#A fair bit of Angst | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whumpacabra · 21 days

Text

Tea

Angst, referenced therapy, referenced nightmares, referenced scars, referenced past trauma

[Concurrent to Session #15]

It was that time in spring when it was cool enough for a jumper outside, but too hot to sit in a car in the sun. Nathan cracked open the car window and his book. He would say one thing about driving East to these weekly sessions - it gave him plenty of time to get caught up on his reading.

Or at least, it normally did. His phone started ringing just as he got settled in. Nathan was worried at first - he was always worried about his wards - but seeing the caller ID had something bitter creep up his throat.

“Jackson. How have you been?” He was too polite to start chewing him out right off the bat.

As much as he wanted to.

“I’m well, just wrapping up some loose ends. How’s East?” Jackson sounded…fine. Nonchalant and relaxed. As though he didn’t leave Nathan in charge of a man with a fabricated record, no background to speak of, and enough trauma to need weekly therapy sessions for months at a time.

“John. What the fuck were you thinking?” Nathan dropped his voice low, a furtive glance around the empty parking lot as though someone might overhear. “You shouldn’t have brought him here - I do not have the training to be an on-call psychiatric nurse.”

“I know - I know.” Jackson was almost audibly cringing. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t fair to drop…all that on you so suddenly.”

“It wasn’t... God, Jackson, you - I mean, you told me what to expect but…Christ.”

“That bad?”

“At the start. Like a goddamn robot, never left his room, always seemed a stern look away from bursting into tears.” Nathan sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Not exactly easy to pass off as a guy with assault charges who just got out on good behavior. I’m not sure any of the boys really bought that story.”

“Records are easier to fake than the experience, I guess.” Jackson sighed ruefully, an apology in his voice. “Have they been…how’s he doing with them?”

“Took a bit but he seems to have warmed up to a few. Al and Tierney took him out to the pub the other night.”

“A pub? He - that’s, that sounds like he’s doing a hell of a lot better than he was when I dropped him off.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you.” He winced even as the words left his lips - it was a bit cruel, but it was true. Jackson had really dropped off the face of the earth for the last few months. God, what Nathan wouldn’t give to be having this conversation in person. “Therapy has been helping - seems to be at least.”

“Good - good, I guess…I was worried he…I’m glad it’s working out.”

“Me too.” Nathan hummed, brow furrowed in thought. “Why call me now?”

“Well, if my time zones are correct he’s in a session right now - ”

“No, why are you checking in now? It’s been almost four fucking months Jackson.”

“I know - I know, I’m sorry - I’m on a plane home in…seven hours.” There was a rustle of paperwork on the other side of the line. Nathan could practically see Jackson dance around the question - evading explanation for what he could only hope was a damn good reason. “I was - I was actually wondering if I’d be able to meet with him in person, when I got back.”

“…sure. I’ll have to check his work schedule. Is this the kind of thing where I should give him a heads up or…if this more of a business visit?”

“Christ - no, nothing like that. By all means tell him I’ll be back in town and want to see him. I was thinking lunch maybe - if you, as his supervisor, give him permission.”

“I’ll consider it.” Nathan chuckled, sighing into the phone. “But John?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re even. Once he’s out of the program he’s on his own and I don’t want you to ask me to do something like this again.”

“I understand. I’m sorry, Nathan.”

“I know you are.” He hung up, pressing his forehead to the sun warmed steering wheel.

What he wouldn’t give for this to be normal - for East to be a normal probation case with a normal life to go back to. A normal felon with a normal support network or lack thereof that Nathan knew how to navigate, how to help. But East was so far from normal; no protocol or training or prior experience prepared Nathan for the desperate wreck of a man he had met all those months ago.

He hoped he had done everything right. He hoped Jackson wouldn’t fuck up what he had done right. He hoped he could forget about all this, the late night nightmares and the scars glimpsed under sleeves and the eyes that watched him with the expectation of pain. But Nathan knew he would be worrying about the poor bastard until the day he died, no matter where he ended up.

(All he could hope was that whatever Jackson had in mind, it was somewhere safe and quiet. Somewhere with black coffee and morning runs and good friends. Christ knew East deserved it.)

[Before The Target]

(Part of my Freelancers: Changing Tides series)

Taglist: @stargeode @sacredwrath @genuineformality

#whump #angst #therapy #past trauma #nightmares #scars #freelancers #not the in person chewing out Jackson deserves but to be fair Nate would want to throw hands. just a bit.#there’s context to what Nate owed Jackson but eh idk if it’ll come up naturally so this is what ya get #throwing it in the ‘If I ever get the time to write the Liza sequel I’ll tell you guys. this universe is vast and infinitely complex’#busy starting tomorrow with [redacted] so…wish me and mine safety and security. on account of the Horrors. o7 #in other news yaaaaaaay last week of classes I can finally focus on writing my thesis and get outta this place

12 notes · View notes

factorialsotherfandoms · 8 months

Text

The day has been going so well. The tasks are relatively simple, and so Missa had offered to take Chayanne through them. Tallulah had finished earlier in the week, and so asked to spend the day working on her basement garden instead. Philza, hesitant at first, took the opportunity to meet up with Etoiles for some dungeon runs.

Missa and Chayanne are nearly done with the tasks - a yellow banana had been eaten with breakfast, Chayanne had quite happily thrown himself in the bath without prompting, and they had sung a song together as they went on their walk. All that remains is picking flowers together - currently in progress in the flower field Tallulah loves.They could have called the task done already, but Chayanne wants to collect some extra for Tallulah.

All is going well until nightfall. It should have been fine - the area is lit well enough for even Philza's standards - but it proves not. Out from beyond the torchlight monsters appear, seemingly undeterred as they approach with singular purpose.

Every single one of them has their eyes on Chayanne.

"Chayanne?" Missa whispers. "Go get Phil."

There isn't time to see the response of his son before the monsters hit. Having spent the time telling his child to go, Missa is left on the back foot. He has never been the best fighter, but the attack leaves him scrambling for his weapons. By the time he has his sword there is a claw not just in but through his leg, as the monsters try to get through him and to his son beyond.

His son, who is also holding a sword, and threatening the monsters with it.

And some of the monsters have found their way around. Chayanne does not seem to have noticed them, too focused on the threat directly in his line of sight.

"Chayanne!" Missa throws himself between Chayanne and the monster's teeth. "Run!"

Missa feels the monster comp down on - through - his armour. The enchantments kick in as soon as the teeth are gone, fixing up the holes, but underneath the tissue of his arm still bleeds and frays. The pain is intense, but no moreso than rotting alive. Missa does as he has always done - he swallows, and prays, and begs goddesses who can't hear for their intervention. He lets the tears come, lets himself cry, and breathes through the worst of the pain.

Beneath him the injured leg snaps, collapsing beneath him; he raises his blade to block angry jaws, and screams for his baby to run once again.

Now immobilised, there is nothing Missa can do as one of the monsters slips around him, aiming for Chayanne. He sees the boy - his brave boy, his strong boy - hesitate.

It's only then that Missa remembers - he lets down his defence to grab his communicator, spamming 'ttt' in the chat. If Chayanne won't run, then at least Missa can be sure he is safe.

The distraction is enough for the monster to lean forth once again, teeth digging deep into his shoulder - Missa screams, red hot agony, calls for a husband he knows is not here.

Behind him he hears the slight whistle of a sudden absence. He spares a glance, and Chayanne is gone. Safe. His son is safe.

The monster raises its head, dragging its teeth through tender flesh and tossing Missa into the air. He lands with a crunch, his communicator falling far to one side, and searches for his sword.

It takes him a moment, but he gets it just in time; with a slash to his left he discourages one monster from coming closer, with a slash to the right he keeps another pair of teeth at bay.

But he cannot last forever.

There are four, maybe five of the creatures, and only one Missa. One Missa, so much weaker than the others on the island. He cannot even dig himself a safe hole this time, the attacks too relentless even to spam dirt around himself. All he can do is fight, and wait, and hope someone cares enough to find him before his body gives in.

He cannot die, he knows this.

That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, and it doesn't mean he can't be destroyed.

One of the monsters gets behind him, and Missa shrieks. Agony and fright mix into one, leaving him sobbing as he twists and tries to fend it away.

In the chaos and the roars he nearly misses the panicked call of "Missa!"

As it is, he thinks he might have hallucinated it.

But then, there is the putta-putta of a potato gun shooting golden carrots from on high, the woosh of someone dropping down, and the splashes of three bucket clutches.

Joint blurrs of black and green get between him and the monsters, while the third figure - Missa cannot quite raise his head enough to see - drops bottles of splash potion all over him.

It only takes the edge from the pain, but Missa can breathe easier. He looks up and finds Max at his side, already fending off the smallest of the beasts.

Missa struggles to his feet, grasps his sword, and backs into a small deepslate pillar Etoiles has left behind.

He catches Philza's eye, whose serious expression doesn't drop, but whose voice is a reassurance none the less, "it's alright, king, we've got you."

Max glances over his shoulder, nodding to him.

Missa nods back, and tightens his grip, being protected more than protecting now as he continues to bleed into his armour.

"Missa!" as soon as the fight is over, Philza is running over and calling for him. There is blood all over his hands as he cups Missa's face, and neither of them could give a damn. "Missa, are you okay?!"

A sob bubbles up between the tears, then another, then another. Soon enough he has all but collapsed against his husband, unable to do anything but cry.

Philza runs a hand through his hair, gently shushing him.

There's the sound of another water bucket clutch, and of Etoiles and Max talking. A third voice - Fit - joins in, and Missa lets it fade out.

"Hey," the only voice that can break through the tears whispers. "Do you want to go home?"

Missa nods against his husband's shoulder, but makes no move to either stop crying or to go. There's a little bit of typing on a communicator, before Philza fishes around in his pocket. A moment later, Missa's warpstone is pressed into his hand.

"Phil and Missa, remember?" Philza's voice is soft. "Bad'll bring Chayanne and Tallulah back, and these guys can grab anything you dropped."

Missa tries to mention the communicator, only for pathetic, stressed weeping to escape his mouth once again. Philza looks so worried as he shushes him, and prods him to warp again.

Eventually Missa gets it, and does as he's told.

Before he can even orient himself, his butchered legs are being slammed into by tiny arms.

"Chayanne?" He whispered, swallowing the tears as best he can. "They didn't hurt you, did they?"

Chayanne shakes his head, burrowing it tighter into Missa's knees. Missa reaches down, ignoring how his entire body screams, to scoop him up onto his his.

"He wasn't hurt," Bad promises, and Missa is startled into noticing the man. "Just scared."

"Scared of the monsters?" Missa turns to his son. "Thats okay, dad will protect us both."

A tiny fist slams into Missa's chest, hitting just near the bite marks. Missa gasps and stumbles, only by a miracle keeping hold of the boy. Bad is leaps forward to support him, and as he does the waymarker flickers and Philza appears.

Exhausted, Missa lets both men offer their support.

They lead him to the door - the door, thank goodness, not the hatch - and help him to the bed. Chayanne continues to nervously cling, letting go with only one hand to write 'are you okay papa?'

"I…" Missa's words trail off at another spike of pain. "Papa will recover."

"We'll look after him real good, won't we Chayanne?" Philza asks, back from saying thank you and farewell to Bad. "Why don't you go get him some food while I check for anything the potion didn't catch?" Chayanne hesitates, but nods, and runs off towards the hatch and the kitchen.

Philza sits on the bed beside him, taking hold of the hand on his less injured arm, and running his thumb over the knuckle bones.

"Are you alright?"

Philza asks it so gently that Missa starts to cry all over again.

Why can't he just stop crying?!

But Philza still holds him close, offering him not healing but regen.

"Take this, and let me look at those wounds. The teeth looked a nightmare."

Because of course, of course Philza didn't get bitten.

Missa does as he's told, sipping on the potion and letting it warm his insides as Philza cleans out the wounds, sets bones, wraps him up in gauze and bandages and find soft, but still enchanted, clothes to go over the top.

By the time he is done, Chayanne is back with food, and a somewhat muddy looking Tallulah in tow. She seems happy, though, pipping out on her flute in greeting before looking for something to do.

Missa takes the food - bone soup, again - and sips on it.

"This is so good Chayanne!" He promises his son. "I can feel it helping already."

Chayanne seems a little more relaxes at that, but still moves to hug close to Missa's side.

Seeing that, Tallulah decides that the other side must be hers, and squishes her way in too.

Philza, when he noticed, gives a little laugh. He snaps a photo, then comes back, climbing a little on the bed to get behind Missa and pull him back.

Missa follows, ending up in his husband's arms.

"You're amazing," Philza promises. "But rest now. Its been a long day."

He has barely been awake two hours, Missa doesn't say. He isn't sure what part of all this deserves being called amazing but, as adrenaline fades, he curls up on Philza's chest, their children huddled close.

With a hand running through his hair and faint reassurances in his ear, Missa let's consciousness fade to the sound of a fond chuckle, and with fingers softly combing through his surely matted hair.

#qsmp fanfic #a whumptober fic actually on prompt what is this horror?#qsmp missa #qsmp chayanne #philza and tallulah are also here a fair bit #and a few other people less #angst #hurt/comfort #missa will be fine he's just a bit shaky from panic and blood loss #everyone's just a bit shaken

33 notes · View notes

sentientsky · 6 months

Text

Here, I’m bored and tired, so have an excerpt from my fic, “Until the Bitter End”, specifically a major plot point in chapter 8 because someone bookmarked it as “start at chapter 8” aksjsajsjkskdj

#disclaimer I’m not knocking the user who said this akajsjsjjdjd!! I totally understand and I want ppl to enjoy my stuff however they see fi #*see fit #to be fair it IS very very slowburn for the first bit #the first seven chapters are just angst and laying down key plot points for the climax/denouement lol #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #good omens 2 #aziraphale #aziracrow #go2 #ineffable lovers #ineffable wives #good omens season 2 #ao3 #good omens fix it #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #David tennant

28 notes · View notes

indigosabyss · 7 months

Text

how did i get so deep into my yj x ya crossover without realizing the funniest bit about Wally "there is no way magic is real" West and Tommy "if you say the wrong thing in front of my little brother he might actually make it real bc he is a sorcerer of incalculable power" Shepherd meeting?

#there is obvs gonna be a lot of tension between billy and tommy #i just... fuckin love the angst that can come of it #its not fair to either of them. they have the potential of being incredible friends #but the way the cards are dealt to both of them #i cant help but wonder: does tommy resent him a lil bit?#speed #tommy shepherd #young avengers #wally west #kid flash #flash #young justice #marvel x dc

28 notes · View notes

deadgit · 1 year

Text

Red Dwarf story ideas I’ve had while intoxicated: Hologram ghost story: In a future, distant even from the point of the show, Lister and the Cat have passed on. Kryten has stopped working. Red Dwarf itself is slowly deteriorating. Holly has mostly stopped working; the ship can only move forward, still picking up enough fuel as it does to continue shuffling forward, lights flickering through the massive gaps gouged into the sides. A hologram is still running, even though the hologram suite was badly damaged in a trip through an asteroid belt. He can’t store any new memories, and many of his old memories are lost, but he wanders around the deteriorating ship, and sometimes wonders where everybody has gone and why he’s alone, and if it’s all his fault.

Changing the past: Lister and Rimmer have gotten old in deep space. As Lister’s health begins to decline, they discover a technology that allows someone to force their current consciousness into a past form of themselves. Lister could go back to before the disaster and avoid everything. In one universe, he decides that he can’t do that - he’s lived an entire life, and that’s enough for him. In another universe, he and Rimmer suddenly wake up on Red Dwarf, young and alive and surrounded by people, with decades of memories of the lonely end of humanity. Lister is aware that if he saves himself from the disaster, he’s condemning Kryten to millions of years more in total isolation and making it so Cat will never be born. Despite how badly he wanted to be surrounded by people again, he finds it hard to spend time with anyone but Rimmer. All of his friends think that there’s something wrong with him, because overnight he’s changed completely. He and Rimmer try to warm people about the faulty drive plate, but they feel like no one listens to them. They both get off of Red Dwarf at Titan, adopt Frankenstein, and try not to think about the past or the future too much.

#apparently i come up with REALLY DEPRESSING STORIES when i'm a bit loopy #though. to be fair. that second story is only about half angst actually #the angst is the most interesting part but there could also be a pretty substantial shippy element to it #a la ''it took me decades to fall in love with this guy but suddenly we're both young and hormonal again and wheeeee that's kinda heady!''#and rimmer assumes they're going to be trying to act the same as they did back then around other people #but lister is just ''nope you're me babe and i WILL be flirting with you in public'#and all his friends are just O_o #anyway!

60 notes · View notes

neverevan · 8 months

Text

WIP Wednesday 🍸

I'm always late so now I decided to try and post early and start the day off with a snippet from the drunk and stupid fic – which is almost finished, currently standing at 11k and hopefully will be posted on Friday at the latest~

Eddie nodded, his hair an absolute mess and falling over Buck’s face as he moved. His hands finally found their way under Buck’s shirt and he ran them over his abs, then his pecks, lingering over his nipples, rubbing his thumbs in circles around them and – fuck, Buck was always so much more sensitive when drunk.

He bit his bottom lip, but it did little to stifle the high-pitched moan ripping out of his throat. He pushed his chest into Eddie's hands, his breath catching as his nipples hardened under Eddie’s touch.

“Fuck… Eddie.” If you’d ask Buck, he’d say it was absolutely not a whine, but since no one was asking he was quite content on letting Eddie’s name twist off of his tongue in any manner of sound.

Eddie pushed Buck’s shirt up as far as it went with his jacket still wrapped around his shoulders and slid lower over his body to exchange his right hand to his mouth and o-kay. Buck was definitely whining now.

If he had the composure he might’ve made a mental note about how no one ever took him apart with so little, but right now all he could pay attention to was the route of Eddie’s tongue around his nipple and the way his wet and overly-warm lips wrapped around it, sucking after every few laps.

Buck’s hands went to Eddie’s back, suddenly too aware of how overdressed they both were. He fisted the fabric of his Henley, pulling and tugging, not coordinated or coherent enough to make Eddie lift himself up long enough to actually take it off of him.

No pressure tagging: @forthewolves @eddiediaztho @daffi-990 @jesuisici33 @callaplums @ladydorian05

#nearly there just gotta tidy up the ending and have a last edit #they really made me work on this #and the angst that I totally did *not* plan took over a bit #but I'm gonna give it the sappiest and fluffiest ending because the boys deserve it #btw fair warning I absed the hell out of em dashes and semicolons and italics #like I've outdone myself methinks #also the angst isn't that heavy at all #I just initially planned this to be some sweet fluffy smut #but that's not how we landed #buddie #911 #wip #the drunk and stupid fic

15 notes · View notes

swinging-stars-from-satellites · 11 months

Note

If you don’t mind writing angst or sad right now, how about a snippet from when Holly loses the rest of her Rotwell team. :))

Holly Louise Munro is sixteen years old and doesn't think she's going to make it to seventeen. Plenty of psychic agents don't, after all. And this window isn't a very good reassurance.

The night started ordinarily enough. The case was somewhat routine, disturbances and disruptions that her team was sent to investigate and mitigate. Most poltergeists don't make a habit of violently hurling knives the instant the sun goes down, though. Most wait, most build up to full attacks, most don't do this-

Holly has to remind herself to breathe, but not too loudly. It's only barely one in the morning, still comparatively early in a usual worknight. If she breathes too loudly, or moves too much, or panics, the Visitor will hear her, or sense her, or notice her, and she can't have that. She has to file a report, it's only proper procedure, she has to- She has to tell their families.

Arthur was the first to be killed. Holly was in the kitchen prepping tea, quickly and clipped and just the way she always does, while the other three made their rounds, set up chains, laid iron filings. Arthur, a supervisor around her height with a face full of freckles, stopped into the kitchen to check in with her. Holly's head was ducked, not looking his direction even though she heard him coming with his cheerful, "Oy, Munro-". The instant he poked his head of tousled ginger hair around the entrance to the kitchen, a knife flew through the air and stabbed into his neck, all but pinning him to the wall of the hallway behind him.

Holly's head had whipped up at the grisly thunk, in just enough time to see the light go out of his eyes. Her mind was utterly blank for far too long, and it was the first time she had to remind herself to breathe that night. The blank look in Arthur's eyes, the knife protruding from his windpipe and the thin trickles of blood falling down around it, are seared into her memory. She'll never forget that.

Selfishly, she'll hate herself for it later and has already kind of started, her first thought is it's in here with me. It's fuzzy and slow, the realization, but it sticks in her head anyway. She puts a hand on her rapier, tries to remember where she'd seen the knife block sitting on the counter before the sun set, and thanks God above for the gift of shock.

Poltergeists are drawn to strong emotion. If she were feeling anything in particular at the moment, she would easily become the next victim. She'd never seen a Visitor become so violent so quickly before coming to Cotton Street. There isn't an iron circle in the kitchen. They hadn't thought there was enough space or need.

"Brenton," Holly calls as loudly as she dares, "Christa," and the other two members of her team hadn't responded. Brenton refused to go by his first name, and Christa was barely fourteen years old. Arthur had loved caramelized biscuits. He'd probably been coming to beg some from her when he was killed.

For the longest time, Holly stood stock still in the cramped kitchen of a home on Cotton Street with the body of one her supervisor, who loved caramelized biscuits and earl grey tea and had too-long ginger hair that stuck up every which way and freckles almost as dark as Holly's own skin, and all she could think of was lists of details of these children she works with. Children who likely won't see another birthday. Children sent to die in a home on Cotton Street.

All she could think was that Christa's favorite color is green and she'd had strawberry cake from a storebought boxed mix that she'd made herself for her birthday last week even though Holly had offered to bake something, and that she'd worn non-regulation platform boots to make herself look taller, and her wispy blonde hair fell in front of her eyes like mare's-tail clouds. All Holly could think is that it took her six months to find out Brenton's first name, Augustin, and that he'd been named for a Saint who preached unity even though the boy himself picked more fights on sillier grounds than anyone Holly had ever met, even all her aunts and uncles at family reunions when she was very little, and that she brought chamomile tea along even though it wasn't a standard because she knew he had anxiety and it helped to calm his nerves. And that these were the children Holly now had responsibility for, as the oldest of them, and who she can't save from this.

"Christa," she tries again. "Brenton!" Her voice is getting more shrill, she knows it, can feel it trembling in her jawbone. All of a sudden she wants to cry. She's only sixteen. She's more of an adult than any of them, but she's not, not really. She just has to be. She has to be the adult, because that's what would keep them alive. They needed her. "I need you!"

"Alright, Holly?" Came one high, airy little voice, and if Holly hadn't choked out the tiniest little sob as she dares to step out into the hallway, closer to Arthur's body but father from the knife block which she remembers now is sitting under the tiny square window with curtains she had thought earlier were pretty, with embroidered daisies and dandelions, she's a liar.

"Christa, come here right now," Holly says. "Rapier out." A rapier won't do much good against a Visitor with no corporeal form, but she isn't going to tell the other girl that. The key right then was to stay calm, to hold themselves together to hopefully keep them alive. "Was Brenton with you?" She asks, stepping out to meet Christa and keep her from seeing Arthur with a knife in his neck. They see so much in this job, but she can try to protect the littler girl from this much.

Christa shakes her head. "He was in the bedroom."

Holly nods, shouts Brenton's name again, and stiffens when she hears rattling from behind them. She doesn't dare turn around to look back toward the kitchen, but she would have and did bet her life that the knives were moving, slipping from their slots and drawers and Arthur's throat. She takes Christa by the shoulders, bends to look her in the eye because even platform boots can't make a little girl big all at once.

"Go find him and get into your chain circle. That's what he was doing, right?" When Christa nods, Holly continues. "Go tell him I said to get in the chains, right now. stay there until I say so." For the first time, fear shows in Christa's eyes. For the first time, she looks back over Holly's shoulder. She gasps and goes even paler than usual and starts to tremble in Holly's hands. "Don't look," Holly says. "Go. I'll be right behind you."

"Do you promise?" Christa asks. And Holly, trying to be the adult, trying to remind herself to breathe, nods once and firmly.

"I promise." She pushes Christa toward the bedroom, toward hopefully safety. The girl doesn't look back. She was always whip-smart, Holly can tell her parents that, always did the inventory twice as well as anyone and enjoyed the mathematics and memorized the regulations, knew what to do if she had to go off-book, too.

She was so, so bright and had mare's-tail hair and she had trusted Holly so completely that when she picked up her pace and started running on her size four platform combat boots, Holly truly thought she'd be safe in the chain circle with Brenton in only a few seconds. She hoped it, believed it so much that she turned away to return, steeling herself metaphorically and literally, to the kitchen where her bag was.

She had flares, salt bombs, precious senses of safety in there. Quickly, clipped, she collected her things, strapped extras onto her body, stared at the knives hovering just above their places in the knife block. It wasn't attacking her right now. It couldn't, of course, because it's focus was on the tiny girl down the hall. The thud sent chills through Holly, the sudden ice cold that comes with being pierced through with abject terror.

Dropping her bag, she'd run toward the sound, and come to a desperate halt when she saw the knife, the same one that had sliced through Arthur's windpipe, embedded between Christa's shoulderblades. It must have severed her spine in just the right place, because she's dead by the time Holly tries to find her pulse. She thinks, and will continue to think, that it's a mercy. Still, tears come to her eyes and she's forced to blink them away, keep breathing, keep breathing, when Brenton appears, sweaty and shocked.

"Munro?" He says weakly. She shakes her head.

"Go," she hisses, and hears metal rattling ominously. "Get in the circle," she cries, standing to her feet and running to push him ahead of her. "It's a Poltergeist," she explains hastily, shoving him roughly into the bedroom where a wide circle of chain sits in the clear space between the bed beside the door and the window at the far wall of the room. "Get in-"

She flinches, drops her grip on Brenton's arm and covers her head in fear when something shiny flashes in the corner of her eye. She doesn't know what it is, but this Visitor's hallmark is metal things, harmless metals like copper and composites free of iron or silver, cheap faux silverware and bargain jewelry.

It's an ornamental gold pocketknife and a hatpin this time, that do sweet terrified Brenton in. The knife is just large enough that she can see it sticking out of his stomach, the hatpin embedded in between two of his ribs, probably puncturing a lung. She whimpers a small, useless "No!" as Brenton crumples to the floor just outside the chain. She blinks hard and fights back tears once more, struggles to breathe even shallow shaky breaths, and clings to the small sweaty hand he holds out.

"The circle," Brenton wheezes, moving his arm like he's trying to push her into it. Almost robotically, she crawls across the chain, into the protective circle, but never let's go of Brenton as she does.

"It's going to be okay," she whispers uselessly, "You're going to be fine."

Brenton stared at her, hopefully in too much shock to feel the pain as he had bled slowly out against a chest of drawers. His eyes were wide and green and every part of him was trembling. His breaths were strained and labored and Holly knew, the whole time, that she was lying to him. He was dying right in front of her. Her whole team was dead or dying. They were just children.

Brenton fumbled with her hand, his palm slipping. Something thunked into a wall outside in the hall. "I'm scared, Hol, I'm so scared, please, Holly-"

"I've got you," she told him, "It's alright, August, I'm here, I'll-" She couldn't say protect you. She's already failed at that. "It's alright. I've got you." She says it over and over, until internal bleeding or a collapsed lung takes the light from his eyes. She keeps saying it even after he's dead as if that can bring him back or make it true.

She keeps saying it for so long that she doesn't realize at first how loud the rattling throughout the house is. Drawers are shaking, items that aren't shiny or sharp now threatening at every angle. There is a trail of Holly's dead teammates leading to this room, and there's next to no good way to fight a Poltergeist this strong. Holly is completely alone except for a thing that wants to kill her and will probably succeed, and she has to remind herself to keep breathing.

The window is her only chance. It's a second floor, but she can probably survive that. The odds are better than staying here through the night, rapier useless and team dead around her. She thinks she's going to be sick. She thinks there's almost no point. If the fall doesn't kill her she'll still be alone til morning.

She gives up on the chains and finds herself pressed against the wall beneath the window, shaking. A drawer flies open in the bedside table and a desperate sob rips out of her. She can't time it properly, can't see the Visitor's approach as it comes to take her life. She forces herself to breathe once, twice, and then turns, scrabbles at the window latch and throws it open. It screeches with disuse, takes all her shaky strength to pry it open and lift it wide enough to get out, and she almost falls headfirst when she manages it.

The noise in the house builds to a fever pitch as Holly rolls out of the window, finds herself on a tile roof, and keeps sliding. The impact when she hits brick, a chimney, will leave her with bruises and a single broken rib. She can still hear the rattling and pounding inside the Cotton Street flat, can see all three of her teammates lying dead inside. For the first time since the sun went down, she doesn't have to force herself to breathe.

When they find her in the morning, the flat's owner and DEPRAC and a Rotwell department head, still lying against the chimney barely aware of the world around her, she's cried herself out. She's dehydrated and exhausted, but there's no more rattling inside the house. She'd cried for hours, rattling sobs wrenching out of her, in the dark against that chimney. It was loud and ragged and she doesn't know how none of the neighbors heard her. She cried so hard her head hurt and she couldn't even speak to explain what happened to her for nearly a full day.

The scene inside the flat had spoken for itself, though. Holly was the sole survivor, of course. And she got to see her seventeenth birthday, not that it mattered much. She was taken off of active duty, assigned a desk and inventory and peperwork that she did twice as well as anyone else in honor of Christa Wells, who didn't live to see fifteen. She drinks chamomile tea when her hands shake because she remembers how scared Augustin Brenton was when he died, and she keeps a pack of caramelized biscuits in a well-oiled drawer in her desk because she sometimes still expects Arthur O'Connor to come by and ask if she has any.

She is very good at her job, no matter how angry she finds herself at the adults, real adults, who so fail the children in their care and instead leave the children to each other. Even in that, she finds herself numb more often than not and wonders if this is what it's like for Visitors. She doesn't know why she survived and they didn't. She doesn't know why she's alive, or how to be.

Holly has to remind herself to breathe sometimes.

#bestie I am always down for angst. like even if I'm down in the dumps it's cathartic #muahahaha #actually also this gets addressed in the #girls trip fic #which I have a fair bit of done I'm just kinda slogging through midpoint filler atm so yeah #anyway. her middle name is louise now bc I said so :)#also the tense changes are somewhat intentional please don't think I'm a bad writer akdkfnskfnskfnskf #Lu writes #lockwood & co #L&c #holly munro

23 notes · View notes