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fallen-gravity · 3 years

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Sixty Candles

On June 15th, 1972, Stan Pines celebrates his eighteenth birthday in the back seat of his car.

or, how Stan Pines spent his birthday throughout the years.

Notes: Here is my very loose interpretation for Week 4 of @stanuary!The prompt for this week was Future with the subcategory Old, and I decided to play around with the concept of birthdays! This was a lot of fun to explore and I hope you have a ton a of fun reading! :D

AO3

At exactly midnight on June 15th, 1972, Stan Pines celebrates his eighteenth birthday in the backseat of his car.

It’s not ideal, and nothing like how he thought he had it planned from the moment he turned sixteen, but he supposes he should be thanking his lucky stars he’s able to celebrate at all. His Ma, bless her caring heart, must’ve snuck some emergency funds into his duffle bag the moment she saw Pa reaching for it before he kicked Stan to the curb.

Stan supposes that she probably intended for that money to be spent on emergency rations and gas money, but what she doesn’t know probably won’t kill her. He also supposes that he probably should’ve gotten himself a cake, but cakes are messy and he has no means of cleaning it up, so a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes will have to suffice.

He pops open the bottle with ease, and takes a large swig.

“Happy birthday, y’ asshole” he says to nobody, slamming the bottle down onto his car dashboard with more force than intended. “Hope you’re livin’ it up at home with your fancy expensive pizza and two layer cake you’ll never be able to finish on your own” He leans back against his chair, propping his arms smugly behind his head. “An’ I hope the guilt is eating you alive” he slams his hand down on one of his armrests, and reaches for the bottle on his dashboard for another swig.

Just six months ago- not even a year, just six months ago, Stan and Ford had been talking about what it’d be like to share their first drink together. They’d talked about getting absolutely wasted at the pub down the block, followed by walking to the boardwalk to ride the coaster until it made them both sick.

It wasn’t much, but it was theirs.

Stan chokes, and he isn’t quite sure if it’s the alcohol or his emotions.

“Fuck,” he coughs, and stumbles out of the car for some fresh air. In between his coughs and splutters, he takes a sharp inhale of the cool nighttime air to steady his breathing. He sighs deeply, and pulls out the pack of cigarettes from his ratty coat pocket.

He lights one up, and leans against his car to lose himself in his thoughts as he wordlessly watches the cigarette smoke dissipate into the starry night sky. Stan gets too distracted by the sight and accidentally burns his first all the way down to his fingertips, and hisses in pain as he stumbles to light a new one.

No matter. He stomps on the burnt remains with his shoe, and grinds his emotions into the ground with them.

~~~~~~~

On June 15th, 1978, Stan Pines celebrates his twenty-fourth birthday in prison.

“Pines!” An officer shouts, whacking at the cell door with his baton. “Wake up. You’ve got a visitor”

Stan sits up in the cheap cot, groggily rubbing at his eyes. “Wassat?”

The officer’s keys jingle as he clicks Stan’s cell door open. “You’ve got a visitor. He insisted it was important, so we’re giving you ten minutes to talk.”

Stan’s been to jail enough times that he knows that when someone says something’s important, it really just means that they bribed their way through security so they can talk to Stan before the designated visitor hours.

But who could possibly be willing to risk getting arrested just to talk to him before eleven in the morning? Every name that comes to mind is either on the run, already in jail, or…much worse. Anybody foolish enough to try is either out of their mind, or…someone who genuinely wants to see him.

But…who could possibly want to see him? After everything he’s done, after everyone he’s stolen from, who could possibly be left that trusts him enough to bribe a police officer for his company? The police officer happens to walk Stan by the surveillance room, and he notices his page-a-day calendar is torn to June 15th.

Stan’s heart nearly stops in his chest.

It-It couldn’t be, could it?

Six years of silence, and Ford wants to break it like this? Is this some kind of joke? What kind of idiot does Ford take him for, thinking that now is an appropriate time to make amends? After all the times Stan tried writing, or calling, or even trying to get a hold of him through Ma, now is the time that Ford finally agreed to reconvening?

Pah. He had his chance the past five times Stan tried to pass on a happy birthday. He doesn’t care if it’ll land him ten more years in prison, the moment he sees his twin brother’s stupid face he’s spitting in it.

As Stan rounds the corner to the visitation room, though, all of his anger disappears into thin air, and if it weren’t for the officer pushing him along, he’d turn heel and sprint the other way.

“My friend!” Rico cheers with a forced smile on his face. He’s holding a large box in his hand. “It’s so good to see you again!” He takes a seat at the small table, rhythmically tapping on the box.

Stan swallows hard, but takes a seat across from him. “It’s, uh…” he squirms uncomfortably, unsure if he’s allowed to address him by name. “…good to see you too, buddy. What, uh, what are you doing here?”

Rico laughs heartily. “What, a man cannot visit his best friend on his birthday?” He flips open the box he brought with him, and Stan flinches when he spins it around towards him. To his surprise, it…looks like a perfectly normal birthday cake.

“Would you mind giving us a moment alone?” Rico flashes a grin towards the police guard behind Stan. “I would like to sing my dear childhood friend happy birthday, but I’ve always been very shy about the sound of my voice. I promise I will be quick”.

Childhood friend?

The officer squints at the birthday cake in the box for a moment. “Fine.” He says. “You get two minutes. And I’m staying right outside the door to prevent anything funny from happening”

“Of course! You have my word,” Rico grins, placing his hand over his heart. The officer says nothing, and for the briefest of moments Stan’s convinced he sees right through Rico’s bullshit and he’ll let Stan slip quietly back into his cell. But after those brief moments pass, the officer shrugs as he closes the door behind him.

Rico’s fake-plastered grin slips from his face the moment the officer is out of sight.

“Alright, listen here, you walking stain upon the Earth,” Rico slips easily into Spanish. “You think you’re safe behind these bars? You think my boys still won’t burn this place to the ground to collect what you rightfully owe us? You’re gravely mistaken. We have eyes everywhere, in every corner of the globe. And don't you dare even think about running off somewhere else under a new name, Stanley Pines, because we’ll find you, one way or another”

Rico stands from his chair and pushes the cake box towards Stan. “As soon as those guards declare you a free man, we’ll be waiting for you on the outside.” He grips Stan’s shoulder as he heads towards the door. “It really is such a shame. I loved you like a brother. But you know what they say, don’t you?” He places his hand on the door, and glances back towards him. “The good ones always die young”

Before Stan has time to respond, Rico slips his fake smile back on and opens the door. “Happy birthday, my friend,” he says, slipping back into English and speaking loud enough for the officer waiting outside to hear. “I hope you enjoy your cake”

Stan swallows, defensively bringing his hands to his throat, before he carefully inspects the cake in front of him. It looks normal, as far as he’s concerned, just a standard chocolate cake with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STAN!” inked across its surface in bright red frosting.

He contemplates. On one hand, he hasn’t had any real food outside of the slop they’ve been feeding him here for the past three months, and he’s never been one to turn away free cake.

On the other, knowing Rico…

Stan shutters. He stands to his feet, takes the cake box, and throws the whole thing into the trash can in the corner of the room.

He’d rather starve to death than risk being poisoned.

~~~~~~

Stan stopped keeping track of his age the day he started going by his brother’s name.

Sure, it wasn’t even close to being the first time he had to live under a new name. You do it enough times and you’re able to come up with an entire life story at the drop of a hat. Stetson Pinefield was from Ohio, born in the fifties in late December. Andrew "Eight Ball" Alcatraz, born in Alabama in mid-May, got his nickname from his troubled childhood that resulted from his dad getting locked up when he was only eight. It was something of a specialty, giving life to people that never truly existed.

But suddenly, all at once, Stan was forced to overtake the life of someone he loved, and it’s like he forgot how to so much as breathe. This wasn’t some sob story he could bullshit to people he’d never see again, or a name he pulled out of his ass to keep him in place just a bit longer. This is his twin brother, someone he spent every moment of his childhood with, yet someone he feels as though he doesn’t know a thing about.

Sure, none of the people in this town can tell the difference between himself and Ford, and for that he’s grateful. But a man can only pose as his possibly-dead brother for so long before somebody starts getting suspicious. Ford’s lived in this town for over ten years, he’s bound to have been on good terms with somebody.

Oh well. He’ll burn that bridge when he gets to it. For now, all Stan needs to focus on is scamming enough people out of their wallets so he can pay off the bills and keep working on the portal that swallowed his brother whole, and those seem to be going…well, just about as smoothly as teaching yourself three years-worth of advanced multiverse physics when you never even graduated from high school can go, but at least he’s making process.

Turns out, there’s still one more flaw in Stan’s plan that even he should’ve been able to factor in.

As much of a recluse Ford advertised himself to be to the locals of Gravity Falls, it turns out that he always receives a call from home on his birthday.

The first year Stan spends in Gravity Falls, he debates letting the phone go to voice mail. He has no idea how in or out of character it would be for Ford to answer his phone, nor does he have any idea who could be calling at all.

Eventually, though, he figures it’d probably look even more suspicious if he doesn’t pick up, and Stan isn’t willing to risk anything, even if it means bullshitting his way through a phone call for the rest of the night.

He takes a deep breath, and with a shaky hand he picks up the phone.

“Stanford?” his mother says, and to say he’s overjoyed to hear her voice for the first time in years is a massive understatement.

“Ma?” Stan replies, struggling not to slip into his own voice. “Why are you calling?”

She cackles. “Well hello to you too, birthday boy. I’m starting to think all of that research is getting to your head. Can’t a mother call her son on his birthday?”

Stan blinks. Is it…really June already? “Is that today?”

She laughs again. “See? It is getting to you! Do your poor aging mother a favor and go outside and get some sunshine. It’ll be good for you!” She quips. “Or at the very least, please, take a break and go to bed early tonight, for me”

Stan smiles. “Okay, Ma. I will.”

“Good,” she replies matter-of-factly. “Now, tell me all about what it’s like up there on the West Coast. Is it unbearably hot over there? I can’t seem to find your little town on my map. Must be why it’s so spooky, since you’re the only living soul for miles.” She laughs again. “I’m kidding, dear. I’m sure it’s fantastic. Tell me everything.”

And all at once, it’s like Stan’s a kid again. Stan and his Ma talk on the phone for hours. He figures that Ford must not call very often, so he spews out anything that comes to mind in hopes that she doesn’t see right through him. She buys it, miraculously, and when they hang up at the end of the night Stan promises that he’ll try and call home more often.

It becomes an easy pattern for Stan to slip into as the years go by. Just as long as he calls frequently enough not to raise suspicion, he can always look forward to receiving a call on June 15th every year. Some tiny part of him feels selfish for posing as his brother and lying to his mother for so long, but it’s the most connected he’s felt to any sort of family in years.

Deep down, though, he knows he can’t get too comfortable, and there’s still too many loose ends he needs to tie up before he can let his guard down.

On June 5th, 1987, just before his thirty-third birthday, Stan Pines dies in a fiery car crash.

On June 7th, he just barely misses a call from home as he’s coming up from tinkering with the portal.

“Stanford”, his mother’s voice says, lacking any of the snarky bite it usually contains. “I know that you’re a very busy man with your research, and driving all the way back to New Jersey on such a short notice is…unfair of me to ask of you, but…” She pauses to take a shaky breath, like she’s struggling not to cry. “But something terrible happened to Stanley, and…” she pauses again. “We’re holding a service for him on the fifteenth. I know that things haven’t been great between you two the past few years, and I can’t imagine a funeral would be an ideal way to spend your birthday, but…It was the only date they had available, and it would really mean the world to all of us if you could attend. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. Call me as soon as you get this, okay? I love you.”

There’s a click, and she’s gone, and Stan contemplates his options.

Would Ford attend his funeral, if things were exactly the way it seemed? Would Ford even consider him worthy of the time? He’d said it himself: I want you to get as far away from me as possible. Would Ford be relieved that he was finally rid of him, like a weight off his shoulders?

Stan doesn’t even realize that he started crying until a tear drop lands on the counter beside the phone. Just how long has Ford been waiting to get rid of him, anyway?

No. Stan shakes those thoughts away. He can’t lose himself in those kinds of thoughts again. Every time he lets those thoughts get to him, bad things happen.

Besides…a funeral for, er, himself, may not be the most ideal way to spend his birthday, but finally being able to spend it at home for the first time in near decades, despite the circumstances, still beats slaving over an indecipherable journal in a dimly lit basement for twelve hours straight.

He takes a deep breath, and dials home.

“Hey, Ma”

~~~~~~~~

Ever since he turned eighteen, Stan found himself unable to celebrate his birthday without a sour taste in his mouth. As a kid, he looked forward to it more than anything. It was the one day a year that Pa would splurge and let him and Ford do whatever they wanted, and having a birthday in mid-June meant that there was only about a week of school left before they were free for the summer.

Most of all, it was about togetherness. Stan and Ford never had that many friends when they were growing up, so their shared birthdays were always about spending time together, because nobody else deserved to come to their party and celebrate with them anyways.

Once he was forced to spend his birthdays on the streets, Stan was starting to think that maybe he didn’t deserve it either. Even when he did have people to celebrate with, whether that be his cellmates in prison or nameless gamblers in Vegas casinos, everything felt empty, and there isn’t enough cake or alcohol in this world that could’ve filled that void.

Those early summers in Gravity Falls were the worst years of his life. The calls from home were nice, sure, but his stomach flipped with nausea every time his mother called him Stanford. To no fault of her own, she made him feel as though her love was conditional, and that he wasn’t meeting any of the requirements.

He knows, of course, that it’s not true in the least, but Stan just wishes that wake-up call hadn’t come from attending his own funeral. Stan had gone in expecting to have a terrible time, but he really had thought that seeing his mother’s face for the first time in a decade would’ve cushioned that fall.

Turns out that it only made him feel worse, and he’d declared sometime later over a bottle of whiskey that his birthday must be cursed, and that he never wanted to celebrate it again.

~~~~~~~~

On June 15th, 2013, Stan wakes to the sound of a seagull screeching its head off outside his window. He groans, and sits up in bed to look out his window, but all that meets his eye is the vast sea. He looks then to his bedside clock, which reads 8:30am.

Grumbling to himself, Stan kicks off his covers and stands to his feet, because he knows if he tries to go back to sleep now he’ll be out cold until mid-afternoon. He ruffles through his clothing drawer and picks one of Mabel’s hand knit sweaters at random, because the Arctic doesn’t care what time of year it is when it comes to the weather.

Ford is already sitting out on a deck chair with a fishing rod when Stan steps out of his bedroom.

“Morning” Stan says as he approaches so as not to sneak up on his brother and spook him.

“Oh, good morning, Stanley” Ford smiles as Stan takes the seat beside him. “Did I wake you?”

“Unless you’re a screaming bird, then no” Stan rubs at his eyes. “How long you been up?”

Ford shrugs. “About an hour, hour and a half, I think? What time is it?”

Stan raises an eyebrow. “You sure you slept at all, Poindexter?” He holds three fingers mere inches from Ford’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Ford smacks his hand away. “Very funny, Stanley. I’ll have you know that I got a solid four and a half hours of sleep last night”

Stan cackles. “Woah, looks like we got a new record, folks” He stretches his arms in the air. “You make any coffee yet? I’m still not awake enough to deal with the cold”

“Oh,” Ford replies, like the question caught him off guard. He stands to his feet. “I must’ve completely forgotten” he says.

That reply does catch Stan off-guard. Ford? Forgetting to make coffee? His practical lifeline? There must be something up.

Stan rises from his chair, frowning. “You sure you’re doing okay, Sixer?”

“Of course,” Ford replies, not turning back to look at him. “I’m just…tired, is all”

Okay, Ford knows that Stan can sniff out a lie from hundreds of miles away, so whatever it is that Ford is hiding from him must be really bad, because---

That train of thought leaves his head just as quickly as it had entered it the moment he steps foot into the kitchen. There’s a banner hanging up above the window that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and there are a handful of multicolored balloons scattered across the floor.

And right at the center of their table sits two cupcakes and two steaming cups of coffee.

“It was Mabel’s idea,” Ford finally turns to meet Stan’s eyes, smiling. “She called me last night to try and walk me through her cupcake recipe, but…” he rubs at the back of his head as he takes a seat at the table. “It turns out that baking isn’t quite my forte” He gestures to the seat across from him at the table. “So instead, when we were still docked last night, I snuck off board to hunt down a bakery”

Ford fiddles with the paper wrapper on his cupcake. “I know it’s not much, but…” he raises his cupcake in the air like he was making a toast. “Happy birthday”

Not much?

This is winning the lottery compared to all the other birthdays Stan’s suffered through.

He takes the seat across from Ford, and raises his own cupcake to clink it against Ford’s.

“Happy birthday to you too, Poindexter”

#my writing #gravity falls #stanuary #stan pines

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theclaravoyant · 5 years

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a second chance at a first impression ~ fitzsimmons

AN ~ a different take on fitzsimmons’ first kiss, inspired by several conversations on tumblr as well as my @marvelfluffbingo card. this turned out more angst-with-a-happy-ending than fluff, but I hope you enjoy it anyway

also posted on AO3 here see my marvelfluffbingo card here

Relationships: Leo Fitz x Jemma Simmons Rating: T Warnings: None Word Count: 3324 Square Filled: Right In Front Of My Eyes Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Race For Your Love, Right In Front Of My Eyes, Explicit Consent

Summary: “Then... kiss me.” A slight adaptation of FitzSimmons’ argument in 3x08 and subsequent kiss.

a second chance at a first impression

Do you love him?

Fitz wished he could take back the words. Why had he even asked? He didn’t want to know. He was glad for Jemma’s evasiveness, as much as he wished he hadn’t put her on the spot like that. It had not been his finest, most sensitive moment. After all, it wasn’t like any of this was her fault, or Will’s. Then again, it wasn’t his fault either, and here he was, working into the night long after Jemma had fled the scene of their fight. To fix the problem, as Jemma would say. To save the life of a man that she…

His thoughts trailed off and he wiped the sleep from his eyes with a heavy hand; trying and failing to bring the numbers on the screen back into focus. Great. He couldn’t even get properly riled up about this whole disaster. Of course he couldn’t: a man’s life was at stake – more than that, the whole universe, if they couldn’t find a safer way to get him back - and Fitz didn’t have the heart for a petty feud over Jemma’s love in the face of that knowledge. Especially not at this hour of the morning. He was not really angry, he couldn’t be angry. He couldn’t be angry at a man for simply existing, for having the downright hellish bad luck to end up on that planet when he did, or for – apparently – falling in love. (And with Jemma, no less.)

No, Fitz knew, he wasn’t angry. He was just… tired. So tired. The cosmos seemed to enjoy mocking him, dangling everything his heart desired in front of his face and then snatching it away at the last minute, and then drenching him in guilt every time he dared to feel entitled to an ounce of indignity about it all. He was so tired of matters of the heart. No wonder there were so many cynics in this world.

And yet, he had asked.

He had asked, and he had watched with baited breath as his question had landed. He could remember even now feeling his heart lift when he had realised that the expression on Jemma’s face, just for a moment, had been confusion. He remembered that it had given him hope, dreadful hope, and so help him that hope just wouldn’t die. He knew Jemma too well not to recognise her evasiveness for what it was.

“I-“ she had stammered, thrown. “I mean, yes. No. Maybe. It doesn’t matter now, does it? There’s nothing can be done.”

How very Jemma.

How very how Jemma faced the intractable problems in her life.

She had always been so practical, a problem-solver, and he’d always loved that about her - well, at least, he loved it most of the time. It gave her the strength to make the tough decisions, keep a clear head in times of panic, set her heart and mind on things and do whatever it took to achieve them. For better or worse, a sure-fire Jemma was a force to be reckoned with. It was a useful trait in a spy… and in a friend, or dare he say it, a partner. She was protective, sometimes to the point of ruthlessness, and she was always willing to push him out of his comfort zone, and get him to do things that were good for him even when he didn’t feel it at the time. And she was always, always, trying to help. That was what it all came down to, really. She put her feelings second to the problem at hand, because no matter what they were, they wouldn’t get the job done.

As much as Fitz hated that sometimes – and as much as he himself tended to prefer a good old-fashioned wallowing - he had to admit that Jemma was right. Love or no love, grief or no grief, fault or no fault; waxing lyrical about what she and Will were or were not to each other – or what she and Fitz might or might not have been – wouldn’t solve the problem. It wouldn’t save Will. It wouldn’t defeat Hive. It wouldn’t lead to anything, especially when she wasn’t ready to talk about it, and Fitz had no way of knowing when that would change. In Jemma’s own words, it seemed, there was nothing to be done.

Which brought Fitz back to the problem at hand. The computer screen blurred, numbers and letters swimming before his eyes so that he could hardly tell anymore which was which. Perhaps it was his recent epiphany talking, or perhaps just the sheer exhaustion that had him absentmindedly swaying like a drunk as he pondered his options, but serendipitously it seemed there was nothing more to be done here, either. Not in this state, at least, and not while his most recent set of algorithms ran their course. Maybe he should take one more leaf out of Jemma’s book tonight, he thought, and address the problem within his control. Slowly but surely, he began to gather his things. They always had found a place to agree on the amazing healing power of sleep.

Meanwhile, Jemma laid in her bed for the nth hour and stared up at the roof. Her limbs felt heavy as her body begged for rest; still weak from its ordeal on Maveth, not to mention the long day, and now the fight with Fitz. She played the end of their argument over and over in her mind, which was as exhausted as her body, and yet, seemed to be spinning so fast that she felt a little dizzy.

Do you love him?

Every pained intonation of his voice tortured her.

I – I mean yes, no, maybe. It doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing can be done.

There was nothing more to do. Fitz’s heart was broken. Will was gone, unless they could find a way to get him back that did not entail risking half the universe to Hive. And she herself, well… she had swallowed the words down and now the time had passed and she could not go back to that moment and speak them.

I love you.

Those were the words that had come to her tongue without a second thought. It would have been just that simple, just to speak them, and it was not as though it was news to either of them. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d grabbed Fitz’s hand and made a hesitant promise. Maybe there is. Yet, she’d spent that whole intervening lifetime trying to get back to him, to that moment, to that promise. And now it had finally arrived and she had run away and hid from it like a coward.

Why had she done that?

Why did she always do that?

Fitz, now, he was the bold one, and even though that meant he could be a stubborn ass when he wanted to – which was often, she had to admit – Jemma had always admired his ability to trust his own feelings. Fitz had a strong sense of intuition, of passion, and he poured so much of it into his work and into the lives of the people he loved. He felt everything so deeply, the good and the bad, but he always knew what he felt, or what he felt was right, and he was not afraid to go after it. Oh, how Jemma wished she had his sense of self. Yet here she was instead, picking apart her every thought, and then every thought she had about that thought, as if what she felt alone was not to be trusted.

Do you love him?

There had been such pain in his voice. In his eyes. What kind of dreams, she wondered, was he watching shatter? How many futures had he imagined for the two of them, after she’d made sure that door was lodged firmly open, and why did her heart still yearn to hear him tell her about every single one of those futures? She could imagine it when she closed her eyes, even now: the two of them outside under the stars, Fitz stroking her hair and regaling her with all his romantical tales as if they had all the time in the world. Maybe he would describe that special evening he’d had planned. Maybe he would describe their life together as he imagined it would be in five, ten, twenty, fifty years. The two of them, growing old, together. The whole damn time. No doubt he remembered those words, those specific words, as she did. A revelation like that didn’t happen every day. And he’d smile at her when he said them, that little twinkle in his eye because he knew, and her heart would flutter and she would know too –

Love. That was love.

Once upon a time she would have wondered if that were really true. She would have told herself, it was joy, and joy and love are not always the same. She would have said, it was contentment from doing an activity she loved with a person for whom she cared deeply. She would have said, it was the beauty of their incredibly close friendship, that they wished to be together so much. None of those things were to be sneezed at, of course, but they did not necessarily mean that she was in love.

But what the Jemma of once upon a time did not know – or at least, had somehow managed to overlook – was that those things did not mean that she was not in love. What was love after all, but a choice to act on feelings of joy, and trust, and care, and togetherness? If she had her way, there’d probably be a touch more kissing and the like, but other than that…

She was not sure if what she had felt for Will was love. Not in the way that Fitz meant it, at least; that deep and abiding romantic love that could move mountains and change lives if not worlds. But she knew that was what she felt for Fitz. She had crossed that line, made that choice, a long time ago and she was not about to turn her back on it. On him. She had known what she was doing when she had grabbed his hand before all this mess – at least, she had known as much as anyone could – and she had bared her heart to him and now…

Now she had, what, made him think she had forgotten all that? Made him think that, because of Will, what they’d had meant nothing?

There’s nothing to be done, she had told him. And about Will, maybe there wasn’t, but about Fitz? He was still here and she wasn’t too late. She was determined not to be too late, this time. Her exhausted limbs screamed in protest – they had been getting so used to this wonderful rest – but she was driven by a desperation so strong that even she was not sure she wasn’t at least a little delirious.

Maybe there is. Stumbling through the hallway back toward the lab, Jemma reminded herself of how she’d made her last confession on the dawn of war. And before that, Fitz had made his at the bottom of the ocean. They were always getting ripped apart. The both of them were terrible at follow through, and it was easy to excuse in their busy lives; a world that always needed saving provided a constant stream of very important interruptions. Not this time, Jemma promised herself. She’d spent six months swearing that if it was the last thing she ever did she would make sure Fitz knew how she felt and so help her, that’s what she was going to do.

Her bare feet felt strange on the cold concrete floor, and her lungs heavy as her exhausted body struggled to carry her uncooperative mind. If she had not walked these floors so many times before, she may have gotten lost in her exhaustion, but as it was, she knew where the lab was with the unspoken instinct of a homing pigeon. Or perhaps it was just that she knew where Fitz was, because it didn’t occur to her until she was almost at the door that he might not actually be there at this hour.

But there he was.

“Fitz.”

He had just slung his bag over his shoulder, already half-asleep and dreaming of his mattress, when he heard her voice. He was mid-stride toward the door and he froze in place. He looked up, to see the door swing open, and to see a pale and haggard Jemma clinging to the doorframe with steely determination. His heart quickened, and he dropped his bag and ran to help her.

“Jemma? Are you okay?”

“Yes!” she insisted, batting him away clumsily. “Yes. I’m fine. I just- I had to tell you – “

She paused a moment, because he’d come so close to try and help her and she was stuck in the doorway with the whole hall behind her. If she wanted to take a step back – hell, if she wanted to turn and run until her knees collapsed on her – she could. And yet, she couldn’t think of anywhere she would rather be than in this very doorway with an anxious, curious, flustered Fitz and his softly parted lips and his lamb-like hair, all precious few inches from her face. She was really doing this.

Okay, so she may have been a little delirious with exhaustion, but she smiled. She reached out from the doorframe with one hand, and intertwined her fingers with his. Slowly. Deliberately. With a great deal of concentration.

“Jemma, what-“ Fitz wondered, doing his best to stave off that dangerous hope. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“I just had to tell you,” Jemma repeated. “There is. There is. No maybe.”

“What?” Fitz repeated, barely louder than a breath. His heart suddenly seemed too loud. Was he hearing her right? “I’m so tired. Am I hallucinating?”

“No.”

Shakily, Jemma stepped away from the doorframe. She pulled herself toward Fitz with the hands they had already joined, and with her other hand, she gently stroked the stubble that lined his cheekbones. So much had changed between them, and she could hardly believe what a wonderful man he was blossoming into – in mind, body, and soul. And maybe this was what it felt like when Fitz made a decision, maybe it always felt this good to be this certain, but somehow, Jemma doubted it.

“I love you, Fitz,” she said. “That’s what I had to tell you. No matter what else is going on, I love you, and I know we can get through this better together. I’m- I’m so sorry if I’ve blown my chance or if I’ve missed my boat, or if I ever made you think that what was between us was over… or that there never was anything between us after all… I never meant that. I was just scared. I’m not scared any more.”

“You’re not just saying this because I’m helping Will, are you?” Fitz checked. “Because I’d do that anyway, and you don’t owe me –“

“No,” Jemma promised. “This isn’t about Will.”

“And you’re not saying any of this because you feel bad? About what you said before, about going for dinner and all that?”

“No,” Jemma promised, shaking her head. “Fitz. I’m saying this because I feel good about what I said before. I want dinner, I want all of it. That is, if you still… want… me.”

There passed a terrible span of seconds in which Jemma realised that she was, in fact, still very scared. She was mortified. The exhaustion had done wonders to mute the fear but now the nerves were raw and here she was suddenly realising she’d poured her heart out to Fitz again immediately after telling him that she might actually be in love with another man. What had she expected him to do with that information? Why had this ever seemed like a good idea?

“Jemma,” Fitz breathed.

Jemma still couldn’t bring herself to retreat to the doorway. She was deep in it now, and Fitz had cupped her hand so tenderly where it lay on his cheek, and gently nuzzled into it. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if cherishing the feeling, and Jemma’s heart leapt into ther throat. This was it, she thought, this must be the part where he would let her down, and he would do it with such softness and grace…

Only, what he said was;

“Of course I still want you.”

The stress slipped out in the form of a laugh as relief washed over her. “What?”

“I love you, Jemma,” Fitz said - breathlessly, with years’ worth of passion and impossible hope behind his words. He slipped his arms around her waist, holding her gently just a little closer, as if they were about to slow-dance right there in the middle of the lab. “I love you so much, and there is nothing I want more in this world right now than you.”

“Then… kiss me,” Jemma offered.

“Really?”

His eyes lit up, and Jemma grinned.

“Yes! Come on, I know you want to.”

Fitz was only too happy to oblige, and his lips met hers with such passion that she stumbled back a few steps, but she tangled her fingers in his hair at the same time so that he had no choice but to follow. They weaved backward in a kiss-drunken waltz until Jemma’s back bumped into the doorframe again and they both fell out of the kiss, giddy and laughing.

“Sorry,” Fitz said, blushing at how flushed Jemma suddenly looked. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while. Guess it got away from me a bit.”

“Don’t apologise,” Jemma told him. “But if you really want to, we can always try again.”

Her hand still in his hair, Jemma leaned up slightly on her toes. She smiled, mischief and a smug sort of joy on her lips, as she felt his arms wrap around her again and slowly pressed their lips together. This time it was an easy, gentle movement. The jitters and nerves of the first kiss had passed and what remained was nothing but the tenderness beneath.

Well, that and the exhaustion.

Jemma laughed and shook her head as Fitz finally put his hands on her hips and nudged her away, breaking the kiss to contort his face like a roaring lion.

“Are you… yawning?”

“It’s almost four in the morning, Jemma,” he explained, bleary-eyed. “I promise, love you with my whole heart, but a man’s got to sleep.”

“Oh. Well in that case, do you want to come to bed?”

“I’m serious, Jemma.”

“To sleep,” Jemma assured him. “I’m with you on that. I’m so tired I’m scared I’ll fall over the second I let go of you.”

“Don’t let go, then,” Fitz reasoned. “Here, I’ll carry you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I do push-ups now.”

“Oh, well in that case –“

Jemma kicked up her legs and Fitz caught them, as promised, and carried her bridal-style out of the lab and toward her bedroom. After a near-miss between her head and the doorframe, she was only too happy to drape herself dramatically backward, throw an arm around Fitz’s neck, and treasure the moment. It would not be long before reality came kicking the door down again, she was sure, but for now, morning was coming, and she was cradled in the arms of her best friend. Her boyfriend? Her Fitz, anyway. And if she’d learnt anything these last few months without him, it was that she knew better than to take a single second of their togetherness for granted.

That, and she was going to have to fight him for the position of Big Spoon with everything she had.

#fitzsimmons #marvelfluffbingo #agents of shield #fsfic #aosfic #thefitzsimmonsnetwork #aosficnet2 #clara's fic tag

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

༄ Remember » original

Genre: Dark, Angst ☁

Word Count: 3,376 ☁

Pairing: None ☁

World: Original ☁

Author’s Note: I wrote this from the bottom of my heart and it was very emotional for me to write. I got things off my chest that I had been holding onto for years. This piece is emotional and dark, and literally has a piece of my soul embedded into it.

WARNING: This piece contains the following: death (human and animal), depression, anxiety, talks of wanting to die, talk of self-harm and religion.

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For the past couple of hours, you’ve been feeling sick to your stomach without knowing why. Now it was clear to you that your body had been sensing what was to come. Your internet had been shut off and you were now struggling with your anxiety. Panic attacks were beyond your front door, banging and threatening to tear it right off its hinges. The internet had acted as chains covering the door to prevent it from breaking down, but without the chains there, the wood was beginning to splinter. You could feel it rising within you – the panic, the overwhelming fear. You just wanted to cry, but anger soon consumed you.

This didn’t have to happen. Your disability check was almost eight hundred bucks a month, while the internet was two hundred. Your mom held your card and you had trusted her to use that money to pay bills. Before she took the card over, you paid both the electric and internet on the first of every month. It left you broke, but at least it was paid. She only had to pay on the house each month – granted, her measly checks also had to buy pet food, toiletries, and food, and the house payment had been royally screwed by your late grandmother who refinanced more times than she should have.

The house was in foreclosure and you were being forced to pay five thousand dollars plus lawyer fees to stop it. She had gotten an attorney, but he was charging six hundred a month, which she could have paid but chose not to. The electric is high and behind. The internet is high and behind. The house is in foreclosure and someone kept coming to the door trying to serve you a twenty-day notice. You were royally fucked.

This was your fault. You never should have trusted her with your card. You knew better than to trust her with money – she’s always been bad with it. Last month alone she spent almost one hundred and fifty dollars on clothes because she ‘promised’ the girl and said the girl was holding the items for her. You should have said no. God, why the fuck didn’t you say no?

A sob passed your lips as your eyes burned with tears. You just wanted to scream at her, tear her down for what she hadn’t done, but you would feel guilty waking her up knowing she has to work.

YouTube was no longer playing in the background, leaving behind a silence that wrapped around your throat. You felt like you couldn’t breathe like hands were restricting your airflow. Your stomach churned and lurched, wanting to empty its contents.

You knew how your mom would handle the situation. She’d call them and make promises she couldn’t keep, giving them the sob story about how her mom had died and how she was in a car accident and how her disabled daughter has to have the internet. It was all true, but she couldn’t keep trying to guilt them into giving her more chances. They were a business, not a charity. It was only two weeks into the month and you didn’t get your check until the first. You couldn’t pay them.

What were you supposed to do? You wanted to scream, to punch the wall, but you remained silent, sobbing into your pillow without making a sound. Because you were a good child and didn’t want to disturb your sleeping mother.

You didn’t ask to be born, to be brought into such a cruel and unforgiving existence. Maybe you weren’t even meant to live in the first place.

When you were an infant, you had gotten pneumonia and stopped breathing. Perhaps you should have died that day, but fate is cruel. Your grandfather saved your life, but for what?

You have no fond memories of your life.

You remember at age ten when you found out your ‘parents’, the ones you loved and trusted, weren’t even your parents. They were your grandparents. How did you find out? Your mother, who you believed to be your sister, kept trying to convince you that she was, in fact, your birth mother. You remember it clearly, sitting in the backroom, sobbing, refusing to believe her words. And then the truth was dropped on you, but it was covered in lies.

She was an unfit mother, they said.

They had stolen you from her, she said.

There was the strict Christian upbringing where your grandparents drilled it into your brain from a young age. You were remember being terrified to breathe lest you offend the magical man in the sky. Every day you lived in fear, scared that if you said or did something wrong, you would burn in hell for all eternity for your sins.

Then there were the school years. You never fit in, no matter how much you changed yourself. With the skaters, you couldn’t skate to save your life. With the A+ students, your grades were average. With the asthmatic kids, your asthma didn’t bother you. With the troublemakers, you stole from the teacher’s desk to impress them. You never found your place. You never found friends. You were still very much alone.

You remember growing up with one of three older brothers. They shared the same mother, but they had a father while you did not. You know nothing about your father, and he doesn’t even know you exist. Despite begging, your mother insists that she doesn’t remember his name or where to find him. The only thing she told you is that he was crazy, threatening to cut himself if she left. You never believed that she didn’t know anything.

This brother, you idolized him. You wanted to be just like him, but he was a thug. His pants sagged down despite wearing a belt. He broke the law multiple times, got into fights, got arrested, smoked weed. He was your big brother, and you followed his lead. You remember being with him and his friend in Wal-Mart and agreeing to steal. They stole lighters for their cigarettes and blunts, you stole gel pens because you were a child that liked to write. You didn’t get caught, but you felt guilty and have never forgiven yourself.

He was more than just a bad influence, he was a destroyer. A monster that made you feel small and unwanted. How many times did he call you fat and useless? How many times did he say you were going to grow up to be a piece of shit? You were just a fatass with no future. You didn’t deserve to live, and he made sure you knew that. He had a horrible temper, often throwing and breaking things, or putting his fists and feet through the wall. He only got violent with you twice. The first time he shoved you down into the bricks, scraping the skin off your hand. The second he threw a glass of tea in your face because he didn’t like what you had to say. It wasn’t long before that adoration turned into pure, raw hatred. One that still burns inside you to this day.

You remember in sixth grade one day in particular. Because of your struggles with math, you were placed in a class meant to help you understand the subject better. The only thing you remember is how hairy the teacher’s arms were and how much she hated you for a reason you did not understand. There was a girl in that class, one you desperately wanted to befriend. She asked you to skip class and, being the desperate little attention seeker you were, you agreed. The teacher saw you both heading to class, only to turn away and walk in the opposite direction. Perhaps that’s why she hated you.

It was only one day, one class that you had skipped because you wanted to please that girl, but the teacher called your grandma down to the school and told her that you had skipped a week’s worth of her class. A lie, but who would believe a troubled child over a teacher?

You dropped out of school in sixth grade, the worst decision of your life. You didn’t understand why you just knew that you wanted to get away from people and the way they made you feel. You wanted to learn, however, and your grandmother tried to homeschool you. The problem? Against your pleas, she spent hundreds of dollars on a Christian based education. Every textbook, no matter the subject, forced god and his word down your throat. You remember that bookstore clearly. The clean atmosphere, the saintly workers and everything covered in crosses. You hated it, and naturally, you learned nothing. Your grandmother never hesitated to throw it in your face how much she had spent on trying to educate you. She was the master at making you feel guilty.

Despite wishing to die every day, cutting yourself and listening to music that screamed and shouted lyrics of pain and suffering in your ears, you made it to adulthood, still very much alone. You managed to get your first job, but only because your mother worked there. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was your job. Your first step to being a normal human being.

It was at a grocery store, working as a bagger. It was nothing personal, but your manager hated you. You were the only female bagger because he believed the job was too tough for girls, but he couldn’t put you on the cash register because you couldn’t handle money.

Your job was simple – smile and put the groceries in the bag. It was not simple for you, suffering from agoraphobia and a panic disorder, undiagnosed at the time. Whenever you would have to face another human being, your mind would blank and your hands would shake. Because of that, you purposely spent most of your time outside getting carts. It was hard with the sun blazing down on you. It would always be in the eighty to one hundred degree range with a humidity percentage of forty to sixty. It was brutal, especially since you had been doing nothing with your life since sixth grade, but it was better than dealing with other human beings, even if it was in the air-conditioned store.

When you weren’t outside, you were in the bathroom crying your eyes out, frantically texting your mom that you couldn’t handle it. You got into trouble on more than one occasion for spending too much time in the bathroom, but it was better than breaking down at the front of the store. The thing you remember most revolved around your manager. You were bagging for someone that had a cart nearly overflowing with groceries, doing your best to remain calm as you tried to match the cashier’s fast pace. The manager was standing off to the side by the door, talking with an old friend. Someone had dropped a paper cup outside and it had blown up to the door. Rather than bending down to pick up the cup that was less than a foot away, he made you stop bagging for the customer and pick the cup up because he was too good to bend his ass over and pick it up himself.

You don’t remember if you got let go or if you quit after that. You just remember no longer working there.

A few months pass of you lazing around, putting in applications and feeling like a free-loading waste of space. Finally, you got a bite. This time it was a well-known clothing store, not your first choice but a job was a job. You were hired and trained as a cashier.

It was your very first day, your very first customer and you completely froze up. You had been through training, but none of it had stuck and you had no idea what you were doing. It felt like a five-year-old giving a lecture on Neuroscience.

As soon as the customer left, you walked away and had a breakdown. You started to sob, approaching your manager and apologizing like your life depended on it. You couldn’t do it, but she felt sorry for you. She gave you a second chance, this time on the pricing team. You enjoyed this so much, despite sometimes being caught by customers. You did your best to stay in the back, going out of your way when customers were nearby, and you had many breakdowns in the bathroom. Still, you enjoyed what you did, and the discounts were worth the pain.

But nothing lasts forever. The holiday season ended and hours were cut. Your new manager, the one that ran the pricing team, promised to do her best to give you hours, but she wasn’t fond of you, having scolded you many times during your stay. Your hours slowly dwindled until they hit zero, and then you got a letter in the mail saying you had been let go.

Months passed and you were finally diagnosed with agoraphobia, depression, and an anxiety/panic disorder. With the help of your doctor and former therapist, you were put on disability. It made you feel like you really had become the piece of shit your brother had predicted. You couldn’t work. You had no education. You had no friends. You couldn’t even bring yourself to leave the house without having a panic attack.

Your life began to spiral farther and farther down. Your depression and anxiety worsened and your will to live was slowly starting to crumble away. Every day was a fight with your grandmother, who had become cruel in her old age. This was partly due to illness and being in pain every day, but it didn’t make it easier to live with. More than anything, you saw yourself reflected in her actions and words, and that terrified you.

She was in and out of the hospital for various reasons. She had cancer and had to go through chemotherapy. She had lost her will to live, so she didn’t take care of herself, rarely eating. She survived on bags of potato chips and popcorn, tea, water, and coffee. During one of her hospital stays, her nurse gave her too much medicine and she became comatose. When the medicine was out of her system, she had contracted pneumonia and was rushed to ICU. She stayed there for a few weeks, but her condition only worsened.

Her heart stopped and the nurse pronounced her dead, turning off the machines. Seconds later, with a deep and strangled gasp of air, her heart started again. She did this several times, dying and then returning with a loud cry. It was painful to watch. She was suffering and you just wanted her to let go, but you felt like an asshole for wanting her to die. The tears you had been struggling with for hours were starting to fall. You had to compose yourself, so you grabbed the razor blade from your bag and left for the bathroom. The second you left the room, she passed away, but you were too busy slicing into your arm to stop the tears.

The woman who raised you was gone, and suddenly all you could think about was all the times you fought. How many times had you told each other how much you hated one another? How many times had you screamed and yelled? She had done so much for you, but you were a spoiled brat that had taken it all for granted. And now she was dead. You never got to apologize. You never got to say you loved her.

You didn’t get a chance to mourn. Your mom was a wreck. She had always been strong and stubborn, nothing bothered her, but this event broke her. You couldn’t cry, you couldn’t complain. You had to be strong for her. You were all she had, and she made sure you knew that.

A few months passed and your puppy got sick. He was a miniature pinscher and Chihuahua mix that you had adopted from an old co-worker at the grocery store. You remember it clearly. Your hands had gravitated towards him, and once you picked him up, you didn’t let him go. He was yours, and you loved him dearly. This was a big deal because you hated dogs. Yet this little pup had captured your heart. You loved him dearly, and he was the best dog you had ever met, but one day, he started to act strangely. He felt bad and he just wanted your attention, pawing at your leg for you to pick him up. But you only cared about your game and ignored him, telling him to go away. Another regret you have to live with. His last memory before his mind slipped away was of his owner that he trusted and loved shooing him away when he needed you the most.

A few days later, his mind was gone. He was an empty shell, body on autopilot. His body was still alive, but he was already dead. And you were faced with the decision to try and save him, a process that would be painful, expensive, and only had a fifty percent chance to work, or end his suffering and put him down. You chose to put him down, but you couldn’t go through with it, slamming your fist on the counter. It felt wrong making that decision, but it felt just as wrong letting him suffer. You couldn’t do it.

You had been there with Tiger, your grandmother’s cat when she was put to sleep. You petted her and held her as they injected her with the drugs. You had been there when Kenny, your grandmother’s dog, had to be put down. They wouldn’t let you stay for it, but you were there telling him it would be okay and that you loved him. You had stayed with your grandmother, watching her die and come back multiple times. But you couldn’t be there for him. You had to beg your mom not to leave him alone while you sat outside crying your eyes out, contemplating jumping out in front of the cars speeding by on the road next to you.

If you could trade your life for your grandmother’s, you would do it in a heartbeat.

You know one day soon you’ll have to witness the death of your precious cat. She was your first pet and the last living link to your grandmother, as she is the one who picked her out for you and named her. When you were a teenager, going through so much shit, you had a severe anger problem. You hated how little control you had, so when your cat wouldn’t listen, you got angry and spanked her harder than you should have. You were downright abusive to that cat, something you regret every single day. How can she still love you after so much abuse? You don’t understand, but you’re so thankful. These days, you treat her like a goddamn queen, but you know she’s old and can’t live forever. This thought hurts you deeply – that cat has been your rock, your support ever since you were a teenager. She’s always been there, silently listening to you and offering her love and affection, even when you didn’t deserve it. She is your heart, and you know you’re going to lose it when she goes. You might not recover from it.

You’re curling up into yourself now, nose running as your tired eyes are sore from your tears. Your mother had woken up and you had confronted her about the internet. She called and was told it was an outage, that the service had not been interrupted, and she made sure to sprinkle in some guilt for snapping at her.

She didn’t even notice your tears. It’s easier that way because she doesn’t know when to quit.

Your eyes grow heavy and you struggled to keep them open. You’re physically exhausted and mentally drained. The sweet embrace of darkness calls to you and you give in, allowing yourself to drift off into dreamless darkness.

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#dark #angst #original #original writing #writing #creative writing #writeblr #scenario #scenarios #reader insert #reader-insert #reader #depression #anxiety #self-harm #death

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