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i miss bein on here mayb i’ll do some writing here tomorrow?

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VIOLINIST  IMITATES  HUMAN  VOICE.      /      HUMAN  VOICE  IMITATES  VIOLIN.      /      A  DUET.                         *   personals do not interact.

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guidest​,      karen ferris.

     ❝ no , ❞    𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝚂𝙸𝙼𝙿𝙻𝚈 ,  𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙰 𝙳𝚁𝙾𝙿 𝙸𝙽 𝙰 𝙱𝚄𝙲𝙺𝙴𝚃 .    no ,  what ?  she asks from within .  no ,  it’s not strange .  no ,  i don’t dream .  no ,  i don’t sleep .  but she doesn’t qualify it :  no ,  they say together .  something in his voice picks at the comma of the phrase ,  attempting to tug it loose .  she had a sweater once ,  her grandma knit it for her .  she picked it apart with her clever little fingers and her mother had thrown it away and yelled at her .  jon’s voice had clever little fingers ,  too .  did people  yell  at him for picking their sweaters apart ?

      karen looks at the surface of the pond .  it’s muggy tonight .  somewhere ,  a little to the left ,  a frog croaks loud enough to overpower jon’s voice if he’d been talking ,  but he wasn’t now .  he was waiting for  m o r e ,  the fingers attached to his questions plucking at her seams .  it isn’t  overpowering .  maybe it would be for others  who were not like Them ,  maybe if he really tried she wouldn’t be able to stop ,  but she knows she could leave it at  no  if she wanted to .

      but she doesn’t .

     ❝ i don’t think i sleep .  i try to .  there’s a motel a little down the way ,  across the street from the diner ,  and after i have my coffee and my pie and my cigarette i’ll go there .  i rent a room .  they take my name but never charge me ,  we have an agreement ,  you see , ❞    we’ll charge it to your business account ,  the clerk always says ,  and she will smile .   ❝ it feels like  …  a play .  one of the short and sweet ones that have some deep meaning hidden in them , ❞    an off - hand comment ,  an observation she makes just now .  she doesn’t smile as she says it ,  but frowns down at the murky water .  the frog croaks again .    ❝ like a play in college .  no ,  like a play  written  by a college student . ❞

     ❝ anyway , ❞    She regains composure .    ❝ anyway ,  i go to my room and i lay down and i close my eyes but  …  i don’t think i sleep .  so i suppose i don’t dream . ❞  she doesn’t say it with any kind of sadness .  as always ,  she is matter - of - fact .  it is  him  she pities .  to be able to sleep ,  and dream ,  but it’s never your own dreams .  it’s just  …  everyone else in your head .  or the other way around .

     ❝ what did i do ,  in your dream ? ❞    Karen turns herself bodily toward him with one of those smiles ,  thin and threadbare but  hers .  one leg dangles off the dock .  she pulls out her little box of cigarettes ,  her little lighter .   ❝ was it a happy dream ? ❞    she didn’t think it was ,  but wanted it to be .  he looked like he had so few of them .

dreams have a tendency to stick in his mind.      spilled-over honeystraws;      he has a theory that it is to provide leftovers for beholding throughout the day,      shuddering glimpses of old terror sweet on its eldritch tongue.      he considers lying even so,      but he’s never been quite good at those and lately he finds himself worse,      god of secrets loosening all his precious truths.

for a moment,      he finds himself jealous of her.      it would be so much simpler not to sleep.      to close his eyes for a bit and see nothing behind them.      he has tried to fight off the urge enough times      —      his office is,      off-and-on,      hardly more than a graveyard for scattered coffeecups and energy drink cans,      disgusting as both may be.      in university he had once stayed awake for six days,      a nightmare about certain childhood web-beasts sending him spiraling into sleeplessness.      

(      perhaps it’s wrong to envy karen her lack of dreams.      this friendship,      if that is what it is,      is founded on      ...      some lost aspect of each of their humanities.      some monstrousness gained in the absence.      it must be awful of him to covet something human she has lost.      )

his legs hang off the pier,      tips of his shoes just grazing the water beneath.      rippling.      the ripples are,      perhaps,      not quite what they would be in a normal place;      he cannot seem to make much impact here,      and that must be for the best.      this is her domain.      it would be an intrusion if he changed it more than the bare minimum;      he takes slices of pie at the diner but the selfsame slices have always reappeared on his next visit,      he kicks his feet lightly into the pond but the ripples go naught but a few centimeters before petering out.      

he does not ask her for a cigarette,      but pulls one of his own from his coatpocket,      holds it out to be lit,      please.      he does not answer the question of happiness.

‘      you were here.      ’            not as in the lake or the dock but the road,      the here above the here,      everpresent,      unchanging.            ‘      or      —      we both were.      we were      ...      walking,      silently,      towards the horizon that refuses to come any closer,      and      ...      at a certain point,      you turned to me and said goodbye,      jon,      and i      ...      i couldn’t quite remember if that was meant to be me.      if i was jon.      ’

it is selfish of him to tell her about her own life like this,      through the lens of a nightmare all his own.      he continues anyway.            ‘      i walked a while longer,      and the next time i turned to you,      you weren’t there.      i couldn’t recall if you had ever truly been there.      if you’d      ...      existed at all,      or if i’d always just been there alone,      and there was nothing left to do but walk so i      ...      well,      i did.      i kept walking,      and then      ...      i suppose i woke up.      ’

he shakes his head.      it’s foolish and feels moreso now that it’s out in the air,      hovering among the frogsong and fog.            ‘      i’m sorry,      that’s      ...      it wasn’t worth telling,      honestly.      it isn’t something i’m actually afraid of,      but i suppose when a subconscious deals with so much of other peoples’ fear,      some of that is bound to bleed through?      ’            meaning:      he isn’t afraid of being lost.      surely,      he isn’t afraid of karen;      there are so few things in his life that he doesn’t fear,      but he can say that in all honesty.      to others,      this may be a nightmare,      but      ...      jon comes and talks to her and feels at peace.      that is a rarity in a life filled with such terrors.

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killmeorfuckoff​,      tim stoker.

AN  FOND  GRIN  STICKS TO  THE  CORNER OF  HIS  MOUTH  at  jon’s  heavy,  disgruntled sigh,  the  touch  of  drama  informing  tim  he  is  putting his  friend  through something  very  laborious and  inconvenient  and oh  how  awful  of  him,  but  has  jon  ever  refused tim’s  hand  before? the  holes  burrowed into  their  skin,  the  fresh  memory  of  cries  echoing off  the  walls  of  the  tunnels,  it  hasn’t  changed this.  it  hasn’t.

jon  isn’t  technically  wrong that  the  habit  isn’t  freshly formed,  but  it’s  festering  like  an  open  wound.  he  sees  it  in  the  violet  shades curved  beneath  dark  hues,  the  redness  touching the  whites  of  his  eyes.  it  wouldn’t surprise  tim  to  find  that  jon  is  burying  himself in  work  as  a  distraction, moving  constantly  so  he  doesn’t have  to  find  out  what  will  creep  up  on  him  when  he  stands still.    tim  understands the  impulse  at  least  and  went  quite  a  few  nights  sleepless  to  avoid  what  awaited  when  he  closed his  eyes.  or  maybe  it  just  feels  like  he’s  fighting  back  when  he  isn’t  doing  nothing,  and  tim  understand that  too,  but  it  isn’t  healthy  working himself  to  collapse, nor  is  it  sustainable.  tim  is  worried.  it’s  a  jarring situation  to  walk  into  on  his  first  few  days  back,  and  worse,  he  isn’t  sure  if  it’s  something  he’s  equipped  to  fix  just  by  leaning on  his  charm  and  likability like  he  always does.  

conscious  of  jon’s  damaged leg,  he  keeps  an  arm  instinctively  hovering behind  him  as  he  steps  out  from  behind  his  desk.    

“  oh  come  on, jon.  you  know  it  isn’t  normal  to  stay  cooped up  down  here  all  the  time.  it’s  not  good  for  your  head—  I’m just  trying  to  help.  and  for  the  record,  I  do  appreciate that  I  didn’t have  to  get  any  more  creative  than  asking  nicely.  duly  noted  that  that  might not  work  every  time,  though I’m  not  convinced personally,  people  have  a  hard  time  saying no  to  me.  ”  tim  certainly  has  a  way  of  batting his  lashes  and  getting  what  he  wants, and  jon  knows  that—  wouldn’t be  half  as  good  at  his  job  if  he  didn’t  have  that  convenient ability.  or  perhaps with  jon  it’s  less  his  charisma  and  more  that  he’s  comfortable  enough with  him  that  he  literally won’t  take  no  for  an  answer.  it  wouldn’t  been  easy  enough (  at  the  cost  of  maybe  reopening a  wound  or  two  )  to  climb  up  on  his  desk  and  simply  block  him  from  doing  anything productive  until  he  threw  his  hands  up  and  gave  in.

the  question though  remains  why jon  isn’t  going  home….  if  there’s  something tim  can  do  about  it,  maybe?  if  it’s  being  alone,  well,  he  could  fix  that.

tim  holds  the  door  for  jon  as  they  approach  the  staircase,  letting a  sigh  unfurl from  his  lips  at  the  sight  of  the  steps  he  had  not  missed even  before  his  body  was  so  badly  damaged.  

“  what  is  it  about  going  home  that’s  so  abhorrent  all  of  a  sudden?  ”

tim is charming.      tim is charming and smiling and oh - so - helpful and jon has found it increasingly difficult to trust that truth lies behind any of that as of late:      doubt burrows through the same scabbing-over wreckage that the worms had left,      and it is festering,      is infecting,      is getting worse by the day.      

(      he does not yet know enough of the entities to know that corruption is not simply insects and mold but rotting love,      a hollowing-out of feelings that may once have stood firm.      )

for now his doubt is sidelined by his exhaustion.      he weighs his hatred of being so vulnerable in front of anyone,      even tim,      against the pain in his injured leg      (      only made worse by how long he has been sitting      —      when did his desk become so impossible to leave?      )      and decides,      hesitantly,      that tim will not judge him for picking up the cheap hospital-issued cane leaning against the bookshelf and using it.      wincing his way up the stairs with a whiteknuckled grip on the handrail would be far more embarrassing,      after all.

he nods along at tim’s needling,      only processes about half of it      —      bites back a remark about his impossibility to deny being rooted more in levels of annoyance than in tim’s charm.      tim doesn’t deserve it,      even if it is half-true.      jon is not quite kind,      but the effort it would take to speak outweighs everything else.

until,      of course,      tim asks a question.      jon freezes in the stair doorway for a moment      —      the number of reasons are overwhelming,      and surely,      surely,      tim must feel them as well.

‘      isn’t that obvious?      ’            he begins the trek up the stairs as he speaks,      slow-going as it is.      has the institute always had this many stairs?      have they always been so steep?      it is simpler to live in his office if for the sole reason of not having to go up and down these damned stairs multiple times a day      —

but that isn’t the whole reason.      of course it isn’t.      it couldn’t be anything as simple as that.      it’s the crawling feeling that wakes him gasping with the bone-deep need to check every inch of skin for worms,      solved with a dozen-pack of the most battery-acid-esque energy drinks the convenience store on the corner stocks.      it’s his desk angled with his back to the most solid wall in the room.      it’s the fact that he knows the archives’ weaknesses,      knows the patched-wall where the worms had first burst forth and the trapdoor to the tunnels.      he doesn’t have the same defenses at his flat.      it is empty and bare,      the sparsest furniture befitting someone who was never truly home much to begin with      —      but where once he saw the convenience of a soft place to sleep,      now he sees too much space that may be filled with things that burrow.      whatever weak facsimile of home had once been his flat,      all he sees now is a vast,      empty space,      in which he cannot work and cannot sleep and can hardly even breathe.

‘      it’s      ...      tim,      there’s so much we don’t know.      i still think the vast majority of statements we collect are,      to put it nicely,      absolute bullshit,      but      —      the ones that aren’t,      i need to know what’s in them,      i need to      —      to catalogue them,      to know how to protect myself      —      and all of you      —      from what’s in them,      i      —      ’            this is not the question tim had asked.      jon is deeply aware of that.            ‘      i would rather stay here at all hours,      even knowing that this place is      ...      is wrong,      somehow,      than go somewhere i don’t know how to defend.      i’ve found i don’t much like being at my flat anymore,      if i ever did.      home doesn’t have anything useful.      once,      i would have found a place to sleep useful enough,      but      ...      ’            

softer;      it could be because they’ve reached the institute’s lobby and he is wary of being overheard by anyone else out of their minds enough to stay at such a late hour,      but it is not.      it’s      ...      a confession.      a truth.            ‘      well,      sleep is only good for nightmares now.      i’d rather be awake and doing something worthwhile with my time.      ’

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love to write love to be awake enough to do it someday

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✧･ﾟ   pay what you want commissions!   i’m moving soon!   *✧:･ﾟ

these are gonna be very chill & even $3 will get you something, but the more you pay the more effort i’ll put into it.

fanart only (or concepts, like ‘draw a pink ghost lady’ or something — basically no oc’s, no real people you know, etc. my oc’s are fair game if for some reason you want me to draw them.)

(for non-fanart requests, my regular / set-price commissions are also open!)

reblogs appreciated to spread the word!

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@behld   sent   in  ♫   for   a   playlist  :  still   accepting 

drive him wild with hints that you know when he’ll die !

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prodigil​,      sam winchester.

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THIS  MAN  ISN’T  HUMAN.  but  then  again–is  sam,  really?  all  that  thick,  viscous  demon  blood  flooding  through  his  veins,  the  mark  of  the  devil  burned  into  the  underside  of  his  throat  beneath  his  skin  (minemineminemine,  a  very  special  child,  better  than  mothers  milk,  you’re  my  favorite),  head  full  of  poppy  and  dreams  that  dissolved  into  twisted,  nightmarish  predictions  of  the  future,  of  someones  future–did  he  have  the  right  to  judge?  thats  where  things  started  to  get  muddy.  if  dean  were  here,  he’d  slap  him  in  the  back  and  tell  him  that  they  were  all  monster…  except  him.  but  sam  saw  his  wary  eyes.  

he  practically  blinds  jon  with  his  flashlight,  and  the  gleam  of  the  flood  reveals  sam’s  carrying  a  packed-and-loaded  shotgun–the  right  way,  too.  trained.   ‘  step  back.  who  are  you?  ‘

jon has to blink against the sunbright beam of the flashlight      —      he’s not sure it’s dark enough to justify that,      though perhaps that’s less to do with the moonlight and more to do with the silvershine of jon’s eyes and the way his vision has miraculously improved since taking the position of archivist.      he takes a moment scowling in the direction of the flashlight before he notices the more pressing matter,      the gun aimed at him,      and jumps backwards.      ah.      fuck.

‘      i’m      —      jonathan sims?      or,      uh,      the archivist,      from the magnus institute,      if that’s      —      if that’s what you’re looking for,      uh      —      ’            panicky,      words coming quick and heartbeat quicker still.      it isn’t the first time he’s had a gun pointed at him,      but it hardly gets easier with experience      —      if anything,      jon’s just accumulated more fear.      there is a reason the entities seem to love him so much;      to beings that feast on terror,      jon must be a goddamn buffet,      wide-eyed and heartracing as he is.            ‘      i’m not dangerous,      you don’t have to      —      you can put that away,      i swear.      ’

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skyaches​,      tim stoker.

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this violence can’t last. @ tim !

All that can be seen in the dark corner of the Archives is Tim’s eyes. He’s curled , arms wrapped around his knees , trying to slow his ragged breathing. Only a few minutes ago he had been walking back from lunch with Jon when he had felt an URGE. It was the Hunt , he knew. Maybe it sensed something from the Stranger nearby. Maybe it was just fucking with him. It felt like it was just fucking with him because he had found nothing and had nowhere to expend the energy his accidental patron had given him.

It gave him life when he would have certainly died but that didn’t mean everything about it was good. Like the violence that overwhelmed him to the point where he had hidden himself away until the feelings had passed.

Of course Jon had followed him. Tim didn’t want him to but… as he sits , focused on his friend’s face , knowing he COULD NOT hurt him. The urge to Hunt fades after a few minutes. He feels dizzy and exhausted , and he reaches ( carefully ) towards the archivist for help standing.

❝ This shit SUCKS , Jon. ❞ He considers him for a moment. ❝ Do you ever feel… overwhelmed by… your stuff ? Like , do you ever feel like you HAVE to do whatever it tells you to do ? ❞

jon doesn’t know if they’re far enough removed from all the distance that had sprung up between them for him to be someone tim trusts.      he’s not sure how much time is needed      —      does the miracle that is their mutual survival of the unknowing undo all the hurt;      has some understanding of the way jon had acted for all those months sprung up with tim’s newfound affiliation to the hunt?            should he follow tim into the stacks of the archives,      knowing the potential danger?

well,      the last question was never truly a question at all.      of course jon had followed tim.      jon needed to know.      it’s less the eye and more a care he hadn’t been sure he could still feel to such a degree:      he is aching to make sure his friend      (      are they friends again?      would tim fight against jon referring to him as such,      even in the secret sanctity of his own mind?      )      is alright.

jon takes tim’s hand,      helps him up.      he is,      at least,      still trusted enough to do that.

‘      yes,      ’            jon says,      too much honesty in the syllable.      he thinks of the times the hunger for knowledge has become literal enough to make him nearly faint;      he thinks of the supermarket cleaner last week and his vast-tinged spiraling warehouse,      the story collected      —      taken,      stolen from the man’s voicebox      —      in a beholding-starved haze.      (      he wonders,      if he told tim about that,      if he would be deemed monstrous enough to hunt,      and keeps his mouth shut.      )            

‘      i –      i wish i had any solutions to offer you,      but      ...      well,      if there are work-arounds to be found,      i suppose i understand why the eye hasn’t offered that knowledge on a silver platter,      as it were.      but i know what you mean.      ’            he has,      after all,      hardly been at this any longer than tim has      —      and nothing was nearly as severe before the unknowing.      they’d both made choices to stay alive there.      both      ...      became something else.            ‘      ...      are you alright?      ’            he takes care to keep his static away from the question.      it’s difficult,      but if there ever was a worthy cause      ...

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thinkin abt bringing my main oc back again

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ANNA,      SWEET ANNA,      SAINT ANNA.

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𝙸𝙼𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙴     𝙰     𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼 ,        𝙰     𝚂𝚄𝙳𝙳𝙴𝙽     𝙶𝙻𝙾𝚆 .        𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴     𝙸𝚂     𝙼𝚈     𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳 ,        𝙼𝚈     𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃 ,        𝙼𝚈     𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝙰𝚃 ,        𝙼𝚈     𝚆𝚁𝙸𝚂𝚃 .        𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴     𝙰𝚁𝙴     𝚃𝙷𝙴     𝙸𝙻𝙻𝚄𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳     𝙲𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙴𝚂     𝙰𝚃     𝚃𝙷𝙴     𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁     𝙾𝙵     𝙼𝙴 ,        𝙰𝙽𝙳     𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴     𝙸𝚂     𝚃𝙷𝙴     𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁     𝙾𝙵     𝙼𝙴 ,        𝚆𝙷𝙸𝙲𝙷     𝙸𝚂     𝙰     𝙻𝙰𝙺𝙴 ,        𝚆𝙷𝙸𝙲𝙷     𝙸𝚂     𝙰     𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙻     𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃     𝚆𝙴     𝙲𝙰𝙽     𝙳𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙺     𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼 ,        𝙱𝚄𝚃     𝙸     𝙲𝙰𝙽’𝚃     𝙶𝙾     𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷     𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷     𝙸𝚃 .        𝙸     𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃     𝙳𝙾𝙽’𝚃     𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃     𝚃𝙾     𝙳𝙸𝙴     𝙰𝙽𝚈𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 .

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commissions are open!   i’m moving soon! get some art! help me pay rent!

payments through paypal, prices in usd. reference images preferred.

20% discount if you request fanart commissions from media i already draw for (right now mostly magnus archives)

these prices are for personal-use (non-commercial) commissions only. i’m also available for comics/illustration freelance work; hit me up to discuss that!

contact me at kayleerowena@gmail.com if you’re interested!

reblogs appreciated! 💖💖💖

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mysterybusiness​,      maggie short.

          ‘ how many of them do you have? ‘ the girl doesn’t look up from her drawing that shows a skinny silhouette of a vaguely human figure, it’s head keeling over from the sheer weight of the amount of multi-colored eyes surrounding it. it wasn’t done yet. not enough eyes. she didn’t know how many would be enough, for every time she drew one, it seemed more had joined in to watch her. she wasn’t scared of them. people had always ended up looking over her shoulder while she was drawing.

           she picked up a silvery gray crayon, drawing what seemed to be like rays of light around it’s form. ‘ the eyes. there are too many. ‘

@behld​ / maggie short starter call.​

he can’t quite help looking over her shoulder at the drawing,      and his immediate reaction is an almost childish aversion      —      i don’t like it,      as if that means much of anything.      it is a portrait of him.      that much is clear,      though it is not as he appears before her and not as he appears anywhere but in the eye’s secondhand nightmares.

it is      ...      unsettling,      to say the least,      that a child should be able to see that.      the eyes waiting just beneath his skin.      his own monstrousness.

she does not seem unsettled,      though,      so he keeps his expression flat,      lets only a hint of his confusion,      his curiosity,      show through.      well.      he isn’t going to lie to her,      he decides      —      lord knows any children wrapped up in the supernatural need whatever truths they can get,      even if he’s unsure how much help he could be.            ‘      just the two,      generally,      ’            he says with the sort of small smile you’re meant to aim at children,      pointing to his eyes.      the ones on his face.      not the more      ...      metaphorical ones.            ‘      but that isn’t what you mean,      is it?      i’m not sure,      i guess.      i can’t exactly look at myself to count them.      ’            there seem to be quite a lot on the page.

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guidest​,      karen ferris.

@behld​ :   i didn’t tell you this before ,  but you were in my dream last night .

     𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙲𝙰𝙽'𝚃 𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚃 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼 .    oh ,  She remembers what dreams  are  and knows she certainly must have had them at one point .  she is sure there were dreams where she stood in front of a classroom ,  naked and trembling ,  laughter burrowing into her skin like slow bullets .  or maybe one where she is  f a l l i n g  off some precipice ,  endlessly ,  and when she is about to hit the ground she wakes with wet palms in tangled sheets .  everyone has these dreams ,  so it stands to reason she must have had them once ,  too .  when she was once like everyone .  now She is  …  like him ,  maybe .  Him ?  he wouldn’t like that ,  the capital .

     She doesn’t  envy  him his dreams ,  not really .  what does She have to dream about that doesn’t already take up her days  ( nights ) ?  She knows  -  not like he Knows ,  but still she knows  -  what they would be :  winding roads and neon lights and signs to tell her that  HELL IS REAL  and vending machines and gravel and  … 

     these are not things she wants to dream about .  it’s one thing to be  Lost ,  another to be  Lost  in your own head .

     ❝ was i ?  i don’t remember being there , ❞    She is almost playful .  it’s easy to be different ,  with jon .  not so much Her ,  but  her .  it’s easy to sit in the diner and think that perhaps this time she will eat the key lime pie or to sit outside and share a cigarette or just  smile .  karen smiles .    ❝ are you sure it was  your  dream ? ❞

it is      ...      odd.      to dream about someone without it being a shared terror.      none of his dreams are without the everwatching eye overhead,      these days      —      there is no reprieve,      even in the ones he is sure are purely fictional,      for the eye drinks down his fear as eagerly as it does those who have given their statements in the hopes of some release only to find themselves taken deeper and deeper into beholding’s clutches.      the eye is a parasite,      feeding off of secondhand fear      —      and so,      he supposes      (      though it makes him shudder somewhere deep inside      ),      is he.

but of course she wouldn’t do something as simple      (      as human?      )      as dream.      she doesn’t remember being there,      so of course it was not hers.

she hasn’t given him a statement to dream about,      anyways.      not in as many words;      she has told him things,      and tape recorders have appeared,      but nothing the eye could feast on.      he has not said the words:      statement of karen ferris,      the tour guide,      recorded direct from subject.      statement begins.      no one lost on this road has given him one,      either,      though he is sure if he dug far enough into the archives he could find a few.      it feels like an invasion of privacy,      somehow.      and so it was his dream alone:      they had wandered along the road,      and he had stayed,      become like her,      capital-letter lost.      it had been almost nice,      even as some distant part of him had been aware it was a nightmare.

‘      is it strange to say that your not remembering it is precisely what makes me sure it was my dream?      ’            christ,      he thinks anyone not as embedded in the ephemera of the supernatural as them would have an impossible time comprehending their conversation.            ‘      i      ...      i don’t have many of my own anymore.      just      ...      other people’s secondhand nightmares.      i wasn’t quite sure if maybe,      it was your dream as well.      but there’s that answered.      ’

he squints,      curiosity taking over for a moment.      (      was he always so eager for answers,      before the eye held any influence on his questions?      yes.      yes,      some things have always been true.      )            ‘      ...      do you dream?      or      ...      sleep,      even?      ’

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i love making dynamics with other tma canon characters that are like oh actually jon knew [character] pre-canon it just wasn’t mentioned bc it wasn’t relevant to the plot. mike and jon were childhood best friends. oliver and jon met at a bunch of parties in uni and didn’t learn each other’s names for a full year. it’s very fun to me

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killmeorfuckoff​,      tim stoker.

HE  DOESN’T  ROLL  HIS  EYES  AT  JON’S  SHARPENED  WORDS,  but what  touches  his  expression  reads  that  he  wants  to.  tim’s  restraint is  admirable,  but  his  impatience with  jon’s  bizarre hardened  and  self-important  resolve to  be  alone  in  his  work  bleeds into  his  tone  when  he  speaks  again. he  just  can’t  find  it  in  him  to  be  chipper  when the  painkiller  is  fading  like  a  receding tide  and  the  hour  is  late  and  he  wants  them  both to  go  home.  

“  uh  huh.  look,  I  don’t  think  I’m  going  to  be  doing  much  convincing  tonight, so  maybe  we  can  talk  about  what’s eating  you  when  your  desk  isn’t  covered in  coffee  cups  and—  is  that  redbull? ”

with  the  toe  of  his  shoe  he  nudges  a  silver  can  that  missed the  rubbish,  or  perhaps  knocked off  the  mounting tower  of  empty  cups  and  rolled  onto  the  floor. the  longer  he  looks,  the  deeper  concern weaves  itself  into  his  expression. and  what  he  said  is  true;  this  is  not  the  time  to  be  trying  to  convince  jon  of  much  other  than  putting  the  work  down  for  the  night  and  going  home. he’ll  talk  to  him  about  this  I  work  alone  phase  later.  

and  it  isn’t  the  obsessive investigating  that  really bothers  tim—  it’s  concerning,  but  clearly  there’s a  question  jon  is  itching to  answer,  and  he  can  empathize  with  that—  but  what  is  going  through his  mind  that  he  suddenly cannot  rely  on  anyone  but  himself?  he  doesn’t  like  not  having that  answer.  whatever happened  the  past  month  has  burrowed  deeper than  holes  bathing their  skin,  and  he’s  every  intention  of  yanking  jon  by  the  collar  and  snapping  him  out  of  it  before this  kills  him.  a  daunting thought  passes  over  him  like  a  shadow, intrusive  enough  that  he  instinctively shoves  it  aside, but  still  it  poisons  him  a  moment—it is  the  glisten of  moonlight  reflecting off  his  brother’s tears  and  broken expression  the  night  before  he  died,  a  mystery  to this  day,  but  he  has  long  since  concluded  that  whatever  took  his  brother had  its  claws  sunken  in  then.  they  changed  him,  drew  him  away.  that’s what  this  shit  does,  it  takes  away  like  vultures picking  bones  clean, like  the  starving belly  of  some  ravenous  thing. and  so  a  whisper  haunts him,  only  for  a  moment, is  it  taking jon  from  you  too?  was it  the  circus first,  and  now  the  worms and  something  still worse  to  come  that,  one  by  one,  will  pluck  the  good  from  his  life  until  it  is  nothing  but  an  open wound?  

but  no.  he shakes  it  away.  he’s  been  alone  too  long  and  so  has  jon.  whatever is  going  on  with  him,  it  isn’t supernatural  and  it  isn’t  going to  stop  tim  from  dragging him  out  of  here.

“  come  on.  let  me  drive  you  home.  you’re exhausted  and  it  looks  like  you’re  kind  of  going  a  little nuts  here,  this  place  isn’t  good  for  anyone  for  so  long,  especially  not  when  we  just  got  eaten  by  worms.  ”  he  circles around  jon’s  desk  and  extends a  hand  for  him  to  accept,  to  draw  him  out  of  the  chair. he  raises  his  brows  expectantly.    

‘      you’re not going to leave until i agree,      are you?      ’            it’s only a question in the most basic grammatical sense:      jon knows the answer,      says it with a sigh heavy enough to ensure tim knows that jon’s well aware of the answer.      they are both deeply stubborn people,      but jon's exhaustion puts him at a disadvantage.      he cannot string enough words together to argue as efficiently as it would take to convince tim.

           in the end,      it’s tim’s hand that convinces jon.      it’s the way their wounds echo one another when jon gingerly accepts the offer,      allows tim to tug him upwards,      ignoring the twinge of pain in his bad leg.      his budding paranoia is not yet severe enough to distract from the reminder of their shared tragedy.

jon will make no comment on the coffee,      the red bull,      the exhaustion that stings behind his eyes.      it’s all plain enough to see.      instead,      he releases tim’s hand and gathers up his papers      (      something almost a comfort in piling the stacks of statements and aligning all their edges:      like if he has full control over the symmetry of pages then at least something in his life makes sense      ),      putting them into his bag.      he can work from his flat just as easily.      it’s hardly ideal,      but if it gets tim to stop fretting over him      ...      it is,      jon decides,      entirely worth it.

‘      honestly,      ’            jon says as he goes about gathering his things,            ‘      i don’t see why you even care whether i go home.      it’s not as if this is a new habit.      ’            as if it hasn’t gotten exponentially      &      impossibly worse since the worms,      the tunnels,      the corruption eating away at him.      jon is hardly the most self-aware of people,      but even he can see that this is a world away from occasionally having to sleep the night on the cot in document storage because he’d gotten too wrapped up in research and missed the last train.      over the months he had been archivist before prentiss’ attack,      that has only happened a handful of times.      now,      he can’t quite recall when the last time he’s been home is.      

will there be a thin layer of dust over everything when he arrives there?      or,      worse,      will his nightmares have infested the space,      just waiting to leap out at him the moment he fumbles to unlock the door?

perhaps he has been afraid to go to his flat.      after all,      prentiss found martin at his home.      the archives are hardly safe,      but he knows the weaknesses here:      the recently patched hole in the wall behind the creaking metal bookshelf,      the tunnels.      he’s shifted his desk so his back is to the far wall and his eyes are on the doors.      there is almost always someone upstairs,      even if his screams would be unlikely to carry that far.      his flat is a space he does not know how to defend,      where he is alone to reckon with his nightmares by himself.

(      but he will go,      because tim will not leave him alone until he does.      he will work through the night and perhaps he will get a few hours of restless sleep in before coming back to the archives tomorrow.      )

so he turns to tim,      things gathered as well as they’re going to be.      jon’s expression is somewhere between exasperation and grim acceptance      —      yes,      tim,      you can bring him home just this once.            ‘      don’t think you can just      ...      ask nicely and i’ll stop working every time.      this is a unique circumstance.      ’            the circumstance being:      the yawn he very badly disguises behind his hand mid-sentence.