Ambrosia. The drink of the gods. Swirling in some glass in front of him, more vivid than the shots he'd taken on his nights out in Cardiff, and definitely more fragrant when he leaned his head in close enough to take a sniff.
Which really should've prepared him for it to, undoubtedly, taste like the worst thing he'd ever had, but he was still surprised by just how bad it was.
Retching for a solid minute, barely keeping it down, before his vision grew hazy.
Fuzzy at the edges, background noise.
"What a terrible accident." "Didn't they know better?" "He was there, right?"
Not background noise. The peanut gallery. Memories.
Injustice, blatant disregard for what was true in favour of what was easier.
Alexander knew what he needed to say, what he needed them to know. Back then, he'd been scared, confused, shamed by it all. Left wanting to do more.
But he couldn't talk, mouth unwilling to open.
He couldn't stand up, arms bound to the chair, forced to watch somebody walk away without a scratch. No repercussions. No justice.
And then again. And again.
He'd spent a life trying to make up for his silence, and he wasn't going to let that redemption end today.
He refused to sit by idly again, and again, and again.
"He's guilty."
It's more than a yell, more than a roar from somewhere in his chest. It's a decree. Tearing free of restraints, breaking his silence.
That was how he came back to himself. Sprawled somewhere unfamiliar, sunlight blaring down on his face a dampness on his skin that suggested he'd spent the night out there.
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      || or warren has it really bad for bambi and it gets him arrested. // some fun backstory for you owoÂ
Hellllloooo guys. As usual, a quick disclaimer that the content below does contain mentions of violence, vague sexual undertones, use of drugs, alcohol, and details of organized crime. As always, if this is triggering to you in any way just give this one a skip n shoot me a dm.Â
Bambi is ALSO mentioned in this as he and Warren do happen to know each other!!! happy reading, nerds.Â
    Warren wouldnât concern himself with the how or why heâd been caught, his hands raised as instructed.Â
     The lights were white, hot, blinding as they burned brightly over the warehouse. It was chaos as people pushed and shoved around the large man, all in an attempt to get away before they were arrested.Â
     Warren wasnât bulletproof, he knew. The others would claim that they knew nothing, maybe even throw their boss under the bus for everything if given a deal. There was no true loyalty to the peroxide blonde who ran their little organization. Not when so much money passed between hands. Not when so many things that humans craved were within reach -- millions of dollars hidden away in duffle bags paying billionaires for their work, any drug that one would ever crave in tight bundles now mostly scattered across the floor, and any weapon that a citizen here could ask for. This was just business as usual. For a price, Bambi Han could get you anything you wanted-- within reason, of course. And it was Warren's job to make sure things went smoothly.Â
      It hadnât always been like this, though.Â
      Five years ago Warren was just a bartender. Heâd been offered a job at an up and coming night club after another had closed. Again. Business as usual. Warren didnât really think much of it. He was young, coasting through life. The only things he really cared about were his little puppy heâd just adopted and the games of call of duty that he found himself unintentionally ignoring his girlfriend for.Â
      It was his first night on the job when he met the owner.Â
      He was tall, thin, Leith really. He seemed to shimmer under the red lights that pulsed in the room. Warren hadnât seen anyone like him.Â
      He had come to the bar, plush mouth set in an unhappy line as he gazed at the shelving behind the bartender before he informed Warren of what heâd like to have-- of course, the then twenty-four-year-old was entirely far too caught up in the way that the otherâs lids danced with what looked like little flecks of stars, how thick his eyelashes were. Fuck. He looked a lot like a painting to Warren's untrained, somewhat blurred vision. He was so terrible at remembering to put his contacts in before going to work.Â
      âExcuse me⌠w-what?â He stammered out, sheepishly, nearly dropping the glass heâd been wiping down.Â
      âA screwdriver,â This time the angel's tone was impatient, annoyed as the bartender didnât catch that he didnât want to talk. That he was absolutely only here to get fucked up and have a good time.Â
      âR-right.â He managed, a nod causing then choppy locks to bounce with each motion.Â
      As he sorted out the drink he couldnât help but glance occasionally at this being that stood only separate to him by fault of a few solid inches of black, shimmering Formica. They didnât speak after that, not for nearly a year.Â
      Warren had gazed at the blonde entity almost nightly, eyes always seeming to train to the daydream that the other workers would casually reveal was the bar owner over drinks a few weeks after the first night Warren laid eyes on him. It didnât take much more than a google search to realize that Bambi Han certainly had an interesting life. An excommunicated hotel heir with more scandals back home in Korea than one could maintain in their single lifetime. He had an obvious taste for parties, as there was seldom a night that the prince himself didnât grace the court with his presence. And the near-cult Instagram following that surpassed the numbers that many musicians held. These were all so interesting to Warren as he tended to keep to himself. Though he was tall, certifiably jacked, and knew how good he looked, the then bartender liked to go to bars and actually drink, not with the intention of a hook up â not when he had a gorgeous Veronica always pining for his attentionâ to go home and play a few rounds of whatever first-person shooter he fancied, and then pass out in a corner. He didnât do much. Not that he wanted that to change.Â
      It seemed like Bambi liked the negative attention.Â
      Or at least, it seemed that way to Warren who had the luck of getting to carry Bambi away from a particularly messy argument.Â
      He hadnât heard what it was about, he didnât know who was right. All he knew was that the club owner had been sat at the end of the bar and Warren learned a long time ago that Bambi liked his glass to remain full. No matter how many times it was refilled-- he didnât care, he liked to feel like his glass would never empty. So Warren made sure that illusion was fulfilled. So, every so often the bartender would top up the glass, catching fragments of a conversation that slowly soured though Bambi was continually laughing. Eventually, the skinny girls, all equally as shiny and glittery (though still managing to be dull in comparison to the heir), who surrounded him wore frowns, their dates tensing. Warren knew better than to let this keep going, but before his long frame could meet with the end of the bar he heard the shattering of glass.Â
      Bambi was soaked through when Warren had exited the bar, tossing the rag to the other bartender on sight as he did. This was a job that many of them had had to do, and tonight it was Warren's turn.Â
      âBambi, hey, itâs time to go. Letâs get you dried up, alright?â Warren said, wincing as shards of glass clung to the white button-up that was all but draped over wide shoulders. Had he not been afraid of Bambi hurting himself, he might have taken the time to note what a vision this blonde was. The glass catching the light, his skin looking as though it were marble-- cold to the touch and smooth--, and his eyes wide and a vibrant blue that was inhuman in nature. Who the fuck got to look like that?Â
      Bambi hadnât stopped talking, though. In fact, it seemed he was making things worse. The other parties were talking over one another and while Warren wasnât exactly sure where the glass was from, he was certain that more of it would become a part of their equation if he didnât get Bambi out of there soon.Â
      Hoisting someone whose net worth was more that you would ever see in your lifetime over your shoulder went over about as well as could be expected. Complaints about his clothes being ruined, how he was depreciating in value each second they touched, something about poor hands. It was all accompanied by slaps to his back, squirming. God, if he didnât think Bambi was gorgeous heâd find him to be such a pain in the ass.Â
      Well⌠he guessed Bambi could still be hot and annoying as fuck.Â
      And that began their relationship.Â
      Bambi would run his mouth, get himself into trouble, and Warren would be there to do damage control. After a couple of years, he found himself working on Bambiâs personal security, which paid a fuck ton better than breaking up bar fights and pouring drinks.Â
      During that time Warren had grown a bit attached to the blonde, even growing close enough to gently brush away peroxide strands when they spoke to one another. The conversations always superficial and fleeting, but enough to sate Warrenâs obvious desire for the others time.Â
      Heâd eventually broken things off with Veronica, his attention stretched far too thin⌠AndâŚ. well, he couldnât bring himself to stay with someone when his eyes would skirt over the pale thighs of his own boss.Â
      This alone got him farther than kisses with her ever had.
It was frustrating because he was terribly aware that this interest had turned to obsession. Heâd never had a crush before, had never experienced someone not giving him the time of day or liking him back. Warren was attractive and yet Bambi never even batted a lash at him.Â
      Security detail was weird. He hadnât really known what to expect when agreeing to Bambiâs drunken pleas to have Warren join, but it certainly wasnât driving his dinged up kia to a hot pink Palace that looked like it fit better in a Disney movie than in real life.Â
      How did someone afford this sort of thing in the middle of the city anyway?Â
      So many questions.Â
      Maybe he should have expected it, though. Bambi was eccentric in his own ways. While he had a personality on the surface that you could toss a rock into a crowd of models and ten of them share, there were things about it that were obviously false. Bambi wasnât really this person, no matter how much he liked to pretend that he was. At least, Warren thought so.Â
      Maybe working so closely with him would show that.Â
      A few weeks into his job he learned a few things. First, Bambi didnât do much. Most days he roused from sleep late into the afternoon, hair a mess of blonde knots and wearing little more than a silk robe -- if that -- and it would leave Warren blushing. He often spent his days drinking by the pool or playing a poorly concealed DS. Second, Bambi was excessively nerdy. He played video games throughout his day, referenced comic books to other guards, blogged quietly about anime he'd seen, and even wore shirts with various characters printed onto them. Which was a shock to Warren's senses? Even More So when Bambi invited him for a round of Halo.Â
     âWarren,â Bambi was leaning through a slightly ajar door as Warren scrolled aimlessly through his phone. Dark hair brushed back casually, a black button-up and jeans his uniform. A sidearm on his hip. Heâd never had a job where he needed a gun before.Â
     He raised his gaze up from the phone, breath catching as he realized that Bambi was shuffling around in a button-up up a few sizes too large that struggled to cling to his frame without slipping one way or the other. Marilyn came to mind.Â
     âYeah?â He breathed, phone tucking away into his back pocket as he rightened his form.Â
     âCan you come play a round of Halo with me? Iâm⌠really bored.â He asked, features mirroring someone much younger than his years as a pout formed. Warren really couldnât say no to that.Â
    âYeah, sure. Iâll just let one of the other guys know--âÂ
    âNo, itâs fine. Itâs only for a couple of rounds and honestly, if youâre with me I think iâd be a lot better protected than if youâre just standing in my hallway like a really poorly placed decoration. Come on, itâs like I'm paying you to play games. Itâll be fun.âÂ
    He weighed the options, lower lip tucked between his teeth. What if this was a test? What if Bambi was seeing how easily swayed his security was? Warren had wanted time alone to get to know Bambi since the night that they had met. Heâd wanted a chance to speak to him about the feelings he was developing for the other. Maybe even segway into a date if he could find the words. This was all a risk he was willing to take.Â
    â Yeah, okay.âÂ
    And just like that, they were settled in Bambiâs bedroom floor, a large tv on the far wall showing a title page and bags of chips strewn about. It really did look like a teenage boy had been living in this painfully pink, low-lit room. Warren didnât know how many rounds they had gone through, swears ringing through the room as they took turns losing to one another. Playful shoves to throw the other off. It was as if they had somehow become friends in the time that theyâd played. In the few years that they had known each other, they had only been able to share short conversations. The weather. Work. Some new song that was playing at the club. General rules. Never had they interacted like this. Warrenâs heart felt so full.Â
    He turned his head to the other, a grin on his lips and a caty remark on his tongue, but he finally realized why Bambi had been losing so badly this round. His eyes, heavy-lidded and a sparkling blue, were on Warren. He blushed furiously. âIs⌠there something on my face?â He asked sheepishly. Bambi gave a small shake of his head as his gaze scanned over Warrenâs features in a motion that was far too slow and calculated for Warrenâs comfort.Â
      Dainty fingers stroked along his jaw and Warren felt a heat trailing behind the touch, his own hand reaching up to wrap around the much smaller one. While it had been a fantasy of his to have Bambi looking at him like this more than once, a part of him knew that this was absolutely a line that they shouldnât cross. On the tip of his tongue, his lips parting to speak, Warren was going to voice this but before anything could come forward, mouths brushed over one another, thin fingers moving into his hair, and for the first time in his life, Warren had absolutely no idea what to do with himself. Did he rest his hands ever so lightly on narrow hips? Did he pull him closer? What was he supposed to do here?Â
       âThis is okay,â Bambi had said, lips ghosting over his own.Â
        That was really all he needed before they closed the distance once again, lips meeting properly this time.Â
       They met like this a few times, secretly sharing heated kisses in the darkened corners of his home. Becoming⌠intimate.Â
       There had even been times that they had gotten together in warrens new Jeep.Â
      It was far more than heâd ever expected. Were they together? What did this mean?Â
      While Warren was head over heels for this gorgeous Blonde, they still didnât text normally. They still hardly spoke. But did they need to when in the moments that they were alone they could be so vocal?Â
     Thatâs why he didnât have any issue standing here, hands held up and steady as police chatter seemed to overtake the entire warehouse.Â
     He didnât have any issue when cool metal and rough hands were around his wrists. Who else would make sure that Bambiâs name stayed clear? No one else really cared if everything Bambi had built came crumbling down between his pretty fingers. Warren cared. He cared a lot.Â
     He wore a stone face in interrogation, his jaw set.Â
   Heâd said nothing on the ride back. Said nothing to anybody in camp. Remained in that quiet, seething rage below the surface, even as he snagged his equipment from his cabin and made a beeline from the rest of them. The rest of everything. Heâd found his place. About an hourâs walk from camp, an empty clearing. The ground was already scorched, his preferred place to train. No potential casualties. No extra precautions needed. Straight line from sky to ground for thunder strikes. A breath, and the clouds began to shift. Grit teeth and the clouds turned darker.
   A scream and the skies opened up to weep as readily as he wished he could. Heâdd never understood why his sad days had always been followed by storms. Never understood why the rain was just a perpetual thing when the world got too much for him back home. It was just England, nothing strange about rain.
   Now he knew better. He paid little attention to the freezing rain pelting down, as he finally le tit come out. The tears of pure frustration, the pain wracking his limbs, the shock on his skin.
                âAre you proud, dad?â
   Arguing with the weather probably shouldnât feel as natural as it did.
               âShe was a child. A... A girl.â
   It didnât matter what she could have done to them. They shouldnât have. He could still see her tears. He could still feel the way sheâd recoiled at his punch. Still see her there, still on the floor.Â
   Maybe if theyâd been smarter, maybe if somebody else had gone, maybe if theyâd just left her the fuck alone, that child would still be out there. Alive. Theyâd only needed to find out what had caused the ghostly cries. They hadnât needed to...
                 âWhatâs the point in all this? We canât save people. We couldnât save her.â
   He knew the other demigods made offerings at the shrines to their godly parents. Spoke to them there, left mementos for them. But he couldnât. He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell and fight. Not speak some honeyed words to earn the favour of the man who had set them down this course of destruction and pain and suffering and death. But mostly?
   Mostly he was just angry at himself. They should have tried harder. They should have found a way that wasnât fighting. Should have looked for a way that it didnât end with a little girl losing her life and cursing every grown up.
     And that was what had another roar breaking from his lips, spear held loosely between his fingers plunged in to the ground to catch the first lightning strike.
Content warning: loss of a parent, discussion of PTSD and past abuse. (I am very serious about this, I cried writing it because my mum lives in another country so be really careful.)
Peter sat by his mom, legs crossed on the grass like he used to. She had a new stone. Since heâd come back from the dead. He wasnât sure if he should be comforted by their names appearing side by side for the last few decades. Not that âshouldâ had ever stopped him before.
âAnâ then she just comes out of nowhere anâ snaps his neck. Just like that. Thatâs not a thing yâd want your boy to see, I get that, but I guess youâve been watchinâ me. So yâknow it ainât the worst I saw ever.â
He sighed, shakily. âAnâ apparently itâs this that broke the camelâs back. Got a nice sheet of paper sayinâ that. Feels like I got it stamped across my forehead sometimes. âComplex PTSD.â Probably wouldnât fit, actually.â Mom would appreciate his shitty jokes.
Yet, he was sitting there wiping at his eyes, vision blurry as he looked down at the flowers heâd left. âI just...God, Mom, I wanna know what yâthink of all this. The therapist said it was about my childhood, anâ it werenât just Kilgrave. I didnât do too good with that. Yondu saved my life, whatever else he did. Maybe I shouldnât gloss over it like that, I - just wanna - it ainât fair. Yâdeserved more than this. I come tâthis town tâsee Gramps, anâ I love the guy. I do. But I come downstairs anâ I keep thinkinâ Iâm gonna find ya whistlinâ in the kitchen like nothinâ ever happened.â
âAnâ then I wanna run back to space. I miss my sister. I miss all of âem, even Rocketâs stupid furry face.â His jokes really werenât launching anymore, but he felt the need to at least try. âTalkinâ ainât the same. I need a hug. I canât go. I didnât hold your hand. I shouldâve. Grampsâs an old man. Iâm terrified that somethinâs gonna happen to him the second I set foot on a spaceship.â
âWhat Iâm sayinâ is, I wish yâwere here. I wish yâcould meet âem all. Meet âMora anâ show her my baby photos. Make fun of me. Hell, Iâm older than yâever were, now. Anâ it ainât fair. It ainât. I canât do nothinâ about it. I guess...if thereâs one kid out there thatâs still got a mom âcause the Guardians exist...thatâs one thing I did. We did.â
Peter dragged himself to his feet, wiping his nose on his sleeve. âHappy Motherâs Day.â
When he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was little again and she was holding his hand after church as they made the run to Grampsâ car together.
Two days after his relapse, Cam knew what he needed to do. No woman in the world could ever care for him as much as Aurelia cared for him.
While she was by his side the entire night, heâd managed to slip her engagement ring off of her finger, keeping it for himself. Though he was still in a funk, he had a plan, and damn anyone who would go against him to enact it.
He conducted a google search and found that the nearest Harry Winston was in Aspen... he would spare no expense for someone as angelic as Aurelia. It had to be something better than Henry could ever give her, and something that came from Camâs own heart.
And so with that, he rented a car and just started driving. Now bear in mind, Aspen, Colorado is hours away from Wintergreen. Several. Hours. At the very least seven, but Cam wasnât keeping track of the time. He was full of adrenaline and he would not stop until he made it there (okay, maybe he stopped for a bathroom break a few times but, you know what it doesnât matter.)
Aurelia was calling him frantically and leaving message after message but there was no possible way he could lie to her or explain what he was doing. There was no way. Maybe she knew he took the ring, maybe she didnât. He wasnât going to find out.
ASPEN, COLORADO
And so Cam in his flannel and jeans swings open the doors and grips Aureliaâs original ring tight in his hand, frantically scanning the room for an expert. All he received were dirty looks.
âExcuse me, can you please find me something nicer than this.â He showed the woman the ring and waited with baited breath as she took it behind the counter to examine it. Lord if Cam didnât have a heart attack when she came back with the details.
âSir, you do realize this is a two-hundred year-old diamond, right? Where did you get this ring?â
âItâs my... girlfriendâs old engagement ring. Its from a different man.â Of course heâd need to lie in order to find any cooperation from the staff. âI need a new one. Something better, from me.â
And so he spent nearly three hours going through their collection and weighing the options in his mind, finding that he kept going back to one that was so elegant and dainty that it reminded him of her. Though to be sure, he probably looked at every damn ring in their collection.
âThis one, I think this is the one I want. I need it the size of the other ring, please. Could you put our initials inside of it?â
And so Cam walked out of Harry Winston approximately $13,000 lighter, and drove back to Wintergreen.
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Smoke billows from the glowing nub perched between cracked lips, settling somewhere between the water-stained ceiling rafters. Frail body sprawled on the floor, his back glued to the floor with the heaviest of intentions, and his eyes locked somewhere between now and then. Faded scars line his bare arms and hands with crystal clear memories of a time that wasnât so kind, and a pain that refused to dull. These marks, bared to the world only when he remained alone, usually covered up with layers of anger, resentment, cotton and leather. His head tilts to the side, a purpling bruise blossoming around a swelling eye; the result of a voice that refused to stay quiet and a fist that refused to stay still. Beside him, a needle sits, empty, used, and tossed aside much like itâs owner.Â
His eyes gloss over with a hue of false serenity, blinking slowly, in and out of this reality and into the next. He swallows--an action that exhausts him. The living room is bare, empty, as though he could disappear then and there and there would be no trace of him. His fingers twitch, scarred flesh winding itâs way around each digit like vines, red and angry. He no longer feels, hurts or aches; he merely just exists, a ghost between worlds. The silence rings in his ears, flooding his mind with a storm of static. He wouldnât even be able to produce a spark if he tried, and for that he was grateful. A sudden buzz from the phone that lay beside his head breaks the void, shifting on the ground, his eyes too tired to move and look at it. A message lights up on the screen, flashing for a moment before disappearing.Â
warnings anxiety, panic attacks, death mention, general stress. just a dramatic self para bc i wanted to give rory A Day
Best.
It was a word that Rory knew too well. From an early age he'd heard it, over and over, as a description for his parents, and as a definition for what he needed to be when he grew up. His mother was well-known, and his father had his own business, both successful in their own right, and with their passing came that weighing pressure on his shoulders to make them proud: do them justice. Go above and beyond, until there was nothing left to give.
So, Rory had to be the best. At everything.Â
He worked well in distractions. He kept his thoughts off of whatever upset him through music, cleaning, socializing: whatever helped him stay on top, that was the priority. Rory needed to have perfect attendance, perfect grades, and all the after-school activities to make him well-prepared, and to look good for colleges. On top of all that, he needed to have a good social life, friends and friends of friends that he could use when it best suited him. He needed a good reputation, the best awards... for him, things never really stopped, but he never thought of that as a bad thing.Â
Rory had never been a natural at much. He pushed himself to keep doing things until he climbed to the top, brewing an almost toxic obsession with whatever it was until he was satisfied that he had it all down. It was easier for him to force himself through everything than to focus on the exhaustion that often overwhelmed him, something he wasn't comfortable to admit to anyone, nonetheless admit to himself.
A lot had been happening, lately. He had his after-school duties, the musical, and he was obsessing over Prom and getting a superlative more than it was coming across. He was happy to get a good role for the musical, however, and while it was a relief, the rehearsals were an added time slot that Rory was trying his best to maintain while constantly worrying about Quinn, and her pregnancy, and... now dating her. Something he was terrified of messing up. Along with that, his and Brandonâs dislike had advanced into planning an actual fight. All those things had been taking up most of his thoughts, and making it even harder to focus in class.
Still, it felt sudden. He was sitting at the desk, scribbling down his notes when he felt the tight pull in his chest. It was something he shrugged off, initially, not thinking too much about the wave of pain until it came again - it came in stronger, and it didn't fade away. His breathing wavered as he blinked up at the front of the class, his head feeling light, but it only rose more concern. Health had never been a worry, for him. He did his best to stay active, but the feeling made him think one thing: a heart attack.Â
It hurt to breathe, and when he closed his eyes, all he could see were his parents. That was the worst of all, for Rory, mixing the aching pains in his chest with them, but they didn't look happy - they looked angry. Why were they angry with him? Wasn't he doing exactly what they wanted out of him? Though, maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe it wouldn't ever be enough. His breathing hitched again, and it was only then that he realized the hand on his shoulder, jerking in surprise as he looked up into the eyes of his concerned teacher. He didn't want to speak - his mouth wouldn't move, it felt too hard, so being asked if he was okay was met with silence and an annoyed look. She was too loud, though that wasn't the first time Rory had felt annoyed by her nagging voice, it was a different sort of annoyance, and he was quick to jerk away from her touch.Â
After a moment, he realized he was being told to go to the nurse, and he couldn't even argue. He felt like he could collapse at any moment, the overwhelming aching pain in him convincing him that, without a doubt, he wouldn't even make it to the nurse. He got up, took a few steps, and felt a hand on his arm, which he jerked away from. Glaring at the.... well, they weren't a stranger. Rory was dreadfully bad at names, specifically those he didn't feel they were important enough to remember, but they clearly knew who he was, as they tried to ramble on to him and it all went over his head. He had to block it out, he had to focus on not dying in the halls of McKinley. That was one of the lamest places to die, and Rory wasn't having it.Â
He was soon sitting in the nurse's office, cringing as she tried to ask him questions. He just wanted to get out. He needed space, and some sort of knowledge on what the hell was going on without needing to tell anyone. He kept seeing his parents, or words of disapproval every time he tried to shake it all away, and when he opened his eyes, it took him a moment to focus on the new faces staring at him, Rory frowning as he tried to get a hold of himself. Was he having a mental break? He didn't think he'd been stressing himself out that much, though with everything combined, it didn't seem as overwhelming when he'd been doing it so consistently.Â
Soon he was being instructed to take deep breaths and focus on something in the room, and reluctantly, Rory did as he was told, focusing on the crack between two tiles on the floor as he took deep breaths. He thought it was ridiculous, but he did as he was told, until he was spaced out and the aching of his chest slowly faded back.
It was then that he laid down, and he was left staring at the ceiling, again, and blocking out every noise he heard. His breathing felt loud, but he preferred that more to hearing anyone else speak to him. He had no idea how long he laid spaced out, until the nurse finally cleared his throat, and Rory slowly turned his head to look at her. "... so, this isn't the, uh - the after life, is it?" Rory felt uncomfortable, after it was all said and done, having always been the one to try and lighten any bad situation, but he'd been too out of it to try. There was a quiet pause, before she shook her head.Â
"Have you ever had a panic attack before, or is this your first?"
Rory blinked in surprise. Panic attack? Why would he be having one of those? Specifically, in the middle of class, with nothing to panic over, in his opinion. Rory let out a breath. "No, I haven't. Is that all this was? Because, wow, was that dramatic, and... I love my drama, but I really should be getting back to class-" His voice cut off as her hand landed on his chest, stopping him from sitting up, and Rory fell back onto the bed with a huff.
"I'm going to give a call to your... guardian. Aunt? Carole, is that right?" Rory let out a scoff in disbelief. Was that necessary? He definitely didn't think so, and that was obvious in the way he instinctively shook his head.
"Carole Hudson is a very busy woman. She doesn't need to deal with a phone call about me having chest pains that have since gone away, and Iâm feeling grand. Good as ever. It's no biggie, ma'am, just let me..."Â
And she was walking away, ignoring him and leaving Rory to childishly groan, covering his face in his frustration. Rory worked hard to try and remain a child that lived in her home, but left nothing to concern herself with. He worked hard to not burden her as much as he possibly could, and now she was being bothered to discuss something that Rory, essentially, felt was silly. Apparently, Carole didn't feel the same because it wasn't long until she was there, in front of him, cupping his face as he looked down at her. "I'm fine, Carole," he casually muttered at the look of concern in her eyes. He hated it. He didn't want her to look at him like that, and he quickly found himself trying to avoid her gaze.
There was some grumbling as he was checked out, and really, though it should've been a relief, it stressed Rory out more, knowing he was probably missing something important while he sat in silence with Carole in the car, his arms crossed over his chest, his body slumped down in the seat. The radio was the only comfort that kept him from speaking, and soon enough, she was turning it down.
"I worry about you."
Rory's jaw clenched. "What is there to worry about? I'm doing swell. Actually, Iâve probably never been better. One small thing doesn't change that I'm doing -"
"This isn't one small thing, Rory, and you know that. I know you're a smart boy. I know you know that this isn't something to be forgotten, even if you want it to be. I know you're doing your best-" The cringe that pulled onto Rory's face was clearly caught by Carole's side-eye, in the way she paused, peering over at him. "... and I'm proud of you. I'm sure your - your parents would be, and, hey - don't do that," she cut off, smacking his hand away from the stereo as he attempted to turn it up, the bass booming for nearly a second before there was silence once more. "I'm talking to you, and if you start being disrespectful, I'll... I'll ground you." It was clear Rory had never actually earned any kind of punishment, and he was side-eyeing her, ready to poke fun before he remembered that that grounding could potentially include prom, and snapped his mouth shut again.Â
"What I'm trying to say is that you can talk to me. We're family," she reminded, "and if you're feeling something, you can talk to me about it."
Rory tried not to roll his eyes, knowing that bringing any sort of attitude would not go in his favor. He didn't want to talk about it. Rory always felt that recognizing the issue meant making it real. He didn't want it to be real that he was stressing himself out too much.Â
"If all of you were trying to help, I wouldn't have been sent home early. I'm probably missing vital test info right this very second. I'm fine. I feel great right now, except for the fact that I'm missing everything. Not very responsible of me. What if this ruins the rest of my school year? I'll fail, and that's something to really panic about," he rushed out, his tone jumping back into the joking tune that he naturally kept, though it sounded a bit more forced than usual. Of course, that had earned him a slap against his shoulder with the back of Carole's hand. It wasn't much, and only affected Rory from the shock of it all. "Hey!"Â
"You're gonna go home, and you're getting into bed, and... I'm keeping all activities away from you... and if this keeps happening, youâre gonna have to drop some of your after school activities. Alright?"Â
There was a long, dramatic sigh, and Rory had an argument. He always had an argument, of course, but for one rare moment, he didn't try. He just nodded his head. "Fine."
The blurred sight of her nightstand greets Jaime as she fumbles to reach for her phone. Sheâs vaguely aware of a shrieking sound interrupting the still of the night but it takes only a second before she realizes exactly what the sound is. Itâs the fire alarm - there is a fire at St. Brendanâs and she knows in an instant that she needs to get up and help.
Sheâs up out of bed in seconds, phone clutched in her hand as she pulls on her fluffy robe to protect her from the cold and her slippers are stepped into. Sheâs only just into the hallway when she notices something horrible - the lights arenât on in the hall. She makes her way down the familiar hall in the darkness, not thinking for the first few moments that sheâs got a flashlight on her phone. When she does remember, she flicks it on in an attempt to help her see. She moves over to Leahâs door, giving a firm knock and shouting, âLeah thereâs a fire!â She wants her friend to be up and helping it she wasnât already, and Jaime continues to make her way to the stairwell.Â
Something else is in motion though, something Jaime would have never imagined in her thirty years. Sheâs steps away from the stairwell when the world seems to slow as an explosion rocks the building. The noise had been loud, piercing almost and she looks around, unsure of what the hell it was, when the floor beneath her gives way as the faculty wing collapses in on itself.
The world goes dark, her phone slipping from her grip with itâs light still emanating through the darkness until it falls to the ground feet away from her, going dark. Itâs the only thing sheâs able to focus on in the collapse, at least until her head slams into a pile of debris beneath her. Itâs a sharp, splintering pain that radiates from a singular point and she canât help the cry of pain that tears from her lips. Sheâd never felt pain like this before, but itâs far from the only pain. Thereâs debris scattered all over - some on her - and her muscles feel weak under the pressure.
Through her tears and the pain, Jaime manages to clamor out of the rubble in a number of minutes. She calls out for any of her friends, her colleagues, as she slowly makes her way through the bits of debris toward where she remembers the exit being. Thereâs no sense of time as she moves, just a desire to get out of this rubble and check on everyone - make sure everyone else is okay. The fire alarm - where had it been coming from? Nico, the students -- Erica.
Jaimeâs breath hitches, limiting the air further than her shallow breathing already had. She needed to find Erica. She needed to make sure she was okay. Her colibri, her love... was this the only building attacked? And why - why had someone done this?!
She didnât know when, but she had fallen into a heap, unable to move forward any further. Her muscles had given out, her body protesting between the trauma she had endured and the two hours of sleep sheâd gotten not being enough. Tears streamed as she tried to crawl, but she didnât get far. With the darkness inside and out she had no idea how close or how far she was to an exit. Was there even an exit anymore?
Jaime didnât know how long sheâd tried to crawl when she heard a holler of, âCap! Weâve got a survivor!â Her eyes moved up, noting briefly that her left eye was unfocused and blurry, before she was scooped up by strong arms. The man was calling for a gurney as she was carried her into the cold night air. The world seemed to be darker than sheâd ever seen it even as the flashing lights from the police and emergency vehicles illuminating parts of campus, and the cold air bit angrily into the exposed bits of skin through the ripped clothing of her pajamas. At some point sheâd lost a slipper, too, and she honestly couldnât remember when.
The EMTâs that rushed her from the building toward the ambulance were trying to reassure her that they had her, but Jaime wasnât focused on them. She was looking around - trying her best to figure out what was going on - and sheâd caught sight of the fire tearing through the residence wing.
âERICA!â Sheâd screamed, fighting to get up, but the EMTâs had strapped her down and she couldnât move. They did her best to calm her, but the tears streamed fast as her mind soared. What if Erica was hurt? She needed to save her!
St. Brendanâs was in good hands, if Jaime had been thinking rationally she would have known that. All she could think of as she was loaded into the ambulance, though, was that her students needed her and she wasnât there to help them. One EMT climbed into the back once she was loaded, taking her pulse and listening as she kept crying for Erica. She talked about needing to save her, needing to protect her students as the ambulance raced away from the school toward Seabrook ER.
----------
The ride to the hospital and the ensuing trauma evaluation were a blur to Jaime. Her muscles ached worse than ever before, and the headache that had calmed down was back with a vengeance. Sheâd gone into a CT machine - at least thatâs what she had been told it was - before being brought back to the ER to rest while they waited for the results.
Within twenty minutes, Jaime was startled by a doctor and two nurses that had come to her side, fussing over her. The last thing she remembered before the world suddenly went dark was a Doctor calling to one of the nurses that they needed to prep the life flight helicopter and alert Tufts Medical Center that there was an incoming neuro injury that required immediate surgical attention.