i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

The one we’ve been waiting for.

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

Chapter 5!

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

Chapter 3!

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

Chapter 2!

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

As a child, Gerry’s imaginary friend was Michael in the Mirror, who lived on the other side of doors and pulled him through mirrors into amazing imaginary worlds. As an adult, Gerry hears the urban legend of Mirror Mike, a monster who appears in the mirror when you call its name and stalks your reflection until it finally snatches you up.

Surely they cannot be one and the same.

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

Michael couldn't stop shaking.

It wasn't from the cold, not anymore. The snow had all melted away, giving way to a jungle verdant with the bright, almost-too unnatural green of the hottest summer day. The wind was warm, tugging on the hair that peeked out from the now-unnecessary beanie on his head. He was sweating beneath his parka, and every muscle felt like it was seizing and trembling out of his control. Every part of him was quaking, even his mind, recoiling in fear and dismay from the impossibilities that surrounded him. Somehow, it felt like he was screaming, even though he was completely silent.

"You have to do this, Michael." Gertrude's face was so serious, more than he'd ever seen before. Compared to him, she was perfectly still and calm despite the chaos around them. "You are the only one who can. Only you can stop this."

"I…" Michael turned back to the strange and horrific sight looming in the valley beneath them. There were so many gaping doorways, so many stairs and arches, like an Escher painting had mutated and spiraled out of control. It was terrifyingly vast and mind-bending to try to track, shifting before his eyes, but it was so…eerily beautiful. It drew his eyes and his mind, inescapable and endlessly fascinating. He could stare at it, terrified, for hours and hours, and never be able to look away.

And Gertrude was asking him to go inside.

"If you don't stop this, the entire world will be swallowed by what you see before you," Gertrude insisted, pressing a large folded paper into his hands. Lines and colors danced across it, shifting before Michael's eyes. "Do what you must. Only you can."

"Are you sure?" Michael whispered weakly. It was all too much, what Gertrude was asking him to do. He wanted to get away and hide from the horrors, but there was no escape. Gertrude's eyes stared into his, so sharp in her wrinkled face, so unlike how she normally looked at him. So deadly sincere. It really was only him who could do it.

Michael nodded. Gertrude nodded back, and let go of his hands, stepping back. Michael turned and faced the awful monstrosity before him, tears slipping down his cheeks as he began his descent towards the structure. Every step grew more difficult than the last, as his legs threatened to collapse under him. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt the inside of his ribs, a headache was blooming across his mind, but he continued forward, driven by his duty and the expectation placed on him. Doors and twisted stairs loomed before him, and Gertrude's ceaseless gaze was on his back. The screaming in his mind reached a peak as he approached a plain yellow door.

Until he stopped.

"Michael?" he heard Gertrude call to him. "What is it? Why have you stopped?"

"It's…" Michael swallowed his confusion. "It's a cat."

Michael crouched down, ignoring Gertrude's shouted questions, bending to examine the kitty. They were laying on their side in front of the door, fast asleep and seemingly uncaring about the chaos around them. He reached out and stroked along its back, and the cat made a soft "mrrph" noise, stretching and arching back into his hand. Compared to the colorful impossibility around them, their black and white fur was soft beneath his hand, calming the screaming in his mind. Michael scooped them up, and they pressed into his embrace, purring as they twisted to lick the tears off his face with their raspy tongue.

"Michael! You have to stop it!" Gertrude shouted distantly, but he barely heard her. How could he go through the door with the cat in his arms? How could he let such a sweet thing go? He couldn't.

A sharp crack had him stumbling backwards, staring up at the structure in alarm. There were cracks running through the door frames and stairways, the precarious angles suddenly seeming much more precarious. Michael stumbled back, then turned and ran back to Gertrude, the cat still safely held in his arms. He reached her, breathing heavily, and they all watched as the fantastically strange structure crumpled and collapsed into itself, it's terrible chaos turning into nothing but rubble.

"I would have been in there," Michael realized, dull shock beginning to seep through him. There was no relief now that the horror was gone, just the heavy certainty that he'd nearly died. And Gertrude had been the one to send him to his near-death.

"Hmm," Gertrude hummed to herself, staring at the ruin. "Fascinating." She didn't elaborate, or say anything at all to him. She just turned and began making her way back to the distant shore.

"God," Michael whispered to himself, hugging the kitty close. Whatever had just happened, he had the cat to thank, because otherwise he would have gone inside that door, and would be dead, or worse. And as glad as he was to be alive, there were so many questions now crowding his mind, and a cold sinking realization that Gertrude wasn't who he thought she was.

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

Happy @jonsimsandcats day!!

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

WHERE'S THE FUCKING ADMIRAL???????

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

You may call me Michael for tonight,“ the stranger allowed graciously, ducking further to kiss the back of Gerry’s hand. Gerry gaped at him, blushing furiously, almost too taken aback for words.

"Is‒ is that your real name?”

“It is a name,” Michael answered mysteriously. “It shall be mine tonight, just as I hope you will be.”

At a glamorous masquerade ball, Gerry encounters an unusual and fantastic man who can give him the life he dreams of. But first, he must help this perfect stranger with an unusual request.

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

it's been years and years but i'm really still standing behind Jon cheering him no matter what. Bitchy, in denial, full of paranoia, sad and lonely, all soft and in love, killing people, eating people trauma, being SUCH an arse whenever he's happy, deciding to kill the whole world -- godlike, humanlike, monsterish, adorable, it's all fine by me. I support his rights and his wrongs. He was right about everything even when he was not right at all about things. I am kissing his forehead. I am encouraging him to seek whatever he wants. but also therapy might help. if he wants. bless you, Jon. have a nap.

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

From the touches prompt list, "touching their elbow to get their attention" with any pair you want? That prompt gets me right in the emotions cause it's such a gentle way to touch someone without getting too far into their personal space, especially if the character is skittish and the character reaching out knows and wants to make them feel safe.

"A month, Elias! And you did what, nothing?"

"I was doing everything in my power to locate you." Jon snorted at Elias's response, drawing his arms closer across his chest. He hated the way Elias was looking at him, cold and calculating, in contrast to his faux-comforting words. To think he had ever had any faith in Elias, had ever once believed his superior had his best interests in mind. Even so, it still hurt. "Everyone was working on-"

"Everyone was distracted, you mean," Gerry interrupted with a snarl, positively trembling with rage next to Jon, a black column of barely-contained fury at his side. "You knew, and you didn't tell anyone. You tried to stop me from finding him-"

"Your skills were better used elsewhere," Elias interrupted cooly, eyes darting to Gerry then back to Jon. There was still a faded bruise around his eye, a lingering reminder of Gerry's wrath. "I must remind you both that stopping the Stranger's upcoming Ritual is first priority, and I had enough faith to believe Jon wasn't in immediate danger."

"Immediate-" Jon choked on the word, feeling the rest of his words strangling in his throat. It wasn't...he hadn't been hurt, that was true, but it...it felt just like almost knocking on a door. Something awful had happened, he wasn't injured in any way but...his skin was slick with lotion and his hands were sticky with webs and he couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't explain what he was feeling and couldn't focus on what was happening and he couldn't...he couldn't...

A touch on his elbow startled him badly. Gerry didn't move his hand at all, seeming not to notice how Jon had flinched away from his touch. He was still too focused on glaring at Elias, a look of absolute hatred and betrayal on his face. "Come on Jon," he said stiffly, offering his hand again. This time, Jon didn't flinch away, letting Gerry take hold of his elbow. "We're not getting anything else out of this prick, and if I have to listen to one more excuse I will kill him." That was not a light threat, and Elias seemed to know it too, sitting back in his seat and giving Gerry a look.

"There is still more to discuss-"

"Send an email," Gerry snapped, drawing Jon towards the door. "That's all you're good for. Come on." Despite his anger, his touch was gentle, barely any force against Jon's elbow as he guided him down the hall and away from Elias. Jon focused on that one solid point connecting them, his overstimulated mind latching onto Gerry's touch, the way his fingers and palms were warm and dry, not clutching or clinging, just barely there but just enough. Jon remembered how hard Gerry's hands had been shaking when he was untying him from the chair, and their brutal cold efficiency when he'd used a crowbar to decapitate the mannequins that had tried to block their escape. No matter his rage, or his vicious strength, he was so, so careful when he touched Jon.

After stopping Melanie's latest assassination attempt on Elias, they made it back to the Archives, where the reception was...unwelcome. Jon bit his lip, trying not to take it personally. If he was in Tim or Basira's position, he probably wouldn't care if he'd been kidnapped either. Gerry coldly ignored them, steering Jon back to Document Storage and settling him on the cot before fetching the well-used first aid kit.

"Can I have your hands?" Gerry asked, kneeling on the floor next to him. "I should get bandages on your wrists, at least."

"You don't have to," Jon forced out, fighting to keep his voice steady. He felt ready to fall apart completely, to break down so he could put himself back together again, but would rather not do that in front of Gerry. He'd already been exposed too much to him, given the state he'd been found in, the shivering, naked, half-mad wretch Gerry had found in that basement. No need to make himself worse in Gerry's eyes. At the edge of his vision, he saw Gerry's hands hovering over his own, but he didn't touch.

"Jon," Gerry whispered. The rage was gone from his voice, but it still trembled slightly. "I won't touch you if you don't want me to, but...I want to take care of you. Please."

He hadn't slept in three days, Jon realized distantly, studying the deep bags under Gerry's eyes. He'd come off the plane from the States, heard Jon was missing, and hadn't stopped until he'd found him. That information was...it wasn't from him, but Jon could barely bring himself to care about that right now. All he could focus on was Gerry kneeling at his feet, asking to take his hands, wanting to help him, despite his own raggedness, despite everything. Gerry had found him.

Gerry was still there.

Gerry...

"I can't-" Jon choked on his breath, holding on by his last scrap of sanity. "I can't be touched right now, I can't-" he couldn't explain it, but he ached to touch Gerry, to comfort him as he so badly needed. It wasn't fair, he thought hysterically, that what he wanted and didn't want was the same thing, and he shouldn't be acting like this, nothing had happened, he hadn't been hurt but he couldn't explain what was wrong-

A weight settled next to him on the cot. Gerry was watching him, his eyes piercing in his deep sunken face. He wasn't reaching for Jon, was in fact sitting on his hands to keep them to himself, but Jon wanted to fling himself at him, or away from him, or...something. He wasn't sure.

"Whatever you need, Jon," Gerry whispered, aching and heavy. "Whatever you want, whatever you need from me, I'll do it. Anything."

Jon sobbed out a laugh. How could he have what he wanted from Gerry when he could barely stand the thought of being touched? He wanted to comfort Gerry, but he had no idea how. He wanted to be comforted, but he didn't deserve it. Everything was caught in his chest like webs and his skin felt slick with lotion, his wrists stung in the cold air and his fingers shook as he reached towards Gerry.

Gerry didn't say anything when Jon pulled his hand from beneath his leg. His hands were warm, and dry, his long artist fingers moving easily under Jon's. Jon breathed and shifted Gerry's hand onto his arm, feeling the weight of it against his skin. It was nothing like cold heavy plastic, didn't force itself into his space and slather him with moisturizer. Gerry was trembling with exhaustion, just as overwrought as Jon felt, but he didn't push, didn't demand that Jon get ahold of himself and get over it. He was crying too, it seemed.

"Just this," Jon whispered. "Just this, for now." Gerry nodded and shifted, leaning back against the shelf behind him. Leaving space for Jon to join, if he wished. Jon closed his eyes and let himself focus on his breath, deep and slow. His hand, warm and dry. His presence, a strong protective comfort. Gerry had found him, when no one else seemed to care. Gerry was the one who had pulled him free of that particular hell and had guided him to where it was safe. Gerry was letting him take the time to process everything, no judgement or demands. Some part of the tight feeling in Jon's chest finally loosened.

He was safe with Gerry.

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

me last night: oh i've got plenty of time to get my queue organized and post everything i had saved from the last 20 eps of the first season of protocol and also all the other protocol art i saved in the meantime and...

me checking my calender this morning: ... what do you mean season two goes public tomorrow

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

happy valentines day :)

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

shhhh i didn't reuse my old michael drawing and make this on my lunch break what are you talking about ...

[i-am-not-a-who-i-am-a-what]

there was a big party at some people’s house and we wake up in the same bed together, what happened?

Surprise, its terminal velocity!

To me, this prompt fit them the best, so I'm giving this pairing a go. Also, this is set in my Home Again fae-au, because @somuchforstars asked for more of this pairing in this verse.

Mike woke with his head pounding, his limbs aching, and someone snoring softly in his ear.

It took him at least a minute to pry his eyes open, the lids feeling remarkably crusty and resistant to opening. When he could finally focus he took in the unfamiliar bedroom he was in, so neat and orderly and completely unlike his own. For a second Mike considered panicking and throwing himself out the nearest window, but a cluster of crystals on the nearby nightstand caught his attention, and pinned him right where he was.

He recognized those crystals. He'd been with their owner when he got them.

Mike could barely think past the growing pain at the base of his skull, but he slowly turned his head, his neck protesting the movement. Yep, that was Banks in bed with him, Banks who's chest he was laying on. Banks who was snoring in his ear. Banks who had an arm slung heavily over his lower back.

Fuck.

Fuck, this was...not where he should be. Banks wasn't the kind of guy to drunkenly hook up with. Mike had been trying for months to shift their friendship into something else, heckled and encouraged by Barker and Delano, but falling into bed together was a step in the wrong direction. Even if it did lead him to somewhere he really fucking wanted to be, the way he got there wasn't right. Fuck his entire life, he'd screwed up. Big time.

Mike gave himself a mental once-over, trying not to freak out or throw up. He wasn't wearing his binder- which was good, but also bad- and the shirt he was wearing wasn't the one he had started the night in. He couldn't detect any other obvious signs that they'd done anything together. That was good. Mike knew Banks wasn't that kind of guy, but at least they hadn't gone that far.

Now all he had to worry about was if he'd made an ass of himself in some other way. And if his best option was to fling himself out the window and not use his magic to catch himself. Simple as that.

God, Banks was amazing to look at. Mike gazed unblinkingly at his face, smooth and slack without the usual furrow in his brow. It didn't matter how many times Mike had seen him, his friend was so handsome that it never got old. Banks wasn't twitching or frowning like he was having one of his dreams- maybe it had already passed, or had skipped him that night. His hand was warm when it was pressed to the base of Mike's spine, up under the hem of whatever shirt he was wearing, and Mike desperately wanted it to stay there. Talk about dreams.

Maybe Banks wouldn't notice if he snuck out. Maybe Banks would just chalk it all up to a drunken fantasy and forget Mike was there at all. It was hard to shuffle out from under his arm, and every piece of him protested the movement, limbs trembling and stomach churning. Standing was too much of a struggle, much less redressing, so he just swiped his shirt and binder off the floor and slipped out the door.

Outside of Banks' bedroom, it was quiet in the way that could only be achieved after a party. The flat was a proper mess, bottles and trash strewn about, a few stragglers still asleep in various positions. Barker was splayed out on the couch, her feet in Delano's face, who was on the other side still fast asleep. Someone had covered them both with a colorful blanket, tucking it in nicely, and the only person who would do that stuck his head out of the kitchen, grinning brilliantly when he caught sight of Mike.

"Good morning!" Shelley chirped happily, his curls bouncing with his enthusiasm. Perky bastard. "I didn't think you'd be out for a while."

Crew squinted at him unhappily as he stumbled forward. "D'you not get hungover?" he croaked. Shelley gave him a look like he was ridiculous, pulling various herbs and powders down from Banks' kitchen cabinets and setting them out in a pattern on the counter.

"It would take much more than...this-" he paused to nudge a stray beer bottle dismissively "-to have any affect on me." Mike scoffed and crossed to the kitchen counter, sliding onto one of the stools and setting his head on the countertop. It felt nice and cool against the hot skin of his face, soothing some of the pain. Shelley was a lucky fuck to not have to feel a fraction of this misery.

He should leave, before anyone else woke up and gave him grief for whatever he had done. But Mike could barely move, and bailing on Shelley felt wrong. Besides, for all of his friend's oddities, he would be the most up-front about what had happened the night before, and just how screwed he was. "D'you know how I ended up in bed with Banks?"

"Well, you were very adamant that you were going to sleep with him." Mike heard Shelley moving around, and then the kettle clicked on. "You announced it repeatedly. And loudly." Something ceramic was set next to his head. "I assume you did so."

"Fuck." Fuck his past self's ambiguous wording. "Verbatim?"

"Of course." Sounds of shifting powders and water pouring reached his ears, then Shelley nudged his hand. "Drink this."

Mike raised his head with great effort. Whatever Shelley had brewed smelled strong. With a grumble and a groan, he swallowed it down, and grimaced when the fluid hit his stomach. The grimace turned into a gasp when his hangover retreated in an instant, his headache almost gone except for a whisper of pain. Mike shuddered, blinking and recoiling in shock. "Holy fuck, Shelley."

Shelley beamed proudly at him. "There'll be enough for everyone," he announced, beginning to prep more brew for their other friends. Mike rubbed his face and glanced back towards Banks' room, biting his lip uncertainly. If he woke up and sobered as quickly as he had, then he really should leave before they had a Conversation. Shelley paused his fussy movements to stare at him, his odd eyes as piercing as always.

"If it makes you feel better," he offered slowly, "Banks seemed very...enthusiastic about sleeping with you too. You were both laughing pretty hard about it."

"So it was a joke," Mike muttered to himself. That was...he could play it off as a joke. He could still keep his friendship with Banks if it was a joke. Something they could laugh about and then forget. That would work.

A thud and a bitten-off swear pulled their attention to Banks, who had just stumbled out of his room with a pained look on his face. He was shirtless, and Mike realized that had to mean the shirt he was wearing was his. He could feel his face turning bright red. How the hell had he missed that?"

"Drink," Shelley ordered at once, rushing over and shoving a mug of his potion into Banks' hand. Banks threw it back and instantly sobered up, stumbling back in surprise. "Feel better?"

"Much," Banks gasped, handing the mug back. "Good gods, you should sell that."

"That's what my boyfriend says," Shelley shrugged dismissively, breezing past Banks to where said boyfriend was stirring and groaning. Before Mike could find a window to throw himself from, Banks had joined him at the counter, draping himself against his back heavily. Mike froze at the contact, feeling Banks' hair press to his cheek, his incredible arms wrapping around his middle again. That was...not something Banks normally did.

"How did you sleep?" Banks asked directly into his ear, voice husky from sleep. Mike wanted to melt.

"Like a rock," he admitted, a small part of him wanting to shrink away. But a much larger part wanted to stay right there. "You?"

"No dreams last night." Banks sighed, leaning further into Mike's shoulder. "I can only attribute that to my attentive bed partner."

Oh fuck. "I don't remember anything," Mike blurted out, hands scrambling awkwardly before locking on to the edge of the counter. "I don't, and I'm really sorry if I, if I said or did anything stupid, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry-"

"You didn't do anything stupid," Banks told him, warmth in his voice. "You said you wanted to sleep with me, to protect me from my dreams, and then you did." He chuckled, ducking his head to rest against his shoulder. "You were asleep the second you hit the bed. It was adorable."

Mike shifted, caught between relief and embarrassment. That could have been a lot worse. "Glad I could help," he muttered sheepishly, staring at his hands. His scar branched blatantly across the back of his right hand, until it was covered by Banks' warm palm when he took hold of it, loosening his hold on the counter. Banks drew it up and kissed the back of his hand, his lips lingering pointedly.

"I hope you're willing to join me again, many more times," Banks whispered to him, his eyes very soft when Mike looked up at him in shock. "Last night was...revelatory to me. I really enjoyed your company, whether you kept the dreams away or not." He tilted his head, a smile tugging on his lips. "Maybe next time we can make it a bit more memorable."

"Yeah," Mike agreed weakly, heart pounding in disbelief. Banks smiled winningly and ducked in to kiss his forehead, giving his hand one last squeeze before pulling away. Mike watched him go, just as stunning from behind, and dared to breathe again.

"What the fuck," Delano croaked from where he'd been watching from the living room. Mike just shrugged at him, too shocked to come up with anything to say. He had no idea what'd just happened, but somehow, for once, he hadn't fucked it up.