had always prided himself on his good memory, his ability to absorb and retain
information, on being prepared for every situation, on keeping a cool head
under pressure. They were some of his greatest strengths.
now, none of them were working.
now all Laurent could think was that Damen was lying in front of him, hovering
somewhere just shy of consciousness. Laurent was acutely aware of the sound of
Damen’s breathing – ragged, shallow, wet, each one dragging in and out of him –
of Damen’s blood, warm and wet and staining his hands, dying both their clothes
bright red that was slowly drying to brown.
if Laurent had ever learned anything about how to treat wounds like this, he’d
on,” he muttered, pressing his hands a little harder against the gash in
Damen’s side. That much he could remember; apply pressure, slow the bleeding.
“Come on, wake up. You’re the soldier, tell me how to help you.” Damen was no
physician, but surely he knew how to patch up a wound long enough to get to
one. Surely that was a thing most soldiers learned to do.
it wasn’t, Laurent was making a change to the training regimen the moment they
refused to allow his brain to add an ‘if’ to that thought.
Fandom: Gravity Falls, College AU Pairing: Pacifica Northwest x Dipper Pines Rating: T Warnings: Swearing, mildly sexual scenarios, emotional trauma, reality displacement, mentions of slut shaming by awful people.
There’s an old adage.
There’s an old adage - a cliche, really, though most are.
There’s an old adage that sits tight between tongue and teeth and tastes like chewed tin foil and goes a little like this: you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.
But gone isn’t quite the right word, not now, not when Pacifica feels as though whatever she had has been ripped out from between her fingers and tossed aside. She clenches and unclenches a fist, imagining she still feels where her mother’s nails twisted into the skin at her wrists. A sinkhole bottoms out in her stomach. Pacifica wraps her arms back around her knees and draws them more closely to her chest. The fraying rug beneath her provides little barrier from the chill of the bathroom linoleum. The vomiting had stopped about an hour ago. She hadn’t moved much since.
“I’m fine,” she groans.
“It doesn’t sound like you’re fine,” Mabel says through the door. It’s impossible to miss the strain that grips her voice.
“Something I ate at the luncheon didn’t sit right with me, and I think I needed to get it all out.” She wills her roommate’s worry to overwhelm Mabel’s otherwise sharp observation; the last thing Pacifica needs is to be caught out in a half-lie. Something hadn’t sat right with her, and she’d scarcely been able to eat because of it, but it wasn’t something she could rid herself of quite as easily as her meal.
From her place on the floor she can see the grime that’s accumulated on the yellowing sealant of the toilet. Flecks of vomit still dot the outside of the toilet bowl, spots she missed when trying to mop up after herself a while ago. A pile of navy hangs out in the corner of her eye, but she doesn’t bother focusing on it for fear of making herself sick again.The shame was not that she hadn’t gotten to the toilet in time, but that the dress she’d worn to the Family Luncheon - newer, blue with a chunky sunflower yellow belt - hadn’t escaped the fleeing contents of her gut. The dress had been the only thing her mother had complimented the entire afternoon. Maybe it was better off covered in bile. Come to think of it, on the floor of a bathroom is where her day had begun, too.