*trigger warning: themes of PTSD

P R O L O G U E
❛ do you have what it takes? ❜

THEME:
new slang — the shins

THE SHARPLY-LIT DESK LIGHT IS HIS ONLY SOLACE; the only thing keeping him from doing something brash. Or stupid. Or harmful. He's done a plentiful amount of those things in his lifetime, but nowadays it's different. This isn't one of those drunk nights out when he was a teenager, or one of the practical jokes he used to pull on his brother.

     Don't think about it...

On the splintered wooden desk, somehow coated in dust despite being placed only a few days ago, lies an unfinished puzzle. He steals a fleeting glance at the box lid, which lies propped up against the concrete wall — 'Japanese Garden' 1000 pieces — before re-focusing his throbbing eyes on each fragmented piece. His finger tips shift them aimlessly across the wood, like pucks across the ice rink from his High School hockey days.

He doesn't even like that puzzles that much. Hell, when he got it from Sean for Christmas, he almost questioned if his brother even knew him. Sean was the one who enjoyed puzzles; he was the one who'd ran in and swiped his handiwork off the table when they were kids. So, was he that destructive even then?

Don't think about it.

Absentmindedly, he tries cramming in a puzzle piece disfigured to the gap he has chosen. A sudden spurt of self-loathing stabs his bloodstream, can't believing he would be so stupid, and he digs the bottoms of his palms into his eyes until phosphenes float around before him. Deep breaths. In through the nose, a big inhale of the musty basement air, and out through the mouth.

Do. Not. Think. About. It.

It had been so close. And it came out of nowhere, too — he was pretty sure nothing had triggered it this time. One minute, he had been poking fun at his daughter's teen angst-filled excuse of a first day at the new school, making his younger son giggle as he poked at his lasagna. But then the next, the tremors began. Cutlery and glasses on the table began quaking, only noticeable to him at first, but gradually picking up momentum. By the time it had started to arouse suspicion, he'd barely excused himself before bolting to the bathroom, doing what he always tried to do in these situations: splash his face with water, take those deep breaths, think happy thoughts.

Sure, silverware vibrating seems pretty harmless. But he knows what he is capable of — and sadly, how unexpectedly he can escalate from A to B.

He finds his hands falling from his face, reaching down for one of the drawers. His fingers fumble for the pamphlet like it is second nature, bringing it up on the surface into the light. Shakily, he traces his fingertips along the sharp edges, close to giving himself a paper cut, and takes in those faded red, blue and white colours that solidified his far-fetched childhood dream of patriotism. To be a war hero like his grandfather. The man on the leaflet points a finger at him, eyes sharp and focused on him only, as the letters blare above him: "The Marines want YOU!"

Or more so, it's the subtitle below that makes his hairs stand on end: "Do you have what it takes?"

What a fucking great question, he thinks to himself.

He'd believed in that question when he first put on that uniform and shaved his head. And for the most part, he thought he did have what it took — for whatever it was that he needed this omniscient strength. But memories sear his mind — the smell of burning rubber, the ear-splitting bang of detonation, and heart-sinking guilt. He didn't ask for any of this, any of this mess—

DON'T THINK ABOUT IT.

"Bill! What're you doing down there? It's been two hours."

     He jumps, whipping his head round so hard he almost gets whiplash; his brain catches up to him and registers his wife's voice. He relaxes, but only a little. "I'll— I'll be right up."

     Bill brings himself up from his chair, laboriously, and reaches for the light switch. As he flicks it, a cold chill runs through the basement — suddenly everything is lit differently in the haunting moonlight, and there's a shadow he swears wasn't there before. It looms by the chair with his old military jacket hung over, labelled William H. Novak, cloaking it in ebony darkness. Not now. He can't do this now.

     Before the darkness can catch up to him, he bounds up the stairs and shuts the basement door hastily behind him. In the dim but certain light of the living room, Maggie tilts her head at him, making a remark about his apparently clammy face. He makes an excuse as usual. And he holds her hand. He holds it so tightly his knuckles protrude in white, strained bumps, almost paler than his forlorn face. He keeps holding it even when he crawls into bed with her, like a little child, holding her like the teddy bear he used to have in his youngest years. Usually this is enough — usually he can push it to the back of his mind at this point.

     This time, however, the shadow has finally made it upstairs.

________________________

A/N:

HOLY MOLY WE'RE BACK!!!

please read this author's note, because i've got some important things to share that i didn't in the introductory chapter:

1) first things first, welcome to the sequel! i didn't talk much about this in the introduction for the sake of the ✨aesthetic✨ but i just want to say i'm so grateful if you are here reading this right now. this story is a continuation of there she goes, since netflix decided to CANCEL this bloody brilliant show, and it is essentially my interpretation of how season 2 would have panned out — but of course since you have hallie & the gang to add in, obviously it's ianowt season 2 + them (so if you're looking for a normal ianowt season 2 AU... this ain't it). also it is going to alternate between POVs other than hallie's! mainly switching between hallie and sydney, but there may be chapters with sydney's dad (like this one).

2) if you've read there she goes (which, if you haven't read it, i suggest you do – not to plug it, but literally because this book will be really confusing without that context) then you'll remember it was told in first person/past tense. now, in my other ongoing fics since then, i've gotten used to writing in third person/present tense (like this chapter is in) so coming back to this at first was like *HISS HISS* 😖 so i guess what i'm saying is, if you see me experimenting with the perspective and tense... no you didn't.

3) expect slow updates for this story! i'm still planning the plot, i've additionally got college work to juggle, and i dip up and down in my inspiration levels (but NEVER low enough to neglect this book – don't worry, if i'm ever MIA, i'll make a grand re-entrance, just you wait...)

4) this isn't as important, but i'm also still working on the soundtrack for this, since i assigned a song to each chapter last time and will do that this time too. but YAYY, "new slang" by the shins is definitely the second song! when i'm done it will be available to listen to on spotify 😇

again, thank you for reading and your patience, and i hope you enjoy whatever comes next!

published: 12th march, 2021