A/N: Hm. Just something recent that I'm considering expanding on. I have more inspiration for it, but I have so many projects right now, I'm not sure if I want to bother. Opinions, anyone?

If I do expand, the title'll be getting changed. Just a warning.

Seconds

You wake up to the smell of pancakes.

It still catches you off guard, still makes you clench your eyes tighter shut and scowl a little against your pillow, just for an instant. It's a gut reaction you still haven't managed to completely nick out, but as you unclench your eyes and open them to the first dimmed rays of sunlight, your face naturally relaxing as the sounds of shuffling and humming finally register with your sleep-fogged brain, you wonder if you'll ever be able to find the smell of delicious food anything but completely insufferable.

There was never a time in your childhood that mouth-watering smells meant anything good for you. Potato dumplings and lemon souffles and fresh-ground coffee. All conditioned to make you want to grind your teeth and scream to the ceiling, to punch and throw and kick. It's hardwired into you now, as much a part of you as the darkness behind your eyelids as you close them again for a few seconds more of stolen solitude. The shuffling grows louder, and you can hear footsteps dancing closer to your door before a cheerful voice informs you that breakfast is on the table. Once, that proclamation would have made you groan and throw something at the door.

Now, you pull the covers off and grab up a pair of pajama pants from the floor. You kick them on as you hop to the door and throw it open, just in time to catch your sister's back before she rounds back into the apartment kitchen. She turns at the sound of the door, but doesn't slow her pace while you let the elastic pop against your hips and smirk at her glowing, peaceful face. "There'd better be maple syrup to go with those pancakes," you sing, and let out a small yawn against your palm when Olga's face predictably lights in a small smile.

Like she knew you would ask, and she probably did, she holds up a fresh bottle for your rapid inspection. "Picked it up last night," she says before disappearing into the next room in a swirl of green skirts. You smile blearily and don't bother to close your door when you head for the bathroom.

You brush your teeth with your eyes closed and body leaning half-dead against the sink. The smell of pancakes hasn't diminished, has followed you into the room and refused to fade even with the door in place, and you think distantly on how the smell still gives you a strong urge to head for the hills. It is strong, but you equate it more with the feeling of an unscratched itch now than something seriously life-threatening. You acknowledge it, you can't do elsewise, but it's getting easier to choke down. It's not a reasonable desire to be having, so you sniff and mentally tell it to go fuck itself.

Defense mechanisms, Dr. Bliss is always going on to you about. You've taught yourself to hate something that gives your body a positive reaction because you're afraid of the fallout. Years of thinking you might have actually made a breakthrough only for everything to fall apart again and again, in an endless loop of disappointment and heartbreak. You've taught yourself to hate many things that give you a positive reaction. It's what made you yell and push him away every time he tried to hold your hand or kiss your cheek or stand too close. Even when you had him, you didn't really. You never allowed yourself. You know that now.

You spit and open your eyes. There are light bags beneath the typical thick, forbidding unibrow and you have a zit on your cheek. Your hair is darker than it used to be and your eyes hold a hollow kind of depth that's been with you for as long as you can remember. It's been months but you still feel flayed raw from all the screaming and hate that's been thrown, both by you and others that you're still trying to convince yourself you don't want to forget. None of this is new, you've looked at yourself so many times in the last fifteen years that nothing about your reflection could ever truly surprise you, but you still feel that you should look differently than you do, in some, small way, at least. You certainly feel different.

"You're such an angry girl, Helga, and you won't let anyone help you, so you must live with your unhappiness."

You blink and turn the faucet off.

The pancakes are delicious, and you don't hesitate to ask for seconds.

Thoughts?!