sometimes i like what i write

anonymous asked:

would you write Isak with anxiety/having a panic attack?

heyyyy, sorry this took a while! i tried at least, it might not be very good but its based off personal experience, kind of?? So i’m sorry if it seems insensitive/inaccurate, this is just what i know of anxiety. I like to project onto issy k, but i do know my experience isn’t everyone’s :P enjoy! (thats probs not the right word to use)

*

Sometimes, Isak’s voice shakes when he talks.

Sometimes, he thinks of one million and one things he should have done differently.

Sometimes, he realises all of the ways in which he’s not good enough for Even.

Usually, it happens at night. In the hours between dusk and dawn, when his brain is at the loudest and the world is at its quietest, he thinks. He thinks too much, and sometimes Even will be awake to calm his brain, to reassure him with gentle words and calming touches, but sometimes he isn’t - and Isak can never bring himself to wake him up, even when it feels like his heart is jumping out of his chest or his mind is exploding with the ways in which he’s not good enough for him.

If he were to listen to his rational thoughts, he would know that Even would want him to wake him up, he would know that he would want to be awake to talk Isak through it, to give him comfort, and Isak wants that too, so desperately, but he can’t. He’s too far into the night already, too far lost in thoughts of not good enough, just a burden, not worth the trouble, and he can’t wake Even up for this. It’s stupid and pointless and he’s just overreacting anyway, he just needs to shut his brain up and sleep and he’ll be fine in the morning, everything will be fine.

He’s still lying awake, though. Nights like these are always sleepless.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Sometimes I feel depressed my writing is not good compared to other talented writers, what can I do about this? I tried stepping up !y A game, but I'm not confidence I'll reach my highest potential...

Read and learn, don’t read and yearn. 

Your writing style is completely, absolutely, 100% yours and nobody can replicate it. You can be inspired by others but should not want to write just like a certain person. Because their techniques are unique to them, and your techniques are unique to you.

You should read their works to educate yourself as to what works and what doesn’t. The thing is you don’t want to copy word for word what they say, you want to create the same effect on the reader. You want to the words to flow flawlessly like theirs and make your reader feel like they’ve made you feel. 

The more you read, the more you’ll pick up on what works and what doesn’t. Subconsciously, you will pick up on ways to improve your grammar, description, dialogue, etc.

The reason that you don’t like your writing is because you wrote it and it’s not brand new to you. If you read another person’s work a thousand times, trust me, you’d get bored with that, too.

You will reach your potential. Believe me. Maybe you already have. 

Some beliebers very angry. I don’t know why they do it, but sometimes I don’t want to be here. They try to expose yourself to those who are not and tell people who the real belieber and who is not. What right have you at this. We all love Justin the same way. Stop showing off and put himself in a better light than others. It’s awful. Enough of this anger. I do so hate to write this and think about it, because we are like one family, but it seems not. Stop being so cynical, I can’t stand it. What we were taught Justin? Hatred? We need to stick together, but it’s not. Well, bye.

anonymous asked:

i just saw your post about you being mormon as a kid and i just wanna say,,, that actually helped me in some way? like my family is mormon and my uncle is actually a general authority so i can only imagine what my family would think if i left the church, and though i don't know your whole situation, seeing someone writing what they love, regardless of those (sometimes toxic) standards that get ingrained in us, makes me so so happy (you don't have to respond to this if you don't want lol sorry)

I’m never going to shit on the Religion itself, it’s still a big part of my mom’s life and while I can honestly respect that, she also needs to respect that I’m old enough to make my own decisions and unfortunately, my decision has lead me to be an inactive member of the Church. And while there was a lot of toxicity in our Ward at the Church, I also learned a lot of great things while I was an active member that I know for a fact have shaped me to be the person that I am today.

Many of my family values come from the Church and I hold them very closely because I am so close with my brothers and sister and I know they will always be there for me. I have a good sense of right and wrong because my mom ingrained it into our mind, though recently, I’ve learned that maybe some of the things she taught us may not have been right and may have just been her opinion, lol.

You know, my mom still refuses to accept that I had left the Church and that I feel the way I do about it and some of its teachings, but she’s just gotta suck it up and deal with it. My father was a Bishop for a few years, and he’s accepted me leaving the Church. 

Ever since I was young, I knew that writing was something that I wanted to do. It’s one of those things, like a painting, that can bring fiction to life and I take honest pride in what I do, even if my mom doesn’t agree with a lot of the subjects I might write about. (This is coming from a woman who loves Fifty Shades of Grey and absolutely refuses to read my book).

And you know what? A lot of my values from the Church and the values I’ve learned over the past 4 or 5 years reflect in the way that I write, and it’s really helped me develop a rather unique way of writing so. I’m thankful.

I hope that someday, maybe, you can express to your family your problems with the Church, and though they may not understand what you’re saying, you can be assured that you’ll feel a lot better rather than having it forced down your throat. 

Thanks. :) Have a great day, and if you ever need to talk to someone about this, you can count on me.

anonymous asked:

Random question: what's your current favorite (or favorites) Tony pairing, either to read or write?

Ummm I still like reading stuckony, starkquill, winteriron, and stony (sometimes, I find it hard to stomach after CW if I’m in a really pissy mood at you-know-who). For writing, probably the same. I like ironpanther and frostiron, but I wouldn’t say they’re my favorites.

Frankly, at this point I just want Tony to be loved, looked after and cared for. I don’t even care who does it so long as someone does it.

I really love writing fan fiction, but it still feels weird to me sometimes and writing someone else’s canon is still kinda hard. I keep having all those amazing ideas that I really want to write down, but at soon as I start organizing my thoughts, I start asking myself a thousand questions…

Is this right?

Did I get the right impression?

Is this faithful to canon and in character?

What 783994 micro details am I forgetting?

How does X character speak? Am I reproducing it right? Does it sound in character?

And so on. I’ve been writing my own works for so long and I know my own characters like the back of my hand, but when I start thinking about characters I didn’t create, I can’t stop worrying about one million things I could be doing wrong and everything just feels awful.

And I know I need to keep practicing to get better, but some days I just feel like screaming because writing fan fiction definitely ISN’T working lately, no matter how much I want and try to do it. I’m sorry, I’m just frustrated ;a; I really want to write fan fiction more often!!

anonymous asked:

So I'm like genuinely sad, I didn't think I'd be so emotional today! Thank you for your blog! I don't think you realize how many people enjoy what you have to say even though we Don't always agree & can sometimes be complete jerks. Much love & best wishes.

<3 ily. 

I’m sad too. I knew I’d be sad but I’m more sad than I thought I would be. I’ve legit cried at least five times this morning already. But you know, I think we’re all gonna feel that. Some of us hate this show and what it’s become, but it meant something at one point to us. And it continued to mean something because we continued to watch even when we were mad. I’m trying to write like a goodbye post?? and I just don’t even know what to say because I’m so emotional

sometimes when i go to let my dogs out into the back yard, i find them simply standing at the door. their noses twitch in the breeze, smelling the tempting scent of the outside. the sunshine spills over onto the doorway, not quite flooding inside but flirting with the edge, and even from the cooler, darker areas of the kitchen, you can feel the warmth radiating from it. they always want to go out. what animal wouldn’t crave the feeling of sunshine on their back? who wouldn’t relish the breath of summertime freshness in their lungs, or long for the feeling of soft green grass beneath their toes? who wouldn’t fall in love with the green vigor with which the plants grew in the surrounding soil? still their paws pause at the exit. they want to be out there, but they dont want to take the first step onto the hot patio. they fear the burning sensation, or perhaps they fear coming back in again. for a while i didnt understand. but recently, i think ive learned.

thumbelina becoming human-sized though:

- she’d stare at people. like, not intentionally, but because there are so many who are all her size and she’s just so unaccustomed to it.

- that guy who was so scary and mean to her and seemed like such a giant? yeah he’s half a head shorter than she is to scale, and she probably only stands at like 5′0″ at normal human height.

- and noticing how the people who babied her and treated her like a child don’t seem to think of her that way anymore - no, now she’s a “young woman” and she should already be able to do things for herself that normal ladies her age do, even though so little has changed about her.

- not having to navigate her way around everything; oh, look, there’s a room, the path leads to another room, and that’s all you have to do to get there (if she doesn’t trip over all the furniture)

- conversely, not being able to fit into smaller spaces: picking up things she used and examining how bitty they are in her hand, and wondering if she really looks this small.

ragific  asked:

Once you get this you have to say five things you like about yourself, publicly. Then, you have to send this to ten of your favorite mutuals. (Non-negotiable, positivity is cool~) -RAGI

RAGI I was shook when I saw this message!! First you post your future story ideas (which are all so amazing) and then you send me this ❤️ Anyways, let’s get started~

1) Eyes- I really like the color of my eyes! There’s a mixture of dark and light browns and, with the right makeup, they look so pretty.

2) Writing abilities- Back in the sixth grade I had wanted to give up writing forever. I wasn’t satisfied at all with what I was making and kept comparing myself to others. I trudged on and kept writing, and now here I stand, with confidence in my writing!

3) Lips- With gloss they look so nice and kissable, sometimes I surprise myself by how nice they look! Yesterday I went crazy at Ulta and bought a lot of new lip glosses, so I’m excited to see how they make my lips look~

4) Friendships- I’m SO picky with my friendships! However I must have a good intuition or something because when I try to make a friendship work with the people I choose, they become lifelong friends. I can tell when a friendship is going to be fake and I stay away from that person, if that makes sense!

5) Hair- I recently got it cut so it’s super soft! Which reminds me that I want to dye it soon… (Haha I didn’t know what to put for this last one!)

I’ll tag @oxymorons-in-random-order
@subwaykookies
@cozy-tae @pelannea @untiltheflowersbloomagain @andrea-lucy @sheepinabubble @trashywickie @chimiint @ragific (can I tag you? Haha 😂)

@jngukie
letters to the zodiac

aries; you are so good and kind. don’t lose your fervor. the world is wide and sometimes dark but keep looking for the places where sunlight is warmest. don’t let harshness wear you down.

taurus; i know the melancholy in your chest makes it hard to breathe. i know the hollowness feels so heavy, but someday it will be filled with the most beautiful flowers and you’ll forget what this pain feels like.

gemini; you are so very beautiful. your voice sounds like the chime of churchbells, full and warm and holy. someone will be so unbelievably in love with you someday.

cancer; look for the light pink streaks in sunsets, the ones that look like cotton candy. you’ve got a heart as soft as summer rain, don’t let it shatter; be careful with yourself. surround yourself with gentle people.

leo; you feel everything so deeply, don’t you? take a breath; the air is sweet and warm and so very alive. i know that change is so very hard but the feeling of wind in your lungs always stays the same. it will heal you.

virgo; you aren’t dangerous. it’s easy to feel like barbed wire, like broken glass, like power lines humming with electricity, but you are human. blood and veins and skin. you sharpen all your edges, make yourself dark and harsh and untouchable but maybe it’s time to let someone in.

libra; let go. i know that you cling to every person so hard that your knuckles turn white, but if they’re not good to you let them go.

scorpio; i know how hard it is to keep going. i know how hard it is to shatter like porcelain in the nighttime and put the pieces back together at dawn. let the dreams linger on your skin, wake up and unbury the sun. it’s okay if you’re still broken in the morning.

sagittarius; pushing yourself to the very brink again and again will never solve it. be gentle with your tired body, let your weary feet rest.

capricorn; you don’t need to blaze yourself into the heart of everyone you meet. you don’t need to linger like the blue spots in your eyes after you look at the sun. you can ease up, it’s okay not to be everything at once.

aquarius; when the water swallows you whole and you can’t breathe let it. tomorrow will come and it will be more beautiful than you can imagine. the golden warmth of the sun will make you feel more human; daylight will wash away the hurt.

pisces; keep creating. your mind is so beautiful, so draw until your fingers bleed. write until your palms ache. sing until your throat is raw.

While we’re having a lot of lovely discourse on here about how Joss Whedon writes heroines and how people in general write heroines based on the leaked WW script, I’ like to actually address another part of the problem: how you write the dudes in the story. Because the guys will inevitably interact with the heroine and therefore their writing has an effect on how the film views her.

“Feminist Fantasy” is a term I sometimes see used to describe fantasy/sci fi/supernatural stories that have powerful female characters. Thing is, feminist fantasy, much like feminist theory, evolves as time goes on. What would still be acceptable as FF back in the 90s may come across as cliche or even regressive today because opinions change as time goes on. And that’s a huge part of why the leak WW script rubs people the wrong way, especially how the guys act and how they impact Diana’s role.

The idea of “prove the boys wrong” is one that has been done to death since my childhood. It’s a typical plot or subplot. Girl wants to do X thing, boys say she can’t since she’s a girl, girl proves boys wrong, boys learn their lesson. Here’s the thing: that is no longer feminist fantasy. Because that is real life for so many women, having to constantly prove themselves to men over and over and still be looked over next time due to being a woman and have to do it all over again. Feminist Fantasy has moved into the realm of Fury Road and Wonder Woman 2017–where the woman never has to “prove” anything, at least not to the men on her side. She’s accepted as a capable human without a whole arc proving herself such.

Max never questions Furiosa or even the wives because they are women. The times he does argue or question are purely logistical and have nothing to do with belittling them or asserting his preconceived superiority as a man–he’s usually just checking the plan. While Capable does comfort Nux, it’s Nux who proves himself to the wives by getting the rig rolling again. While Nux learns to see them as people, the onus is not on the wives and other women to make that happen. Steve only offers the barest concern for Diana being a woman, mostly just related to how she dresses in London. Other than that his main issue is the Ares thing which he does not ever use to declare Diana naive and in fact it’s noted in-universe that she may even have a point before Ares shows up. He doesn’t just humor her about Ares, its treated more as a conclusion he disagrees with but can’t prove wrong so they simply operate based on their differing conclusions (Diana’s of “Ludendorf is Ares” and Steve’s of “idc if he is or not we’ve got to stop the chemicals”) until the Ares question becomes unavoidable. The other men similarly don’t belittle Diana or creep on her, the most we get is Sameer’s “ both frightened… and aroused ” joke when she beats a guy up and Sameer jokingly commenting on wanting to see her island.

How the men act is important compared to the WW 06 script, because the 06 script is much more regressive. Both the heroic and villainous men act like creeps and belittle Diana, sexualize Diana, lecture Diana. Essentially, guys treating Diana badly is a thing both the bad guys and the good guys do and she just has to deal with it. Which is just shit, from a feminist perspective. The idea that the guys who are heroes are going to treat women as badly (or even just almost as badly) as the bad guys and the only difference is the heroic guys are the ones who change their minds when she “proves herself” is really, really old. It’s simultaneously discouraging to women and insulting to men by saying that all men are pigs and women just have to deal with that, and it’s the “strong” women who do and change the mind of the “good” men…who are still going to be pigs but maybe less so towards you since you proved yourself. The idea of a guy who’s not a pig is not a thing.

Feminist Fantasy has moved beyond that. Feminist Fantasy is no longer where women are able to constantly prove men wrong–it’s when they don’t have to prove men wrong before being taken seriously as people. Because that shows a future, a past, a world where a woman can simply be accepted as a potential expert, or a warrior, or whatever else the character is doing without having to “prove” it to any man in the vicinity because that still places the men as having power over her. It’s not that they can’t prove men wrong–some still will sometimes and all of them could if directly challenged to–it’s that they don’t have to. Guys who are on their side simply accept that yeah, a woman can be that badass while guys who aren’t on their side, well the opinions those guys have a) don’t matter as much and b) because they’re the bad guys, she’s more focused on stopping their plans than proving her worth to them.

Women having to “prove” ourselves more than men before being taken seriously is not aspirational fantasy anymore–it’s where we are, more often than not. The fantasy is that we only have to prove ourselves to the same degree as any man written in the same situation would, and be treated equally to them. We already know the real world is not there yet (see every “Rey is a Mary-Sue compared to Luke and Anakin” argument ever) but the idea that escapist fiction can’t be a bit ahead of the curve on that should be eyeroll inducing at this point.

how sad to be a gay girl in this the year of our lord 2017. i’ve never been to pride before. i tell my mother i’m thinking of going and she says; please be smart and stay home. most of me thinks she’s right about this, even though i live in a city where gay pride flags fly on every other building.

they’ve done a good job scaring us into the corners we came out of. i tremble at the idea of crowds full of other people, my body in rainbow paint. i will be meeting friends from high school and none of them know i’m gay. it terrifies me. i have no idea what they’d say. what if they ignore it. what if they make a big deal about it. what if they ask me how long i’ve been this way.

straight people tell me all the time that maybe it used to be dangerous to be in love with a girl, but i should stop complaining because marriage is legal. i think of how i still hear “gay” used as a slur, how every word i have for myself has been used as a curse word against me, how i have no identity that comes unsullied. i think of how every time i hold her hand in public i find my ears become satellite dishes, waiting to pick up on any incoming danger, always mid-flinch. i think about how their opinion of me changes when i tell them. i think about the cans thrown and the threats made and the fights that bloodied my teeth. i think about the arguments with my parents and the silence in churches and the shuffling of embarrassed feet. 

i’m telling myself i’ll go to pride and i’ll smile and i’ll have a good time. i’m telling myself i’ll be strong for those who can’t be. i’m telling myself thank god it’s 2017 and i live in the united states in a commonwealth that protects me. but the fact i have to rally just to walk in the streets says something. i feel sick when i think about where i’m going but proud about what i’m doing.

the closet was the worst place, i whisper to myself. darkness and spiders. but the closet is the safer place. and sometimes that matters.

“can we, like, chill with the gay pride?” i hear a girl on the bus say to her friend, “like… every june this happens and i’m tired of it.”

i’m gay every day of the week, even when i’m not proud of it. 

i sit lower in my seat. i text the people i’m going to pride with. “i might come,” i write, “still working on it.”

The “Kiss”

Of course, inspired by the TNHMB music video.

~~~

“I kissed her cheek.” Shawn’s tells you over the phone, and for a second, you’re thoroughly confused. It sounds like he’s confessing something, but at the same time, kissing someone on the cheek is hardly something to confess to. At least not in your opinion, considering you come from a culture where people do that as a greeting. You can’t count the number of times you’ve kissed someone’s cheek when you barely even knew the person’s name.

“What are you talking about?” You question, still confused as to why this seems like a big deal to him.

“Ellie, I kissed her cheek for the video.” He clarifies. “It was supposed to look like an actual kiss,” He pauses then adds, “It was supposed to be an actual kiss, but I couldn’t do it.”

Keep reading

I agreed to do too much. What I need… The thing is my inspiration for ‘danisnotonfire’ what I need is time and space because I’m an introvert, so even if I’ve been on like holiday with a bunch of people that will kind of stress me out a bit ‘cause what I need in order to be creative and calm down, is just to be alone. I need to be alone in a quiet place and sometimes that means I need to just like eat and read books and just think and look at tumblr for like two days just to recover, just to calm down, just to like dump all of my stress and stuff, so that I can breathe calmly. And then I need to just start from a blank slate and think 'what do I want to make a video about?’ and then you know I think of an idea, I come up with ideas, maybe it’s something I need to write, maybe it’s something that isn’t and then I think it through and then sometimes I hate it, I need to sleep on it, I need to wake up. 'Cause sometimes, I don’t think it’s good, I think it terrible and then I wake up the next day and then suddenly it was just sleeping overnight that gave me that switch that I needed. And I know that some, there’s so many YouTubers that can just bash it out, the thing is like I’m just not a good YouTuber in that sense, you know. Some people they might just be much more functional people that don’t have to deal with all the mental health issues. But for who… you know until I make changes in my life as I go along, just constantly trying to make things better for who I am, what I’m like, you know, this is just how it works.
— 

@danielhowell​ during his live show on the 2nd of May 2017

Quotes from Dan (49/?)

I relate so much to this particular moment from the live show. I often feel guilty that I, like Dan, just sometimes need to completely withdraw myself from humanity to function properly and recharge. 

I still remember the first time you kissed me… you held me in your arms afterwards and I was so happy.
It really was that simple – You and me in love, holding each other close and looking into each other’s eyes.
Why can’t things be that simple again?
Why can’t we go back to that?
Why do things have to be so complicated and messed up between us? I’ll never understand how something that felt so right could turn so wrong… How we could be so inseparable one moment and so completely separate the next. We don’t speak to one another… and what’s even worse is that we don’t even talk about each other either. It’s like we never happened… like it was all so terrible that it had to be completely forgotten and its existence denied.
But it wasn’t terrible was it… we were happy together and I know you remember that. And I wonder sometimes what it was all for in the end? Because I’m certainly no happier now than I was when we were together… and for all your reasons to leave I’m not convinced that you are either…

There really isn’t a trick or secret to getting your OCs a bigger audience. People ask me all the time how I did it and all I can say is that I drew them and gushed about them. And then people scoff like “well that doesn’t work for me.”

I have been writing stories and working with ocs for over half my life and your journey with your ocs is going to be different from everyone else’s, and different from mine. That’s just how art is; there is no right or wrong way. Sometimes it comes easy and sometimes its hard.

If you are passionate about your stories and your characters, people will care. Don’t throw a pity party or try to guilt people into caring it only pushes them away. Do what you love, show what you love. People will care, I promise they will.

Some days, I just really need you all over again. I recognize the fact that I ought to be without you–and I’ve become very good at being alone–but sometimes I just don’t want to be. Sometimes I need you to slide your hands down to my hips and to pull me into your chest like I mean as much to you as I used to. Some days it’s comforting to just remember what it was like to be addicted.
—  🖤
sunday, 3am

“Gently,” she stressed.

Sitting on the sink-counter, she looked washed-out in the harsh fluorescent light of their bathroom, a little spatter of blood staining the shoulder of her light blue scrubs, her skin a wintery kind of pale and her freckles fading as though they’d been one of God’s afterthoughts. Her braid rested tattered and ripped down her spine, long red strands falling in front of the bruises on her cheek, and as he carded her hair back behind her ear, she flinched involuntarily, her shaky hands stilling on her lap, her breath hitching.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, the bag of ice in his hand hovering before her, his brain buzzing in the overtired way he used to feel accustomed to. If his circadian rhythms were reliable, then he and his body estimated that three in the morning, maybe half past, had come and gone. A long time ago, she’d told him that keeping lights on from the nighttime hours of ten-to-ten harmed the brain’s ability to produce melatonin, but he figured that light would be the least of their worries tonight.

Softly, she met his gaze, then looked back down at her lap.

“Sorry,” she said, wincing at the word. “I’m just…I’m still a little shaken up.”

He nodded, then gingerly brought the ice to her cheek, and though she recoiled at first, luckily she eased against his touch, let out a deep, exhausted breath.

“Is there any bleeding?” she asked, her voice muffled by the ice.

“None at all,” he said.

She swallowed, said, “The nurse there seemed like she was doing a great job of cleaning it.”

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re not concussed?” he asked as he leaned against the sink, the house around them so still and silent that it made the winter beyond them feel heavier and thicker than it already was. 

Looking up at him, she delicately pressed her lips together, said, “Had the nurse check. No headache or dizziness. I’m fine, Mulder.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding to himself. 

Though she avoided late shifts and preferred not to work on Saturdays, she’d been on a Saturday evening to Sunday morning emergency room shift, eight pm to eight pm, but a one am call let him know that a drunk patient, a punch to the face, and some police involvement meant that she would be coming home early. The last time he, in her words, went caveman left them both embarrassed and uncomfortable, but now, he wished he could’ve been there, could’ve watched over her and had her back so that some drunkard would’ve never decked her behind a modesty curtain, wouldn’t have had a chance to let her head thud against a sterile linoleum floor before punching her again. Though he wanted to think of this protectiveness as more than an ancient biological imperative, though he wished he didn’t find himself at fault for something so clearly irrelevant to his existence, he still brought Duane Barry and Phillip Padgett and all of the other men who had wronged her to mind, wondered once more if he could’ve done more. While at the Bureau, he could’ve argued that he was her partner, that it was of the utmost importance for them to watch each other’s backs, but now, he could hardly merit the wish.

And had he been there, he probably would’ve been decked too, only he would’ve cried about it instead of stoically driving home afterward like she did. Sometimes, he figured, the universe chose to punch the ones who could take it, not the ones who couldn’t.

“You’re never working a night shift again,” he said, hoping to elicit a laugh or at least a pained smile; thankfully, she reached toward him, wrapped her fingers in his open hand, kept her eyes down but let him know that she was present and receptive anyway. 

“I sure hope not,” she said, “but if they ever want me to, I’m sure that citing this incident will make them change their minds.”

Softly, he laughed, and though he figured it would hurt her to smile, the purplish and red smears of bruises on her cheeks keeping her from moving her face too much, she still quirked her lip, the movement minute but visible. 

“Did you have any Advil before you got home?” he asked.

“I had one before I left the hospital.” 

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”

She sucked her lips in again, met his gaze, so he nodded in understanding. He figured neither or them would be getting much sleep tonight.

“Well,” he said, his voice turning theatrical, “I can offer some warm milk-”

“No hot liquids,” she said quickly. “Have to keep the swelling down.”

“Okay,” he said, off-put. There went his ideas for chamomile tea and maybe a warm bath in order to calm her down. “Then, cold water.”

“Thrilling.”

He squeezed her hand.

“What are you looking for, then?” he asked. “My mind goes numb after midnight.”

Taking a deep breath, she said, “A movie, something mindless. Just until we feel we could fall asleep.”

So she shed her blood-smeared scrubs and opted for pajamas and thick socks; while she migrated to the couch, held the ice against her more bluish cheek, he rifled through their bookshelf, found Sleepless in Seattle and liked the irony it provided, so he popped the tape in, the lights off in their living room, the fish tank fluorescent and bubbling in the background, the winter winds shifting the shutters on their fixer-upper farmhouse. He sat on her less-bruised side, and as she spread a shared blanket over their laps, he fast-forwarded coming attractions of many years ago, her two hands wrapping around his free one. While the movie began, he tuned Meg Ryan out and kept his eyes on her instead, tried to survey her body for telltale signs of stress. 

She’d told him long ago that she felt anxiety not in her mind but in her limbs, in her joints; while her thoughts told her to push forward, her body cringed and faded, her demise coming not from her will but from her physical breakdown, so he’d tried to be a constant for her, had kept track of her hours and made sure that, even when she seemed so determined to finish just one more stack of paperwork, she would go home for a good night’s rest instead. From those many times, he knew what to look for: raised shoulders, shaky hands, huffed breaths, glasses pushed up far more often than one would expect. However, tonight shifted that response because her breakdown had come from a patient, not from herself, so while she took shallow breaths during the movie, he traced his thumb against the back of her hand, let her lean into him with her face angled so that his shoulder and her bruises never quite made contact. As four am ticked past, he realized that he’d never watched this movie in full, but because he’d distracted himself during the first half of the film, he hadn’t a clue where the plot went.

“Scully?” he whispered, almost wincing at how his voice interrupted the special, rural silence around them. 

When she didn’t shift, he craned his neck, and though he should’ve been able to tell through her long, languid breaths against his chest, he only noticed that she’d fallen asleep when he looked down and saw her closed eyes. Reaching for the remote, he turned the television off, and with deft, gentle motions, he managed to lift her up without waking her - after all, she could sleep anywhere, from passenger’s seats of cheap rental cars to bleach-ridden motel beds to his old leather couch back before he’d been able to offer her a bed instead - and carried her upstairs though his aging joints protested with each step. 

Thankful that he’d left the bed unmade after she’d called, he managed to slip her beneath the overturned sheets on his side of the bed, tucked her in before he climbed in on the other still-made side. Out here, the nights were dark save for the endless lines of unobstructed stars in the sky, so he kept their bedroom’s blinds up, soft light falling over her bruising face, the rise and fall of her chest shifting the duvet while she slept. Her pillow smelled like that lavender shampoo she liked, and though the stuffing was too thick for him, he found that he could still relax into it, their respective alarm clocks off for now, her bedside book-stack dwindling as his seemed only to grow larger, her reading glasses askew and the closet door left open in a way that would’ve scared him as a child. 

And he presented himself with two lonely options: either he could work out hundreds of different scenarios that left her unscathed and him some kind of half-assed hero, or he could watch her soft breaths until their cadence lulled him to sleep. For once, he picked the second option and drifted off before morning began to creep through the windows.