She didn't have a sudden precipice, it was a month long climb and then a PROFOUND fall instead. There was a "voice" in her head that she began to hear louder, and louder. She lost grip on reality within a month of actually acting as Simmons's wife. Her loyalty turned to loathing after she discovered what he did, and the extent of what he had been doing. It's not loyalty either. She's his slave. She even describes herself as "his loyal servant" that will "do anything for him". Her loyalty was gone over this month of discovery, and then it was a fall off a cliff into madness. She didn't stop falling either for years.

There wasn't a moment she could've been saved! That's what makes it so horrible, and so fucking tragic. She actually LOOKED for Ada to try and help her in 2010-2011, and she couldn't find her faster than Simmons (her employer for Damnation was Simmons).

And yeah. She decided this for herself. Simmons idolized her (dehumanizing) and it gave her this idea that no matter what she did, she could reach as far as she wanted to, and not have any limitation on the extremes she could go to to accomplish her goals.

And it IS a subversion of what Simmons intends! He wanted her to be beside him as he put himself into the fantasy seat of power he imagined. She destroyed everything and was intending to be Queen of Ashes and dead.

I do think Ada had the best shot of talking her away from the ledge, but it wouldn't have ever been easy. Carla was convinced Ada should have the final say on if she wanted to join Carla in this hell or kill her, because EVENTUALLY the bad guy should face some kind of justice.

send me  🧠 + a word for a headcanon in association with that word!

Jamie Lee Curtis’ word is law.  

         ❛   I WAS A CHILD  ——   ❜  anger, frustration, grief  . . .  they all come to play before his accusations.  as an impressionable teenager, umbrella sunk their talons into her skin & molded her into compliance.  disobeying means death  ( but they're already dead ! ).  

I’M SCREAMING I NEED IT.

just...imagine if luis had lived...

was  there  a  file?   leon  has  to  know  what  he’s  referring  to  --  it’s  come  into  question.  i  need  you  to  trust  me.  please.  people  will  die.  sam  had  never  lied,  the  safety  of  civilians  superseding  any  other  quality  of  his  life.  it  was  their  reason  for  being.   he  fiddles  with  his  hands,  unsure  of  what  to  do  with  them,  feeling  weighted  and  clumsy.   ‘  i  want  to  be  open with  you.  you’re  ..  my  friend.  and  a  good  person.  so  ..  i  think  it’s  important  that  i  explain  why  certain  things  are  reflected  in  my,  uh  ..  criminal  record,  i  guess.  saint  louis  was  a  skin  shifter  impersonating  my  brother--he  killed  a  few  people.  so,  i  ..  guess  i’m  an  obstruction,  or  an  accessory,  i  dunno.  the  milwaukee  bank  robbery  was  actually  a  skin  shifter  too.  that  one  was  shifting  into  hostages,  we  ..  we  never  robbed  a  bank.  i’m  ..  uh,  admittedly  a  petty  thief  and  a  liar,  not  a  bank  robber.  grave  desecration,  that  one’s  ..  to  put  a  spirit  to  rest,  you  have  to  destroy  their  corporeal  form,  so,  digging  it  up  and  burning  it.  it’s  not  fun.  ‘

"Leon, hey."

The words are casual but the cadence is decidedly not—her voice tumbles out of her mouth, uncomposed and half-teary and too fast. Like any of that's new. It's all of three in the morning and she's under the dim orange glow of street lights, and there's noise in the background over the phone. She saved his number from last time. She didn't mean to, but she did.

"Listen, I got—uh, I got into a bit of trouble down here at that bar on Third, big fucking surprise because some rat bastard—!" her voice raises noticeably, directed at someone away from the cell's receiver, and a male voice answers, and Loki's sure she audibly bristles. "I'm calling my fucking ride, I'm going, can I smoke my fuckin' cigarette? Yeah?"

Leon’d asked no questions when she turned up at his place at two in the morning. 

He looked as if he was staring at her ghost — she’d only recently been found and returned to US soil, and a part of her reasoned that he possibly hadn’t been given the news yet. Her eyes were rimmed red, fatigue etched in every limb from an impromptu four hour drive to get to DC, and she barely had to whimper his name before his gentle hands, tactile and real, delicately coiled around her elbows to coax her inside before she broke. 

He’d said she was stronger than him — that she could carry the weight of trauma so much better than he could, had admired her calm when they’d reflected on Hardvardville when all had been said and done.

But lately she couldn’t hold up those walls anymore, despite every part of her inner spark doing its damndest to fuel the furnace. Sometimes the trauma endured and the lives lost along the way came to her. Her well was dry, no more tears to give, but she shuddered despite it — scared to lose another of her closest thanks to her nightmares chasing every waking hour. 

Sometimes the rescuer needed saving. 

“I’ve got you.”

His voice was low, a gentle rumble beneath her ear as she hid her face against his chest, vaguely aware he’d careened her toward the couch where they’d folded in on one another; her fingers anchored tightly to his shirt as if letting go would have him disappear while he cocooned her with his limbs as if to shield her. It wasn’t the first time such physical contact brought relief from their own respective inner demons, and it was likely never going to be the last; they shared a bond few others had. 

He was warm. Alive. 

She, too, was alive — despite it all and for how she’d not succumbed to the whorls of the sea.

Time was stagnant in that moment, Claire only aware of the solid thump of Leon’s heartbeat, the security of his arms, and his fingers gently tracing circles against her spine. For the first time in days she could breathe and the air didn’t smell tinged with blood or tasting of salt, and the relief of it somehow managed to draw blood from the stone as she wept once more. 

For her team, her friends. For Moira. 

As the tears subsided Claire weakly drew up as far as she dared for a moment, scrubbing a hand roughly over her face as she felt her grief ebb into fatigue. Leon grasped at her wrist to stop her from being too harsh on herself, his eyes transfixed on the mottled bruises still painted on her flesh from where the bracelet had been, a darkness — a protectiveness — reflected on his features through the low light of the room as it lined the edge of his face.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, following his gaze as it moved to her eyes once more, a shaken breath drawn through her lips. “I should’ve called — I didn’t know where to go.”

He shook his head. “Open door policy,” he said, releasing her wrist so he could tuck some of her hair behind her ear, thumb grazing her cheek. “Anytime. Thought you knew that already.”

She made a faint sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat, tiredly leaning into his touch as her eyes slipped closed. The more her body unwound from the stress of trauma the more leaden her entire being felt despite fight or flight still trying to domineer her very core. She wormed one arm between his torso and the couch, her head sinking against his chest once more as he smoothed his fingers through her hair. 

She hadn’t slept in days, her nightmares often keeping her up and her gun not being enough of a security blanket nestled beneath her pillow, but there she felt the safest she had in days.

Though she knew the answer was yes she still tiredly slurred: “Can I sleep here with you tonight?”