time for sillies

"on the wrong side of 40" "huh, which side is that?"

WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT'S ONLY IN CLEO'S POV DUE TO OWEN JUMPING AROUND CHRONOLOGICALLY

(read on ao3)

It’s a frigid winter morning when Bdubs happens upon Etho, sitting hunched over his kitchen table. 

It’s still early. Rays of sunlight peer over the snow covered horizon. The only sounds are the birds beginning to wake and the shuffle of slippers Bdubs had put on after pulling on his moss coat. He had intended to get a fire going for breakfast, but now he hovers frozen in the doorway to watch. 

Etho is intensely focused on a jacket that is strewn across the table. It looks like he is sewing, based on the movement of his arm. It’s an odd thing to be doing at this hour, but nothing that surprises ol’ Bdubs. Etho is known to work into the early morning on various projects. 

The one actual surprising thing, is the line of tension clear in Etho’s shoulders. His muscles are pulled tight, almost shaking in the morning air. 

Bdubs takes a step forward, cautious now, but curious. Etho’s head tilts slightly as Bdubs approaches, enough to know his presence is noticed. 

“Morning ‘dubs.” Etho’s voice is quiet, a soft rumble in the stillness of the morning air. He keeps his eyes focused on the jacket in front of him. 

Bdubs reaches out, placing a hand on Etho’s tense shoulders to find, they are shaking. 

Worry. Panic. 

Realization. 

It hits him all at once. A brief flicker of emotions before he figures it out. All Etho is wearing is his simple black shirt. The kitchen and its stone walls are near frozen with the chill. Etho is shivering. 

“You’re cold.” Bdubs says. He starts to rub slow circles into Etho’s shoulders, watching the muscles flex and move as Etho tries to relax. 

“A zombie ripped a hole in the back of my jacket, I’ll be fine once it’s fixed.” A particularly strong shiver shakes through him. 

“Nonsense,” Bdubs counters. “I can feel my own teeth rattling from here. You know you could have turned on the furnace or got some blankets from my bed!” 

He can feel Etho’s huff of a laugh. “Didn’t think it would take this long. Plus, I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“You—” Bdubs starts, but he’s already pulling the moss cloak from his own shoulders and draping it across Etho’s.

That gets Etho to turn. His eyes are wide, a bit startled. “You don’t have to—” 

“Already did.” Bdubs reaches out and pulls the cloak tighter around Etho’s shoulders. 

Something in his expression melts at that. It’s subtle behind the mask, but the crease between his eyebrows lessens and there is a fondness in his eyes. It’s all Bdubs can do to contain the emotion bubbling in his chest, so he tugs Etho in. It’s an awkward angle for a hug, but it’s worth every moment. He gets the joy of feeling every release of tension from Etho as he sighs, melting further and further into Bdubs’ warmth.

It takes a couple minutes, but Etho eventually stops shivering. 

“Thanks, ‘dubs.” He says quietly. 

“Anytime, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to Etho’s forehead. 

“Now,” Bdubs says, stepping away from Etho and his own warm coat. “Since you are no longer at risk of freezing to death in my own kitchen, I’m going to get the furnace going to make us both some nice hot tea. You just keep working over there, and as thanks for being your knight in shining armor, you can tell me all about that zombie adventure of yours over breakfast.”

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

The first thing Gem hears are muffled voices outside. They seem to be angry about something, or perhaps distressed? She definitely knows they are louder than normal. She groans at the noise, but it brings her closer to consciousness, curiosity poking its way through the haze of sleep.

When she opens her eyes, the world spins and her head throbs. Everything is too bright, too much, and she’s quick to squeeze her eyes closed again, desperate for the feeling to go away.

She waits and ever so slowly, the voices fade back in as the overwhelm of feelings fades out.

“Impulse, you let me in right now or I’ll make you regret it.” There is a seriousness behind the threat that makes Gem sure that whatever is happening is far more important than she can comprehend right now.

“C’mon Pearl,” he placates, and Gem can imagine his hands held up in near surrender. “Give her a few more minutes, she’s not even awake yet!”

Are they talking about her? What would be so important that Pearl would threaten Impulse of all people. They were getting along earlier, weren’t they?

Earlier.

Flashes of memories finally surface to her conscious mind. The Game. The cherry forest where she built a home with her Scotts. Her tasks and a trip to the nether.

An angry enderman.

The end portal.

She’s a yellow in the death Game because They had instructed her to open up the end portal. And now her friends are arguing outside her house.

Surely, this will be fine. She takes a breath and slowly opens her eyes. The world spins again in a burst of too bright color. The pink of her walls is near blinding and it swirls into the mahogany of her ceiling. It hurts. It’s almost too much, but she squints, determined to hold out until the colors stop melding together.

Pearl’s voice sounds distant now, beyond the intensity of the light. “If you don’t let me past in the next five seconds—”

“Ok fine, you can go in!” Impulse finally agrees, panic lacing his words. “But, before you do, you should really know—”

The door opens. It’s a quiet action, calm after all the arguing, but with it comes the sunlight. The greens of the grass and blue of a sword mixing with the ever growing cacophony of color. It’s too much.

She shuts her eyes again with a wince, an action Pearl seems to notice immediately.

“Gem?” She asks, urgent and confused. Why is Pearl confused? The door closes and there is a clatter of a sword, hastily set aside as Pearl rushes towards the bed. The mattress dips as she sits near her stomach. “Gem, are you alright? What happened?”

“‘s bright,” she manages to mumble before the headache spikes with the effort of the words. Pearl says something in acknowledgement and moves away, but Gem’s focus has already wandered towards taking stock of her body.

Her mouth is dry. Dry in a way she’s sure she has never experienced. It’s horrible the way her throat catches when she tries to swallow, but for some reason the thought of drinking water is incredibly unappealing. She licks her lips in an attempt to bring some moisture back. It doesn’t work.

The next thing she notices is that her body feels heavy, sluggish. One of her arms has gone numb, probably due to the way she was sleeping.

Pearl’s weight returns to the edge of the mattress and Gem groans, wrapping towards the warmth. There’s a small chuckle as Pearl begins tracing soothing circles along her not-numb arm. “Gem, you want to try and open your eyes again? I blocked off all the windows.”

This time she steadies herself, trying to mentally prepare for the spinning. She knows it might not work, but at least Pearl is here, grounding her with a gentle touch.

She opens her eyes.

Darkness, blacks and grays spiral in with the orange of a single torch. Faded denim pants and a familiar black sweater slowly take shape and lead her eyes upward towards Pearl’s face, her too-yellow eyes shining like beacons in the dark.

This time, though, it’s not too much.

Slowly, the overwhelm dims into the shadows, clearing her vision enough for Pearl’s expression to take shape. Her brows are pinched together in concern, lips pursed as her eyes flick back and forth, seemingly taking in the details of Gem’s face.

When their eyes finally meet, Pearl’s mouth twists into a hesitant, concerned smile. “There you are,” she sighs, and it sounds far too close to one of relief.

Gem wants to reach out, wants to soothe the lines from her forehead, wants to hold Pearl’s cheek and tell her that whatever is causing this stress can be solved, but she finds that her body is still too heavy from sleep to do so. Plus, whatever is worrying Pearl must be about her.

Sure, it’s not out of the ordinary for Pearl to fret over her when she’s not feeling well, but usually it looks like a bowl of soup and a silly story to keep her entertained while being stuck in bed. This though, this feels different. There is no silly glint in Pearl’s eyes, no teasing about how her hair looks like a bird's nest or how Pearl is awake before her for once. There is only an echo of an argument and urgency and a gentle hand on her arm.

So, she opens her still dry mouth and croaks out the only question she can put into words. “What’s wrong?”

Pearl lets out a hollow laugh and Gem can see the way it smooths down a small edge of her worry. “What do you mean, what’s wrong? I should be the one asking you that.”

“I’m just sick, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Just sick? Gem you were asleep for nearly a full day! I had no idea until Impulse messaged the entire chat!” Pearl exclaims, her eyes trail towards the left side of Gem’s face. “And now…”

“An entire day?”

“How does your arm feel?”

“Pearl, what?”

“Please, just trust me for a moment.” Pearl’s eyes are searching as she leans in to brush some hair from Gem’s face before cradling her cheek. The soothing circles return in the form of a thumb tracing along her cheekbone. “How does your left arm feel?”

“It’s…” She hesitates. There is a pulsing sort of pressure that runs down from her shoulder to her fingertips. It’s an odd sensation, not quite the usual feeling of sleeping wrong against a limb. She tries to wiggle her fingers to no avail. “…numb. How did you know?”

“Try not to panic, okay?”

“Panic?” Gem questions, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Why would I panic?”

Pearl only gestures for her to look.

Gem tilts her head, finally looking towards her arm. It’s still dark in the room and her arm blends into the shadows. Flicks of blues and purples dance across her skin and it’s only when she sees it contrasted next to Pearl’s pale hand that she realizes, it’s not just the shadows.

Her arm is as black as the void.

A strangled sort of shout breaks free from her lips and she tries to scramble up, away from a sight so unfamiliar. Her body is still heavy, but she manages to sit up enough to get a good look at the arm laying limp beside her.

The arm, no matter how unfamiliar, is still undeniably her own. It is the same size as her arm used to be, same short fingers, attached to the same shoulder.

Here's some answers

1. Bodily Autonomy

When you have a chronic illness or a disability that limits your control of or connection with your body, it can feel like you're alienated from or disassociated from the very flesh you live in. Making changes can make you feel more in control than you otherwise would.

Why be limited by other people's expectations of what normality is, or what your body "should" look like? Especially because

2. People already stare or make comments

I have had kids follow me down the street shouting abuse at me because I walk with a cane. I get stares and weird comments.

People don't have any manners when it comes to disabled people. They want to tell you about crystals or protein powders or meditation or a church that they're certain will cure you. And God, GOD, do they stare, and look, and peer, and examine

Adding mods and quirks makes that easier to bear.

When I'm walking around just with my cane, I don't know what weird comment a starer is going to make, but that it'll probably be weird.

When I'm dressed alternatively and with an anchor on my cheek, there's a chance it might be positive, or that I can redirect the negative attention.

3. Uniform expectations

A lot of the anger and frustration people express towards unnatural hair colours, piercings, tattoos, and even alt clothing styles seems to come from a frustration with what they perceive as a resistance to adhere to dress codes or uniform demands in schools and offices

The thing is, schools and offices already go out of their way to exclude us. Many places of education and business don't maintain accessiblity basics - ramps are too steep, lifts don't work if they're even there, allergens are everywhere, etc, and many places won't hire a person who looks disabled

They'll discriminate against people who use mobility aids or with visible differences because they don't like how we look, or because they don't want the expense that making a workplace accessible to us will incur

They don't want to deal with extra sick days or inconsistency from chronic illness

In short, many places that demand a dress code already actively exclude us; ergo, even those of us who are ABLE to work are forced to rely on disability aid, be self-employed, or work in alternative industries

Why would we make ourselves look office-ready when many offices don't want us anyway?

4. Different Tolerances

Many chronically ill and disabled people just have a very different tolerance for pain or discomfort to our abled, healthy counterparts. Not only do I tend to giggle when receiving a tattoo (artists have told me this is creepy), it actually gives me RELIEF from chronic pain

Many of us won't even baulk at the pain promised by piercings or tattoos or other body mods - needles and various devices inserted under the skin are already a matter of course, and as for the time and discomfort that it takes to maintain a good dye job, well, what else have we got but time?

And finally...

5. Those mods might be helping

In the immediate aftermath of healing, the sting of the tattoo actually distracts me from my usual bone and muscle aches

Wearing tight waistcoats supports my lower back and helps my posture; corsets and bustiers can do the same thing.

Jewellery might serve as a stim toy or a distraction, but many decorative pieces may actually be bracing or supporting a weak joint or muscle

Heavy boots might help an uneven gait or balance issue, and keep us stable, and so on and so forth

To you, it might just look cool or different or sexy