Summary: Where were they? Thomas found in the recent days he was so lonely. Where was Logan chiding him to get up? Where was Patton to try and get him to bake some cookies? Where was Janus telling him to remember to take care of himself? Where was Virgil, keeping him up at night only to fall asleep after wearing himself out? Where was Roman and the constant humming of Disney tunes? Where was Remus always popping up to scare him? Where were his sides? Why aren’t they here...? He needs them.
Author Note: This is a short one-shot after reading through @rondoel and her King AU thing. Hope you like it! It’s 7 in the morning, I haven’t slept and I wrote angst. (Sorry for any mistakes in grammar, I near failed that in school and in college.)
Warnings: Angst, Mild signs of Depression (possibly), feelings of abandonment, loneliness, fear of silence, mild panic attack, mild anxiety attack, Thomas really needs a hug guys.
-0-0-0-0-0-
Thomas looked at himself in the mirror and felt a weight on his shoulders he didn’t know he could feel. A weight of loneliness, of confusion, of feeling utterly lost, of longing. He finished brushing his teeth and sighed as he cleaned off his mouth and putting the brush away.
He turned out of the bathroom to his room to get ready for the day... sort of. He hadn’t been out anywhere in a few days. His friends called, but he couldn’t find the energy in him to answer the phone or text back. He just felt like the world was crushing on him, and couldn’t explain why.
No amount of self care helped, and he felt too much like dead weight to see if hanging out with his friends would help. He’s been like this for the past few weeks, after the latest episode to pin point it. Each day felt like a chore to get up and do anything.
At first, he tried to summon his sides, was something troubling him he didn’t know about? So he tried Patton, normally his Morality always managed to cheer him up and brighten his mood. But, as he called out, waved his hand, did both... nothing. Thomas was confused by that, normally his happy dad side was more than willing to come with called; sometimes he’d come without needing to be called at all.
Thomas did shrug it off, thinking maybe whatever troubled him might be troubling Patton also. Maybe it was connected to his feeling? Maybe the others are helping Patton? He’d check back later, he trusted his sides after all.
Then came a few days after that, Thomas found his work was suffering, he really needed to work on the next video. But he only found he’d just stare at his laptop, sometimes watch reruns of episodes. Getting no where, as pre usual. He was waiting for Logan to come scold him. Yet, nothing, the logical side was oddly silent even in his head.
No scolding, no arguing, just a foreboding silence. Thomas didn’t like that at all, he was always used to Logan speaking to him. Though the nerd could be a little much when it came to facts, he always knew Logan cared about him and only wanted the best. Thomas tried to listen, even if he couldn’t keep up, Logan cared and he cared back. Now though, why was Logan so quiet?
He tried to summon his logical side to find out. But like with Patton, calling his name, waving his hand, nothing worked. Were they ignoring him? Had he done something wrong? No... had he they normally told him.
Maybe this was a bigger issue than he thought? But shouldn’t he be involved? Thomas chewed his lower lip, he tried not to worry, that’d just upset Virgil, he knew his anxiety had enough to go around, he didn’t want to amplify it.
So he continued on as normal. Even if he felt sluggish and weak, couldn’t even bring himself to draw something or act out his favorite parts. Was Princey still mad at him? He really wanted to talk to Roman about what happened, but knew, like himself, Roman would want time to himself. But, Thomas was getting worried. Roman did know how much he was loved, right? Maybe Roman needed to hear it from the source?
So he turned to call out to Roman, as usual, nothing, no one, not a soul. He tried to call for Patton again, maybe he knew where Roman was? But Patton didn’t come again.
Thomas felt his chest seize up for a moment. Shakily he tried to call for Logan, he needed to calm down. No one came. He bit his lip, Virgil? His breath was hitching when he tried, by now Virgil would know something was wrong. So where was he?
He was shaking, where were they?
After that panic attack, Thomas in the coming days would try for Janus. But like he predicted, no one came to his call. Remus didn’t show up either, Thomas would take any sound, even his trash mans innuendos and constant stream of thoughts. But Remus didn’t come either, no matter how desperate Thomas’s voice got. No matter how many times he tried to apologize to the nothing, as if it’d bring them back.
The silence was deafening in the apartment.
He could often hear his own ears ringing. He was so used to his thoughts being so loud. He was used to listening to their conversations in his head. Thomas came to really enjoy the moments his sides were there. This was... just so hard.
Then came the true fear. Were they gone forever? Had he lost them forever? What if they were hurt? He was hyper ventilating now. The smell of mint on his breath from his toothpaste.
Thomas hugged his knees, trying to breath normally. He felt something wet, he looked at his knees to see water stains. Was he crying? Words died in his throat, no logic could make is way to his head. His feelings felt so skewered and messy. He had no drive to create, no drive to care anymore.
He must be sobbing, his throat was hurting from trying to hold them back. Why did he felt so abandoned? So lost? Thomas hated it, the only sound was his own sobs in the air.
“Where are you?” he found himself repeating, “Where are you? I need you guys! I want you guys here!” he found himself wailing out to the emptiness. As if that’ll bring them back.
“Please... Please...” he whispered over and over again.
He sat there on the ground, tears streaming down his face. The world was dark, where was the light? There was no way out.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Here's chapter 15! (Chapter below)
There is one absolutely terrible moment, when Poicasië throws open the door to the medical room, when Mairon thinks that Carnistir is dead.
He certainly looks it, lying in the stark white sheets with his hands folded over his stomach, but Mairon realises almost at once that he is quite alive: Carnistir’s chest still rises and falls and Mairon can still feel the bond between them pulsing softly.
“Ah, Mairon,” Ailindë comes out of the little side room, wiping her wet hands on the front of her apron. “You’re here.”
He nods, clenching his jaw, and takes a seat in the wooden chair by the bed. “Do you know what happened?”
“No, Ailowë is looking into it. Prince Morifinwë was injured by what looks like a much cruder blade than what our craftsmen make so I would venture to think that it was an attack by Morgoth.” Her eyes darken when she says the name.
“And the injury?”
“Shallow wound to the abdomen. He should recover fully given that he rests well – shock and blood loss (it’s only minor, don’t worry) is likely the reason that he is still unconscious.”
Mairon nods again, reaching over to gently adjust the covers so that they lay more perfectly under Carnistir’s folded hands.
“I should go investigate,” He says after a moment but doesn’t move. “And inform the Doriathrim delegation of the attack.”
Ailindë shrugs. “If you say so. I am sure that you will be found if you are needed.”
Mairon hums slightly, tucking some of Carnistir’s hair behind his ear, and stays in his seat.
+
True to Ailindë’s prediction, it is less than a candle’s burning later that there is a knock on the door.
Without waiting for an answer, Ailowë marches in, followed by a rather ruffled Thuringwethil.
Ailowë drops a knife on Mairon’s lap and he recognises it at once. It is not one of his creations but it is his design, badly made by one of the orc smiths in Angband’s pits. “Prince Morifinwë had this clutched in his hands.”
He wrinkles his nose at the smell of the black blood that covers it and hands it back.
Ailowë scowls. “This is your fault, you know. You shouldn’t have sent them out without a guard.”
“A guard wouldn’t have helped.” Mairon will not go about drowning in self-pity while any of his children are still out there. Ailowë scowls harder as if to say that they are annoyed that he would think so little of their guards.
“Uyu-ninêz had been there,” Thuringwethil says in her softly accented Valinorean, cutting off any potential argument. “I could feel the remains of her presence on the shore.”
“You went to the lake?” Mairon looks up sharply.
Thuringwethil waves him off. “Don’t worry, I flew there and flew back and barely paused: it was only reconnaissance. Anyway, I can deal with a few orcs.”
“They made their way into Uyu-ninêz’s realm and seemed to defeat her, in whatever fashion that may be.” Mairon folds his hands in his lap, keeping his eyes trained on Carnistir. “I would not be so sure of that.”
Ailowë sighs irritably and Mairon watches they shuffle their feet. “Stop talking behind my back,” they command, placing her hands on her hips. “I am as helpful as anyone here.”
“I apologise Captain.” Mairon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We were saying that the lake is protected by another Maia – a very powerful Maia at that – and she could apparently not stop this attack. It would not be unreasonable to assume that there was something about this attack that is different than others we’ve had.”
“No, this isn’t another random raid.” Ailowë begins to pace. “We can only assume that it was a planned attack on our princes and king.” They pause to narrow their eyes at Thuringwethil.
“It wasn’t Thuri,” Mairon says at once, catching the drift of their thoughts. “I would trust her with my life.”
“How can you be sure?”
However irritating Ailowë’s constant vigilance could be, Mairon appreciates how effective their work is for it, and so tries to be polite when he answers.
“We only planned the lake trip at breakfast. I didn’t even see Thuri between that and the actual trip. And when I did, she didn’t leave my sight before she was in your company.”
“And you didn’t tell of our position?”
Mairon doesn’t even grace that question with an answer.
“I suppose that was a stupid question, I just cannot think who on Arda could have betrayed us. It makes no sense.”
They say that but Mairon can still see suspicion deep in her eyes.
“Betrayal or not,” Ailindë pushes herself up from where she has perched on the corner cabinet. “We need to find the princes and our king. There are only two people that we know were there: Prince Morifinwë and this Maia of the lake you speak of. So we have two options – wait for Prince Morifinwë to wake or attempt to discover the fate of the Maia.”
Mairon purses his lips and stands, his mind working to formulate a plan. “Ailowë, take Thuri and organise a patrol, Thuri can provide what she has gleaned from her reconnaissance and I’ll add anything when I return from searching for Uinen.”
Ailindë nods. “And I will be staying here?”
“I wouldn’t take you from your patients and if Carnistir should wake, I wouldn’t want him to think he is completely alone.”
He gently brushes his fingers over Carnistir’s folded hands before he takes his leave.
+
The beach by the lake is deathly quiet. If there had been no wind, the only thing to break the silence would have been Mairon’s footsteps and the beat of his heart.
There are the remnants of a fight here – discarded weaponry that would be cause for discipline should Mairon have still been in charge of this army; dark blood staining the sand that Mairon doesn’t examine too deeply lest he find red mingled in it; broken branches in the surrounding woodland; footsteps that are so messed together Mairon cannot tell where they come from or where they go.
He strides to the edge of the water and stops.
Uinen had said, the last time they spoke, that she would not take responsibility for her actions should he appear at her waters without any of the children. Mairon doesn’t really have much choice in the matter but Uinen is scary enough that he hesitates, just a moment.
And then he sets his shoulders back and steps into the water. He keeps walking even as he feels the air grow heavier with the presence of the other Maia which eventually coalesces into the maia’s fána as the water reaches Mairon’s waist.
“I told you not to come back here Mayazônôz,” Uinen says, her voice a low hiss.
“I need to find my children.”
“Yourchildren.” She crosses her arms, frowning imperiously. “They are not yours nor have they ever been yours.”
“They are mine insomuch that I care for them when they have no-one else. And that point is moot – I am still searching for them whether they are mine or not.”
She shrugs eloquently. “Do not ask me. I protect my realm and nothing else.”
“Thuringwethil says she felt your presence further up the shore. That is not in your realm.”
Uinen stiffens. “That little busy-body, I wondered what she was doing around here.” She tuts. “I suppose she gets it from you, you have always poked your nose in where it isn’t wanted.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Why was your presence up the beach when you profess your indifference?”
“That is none of your business.” She turns, brushing her long hair over her shoulder. “Now leave before I drown you.”
“Uyu-ninêz, you’re not saying something.”
She looks sharply at him, her eyes shining dangerously. “Heed my warning Mayazônôz, I do not make it lightly.”
Mairon frowns and stays right where he is, however much the water is beginning to make him feel faintly queasy. “I know. But my children are in danger and you know something you are not saying.”
“You know,” Uinen says, her voice taking on a light, conversational tone. “You’re really curious sometimes.”
“Thank you,” Mairon replies in as dry a tone as he can manage. He doesn’t like being this cut off from both earth and fire and involuntary panic is beginning to set in. He’s fairly sure that Uinen knows this. She smiles and it is not a nice smile.
Scratch that then: Uinen definitely knows this.
“They are safer with me Mayazônôz. No-one can touch them in my home.”
So she did rescue them. Mairon swallows, clasping his hands behind his back tightly. “But will they be happy?”
“They won’t be happy if they are dead.”
“They won’t die. I am perfectly capable of protecting them.”
Uinen laughs. “Oh please. Then that little attack just then was nothing at all? I barely managed to rescue the two of them that I did.”
“Two?” Mairon feels his stomach drop. “What about the others?”
“Gone. Taken by the orcs I’d assume.”
“Gone?”
“Gone,” she agrees, terribly blasé about the whole thing. “I would find them first, they are in far more danger than your little red-headed twins.”
Mairon isn’t really listening. He can’t reach any comfort from the earth beneath his feet and his inner flame is dampened by the accursed lake he’s standing in and everything comes bubbling up at the knowledge that, despite his best attempts, he’s utterly failed to protect the children.
It was why he is their father now. And he can’t…
“I’ll be back for them,” Mairon promises Uinen and doesn’t catch her answer as he marches away, the toss of water around his feet drowning out everything but the rapid beat of his heart and his irregular breathing.
+
Mairon has just about managed to push all his pesky feelings away when he gets back to the fortress only to be immediately cornered by the Doriathrim representative.
Mablung looks utterly furious as he strides over.
“Where is he?” He asks, advancing upon Mairon. The people milling around in the entrance hall fall quiet and try to look as discretely as they can.
“Where is who?” Mairon asks in return, trying to be as calm as possible like he is around a particularly angry animal.
“You know exactly who I mean.”
Mairon is acutely aware that they are being watched. He can pick up on the whispers that are winding their way around the room and decides that whatever it is that Mablung wants to discuss can be discussed somewhere a lot less public.
“Alright,” he says, carefully extricating Mablung’s grip from the front of his robes, “let’s go talk somewhere a little more private.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer – he gets the distinct impression that, given the chance, Mablung would not want to go somewhere a little more private – and turns to march away down the corridor.
Thankfully, Mairon’s office is not too far away.
He takes a seat at his desk and gestures at the chair opposite. “Now,” he says calmly, “would you like to explain what the issue is?”
“Where is Daeron?”
“I wasn’t aware there was a Daeron with you.” Mairon keeps his voice mild and his face plain. The day has shaken him up to the point he fears he might show far too much to a foreign dignitary should anything slip past his mask.
“There was. He said he was going for a walk but that was just after our welcoming ceremony. He would not have left this place without informing one of us.”
“His disappearance is not our fault.” Mairon sighs. “If he stayed here, as you say he did, he will be somewhere – if someone here kidnapped him or otherwise held him against his will, then they will be summarily punished.”
Mablung purses his lips. “Of course. I would like to speak with your King about finding him.”
Something inside Mairon crumbles just a bit but Mairon thinks he does a valiant job of looking put together on the surface. “I am afraid you cannot.”
“I cannot?” Mablung sits upright, his eyes blazing in such a way that Mairon expects him to yell again.
“No. You cannot.” Mairon feels far too tired. “There was an attack and, insofar as we know, the king was taken by the enemy. Him and his brothers, bar one who is currently unconscious. I will organise a search for you however – I shall find the captain of the guard and she will send someone up to your quarters.”
Mairon stands, ignoring Mablung’s intense stare. “If you’ll excuse me, I had best be going.” He skirts around the edge of the table and into the corridor, striding towards his bedroom.
we might be hollow (but we're brave) [jan x jackie] - pinkgrapefruit
A/N - hey! incase you hadn’t noticed i’m in love with this ship and I had these lyrics and timestamps in my google docs for months with branjie but it just wasn’t fully fitting. thanks to Alex for betaing and i hope you enjoy it! let me know what you think <3
*
we might be hollow (but we’re brave)
We’re never done with killing time
Can I kill it with you?
‘Til the veins run red and blue
1 7 0 7 - 0 3 - 1 5 - 2 0 0 9
The car hums, low and hoarse as Jackie waits in the school lot. She’d offhandedly promised to pick up her english partner and all of a sudden she’s regretting it, twenty minutes late and low on fuel. She switches it off, flicking the key, and then back on again, hoping not to burn out the fragile engine.
She runs out of the school sweaty and flustered, gym bag slung haphazardly over her shoulder and for a second Jackie is fixated on the way Jan’s baby hairs have plastered themselves across her forehead. The smaller girl slings her bag through the open back window, watching with a smirk as Jackie cringes - sending a warm smile in gratitude.
They play the music loud and keep the air con on low, just cool enough to dry Jan’s hair without the native New Jerseyan complaining about how it’s warmer in the arctic. Jackie’s from Canada, she doesn’t really care.
Jan gives vague directions to her home as and when she sees fit, often directing Jackie to take turns she didn’t even know existed when they’re already almost past them. It drives the brunette mad as she abuses the car’s delicate steering, all to navigate the New Jersey suburbs.
What she does notice is they end up barely two streets over from her own house. A standard three bed, two bath, decent garden house that looks just as identical as every other one in the neighbourhood.
It’s painted blue. Jackie thinks it fits.
They spend the early evening reading excerpts of Romeo and Juliet to each other on Jan’s porch. The blonde reads on the porch chair as it swings aimlessly in the warm early spring breeze. She’s still in her cheer uniform and Jackie doesn’t have a chance to ask how she manages both cheer and soccer. Jackie barely manages hockey.
They eat homemade ice cream sundaes and watch the sunset over the eerie glow of the street lamps until Jan complains she can’t see the pages anymore and Jackie has long since stopped making notes on prose and characters.
They don’t talk about school tomorrow because they won’t see each other. Jan asks if she will pick her up. Jackie says yes.
We come around here all the time
Got a lot to not do, let me kill it with you
0 7 3 2 - 0 4 - 0 2 - 2 0 0 9
Jackie gets a text at half past seven telling her quite emphatically that Jan is running late. There is no question posed that Jackie can discern on the Nokia n95 screen - the glare from the early morning screen compromising her vision anyway - but she grabs her rucksack and the keys to the car and swings round the corner anyway.
She rationalises it by telling herself that it’s on the way to school anyway. It is.
She pulls up and Jan is sat on the porch steps in a pastel pink denim miniskirt and a glittery letterman jacket. She skips to the car and slides onto the front seat with a telltale squeak of bare legs on leather, throwing her bag onto the backseat in a way that still makes Jackie cringe even after two weeks. She smells of lemongrass and vanilla.
The blonde giggles and Jackie catches her mouth curving up in the reverse mirror, so she lets Jan pick the music and just focuses on the gear stick and anything else in her control.
She watches as the blonde sways to Fifteen by Taylor Swift, belting out the lyrics like she can feel them in her soul. They’re sophomores but they were freshmen last year and to be honest, from what she knows of Jan, she wouldn’t be surprised if that was her life.
They pull into the school parking lot to the sounds of Fearless and even Jackie cracks a smile at the way Jan is beaming. They have five minutes before they need to be in school and Jackie averts her eyes as Jan twists awkwardly to grab her bag from where it ended up on the floor, skirt riding up so the brunette can see the plum lace of her panties. She gulps and pulls out her well worn copy of Little Women instead. Not watching as Jan quickly reviews her AP Biology textbook.
“Thanks Jackie! You’re the best,” Jan calls as she slams the rickety car door on the third attempt.
“Anytime Jan.” And Jackie finds she means it.
You pick me up and take me home again
Head out the window again
We’re hollow like the bottles that we drain
0 1 2 5 - 0 7 - 1 7 - 2 0 0 9
Jackie’s phone vibrates under her pillow at one in the morning on a friday. They’ve been on summer break for a month and Jackie hasn’t really done much but she’ll admit she’s missed Jan. Until she woke her up that is.
She answers it with a defeated sign, tugging on her oversized Van Halen t-shirt until it feels decent even though no one is going to look into her tiny bedroom. The light filters through the window in a way that makes it feel like she’s in a weird horror film and she remembers why this is called the witching hour.
“Come over Jack, I’m bored,” comes the whine from down the phone and Jackie has to stifle a laugh even though she knows how much trouble she could get in for this. She sighs. She can’t really argue - doesn’t want to. She’s always been called boring. She doesn’t want to be anymore.
“I’m coming Jan, gimme five.”
She tugs on an oversized jacket and pulls a pair of gym shorts under her shirt, grabbing the running trainers from the bottom of her closet and spritzing a couple of squirts of sandalwood and shea from her almost empty perfume bottle. When she’s pretty sure she looks okay, she pushes up her window and thanks the gods she’s over the porch. It’s well structured and surprisingly easy to climb both up and down (her brother proved it to her last week) and she slides the window shut behind her as she shimmies down stained wood into the crisp summer night.
It’s not cold and the summer moon means it’s not dark either so she manages the walk quite calmly, feeling a freedom she sometimes forgets she has.
Jan’s sat on her porch steps in a pair of grey joggers and a black sports bra, draped in a tartan blanket and with what is unmistakably a bottle of wine gripped between her thighs.
They don’t actually talk for a while, just pass the bottle between themselves taking swigs of it like it’s water until Jan is giggling at a sparrow - the moon making her blonde hair glow in a way Jackie deems completely unfair. She’s ethereal, godlike in this light and Jan wants to tuck some of the escaped strands back behind her ear so she can watch the shadow in the curve of her upper lip.
She wants them to talk about boys, or talk about girls - to delve into who they are because surely that’s how you should spend wine time at two a.m but the wine is all gone and Jan’s cheek is soft on Jackie’s padded shoulder and somehow their fingers intertwine.
She starts humming something under her breath, something old - a song her dad used to sing her to help her sleep and Jan tugs at her hand to make her sing it louder until Jackie is serenading the sleepy neighbourhood with Mama Cass.
She shakes Jan awake just after four as the sun rises down the wide street. Their knees are stiff but Jan stands up, tugging Jackie by the hands into a hug. She’s not sure what it’s for but it’s welcomed and when Jackie clambers back through her window she can smell vanilla.
You drape your wrists over the steering wheel
Pulses can drive from here
We might be hollow, but we’re brave
0 5 0 2 - 0 1 - 0 1 -2 0 1 0
She’s clad in a hoodie and leggings when she pulls up to the big house. The party she was at finished hours ago but she’s told Jan to text her if she needed her and apparently she needs her so she’d put the heating on full blast and grabbed a blanket out of the trunk to wrap the smaller girl in when she came out.
She watches as she walks carefully out of the house, feet bare and stiletto heels in her hands. Jan slides into the front seat quietly. She carefully drops the heels into the foot-well and puts an awful lot of effort into fastening her seat-belt just right until she looks up at Jackie and something snaps.
Her eyes are red and raw and her lipstick is smudged across her chin and she looks so tired Jackie wants to bundle her up, hold her close and never let her go. But she doesn’t.
She places one hand in her lap and drives calmly to an empty house down the road, pulling into the drive and turning the engine off.
Jan is gripping her hand like a lifeline, clammy fingers twisted around soft flesh. In the light of the streetlamp, there are scratched on Jan’s bare thighs and Jackie gulps on reflex - choking back something that could have been a retch if what she’s thinking is true.
She takes a second to compose herself, brushing through Jan’s hair with her free hand. “You okay baby?” She asks quiet and still - trying to keep the situation as tranquil as she can.
Jan takes a huge snotty inhale, broken by sobs, and shakes her head. She tries to speak but she isn’t breathing enough to form words and all that’s coming out is a choked whimper.
“Hey, Jan honey, you’re safe,” she murmurs, “look at me babe.” She repeats it until the blonde will look her in the eyes, her cerulean orbs pooling. “Can I touch you?” Jackie asks, her tone soothing, and Jan nods slowly.
Jackie places a cool hand on her shoulder and feels the sticky sweat against her dry skin. The smell of cheap vodka, beer and mens cologne is filling the car and it makes her feel sick. She’s not a partier or a massive drinker but by the smell alone she doesn’t understand the appeal. She moves quickly, whipping her head around as she remembers the water bottle she keeps in the door. She places it in Jan’s lap and gently coaxes her to take a sip.
After a little while longer Jan rolls her shoulders back and squeezes Jackie’s hand appreciatively. She nods to herself while trying to find her words and Jackie rubs slow circles on her back.
“It, it was twelve and everyone was cheering,“ she starts, slowly, methodically. "And he- he wanted a kiss, which was fine because everyone was kissing and I’d joked last week that I’d kiss him so it was okay,” She pauses, justifying things that don’t need justifying, setting off alarm bells in Jackie’s head to the point where she’s mentally screaming and the story hasn’t even begun.
“But then,” she continues after a sip of water, “at like three, he pulled me aside while Jaida and Gigi were dancing and asked me for a kiss and I said yes because it seemed like the right thing to do.” She’s got silent tears running down her face again and Jackie wants to tell her she doesn’t have to keep going but she’s frozen in place. “But then it, it took a while and he took my hand and he put it down his trousers and he started kissing down my neck.” The words aren’t given tone anymore. They’re cold hard statements of fact that are rattling through Jackie’s ribs, making her fight every urge she has to vomit because Jan’s become her best friend.
“And I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t like him like that and I just wanted a fun kiss. But he made me touch him and I didn’t want that at all.” Jan starts to shake so Jackie pulls the blanket back over her, Keeping one steadying hand on her knee - steadying for the both of them. “So I pulled away and he called me a whore and then I trapped myself in a bedroom and then I texted you and it was awful Jackie. It was terrible and the worst part was I just wanted you.” She sobs openly but the tears run clear now - the mascara washed off her face and she seems lighter and that’s all Jackie could ask for.
“You are so brave Jan,” Jackie says with as much confidence as she can muster. “You are so brave and that man is a coward and a dick if he thinks he can do that to a woman and you are the strongest person I know, don’t you forget that.” She leans her forehead on the side of the blonde’s head and sighs.
“I’m so sorry baby."
“Me too,” Jan murmurs. “Me too.”
I love these roads where the houses don’t change (and I like you)
2 2 5 6 - 0 5 - 2 2 - 2 0 1 0
“Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,” mutters Jackie, knees bouncing, clammy palms on the leather seats.
They’re racing down the empty street, lamps flickering as they pass. If it was any lighter, neighbourhood watch would have caught them out by now because this is almost certainly not within legal speed limits for the suburbs. Jan passes house after house as they try frantically to make it for Jackie’s eleven pm curfew, the wind low and whistling as it cuts the car. They know the stakes.
Jackie’s face has turned a pale shade of white in fear of the reaction she will face, scraping in just under the time agreed. How her mother will react to Jan driving the family car back home, kissing her gently on the cheek and walking two streets to her own home.
They pull up at ten fifty-nine and Jan almost bursts into tears.
“See you tomorrow?” She asks softly, wistfully.
“Yeah,” Jackie exhales, tomorrow.
Where we can talk like there’s something to say (and I like you)
2 3 5 8 - 1 2 - 3 1 - 2 0 1 0
Jan makes Jackie pull over when she notices the time. They’re both too drunk to be driving and too sober to be alone and they’ve got the windows down as the sea breeze tunnels through the car. It smells of sunsets and saltwater and ice cream sundaes and Jackie’s hair and Jan is hooked.
The old car clock ticks quietly above the hum of the engine and the barely-there sound of the waves and Jackie finds pleasure in watching Jan’s eyes fixate on the hand. It swings around, red against the clock face.
Jan catches her staring and her eyes burn blue into Jackie’s deep brown. It’s a cold night but they’ve both pulled the blankets from the back seat and suddenly the blonde is aware of how small the vehicle is because there is not enough room between their faces and-
Their lips touch. Spark. Flicker. Ignite.
And then she’s warm and intoxicated and just a little bit in love but she thinks the dopey smile suits her - heads lolled back on the headrests, hands intertwined.
I’m glad that we stopped kissing the tar on the highway (and I like you)
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Jackie drives them to the beach at sunset. They sit in the boot of the car on a picnic blanket in a parking spot that overlooks the crashing waves and it’s an illusion of stillness Jackie struggles to find anywhere else.
They hold hands because no one can see them - drink a bottle of champagne stolen from Jan’s Mom’s wine fridge. The blonde is bundled up in Jackie’s chunky knit cardigan and she looks warm and cosy and just a little bit like home.
“Hold me,” Jan asks, with eyes like saucers and a tone rolling in sugar. Jackie blinks slowly - capturing the image of her girlfriend in this moment before reaching to pull her into her arms. They don’t have much room but Jan somehow manages to straddle her - a hand on each cheek as Jackie grips her hips. The brunette bites her own lip softly and suddenly their mouths are pressed together and she’s not sure if it’s the sea air, the girl or a little bit of both but it tastes like magic and she doesn’t ever want to let it go.
“I love you,” she exhales into her hair - just above her ear.
“I love you more,” Jan whispers onto her collarbone.
“Sure Jan,” Jackie giggles, pulling Jan closer, burying her face into her hair. “Happy Valentine’s day baby.”
We move in the tree streets
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“We’re only gonna be four hours away,” Jan mumbles, fingers finding Jackie’s with ease. “Why does that feel like the whole universe?”
They’re sat on Jan’s front steps - she has to leave in an hour if she’s going to make it to NYU for move-in but she’s not quite sure how to put one foot in front of another. Her life is packed up in boxes behind her but her world is holding her hand.
“Four hours baby. That’s all,” Jackie coaxes, “we can do it.” She says it with so much confidence but her bottom lip is trembling frantically. She got a place at Penn State and she’s happy. It’s what she wants - to be away from her family - to grow. Unfortunately that means being away from Jan too.
“Will we make it?” Jan asks - and it’s so earnest it breaks Jackie’s heart.
“Yes.” Jackie says. And this time her lip is still.
A/N: Thank you all for the great feedback on Chapter 2! This chapter is a little angsty, but I hope you like it! Any feedback you have would be amazing, it really means a lot to me.
***This chapter has a mild panic attack, implied abuse, and discussion of medication.***
I also made some Brooke and Vanessa moodboards for this fic! Find them on my tumblr @buffywhovianpotterlock.
I’m surprised you’re still functioning.
We made the drugs that made you.
Precious little Frost.
She throws the weighted blanket off with a sigh, Vanessa following. “Can’t sleep either?”
Brooke shakes her head.
“I want to read it now.” She’s been tossing and turning since she told Vanessa she was ready, and she’s ready now. She has to know. She digs through her dresser.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. You’ll do it with me? Please?”
Brooke can lift a car over her head, but nothing could ever be heavier than this folder.
“Of course.” They drop down at the kitchen table.
Brooke has been picturing this moment since she asked Nina for advice, the older woman’s voice filling her head.
The file might give you some closure. But, given what happened last time, it’s likely it could cause another flashback. We could look at it here, or you can do it on your own if you’d like, but be aware you might respond negatively.
It’s what she figured Nina would say, an answer that wasn’t really an answer.
“Tell me if it’s too much, okay? Promise?” Vanessa asks, grabbing her hand.
“Promise.”
Her free hand flips the folder open. The vaguely familiar words burn her eyes as she wades through medical terms of the injuries from the plane crash last March. A broken leg, broken arm, 3 broken ribs, collapsed lung, internal bleeding, and several cuts to her body. Does she feel the pain from those broken bones now, or is she imagining it? She touches the thick white scar on her chest absently.
She suddenly remembers a drainage tube between her ribs (she has a small scar there too) and the long scar down her chest, and white tabs stuck to her skin, connected to monitors that beeped piercingly, and pain like someone had carved her chest open and pieced it together with Scotch tape. Then the doctor put something in her IV, and it all went black.
“You good?”
Brooke jumps. She’d forgotten Vanessa was there. “Yeah. So far it’s just what happened after the crash.”
Subject name removed from flight list. No survivors. Flight list not released, subject will be presumed dead if any inquiries. Subject’s public records here (pgs 2-8), scrubbed from databases.
She turns the page. Scans of her birth certificate and driver’s license. She’s Canadian? A fight between her and Vanjie runs through her head, Vanjie grinning and teasing her for saying “soar-y”.
Newspaper clippings. Maybe there’s something about her before, or her family— she hits two obituaries. Her parents. She can’t read the rest. She just can’t.
Brooke should feel something, she knows she should. But she can’t remember. Nothing at all, not even a flash. It’s just an empty space inside her where she knows the memories should be.
She moves on hastily. Hytes New Co-Director of Toronto Ballet Company. She remembers the feeling of her feet in ballet shoes, but co-director?
The clippings are ghosts of her old life and she can’t take the haunting anymore. Brooke moves to lists of dates, starting when they took her and continuing until this summer. Her dosages, her exams, her training, her missions. The first rows cover her progress healing and responding to the drugs. Drugs that the two men she met hours ago had made for her and countless others. Her stomach twists painfully and she jumps ahead.
5/30/2018: Subject at healthy weight, physically approved to begin training. 10% accuracy with ice blasts.
Brooke remembers the row of bright red targets. His voice thunders in her ears. “You have until October to get half those targets.” It’s a command.
8/13/2018: Subject having nightmares, inquiring about old life. Subject sedated, given 100mg dosage in IV overnight. Had no memory of asking questions after waking.
She skips over training logs, punishments, and medical data. It’s like reading about someone else. She has vague images of the events, but they’re getting stronger and clearer as she reads.
10/1/2018: Subject achieved 65% target accuracy, no punishment required.
“Maybe that’s enough.”
“I’m f-fine.”
11/19/2018: Training complete. 100% accuracy, blast strength increased. Dosage (10mg) steady and effective. Subject compliant and approved for field missions.
It’s all here. Labs she’d broken into. Weapons and technology she’d stolen. Every injury, every new drug sample. Records of fights with Black Diamond, with Shuga Rush, with–her heart skips a beat–Vanjie.
And the last one. The very last one before Vanessa saved her and took her away from them.
7/7/2019: Vitals steady. Subject compliant. Dosage to remain doubled until further notice.
“Brooke?” She can hardly hear Vanessa.
“These are all the bad things I did. ”
“Baby, no. Those things weren’t you.”
She shakes her head, heart straining her chest.
“You want to make us proud on your first mission, don’t you?”
She nods.
“Remember, if you fail, that’s bad. You know what happens when you’re bad.”
“I won’t fail, General.”
“Brooke!”
Her lungs are on fire, burning all her air. 5 things she can see.
She sees the kitchen wall across from her but it’s tilted–Vanessa is holding her tightly, stopping her from falling off the chair she’s half-out of. She pulls herself upright, eyes absorbing the wooden table as her breathing slows.
“Are you okay?” Vanessa tenderly brushes sweaty hair off Brooke’s forehead.
“Y-Yeah.”
“You need to get some sleep.”
“So do you,” Brooke says quietly. All Vanessa does is take care of her, worry about her, and Brooke knows she hasn’t done enough to help, especially with the vision. Vanessa’s been through bad shit like her and is suffering in ways Brooke can’t imagine, but she’s always so strong, iron forged in fire–
“Less thinking, more sleeping,” Vanessa insists, leading Brooke to bed.
Their bodies intertwine under the blankets, but neither sleeps.
—
“Brooke, come here!” Vanessa yells around a mouthful of pumpkin brownie, tapping on the window.
On the street below, a sea of kids in bright colors weave in and out of pumpkins and decorations. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to look at, until-
“Are they…”
Vanessa nods.
Two little girls head down the sidewalk. One wears a red suit with a V on the chest, the other in familiar royal blue, and she can just see the neon F.
“We’re legit heroes now, baby,” Vanessa grins, but her tears mirror Brooke’s own.
Their lips meet and Vanessa tastes like chocolate.
She thinks it’s the first time they’ve both forgotten about the vision.
—
There’s been small earthquakes and electrical damage around the city, but no sightings of Quake or Shockwave.
Their nights are spent tackling common criminals beneath an inky sky.
She watches Vanjie scream at robbers and would-be murderers while desperately beating the crap out of them like it’s the only thing reminding her she’s still alive. The only thing keeping her alive.
Vanessa is suffering but Brooke has no idea how to help.
It’s like watching someone drown but being unable to save them.
Vanessa isn’t eating. Her eyes are rimmed with shadows. Her skin is painted purple and blue from all the fighting.
She doesn’t want to talk about it, and Brooke doesn’t want to force her.
Vanessa is close to breaking, and as much as Brooke wants to shatter, she can’t.
Sometimes she can’t even look at Vanessa without wanting to cry because she may never see her again.
Brooke’s heart is made of glass, but she needs to let it ice over before Vanessa burns herself out.
Because even though they have time, Brooke feels like she’s losing Vanessa already.
—
It’s probably a stupid idea, but it has A’Keria’s blessing, so there’s hope.
Brooke works while Vanessa showers. She moves chairs and couch cushions and blankets until she has a sturdy blanket fort. She arranges fluffy pillows underneath, lays out the potato-chip cookies she’d made, and gets The Notebook set up.
Brooke is waiting when she emerges from the bathroom in her pajamas. “I have a surprise,” she says, covering Vanessa’s eyes. “Sorry about the cold hands.”
“I’m used to it. And there better not be any haunted house shit in here. Halloween’s over.”
“Nothing scary, I promise.” She removes her hands and watches Vanessa’s eyes get big, Brooke’s heart growing with them.
“Brooke.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “How did you…A’Keria,” she answers herself as she slides under the fort. “Damn. I love you so much. I don’t know how I got this lucky.”
“I’m the lucky one,” Brooke says as she nestles beside her. “So, um, I wanted to ask how you’re doing? Be honest.”
Vanessa shrugs and stares at the cookies. Brooke’s never seen her at such a loss for words. “I…I don’t know. I’m pissed–not at Yvie, it’s not her fault–but at everything, I guess, and I’m confused and sad and really fucking tired of it all, honestly.”
Brooke nods. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But if you want to talk-”
“I know you want to help, but I don’t want to talk. Please.” Her voice gets small and Brooke’s heart aches for her. “I usually love screaming about my problems and feelings and shit, and I know everyone thinks it’ll help to talk about it, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“It’s fine,” she sighs. “I just want to watch this movie and have you hold me.”
“Of course.” She presses play as Vanessa curls into her side, Brooke’s arms steadying around her, feeling how tense she is.
It didn’t go quite as she planned, but Vanessa falls asleep with a smile on her face, so it wasn’t a total failure.
—
“You seem a little distracted. Anything you want to talk about?” Nina’s voice drips with concern and Brooke wants to tell her. She should tell her.
She shrugs, fingers digging into the squeeze ball.
“Anything at all?”
“Meds,” Brooke mumbles, finally bringing them up like she’d told Vanessa she would a month ago.
“Something in particular about them?”
Another shrug.
“Can you give me a little something to go on?” Nina asks gently.
“I think I want to take them,” Brooke says eventually, eyes on her lap.
If Nina is surprised, she hides it well. “Okay. Did something happen that caused you to want them? You seem a little hesitant, and I want to make sure you’re confident and comfortable before I prescribe anything.”
She’s about to shrug again when she can’t keep it quiet anymore. “I…I’m just sick of it! I’m sick of sweating in the grocery store and thinking I’m gonna have a heart attack when I leave the house! I’m sick of the panic attacks and the headaches and not sleeping and I…” The outburst quickly drains her and her next words are a whisper. “I just want to be better.”
Nina is quiet.
“I’m s–I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t mean to.”
“You don’t have to apologize for feeling.” Nina pauses. “Brooke, I’m so incredibly proud of you. I want to say that first because I think you need to hear it.”
Tears spring in Brooke’s eyes. Nina was proud of her.
“I understand why you’re upset, and why you’re scared. Anyone would be after what you’ve been through. But if you feel ready, I do think medication would help you.”
“But if I…” Her voice trembles as she releases a fear she hasn’t even told Vanessa. “If I take them, doesn’t it mean I’m not good enough? That I’m weak?”
“Oh, Brooke,” Nina says softly, and her eyes look slightly damp. “Not at all. You’re doing so well. There’s absolutely no shame in needing help. Asking for help and taking medication shows how strong you are, how hard you’re working to get better.”
Nina passes her the tissues and Brooke no longer hides her tears. “I’m ready,” she confirms.
Nina smiles. “There’s one more thing I want you to try.”
Brooke raises an eyebrow.
“I want you to try not to apologize when you’re here.”
Nina might as well have asked her to pilot a rocketship.
“I know it’s a lot, and I don’t expect you to do it immediately,” Nina amends at Brooke’s bewildered expression. “It’s just something I want you to try.”
Brooke nods.
“And Happy Thanksgiving!” Nina crows.
—
She and Vanessa wake at sunrise.
“Please tell me you don’t play Monopoly on Thanksgiving,” Brooke begs as they season the turkey.
“Oh no, that’s for birthdays only.”
“Thank God.”
“On Thanksgiving and Christmas we do bingo.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Mmm, you haven’t played with Silk. The bitch uses six cards. She used to keep a marker in her pocket and change the numbers. And she has to call out the numbers herself because she doesn’t trust us.”
“So I guess I’ll hide the valuables?”
Vanessa laughs and kisses her cheek.
Brooke knows what she’s thankful for.
—
Silk barges in an hour early presenting her sweet potato casserole like it’s made of gold.
“Thank God we got Brooke to make the pies. Last year A’Keria was in her health-food phase and tried to poison us with low-fat nonsense,” Silk grumbles. “I almost wasted away.”
“And she brought that green shit white people love,” Vanessa adds.
“Kale?” Brooke guesses.
“That’s it.”
“She better not mess with my mashed potatoes. Last year she put cauliflower in them. Says you can’t taste the difference. Believe me,” Silk pats her chest proudly, “I can taste it.”
—
“Everything good here?” A’Keria checks, glancing at the food covering every inch of counter surface.
“Yeah, I just hope Scarlet and Yvie like it.”
“Girl, you could go on the Food Network,” she declares, pointing to the pie-crust leaves on top of the pumpkin pie. “Everyone’s gonna love it.” A’Keria pats her arm in reassurance and the calm runs through her immediately. Brooke smiles in thanks, and A’Keria winks.
—
“A’Keria, these potatoes are so good. What the hell is in them?” Yvie asks and Silk nods with her mouth full of them.
“Just butter and cream.” She pauses, grinning devilishly at Silk. “And cauliflower.”
Silk almost chokes. “You lying hoe!” She grabs a serving spoon and chases A’Keria around the table while the rest of them roar with laughter.
Brooke catches Vanessa’s eye, and she knows they’re thinking the same thing: Please don’t ever let this end.
—
After a 2-hour bingo game resulting in 3 ripped cards, 2 spilled cups of coffee, one marker hurled out the window, Yvie flinging whipped cream in Scarlet’s hair, Silk almost swallowing a bingo ball, Brooke launching walnut shells like missiles, and Vanessa’s pumpkin pie fork nearly taking out A’Keria’s eye, everyone heads home.
“Brooke, I almost forgot,” Silk says as she leaves. “That Plastique girl? I found her.”
—
She bounces her leg in her and Vanessa’s favorite coffee shop, because Nina had suggested they go somewhere she felt comfortable.
“You okay?” Vanessa asks. Brooke felt fine doing this without Nina, but there’s no way she’s doing it without Vanessa, even though Brooke feels guilty for dragging her along to something about her when they could be focusing on Vanessa.
“Yeah. It’s…she knew me before, you know? Not me now. And I’m not who I used to be. I don’t even know who I used to be.”
“Well, maybe you can’t focus on who you were. Because you are who you are now, and you don’t need to be anyone else. And for the record, I like who you are now a whole lot,” Vanessa bats her eyelashes and Brooke feels warmth spread through her.
Plastique looks exactly like she did in Brooke’s dreams–long black hair and a face so delicate it could be a doll’s.
She bursts into tears when she sees Brooke, touching her arm like she can’t believe she’s real. Which she probably can’t, Brooke realizes. She thought I was dead.
She gives Plastique the Silk-approved story: Brooke survived the plane crash with severe memory loss, met Vanessa, and has been trying to regain her memory. It’s not a total lie, but Brooke still sweats as she tells it, even though Plastique believes it and cries again halfway through.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t look for you. They said no one survived and I never thought…”
“Of course you didn’t. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“Brooke, it’s my fault you were on the plane,” Plastique says suddenly, voice thick.
“What do you mean?”
“I was supposed to be on it, but there was a mix-up and there wasn’t enough seats, so I was gonna take a later flight. You wanted to stay with me, but I told you to go…”
For just a second, Brooke considers how easy it would be. To blame Plastique, to have someone to hate for putting her on that plane and in the lab’s hands. But she can’t. It’s not Plastique’s fault, just like it’s not her fault. Nina always tells her it’s no one’s fault but the lab’s, and it’s never felt as true as it does now.
“No,” Brooke says firmly. “Nina–she’s my psychiatrist–she told me if you wouldn’t blame someone else for something, you shouldn’t blame yourself for it either. It wasn’t your fault, I promise you,” Brooke’s voice is fierce as she grips Plastique’s hand.
Plastique nods, wiping her tears.
Plastique had been an intern at the ballet company that Brooke was co-director of. Brooke had danced professionally with the same company for 6 years. She was leaving on her first tour as co-director when the plane went down.
Vanessa’s eyes silently ask if she remembers any of this. She remembers twirling across a stage, costumes light against her skin. She remembers feeling free.
Plastique pulls out her phone. “Here’s a picture of you when you danced.”
Brooke sees herself on the screen but can’t quite believe it’s her. She’s in white from her tiara to her pointe shoes, lacey costume on her lean body, hair pulled into a bun. She looks confident, so far from the Brooke who flinches at loud noises and stutters when ordering food that they’re hardly the same person.
“I’m loving this short hair on you, girl. You cut it right before the tour. I’m glad you kept it,” Plastique says.
Brooke’s never thought about it. It was short when she woke up at the lab, and they had kept it like that so it wasn’t in the way for her training or their medical exams. She likes it short and A’Keria trims it for her.
They talk for another hour, and Plastique promises to keep in touch.
Brooke is quiet on the way home, her mind buzzing.
“You alright?” Vanessa asks. “That was probably a lot, huh?”
She nods. She doesn’t know if she should miss the Brooke in that picture when she doesn’t really know that person. She doesn’t know if she should try to be more like that Brooke.
She thinks of what Vanessa said. Maybe it’s not about who she was. Maybe she doesn’t need to be anyone else.
Just being herself is enough.
—
The last day of November dawns unusually bright.
Brooke stands over the sink with a pill in her hand. She looks out the window and her stomach drops, pill slipping through her fingers.
She feels the urge to run outside, let the flakes melt on her tongue, let the cold steal her breath and freeze her cheeks.
But she doesn’t.
Because it’s the first snowfall of the season, and they’re running out of time.
