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One of the things Grace hates most about trauma is how it can creep up on you even when things are good.
Because her life the past few months has been good. Sure, things aren't perfect in Freeland, but they haven't had any world-ending crises. She's been working with Anissa and the others, making things better. She's growing into her identity as Wylde more with each day that passes. She's married to the love of her life, and they have a great apartment, and things are basically as close to perfect as they'll ever realistically get.
And yet here she is. Curled up in the dark in a corner of their loft, trying to breathe, trying to stifle the tide of memories, trying not to shift. She has it under control these days, most of the time, but most is not all, and she can feel her skin rippling, trying to make her something new, someone who won't hurt the same.
But the truth is they're all hurt the same. Her, the child she was, the old man she escaped into; even the leopard, the one who can fight when the rest of them can't. The truth is, no matter what she does, who she becomes, she will always have suffered what she suffered.
And even when things are almost perfect, even then, a man at the grocery store will get up in her face, grab her arm off-balance and pissed that she knocked into him, and he'll look too much like one of those men, he'll be shaped too much like threat. And she'll shove him away and flip him off, but she'll walk home too fast, her heart slamming into her ribs, the past tugging at her, trying to fight the rippling of her skin.
And she'll wind up here, in the corner of the loft, in a ball in the dark, alone, trying not to cry, trying not to shift, and– maybe nothing will ever really change. Maybe she'll never really be in control, always be a mess, always be broken, always a lost child nobody cares about, discarded in the cracks of the world–
“Grace?”
Anissa's voice is soft. Grace has never understood how Anissa says her name that way, lays love between every letter, but she does. And she says it so gently, because she knows what it can mean, when the loft is dark this way.
Grace tries to answer, she does, but her voice is stuck in her throat. She feels like if she says anything, does anything, she'll burst out of her skin, become someone else. Not even just in the shifting way, but inside her mind. She's digging her nails into her palms, trying to ground herself here, here, here, not back there, not back then.
It's taking all her strength to keep herself here, and if she speaks, if she speaks she thinks she'll shatter. If she speaks, they'll find her–
Anissa finds her anyway. Grace feels her kneel down in the corner next to her, and she doesn't ask what's wrong, what's happening, why is she still broken–
“What do you need?” she asks, instead.
Grace lifts her head, opens her eyes, looks at Anissa. Commits the lines of her to memory all over again. Her hair, in box braids at the moment, drawn back in a loose ponytail. Her soft blue sweatshirt, a favourite one she breaks out on cold days. The gold studs she's wearing in her ears. The concern in her beautiful dark eyes. Grace's wife. Her home.
“Hey,” Anissa whispers at her look, smiles at her, a soft smile. There's worry in it, still, but happiness too. Like she's happy to see Grace, even when she's broken. “Wanna do your routine?”
Grace nods wordlessly, and Anissa asks Shonda to activate the relaxation programme, then stands and offers Grace her hand.
But even with the soft sounds and colours of the programme playing around her, Grace doesn't feel safe to move, not quite yet. She still feels like anything could push her out of her own skin. She needs to get back in her body, not in her head, not itching with the need to be someone else.
“Can you hold me?” she says, barely louder than a breath. “Just– for a little while?”
Anissa doesn't say anything, just drops back down next to her and pulls her in close, arms around her shoulders, cheek pressed to the top of her head. She holds on tight, wordless, and the programme plays around them, and Grace's skin ripples, but Anissa still holds on.
Sometimes, when she's like this, there's nothing worse than being touched. But right now, there's nothing better than a touch she loves, a touch she's asked for, hands on her skin that remind her she's herself, she's here and now and safe.
The programme keeps playing. Anissa holds on.
Eventually, Grace's breathing slows. Her heart stops trying to beat out of her chest. Her skin settles, and she's not a child, or a leopard, or an old man. She didn't lose control of her shifting. She's not back where she was. She's not Shay Li anymore. She's Grace, in her body, in her home, with her wife.
“Okay,” she says, after a while. “I'm okay.”
“Do you wanna talk about it, or... just hug a little longer?”
Grace takes a breath, and leans closer into Anissa's side, hugs her in return. It's still hard for her to talk about this stuff, but she wants to, as well. Wants to keep trying to let Anissa in, truly and completely.
“Can we do both?” she says. “I think I could talk about it. If we keep holding on.”
Anissa nods, and Grace feels her cheek move against the top of her hair with it, can almost feel her smile. “Of course. Holding on sounds good to me.”
So they hold each other, and Grace finds her words, and right now it's just a little less scary than it ever has been before.
Because Anissa is her safe space, and she does her best to be Anissa's. Anissa tells her she isn't broken; she tells Anissa it's okay to rely on her, too. Both of them learned to be strong alone, and now both of them are learning to be vulnerable, together.
Things will keep being bad sometimes, even when things are good. But maybe if they just hold on, they'll make it through.