#// hey I should post that weird dream fic at some point maybe I should put it in the oven
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how the hell am I supposed to talk about my convoluted childhood best friends au when I haven't talked about the actually-human au presented by adachi theater productions when I haven't talked about the. au.
#kommento#// hellooo gas station attendant my wonderful oc I love you LOL get fucked. mimi time.#// I have a whole writing guide to mimi that also doubles as an attendant/iznmi closest-to-source-canon writing guide anyway.#// like the ten commandments but it's one million commandments with an appellations table and everything#// canon (there's a god and shit) -> diverge (god's friends with people and develops a human perception on their existence and identity#// being able to name and label things accordingly to human concepts and explain their godhood into something more understandable#// to mortals) -> diverge again (god's is a human now and has been their entire life also they became friends with the guy who calls them#// an idiot but is less bitter and empty but also stupid as they're at the harrowing age of 16 and get fucked up when they reunite over#// a decade later)#// when I post a fic of me eviscerating mimi with my own bare hands and show off the power of friendship it's all over for you#// hey I should post that weird dream fic at some point maybe I should put it in the oven
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Hey brother, I am humbly requesting a SDV Sam (or Alex) fic about the harvest festival & the fortune teller. I just think itâs a cute idea to see what the fortune teller says to Sam before/after meeting the farmer
A/N: this is such a cute idea!! Since this is more of a one shot request I can do both on this post? Hopefully by the time you see this it isnât too far into the future!! Hopefully you enjoy how I wrote this!! Sorry it took a little while!
Genre:oneshot, fluff, some angst.
Tw:mention of death, mention of depression/insecurities, cursing, 2 mentions of the war that goes on in the game.
Wc: 0.5k for Alex / 0.5k for Sam
Sdv Masterlist
Alex
Alex was never one to go visit the fortune teller. He simply doesnât really believe in magic, or the ability to see the future. Sure, there was the weird wizard that lived near the forest, and the monsters that live in the caves, but those were just outliers and didnât have anything to do with the general population. The first and only time he went to it as an adult, was with Haley. He hated his fortune then, it tore down all his dreams and put him into an even more insecure place than he was in before.
No mom, no dad, and aging grandparents and now the woman in the tent is telling him that his current girlfriend isnât his soulmate or the one he will end up with, and theyâre saying his gridball career wonât take off and heâs going to end up in Pelican Town for the rest of his life? Actual dogshit.
Itâs his own fault that he asked in the first place, he thinks. Haley wasnât too mad with her fortune, and she didnât seemed all that torn up about the fortune teller saying they werenât meant for each other. It just pissed him off even more. Did this mean they were going to break up? Should they? Did he even have to listen or believe the fortune teller? It was probably just bullshit anyways, a scam to get idiots to spend more money to find out their future because she scared them. Heâs never doing the stupid fortune thing again!
âLetâs do the fortune teller!â Your eyes are shining so brightly with excitement that he canât say no. Obviously he hates the damned scam, and he didnât have to agree but he liked you too much to disagree with visiting the woman one last time.
You shove him inside first, already looking through your backpack for your coin bag. âYou go first.â
He swallows and steps up to the woman, glaring at her openly. She makes no move to react to his obvious discontent, instead waiting for him to dish out money so she could say something else to crush his hopes and dreams. At least youâre in here with him to hear what actual bullshit this isâŚyouâre kicked out of the tent while heâs getting his fortune read.
âHmmâŚI see you in the townâs squareâŚit looks like youâre receiving a mermaid pendant. Looks like someone wants to marry you!â
âMarriage? To who?â He hopes that itâs you. You werenât really in a relationship right now, but he does hope that itâs you giving him that pendant.
âHmmâŚyouâre watching a gridball match with the other guys in townâŚlooks fun! It seems like youâve brought everyone together.â
âThe crystal ball has moved onâŚI see you and the farmer. Youâre laughing together on the beach, looks like youâre holding a ball. The way youâre going it looks like you two are quite close! AhâŚthe crystal ball has gone dim. Thatâs all I can do for you, young one.â
Stepping out of the tent, Alex somehow feels better. Heâs going to get married at some point, and you and him are going to be on good terms for a while. Maybe the fortune teller isnât totally uncool.
Sam
The fortune teller was one of the creepiest attractions of the fair to Sam by far. Magic was something that he thought was cool, inspiring even, but that doesnât mean he wants anything to do with it. Him, Abigail, and Sebastian get their fortunes read every single year, paying attention to whatever has changed, what has and hasnât come true. Itâs fun and sometimes a little scary when things turn out how the fortune teller said it would.
Abigail liked it the most out of the three. The year before he meets you is the first time in a while that his fortune had changed. The woman had said specifically that âsomeone was coming to the valley that would bring the budding success of his music.â All he really heard then was that his music career was going to take off at some point, and thatâs all he really needed to keep working towards his goal.
You hold his arm tightly as you walk around the fair along with Abigail and Sebastian. Itâs your first fair since youâve come to Pelican Town, and Sam is all too willing to show you around. Besides, Pierre was probably going to win the stupid competition, again, and he wanted to be able to support you closely. Not because he has a crush or anything (he does), heâs just a good friend! âWe should show the Farmer the fortune teller! See if they get a good one or not!â
This starts your groups trip to the tent. You seem a bit anxious about getting your fortune read, so like the good friend Sam is, he offers to go first and tell everyone his fortune to show you it isnât so bad.
The woman smiles at him as he enters, and he immediately returns her positive energy. She always said good thing(except when she predicted his father was going to be deployed because of the war) so he liked her. He paid her quickly and watched as the crystal ball begins to glow.
âI see you performing on a small stage, the person who is going to support your music career is front and center. They are going to be the reason that you are performing so passionately. They buy some of your cdâs to help support you.â
He wonders for a second if thatâs you. He had been feeling a little more inspired since you came around, and you never hesitated to praise him and his music when you get a chance to listen to him play in his room. âHmmâŚI see you in a big house, something is playing on the television. The children seem excited about whatever is playing, so do you and the farmer. Theyâre smiling so brightly at you, donât let them lose that light.â
It absolutely has to be you. He wonders what youâre so happy about, and who the kids are. Are they your kids? Maybe his mind is going too far, especially since a relationship wasnât mentioned.
âThe crystal ball is shiftingâŚyour father returns from war. He is safe, and unharmedâŚbut he is not the same as he was. It seems that he is unhappyâŚohâŚâ
The crystal ball grows dim, maybe the last bit wasnât totally good, but the rest of it was. He gets to perform, and youâre there cheering him on. His heart thumps as he exits the tent and meets your eyes. The way youâre looking at him is so bright. He feels excitement full his body, he has so much to look forward to.
#stardew valley#sdv#stardew#sdv headcanons#stardew headcanon#stardew valley headcanons#sdv shitpost#stardew shitpost#stardew valley shitpost#sdv alex#stardew alex#stardew valley alex#sdv alex x reader#stardew Alex x reader#stardew valley Alex x reader#sdv sam x reader#sdv sam#stardew sam x reader#stardew sam#stardew valley sam x reader#stardew valley sam#sdv oneshots#sdv oneshot#stardew oneshots#stardew oneshot#stardew valley oneshots#stardew valley oneshot
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lucid love
⏠kinktober 2024 x voting event | round 7 | masterlist
cw: fantasy elements in modern setting, smut, sexual dreams, fictional stimulants, reader with a vagina, BDSM & dark themes present in some rounds, aged up characters available as options in some votings, further warnings vary by story summary: you just can't get enough of this new collection. two suitors at one night has only increased your appetite and curiosity for more... a/n: hell yes, we're back to regular posting! after this voting, i'll change the order a little, jumping over bdsm and fetish sections to prompts...more suiting halloween time đ
tag list: @thesacredfanfics
It's beenâŚan intense night, to put it lightly. Well, maybe in the end you didn't listen to everything Shoko said and you haven't read everything included in the leaflet⌠But hey, it's been quite a time in your life, your current condition could as well be just a result of workload, stress and that weird tension you started to feel just at a thought of visiting the potionary.
Right?
"Are you sure you're not overdoing it, sweetheart?" Shoko of course notices immediately. As if she wasn't the one way paler, with enormous dark circles under her eyes and hands shaking just slightly when she reaches over the counter to check your body temperature from your forehead.
When you point it out, she laughs and admits you have a point.
"Maybe I should be more careful about my health too." She winks. "Just for you, sweetheart. I assume we're not done with the group sex collection, are we?"
Pre-selected leaflets have more text than previouslyâand more listed models. Way more.Â
There are 45 prompt & character(s) combos divided into 15 votings, 3 options to choose from per each round. Option with the highest number of votes wins.Themes vary, from very vanilla, through kink and fetishes, towards dark content and monsterfucking. Everyone will (hopefully) find something for themself đ¤
If you don't want to miss fic posting time and next votings, you can ask to be added to a tag list! I'll try to keep more or less the same time of publication (so, 3pm CET) but I can't promise I will always fit there.
#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x afab reader#jjk x afab reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#jjk x you#jjk smut#bas writes#jjk#sinful#afab reader#lucid love
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Not me writing a prologue for a fic I'll maybe never write about Steve being on the Dream Team lmao. I saw a pro basketball player Steve post a while ago and couldn't stop thinking about it. Anyways-
At the end of March Madness in 1989, the scout for the Pacers has lunch with the head coach of a community college basketball team that somehow made it to the first round before being pulverized. They sit across from each other, the coach seemingly a bit overwhelmed but not outright surprised. That's good, it means Jerry, the scout, doesn't have to worry about him freaking out or babbling too much.
The team captain had caught his, and possibly others', eye. Good layups, a few three pointers, solid defence, and a helluva lot of potential add up to someone to keep an eye on, except they can't because the guy plays for a rinky-dink community college and only had one televised game. The only reason Jerry saw the kid is because the Roane County Community College Ospreys had put in a hell of a fight the past three seasons. Jerry wonders why the hell the kid hadn't been offered a scholarship somewhere...not Roane County. Doesn't matter though, because they're here now.
"so. You wanted to talk about Steve?" Says the coach, August Nearaly, a bit weary.
Jerry nods, sipping his coffee. "Yeah. Wanted to get a sense of him before I actually talked to him."
August sighs. "As a player or as a person?"
Raising his eyebrows. "Is he that different off the court?"
"no! No, not like how you probably think. Harrington's a sweet kid, but also incredibly...well, not weird, but. Peculiar? He's got quirks. Bit paranoid, but not in a conspiracy way. In a 'no one should walk home alone in the dark' or 'hey, where'd John go? He was right here and then I did a headcount and he's not?' kinda way. Y'know? Like, they're all adults, but he does headcounts and worries anyways."
"huh. Oookay?"
"it-- I'm not saying this to rag on him, to be clear. It just too a while to get used to. Honestly, it's been good for team building. Makes them think of each other not as individuals, but part of a unit that needs everyone healthy and whole to work."
"that's good. He's a team player."
"oh yeah. It's not surprising, really. He's from Hawkins." August says the name like Jerry should know what that means. It's a town, sure, but other than that... Jerry's at a loss. Maybe something a few years ago about a fire? "He has most assists in Osprey history. Some of the guys joke that he's allergic to the ball."
"He's good on the court?"
"Jerry. I know you're here because you saw the March Madness game. You know he's good. He'd be even better if he could afford those fancy prescription goggles Horace Grant wears."
"seriously? Why not contacts?"
"don't make them for his prescription. You didn't see his interview? Kid's got thick horn rimmed glasses. Too many concussions apparently. God knows how he tells players apart when the jersey colours are similar."
"shit. That's why he was squinting the whole time? I thought he was just stressed."
He shrugged. "eh. Probably a bit of both. He takes it seriously, but not too seriously. Y'know? Half the guys were shitting themselves from nerves and Harrington stands up in the locker room, hands on his hips, and gives a speech worthy of the most melodramatic underdog sports movie."
Jerry laughs. "No shit."
Waving his hands, August nods. "no shit! He says all this stuff like 'we worked hard...we deserve this...we may not win but let's do our damn best. The worst that could happen is we lose, and that isn't the end of the world. So let's go out there and play some basketball!' or something, his was better, and the boys cheer. Then they put in fifty points to one-thirty."
Jerry winces. "Must have hurt, huh?"
August grins. "No way. One of the best games they ever played. You saw it. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't. They played their goddamn hearts out." He leans forward. "My boys don't have the same facilities as the big universities, or the funding to offer scholarships. They're at Roane Community because they want a degree or certificate but have other responsibilities. Parents or siblings to stay close to, jobs to work, people to take care of. They joined my team because they like playing basketball, loved the game and wanted to spend some of their precious time playing it. They put the work in on the court and off it. And we made it to the NCAA tournament because of it. We put in fifty points against the goddamn Michigan Wolverines! The champs! And they knew that. I've never heard of a locker room after an 80 point defeat so happy."
"seriously?"
It's all pride when Coach Nearaly says "yep. They may not be the best basketball players in college, but my god, they're probably the best team."
"because of Harrington?"
"partly. They all contribute, make sure they do things right. It's not a one man show, that's the point. They rally around him, but they all are part of the team, and know it. That's what Steve makes sure. Why I made him captain."
"So, you think he'd be a good pick for the Pacers?" This is, after all, a business meeting.
August nods, picks at his pancakes. "I'll be honest with you Jerry. You're not the first scout to talk to me about Steve."
"really? Who?"
"you know I won't say. But, between me and you, Steve's Indiana born and bred. His wife's planning on getting some lib Arts degree in Chicago or Indy, and your offer might be the deciding factor for them."
Jerry blinks. "He's married? At, what? Twenty-one?"
August nods. "Just turned twenty-two. High school sweethearts or something. Obsessed with each other." He chuckled, a bit ruefully. "I'm a bit jaded but damn. You mention her name? He lights up like the fuckin Fourth of July."
Jerry whistles. "Honeymoon phase gets us all."
"for almost two years? Nah. It's just love." It sounds a little wistful, coming from August. "Anyways. I dunno if the other team is serious about him, and if they are, they'll probably be disappointed. Kid isn't moving out of the Midwest. He's got family here, and is getting a goddamn elementary education degree. He won't uproot his life for a chance at the NBA. But, if you offer. Well. He'd at least seriously consider it."
Humming, Jerry chews his eggs as he thinks. "You think he'd be up for the lifestyle? The road games out numbering home ones?"
There's an air of seriousness when August levels Jerry with a look. "If he doesn't want to, he'll tell you. You gotta give him time to talk to his family though. This offer? It'll come out of left field for him, even if I give him a heads up. You get that, yeah? You want to recruit a kindergarten teacher to the NBA without any build up. He needs time to process that and then see where the people in his life are at with it."
"I guess it is unusual."
"try being the community college basketball coach getting two goddamn calls from NBA scouts. Thought I was hallucinating."
Jerry laughs, counts some bills for the tip. "Thank you. For your time and insights. Let Steve know I'll call tomorrow?"
"will do. He'll still probably drob the phone on you, though."
"as long as he doesn't hang up!"
#Steve Harrington#platonic stobin#steddie#stranger things#qpr stobin#teacher steve harrington#stobin#dream team steve au#listen. famous basketball player steve is friends with lead guitarist Eddie Summons (alias to not be as connected to the who 86 thing)#steve and his friends have a very nice vacation in the summer of 92 to Barcelona.....#literally none of the characters are here its just two randos talking about steve lmao#finda writes stuff#finda's rambles#also hos number is 52 because that adds up to seven hehe#sorry to the guy who actually got drafted by the pacers in 89 but i dont care#also. my experience with team sports is that one time we won handily but felt bad because we didnt play very well and we could FEEL it#and the next game we got pummeled but played so much better and could feel the team come together it was magical
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So, someone requested a fic where Blue Team rescues a Child!Reader from a war zone, but unfortunately Tumblr ate the ask. If youâre the one who requested it, please enjoy!
EDIT: found a screenshot! @simp-for-fictional-men-only, hope you like this!
Blue Team x Child!Reader (Halo)
Itâs been a long âdayâ, even by Spartan standards.
Blue Team had been trying to repel Covenant forces on an Outer Colonies planet for over a week⌠but it hadnât been enough. Command had called an evacuation, and after destroying a base to help the efforts, Blue Team had been ordered to help with final evacuation calls in the nearest town.
On the Pelican ride to town, there was a brief moment where they thought it was a waste of resources to send Spartans for an evacuation op, especially because the other Spartan teams were still doing the best they could to strike back at the Covenant; not necessarily to stop them anymore, just to hold them back long enough for the civilians to escape and maybe a little revenge. The events of the week, coupled with the guilt of their brothers and sisters still risking their lives, weighed on them heavily.
But at the end of the day, theyâre glad they did: they found a group in the Rec center, a dozen people in the boroughs, twenty in an apartment complex â the Marines wouldnât have been able to lift most of the wreckage that blocked them from escaping.
By the time theyâd gotten to the outskirts of town, Blue Team had been left alone to sweep through the dead town. Chief considered just going to meet up with the Marines â surely, they could match the pace of the overloaded Troop Transports â and this area was just dilapidated factories and shady looking establishments that had long since been stampeded.
But a need to fulfil his task to completion stayed his hand⌠and thank god it did.
At first, it was just soft sniffles that sounded from the inside of the rundown factory. Chief and Kelly, whoâd partnered up to search this side of the district, thought it was one of the many Jackals that had been posted in the previous sector wandering, or a Grunt that had been left behind after the Jackals had entertained themselves (in which case, they should probably put the thing out of its misery), so they go inside.
Chief goes first, moving carefully through the debris so as to not dislodge the wreckage, or disturb the corpses of the few soldiers and more civilians. He retrieves their dog tags, securing them in one of the compartments of the MJOLNIR, and Kelly follows, stepping where he does.
Slowly, the sound becomes louder and louder, wheezing and snotty sobbing. Definitely an injured Grunt, he thinks. Itâs coming from under a slab of concrete propped up against a wall. Kelly flanks to the right, while Chief goes to the left. He signals that heâll lift it on the count of three, and grips the edge of the slab. When the slab gets tossed aside, Kelly raises her shotgun, pointing directly at the small figure.
You shriek and bury your head in your knees, pulled up to your chest. You couldnât believe that after all the gross, awful things youâd had to sit through, holed up in this corner, you were just going to die.
But when nothing happens for a solid five seconds, you chance a peek over your knees and gasp. S-117 and S-087 are emblazoned across the chests of the armored giants⌠Spartans.
Kelly and Chief exchange confused gazes, having no idea how to deal with children. The last ones theyâd had any interaction with was the Castoffs on Netherop, but they were more feral gremlins than they had been children.
(Kelly and Fred still arenât entirely sure that the whole incident wasnât a heat-induced hallucination.)
John really doesnât want to go through another episode like it, but on the other hand, it would be easier if you were pelting rocks at them.
Kelly, being the more personable of the two, kneels to your height (or as close as a Spartan could get) and softly calls. âYou donât have to be scared. Weâre here to help.â
You knew that â they were Spartans! The greatest heroes Humanity ever possessed! You were just shocked that you were getting rescued by them.
âY-youâre Spartans.â You whisper dumbly, but you couldnât help it! How are you supposed to be cool when you grew up with Master Chiefâs action figure on your nightstand. âLike Master Chief.â
You canât see it, but John can sense Kellyâs smirk as she looks over at him and points. âWell, thatâs the man himself.â
* Oh no. By the way your wet, moved eyes stare up at him, it seems youâre a fan.
OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!!! You hope your pterodactyl screeching wasnât external.
âWhoa.â This couldnât be real. Youâd passed out from exhaustion, and were dreaming all of this. That could be the only possibility!
John knows that this is the part where he says something witty or inspiring⌠but he really doesnât know what to say, so he just awkwardly clears his throat. âAre you hurt?â
You shake your head violently, a burning need to not disappoint your childhood hero, and clamber up to your feet⌠only to wince and lean against the wall, something sticky on your leg.
Now that youâre standing, he can see the dried blood around your ankle. âHold still!â All the softness is gone from Kellyâs tone as she works on bandaging you up, but you donât mind, appreciating how careful sheâs being.
Co-ordinating with Linda, who informs him that there are patrols scouting the areas â probably only to get any survivors, and not to catch them, but they should still move â and Fred, who tells him that the convoy is flying off-planet via Pelicans in half an hour, John makes some quick calculations.
With the pace youâd set, hobbling alongside Kelly, whimpering every time you put your weight on your left foot, it would take them at least an hour. Too long.
âWhoaâŚâ The sound comes unbidden from Fred when Kelly emerges, with you clutching at her hip, all bloody and dirty. A pang of sympathy strikes as he looks around and realizes all that you must have seen. He was well aware that normal children werenât nearly as resilient as he and his siblings had been.
ââŚ.â He stays silent as you arrive in front of him, staring up at him with slight apprehension, heart racing as he tries to think of something to say â and for some reason, he lands on an awkward, weirdly Southern-sounding. âHey champ!â
John and Kelly both shoot him weird looks, and he wants to dig a hole and die, when they hear it.
A small giggle falls from your lips, tiny hands covering your mouth as you try not to laugh. Fred sighs in relief, but his anxiety returns when Kellyâs joking voice comes over the comms saying âWell, I guess we know whoâs taking care of them.â
Linda drops out of nowhere, and nearly scares you to death as you shriek and bump into John, holding his leg tightly. You donât really notice how he freezes, confused again.
ââŚsorry.â She doesnât sound sorry, you think with a pout and drop from Chiefâs leg, careful of your own busted ankle.
âThatâs Linda, thatâs Fred and Iâm Kelly. You can just call him Chief. Whatâs your name?â
âY-Y/N.â
âAlright. We wonât be able to make it if youâre walking, so you need to get on one of our backs.â Chief tells you, straight to business. âWhich one of us do you feel comfortable with?â
Heâs really hoping you pick Kelly or Fred. It wouldnât exactly be a burden, youâre much tinier than the full grown people heâs had to carry out of a war zone, and youâre handling it much better as well, even though youâre barely ten years old.
âUmâŚâ You look shyly up at Fred. âIf you donât really mindâŚâ
*Aw. Thatâs⌠actually kind of sweet. Fred beckons you over, and hoists you up between his shoulders, giving you the rundown on what to do if people start shooting, and to hold on tight when he tells you to.
*Youâre much more considerate than the freaked out VIPs heâs had to extract. But he still feels you twitch every time the wind causes something to clatter, so he decides to strike up conversation.
âSo how did you wind up there?â Itâs not until afterwards that he realizes that, unlike soldiers, civilians arenât comfortable discussing stuff like that. But you answer that it was your dadâs factory, explaining that it was Bring Your Kid To Work Day.
The Spartans, specifically Kelly, asked you questions about it, having never heard of it themselves. After all, military settings rarely allowed such breaches of protocol.
You only trailed off as you got to the part where he told you to hide, and Fred lets it be.
When you finally get to the convoy, a nurse hurriedly tries to pull you away from the Spartans to help out, apologizing for not doing it sooner when Fred tells her itâs fine and that you can stay. After all, Kelly had fixed you up well, and you seemed terrified at the prospect of being left alone.
All that was left to do was fly up to the ship in outer orbit, with the rest of the survivors. Since there were such few Pelicans, everyone had been crammed into them, military and civilians alike. Youâd simply wandered onto the one theyâd been on, sandwiched between Chief and Fred.
Chief watches you picking at your shorts, and suddenly remembers the chocolate bar Sgt. Johnson keeps giving him - âyouâre not yourself when youâre hungry, Chiefâ Heâd snicker and then leave, Chief just standing there, not understanding the reference - but hey, chocolate was chocolate.
âHere. You did well.â Your eyes go wide, and for a second he thinks youâre going to refuse, but then you snatch it out of his hand and snarf it down. This is how it must feel to watch him eat.
âYouâre going to like it up there.â Fred chimes in when your gaze starts getting distant again. âSpace is really cool.â
In a twist of fate, you find one of your best friends when you arrive on the ship. Their parents promise to take care of you, and thank the Spartans.
When they start directing the survivors to their quarters, you hug every Spartan, even Linda⌠or their legs, since you couldnât reach anything else. (Thankfully, you telegraph it pretty well, so they donât accidentally smack you or something.)
John just stiffens and then nods, Fred pats you on the head awkwardly and shuffles away (he was very shocked by the affection), Kelly laughs and claps you on the shoulder, and Linda just hums and pets you on the head like a dog, walking away afterwards.
You go on to be a Marine yourself, finding yourself on the Halo campaign, where Chief and Cortana save you once more. Youâre surprised he still remembers you.
You leave a bar of the same brand he gave you at his shrine, giving a heartfelt eulogy and catching up momentarily with the other members of Blue Team before you all leave again.
You almost faint when he shows up at Requiem, though. Donât feel bad, as Lasky fanboys behind Chief for the whole campaign.
Palmer corrals you and Lasky into a break room to make fun of your behavior after itâs all over.
#halo#fred 104#john 117#kelly 087#linda 058#halo x reader#fred 104 x reader#john 117 x reader#kelly 087 x reader#linda 058 x reader#hope I got all their characters right!#Iâll add a read more later
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I am you (and you are me)
For Invisobang 2021. Art by @bibliophilea
On AO3 and Fanfiction.net
Summary: Set post Kindred Spirits. Something has been different since Danny came back from Vlad's and it started when the older half ghost had the tiny clone overshadow him. The half ghost remembers: His own screams. A pain in his inmost being, in his core. A tug back and forth. Being squeezed. A crash, a collision. And then... the blackness of death.
Danny comes back from the experience changed, with the memories of two lives stuffed in his head and new powers. The fire powers are pretty cool but shrinking, often involuntarily, makes him feel weak and vulnerable. All of it, the powers and memories, terrify him as he learns what they mean. And the thought of telling his loved ones...How can the half ghost hope that Jazz, Sam, and Tucker will understand and accept him now when he himself cannot?
Warnings and Tags: Self harm, Identity confusion, Self-Hatred, Ectoplasm and melting clones related gore, Clone Angst, Nightmares, Memory Issues, Involuntary Shrinking. Panic Attacks, Frostbite is Dannyâs Icedad. Evil Vlad Masters, Bad Parent Vlad Masters, Split Danny, Ghost Catcher, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual acceptance (by Danny and by his loved ones). Sibling Bonding, Friendship, Danny finally gets a hug.
Note: Welcome to my Invisobang fic! This is a semi-sequel to my story "Nothing and Everything." It's set directly after that story, though assuming an alternative ending. It is not necessary to read the older story to understand this one. All you need to know is, it deals with the aftermath of Danny being overshadowed by one of the clone's in Kindred Spirits and the emotional impact of the experience.
All that being said, big thanks to my amazing artist @bibliophilea for the amazing comic, and for beta reading! Thanks to @welcome-tothe-mystery-shack  for your comments and feedback on this story. And finally, a huge thanks to my dearest sister @nervousdragonrebelpie for looking over chapters and listening to me ramble about this story for the past few months. I wouldnât have been able to finish this without you.
Preview Below:
Chapter 1:
âNo! Iâm a person. People have names! I have to have a name. Iâm notâŚ.â A sob tried to break free from his throat.
A knock suddenly rattled the door. âDanny!â Mom called.
Both boyâs heads popped up, focusing on the door. They turned to face each other. âDonât do this.â The real Danny begged.
âWhat?â The being asked.
âEvery time you get close to the truth, you dream up a distraction.â His eyes widened in desperate panic. âPlease donât-â
Dannyâs eyes popped open, a dream swirling in his mind. His heart raced, the sheets sticking to his sweaty body. His brow wrinkled, one shaking hand moving up to rub his aching head. AchingâŚ. He still had that damn headache.
The boy closed his eyes, trying to push the pain away, to coax his heart rate down. He breathed. In and out. In and out. Slowly, so slowly, the throb in his head dimmed, his heart calming. But still, anxiety ate up his insides.Â
Blearily, the boy opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling. Dissatisfied, he groaned and rolled onto his side. He clenched and unclenched his fists, balling up the fabric on his bed. His bed. Yes, this was his bedâŚ. Sleeping in a bed was so nice and comfortable but at the same time... something about it feltâŚ. off.
The boy pinched his eyes closed, trying to make sense of the feeling. His stomach flopped. Something was off. Something was different. After today, after heâd come back from Vladâs, after the man kidnapped him, after the man clo-
Danny cut off the cursed word, his mind refusing. He buried his face in his pillow. Vladâs. Something had happened, something had.. had changed at Vladâs but he couldnât... quite... remember.
It flashed in images. Being locked in a pod. Electrocution. His own screams. Pain. A pain in his inmost being, in his coreâŚ. On the bed, Dannyâs core throbbed at the thought⌠A tug back and forth. Then being squeezed. A crash, a collision. And then... blackness.
Heâd passed out. Danny knew that much. And heâd woken up at some point later but everything between that and when he had arrived home was a blur.
Confusion. His head swimming. Danielle.. sister⌠frowning in worry. The hiss of the pod being released. A sigh of relief. An ectoblast. Twisted metal and glass. Ectoplasm. Ectoplasm on his hands, on the floor. Oh god, oh god. He hadnât meant to do that. He wasnât... the others werenât supposed toâŚ. weren't supposed to...
Vlad... Master... Vlad... glaring in pure hatred. âGet behind me.â His ears ringing with a scream. The older halfa being knocked into his shelves. His knees wobbling. He fell and turned human. (Human... why did the fact that he could do that make him so happy?) But then horror. Vlad was still up and moving.
Then Sam and Tucker crashed through, hitting the older man. Locking Vlad (Master) in a pod. He needs... he needs to find Danielle. He needs to find his baby sister. But sheâs gone. Sheâs gone.
His friendsâ worried faces. âDanny, youâre not making any sense.â âHey! Hey! Stay with us!â He wobbledâŚ. where was Danielle?..... falling forwardâŚ.. Sam and Tucker caught him.
At some point later, heâd woken up on his bed with worried friends and sister who he couldnât adequately comfort. His head had been pounding and he couldnât remember what happened to him⌠and what he did remember made little sense. Sam had checked his eyes; he didnât have a concussion or any other injuries. With his head throbbing, heâd dismissed the confusion as being from the stress of the kidnapping and electrocution. His friends believed him, though anxiety was plain on their faces. But after a few minutes, his friends had said their goodbyes, leaving him to get some much needed sleep.
But now, the night after, Danny laid on his bed. His headache was gone, his mind clearer. He should feel better yet... his heart was sinking like a stone in his chest. That dream. That dream. That was familiar. So familiar. Like it had really happened. Like... it meant something. And yetâŚ. Danny yawned, sudden tiredness overtaking him. He closed his eyes.
Maybe this was the ramblings of a sleep deprived brain. Yeah, maybe he was just tired. Maybe heâd wake up in the morning and everything would be okay. The boy pulled his covers more tightly around himself and fell asleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Â
The next morning, after quickly getting ready for school and rushing off, found Danny at his locker. The boy frowned, wracking his brain. What was his locker combination again? He spun the lock, landing on 25. That was the first number, right? ThenâŚ.56. And finallyâŚ.12? The lock clicked and he pulled the door open.
Danny sighed. Why was that so hard to remember? Heâd had to open his locker just yesterday. He should remember⌠but why did that feel like a lifetime ago?
âHey! Danny!â Tuckerâs voice cut through his thoughts.
Danny gasped in surprise. In his chest, his core swelled and his body reflexively flickered invisible. A second later, he reappeared, rubbing his chest.
The next thing he knew, Sam was at his side. âWhat was that?â
âYeah.â His technogeek friend took a step forward, voice quieting. âYour powers havenât slipped up like that in months.â
Danny frowned, shaking his head. âI guess... I guess Iâm still kinda shook up afterâŚ.â He wrapped his arms around himself.
Samâs face softened, seeming to understand. âDo you feel any better?â She asked kindly.
The halfaâs brow wrinkled. âWell, my headacheâs gone.â
âYou do look better.â The goth commented, her brow furrowing with worry. âYou looked rough last night.â
âYeah, you were really out of it too.â Tucker frowned. âYou kept asking where someone called Danielle was? And for your sister?â Clear confusion rang out in his voice and just a hint of teasingâŚ. âWe kept telling you Jazz was at home, covering for us.â as if the idea that he was worried about his older sister, when she wasnât even involved, was funny.
But something in the recollection made Danny shiver. He remembered worrying about Danielle. ButâŚ. sister... he hadnât been talking about Jazz. Heâd been asking about another girl, with blue eyes and-
âThen you passed out.â Sam continued. âAnd we took you home.â
For a too long moment, his friends looked at him questioningly. Finally, Danny bit his lip. âI think I remember that.â
The confirmation seemed to encourage his friends. âThatâs good.â Said Tucker.
Danny wasnât sure it was. But he had no more time to think on it before the bell rang and they were walking to their first class.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
During lunch period, Danny sat down at their familiar table, the same one as yesterday and every day since the start of freshman year. He placed down his tray and looked over the tables, waiting for Sam and Tucker to join him.
The boyâs brow furrowed. The cafeteria looked the same as every day. The same as yesterday whenâŚ. Danielle phasing through the table, a tiny green speck racing passed himâŚ. At the lunch table, Dannyâs core pulsed anxiously. Yes, that had happened but at the same timeâŚ. Looking back at the two chasing him. Laughing without sound at their fun game.
Danny shivered, feeling cold. He rubbed his chest, nervously.
âDanny?â Someone was waving a hand in front of his face. âDanny? You with us man?â
The halfa blinked and turned, meeting Tuckerâs eyes. âYeah. Whatâs up?â
âWhatâs with the spaciness?â Sam said bluntly. She stabbed at her salad. âYou were like that all during English too.â
âWas I?â The boy questioned. He shook his head. âSorry. Just... thinking about stuff.â
His friends gave him worried looks but didnât question him. Frankly, it was to Dannyâs relief. He couldnât seem to put his thoughts in order. He couldnât explain this... weird feeling.Â
The friends chatted for most of the lunch period, Sam and Tucker dominating the conversation with a debate about the newest Doomed update.
All the while Danny idly rubbed at his chest with one hand. He picked at his cheese fries. Normally they were pretty good, but he wasnât feeling it today. He shivered again, flinching as his fork fell through his intangible hand.
âAgain?â Tucker questioned with a raised brow.
Danny didnât respond, instead picking up his fork only for his core to flare and the utensil to fall through his fingers again. With an annoyed grumble, the boy rubbed his chest again.
âDo you think somethingâs up with your powers?â Sam quietly asked.
The halfa looked up, frowning. âNo... I meanâŚâ
The goth pointed. âDanny, you keep rubbing your chest.â
Danny looked down, brow furrowing. Below his palm, his core pulsed. There was something⌠strange about the rhythm andâŚ. he adjusted the position, pressing just the smallest bit harder. Normally, it fit comfortably under his palm but now... âItâs... bigger?â He muttered.
âWhat?â Tucker asked.
Danny lowered his hand. âMy core?â He shook his head. âNo... Iâm imagining it.â His core pulsed unhappily, even as he rubbed his forehead. âIâm just tired, I guess.â
Sam and Tucker again looked like they wanted to argue, but the bell rang and they split up, each hurrying to their next class.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rest of the school day was surprisingly normal. Just his typical classes, without even a ghost fight to interrupt his day. Danny should have felt relieved for such a chill day after what happened last night but yetâŚ. The boy tapped his pencil on his desk. He felt anxious. He must still be shook up, like he told his friends this morning.Â
Danny bit his lip, shaking the writing instrument in his hand again. It went flying out of his grip and clattered onto the floor. The boy huffed as he bent down to grab it. His hand hadnât even turned intangible this time.
With that, the boy straightened in his seat. He glanced at the clock. 20 more minutes left in class. Just 20 minutes. Then he could go home and take a nap. He rubbed his eyes. He was still tired after getting back so late. Maybe some sleep would help him feel better.
Soon enough, the bell rang. Danny stood and walked to his locker. This time, he remembered the combination without wracking his brain. He pulled out his books and turned to his friends, who were collecting their own belongings.
âIâll see you guys tomorrow.â Danny said.
âYeah, see you later.â Tucker replied.
âCall us if something comes up with the ghosts.â Sam frowned. âIâm grounded butâŚ. Iâll sneak out if you need me.â
The technogeek groaned. âDonât remind me. Iâm grounded too.â
The halfa looked down guiltily. âSorry.â He bit his lip. âYou guys shouldnât be grounded because you had to save my sorry butt.â
âItâs fine.â Sam comforted. âWe werenât not going to save you. Weâre your friends.â
âYeah.â Tucker agreed. âItâs just the price to pay for being superheroes.â
Danny half-smiled, though he didnât much feel like it. He wasnât much of a hero. Guilt still choked his heart. He hated getting his friends in trouble. But stillâŚ. âThanks for having my back.â
âNo problem.â Tucker confirmed.
Then down the hall, someone called his name. âDanny?â
The boy turned. It was his sister, Jazz. He frowned. Oh right, he hadnât talked to her since heâd been half out of it last night.
The girl quickly approached. âThere you are. Come on. Iâm driving you home.â
Jazz didnât give him a choice as she started leading him towards the entrance. Danny waved at his friends, watching their worried faces until he turned the corner.Â
Less than two minutes later, the pair were seated in Jazzâs car. The girl didnât start the vehicle, instead turning to face her brother. âAre you going to tell me what happened yesterday?â
âI... UhâŚâ Danny stuttered, trying to collect his thoughts.
âYou disappeared during the middle of school. Sam and Tucker said some weird ghost girl showed up. You went off to fight some ghost and the next thing they knew, Vlad was carrying you away.â
The boy crossed his arms. âIt sounds like you already know what happened.â He muttered.
Jazz pinned a serious look. âI know Vlad kidnapped you butâŚ. what did he do to you?â
Danny paled. âI donât know what you mean.â
âSomething happened. You were unconscious when Sam and Tucker got back. And you were super out of it when you woke up. But you werenât physically hurt. What did Vlad do to you?â His sister pushed.
Danny swallowed, his stomach flopping. âI... I donâtâŚ. Itâs fuzzyâŚ.âÂ
Jazz rose a brow, her tone suggesting she knew there was more to it. âDanny.â
The boy flinched. âI... he... Vlad electrocuted me?â He remembered. Being locked in a pod, electricity running through him. The creepy hologram of his mom. But... but... there was more.
His sister paled. âOh... Iâm so sorry.â Her voice softened and she didnât say anything for a while, then⌠âDo you know why he did that?â
Danny stiffened, looking up. The reason sparked in his mind, with the image. Vlad hissing in front of him, boasting his plan. The man had explained butâŚ. the words stayed just out of reach. Danny's face set in a pointed frown. He shook his head.
Jazzâs own frown deepened. âThat little girlâŚ. Sam and Tucker said she looked just like you in ghost form. What does she have to do with all this?â
The boy avoided her eyes, heart fluttering nervously. The little girl.... her face snapped into focus in his mind. Danielle, that was her name. But... there was another word. Started with an S orâŚ. a C. She was like him; she was a clo-
Danny shook his head. No, that wasnât right. WellâŚ. part of it was right. Danielle had been there. Sheâd been helping Vlad. She helped the man hurt him; painful betrayal stabbed at him from the thought. But at the same timeâŚ
âShe helped me. She helped me fight Vlad.â The half ghost said quietly, awed realization sparking as he remembered.
âBut⌠who was she?â Jazz asked, equally quietly.
Just like that, the boy paled again. The word, the cursed word, formed in his mind without his permission. Clone. She was a clone ofâŚ. him?... No... that didnât sound right... he was the same as her but... it had to be true. His frown deepened.
âWho was she?â His older sister asked again.
The boy shivered. âI... I donât want to talk about it.â
âDanny.â Her voice softened. âYou can tell me. Itâs-â
âI... I canât... I donât wanna talk about it.â He focused on his hands in his lap, trying to keep them from shaking.
âClearly, whatever happened is bothering you. You can tell me.â
âNo. I-â Danny bit his lip, reaching for the door. He couldnât stay in here with her, couldnât deal with the questions he had no answers for or rather... questions he couldnât bear to answer. The⌠the c word... he couldnât say it, could barely think it. How could he explain how everything felt wrong, like he wasnât actually-
âWait.â Jazz cut off his thoughts. âYou donât have to talk until youâre ready. Just... let me drive you home.â
The boy lowered his hand and slumped back in his seat. âYou... you promise? You wonât press?â
His sisterâs brow furrowed. Her face was tight, like she didnât want to agree; but after a long moment, she sighed. âAlright. I promise.â
Danny nodded. âLetâs go then.â
Jazz turned the car on, put it into drive, and pulled out of the parking lot. They drove home in silence. Once they arrived, the boy went straight up to his room. He rubbed his head, flopping down onto his bed. He needed... he needed a nap. YeahâŚ. That was it. He was still tired.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sister smiled down at him. âLook at this!â The black haired girl held up her crayon drawing. âThis is me.â She pointed. âAnd Muscles. And Bones. And Daniel.â Her smile widened as she tapped at the last figure. âAnd this is you.â
The being tilted his head. He floated up, placing small hands on the green figure on the paper. He blinked owlishly up at the girl.
The corner of the girl's mouth turned down. She placed down the paper and offered him a crayon. âCome on. You try.â
The tiny being hovered forward, reaching out to touch the crayon. It was so big, almost half as tall as he was. He frowned, trying to understand.
âMake yourself a little bigger and youâll be able to hold it.â She encouraged. âCome on. You can do it.â
The being scrunched his brow and he stretched. He was about the size of a toddler, maybe two and a half feet tall. He reached out, grabbing the crayon with his slightly larger hands.
âGreat.â Sister said. She pushed a fresh piece of paper in front of him. âNow you draw. Like this.â She demonstrated, rubbing the crayon against the paper so color transferred onto it.
The being flopped down, sitting on the floor. Slowly, so slowly, he copied the girl. He traced his drawing instrument over the paper. He scribbled, creating a mess of lines and shapes without meaning or purpose.
Sister smiled proudly anyway. âYouâre doing it. Good job, Tiny.â
He beamed, something in him sparking at the praise. He continued scribbling but the image changed into something more purposeful. A house took shape, stick figures. A large man and slimmer woman. A little girl and a little boy.
The little boy giggled at his drawing. His hands were chubbier than before. A toddlerâs, instead of the miniaturized version of a teenâs.Â
âJazzy!â He looked up, showing off his drawing to the little redhead girl.
His older sister looked up. âThat looks great, Danny!â She put her own crayons down, rubbing her sweaty forehead. âItâs so hot.â
The boy suddenly dropped his crayons and drawing. âOutside! Letâs go outside!â
âBut itâs hot.â The girl repeated.
The boy was already running off. âMommy! Mommy! Can we play in the sprinklers?! Please! Please!â
Mommy turned around from where she was making lunch. âAfter we eat, okay?â
âOkay!â The four year old beamed, already running up the stairs to get his swim trunks.
The next thing he knew, he was outside. Mommy set up the sprinkler. He and Jazzy ran around it, giggling. Daddy came outside with water balloons and Danny let out a happy scream. âWater balloons!â
The little boy grabbed one and threw it at his sister.
Danny blinked awake to bright light on his face. His nose wrinkled. It was still light out? Oh wait, he had been taking a nap. He sat up, yawning and rubbing his forehead. Heâd been dreaming again, this time aboutâŚ. He shivered, remembering. Heâd been playing in the back yard with Jazz when he was four. And... heâd been with Danielle. Sheâd been showing him how to draw.Â
The boyâs stomach flopped. That didnât make sense. That hadnât happened. Maybe... maybe he was thinking about her because Jazz had asked, earlier, when theyâd been in the car but... that had felt like a memory.
Dread balled in his gut. Heâd been small, smaller than her hand. And then heâd stretched and he was bigger, about the size of a toddler. Danny looked down at his hands, his human, properly sized hands. That, changing his size, wasnât something he could do butâŚ. In the dream, Danielle had called him Tiny. It didnât make sense and yetâŚ.
He remembered. One of the other clones. The small green one. Danny shivered. That one, that one could shrink. That clone had overshadowed him.
The knowledge hit Danny like a ton of bricks. The tiny clone had overshadowed him. How... how didnât he remember that until just now? How hadnât he realized? Danny grimaced, a sickening feeling squeezing his insides. Heâd been possessed. Someone else had been in his body, controlling his actions, messing with his mind. The boy wrapped his arms around himself. He felt violated at the thought. That was so wrong. Vlad had ordered one of his clones to overshadow him. AndâŚ. more memories of the experience pressed into his mind.
Danny had been semi-aware of the other presence. There had been a fight for control, another core so close to his andâŚ. Memories, thoughts that werenât his. Flashes of the tiny cloneâs memories. And the feeling of tiny hands rifling through his own mind.
Danny pulled his knees to his chest. That must be why heâs felt so off. It was the aftereffects of being possessed. And that dream, the flashes of memoryâŚ. he must be remembering what heâd seen and felt from the tiny clone while it had been possessing him.
The boy sighed. But... the feeling would go away eventually, right? It would. Heâd felt off after Sidney had overshadowed him as well. It had taken a bit to get used to being in his own body again. And Sidney was more experienced with overshadowing than his clone had been. The ghostly nerd knew how to push Dannyâs spirit out of his body, instead of forcing both ghosts to cohabitate. That was why there were strange memories now, unlike last time.
But it didnât matter. Heâd get back to normal soon enough and his friends and sister would have nothing to worry about. Everything would be okay, right?
Danny stood up, rolling his shoulders to stretch. He had homework to do. He sat down at his desk, trying to ignore the way his stomach still flopped.
#Danny Phantom#invisobang#Invisobang 2021#Big Bang 2021#my fic#clone angst#Danny clone#tw selfhate#tw selfharm
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In Search of Lost Screws (RQBB '21)
Here at last is my entry for the 2021 Rusty Quill Big Bang!
Fandom: The Magnus Archives Rating: T Word count: ~30k Warnings: Chronic Illness, Mild Body Horror, Internalized Ableism, Canon-Typical Spiders, Mention of Canon-Typical Suicidal Ideation, Alcohol Other tags: Cane-user Jon, EDS Jon, Canon-compliant, Season 5, Set in 180-181 (Upton Safehouse period) Characters: Jon Sims, Martin Blackwood, Mikaele Salesa (secondary), Annabelle Cane (secondary) Relationships: Jon/Martin Summary: While staying at Upton House, Jon and Martin accidentally break their bedroomâs doorknob, and canât get back into the room until they fix it. Meanwhile Jon tries not to break into literal pieces without the Eye, and also to pretend heâs having a good time as he and Martin lunch with Annabelle, parry gifts from Salesa, and quarrel about whether Jonâs okay or not. He's fine! It's just that the apocalypse runs on dream logic, and chronic pain feels worse when you're awake. Excerpt:
âHave I mentioned how weird it is youâre the one who keeps asking me this stuff?â âIâm sorry. Iâm trying to help? I justâŚâ Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouseâs dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. âI canât seem to corral my thoughts here.â âDonât worry about it. Itâs actually kind of fun, itâs justâIâm so used to being the sidekick,â Martin laughed. âBesides, I miss my eldritch Google.â âShould I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?â Another laugh, this one less awkward. âNo. That wonât work, remember? This place is a âblind spot,â you said.â The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice. âRight, right. I forgot,â Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger heâd felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds heâd allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadnât somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutesâ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think Iâll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldnât matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martinâs face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him. âHonestly, itâd almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.â âHey.â Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. âI think Iâll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.â Was it just because of Hopworth that Martinâs elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way heâd learnt not to fear out there?
Huge thanks to @pilesofnonsense for hosting this event; to @connanro for beta-reading; and to @silmapeli for their amazing illustration, whose own post you can find here.
If you prefer, you can read this fic instead on Ao3. I won't link it directly, since Tumblr has trouble with external links, but if you google the title and add "echinoderms" (my Ao3 handle), it should come up!
Crunch. âOh god. Shit! Oh god, oh noââ
âWhatâs wrong? What happened?â
A clatter, then a noise like a small rock scraping a large one. Jonâs heart plunged; halfway through his question he knew the answer.
âIâI broke it? Look, see, the whole thing justâtake this.â Martin tore his hand out of Jonâs and dropped the severed doorknob in it instead. Then he dropped to the floor, diving head- and hands-first for the crack between it and the door as if that crack were a portal between dimensions. Jon closed his eyes and shook this image away, hoping when he opened them again he could focus on what was real.
He should have known this would happen from the moment they left for breakfast. Every time heâd opened that door its knob felt a little looser. Why hadnât he warned Martin? Well, alright, he didnât need powers to know that one. He just hadnât thought of it. Been a bit preoccupied, after all. And even if he had thought of it, that was exactly the kind of conversation heâd been shying away from all week. Watch out for that doorknob; itâs a little loose, he would say, and yeah, probably Martin would answer, Oh, thanks. But there was a chance Martin would say instead, Why didnât you tell me?âand all week Jon had obeyed an instinct to avoid prompting that question. All week he had made sure to enter and exit their room a few steps ahead of Martin, and hold the door open for him. Martin probably just saw it as Jonâs way of apologizing for their first few months in the Archives together, and once that thought occurred to him Jon had started to look at it that way himself. Maybe thatâs why heâd forgot this time.
âNooo-oooo, come on come on!â
âI donât think youâll fit,â Jon said, when he looked again and found Martin trying to wedge his fingers under the door.
(Martin used to leave Jonâs office door open behind himâperhaps absentmindedly, but more likely as a gesture of friendship and openness, which the Jon of that time would not suffer. Sasha and Tim, n.b., only left his door open on their way into his office, when they didnât intend to stay long; Martin would leave it gaping even if he didnât mean to come back. Every time Jon had sighed, pulled himself to his feet, and closed the door behind Martin, drawing out the click of its tongue in the latch. And a few times heâd closed the door in front of him, so as to exclude him from a conversation between Jon and Tim or Sasha that he, Martin, had tried to weigh in on from outside Jonâs office.)
âWhat are you looking for?â
âTheâthe screw, I saw it roll under there. It fell down on our side. Oh, my god, it was so closeâif Iâd reacted just half a second earlier, I couldâve?âshit.â
âOh.â Jon huffed out a cynical laugh.
âI canât believe it. I broke Salesaâs door! He welcomes us in to an oasis, and I break the door. Oh, godâIâve broken an irreplaceable door, in a stately historic mansion!â
A few more demonstrative huffs of laughter. âNo you didnât.â
Martin paused. He didnât get up, but did turn his head to look at Jon. âYes I did. Itâs right there in your hand, Jonââ
âI shouldâve known. Check for cobwebs, Martin.â
âOh come on.â
âThis canât be your faultâitâs far too neat. This is all part of Annabelleâs plan.â
âDo you know that?â
âW-well, no. I canât, not here. I justââ
âYeah, I donât think so, Jon. Pretty sure itâs just an old doorknob.â
âDid you check for cobwebs?â
âOf course there are no cobwebs. A spider wouldnât even have time to finish building the web before somebody wrecked it opening the door!â
âThen whatâs that?â With the tip of his cane Jon tapped the floor in front of a clot of gray fluff in the seam between two walls next to the door, making sure not to let it touch the clot itself.
Martin rolled over to see where he was pointing, and almost stuck his elbow in it. âAh. Gross. Gross, is what that is.â
âChrist, I shouldâve known this would happen. I did know this would happen,â Jon reminded himselfââjust ignored the warning signs because I canât think straight here.â
âIt doesnât mean anything, Jon. Itâs a corner. Spiders love corners. I mean, unless you can prove the corner of our doorway has more spiderwebs than anywhere else in the houseââ
âWell, of course not. You forget sheâs got her own corner somewhere, which we still havenât found by the wayââ
âSo, what, you think Annabelle Cane lassoed the screw with a strand of cobweb.â
âNot literally? She could be sitting on the other side of the door with a magnet for all we know!â
Martin peered under the door again with an exasperated sigh. âSheâs not.â
âNot now sheâs heard us talking about her.â
God, what a delicate web that would be, if all he had to do to avoid the spiderâs clutches was reach a door before Martin did. Perhaps if heâd knocked first thatâd have saved him. Maybe Martin was right. How could Annabelle know him well enough to foresee this mistake? Most of the time he hated people opening doors for him, after all.
Why do people see someone with a cane and think, Only one free hand? How ever will he open the door!? They donât do that for people with shopping bagsânot ones his age, at least. Letting another person open a door for him felt to Jon like⌠defeat, somehow. Like admitting the dolce et decorum estness of this version of reality all nondisabled people seemed to live in where he couldnât open doors. And that version of reality horrified him. Not so much the idea of being too weak to open themâthat sounded merely annoying. Like knocking the sides of jar lids on tables and swearing, only with doors. He had beat his fists against enough Pull doors in his time to figure he could live with that. It was more the idea of becoming that way. Letting his door-opening muscles atrophy âtil it became the truth.
But sometimes you just let a thing happen, and forget to hate it. That was the thing about pride. Sometimes your convictions and your habits stop fitting togetherâyou believe Fuck this job with all your heart, but still tuck in your shirt when you come to the office. And then you fly back from America in borrowed clothes, and pop in at the Institute like that on your way to Gertrudeâs storage unit, and thatâs what changes your habits. Not the knowledge you canât be fired; not your now-boyfriendâs plot to put your then-boss behind bars. A thirdhand t-shirt with a slogan on it about how to outrun bears.
On his way out this morning the doorknob had felt so loose in Jonâs hand he almost had told Martin about it. But Martin had been full of letâs-go-on-an-adventure-together-style chatterâlike when theyâd left Daisyâs safehouse, only, get this, without the dread of entering an apocalyptic wastelandâand listening to him put the door out of Jonâs mind before heâd had time to interject.
Their first day hereâor at least, the first they spent awakeâJon had inadvertently taught Martin not to accept invitations from Salesa. The latter had bounded up after Martinâs lunch in linen shirt and whooshy shorts and was, to Martinâs then-unseasoned heart, impossible to deny. So Jon had spent thirty minutes on a creaky folding chair, lunging out of his seat on occasion to collect a ball one of the other two had hit wrong, and trying to keep Salesaâs too-bright white socks out of sight. Heâd pretended he preferred to sit out, knowing Martin would worry if he tried to play. But he hadnât done as good a job hiding his boredom as he thought. âThanks for putting up with that. Sorry it went on so long,â Martin had said as they re-entered their bedroom. âI just couldnât say no to him, you know? For such a cynical old man heâs got impressive puppy eyes.â
âItâs fine? You know me, I donât mind⌠watching.â
âI just mean, Iâm sorry you couldnât play. Howâs your leg, by the way? Erâboth your legs, I guess.â
âItâs fine. Theyâre both fine. I didnât want to play anyway, remember? I donât know how.â
âSure you donât,â Martin replied, words tripping over a fond laugh.
âI donât!â
âCome on, Jon. Everyone knows how to play ping-pong.â
Martin had turned down Salesa when he showed up the next day in khaki shorts and a pith helmet with three butterfly nets, without Jonâs having to say a word. More emphatically still did he turn him down when Salesa mentioned the house had an indoor pool, and offered to lend them both antique bathing suits like the one he had on, âFree of charge! A debtor is an enemy, after all, and in this new world I have no wish to make an enemy ofâ (sarcastic whisper, fingers wiggling) âthe Ceaseless Watcher who rules it. I have nothing to hide from you,â heâd alleged, for the⌠third time that day, maybe? Each morning Jon resolved to count such references; he rarely missed one, as far as he knew, but kept forgetting how many heâd counted.
But Salesa was a salesman, and over time his efforts had grown more subtle. He stopped showing up already dressed for the activity he had in mind, and instead would drop hints at meals about all the fun things they could do if only they would let him show them. Martin loved how the winter sunlight caught, every afternoon around four, in the branches of a tree visible outside the window of their bedroom. âAh, yes,â Salesa had agreed when he remarked on it one morning. âTurning it periwinkle and the golden green of champagne.â (He poured sparkling wineâthe cheap stuff, he said, not real champagneâinto an empty juice glass still lined with orange pulp. Over and over, without once overflowing. The oranges werenât ripe enough to drink their juice plain yet, he said. But theyâd still run out of juice first.) âIf you think thatâs beautifulââhe paused to swallow bubbles come up from his throat, waved his hand, shook his head. âNo. On one tree, yes, it is beautiful. But on a whole orchard of bare trees in winterââhe nodded in the direction of Uptonâs orchardsââthe afternoon sun is sublime. You can see how the twigs shrink and shiver under its gaze; the grass rustles with a hitch in its breath as if it fears to be seen, but with each undulation a new blade flashes gold like a coin,â &c., &c.
âWow. Sounds like you really got lucky, finding such a nice place to, uh. Sssset up camp?â
Jon knew Martin well enough to hear the judgment in his voice; if Salesa recognized it then he was an expert at pretending not to. âAnd it's only a two-minute walk away,â heâd said, instead of taking Martinâs bait. âIt would be such a shame for my guests not to see it.â
âOh, well. Maybe in a few days? Itâs just, weâve been outside nonstop for ages. Itâs nice to be between four walls again. Besides, we donât know the grounds as well as you doâand the border isnât all that stable, you said? Right?â
âIt is if you know how to follow it! I could accompany youâshow you all the best sights, with no risk of wandering back out into the hellscape by mistake.â
âWeâre just not really ready for that, I donât think. Right, Jon?â
âMm.â
âAre you sure? If it were me, a foray into a beautiful natural oasis would be just what I needed to convince myself that my peaceâmy sanctuaryâis real.â
âIf it is real,â Jon couldnât stop himself from muttering.
Salesa remained impervious. âYou would be surprised how difficult it is to feel fear in a place like that. I donât think that is just the camera.â
âWeâll think about it,â Martin conceded.
âYesâyou should both think about it. I am at your disposal whenever you change your mind.â
And so on that morning they had narrowly escaped. Would they had fared so well today. The problem was, on these early occasions Jon had interpreted Martinâs No thankses as being, well, Martinâs. But after a few more of Salesaâs sales pitches Jon began to second-guess that.
âIs it warm enough in here for you both?â Salesa had asked them last night at dinner. âI worry too much, perhaps. I only wish the place took less time to warm up in the morning. At breakfast time, in sunny weather like we've been having, Iâll bet you anything you like itâs warmer out there than in here.â
âItâs alright; weâre not too cold in the mornings either. Right, Jon?â
âHm? Ohâno.â
âPerhaps we three could take breakfast out there, before the weather changes.â
âHaâthatâs right,â Martin had laughed. âI forgot you still had that out here. Weather changes. Brave new world, I guess.â
Salesa smirked and shrugged. âWell, braver than the rest of it.â
âRâŚight. âWe three,â you saidâso not Annabelle?â
âMmmmno, probably not her. I have tried taking spiders outside before; they never seem to like it much.â
Nearly every day, here, Jon found a spider in their bathtub. The first time Martin had been with him. Martin had picked the thing up with his fingers and tried to coax it to leave out the window, but by the time he got there itâd crawled up his sleeve.
âExcuse me.â
Martin pulled back his own chair too and frowned up at him. âYou okay?â
âJust needed the toilet.â He tried to arrange his mouth into a gentle smile. âThink I can do that on my own.â
The other two resumed their conversation the moment Jon left the dining room. Before the intervening walls muffled their voices Jon heard:
âI suppose that does sound pretty nice.â
âPretty nice, you suppose? Martin, Martinâitâs a beautiful oasis! What a shame it will be if you leave this place having done no more than suppose about it.â
âIt is a bit of a waste, I guess.â
âYou wouldnât need to sit on the ground, if thatâs what concerns you. There are benches everywhere.â
Heâd been just about to cross through a doorway and out of earshot when he froze, hearing his name:
âOh, haânot me, but, Jon might find that nice to know,â Martin said. âThanks for.â And then silence.
Was that the whole reason he kept declining invitations to explore the grounds? To keep grass stains out of Jonâs trousers? Martin was the one whoâd sat down on that godforsaken Extinction couch; why did he thinkâ?
Not the point, Jon told himself as he sat on the toilet and set his forehead on the heels of his palms. He tried to watch the floor for spiders, but his eyes kept crossing. The point was that ifâ? If Martin was lying about wanting to stay insideâor, more charitably, if he was telling the truth but wanted that only because he thought Jon would have as dismal a time out in the garden as he had at ping-pongâthenâŚ?
He imagined holding hands with Martin while surrounded by green. Gravel crunching under their feet. Martin smiling, with sunlight caught in the strands of his hair that a slight breeze had blown upright.
âAnd if you get too warm,â he heard Salesa tell Martin, as he headed back into the dining room, âwe can move into the shade of the pines! You know, they donât just grow year-round? They also shed year-round. The floor under them is always carpeted in needles, so you need never get mud on your shoes.â
âHuh,â Martin laughed. âNever thought of it that way.â
âBut of course there are benches there too,â Salesa added, his eyes flickering up to Jon.
As Jon hauled himself into his seat he asked, in a voice he hoped the strain made sound distracted ergo casual, âSo, what, like a picnic, you mean.â
Not a fun picnic. Not very romantic, since their third wheel was the first to invite himself. Salesa neglected to mention how much wet grass they would have to trek through to get to his favorite spot; that there were benches everywhere didnât matter since they couldnât all three fit on one, so they ended up sat in the dirt after allâand n.b. it required a second trek to find a patch of dirt dry enough to sit on at this time of morning. Jon was so sick with fatigue by the time they sat down he could barely eat a thing, though he did dispatch most of Martinâs thermos of tea. His hands shook and buzzed, and felt clumsy, like theyâd fallen asleep; he ended up getting more jam in the dirt than on Salesaâs soggy, pre-buttered toast. He felt as though the rest of his flesh had melted three feet to the left of his eyes, bones and mind. Eventually he elected to blame his dizziness on the sun. When his forehead and upper lip started to prickle, threatening sweat, he stood up and announced, âItâs too hot here.â
Or tried to stand, anyway. One leg had oozed just far enough out of its joint that it buckled when he tried to stand; indigo and fuchsia blotches overtook his sight. He pitched forward, free arm pinwheelingâmight have fallen into the boiled eggs if Martin hadnât caught him. âJon! Are you okay?â
God, why was Martin so surprised? This must have been the fifth or sixth time he had asked him that question since they left the house. One time Jon had bent down to brush dirt off his leg and Martin had thought he was scratching his bandages. So he asked him were they itchy, had they started to peel, did they need changing again, were they cutting off his circulation (no, not yet, not yet, and no). How could someone be so attentive to imaginary ills and yet miss the real ones? At another point, an enormous blue dragonfly had buzzed past, and instead of Did you see that? Martin had turned around to ask Are you okay. Now, on this fifth or sixth occasion, for a few seconds of pure, nonsensical rage he wondered how Martin dared stoop to such emotional blackmail. Ask me no questions and Iâll tell you no lies, Jon thought; aloud he snorted, as in malicious laughter. His throat felt thick, like he might cry.
âFine, Iâm justâsick of it here.â He pulled his arm free of Martinâs and overbalanced. Didnât fall, just. Staggered a little.
âShould we move to the shade? We could try to find those famous pines, I guess.â
Jon sank back to the ground. âWhat about Salesa? Do we just leave him here?â
âOh. Right,â said Martin. Salesa had eaten most of Jonâs share, and drunk both Jonâs and Martinâs shares of wine. Now he lay asleep in the dirt, head pillowed on one elbow, the other handâs fingers curled round the stem of a glass still half full. âI guess, yeah? I mean he seems to know the place pretty well, so. Itâs not like heâll get lost out here.â
âWe might, though.â
Martin sighed. âTrue. Should we just head back to our room, then? Maybe get you a snack.â
âNot hungry.â
âA statement, I meant.â
âOh. Alright, sure,â Jon made himself say. âThat sounds likeâsure.â
So then theyâd headed back, and only Martin had a free hand, and Jon was too tired by that point to distinguish his mindâs vague warning not to let Martin open the door from his usual pride on that subjectâand that kind of pride never does seem as important when itâs your boyfriend offering. So heâd dismissed the warning and, well, look what happened.
When he got up from his knees and turned round Martin frowned at Jon. âAre you alright? Youâre sat on the floor.â
Jon frowned, tooâat the seam between the floor and the hallwayâs opposite wall. âI was tired.â
âYou hate sitting on the floor.â
âI sat on the ground out there,â Jon said, with a shrug that morphed into a nod in the direction theyâd come from.
âYeah, under duress,â Martin scoffed. âIn the Extinction domain you wouldnât even sit on the couch.â
There was something odd in Martinâs bringing that up now; somewhere, in the back of his mind, Jon could hear a pillar of thought crumbling. But he lacked the energy to find out which of his mindâs structures now stood crooked. âI think this floor is a lot cleaner than that couch,â he said instead, with an incredulous laugh.
âEven with the cobwebs?â Martin didnât wait for Jonâs answering nod. âFair enough,â he said, one hand on the back of his neck as he twisted it back and forth. He dropped the hand, sighed, cracked his knuckles. Looked at Jon again. âYeah, okay. Guess we donât have to deal with this right now. Letâs find you another bedroom first.â
âMaybe thatâs just what Annabelle wants,â Jon muttered, deadpanning so he wouldnât have to decide whether this was a joke.
Martin snorted. âIâll risk it.â
Find was a generous way to put it; in fact there was another bedroom only two doors down. By the time Jon got his legs unfolded he could hear the squeak of a door swinging open down the hall. When he looked up, Martin said as their eyes met, âNopeâbedâs too small. You good there âtil I find one thatâll work?â
âSeems that way.â Jon tried to smile, relief warring with his usual If you want something done right urge. In the quiet moment after Martin neglected to close that door and before he swung open the next one, Jon made himself add, âThank you.â
âOf course. Oh wow,â Martin said of the next room, in whose doorway heâd stopped. âThis oneâs a lot nicer than ours. Itâs got a balcony. Wallpaperâs pretty loud though. Dâyou think thatâll keep you awake?â Laughingly, âI know you donât close your eyes to sleep anymore, so.â
âHow loud is âpretty loudâ?â
âSort of a⌠dark, orangey red, with flowers?â
Jon shrugged. âI wonât see it at night.â
âOh, god. I hope it doesnât come to that. Should we do this one, then?â Instead of closing the door, Martin swung it the rest of the way open, then strode back to Jonâs side of the corridor, arm already outstretched. Jon managed to stand before Martin could reach him, but, as it had done outside, his vision went dark for a few seconds. He felt Martinâs hand on his shoulder before he could see his frown.
âYou alright?â Martin asked yet again.
âYes. Iâm fine.â
âItâs justâyou donât usually blink anymore, except for effect.â
âOh.â
Out there, none of the watchers blinked. At first, soon after the change, Martin had asked Jon to try, âBecause it just feels so weird. Like Iâm under constant scrutiny. Literally constant, Jon. You get why that feels weird, right?â (Jon had agreedâsincerely, though he wondered why Martin needed to ask that question in a world whose central conceit was that being watched felt weird. Heâd also chosen not to point out that his scrutiny, like that of Jonah Magnus, was not, technically, constant, since he did sometimes look at other things. But he still rehearsed this retort in his mind every time he remembered that conversation.) Turned out it was hard to time your blinks properly when your eyeballs didnât need the moisture. Heâd forget about it for who knew how long, then remember and overcompensate by blinking so often Martin at first thought he was exaggerating it on purpose as a joke. It got old fast, in Jonâs opinion, but even after he learnt Jon didnât intend it as a joke Martin still found it funny. âYouâre doing it again,â heâd say every time, shoulders wiggling. Eventually Jon had asked him,
âYou know you donât blink anymore either, right?â
âOh god, donât I?â When Jon shook his head, with a smile whose teeth he tried to keep covered, Martin squeezed his own eyes shut and pushed their lids back and forth with his fingers. âUghâgross!â And for the next half hour heâd done the whole forget-to-blink-for-five-minutes-then-do-it-ten-times-in-as-many-seconds routine, too. After that they had both agreed to pretend not to notice the lack of blinking. Jon figured he couldnât hold it against Martin that heâd broken this rule though, since Jon himself had broken it first, on their first morning here:
âYou blinked,â he had informed Martin as he watched him stir sugar into his tea. Martin, who had not only blinked but broken eye contact to make sure he dropped the sugar cube in the right place, replied with a scoff,
âDidnât know it was a staring contest.â
âNo, I meanââ
âOh! I blinked!â
ââŚRight,â Jon said now. âIâmâitâs nothing.â
Martin sighed. He closed his eyes, but probably rolled them under their lids. Jon used the inspection of their new room as an excuse to look away, but took in nothing other than the presence of a large bed and the flowered wallpaper Martin had warned him about.
ââKay. If youâre sure.â
Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, Jon looked down at his grass-stained knees and prepared himself to ask, Look, does it matter? Iâm about to lie down anyway, so, functionally speaking, yes, I am fine.
âSo, youâll be okay here for a bit while I go figure out what to do about the door?â
âSure.â
âOkay. Iâll come check on you as soon as I know anything, yeah?â
âOf course.â
âAlthoughâif youâre asleep, should I wake you up?â
âYes,â Jon replied before Martin had even got the last word out. He heard a short, emphatic exhale, presumably of laughter. âWaitâhow would you know, anyway?â
âOh. Yeah, good point.â
Jon looked down at his shoes. His fingers throbbed in anticipation, but he figured he should spare Martin the horror of getting grass stains on a second bedroomâs counterpane. The first shoe he pulled off without untying, since he could step on its heel with the other one. But he had to bend over to reach the second oneâs incongruously bright white laces, biting his lip when he felt his right femur poke past the bounds of its socket as between a cageâs bars. On his way back up his vision quivered like a heat mirage, but didnât go dark. He scooched himself up to the head of the bed. Made sure to face the ceiling rather than the red wallpaper.
A few months into his tenure in the Archives, Jon had discovered that if you close your eyes at your desk, even just for a minute, you can trick your whole body into thinking youâve been gentle with it. But that trick didnât work anymore. Out there, this made sense; interposing his eyelids between himself and the worldâs new horrors couldnât push them out of his consciousness, any more than it had helped to close the curtains at Daisyâs safehouse. Martinâs sentimental attachment to sleep had baffled him, as had his insistence on closing his eyes even though theyâd pop back open as soon as his body went limp. Here, though, Jon sympathized with Martinâs wish. He too missed that magic link between closed eyes and sleep. Probably he should just be grateful for this rest from knowing other peopleâs suffering? The thing he had wished to close his eyes against was gone here. But now that most of his bodily wants had synced up with his actions again, it felt⌠wrong, like a tangible loss, that he couldnât assert Itâs time for rest now by closing his eyelids. That it took effort to keep them joined. Jon even found himself missing the crust that used to stick them together on mornings after long sleep.
That should have been his first sensation on waking, their first morning here. After seventy-one hours his eyelids shouldâve been practically super-glued together. Instead, theyâd apparently stayed open the entire time. It wasnât uncomfortableâhe hadnât woken up with them smarting or anything. Hadnât noticed one way or the other; after all, when not forced awake by an alarm, one rarely notices the moment one opens oneâs eyes in the morning. He just didnât like knowing that he looked the same waking and sleeping. It didnât make sense. The dreams hadnât followed him here, so what was he watching? He could see nothing but the ceiling.
He rolled over, hoping to look out the window. Doors, technically. Between gauzy curtains he could make out only wrought-iron bars and the tops of a few trees. A nice view, he could tell; when he got his second wind he was sure heâd find it pretty. For now he wondered how much more energy debt he had put himself in by rolling over.
Drowning in debt? We can help!
How had he not foreseen how horrible it would be inside the Buried? The inability to move or speak without pain and loss of breathââJust imagine,â he muttered sarcastically to the empty air, as though addressing his past self. âWhat might that be like.â Heâd lived for years with the weight of exhaustion on his backâheavier at that time than itâd ever been before. And he knew how it felt to risk injury with every movement. What an odd frame of mind he must have lived in then, to think his magic healing wouldnât let him get scratched up down there. Had he thought it would protect him from fear? I must save my friend from this horrible place! But also, If I get stuck there forever, no big deal; I deserve it, after all. There seemed something so arrogant about that now, that idea that deserving pain could somehow mitigate it. That because monsterhood made him less innocent, it would make him less of a victim. How could he have thought that, when heâd known pulling her out of there didnât mean he forgave her? He should apologize to Daisy forâ
Right. Nope, never mind.
He began to regret rolling over. If he planned to stay on his side like this for long, he shouldnât leave his shoulder and hip dangling. He could already feel their joints beginning to slide apart. But his body had started to drift to that faraway place from which no grievance ever seemed urgent enough to recall itâneither pain now nor the threat of greater pain later. Nor the three cups of tea heâd drunk.
After he and Martin had fallen asleep on Salesaâs doorstep, Jon had vague memories of being led up the stairs to their bedroom, though he remembered neither being shaken awake nor getting into bed. Just a seventy-odd-hour blank spot, followed by pain of a kind he had thought heâd left behind.
It wasnât that watchers couldnât feel pain, after the change. They could, but it was like how real-world pain felt through the veil of a dream. Your actions didnât affect it as directly as they should. In the Necropolis Martin had asked him, âHow exactly does a leg wound make you faster?â If heâd had the courage to answer, at the time he would have said something about his own wounds not seeming important now that he had to tune out those of the whole world. That wasnât it though, he knew now. Pain just worked differently out there. When Daisy attacked him, it had hurtâbut the wound she left him hadnât protested movement. Not until he and Martin entered the grounds of Upton House. You could bear weight on an injured leg just fine out there, because it wouldnât hurt more when you stood on it than otherwise.
Sometimes, when his joints slid apart while he slept, he could still feel it in his dreams. Up until 13th January 2016 (for months after which date he dreamt Naomi Herneâs graveyard and nothing else), his sleeping mind used to craft scenarios to explain its own pain and panic to itself. Running from an exploding grenade, staying awake through surgery, that sort of thing. But over the years, as the sensation grew familiar, his dreams about it became less urgent, their anxieties more mundane. Heâd shout for help from passing cars, then feel like heâd lied to the stranger who opened their door to him when it turned out running to get in the car hurt no more than standing still.
Even before the change, itâd been ages since heâd had to worry about that. Since the coma, Beholding had fixed all these accidents, the way itâd fixed the finger he tried to chop off. They wouldnât reset with a clunk, the way they had when he used to fix them by hand. It was more like his body reverted to a version the Eye had saved before the moment of injury. When he tried to pull open a Push door heâd hear the first clunk, followed by about half a second of pain, then after a gentle burst of staticânothing. Just a door handle between his fingers that needed pushing. If he tripped on uneven pavement he might still go down, but his ankle wouldnât hurt when he stood back up, and the scrapes on his hands would heal before he could inspect them. Here, though, in this place the Eye couldnât see, Jon lacked such protections. He didnât have the dreams either? And that was more than worth it as a tradeoff, he was sure. But it still smarted to remember that pain had been his first sensation waking up in an oasis. Not birdsong, not sunshine striped across linen, not the warm weight of another person next to him. He knew heâd come back to a place ruled by physics rather than fear because heâd woken up with gaps between his bones.
âJon? Are you awake?â
âHm? Oh. Yes.â
âCool.â Martin sat down on what felt like the corner of bed nearest the door. âI think I know how to do this now.â
âHow to put the doorknob back on?â
âYeah. God, I still canât believe it twisted clean off in my hand like that. With no warningâlike, zero to sixty in less than a second. I mean, can you believe our luck? The thingâs perfectly functional, and then suddenly it justâcomes off!â
âErâŚâ
âOh, god, sorryâI didnât meanââ
âWhat? OhâhrkghââJon rolled around to face Martin, hoping the little yelp he let out when his leg slopped back into joint would sound like a noise of exasperation rather than pain. He found Martin sat looking down at the severed doorknob which poked up from between his knees. âNo, Martin, of course not, I knowââ
âStill, Iâm sorry aboutââ
âNo, itâsâitâs fine?â
On that first morning, Jon had managed to get his limbs screwed back on properly without making enough noise to wake up Martin. Heâd limped out of their room and down the hall, pushing doors open until heâd found a toilet, whereupon he sat to pee and marveled that the flush and sink still worked. It was bright enough inside that he hadnât thought to try the light switch on his way inâtoo busy contorting his neck to look for the sun out the window. On his way out, though, he flicked it on, then off. Then on again and off again. How could it work, when there was no power grid the house could connect to? Automatically Jon tried to search his mindâs Eye for a domain based in a power plant or something. Right, no, of courseâthat power did not work here.
When he got back to their room he found Martin awake. âOhâmorning,â Jon told him with a shy laugh.
âItâit is morning, isnât it,â Martin marveled. Then he asked if Jon could hand him the map sticking out of his backpackâs side pocket. (What good are maps when the very Earth logic no longer applied here, after all. But Martin was rubbish at geography, so Jon still had to provide the You Are Here sign with his finger for him.) Jon grabbed the map on his way back to bed, and was about to tell him about the miracles of plumbing and electricity heâd just witnessedânot to mention the bathtub heâd admired on the long trek from toilet to sinkâwhen Martin frowned and asked, âWhy are you limping?â
âAm I?â Jon had shrugged, then cleared his throat when the motion made his shoulder audibly click. âDaisy, must be.â
âNo, Jon. Thatâs the wrong leg.â
He slid both legs out of sight under the blankets and handed Martin the map. âItâs nothing. It just⌠came off a bit. Last night."
Before Jon could add Itâs fixed now though, Martin said, âIâm sorry, what?â
Jon had assumed Martin understood the kind of thing he meant, but that heâd misled him as to its degreeâi.e., that Martin objected to his talking about a full hip dislocation like it mattered less than what happened with Daisy. So heâd said,
âNo, sorry, not all the way offââ
And Martin just laughed. âWhat, and you taped it back up likeâlike an old computer cable?â
âSort of, yeah? Itâit does still work, more or less.â
âRight, of course. No need to get a new one, yet; you can just limp along with this one. No big deal! Just make sure you donât pull too hard on it.â
âI mean.â By now he could sense Martinâs sarcasm, his bitterness; that didnât mean he knew what to do with them. So he'd said with a huff of laughter, âI canât just send for a new one. Thatâsâthatâs not how bodies work. You have toâŚ.â Wait for it to sort itself out was the natural end to that sentence. But he hadnât been sure he could say that without opening a can of worms.
âWait so⌠what actually happened? Are you okay?â
Only at this point had Jon recognized Martinâs response as one of incomprehension. What happened exactly? he had asked, too, when Jon told him the ice-cream anecdote. Did no one ever listen when you told them about these things?
âNothing. Never mind. Itâs fine.â
âOh come on.â
âItâs. Fine! Itâs not important.â
And then for days Martin kept alluding to it. Like some kind of reminder to Jon that he hadnât opened up, disguised as a joke. Every time something came out or fell down heâd mutter, âSo it came off, you might say.â Eventually theyâd fallen out over it, and now neither one could come near the phrase without this song and dance.
âDonât worry about it, Martin,â Jon assured him now; âIâm over it.â
ââŚUh huh. Well, putting that to one side for the momentâI think I can fix this?â
âOh? Great!ââ
ââYeah! It should be simple, actually. I think I just need to replace the screw that fell out? I mean, there doesnât seem to be anything actually broken, just, you know,â with an awkward laugh, âthe screw lives on the wrong side of the door now. But if we can just put a new one in the door should be fine.â He looked to Jon as if for help plotting their next steps.
âIâI donât, um. Think we have one.â
Martinâs shoulders dropped; the corners of his mouth tightened. âYeah, I know we donât have one, Jon. I just mean, we need to find out where Salesa keeps them.â
âOh!â Jon replied, in a brighter tone. Then he registered what this meant. âOh. Right.â
âYâŚeah.â
âAny idea where to look?â
They checked what seemed to Martin the most obvious place first. Salesa used one of the ground-floor drawing rooms as a sort of repository for everything heâd left as yet unpackedâall the practical items he hadnât been able to repurpose as toys, plus some antiques heâd been too fond of or too nervous to part with. Two nights ago, Salesa had noticed the state of Jonâs and Martinâs shoelaces, and insisted they let him replace them with some from this little warehouse. âPlease, come with me; Iâve nothing to hide. You can have a look around, see if I have anything that might help you on your journeyâŚ.â As he said this heâd counted to two on his fingers, as though listing off attractions they should be sure not to miss.
Jon watched Martin perk right up at this. All week Salesa had kept pleading with them to tell him about any luxuries they had wanted while touring the apocalypse, so he could try to find something to fulfill those wants. âWell, IâI donât know about luxuries,â Martin had ventured the third time this came up. âBut I do think we might run out of bandages soon, so. If youâve any extra?â
âOf course, of course, yes, how prudent of you, always with one eye on the future. Must be the Beholding in you.â (Neither Jon nor Martin knew what to say to that.) âBut there will be plenty of time for that. I meant something for now, while you are here, while you donât need to think of things like that.â And sure enough, each time Salesa had come to them with presents from his little warehouse (booze, butterfly nets, more booze, antique bathing suits, &c.), heâd forgot about Martinâs homely request for gauze and tape. Martin insisted they change the dressing on Jonâs leg every day; by now theyâd run through the bandages he brought from Daisyâs safehouse. So when Salesa suggested they accompany him to his repository, Martin said,
âSure, yeah! That sounds really helpful.â (Salesa clutched his heart as though heâd waited all his life to hear such praise.) âEr. The things in your warehouse, though. Theyâre not Lâum.â Leitners, Martin had almost called them. âYou donât think theyâll develop any⌠strange properties, when we leave here, do you?â
âOf course not,â Salesa had answered, stopping and turning all the way around in the corridor to face Martin with a frown. âMartin, I promise, only my antiques are cursedâand even then, not all of them.â Heâd resumed the walk toward his little warehouse, but turned around again and held up a hand, as if to preempt a question. âThere are, indeed, yes, some items out there, touched by the Corruption, which can pass their infection on to other things they come in contact with. But, no,â he went on, his voice fighting off a joyous laugh, âno, the only item I have like that does almost the opposite.â
âOh.â
Salesa nodded, but did not turn around this time. âStrange little thing. Itâs an antique syringe that, so long as you keep it near you, repels the Crawling Rot. I like to think it helped dispatch that insect thing Annabelle chased away. But if you try to get rid of it,â he added in a darker tone, âall the sickness, the bugs, the smells, even stains on your clothesâeverything disgusting that itâs kept awayâthey remember who you are, and they hunger for you more than anyone else. The man who sold it to meâŚ.â He shook his head ruefully, hand now resting on the door.
âWas eaten alive by mosquitoes,â Jon muttered.
âSomething like that, yes,â said Salesa, as he jerked open the door.
Jon hated the way his and Martinâs shoes looked now. He hadnât had to put new laces on a pair of old, dirty shoes since he was a kid, and the contrast looked wrongâthe same way starched collars and slicked-back hair on kids look wrong. Jonâs trainers were gray, their laces a slightly darker gray, so these white ones wouldnât have looked quite right even without the dirt. Martinâs had once been white, but their original laces were broad and flat, while these were narrow and more rounded. The replacementsâ thin, clinical white lines looked something between depressing and menacing. Too much like spider web; too much like the stitching on Nikolaâs minions. When they came undone on this morningâs walk, Jon had made sure to tread on them in the mud a few times before tying them back up. Poor Dr. Thompsonâs syringe must have retained some of its power here, though, because they still looked pristine. Jon wondered if it had no effect on spiders, or if without it this whole place would have been draped in cobwebs.
Martin seemed pleased with their haul, though. Despite Salesaâs amnesia on the subject, his little warehouse held more plasters, gauze, medical tape, antibacterial ointment, alcohol wipesâthe list went onâthan one man could ever use. In a strange, raw moment Jon liked to pretend he hadnât seen, Salesa had wrung his hands as his eyes passed over this hoard. His lip had quivered. Heâd practically begged Martin to take the whole lot away with them. âWhat harm will come to me here? And if it does come, what good will it do, protecting one lonely old man from skinned knees and paper cuts? The two of youâwhere you are goingâthe gravity of your mission!â At this point heâd seized one of each their hands. âEverything I have that even might help, you must take it. Please.â
âIâyeah,â Martin stuttered. âThis isâreally helpful, yeah. Weâll take as much as we can fit in our bags.â
Salesa had let go their hands by this point, and crossed his arms. âRight, yes, bags, of course, the bags. Are you sure you donât want my truck?â
âOh, well, thanks, but I donât think either of us knows how toââ
âTo drive a truck?â Salesa uncrossed his arms and began to reach for Martinâs shoulder. âI could teach youââ
âIt wonât work without the camera anyway,â pointed out Jon. âWe have to walk.â
Martin sighed. âThat too. âThe journey will be the journey,â as Jon keeps saying.â
âI said that once,â Jon protested.
No such success on this return visit. They found a small pile of miscellaneous screws, one of which Martin said would work (though it was the wrong color, he alleged, and had clearly been meant for some other purpose), but the screwdriver they needed remained elusive. âI mean, I canât be sure theyâre not in hereâthe place is as bad as Gertrudeâs storage unit. We could spend all day here and still not be sureââ
âLetâs not do that,â said Jon, pushing an always-warm candlestick with a pool of always-melted wax out of Martinâs way with his sleeve for what felt like the hundredth time.
âNo arguments here.â
âWhere to next?â
âI guess it makes sense that theyâre not here. This roomâs all stuff Salesa brought, and why would he bring home-repair stuff when he didnât even know where heâd wind up.â
âExcept for the screws.â
âYeah, but it doesnât look like he keeps screws here, remember? Thereâs just a couple random ones lying around, like he forgot to put them away or something.â
Jon peered between the clouds in his mind, trying to catch sight of Martinâs thought train. âSo youâre saying the screwdriver should beâŚ?â
âSomewhere less⌠frequented, I guess? Theyâll probably still be wherever they were when Salesa found the place.â
âNot somewhere that was open to the public, then.â
Martin sighed. âI mean yeah, probably. Not that that narrows it down much.â
âSomewhere⌠banal, less posh.â
âNot sure how much less posh you can get than this place. But yeah, I guess. Have I mentioned how weird it is youâre the one who keeps asking me this stuff?â
âIâm sorry. Iâm trying to help? I justâŚâ Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouseâs dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. Odd that his eyes werenât immune to dust, when leaving them open for seventy straight hours hadnât bothered them. And why didnât the syringe keep dust away? In Dr. Snowâs day (not far removed from Smirkeâs, n.b.), Jon seemed to recall that dust had been used as a euphemism for all waste, including the human kind Dr. Snow had found in the cholera water. It was like how people today use filthâhence the word dustbin. And hadnât Elias once called the Corruption Filth? Jon opened his eyes and watched Martin swirl back to full color. âI canât seem to corral my thoughts here,â he concluded.
âDonât worry about it. Itâs actually kind of fun, itâs justâIâm so used to being the sidekick,â Martin laughed. âBesides, I miss my eldritch Google.â
âShould I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?â
Another laugh, this one less awkward. âNo. That wonât work, remember? This place is a âblind spot,â you said.â The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice.
âRight, right. I forgot,â Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger heâd felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds heâd allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadnât somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutesâ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think Iâll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldnât matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martinâs face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him.
âHonestly, itâd almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.â
âHey.â Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. âI think Iâll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.â
Was it just because of Hopworth that Martinâs elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way heâd learnt not to fear out there?
âOhâI know,â Martin said, clicking his fingers and pointing them at Jon like a gun. âWe passed a shed this morning, remember?â
Jon squinted. âNot even remotely.â
âNo yeahâon our walk with Salesa. I tried to ask him what it was for, but he kept droning on and on. By the time he stopped talking Iâd forgot about it.â
âHuh,â said Jon, to show he was listening.
âThat seems like a good place to keep screws and all, right? If itâs so nondescript you canât even remember it.â
âSure.â
âGreat! Are you ready now, or dâyou need to sit for a bit longer?â
âIâm ready.â This time he accepted Martinâs hand, not keen to trip on something cursed.
âAnyway, if we donât find them and Salesaâs still out there, we can ask him on the way back.â
Jonâs heart shrunk before the prospect of inviting Salesa to be the hero of their story. Please, Mr. Salesa, save us from our screwdriver-less hell! They would never hear the end of it. It would inevitably remind the old man of the countless times in his youth when heâd been the only man in the antiques trade who knew where to find some priceless treasure. Let Salesa open their stuck door and theyâd find Pandoraâs bloody box of stories behind it. He winced and let out a grunt as of pain before he could stop himself. âLetâs not tell him, if we can help it.â
âOf course we should tell him,â Martin protested. âWe canât just leave it broken like this.â
âBut if we can fix it without his helpâ?â
âWhat? No! Even then, heâs our host. We have to tell him. Itâs his door, he deserves to know itsâI donât know, history?â Martin sighed, shoving one hand in his hair and holding out the other. âIf heâs got a doorknob whose screw comes loose a lot, he should know that, so he can tighten it next time before it gets out of hand. I mean, weâre lucky it only chipped the paint when itâwhen it fell off, you know?â (Jon, for his part, hadnât even noticed this chip of paint Martin referred to.) âAndâand suppose heâs only got this one screw left,â tapping the one in his pocket, âand the next time it happens his last screw rolls under the door like this one did.â
âAnd what is he supposed to do to prevent that scenario? There arenât exactly any hardware stores in the apocalypse.â
Big sigh. âYeah, fair enough. I still think we should tell him. It just feels wrong to hide secrets from him about his own house, you know?â
âFine,â sighed Jon in turn. âShould we tell him about the scorch marks on the window sill as well?â
âNo?â Martin turned to him with an incredulous look. âTell me youâre joking.â
âI meanâI was, butââ
âPlease tell me you get how thatâs different.â
âEnlighten me,â Jon said wearily.
âSeriously? Of course you donât tell him about the?âthose were already there! If weâd put them there, then yeah, of course weâd need to tell him.â
âSo itâs about confessing your guilt, then. Not about what Salesa makes of the information.â
âI mean, I guess?â Martin looked perplexed, lips drawn into his mouth. âActually, no. Because those are just scorch marks, they donâtâyou can still get into a room with scorch marks on the windowsill, Jon.â
âAnd yet if youâd left them youâd tell him about it?â
âWell yeah but if I told him about it now itâd just be like I wasâleaving him a bad review, or something. Itâd just be rude. âLovely place you have, Salesa. So kind of you to share your limited provisions with us refugees from the apocalypse. Too bad you gave us a room whose windowsill could use repainting!ââ
Jon laughed. âYes, alright, I get it.â
Martinâs sigh of relief seemed only a little exaggerated. If he hadnât wiped pretend sweat from his brow Jon might have bought it. âOkay, thatâs good, âcauseââwhen Jon kept laughing, Martin cut himself off. âHang on, were you joking this whole time?â
âSort of?â
âWere you just playing devilâs advocate or something?â
âI meanânot exactly? For the first seventy or eighty percent of it I was completely serious.â
âAnd then?â
âI donât know. It was justâfun. It felt nice to take a definite staâaaaa-a-aa.â Something in Jonâs lower back went wrong somehow. An SI joint, probably? The pain caught him so much by surprise that when he stepped with that sideâs leg he stumbled forward.
âWhoa!â Martinâs hand closed around his upper arm. Jon yelped again, from panic more than hurt this time, as his shoulder thunked in its socket. âJon! Are you okay?â
âDonât do that,â Jon hissed, trying lamely to shake his arm out of Martinâs grip. It didnât work. The attempt just made his own arm ache, and produce more ominous clunking sounds.
âIâwhat?â
âIt was fine. I donât need you to catch me.â
Martin let his arm go. âYou were about to fall on your face, Jon.â
âIâd already caught myselfâjust fineâwith this.â He gestured to his cane, stirring its handle like a joystick.
âHow was I supposed to know that?â
âI donât know, look?â
âItâs notâ?â Martin scoffed. âLook when? Itâs not like a rational calculation. I canât just go âBeep. Beep. See human trip. Will human fall on face? If yes, press A to catch! If not, press B toââ what, stand there and do nothing? Itâs just human nature; when you see someone falling thatâs just what you do. Iâm not going to apologize for not calculating the risk properly.â
âFine! Yes, okay, youâre right. Forget I said anything.â Throwing up his free hand in defeat, Jon set off againâtried to stride, but it was hard to do that with a limp. Even with his cane, he couldnât step evenly enough to achieve a decisive gait.
It was fine, Jon reminded himself. Heâd had this injury (if you could call it that) a thousand times before. When it came on suddenly like this it never stuck around long. Sure, yeah, for now every step hurt like an urgent crisis. But any second it would right itself as quickly as it had come undone.
âNo, no, I understand! Point taken! Note to future Martin,â the latter shouted from behind Jon, voice troubled by hurried steps; ânext time let him fall and break his bloody nose.â
Trusting Martin to shout directions if he went the wrong way, Jon pressed on, rehearsing comebacks in his mind. Is this not a boundary Iâm allowed to set? You donât let me read statements in front of you. Isnât that part of humanâisnât that my nature, too?
Oh, yes, human nature, that must be it. You didnât lunge after Salesa at ping-pong the other day, did you? I saw you opening doors for Melanie when she got back from India. You stopped for a while, did you know that? You all did, everyone in the Archives. And thenâitâs the strangest thing!âyou all started up again after Delano. Maybe you lot donât see the common factor here; people always do seem to think itâs more polite not to notice.
So what if I had broken my nose? You nearly broke my shoulder, catching me like that. Does that not matter because you canât see it? Because it wouldnât scar?
They were all too petty to say aloud. Too incongruous with the quiet. He could hear his own footsteps, and Martinâs, and the clank of his caneâs metal segments each time it hit the ground, and a few crows exclaiming about something exciting theyâd found on his right. Nothing else.
âLooks like Salesa went inside,â Martin shouted from behind him.
Jon stopped walking and turned around. âWhat?â
âLeft a couple things out here, but yeah.â Martin jogged to catch up with him, from a greater distance than Jon would have expected given how much limping slowed him down. He must have veered off course to inspect the clearing Salesa had vacated. In one hand he carried an empty wine glass by its stem, which he lifted to show Jon.
âHuh.â
âYeah.â When he caught up with Jon, Martin stood still and panted. âGuess it wonât be as easy to ask him about it as we thought. If we donât find what we need in there,â he added, glancing demonstratively to something behind Jon.
Following Martinâs eyes, Jon finally saw the shed. Nondescript boards, worn black and white by the elements. Surrounded by hedges three months overgrown.
Turned out it wasnât a shed anymore, thoughâSalesa had converted it to a chicken coop. âExplains the boiled eggs,â shrugged Jon.
âGod, theyâre adorable. Do you think itâs okay to pet one?â Martin crouched in front of a black hen with a puffball of feathers on top of her head. (Martin called her a hen, anyway, and Jon trusted his authority on animals other than cats). âI donât really know, er, châhicken etiquette,â he mused, voice shot through with nervous laughter.
The black hen sat alone in a little box, and didn't seem to want attention. A little red one theyâd found strutting around the coop, however, ventured right up to Martin and cocked her head, like she expected him to give her a present. While Martin cooed over her and the other chickens, Jon went outside and laid flat on his back in the grass under a tree. âTake your time,â he shouted. âIâm happy here.â
Sure enough, when Martin emerged from the coop and helped him stand back up, whatever cog in Jonâs pelvis or spine he had jammed earlier was turning again. And by the time they got back to the house, Martin had talked himself into the idea that maybe all the houseâs doorknobs that looked like theirs came loose a lot, and Salesa had taken to keeping the screwdriver to fix them in, say, the hall closet, or in their toiletâs under-sink cabinet.
âI think weâre gonna have to find Salesa and ask him about it,â concluded Martin, when these locations turned up nothing they wanted either.
âIf youâre sure.â
Jon sat down on the closed toilet seat. Hadnât that been what he said just before the last time he sat down on the lid of a toilet before Martin? Heâd dutifully turned away, that time, as Martin undressed, wanting to make sure he knew heâd still let him have some privacy. But then, of course: âWhere should I put these, do you think? âEr, my clothes I mean.â
âOh. Um.â Jon had turned his head to look at the stain on Daisyâs ceiling, for what must have been the tenth time already. âI can hold onto them if you like.â Which then meant Martin had to get them back on before Jon could undress for his own shower and hand him his clothes. As heâd piled his trousers into Martinâs hands a tape recorder fell out of one pocket and crashed to the floor, ejecting the tape with Peterâs statement on it. âShit,â Jon had hissed and ducked to the floor to pick it up, trusting the slit in his towel to reveal nothing worse than thigh.
âShit,â Martin echoed. âI hope that wasnât your phone.â
âNoâjust the recorder.â Still on the floor, Jon clicked its little door shut and pressed play. Sound of waves, static, footsteps. He switched it off. âSeems alright.â Thank god, he stopped himself from adding. Jon didnât want to lose this one, this record of how heâd found Martin, in case he lost him again. But he didnât want Martin to hear the sounds of the Lonely again so soon, either. That was why heâd stayed with Martin while he showered, rather than waiting in the safehouse living room. He wouldnât have insisted on it, of course. He didnât exactly believe Martin would disappear again? But long showers were such a clichĂŠ of lonely people, and steam looked so much like the mist on Peterâs beach, and when Jon asked how he felt about it, Martin said that thought hadnât occurred to him,
âBut as soon as you started to say that, I.â Heâd stood with his teeth bared, half smiling half grimacing, and bringing the tips of his fingers together and apart over and over. âYeah, I think youâre right. Hehâit scares me too now, if Iâm honest. Thatâs⌠a good sign, I guess, right?â
They had come a long way since then, Jon told himself. They were more comfortable with each other now. On their first morning here, theyâd showered separately, but after (Martinâs) breakfast Jonâs irritation had faded and he had resolved to pretend along with Martin that this was a holiday. So theyâd got to use the enormous bathtub after allâ the one at whose soap dish Jon now found himself staring as he sat on the lid of the toilet. When the heat made him dizzier, as heâd known it would, he had relished getting to rest his cheek on Martinâs arm along the rim of the tub, where it had grown cool and soft in the few minutes heâd kept it above the water.
âLetâs have lunch first,â Martin said now; âyouâre getting allâŚ.â While he looked for the right word he dropped his shoulders and jaw, and mimicked a thousand-yard stare. âAbstract, again. Distant. People food should help a little, yeah? Tie you back down to this plane a bit?â
âProbably,â Jon agreed, smiling at Martinâs tact.
But to get to the kitchen they had to pass through the dining roomâwhere they found Salesa snoring in a chair at the head of the table. âLetâs just ask him now before he gets up and moves again,â maintained Martin. Jon shrugged his acquiescence and leant in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. Why hadnât he used the toilet before letting Martin lead him here?
âUm, Mikaele?â Martin inched a few steps toward him, but a distance of several feet still gaped between them. âWe have something to ask you, if thatâsâhello? Mikaele?â
A likely-sounding gap between snoresâbut nope. Still sound asleep. Salesa sighed, licked his lips, then began to snore again.
âMikaele Salesa,â called out Jon from his post at the door, rather less gently. âMikaele Salesa!â He turned to Martin, meaning to suggest that they eat now and trust the smell of food to wake Salesa, but stopped himself when he saw Martin creeping timidly toward Salesa with his hand outstretched.
âSorry to disturbyouMikaele,â Martin squeaked out, so quickly that the words blended together. He gave Salesaâs shoulder the lightest possible tap with one fingertip, then snatched his hand back with a grimace of regret as Salesaâs own hand reached up, belatedly, as if to swat Martinâs away. âOh, good, youâreââ
Salesa interrupted with a snore. Martin sighed and turned to Jon. âWhat dâyou think? Should I shake him?â
Jon pulled out a neighboring chair and sat on it. âNo need for anything so drastic. Try poking him a few more times first.â
âRight.â
Once heâd tired of rolling his cane between his palms Jon bent down to set it on the floor. Heâd learnt his lesson about trying to hang it on the back of these chairs, though in this fog it had taken several incidents to stick. Every time it ended up crashing to the floor, when he scooched his chair back or when Martin tried to reach an arm around him. Then againâhe conjectured, bent halfway to the floor with the cane still in his handâif he did drop it, that might wake Salesa.
Two nights ago Jon had got up to use the toilet, and knocked his cane down from the wall on his way back to bed in the dark. It crashed to the floor; Jon swore and hopped on one foot back from it, imagining the other footâs poor toenail smashed to jagged pieces as it thumped to life with pain. Meanwhile he heard rustling from the bed, and Martinâs voice, querulous with sleep. âJon? Jon, whatâsâhappened, whatâare you.â
âNothing itâs fine go back toââheâd hissed as his knee decided it had enough of hoppingââdonât get up, just. Iâm gonna turn on the light, if thatâs alright.â
âWhat fell? Are you okay?â
âThe cane. I knocked it over in the dark.â
âOh.â
He got no verbal response about the light, but guessed Martin had nodded.
From a distance his toe looked alrightâno blood, anyway, so he could walk on it without risking the carpet. Jon picked his cane up from the floor and steered himself to the foot of the bed, where he sat down. His toenail had chipped, it looked likeâonly a little, but in that way that leaves a long crack. If he tried to pick it straight heâd tear out a big chunk and it would bleed. But if he left it like this it would snag on the sheets, on his socks, until some loose thread tore the chunk of nail off for him. What could he do for this kind of thing here? At home heâd file the nail down around the chip, then cover it in clear nail polish, and just hope thatâd hold out until the crack grew out and he could clip it without bleeding. But here? A plaster would have to do, he guessed. They had plenty of those now.
Jon hated bandaging, ever since Prentissâin much the same way that Martin hated sleeping in his pants. Heâd had time to learn all its discomforts. How sweaty they got, the way they stuck to your hairs, the way lint collected in the adhesive residue they left. Didnât help he associated them with that time of paranoia. They didnât make him act paranoid, understand; he just habitually thought of bandage-wearing as what paranoid people do. It made an echo of his contempt for that timeâs Jon cling to his perceptions of current Jon. On his first morning here, when the ones on his shin where Daisyâd bit him peeled off in the shower, he hadnât bothered to replace them. After all, the bite only hurt when something pulled on it or poked or scraped against it, so he figured his trousers would provide enough protective barrier.
âThat healed fast,â Martin had remarked, when he noticed the undressed wound in the bathâand then, when he looked again, âYyyyeah I dunno, I think you might still want to bandage that. We donât want dirt getting in there.â
âDo I have to?â
âHumor me.â
When they got back to their room heâd let Martin dress it himself. Martin had sucked air through his teeth. âThis is days oldâit shouldnât be all hot and red like this.â According to him these were early signs of infection, which would get worse if they didnât take better care of itâi.e., keep the wound freshly bandaged and ointmented. Jon refrained from pointing out that when the cut on his throat had got like that heâd left it uncovered and been fine. But he did ask what worse meant. âReally bad,â testified Martin. âI had a cut on my finger get infected once. Really disgusting. You donât want to know.â
Jon smiled at him, raised his eyebrows. âAfter Jaredâs mortal garden I think I can handle it.â
Martin smiled too, but wrinkled his nose and shook his head. âThere was pus involved.â
âOh, god! How could you tell me that!â gasped Jon, hand to his chest.
âYeah, yeah. Anyway, it also hurt? A lot? And it can make you ill. So we should try to avoid it, yeah?â
Heâd tried to disavow the disappointment in his sigh by exaggerating it. âYes, alright.â
âDonât know why youâd want to leave it exposed anyway. Doesnât it hurt?â
âWell, sure, when you do that,â Jon had muttered, flinching away. As he asked the question Martin had lightly tapped the skin around the gash through its new bandage. A second or two later Jon added, âLess than when I got it? Itâs hard to tell; itâs⌠different here.â
With a sigh that caught on phlegm and irritation, Martin asked, âDifferent how?â
He hadnât been able to answer then, but he knew now, of course. It hurt the way things do when youâre awake. Not with the constant smart and throb it had when heâd first got it, but, it snagged on things now. Had opinions on how he moved. When he bent his knee more than ninety degrees, that stretched the skin around it painfully. Also if he knelt, since then the floor would press against it through his trousers. And stepping with that foot felt odd. Didnât hurt, exactly, but sort of⌠rattled? Like a bad bruise would. This all seemed so small, compared to the moment of terror for his life that heâd felt when Daisy bit into himâthat gaping wound in his new self-conception, which his healing powers had sewn up so quickly. The ritual of bandaging it every evening seemed so otiose, so laughably superstitious. He despised the thought of adding another step to it.
While Jon went on examining his toe, Martin asked, âWhat was the... thumping. It sounded like.â
âOhânoâI didnât fall; itâs fine.â
âAre you sure?â
âNoâyesâstop, itâs nothing, donât get up. I just forgot I left it on theâleaning against the doorwallâ (he hadnât decided in time whether to say doorway or wall and ended up with half of each) âso I walked into it, er, toe first.â
âOh,â Martin said again. Jon could hear him subsiding against the pillows behind him. âIt came down?â
Big sigh. Jonâs fingernails met his palms. He set his foot back on the floor, and when his hip whined in its socket he clenched his teeth and kept them that way. In his mind he heard daysâ worth of similar jokes. When he couldnât get a jammed jar open: So youâre saying it wouldnât⌠come off? When they got back their clean laundry: Can you believe all those grass stains came out?âoh, sorry: that they came off, I meant. Always with an innocent laugh, like Jonâs original phrasing had been just, what, like a Freudian slip, rather than something perfectly comprehensible that Martin had refused to engage with, taken from him, and rendered meaningless on purpose. âNo it did not,â he snapped, âand I would appreciate it if youâd quit throwing that back in my face.â
âWhoa, uh. OâŚkay. Whatâs⌠going on here exactly?â
âYouâ?â
His heart plummeted; his face stung with embarrassment. Came down, Martin had saidânot came off. Heâd just been confirming that Jonâs cane had fallen down.
âOh, godânothing, never mind. You did nothing.â
âWell thatâs obviously not true.â
âI justâI thought youâd said âcame off.â I thought you meant, had my toe âcome off.ââ
âOh,â said Martin, yet again. When Jon turned to look he found him still blinking and squinting against the light. âDo you⌠need me to not say that anymore?â
âNot when Iâ?â Not when Iâve hurt myself, Jon meant. But Martin hadnât done that, so this grievance didnât actually mean anything. Heâd been seeing patterns where there were none, and now that heâd seen through the illusion Jon knew again that Martin never would say it like that. âNo, itâs fine. Do whatever you want.â
Martin turned the tail end of his yawn into a huff of false laughter. âNope. Still donât believe you.â
âEverything youâve said makes perfect sense with the information you have. Itâs all justâme. Being cryptic again.â
âOkay, uh. Are you waiting for me to disagree? âCause, uh. Yupâyouâre still being cryptic. No arguments there.â
Jon just sighed, really scraping the back of his throat with it. Almost a scoff.
âSooo do you wanna fill me in, or.â
âNo?â With an incredulous laugh. âWell, yes, just.â
He hadnât known how to start from there, while so tightly wound and defensive. It seemed cruel to raise such a sensitive subject when Martin sounded so eager to go back to sleep. Or maybe he just didnât want to hear Martin whimper apologies. Didnât want to deal with how fake they would sound. They wouldnât be fake; he knew that. But they would sound fake, which meant it would take an effort of will, a deliberate exercise of empathy, to accept them as real. He wasnât in the mood to hear yet another person say Iâm sorry, I didnât know; much less to respond with the requisite Itâs okay; you didnât know. It would take a strength of conviction he didnât have right now.
âYâyou donât have to explain it tonight? Iâll just, Iâll just not use that phrase anymore, and maybe in the morning youâll be less in the mood to lash out at me for things that donât make sense.â
And what was there to say to that? It had taken Jon three tries to force out, âOkay. Iâm sorry.â
âGood night, Jon.â
âGood night. I still need the light, for.â
âThatâs fine. Just turn it off when you come back to bed.â
âYou wonât wake him up,â a new voice interjected.
Annabelle. Jon couldnât see her, but he had learnt by now to recognize that voice, with its insufferable upbeat teasing inflection like every sentence she said was a riddle. He caught a glimpse of movement, then heard the click of her shoes on the floor. She must have poked her head round the doorway at the far end of the table while she spoke, then scuttled off again. At last he got a good look at her, as she put her blonde-and-gray head through the closer door.
âHeâs a very heavy sleeper,â she informed them, with a smile and a shrug. âYou can shake him all you want; itâs not going to work.â
Martin cleared his throatâtrying to catch Jonâs attention, presumably. But Jon feared Annabelle would vanish again if he took his eyes off her. Not that he wanted her here, either, but?âhe at least wanted to know which direction she went when she disappeared.
âWhat are you doing here, Annabelle.â
She shrugged two of her shoulders. âJust offering you some advice.â Then she used the momentum from the shrug to push herself backward, out of the doorway back into the corridor. Before the last of her hands disappeared off to the right, she waved to both of them.
âWell, how about some âadviceâ about this, thenââ
âSheâs already gone, Martin.â
âSeriously? Godâwhich way did she go?â Jon pointed; Martin bolted down the hallway after her. âOi! Annabelle!â
âShhh!â
âAnnabelle! Do you know where Salesa keeps theââ
Jon did his best to follow him, praying all his limbs would go on straight this time. âDonât!â
âWhat? Why not?â he heard, from the other side of the wall. Thankfully he could no longer hear Martinâs pounding footsteps. He overtook him in the hallway, just about able to make out his face around the dark swirls in his vision. âSheâs as likely to know as Salesa, right?â Martin continued. âAnd itâs not like sheâd lie about it. I mean, what would be the point?â
âI just donât think we should give her any kind of advantage over us,â Jon snarled. The attempt to keep his voice down made the words come out sounding nastier than he intended.
Martin scoffed. âYou donât think maybe this is a bit more important than your stupid principle about not accepting help from her?â
âIs it?â Jon took hold of Martinâs sleeve, having just now caught up to him. âThe new roomâs fine. Itâs even nicer than the old one, right? We could just stay there.â
âI already told you, Jon. Iâm not just gonna leave it like this.â
ââTil Salesa sobers up, I meant.â
âIf we have to, yeah, butâ? All our stuffâs in that room. The statementsâre in there.â
âI just donât think we should show her that kind of vulnerability,â Jon hissed, shifting from foot to foot in his eagerness either to sit down or go somewhere else. âI donât want to give Annabelle something she can use over us.â
âHow does this make us more vulnerable than we are eating her food?â
âIt doesnât, alright? That doesnât mean we should add more to the pile!â He watched Martin shrug and open his mouth, but cut him off in advance: âLast time we had this argument you were the one maintaining she was dangerous.â
It was on their first night hereâtheir first awake here, anyway. Theyâd been heading back to their room, Martin lamenting that heâd not packed anything to sleep in when they left Daisyâs safehouse. âWonât make much difference to me,â Jon had shrugged at first.
Martin had shaken his head, grimaced at something in his imagination. âI hate sleeping in my pants. Itâs just gross. Dunno why anyone would choose to do it.â
âHow is it gross?â Jon had laughed. Heâd expected to hear some weird thing about its being unsanitary for that much leg to touch sheets that only got washed every two weeks, and to argue back that in that case shouldnât he sleep in his socks. Disdain for the body seemed damn near universal, and yet manifested so differently in each person whose habits Jon had got to know up close. Georgie had heard that underarm hair helped wick away the smell of sweatâso she let that hair grow out, but shaved the ones on her stomach for fear theyâd smell like navel lint. And Daisy, a woman who used to sniff her used-up plasters before throwing them in the bin, would spray cologne in the toilet every time she left it. Jon had enjoyed getting to know which of bodily self-contemptâs myriad forms Martin subscribed to.
But this turned out not to be one of them. Instead Martin explained, âItâs so sweaty. Like sitting on a leather couch in shorts, except the leatherâs your other leg? Ugh. I hate waking up slippery.â
âThatâs why I put a pillow between mine,â laughed Jon. âSuppose I will miss Trevorâs t-shirt, though. Now that I donât have to worry about showing up in peopleâs dreams like that.â
âOh, god, rightâwhat is it? âYou donât have to be faster than the bearââ?â
ââYou just have to be faster than your friends,'â Jon completed, in the most sinister Ceaseless-Watcher voice he could muster. Martin snorted with laughter.
And then theyâd opened the door to discover Annabelle had done them a fucking turndown service. Quilt folded back, mints on the pillows, and a pile of old-timey striped pajamas at the foot of the bed. âHuh. CreeâŚpy, but convenient, I guess. Least theyâre not black and white, right?â Martin unfolded the green-striped shirt on top, then handed it with its matching trousers to Jon. âThese ones must be yours.â
âMm.â Jon let Martin hand him the pajamas, then tossed them onto the chair in the opposite corner of the room (from which chair they promptly fell to the floor). The mint from his side of the bed he deposited in the bin under the bedside table.
âSo whoâs our good fairy, dâyou think? Salesa, or.â
âAnnabelle,â Jon hissed. âSalesa was with us all through dinner.â
Martin nodded and sighed. âYeah.â He sat down on the bed, still regarding the other set of garmentsâthese ones striped yellow and blueâwith a puzzled frown. âGod, Iâll look like a clown in these. You sure I wonât give you nightmares about the Unknowing?â
But Jon said nothing, still hoping he could avoid weighing in on Martinâs choice whether or not to accept Annabelleâs⌠gifts.
âItâs probably Salesaâs stuff, at least. Not Annabelleâs. I mean,â Martin mused with a brave laugh, âheâs got a lot of weird outfits on hand apparently.â
âUnless she wove them out of cobwebs.â
âThatâs not a thing,â Martin groaned, making himself laugh too. âSpider webs arenât strong enough to use as thread.â
âNot natural ones, maybe,â Jon said with a shrug and a careful half smile. With no less care, he turned the sheets and counterpane back up on his side of the bed, restoring the way itâd looked when he and Martin made up the bed that morning. Stacked the frontmost pillow back upright against the one behind it. Punched it a little, more as a way to break the silence than because it looked too fluffy. Then sat down in front of them and put his shoe up on the bedside table so he could untie itâglancing first at Martin to make sure he didnât disapprove.
âI mean, I guess,â Martin mused meanwhile. âNot sure why sheâd bother, though. Maybe itâsââwith a gasp and a smile Jon could hear in his voiceââmaybe sheâs put poison in the threads, and thatâs why yours and mine are different. Mineâs gotâI dunno, some kind of self-esteem poison, like, a reverse SSRI, to make me feel like you donât need me, so when she kidnaps you I wonât try to save you. And yoursâŚ.â
As Jon pulled off his now-untied shoe one of the bones in his hip jabbed against some bit of soft tissue it wasnât supposed to touch. He gasped and dropped his shoe. It thudded on the floor.
âYou alright?â
âFine. Some kind of dex drain, probably.â
âHa.â
After a silence, Martin spoke again: âAre you sure youâre okay staying here for a bit? SorryâI kinda bulldozed over your objections earlier.â
Jon finished untying his other shoe, then paused to think while he shook the cramp out of his hand. âNo,â he decided. âYou didnât bulldoze, you justâŚquestioned. And you were right to.â
âStill, I mean. It might not be a great idea to stick around here with the spider lady whoâs had it in for us since day one. Have you re-listened to the tapes from the day Prentiss attacked, by the way, since you got them back from the Not-Sasha thing?â
âRightâthe spider, yes.â
âYeah, exactly! You wouldnât even have broke through that wall if it hadnât been for the spider there!â
Jon nodded and scrubbed at his eyes, trying to muster the energy to match Martinâs tone. This was an important conversation to have, he knew. And a part of him shuddered with recognition to hear Martin talk about those tapes. He had re-listened to themâfirst at Georgieâs, one night in the small hours as he cleaned her kitchen, thinking clearly for the first time in months and trying to pinpoint the exact moment his thoughts had been clouded with paranoia, so that he might know what signs to look for if something else tried to infect his mind like that. And then again after Basira found the jar of ashes. That time heâd just wanted to suck all the marrow he could from the memory of Martin with his sensible corkscrew and his first answer to Why are you here, even if it did mean having to hear himself ask if Martin was a ghost. A few weeks later, however, after Hilltop Road, heâd done a fair bit of obsessing over the spider thing with Prentiss, yeah. He just wished he could remember what conclusion heâd come to.
All he could remember was going for those tapes yet again only to find them missing from his drawer. But heâd been chasing phantoms all day; it was late at night by then, and when heâd dashed out to tell Basira his fear Annabelle had stolen them, stolen his memories from him just like the Not-Them had, heâd stood there over her and Daisyâs frankenbag for what felt like an hour, mouth open, unable to utter a sound. It felt too much like going to wake up his grandmother after a dream. So heâd told himself to sleep on itâthat heâd probably left the tapes in some other obvious place, and would find them in the morning. And when he remembered his panic, the next day at lunch, and checked his drawer again, the tapes were back, right where he expected them. Heâd dismissed it as a dream after all. But noâMartin must have borrowed them. He mustâve been worried about the Web, too.
âItâs⌠it should be okay. I donât think itâll be like that here.â
Martin sighed. âDonât do that.â
âWhat?â
âThat thing where you justâdecide how something is without even telling me why you think so. I mean itâs one thing out there, when you âknow everythingââ (this in a false deep voice) âand canât possibly share it all, but here? When youâre just guessing, like everyone else? Why donât you think itâll be like that here? And what does âlike thatâ even mean?â
âI'm sorryâyouâre rightâI just mean, I donât think she has her powers here. Based on what Salesa said about the camera, and on what happens when I try to use my powersâŚ.â
âSalesa just said the Eye canât see this place, though. What about that insect thing he said found its way in?â
âI mean.â Jon shrugged. âWe managed to find our way here without the Eyeâs help.â
âYeah, but if the Web has no power here then how could she have called me on a payphone? She had to have known where I was to do that, yeah? And she couldnât know that from here unless the Web told her to do it, right?â
âMaybe? We donât even know if the Web works like that.â
âTold her to do it, made her want to do it, gave her the tools to do it, whatever. You know what I mean. Lookâwe know the Eyeâs not totally blind here, since it can still feed on statements. Right?â
Jon wondered now how either one of them could have been so sure of that. âApparently,â he liked to think he had saidâbut more likely heâd replied simply, âRight.â
âSo then by that logic the Web still probably likes it when sheâI donât know, when she manipulates people here. It probably still gets, like, live tweets from her about it. How do we know it canât use that information to weave more plots around us?â
âIf thatâs even how it works,â Jon had replied again. âThe other fears donât work like thatâthey donât plan, they just.â He tried to sort his intuition into Martinâs live tweet metaphor. âThe fears just like their agentsâ tweets, they donât⌠comment on them, o-or build new opinions on what theyâve read. It boosts the avatar's⌠popularity, I guess? Their influence?â Jon hadnât even logged into Twitter since before the Archives. âBut unless the Web is different from all the other fears, it doesnâtâitâs not her boss. It doesnât come up with the schemes, it just.â
âIsnât it literally called the âSpinner of Schemesâ, though? The âMother of Puppetsâ?â
And Jon couldnât remember what heâd said to brush off that one.
âOf course sheâs dangerous,â Martin said now. âI just donât see what sinister plot of hers we could possibly be enabling by asking her where to find screwdrivers.â
Jon scoffed. âSheâs with the Web, Martin! The âMother of Puppets,â the âSpinner of Schemesâ? Youâre not supposed to be able to see how the threads connect. Anything we ask her gives her another opening to sink her hooks into.â
âSo what, you just donât want to owe her a favor?â
âYes?â Jon blinkedâon purpose, needless to say. âThatâs exactly what Iâm saying. I meanâwhy do you think sheâs here, Martin, ingratiating herself with us?â
âGee, I donât know. Maybe because itâs the one place on Earth that hasnât been turned into a hell dimension?â
Jon snarled and set his head in his free hand. The dizziness was coming back. âIn her statement Annabelle said the trick to manipulating people was to make sure they always either over or underestimate you.â
âOkay,â granted Martin, as though prompting Jon to explain how this was relevant.
âSheâs trying to humanize herself,â he maintained, scratching an imaginary itch behind his glasses. âWe shouldnât let her.â
âI mean, she is physically more human here.â
âIs she? She doesnât seem to be withdrawing from the Web; sheâs notâlike this.��� Jon turned his wrist in a circle next to his head.
âYeah but sheâs been here for months, right? Maybe sheâs passed through that stage.â
A bitter huff of laughter. âSo youâre saying sheâs reformed.â
âNo. Iâm saying the fact sheâs not allâloopy here doesnât necessarily mean she still has any power.â
âSheâs got four arms and six eyes, Martin!â
âAnd you sleep with your eyes open and summon tape recorders, Jon!â
âWell,â mused Jon with a wry smile, ânot on purpose.â
âThatâs my point! Youâve only gotâvestiges here, yeah? Iâm not saying we should trust her; I donât wanna be friends or anything. Iâm just saying I donât think the actual concrete danger she poses here is whatâs making you hate the idea of asking her for directions.â
âWhat about that insect thing Salesa said she chased off. Does that not sound spidery to you?â
âWe donât know that! Maybe she waved his syringe at it.â
Jon took a deep, shaky breath through his nose. Heâd hoped he wouldnât have to bring up this next part; he feared it might make Martin too afraid to stay here any longer. âI think sheâs plotting against us.â
Blink. âWell, yeah. Of course she is. Sheâs been plotting against us forââ
âHere, I mean. I mean, I think thatâs why sheâs here. Sheâs been hiding from the Eye on purpose so she could lure us into her trap with her spindly littleââJon thought of the earrings that dangled from Annabelleâs ears like flies, swinging with her every sudden movement. Unconsciously he struck out with his hand as if to catch one, closing his fist around empty air. âWithout my being able to see either her or the trap. At best, sheâs here gathering information about us so she can report it back to her master.â He pictured the thousand spiders heâd seen birthed during Francisâs nightmare crawling back and forth with messages between here and the nearest Web domainâ
âI thought you said the fears didnât work that way,â pursued Martinâ
âAnd every little thing we tell her is one more thread she can use to pull on us.â
âOkay, but, even if youâre right, âHey Annabelle, our doorknobâs busted, can you help us find the tools to fix itâ isnât actually a fact about us.â
âBut thatâs just the best-case scenario, Martin! The worst-case scenario is that she predicted weâd get locked out of our room, or even loosened the screw herselfââ
âNot this againââ
ââbecause she knew weâd have to ask her for help, and wherever she tells us to look for the screwdriver is where sheâs laid her trap! Think about itâthis couldnât happen outside the range of the camera, right? It would only work in a place where I canât just know where to find something. Thatâs the only scenario where weâd ever ask her for directions.â Martin sighed, crossed his arms, rolled his eyes. Jon looked right at him, hoping to catch them on their way back down. âWhat if her plan is to trap us here forever so we canât go stop Elias? What if by trusting her with this, we give her the tools to keep the world like this forever?â
Again Martin sighed. He bit his lip, at last seeming not to have an argument lined up already.
âI canât actually stop you from going after herââJon heard Martin scoff, but pressed onââbut I canât take part in this.â
âYou sort of already did stop me, Jon.â He lifted his arm, pointing vaguely in the direction sheâd gone. âWe canât catch up with her now.â
That wasnât quite true, Jon knew; Martin had chosen to stop and listen to him. Instead of pointing this out in words Jon smiled, meekly, and reached for Martinâs hand. âGuess thatâs true. Are you, er, ready for lunch now?â
His answering scoff sounded fond, indulgent, rather than incredulous. âYeah, alright.â
With Martinâs hand still in his, Jon turned aroundâan awkward business, while holding hands in such a narrow passageâand began to walk back towards the dining room. At the end of the corridor stood a tall, thin, many-limbed figure, holding a water carafe, a stack of glasses, and four steaming plates of food.
âYou boys getting hungry?â As she stepped toward them her shoes clacked against the floor. How had they not heard her approach? And what was she doing back at that end of the corridor?
âHow did youâ?â
âI have my ways. Iâve brought lunch for you both, if youâre amenable.â
âOhâwell, thanks, youâre, youâre just in time, actually.â Jon didnât dare look away from Annabelle Cane long enough to confirm this, but suspected Martin had directed that last bit at him as much as her. âCan I help you with those?â
Annabelle managed to shrug without dislodging anything from the four plates in her hands. âYou can take the napkins if you want,â she said, extending toward Martin the forearm from which they hung.
Jon sat back down in the chair heâd left at a haphazard angleâthough it felt weird, since he usually sat on the tableâs other side. He thanked Martin when he handed him a napkin, and allowed Annabelle to set an empty glass and a plate of food in front of him. It was a pasta dish, with clamsâfrom a can, he reminded himself. A can and a jar of pasta sauce. Couldnât have taken more than twenty minutes to put together.
âSalesaâs still out of it,â observed Martin. âDonât think heâll make too much of his.â
âA shame,â Annabelle agreed. She set a plate down in front of the sleeping Salesa anyway. âMaybe the smell of foodâll wake him up.â
âAre you going to eat with us?â Martin asked, as he and Jon both watched her deposit a fourth plate across the table from them.
âI may as well. We do still have to eat to live here, donât we?â Jon could tell she meant this comment as an invitation for him to join their conversation, but he didnât intend to take her bait. âBesides,â Annabelle went on, âthis way youâll know Iâve not saved the best for myself.â With one hand she picked up her own plate again; another of her long, thin arms reached out to take Jonâs plate.
He dragged it to the side, out of her reach. âNo, thank you.â
âAlright. Martin,â she said, looking over at him with a patient, patronizing smile. âWill you switch plates with me?â
âOh, my god,â Martin groaned into his hand. âSure, why not.â
Something small and gray skittered across the table toward her. For half a second Annabelle took her eyes from Martin. Her nostrils flared; one of her eyes twitched; Jon heard a stifled squawk from behind her closed lips as she swept the skittery thing over her edge of the table. He made no such effort to hide his scoff. Did she think she could play nice, by declining to hold little spider conversations in front of them? That theyâd think she was on their side as long as they couldnât see her chatting to her little spies?
âThank you,â Annabelle sing-songed meanwhile, returning her gaze to Martin. âYouâre sweet.â
On their first morning here, after showering and then shuddering back into their filthy clothes, Jon and Martin had barely left their room before Annabelle dangled herself in their path, with cups of tea (Jon refused his) and an offer to show them to the pantry. From this tour Jon had concluded that all food in this place was tainted by her influence. And he didnât actually feel hungry at that point? He remembered Martin remarking on his hunger before theyâd both fallen asleep, but Jon had felt only tired. Surely that meant he still didnât need food here, right? Itâd been like that before the change, after the comaâheâd needed sleep and statements to keep up his strength, but could function just fine without⌠people food. So heâd resolved to accept nothing offered him hereâor at least, nothing Salesa and Annabelle hadnât already given him and Martin without their consent. No tea, none of Salesaâs booze, no use of the huge industrial washing machines, no food.
That resolution lasted about nine hours. He knew because on that first day time still felt like such a novelty he and Martin had counted every one. Once heâd tried and failed to compel Salesaâonce heâd heard him give a statement and managed to space out for half of it, rather than transcending himself in the ecstasy of vicarious fearâJon started to grow conscious of his hunger. After two hours he felt shaky; after four he started picking quarrels, first just with Annabelle when she showed up with snacks, then with Salesa, and then even with Martin; after six he felt first hot, then cold. Finally around the eight-hour mark he was hiding tears over an untied shoelace, and figured it was worth finding out how much of this torment people food could solve. He sat through dinner, flaunting his empty plateâthen stole to the pantry for something he could make himself. Settled for dry toast and raisins. âCouldnât you find the jam?â Martin had asked him.
âDidnât think of it,â Jon lied, once heâd got his throat round a lump of under-chewed toast.
âYou want me to get some for you? That looks pretty depressing without it,â Martin said, with his eyebrows and the line of his mouth both raised in a pitying smile.
âBetter make it one of the sealed jars.â
âWhat, so Annabelle canât have got to it?â Jon nodded, chewing so as to have neither to smile back nor decide not to. âYou know she made the bread, right.â
Of course she had. Jon dropped his head onto his fists. âFuck.â
âWhat did you think?â mused Martin with a laugh. âThat Salesa just popped down to the supermarket?â
âI donât knowâthat theyâd taken it from the freezer, maybe?â
âI mean, thatâs possible,â Martin granted with a shrug. âShould I get you that jam?â
Big sigh. âFine.â
In reality heâd stared up at the row of jam jars in Salesaâs pantry for a full ten seconds before deciding not to have any. He feared spiders would spill out of the jar onto his hand as soon as he got it open. But he also feared he might not be able to open it at allâonly hurt himself trying. Way back in their first year in the Archives together, Martin had once seen him struggling to get open the jar where he kept paperclips. Jon hadnât realized he was being watchedâor, that is, that Martin was watching him. In the Archives the sense of someone watching was so omnipresent one soon lost the ability to distinguish Eliasâs evil Eye from other, more mundane eyes. Anyway, after three minutesâ effort and nothing to show for it but a misplaced MCP joint in his thumb, Jon had given up on paper-clipping the photos Tim had pilfered for him to their relevant statement and begun hunting through his desk drawers for a stapler instead. And then a high-pitched pop above his head made him startle so badly he gasped, choked on his own spit, and flung the picture in his hand across the room like a paper airplane.
Around the sound of his own cough he could hear Martin shouting Sorry, and Tim and Sasha laughing on the other side of the wall. Martinâs laugh soon joined theirs, though it sounded desperate, sheepish. He dove after the photo Jon had dropped, and then, when he came back with it, explained, âGot the paperclips for you.â
Jon frowned. âThis is a photograph, Martin.â
âNo, I meanâ?â His laugh came out like a whimper; he picked the unlidded jar up an inch off the table, then set it back down. âHere.â
Okay, so, not exactly an auspicious start, but, it still became a thing? Martin opening his paperclip jar. At first heâd wished he could just remember not to seal it so tightly; he could get it just fine when he stopped turning it earlier. At least when the weather hadnât changed since the last time he opened it. But then when they all started leaving the Archives less often, and the break-room fridge filled up with condiments that all seemed to have twist-off lids⌠heâd kind of liked that? Martin would hand him the peanut-butter jar, with its lid off and pinned to its side with one finger, before Jon had even finished asking for it. This seemed to be the pattern behind all his early positive impressions of Martin: the jar lids, the corkscrew, the way he managed to make mealtimes at the Institute feel like proper breaks. Martin had seemed like such an oaf to him at firstâclumsy, absent-minded, always seeming to think that if he professed enough good will with his smiles and cups of tea and I know you wonât like this, but, then no one would notice his impertinent comments and all the doors he left wide open. All the dogs and worms and spiders he let in. Heâd seemed to Jon the human embodiment of a fly left undoneâmore so than ever after the morning heâd walked in on him wearing naught but frog-print boxer shorts. But he had this easy grace with things that needed twisting off. Banana peels, bottle caps, wine corks, worms.
And then when he came back after the Unknowing Martin was never around. Jon and Basira and Melanie all lived in the Archives, like Martin had two years before, but by that point he wasnât on Could you open this for me? terms with any of them. But he hadnât needed people food anymore, and if he subluxed a joint it would heal instantly anyway. So heâd just struggled and sworn, feeling stupid for shrinking from the pain even after having chopped off his own finger. And it got easier with practice. By the time he and Martin reunited, heâd got so used to it that sometimes heâd hand jars to Martin already unlidded. Martin hadnât seemed to notice. Finally, one evening a day or two after that row they had over the ice-cream thing, Jon had opened a jar of pasta sauce (heâd taken up people food again at Daisyâs safehouse, if only to make their time there feel more like a regular holiday), and reached out to hand it to Martinâthen paused and retracted the hand that gripped the jar, remembering his promise to be more open about.
âThis is, um.â Heâd glanced up at Martin, then back to the floor as the latter said,
âHuh?â
âThis is one of those things thatâs got better since the coma. Since I became an avatar. I can, um. I can open jars now? Without.â Heâd almost said Without hurting myself, then remembered that wasnât technically true. Deep breath. âWithout lasting harm. Itâit hurts for a second? But the Eye heals it instantly. That's why Iâve been.â
âOh,â Martin said, seeming to stall for time as he absorbed this information. He accepted the jar which Jon again held out to him, and turned it around in his hands, eyes on its label. âYeah, IâI noticed, youâre really good at opening jars now,â he went on with a laugh. Again he paused, and blew a sigh out of his mouth. âRight. Okay. Thank you for telling me?â
âIâll try and be better aboutâŚ.â
Martin nodded, turning back to the stove and beginning to stir sauce into the pasta. âYeah. I, uhâI didnât know that was why you used to need me to open them for you?â Since the other nightâs argument, Jon had gathered as much. He nodded too. âI thought you were just, heh, you know. Weaker than me.â
âI mean, I amââ
âWell yeah but you know what I mean.â
âI do. I shouldâve told you.â
âNo, Iâactually I think youâre in the clear on that one, if Iâm honest. I justâitâs just weird? I thought I was done having toâ (another blown-out sigh punctuated his speech) âhaving to reframe stuff I thought was normal around some unseen horror. Sorry,â he added when heâd finished beating sauce off Daisyâs wooden spoon; âthatâs probably not a great way to.â
âNoâitâs fine?â
âSuppose it sounds like an exaggeration, now, after all weâve.â
Mechanically, Jon nodded, without deciding whether he agreed or not. Around an awkward laugh, he confessed, ââUnseen horrorâ might be the nicest way Iâve ever heard anyone describe it.â
âEr. Yikes? That sounds like you might need some better friends, Jon.â
âMaybe,â he conceded, laughing again. âIâI just mean, itâs nice to hear something other than?â Jon paused and pushed his little fingers back the hundred or so degrees they each would go. First the left, then the right. Other than what? Well, doubt, for a start. Though most of the doubt he heard from outside himself was implicit. Careful silence from people he told about it; requests people made of him seemingly just so heâd have to tell them he couldnât do that; impatience, bafflement, suspicion from strangers. Why are you out of breath, the woman behind the Immigration desk had asked him at OâHare, as if breathlessness incriminated him somehow. But that wasnât the response heâd subconsciously measured Martinâs phrase against. What he had in mind now was more like⌠bland support. Hurried support. Assurances quick and dutiful, yet so vague he could tell the people who gave them were thinking only of the mistakes they might make, if they dared to acknowledge what heâd said with any more than half a sentence. The Iâm sorry youâre in pain equivalents of Right away, Mr. Sims.
That was itâunseen horror was an original thought. Martin had put it in his own words, rather than either borrowing Jonâs or using none at all. âOther than a platitude.â
So at Salesaâs when Martin came back with the jam jar he handed it to Jon. Jon made a show of trying to open it, but could feel his middle finger threatening to leave its top half behind. It frightened him, in a way heâd forgot was even possible. For such a long time now, pain had just been pain? Heâd grown so unused to the threat it held for normal people. The threat of actual danger, of injury. Heâd set down the jar on the table in front of him, and crossed his arms in front of it.
âCanât get it, huh?â Martin asked; Jon shook his head.
How much danger, though, he wondered. Earlier that day, after he and Martin got out of the bath, his left index finger had popped out while he was buttoning his shirt. It still ached when he used the finger, or thought about the cracking sound it had madeâbut didnât throb anymore without provocation. Not much danger there; not even much inconvenience. He supposed if he hurt his middle finger too then he might have some trouble with his trouser button the next time he had to pee? Right, yes, what a cross to bear. I hurt myself doing x; now it hurts to do x. But it already hurt to do x, didnât it? Didnât x always hurt, before the change? Why did he so fear to face an hour or a day where it hurt more than usual, but not so much I canât do it?
âSo youâre saying it wonât⌠come off?â
âHa, ha.â
âSorry. Couldnât resist.â
âWhat if I open it and itâs full of spiders?â
Martin had smiled, rolled his eyes, pulled the jar toward him, and twisted its lid off with a pop. âSee? No spiders in this one.
âWhile youâre here, Annabelle,â Jon heard Martin say, âI donât suppose you know anything about where Salesa keeps his screwdrivers?â
Annabelle tapped her chin and said, very pleasantly, âHmmm. Perhaps theyâre where he left them after the last time something broke.â
Martinâs lips drew closer together. âYeah,â he nodded, âprobably. Any idea where that might be?â
âPerhaps he keeps them next to whatever screw comes loose most often.â
âAnd do you know which screw that is?â
She shook her head, though who knew whether that meant she didnât know or merely that she didnât mean to tell him. âPerhaps he only uses the item when heâs alone,â she said, with a shrug and a sly smile.
ââŚEw.â Annabelle cackled like a school kid pulling a prank. âRight, great,â sighed Martin. âThanks a lot. Forget it. You done, Jon?â
Jon glanced sleepily down at his plate. Only half empty, but cold by now. âYes.â
âNice of you to grace us with your presence, Annabelle,â Martin said, sliding his and Jonâs plates toward her side of the table.
Instead of energy, lunch gave Jon only a slight queasy feelingâlike one gets from eating sweets on an empty stomach.
âGodââhissed Martin, with clenched fists, as they ambled back to their roomâââPerhaps he keeps them next to the screw that gets loose most often.â Yeah, figured that out already, thanks! Can you even believe her? Sitting down to eat with us, as if sheâs all ready to help, and then the best she can do is,â he paused and straightened, then said with a finger to his chin in imitation of Annabelle, ââOh, hm, guess he only uses it alone. Oh well!ââ
âDonât know what else you expected.â
Martin sighed, his arms crossed now. âGuess I shouldâve done what you asked after all, since that accomplished nothing.â After a moment he went on, âLeast it wasnât a trap, right? I tried not to give her anything she could use against us.â With a smile Jon could hear without looking at him, âYou notice how I pointedly didnât offer to help clean up?â
âNo, I didnât,â Jon confessed, laughing a little.
âNo?!â Again Martin paused on his feet, frowning, incredulous. Jon wished he wouldnât; standing still made him dizzier, took more effort than walking, like that poor woman in Oliverâs domain. Daniela? Martin shook his head at himself. âUghâthen who knows if she noticed, either. I thought I was being so obvious!â
âI meanââ
âWait, hold up, letâs double back.â
âAre you going to go back and tell her it was on purpose?â
âNo, justââhe echoed Jonâs laughââno, of course not. I just wanted to try that wingâs toilets next. Didnât want her to see which way we were going.â
âOh.â By this time Martin had turned around and started to walk the other way; Jon hung back. âEr. I thoughtâI thought we were going to our room first.â
âWhat, the new one you mean?â asked Martin, turning his head around to look back at him.
ââŚYes,â Jon decided. Until this moment heâd forgot about that, and been daydreaming of their original bed.
âSure, if you want. Do you need a break?â
âI⌠I think so, yes.â
Martin turned the rest of the way around, shuffled toward Jon and looked him over, with a concerned frown. He took his free hand between his fingers and thumb, brushing the latter over Jonâs knuckles. âYeah, okay. You still seem pretty out of it. How are you feeling?â
âNot great,â answered Jon, though he smiled in relief at Martinâs willingness to change the plan for him.
âFood didnât help?â
His stomach seemed hung with cobwebs; his mind, like a large room with half its lights burnt out. His light head seemed attached to his heavy, aching body only by a string, like a balloon tied to an Open-House sign. He still needed the toilet. âNot really?â
âYeah, thought not. You need a statement, huh.â
Jon shrugged, avoiding Martinâs eyes. âProbably.â
In the interim bedroom Jon sat down at the edge of the bed, bent down over his legs, and untied his shoes, wondering why his life always came back around to this. His hip got stuck like a drawer thatâs been pulled out crooked, so he had to lever himself back up with his arms, trapping fistfuls of counterpane between thumbs and the meat of his palms. It made his hands cramp, but that helpedâthe way it would have helped to bite his finger. When heâd got himself upright again he sat and blinked for a few seconds, hoping each time he opened his eyes that his vision wouldâve cleared.
Martin sat down next to him and put his hand on Jonâs arm. âYouâre blinking again. You okay?â
âJust⌠kind of dizzy? Itâs an Eye thing.â
He let Martin pull him towards him until their shoulders touched. âYeah. Makes sense. Nap should help. Statementâll definitely help.â
âRight.â
They agreed to lie on the bed rather than properly in it, not wanting to have to put the covers back together afterward. Jon set his head on that squishy part of Martinâs chest where it started to give way to armpit, knowing to angle himself so the scar tissue pressed the hollow part of his cheek rather than anywhere bonier. It was normally dangerous to lie half on his back, half on his side like this, but heâd lately discovered he could use Martinâs leg to keep his hip from falling off. He could feel the muscles in his shoulder twitching and cramping, whether to pull the joint out or keep it in who could tell. But itâd be fine as long as he shrugged the arm every few minutes.
All the ways they knew to spend time in each otherâs company had come together in Scotland, where heâd had none of these worries. Even after the change, on their journey, with nothing but sleeping bags between them and desecrated earth, heâd borne only the same aches heâd been ignoring since he read the statement that ended the world. Jon imagined lying next to Martin like this on the cold stone of a tomb in the Necropolis, surrounded by guardian angelsâ malicious laughter. Not feeling the cold, or the grain of the stone against his ankles and the bandage on his shinâjust knowing it was there, like when you watch someone suffer those things in a movie. Less vivid even than a statement about lying on a tomb; in Naomi Herneâs nightmare heâd felt the stone in her hands.
âHfff, okayâready to get back to it?â
âMrrr.â
ââŚJon, are you asleep?â
He shrugged his hanging shoulder. âNo.â
Nose laugh. âCome on, wake up.â
âMmrrrrrrr.â
âMy armâs asleep.â
âIâm sorry.â
âIt wonât wake up âtill you get up off of it, Jon,â said Martin, gently, between huffs of laughter.
âHmr.â Jon rolled away to face the wall with the window, freeing Martinâs arm.
âDo you want me to go look without you?â
âOkay.â
âAre you sure?â
âMhm.â
Cold air washed over his newly-exposed arm, ribcage, side of face, the outside of his sore hip. It was cold on this Martinless side of the bed, too. He rolled back over into the shadow of his warmth, but that still wasnât as good as the real thing. Maybe he could pull the covers halfway out and roll himself up in them.
âAaagh, noâJonââMartinâs cool hand on top of his as he tried to hook his fingers round the counterpaneâ âweâre trying to leave the room the way we found it, remember?â
âHmmmrrgh.â He consented to leave his hand still when Martinâs departed from it. A few seconds later, a rustle against his ear, the smell of smoke and old clothes.
âHere.â
Jon crunched the jacket down so it wouldnât itch his ear. âYou wonât need it?â
âProbably not.â
âHm.â
âIâll be back for it if I have to go outside again, yeah?â
âOkay.â
In his mindâs eye they trudged into the wind, hand in hand. It blew Martinâs hood off his head, and inverted Jonâs cane like an umbrella. He shrunk himself further under Martinâs jacket, relishing the new pockets of warmth he created as his calves met his thighs and his hands gripped his shoulders.
âOoookayâŚ! Wish me luck?â
âGood luck,â managed Jon around a yawn.
Martin had been right about the wallpaper. Not only was the red too bright to look at comfortably; it also had the kind of flowered pattern just complex enough that every time you look back at it youâre compelled to double-check where it repeats. Every fourth stripe was the same as the first, right? Not every second? And that weird little scroll-shaped petalâheâd seen that one too recently. Was it the same as?âNo, that one was a bud. He pulled Martinâs jacket up so it covered his eyes.
Theyâd put their jackets through the laundry with everything else, their first day here, but that hadnât got the smell out. Enough time had passed between the burning building and their arrival here for the smoke to embed itself permanently into their jackets and shoes, like how duffel bags once taken camping always smell like barbecue. And everything theyâd ever shoved in those backpacks still had some of that odd, sour, Ritz-cracker smell of clothes left unwashed too long.
Daisy used to smell like smoke and laundry, too, once she quit smelling like dirt. It was the smell of the old green sleeping bag sheâd zipped up to Basiraâs. She said sheâd have showered it off if she could; she didnât like it. To her it was a Hunt smellâit reminded her of her clearing in the woods. But there werenât any showers in the Archives. Sheâd point this out every time, in the same wry voice, so Jon was sure sheâd intended the metaphor. No showers in the Archives: you couldnât hide your sins in a temple of the Eye. This had comforted Jonâor maybe flattered was the word, though he knew her better than to think sheâd have done so on purpose. He just wasnât sure he agreed. Heâd hid his sins pretty well from himself, after the coma. It was easy; you just had to lose track of scale. No one could remember all of them at once, after all. Others had had to point the important ones out to him.
Were those footsteps he could hear out there? Not Annabelleâsâ? No; her clicky shoes. These were blunter. Could be Salesa, awake at last, come to invite them to play a game with him. âHow do you two feel about⌠foosball?â he would say, drawing out the last word in a husky whisper. Only then would he swing the door wide open to reveal himself in a shiny jersey, shorts, and studded shoes. He set his fists out before him and turned them in semicircles, pretending to manipulate the plastic rods of a foosball table. Jon curled still more tightly into himself at the thought of Salesaâs face, how his showmanâs grin would crumple like a hole in a cellophane wrapper when he realized the fun one had gone and that he faced only the Archivist. âOhâhello. Jon, is it? Where has your lovely Martin gone?â
âOh, uh. Martin needs a screwdriver to fix our door, so I.â
He watched Martin march his silent way slowly, solemnly down a corridor that grew darker, grayer, vaguer with every step until the webs that lined its every side and hung in laces from the ceiling began to catch on his shoes, his belt, his glasses.
âI let him go off alone.â
Jonâs whole body flinched. He gasped awakeâoh shit. How had he just let Martin go? He had toâcouldnât stay hereâfind Martinâkeep him out of Annabelleâs clutchesâ
Stick-thin bristling spider legs tapped the floor of his mind like fingers on a table. Find Martin. Jon instructed himself to sit up, swing his legs over the side of the bed and reach down to grab his shoes. He twitched one finger. See? You can do this. In a minute heâd try again and be able to move his whole arm, push himself up onto one hand. Find Martin.
Also probably go to the toilet. With an empty bladder his head would be clearer, he could figure out which direction to look first.
After Hopworth, while he laid on the couch in his office waiting for the strength to throw himself into the Buried, Jon had imagined Martin and Georgie and Basira and Melanie all stood around that coffin, wearing black and holding flowers. Denise? No, it definitely had three syllables. A scattered applause began as Jonah Magnus emerged from his office, closed behind him the door printed with poor dead Bouchardâs name, and stepped up to the podium. Georgie, not knowing his face, began to clap; Melanie stayed her hands. Elagnusâs shirt, hidden behind suit except for the collar, was striped in black and white. A ball and chain hung from his sleeve like an enormous cufflink. He opened his mouth to speak, and a tape recorder began to hiss.
âWhat are you doing here?â asked Basira.
âNever underestimate how much I care for the tools I use, Detective. I wouldnât miss my Archivistâs big day.â
âSo they just let you out for this.â
Elias shrugged with false modesty. His chain jingled. âWhen I asked them nicely.â
âHow did you even know he was dead?â interposed Melanie. âBasira, did you tell him about theââ
âShe didnât have to,â said Elias, raising his voice to cut Melanieâs off. âNothing escapes my notice, and I like to keep an eye out for this sort of thing.â
âWellâitâsâgood to see you.â Timâs voice. Unconvincing, even then.
Jon steeled himself to hear his own voice stammer out, âYesây-yes!â but heard nothing except the hissing of the⌠tape. Yes, that was the wrong tapeâthe one from his birthday.
âAnyway. Somebody mentioned cake.â Elias jingled as he arranged his hands under his chin.
Tim scoffed. âThey didnât serve cake at my funeral.â
âI preferred going out for ice cream anyway,â pronounced Martin, his arms crossed and his nose in the air. Jon pushed himself up on shaking hands. Find Martin.
They had gone for ice cream at John OâGroats before the change, while living at Daisyâs safehouse. Martin had apologized on behalf of the kiosk for its measly selectionâno rum and raisin. Jon pronounced a playful âUrgh,â assuming Martin had cited this flavor as a joke. âI think Iâll manage without that particular abomination.â
âWait, what? Why did you order it at my birthday party then?â
Jon stood still with his ice cream cone, squinted into space, and blinked. âI did?â
âMy first birthday in the Archives, yeah!â
âHuh. Thatâs⌠odd.â Martin placed a gentle hand on Jonâs back to remind him to resume walking. âI suppose I must have beenâhuh. Yes,â he mused, nodding slowly as his hypothesis came into focus between his eyes and the ground. âI must still have thought I was tired of all the good flavors at that point.â
He heard Martin scoff a few steps ahead of him. âWhat, and now youâre happy with plain old vanilla?â Then he heard arrhythmic footsteps thumping toward him from Martinâs direction; he looked up to find Martin reaching his napkin-draped free hand out toward Jonâs ice cream cone. âYouâre dripping again,â he explained.
Jon mumbled thanks and shrugged a laugh. âI-Iâve, uh. Come back around on most of them.â
âExcept rum and raisin?â
âNoâIâve come around on it, too, just, uh.â He tried to make the shape of a wheel with his ice-cream-cone-laden hand. It flicked drips of vanilla across his shirt. Martin came at him with the napkin again. âThank you. I just disliked that one to start with.â
ââŚRight. Okay, so what revolution occurred in your life before the Archives that overturned all your opinions on ice cream flavors?â
So Jon had told Martin about that summer when his jaw kept subluxing. Heâd used that word, assuming Martin was familiar with it alreadyâincorrect, as he knew now. Presumably Martin had gathered from context that Jon meant heâd hurt his jaw, in some small-scale, no-big-deal way whose specifics heâd let slide as an unimportant detail. But then as the anecdote wore on he must have begun to feel the hole in his knowledge. And lo, at last Martin had invoked that dread specter the clarifying question.
âOkay but so your grandmother had no problem with you basically living off ice cream all summer?â
âWell, she did when I could chew. But not when it was that or tinned soup.â
âAhâright. âCause you hurt your⌠jaw, you said?â Jon nodded. âWhat happened exactly?â
âOh. Uh. Happened? Nothing, just myâI was born, I guess. Just part of my genetic condition; I happened to get it especially bad in the jaw that year. I-itâs much better now, though,â he hastened to add when he noticed Martinâs frown.
âWhat genetic condition? You never told me you had one.â
âDidnât I?â
At the time, the anger in Martinâs answering scoff had surprised him. âNo, Jon, you never said.â
âOh. Sorry? IâI mean, youâve seen me with this for yearsâI just?âthought you knew.â
âSeen you withâwhat, the cane, you mean? I thought that was Prentiss!â
Jon glanced to the doorway to double-check that was where heâd left his cane.
âWhat? No,â he had mused. âOf course not. Iâve had this sinceâŚ.â
âBut you never used it.â
âNoâsurely, Iââ
âNot once before Prentiss.â
Even as heâd said the words, Jonâs memory of that time had returned to him and heâd known Martin was right. Before Prentiss attacked the Institute heâd brought his cane with him to work in the Archives every day, and every day left it folded up in his bag. All out of an obscure notion that if heâd used it before Elias and before his coworkers, theyâd take it as a plea for mercy, an admission of weakness or incompetence. God, he was naĂŻve back then. Heâd used the cane often enough back in Research; why hadnât he worried Tim and Sasha would find its new absence conspicuous? That theyâd worry just as much about his refusal to use it? The whole thing seemed even more stupid, too, now that he knew Elias must have noticed the change. How it must have pleased him, to see his shiny new Archivist so obsessed with proving he was fit for the job.
âYeah but,â Jon pursued, instead of voicing any of this, âTim neverâ?â
Martin nodded and shrugged. âI donât know; I figured Tim didnât get them in the legs as much as you did. I didnât see you guys after the attack, remember? Not âtil you got out of quarantine.â
âRight, no, of course you didnât. Iâm sorry,â said Jon mechanically, already consumed with the question he asked next. âMartinâdid you think it was the corkscrew?â
From Martinâs sigh Jon figured heâd been expecting this question. âKinda? At first, yeah. Half for real, half justâyou know, as a habit? Like, âLook, a way to blame yourself!ââ He splayed out his hands, rolled his eyes.
âYesâI do that too.â Jon barely got the words out above a whisper; he couldnât not smile, but fought to keep it from showing teeth. A muscle under his chin spasmed with the effort.
âBut then I noticed you switching sides with it a lot, so, yeah. I knew it couldnât be just that.â
âReally?â He waited for Martinâs answering shrug. âYouâre the first person whoâs ever noticed that. Or at least commented on it.â
âSorry?â
âNoâitâs.â
This attempt to communicate a similar sentiment, Jon recalled as he reached for his shoes, hadnât gone as well as the one a few days later (over unseen horror &c.). Beholding had at that moment presented him with the image of a fat, hunched woman in shorts. She shuffled forward a few steps in a queue at Boots, next to him, and shifted her weight so the cane in her right hand supported her nearer leg. He felt a strong impulse he knew wasnât his ownâone born partly of resentment, part exasperation, part concernâto tell the woman that was bad for her shoulder, that she should switch hands too. But knew if he tried sheâd either pretend she hadnât heard it, or tell him off for criticizing her. Jon didnât know what she would say more specifically; the Eye didnât do hypotheticals. It had given him no more than this single moment of preverbal intuition. After the change he could have sought out other conversations Martin had had with his mother, and they might have given him a pretty good idea. But heâd promised Martin not to look at things like that.
He managed to dislodge a finger while tying his shoe. The other shoe heâd pulled off without untying; in a fit of impatience he tried now to shove his foot into it as it was. No goodâhe got the shoe on, but it just made the other index finger, the one heâd hooked into the back of the shoe behind his heel for leverage, pop off to the side too. Jon was afraid to find out what shape it would end up in if he pulled his finger back out of the shoe like that, so he had to untie it after all, one-handed. Then carefully extract his finger. It sprung back into place as soon as he removed the offending pressure (namely, his heel), but he still whimpered and swore. The corners of his eyes pricked with indignation when he remembered he still had to pee.
In this case, for once, Beholding had told him the important part: that that was why Martin had noticed. Had he noticed Melanie, too, Jon wondered, when she got back from India? She would switch hands sometimes, tooâbut, of course, without switching legs. He wondered if that had picked at the same unacknowledged nerve of Martinâs that his motherâs habit had. It had bothered Jon, too, but in a different way. Heâd resented it a little, but also felt humbled by it, the way he always did by othersâ discomfort. Getting shot in the leg seemed so big? Like such an aberration. So uncontroversially importantâprobably because it was simple, legible. Georgie could convey its hugeness to him in three words. She got shot. Obviously there was more to the story than that; there were parts he could neverâŚ
Well, no. There was a part of it he felt he should say he could never understand: that sheâd kept the cursed bullet because she wanted it. In fact he was pretty sure he did understand that. But he didnât have the right to admit it, he didnât think. And no reason to hope she would believe him if he did. The second heâd learnt the bullet was still in there, after all, he and Basira had rushed to dig it out. Surely, from her perspective that could only mean he didnât and could never understand. Or maybe he just wanted her to see it that wayâwanted her to get to keep that uncomplicated resentment of his ignorance. It made his perspective look stupid and ugly, sure. But the truth made it look self-absorbed and pitiful. The truth was that until Daisy insisted otherwise, heâd assumed only he could see his own corruption and assent to it: that the others must not have known what they were doing.
Then again, maybe even if Melanie knew that, she would see only that he had underestimated her. Maybe it didnât matter how much she knew.
Melanie switched off which hand she held her white cane with now, too. But that was probably healthy? Jon knew no more than the average person about white-cane hygiene. He just remembered feeling the floor drop out of his stomach when theyâd got coffee together during his time in hiding and he had seen her switch her original, silver cane from hand to hand. Part of him had wanted to scoff or rationalize it away. How much could the shot leg hurt, really, if she still noticed when her arms got tired? But another part of him shuddered at the thought one arm alone couldnât compensate for the weight her leg refused to takeâthat she had to keep switching off when one arm got weak and shaky from supporting more weight than it should have to. It wasnât that he hadnât experienced pain or impairment on that scale. He had, though the thought of a single injury sufficing to cause it still made him feel cold inside. It was that he kept seeing proofs, all over, everywhere, that the parts of his life heâd only learnt to accept by assuming they were rare werenât rare.
Leitner hadnât made the evil books; heâd just noticed they were there. And then had his life ruined by their influence, like everyone who came across them. Jon had had no time and no right to deplore the holes Prentiss had left in him and Tim, because on the same damn day he learnt someone had shot the previous Archivist to death. Alright, so it was him, then, right? Him and Timâjust doomed, just preternaturally unlucky. Tim, handsome face half-eaten by worms, estranged (as Jon then assumed) from a brother who seemed so warm and accepting in that picture on his lock screen; Jon, saved from Mr. Spider only by his childhood bully, now fated to take the place of another murder victimâand also half-eaten by worms. But no; he and Tim had got off lightly. Look what had happened to Sasha the same fucking night. The very thing whose influence convinced him the world had it out for him? Had killed Sasha. Literally stolen her life. How many lives around him got stolen while he mourned his own?
âI want you to comment on it,â Jon had managed to clarify. But Martin had scoffed as he stood in the foyer of Daisyâs safehouse, hopping on one foot to pull off the other shoe:
âYeah, well. You havenât exactly led by example on that one.â
âHow could I?â
He accepted Jonâs scarf and long-discarded jacket, hanging them up beside his own. âGee, I donât knowâcommenting on it yourself?â
âOn⌠switching which side I used the cane on.â
âDonât play dumb, Jon. On this âgenetic conditionââ (in a deep, posh voice, with a stodgy frown and fluttering eyelashes) âyouâve apparently had this entire time. Why didnât you ever say anything?â
âI thought you knew, Martin! Why would I mention it in a childhood anecdote if I didnât think...?â
âWell I didnât know, okay? You never told me. You never tell anyone anything about whatâs going on with you, you justâyou just make everything into another heroic cross to bear.â
âThatâs notâ?â He wanted to tell Martin just how little that made him want to say about it. But he guessed Martin was really talking less about the EDS thing, more about how heâd spent their whole first year in the Archives pretending to dismiss the statements that scared him. How heâd sent Tim and Martin home when heâd found out about Sasha. How heâd stayed away from the Institute even after his name got cleared for Leitnerâs murder. âWhat do you want to know.â
âWhy you neverâ?â In a similar way, Martin seemed to reconsider his initial response. âYeah, okay, right. Object-level stuff, yeah?â Jon nodded and wanly smiled. âOkay, so. Whatâs it called?â
After taking a minute to ditch his shoes, wash the sticky ice-cream residue off his hands, and drink some water, heâd sat down on the couch with Martin and told him its name, what it was, what it did. What does that mean, though, Martin kept asking, so heâd explained how it applied to the anecdote about his jaw. Martin asked why it meant he needed a cane.
âBeâŚcause all my joints are like that.â
âYeah, but why does it help with that? What is the cane actually for, is what Iâm asking.â
Jon hated being asked that question. âItâit means I donât fall over when one of my joints stops working? A-and⌠also makes walking hurt less. I suppose.â
âSo, when theyâre working right, thatâs when you donât need it?â
âNoâyes?âsort of. Now sometimes I just need it when itâs been too long since I had a statement. I get sort of. Weak.â Quickly Jon added, âBut I donât need it for stability so much since the coma.â Heâd shown Martin how now, when he pulled out his finger, the Eye would just sort of erase that version of realityâhow the dislocation wouldnât snap back, but simply cease to exist. As if his body were a drawing on which the Beholding had corrected a mistake. He put his palms together behind his back, in the way heâd been told one couldnât without subluxing both shoulders, and told Martin to watch how the hollows between his shoulder bones vanished. He opened his jaw âtil it jarred to the side, and told Martin to listen for the static.
But Jon had never shown Martin how these things worked before the coma. Martin had no reference for this kind of thing; he understood only enough to find the sights unsettling. âThatâsâno, thatâs okay, Iâllââhe stuttered as Jon fumbled with his kneecap in search of a fourth exampleââI-I get it. Iâll take your word for it.â
âI just thought.â
âNo, Iâ? I donât need you to prove it to me, Jon.â (The latter nodded, blushing, trying to smile.) âI get⌠Iâm sorry. I guess I get why itâd feel easier not to say anything if? If you think itâs either that or have to convince people itâs a thing.â
Again Jon nodded. He suspected Martin wasnât through talking yet. But Martin still wasnât looking at him, eyes squeezed tight against Jonâs party tricks. So, to show he was listening, Jon said, âYes. Erâthank you, Martin.â
âI just donât like it when you hide things from me.â
âI wasnâtââ
âYou could at least ask if I want to know about them, yeah?â
Even at the time, Jon had doubted this. If theyâd had this conversation after the change, he might have pointed out to Martin that when you mention something the other person has no inkling of, you make them too curious to decline your offer of more information, even if afterward theyâll admit they wish youâd never told them.
âOr ask me if I even recognize what youâre talking about, the next time you start going on about some childhood anecdote where you incidentally had a dislocated jaw. Honestly, would it kill you to start with, âHey, did I ever tell you about xâ?â
âNo, it wouldnât. Youâre right. Iâll try. What⌠kinds of things did youâ? For the future, I mean. What kinds of things did you want to make sure I tell you about.â
Martin sighed, in that way he did when he thought Jon was going about something all wrong. But after a pause to think, he did ask, âAbout this, or in general?â
âEitherâbothâfirst one, then the other.â
âOkay. I guess⌠I want to know when youâre hurt, mostly. LikeâI canât believe I even have to say thisâthatâs kind of important, actually? How am I supposed to know how to behave around you if I never know whether you're secretly in pain or not?â
This seemed weirdâboth now and at the time. Jon figured he must be missing something. If Martin thought he only needed the cane because of Prentiss then, sure, that might have affected how he imagined Jonâs discomfort to himself, but? Wasnât the cane itself an admission of pain? Why did Martin think he owed him more than thatâthat he had owed him more than that at the time, no less? Did he not realize how fucking private that was? What a surrender of privacy the cane represented?
But, no, he reminded himself now; nondisabled people donât realize that, unless you tell them about it. Repeatedly. Over and over. It only seems obvious to you because you lived it already.
âEr.â At the time heâd just shown Martin his teeth, with the points of his left-side canines joined. Nominally a smile, but more like a show of hiding the grimace beneath than an actual attempt to hide it. âThatâs harder than you might think? Technically Iâm alwaysâŚ.â
âOh.â
âSorrââ
ââWhat do you mean, âtechnicallyâ?â
âIâmânot always aware of it?â He disliked that phrase, in painâhow it implied a discrete and exclusive state. One could not be in Paris and at the same time in London; similarly, most people seemed to assume one could not be in pain and also in a good mood. In raptures. In a transport of laughter. That when one admits to being in pain, one implies thatâs the most important thing theyâre conscious of.
âWell that doesnât make sense.â
âYes, I knowââif a tree falls down in a forestââblah blah blah.â With a gentle smile to acknowledge heâd picked up this mode of speech from Martin. He turned his wrist in circles so it clicked like an old film reel. âPhilosophically speaking, if youâre not aware of pain, you canât be in it. Maybe âtechnicallyâ isnât the right word.â
âOh yeah âcause thatâs the angle I want to know about this from.â
Jon sighed. âI know. Iâm sorry. I just mean, it doesnât always matter to me.â
âWell it matters to me,â Martin scoffed.
âYeahâIâm getting that. Is there any way I can explain this that you wonât jump down my throat for?â
Martin sighed, groaned, pulled at his hair a little but made himself stop. (He doesnât pull it out, Jon knowsâhe just likes having something to grab onto during awkward conversations. Usually emerges from them looking like a cartoon scientist.) âOkay, yeah,â said Martin. âI get it. Iâm sorry too.â
âI meanâwhen you get a paper cut, that hurts, technically, right?â
âWell yeah, a little, but thatâs not the kind ofââ
âBut just because you notice that hurt doesnât mean?â He paused to rearrange his words. âYouâre not going to remember it later unless someone asks why youâve got blood on your sleeve.â
âYâeah. Sure.â
âIs thatâŚ?â
âWhen youâre suffering, then. I want you to tell me that. Andâwhenever something weird happens? Like, before it stops being weird and you talk to me like Iâm stupid for not already knowing about it.â
âWhat ifââthis far into his question, Jon worried it might come off as a smart-alecky, devilâs-advocate thing. So he paused, pretending he needed time to formulate its words. âWhat if I havenât decided yet whether itâs weird or not.â
âThat in itself is pretty weird, Jon.â
âFair enough.â
âI want to be part of that conversation. I want you to trust me enough to bounce ideas off me! Itâs not likeâ? I mean why wouldnât you do that?â
Jon had shrugged and grimaced, hands in his trouser pockets. âNot to worry you?â heâd suggested. But as he bit his lip and shimmied down from the bed Jon knew now that that was the sanitized versionâand probably, if youâd asked him a day before or afterward, his past self would have known that too. Most things you told Martin, heâd either ignore them completely or latch onto them, refuse to let them go, and interpret everything else you said in the light they cast. Jon had learnt not to raise any given topic with him until he was sure he wanted to risk its becoming a long, painful discussion. This was part of why he hadnât kept his promise, he told himself as he turned their interim bedroomâs doorknob. Why heâd said so little about anything weird that had happened to him at Upton House.
âMartin?â
âOh hey, Jonâyouâre awake.â Martin glanced in his vague direction but stayed bent over his work, so Jon could not meet his eyes.
âYou found the screwdriver.â
âYeah! And a screw that matches better, see?â He fished the first one they'd found out of his pocket and held it up next to the door for comparison. Jon supposed they looked a little differentâbright yellowy gold vs. a darker gold. âThey were in the library, of all places. Thereâs a little box full of âem that he keeps right next to his reading glasses, apparently. Guess he must break them a lot. How are yours, by the way? Any bits feel loose?â
Dutifully, trying to keep his dazed smile to himself, Jon pulled off his glasses. Folded and unfolded each arm, jiggled the little nose pieces. He shook his head. âDonât think so. You can have a look yourself though, if you like.â
âRemind me later. Shouldâve brought the whole box, probably,â Martin said, voice strained as he twisted the screw that last little bit. âThere!â His open mouth broadened into a smile. âTime to see if it worked. You wanna do the honors?â
Jon shook his head, breathed a laugh through his nose. âYou should do it. Youâre the reason itâs fixed.â
âI mean, yeah,â shrugged Martin as his hand closed round the doorknob, âbut Iâm also the reason it broke.â It opened with a click. âHa-ha! Success! Statementsâour own clothesâour own bed! Er. Ish.â
Something tugged in Jonâs chest; heâd forgot the statements were why Martin thought this quest so urgent. He lingered at the side of the bed while Martin rummaged in his backpack, remembering for once to toe his first shoe off while standing.
âMan. Looks sorta underwhelming now, after the other room, huh?â
âLeast our wallpaperâs better.â
âTsshhyeah, and our view.â
Jon didnât turn around, but surmised Martin must be looking out at that tree he liked. âIs it four already?â
âUhhânearly, yeah. You were out for a while; took me ages to find that damn thing. Here you go,â announced Martin as he slapped a zip-loc bag full of statement down on the bed.
(âSo they wonât get water damage,â he had answered a few days ago, when Jon asked him why heâd individually wrapped each statement like snacks in a bagged lunch. âWhat? Itâs not like we have to worry about landfills anymore. If I put them all in the same bag, youâd take one out and not be able to get it back in.â)
âWhat happened to my jacket, by the way? And yours?â
âUhhh.â
âRight, okay,â Martin laughed; âIâll go get them before I forget. Iâll put this away too, I guessâ (meaning the screwdriver still in his hand). âDonât wait for me, yeah? I donât mind missing the trailers.â
Jon smiled. âSure.â
As Martin hurried off, Jon sat down to untie and pull off his other shoe, threaded the lace back through the final eyelet from which itâd come loose, picked up the first shoe and untied that one, then stood up and set them by the door next to his cane. Both hips and all ten fingers behaved themselves throughout. As he walked by the vanity he grabbed the coins heâd removed to do laundry the other day and stuck them back in his trouser pocket. Useless, of course, but heâd missed having something to fidget with. He squatted down and peered under the vanity for the hair tie heâd dropped, for the fifth or sixth time since heâd misplaced it. Didnât find it. That was fine; he had another one around his wrist. His knees felt weak, so instead of standing back up he crab-walked to the foot of the bed and sat down with his back against it. Straightened his legs out before him on the floor. Then he dug the coins from his pocket and counted them. Yupâstill 74p.
Danika! Not DanielaâDanika Gelsthorpe. God, he would never forget one of their names out there. Never underestimate how much I care for the
âI'm back. Whatâs down there? Did you find the screw?â asked Martin as he hung their jackets up behind the door.
Jon shook his head. âForgot about it. I was looking for that hair tie.â
âWell youâre on your own there; Iâm done finding things today. The screw can wait,â Martin laughedââheâs got a whole bag inside that box in the library. Do you need a hand getting up?â
He let Martin help him. Both knees cracked; the worldâs edges went dark for a second. âThank you,â he said, and it came out more peremptory than heâd meant it.
âStatement time?â
âRight. You donât mind? I can wait âtil weâve both had a rest, if you donât want to be in the room while I.â
âNo, Iâm alright; Iâll stay here.â
âYou sure?â
âYeah.â
âI thought you hated statements.â
Martin shrugged. âNot these ones so much, now that. Hehâtheyâre almost nostalgic, if Iâm honest. âCan it be real? I think Iâve seen a monster!ââ
âThey are a bit,â agreed Jon, looking down at the plastic-sleeved statement and making himself smile.
âGo on. Seeing you feel better will make me feel better too.â
That made it a bit easier to motivate himself, Jon supposed. From the moment heâd lain down on the bed heâd felt like he was floating on gentle wavesâlike if he let himself listen to them he could fall asleep in seconds. But that wouldnât make Martin feel better. And no guarantee it would him, either, once he woke up again. He rearranged the pillows behind himself so heâd have to sit up a little; this might help keep him awake, and it meant he could rest his elbows on the bed while he held up the statement, rather than having to lift them up before his eyes. It made his neck sore, a bit, this angle, but that was fine. That might help keep him awake, too.
He sighed, readying himself for speech. Then heard a click, and felt a familiar buzz and weight against his stomach. The tape recorder had manifested inside his hoodieâs kangaroo pocket.
âStatement of Miranda Lautz, regarding, er⌠a botched home-repair job. Heh. Seems appropriate. Original statement given March twenty-sixth, 2004. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.â
[Image ID: A digital painting of Jon and Martin on an old-fashioned canopy bed with white sheets and orange drapes. Jon sits on the near side of the bed, reading a paper statement. He frowns slightly, looking down at the statement in his hands; he wears round glasses perched low on his nose. Heâs a thin man, with medium brown skin dotted by scars left from the worms, and another scar on his neck from Daisy's knife. His hair is long and curly, gray and white hairs among the black. Jon sits supported by pillowsâseveral big, white, lace-trimmed ones behind his back, and one under his knees. His right leg is slightly crossed over his left ankle, on which a clean white bandage peeks out beneath his cuffed, dark green trousers. He wears an oversized red hoodie and red-toed brown socks. Sat on the far side of the bed, next to Jon but facing away from both him and the viewer, is Martinâa tall and fat white man with short, curly, reddish brown hair and a short beard. He has glasses and is wearing a dark blue jumper and gray-brown trousers. Past the bed on Martinâs side, the bedroom door hangs ajar; in this light, it and the wall glow bluish green. On the near side, though, the light grows warmer, the orange canopy behind Jon casting pink and brown tints onto the white pillows and sheets. End ID.]
It seemed to be a Corruption statement, or maybe the Spiral. Possibly the Buried? A leak in Ms. Lautzâs roof caused a pill-shaped bulge to appear in her kitchen ceiling, about the size of a bread loaf. Water burst from it like pus from an abscess (as she described it. Nothing else Fleshy though, so far). Ms. Lautz repaired the hole in her ceiling, but every morning a new one reappeared somewhere else. Sometimes they appeared bulging and pill-shaped like the first one; other times she found them already burst, covering the room in water shot through with dark specks like coffee grounds.
Jon wished heâd refilled his empty water glass before starting to record. His mouth was so dry that every time he pronounced an L his tongue stuck to its roof. At this point heâd welcome a hole to burst in it and flood his mouth with water. Then again, he did still have to pee.
Eventually she and her spouse hired someone to find out what was wrong with the roof. She described hearing boots tramping around up there for half a day while they checked out all the spots where she and Alex had reported leaks. The inside of Jonâs trouser leg pulled at the bandage on his shin, making it itch. The repair men told Ms. Lautz itâd be safer and barely any more expensive to replace the whole thing. The ring and little fingers of Jonâs left hand were starting to go numb from having that elbow too long pressed against the bed. Miranda and Alex thanked the roof people and sent them off, saying theyâd think it over.
He began to regret crossing his legs this way. Heâd balanced his right heel in the hollow between his left footâs ankle and instep, and in the time since heâd arranged them that way gravity had slowly pushed his foot more and more to the side, widening that gap. By this time he was sure it was hyperextendedâpossibly subluxed? It hurt already, and, he knew, would hurt more when he tried to move it. This rather ruined his fantasy of heading straight for the toilet when he finished reading.
Martin was right; these old statements seemed positively tame, now. He knew he owed it to Ms. Lautz to engage with her fate, but?
No. No buts. Whatever hell she lived in now, it looked just like the one she was about to describe for him, only worse. You canât even pretend youâre sorry sheâs living out her worst fear if you stop in the middle of reading that fearâs origin story. Never underestimate how much I
Once the repair men had left, Miranda Lautz wandered into her kitchen for lunch. She found her ceiling bulging halfway to the floor, with the impression of a face and two twisted arms at its center. Like someone had fallen through her roof, head first. Jonâs stiff neck twinged in sympathy. Miranda screamed and strode to the other side of the house in search of beer, figuring she'd find better answers at the bottom of a bottle than in her own head. When she got back to the kitchen with them, the beer bottles didnât know what to do either, but saidâ
âGod damn it. Not âalesâââAlexâ. Obviously.â
He let the statementâs pages flop over the back of his hand, let his head tip backward until the top of it bumped against headboard and his eyes faced the ceiling. That settled it, then, didnât it. If he had the Ceaseless Watcher looking through his eyes, he wouldnât make a mistake like thatâand he certainly couldnât change position while recording. On top of his more substantial regrets, Jon had spent their whole odyssey before they came to Upton House ruing that heâd sat at the dining-room table to read Magnusâs statement, rather than on the couch or the bed. The chairs at that table had plain, flat wood seatsâno cushion, no contouring for the shape of an arse. When he opened the door to the changed world, the cataclysm had preserved his bodily sensations at that moment like a mosquito in amber. Heâd had a sore tailbone and pins and needles down his legs for untold eons. Right up until he and Martin crossed from the Necropolis onto the grounds protected by Salesaâs camera, where his tailbone faded out of awareness and his head filled up with cotton.
âOhhh. âAlexâ. Okay, that makes a lot more sense,â laughed Martin meanwhile. Jon could feel Martinâs shoulder bouncing against his. âShe mustâve written it in cursive, huh.â
âI canât do this right now, Martin.â
âOhâokay, yeah. You rest; Iâll finish it for you.â
Jon closed his eyes and let air gush out from his nostrils. But you hate the statements, he knew he should say. Wouldnât this make it easier, though? To let Martin have out this last bit of denial first?
The tape recorder in his pocket still hissed, still warmed and weighted down his stomach like a meal.
âThank you,â he said.
The operator on the phone said she and Alex should wait for the ambulance to arrive, rather than try to free the man in the ceiling by themselves. Jon turned his neck back and forth, hoping Martin couldnât hear its jointsâ snap/crackle/pop. He picked his elbow up off the bed and shook out his hand. But when the paramedics cut the ceiling open, only a torrent of water gushed into their kitchenâwater flecked with a great deal of what looked like coffee grounds. A day or two later the roof people called, to ask if theyâd decided whether to have the roof repaired or replaced. They assured her none of their employees had gone missing. At the time of writing, Miranda and Alex still hadnât decided what to do about the roof. A week ago, theyâd found a squirrel-shaped bulge in their bedroom ceiling; theyâd packed their bags and come to stay with Alexâs sister in London.
âRight! That wasnât so bad.â Martin set the statement down and stretched his arms over his head. âHuh.â
âHm?â
âOh, I donât know, justâitâs been a while. Thought it might feel, I donât know, worse than that? Or better, I guess, since the Eyeâs so âfondâ of me now.â
âI donât think they work here.â
âWhat?â
âThe statements. The Eye canât see their fear.â
âOh.â Jon could feel Martin deflating. He let himself avalanche over to fill the space. âYou donât feel better, do you.â
âNo.â
âMaybe itâs justâslower here, like itâs taking a while to load or something. Remember how long the tape recorder took to come on last time? It was likeâyou were likeâ ââStatement of Blankety Blank, regarding an encounter withââOh, right,â click.â
That was true. The tapes had known Salesa would give a statement before it happened, but with these paper ones theyâd seemed slow on the uptake. Martin had also sworn the recorder that manifested to tape Mr. Andradeâs statement was a different machine than the one Salesaâd spotted that first morning. Jon wondered which machine the one in his pocket was.
Not relevant, he decided. He shook his head in his palm, stroking the lids of his closed eyes. âNoâif they worked here I wouldnât be able to stop in the middle of one.â As soon as he said it he winced, bracing himself for argument.
After the change he remembered wailing to Martin about how he couldnât stop reading Magnusâs statementâhow its words had possessed his whole body, forced him to do the worst thing any person ever had, and forced him to like it, to feel Magnusâs triumph as they both opened the door. Martin had pressed Jonâs face into his clavicle, rubbed his nose in the scent of Daisyâs laundry soap, covered the back of Jonâs head with his hands. Tried to interpose what he must then have still called the real world between Jon and what he could see outside. Heâd said over and over, I know, and Weâll be okay. Jon had known that meant he wasnât listening, and yet still hadnât been prepared for the argument they had later, when he mentioned in sobriety the same things heâd wailed back then.
âHang onââMartin had pleadedââno, that canât be true. Iâve been interrupted in the middle of a statement loads of timesâand I know you have too.â
âBy outside forces, yes, but you canât decide to stop reading one. Believe me, Martin, I wouldnât haveââ
âTim did.â
âNo, he didnâtââ
âYes he did! He was gonna do one and then Melanieââ
âNo, Martin, Iâve heard the tape youâre talking about. Tim introduced the statement but didnât actually startââ
âHe did so! He read the first bit, and then stopped. âMy parents never let me have a night light. I wasâââ
ââAlways afraid, but they were justâ....â Behind his own eyes heâd felt the Eye shudder and throb with gratitude. Just that sort of stubborn, it had seemed to sing, in a bizarre combination of his own voice with Jonahâs with Melanieâs, which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening.
âYeah,â said Martin, forehead wrinkling. âAnd then he said, âThis is stupid,â and stopped.â
âYouâre right.â
Jon still had no satisfying answer to that one, and cursed himself for having opened that can of worms back up again. It had been Timâs first-ever statement, he reminded himself, and maybe Tim had never intended to get even that far. Maybe heâd been waiting for someone to interrupt him, as Melanie eventually did. Even out there, the Eye couldnât really show him things like that. He could find out what Tim had saidâcould look it up, as it wereâand what heâd thought, but motivation was a bit too murky, multilayered, complicated. It wasnât real telepathy? The vicarious emotions the Eye gave him access to worked in broad strokes, generalitiesâjust like common or garden empathy. Sure, he could imagine other peopleâs points of view more vividly, now that he could see through their eyes. But he still had to imagine them to life, based on the clues around him and what emotions those clues stirred in him. It didnât work well for situations like this; he could hear Melanieâs footsteps and feel Timâs reluctance to read a statement, but that was it. Enough to concoct plausible explanations; not enough to pick out the truth from a list of them. Plausibilities were too much like hypotheticals.
In the timelessness since that argument with Martin, though, Jon had also wondered whether it mattered if Tim had read the statement before recording it. He didnât have footage, as it were, of Tim doing so; either the Eye had more copies of the statementâs events than it needed already and so had deleted that one from storage, or, conversely, perhaps it could no longer see versions of it that relied too heavily on the pages Mr. Hatendi had written it on, since Martin had burned those. But Timâs summary, before he started reading. Blanket, monster, dead friend. It was bad, sure (like the assistantsâ summaries always were, a ghost of past Jon interposed). But it sounded like the summary of a man whoâd read it with his mind on other things. Inevitable and gruesome end. How he tried to hide; he couldnât. Not at all like that of someone skimming it for the first time as he spoke. He did rifle through the papers though? So Jon couldnât be sure. The suspicion ate at his mind, especially here. Could he have kept the world from ending just byâreading Magnusâs statement, before he went to record it? The way he used to way back at the start, before he trusted himself to speak the words perfectly on the first try? You didnât mean to record it, did you? No, Iâm sure you told Melanie and Basira you were just going to
âGuess that makes sense,â Martin said now. âSo, youâre still feelingâŚ?â
âNot great?â
âYeah.â
âI⌠I feel human, here.â
âOh wow. Thatâsââ
Jon told himself to put the hope in Martinâs voice to bed as soon as possible. âI know Iâm notânot fully.â He allowed a smile to twitch the corners of his lips, flared his nostrils around an exhale that almost passed as a laugh. âMost humans donât spontaneously summon tape recorders. Or sleep with their eyes open.â
âYeah, but still, you donât think maybeâ?â
Again Jon hastened to cut Martin off. âA-and even if I was, itâs. I know that should be a good thing? Butââ
At this point Martin interposed, âShould be, yeah! You donât think it might mean you couldâI donât know, go back to normal? If we stayed here for a while?â
âMaybe? I-I might stop craving the Eye so much, but weâd still have to go back out there eventually, to face Elias, and. To be honest with you, Martin?â He huffed a laugh out, bitterly. âMy ânormalâ wasnât exactly...â
âRight.â Martin sighed. âSo you mean you feel like you used to, as a human. Which wasâŚâ
âNot great.â
âRight.â
âI havenât been very well, here.â Jon shrugged for the excuse to duck his head. He could feel himself blushing, the heat spilling from his face all down both arms. Good thing the tape recorder in his pocket had gone cold.
Next to him, Martin puffed air out of his cheeks. âYeah, I know.â
âIâm dizzy and confused without the Eye, and itâit canât fix me here? When I.â He drew in breath, lifted his heel off his ankle and set that leg to the side, letting its foot roll into Martinâs shin. Bit his lip and scrunched his nose in preparation. Flexed the other footâs toes, trying to isolate the lever in his ankle that wouldâthere. Clunk. Then a noisy exhale: âJyyrrggh. When that happens,â he choked out, voice strained by both pain and nerves. âItâs like before I became an avatar. I have to fix it myself, and it doesnât just.â Magically stop hurting, he hoped went without saying; already he could hear Martin sucking air through his teeth. It made Jonâs cheeks itch. âShouldnât have let myself get used to a higher standard, I suppose.â
âWhat? Noâof course you should have. Did you think I was gonna say that?â
âNo, of course not; I just meantââ
âYou deserve to feel healthy, Jon.â
âDo I? Health is clumsy, itâs callous, it, it lets terrible things happen because they donât feel realâit canât imagine them properly, canât understand what they meanâŚ.â
âOkay, first of all, ouch.â Jon snarled a laugh at that, without knowing whether Martin meant it as a joke. âSecond of all, that is not why youâwhy the world ended, okay? Especially, âcause, you werenât âhealthyâ then. You read Eliasâs bloody statement because you were starving, remember?â
âHmrph,â pronounced Jon, to concede he was listening without either confirming or denying the point.
âAnd thirdly, youâre not âcallousâ out there? You donâtââa scoff interrupted his words. âYou donât âlet things happen because they donât feel realââthatâs sure not how I remember it. Okay? I remember you crying forâgod, I donât know, days, maybe? Weeks?âabout how you could feel everything, and couldnât stop any of it. Thatâs the thing weâre hiding from here, Jon, so if you donât actually feel any healthier here then what even is the point?â
In a voice embarrassment made small Jon managed, âI mean? Iâm still kind of having fun.â
âReally? You donât seem like itââ
âNot today, maybeââ
âRight, yeah, no; spending all day trying to fix a doorknob isnât exactlyââ
âBut I donât want to leave yet. I should still have a few good days left before the distance from the Eye gets tooâŚ.â
âYou sure?â
âIâm sure.â For a few seconds he tried to think of something better to say, then gave up and told the truth, though in a jocular voice to hide his self-consciousness. âAlways was the person who got ill on holiday.â
âOh, god, of course you wereââ
Voice growing higher in pitch, Jon pleaded, âIt didnât usually stop me from enjoying it?â
âWhat about America?â laughed Martin. âDid you still enjoy that one?â
âOf course notâI got kidnapped.â
âI mean, yeah, but you were pretty used to that too by then, right?â
âGod.â Jon sniffed, crunchily, reeling back in the snot heâd laughed out. âBesides. That was a business engagement.â
Martin acknowledged this comment with a quick Psh, as he turned himself around on the bed to face Jon a little more. âCan I trust you toââhe stopped.
âYes.â
âNo, let meâthat wasnât fair; I canât ask you that yet.â
âOh. Iâm sorry, Martin; I didnâtââ
âOf me, I meant, it wasnât fair.â
âOh.â
âYeah. Iâve been ignoring your distress all week because I wanted it not to matter.â
âI donât know if Iâd call it âdistress,ââ pointed out Jon. âPlus, I have been sort of, er. Secretive, about it.â
The exasperation in Martinâs sigh was probably meant for him, not for Jon, the latter reminded himself. âYeah, but youâre not subtle. I can tell when youâre hiding something. It wasnât exactly a big leap to figure out what. But I told myself it was temporary, and that you were acting like.â
Jon laughed preemptively. âYes?â
âLike a little kid in line for a theme-park ride.â Again Jon laughedâless at the comparison itself than at how much Martin winced to hear himself say it. âIâm sorry. I shouldâve taken you more seriously.â
âAnd I should have told you what was going on with me.â
âYup,â concurred Martin at once.
âI know you hate it when I keep things from you.â
âI doâI hate it.â
âIâm sorry.â
âYeah, I know. Iâm sorry too.â Martin waved this away like a fly. âI justâyou said you think weâve got a few more days, before it gets too much or whatever.â
âYes.â
âCan I trust you to tell me when we need to leave?â
Jon tried not to answer too quickly, knowing vaguely that that might sound insincere. âYes,â he said again, after pausing for a second. âYou can trust me.â
âOkay? Donât try to spare my feelings, or anything like that. Likeâdonât just go, âOh, well, heâs having a good time. Thatâs fine; I donât have to.â Yeah? âCause I wonât have a good time if Iâm worried youâre secretly suffering.â
This Jon did know; it sent a thrill of recognition down his spine, as he remembered their first dayâs ping-pong adventure. âRight. Iâll do my suffering as publicly as possible.â
âUh huh.â Martinâs arm tightened around Jonâs shoulder. âJust donât worry about disappointing me? I mean, sure, I like it here, with the whole ânot being an evil wastelandâ thing, but Iâd much rather be out there with you happy than with you than spend one more minute in paradise with her.â
With a smile, Jon replied, âThat might just be the nicest thing youâve ever said to me.â
âYeah, yeah. Come on. Weâve got a job to do.â
âI suppose we do.â
As they walked on out of the range of Salesaâs camera, Jon glanced backward one more time and thought, Yes, that makes senseâbut couldnât quite recall what he had expected to see. It was like when you look at a clock, and tick Check the time off your mental to-do list, then realize you never internalized what time it was. âPity,â he mused.
âWhat?â
âItâs, er, going away. That peace, the safety, the memory of ignorance.â
âThatâs⌠Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Do you remember any of it? W-What Salesa said? Annabelle?â
âSome, I think. Itâs, uh⌠do you mind filling me in?â
âWait, you need me to tell you something for once?â
âI guess so. Itâs, er⌠itâs gone. Like a dream. What was it like?â
After a pause Martin said, âNice. It was⌠it was really nice.â
âEven though Annabelle was there?â
âI mean, yeah, but she didnât do anything,â shrugged Martin. âExcept cook for us. That was weird.â
âShe cooked?â Jon watched Martin nod and smile around a wince. âAnd we let her do that? I let her do that?â
With a scoff Martin answered, âUnder duress, yeah.â
âHuh.â Jon twirled his cane in circles, wondering why heâd thought he would need it. âWell, she didnât poison us, apparently.â
âNope. And believe me, we had that conversation plenty of times already. Erâmaybe just let me put that away for you before you take somebodyâs eye out, yeah?â
Jon nodded, folded his cane and handed it to Martin, then made himself laugh. âWas I⌠a bit neurotic about it.â
âAbout Annabelle?â Again Jon nodded. âOh, we both were. We kept switching sidesâone day Iâd be like, âBut sheâs got four arms, Jon!â and the next youâd be likeââ
âShe had four arms?â
âYup. And six eyes. But your powers didnât work there, so we thought maybe hers didnât either? Never did find out for sure. Godâyou remember the day we got locked out of our room?â
âErâŚ.â
âSo thatâs a no, then.â
âSorry.â
Martinâs lips billowed in a sigh. âNo, donât be sorry. Itâs not your fault.â
âSo⌠what happened? Who locked us out? Was it Annabelle?â
âNo, no, no one locked us out. It was just me, I uhâI sorta broke the doorknob? God, it was awful. Went to open it and the whole thing just came off in my hand, likeâ (he made the motion of turning a doorknob in empty air, and imitated the sound Jon figured it must have made coming off) âkrrruk-krr.â Jon fondly laughed; he could imagine Martinâs horror at breaking something in a historic mansion. âIt was just one screw that came loose, though, so youâd think, easy fix, right? Except the bloody screwdriver took forever to find. Turns out Salesa kept them in the library, of all places.â
âS-sorryâwhat does this have to do with Annabelle?â
âOhânothing ultimately, just.â Martin grimaced at his own recollection. âGod, we had this whole argument over whether to ask her about it, and when I finally did can you guess what she told us?â
âWhat?â managed Jon; his throat felt small and weak all of a sudden.
Martin put a finger to his chin, and blinked his eyes out of sync. ââPerhaps he keeps them next to something that breaks a lot,ââ he recited, with an inane, self-congratulating smile. For a fraction of a second Jon could recognize it as Annabelleâs Iâve-just-told-a-riddle expression. But the memory faded and he could picture her face only as heâd seen it in pictures before the change.
âOâŚkay. And was that⌠true?â
âI mean, yeah, technically. Useless, though. And after we spent so long agonizing over whether it was safe to ask herâŚ.â
Jon allowed himself a cynical laugh. âAre you sure she didnât orchestrate the whole thing?â
âUghâno, it wasnât her. We had this conversation at the time. You made me check for cobwebs and everything.â
âAnd you⌠didnât find any?â
âOf course not, Jon; it was a doorway.â
âRight. Doorway, yes.â
âAre you sure youâre feeling better? You still seem a bitâŚ.â
âNo, IâmâI feel fine, I just canât seem to. Retain anything concrete about⌠where did you say it was? Upton House? God thatâs strange, that it would just beâŚ.â
Part of Jon felt tempted to deplore it as a waste of space, on the apocalypseâs part. These stretches of empty land were one thing, but a mansion? Couldnât they at least get a Spiral domain out of it?
âI mean, not really. He told us all about it, remember? With the magic camera?â
âRight, yes,â Jon agreed.
âWell, we got it all on tape, if you want to listen to it later.â
âYes, that soundsâall of it?â
âWell not the whole week or anything. It just came on whenever it thought it was important, I guess.â
âSo not the part about the doorway.â
âNope.â
âPity.â
#tma fic#the magnus archives#rqbb2021#rusty quill big bang 2021#jonmartin#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#suddenly a tma blog#scri wrote something
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I read Ruin and Rising because Iâm bored
And I also hate myself
Like with the last book, I have a vague idea of the plot and stuff from tumblr and fanfics. I will also be refering to Darkling as Sasha for most of this.
I am still Darklina trash and donât particularly like Mal.
On a different note, Iâve finally moved for college, but the internet here is trash, so Iâll probably have a lot more reading time now, since most games I play are online and will crash without internet.
Before
Cool story. Letâs hope Alina stays a badass.
Who am I joking, I know how this ends.
Chapter 1
So far so good. I hate the Apparat, per usual. Alinaâs there basically dying and that bitch canât wait to see her do so.
Cult leader to the core this one. He probably hates that his figurehead is alive and also not brainwashed.
Cult leader doesnât like swearing. How surprising.
My boy David is completely right. What kind of irresponsible dingus keeps centuries old books in a fucking wet-ass cave? (Or a tree for that matter *cough cough* The Last Jedi *cough, cough*).
Genya is fun to be around.
Oh, shit, letâs go.
Chapter 2
Jesus Christ, Alina, Zoya isnât that bad.
This is one hell of a shitshow.
I live for this version of Alina. Badass. Scary. I want more of this Alina.
Chapter 3
Out of all the random little details from crappy smut fics, I did not expect Oncat to be from the books, lol.
Mal actually has a supernatural tracking ability. Like, literally, they put a bug into the pouch with gunpowder so he could make the shot. I guess this was kinda said before, but never this directly, right?
Alinaâs merzost-skyping Sasha now, yay.
Alina is horny for Sasha boy. Yay.
Alina canonically has a praise kink. Nice.
I hate LB with all of my heart at this very moment. How dare she bait us Darklina people like this? How DARE she? (Shipbaiting is the worst, seriously.)
Yes, yes, yes. These two lines. Thatâs what their relationship is all about. Theyâre each others foils, the yin to the otherâs yang and... ugh. I am Darklina trash to the core and this hurts.
Darklina: You have a terrible taste in men.
Alina: I liked you once.
My boy Sasha walked into that one.
Chapter 4
Alina is a Queen. And we love her.
David, my beloved, my spirit animal.
Itâs surprising they can read it at all, given itâs been centuries. Have you ever tried reading medieval manuscripts?
Honestly, with a father that crazy, itâs no wonder Baghraâs a bitch. And Iâve seen it said somewhere that the books imply Ilyaâs experiments are what caused Baghra to be a shadow summoner and you know what? I can see how youâd make that connection.
Why is there so few Tidemakers in the books? Waterbenders are useful. I want more waterbenders.
Alina picking up some habits from Baghra I see.
Ah, yes, we love an educated giant.
Iâm starting to think Harshaw is a bit nuts.
Shut up, Hershey. Or at least share the weed with the class. Iâm not here for this âHeâs mean to you because he likes youâ. I might believe that in like, elementary school, but yall are (more or less) adults. Jesus.
Well, that was a bombshell of a twist.
Chapter 5
Oh boy, weâve got some trauma bonding for out merry band of misfits. Yay.
Adrik has a crush on Zoya. And she hates it, lol. Cut the kid some slack, heâs like 15 or something.
That reminds me, I have a four-leaf clover pressed in books from close to year and a half ago. Time flies.
Theyâre really diving into the Mal has supernatural powers, huh?
Ghosts, letâs go.
Alina âIâm so happy to be outside I start to shine like a fucking fairyâ Starkov and Mal is entranced. Heâs definitelly nicer now. Iâm not forgiving him for all the shit heâs pulled before and for using the silent treatment way too much, but hey, at least heâs improving.
I am not a Zoyalina person, but like... gay? Please? Rivals to grudging allies to friends to lovers, 300k slowburn? Sounds more fun than whatever Mala dn Alina have going on, lol.
(Iâm starting to realize Iâm not as much a Darklina person as I am anti-Malina person, lol. Like, literally everyone has a more interesting dynamic with Alina than tracker boy over there. Malina is at best boring AF and at worst toxic, codependent and emotionally abusive, while also being boring AF at the same time. It has literally nothing going for it except God herself liking it).
I can see why Nadia is gay in the show. The book version of her definitelly has a crush on Tamar. Homegirl likes a woman, who can murder her with the flick of her wrist and honestly? Same.
Alina has some big âcoming out of lockdown after a yearâ energy atm.
The cat is one of the most realistic characters in this thing, lol.
And since Tamar is also heavily queercoded, our lovely ladies make off into the night, flirting. Or maybe not. Let me dream, though.
At least Blade Boy is aware that his tattoo is stupid. To quote someone ranting about him on tumblr: Heâs embracing his identity as a tool.
Oh, boy, this will be fun.
Evil soldier is horny for Mal. Saints, is there a woman in this book who isnât horny for Blade Boy?
And here comes Niki to save the day.
Chapter 6
Niki saved the day.
Fiberglass? And David being David. Genya being in love with her nerd of a boyfriend.
Jesus Christ, this one crazy kid has moved the technology in this universe a whole century on his own. So, when is David going to propose to him?
Baghra hasnât changed much I see.
Baghraâs about to drop some truthbombs, but no, we have to be rudely interupted because Genyaâs rapist is throwing a fit.
Chapter 7
How does Mal sound? Is she gonna say the Blade boy sounds like her dad? I mean, I know voices are partially genetic, but it has been tens of generations between them, probably.
So, weâre finally taking Genyaâs trauma seriously after all this time? Good. Better late than never, I guess.
I wish that regicide was already finished and Iâm pretty sure that Genya does, too. Stop defending the fucking king, narrative.
Davidâs a nerd in all things I see.
Someone please just kill the king already. And the queen, too, for good measure.
Now thatâs a romance.
Infodumping and listening to said infodumps is a legitimate love language, Alina. Let them nerd out over poisons.
Wait, has Alina never directly killed anyone before? I thought she did... hmmm.
And just like that, it should have been over. Ugh.
Somehow, Baghra is a better teacher now than she was before. She half feels like a completely different character.
Nevermind, sheâs back at it.
Chapter 8
Holy shit, Nadia and Tamar are canon. They have canon gays here.
So, which one of them is gonna die?
Chapter 9
We arrive at that scene. The one, where they should have fucked.
Jeez, girl, get a hold of yourself. Life is short, fuck a villain.
In other news, Genya and David definitelly fucked.
Chapter 10
Poor David. He just wanted to know.
Damn... I never realized just how young Baghra was, when she killed her sister.
Iâve already made a post about this, but it really does strike me like Baghra has already decided to end her life at this point in the book.
Why is that whole âbut what if weâre relatedâ thing even in there?
Chapter 11
We love a suprise attack.
When did Sasha boy learn that trick?
Baghra really just did that. Oh boy.
Chapter 12
No, donât kill the kid... ugh.
Emotiona support cat. She should be friends with Milo.
Porrige for brains. Oof.
So Nadia was the one, who got bees set on her in the book. Cool.
Thatâs a good question. Why was it never brought up to Alina, that other Grisha get blocks, too?
David already thinking of steampunk prosthetic for Adrik is honestly kinda sweet.
Chapter 13
Back home... kinda.
Is that really... you really care about Mal bonking the Grisha school mean girl over a year ago? Okay.
Chapter 14
Angst! Yay!
And more angst.
Chapter 15
Sasha really went âMy mom killed herself to save you? Well, Iâll kill the closest thing to parents you have.â
Chapter 16
Nikolaiâs alive. Kinda.
And these two have such a sibling energy, I canât.
And then they fuck. Ew.
Chapter 17
Wait, wait wait... so Alina isnât even the one to destroy the Fold?
Okay. Thatâs... weird.
Holy shit. That was...
So, Aleksander is dead. Mal isnât. Someone else destroyed the Fold for Alina and now she has no powers.
Okay.
Thatâs a weird-ass ending.
Chapter 18
The gays survived, so thatâs nice.
Genya made good on her promise of making Alina a ginger, lol.
After
What emotion is this supposed to give me? Cause all I feel is kinda sad.
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A Dream SMP SBI focused AU where all of SBI is related and everybody in the fam know it, except Tommy.
Tommy just assumes that theyâre really close friends or some shit, and Wilbur calling Phil dad sometimes is an inside joke between the two.
Like growing up they were a really weird family where all of them had like, their own house/building and they just vibed. Like Tommy was raised by Phil but he doesnât really remember it (like, can you remember anything from when u were 0-5 yrs old? Cause I sure canât.) and he was given his own building thing when he was like 5 nearing 6, through that ended up being left alone more. And it was purely by accident, and he started hearing Wil and Techno reffed to Phil as just âPhilâ, so he started doing it.
Along time it completely slips his mind that theyâre family and not just a very small gated close community, and as I said before theyâre a weird ass family Phil leaves on exoditions sometimes. He even might take Wil or Techno along on chance, but not Tommy bc that is a straight up child. Sometimes the trips take months but Tommy isnât bothered, why should he be bothered that his neighbors leave for months on end sometimes. So the now 7 yr old takes care of himself all alone, and he doesnât see this as weird bc the rest of SBI doesnât see it as weird. He just legit thinks that straight up children can live alone and be just fine.
This one time a creeper blows up his house, and because heâs got no clue on how to repair it he just makes a dirt shack. But he thinks it looks ugly (OOC I know) so he carves out this hill and lives in there, and that how he develops a habit of building his homes in hills and mountains. Also when heâs bored he starts mining and accidentally creates these basically ant tunnels that travel underneath the big ass clearing the SBI lives in, thereâs also at least one tunnel that goes into/near one of the buildings the SBI have separately.
Tommy doesnât feel neglected because he doesnât realize that he should, being left alone for months. He doesnât feel bad about spending most of his b-days alone because he thinks that he has no friends, and the people around him are just his neighbors and shouldnât come to the random kids b-day party. He also doesnât realize that usually ppl have to pay some kind of tax to live in a house somewhere, he jus thinks that u just build a house somewhere and thats it.
Heâs kind of is close to Wilbur, but itâs more in the way of saying hi to someone as you pass them but never interacting with them. He gets closer to Wilbur through the drug business.
(Tommy meets Tubbo at the SMP, but they had been pen pals for 6 yrs. They got connected through a magazine that advertised pen pals and how itâd get you one, it worked and they became friends. Tubbo also knows of the fact that Tommy lived alone, and is on the same page as Tommy about the family.)
At 15 (nearing 16) he leaves for the SMP, he waves the rest of the SBI goodbye because for some bizarre reason they all came out to say bye to him based on the one thing he said to Wilbur about leaving. At the SMP things go like normal, except new conflict rises from Tommy simply not paying his taxes. Dream goes to confront him with some other people that tagged along just for the fun of it, only for it to turn into a giant ass street fight because: Dream thinks Tommyâs bullshitting not knowing what taxes are because he knows Tommy didnât lie to him about living alone before (he believes him bc he knows how to do household chores and up keeping), and Tommy thinks Dreamâs just trying to exploit him because he thinks heâs some stupid kid. Said street fight that lasted 2h became know as âThe Tax Scrapâ, as it was a scrap and in led to taxes being demolished completely so no one had to pay them.......there was a party held for Tommy because of it.
After Tommy turned 16 around the summer months Wilbur comes and they do the whole drug shit and independence, they get way close doing so but not nearly âbrotherâ close. Wilburâs sad about this because he thinks that Tommyâs mad at him and the rest of SBI for leaving him alone during all of their trips, while Wilburâs angsting Tommyâs all âIâm so very happy. And Iâm getting super close with my old neighbor, this is great! Hey the whole of the SMP looke at the man named Wilbur Soot and know that Iâm in no way related to him but weâre just old neighbors!!â. Yeeeh, Tommy unconsciously lets everyone know that theyâre just old neighbors. Unknowingly hurting Wilbur because he thinks Tommy doesnât want anything to do with them and is just acting civil, so he tries to be like 10x friendlier. They become great friends.
Everything happens pretty much the same except Wilbur trusts Tommy less while in the ravine because he still thinks that he hates them, he and Techno also have a angst session while Tommyâs asleep bc they think he hates them. This is before the Vilbur and Festival (the angst session). During the Pit scene Wil says something along the lines of âHe hates you, lookâlook at him. He despises you, look how..âhow angry he is!â After the 16th Phil wants to talk to Tommy about everything and make sure heâs alright (Very OOC of him, I know.) but is deterred by Techno telling him how Tommy âhatesâ them, and that he refuses to acknowledge them as family.
Sometimes Ghostbur slips and calls Tommy his little brother, Tommyâs shocked because did that mean that Alivebur saw him as some kind of little brother figure? Heâs very flattered and totally doesnât hug Ghostbur out of embarrassment. Ghostbur sometimes slips infront of people that arenât Tommy and that leads to a lot of confused people and a rumor mill (thatâs actually true for once) that Tommy and Wilbur were actually brothers, while wisiting or maybe through the msgâs Ranboo asks Tommy about it and receives the anwser that Tommy and Wilbur werenât brothers but Tommyâs pretty sure that Wilbur saw him as one, at least he assumes from Ghsotburâs ramblings. Ranboo tells this to people and it leads to a lot of awwâs because adorable, and then those awwâs turn sad bc Ghostbur exists.
Everything goes the same as canon except after Tommy betrays Techno, Techno during the moment he and Tommy are yelling at each other while tntâs exploding -making it impossibly hard to hear them and messing with the animatic audios- yells something about Tommy being his brother and betraying him. And that leads to Tommy saying something like âDid you really see us as that close...â and now he feels sad bc the friend he betrayed was so attached to him that he saw him as a brother figure, but that sets Techno off more bc Tommy still denounces them as family in his eyes and heâs pissed bc of it. So they start fighting, eventually Phil stops to watch them. Heâs also pissed at Tommy for the same reasons, during the fight Tommy gets like super injured or something but neither Techno or Phil want to kill him before they get to know the full reasons as to why he disowned them.
That leads to angsty as hell dialogue that breaks everyoneâs hearts, and the whole gang realizing that Tommy didnât even KNOW that they were family. Itâs silent after that (not really thereâs like 50 withers still around and explosions are happening left and right, but u get the point), idk how it all ends put it has something like this.
Tommy gets hugged
Heâs still bleeding so it hurts and heâs kinda dying
Bc Techno and Phil are sad and kinda want to start over (and letâs be honest no one in that family is fully sane) they figure GhostInnit would be easier to deal with, also theyâre still mad at him so they stab him
While also hugging him, itâs real messed up
Some people witness it and are kinda creeped out because to them it looks like two ppl that arenât particularly close to Tommy are just hugging him after they stabbed him as if they cared
Through some magical power of teamwork and friendship the ppl fighting for LâManburg (rip) get Tommy away from them, and some other crap happens the two have to flee. Later on Ranboo goes to live with them (fuck yes to that, that boy deserves peace. But fuck Phil adopting him Itâll all go to hell. Have you seen Philâs other two kids +Tubbo??) but stil travels to the SMP bc I refuse for his friendship to end with Tommy and Tubbo, he kinda carries the news of GhostInnit existing to them unintentionally. So the leads to a game of extreme hide nâ seek where Tommy doesnât know heâs supposed to hide so people literally just shove him into closets, rooms and houses all willy nilly. The whole servers in on it except Dream who just looks at all of them like that one meme. (No, I do not know what Iâm referencing but I know at least 70% your pictures something)
The end vibe: Happy GhostInnit vibing with friends while the whole server is playing hide and seek him as the hider w/out him knowing, if Techno and Phil get him theyâre gonna have so much family bonding and consequently make Tommy mad at the server bc he thinks thy were keeping him from his fam on reason, when theyâre were just actually trying to keep him away from the two anarchists that were after him for some reason bc they didnât know about the fam crap. GhostInnit doesnât know theyâre family bc it was kind of a bad memory him dying, he remembers everyone but not the bad things that have happened with them.
(Cross-posted off of Ao3, fics inspired by this one
https://archiveofourown.org/works/28894026
https://archiveofourown.org/works/30526023 )
#241 writing#dream smp au#Dream SMP#tommyinnit dream smp#technoblade dream smp#wilbur soot dream smp#philza dream smp#ghostinnit
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Maybe this is bold of me to ask, but are there any deleted scenes from your fics, or scenes you had consideted writing but didn't? And if yes, would you be willing to share them someday?
Oh no problem!
Usually when a scene is deleted it stays deleted, so I don't have a lot to give you. There are a few things that were cut in betaing for various reasons, I can put a few of them below a readmore in this post.
There's the prologue that never was to Nebuchadnezzar's Dream, from back when the fic was supposed to be told alternately from Bella and Carlisle's respective points of view. In the prologue we saw how Bella, Alice, and Edward came to the point where they decided to overthrow the Volturi. Or, we would have, except I didn't actually like that prologue, and found myself jumping straight to writing chapter 2, the "Carlisle is at a party and gets attacked by a werewolf" chapter instead. My good beta @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin asked why I didn't simply make the whole fic from Carlisle's point of view, I realized she had an excellent point, now here we are.
For that matter, this is nowhere near the only significant change that happened to this fic during writing. One example, in the original outline I never brought up Carlisle's gift. Two significant things in the last chapter were not planned until after I published chapters twelve and thirteen, respectively (Luckily for me it'll look like I plotted them all along, so yay for that). For a tightly plotted fic, this one has had a lot of leeway.
Slight caveat, as Iâm self-conscious: with most of these you will probably be able to tell why theyâre deleted scenes. Especially the prologue. God, that prologue.
(Also, for the record yes I do write other things, but due to 1. being betaed, and 2. being long, I really only have examples for Nebuchadnezzar's Dream.)
The prologue that never was. Apologies for the fluff saturation:
The Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar II once had a dream.
There was a statue that was gold on top, then silver, then copper, then iron, then clay and iron. As he watched, a rock struck its feet, and soon the whole statue crumbled, leaving nothing but rubble. The rock then grew into a great mountain that covered all the world.
This, the prophet Daniel told the king, was a message from Jehovah.
The statue represented five great human empires, the golden head being the Babylonian Empire, and the following three being those who would come after. The last would be both iron and clay, a divided kingdom. It will fall, and then the kingdom of Heaven will come, crushing those empires in its path.
Thousands of years later, in 1453, the Byzantine Empire fell. The last of the Roman Empire, a divided kingdom, had fallen.
The Christian world trembled, because reckoning was surely near. With the fall of this last, great human empire, all the world would fall to rubble.
-
Fifteen years had passed.
The Cullens had left Forks behind, settling in the small town of Grafton, Idaho. Carlisle had quickly settled into the new hospital, and Esme had designed a beautiful new home for them while the rest attended the new school. Jasper and Rosalie were Carlisleâs younger siblings while Bella, Edward, RenesmĂŠe and Esme comprised another set of siblings. Alice and Emmett were the fosters.
Jacob wasnât far, he still lived with his old .
ÂŤDid you hear they all scored an A on Mr Rosenâs test? Seriously, all of them!Âť
The words were uttered by Jenna Gilbert, a blonde sophomore who reminded Bella very much of Jessica Stanley. She was sitting on the opposite end of the cafeteria from Bella and her family, though
ÂŤJen, itâs the Cullens, thatâs just what they do. You should stop comparing yourselfâŚÂť her friend said soothingly.
Bella ducked her face into her hand to hide her smile, and winked at Alice, who grinned back at her.
It was Bella and RenesmĂŠeâs first time going to high school as a vampire. It was exactly what Edward and Alice had said it would be, for better and for worse.
For the worse, because she spent her days pretending to be a human girl, never using her strength or speed, pretending Edward wasnât her husband and RenesmĂŠe wasnât her daughter.
For the better, because she got to spend every day with Edward, RenesmĂŠe, and the rest of her new family. The others had done the high school routine too many times to see things the way she did, and RenesmĂŠe had never known a life without the Cullens, but to Bella, attending high school as one of Dr. Cullenâs adoptive kids felt like she had truly come full circle since that first day she spotted Edward in the cafeteria. She was one of them, truly, irrevocably, and high school was nothing if not a promise of the countless years to come surrounded by the people she loved.
Edward caught her eye, and she smiled back at him. She lowered her shield briefly to show him how happy she was to be with her family.
His face softened into that beautiful, lop-sided smile of his, and he leaned in to whisper into her ear, ÂŤYouâll be less happy when youâve been through English 101,Âť he said.
ÂŤHey, hey,Âť Jasper said quickly. ÂŤDonât you dare, Edward, I need all the happiness I can get in this place.Âť He locked eyes with Bella. ÂŤWhatever youâre doing, keep doing it.Âť
Bella laughed, and rested her head on Edwardâs shoulder. He placed his hand above hers on the table, and she smiled. ÂŤNot a problem, Jazz.Âť
Jennaâs voice caught her notice again. ÂŤLook at how theyâre sitting! Try and tell me theyâre not incestuous, Cam. Just try.Âť
Her friend didnât reply to that one, although a quick glance informed Bella that the girl was staring at the Cullen table with a frown on her face.
Bella and Alice caught each othersâ eye again, and this time they couldnât hold back the giggles.
***********
Later in the day, Aliceâs eyes lit up. ÂŤYouâll receive a letter from Stefan and Vladimir a week from now,Âť she chirped.
ÂŤOh!Âť Bella exclaimed. ÂŤWhat does it say?Âť
ÂŤThe usual,Âť Alice replied, her eyes slightly distant as she concentrated. ÂŤThey hope weâre all doing well, and they included a new story of how things used to be before the Volturi. Itâs the story of how they once built an entire temple for themselves in just one day. Oh, and they have a new phone number. O-seven nine six five nine six.Âť
Bellaâs eyes widened as Alice talked. She hoped they had included drawings of that temple, it sounded incredible.
Bella hadnât expected the Romanians to stay in touch, when they left after the thwarted battle with the Volturi she thought they would slink back into the old European shadows they had cloaked themselves in for that past several thousand few years, not to be heard from until some new threat to the Volturi loomed.
But no, that very next Christmas Bella had received a gift from them. It was an old, if flaked painting of Ivan the Terrible looking a lot like Vladimir, and a note from Vladimir explaining how he fooled all of Russia into believing he was their ruler for decades, all right beneath Aroâs nose. Carlisle had broken into a fit of uncharacteristic giggles when he heard that, and even agreed to put the painting in the hallway. To this day, heâd huff with silent laughter whenever he walked past it.
After that, Bella and the two Romanians had been in touch. Theyâd send her gifts, stories, and their own observations about the Volturi, and sheâd respond fondly.
It was a very unlikely friendship, but she was was eternally grateful to all those who had stood with her family when the Volturi came. The Romanians were no exception,
ÂŤAre you going to call them?Âť Alice inquired.
Bella nodded. ÂŤThey were going to tell me about their visit to Thebes.Âť
(Outline: Prologue of sorts. Status quo update, everyoneâs happy except for the part where the Volturi are waiting to kill them. Alice, Bella, and Edward form their plan. Alice sees that sheâs going to have to send Carlisle away, and coincidentally his hospital colleagues are having their Christmas weekend in Montana. PERFECT. She talks to him.)
***********
Heavily altered scene from chapter 7
Carlisle makes more jokes than he did in the final product, they're unfunny to the point where my beta said "you can't publish this", the plague joke in particular is a bit too dark for him so I gave it to Jane instead. More importantly, the chapter itself has a very weird, clunky start:
ÂŤIs it the gift of being profoundly unimpressed by ridiculous claims?Âť Carlisle deadpanned. ÂŤBecause if so, Aro, I think you might be on to something.Âť
Several seconds had passed since Aro made his ridiculous claim. At first, Carlisle had burst out laughing. Then, as he realized he was the only person in the room laughing and Aro was staring at him in full seriousness, his laughter had trailed off and heâd been left to stare dully at Aro for several long seconds, waiting for Aro to crack up and say ÂŤgotcha!Âť.
Aro never cracked up.
Carlisle had absolutely no idea what Aro was playing at, especially not immediately after Carlisle had very reluctantly decided against shutting him out of his life.
ÂŤYou canât be serious,Âť heâd said.
Aro had sighed. ÂŤIâm afraid I am.Âť
And now, at Carlisleâs deadpan guess, Aro only shook his head. ÂŤNot quite.Âť
Carlisle stared at him for another second, before he ventured another, scathing guess. ÂŤAre you hoping itâs the power of being highly suggestible? Because I definitely donât have that, or I would have abandoned my diet centuries centuries ago.Âť
Aro just looked at him. ÂŤIf you would let me explain-Âť he began, but Carlisle cut him off.
ÂŤNo, no, you want to try and convince me I have some sort of gift, then I want to guess at what youâre going for,Âť he said, crossing his legs at the knee and propping his chin up on his knuckle in a faux-pensive look.
ÂŤNow,Âť he continued, even as Aro gave him the worldâs most unimpressed glare, as if Carlisle was the one who was being ridiculous, ÂŤIâm pretty sure I would have noticed the power to throw fireballs by now, so it canât be that,Âť he mused aloud. ÂŤSame goes for the power ofâŚÂť he searched his mind, ÂŤturning into a bat. That one would definitely have come up at some point. Or maybe I should suspend myself upside down in a cave. See if it triggers anything. Just to be sure.Âť
ÂŤCarlisle,Âť Aro murmured, but Carlisle wasnât done.
ÂŤMaybe I spread disease. My father certainly thought demons did. Maybe thatâs why I get so many interesting patients. Those brain fungi,Âť he nodded towards Renata, who was still sitting with the book open in her lap, ÂŤIâve had two in one year. Thatâs a lot.Âť
ÂŤCarlisle-Âť Aro tried again, but Carlisle held up a finger, a wide grin spreading across his face.
ÂŤThe power to change my eye color. You see, yesterday they were black-Âť
Aro actually rolled his eyes at that. Of course, he made the insolent gesture look like a fluid, enchanting movement.
ÂŤYes, quite funny, now if you would let me explainâŚÂť Aro tried again while Carlisle tried not to snicker at his own joke.
***********
Two deleted paragraphs from chapter 9. The alteration was made because it was a bit on the nose about what RenesmĂŠe does.
Humans were mammals, and mammals were hardwired to protect their young. This extended across species, making mother cats care for puppies and humans care for anything that was small and cute. The instinct to love and cherish anything cute and helpless was an evolutionary necessity, and had to run deeper than anything if a species wanted to survive.
Enter Jane, who was the smallest, cutest thing Carlisle had ever seen, but from a species humans instinctively knew to fear. Maybe the very fact that she was something that humans knew they should want to care for made their fear exponential, made it impossible to deny that something was very wrong about her, that they were looking at a predator.
Perhaps too there was something to vampires having retained some of that human instinct to protect their young, if the countless stories of covens dying to protect their immortal children was anything to go by. Carlisle himself had been no exception when the Volturi came for RenesmĂŠe, even as he found himself risking the lives of countless friends.
How far things had come, he thought, from preparing to die along with his loved ones at the hands of the Volturi to sitting across a cafĂŠ table with Jane and pitching costume ideas.
***********
Chapter 9 was heavily altered, mainly as it was too funny the first (and second!) time around and I kept having to return to insert more existential dread. A side effect of this is that Carlisle in the original draft was still undecided on whether he had a gift up until the very end of the chapter, whereas it's proven beyond a doubt much earlier in the published version.
Jane was looking a bit daunted, though it was nothing compared to how Carlisle felt.
Silently, they went to stand in front of one of the many sports stores that Whitefish had to offer.
ÂŤThis could still be confirmation bias,Âť Carlisle whispered, and leaned against the wall. For all the human blood that was in his system, his knees felt oddly weak.
Jane let out a startled laugh. ÂŤYouâre seriously still in denial?Âť
Carlisle shook his head quietly. ÂŤThey reacted pretty reasonably, just because they didnât run away screamingâŚÂť
ÂŤReasonably?Âť Jane echoed dully. ÂŤCarlisle, you canât actuallyâŚÂť she shook her head. ÂŤRemember that bubble we talked about?Âť
Carlisle put his head in his hands, and let his fingers move up, under the wig, pulling it off in one neat motion.
Jane shook her head at him. ÂŤYou look even more glamorous with your real hair.Âť
Carlisle still said nothing, balling the wig together in his hands.
Could it be he actually had a gift?
***********
The chapter 11 outline originally had Renata and Carlisle failing to communicate like normal people because they've spent too much time with Aro, and unintentional innuendo keeps ruining their attempts to make polite small talk. Sadly (or happily) this is a lot easier to conceptualize than carry out in actual writing, and their conversation wound up being far too serious for that, so it was cut. Luckily for you I did pen Carlisle flashbacking to a time his foot got in his mouth:
The moment after the words were out her face scrunched up.
Carlisle snorted. ÂŤAro is a horrible influence on us all.Âť
He remembered one of his first talks with Jasper, when they were still getting to know each other.
Jasper had been a little starstruck when he learned Carlisleâs friends in Italy were those Italians.
Heâd asked Carlisle a lot of questions once he got past a misplaced sense of awe, wanting to put a face to the eternal, petrified, leaders of the vampire world.
During a hunt with just the two of them, Jasper had been asking about Aroâs gift.
ÂŤWhat do you even think about when youâre with him?Âť Jasper had marvelled aloud, and he would later explain that the way he say it, this was like the way the Egyptian gods supposedly measured souls.
Place your heart upon the balancing scale against the weight of a feather, and if your heart weighs heavier it is devoured by the demon Ammit.
Place your hand in Aroâs, and if he deems you guilty of breaking his law, you will be torn to pieces in the space of a second.
Being friends with the man sounded unbearably stressful to Jasper.
Unfortunately, Carlisleâs mind had gone in the opposite direction, and what came out of his mouth before he could stop himself was, ÂŤEngland.Âť
Heâd covered well enough for that, or he hoped he had. Jasper never asked.
***********
Chapter 11 was also supposed to have Renata being brave enough to ask for a selfie with Carlisle when they're both in black robes, this because I just really want Edward to sift through the Volturi group chat after all this and finding that. Alas, I couldn't work it in there. (Determined to not lose the joke, I had Aro take the photos in chapter 12 instead.)
***********
Chapter 12, the fandom ghost requested I include another butt slap and offered me fanart if I fulfilled her wish.
And so:
He held up a hand, presumably to touch Carlisleâs arm in comfort, but just then Alec started retching.
ÂŤHe ate human food,Âť Jane deadpanned to Demetri, Felix, and Renata. Shaking her head, she brushed Alecâs hair out of his face as he hurled into the river.
Aro grimaced slightly, his hand hovering in the air.
Carlisle felt all the bread, corn flakes, and water that heâd swallowed press uncomfortably against his esophagus. ÂŤIâll do you one better, Alec,Âť he choked, before he span around, fell to his knees and started retching, much like a cat.
Aro, evidently not sure what to do with his arm but not about to let it drop purposelessly, gave Carlisle a supportive pat on the bum before kneeling beside him to hold his hair as he hurled.
It was funny, but simply didn't fit the tone considering what happened after. It had to go. But hey, I got the art.
#there's more but these are the things that came to mind#my fic#nebuchadnezzar's dream#fic spoilers#of sorts kinda#doktrajediscovery
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title: think about it tomorrow
word count: 2629
summary: Even after that difficult day of work, Ruggie had one more task he needed to complete, one that he didnât expect would end with him just coming home.
this fic post is a lil different from my usual ones but! i did a trade with @nicoliharuâ !! and heres my part of it uvu
Savanaclawâs lounge has an eerie glow at night, blue irradiating from the pool in the center that people say looked uncanny when it was empty, like now. That, or visitors would find it pretty.
Ruggie himself didnât care much. Usually, when he had work at the Lounge, heâd come back to that, and it was more familiar than anything. Without the other students around, it was more like the only thing welcoming him back âhomeâ, so thereâs a vague comfort there. He always gives it a bit of a stare before walking to his room.
Sometimes he sits there and thinks over the silence. Makes calculations in his mind about how much money he was sending back home, how much he needed for himself. Thinks about exam dates and those extravagant events Azul made him and the other employees suffer through. Leonaâs errands, Crowleyâs tasks, windows to be cleaned, letters to answer.
He doesnât have time for that tonight. Ruggieâs heading straight back to his room, Agatha should be coming over soon, after all, he promised heâd help her out with Animal Languages.
Yeah, it seems sort of insane to accept requests like these when he was having such a busy week, he knows. Itâs not like he doesnât have the spine to decline them, or something, just⌠well. Agatha is Agatha. Sheâs not like anyone else in that school.
Agatha was the only girl, for one, and also, one of Ruggieâs close friends. A couple sparks had been rushing between them lately, which made him so much more excited than he should be, but he was grateful for the friendship itself. In his two years of being a NRC student, he never really found someone who had a presence that⌠healing. Agatha was understanding and kind, the sort of person that compels you to wind down just by being there.
(Really, how rare was someone like that in Night Raven College?)
So he had a crush he was comfortable with. Nothing wrong with that, right? And nothing wrong with wanting to see her after waiting all these damn tables either.
He opens the door to his room and wobbles inside with a sigh. But, man, he was exhausted. He hoped it wouldnât show through too much when she got there. It wasnât necessarily that late, just⌠he hadnât caught a damn break today. He wonders if thereâs time to rest his eyes for a bit before she gets thereâ
âRuggie?â He perks up at the voice he hears outside. âAre you in there?â
And there she is! He feels inclined to smile. One very much needed spark of energy runs through him.
âYeah, yeah, just a second!â He responds, first moving to turn on the lights, which he hadnât done yet, then to open the door. Agatha greets him with one of her usual smiles. âYou ready to work?â
âAh, well.â She laughs, a bit awkwardly. âIâll be doing my best. I hope itâs not too much of a bother or anything!â
Really, how could she ever be?
âNah, not at all.â He says, allowing her inside before the door is closed. It makes a bit of a heavy noise when he shuts it. âIf itâs Animal Languages, then Iâm your guy! And, I always have time for you, shishishi.â
Agatha gives him a small chuckle. âYouâre too good to me.â
âItâs just what you deserve, yâknow!â
She sits on his bed while heâs picking up the papers heâd put together earlier on his desk. Drowsiness creeps in, but he knows how to push that aside well enough. He needed to do his best now. Just not let all that exhaustion show through so he could lend Agatha a hand! Then, then he could sleepâŚ
Sleep sounds nice, doesnât it? His brain tempts him, but he blinks multiple times, and hopes that good enough to stave off the feeling.
âSo, what part did you have trouble with?â He asks, sitting next to Agatha, opening the textbook over his lap. The logical part of his brain wishes he had more than one chair in his room, so they could sit by the desk. The less logical part is just happy to be here.
âMmh, it was with these...sentences Mr. Trein asked us to translate, I think? I couldnât really get the difference between these two noises⌠I think itâs in chapter 7, hold on.â
She gets the book from Ruggieâs lap, bringing it closer to herself. He lets his eyes linger on her a little while sheâs flipping through pages, shiny amber eyes narrowed at the words.
A silly smile appears on his face. Ruggie feels like a lucky guy, which he guesses itâs sort of odd, theyâre not even dating or anything like that. And this was supposed to be him doing her a favor. Technically, he doesnât gain anything from this, and yetâŚ
Agathaâs hair is this nice red-like color that stands out while it flows over her shoulder. Ruggie doesnât know the exact word for the color, maybe it was burgundy? Garnet? That doesnât matter. The point is sheâs just⌠beautiful. Eye-catching besides that pleasant aura that melted all his worries away. Sheâs there, so itâs like everything will be okay. Ruggie lets out a small laugh, in a way, this looks just like a dreamâ
âRuggie.â Her voice calls for him, firmer than its usual airy tone. He blinks, a stronger haze settling over his mind. So he dozed off. Huh. â...are you okay? I think you just fell asleep for a bit.â
âIâm good!â Ruggie chirps almost immediately. Her brows furrow in worry. âJust dozed off for a bit. Uh.â He laughs awkwardly. âWhat were you trying to show me?â
Agatha stares intently, concerned expression intensifying on her face.
âRuggieâŚâ She begins again, head tilting a bit towards him. âI donât think you should be studying right now. You shouldâve told me you were tired.â
âHey, Iâm good, though!â He argues, but thereâs no bite to it, really, he couldnât add that in even if he tried. Agatha sighs, shaking her head. âWe can keep going.â
âIâm not letting you study like this. Come on, you should get some rest.â She moves to close the textbook, but he grabs at it first, reflexes slowed down or not. âRuggie.â She says, in a gently scolding tone.
âItâs fine, I told you.â He tries to argue again. It looks like she wouldnât buy that at all, and, well⌠âDidnât you need help? It wonât even take too long, I can justâŚâ
âNo. Thatâs final.â Agatha states, cheeks puffing slightly. âYouâre so stubborn. Just rest a little, okay? We can study tomorrow.â She huffs, hand placed on the top of his head in a pat â That turns into something like light petting that sends a weird, fuzzy feeling across Ruggie. âCome on. You can lean on me if you wanna.â
Ruggie crosses his arms, but she looks at him all invitingly, with that warm expression on her face. And his resolve dwindlesâŚ
Ah. Ruggie isnât really a strong man when it comes to things like that, is he?
â...what kinda leaning are we talking about?â He asks, a bit of a smile on his face. Well, maybe this wasnât bad either.
Agatha chuckles. âYou can lay on my lap or on my shoulder, what youâd like. As long as you take a little break, you stubborn hyena.â
Yeah, itâs not bad at all.
âThen Iâm on it, shishi.â He canât help but grin a little. âYou said I could do it, so.â
He pushes the book off Agathaâs lap â Hey, itâs an opportunity, heâs not just gonna miss that â and moves to lean his head on her thighs, sighing when they touch. Agatha does a bit of a small, barely noticeable jump like she wasnât expecting him to take that offer, but in just a second, her smile widens, still soft and warm. Ruggie smiles back at her.
âThatâs the only way I can get you to rest, huh?â Agatha sighs, leaning back for a bit. âYouâre such a workaholic.â
Ruggie doesnât say much of anything. He begins to feel drowsy already, but⌠really, when heâs like this, how could he really sleep? He can feel his heartbeat quicken, the room filled with a silence thatâs both comfortable and comforting.
Agathaâs hand makes its way into the mess that was his hair, Ruggie feels himself perk up â and then immediately begin to relax, feeling how the tips of her fingers begin to run along it, untangling knots and gently scratching against his scalp, then the back of his earsâ
Ah. The tension in his body starts melting away, pressing his face against Agathaâs thigh some more. Damn it, that felt nice. If he had to die like that, he really doesnât mind. He feels all fuzzy inside, the humming that begins to leave Agatha sounds faraway, even.
He sighs.
His thoughts get muddled⌠was he that much of a workaholic, he begins to wonder. It felt so natural to just fill every second of his day with those part-time jobs. He didnât hate it at all, heâd come to every location with a smile, ready to tackle the day, but maybe he pushed himself a little too hard sometimes.
Itâd be nice if he could come back to something like this everyday. Ruggie found his dorm room decently homey, but⌠with Agatha there, itâs a whole different story. Maybe sheâs just spoiling him like this â He leans against her hand as she scratches the back of his ears once more, knowing theyâve gotten a bit twitchy â but whether heâd admit that out loud one day or not, he just really likes it. He feels floaty, fuzzyâŚ
âHey.â He half opens his eyes, Agathaâs gentle smile is the first thing he sees, warming his heart. Something straight out of a dream. âYâknow what, I really like you.â
Her posture straightens in shock.
âEh?â She blinks, and only now, Ruggie notices what came out of his mouth.
âUh. I mean.â Oh. Oops, he giggles awkwardly. That hadnât been how he thought heâd tell her about it, but⌠gotta make the best out of what you have, huh? Whether that went well or not⌠âIs that weird? If you donât feel the same we can just drop it. But Iâm telling you the truth. Youâre just⌠special. I feel really comfortable with you, and all.â
He feels his face warm up, and heâs still laying there â These are kind of embarrassing things to say, arenât they? But itâs her, and itâs true â Agatha is undeniably flustered, maybe they shared the slight red tint to their faces now. Ah, itâs weird. He feels anxiety threaten to pull him under for the first time in a whileâ
âI⌠I do too. A lot. M-Maybe too much.â And she stutters, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she looks away in this rare sort of shyness. âS-So, itâs not weird at all!â
Ruggieâs heart skips a beat.
âCool. Okay.â The words processing in his mind, repeating over and over like they hadnât registered yet, echoing. His face felt impossibly hot, his self control running low. â...can I kiss you?â
Agatha blinks, still wide eyed, and a smile appears on her lips, she fiddles with her hair again, brushing it off her shoulder. âI⌠yeah.â
All of this, itâs so⌠Ruggie has a tough time wrapping his head around it all, but heâs not going to argue a reality like this at all. Sparkling with excitement, he gets up, sitting next to Agatha again, and they exchange a look for a moment as he smiles, foreheads touching.
Ruggie feels like he doesnât even know how to begin, like sheâs his very first kiss. Tentative hands cup Agathaâs cheeks, and in the peak of his enthusiasm, they just go for it, so close to being at the same time â And their lips meet.
He feels euphoric, almost every bit of exhaustion forgotten when he feels Agathaâs smile against his, small breathy laughs bubbling up and leaving them before the kiss deepens and Agatha pushes back against him too.
Theyâre not really thinking about it at all, and maybe thatâs how Ruggie prefers it. Agatha is warm when she presses closer to him, her arms wrapping around him, and he continues to hold her face in his hands even as they pull away to breathe for a moment, seeing her smile.
âYouâre so cute.â She says in between slightly harsher breaths. âRuggieâŚâ
And he thinks of the time heâs thought about something like this happening, none of his fantasies ever really went like this â There was always some sort of struggle, a larger pause after he tells Agatha about his feelings even when he thought of victorious scenarios. Even when he had her with him in the end.
He wonders when they kiss again, should anything have the right to feel so easy?
She tastes vaguely like lipstick, something cherry-like and similar to what heâd associate to the color of her hair, with a hint of sweetness. Her arms around him pull him closer with surprising strength, he feels her heartbeat on his when their chests touch.
And Ruggieâs not good at keeping his hands to himselfâ He notices heâd been hungry, wanting something like this for too long, and even though the world feels too dreamlike, blurry from exhaustion and still a bit of denial, he lets his hands wander. He touches her arm first, but it doesnât linger there, going down her sides and ending up on her hips, wondering if he could let them wander further, maybe over her thighsâ
âAhaha, s-sorry, Iâm just really happy.â They pull away, breathing heavily, and Agatha is giggling, her smile turning the dim room into the sun itself. Ruggie canât help but share the expression. âI never thought⌠this really feels like a dream.â
âYeah.â Ruggie agrees. âWhat do we⌠are we doing anything else, or?â
His face feels hotter upon saying the words. He sounds lame, butâ
âI donât know.â She says with a sigh, but itâs content. Their foreheads touch, bodies still too close to each other, and too happy to be where they are. âIâm just happy weâre here.â
âMm, me too.â
Thereâs one more kiss, although a brief one. Agathaâs hand is on his hair, idly running fingers through strands, even after they part again.
âYou still look so tired.â She points out, voice gentle. âDonât you wanna call it a day?â
Ruggie has to sigh. WellâŚ
âMaybe.â He admits, finally, even though he doesnât want to be away from her at all now. âBut Iâm gonna miss you if you leave.â Itâs a playful complaint, even though he means it. Agatha chuckles a bit.
âI can stay with you, then.â She says with a rare sort of decisiveness. âSomeoneâs gotta take care of you if youâre not gonna do it yourself.â She pouts, pulling him a bit closer.
His eyes threaten to flutter shut like this.
âIf itâs you, then.â He murmurs, laughing quietly. âGuess itâs alright.â
Agatha gives him one more kiss, a small affectionate peck on his lips.
âGood. Letâs think about everything else tomorrow, okay?â
Then it goes by easily. He sighs, releasing tension with his exhale, and Agatha holds out her arms for him with an inviting smile.
They lay down, not really bothering to turn off the lights just yet. Ruggie makes himself at home there, back of his head on her chest, an arm pulling him closer while she continues to pet him, warm and dreamlike.
And they think about it tomorrow.
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movie night (request).
REQUEST;Â May I request a fic with Diego, mutual pining and yearning and all that good shit. Just kinda an all around fluffy fic, and it ends with them confessing to each other or something like that? Love you!đ -- anon PAIRING; Diego Hargreeves x gender neutral reader. (2nd pov) WARNING; not much. a couple curse words, some bad writing (forgive me, itâs late).
NOTES - This is short (for me) but sweet & really all dialogue. But itâs okay! I finally got a request done in only a few days, which is nice for once. I know Iâve got two other things to put out, theyâll come later (aka updates for inaf and that trilogy i had). but anyways, hope you like and thank you for requesting anon! Also, not edited and a bit bleh at the end (whoops). xx
âKLAUS, SIT YOUR ASS DOWN RIGHT NOW!â
âNO!â
âThis is MY apartment!â
âAnd this is MY body, so--!â
You roll your eyes and slump back down to the couch. Your eyes leave his indignant glare and fall back to the two movies on your lap. âFor the last fuckinâ time, you canât just declare that as your argument! Itâs my TV, and I donât wanna watch Zoolander!â
âWell, I donât want to watch that!â
âThat?â Your hands scrabble at the DVD case before lifting it to his face. âThat is an American treasure, dumbass! This is like, the greatest comedy ever made!â
âI didnât laugh once!â
âYou havenât seen it!â
âSO?!â
âGUYS!â
Before you could retort or Klaus could cut you off (again), a third voice joined the fight. Diego.
Without even thinking about it, you smiled at him, forgetting for just one second about your fight.
Just for a second.
âDiego, thank goodness youâre back, I canât handle this alone!â
âI could hear you two screaming from down the hall,â he huffed, heading in with a bowl and a frown. âKlaus, youâre gonna get Y/N another noise complaint.â
Klaus pouted. âShe started it!â
âHow the hell is asking what movie you wanna watch starting a fight?â
He just stuck his tongue out at you.
âYou guys always fight over this,â Diego sighed. He sank into the couch and in response, you shuffled back, giving him just enough room to get comfortable before sinking back. âIâm starting to think movie night was a bad idea.â
âNo!â
âNo-o,â you groaned. Without thinking, your forehead fell to his shoulder, emphasising a facepalm without having to lift your own hands (which were still clinging tightly to your DVD). âThis is a good idea, your brother just canât compromise.â
âCompromise? You just want to watch -- Diego, sheâs impossible!â
The man just sighed, and you felt the vibrations of the heavy sound leave his shoulder to your forehead. âShut it, both of you. Iâm picking. Weâre watching this one.â
You glanced up to see him gesturing at your choice. Immediately, your eyes lit up and you turned to his brother with a resounding âHA!â.
âThatâs not fair!â
âHowâs it not fair?â chorused both you and Diego at the same time.Â
âYou always go with her pick!â
Your smile died a little, replaced with new anger. âThatâs not true, youâre just a sore loser! And your brother has taste!â
But Klaus didnât even care for the half-baked insult; he was ploughing right along with his first point, almost excitedly too. âYou always do! Every time we fight and you pretend to âbreak up the fightâ, but youâre not sly, dear brother!â
Diego frowned beside you. âThatâs not true. I picked yours last week.â
âNo, no you did not! We watched Inception even though you said before that one chick freaks you out too much!â
âWell -â you pause, mulling over his words just the littlest bit; maybe he did have some fragments of a point. âWell, thatâs not totally valid. I mean, Ariadneâs not in the movie that much, he doesnât have to look at Vanyaâs doppelganger the whole time.â
Diego nodded. ââSides, it was better than whatever the fuck you chose.â
âExcuses, excuses,â Klaus cooed, still on top of your coffee table and still way too energized to be standing on it. You really should stop letting him stand on such delicate things - but perhaps that argument could wait until after he was done making such weird points. âItâs always her - I mean, Diego, donât you think youâre laying it on a bit thick?â
âWhat?!â
âHuh?!â
Klaus scoffed. âCome on - you two have been making goo-goo eyes and sweet little gestures for as long as Iâve known you two! Movie nights are just the next thing youâve taken away from me, and manipulated to be about your sick mutual pining scheme!â
Your mouth dropped open in a move to immediately dispute, only to simply hang, unsure what there was to say to that. He was wrong, of course - for the sure fact that you knew Diego did not like you at all. Wouldnât you know, already if he did? Sure, maybe you were a little obvious with your feelings sometimes, but only occasionally, and they were never received as much.
This was just a grand scheme to get his movie picked, and you told him that, proudly calling him out on what you thought was just a big game.
But Klaus did not react as you thought he would. Instead, he leapt down from his post and sank down to sit on the coffee table, teetering into a cross-legged position. His long fingers jabbed at the both of you. âYou two are so in your heads, youâve gone blind to the other person. I mean, Y/N, youâre literally curled around Diego right now, does that not register in your brain?â
Okay, so that was correct. You were close to him, maybe not as close as he said but your head did rest on his sleeve, and your hands --
-- awkwardly, you pulled away, crossing your arms across yourself. âNot a good point; Iâm just comfortable with him. As I am with you.â
âAh, but we donât cuddle like two babes in a pea pod, do we?â
âKlaus, youâre being-â
â-foolish? Am I? Diego, brother of mine, you look at Y/N like sheâs aligned the stars and moon and given them to you as a gift! And you look at me like Iâm dirt on the side of -â
â-Klaus,â you hissed, with hot cheeks and a new feeling bubbling at your throat (embarrassment, maybe? fear?) that you did not want to spill. âIf I pick your movie, will you stop this nonsense?â
The young man huffed, raising his knees up and flapping them down again. âDonât be so scared of acceptance, dear Y/N! I mean, think of the potential, two people with questionable taste finally joining and becoming one?â
âKlaus!â
You rose from the couch suddenly, jerky motions and wide eyes in an attempt to hide your overwhelming emotional buildup. You didnât look at Diego. âSit, Klaus, please, and let me put on this damn movie so we can be free of this? Stop making our lives a rom-com!â
âAm I wrong?!â
âYes!â You responded, indignant and loud. Still you refused to look Diegoâs way. âCome on now. If Diego thought of me as attractive, Iâm sure we wouldâa worked it out in the many years of our friendship. Right? Letâs just watch this film.â
Klaus mumbled something under his breath, but it was too quiet for you to catch. He slumped down in your place and grinned, âDiego, will you cuddle me like-â
â-I will gut you like a fish, asshole-â
â-movie time, quiet up!â
You sank down into your chair, cold and missing Diegoâs presence, and avoided his searching eyes. Whatever was going on with him, it wasnât something you were sure you could emotionally deal with; Klaus pretending like your feelings could be requited would be enough pain for the night. Youâd gladly watch his pick if it meant quiet.
âHEY.â
You didnât look up from the dishes; you didnât have to, to recognise the voice. âHey. Klaus asleep still?â
âYeah.â
âGood.â
âYou, uhâŚâ Diegoâs voice followed behind you, until you were pretty certain he was leaning on the counter almost directly from you. âAll the stuff he saidâŚâ
You forced a chuckle, even though your heart had almost immediately sunk. And here you thought youâd be free of more tragedy that night. âHa, yeah. So weird.â
âWeird?â
âYeah,â you mumbled, losing momentum with every second. Did you have to do this? You were tired and lonely and sad, and you didnât want to get second helpings of unrequited feelings that night. But still, you played along. âSuch a joke. You nâme? I know you donât feel that way, donât worry.â
âWhat if--â he stopped, short.
You waited a moment to see if heâd continue, only to be met with silence. You turned to stare at him. He leant back on his arms with his head down, so you couldnât see whatever look he wore on his face.Â
âWhat ifâŚ?â
âWhat ifâŚâ he paused again, sighing and rubbing a hand down his face. âI...if...I dunno. It wasnât all a joke.â
Okay, you were starting to freak out a little, If this was some sort of joke⌠âDiego, I really donât ha-â
â-I like you, Y/N.â
And just like that, your heart had stopped.
Well, not really. Though it did feel like it did; one moment you thought he was there to confront you about your feelings, and the next you could only start at him like a deer caught in the headlights, unsure whether or not to run or to just stand and wait for the impact.
âW-huh?â
âI-idiotâs talking about me,â he groaned, and clearly he was forcing the words out, practically spitting them to avoid stuttering. âI-I just didnât say it cause-â
â-donât say that.â
Diego stopped. âWhat?â
âI mean,â you shrugged, taking a step away from the dishes. Your soapy hands moved out to just almost touch him. âHeâs way too adamant on his choice in movies. And some might say he has no choice...but heâs definitely not an idiot.â
Slowly, Diego, rolled away from the counter and lifted his head to look at you. You could see the same look in his eyes you were sure reflected in yours; confusion, fear, a little bit of that bubbling excitement that came with passion--
âHe figured out we were both into each other âfore either of us had a clue.â You stepped nearer; the two of you were nearly touching. You forced your head up, staring him down with a smile. âTo be completely honest, this feels like a fever dream. Not sure this is even happening.â
âOh,â he whispered, and it came out more like a sigh than a word. His hands met your waist, trembling but pressing. âY-â
-you cut him off. Quickly, before you could lose your will (or grip on reality, whatever came first) you lifted up on your toes and to his lips, pressing a firm kiss to his own. It was brief but sure, only lasting a second before pulling away.
âI like you too, dummy.â
His eyes reopened and stared down at you, wide and happy. âYeah?â
âI donât know how you didnât notice,â you laughed, itching to kiss him again. Why had you pulled away so quickly? His taste didnât even remain on your own lips, no matter how you licked at them. âI feel like I was obvious as hell.â
Diego smiled a little, soft and pretty. âI g-guess I was just b-b-busy lookinâ at you like you hung the moon, or - or whatever Klaus said.â
âIT WAS ALIGNED THE STARS AND MOON, YOU LOVESICK FOOL!â
âGO BACK TO SLEEP, KLAUS!â
â...DID YOU GUYS KISS YET?â
âKLAUS!â
#diego hargreeves x reader#diego hargreeves imagine#tua x reader#the umbrella academy x reader#my fics
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Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 17
Authors note: Hey guys! Sorry, had to delete and repost this chapter because Tumblr is, once again, giving me difficulties. Just want to thank y'all so much for being patient with me as I finished up with classes. Hoping these next few months will give me more time to work on this fic. As always, your comments and likes always make my day and help me get through the worst of writer's block and I cannot thank you enough for that!
READ MORE on AO3 or see the Master post!
When the witches got back to the academy, the sun had barely risen above the horizon. Emily hadnât realized how accustomed she had become to the usual hustle and bustle; the silence was nearly as stinging as the constant noise.
They were all dead on their feet. After hell, sleep had eluded Emily. The fact Madison had forced her to sleep on the ground didnât help⌠neither did the darkness. It was suffocating, that place. Sometimes she was afraid the underground fortress would become her tomb. They had all tried to catch up on sleep during the plane ride home, but Misty snored so much it made the feat nearly impossible.
So, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, the witches made their way through the door. Zoe grumbled about canceling classes, Cordelia muttering an agreement.
âA break? Already?â Coco said. She stood next to Mallory by the stairs, looking more like butlers than students. The pair must have been the only ones awake, looking to one other and smiling at a silent inside joke. âI like this school.â
âI trust there were no disturbances while we were away?â Myrtle asked, handing off her bags to Kyle who proceeded to take them up the stairs.
If Mallory were a bird, Emily would have said she was preening, âNo more than usual.â
Kyle paused by Emily for a moment, hand extended, but she waved him forward. Kyle smiled and nodded, proceeding past them and towards the stairs.
âOh, lover-boy,â Madison sang as he began to take the first step, pulling Emilyâs attention away from Mallory and their headmistress, âmy bags?
The blond man hesitated, then doubled back. He rearranged the bags on his arm and picked up the ex-movie starâs numerous suitcases, all either Chanel or some other overpriced name brand.
âYou have two arms,â Zoe snapped at the woman, her own bag in hand. Emilyâs gaze flickered to the floor, green eyes darting between it, Cordelia, and the scene unfurling before her.
âItâs fine,â Kyle said quietly, giving a pointed look at Zoe, âItâs my job.â
The look seemed to soothe Zoe, her shoulders tense but her back no longer arched like she was about to swing at Madison. Madison opened her mouth, unable to resist not having the last word.
A body barreling into her side kept Emily from hearing exactly what was spoken. By the look on Zoeâs face, it was nothing good.
âOh, I missed you!â Coco exclaimed, squeezing the girl in a hug. Emily did her best not to tense, but the reaction was second nature to the brunette. âHow was California?â
âDry,â Emily said, earning a chuckle from Coco.
âObviously you didnât go to the beach,â Coco said, âHow did it go?â
The brunetteâs eyes darted to the figure moving towards them, continuing to speak as Mallory approached. For some reason, Emily had expected her and Cordeliaâs talk to last longer. She settled in to place beside Coco, listening with an attentive grin.
âWeâre all in one piece,â Emily said, looking back to Coco, âso Iâd say rather well.â
Mallory reached out and squeezed Emilyâs arm, her ever-present grin widening ever slightly. âSee? I knew youâd do great!â
âWhoâs this, Firefly?â
Misty had always got possessive a little too quickly. It was her vice, clinging to things too tightly. Her mother used to call her a âlittle pythonâŚâ the snake in the garden of Eden.
Emily faltered ever slightly. As someone who kept to herself, she was more used to being the one introduced, not the one introducing.
âCoco, Mallory,â She spoke, glancing between the two girls and her new acquaintance, âMisty Day.â
Mallory rushed forward to shake the womanâs hand as if she were meeting Stevie Nicks instead of a girl from the swamplands of Mississippi.
âIâve heard so much about you from Miss Cordelia. Youâre a legend here!â
Misty pulled her shawl in tighter and glanced between Mallory and Emily. Being the center of attention was an anxious position for her. The last time she was the center of attention, she went to hell. The first time had her burned at the stake. Her steps back from Mallory and into Emilyâs side were more a flight instinct than an anxious tic.
âAw, shucks,â the swamp witch said with a flickering smile and a chuckle, âDidnât think I was here long enough to make an impression.â
âResurgence is a remarkable power,â Mallory insisted, âIf not for you, I would have thought myself a freak.â
âWell, ainât that sweet.â
Myrtle was quick to rescue the woman from the over-exuberance of the younger witch, placing a steadying hand on Mistyâs shoulder. Cordelia was not far behind. Emily could feel her brown eyes on her back like a botanist studying a new plant species.
âWhile I love pleasantries,â Myrtle said, âI am absolutely famished. Airplane foods always fall flat.â
âItâs because of our sense of smell,â Emily said, trying to ignore the weird looks she was getting, âThe altitude affects our nasal passages, making it harder to smell and thus harder to taste. The two are inseparable.â
âSo, itâs like how parents plug their kid's nose to get them to take their medicine,â Mallory said. Emily sent her a brief, but thankful smile for making the moment feel less awkward than it was.
âExactly.â
âEither way,â Myrtle said with a wave of her hand, âI am craving a crème brĂťlĂŠe with a glass of chardonnay.â
Emily smirked a bit before she spoke, âChardonnay sounds good.â
âNot yet, you,â Cordelia admonished through a chuckle, ruffling Emilyâs hair a bit, âWe may be lenient with a lot of things, but underage drinking will not be one of them.â
The brunette wanted to note she had done plenty of underage drinking the night before but refrained. Part of being able to bend the rules is pretending you didnât break them.
âOh, come on,â Madison said, standing at the back of their little group with her arms crossed in front of her chest, âLittle miss indigestion just went to hell. Let her live a little.â
âMaybe a glass,â Cordelia relented, earning a few chuckles from the group. âOne.â
Emily echoed the expressions of her fellow witches, but Cordeliaâs humor did not amuse her. The headmistresses statement assured her of one thing, however. The brunette had secured a place in the inner circle of Robichaux. It was a feat she would have been proud of before, but nowâŚ
Now, the real world seemed so dull. Sensations failed to feel real-- like the world was covered in a fog. Her hands would hover, expecting something to come to her palm and playing off hesitation when it didnât. Emily had always fancied her dreams to the waking world. The real world now felt more dull than usual. The young witch found herself missing hell, debating whether or not to chase that high.
âFull already?â Cordelia asked at the table they all gathered around. Emily had been picking at her food for the past ten minutes, gaze flickering to the many conversations around the table.
Emily was quick to brush it off, putting down her fork and taking a sip of her sweet tea, âIâve always eaten like a bird.â
âBirds eat ten times their weight,â Myrtle noted with an amused smile. Cordelia had been so tense since Hawthorne. For once, Myrtle had to be the optimistic one⌠if only for the sake of maintaining an air of control.
âGood thing I wasnât talking in ratios.â
Myrtle chuckled and went back to her food, but Cordelia continued to watch Emily carefully as she turned and offered Misty her desert.
âYou alright, Firefly?â
âJust tired.â
âBad dreams?â
âSomething like that.â
Cordeliaâs glance flickered to her mentor. The slight quirking of the redheadâs brow gave away her own concerns. The headmistress gaze returned to Emily, her posture straightening ever slightly.
âAbout your personal hell?â she asked.
Emily faltered slightly at her headmistressâs voice. While they were surrounded by people, most had the decency not to eavesdrop on the more intimate conversations â feigning ignorance even if they heard every word. It was one of those unspoken rules of society.
âNo. I didnât have a personal hell.â
Shit.
Her exhaustion and weird mindset had made her careless. Then again, Cordelia was supposed to help with things such as these, right? The whole point of being here was to learn. How could she learn if she never asked questions? Why did her gut churn like she had been caught with her hands painted red?
Green eyes slowly turned to the brown ones that had burned holes in her skin since she had arrived in Mississippi. Cordeliaâs brows furrowed, lips twisting in the way they always did when she didnât have the answers.
âThen where were you?â
â⌠I donât know.â
The table was consumed with silence, no one able to pretend they werenât listening in to the conversation at hand. Coco glanced around at the table, noting the unwavering stares. Glancing to Emily, she saw her eyes flick between them all, her plate, Cordelia, and back again.
âProbably the jet lag,â the heiress said, âshit makes you forget what your own name is.â
Emily smiled with the rest of them, sending a thankful glance to the woman who squeezed her hand and smiled. The table fell back into idle chatter.
âHell of a spotlight,â Coco whispered into her glass, eyes flickering around to her fellow witches.
Emily mimicked her movements, âyouâre telling me.â
The pair shared a glance and promptly fell into laughter.
âNext time you need to swing by L.A. Beaches are crowded, but the experience is worth it.â
âThereâs a tattoo parlor there I wanted to check out,â Emily noted, âPurple Panther. One of my favorite artists works there.â
âWe should go and get matching tattoos.â
âWhat did I miss?â Mallory asked, returning from a trip to the bathroom.
âWeâre all going to get matching tattoos.â Coco declared.
âOf what?â
Emily smiled and leaned in, âwe should get the triquetra from Charmed.â
âOooh, yes!â Coco exclaimed, âI loved that show as a kid.â
Malloryâs face twisted in confusion, âHavenât seen it.â
âWeâre binge-watching it,â Coco declared, âtonight.â
âMy room?â Emily asked, âI have a TV.â
âNo offense, your room is a broom closet.â
âFeels like home,â Emily jested, a genuine smile curling on her lips, âcertainly been in it for long enough.â
Coco snorted out a laugh, infecting Mallory and Emily into a fit of giggles. The brunette could feel Cordeliaâs eyes on her, a hand going to smooth down the hairs on the back of her neck. She didnât like it, the feeling of being watched.
âOh!â Mallory said, âI have a tattoo idea â swords.â
âSwords?â
âFor the Three Musketeers!â
Emily gasped as an idea hit her, pulling out her sketchbook and scrawling out an idea.
âWhat ifâŚâ
She finished the crude drawing â a sword with a triquetra behind it. Some of the lines of the triquetra looped around the blade where it was positioned at the end of its point. â⌠we did both?â
âBoth?â Mallory asked.
âBoth,â Emily repeated.
âBoth is good,â Coco finished, the three falling into giggles once again.
.
.
.
Emily was unsurprised when Cordelia cornered her later in the day. Classes had been canceled for the day, older girls put in charge of amusing the younger ones. The brunette had dozed until 12 oâclock when the cheerful laughing and screeching from the lawn kept her from falling back asleep.
Book in hand, Emily had nearly made it to the greenhouse when Cordelia intercepted her. The blonde woman had been leaning against the door of the rotting shack. Emily wondered how long the headmistress had waited for her out in the sun.
âWalk with me,â was all she said as the brunette got within earshot, her tone filled with bad news. They strolled in silence for a good while. When the playful yelling and screaming was muffled by distance and the trees around the property, Cordelia finally spoke.
âIâve been to hell myself. It changes a person⌠for better or worse.â
Emilyâs eyes were trained on the ground, navigating over twisting roots and rocks that jutted from the dirt. She spared Cordelia a brief glance. âWhich was it? Better or worse?â
âThatâs the thing,â Cordelia said, head high and eyes steady on the path ahead of them, âyou can never tell which. Itâs something only others can see.â
âIs this an intervention or something?â
A smile tugged at the blondeâs lips, âOr something.â
Silence consumed them once more. It became clear that Emily could either talk or they would walk until she did.
âHell was like a dream,â the brunette relented after a minute or so, âDreams always feel so real until you wake up. Then, you mourn the reality you lost.â
âEven with nightmares?â
âAll I ever have is nightmares.â
Cordelia spared the woman a look. Emilyâs eyes were trained on the ground as she took a step over a fallen trunk. Dark circles ringed around her eyes, the purple somehow making the green even brighter. Cordelia realized she had never seen Emily without them. Were her dreams something more? Something that paraded around as sleep when it was really anything but?
Emilyâs words were hardly louder than a whisper, âIt isnât the situation I mourn, but the power I have.â
The book in Emilyâs hands suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. It was one of her many journals, each page dedicated to the carefully worded and detailed recollections of the visions her mind procured in sleep. The voice said her dreams were something more. Emily feared the implications. She was a stickler for a little thing called proof, however. Spirits can lie and trick just as well as humans could.
Cordelia regarded the girl beside her, âPowers such as what?â
âIn hell, I could pull a weapon to me as if I reached out and grabbed it with my own hand. I could conjure flames and move them to my will.â
Her words were like a snarl on her lip, a frustration that plagued her every hour. Then, the snarl faltered and the grief set in. âEverything was so much clearer⌠simpler.â
The headmistress stopped and placed a hand upon the girlâs shoulder, squeezing it for good measure. Emily wished she hadnât. It was easy to hold back tears and emotions when you didnât have to look someone in the eye.
âYou went to hell and brought back my dearest friend,â she pressed, hand trailing down Emilyâs arm and taking her hand, cupping it in her own, âjust because you cannot perform grand acts of magic does not mean you cannot fight.â
Emily looked at Cordelia, searching for something in those brown eyes. Everyoneâs eyes were covered in a fog of optimism. It made real-life feel more like a dream than her dreams did. Their gazes never failed to make her shudder. Coco was the only one who did not succumb. Thus, the only one she somewhat trusted. Carefully, Emily pulled her hand away.
âMichael brought back Misty, not me.â
It was something she had said a thousand times since her return. The people here either didnât listen or didnât care. Which was worse?
âWith your aid.â
For a moment, Emily contemplated telling Cordelia everything. She was so desperate for answers â so desperate to cut through the fog. She was reminded of The Odyssey, Odysseusâs travel to an island where everything seemed perfect. It was so tempting to give in, to be alright with not knowing.
What was Michael?
Why did the voices speak to him?
Why did she understand their words while Misty did not?
âI had a weird dream last night,â she found herself speaking, her silence lasting a little too long, âI know it means something, but I canât quite place it.â
Cordelia seemed content in her words, a small smile telling Emily that she had chosen the right words⌠even if they were not the words she had intended to speak. There was trust to be built before Emily could talk to Cordelia about hell.
âTell me about it,â her Supreme commanded, gently ushering Emily back the way they came.
âI was in a field,â Emily started, an air of distance taking over her voice. When Cordelia looked to her, she was miles away â eyes filled with fog. âYou were there just⌠waiting. For me, I think, but I could be wrong.â
âWhat happened?â Cordelia asked, âin the dream?â
âYou were standing next to a girl. She saw me first⌠said her name was Nan.â
Cordeliaâs gasp was quiet, but still loud enough to draw Emily from the fog. A manicured hand came to her mouth before going to her stomach as if the woman had been punched. Emily was afraid Cordelia might pass out again.
âNan,â Cordelia said, speaking around a frog in her throat.
The younger witch felt a surge of anxiety. She should have said nothing, kept her mouth shut. Why couldnât she keep her mouth shut? It had been an easy feat until she came to Robichaux.
âShe was sweet,â Emily found herself saying, âtold me not to worry.â
Cordelia leaned on a nearby tree. Emily wrung her hands, biting her lip and waiting for the woman to say something. Her heart leaped into her chest when she heard the woman sniffle back a tear.
âDid I say something wrong?â Emily asked, heart hammering. Cordelia didnât answer. Should she get closer? Should she squeeze her arm as Cordelia had done to her many a times? Emily had never been good at consoling. âIâm sorry.â
The woman finally shook her head, the heels of her palm swiping away the few tears that had trailed down her cheeks. âNo⌠no, youâve brought me a great deal of peace.â
Curiosity always got the best of her.
âNanâŚâ Emily said, âYou recognize her?â
âShe used to be a student here⌠before her untimely death.â
âIâm sorry.â
Cordelia sighed and straightened her shirt, quickly taking back the decorum Emily had managed to peel back. At that moment, Emily realized something darkened in her Supreme. The fog left the brown eyes and hardened into something more tangible, her jaw clenched ever slightly, and the mother-like tone left her voice.
âIâd advise you not to approach her in your dreams again.â
Emily faltered for a moment, too caught up in the change to process the womanâs words.
âWhy?â
âFor your safety.â
âShe hardly seemed dangerous.â
âIt is not her I worry about.â
Her lips opened to ask more questions, but Cordelia quickly overtook the conversation. âTell me about the rest of this dream.â
It was probably best if she didnât argue. Emily went on describing, glancing at the woman now and again. Cordeliaâs eyes lost their dark edge as the tale continued â flying, levitation, conjuring of fire and wind â until they once again held the optimistic fog Emily had become accustomed to.
âAnd when I wake up,â Emily concluded, âI felt like I was not myself. That my real self lies within these dreams.â
Cordelia simply nodded.
âDreams are more powerful than we can imagine,â she said, âit is, in short, an insight into our true nature â witch or no witch.â
âThen what is my true nature?â Emily asked, jumping back as a boisterous toddler ran past her, two more hot on her heels. They had made it back to the garden.
Cordelia smiled at her, giving her shoulder one more squeeze before she trailed after the children.
âThat is something only you can answer.â
.
.
.
Cordelia paced her room, thoughts writhing like a snake that had worked its way into a knot. Unable to move forward or back, she wondered how long she had until death. Do nothing and she would starve â giving into the circumstances like a beast baring its belly to the knife. Tug too harshly, however, and she would sever her own spine.
âI do hope you have good reason for waking me in the middle of the night,â Myrtle sighed as she entered the room. She carefully closed the door, the only sign of her entrance the dulled click of the lock behind her.
The Supreme ceased her pacing, taking to wringing her hands instead as she came to a stop before the redhead.
âI canât shake the feeling that something is wrong.â
âYou just put a petulant boy in power,â Myrtle scoffed, âWhat can be more wrong than that?â
âI did it for the best of the coven.â
Myrtle let out a sigh, unable to keep up her irritation. Tense shoulders and crossed arms relaxed and rested at her sides. âMy dear, what good are you if you keep working yourself into a fit of hysterics?â
Cordelia either didnât hear her or didnât care to address the topic. Hurrying over to her desk, she pushed papers this way and that until she found what she was looking for.
âWere you able to look into the matter we discussed?â
It took all Myrtleâs power not to roll her eyes.
âEvocation rituals of that nature arenât exactly common if they exist at all.â
âBut they do exist?â
âNone that I could find.â
âWhat if we modified a resurgence spell⌠combined it with dreams. Thatâs where her skill shows the most, after all. If we could get into that othernessââ
Cordelia had thrown the idea around with the woman multiple times before they visited Hawthorne. Seeing the aftermath of the Seven Wonders, particularly in the trial of Descensum, had made the Supreme all the more convinced of her path. If Cordelia shared any traits with Fiona, it was her stubbornness.
âI still donât see how her power, any power, could be trapped inside her,â Myrtle insisted once more, âThat family of hers didnât have a lick of magic in her bones. Her mother has no magical talent whatsoever and donât get me started on that father of hers.â
âThen why is she here at our school?â
Myrtle spared her a pointed look. Cordelia huffed and leaned on her desk, keeping her eyes locked with her mentorâs.
âEmilyâs powers have to originate from somewhere,â she said, shaking her head and averting her gaze for but a moment, âHer grandmother died. Maybe she used the last of her power to protect Emily. Delphi had yet to be disbanded when she passed.â
âIf that were the case, she wouldnât be able to go to hell, dear. Maybe itâs as you said; her magic is tied to the other â dreams, visions, prophecy, the whole shebang.â
Cordelia shook her head, âThat doesnât feel right.â
Myrtle was now the one to pace. The carpet was sure to be filled with holes if the issue loomed over their heads any longer. If Cordelia could not let go of this vision, the coven would be doomed. How many more dead ends did Delia need to hit before she recognized the futility ofâ
âWhy are you so adamant about this?â Myrtle found herself asking, more out of desperation than curiosity.
Cordelia gave her a pointed look and the woman scoffed. âMalloryââ
âMallory didnât go to hell.â
âAnd our dear Emily canât make a butterfly out of petals. Donât put all your eggs in one basket. One false step and they all shatter.â
âThen help me eliminate this option,â Cordelia said, voice pleading, âLet's perform a ritual and get our answers before too much time has passed.â
âAlright,â Myrtle relented, âlet's pull out the books⌠and the booze.â
.
.
.
Emily sat on one of the tables in the greenhouse like she was waiting at a doctorâs appointment, picking absentmindedly at the thin layer of paint atop the table. The inner circle of Robichaux stood around her watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they gathered material and passed it out.
Misty sat at Emilyâs side, holding her hand and offering reassuring smiles whenever the brunette turned to look at her. Part of e was afraid they were going to kill her⌠or something worse. Death certainly wasnât the worst thing the lot of them had experienced.
âWe believe there is something blocking out our dear Emilyâs powers,â Myrtle explained, placing jars of⌠something around the table.
âOr she just doesnât have any,â Madison sighed, obviously wanting to be anywhere else as she studied her nails â she just got a manicure. The others stared at her in annoyance. âWhat? Weâre all thinking it.â
âShe saw Nan,â Cordelia spoke. She had been silent the entire time and didnât even greet Emily when she was escorted into the greenhouse by Myrtle. If her silence was out of concentration or concern, no one could tell.
Queenieâs eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Her arms fell to her sides and all she could do was look between Emily and her Supreme. âShe what?â
âI didnât know who she was,â Emily said, glancing to Misty who held a similar expression to Queenie, âNot until I talked to Cordelia.â
âIs she alright?â Zoe asked. She stood opposite to Misty, carefully watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they prepared. âDid she say anything?â
âNothing of note.â
âBut she did say something,â Queenie said, a silent command in her voice.
âOnly that I shouldnât worry.â
Zoeâs brow furrowed, âworry about what?â
â⌠I donât know.â
âIf we are able to unlock your powers,â Myrtle said, ignoring the scathing look Cordelia sent her. The redhead still held her doubts. âPerhaps we can find out.â
Her words seemed to motivate the other girls. One by one they fell into place around the table, taking a string as Cordelia handed it to them. Misty and Madison stood at Emilyâs left, Queenie and Zoe at her right. Myrtle stood in front of her, a large tomb of a book in her hands as she watched Cordelia work.
âLay down, my dear,â she told Emily, who hesitantly did as she was told, âWe will be delving deep into your subconscious and Iâd rather you didnât wake with a concussion.â
Cordelia came to a stop at Emilyâs head. The brunette looked up through her lashes and watched as the woman lit a stick of incense, quickly blowing it out and placing it in a cup of sand. Emily really hoped they wouldnât have a fire accident. If her hair were to be cut even shorter, sheâd look like an egg wearing a toupee.
âConcentrate on the power you had in hell,â She whispered, so low that only Emily could hear her, âVisualize it and keep the sensation in the forefront of your mind.â
Emily felt if she were in some weird baptism, one youâd see on a TLC show about those weird Mormon cults. Shaking her head, she reminded herself to focus. She thought of hell, of that classroom â the fire, the words, the void. Emily felt her eyes become heavy before they closed. She saw Michael, blue eyes only showing a brief moment of alarm as fire raged around him.
Cordelia looked to Myrtle. The redhead began to chant. One by one, the other girls echoed her words. Emily was only slightly aware of their actions, their voices sounding miles away. Finally, Cordelia echoed the words. Her hands cupped over Emilyâs face, covering her eyes and centering the spell between her brows, the third eye.
Once again, Emily fell into a slumber. Cordelia prayed that, when she awoke, her questions would be answered.
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FIC ROUND-UP 2020
Hey, ya'll, as we yell one last âFUCK YOUâ at the absolute hell year that was 2020, I thought I would do a fic round-up of everything I wrote this year. Enjoy!
down to the last bone (pre-relationship McEichel, shapeshifter au): Jack doesn't really meet McDavid until they're both playing at the U18's in Finland. He's heard of him, of course, everyone has, and they've run into each other on-ice, but nothing more than that.
on a hot summerâs night (Tkachuks, a/b/o au, mpreg, werewolves, sibling incest):Â Sometimes heâll just be making a sandwich or watching a movie and heâll just get hit with this urge to find Brady and beg him to fuck him, to make sure he knocks him up.
Itâs fucked up for a lot of reasons, not least that they're both still at the beginning of their careers, especially Brady, and Matt isn't in a hurry to stop playing for an extended amount of time, weird biological urges aside.
So when it's mid-August and he still hasn't had his late summer heat, Matt's worried and pissed and fucking scared, but still a small part of him hopes that his alpha finally knocked him up.
falling apart (hips and hearts) (McEichel, a/b/o au, heat/rut sex):Â The first time they have sex is during the run-up to the draft while they're in Chicago to watch game four of the Final.
strike us like a match (Tkachuks, Sentinel/Guides, bonding, sibling incest): They've always been close, closer than most siblings Matt knows.
sweat drips (love sticks) (Tkachuks, BDSM au, sibling incest, impact play): There's worse things for a hockey player who happens to also be a sub to be than a masochist; at the very least Matt always has a bruise to press when he's jerking off, aches and pains that he can pretend someone put on his skin during a scene if he wants to. Usually he doesn't.
just swimming in our sins (Tkachuks, dick pics, sibling incest, panty kink, rough sex):Â The thing is they've always been weird about each other.
Matt always thought it was just being brothers, just a product of playing hockey their whole lives and moving around a lot when they were growing up.
But now he's pretty sure that whatever weirdness they have between them has nothing to do with hockey.
feel good (on my lips) (Stromes, a/b/o au, sibling incest, not related au, heat sex):Â Most of the time it doesn't bother Ryan that his dad forgets he's an alpha; the rest of their family are almost all betas, so Ryan's always just shrugged off being lost in the shuffle.
It mostly doesn't matter to him in the grand scheme of things: he doesn't live at home any more, his ruts are always six months apart so it's easy for him to plan visits home around them. There's never any one that stays at his dad's house, so his old room there still smells like him, there's no other scents there to annoy him when he visits.
It does mean that his dad tends to dismiss other people's dynamics as unimportant, because Ryan is so easy going about his own.
Even when that's information Ryan would really appreciate having ahead of time.
those words, that kiss (Patrik Laine/Nik Ehlers, werewolves, a/b/o au, heat sex):Â As long as Nikâs happy, thatâs all that matters to Patrik. Everything else is secondary to that, even hockey.
take me home (youâre the one true thing) (Tkachuks, soulmate au, sibling incest):Â They're exactly what they're meant to be, every part of them tangled together, and they wouldn't change any of it no matter what.
eyes closed, fingers crossed (Sam Girard/Erik Johnson, BDSM au, spanking, light punishment): Erik doesn't need to see a video to know that Sam's a good dom.
all your fevered dreams (Tkachuks, hellhounds, sirens, mating fights, sibling incest):Â Most preternaturals donât recognize Mattâs scent right away.
The ocean part of it is simple: all sirens smell like saltwater, even if theyâre not born at sea the way their ancestors were. Itâs the brimstone that makes wolves and other shifters wrinkle their noses in confusion and lean in closer to get a stronger smell, like their noses lied to them the first time.
Matt tolerates it when itâs his teammates trying to familiarize themselves with his scent and even then his patience is limited and heâs not afraid to push them away from him if they get too annoying about it.
Hellhounds are choosy about who they let into their personal space and for how long: Mattâs no exception.
not a day goes by (Brock Boeser/Elias Pettersson, a/b/o au, non-traditional a/b/o dynamics, bonding):Â He's never looked at an alpha and thought mine. Never wondered how one would look with his collar around their neck.
But Brock is always right there, always within touching distance and smiling at Elias like he can't help himself. Like maybe he wants what Elias wants.
in between (McEichel, godlings au, homophobic slurs):Â The locker room afterwards is quiet in spite of winning and Connor knows part of it is his own bad mood bleeding over to the rest of the team, but he can't bring himself to care as much as he should.
got you under my skin (Quinn Hughes/Jack Hughes, a/b/o au, sibling incest):Â âQuinn's not an alpha,â Jack says automatically, even though he can smell the new undertone to Quinn's normal evergreen and oranges scent, the one that's been there since they went to world juniors last year; itâs sharp and heady, and a part of Jack canât help but focus on it, drawn to it for some reason he canât explain. âWe're betas,â he adds, his voice unsure.
Matty scoffs but doesnât say anything, and he doesnât really need to: Quinn and Chucky are still fighting, snarling and hitting each other with a ferociousness that seems entirely out of place in the Tkachuk's front yard, and the air seems to be pressing down on Jack, intense with the scent of two enraged alphas, and that says more than any words could.
charlie (Charlie McAvoy/Brandon Carlo, godlings verse):Â Charlie doesn't remember anyone ever explaining what death, or the afterlife was to him.
beginnings in death (pre-relationship McEichel, in death au):Â The first time he sees Connor is at a funeral.
nobody loves you (like i do) (Tkachuks, BDSM au, masochism, sadism, rough sex):Â The thing is Matt doesnât consider himself romantic or anything like that. He loves Brady: as his dom, as his brother, as his boyfriend, and yeah, he needs him in the same ways, but those are just facts to him.
i love the way you hurt me (Tkachuks, werewolves, animal death, werewolf courting, minor character death):Â A mate who couldnât court properly, who didnât have claws and teeth of their own, wasnât a mate worth having in Mattâs opinion.
How could you judge someone as worthy when they couldnât even beat you in a fight?
just like oxygen (McEichel, werewolves, animal death, werewolf courting, minor character death): Even back then Jack knew Connor would change his life.
just to feel you (Tkachuks, a/b/o au, heat sex):Â Brady knows itâs going to be him and Matt.
They still fight like cats and dogs, as eager to use their fists on each other now as when they were kids, but there's an edge to it recently that wasn't there before, something that makes Brady want to pin Matt to the floor and take him apart, bite by bite.
He thinks Matt would let him, too, the way he watches Brady when he thinks Brady isn't paying attention.
The joke's on him, Brady always pays attention to Matt and what he's doing.
*
Well, thatâs it! All things considered, it was a pretty good year for me, creatively speaking. I did some moodboards, too, and maybe Iâll post those tomorrow or at some other point ÂŻ\_(ă)_/ÂŻ
I hope yaâll also had some good things that helped you through this disaster of a year, be safe and Iâll see you on the other side of 2020 â¤â¤â¤
#my fic#fic stuff#sibling incest#mceichel#werewolf au#a/b/o au#godlings au#in death au#that's hockey baby#gif
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Idk if you doing requests or not rn buut, feriowind has been posting a bunch of vampire!Hermann and I needs some modern vampire Hermann and professor Newt...
uwu ily
SO I feel like I should open by saying a WIP fic with this concept by @coloredpencilroses exists and I Love it, so read High Stakes for something much better than this lol (and leave a nice comment). HAPPY OCTOBER!!!! warning for very mildly implied sexy stuff. EDIT: and of COURSE I forgot to tag @theloccent for my extremely belated fill for the âVampireâ square on my bingo card :/
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Newt has always been an extremely persistent type. He considers it, naturally, one his greatest strengthsâno theory goes untested, no question goes unanswered, no experiment goesâŚwell, unexperimented. You donât get more PhDs than you can count on one hand if youâre not persistent. You donât get a date with the hot new engineering professor down the hall if youâre not persistent, either, but Newt is finding this venture is taking a little more effort than usual. Thatâs fine, though. He likes challenges.
Dr. Gottlieb was hired by the university at the start of the semester, after the head of the engineering departmentâwhoâs nearing her seventiesâfinally decided sheâd had enough and announced her retirement somewhat last minute. He is, frankly, unlike anyone Newtâs ever seen before, a weird combination of cheekbones, wide lips, and a turn-of-the-century old-fashioned air that carries over into everything from his wardrobe to the stiff way he carries himself. He wouldnât look out of place in a black and white photograph, Newt thinks. Or maybe even the illustrations of a Dickens novel. Thatâs not why Newtâs into him, thoughâwell, not the only reason why.
In the entire month and a half Gottliebâs been here, he hasnât spoken a single word to anyone his contract doesnât require him to; when he is forced into conversation, he scowls and snaps and mumbles his way through before making a polite excuse as to why he needs to leave the room right now, immediately. No one knows anything about him other than the bare minimumâthat his name is Dr. Gottlieb, he lectures in engineering, and he exists. Shit, Newt doesnât even know his first name. The little plaque outside his office just says Gottlieb.
The mystery just makes Gottlieb all the more alluring to Newt.
Anyway, his continued failures in winning Gottlieb over arenât a result of a lack of trying. On Gottliebâs first day, Newt stopped by his office to introduce himself. He didnât bother knocking. Maybe that was his first mistake. âIâm Newt,â he said. âMy office is a few doors down from you. Youâre the new department head?â
Gottlieb looked stricken, but he nodded. âYes,â he said. He didnât say anything else.
âCool,â Newt said. âAnyway, Iâm technically in the bio department, but I teach a few interdisciplinary courses with engineering, so I requested they stick me over here to get a bigger office.â He cracked a grin. âI guess weâll be seeing a lot of each other.â
âHm,â Gottlieb said.
Newt tried again the next day.
âYour office is so dark,â he said, conversationally, because it wasâlights all off, books stacked up everywhere, maroon drapes drawn tightly in front of the single small window. Dark and stuffy. âFeel free to stop by my office whenever you want a break from it. I have a corner one, so I have two windows.â
âI requested this office,â Gottlieb said, not looking up the article he was marking up.
Newt became desperate by his third attempt and did something thatâs left him burning with shame even now, weeks later, and that would probably warrant the immediate transfers of sleep-deprived engineering majors out of all his courses if word ever got out it was him: he deliberately broke the department coffee machine. âMan, I canât believe that thing is busted again,â he declared to Gottlieb. âGood thing I have a Keurig in my office.â Newt had gone out and purchased a Keurig immediately before destroying the coffee pot. âSeriously, come by whenever you need caffeine.â
Gottlieb blinked at him, long and slow, and Newt had the strangest sense that he knew exactly what happened to the coffee pot. âI never drink⌠coffee,â Gottlieb finally said.
For all Newtâs troubles, the list of things he knows about Gottlieb has expanded by two pitiful points: that his accent is English and posh, and his voice is low and sexy. Helpful.
Itâs a chilly day in late October when Newt finally decides to enlist the aid of his interdisciplinary undergrads. Some of themâhe learned after poking around their registration recordsâhave a seminar with Gottlieb, and they seem his best bet at learning anything. A spouseâa first nameâNewt would take Gottliebâs favorite color, even. âSo,â he starts class, unwinding his scarf off his neck, âthat Dr. Gottlieb sure is weird, huh?â
In Newtâs firsthand experience, undergrads love to gossip about their professors, and his certainly donât disappoint. Gottliebâs classes are all held in the basement of the engineering building. All run well into the evening, after the sunâs setâmost not finished until nineâand Gottlieb hustles out of the lecture hall the moment he can. He walks with a cane and a slight limp. He always dresses like that. Heâs never mentioned any sort of family, and wears no wedding ring. Heâs scary good at math. No one knows his first name.
âYouâve been an invaluable help,â Newt tells them all seriously.
He mulls the new information over in his office later as he grades some tests. So Gottlieb is a bit of shy, reclusive, genius. No surprise there. Well, his apparent hatred of sunlight is kind of weird (if unsurprising, given how pale he is) but maybe he just has sensitive eyes or something. Who is Newt to judge? At least he knows how to improve his next plan of attackâhe just has to ask the guy to come over and sit in a dark room in silence with him. Thatâs probably Gottliebâs dream date, actually.
Thereâs a knock on Newtâs office door. Newt looks up and drops his pen: itâs Gottlieb.
âUh. Hey, dude!â he squeaks, unsure of how to proceed in this entirely unfamiliar territory. Gottlieb, willingly interacting with him? Willingly leaving his office? âIs thereâŚcan I help you with something? Did you want that coffee after all?â
âMost definitely not,â Gottlieb says coolly. Heâs standing far enough back from the door that not a single sliver of lamp light from Newtâs office hits him, instead shrouded by the shadows of the dark engineering department. Newt didnât realize how late it had gotten. âMy students informed me that you were interrogating them about me.â
Itâs not a question. Newt is struck by a wave of nervousness that he doesnât quite understandâmaybe itâs the sour expression Gottlieb is giving him, something in those dark brown eyes that are piercing through Newt. He feels, foolishly and briefly, like cowering under his desk. He swallows. âYes,â he says, and adds, stammering, âI meanâI wasnât interrogating them. I was just asking a few questions.â
âWhy?â Gottlieb says.
âUh,â Newt says. âI guess I wasâŚcurious, about you?â
He works up the guts to look Gottlieb in the eyes; he sees Gottliebâs eyebrows jump the tiniest fraction of an inch. âYouâre attracted to me,â Gottlieb says, another non-question, though Newt hears a flicker of surprise.
âYeah,â Newt admits.
âI see,â Gottlieb says. Then, to Newtâs surprise, he suddenly smiles. âIâd like if you invited me over for dinner, Dr. Geiszler.â
âDinner,â Newt says. He feels strangely dizzy; but, shaking himself, he quickly gets over it. âI mean, dinner! Yes! Shit! When?â
âTonight, I should think,â Hermann says.
Tonight is Friday, which means they donât have work tomorrow. By the time they make it off campus itâll be almost tenâway later than people eat dinnerâand besides, Newt already had a sandwich at around seven. Is dinner a euphemism? Is Gottlieb propositioning him? God, why didnât he wash his sheets with the laundry this week? âTonight,â Newt says. He stands up abruptly and grabs his leather jacket with trembling fingers. Why is he trembling? Nerves, he guesses. Heâs about to hook up with total hottie Dr. Gottlieb, heâs allowed to be nervous. âFuck yes. Letâs go now.â
Gottlieb is not impressed with the messy state of Newtâs apartment, and even less impressed with the state of Newtâs refrigerator and freezer. âDinosaur chicken nuggets and canned Lime-A-Ritas,â he says with a sniff. âHm. You ought to be getting more vitamins, Dr. Geiszler. Iâm certain youâre deficient in something.â
âYou sound like my dad,â Newt snorts. He throws his car keys on the counter and shrugs off his jacket. âThereâs some leftover Chinese on the second shelf if you want itâjust some lo mein. Or I could put a frozen pizza in the oven. Or I guess we could order something too?â
Gottlieb shuts the fridge door delicately. âHow kind of you to offer,â he says. He doesnât sound like he means it. Newt is suddenly struck by how bizarre a sight he is in the midst of Newtâs chaotic kitchen: buttoned up to the throat with his stupid shirt and blazer, prodding at the fraying lime lizard-shaped rug by the sink with the end of his ornately-handled cane. Out of time and out of place.Â
âItâs Newt,â Newt says. âPlease donât call me Dr. Geiszler, it makes me feel ancient.â
âHm,â Gottlieb says.
âAnd what,â Newt says, deciding to test his luck a little, âuhâwhat should I call you?â
Gottlieb considers him. âHermann,â he says.
The name rings a bell in the back of Newtâs head. He swears heâs heard it somewhere beforeâan article, maybe. A book. Has he stumbled across Dr. Gottliebâs research before without even realizing it? Heâs on the verge of asking what publications Gottliebâs been featured in when Gottlieb suddenly snags hold of his hand; then, raising it to his mouth, he kisses it. His lips are as cold as his skin. âWould you like to show me to your quarters, Newton?â he murmurs.
Newt shivers; he nods.
âHermann Gottlieb,â Newt says aloud later, while Hermann redresses himself. âNow I know where Iâve heard that name before.â
âYes?â Hermann says. Heâs lacing up one of his Oxfords.
âI worked with his research in one of my dissertations,â Newt says. âAnother Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, I mean. He was a brilliant mathematician fromâGod, 1830-something. German. His work was groundbreaking for the time, or shit, for our time, too.â He remembers seeing a portrait of that Hermann Gottlieb in one of his sources; the whole of the similarities between him and Newtâs Hermann Gottlieb (the dark eyes, the mouth, the cheekbones) are a little too much to be entirely coincidental. âYou must be related to him, right? Like, heâs your great-great-greatââ
âYes,â Hermann cuts him off quickly. He turns to Newt and smiles. âA distant ancestor, certainly. I believe you are the first in some time to have made that connection.â
âAlways thought he was cool,â Newt yawns. âMan, Iâm tired.â The romp with Hermann had been fun, if not unexpectedly exhausting, and a littleâŚout of the ordinary. The dude apparently has some sort of weird biting kink that left Newtâs neck stinging a little bit, but itâs cool, Newt doesnât mind. It was like boning a vampire or something. Kinda hot. âDo you need me to show you to the door, or can I just stay here? Iâm serious about spending the night though. I really donât mind.â
Hermann fiddles with the laces of his other shoe, then, slowly, draws the whole thing back off. âIf itâs not an imposition,â he says, and smiles again, shyly. âThough, I warn youâIâm a bit of a late sleeper.â
âGood, so I am,â Newt says. âCould you toss me the sweatshirt hanging on that chair? You can grab one for yourself too, if youâre cold, Iâve got another hanging in the closet. No, not--yeah, that door.â
They dip under the covers and get cozy, Newt taking on the task of big spoon, because Hermann is a cold sonofabitch and could use a little insulation. The last thought on his mind before he drifts off to a comfortable sleep is how strange it is he canât feel Hermannâs heartbeatâthough, he realizes, itâs probably just muffled by their clothing.
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Proposal in the Produce Aisle
dean/cas fic
~2k
also posted on ao3
It all started when Dean and Cas were on a case. The woman they were questioning seemed more interested in Cas than in talking about her dead cousin, and Dean was growing increasingly more annoyed (and a little bit jealous).
He was one second away from grabbing Cas and kissing him in front of the lady, when Cas took his hand and told the woman, âOh, by the way, this is my husband.â Which threw Dean for a loop. Because he and Cas were only dating, definitely not married. But he brushed it aside because Cas didnât really mean it; he was only saying it to make this woman back off.
Then, the following week, Jack asked Dean, "When did you and Castiel get married?" and Dean stared at him for a solid ten seconds, waiting for the punchline. But Jack only looked back at him, perfectly serious.
âWeâre not married,â Dean finally answered, slowly.
Jack frowned. âOh. Are you going to get married?â
âI donâtâI... um...â Dean floundered, eventually settling on, âthatâs none of your business!â It came out a lot more harshly than he meant it to, but Jack didnât look offended, only confused.
He seemed about to ask another personal question, so Dean fled the room with a rambling excuse about needing to go on a milk run, they had run out of beer, he hadnât driven Baby in a while⌠Married? What the hell?
âSettle something for me,â Dean said, barging into the kitchen where Sam sat.
âFuck me,â Sam muttered into his coffee cup. He looked up at Dean. âWhat is it now?â
âJack thought Cas and I were married.â
Sam stared at him blankly. âOkay.âÂ
âWeâre not.â
âOkay,â Sam said again.
Dean threw up his hands. âIsnât that weird? Does everyone think weâre married?â
âYou do act like an old married couple.â Sam set down his coffee cup. âWhatâs the big deal, though?â
Dean sat across from him and buried his face in his hands. âCas called me his husband the other day. Is this an angel thing? Maybe they donât understand what marriage means.â He lifted his head from his hands. âRight, thatâs probably it. Iâll sit them down and explain.â
âOr,â Sam suggested, âYou and Cas can just get married already.â
âNot helpful.â
âWell, why not? Youâve been together for forever.â
âWhy not? BecauseâŚâ Dean racked his brain. âBecause I donât want to get married. Iâm not going to be some old married sonuvaââ
âDoes Cas want to get married?â
âI donât know! We donât talk about this shit.â
âWell, thereâs your first problem.â Sam stood and clapped Dean on the shoulder. âLooks like you and Cas need to talk.â
Again, Dean thought, not helpful.Â
But Samâs words rolled around in his head all day, and Dean couldnât help watching Cas, trying to remember if Cas had ever shown an interest in getting married, if heâd ever dropped a hint that he wanted Dean to propose. He was pretty sure Cas had done none of those things, which shouldâve been reassuring. But now there was another question gnawing at Dean: Did he want to marry Cas?
They had been together for several years; maybe marriage was the next step. And Dean couldnât deny heâd felt a secret satisfaction hearing Cas call him his husband and having Jack assume they were married. Despite what heâd told Sam, he wasnât that opposed to getting married. Not to the right person. And he was pretty certain heâd never find anyone more right for him than Cas.
He had to find a way to broach the subject, but he couldnât just ask out of the blue, hey, Cas, wanna get married? He had to first determine whether marriage was even something that had ever crossed Casâ mind. Which meant strategic, vague questioning.
He put his plan into action one night while he and Cas sat in the Dean Cave, watching Dr. Sexy, M.D. Well, he was watching Dr. Sexy. Cas was engrossed in a book about⌠Dean glanced at the title. Growing and Propagating Wild Flowers. Never in a million years would he have ever thought his life would come to thisâdating not only an angel, but an angel interested in gardening. Even stranger, the way both of those features were now incredibly sexy to him since they made up Cas.Â
Sliding closer to his angel boyfriend, he bumped their shoulders together, and, absentmindedly, Cas pulled a hand from his book and placed it on Deanâs thigh. Much as Dean now wanted to interlace their fingers, lean over and kiss the soft, warm skin under Casâ ear, it was time to bring up the topic pinging around in his brain.
He cleared his throat, âUm, funny how the characters in this show never get married.â He glanced sideways at Cas.Â
Cas shrugged, turning a page before answering. âFunny.â
Looks like he was going to have to be a little more straightforward. âYou ever think Sam will get married?â
Cas looked up at him. âTo Eileen?â Tilting his head, he stared off into the distance thoughtfully, then nodded. âI hope so. I think that would be good for him.â
Dean nodded and Cas looked back down at his book, conversation over. For fuckâs sake, Dean thought.
Edging closer to the truth, he said, âI always told Sam I didnât see much point in being married. Ya know, being a hunter and all. Never saw myself settling down.â That wasnât quite what he wanted to say. What he meant was that heâd never thought he could get married, not with the life he lived. Heâd never dreamed he could be this happy. Now heâd found someone who made both of those things possible.
âI never thought much about marriage when I was in Heaven.â Cas didnât look up from his book. âAngels donât get married to each other.â
âOh.â Dean looked back at the TV. Well, fuck. That said it all, didnât it? Cas was an angel; he didnât understand human practices like marriage. It didnât mean anything to him. Dean didnât know why he felt disappointedâhe had his answer, and now he didnât have to worry that Cas was secretly waiting for a proposal.
âWhy all this talk about marriage?â
Dean startled. âWhat?â He realized Cas was studying him. âUh, I donât know. No reason, it was just a random thought. I hope Sam gets married too.â
âOh,â Cas said. âAlright.â Was that disappointment in his tone? But Cas didnât say anything else and Dean dismissed the idea.
There, he thought, we did the talking, Sam. Got everything sorted out.
***
A week later, he was pushing a cart through the grocery store, following Cas who was scanning the produce aisle for the obscure vegetables Sam had requested.Â
âI think it would be much more sustainable if we grew our own produce,â Cas said, pausing to grab a head of lettuce. He scanned the row of vegetables. âWhere are the rutabagas?â
âI have no idea. I donât even know what that is.âÂ
âOh, well,â Continuing down the aisle, Cas launched into an explanation of rutabagasâhow theyâre grown, methods of cookingâall incredibly in-depth considering he couldnât even taste food, and Dean pushed the cart after him, finding himself paying attention even though he had never once been interested in vegetables.Â
While grocery shopping was Casâ weekly chore, Dean had taken to accompanying him, telling Sam that someone needed to keep Cas in checkâthe angel could spend hours at the grocery store, coming home with obscure items not on their list just because he thought they looked interesting. But, in truth, grocery shopping had become Deanâs favorite part of the week. Watching Cas compare prices, squint at the items Jack scrawled at the bottom of the list, choose between two oranges as if it was a life or death decision. He smiled now, watching Cas snatch up what Dean was assuming was a rutabaga, and triumphantly hold it in the air.Â
Maybe because choosing vegetables was so decidedly banal and normal compared to their usual end-of-the-world lives, and he needed a break. Maybe because he just liked spending time with Cas outside of killing monsters and saving the world. Maybe because he just liked being with Cas.
Halting in front of a row of apples, Cas asked, âWhy are there so many varieties? Do they really taste so different?â
âUm, maybe?â Dean picked up a bright red one, then dropped it back on top of the others. âTo be honest, I donât think Iâve ever tried that many.âÂ
âDean, if I could taste food, I would try everything.â Cas grabbed a produce bag. âWe should get one of every kind and then you can decide which is your favorite.â
He began grabbing apples and stuffing them into the bag, continuing to talk about the garden they should plantâwhich would now include, apparently, an orchard of apple treesâand suddenly, it hit Dean just how in love he was with this earnest, dorky, little angel. And suddenly, I love you didnât seem enough to express how much he wanted, needed, to have Cas by his side forever.
âWill you marry me?â Dean blurted out, interrupting Casâ garden plans.Â
Cas looked up at him, hand stretched out to grab a green apple, surprise on his face. Dean's face heated. He had never considered himself a romantic person by any means, but proposing in the produce aisle was a new low.
âYou want to get married?â Cas asked slowly.
Dean nodded and realized it was true, he did very much want to marry Cas. He hadnât been entirely sure before, but now he was completely certain. Which meant his heart was pounding as he worried Cas would say no.
âDammit, Dean!â Cas dropped the bag of apples into the grocery cart with a bruising clang. Dean startled. Not the reaction he was expecting. âI wanted to propose to you!â
Not the answer he was expecting either.
âW-what?â he stammered.
âI didnât think youâd want to get married, because when I called you my husband that one time you looked so shocked. And then I overheard you talking to Jack, but you were extremely cryptic about getting married one day, so I asked Sam, and he said you were wondering if I wanted to get married, so I thought maybe there was a chance, but you never brought it up. I thought I might just propose to you anyway, but now youâve done it first!â He took a deep breath, his spiel ended, and Deanâs brain spun, trying to catch up.Â
He moved aside to let someone grab a bunch of bananas. So Cas had wanted, but Dean had acted⌠âI thought you wouldnât want to get married because youâre an angel.â Out of the corner of his eye he saw their fellow shopper give them an odd look.
âI live on Earth now,â Cas said. âI ride in cars and eat food. And Iâm dating a human.â The shopper looked full on worried now, and she pushed her cart away hurriedly. âWhy would you think marriage is where I draw the line to human practices?â
âRight,â Dean said, letting out a breath of laughter. He shook his head. âYou were asking Sam? Why didnât you just ask me if I wanted to get married?â
âWhy didnât you ask me?â
Fuck, Sam was right. âWeâre shit at communicating.âÂ
âYes,â Cas said, smiling. âBut will you marry me?â
âYou havenât answered my proposal yet.â
âNo, you first.â
âYes,â Dean said without hesitation.
âYes,â Cas said. Pushing the shopping cart aside, Dean grabbed him and kissed him. Absently, he thought he heard the cart bump into a display and knock something over, but he was more occupied with the way Cas was whispering âI love youâ in between kisses.
âI love you too." On second thought, proposing and kissing in the produce aisle might be the most romantic thing heâd ever done.
Pulling away to look at Cas, he said, âI didnât get you a ring, I wasnât expecting to do this right now.â
âMe neither,â Cas said.Â
âSorry I ruined your proposal.â
âYou didnât ruin anything.â Cas wrapped his arms around Deanâs neck and smiled up at him. âThis is perfect.â
Dean shook his head because somehow heâd ended up engaged to the easiest to please angel, but that thought made his chest warm. Engaged.Â
He pulled Casâ arms from around his neck, lacing their fingers together. âCome on, fiance. Letâs hurry up and get home so we can tell Sam and Jack.â Looking for their cart, he saw it had knocked down a display of salad dressings. âOops.â
Cas snapped his fingers and, in a blink, the display was back to normal. âAnd so we can have engagement sex,â he clarified.
âExactly.â Dean kissed Cas again. âAnd that is why Iâm marrying you.â
âBecause I know you too well?â
âBecause youâre perfect.âÂ
Cas beamed at him. âYouâre perfect too. Fiance,â he added.
Dean kissed Cas again, and then Cas was pushing the cart down the aisle, telling him they still had thirteen things on their list, so hurry up, and Dean couldnât stop smiling because he was going to get married.Â
âLetâs go, fiance,â Cas called.
Dean followed him. âIâll never get tired of hearing you call me that.â
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#destiel#fic#fluff#spncreatorsdaily#marriage proposal#dean and cas are in love#but they still don't know how to use their words#sam provides brotherly advice#dean and cas go grocery shopping#domestic fluff#expectingtoflywrites
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