pivoted, “T-Then … um, good! I’m glad I didn’t ghost you.”
After one last scrub across her eyes, she popped her head back up and even tried to strike a casual pose with her hand on her hip. “So, w-what’s up? Everything okay?”
Her tone was brimming with forced indifference that came across as near mania.
Constance’s brows arced gently at the question. “Well, I think that might be a better question for you, my dear. Is everything okay?”
“Y-Yeah!” Bess rushed to say before leaning against her doorframe. “Of course! I’m just here, you know? Hanging out!”
“Well, that is true,” Connie conceded, then asked gently, “And the tears?”
“Oh, nothing! Something stupid. You know how those pesky, after-birth hormones are. They make you a wreck, yeah?”
“I do know.”
The second Constance’s reply came, Bess screwed her eyes shut and looked ready to punish herself. “Ah, cats, Con. T-That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, ” she replied, even laughing a bit. “I didn’t think it was.”
“Oh, good.”
“But you aren’t wrong, after all. At least you aren’t sopping wet from the rain with raccoon eyes from your mascara getting wet.”
Bess laughed at that; a real laugh, teeth and all. “Don’t worry. You still looked like you had just stepped off the set of a photoshoot.”
Constance snorted, tossing his hair over her shoulder cheekily. “Says the gorgeous and infamous Bess Moonrock of all people.”
She kept her voice light and tone conversational. Fishermen didn’t use intimidating lures, after all. One had to feel safe before they felt safe enough to bite.
Connie craned her neck to peek over Bess’s shoulder and past the crack in the door. “Is Georgia in there with you?”
“Of course! Where else would she be?”
Fair enough. “Well, I didn’t know if…”
“Nope! It’s just m-me and Georgia, hanging out, you know! Having a lazy afternoon. Spending s-some girl’s time toget…her…”
Halfway through her answer, a fresh wave of tears rolled down her cheeks. As a sob rushed up her throat, both her palms rushed to smother it. She stood there, shaking and breathless on the threshold as a horrible, vague emotion choked her to her core.
Constance ended up being pulled into an embrace. Bess’ whole body rattled from the force of lung-rending sobs, each one clawing itself from her raw throat like a small demon. Constance took care to hold her close and guard her from any potential passerby in the hall.
After a few shushes, the two women finally ducked inside for some privacy.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Constance whispered, weaving her fingers through the woman’s thick curls to stroke the base of her neck. The curve of her spine is severe at the base, almost like her head is weighed down. She tries to massage the pain away, but the muscles that should have budged under were as immovable as if they were carved from wood.
“I-It’s not okay,” Bess croaked. The next few words came out as a squeak of slurred vowels, too manic to parse words.
“…Come again?”
“I’m ruining your d-dress.”
“Oh. You are not,” Constance assured softly. She took Bess’ face between her hands, thumbs wiping away the silver trails that raced toward her chin. “Don’t worry about that.”
“B-But it’s silk, right? A-and my make-up, I didn’t think …”
“I live with a neat freak, honey,” she reminded her with a smirk. “And I’m the mama of my own, voraciously creative little girl going through her finger-painting phase. Trust me, I could clean a Dario Argento crime scene with the stuff in our laundry room, and have plenty to spare. A few tears and a little lip gloss is nothing.”
Bess tried to smile, and Constance’s heart splintered at the sight. Even now, when she was in the pit of despair and sobbing her eyes out, she still placed the comfort of others above her own. She was trying to play along that she felt normal, even though she clearly did not.
“That being said, you can’t be comfortable like this,” Constance encouraged, smoothing some curls back to kiss her forehead. “Go wash your face.”
“But—”
“I insist. Freshen up, change clothes, get a drink of water." It was impossible to cry while drinking, so that would at least help the tears. "When you’re ready, come back here, and we can talk. Okay?”
Bess lingered, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “But…”
From further in the flat came the soft, babbling nonsense.
Georgia.
“I’ll be right here,” Constance said. Proving her point, she removed her heels and sat them by the door. Beside them, she rested her Telfar bag, her heart-shaped keyring jingling as she did so.
“But …”
“No buts. You can take five minutes for yourself, Mama."
This time, Bess’ smile was truer.
With newly bolstered assurance beneath her wings, she finally turned and vanished down the hall to her and Wolf’s bedroom.
After a quick peek to make sure she had truly retreated to the solace of somewhere private, Constance sighed in relief. Then, she took a moment to survey the condition of the flat.
To her relief, everything appeared mostly in order. The countertops weren’t cluttered, the closets and cabinets were all shut (complete with child-proof locks), and what little she could see of their balcony garden beyond the doors appeared to be flourishing. Constance went ahead and grabbed the small pile of mail from her purse and put it face-down on the island.
In the middle of the spacious living room, wash in rosy light from the vintage lamps, was Georgia’s lavender playpen. The pen had made many appearances in shared photos, video calls, and even in-person for some days in the office when Wolf brought the kids for socializing.
Another burble game from beyond its pastel walls, and a smile bloomed as naturally as a violet in spring. She peered over the side to see the little bundle herself smiling up at her. With a gummy grin, she chewed on her chubby fingers and wagged her arms back and forth like twin puppy dog tails.
“There she is.” Her voice remained low despite the fact the infant was fully awake. It was a habit as this point. “Hello, angel. It’s been a while.”
Georgia glanced up curiously, laying supine in a sea of soft blankets and pillows that stretched to the pen’s walls in all directions.
The appearance of a new visitor leaning over the towering walls of her palace rendered her silent in awe, but only for a moment. A second later, the dark-haired girl babbled curiously.
When Constance ducked behind the wall to hide then jumped up a second later with a ‘Boo!’, she squealed in delight.
The woman’s heart melted at the display, and she suddenly missed her own daughter terribly even though she was only few blocks away at home. She briefly checked her watch for the time, making a mental note of when she would need to return for dinner. It was an occasion that she was careful to not miss.
As she reached down to caress the girl’s cheek, and she suddenly felt eyes on her. A new shadow swept over Georgia’s form, covering her like a blanket.
Glancing up, Constance was surprised to see Bess kneeling right beside her, no more than three inches away. Their knees could have touched with a mere breath’s movement.
She hadn’t even heard her approach.
“What’s wrong?” Bess asked, eyes wide as they darted from Connie’s arm to her baby’s face.
“N-Nothing?” Constance answered, retracting her arm with forklift-slowness.
“Why were you checking on her?” Bess asked, her tone was more concerned than accusing. “W-Was she crying? I didn’t hear her, even over the monitor.”
“No, no crying. We were just saying hi.”
Bess blinked, as if Constance had answered with her a conspiracy rather than a simple truth. After a moment, she sighed and sat back on her heels. Despite the fact she hadn’t been gone long, she had in fact washed her face and changed clothes. The young woman had changed out of the corduroy skirt and sweater combo she’d been wearing before and changed into dolphin shorts and a well-worn Bauhaus band tee. One of Wolf’s, Connie knew, from when he’d enjoyed his last years of rowdiness before sinking into the quicksand of the banking business.
Bess wore it often, saying it was the comfiest piece of clothing she owned.
… And that it always made her feel safe.
“Why don’t we talk on the sofa?” Constance asked. Her tone was polite, but she also wasn’t giving her friend a choice.
Yet, Bess was not listening. Instead, she was reaching into the crate to scoop up Georgia. The little girl, ignorant of anything beyond her mother’s loving embrace, burbled happily. Crutching up her legs, she yawned and turned towards her mama’s breast, magnetized to the familiar beat of her heart. Bess reciprocated, hugging the bundle tight and close.
“…Hm?” Bess finally asked. “Did you say something?”
Connie tsked. Not mean, but nonplussed. The sound shook Bess out of her complacency, and her eyes slide to meet her friend’s.
“I said I think we should talk on the sofa,” she repeated tenderly. “I’m sure Georgia wouldn’t mind coming with. Isn’t that right, sweetie? Do you want to stay with Mama?"
The baby made a cooing sound, then began to chew on her fingers. It was as much of a ‘yes’ and any other reply that would have been offered.
"See? The lady agrees."
Plus, if Georgia stayed with them, Constance had a feeling the conversation would be more focused.
The trip to the sofa, a luxurious but cozy model from Formitalia in a shade of wine-deep burgundy, was short.
As they settled, Bess kept her girl tightly swaddled to her chest. Even as the little girl wiggled about like an energetic caterpillar, she kept her cocooned.
Constance noticed this, and Bess noticed her notice.
“…You see it too, then?” she asked.
“See what, darling?”
“Oh, come on, Con,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “I can see it written on your face. You think I’m suffocating her, right? Keeping her all to myself?”
Those were some specifically-worded allegations, she noted. “I don’t believe I said anything like that.”
Bess dropped her gaze, then kept it there. Then, a defeated stream of words left her: “No. You didn’t.”
“But perhaps someone else did?” Constance asked.
Bess was silent, but her postured stooped. By now Georgia was almost completely concealed by her mom’s curly hair. The little girl reached for the coils and played with them joyfully, easily able to make them dance despite her straw-strong grip.
“Was it Ebenezar?” she asked softly.
When Bess looked up, her eyes were as big and glassy as marbles. For the second time that visit, Constance heart splintered with a look alone.
“Oh, Bess.” Constance offered the woman a hand. Bess was quick to seize it with urgency, as if she was in danger of falling off a tightrope.
Hiding a wince of pain, she returned the fierce grip with a gentle squeeze of her own. “Okay. Start from the beginning, okay?”
At this, Bess barked out a laugh. She wiped a stray tear as it threatened to drip onto her lap. “Which one?”
“Whichever one you want.”
A pause. Bess angled her body away, staring ahead. George still wiggled in her lap, and when Bess looked down at her, only then was her melancholy broken with a touch of familiar emotion.
“I-I know I’m acting differently with her than with Cordell,” Bess said softly. “I can see it, especially after Georgia and I are alone. In those moments, everything feels normal ... I’m happy. Even-keeled, even.”
“That’s good.”
“But then someone else comes in, and it’s … like a switch flips me. It’s almost instantaneous, and I don’t see it coming until I’m in the dark. I feel ... paranoid. Panicked. Like I'm in survival mode, but I'm just at home with my husband or out with my friends! I-It makes no sense, right?"
“Is that what happened at the playpen?”
“Yes! Con, I know you’d never hurt my daughter. I know that. I promise. But it’s like a compulsion. I feel like I react before I can even think to stop myself!”
“I can only imagine how terrifying that would be,” Connie said sincerely. Loss of autonomy, physically or mentally, is harrowing. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
“I don’t mean to be possessive or a bitch or anything like that, I promise. I just—”
“Who called you a bitch?”
As Constance stopped her, there was a terrifying look in her eyes.
“Nobody,” Bess quickly amended. “Except me. I have. To myself.”
“…Well, that’s not ‘good’, per say,” Connie said, murderous intent leaving her in the firm of an long sigh. “Oh, if Ebenezar would have said that to you, I swear I would have—”
“He would never,” Bess said, her tone gravely serious. “I’m serious. He would never do that. Even though I’d deserve to be called that.”
“Bess.”
“Admit it, Con, it’s true!” she fired back. “Don’t lie. You saw Wolf storm out, right? You would have hand to have run into him while he was leaving, right?”
“I did,” she agreed. “I was on my way up to check on you, and heard yelling. We talked a bit, and I said hi to Cordell. Then they left to go to the park.”
“…Did he say anything else?”
“He asked if I could talk you,” Connie said, then chanced a tiny grin. “As if that was a question. It would be more of an occasion if we didn’t speak to each other.”
Yet that was exactly what had happened after Georgia.
She continued, “It was more about what he didn’t say.”
“W-What do you mean?”
“He looked back at the door for a long time, Bess. I think he wanted to turn around and go back to you, but he knew the right thing was for both of you to have some space.”
A single, silver tear dropped down her cheek. “Oh.”
Constance didn’t tell her friend that Wolf had also been misty-eyed; harboring more sadness in his gaze than he’d ever observed. That fact would only break her heart further. Besides, she needed to hear such a personal revelation from his mouth, not hers.
After a moment, Connie gave her hand another squeeze. “Bess, honey, something you said earlier is bothering me.”
“Just one thing?”
“One thing especially,” she corrected. “Your comment about calling yourself a ‘bitch.’ That’s quite a severe statement to come out of nowhere.”
Bess nodded meekly. “I suppose.”
“Such inklings are usually colored by comments we hear other people say. The words hurt, of course, and they leave a mark, especially when they come from the lips of someone close to us. Perhaps family.”
Bess’ eyes fell shut. Then, with a shudder, she pulled her hands to her face in sorrow. “My mother.”
Of course, Connie thought bitterly. Bea was all but banished from her soul-sister’s life, and yet mere thoughts of her left behind clouds as toxic as secondhand smoke in their wake. As stubborn as a roach, but with a nastier mouth.
“After Helena was born, the things she and other women said to me … oh, Con, I know I shouldn’t care,” she whispered. “I know it’s childish, but she’s my mom! Of course I cared! I still do.”
“I know, sweetie. You didn’t deserve anything about how you were treated back then.”
Bess curled up on the couch, suddenly feeling small and scared again. Just like she’d felt as a teenager. Only this time, the baby she cradled in her arms wasn’t in her womb. She was alive and hers.
Hers in a way Helena was never allowed to me.
“I hate that I’m like this,” she said, heaving the words forth as if she was purging them from her body. “I tried so, so hard to be better than her. To rise above what she put me through and how she made me feel. Now look at me! I’m so terrified of losing Georgia that I’m pushing away my own son. My own precious baby boy. A-And I pushed away Wolf! My husband! I could wring my neck with how stupid I feel!”
“You’re not stupid,” Connie said soothingly.
“No? Then what the fuck is wrong with me?”
Connie plucked a tissue from a nearby box and gently lofted it to Bess’ eyes. Georgia, still mesmerized by her mama’s curls, kept swatting at them and giggling in joy.
“You’re not stupid, and you have not pushed Wolf away,” she told her, dabbing gently at Bess’ scrubbed cheek. “He loves you. He may be confused and sad, much like you are right now … but if you think that’s enough to make a man like Wolf quit on the woman he loves, you’ve got a wake-up call coming.”
“I-It can’t be worth it. He can't be truly happy."
"Why would you say that?"
"It's nothing he said," she said. "It's all this stupid baggage about my past. He’s got to realize eventually that it’s not worth it. What if today was that day?”
“… You really think your husband of all people wouldn’t empathize and sympathize with having emotional baggage about his past?”
Bess chortled reluctantly. “Alright, point taken.”
“Have you two discussed anything about this? That feeling of a switch flipping in you?”
“N-No,” she admitted, shame touching the word. “I don’t think I knew how to describe it. Or that it was a real feeling at all. I thought maybe it was just hormones or something that would fade away. I should have known better.”
“You were thinking very logically and drawing from your past experience,” Connie said. “Nobody likes sending up a flare before they’re certain they need it, after all."
Another nod, and Constance noted this time that the other woman’s tears had dried.
“I just didn’t want to lose her,” Bess admitted. “I love Cordell too, of course! I-I would give anything for both of them. I-I’d give my heart. I’d rip it out myself.”
“I know you would.”
“But having another daughter? I feel crazy. Like everything and everyone must be conspiring to take her away.”
“Like Helena.”
“Right! So I thought I was doing what I had to do. I thought … I was being a good Mama.”
As a fresh sob rose in her throat, Connie scooted closer and wrapped her arms around Bess tightly. She gave her a tight squeeze, encouraging her to lay her head fully on her shoulder for support. To just lean in, relax, and let someone else support her.
As she felt her muscles relax and her weight shift onto her, Connie used her hand to brush some askew curls from her friend’s face.
The act earned another peal of laughter from Georgia. Both women looked down at the bundle, still cozy in Bess’ arms, and they smiled in tandem.
“I don’t know,” Connie teased, “You seem like a pretty good Mama to me. One who, even when feeling her lowest, makes sure her baby girl is clean, dry, and in her own special playpen for safety. One who raced to check on her despite how close we are. One who also tried to convince me that everything was fine and assumed when I showed up that somehow you had done something wrong and missed a playdate.”
“W-Well, I haven’t really been myself lately,” she confessed, “As you said.”
“We all go through our seasons,” she said. “All roses wilt and have thorns, but nobody remembers them for that. They are known for how glorious they are in full bloom. The faults are trivial compared to the joy they bring during their life.”
Bess looked to her in confusion. “What does that have to do with me?”
“It means that we all make mistakes, but the people who love us understand that these moments don't define us,” Constance said. “Flowers are adored despite the fact that they wilt. People adore each other despite knowing nobody is perfect. Not us, our friends, our spouses, our children … our family."
"Ha. If you want to try to tell my mother she's not perfect, I'd love ringside seats to see that conversation."
"Tempting, but I'm biased toward her kind, generous, loving daughter much more than her," she said. "Plus, I hear her daughter also has three beautiful children, including two daughters of her own. So it seems Bea is the odd one out, isn't she?"
After drawing a breath deep enough that it straightened the notches in her spine, Bess sat up and wiped her eyes one last time. After a beat of silence, she pivoted to Connie and extended Georgia to her.
“C-Can you hold Georgia, please?” Bess asked. “Just for a few minutes? I want to grab her a change of clothes and freshen up a bit myself.”
Constance nodded, accepting the giggly girl in a safe and supportive grip. “Of course. What’s the occasion?”
“I think it’s time we got some fresh air,” Bess said. Then, softly, she turned to her friend and asked, “Do you mind tagging along? You don’t have to stay the full time, but … maybe just for the start?”
As if she would miss her best friend’s grand entrance on any occasion.
“Mind? Darling, I wouldn’t miss it.”
With each swing, Cordell’s feet flew from beneath him with a triumphant laugh.
Waving his pudgy arms in delight, he cried, “Hiweer, hiweer!”
Wolf laughed, equal parts skeptical and amazed at his son’s fortitude. Playing on swing sets had always made him motion sick, even as a child, so he couldn’t help but observe Cordell’s enthusiasm with a great deal of pride. He must have inherited his mother’s sterling constitution.
“Well, look at you,” he applauded. “Good show, my boy! Fancy yourself a stuntman already, do we?”
He wasn’t sure his heart could take that, but swings? He could manage that.
“Higher, you say? Very well, but hang on tight, okay?”
“Yaaay!”
A few gentle nudges into the new rhythm, Cordell stopped cheering suddenly.
He stared ahead, his demeanor almost uncannily still. Wolf was worried for a moment that a delayed wave of motion sickness was hitting his son. Before he could race to him, the boy began to bounce excitedly in his safety seat and squeal. Two words described his tone: pure exuberance.
“Papa, ith Mama! Mama!”
The man thought for a moment that his son must have seen a lookalike on the street and misidentified her from afar. Yet, as he followed his boy’s gaze, his doubt was rendered null and void.
There, coming down the street, was none other than his wife.
The moment her name fell from his lips as a careful whisper, he also noticed that she was pushing a stroller. A very familiar stroller in a custom amethyst shade and wheels that made a telltale clicking noise from afar. He still remembered the day they’d placed the order for it together, holdings hands tightly the entire time.
Ebenezar watched semi-frozen as Bess tentatively slinked past the playground’s iron gate and through the entrance. Spying him instantly, she slowly advanced down the path, only stopping when they were a mere step's breadth apart.
“H-Hi,” she said, her voice soft and still slightly scratchy from prior tears. He noted a telltale redness lingering in her eyes, and his heart ached knowing that she’d been crying. “I hope we didn't, um, interrupt. Is it too late for two more to join?”
Behind her, he heard the gate creak again. Constance entered, carrying a small cooler bag over her shoulder. She stole toward the couple and gently placed it on the back hook of the stroller before backing away again to given the couple much needed space.
She gave Wolf, who was still stunned, a nod. Then, as quickly as she appeared, she slinked back and watched them as silently as a rabbit in tall grass.
“Never,” Ebenezar practically sighed, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding. Then, his gaze flicked to the stroller. “T-Two, you say?”
Bess nodded and unzipped the mesh sunshield to reveal their sweet daughter, who had fallen asleep on the short walk to the park. However, upon awakening to the heat of the setting sun and seeing her papa’s familiar face just beyond the threshold, her eyes snapped open.
Like Cordell, she wiggled in excitement and reached for him, worming her fingers in the afternoon air in an attempt to grasp him.
A sob of adoration left him. He swooped down to meet her, then paused short of touching her. His hands froze mid-air, and his jaw tensed suddenly. When he looked to Bess, she felt her heart lurch at the sight of his questioning stare.
He was nervous. Nervous to reach for his own daughter.
She could have spoken her agreement, but she knew actions spoke louder than words. It was something she and her husband agreed upon heartily, in fact.
The woman reached down into the stroller herself and unfasten Georgia’s seatbelt. After lifting her up and into her arms, she walked around the side and to Wolf. “She’s been cooped up with me for too long, poor thing. Would you like to take her for a while?”
The man couldn’t open his arms quick enough. Once Georgia was tucked safely in his grasp, his shoulders shook briefly from barely withheld joy before he reached for Bess. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he tugged her toward him and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead, mashing his nose in the process. This caused Bess to laugh before he impishly leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips.
Upon pulling away, they both idled in each other’s arms before Cordell’s excited cries broke the trance. The boy was still fastened into his safety seat, but by Jove, that did not stop the little tyke from pumping his little legs back and forth in an attempt to sway toward his parents with increasing urgency.
“Hehe, mama! Mama!”
Bess laughed and reached out to grasp one of the chain supports.
“How about you take her, and I’ll stay with our aspiring daredevil here?”
He smiled at her observation. “We’d both very much like that, I venture to say.”
Before he released her, he tugged her back gently and urged her close. Bess didn’t need to hear the question to know what he wanted to say.
“I’m so sorry,” she started. “I’ve been horrible to you. My own family. Our friends.”
“Shhh, none of that,” he soothed. “I’m sorry too, Brightness. Truly. There are many, many things I should have done differently … not to mention ways I should have acted differently. But, I would still …”
“We should talk about it,” Bess agreed. “I-Is that okay?”
“I love you too much to not talk about it,” he whispered, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. “Later, then?”
She hummed, not liking the word. “Tonight. After bedtime. Maybe over wine.”
“How romantic, Mrs. Scrooge.”
As the promise was sealed with another kiss, Constance decided it was time to make her exit.
All's well that ends well, she thought.
She pushed on the gate to exit only for the couple to notice her departure.
“Constance!” Bess called. Thank you. “Oh, shoot! It’s later than I thought. It’s nearly sunset. Are you alright getting home?”
“Oh, I’m perfectly fine,” the redhead called back, giving a queenly wave all the while. “It’s only a few blocks. I’ll be able to make it back before dinner.”
It was a tradition she never missed.
“Don’t worry about me! You kids have fun, alright?”
As the couple exchanged tender smiles, their giggling babes huddled close around them, Constance noted how picturesque the family looked.
In fact, they were the very picture of true happiness.
I am truly sorry for how long this took lol, but I hope I did the idea justice! It's always a joy to write the soul-sisters being the perfect bonded pair.
I was just sitting thinking about Francoise's story..and something hit me, and i'm not sure if anyone else has mentioned this or not..I mean y'all probably have..but remember Tyler said that Francoise awakened her hyde from postpartum depression...but we find out that's not true because Isaac said she unlocked her hyde after her dad hit her for being with a normie boy.
So that begs the question...
What triggered Francoise to bring out her hyde and get institutionalized at Willowhill??
Like..Donovan didn't know she was a hyde at first when marrying her..but then he finds out and still stays with her and even builds a bunker for her..but something obviously happened that caused her to be taken to Willowhill.
Not only that..But in the original scripts Donovan called Francoise a liar so it seemed like he was still angry with her even after building her a bunker to hyde out in.
Then pair that with the fact Francoise never even mentioned Donovan or act like she cared about him in Season 2 what so ever..Something frayed that relationship enormously.
And the only thing I can think of that might've happened was Francoise maybe attempting to hurt Tyler and Donovan freaking out about it and calling Willowhill on her personally.
But I still feel like something's missing..
Which brings me to my next theory..
What if Ophelia has something to do with this story.
I mean think about it..
Everyone thought Ophelia was going mad with the black tears and everything and institutionalized her at Willowhill, but she escaped.
But what if the reason she was institutionalized was because she was helping Francoise escape Donovan after he got angry with her, and he called Willowhill on both of them? (I think I actually saw someone theorize this last part before..but it actually makes a lot of sense..)
Ophelia obviously escaped...but Francoise never did.
I don't know I just don't think Tyler's family drama is over..
But the question is..Why does Ophelia potentially want Wednesday dead??
day one of BuckTommy mpreg weekend and I got the itch for something heavily angsty like… yesterday. So now have this.
PLEASE BE MINDFUL OF THE TRIGGERS!
Read on ao3 or below the cut
TRIGGER WARNING: suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, premature birth, sick baby, depression, postpartum depression. (If you feel I missed and please please let me know!)
The engine flies down the road. Buck’s mind is going equally as fast, just trying to make sense of it all.
It can’t be true. He would never...
They turn onto the familiar road and Buck’s stomach turns at the thought of what they’re going to find when they reach the house. He swallows the bile trying to come up and tries to not be too reactive when they finally come to a stop. A hand on his shoulder causes him to nearly jump out of his skin; it seems he is not hiding it well after all.
Bobby’s voice cuts through the dreadful one in his head, telling him every worst case scenario. “Do you want to wait—”
But Buck shakes his head, hard. “N- No, I— I need to…” he lifts his eyes to meet Bobby’s, feeling his face twitch as it pulls down into a deep frown. ”I’m coming.”
Bobby’s eyes go soft. He knows he gets it. They get out of the engine and start up the driveway… towards Tommy’s house.
Chim and Hen have beat them inside and he can hear them frantically calling out stats to each other, as well as questions to the older couple— Tommy’s neighbors— who made the 9-1-1 call.
The woman, Buck believes her name is Sara Beth, covers her mouth to stifle a sob. “We just— we had a bad feeling…” she shakily cries. “He’s been so different lately. So quiet. So sad. His— His plants all died. He stopped working on his truck. He— maybe we should have checked sooner…”
“We just didn’t want to pry,” Her husband, Marty, quickly adds. “Tommy’s so— so private. We didn’t want to overstep our welcome.”
Buck focuses on them. On their detailed— of course it has to be very detailed— recount of the incident. What they know. What they heard. What they found…
He still hasn’t looked to where Hen and Chim and hunched over; attaching wires, inserting IVs, checking for a—”
“I got a pulse!” Hen screams, and for a moment Buck feels relieved.
But only for a moment.
Because in the next everything is once again moving so quickly that he can only barely keep up.
They are in the ambulance speeding towards the nearest hospital. Hen at the wheel, Chim and Buck in the back with Tommy.
Buck doubts they would have even suggested he ride in the engine, but he was in the back before the stretcher was even lifted in regardless.
All he knows is— All he cares about… is that Tommy’s hand just tightened around his own. That’s a sign of life. That’s good. That’s a good thing, he tells himself.
They reach the hospital and Tommy is snatched out and sped inside just and quickly, Buck in a light jog just to keep up. He is not letting go— not this time, not again— until he is forced to.
Then he is forced to.
“We’ll take care of him,” a kind voiced nurse says, resting her hand gently but firm to Buck’s chest to stop him from following through the double doors. Tommy’s hand slips free and he’s gone. Buck’s left alone.
Except he’s not.
Bobby steps to his side and a hand slips around his shoulder’s, pulling Buck into his side. Chim Hen and Ravi flock around them as well, and they stand there in silence staring at the now closed doors. Dejavu, except… it’s not a feeling like he’s been here before. He has. Many times.
But never for a reason like this.
Never for Tommy
He thinks this time is so much worse.
*
The lobby is so quiet Buck can hear the hum of the lights. They weren’t even supposed to be in the area. They were on route to another call. Big lab explosion, people stuck inside. They were locked in and focused ready for whatever they faced with that call… when another came through their radios.
Any available unit to respond to a possible suicide attempt at—
Buck’s chest tightens at the memory of Tommy’s address being read out from the dispatcher’s screen. He didn’t even have a moment to react before Bobby was radioing in to Maddie and telling her to swap them to that call and send a different unit to the lab.
Part of Buck wanted to ask if he was sure; if he could even do that. Wouldn’t the chief be pissed? They were the closest, and that call would probably be viewed as priority to— to the other call. The look on Bobby’s face when he turned and looked at Buck… answered for him. Buck mouthed a thank you before getting lost in his thoughts the rest of the ride.
Now… he’s back to being lost. In his thoughts, in his grief, in his anger… because he’s so angry. He is angry at himself. He should have called Tommy. Why didn’t he call?
“Don’t do that Buck,” Hen says softly, sitting beside him and offering a cup of coffee.
He declines but humors her statement with, “Don’t do what?” Hen’s brow cocks and she purses her lips, giving him that look like she can see right through him. “W- What… should I just not feel like it’s all my—”
“It’s not your fault Buck,” Chim interjects from the seat across from him with a sigh. “It’s no one’s fault. Dishing out blame won’t fix this… and it sure as hell won’t make you feel better. Trust me.” Buck swallows and squeezes his eyes shut. Tears fall. He nods despite the voice in his head telling him it doesn’t matter what they say, he still should have somehow prevented this.
*
It feels like hours have passed, and maybe they have, when a doctor finally comes out. “For Kinard?”
Half the lobby stands.
Bobby had informed Tommy’s captain Tommy was in the hospital. He said they could discuss the why later, but his team quickly came anyway, uncaring of the why. Buck looks at them and wonders if Tommy even realizes he has a crew, too, who would show up.
Everyone stands back and lets Buck be the one to approach. “Hey— Hey… I’m Tommy’s— we— we’re his—” he gestures frantically at everyone. “Is he…” Words fail to come. He doesn’t know what he wants to ask, or what he wants to know. He just desperately needs to know that Tommy is alive.
The doctor gives the crowd a very stereotypical, serious look. “Is anyone here Evan Buckley?”
Buck swallows. He still must be Tommy’s emergency contact. He would have gotten the call if— “Yeah, uh— yeah… that’s me.” His skin feels clammy and sweaty and gross; he rubs his hands off on his pants to dry them before extending a hand to the doctor to shake.
The doctor releases his hand then removes his glasses. He fiddles with them for a moment, looking at the crowd then at Buck and gesturing to a more secluded spot. Buck's heart races as he follows.
Once they are out of earshot, the doctor sighs. He folds the thin glasses and slides them into his chest pocket. “Mr. Kinard is currently in a temporary room while a permanent one is prepared. He is sedated for the time being, and given the circumstances you will be allowed to see him, but I’m sure you can understand he will still have to be on constant supervision once he comes to.” Buck can feel himself trembling; he nods. “I’m not going to sugar coat this Mr. Buckley, things are still very much touch and go for them both.”
“B- Both?” Buck sputtered, but before he can question further the doctor continues.
“Until he is awake we won’t be certain of any neurological damages. And as it wasn't clarified in his chart, given the child’s development and uterine size we guesstimated gestation around twenty three weeks, which is considered an extreme preterm for delivery.”
Buck can only manage to blink at the man. Confused would be such an understatement. The doctor doesn’t give him time to even attempt to catch up.
“If you’re ready the nurse can take you to the NICU while you wait for Mr. Kinard to get settled.”
we're an undiagnosed system and we've had psychotic breaks. and the worst thing is like. what are we supposed to even do?? the psychosis wasnt caused by an obvious trigger... it just happened... and now what? we just have to hope that only one alter holds symptoms? hope it was a brief psychotic disorder that happened twice?
hiya!! i think the most important part if you dont know where the symptoms are coming from or if its from one specific alter or not is to pin down the type of symptoms you experience and finding ways to manage them! once you pin down what to do in case it ever happens again, i think its much safer to try and find out the root of the cause afterward (there are many reasons for psychotic symptoms occuring, whether it be a permanent condition or one caused by triggers like you mentioned)!! sometimes looking into what triggers your psychotic breaks can cause the symptoms to come back which is why i suggest learning how to manage it first (this is not the case for everyone, but i still recommend it for your safety)
for example, since i struggle with finding what specifically causes some of my visual and auditory hallucinations and havent found a way to reduce these occurrences (currently unmedicated until my psychiatrist can find a non-pill med i can take), i instead try to reduce the fear and distress that can be caused by using my camera to see if its something im actually seeing IRL and record audio to see if theres anything actually around! unfortunately, if the main symptom you are experiencing is delusions or other symptoms, i cant help much with that specifically as im still in treatment. :[
tl;dr, before trying to find the root of the cause immediately if its happening frequently, i suggest looking into what you can do to reduce the distress you may experience from psychotic symptoms first (i.e. using your camera to check if you are visually hallucinating or recording audio and checking its playback to see if there was anything actually making sound) and THEN trying to tackle the root cause once youve ensured safety!
About Brief Psychotic Disorder (in case this part can help)
Brief Psychotic Disorder is typically diagnosed in middle-aged patients, lasts more than a day but less than a month, and presents in a few different ways:
obvious stressors like trauma or major stress
no obvious stressors (no apparent trauma or stress involved)
postpartum onset (usually happens within four weeks of giving birth (1/10000 people who give birth experience it after childbirth))
with catatonia
those with ASPD, BPD, and PPD can have this disorder as result of a comorbidity
if you think it is Brief Psychotic Disorder please remember to rule out any other causes first!! acute psychotic episodes can present very similarly without actually being this disorder.
According to The New Oxford Textbook of Psychiatry (aka the book i have open right now LOL)
"Brief psychotic disorders may be differentiated from chronic disorders with psychotic features, such as schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and depression with psychotic features, both by the persistence of the symptoms and the loss of function in multiple domains and by the failure to resolve fully, even with treatment. It is important to note, however, that some individuals, despite the generally favorable outcomes associated with brief psychotic symptoms, may develop a chronic psychotic disorder subsequently (especially those with longer symptom durations such as BLIPS cases)."
This disorder also cannot be attributable to substance abuse, medication, or other medical conditions.
It is also worth mentioning that brief psychotic episodes are also classified as high-risk states!!!
i hope this stuff can at least help set a track for you anon!! remember to take care of yourself first and foremost :]
"It's interesting to me that postpartum depression is framed as a hormonal disorder.
And how often mothers themselves who have experienced postpartum depression will refer to the experience as having been the result of "my hormones being all over the place".
A large scale 2015 systematic review of the psychosocial and hormonal risk factors associated with postpartum depression concluded that swings in estrogen and progesterone levels were not really predictors of postpartum depression.
According to this review, stress hormones seem to play a more important role.
But it begs the question, what causes the release of stress hormones?
Turns out, the lack of family and social support trigger increased levels of stress hormones and put mothers at higher risk of postpartum depression.
So blaming a mother's wonky hormones for her postpartum depression and anxiety without also examining the social factors that contribute to the release and regulation of these hormones is kind of like measuring the stress hormones of an orca in captivity and then blaming its biological shortcomings for its pathological behavior rather than looking at issues with the environment.
