#I had an appointment with my GP this afternoon and I walk in and he’s like oh is it ok if so and so is present
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Y’all, life feels like so much right now.
My dad is declining, but it’s slow and sad and very hard from a caregiving perspective. My mom is exhausted to the point that we are looking at placement in a facility. We’ve toured two. One was not great, one was much better but all the people who were in the dining room for lunch were asleep in their wheelchairs. My dad rarely sleeps so that seems like a poor fit. We go to see another one this week. Meanwhile, my mom is paying a small fortune for in-home care from 10pm-6am so she can get some rest.
Ms. 6 and I are having lunch with her mom this week. I’m being super honest in saying I have no capacity for this right now. Her mom has been very appropriate so far, so I’m hopeful, but even so, it is so much for me to process and walk through with Ms. 6, but I can’t let her walk through it alone. It’s not even Mom, it’s just doing one more really big thing that involves me having the physical, mental, and emotional capacity to manage.
The fighting at our house this summer has been off the chain! The three little boys bicker (and worse) constantly. We are starting play therapy with Baby this week. It takes about eight sessions to be up and actually running, but at least we are getting started.
Our floors are going in this week. This is a major step in completing the renovation. I believe it will help to have three kids at summer camp for at least part of the week. I think the floor people will be here working all week and then I think we need to be out of the house for about 48 hours once they apply the last coat of whatever to the floor. I’m desperately trying to go with the flow. After the floors are done, we can do trim, put in doors, and figure out the closet system.
Oh, I forgot that last week we thought DH was having some sort of heart issue which resulted in a lengthy afternoon/evening spent in the ER. He was sitting at the dining room table eating lunch when all of a sudden his BP went sky high, he felt nauseated and vomited, and got incredibly sweaty (like soaked through his clothes and left a puddle on the table where his arm was resting) in less than one minute. Eventually, I thought it was a panic attack as once his labs were read, his glucose was high, but his urine pH was also high so the ER doc said it was dehydration. That seems inaccurate given that he was not outside, had not performed hard manual labor, and had had some fluids (normal intake for him) that day. Idk. He has to follow up with his GP this week. I’ve never seen a panic attack but everyone who has said it looks like the symptoms he experienced. That seems like it would fit better given that he had seen his parents a few days prior for the first time in nearly two years, had processed that in a therapy appointment earlier that day, and has been under general emotional stress (like me) for the better part of the summer. Who wants to weigh in? I’m listening and hoping to accompany him to his appointment this week and want to be prepared.
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I encounter problems nobody else on the fucking planet has ever encountered before
Since it's Monday, and I figured places would be, ya know, open, I went to my insurance to find a therapist to make an appointment because I want to claw my fucking skin off. I went down the list, met with either disconnected lines or voice mail, before I finally spoke to an actual human being, and he told me I could go down and fill out some forms and get an appointment. Cool. Except the address he gave me was not the address on the website.
Fine, fuck whatever. I go down to where I think he meant, because I know that this place I've called is a network of buildings and there are a few of them around town. So I go to the one I think he's meant, but nope. It's the wrong one. She sends me to what I think is across the street, but it's the wrong one again, and as I'm trying to figure it out, I remember that he mentioned being behind the YMCA. So I finally figured that out, and find the correct building a block away.
Because there are three buildings within a block of one another, all doing slightly different things. Because why not?
I got into this one and there are like, four doors as soon as I get inside, and none of them are labelled, so I just have to guess where I'm trying to go. Eventually I find one that's unlocked, and I find a lady who does billing, and at this point I'm nearly hysterical. I have no idea what's going on, I'm just trying to talk to somebody about an obscenely traumatic weekend, and this is not helping. She hands me a 20-page intake form, which I was at least expecting, and then drops the bombshell on me that they're not actually open on Mondays. So now I'm wondering who I just spoke to on the phone, who just told me to come down and fill out paperwork, and I'm turning into a fucking stereotype at this point of the hysterical little gay man having a fit in a lobby because nothing is going right, so she hands me a card for an office that is open on Mondays, and which can schedule an appointment for me.
At this point I'm at least able to calm down a bit, and I asked her if there was anywhere I can fill out the paperwork, because I don't want to go all the way home just to do it, and she let me sit in the lobby to do it at least. Then, as I was halfway to this mysterious fourth clinic, I realised it's my my fucking GP. The place I have been going to at least once a month lately for another issue entirely. So I get there and at this point I am done. I just about managed to not have a full breakdown in their lobby, and it was only the fact that the receptionists were baffled that not one single person I spoke to had bothered to ask my name over this entire thing that prevented me from having a full total breakdown right there in the lobby. I was already in the system. I didn't need to walk all over town. I didn't need to go to three other places. I didn't even need to leave the house at all. I could have just called my GP, but I didn't think about it, because I'm so fucking fried from what happened that I'm just kind of on auto pilot. But as soon as I was able to gain control of my mouth, I told them what happened, and that I just need to talk to someone, and they set up a phone call for me later this afternoon, and wow. How amazingly easy that was.
Jesus Christ, I'm going to explode. What a massive amount of stress I do not need.
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PARIS, FRIDAY: Somebody Please Remove These Cutleries From My Knees
Alright, after this I'll write something other than my personal kvetches, but today is not that day. (If you want to skip my personal health story, go to Part 2.)
PART 1 (CW: My Innards)
Things are possibly looking up.
Yesterday, I managed to get an appointment with a knee specialist who spoke English. Unlike the last guy, I was able to talk with him -- English was clearly not his first language, but his English was definitely better than my French, so we were good, and he was a guy in his 40s who played squash, and he said had the same problem I did at one point.
It's not a ligament problem after all; he thinks it might be the meniscus, folded over on itself inside my kneecap. That's apparently a thing. It certainly would explain the pain.
[The meniscus is a small film of tendon-like material in the knee that sits between the femur (the thigh bone) and the tibia & the fibula (the two shin bones). It's a pretty common issue, and it has nothing to do with running or anything.]
The good news is that it's a quick arthroscopic procedure (pro athletes get it all the time, and they're often ready to play again pretty quickly), and then about three weeks' recovery. I'm probably out for the Paris Half Marathon, but if recovery goes well, and I can train good, I still want to at least give the Paris (Full) Marathon in April a go. It won't be a PR attempt in any way, but dammit, I want to at least do the course.
So, he drew this up (the whole appointment took about 15 minutes), and I was able to get an X-ray appointment that afternoon, and I have an MRI this morning, all set up by myself, online. They literally said "Go find someone close to your apartment. Anyone will do."
The cost so far? (The American in me is fascinated by this. It’s okay, this chapter will be over soon.)
The all-but-useless GP consultation from last week: €25
The initial consultation: €120
The X-Ray: €0
The MRI: €600 (which, um, JEEZUS, but still, (a) that's still a tiny fraction of what it costs in the USA, (b) it's 100% covered & refundable, and (c) once I get a Carte Vitale, I never see these bills in the first place.
It is a torn meniscus. It's fixable. And decades of sticker shock isn't going to go away easily, but I'm starting to be optimistic.
I've shown no ID at any of these places (One place asked to see my passport, but that was only to make sure they spelled my name right on the form.) These charges are all fully reimbursable on our temporary health plan (~$100/month). Once we get our full Carte Vitale into the French Health Care system proper, we won't even see these charges at all.
OK, enough about my health problems. Kvetching about that crap is something old people do, and I'm intimately aware of that. I just always thought, as an American, that it was interesting how little literally everyone else in the world pays for their health care, and now that I have a chance to take advantage of that, I have to at least mention it.
* * * * *
PART 2 (CW: American Health Care System Rant)
I've spent my entire adult life not going to the doctor. Toughing it out. Walking it off. Riding it out. Dealing with pain.
Oh, you have a kidney problem? Have some soup. You broke a bone? Splint it up & lay off it for a few weeks. Slice your hand open with a dull knife? RICE: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. Put a bread bag over it when you shower. Hope you didn't cut a ligament, or else congrats, those fingers don't move right no more!
Every (non-rich) American I know, even people with actual health insurance, has these stories. You know at the time how horrifying it is, but you also know that there's no other way to get through it. It's either work it out on your own, or you go into indentured servitude to some hospital's collections department for the rest of your life, simply because you couldn't scotch-tape a popsicle stick (or a pencil, or whatever item's at hand at the moment it happens) to your finger when you accidentally jammed it in a door somewhere.
It's fucking barbaric, and the mass delusion that it's just how things work in America is infuriating.
If I stayed in NYC with this knee thing, I'd have never gotten a diagnosis, certainly never gotten treatment, and I'd probably spend the rest of my life hobbling around, in pain. Certainly, as it turns out, I'd have never run again.
God, just typing that out makes me angry.
If you're going through something like this, I'm so, so sorry. The stories of people buying a plane ticket, dragging their broken bodies to some European country, getting themselves fixed, and then flying home, aren't silly ones. Not only do you actually get what's wrong with you fixed, and for a fraction of what an American hospital would charge you, you get a trip somewhere nice, or at least different.
If you're dealing with a thing, especially something you know is probably fixable, and you have that as an option, I'd honestly recommend it. If not Europe or Asia, then even Canada. You only get one body to go through this life. Do whatever you gotta do to fix it.
The American health care system should not be holding your own body hostage against you.
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416.
What was the name of the main character in the last book you read?
Alice.
Do you own a pair of Disney pajamas?
Not anymore. I do have some Harry Potter pajamas though, lol.
What are three of your favorite toppings for salads?
I’m really not a fan of salad, but I guess chicken, sundried tomatoes and mozzarella cheese.
What was the last place you went out to eat?
A local hotel for a festive afternoon tea.
Do you have a lot of clutter in your home?
I don’t have much clutter - Michael, on the other hand, has clutter absolutely everywhere and it drives me insane lol. I shove it all in a drawer.
What was the last pill you took? 💊
Ibuprofen for a sore back after riding.
Are you happy with your current doctor? 👩⚕️
I don’t have a regular GP, I just see whoever has an appointment at the time.
Is there a bottle of Benadryl in your medicine cabinet?
Nope.
Do you take vitamins?
Not anymore. I have some in the cupboard and went through a phase of taking them daily but then I forgot and got out of the habit.
Does your hair need to be washed right now?
No, I washed my hair a few hours ago when I got back from walking the dog.
What was the last thing you ate?
Chicken nuggets and chips.
Do you prefer pizza or hot dogs? 🌭 🍕
Pizza, for sure.
What is your favorite pizza topping? 🍕
Either mozzarella, pesto and sundried tomatoes, or BBQ sauce, chicken, bacon and sweetcorn - it just depends on my mood.
Is your dad a jerk?
No, but, like me, he does have Aspergers which means he can come across as quite rude and abrupt to people who don’t know him well.
What color are your fingernails painted?
They’re not painted at the moment.
Is anyone in your family currently in the military?
No.
What was the last thing you bought at the dollar store?
Uh, probably cleaning stuff or maybe candles? I don’t remember, I’ve not been to one in a while as the nearest is in Barrow.
Are prices of things going up where you live?
Oh, most definitely - fuel, food and bills are all rising. Luckily we can absorb the cost but lots of people I know are really struggling.
What color was the last carpet you sat on?
Grey. I had to sit down to clean Archie’s friction burn lol. He got the lead caught around his leg and then pulled and it caught his leg a bit.
What is your favorite dog breed?
Beagles, spaniels.
When was the last time you wore make-up? 💄
Last week when I went out with Susie. I’ll wear some tomorrow too.
What was the last thing you ordered at the last restaurant you went to?
We had a festive afternoon tea! So it was a cup of soup with a sausage roll, a mixed selection of sandwiches, 5-6 different types of cake plus a pot of tea lol. Neither of us managed to finish it all.
What was the last thing you wore that was pink?
Uhh, a t-shirt I think.
Name three people you know, if any, that currently live in another country.
Lauren, Ariane, Cath.
Name three people you know who are from another country (and what countries?)
Mark is from Holland, June is from Scotland and Dee is from Latvia.
What are your grandmas' names?
Giralda, Terry.
If applicable, who lives across the hall from you?
The lady who lives across the road from me is the sister of one of my ex-dog walking clients, lol. I forget her name though, maybe Linda?
Have you ever heard of "fairy hair"? (It's tinsel in the hair that gets put in permanently...it's like tinsel highlights.)
Nope.
Have you found any gray hairs on your head?
No, but neither of my parents really went grey until their forties.
If applicable, how old were you when you found your first gray hair?
...
Do you think you will dye your hair when it's gone gray?
Yes, most likely.
Do you have a sister-in-law?
Yeah, quite a few. Mike has three sisters and a brother who is married.
Do you have a brother-in-law?
Yeah, two - Mike’s brother, plus one of his sisters’ partners.
When was the last time you went swimming? 👙 ☀️
When we went to Lanzarote several years ago.
Do you own a bikini?
Not anymore, I prefer one-piece costumes.
What color is your bike, if you own one?
Pink and white, but I haven’t ridden it for years, it’s just sat in the shed lol.
If you were a rockstar, what color guitar would you have? 🎸
Purple.
What are three places you've been on vacation that you've enjoyed?
Australia, Italy and Switzerland.
Does your home have carpeted floors?
Yeah, everywhere is carpeted apart from the kitchen and the bathroom.
What color was the last scarf you wore?
I don’t wear scarves.
What was the last spicy thing you ate?
I have no idea, I really don’t like spicy food.
Do you like sushi? 🍣
It’s okay.
When was the last time you had sushi? 🍱
Years ago. You can’t really get it around here unless it’s that pre-packaged supermarket stuff which is pretty grim.
Can you see a box from where you are sitting right now?
Yeah.
Would you rather sing or dance? 🎤 💃
Sing.
What color was the last sports bra you wore, if applicable?
Black.
What is your nicest neighbor's name?
I’ll go with Dot as she’s the one I know the best.
Would you rather have a personal chef or personal house cleaner?
A personal chef. I actually quite like cleaning but I can’t stand cooking and all the mess and hassle that comes with it.
Do you have any zits on your face right now?
Yeah, one on my chin that appeared out of nowhere.
Do you wear glasses or contacts?
I wear glasses.
How many Britney Spears albums have you owned?
Just one, I think.
What was the first concert you went to?
Spice Girls.
Do you like cheese? 🧀
I absolutely love cheese. I always have 2-3 types of cheese in the fridge at any one time, hahah. At the moment we have cheddar, parmesan and Wensleydale with cranberries.
What are three of your favorite things to sprinkle cheese on top of?
Pasta, pizza, nachos.
What are three of your favorite bakery items?
Croissants, donuts and sourdough bread.
When was the last time you went to a bakery? 🧁
Quite a while ago. We have one near us but it’s only open in the mornings which is when I’m working, so I never get the chance to go.
Do you prefer coffee or chai? ☕️
Coffee.
Do you know what "chai" means?
Yeah, tea.
What are three other names you like that start with the same letter as your name?
Natalie, Naomi, Nicole.
What are three creative hobbies you enjoy?
I don’t know, I’m not a particularly creative person. I suppose reading and listening to music. I used to like colouring but I’ve not done that for years.
Is there a bag or basket of yarn somewhere in your home? 🧶
No.
Do you ever wear skirts?
Nah, I really don’t like the look or feel of skirts.
Do you ever find it hard to live in a world where nobody cares?
That’s never been my experience of life.
Would you rather have a tattoo of a skull or a flower?
A flower.
Have you ever had to take steroids? 💊
No.
What are three of the worst withdrawal effects or side effects you have experienced from a medication? 💊
Anxiety attacks, mood swings and migraines.
What are three things you like about church?
Nothing.
What are three things you dislike about church?
The hypocrisy, the intolerance and the pressure.
Does your town have a horse and carriage company?
It doesn’t, but there are several stables nearby so you can go and have basic tourist rides along the beach/fells just walking on a horse.
Who are three of the biggest jerks you know?
Nobody that I spend a considerable amount of time with.
Have you ever met a Jason that you didn't like?
Not that I can think of.
Have you ever had a friend named Sarah?
I have done in the past.
Did you go to school with a Suzy?
No, but I know a couple of Susie’s now, and my best friends’ mum growing up was called Susie too.
What was the name of the person who bullied you the most in high school
Laura.
Do you know someone named Matthew?
Not anymore, no.
...Mark?
Yeah, two - both of them are clients of mine.
....Luke?
No.
....John?
Actually no, which is weird considering how popular it is lol.
Have you ever been friends with an Ashley?
I used to work with an Ashley but I wouldn’t say we were friends.
....an Emily?
Yeah, I went to school with about six people called Emily hah.
....a Jessica?
Yeah, when I was younger.
....a David?
One of my ex-boyfriend’s is called David.
Have you ever dated a Matthew?
Nope.
Who was the last person you remember hanging up on you?
My mum - her signal went funny and she couldn’t hear me.
How's your heart? Are you wounded? 💔
My heart is fantastic.
What was the last type of pie you ate?
Apple.
Are you happy today?
Yep. I’ve managed to catch up on my sleep and I feel SO much better haha.
What time did you wake up this morning?
Around 9am.
And last but not least, did you enjoy this survey?
Sure, it was pretty good actually.
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Dog & Body
I dream about endless tidying. There’s a lot of clutter and I want to fix my blocked left nostril. It wakes me up and I stick the skoosher up my nose. After a few seconds it clears. I go back to sleep briefly then get up and make tea and feed the dog. I’m lying in bed listening to Helen Garner when suddenly the dog barks and bounds into the living room. I lead a very spare life but it’s not particularly regular but it so happens that she is right, this is a morning when Rooddogs are due. It could have been them outside but it wasn’t. I get her harness out and she’s delighted. We celebrate putting it on - she wags her tail and squirms about while I announce
You’re all ready!
You’re all ready!
You’re all ready!
You’re all ready!
I put on my dressing gown and flip flops so I’ll be ready, too. I put the phone on to charge and get the laptop out and start writing. This is the first time in the few days I’ve been writing again that I’m typing instead of hand writing. I can type a lot quicker and I don’t feel as though there’s something morally better in hand writing like a lot of writers seem to. Suits my arthriticky fingers, too. I learned to type at school. It was one of the most useful things I learned there. Unfortunately I didn’t see any use in short hand so I didn’t get the O grade. In fact, short hand could have been very useful indeed. Not just for taking notes quickly without getting a cramp, but also for secrecy. Still. I was too snobbish and wouldn’t submit to it. I never intended to be a secretary, and now they don’t really exist anyway.
I also did something called Fashion and Fabric. You’d think that would involve design, but it didn’t. It was very boring and we learned how to read washing labels. You could argue that that’s a life skill, but I’ve done my fair share of shrinking things and ruining whites. But that’s not so much of a thing now, either. Modern life should be amazing, but instead we have terrible politics and a lot of fear.
Lola sits at the window looking out like Scooby Doo. Her ears twitch and she watches passers by. Sometimes she stops watching and lies down but she’s still waiting. I can’t get washed and dressed till they come because they don’t come at a precise time, and don’t text when they’re on their way, and I don’t want to get caught out. Today I have a man coming to look at a tree in the garden at 10 so I’ve booked the walk. I do it sometimes anyway the better to write. I don’t have the energy for writing in the afternoon. I’m in a bad place with meds and pain at the moment. The Ajovy migraine preventative is good, generally, but I’ve been having a lot of breakthrough headaches and migraines and it might be because of the ADHD meds, because I haven’t had a Botox treatment for my jaw for several months. It’s all delicately weighed - and one wobble and the whole house of cards comes down. I think today might be a good day to not take the ADHD meds. Days off make me grumpy but I don’t have to see anyone after tree guy.
I changed doctors so that I could get better supervision for HRT. I was given one GP but had been recommended another for the HRT and my initial appointments with my own guy were fine - and he said that the GP I’d been told was good was good, and was enthusiastic for me to see her or one of the two nurses in the practice who are also interested. He also looked up my nose which was fairly exciting. Closest I’ve come to a GP in a couple of years now, because of covid.
The Rooddogs walker climbs on the rail and says hello to Lola through the window so she goes wild. I hand her over. I was going to have a wash and get back to the page, but then I realise I have time to have a bath before tree guy comes and so I’m running one now.
Anyway my appointment with the lady doctor was absolutely horrible. It was quite late in the day for me, 5pm, and I was tired and bad tempered. I felt very anxious and was having trouble breathing with my mask on in the waiting room. I also totally forgot to lie.
I’ve been taking testosterone a friend gave me, and it has really helped me, but it seems that you can’t report that retrospectively. The NICE guidelines say that it can only be prescribed for low sex drive, even though libido is so much more than sex. But it is true that I’d assumed I wouldn’t be able to ever have a sexual relationship again, so I was quite delighted when, after about 5 months of it, I started feeling sexual again. Anyway, what I should have said was that I was taking oestrogen and progesterone and wanted testosterone because my sex drive was low. This is the formulation that you have to say to gate keepers. I had assumed wrongly that because this doctor was well informed about HRT I could actually be completely honest with her. It’s hard in a room where you’re both masked up. I was already in a panic mode and I couldn’t see her face. I felt disliked and the encounter went badly. She told me to come off the testosterone and double the oestrogen and then come back. She told me that many women feel better just from oestrogen and don’t need testosterone. She dismissed me when I said that when I’d doubled the oestrogen I’d felt poisoned. She told me to get a blood pressure test done on my way out in the machine and text her the results. Of course they were through the roof as I hadn’t had a chance to calm down. Within an hour I got a text saying I needed to make an appointment about my high blood pressure.
Fuck. Off.
Like the stupid compliant sheep I am I tried doubling the oestrogen again and ended up not only feeling poisoned but also with painful nipples. This used to happen when I was on the pill, and the only way to fix it was to come off, have a bleed then start again. This is hardly an option at 60.
Anyway, I stopped doing it and am almost back to my sub par version of normal. I’m still furious - with her and with myself. I bet my blood pressure is through the roof right now as I type this.
Maybe I should be writing in longhand.
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~15/9/2022~ On the whole I’ve been on better form than yesterday. Registered a very faint positive LFT (day 10) this morning - parentals have agreed I can come to them for the weekend. Bella was in quite a mischievous mood this morning, which was funny to watch! Went for a walk to meet H in a park for a masked chat again. PoTS was strongly complaining after the walk there - hr over 150 bpm! The chat definitely helped. Beacon House (private therapy service) phoned me back while I was there to take some initial details from me - they wanted to know more than I was expecting - it sort of feels like a different world - the person was apologising that they’d have to get back to me next week - it’s like in NHS services that would be unheard of! It’s all feeling a bit surreal - like it’s all actually happening even though it’s needed and we’ve been waiting so long. I walked home - had a pot noodle for lunch (food is feeling easier today though still not much appetite). Spent some time in the afternoon coaching my brothership through the process of asking GP to re-refer him to MH services to be assessed for bipolar - he’s been falling into the classic trap of attempting to seek support while in a depressive state, but then not attending appointments when they come up as by then he is in a hypomanic episode and believes he doesn’t need it - we’ve come up with a plan whereby I will help him ensure he attends his assessment! It’s nice to feel useful in some respects… I had a Zoom meeting with student union advisor - they can liaise with the School of Psychology of my behalf re negotiating a plan to return to my studies. I felt a bit down as the other students on my course received their results today and so saw lots of happy posts from them about qualifying as MH practitioners - which left me with the slight that could/should have been me feeling :/ I wrote down some notes about what would need to be negotiated to ensure a successful return to the course to complete my placement in early January. I spent some time sitting outside in the evening reading a blog about PDA 🦄 (at Southover Grange) https://www.instagram.com/p/CilI9WcqmSTYrz0I9BsE_GuDDlofPVNbyGoDu80/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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medicine
There was a simple routine to Monday mornings that Damian had come to expect. He was to wake up, do his morning bathroom activities, put on his pressed Gotham Prep uniform, eat breakfast, and finally, Pennyworth would take him to school. This was not apart of that routine.
"C'mon Damian, you don't wanna be late, do you?" You ask from the driver's side of your two door 2003 Ford Escort ZX2. The front bumper and grill have been replaced with used parts, not the same bright red as the rest of the car. The back end has chunks of plastic missing from the back bumper, and the back windshield has an old, fraying NYC firefighters sticker. "Hop in! Alfred said he had a morning appointment, so your dad asked me to take you to school!"
"No. I'll walk." Damian starts down the steps, giving an extremely wide berth to your atrocity of a vehicle. You crumple in on yourself, ready to take your car back to the garage, when a shadow casts itself over Damian.
"Get in the car. I specifically asked," Bruce says from the door of the Manor. Damian gives him the side eye, but then pivots to the car. He grouchily climbs into the passenger seat, throwing his bookbag to the floor. He goes to roll down the window, only to see there's no button. He spots the manual handle and groans, aggressively rolling down the window.
"Hey, squirt." You lean over him and look out the window to Bruce. "Bye babe, I'll be back in half an hour! Love you!"
You situate yourself back in your seat and start up the car. You immediately blast the AC, and start up the band you've been obsessed with lately. Damian can feel his soul leave his body as you peel out of the driveway.
*
"Why do we have the windows down if your air conditioner is fully functional?" Damian asks as you miss a turn into the city. "And where are we going?"
"Well for one, it's a nice day, a little wind won't kill you, and two if I don't keep the AC on max power while the car is running, it won't open this vent that goes to my engine, and it'll start to overheat. Thirdly, I figured I'd stop by a coffee shop, get us some coffee. I know this ride to school is a not-so-secret punishment from Bruce, 'cause you pulled some stupid shit on patrol last night." You pull into the drive-thru of the local Dunkin', pleased that you're only the third car in line.
"Why don't you just purchase a new vehicle? Surely that would solve all of your problems." And prevent this particular punishment from happening again, he thinks.
"I like my shitty little car. Also, I don't have the money for a new car right now. Contrary to popular belief, I don't use any of the Wayne money. Everything I buy is with my own money, and -" You cut yourself off as you roll up to the window. "Good morning! Can I please have a medium frozen hot chocolate and a Boston creme donut?" You turn to Damian and raise an eyebrow.
He purses his lips, then turns away. "...a large coffee, with extra milk and regular sugar."
You smile could blind him. "And a large coffee, extra light, regular sweet. Thank you!"
You roll up to the window and secure your purchase, popping a twenty into the tip jar. Damian gives you a look as you pull out, and you just shrug. "I don't have to pay rent anymore, thanks to Bruce, so I can afford to tip stupid well."
The rest of the ride to Gotham Prep is silent, well, for the most part. Damian is silent. You're in the driver's seat belting out whatever song comes on shuffle. You thankfully tone it down as you get into the carpool lane at GP, just tapping your left foot against the floor. Damian gets out when you make it to the doors, grabbing all of his stuff quickly, but not before thanking you for the ride, his mind forming a new appreciation for you altogether. You wave him off. "See you this afternoon for pickup, son!"
He pales at that, then feels his cheeks heat in anger at the moniker of 'son'. You cackle as you pull away, knowing full well that Alfred is gonna be the one to pick him up, but wanting to ruffle his feathers, as per Bruce's instructions.
#damian wayne#robin#damian wayne x reader#robin x reader#batman#bruce wayne#batman x reader#batman/reader#bruce wayne/reader#bruce wayne x reader#robin/reader#damian wayne/reader#STRICTLY PLATONIC THO
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The Extra (part 9)
Warning - illness, mentions of death
Authors Note - I have personal experience of this horrific disease - I hope I don't upset anyone with it, but it's a topic very close to my heart.
Taglist @queenshelby @margoo0 @being-worthy @peakyscillian @peakyciills @janelongxox @elenavampire21 @ysmmsy @cloudofdisney @lauren-raines-x @namelesslosers @misscarolineshelby @screemqueen @cilleveryone @peaky-cillian @misselsbells06 @datewithgianni @heidimoreton
A month had passed since you'd deleted his number and blocked him. You were staring at the letter in your hand, shaking. You knew this day was coming, but you'd pushed it so far down that you had only truly thought about it when Cillian had told you he loved you.
You'd told Liane the truth. Why you couldn't commit to him, even though you desperately wanted to. Truth be told you'd fallen for him just as hard - and that's exactly why you'd pushed him away. It was bad enough you had to live with this, you couldn't force someone else to. She'd encouraged you to get tested - and you knew she was right. It was time you took your life in your hands once and for all. You'd spent too many years since your mother's and sister's untimely deaths burying it.
Picking up the phone, you dialled the number, heart pounding. The receptionist answered.
"Morning. My name is y/n y/l/n. I had some tests. I've had a letter to say the results are in?"
"Can I ask what the test was for?" The receptionist asked.
"My GP referred me. It's for the breast cancer gene. I'd like to know if I carry it."
"Let me check our records Miss Y/L/N. Yes, I have your results here. Would you be available to come in this afternoon? We've had a cancellation?"
"Can you not tell me over the phone?"
"I'm not allowed to, the doctor has requested to see you in person." Your heart lurched, that was never a good sign.
You immediately wanted to call Cillian, but remembered you didn't have his contact details any more. You called Liane instead. She would pick you up at 2pm and go with you to the appointment.
Sat in the waiting room, Liane held you hand to calm you. Your nerves were in tatters. This disease had already taken so much from you - your mum, your older sister, two cousins... You knew there was a strong chance it was going to take you, too. The doctor called you through.
"Your results are here y/n. And I'm pleased to inform you -"
"What?" You gasped. The doctor smiled and took your hands in hers.
"Y/n, you don't carry the gene. It isn't there - your chances of developing breast cancer are no higher than mine, or Joan Bloggs on the street. You're going to be okay." Even the doctor had tears in her eyes. Liane was gobsmacked. You just burst into tears.
"I'm not going to die?"
"Oh honey if I had the cure for that I'd be a millionaire!" She laughed, you did too. You felt like the world had just been lifted off your shoulders, taking a dark cloud with it. A dark cloud you'd been living with for nearly 10 years. The real reason you'd split with your ex. The reason you refused to get your breasts out for auditions. The real reason you backed away from a life in acting. You didn't see the point if you weren't going to be here for the long haul... But now?
Now you'd been given a new life. A new start. And your thrown away the best chance of happiness you'd ever had in one stupid click of a button.
Liane noticed your sadness in the car on the way home. You suddenly realised you weren't actually heading home though, you were on the M6 heading to Wolverhampton.
"Erm.. where are we going?" You asked, seeing the sign for Wolverhampton fly past.
"Road trip."
"Destination?"
"It's a surprise!! Do you trust me?"
"Always..."
"Then don't ask questions."
You rolled your eyes and figured you were probably en route to Bicester Village in Oxford. That was your happy place - a day of shopping, good food, few drinks in the evening... Before long though, your eyelids grew heavy. You always fell asleep on car journeys, this one was no different. Within ten minutes you were out cold.
You felt Liane nudge you gently, waking you. Opening your eyes, you looked around, expecting to see the car park. Instead you saw terraced houses, a green park, and a street sign with 'London Borough - Kilburn' on it.
"Why am I in London??" You asked. Liane shrugged her shoulders.
"Fancied a change - never been before! Just got on the motorway and drove. Been years since we've done that hasn't it! Just drove with no destination?" You grinned, remembering the random road trips you used to take years ago. You'd ended up all over the UK, even catching a ferry to Amsterdam one Friday night just because you were bored!
"So what's the plan?"
"Let's go explore!" She paid for the parking via an app on her phone and you both climbed out the car. The houses were all Victorian style and beautiful. The park was glorious - the sun shining on it beautifully. Liane suggested a picnic in the park first to line your stomachs, then cocktails.
"Aren't you driving us home later?"
"Yes - I'll be on the mocktails! Come on, let's go find food... There's loads of little deli places over there!"
Picnic done, it was cocktail time. Sadly, there didn't appear to be a cocktail bar anywhere near... But there was a nice looking pub over the road. Settling on a normal G&T, you both made your way over. Liane sent you inside to get the drinks while she sat in the beer garden out the back.
Heading outside with two G&Ts, you looked around for her but she was nowhere to be found. You quickly scanned inside again just to make sure you'd not missed her. Setting the drinks down on a bench outside, you waited. Must've gone to the toilet. Taking your phone out you sent her a text letting her know where you were.
Ten minutes passed - still no sign. You were worried now. A ping on your phone.
"For god's sake woman open your eyes and look in the corner!!" Liane... What the hell? You looked up and nearly dropped your phone. Sitting ten feet away from you, on his own... Holding his phone in his hand and staring at you the same way you were staring at him. In complete disbelief.
He looked back at his phone and shook his head. Both of you realising you'd been set up. Completely played.
He stood up, you were convinced he was going to leave but he didn't. He sat opposite you instead.
"Hey," he smiled.
"Hey..."
"Can I talk before you do?" He asked. You nodded.
"I know... I didn't... Fuck this makes so much more sense in my head..." He laughed.
"Can I talk instead?" He nodded. You took a deep breath and told him the truth. About your family. The deaths. The illness. The tests.. and the results.
"That's why I pushed you away. That's why I push everyone away. But you were the first one I pushed that I regretted... I regretted it so much because no one had ever made me feel as alive as you did. No one made me float on air like you did. No one made me forget about this cloud hanging over me like you did..."
"You thought I'd leave you if you had the gene?"
"My Dad left when my mom was diagnosed. He couldn't handle it so he bailed. Wasn't a great role model."
"Your dad's a dick. I'm not." His brutal, dead pan response made you laugh. In fact you didn't just laugh, you were in hysterics. He laughed with you, and took your hands in his.
"If I promise not to tell you I love you, will you let me see you?"
"No."
"Erm... Okay?"
"I want you to tell me you love me, if you mean it. Then I'll decide."
"Y/N... I. Love. You. I fucking love you. I adore you. I've had the most miserable four weeks of my life thanks to you!" He laughed.
"Yeah I'm sorry about that.."
"It's okay. You can make it up to me."
"You're giving me a second chance?"
"I never gave up on the first one. But this time, we take it slow. Get to know each other. I'll start by asking if I can take you out to dinner tonight?"
"I have nothing with me... All my stuff's at home..."
"Fair enough. Then we have two choices. You go shopping with Liane and get yourself something.. or go home and we can arrange to meet another time?"
"I'm already here, and shopping was on our to do list. Dinner tonight sounds lovely."
"Unblock my number. I'll text you the details later, okay?" He finished his drink and pulled his jacket on, quickly typing a text as you unblocked his number. If only you'd known it was that easy to get his contact details again... The message pinged through.
"Thank you..." You smiled reading it. He leaned over and kissed your cheek softly, before walking away. Glancing back, smiling, as he left the pub.
Liane was with you in seconds.
"You sneaky little shit, how did you do this??" You laughed.
"Anto contacted me last week, said he was sick of Cillian moping. We kinda worked together... Are you mad at me?"
"Not at all. Where's Anto?"
"Right here." Anto appeared out of nowhere and you threw your arms around him.
"Thank you. For everything?"
"No need to thank me. This was Liane's idea. Bit of a rush to sort once you'd got those results but luckily you live 3 hours away and you sleep like the dead!" He laughed. "Now get yourself gone - you have a date to prepare for!"
#cillian murphy#cillian smut#cillian x fem!reader#cillian fanfic#cillian x smut#cillian murphy x smut
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Friday:
I got a call today from a hospitalist this morning saying they were going to discharge DD today. What the what?! They told me upon admission that it would be 5-6 days. However, at admission they thought she had insurance. Yesterday I inadvertently disclosed that she was uninsured. This morning they want to give her the boot. Coincidence? Doubtful.
I took the doctor to task on the phone. Then I called the GP’s office, sat on hold, then advocated for the GP to call the hospitalist directly and try to get a plan in place that would be helpful to DD. I also talked to DD multiple times.
Then I got a call this afternoon from the hospital discharge planner who was super patronizing to me and basically told me that DD could go back to her BF’s apartment because that was a viable option for her and totally safe.I guess they disregarded that the police picked her up walking the street earlier this week because a random stranger called in a welfare check on her. The employee told me that DD had already agreed to return to the BF’s apartment and that it was a done deal. I called DD after I wrapped up that call and DD basically said, “I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
I had three kids home with me yesterday. I did the run around all morning per usual and then worked on stuff for DD including fielding all of those calls. It was a lot. I almost called DH and asked him to come home because it had already been a ridiculously long week. I was spent! Then to have her lie to me (again) after putting in all of the work to advocate for her while putting of the other kids and scheduling my own appointments for the radioactive iodine…it felt like a huge slap in the face. Is this just the way it’s going to always be now? 😭
Saturday:
DD quit communicating with us yesterday evening. I don’t even know if she’s still in the hospital or left last night. She deleted and blocked DH from all social media. He called and texted her multiple times last night to no avail.
This is the worst feeling ever.
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Little Jimmy : - 1 -
James Henry Strauss, much to his annoyance, was also known by his immediate family and friends as Little Jimmy. It was a nickname he had acquired at the age of three years, when besides being a late starter, he had finally got the hang of walking and also began moving chairs and tables in order to climb atop shelves and counters where biscuits or sweets were kept out of reach.
If nature was cruel enough to make him short for his age, she was relentless in allowing the nickname to stick well to his current age of eighteen years, one month and three days. Being a resilient soul Jimmy had come to terms with both his height and his unofficial name he was however, having considerably more trouble with another more embarrassing problem.
It had all started last week, when he had snuck two beers out the fridge in his father’s bar and downed them in the privacy of his room. Although he hadn’t been caught, his head was left with a nice hum from the alcoholic beverages and his bed had been soaked the following morning.
At first James couldn’t believe it. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn blind that someone had come into his room and used the old hand-in-a-bowl-of-warm-water trick to make him pee his bed. Thankfully, he had woken up early the next morning and was able to sneak his soiled sheets into the washing machine without waking either of his parents.
He was also especially lucky that his parents trusted him to get onto school on time which he usually did. That morning he’d been a little late for class which his form master noticed but did not comment on. He hated the fact that he was repeating his final year of school age eighteen.
Thinking that he had simply over indulged James spent the rest of the school day as he normally did and even played a little touch football with his friends after his lessons. He got home, did his homework, ate and drank like he normally did knowing that he chances of his wetting his bed again were slim.
Unfortunately for him they weren’t slim enough because not only did he was with wet bed linen the next day he, in fact, woke up with a soiled bed for the next three days. By this time, he had used up almost all his deodorant spraying his mattress to disguise the smell of urine in his room.
James had no idea why he was wetting the bed but he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell anyone, even his own Mom, about it. Stumbling through the semi-dark house close to half-past five on the fourth day of a wet bed, he did not notice that his mother’s bedside lamp was on.
She caught him red handed putting his sheets into the washer. “Just how long have you been wetting your bed Jimmy ?”, she asked him directly.
“I, I, I . . .”
“You thought I never knew.”
“Yeah.”, James said hanging his head in shame. “Sorry Mom.”
“I’m afraid a ‘sorry’ just isn’t going to cut it young man. It’s not bad enough that you have hidden this from your father and me – which in my mind is paramount to lying – I’d also like you to explain why I found two empty beer bottles in the trash last week. Your Dad certainly did drink them and since there was no one else in the house I can only conclude it must have been you ?”
James felt his cock starting to warm up with the need to pee and stared at his mother not knowing what to say. As she continued to lecture him on exactly how immaturely he’d been behaving he was horrified to feel a small squirt of piss escape into his boxers.
“Now I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Smith for later this afternoon to see if there’s anything psychically wrong with your waterworks, so be ready at to leave a quarter to two.” was all his Mom said before she left the room leaving a rather tense Sunday morning in which Jimmy tried to study.
Shit – he still couldn’t believe he was going to see the old family GP for bedwetting at the age of eighteen. For a moment he considered the possibility that he’d not been playing with himself often enough as a cause of his humiliation but then he remembered he’d masturbated yesterday and was forced to dismiss the idea. Still wetting his bed like a five-year-old, perhaps he considered, being called Little Jimmy was still awkwardly appropriate for a bedwetting teenager.
Not wanting to incur any more humiliation than was absolutely necessary, James made sure he washed his cock and balls before lunch after which he put on a clean pair of boxers. He said little during the ten-minute drive to the doctor’s office and wasn’t happy about the fact that the waiting room was packed with people.
He sat down next to his mother, who glanced at her watch and proceeded to hand a Tintin book to read from the table next to her chair. “MOM.”, he wanted to say but knew he was in enough of a predicament already; so instead he simply accepted the childish book and tried to pretend he had not already read it.
As he sat waiting for his mother to finish her preliminary discussion with old Dr. Smith, James shifted nervously in his seat. At last, he heard the nurse call his name and gesture toward the door of the examination room.
“Ah ha, hello little Jimmy my young friend.” he heard the sixty-eight-year-old doctor say and returned the spine chilling greeting with a simple “Hi.”
“You are to please be undressing and waiting in there.” he said and indicated towards the enclosed section of his office where his examination bed was.
Highly embarrassed by the fact he was expected to undress in front of his mother, who had not seen him naked in six years, Jimmy stripped down to his underwear and sat nervously on the padded bed. He did not have long to wait because the doctor was soon reaching next to him for a pair of latex gloves and seemed to take malice in saying “You are to be removing your undies too please.”
Left with no choice James soon found himself placing his underwear on the nearby chair with the rest of his clothes and lay down on the table. He was especially embarrassed by the fact that he became aroused as doctor took his time examining his penis, pushing his long foreskin as far down as it would go and waiting for expressions of discomfort. The good doctor also took a while to examine his balls and placed his gloved, unlubricated finger into his anus to examine his prostate gland.
Without as much as sigh the GP told James he could get dressed and wait in the reception room. Shit, first he fondles me and embarrasses me and now I don’t even get to hear what the old quack has to say. Jimmy thought to himself as he struggled to get dressed and acquire his already lost dignity.
After a short while his mother came out of the room with a few prescriptions and indicated she was ready to leave.
“What did he say ?”, James asked as soon as they were seated in the privacy of the car. “He said, that there is nothing psychically wrong with you. In fact, he’s suggested a rather good solution to your laziness and immaturity.” his mother said as she pulled the blue Ford sedan out of the parking bay and then added. “If you want to act like a child, well then that’s exactly how we’ll treat you!”
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Mania.4
[MASTER LIST]
[Mania Master list]
Beta: N/A
Rating: Mature 18+
Pairing: BTS OT7
Genre: Fantasy, Romance, Comedy, Omegaverse
Words: 1.3k
Blood types: Namjoon, Jhope, Jungkook, Yoongi (A) Taehyung (AB) Jin, Jimin and Yoongi (O) (Jimin in real life is an A blood type)
Summary: At eighteen everyone takes a blood test to find out their blood types. A, B, or O. Each blood type represents the person’s secondary gender Alpha, Beta or Omega and can be Dominant (+) or Recessive (-).
When small thin Yoongi receives his letter he doesn’t expect A+. There was no way he was an Alpha especially not a dominant. But as time passes he shows no Alpha nor Omega tendencies and frankly he doesn’t care. Working in his father’s electrical business helps pay the bills but Yoongi’s real passion is music.
One very hot day in the roof space of a luxury apartment that Yoongi is rewiring an intoxicatingly pleasant smell churns his insides and he finds himself in need of something to quench his thirst.
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Yoongi almost felt normal, well his ‘normal’ before everything he knew turned upside and inside out. He was back to working in his father’s business and all he had to do was take one small pill. Pulling on his jumpsuit, he called his father just to confirm, he was perfectly capable of completing the work he missed.
Grabbing the keys, the bottle of pills, he decided against the stronger dose as the mild one worked perfectly fine yesterday. Getting into the van he put the address into his GPS and drove to the gated estate in which the famous band members stayed. It was a long drive but Yoongi couldn’t even bring himself to be tired, he wondered if it was the iced americano that made him happy. He repressed any thoughts that it might have something to do with the fact he was heading back to the apartment filled with the impressive Alphas and beautiful Omegas.
He would be lying if he hadn’t felt his heart flutter when he thought about seeing Seokjin and Jimin again in the flesh and a tiny flutter in his tummy when he thought of the Powerful Alpha’s each with a delicious scent that haunted him.
Yoongi pulled into the driveway and stopped before the Barrier Arm his window in line with the security booth, he leaned over showing his ID and giving his business.
“You aren’t on the list?” Yoongi frowned and called the number Seokjin had given him and it went through on the third call.
“Hello, this is Kim Seokjin,” the omega answered, making Yoongi take a sharp breath, his mouth feeling dry.
“Hey, it’s Min Yoongi, your electrician, I am out the front to finish up the repairs but I can’t get in, I can come back another day if it’s not a convenient time” Yoongi flushed as the security guard watched him, it was awkward.
“I will come down, wait there” the phone line went dead and Yoongi forced a laugh.
“Have you had a long day?” it was such an awkward question on top of an awkward situation, Yoongi wanted to leave quickly. His savior came in the form of Kim Seokjin who slipped into the car and the barrier arm was lifted.
“Why are you so pink?” Seokjin asked, placing the back of his hand on Yoongi’s forehead.
“I just made an absolute fool of myself with the gatekeeper,” Yoongi huffed his lips pursing, “I am never coming back here again,”
“Oh, that’s a shame,” Seokjin laughed “I enjoy your company and I wouldn’t mind seeing you again, well that’s it you can never leave, if you see him again you will turn into a tomato”
Yoongi laughed wholeheartedly, something about Seokjin’s expressions was so lively and comical and it made Yoongi feel giddy just seeing it. Like he could play around and not be judged, not that Yoongi had ever really cared what people thought of him. It’s just he usually had a stone-cold exterior and found it awkward to speak about anything outside of a professional setting.
So it was easy to laugh and joke around even embarrass himself in front of the omega when it couldn’t compare to what had happened during his heat, this man had seen him at his worst and yet still wanted to be friends and that's what gave Yoongi the confidence to relax.
“Come on in, let me help carry some things,” Seokjin said, “Oh, I forgot to warn you, Jimin is in heat but he is in his bedroom and that shouldn’t affect anything right?”
Yoongi shrugged unsure if it would affect him or not, he hadn’t been exposed to anyone in a heat, hell he had only had a heat once. “I’m not sure,”
“How did the appointment with the specialist go, you were available, I didn’t know if you were busy on that day so I just guessed, I hoped you could make it, it’s not easy getting into seeing the specialist there as she is very good.” Seokjin said
“She doesn’t take new patients either so I am wondering what strings you pulled to get me an appointment?” Yoongi huffed the stairs and took a lot out of him and the two stopped halfway on a small landing to catch their breath. The two laughed at one another, “I am getting too old for this?”
“Tell me about it, everyone else seems to be spring chickens and I am over here taking afternoon naps,” Seokjin laughed “The only thing that doesn’t age is my pretty face and my attitude.”
“I want a nap,” Yoongi mumbled, getting to the top of the staircase and walking down the hall until they reached a familiar door.
Seokjin opened the door, with a cheeky grin, “You can take a nap and finish the work in an hour if you want?”
The house was as luxurious as Yoongi remembered, he declined the offer to rest wanting to get his work finished. He stepped in hesitantly and the scents lingered in the walls carpet and floated in the air like pollen. It was captivating and safe and for the first time since he left he relaxed.
Taking out the clip board, Yoongi went over the details of where he was adding new powerpoints and light switches that he had run through the roof the last time he was here. He switched off the power as he always did for his own safety and got to work. It was easy and with every breath he felt his body relax calmer and calmer until his eyes shut for a moment.
“Jin, the air conditioner isn’t working,” Yoongi caught the most delicious scent drifting down the hallway and when he turned he saw a very naked and extremely sweaty Hoseok in his boxes.
“Oh, I am sorry, I didn’t know we had guests?” Hoseok said, Yoongi didn’t want to admit it but the band members had left a strong impression on him and he spent his time researching their music and finding out about each member's personality.
Yoongi was captivated by Jimin his singing and dancing, the way he moved was honestly so captivating that Yoongi could admit he had fallen in love with Jimin when he performed. But, his eyes were often stolen by Hoseok, in interviews he stole the spotlight and made Yoongi laugh, and in his dance he could be a total wild card. Was he sweet, sexy, tough, romantic, bouncy and light, or soft and passionate?
Hoseok seemed the total opposite of Yoongi, Hoseok was outgoing and loud by nature, and well that intrigued Yoongi a lot more than he wanted to admit.
“The power is out, because Yoongi is finishing up the electrical work,” Seokjin said exasperated, “maybe try not to…”
Seokjin dropped his voice and Hoseok giggled, “You know Jimin whines if I don’t give him what he wants.”
Moving to the fridge which was right beside Yoongi. Yoongi tried to focus on his work as he leant over the counter to reach the back wall where he was attaching wires for a powerpoint.
Hoseok moving closer pushed his scent in Yoongi’s direction making his stomach churn and his knees weaken. He reached into his pocket and took the mild pill and he sighed in relief, knowing he was safe.
What he didn’t expect was for Hoseok to slide past him, he put a hand on Yoongi’s waist as a preemptive warning that he was stepping behind him, and he reached up trying to grab a glass from the cupboard above Yoongi’s head.
Yoongi felt the churn in his stomach again, this time heavier, his legs shook and he gripped the counter a small whimper falling past his lips. Yoongi tried to lift his chest from the counter but it was a form of submission and his body automatically doubled over the bench for the dominant Alpha behind him. His earthy scent was intoxicating, grapefruit, pepper and cedar. He was fresh, spicy, and warm.
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CS JJ Day 22: what a plot twist you were (1/1)
Emma’s life is solid. She has her few friends, a job that pays decently enough, and a schedule that works for her. She doesn’t want any of that to change. But when she gets a call saying she’s been left a house in Storybrooke, Maine, she ends up leaving Boston intending to deal with the house and then return to her life like nothing has changed.
Intentions never quite work out, however, especially when she runs into a blue-eyed bartender who just might entice her to stay.
Rating: Mature
a/n: This story is the result of late night baby feedings, leaving plot notes on my phone in the middle of the night, and then not understanding what the heck the notes section on my phone means when I wake up in the morning. Thanks to the ladies at @csjanuaryjoy for bringing some joy to January 💙
Found on AO3 | Here |
-/-
Thick bunches of trees with deep green leaves line the road. They’re on each side of the concrete, dark gray with a faded yellow line in the middle, and she can’t see anything in the woods through the fullness of the forest. She’s never seen anything like this, not that’s so natural, and the darkness of the sky and the gentle rain falling down make it almost haunting.
She’s not lost, but it sure as hell feels like it.
“Keep going for another five miles,” her GPS says in the British accent she can’t figure out how to change.
“Yeah, yeah,” Emma huffs, turning up her radio and increasing the speed of her wipers. “I got it.”
In a split second, the rain turns from gentle to harsh, water beating down against Emma’s old bug’s windows so hard that the glass may break, and if she could see the sides of the road, she’d turn off the road and wait the storm out. She’s got a bag of Chex Mix and several bottles of water in the back. She could definitely wait it out. But she’s also ready to get to where she’s going and out of this car, so she pushes through and keeps driving until she reads the sign in front of her.
Welcome to Storybrooke.
Finally.
Emma’s phone rings in her passenger seat, and she reaches over to press it, hitting the buttons to put it on speaker.
“Hey, Rubes.”
“Emma Swan,” Ruby huffs out, “where the hell are you? I got home from work expecting you to be here so we could eat entire gallons of ice cream, and I do mean gallons and not pints, but you were gone. I thought tonight was our pity party night.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m…going on a trip.”
“You have never gone on a trip that wasn’t with me.”
“I like to try new things.”
“You’re a liar. You hate new things. Seriously. Where are you?”
“Storybrooke, Maine.”
“What the hell is a Storybrooke?”
“I don’t know,” Emma huffs, peering forward to try to see where she’s going. Buildings are starting to come into view, short ones all pressed together like some kind of Hallmark movie downtown where they decorate for every holiday with an insane budget that’s not at all realistic. Maybe this is the place where they shoot those movies. The name of it sounds made up enough. “It’s just somewhere new.”
“I repeat: you are a liar.”
Emma hums as she tries to ignore Ruby and look for a place to stay tonight. It’s only ten o’clock, but everything seems to be closed, all the storefront lights turned off to cloud the town in near darkness.
Of-freaking-course.
“Look, can I tell you about it later, okay? I don’t really want to get into it. I should be home next week.”
“Next week? How are you going to be – ”
Emma ends the call and switches her phone onto silent. Ruby is going to keep calling until Emma answers again, but she’s too tired to explain it tonight. All she wants is a warm bed and possibly a shower. She probably should have looked up hotels in this town before she came, but it was a last-minute decision fueled by the need for a change of scenery.
She pulls into a parking lot between two buildings and then stares up at the neon sign on one of them. It might be the only light on. “Who names a bar The Rabbit Hole? This town keeps getting weirder.”
There she goes talking to herself again. Maybe she’s the one who is getting weirder.
Sighing, she shuts off her car, grabs her phone, wallet, and keys before running inside the building, only getting slightly soaked. The lights inside are dimmed and it smells of cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Sweat is also likely in the air, but it’s better if she doesn’t think too much about all of the disgusting things that have been spilled in this place. The bar isn’t full, only a few people playing pool or throwing darts, and Emma ignores them to walk up to the bar and sit down on a stool.
“Can I have a glass of whatever your strongest whiskey is?”
“That’s like asking to light a fire in your stomach.”
“Whiskey,” she repeats, tapping her nail against the bar top.
The bartender hasn’t even turned around to look at her, but he nods his head, reaching up on a shelf to grab a bottle and then pouring her a glass. She doesn’t bother looking at him either, simply taking the glass and downing half of it so that it easily burns, most likely lighting a fire in her stomach. She should be asking about a hotel room and getting out of here, but the reality of the past few days is starting to hit her enough that she needs a drink.
Boyfriend cheated.
Couldn’t catch her skip that would have paid rent for the next two months, something that’s been happening a lot lately.
Received a call from a lawyer saying her foster mom from when she was fifteen left her a house in Storybrooke, Maine.
That woman had been crazy. She’d been Emma’s best foster parent, one that genuinely cared, and then one day she pushed Emma into the street when there was oncoming traffic because she’d believed Emma had magic or some bullshit like that. The woman was declared mentally unstable, and yet somehow her lawyers have allowed her to give a vacation home to Emma, someone she has no relation to when Emma knows the woman had family. Sisters, she thinks.
Walsh cheating and the skip being elusive suck, obviously, but they haven’t quite shaken her to her core in the same way.
Her past is her past, and she doesn’t want to relive it.
So why the hell is she here?
“Are you passing through, or are you visiting?”
“Hm?”
“Are you waiting out the storm, love?” the bartender repeats in a deep, foreign accent. He sounds like her freaking GPS. “Or are you visiting the town?”
Emma finally looks up from her drink to see him. The light in here is so poor that she can’t quite make out his face, but there’s a hint of ginger in his beard covering a sharp jawline. A quick glance down shows her muscles under a tight plaid shirt, and that has her looking back up. He’s got dark, messy hair that’s been tousled one too many times, but mostly, all she can see is the blue of his eyes.
Damn.
“I could be from here,” she sighs, running her finger of the rim of her drink.
He scoffs and tilts his head to the side, tongue running over his bottom lip. “This is true. About twenty-thousand people live here, and while I don’t know each and every one of them, I do know that this bar really only sees regulars in here. It’s not often that I get to see someone new.”
“So you’re guessing I’m new on a hunch.”
“Ah, well, that and the fact that your t-shirt says ‘Boston Bail Bonds’ on it. I’m assuming that can only be found in one place.”
“Maybe I just collect t-shirts.”
The man clicks his tongue. “Maybe. Can I get you anything else, Boston?”
Emma rolls her eyes. “Another glass of this and directions to the nearest hotel.”
“That I can do for you, love.”
“Not your love, buddy.”
“Pity that.”
She downs the rest of her drink before he refills her glass and then slides a piece of paper in front of her, quickly drawing a map of downtown and where she can find a hotel. It’s a bed and breakfast behind a restaurant, and Emma commits it to memory because there’s no way this piece of paper is going to make it through the weather outside.
After she pays her tab, Emma makes her way out of the bar with the umbrella the bartender gave her, and quickly hops in her car to drive the few feet to the bed and breakfast only to find that there’s no parking and she has to park back at the bar and run across the street in this New England monsoon.
This town makes no sense.
And she could totally be staying in Ingrid’s house for free, since it is her house now, but that’s creepy and disturbed on so many levels.
Then again, so is all of the floral wallpaper at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast.
“Welcome to Storybrooke, Emma Swan,” the old woman says as she hands Emma the keys to her room.
-/-
Emma sleeps until two in the afternoon.
She doesn’t mean to, not really. She was supposed to meet with Ingrid’s lawyer about the house at noon, but apparently she can’t be a responsible adult and make her appointments on time. The moment she wakes up and realizes it, she calls the law firm and tries to reschedule only to be told that she’ll have to wait at least two weeks because Mr. Nolan has gone out of town for vacation.
He has got to be kidding her.
He’s not. He’s going to Nevada to visit his wife’s family.
Emma groans and falls back onto the springy bed. What is she supposed to do now? She wanted this over with, and as much as she deals with the law on a regular basis, it’s more dealing with scummy guys not paying child support or assaulting someone. It’s not real estate law or anything having to deal with what happens when someone leaves you a freaking house.
Her phone buzzes next to her.
Walsh Osbourne: Can we talk?
Walsh Osbourne: It wasn’t what you think it was.
Walsh Osbourne: Please, baby. I just want to talk. I love you.
Emma could vibrate out of her skin she’s so angry to see texts from him. What a douchebag. Real scum of the earth, that one.
Emma Swan: I hate when you call me baby. You should know that. I pointed it out every fucking time. We’re over, Walsh. I don’t deal with cheaters.
The little bubbles pop up, but she doesn’t wait to see the message. Instead, she blocks his number and keeps herself from having to ever hear from him again.
Asshole.
Food. She needs food. It’s too early to have another drink, but food sounds like a great idea.
After showering and getting dressed in a pair of jeans and a white sweater, she runs downstairs to the diner attached to the bed and breakfast. There’s only one other person in there, and it doesn’t bode well for Emma not getting food poisoning from the food. But the grilled cheese and onion rings end up being good, the hot chocolate even more so, and when she’s finished, Emma tips her waitress and asks her for directions to the police station.
If she’s going to be here for two weeks – because there’s no way in hell she’s going back and then doing this drive again – she might as well see if she can make some money. She knew getting licensed in Maine would come in handy eventually.
“What can I help you with, lass?”
“Um, yeah, my name is Emma Swan, and I was wondering if you guys were in need of a bail bondswoman.”
“Graham Humbert,” he says, sticking his hand out for her to shake. “We usually deal with bonds in the neighboring country. They have an office already, though, so if you’re thinking about setting one up, I’m not sure you’ll have much business.”
“I do more of the tracking down than the office work.”
He cocks his head to the side and softly smiles at her. She’s only seen two men in this town so far, and both of them have been attractive and had foreign accents.
They’re in rural Maine. That makes no sense. None of this does.
“So more of a bounty hunter then?”
“It’s a mixture. So do you have any jobs? Short-term probably.”
“Do you know how to mix a drink?”
Emma turns to where the familiar voice is sitting. It’s the bartender from last night, and in the light of day, he looks much the same but with clearer features. It’s just those damn eyes – they’re even bluer in the sunlight, and they have to be contacts or something.
“A few.”
“Well, Swan,” he sighs, her name curled on his tongue with his accent, “I’m looking for an extra hand at the bar if you’re going to be in town for awhile. If Sheriff Humbert doesn’t have something for you, of course.”
“I’m sorry, lass. I don’t think I do. You’d have to go to Easton and ask them there.”
Emma sighs and turns to the other man. “You’d hire me just like that? You don’t want to run background checks or call my references?”
He waves her away, standing from the desk and sliding over paperwork to Sheriff Humbert. “No, I’m good. I can train you this afternoon, and then if you’re dreadful, I’ll let you go.”
“Do I get to keep tips?”
His smile curves up on one side. “Of course. Killian Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you, milady. Or, rather, to make your acquaintance again.”
Great. The guy who’s giving her a job is also some freak who talks like he’s from another century.
(Or maybe just likes he’s British.)
Killian finishes up whatever business he had in the police station, talking to Graham for a few minutes, before he asks her if she’s ready to go. They walk the few blocks back to The Rabbit Hole, which looks far seedier in the light of day, and Killian unlocks the door before holding it open for her.
“So are you a gentleman or something?”
“I’m always a gentleman, love,” he says, leaning into her and lowering his voice. “Though, don’t feel special. I do like to hold the door open for most anyone, just as I call most people ‘love.’”
Her cheeks flush red, memories of her grumbling about his term of endearment last night. “Well, I’ll try not to be too disappointed.”
He chuckles and keeps walking through the bar, flicking the light switches until the place is illuminated. It’s actually much cleaner on the inside than it was last night, the haze of the night gone, and she can see where all of the chairs are resting on the table and the floor has been freshly mopped.
“So, it’s pretty simple. We open at four and close at two. Weekdays are calm, just a few regulars who almost exclusively drink what’s on tap, and then on the weekends we’re usually a little more packed with everyone trying to unwind or find a date.”
“People come here to find dates?”
“It’s the only bar in town, so if that’s how you’re looking for a date, yes.” He stares at her, but when she doesn’t say anything back, he nods his head and keeps walking through the bar. “Restroom is back down that hallway as well as the utility closet. The kitchen is directly behind the bar. My old buddy doubled as bartender and cook before he moved. Can you do both?”
“Not unless you want your customers to get food poisoning.”
His eyes crinkle with his smile. “We’ll figure something out then, Swan.”
-/-
Her first night at the bar is hectic.
There’s a bachelor party from two towns over coming in on a Wednesday night of all things, and every one of them hits on her. They don’t do it well either. How one of them is getting married is a mystery to her because he both doesn’t know how to flirt and obviously has no respect for his future wife. Killian asks her if they’re bothering her, she tells him she can handle herself, and they move on with their night and their jobs.
That’s pretty much the only time they talk the entire time unless he’s giving her some kind of instruction. Being behind the bar is a completely different experience than the two of them being on opposite sides.
It’s quieter, much quieter.
At least she thinks that it is until it’s six nights in, a rainy Monday evening much like the one when she got here, and they have no customers.
None.
He asks why she’s in town, she evades the question again, but eventually the quiet begins to get to her, and she huffs and starts talking while focusing on getting a stain off the bar top.
“Just wanted to get away.”
“Ah, so relationship problems.”
She turns to him then. “Wait, just because I’m a woman means my only problems can be relationship problems?”
His brows arch. “I simply meant any relationship. Romantic, familial, friendship. I find most everybody who’s running from something is running for one of those reasons. I’ve never known too many people to leave a place because they were upset over a job.”
“Yeah, well that seems like something a personal thing. People run for all kinds of reasons.”
“Fair enough.” He tugs the sleeves on his flannel shirt up, rolling the cuffs until they’re at his elbows, and Emma gets a glance of toned forearms and angry red scars inching up his left arm. She wants to ask, but it’s none of her business. And asking him questions means he’ll feel more entitled to ask her the same things. “Your business is your business. Simply figured you might want to make a little conversation since we don’t have any business.”
“Nope,” Emma sighs, “I’m good.”
The next night is better, and the night after that. Though, Emma does realize that she’s now fascinating to the town as a new person, which they apparently don’t get a lot of. It’s obnoxious, but it also means the bar starts getting a steady stream of people who are curious as to who she is and what she’s doing.
At least they give good tips. She’s all about the tips.
“You’d think you had magical powers for how they’re all staring at you,” Killian mumbles as he walks past her with a tray of drinks.
“It’s creepy.”
“It dies down. Trust me.”
For a moment, she wants to ask, to get to know more about him, but she doesn’t want to open that can of warms. It’d be too difficult to close.
-/-
“This place is a piece of shit.”
“It’s certainly got character,” David Nolan says, obviously uncomfortable with her language. He is not what she expected Ingrid’s lawyer to look like, but he’s what she’s got. A forty-year-old wearing a flannel shirt and dirty boots while meeting a client is definitely unlike any attorney she’s ever met, but so far, she doesn’t mind him. “Ingrid was never here. I only met her once or twice. I think this was her aunt’s house, so it’s definitely on the older side.”
Emma nods and presses her foot down on the porch only for the wood to start cracking underneath her. The foundation of the house is probably falling apart, the windows are broken, roof shingles are falling off, there’s some rot on the columns, and she hasn’t even gotten to go inside.
“Did she not hire someone to do maintenance?”
“What do you think?”
Emma scoffs and presses against the front door until it’s opening for her and revealing dust-covered furniture and more decay. It’s not as bad as the exterior, but it’s not good. “So, what exactly do I do here? Can I refuse the house?”
“You can.”
“But if I do keep it, what happens then?”
“Well, it’s yours, and you’re responsible for it and for paying property tax. It’s not much, but honestly, I think your best option is fixing the place up and then putting it on the market. It’s basically free money.”
“There’s no such thing.”
David laughs, and she can’t help but feel like he’d be someone who would be good to have around in life. “Think on it, okay? You have some time.”
-/-
“Do you know anything about house repairs?”
“Pardon, love?”
“Home repairs,” she repeats, tipping back her bottle of water. “You look like you’re…handy. Do you know how to repair things like windows and floors or putting a hinge back in a cabinet?”
“Well,” Killian starts, “window frames I can do. Window glass repairs require a professional. Hinges I can do, though. I think I’d have to know what kind of floor repair you need. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
Killian quirks his brow. “Believe it or not, Swan, but I’m actually quite perceptive. You’re not asking for no reason.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
“Oh, so you’ve been watching me then?”
“I’ve been working with you every single day for two weeks.” Emma rolls her eyes at his smirk. “I notice things.”
“Funny, so do I. You’re more of an open book than you think.”
With that, Killian walks away to move across the bar to tend to a group of linemen sitting at the table in the back. They all go by some kind of ridiculous nickname, and she can’t remember any of them at the moment despite them always being in here. But the asshole probably said that line and walked away just to annoy her. He seems to like to do that, getting some kind of reaction out of her and then walking away.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? She’s an open book?
Killian’s words nag at her all night, his accent curling around each of them in her memory, but he goes on as if everything is normal. Nothing about her life is normal right now. She’s living in a strange town, sleeping in a bed and breakfast with flowers on all of the walls, and working at a bar all the while avoiding everything about her life.
“Someone left me a house in town,” Emma blurts out two hours later. They’ve only got seven people in the bar now, and she can’t distract herself by flattering men so they give her more tips. “That’s why I’m here. I had to deal with it, and then the lawyer was out of town for two weeks because apparently that’s a thing he does. But I went and saw the house today, and it’s a disaster. That’s why I asked about the home repairs.”
Killian’s mouth curls from one side to the other, and she wants to smack it off of his smug face. She also kinds of wants to kiss it.
Woah. Where did that thought come from?
(Probably from having her life turned upside down and losing her boyfriend and being left a house by her crazy ex foster mother.)
(And staying in this town instead of going home and calling her boss about her not being available for jobs.)
(Not having Ruby to complain to likely doesn’t help.)
“Are you planning on living here then, Swan?” He leans forward and props his chin in his palm while his brows reach his hairline. “Did you find me that irresistible?”
“Shut up.”
“You have a way with words.” Emma groans at him, and Killian keeps on smirking. “Look, I’ve been renovating this bar and the apartment above it for about a year now, so I know a thing or two about home renovations, as I told you. I can take a look at the house for you and answer any of your questions.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You were asking for advice earlier.”
“But I don’t need any help!”
He holds his hands up and steps away. “I apologize, love. I seemed to have misread the situation. I won’t do it again.”
Shit.
She messed up, didn’t she? Of course she did. Why is she always so rude to people who are trying to help her?
“Killian?”
“Mhm?”
“Would you like to come look at the house with me tomorrow before work?”
He turns to her and smiles again, a little glint in his eyes. “Meet me here at noon.”
-/-
Killian tells her the place isn’t in as bad as shape as she thinks it is. Emma can’t imagine that as a giant spider crawls across the living room, but he swears that it’s true.
He also offers to help for no cost to her other than the supplies.
“Why would you do that?”
“I actually quite fancy you from time to time when you’re not yelling at me, and I enjoy the work.”
And for some insane reason, she makes the decision to stay in this weird as hell town and fix up this house so that she can sell it and leave this whole thing behind her. Her life was going to shit in Boston, and she needs a break from that. She needs some kind of change and purpose, and maybe she’ll end up being able to fix this house up and sell it for enough money that she comes into an actual savings account for the first time in her life.
What a thought.
On slow nights at the bar, Emma watches videos on the best ways to paint window trim and how to buff hardwood floors. She looks into the electrical stuff too, but that seems like a recipe for disaster. Or death. Really, it looks like a recipe for her death.
Definitely.
Killian will walk by, muttering comments under his breath about the videos she’s watching and how absolutely inane some of the people are, but she ignores him and keeps trying to learn. Fixing up a house, even a rotting pit like this one, shouldn’t be too hard. It’ll be fine.
It starts with having all of the wiring inside the walls stolen, which is decidedly not fine.
“Who the hell steals electrical wiring?” Emma huffs as she and Killian walk through the house, cold morning air nipping at their extremities. “What’s the purpose of that?”
“They sell it.”
“For how much?”
“Not much, but it’s something.” He hits his hammer against the hole (one of them, at least) in the drywall. “I can call Scarlet and have him fix your wiring, but we’ll have to fix the walls ourselves.”
“I can’t afford an electrician right now.”
“Don’t worry about it, love. He owes me a favor.”
“A favor to rewire an entire house?”
He winks. “Trust me.”
“Don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second, Jones.”
He freaking bows, throwing in an exaggerated wink too. “I would despair if you did.”
The entire month of September is spent the same way. She and Killian meet up at the house at noon with takeout from Granny’s for lunch (which is really breakfast for them since they wake up at eleven most days) and work on the house until they have to go to the bar. They’re the only two people working there right now, which has got to be against some labor law, but Emma doesn’t mind not having the days off. She likes the money and likes keeping busy. When she asks Killian about it, though, he simply hums and says that he hasn’t taken a day off since he bought the place.
She had no idea he was the owner. She thought he was the manager or something who happened to be living there.
(Not her brightest moment.)
How does a British man end up owning a bar in a small town in Maine?
She almost asks, but it’s not her business. None of his life is.
But that doesn’t keep her from learning that he’s got a penchant for rum and for double-stuffed Oreos. There’s a dirty joke there, and Killian most definitely makes it. He’s also got a penchant for making a dirty joke or sliding an innuendo into every possible situation. It’d be creepy if it wasn’t so damn charming sometimes.
But it’s not charming. Nope. It’s just…it’s who he is. That’s all. And it’s something she’s got to get used to since this is apparently the man she’s going to be spending all of her time with. It would scare her because in a situation like this, she’d usually have already had sex with him and then have some kind of meltdown. She doesn’t know why she does stuff like that, but she does.
(That’s a lie. She definitely knows why.)
Emma is not going to sleep with him, though. It’s not going to happen. Ever. She is not going to be doing the whole dating – or not dating – thing again anytime soon. Or forever.
It’s October when she starts to feel like maybe this house has hope. It’s still a mess, but it’s making definite progress.
It’s also when she realizes that maybe she doesn’t hate this town so much. It’s still weird and kooky and doesn’t quite make sense, but it’s also full of good people. David, Ingrid’s lawyer, ends up pitching in a hand on window repairs, and his wife Mary Margaret may be one of the sweetest people Emma has ever met. She bakes food for Emma and talks paint colors and cabinet stains and always has a smile on her face. Will Scarlet is always lurking around, even once the electrical work is done, and as obnoxious as he can be, Emma kind of likes him. He’s helpful and kind of funny and he beats Killian’s ass at pool at the bar every single time they play.
Killian pouts and mopes around after he loses, and Emma gets an infinite amount of joy out of it.
“You look pathetic, Jones.”
“I do not look pathetic.”
“You do.” She turns around behind the bar to tease him as he grabs a bottle of his favorite rum off the shelf and pours himself a small glass, gulping it down. “You should really learn not to be such a sore loser.”
His brow arches. “Oh, and you wouldn’t be a sore loser?”
“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t lose.”
Killian exhales with his laugh before putting his glass down and inching closer to her until his back is behind hers, warmth from his body covering her so that little bumps pop up over her skin and her breath hitches. It takes everything in her not to shiver while her stomach flips.
“Is that so?”
“It is,” she whispers, trying to keep her breath steady.
“Well,” Killian whispers right back, his scruff brushing up against her cheek and sending a shiver down her spine, dammit, “I do love a challenge.”
With that, he moves away so quickly that his heat immediately evaporates, and if it wasn’t for the swirling in her stomach, Emma would swear it was all a dream.
What the hell just happened?
There’s a low whistle across the bar. “Emma fucking Swan.”
Emma whips her hair toward the sound, and her jaw may literally drop. “Ruby?”
“Oh, so you remember me,” Ruby scoffs. She’s smiling, but there’s fury in her eyes. “I figured you’d forgotten since we only talk on the phone and you’re not living in our apartment anymore.”
“What are you doing here, Rubes?” Emma asks as she leans over the bar to hug her. At least Ruby hugs back. She doesn’t have to, and Emma appreciates that.
Ruby settles down on the stool in front of her, and Emma realizes the entire bar is staring at the two of them. “I took off for your birthday, remember? We were going to binge watch TV and stuff our faces with junk food and feel no guilt about it.”
“Shit happened.”
“And by shit you mean Walsh cheating, your job sucking, and then this crazy lady leaving you a house even though she tried to kill you when you were a teenager?”
“Ruby,” Emma hisses, “shut up. Everyone can hear you, and I don’t want everyone knowing my business.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Emma doesn’t dare look over at Killian to see if he heard all that. She doesn’t need to. She knows that he heard it all. It’s that whole perceptive thing. “Do you want something to drink? Or eat? You must be so tired after the drive.”
“The biggest glass of wine you have. You know what I like.”
Emma nods and turns around to their wine selection before Killian walks up behind her again, this time putting more distance between them. It still feels like he’s right there though, like he never really left.
“You okay, love?”
“Just dandy.”
“Well, your use of the word ‘dandy’ makes me think otherwise.”
Emma rolls her eyes and looks up at him. His eyes are stupid concerned and stupid blue, and who does he think he is being so concerned about her when he barely knows her?
“I’m fine.”
“Hey, hot guy who’s flirting with my friend,” Ruby yells out. Killian’s brow raises at her as his eyes glance to the side. He’s silently asking her for permission to talk to Ruby, and her resolve deflates immediately. She nods and steps away with the wine, leaving him to Ruby. “What’s your name?”
“Killian Jones. Are you the infamous Ruby Lucas?”
“Ah, so you’ve heard of me. That’s funny because I’ve heard nothing about you.”
“You’re obviously much more interesting than me.”
Ruby takes a sip of the wine Emma pours for her before Emma is called to the other end of the bar to deal with some of the cops who are here after their shift. Her ears never leave Killian and Ruby’s conversation, though.
“I mean, obviously,” Ruby agrees, leaning forward so her boobs are nearly falling out of her dress. Emma almost drops a beer glass. “What exactly do you think you’re doing with Emma? She doesn’t need some knight in shining armor to rescue her just because she’s a little vulnerable right now. I mean, you obviously ran a background – ”
Emma’s grip loosens until the tray of beer glasses she was holding slips out of her hands and falls to the ground, glass splitting off into shards and covering the floor.
Shit.
“Don’t move, Swan,” Killian calls out, immediately moving away from Ruby and coming toward her, glass crunching underneath his boots. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she croaks out. In truth, she doesn’t know. her heart is in her throat, and she can’t really breathe. “I’m fine.”
His eyes scan over hers, but he doesn’t dispute her words. “I’m going to clean this up, okay? Why don’t you go sit with your friend? Be careful. I’m not sure how thick your shoes are.”
All Emma can do is nod, and she’s basically a robot as she walks toward Ruby, who is still sipping on her wine and tapping away at her phone. Emma loves her, but sometimes she doesn’t think before she acts. Half the time it works out, and half the time it means Emma is stuck cleaning up Ruby’s messes.
(While Killian seems to be stuck cleaning up Emma’s.)
“What the hell?” she hisses, trying to keep quiet. “You’ve been here for ten minutes, and you’re already telling everyone shit they don’t need to know.”
“I didn’t mean to! I mean, I figured he did know since you’re obviously sleeping with him as well as working for him.”
What the hell?
“I’m not sleeping with him. I’m not sleeping with anyone. And he didn’t run a background check on me. Killian’s a good guy, and he’s doing me a lot of favors, okay?”
“If you’re not sleeping with him, he definitely wants to sleep with you. Like, he’s having eye sex with you right now.”
“You’re gross, and you have the mind of a teenage boy.”
“I’m speaking the truth,” Ruby nods while her mouth opens with a long yawn.
“Rubes, why don’t you go back to my hotel room, okay? It’s late, and you’re tired. I’ll meet you when my shift is over.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Emma nods, “and we can talk about what we’re going to do for my birthday tomorrow.”
Ruby smiles, and Emma tries to let some of her anger fade away. This is her best friend, and she’s got her own faults just like Emma does. Hell, Emma pretty much ghosted her for two months, and Ruby isn’t even really mad. They’ve both got their issues. It’s fine. It’s life. Ruby has never done anything to purposefully hurt Emma.
Ruby takes Emma’s hotel key and leaves, and for the rest of her shift, Killian tiptoes around her. He’s timid and not making any of his jokes. There’s almost no personality to him, and for a few moments, she starts to believe that he’s mad at her. In actuality, he’s probably just realized he’s been working with someone with a criminal past for two months.
“Hey, Killian? Can we talk?”
“Swan – ” he hesitates, holding the chair he was about to put up.
“No, just, please let me explain some of this, some of what Ruby said.”
His lips are pressed tightly together. “You want to come upstairs? I have coffee there.”
“Coffee sounds great.”
They stop what they’re doing, and Killian turns on his heels to walk up to the second floor of the bar to where she knows his apartment is. She’s never been up this staircase, never even thought about it, but she follows him without question. His apartment isn’t much. It’s clean, which doesn’t shock her for how Killian is, and all of the appliances have been updated. Other than that, though, it’s pretty bare bones – brown leather couch, television mounted on the wall, coffee table full of books that should be on the tall bookshelves against the wall, and a bed with a deep blue comforter pushed back against the wall behind a half-wall.
Oh, and a coffee machine. An actual one. Not a Keurig.
That’s where Killian starts puttering around, not bothering to tell her to make herself at home or not to touch anything. His words can be flowery sometimes, but oftentimes he doesn’t say anything at all, simply letting her decide what she wants.
She kind of likes that.
Except for right now when she’s freaking out.
“So,” she begins.
“You want milk in your coffee right? I’m afraid I don’t have your preferred creamer.”
“Milk is fine. So, Killian, I – ”
“Look,” he starts, his voice gruff, “I don’t care about your past. We all have one, myself included, and it’s not great. So unless you’re a murderer or are going to rob me blind, I don’t need to know.” He turns to her as the coffee percolates and raises both brows, wrinkles appearing on his forehead. “Are you a murderer or are you going to rob me blind?”
“No,” Emma quietly admits.
“Then I know everything I need to know unless you really want to tell me why I would need to run a background check on you.”
She bites down on her lip, her stomach twirling. She never wants to tell anyone this, but the words are at the tip of her tongue. “I was sixteen, had just been taken out of Ingrid’s custody, and I was dating this older guy. I loved him, thought he loved me too, but then he stole some watches, framed me for it, and got the hell out of dodge. I went to jail for it, but I promise I didn’t do it. I’m not going to rob you blind. The only things I’ve ever stolen were some keychains and food when my foster parents didn’t give me dinner.”
Straightforward and only the facts. That’s the only way she can talk about Neal without hurling.
Killian’s brows furrow, and she wonders if he can express every emotion with just his eyebrows. It almost seems like it. “He’s a bastard. So is the bloke who cheated on you, by the way. A bloody fool.”
“I agree with that.”
Killian breathes out and turns around, opening up a cabinet to pull down a coffee mug, pouring milk and coffee into her cup before pouring black coffee into his. He hands hers over to her, and she immediately takes a sip while Killian stares down at his mug, tapping his fingers on the countertop.
And then he’s pulling up his Henley’s left sleeve until she can see those familiar red scars.
“I was in the Navy in England,” he begins. “I thought it was my calling. I loved everything about it, and then there was a damn mechanical misfiring that caused an explosion and tore up my arm and part of my torso. Hurt like hell, and I don’t know…I guess I kind of lost the passion for serving, and when my contract ended, I didn’t reenlist. Then I moved here. I’ve got dual citizenship. Mum was an American.”
“I thought you said people don’t run because of jobs?”
“I did say that.”
“Isn’t that what you did?”
“I ran because of my girlfriend ending our relationship to go back to her husband I didn’t know about and my brother’s death,” Killian corrects. The job simply happened to give me the push.”
Emma’s got a million questions, but she doesn’t think she should ask them. It’s probably best not to. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“Aye,” he laughs, scratching his ear. “It does. Life sucks, as you put it. That’s why I don’t judge you. That’s why I’m so willing to help you out with the job and with your house. You looked like you needed some help, and I know what it’s like to be in your position.”
Oh.
No one has ever done something like that for her, not really, and Emma thinks to herself once more that under all of his gruff and brooding and penchant for getting angry at customers, he’s a good man. She gets up and walks over to him, pressing up on her toes to lightly brush her lips over his cheek. His scruff burns against her lips, and she gets a stronger whiff of cologne than she ever has as her own cheeks heat up.
“Thank you, Killian.”
He scares her, in more ways than one, but weirdly, she almost craves that little jolt of fear, one she feels in the tingling of her lips far after she leaves his apartment.
-/-
Things shift after that night. It’s not in some monumental, earth-shattering way, but there’s definitely a difference in how Emma and Killian interact. Ruby spends the weekend with them, touring the house and sharing her opinions on what it looks like now and how it should look in the future. Ruby doesn’t get why Emma is staying in Storybrooke, doesn’t understand why she can’t get rid of the place and come back to Boston, but she still supports Emma. It’s what friends do unless they’re making batshit crazy decisions.
Ruby’s words. Not hers.
Besides, Ruby is convinced that Emma is staying for Killian, which actually would be batshit crazy. She’s not staying here for him. She’s staying here because she needs to fix up this house. She needs to fix up this house to prove she can, sell it, and wash her hands of anything and everything that Ingrid left behind.
Killian gives her the night off for her birthday, tells her to go out and have fun, but since there’s only one bar in town, they hang out at the Rabbit Hole and drink fruity drinks Killian hates making and eat onion rings he made specifically for her, mumbling something about how he knows that she really wanted to spend her day at home in pajamas eating junk food instead of hanging out at the place where she works.
She doesn’t mind, not really. Especially when Killian tells her that he’ll cover her tab for the night, throwing her a downright dirty wink and whispering in her ear that he’d take tips in other ways.
Ridiculous man. Such a cocky asshole sometimes.
When Ruby leaves town and heads back to Boston, she tells Emma to stop being stupid and to do something good with what she’s got here. If she’s going to be here, she needs to make it worth it.
Emma tries to do just that. She really does, but as the months pass and the house gets closer and closer to being presentable (and functionable) enough to sell, all Emma can think is that she’s got an apartment back in Boston and a job that will take her back if she begs just enough.
Boston is safe. Boston is…home. In Boston, there’s no man with blue eyes and a sharp wit who makes her stomach swirl like she’s got damn butterflies fluttering around in there.
Leaving Killian makes her heart ache, but admitting that to herself is something she’s barely capable of. Admitting it to him would be damn near impossible.
-/-
“Swan,” Killian calls out as she walks into the bar, “come help me get these blasted lights up. I thought it would be nice to make it a little festive in here for Christmas.”
He’s standing on a chair up against the wall, box after box of white lights scattered around his feet, and as capable as Killian is, this seems like a disaster waiting to happen. She takes a step toward him, a step toward his bright smile and slightly overgrown beard, but then she stops. She was supposed to be in and out, just like that. She wasn’t supposed to get attached.
She can’t stay.
“I sold the house, Killian.”
He drops a string of lights to the ground, small shards of glass scattering everywhere.
Shit.
“You what?”
“I’m going to sell the house,” she corrects. Her heart is beating faster than it ever has. “I got an offer from a couple from New York who wanted it as a vacation home and are going to finish the renovations and add on an extra room. I don’t really know. But it’s money that I need and that will help me out back in Boston.”
“Emma – ”
She hates when he says her first name. It makes her throat tighten and her stomach ache, and no matter how many times he says it instead of calling her by one of his many names for her, she’ll never get used to it.
She swallows the lump in her throat.
“You’re leaving?” Killian asks, obviously devastated. She hates that she knows the looks on his face and knows how he feels without even a word now. She nods. He knows her looks as well. “Stay, Emma.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? Why can’t you stay?”
“I don’t live here. I have a life back in Boston. I have friends, a job, a – ”
“A what?”
“I don’t know,” Emma groans, hot tears pricking in her eyes. When did any of this happen? How did it happen? How did she allow herself to have so many feelings? “I don’t know, but I can’t stay here. It was only supposed to be a day, maybe a week. It wasn’t supposed to be months. It wasn’t supposed to be this.”
She motions between the two of them, speaking the words that neither of them have spoken over long days working at the house, long nights working here, and too quick of times watching movies in his apartment or grabbing lunch at Granny’s or even racing each other on their runs.
She knows. He does too.
“You can see a future here, and that scares you,” Killian tells her, stepping close.
“Oh, let me guess, with you.”
“Aye,” Killian says as he steps into her space, the now familiar scent of his cologne surrounding her while the warmth of his hands presses through her jeans and then her sweater as his hands move from her hips to her shoulders. “You and I both know – ”
“We don’t know anything!”
His jaw clenches, and she knows he’s holding back. She knows him well enough to know he’s pressing down the fire within him.
“Emma,” he whispers, and her heart does that thing again that’s got to be medically impossible, “you have been the best part of my life for the past four months, and I know that I can’t ask you to stay. I have already, but I can’t honestly be selfish enough to think that you’ll stay just for me. What I can’t do, darling, is let you go without telling you how I feel.”
Her heart may be in her throat now because she can’t breathe. Not at all. Why the hell are his eyes so blue and earnest? Why is he so earnest?
She nods again, and he smiles this soft little smile that makes his eyes crinkle.
“I am rather fond of you, Emma Swan. I’m fond of the way that your smile shifts from small to absolutely beaming and the way that you laugh at your little comedy podcasts we listen to while we’re working. I’m fond of the way that you call me out on my shit and the way that you help me every day, even if you don’t know it. I’m fond of the smell of your perfume and the way I find long blonde strands of hair on all of my clothes even if I didn’t wear the shirt around you. I’m fond of the way you’ve weaved your way into every part of my life so seamlessly while I’ve had to carefully take a hammer to the bricks you built up around your heart.”
His hands trace up her neck, shivers running down her spine and bumps rising up over her skin. “I like you,” Killian continues, “and I don’t want you to go back to Boston thinking that you don’t have a life here. Everyone in this town would welcome you with open arms, but I’d be standing at the front waiting for you.”
Emma’s never been good with words, has never been an expert at expressing how she feels, but she has been good with actions. It’s why she wraps her arms around his neck, fingers tickling along the nape of his neck and into his hair, and kisses him.
She kisses him.
His lips are soft, softer than should even be possible, and his beard brushes against her skin much like it did when she kissed his cheek a few weeks ago while Killian quietly grunts into the kiss. They don’t move much, mouth pressed against mouth, but Emma finds herself getting lost in it. She imagined what it would be like kissing Killian Jones, something she would never admit to anyone else, but it was nothing like this. She didn’t feel it all over her, didn’t feel emotions swirling in her stomach and spreading over her skin, and she definitely didn’t think it would make her this happy.
She’s not sure when or how this happened, how exactly he hammered down the bricks around her heart, but she’s infinitely glad that he did.
Piece by piece and stone by stone.
“I don’t know if I can stay,” Emma whispers when she pulls back from the kiss, her forehead resting against his while her heart beats too fast. “I don’t – ”
“You don’t have to stay, darling. I simply ask that no matter your decision, you still allow me to be a part of your life, however you decide.”
Emma nods in affirmation before kissing him again, hungrily gliding her lips over his while heat curls between her thighs at the feel of Killian pressed up against her. The first kiss was soft, gentle, and while this one could still be described that way, there’s a fire simmering underneath her skin that comes to the surface with Killian’s hearty growl and the way that he starts backing her across the bar until her back is against the wall next to the staircase. Killian captures her gasp with his mouth, and she melts into him some more.
They should talk more. They really should, but they’ve talked for four months, and when Killian asks her if she’d like to go upstairs, she gladly says yes.
They shed their clothes the moment they’re in his apartment, tugging at shirts and pants as Killian finds the skin of her neck and leaves warm, open-mouthed kisses there while it takes everything in Emma to keep running her hands over his sides, feeling the warm skin and slightly marked up places. She’s already warm everywhere, gooseflesh rising, and her breathing is uneven as Killian keeps touching her.
It’s amazing.
And he’s beautiful. It’s all dark skin and lean muscle, someone who doesn’t work out much at the gym but is active, and he’s got dark patches of hair covering his chest and stomach, some of the black hiding the tattoos he has scrawled across his skin. She thinks most of the ones on his torso are there to cover up the scars from his accident, and Emma takes the time to trace her finger over the ink and over the scars, making sure to occasionally watch Killian’s face as she does so.
Of all of the times Killian has looked at her with admiration in his eyes, it’s never been quite like that.
She is so screwed.
When they reach the bed after Killian slamming his lips back into hers and whispering absolutely filthy things into her ear, his hand easily finds where she’s sensitive. He runs his fingers there, making her gasp and moan and whine that she needs more. Killian gladly gives her more.
There’s a push and pull, whispered words of want shared, and she gets lost in it.
He’s warm and thick when he buries himself inside of her, and his moan is one of the most delicious sounds she’s ever heard. His blue eyes are almost completely black now, but they’re no less beautiful. Everything about this is intimate, from the way that Killian kisses her to the controlled movement of his hips, sliding in and out in a slow rhythm that she knows is for her. A part of her wants more, wants faster and harder, but the other part of her is still catching up to the fact that this is real.
This is happening.
And she’s happy.
That might be the most shocking part of the entire thing. Emma is happy, which kind of snuck up on her without her really realizing it, and for the first time in a long time, if not ever, she can feel herself smiling during sex.
Is this what this is supposed to be like? Is this what it’s always supposed to have been like?
Killian smiles right back at her, letting his brows unfurrow from how they were folded in concentration, and then he’s dipping back down to move his teeth over her lips, a light graze that means almost everything to her all the while his hand dips down to where they are joined, the movement making her see all of those metaphorical stars.
Or, at least, something similar in blue orbs and a kind smile.
This is good. This is how things are supposed to be.
Happy.
“Killian?” she asks later. Sweat has dried on her skin, her hair curling around the temples, and she’s folded herself into Killian’s side while her legs are tucked between his calves. Her fingers can’t stop moving through his chest hair, untangling the patches, before moving down to trace over his tattoos and scars once more. She likes the way the red mixes in with the colors of ink.
“Yeah, Swan?”
She nearly giggles at the deep set of his voice, at how it’s harsh and soft all at once, kind of like him.
“I’m rather fond of you too. I thought you should know that.”
“The sex kind of clued me into that.”
“No, I meant. I – you…”
“I know exactly what you meant, love,” he promises as his head dips until his lips press into hers. “I was teasing you. You don’t have to tell me that.”
“I know, but I still want to. You deserve to hear the words as much as I do.”
-/-
She ends up selling the house to the couple from New York.
She puts away the money into her savings account, which was really nothing more than pennies and a few dust bunnies, and for the first time in her life, she has options.
Go back to Boston. Go anywhere.
Or stay in Storybrooke.
Stay in Storybrooke where the people are kind and know her by name, where the beach is nearby and often empty, where she could have a bit of quiet in her life, something that’s also been a novelty for someone who has never really had a quiet she liked. They’ve always been too haunting. This is comforting.
Stay in Storybrooke where there’s a man with blue eyes and the devil in his smile.
Only in the best way, of course, and she can’t keep her own smile away when thinking of him.
Of this life here.
So she stays. It’s what she feels in her heart is right, even if it means leaving her life in Boston behind. And she’s not staying for Killian. As great as he is and as happy as she is that she’s going to be around him, this is all for herself. After Emma tells Ruby her decision, Ruby is disappointed at first, but she promises to visit and still annoy the hell out of her. Emma doesn’t doubt it for a second.
Killian helps her find a place of her own after she tells him that she’s staying. The smile on his face has never been brighter, even when she rejects his offer to stay in the spare room behind the bar that he can renovate into a bedroom. It’s a kind offer, and she imagines she’ll be there often to spend time in Killian’s apartment, but she needs to do this on her own. It’s a new adventure, and she likes a challenge. Besides, if she and Killian keep flirting and making out like teenagers, she imagines one day she’ll be fine living with him.
Who has she become? Being so hopeful like that.
She likes it.
It’s a year and a half later when she and Killian sign the deed to a house on the shoreline, shutters falling off and porch rotting.
“So, Swan, you ready to fix up our new home?”
His fingers tangle into hers while her lips press into his jawline.
Our home.
She likes the sound of that.
“Yeah,” she smiles, “I am.”
-/-
-/-
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#what a plot twist you were#cs fic#cs ff#captain swan fic#captain swan ff#captain swan fanfic#cs January joy#cs jj#captain swan January joy
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A Hard Nap, The Fall of Math, The Star Wars Holiday Special, Disco Point, and There You Are
In January last year, I noticed a sign in myself of the same cancer my dad had back in 2008. Unlike the usual symptoms that set off my paranoia, it wasn’t some vague feeling, it wasn’t an intermittent pain, and it wasn’t a general ill feeling—it was clear and unambiguous, out of the ordinary and one of those symptoms that, if you google it, is under the list of “call your doctor if you experience any of the following.”
It was also nonspecific: this symptom could mean cancer, but it could also mean about five other cancer-unrelated conditions. I called for an appointment that morning with my general practitioner, who said that the earliest available date was about two weeks later.
I knew that the only way my fear would be effectively relieved was with the one sure-fire diagnostic tool for this type of cancer, one that’s recommended for everyone, but not until about age 50: a colonoscopy.
For the two weeks before my GP appointment, I mentally prepared for death. For the record, I do this every time I interpret my body’s signals as cancerous, but the mental preparation usually stops after a few days when the symptom either goes away or when a clear alternative cause presents itself. This time, I didn’t get that kind of relief and, in fact, the symptom repeated more than once between setting the appointment and going to it. Each time, it was like an intrusive thought come to life: you’re going to die. You’re going to go through surgery and chemotherapy like Dad and you’re either going to die early, or find out like he did that the cure is worse than the disease, or maybe you’ll hang on just long enough to experience both.
Winter mornings in Texas can sometimes be surprisingly cold. While stepping out the door on a midsummer morning is like walking into someone’s hot exhale, as you might expect, a 33-degree morning is more like a slap in the face. When I packed everything I figured I’d need to move here a couple of years ago, I threw away my winter coat, thinking, I won’t be needing this anymore. (The coat was also about ten years old at that point.)
My first winter in Texas, I layered a bunch of shirts underneath a light jacket and wore a scarf on freezing days. The second winter, I decided that I’d had enough of being cold. After all, I rationalized, here in Texas it was monetarily possible to never have to feel cold again if you really don’t want to. So I bought the warmest coat I could find, an unstylish, bulky parka made by Caterpillar, the company that makes construction vehicles. No more layering, no more checking the weather before leaving in the morning. I could just put this coat on and not worry about it.
But now, under the shadow of a cancer scare these January mornings, wearing the big coat made me feel less like I was smarter than the weather and more like I was trying to smuggle a terminal disease wherever I went. Under my coat, tie, button-down shirt, undershirt, skin, fat, and muscle, something was growing silently in the dark. While maybe it had slipped up and showed some of its handiwork to me, it was already too late to do much about it now.
Since it has affected my life several times before, and since it is such an exquisite mixture of dread and uncertainty, cancer is one of my mind’s biggest bogeymen. I feel personally insulted by the idea of it. I treat you so well, body—why would you betray me? Was I not nice enough? Is this poetic justice for my vanity? Is it, as the old anecdotal saying goes, due to my worrying?
Not only did I feel like I was smuggling cancer under the big coat, I was also warming it up by drinking my coffee. I was feeding it directly when I ate something too sugary. And I was probably even giving it an evil sense of satisfaction when I got stressed out about it. If I was able to keep my mind off it by working in the lab, mixing and pipetting, using kits, and doing arithmetic in my head, it would come crashing back into focus when I was pulling my gloves off to wash my hands.
I pulled up incognito mode on my phone’s browser during my breaks, googling “5-year survival rate colon cancer age 35.” “Cancer staging colon prognosis.” “Colon cancer smoking.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack in college.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack 18 years ago.” “Colon cancer smoke one pack after seeing Luke Wilson smoking in The Royal Tenenbaums.”
At home, I suddenly started noticing the expiration dates on my nonperishables. What will last longer, I thought, the freshness of this baking soda, or me.
I knew I wasn’t going to be comforted by the first GP visit. After all, they’re usually the first stop to a specialist, unless you have a PPO insurance plan, which I don’t. The doctor listened to my symptoms and family history. “Well,” he said, “Given your history, it’s a good idea to refer you to a GI. But, you seem like you lead a healthy lifestyle otherwise, with none of the other risk factors, so we’ll see what he says.”
I made the GI appointment and had to wait two more weeks for it, with the same circular worrying and googling. At the GI appointment, I sat in the waiting room, the youngest patient there by a few decades, and I felt a little bit ridiculous. On the other hand, I’d also just read a harrowing story about a woman in her late 20s who had colon cancer and died from it. That was a real person, I thought, who at the first phase of it probably went through all the same feelings I was now, the I’m-being-ridiculous and is-this-worth-the-time-and-vacation-days, all the way up until her diagnosis. Not just because I was scared, I felt a pang of sympathy. A disease of the old picking a victim from the young is terrible luck.
And I figured, if it could be her, it could be anyone. But most of all, it could be me.
That last bit, I think, is one of—one of—my greatest flaws, the vanity of always thinking that the worst things will happen to you, in spite of the odds. It’s a way of making yourself feel special, but it has no upside. You don’t feel confidence with this type of special-feeling. In fact, you’re more likely to be timid and self-centered, and you just come across as weird to the outside observer. They might think, There’s only a few steps between that guy and Howard Hughes. Somewhere, deep in your mind, they think: Wires are crossed.
Shortly before I went in, another patient arrived, a man around my age or maybe younger who, despite a dozen or so free seats, declined to sit down. My name was called, and I passed a sign on the way to the back that said, “If you have recently traveled to China and have a fever you must let our staff know.”
This doctor’s exam rooms had floor-to-ceiling windows, the kind you’d see in a movie, instead of the usual dull and bulby, off-white plastic exam room interior. A Spanish medical student came in to give a pre-appointment questionnaire and to take my vitals. He asked, in much better English than I could have mustered in Spanish, “So. There is some blood in they crep?”
When he came in, the GI repeated what my GP had said, and since he was also the person who would be performing a colonoscopy, he said I should set an appointment for one with him. I managed to get a date three weeks later.
From other people’s stories, I knew two things about colonoscopies: they are no fun, especially the night before, but the general anesthesia on the day of the procedure, on the other hand, is fun. I was nervous enough on the day before that I actually asked someone at the pharmacy for help finding the items I was looking for: Polyethylene Glycol (or PEG, which we use all the time for lab experiments, and which I was going to have to drink 2 liters of), Gatorade, and laxative pills. I had to take about 800% of their recommended dosages, each.
The bodily effect of those chemicals was dramatic, and I will spare the details. The worst parts of it, I found, were the generally exhausting physical toll it took, and the feeling by the end that I had some kind of dangerous sodium imbalance: I was sweating between my fingers, for example, but the rest of me felt as dry as paper. At 10PM, I was too tired to do anything, but too nervous to sleep for more than a few hours.
One smaller worry that I felt the next morning, as I took a selfie in my hospital gown to send to a friend back home, making a backward peace sign to show off the IV sticking into my hand and also how brave I was being, was that I might just die right there on the table from the general anesthesia. Part of my grad school research was on Propofol, the most-used general anesthesia nowadays (which, incidentally, also killed Michael Jackson). This was the same drug I was to be given.
I’d never been fully put under anesthesia before. It was astronomically improbable that I’d have an adverse reaction to it and die (and by the way, Michael Jackson abused it, using it far outside of medical praxis—if you’re afraid to get a colonoscopy yourself, don’t be, it could save your life), but keep in mind what I said about my vanity.
“Hey, I’m really scared,” I told the anesthesiologist. He said something, muffled by his mask, that sounded like, “It’ll be all right.” Then he busied himself with a syringe, connecting it to my IV. He depressed it about a third of the way. “This should help you,” he said.
The last thing I said was, “Whoa…I feel it.”
After what felt like a hard, late-afternoon nap, I said, “Hello?”
My head was wrapped with something. When I touched my face, I could feel that there were cotton pads underneath the wrapping, holding my eyes shut. I guess that at some point either mid-procedure or after, my eyes had opened, unseeing, and they’d done this to keep them from drying out. “Hang on, sir,” I heard a nurse say, and my head was unwrapped.
“It’s over?” I asked.
“You’re all done,” he said.
“Gimme a minute, please,” I said, my South Jersey accent peeking out. “I feel a little weird.”
Eventually, I sat up. Two of the nurses helped me stand, and I pumped my arms like I was lifting light, invisible dumbbells. As I put my glasses on and looked around, I thought that they all seemed like they were fighting to not smirk. What did I say while I was blacked out? I wondered, with a twinge of panic, before deciding that it would be worthless to speculate. It could have been anything. There are literally millions of possibilities. Again—it would be worthless to speculate, I told myself, firmly.
An Uber driver, I had been told by hospital staff during a consultation, was not a legally strong enough party to take responsibility for me at discharge. Someone I knew would have to escort me to my apartment. Also, they said, they really would do that thing where you’re back in your own clothes, and they push you to the exit in a wheelchair when you’re all finished. After my procedure, my co-worker stood waiting in the discharge zone with his car as an orderly wheeled me out of the hospital exit. I stood up from the wheelchair and got into the passenger seat of his car, for some reason more aware than usual of the heat coming from the vent and the smell of the car’s leather upholstery. “I still feel weird from the anesthesia,” I said to my friend.
“I’ll bet you do,” he replied.
It was about lunch time, and I had taken the rest of the day off from work. When I got home, I ordered a pizza and lay on my bed. I ate the pizza and watched Star Wars. I had not felt any euphoria when I woke up, I thought hollowly. And my first solid meal in almost forty hours tasted unremarkable. I was still groggy, but not in a pleasant way. I felt cheated.
The hospital staff had put a manilla envelope into my hands as I left. It contained sheets of images the doctor had taken during the procedure. Once lucid, I leafed through them and compared the thumbnail-sized images on printer paper with googled images of cancerous tumors viewed through a colonoscope, trying to diagnose myself.
A couple of the images on the papers had shapes that looked weird, with what seemed like variations in the texture or color of my colon wall that to me, at least, appeared one hundred percent fatal. It was another two weeks before I had a follow-up appointment to go over them with the surgeon.
“See this?” The GI said, two weeks later, pointing to one of the images that had seemed completely normal to me, unlike other ones I had thought were much more scary and unusual-looking. “That’s a low-risk polyp. Of course, now it’s a no-risk polyp, ‘cause it’s gone.”
This medical episode ended only three or so weeks before the whole world changed, but I was all the more grateful for that. If I’d waited to be checked out, then I would have been weighing whether it was worth getting tested against the possibility of being infected with COVID.
The doctor recommended that I get a colonoscopy every five years from now on, but added, “If you want, you can go earlier than that.” I told him thanks, but once every five years sounded fine.
*
I wrote about the first seven weeks of the pandemic in my last entry. After that, May and June passed in the same way as March and April had. I went back to work in mid-June for two weeks before the first summer COVID spike closed things back up. I continued to play Quake, and I continued to fret about my family.
I had a job interview for a position in northern Maryland in April. I didn’t get it, but I had a good idea why I’d been turned down: the position wanted people with proven math skills. Which makes sense—for the last few years I’d said repeatedly that I wanted to have a job that involves less lab work and more data analysis. This was one of those jobs.
My graduate program gave me a degree in “Computational and Integrative Biology.” Sometimes I shorten it to “Integrative Biology,” or “Computational Biology,” but I always feel sort of dishonest when I tell people my degree. (Apparently this feeling is common among grad students). My own reason for feeling dishonest was because, in any other college, the work I was doing would probably just fall under normal old “Biology.” While it was true I had done course work that reflected “Computational and Integrative” Biology, they were courses taught in a remedial way.
When I say remedial, I mean that they were courses designed to get biologists up to speed on how to do higher-level data analyses with their experiments. For instance, in my “Biomath” course, we went over ordinary differential equations and graph theory. Those are both intermediate-level math types, ones you’d encounter in the later part of an undergraduate math degree program. Throughout that course, there was a lot of handwaving whenever I asked questions.
“Eh…,” the professor might have responded to something I had asked, “that requires a lot of background explanation we don’t need right now to handle the problem here. Just take it as a given for what we’re working on.”
In grad school, it’s common to be well-versed in only your narrow little research tunnel that leads outward to the edge of “known” biology. But a few times each month, several of us students would head to the bar down at the city’s waterfront after work to talk about our research. It usually began with a complaint—“This is the third time this kit wouldn’t work this week and it takes twelve fucking hours to run it each time,”—but to give us a more context for their problem, whoever was griping would have to go back and start at the beginning, recounting all the steps leading to their experiment’s failure.
This was a useful exercise, since a pair of new eyes on your work meant that at least you could get feedback on how to better relate the subject matter when you talked to a non-science audience, and at most, you might get a real solution for the problem you were bumping up against.
But I would sometimes get privately upset, as I sipped my beer and glanced out the window at the river, when a math-centered Computational and Integrative Biology student would start talking about their research. As someone who feels an unpleasant, TV static-like anxiety in my chest the moment I see letters in italics, or one of those big, orphan sorority sigmas following an equal sign during a math seminar, this upset feeling was directed at myself. Because, as a result of my insecurity, I would start listening to the beginning of the math student’s explanation of their research, trip over the first unfamiliar term I heard, lose the thread of what they were talking about, give up, and zone out. The math students, overall, just seemed light years ahead of me.
A critical vocabulary word that I began to mentally tie to the situation—slumming, these math types were slumming when talking to us biologists—was the grain of sand to my insecurity’s oyster. By the time I got my diploma a few years later, it had developed into a little pearl; now I had the feeling that I was, relative to those who’d come from a math background, a fake computational biologist.
Unhelpfully, the people in charge of hiring for the jobs I want nowadays seemed to agree. All the job listings I was interested in applying for made me feel the same panic that advanced math symbols on powerpoint slides did. The subjects they wanted their applicants to have experience in—machine learning, deep learning, regression analyses—were all frightening, impregnable terms, reminding me either of some kind of giant machine made up of endless tubes and valves, all spitting dangerously hot steam, or of a highly secure, underground bomb shelter that requires fingerprints or eyeball scans to get into. I knew from my previous learning experiences that if I didn’t understand the fundamentals and learned only the higher-level, applied stuff, it was just going to make me feel unworthy, and I’d forget it at once.
But summer had come—it was midsummer now, in fact. The pandemic wasn’t going anywhere, so what was I going to do if I didn’t start learning something? I ended up registering for three classes at a community college back home, which offered their fall semester online. For two thousand dollars, including textbooks, I got a spot in Introductory Statistics, Linear Algebra, and Calculus III.
Calculus III was a risk. I’d taken Calc I and II in undergrad, now about seventeen years ago, and I had earned Bs back then. I didn’t remember much of the material from either class. I’d tried watching Khan Academy videos at various points in the meantime, but could never stick with it. I’d watch several videos in a row, feel like I understood things, try a practice problem, get it wrong, and forget about it after a day or two. But now, I had put actual money into it and, in a few months, a grade would be spit back out, so this time I had real skin in the game.
But I had misgivings that I was too old to learn new stuff, or that I would be one of those students I remember when I was in undergrad, the older students who would grind class to a halt with their endless questions. Or maybe I would get worse grades than I had in undergrad, despite taking things more seriously now.
Two of the classes were taught asynchronously, meaning each lecture was a video that you could pause or replay at your leisure, and all tests were take-home, but the other class, Statistics, was done over Zoom. You might think a Zoom class could be a better way to learn—clarifying questions can be asked immediately, for instance—but for me, at least, it was not. Instead of focusing on the material being taught, the whole time I’d be thinking, “They can see me. Everyone here can see me. I can see me, and I have a dumbass expression on my face. Can they tell that I have a bedsheet instead of a curtain over my window blinds?”
My mind wandered during class just as much as it had while sitting in a lecture hall when I was eighteen, but now, these classes were held later at night, after I’d been working all day and had eaten dinner. As a result of this, and the fact that I find Statistics to be boring when it’s taught as a series of don’t-worry-about-how-we-derived-it formulas to plug numbers into, I did the worst in Statistics.
But Calc and Linear Algebra were more interesting. When I watched the class videos, I got familiar with the disembodied voices of the teachers, who each seemed to be trying to do an impression of Khan Academy videos. My Calc teacher, with his strong Vietnamese accent, would punctuate every few lines of derivation or proof with, “So what does that mean then?” Every time—new topic, new chapter, new problem, exactly the same tone of voice: “So what does that mean then?”
Eventually, in my head, his cadence merged with the tones of Woody Woodpecker’s laugh, and I began saying it to myself as I did chores around my apartment. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d half-sing at my garbage can liner as I cinched it shut. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to a wrinkled button-down shirt, enjoying the pepper shaker-y smell of my iron when it’s turned up to its hottest setting. “So what does that mean, then?” I’d say to the window blinds, when considering whether I should replace the bedsheet I’d hung there with an actual curtain, before answering myself that No, this apartment is too temporary for something as tony as curtains.
Sometimes I’d say it three times in a row, like Woody Woodpecker himself:
“So what does that mean, then?”
“So what does that mean, then?”
“So what does that mean, then?”
I kept a Google Sheet of how much time I spent doing work for each class, and found that I averaged about 20 hours a week total. That broke down to approximately an hour and a half each weekday, and on Saturday and Sunday I would go for about six or seven hours each. I’d get up at 7:30 those weekend mornings and brew a pot of coffee, then sit taking notes and working through every part of each assigned homework, not moving on from a problem until I understood everything about it.
I think that those Saturday and Sunday mornings may have been the happiest I felt during the year 2020. In the middle of a difficult Calc problem, not having the answer yet but certain I was on the right track, while also buzzing on caffeine, as a beam of early horizontal sunlight hit my kitchen backsplash and filled the apartment with more brightness than all my lightbulbs put together, I for once did not feel worried. I was unworried about my parents, my sisters, my brother, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew, and all the pets. Unworried about COVID, or cancer, or the work stresses of the week. Unworried about getting older, about being alone still, or about enjoying being alone too much; unworried about letting all of this time go by and still feeling like real life hasn’t started; unworried about my dad having another stroke, or about my mom just suddenly up and dying out of nowhere, or cancer, or whether my hairline is changing, or the fact that my heart has been skipping a beat sometimes lately, or whether my friends who I speak to on the phone were getting sick of me, or whether I am too graphic when I describe symptoms I am afraid mean I might have cancer, or whether my apartment neighbors will keep me up with their noise again tonight, or whether the tooth sensitivity I feel drinking cold water lately means I need to risk a dentist visit during a pandemic, or whether I will be able to have healthier boundaries with my parents whenever I return to the northeast, or whether I’ll ever feel truly satisfied and content, or whether I’ll ever feel actual joy some day, or whether my hang-ups, and anxieties, and fears, and regrets about my personal and professional choices will end up all ganging up on me at once, or, of course, whether at any given moment, I might have cancer.
My attitude going into the classes was that I would disregard whatever grades I got and simply aim for as much comprehension as possible. But about halfway through the semester, I lost my nerve and began to think of my grades as a direct indicator of my level of understanding. So I started fretting about my grades, and on days of Calc III exams during the second half of the semester, I took vacation time so I could spend the whole day working on them.
It got a little crazy toward the end, but finally, it was over, and I managed to get all As. That made me happy, even if I knew that that kind of satisfaction is a bit immature. But I felt like I was making up for some of the sins I had committed as a college student, my laziness and my previous lack of appreciation for education finally, in a small way, absolved.
*
I spent Christmas here in Texas. When I think back on Christmases from previous years I find that I can remember the past two years very well because I flew home and packed a lot of family and friend time into a few short days. Before 2018, though, I can’t remember any specific Christmas well enough to recount anything that happened on the day.
But when I was a little kid, I remembered each Christmas perfectly, mainly due to the gifts I got and the room where we put the Christmas tree—where “Christmas happened”: in 1990, it was in the back room and we got a magic set, and also my brother pretended to faint when he saw he’d gotten Reebok Pumps. In 1991, it was in the family room, and my brother and I got the Nintendo game “Base Wars.” In 1992, it was in the living room and we got a Sega Genesis along with the game “Sonic 2.” In 1993, it was in the family room again, and I got a Hot Wheels Key Force car, and my brother got the Genesis game “Hard Ball 3 With Al Michaels.”
In 1994, my grandfather died a few weeks before Christmas, and we got a Sega CD. That was the year I became aware that the Christmas spirit was vulnerable to external forces, one’s first experience with death being the most offensive of those forces, and after a few months I also became aware that a hot new gaming console like the Sega CD could “fail,” slipping into obscurity with a small and unremarkable library of games. As a result, the indestructible-seeming sheen of Christmas fell away, leaving behind a better idea of what Christmas really is: a bare, thin-glassed lightbulb plugged into the middle of the year’s darkest period. After 1994, I can’t really remember what happened each Christmas.
This past Christmas will always be memorable, though, because I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day pretty much doing one of three things: playing Quake (yes, that hobby still refuses to die), watching something Star Wars-related, or video chatting with my family. At any time when I wasn’t speaking to family, I had Christmas music playing in the background, including while Star Wars was on. I turned the heat up in my apartment to 75 degrees and enjoyed how money-wastingly hot it was getting, until my nose started to bleed from the dry air.
I want to take this opportunity to say that I much prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is generally all anticipation and guest arrivals, buoying the mood long into the falling night. From the viewpoint of Christmas Eve, any miracle might happen the following morning. But then after a late, over-buttered breakfast on Christmas Day, there’s nothing much else to do except think about cleaning up and regret how much you’ve eaten. The “anything could happen” feeling is now all gone, collapsed from a dazzling infinity’s worth of possibilities down to one homely outcome.
I hadn’t put up any decorations for my apartment, unless the Christmas music can be considered a decoration. This ended up being a good thing, though, since I didn’t have to take anything down once the holiday was over.
*
I started taking walks pretty early in the pandemic, my first walk happening after about one week of lockdown. That day there was a surprisingly large amount of people also walking. We all stayed far away from one another, since none of us were wearing masks—the width of even a modest suburban Texas street is still impressively wide, so there was no safety issue. I always took the initiative to be the one who crossed the street if I saw someone, exaggeratedly swinging my arms as I crossed so the person walking toward me could see my intentions even from far away. I did this because I figured it would be harder for the dog-walkers to wrangle their dog across the street and get out of my way, and the people without dogs were either old or were walking in a group.
In the beginning I was walking maybe twice a week, which then became three times, which became five. It held at five times a week during the fall semester because I’d have to be on Zoom from 6:30-8:30 PM Tuesdays and Thursdays, which took up the whole span of time in which I would usually walk. Nowadays, no longer taking classes, I walk every night.
For a while, I tried to get home before sunset, because I’m afraid of being hit by a car in the dark. After the clocks shifted back, I had to choose between walking earlier, during rush hour when everyone was arriving back at their houses from work, or waiting to walk until after the sun has set. I ended up buying one of those reflective construction worker’s vests for $8 on Amazon and waiting for nighttime. I feel like a dork when I wear the vest, but most of the people walking at night who I see are also wearing reflective clothes. Theirs are more chic than my vest, though, looking like they were ordered through an expensive fitness-wear catalogue. I’d buy the same type, but to me, walking is a meditative, solitary act, and I don’t want to feel that I’m catering to externalities like looking stylish while I’m trying to feel solitary. It also acts as a tacit acknowledgement that I’m not a criminal: “I’m making myself as visible as possible! I’m not casing your houses to break into them later on!”
Even though the focus of COVID is on the transmission of disease through shared, respired air, I still pay a lot of attention to contaminated surfaces. When I go out anywhere, I have a routine: first, I put on my going-out clothes (newly clean), then my shoes, which are possibly dirty, since I have to re-tie them sometimes with unwashed hands, so before I touch anything else after tying my shoes, I wash my hands. Then, I put on a mask, turn off all the lights except the one at the front door, pick up my keys with my right hand, slip my phone into my left pocket, and walk to the door. I put my keys in my right pocket (my wallet is already there), open the door with my right hand, turn out the light, step out the door, and take the keys out of my pocket to lock the door with, again, only my right hand.
I use my right hand pretty much everywhere outside—to push or pull open doors, to open my car to retrieve something from it, to open my mailbox and carry my mail in—because I know that if I use my left hand, my phone-operating hand, I’m going to have to put the phone into a little UV light phone-sterilizing box that I bought when I get home. And for some reason, I feel like it’s a small moral failure to have to use that UV box, so I try to keep my left hand from touching anything except for the phone. But I know that if I drive anywhere, all bets are off—both my hands touch the steering wheel, my left hand touches the car door handle while getting out, and I push open doors with both hands whenever I get somewhere. I’m sure that my left hand ends up touching something that may have SARS-CoV-2 on it as I carry out an errand, and therefore into the UV box my phone must go when I get home. But, when I go out to walk, there’s a good chance that I won’t need to touch anything with my left hand between leaving the apartment and coming back. If that’s the case, I can use my phone freely while walking if I want to, but when I get home, I can still just take it from my pocket and place it on my desk, no ultraviolet sterilizing waves needed. But of course then I still have to wash my right hand.
The walk is the same route every night now. It’s a vaguely circular, level 2.7 miles, starting northbound, bearing west, south, then east. It takes about forty minutes for me to walk the whole thing, plus or minus four minutes, depending on how warmed up I get while walking. My heart rate generally goes up to about 115 beats per minute for most of the walk, according to my watch, then spikes to 135 as I climb the stairs to my fourth floor apartment at the end.
Insulated by the sound of music or an audiobook on my headphones, and with my hands stuck in my pockets, actually holding onto the cloth pocket linings themselves, I feel less like a person on a walk and more like someone steering a large, inertia-filled thing—a sailboat that I have to tack against an unfavorable wind, or a bobsled whose blades I have to turn out of deep ruts on the ice. But despite feeling bodily awkward, I find suburbia to be a soothing place to move through. I really don’t understand how some people think of the suburbs as some kind of dystopia, to be honest. My neighborhood has wide streets, as I mentioned, and the houses are almost all ranch-style. The trees, like the houses, are shorter than they are in the northeast. Some of the trees look more like very tall shrubbery. As for the ground, the blades of grass are wider, and the soil is just a bit sandier. Sometimes, I see two-inch-long cockroaches, what people back home would call “water bugs,” creeping across the sidewalks.
I can’t remember the names of the streets on the walk, except for Forrest Street, which I noticed once when I saw the street sign while I was running and it made me think of “Run, Forrest, run!” and Kenilworth Street, which has the same name as a street back at home. Other than those, I only know points along the route by the informal names I’ve assigned to them. There’s a road where it changes direction from heading north to heading east, and it looks over a little park. The lack of houses there gives an unobstructed view of the western horizon. For that reason, I call that part of the route “Sunset Bend.” At another point on the route there is a house where, in the beginning of lockdown last spring, a family was always outside, the parents sitting motionless in Adirondack chairs while their kids all went nuts on the front lawn, playing with the sprinkler, or doing hopscotch, or sitting at one of those tiny plastic picnic tables, playing some board game. That part of the walk I called “Kidville.”
There were other houses that were always so inactive, so abandoned-seeming—the blinds were always closed and there wasn’t a car in the driveway—that I started to wonder if anyone lived there at all, and whether maybe the neighborhood association was mowing its lawn to stave off the shabbiness. But after the switch from walking in daylight to nighttime, I saw that some of those houses, while still shut up and silent, had lights on inside in rooms not facing the street. Looking at those houses is like staring into the vents of a space heater in a dark room.
Eventually I started thinking about how the walk is exactly 2.7 miles. Then, idly, I realized that if you multiply 2.7 by 30, you get 81. That number of years, eighty-one, seems like a decent amount of years to hope to live—it’s not greedy, you’re not asking for a hundred years, for example—but also, maybe when I get closer to 81, there will be better medical treatments and 81 will seem younger. Assuming that doesn’t happen, though, I think of 81 years as more or less “a complete life.” It is very sad, but not exactly a tragedy, to die at 81.
With this in mind, I started translating the distance along my walk to human ages. For instance, 1.0 miles into the walk, times 30, would equal 30 years. And 1.2 miles times 30 would equal 36 years, which is how old I am now. Since by the time I’d discovered this “conversion formula,” the walk was already so familiar to me that I had a very good perspective on how far into the walk any given point felt—the precise moment when I sense that I’m transitioning from the middle to the end phase of the walk, for example. So when I came up with the multiply-by-30 conversion formula, I was interested to see exactly what part of the walk 1.2 miles, or 36 years old, corresponded to.
The answer is that it was later in the walk than I’d hoped. The moment I reach 1.2 miles is long past the most scenic parts of the route; it’s just after a left turn that puts me on a long straightaway of modest houses leading to an arterial road, known to me as the hook-around part of the circuit where in past walks, I had thought, “Now I’m on my way back home.”
Over the next few evenings, I noted other points, ones that had come before the 1.2 mile marker, and compared them to parts of my already-lived life: I graduated high school at 0.6 miles into the walk, which was the beginning of Sunset Bend. I got my master’s degree in a spot where, at nighttime, a streetlight shines through the leaves on a tree, giving the street a dance hall, disco-ball kind of lighting (hence, “Disco Point”). That friendly, lighted patch of street, with a jaunty-looking house standing next to it, makes it my favorite part of the walk. As for points I have not yet reached: still ahead of my current age distance, at around 1.5 miles, is Kidville, but I haven’t seen anyone in the front yard there in months now.
Toward the end, almost back home, there’s a large school property. I’ve never seen anyone on the grounds, except for the occasional person who sneaks onto the running track to jog it. Along one of the fences that borders the school, in springtime last year, someone started zip-tying laminated sheets of paper with jokes written on them to the chain links. The jokes are all clean, and pretty lame—these days it seems like almost all kid-friendly jokes are just puns, like “How did the farmer find his wife? He tractor down!”
One time, I saw a kid about ten years old on his bike, riding along the sidewalk and stopping to read each joke. The fence ends at a small park for toddlers. There’s a big plastic sign at the entrance of the park, faded but still legible, that has a boy’s name displayed on it. Below his name is written a tragically short span of years, and below that, a message: “This park is dedicated to the memory of (the boy’s name), and to all of the little tykes of (the neighborhood).” Whoever it was putting up jokes on the schoolyard fence stopped replacing them with new ones some time during the fall, and I walk too late to ever see anyone playing at the playground. Well, that’s not quite true: very rarely, around 9 PM on warm nights, I might see what appears to be a young mother scrutinizing her phone as her kid swings in the dark.
*
I haven’t been to the gym to lift any weights since lockdown started. I’ve been able to do cardio in my apartment, but the result of all the cardio and all the walking is that I’ve lost a decent amount of lifting strength, as well as about ten pounds. This is consistent with how life in general has evolved: I have also reduced the list of spaces I travel to, leaving my apartment only to go to work, to pick up groceries, and to walk through my neighborhood. My body, and the edges of my life, have gone through a great miniaturization, but my perspective has adapted with it—each feature within this smaller space seems more detailed, and the day’s moments are of a finer grain. Inside my apartment, I have realized how much the lighting affects the atmosphere, and as a result the mood, so I can change which lights are on when to reflect the mood of each time of day. When I walk at night, sometimes I have the same feeling I did the week before I moved here from New Jersey, a sort of farewell feeling. That feeling started in the fall as a dessert-like flipside to my happy mornings spent doing math homework. Those evenings, I also felt like I was saying goodbye, to a more insecure, more ignorant version of myself, I guess. Nowadays, I get the feeling that I’m saying goodbye to the person who had, until now, always feared that he was missing out on things.
There will be a time, closer to now than now is to the beginning of the pandemic, when I will leave Texas. I will be happy and relieved to return home, whenever that is. But at the same time, there’s a new feeling that is starting to take root, and it’s a weird one: for all the hardship that the pandemic has presented to me, the anxiety for my family and the limitations it’s put on my mobility, social life, and career, for more than ten months now, its most memorable effect, unless I’m affected by the illness itself, will be that it made me love my neighborhood. I have walked more than 500 miles of it over the months, and scores of miles remain to be walked before I move away. I’ve walked during steaming afternoons, during cloudy sunsets, in pre-dawn twilight on cool mornings, and during soft, breezy evenings. It’s always picturesque, pleasant, very green. The houses look inviting, and the dog-walkers wave to me. I listen to music that suits my mood and do the geographical equivalent of palm reading. That’s all, really.
Can a person love a place? Feel gratitude toward landscaping, houses, parked cars, and people viewed only from a distance? Can someone feel affinity to a fox seen in a churchyard and streetlights shining through leaves in the night? Affection for lawn mower exhaust, for the noise of an approaching SUV slowly carving out a bend? Love for landmarks that correspond to moments in one’s past, or to moments that one might encounter in the future?
There will be a time, I hope, when my years in Texas are far in the past. But some day, I will hear a song, or see a house with a certain architecture, or smell a variety of grass, and Texas will return to me. At the same time, I also hope that it isn’t too overwhelming. I’ve found that I can never tell how potent a memory of a particular time or place will be until there’s a lot of distance between me and it. Sometimes, a memory will come gently, settling on me like a haze, ready to be indulged, even laughed at. In such cases I turn up the music that brought the memory, or take a luxuriating whiff of the scent, and I think back on the time, feeling only a little bit sad.
But other memories swoop down like some kind of predatory bird, and in those cases, the nostalgia feels more like the punch of the bird’s talons in the back of my neck. The sense of missing is so strong that it feels less like nostalgia and more like a distilled, portable homesickness. Ridiculously, I’ll even want to return to the memory’s time and place, despite knowing that in reality it had been fraught with pain or unease. Which makes the sneaking feeling growing during this time, at this place, all the more uncanny. I mean, all that this span of time has been, is me, and some terrain, and the wind, and the light of the sun or the moon. No one else. My nostalgia for anything before this was always about times and places with other people. So who will I be missing?
Someone once said, Wherever you go, there you are. But now, I wonder: is that really true?
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This blog begins where the end of my journey should have been, but instead, it looks evermore likely, and evermore hauntingly, like it is in fact, just the beginning.
I had imagined that after four months of brutal illness, a multitude of infections, and endless other issues, that the turning of the new year would entail a welcome wave of freedom from hospital, god-awful doctors, and the hell that I had been staggering through in order to try and get better. Instead, the New Year has brought new challenges, the continuation of unreseolved illnesses, and even worse, a hightened sense of arrogance and narcissism from certain doctors that make this journey utterly unbearable.
Whilst writing this first post, I am passing an astonishing amount of blood, my back hurts, my bones feel like they’re broken they’re so painful, my feet are swollen and hard to walk on, and despite all of this, my doctor will not refer me to a nephrologist because it is “not his job”. I shall come to explain.
You wonder; when doctors took an oath to act within their patient’s best interest at all times, did they ever intend to adhere to that? Did they start off well and distend into a world of atrocity and cruel narcissism, acquiring a raw sense of vulgarity along the way? Either way, his leaving me to get sicker, in order to prove a point, is abhorrent and negligent.
Here’s what happened this week...
About 6 months ago, I started peeing large amounts of blood. Sometimes the urine sample would show infection, sometimes it wouldn’t. I got treated over 8 times with antibiotics, but after three months of repeated bloody urine, agonising pain in my back, swollen feet and a distended belly (in my opinion everything pointed to issues with my kidneys), and no infection showing, I told the surgery that I thought it was time that I was referred to a specialist - because constantly pissing blood is surely not normal. It’s beggars belief that after months of bleeding my doctors’ didn’t take the initiative to refer me themselves or even try to look into the issue further - instead of keep sending the sample off for cytology and getting the same results.
I got referred to Urology - even though the symptoms suggested it was my kidneys and the doctor actually asked if I had ever seen a nephrologist, they only referred me to urology - and after being throughly checked, the urology consultant sent a letter to my surgery and asked the GP to please refer me to nephrology, because the bleeding is clearly not right but is not coming from my bladder.
What happened next is, to say the least, astounding.
After spending a morning in hospital earlier this week (as many days are spent, now), the blood results showed that my white bloods, neutrophils and inflammation markers had raised from bloods taken 10 days before (I was in hospital for a ten-day follow-up because the week before I had developed a bad rash from new drugs I am taking for adrenal insufficiency). I said to the ER doctor that I had started passing loads of blood again that day (it comes and goes), and asked him to do a dip-test. He refused. He said that he didn’t want to give me more antibiotics and therefore, he didn’t want to test the urine to see if there was an infection. 🥴I don’t want anymore drugs. In fact, at this point, I think it’s probably dangerous to give me more antibiotics when they’re clearly not working. But surely, it’s not right for me to be passing so much blood and for the doctor to not even acknowledge it or try to find out what is going on. In fact, he didn’t even mention it in his discharge letter. I was happy not to spend any longer in hospital, but I left feeling slightly confused and, yet again, defeated. I find it bizarre that my bloods are showing an infection, along with bleeding profusely and yet I am told it is normal. I hate to dispute it, but I raised my questions, was told that the rise in bloods were due to my drugs (even though through multiple infections my inflammation markers have never risen and I know it isn’t my drugs because my dose has gone down, now up), and left.
If there is one way that this horrendous period of illness has made me feel, it’s defeated. As well as a feeling of being gagged and silenced and as though I could be screaming into the abyss, telling the doctors what is wrong, whilst being patted on the head, with a derisive smirk plastered across their faces, as they snigger and repeat, ‘there, there’. It’s been emotionally, physically and psychology horrendous.
After my midweek morning in hospital, I spoke to my GP that afternoon. I needed to ask him to make the referral to the nephrologist, as requested by the urologist in the letter. Nothing is ever done off the surgery’s own backs - even blood results that require attention takes for the patient to call up and prompt them to be looked at. I had called earlier in the week to ask for the referral to be made to the same hospital that I had been seen at for Urology, but I was told by the secretary that I would have to speak to a doctor for the referral to be made. Queue the 8am rush, and over 100 phone calls to try and get an appointment.
So, after three days, on the afternoon of the morning I had spent in hospital, my GP called me. Immediately, his tight, clipped tone was ready to bite. I explained that the Urologist had asked the surgery to refer me to nephrology in the letter and asked for the referral to be made. However, before I could finish my sentence, he told me that there was no letter on the system. He clearly had not looked. I explained that there was definitely a letter on the system because I get a copy and the secretary had printed their copy two days before, on the Monday. He looked again and miraculously, he found it, but not without making comment that it was in the “wrong” format. Of course, that was the reason.
I sat quietly whilst he read. And then, with an outraged scoff, he angrily spat that the referral should have been made internally and that it was solely down to “abject laziness” from the hospital that it had not been done. He told me that it was not his job to do it and, despite me bleeding heavily from what looks to be my kidneys, being in excruciating pain and feeling very sick, he told me that he would send the letter back to Urology and tell them to do it themselves. I was dumbfounded. But as ever, as with many who have had to undertake the constant battle of dealing with doctors through complex illness might be familiar with, I had to be the one to keep the cool head and stay calm.
I told him that when I had the conversation with my urology consultant, that she said it was for the surgery to make the referral, so I understood it was for them to do. He replied “absolutely not” before accusing the hospital of “workload shifting” and telling me that patients “choose to believe” that it is for the surgery to make the referral to another specialist. As it stands, I’m pretty sure that when one specialist has finished with you, the discharge letter has to come back to the surgery and the surgery has to be the coordinator, to refer you to the next specialist. But my GP was adamant that the hospital was lazy and useless and that they were the cause of any delay I might suffer.
Given how ill I have been, the amount I have been through, being immunosuppressed and any infection potentially being critical, I was flabbergasted that he was refusing to make the referral because he wanted to prove a point. I explained that whilst the two (the hospital and the surgery) disagreed, I was the one stuck in the middle whilst getting more sick. He said “I know” but told me that they had to learn to do it right.
I emailed the hospital the next morning, telling them his opinion and begging them to please make the referral. I followed up this email with a phone call on Friday morning, but as yet, have heard nothing. It’s always such a battle, and that, along with the already horrendous and draining existence of illness and constant hospital, makes everything so much worse. Multiple times I have told the surgery I am struggling with the stress of all of this, but despite offering help, or even acknowledging my concerns, they continue to play me like the ball against their two bats.
It’s Saturday evening and I am bleeding so heavily that I’m having to wear a sanitary as if I’m on a period. I feel sick. I’m in pain. And I have absolutely no idea where to turn anymore. Family have told me to go to ER but they will simply tell me that I’m waiting to see a specialist, which, currently I’m not because the referral hasn’t even been made.
The day after speaking to that GP, I spoke to another one. I told him that I needed my urine dipped. I handed in my blood-drenched urine and got told there was no infection but that it would be sent away to cytology anyway, just in case. I wonder what the protocol for these doctors is, when a young female patient is bleeding continuously, at times of no infection, with raised white blood counts and inflammation markers? Because all I am being faced with, is silence. I don’t even have the confidence to go to hospital anymore, because I feel as though I will be ignored.
And so, I am sitting here, desperate for the bleeding and pain to stop, but with no idea how.
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~15/9/2022~ On the whole I’ve been on better form than yesterday. Registered a very faint positive LFT (day 10) this morning - parentals have agreed I can come to them for the weekend. Bella was in quite a mischievous mood this morning, which was funny to watch! Went for a walk to meet H in a park for a masked chat again. PoTS was strongly complaining after the walk there - hr over 150 bpm! The chat definitely helped. Beacon House (private therapy service) phoned me back while I was there to take some initial details from me - they wanted to know more than I was expecting - it sort of feels like a different world - the person was apologising that they’d have to get back to me next week - it’s like in NHS services that would be unheard of! It’s all feeling a bit surreal - like it’s all actually happening even though it’s needed and we’ve been waiting so long. I walked home - had a pot noodle for lunch (food is feeling easier today though still not much appetite). Spent some time in the afternoon coaching my brothership through the process of asking GP to re-refer him to MH services to be assessed for bipolar - he’s been falling into the classic trap of attempting to seek support while in a depressive state, but then not attending appointments when they come up as by then he is in a hypomanic episode and believes he doesn’t need it - we’ve come up with a plan whereby I will help him ensure he attends his assessment! It’s nice to feel useful in some respects… I had a Zoom meeting with student union advisor - they can liaise with the School of Psychology of my behalf re negotiating a plan to return to my studies. I felt a bit down as the other students on my course received their results today and so saw lots of happy posts from them about qualifying as MH practitioners - which left me with the slight that could/should have been me feeling :/ I wrote down some notes about what would need to be negotiated to ensure a successful return to the course to complete my placement in early January. I spent some time sitting outside in the evening reading a blog about PDA 🦄 (at Southover Grange) https://www.instagram.com/p/CiinS4iKPlgjEgZbN2eZuxp75NvuYboPnfCoFU0/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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Piecing together- Part 2
This is the second part of my new single dad! Roger Taylor series which I hope you are all enjoying so far.
Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @rogahs-drowse
Series masterlist
Enjoy.
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Tilting his head down, Roger looked at James as he tried to work out of the little boy was asleep or simply closing his eyes for a while. Last night he hadn't gotten very much sleep due to a persistent cough. Normally it took Roger a while to get James to go to sleep because he was upset or panicking about going to school in the morning but last night had been pot luck because James wasn't at school today and he knew that yet it was his cough keeping him awake.
Roger decided James was simply closing his eyes as he shifted around beneath Roger's arm, tucking himself into his father's side.
James didn't normally mind doctor appointments like this but he was happier today since it meant he didn't have to go to school. He slowly tilted his head up to look at Roger when his name was called, getting to his feet when Roger stood up. He kept his arm around James as the pair of them headed down the small corridor from the waiting room and went into Dr Harrow's room.
When James got treatment at the hospital he always saw Dr Freeman but when he was simply having a check-up with the GP he saw Dr Harrow which was good, James didn't like talking to strangers or having to be around someone new.
When they entered the room, Roger scooped James up and set him down on the blue seat much like a dentist's chair that was in the left corner of the room. He slipped James' bag from his shoulders and set it down at his feet, having finally managed to get James to wear a new bag instead of the old one which had been falling apart. The old bag had been black with the Queen logo in the middle in silver writing but the new one was very much the same style simply with the colours inverted. Queen in black with the bag being a vibrant mercury shade of silver.
"Good morning, so how are you feeling today James?" Dr Harrow questioned as he got up from his desk and walked over to where James was sitting, earning a nod and a small smile but no words. The little boy simply looked to Roger, wanting him to answer instead like he always seemed to do.
"He's got a bad chest and he's wheezing a bit."
"Okay, well let's pop you on the scales and we'll check your chest out in a moment."
Roger set him back down to his feet, moving to lean against the wall as James followed him before moving to stand on the scales next to the door. His eyes went to Dr Harrow who had gotten a sheet from his desk to fill in. He smiled kindly as he looked at the weight at the bottom of the scales before jotting it down onto his paper. Moving his hand, he motioned for James to stand next to the measure, recording his height which Roger already knew was rather small for his age. But it wasn't something Roger really worried about because he had been short when he was James' age.
"Still rather skinny for his age but that's understandable, I don't think we'll class that as a problem at the moment." His nose crinkled as he dismissed the minor note that couldn't really be acted upon at the moment.
James had been born premature and he had eating problems, being underweight was something that had always come up at appointments and it was never something that changed or really could be changed. James couldn't eat dairy and he had IBS from not eating regularly or enough, Roger made sure he ate little and often but his weight wasn't going to change at this moment in time.
"Okay, can you lie down on here for me and we'll check your tummy."
Turning to his left, James held his arms out to Roger who couldn't help but smile, quickly and effortlessly setting James on the bed that he laid down on. His eyes following the doctor as he lifted James' shirt up before gently pressing down on his stomach at various areas.
"Oh, ticklish I see." James pulled his knees up as his arms went near his stomach as he giggled. "Is he still taking the IBS tablets?" He asked, turning his head to look at Roger who nodded.
None of the medication James had taken had been stopped or he had stopped taking. Roger had been told that when James got a bit older he would be moved onto different concentrations of medication but that would be when he was around ten or twelve so that was a while away yet. None of James' problems had gone away or had gotten better on their own so his meds were still very much needed.
"Okay, that's fine. Right, you sit up and we'll do a peak flow test." Dr Harrow smiled gently when James huffed, that was the thing he didn't like when he came for an appointment.
They had to check on how his asthma was and see if he was still a priority or if they needed to change the steroids in his inhaler or keep things the same. A peak flow test was simply breathing as much and as quickly as he could into a small tube three times to see what number he got. The higher the number the better his breathing was but James always got a lower number especially when it was calculated by his age, height and weight.
"I think you know how this works."
James drifted his eyes to Roger who nodded that he needed to do this, watching as he took the white rectangular device from the doctor and held a deep breath before blowing into the small funnel. He watched Dr Harrow write down the number before he repeated the action another two times before handing back the device. Catching back his breath but his chest felt like it was crackling as he tried to breathe deeply.
"Again, it's still rather low but if he has an infection that might explain it. We'll leave his prescription as it is for now."
The peak flow test always showed a small number because James' lungs had been underdeveloped when he was born and his airways had been smaller and restricted. His inhalers had always been the same, he hadn't had a lower dosage or a higher one and Roger agreed that it didn't need to change. They prevented asthma attacks and stopped them just fine and if James did have an infection now then it would screw with the test.
"Right, let's check those lungs." Reaching over to the table behind the bed, Dr Harrow grabbed a stethoscope. "Deep breaths, breathe in as much as you can."
He moved around so he was standing behind James, pressing the circular end against the left side of his back as James took a deep breath before he moved the end to listen to his right lung. Roger smiled when James locked eyes with him, clearly looking for some comfort or reassurance.
"Can you cough for me?" James felt like it was an odd request but he did as asked, feeling a slight burning in his chest which was nothing out of the ordinary.
Pulling back, Dr Harrow hung the stethoscope around his neck before ticking his head to the side indicating that he wanted a quick private word with Roger. The drummer narrowed his eyes as he walked over to the doctor, feeling his heart beginning to thud harshly against his ribs. This clearly wasn't anything good or just a little word of advice, James must have some kind of infection or something wrong. Roger folded his arms over his chest as he waited rather apprehensively to be told what was wrong.
"When he breathes his lungs don't seem to be expanding enough, I think there might be some fluid building up. It isn't something to panic about because he's breathing okay and he's not struggling but it will be best to get him checked over and remove the fluid if there is some."
He didn't want to panic Roger into thinking James was suffering as bad as he had done in the past but he also couldn't overlook this or think that it would go away. He didn't know if this was a bacterial infection and therefore antibiotics might not rid the fluid and nor did he want the hospital to pump James with antibiotics because he was very young and he could become resistant to them over time.
"I'll call the hospital so they know to expect you, but I'd suggest going today or at the latest tomorrow. The quicker he's checked out the better he'll be." If James went today then it meant if there was something wrong it would be sorted out before it could advance and get any worse and if there wasn't anything to worry about then Roger's mind could be set at ease.
"I'll take him now."
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Glancing his eyes into the room a few feet in front of him, Roger nodded his head in a silent question to check that James was alright. Watching his double nod his head as he took a few sips of his drink, his eyes latched onto Roger who was standing at the phone in the waiting area. His right arm resting against the phone box attached to the wall as his other hand held the phone to his ear. He looked a bit annoyed but he smiled when he looked over at James.
"Brian, I know the order of the songs and I'll work on the routine at home but I can't come in this afternoon."
The plan for the day had been to take James to his appointment and then head down to the music hall for practice. They had two weeks left and then they were going to be performing at Live Aid. They needed to get into shape because the band hadn't performed together in almost a year now. But with Dr Harrow suggesting James be taken to the hospital, Roger couldn't wait another day. James had today off from school and it was easier to get him seen to at the hospital now rather than take him out of school tomorrow and miss morning rehearsals.
Of course, the boys weren't best pleased that at such short notice, they were now going to go the full day rehearsing without their drummer and back up vocalist.
But Roger couldn't do anything else.
"James has to be here and you know I don't have anyone else to take him at the moment. You all know that I want to do this concert but James comes first, that's the fucking reason I keep saying I need a break. I'll be in tomorrow."
James didn't like going to the hospital, the only way Roger could get him to go was to promise he wouldn't leave him there alone or leave him with someone else. Roger's family didn't live in London and (Y/n)'s parents and him weren't on the best of terms. Roger only really trusted himself to look after James and that meant he took him to all his appointments and gave him his meds and such.
Roger wanted this concert to go well, it was for a great cause and it would be the band's first concert in a long while. But at the end of the day, James was his main priority he came first for Roger and this concert had to come second. The reason they kept taking breaks from making albums and not doing tours was because Roger either couldn't take James on tour or he had to care for him and an album would get in the way.
All of the band got enough out of the royalties from their other albums that they weren't making music for the money, it was simply for the pleasure. But Roger had to balance things out and taking care of James clashed with being in the studio.
Hanging up the phone, Roger took a moment to catch his breath before he moved over and walked back into James' room.
They'd been in the hospital for just over three hours now, they'd had to sit and wait in the waiting room for Dr Freeman to be available and then Roger had to wait further for James to have an MRI and a chest x-ray. Now the pair of them were waiting for the results to come back and Roger remembered he had to call the music hall to let the boys know that he wasn't coming in today.
He understood that they all needed to be at the music hall because it wasn't a question of if they could play the songs, it was a question of if they could play together again and find their groove. Roger kind of needed to be there for that to happen but he couldn't right now. He would get up on that stage in two weeks and just blunder through and wing the whole thing if he had to but James was his priority.
"How are we both today?" Dr Freeman questioned with a smile as he entered the room, looking between them as he felt like he was looking at Roger and a younger version of the drummer, their eyes were the catching feature as they looked so similar.
"Tired." Roger responded when James smiled but said nothing as expected.
"I see, well I have one more test to do today and then you can both get some rest. I'm afraid this one might be a bit uncomfortable."
Dr Freeman walked over to the trolley on the right side of the room, pulling it over to the bed as he put on some plastic gloves before looking at the pair of them. James looked very unhappy as he shuffled closer to Roger who simply wrapped him up in a comforting hug to tell him it was okay.
"There's a build-up of fluid, I'm going to have to drain it and test it to see if it is an infection or not. Okay, can you pull your shirt up for me?"
Roger kissed the top of James' head to try and calm him down, knowing this was the kind of thing that he hated coming here for. He'd had a needle in his lung before and it made him squirm and panic like mad and it did hurt but it had to be done. James looked down as he rolled his shirt up and bunched it just under his arms, watching Dr Freeman nod calmingly as he smiled to try and stop him from panicking.
Reaching over, Roger turned James' head so they were looking at one another, not wanting him to cry by seeing the needle.
"You'll be fine, you're such a brave boy."
James latched his arms around Roger's bicep, closing his eyes as he held his breath to stop himself from hyperventilating. Trying to stay deadly still in preparation but he couldn't help but jolt at the burning pain as he let out a sharp cry, trying his best to stay still as Roger held him in place. Wincing as he saw the needle pressing through between two of James' ribs to get to his lung. The little boy's breathing differed from deep to shallow as he started to wheeze either from his chest already being tight and sore or from the pain of the needle.
A sob left his lips as he snapped his eyes tightly closed, pushing himself into Roger who made sure he stayed still, repeatedly kissing his forehead to calm him down.
"Daddy..."
"It's okay, you're almost done." Leaning over, Roger watched the fluid drain from his lungs into the needle. Slightly confused at the colouring as it was a very pale distilled yellow rather than a dusty white or even a clear liquid like he had been expecting.
"This looks like lymph fluid." Dr Freeman commented quietly as he slowly removed the needle from James' skin. Taping some cotton wool over the puncture wound as James whimpered, burrowing himself further into Roger.
"Why is it in his lungs?" Roger asked quietly, his heart increasing at the apprehension in the doctor's eyes that showed he didn't want to give an answer. Roger had taken biology and he couldn't think of many harmless or good reasons for there to be that kind of fluid in his lungs when it should be in his lymph nodes and the lymph vessels, not filling up his lungs so he couldn't breathe.
"It could be lymphoma."
Roger felt like his heart had burst out of his chest as he found himself holding James tighter to his chest. Thankful his boy was too busy focusing on the pain to listen to their conversation or notice Roger's shift in mood.
Lymphoma was a form of cancer.
#roger taylor#roger taylor imagine#dad! roger#Single Dad#queen band#freddie mercury#john deacon#Brian May#piecing together
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