tequila ; s. paulson one - shots

solutions (l. winters)

Lana got nervous easily. Her time spent at Briarcliff had taken its toll on her mental health, and as her girlfriend, it was your job to keep her grounded. It didn't matter how small the trigger, you knew that almost anything could set off her panic attacks, whether small or larger-scale ones.

It had taken a lot of work to find ways to ease her pain, a lot of comforting on your part, a lot of effort on hers. But you had somehow found a way to ground her on days when she was feeling the effects of her past. 

The days when she'd be overly anxious about small matters like heading outside, you had to be there to hold her hand in an instant. Those days when she'd accidentally see a newspaper clipping about that cursed place, you had to work extremely hard to get her attention back to the now, instead of letting her drown in the past. The mornings when she'd wake up in a cold sweat from a nightmare, you were there to hold her close and tell her everything was going to be alright.

Those nightmares were particularly rough on both of you. The nightmare scars on her face afterward always made you worry beyond reason, and, she, on more than one instance, had pushed you off her rather forcefully, thinking you were Thredson coming for her yet again, which you knew wasn't her fault, but that didn't remove the bruises on your body you had gained from trying to restrain her. 

However, you didn't love her any less, and those mornings only made you even more determined to find small solutions. Small, yes, but still solutions.

"Lana? Are you okay?" you asked, entering your shared room. The brunette quickly looked up from the book she was reading and nodded, "I'm good, thanks."

You took a seat next to her and wrapped your arms around her waist, "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm not sure, really," Lana sighed, closing her book and leaning back into you, "I didn't hurt you too bad, did I?"

"No, you didn't, don't be silly. How could you hurt me?"

"I threw you off the fucking bed. Let me see your bruises."

"There aren't any for today, don't worry. You could never hurt me, Lana."

"Still, let me see them."

Reluctantly, you pushed your hair out of your face, showing her a cut on your upper lip and bruises on your forehead and cheekbone, "Don't blame yourself for this, please. It's not you."

"How could this not be me?" she muttered in disbelief. Stroking your cheek gently with her thumb, she brushed away the stray hairs covering your eyes and kissed you softly on your lips, "I'm sorry you have to go through this for me."

"Lana, you don't need to be sorry. I'm beyond glad I'm the one who gets to help you get better, who gets to hold your hand on good days and bad days alike, and live this life with you."

She looked down at her hands, which were littered with small, self-inflicted cuts, allowing the sound of your voice, soothing as always to her agitated state of mind. Clasping yours in hers, she gently traced a finger over your knuckles and sucked in a breath, "Don't you ever get sick of always having to take care of me, Y/N?"

"Why would you ask that, Lana?"

"Because," she said, "I just feel like a burden to you. You're this amazing, mentally stable, strong woman of her own, and yet you're always taking care of me, damaged goods."

"Hey, look at me, Lana," you commanded, forcing the older woman to look into your eyes, which she did, very reluctantly, "You are not damaged goods. You are perfect the way you are, and I don't want you to change. Not in the slightest. I love you, every part of you, every inch of your personality, I love you. Never forget that, or for a second doubt it. You hear me?"