#also Gertrude called him her grandson? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

captaincravatthecapricious · 4 years ago

Text

Mabel AU- The Letters

@haberdashing

Martin is an at home care giver, trying to reach the Grandson of his latest client.

This is basically a rewrite of the first episode of Mabel. There really aren't many direct quotes, only a couple very short ones, everything else is mine.

Thanks for reading! If you want more of this AU, let me know, or just let me know if you enjoyed! Another fic of some sort or other will be posted next week!

ARCHIVIST: Hello, you’ve reached Jonathan Sims. I’m not here to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the beep. Thank you.

[BEEP]

MARTIN: Hey, Jonathan, right? My name is Martin Blackwood, and I’m with Kings County Home Help? I’ve been taking care of your grandmother for the past six months. I’m her at home carer? I know I probably shouldn’t have your number, but I wanted to check in with you. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong. Gertrude Sims is fine. Good, actually, for her age. Sorry, is that insensitive? In any case, I’d like a call back, if you aren’t too busy. Right. Let me apologize for how I got your number. I know it’s probably unorthodox, probably breeching some privacy agreement or something…

[SIGH]

[ASIDE]

Don’t tell him that, Christ what is wrong with you?

[TO JON]

Right. Well I got your number from my coworker, Sasha, who’s friends with Tim, who’s friends with you. And he apparently hasn’t heard from you in a little, and would like him to call you back. He told Sash to tell me to tell you that, by the way. That was the price for your number. Sorry for that. I’m sure you have …things. A life in the real world and not in this distant and lovely house.

…Sorry, that was… Anyways, give me a call back when you can, yeah? Thanks. Bye!

[ASIDE]

Christ! What’s wrong with you… catch sight of one pretty photo… SHIT, right, hanging up.

[BEEP]

[MUFFLED THROUGH A POCKET]

[QUIETLY SINGING TO HIMSELF OVER THE SOUND OF KITCHEN]

…Onions in the paaaaaan. Why aren’t you hot enough yeeeet? The water sizzledddddd, but it isn’t sizzling noooow.

[NEGLECTED PHONE SOUND]

[REALIZING]

OH SHIT. SORRY.

[BEEP]

[CLEARS THROAT]

Hi, Mr. Sims. It’s me again. It’s Martin. I… I’m trying to reach you… again. …As you probably can tell. It’s just been three days, and I would really like a call back. I just realized I didn’t give a number or like, I know you can probably figure out that you can reach me through this number, but I didn’t say it and I didn’t tell you when I was available, and maybe that’s why you haven’t gotten back to me. At least I hope that’s why. I… I can’t imagine not calling one of my Mum’s doctors back. Anyways, my number is [CENSORED] in case you can’t just ring back or something. Maybe your phone blocks unknow numbers and you haven’t even gotten this. Maybe I was listed as private and you couldn’t call back. Maybe you’re very polite and didn’t want to bother me when you didn’t know my schedule. I’m available from 2-5pm and in the evenings after 9pm. Or maybe you’ve got phone anxiety. I know I do, heh. I’m sweating just leaving you this message.

Or maybe you’re just busy.

Or maybe you tried to call, and I just didn’t get it. The reception isn’t great out here, as …you probably know. Given you grew up here. But anyways I have made sure I can get your message even with the dead-phone zones. It’s all set up. So… just needing a call back when you can. Well, not needing. But… I’d like one. Thanks. Bye.

[BEEP]

Hi. It’s me …again. Just… trying to reach you. Whatever.

[BEEP]

Call me back and let me know you aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere, okay? Sash says Tim is really worried… And… I might be too. Not that I even know you. Not really. So if you aren’t rotting in some hole somewhere, give me a call back, please?

[BEEP]

Where did you go?

[BEEP]

Hi. It’s me. …I’ve heard a lot about you, you know? Mostly from you Grandmother, Gertrude.

[ASIDE]

Christ, Martin. He knows his grandmother’s name.

[TO JON]

Right. Anyhow. She’s told me a lot of stories, you know? She’s actually pretty sharp. Most of the time, anyhow. Mostly lucid. I’m not sure if that’s all because of her medicine or what. I’ve… I help a lot of old people, at the end of their lives. And well… when I say she’s sharp, I mean that she is sharp comparatively, and also just remarkably so. Her words are confident, and considered. She doesn’t waste words, but she doesn’t shy away from telling stories. (I’m sure it’s just because she has no one else to talk to. Not even you.) But… you’ve stopped feeling like a real person on the other end of the line. That’s part of why I wanted to call? I guess? The longer that it’s been since my first message, the more I doubt myself for calling, and why I called. Sorry, then, for wasting your time. Thinking of you more like a book character, than someone with feelings and thoughts and a life. Someone who I know too much about for us to be casual strangers, even if I am a complete stranger to you. It just feels like a weird imbalance, you know?

Also… it’s a bit lonely out here, you know? Gertrude has a lot of old photographs of you. None of them are recent. And I know it isn’t my business, but… never mind. It isn’t my business… and I get it.

But… she still has your photos up. It’s my job to dust them. So, every week or so, I get a really good look at them. There’s one of you on the tire swing out back… it’s still back there, you know? You have mud all over your dungarees. And in your hair. Then there’s one… you look about 7? Your hair is in pig tails, and you are scowling at something off to your right. I don’t know what it is, and I know I shouldn’t find that kind of adorable, but I do. And there’s one of you in uni. You’re flipping off the camera and your hair is short and you’re wearing eyeliner. You look some odd combination of pissed off and like you’re having the time of your life.

[ASIDE]

And really, really, really hot. Christ, Martin, keep it together. You are literally on the phone with him, and you haven’t even talked to him. Jesus!

[TO JON]

I.. wish I could have known you then. That’s the oldest you look in these. Most of these are pictures of you when you were little. Mostly just you. A few of your dad when he was young, and one of your parents. She’s pregnant, and it’s sunset. They look so …happy. Christ, I’m sorry about what happened to them. I… I didn’t really know my dad either.

Sorry. This isn’t about me.

I’m calling because this place is… spooky. Spooky like a dark fairy tale.

Everything here is a bit… magical and creepy.

This house is old. Like a museum. Dusty boxes in the attic, full of treasures and dust the relics of the past, like the Long past. Not just the past of one lifetime. The garden is overgrown, despite my best efforts. Sometimes, Gertrude comes out and helps me garden. Usually in her chair. Mostly I just wheel here out so she can get some sun while I work. That’s where I hear most of the stories about you.

It’s overgrown with twisting vines and the most beautiful roses I have ever seen, with scary-long thorns.

I feel like I’ve walked into the setting for a classic. Like Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice, or hell, even Tolkien. Or even Grimm’s fairytales. The original, dark ones.

It’s… unsettling. Especially when it’s foggy out.

The rest of the hills disappear into the fog and the condensation clings to the flowers, desaturated with the thickness of the moisture in the air, and the everything is coated in the most delicate, perfect little water droplets.

Anyhow. The reason I’m really calling… are the letters.

I was helping Gertrude move some things up to the attic. She’s one of the practical sorts of old people. She isn’t afraid of her death. She wants everything to be easy on you, you know? Make sure you don’t have to go through too much stuff when she passes on. I’ve lived with a lot of people through their deaths. It’s nice… making sure no one dies alone. Making sure they are comfortable. Making it as painless as possible.

[ASIDE]

Lord knows my efforts were never good enough for my mother… but if I can help other people…

[TO JON]

I know it’s a little morbid. But I like it. I feel… useful. I’m good at it. I’m good at keeping up conversations, and at cooking, and cleaning, and providing medical assistance, as needed. Not that I’m an actual doctor, but I, you know, do have a lot of training.

Anyway. The letters. I was helping her move some stuff into the attic, and bringing down some older boxes so she could go through them and decide what she was ready to toss, when I found them. This box full of letters. Hundreds of them. All unopened. Sealed with a kiss. Lipstick red. Red as dying embers. Stamped returned to sender. Slightly scorched around the edges. Tied in bundles. Identical envelops. Identical loose, looping cursive. All from someone named Agnes? All addressed to Gertrude.

That would be fine, I guess?

But she screamed when she opened it. An inhuman sound.

Like the sound was ripped from her.

And, I have never cared for a more grounded person. I have never seen her anything but… well not completely calm all the time, but mostly calm, you know? I’ve seen her sharp, I’ve seen her annoyed. Heh, half the time it looks like she wants to judge me, but then doesn’t… if that makes sense? Mostly she looks… like she knows so much more than I do and that she is calm in her knowledge? I’ve seen so much as a carer. There isn’t much that rattles me. Not death, not illness, not panic, but… but this was different.

After that… she was shaken badly. Screamed for what seemed like hours, then just stared at me and said “I’m going into the ground for you.” I… I couldn’t calm her down. Not until late evening, and I didn’t even have a break because the relief carer was off sick.

I finally got her to bed, and… I had to take another look. That’s when I got a good look at the envelopes. I… I want to open them. I haven’t. I know I shouldn’t…. but…. I want to know what could have shaken her that badly? Someone that stable and grounded, you know?

Heh, maybe you could call me back and make sure I don’t do something stupid. And ya know, let me know that you aren’t’ dead in a ditch. Tim’s started texting me directly now! He’s… he’s really worried about you.

Anyhow, I just need to know-

[BEEP]

[CONTINUED BEEPING]

AUTOMATED VOICE: The voicemail inbox for [Jonathan Sims] is full. Please call again later.

[DIAL TONE]

#the magnus archives #tma #martin blackwood #mabel podcast #fic #my writing #my words #my art #listen I know this is very niche

16 notes · View notes

ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

Text

leaves to high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 51: Statement of Walter Sims, regarding a list. Recorded direct from subject, twenty-sixth of January, 1990.

[CLICK]

GERTRUDE

You’re certain you don’t mind?

WALTER

Not at all. Honestly, when you said you would come to me rather than have me come to you, I assumed this wasn’t going to be…official.

GERTRUDE

Yes, well.

People don’t often send messages ahead of time. They simply…come to give their statements. I admit I was intrigued.

WALTER

I’m here most of the hours the Institute is open. Simple as that.

GERTRUDE

Still. I have a…feeling, shall we say, that your statement doesn’t need to be available for research.

WALTER

I don’t think you’re wrong about that.

Are you ready?

GERTRUDE

One moment.

Statement of Walter Sims, regarding—how would you term it?

WALTER

Let’s just say “a list.”

GERTRUDE

Recorded direct from subject, twenty-sixth of January, 1990.

Whenever you’re ready.

WALTER (Statement)

I’ve worked here for almost three years now—ever since we found out we were going to be parents. My mother made it clear that she was not going to make herself responsible for what she termed “my careless mistakes,” and Sarah’s only family is a sister over in America with a family of her own. My choices were to drop out of school and get a job or let us both starve. Put like that, it’s no choice at all, really.

I’d thought to go to sea. My best mate and I always talked about it, and he had a job on a commercial deep-sea fishing vessel, so I asked him about getting a job. He talked me out of it, though. The captain’s a bit…odd, he says. He knew his father-in-law was looking for a handyman and suggested I apply. The old man and I suited each other well enough, and he hired me on the spot.

The work isn’t hard. I’m a general man about the place. I do repairs, painting, gardening, a bit of housework. He buys the groceries, but I put them away. Sometimes I do a bit of cooking for him. He’s not infirm or an invalid—well, obviously—but he can’t climb ladders or do a lot of bending over, so anything regarding hard labor, I handle for him. (heh) My biggest job these days is keeping next door’s grandson from getting at the entire cherry crop in the summer. They hang pretty near the property line, and the lad’s learned to climb pretty well these last couple years.

It’s nice for a lot of reasons, probably the biggest of which is that I can bring my boy with me sometimes. Sarah’s trying to finish her degree, at least part time, so on days she has classes, I bring him to work. He adores the old man—it’s the closest he’s got to a grandfather—and my best mate’s boy is only a bit older than him, so they play together. Can’t separate them with a pry bar. They’re good lads, both of them.

Neither one was here the first day I saw it.

It was just after the first of the year. The couple next door must have had some sort of party; there were paper streamers and fragments of fireworks all over this side of the fence. I was picking up all the bits when I saw a figure standing by the house.

He wore a suit, a three-piece suit. All of it was black as night, except for his tie, which was pure white—or so I thought at the time. His hands and face were white as snow, too. No, more than that. He was colorless. Completely devoid of any color. He was staring up at the house. When I got a little closer, I realized he was staring up at the old man’s bedroom window. He had a clipboard in one hand—black, like his suit—and a pen in the other. It was the only splash of real color about him, and it was gold, very pale gold. Like a shaft of light.

I saw him write something down on the clipboard. I called out to him, just like I did when you came up—told him this was private property. There’s a place down the road with an orchard open to the public, and the numbers are reversed, so sometimes we get people coming here by mistake. It’s not usually a big deal.

But this one…he looked at me. He didn’t have any eyebrows, or, well, they were so pale they didn’t show up, but I thought he looked…surprised. Like he hadn’t expected anyone to be there. I asked him again if I could help him, but he just—he vanished. It was like he’d never been there at all.

It gave me a bit of a turn, I won’t deny it, but for the most part, I shrugged it off. Either I was having a hallucination, or he’d just moved very quickly. I wouldn’t ever have thought of it again, except that a couple of days later, I saw him again.

He was in the same place, just underneath one of the cherry trees. Matter of fact, I’d seen the branches rattling and thought it was next door’s grandson again, climbing up. (soft laugh) Obviously there aren’t any cherries this time of year; the trees are bare as bones. But we’d had something of a freeze the night before, and the branches were slick with ice. I was worried he might slip and hurt himself, so I went over to get him down. But when I got closer, I saw the same man again.

This time, he was looking away from the house, towards the Stokers’ place. He was peering very intently over there, not moving except to make a note on his clipboard. I called out to him again, a little louder and a little less friendly this time, wanting to know what he was doing and where he came from.

He vanished again, but this time, just after he disappeared, the old man came out onto the porch here and wanted to know what was going on. I told him about the strange visitor, and the fact that he just kept…leaving so quickly.

To my surprise, the old man got pretty agitated. He wasn’t mad at me—wasn’t even mad, really. Just…agitated. He told me not to have anything to do with the man if he turned up again. I asked if he knew him, and he said no, not exactly, but that he’d been around enough to know something related to one of the Fourteen when he heard it.

We’ve talked, of course. I knew what he meant. He obviously couldn’t say which one it was, not without seeing it for himself, but he told me to keep away from him, not make eye contact, and hope he didn’t turn his attention to me. I asked if I should come talk to someone from your Institute, and he said no again. Said it was such a small thing, not worth bothering about. Nothing for you all to really sink your teeth into. And he said he didn’t want you lot touching me, either.

So I left it alone. Kept my head down and got back to work. Until yesterday.

Both the boys were here. I let them “help” me a bit, but, well, they’re two. Eventually I told them to go play on the porch while I cleaned out the gutters. I don’t want them running about under the ladders when I’m up high. It’s a good way for someone to get hurt.

I was just coming down when I saw him again. Standing behind the skeletal remains of the privet hedge, facing the house again. Facing the porch. He was watching the boys, just as intently as he’d looked at all the others, but this time he was watching the boys.

I didn’t call out to him this time. I jumped off the ladder and went for him. When I got close enough, I shouted, “Hey!” Just to get his attention, you know, before I grabbed him.

Well…it worked, insofar as it got his attention. He looked even more surprised than the first two times. This time, I was close enough to see the barely-there shape of his eyebrows, the thin lines of his mouth, the way light just slid off his suit, still solid black except for the tie. This time, though, I was close enough to see it wasn’t pure white. There were faint lines and whorls in it—like a feather from a gigantic wing. But when I grabbed at him, he vanished again.

This time, though…he dropped his clipboard.

I picked it up and studied it. I half expected it to be some oddity as well, like black paper written on in gold ink, but…no, it was perfectly ordinary stock, good quality paper, and it was neatly written in a deep black ink. The handwriting was clear as daylight, as were the contents of the note.

It was a list of names. Seven of them. With yours truly right at the top.

GERTRUDE

Do you still have the list?

WALTER

No. I was almost done reading it when it…disintegrated in my hand, I guess.

But I have it memorized. It burned itself into my mind. Not just the names, but each one had a pair of dates after it, separated by a single dash. Like a range.

GERTRUDE

Seven names, you say? And what were the dates?

WALTER

If you mean “what do they mean”…I’m not sure, but I have a guess. I know what the first date means, anyway, and I have my suspicions about the second. But the list itself…

GERTRUDE

Let’s record it. For posterity.

WALTER

(deep breath) Walter Sims, fourth July 1976 to seventh April 1990.

Alastair Koskiewicz, twenty-sixth January 1935 to eighteenth March 1997.

Daniel Stoker, first May 1990 to fourteenth August 2013.

Gertrude Robinson, seventeenth December 1934 to fifteenth May 2015.

[GERTRUDE INHALES SHARPLY]

WALTER

Timothy Stoker, thirteenth January 1985 to—and that’s when it started to dissolve.

It was like a drop of black ink on the page, obscuring the second half of the date, and then it just…spread. It absorbed the bottom three names and dates first. Then it burned all the way through the paper, and the clipboard, and just kept spreading until…until it was just dust in the wind.

I talked to Kier—my best mate—when he turned up to get his son, while the old man was helping them (slight laugh) conspire to let them spend the night. Gave him the whole rundown. I think it would have stopped there, except that while I was telling him, I suddenly remembered that, right before the paper started dissolving, when it was still just the ink blot—for just a moment, where the dates at the bottom would have been, it coalesced into a drawing of an eye.

And I swear it blinked.

That’s when we sent the note round. I’m sorry to make you come all the way out here. I’d have been perfectly willing to come to you if you’d been willing to work with me.

GERTRUDE

I don’t know that this would keep.

Did you see any of the dates on the last two?

WALTER

No. Didn’t need to, really. Saw the names, which means I know the first dates, and—oh, hang on.

[FAINT SINGING CAN BE HEARD IN THE BACKGROUND, INDISTINCT AT FIRST BUT GRADUALLY LOUDER UNTIL THE WORDS TO “FISH OF THE SEA” CAN BE MADE OUT]

[A SUDDEN PATTER OF RUNNING FOOTSTEPS]

YOUNG JON

Papa!

WALTER

Hey, there’s my boy.

[RUSTLE OF FABRIC]

All right there, Kier?

KEEPER

All right there, Walt.

Ma’am.

WALTER

This is Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist at the Magnus Institute. Ms. Robinson, this is Kieran Blackwood, my best mate, and this is my boy.

Go on, say hello.

YOUNG JON

Hello! I’m Jonny. I’m two and one-quarter.

GERTRUDE

A pleasure to meet you both. And who is this?

KEEPER

(gently) It’s all right, Wickie. Tell her your name.

YOUNG MARTIN

(mumbled) Martin.

YOUNG JON

He’s my very best friend in the whole wide world. And that’s a very wide place. Uncle Kier told me that, and he’s almost the smartest man there is, so he should know.

[WALTER AND THE KEEPER BOTH LAUGH]

GERTRUDE

Yes, well…that’s wonderful.

WALTER

Tell you what. Ms. Robinson’s never seen how fast you can run. Why don’t you two race to see who can be the first one to run all the way around the house and get back?

YOUNG JON

We can do that! Come on, Martin!

YOUNG MARTIN

Ready, steady, go!

[POUNDING FOOTSTEPS AND CHILDISH GIGGLING RECEDE INTO THE BACKGROUND]

GERTRUDE

Hmm. How long do you estimate this will take?

KEEPER

As long as we need. They’ll probably race around to the far side of the house, slow down, and sing a few rousing choruses of the song I taught them a couple months ago.

It’s the one that goes, “La la la, la la la la la, the grown-ups are talking.”

WALTER

They’re two, not stupid.

GERTRUDE

…Right.

KEEPER

You’ve told her, then?

WALTER

Aye. We just finished up.

KEEPER

Terminus?

GERTRUDE

…How do you know about the Fourteen?

WALTER

…Ma’am, you do know I work for Alastair Koskiewicz, right?

GERTRUDE

Yes, I…oh.

Oh, I see.

He told you?

WALTER

In bits and bobs. Enough to avoid them, anyway. Or at least I think that was his intention. Doesn’t always work.

KEEPER

Obviously.

GERTRUDE

Of course.

…

(sigh) Yes. I believe you’re correct. The person you saw was likely an agent of Terminus.

WALTER

Thought as much.

Well. Suppose I’d best let the old man know. Seventh of April, that’s…what, three weeks before you leave on your next run?

KEEPER

More or less. Depends on the tides, really.

WALTER

Well, I should be able to get supplies ordered in, at least, but that’s a bit early to have the garden laid out. He’ll need to get someone else for that.

GERTRUDE

I must say, you’re taking this remarkably well.

WALTER

What do you expect me to do? Start crying? Curl up in a ball in a dark room and mourn?

At least I know. And I’m not ill or anything—not that I know of, anyway—so it’s going to be an accident. It’ll be sudden. Which means that, if I hadn’t seen this list, it would catch us all off-guard. Now I’ve got time to put things in order. I can make arrangements to make sure Sarah and Jonny will be taken care of. I can get whatever work around here needs to be done finished, or at least started.

There’s always more work to do, I suppose. Always one more job. But at least I won’t have to worry that I didn’t do all I could.

KEEPER

He says, as though he had ever, in his life, put forth less than one hundred percent effort into anything he did.

[WALTER LAUGHS]

WALTER

That’s as may be. But still.

I’m sorry I won’t get to see my boy grow up. I can’t imagine what he and Martin will be like when they’re our age, or when they’re thirty, or when they’re old men.

You, I can easily imagine as an old man. Some grizzled old lighthouse keeper with a weatherbeaten face and snow-white hair, staring out over the storm-tossed ocean and longing…

KEEPER

Blackwoods don’t go white. We go silver.

You know I’ll look out for them for you, right?

WALTER

I thought that went without saying. But…thank you.

[SOUNDS OF CAR TIRES ON GRAVEL DRIVE]

KEEPER

Incoming.

WALTER

(sigh) Damn. Hoped we could get you out of here before he got back.

[CAR DOOR SHUTS]

[FOOTSTEPS, PUNCTUATED BY THE REGULAR THUNK OF A CANE]

ALASTAIR

Trudy.

GERTRUDE

Alastair.

ALASTAIR

And what brings you out to the haunts of coot and hearn?

WALTER

She came to get my statement about the man I saw.

ALASTAIR

(gruffly) Told you to have nothing to do with him. Or the Institute. You want them to mark you?

WALTER

I think it’s a bit late for that. He showed up yesterday and was watching the boys, and—well, he dropped his clipboard. List of names and dates.

ALASTAIR

…

(more gently) How long have you got?

WALTER

Ten weeks, give or take. Enough time to finish the painting. Patch the roof over the dormer. I might even be able to get that shed built for you. I can definitely get the ground prepped, but I think you’ll need to get someone else to do the planting this year.

ALASTAIR

How can you think of that at a time like this, what?

WALTER

Like I told Ms. Robinson here, what else am I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life mourning that I won’t have more time? That just wastes the time I do have.

ALASTAIR

You’re facing down the End—

WALTER

I’m facing death.

GERTRUDE

It is the same thing.

WALTER

I can see how they’d get lumped together, but they’re really not. Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.

[A BRIEF SILENCE]

[RUNNING FOOTSTEPS]

WALTER

(audibly grinning) Look out, here comes trouble.

YOUNG MARTIN

Granddad! Granddad!

ALASTAIR

All right, come here, you rips. What have you been up to?

YOUNG JON

We were just racing around the house and then we saw a skylark, honest we did, and Martin told me the poem about it, and—

YOUNG MARTIN

And then it flew away and, and we heard your car and came to see you, and here you are!

YOUNG JON

(whispering loudly) Papa, is Mr. K’s surprise ready?

WALTER

(matching his volume) Just about.

ALASTAIR

(also whispering loudly) I’m not deaf, laddie buck.

WALTER

Why don’t you two go wash your hands and set the table for tea? I trust you to be careful.

YOUNG MARTIN/YOUNG JON

Yes, sir!

[RUNNING FEET, A SCREEN DOOR BANGING SHUT]

GERTRUDE

Well. I won’t take up any more of your time. I suppose I’d best be getting back to the Institute.

ALASTAIR

Oh, hang the Institute, Trudy. Surely your assistants can spare you for the afternoon. I’m sure Mendelson won’t mind, what?

GERTRUDE

Mendelson retired more than fifteen years ago. James Wright is the current head of the Institute.

ALASTAIR

Wright? That little dog’s todger?

GERTRUDE

He does well. It surprised me, too.

I—I shouldn’t.

KEEPER

You’re not even a little curious to see what those two little nippers have conjured up as a surprise for Alastair’s birthday?

GERTRUDE

Speaking of those two, I am curious why Jonny calls you “Mr. K”.

ALASTAIR

“Koskiewicz” is a bit of a mouthful for a two-year-old.

WALTER/KEEPER

(simultaneously and accurately mimicking Jon’s tones) Two and a quarter.

GERTRUDE

So why don’t they both call you “Granddad?”

WALTER

We used to refer to him that way for both, but once Jonny started talking, he decided that if Martin can’t call my mother “Grandmother,” he wasn’t going to steal Martin’s grandfather. He wanted Martin to have someone of his very own.

ALASTAIR

Gertrude, he’s Lily’s boy.

GERTRUDE

(softly) My God.

WALTER

I did tell you Kier got me a job with his father-in-law. Did you just not make the connection?

GERTRUDE

No, I—I didn’t.

How is Lily these days?

[ALASTAIR MAKES A NOISE BETWEEN A SPUTTER AND A GROWL]

KEEPER

Lily’s…fine, ma’am.

ALASTAIR

Should’ve stayed at the Institute and left her to be raised by wolves. Would’ve solved a lot of problems.

KEEPER

Aye, but then we wouldn’t have our Wickie. And I wouldn’t trade him for a king’s ransom.

ALASTAIR

Hmm, yes, yes. Thank God he takes after his father, what?

GERTRUDE

…I take it she hasn’t improved with maturity, then.

ALASTAIR

Let’s just say there’s a reason Martin spends most of his days here when Kieran’s away for work.

[DOOR CREAKS OPEN]

YOUNG MARTIN

U-um, ‘scuse me. Are—are you going to stay for tea, Ms. Robinson?

GERTRUDE

I really shouldn’t.

ALASTAIR

Come on, Trudy. Just an hour or two.

I have missed you, what?

Say you’ll join us.

YOUNG MARTIN

Please?

[A SHORT PAUSE]

GERTRUDE

Since you ask so politely…I’d be delighted.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

GERTRUDE

Final notes.

I…I really don’t quite know what to say here. The statement itself is…fairly straightforward. Obviously those dates bear watching, but I suppose I can’t be certain of them. Of all the abilities I seem to have developed in the last twenty-five years, the ability to Know the future is not one of them.

Still, I suppose finding a way to warn the Stokers would not go amiss. Mr. Sims did give me a bit more to go on there.

I am not made of stone. I do feel very keenly for that young father and his…situation. He did finally get the chance to give me the last two names on the list, and I suppose it’s no surprise that they belonged to his son and his godson. (heh) They’re quite a pair, those two. I admit that I’m somewhat relieved the dates on their names were obscured before he could see them. No parent should have to know when their child is going to die.

And he has given me much to think about. I have a date. If his statement is accurate, I have a little over twenty-five years to accomplish all I need to accomplish. Of course, it’s entirely possible that those dates are the absolute limit, not the concrete end—that I will live no longer than that—but…well. That should give me time, if I work hard at it.

He’s right. There will always be more to do. (heh) Unless I fail, and it all ends. Perhaps that’s why the last three dates are—no. No, I have to believe that these rituals can be stopped, will be stopped. And now I have even more of a reason to work at them than before.

Honestly, I’m not sure what about this whole experience has shaken me more. Finding out the date of my own death…(voice hitches) or meeting my grandson.

I don’t think I’ll make a file in the Archives for this one.

[CLICK]

———

[CLICK]

[LONG, HEAVILY CHARGED SILENCE]

MELANIE

What. The. Fuck.

PAST ARCHIVIST

(softly) Oh, God.

SASHA

Gertrude Robinson was your grandmother?

PAST MARTIN

I—I didn’t know…

MARTIN

Neither did I. I don’t—

It kind of explains a lot.

ARCHIVIST

Like what?

MARTIN

Like why she avoided me? Like why errands to the Archives were the only ones Diana never sent me on?

PAST MARTIN

A-and it’s—when, when Elias—when Jonah made me experience her death. I-it was—you said it wasn’t usually that intense.

Was that why? I could f-feel her thoughts and emotions because we’re not just connected by the Eye, we’re—related.

ARCHIVIST

I—

[STATIC BEGINS, SOFTLY AT FIRST BUT GRADUALLY BUILDING]

Yes.

No one ever knew. No one apart from Alastair Koskiewicz, and Liliana herself, ever knew that Gertrude gave birth shortly before being appointed Archivist. The baby was placed with Alastair’s parents, for a while anyway, but they were quite elderly and died within a few months of each other four years later, at which time Alastair resigned his position in Research to raise her. Gertrude always made absolutely sure that nobody knew about Liliana. The one and only time she ever tried to reach out to her, Liliana made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with the woman who had given her life and nothing else, as far as she was concerned.

Gertrude didn’t know about you until that day, but afterward, you became the single driving force behind her war against the Fears. She worried that the appearance of the eye on the list might mean that the Ceaseless Watcher had taken an interest in you, and she became ruthless in her zeal to keep it away from you. She spoke with you only twice after that day, taking care to be in disguise and using a false name, just in case.

When she found out you had joined the Institute, she was devastated and terrified in equal measures. It was only when Elias Bouchard did not come down to the Archives to casually mention that he had hired Alastair Koskiewicz’s grandson that she realized her steps to protect you had been, in some small way, successful, and Jonah Magnus had no idea of the connection between her and you. Still, she redoubled her efforts, becoming ever more ruthless in her determination to stop the rituals, to make the world—

MARTIN

J-Jon. Jon!

[STATIC ABRUPTLY STOPS]

ARCHIVIST

Wh—(realizes) Oh, God. Martin, I’m sorry, I—

MARTIN

It’s okay. It’s okay. Just—settle down, okay?

ARCHIVIST

Okay.

Okay, I—

(sighs) Are you three all right?

MELANIE

Do you all need a minute?

PAST MARTIN

Yeah. Thanks, Melanie.

MELANIE

Sure.

[CHAIRS CREAKING AND SCRAPING]

SASHA

We’ll probably be down in the tunnels. Whenever you’re ready.

[FOOTSTEPS, DOOR CLOSING]

[SILENCE, EXCEPT FOR SLIGHTLY RAGGED BREATHING]

TIM

(softly) They moved.

Grandmother and Grandfather, they—just before Danny was born. They’d always lived on this little farm, but they abruptly decided they wanted something smaller and moved to a flat not far from where we were living at the time. We moved a few months later. I never knew why, but…

PAST ARCHIVIST

Y-you think it was because Gertrude…found them. Tried to, to warn them. About Danny, about you.

PAST MARTIN

Oh, Tim.

[FABRIC RUSTLES, SOME MINOR SCRAPING SOUNDS; IT’S PRETTY OBVIOUS THERE’S A GROUP HUG GOING ON]

TIM

It’s okay. It’s okay.

It’s going to be okay.

PAST MARTIN

Sure.

PAST ARCHIVIST

We can get through this.

Together.

PAST MARTIN

I like the sound of that.

Jon, I—I’m sorry your dad didn’t get to see the man you’ve become. I think he’d be proud of you.

TIM

Sounds like your grandfather would have been proud of you both.

PAST MARTIN

He’d have been proud of you, too. I-if he’d had the chance to—I think you would have liked him.

I know he would have liked you.

TIM

…Thanks, Martin.

[A COUPLE OF HEAVY SIGHS]

PAST MARTIN

So—so now what? We go…up to Hainault, find the storage unit, figure out what it is—what’s up there?

PAST ARCHIVIST

…

No.

No, not—not now. I-I need the weekend. I’ve…it’s been one thing after another for so long. I’ve been going non-stop. It’s not time-sensitive, not really, and…I’m tired.

Let’s just…not think about it for a couple of days. Let’s close down the Archives early and, I don’t know, go meet Charlie when he gets home from school and take him out for ice cream. Something like that. Let me have a couple of days to enjoy being home and with you again and—a-and we can worry about it on Monday.

We won’t talk about it. We won’t think about it. We’ll just…take a break. I think we all deserve it.

PAST MARTIN

…Okay. Okay, that—that sounds good.

Tim?

TIM

(deep sigh) Sure. Sounds great.

PAST ARCHIVIST

All right then. Let’s go.

[CLICK]

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #death tw #grief tw #slight misuse of beholding powers #the formatting's better on AO3

7 notes · View notes

sie-werden-nie-vergessen · 3 years ago

Text

whumptober no 7 - words can never hurt me

for day 7 - prompts “helplessness” and “blindness”

fandom: scary stories to tell in the dark

This was written with The Bellows Book universe in mind, but this could also be considered a canon timeline.

Before she can think any further, her grandson’s voice calls out to someone….to something.

“She’s in here!” he yells.

But it isn’t Ephraim’s voice. Not really, anyways. Something about it is deeper, darker - as if his voice was distorted by time - as if he were in the bottom of a swimming pool yelling at someone up above. It isn’t right. None of this is right.

content below the cut

When Gertrude woke up the next morning, everything was perfectly fine. Except it wasn’t, and she could feel it even before she fully awoke.

Something was amiss, but Gertrude couldn’t place her finger on what it was - which was strange, considering the fact that she had been blind for almost 20 years now and was well adapted to the sounds of the house.

That was the problem though. There was no sound at all.

She laid in bed for a few minutes, turning her head from side to side, trying to catch any sounds that might be floating through the house.

Deodat should be awake by now, she thought. So should Ephraim.

Reaching down to the floor, she found that Dante no longer occupied his place on the rug beside her bed. It wasn’t like him to wander off, but perhaps Ephraim or Deodat had let him out of her room in the early morning hours. That wasn’t like them either, but surely it had to be the answer. Why else would Dante be missing?

As she swings her feet over the side of the bed, Gertrude reaches out for her cane, only to realize that it too is missing. Before she can react, she suddenly hears footsteps running up the stairs. She startles, thinking that it’s Deodat or Ephraim and that something is wrong. Her head tells her to get up and see what’s wrong, but her instincts tell her to run, to hide, to do anything but let herself be caught.

She maneuvers her way to the door, but with every step she takes, her heart beats louder.

No, her instincts cry. No! NO! DON’T LET THEM FIND YOU!

She thinks that this is irrational. She knows that it is, but she can’t help it. Every fibre of her being is screaming at her to run. It’s as if her mind has lost all of it’s fighting instincts. It’s only option is to flee, and flee it will.

The footsteps run past her door again, this time running down the stairs instead of up. She flies backwards as they hurry past her door, her heart pounding all the while.

GO!

This time, she does.

She stumbles out of her room, heading towards Ephraim’s bedroom across the hall. He’ll help me, she thinks. He will. He has to.

Before she can open the door, she hears the footsteps climbing the stairs again.

This time they’re slow.

This time they’re calculated.

Gertrude opens the door as quietly as she can, quickly shutting it behind herself. She stands awkwardly next to the door, unsure of what to do. She’s rarely ever been in her youngest grandson’s room. She’s unfamiliar with the layout, and she doesn’t want to disturb anything and alert the intruders of her whereabouts. She wonders why Deodat and Ephraim haven’t stopped them.

She hopes they aren’t hurt.

In the glaring silence Gertrude suddenly notices something. Something that isn’t silent.

It’s the soft sound of book pages being flipped.

Gertrude sighs in relief. Thank goodness! It’s Ephraim!

But why hadn’t he said anything when she walked in? Why hadn’t he jumped up to investigate when he heard strange footsteps?

Before she can think any further, her grandson’s voice calls out to someone….to something.

“She’s in here!” he yells.

But it’s still his voice. Gertrude can recognize that much, at least.

Startled and a little more than terrified, she bolts for the door. She half runs into the hallway, the sound of footsteps closing in on her.

There are hundreds of them now. The floors shake from the sound of them, and they seem to come from all directions. Ephraim’s voice still bellows as loud as ever, and more voices join the chorus with each minute that passes.

Delanie’s

Deodat’s

Harold’s

Even her own voice, although it doesn’t come from her mouth.

A chorus of children.

She doesn’t recognize them.

Voices from her past that she had long forgotten.

Names that she can’t even recall, but their voices call out nonetheless.

“She’s here! She’s in here!”

She makes her way to the stairs, fighting her way through an invisible crowd. She tries to cover her ears to block out the sounds, but they carry on just as loudly. Her ears are so sensitive now - they’ve had years to accommodate for her lack of vision - and for once this serves as a hindrance rather than a help. Gertrude descends the stairs, the footsteps chasing after her.

As she reaches the last step, she suddenly hears the most chilling voice of all.

It’s Sarah’s.

#whumptober2021 #no.7 #gertrude bellows #ephraim bellows #scary stories to tell in the dark #ssttitd #the bellows book #blindness tw

6 notes · View notes

littleladymab · 5 years ago

Text

i needed some more words so I could hit 10k tonight so I wrote some from my jongerrymartin!au, so please enjoy this little snippet of jon & gerry running into each other after a long time because I’m just going to post the whole thing out of order lolol

I promise i’ll post them all to ao3 once I have a sufficient amount of scenes scrambled together

There’s a commotion of voices, and an indistinct yell before a door slams shut.

Jon ignores it, because sometimes there are just people like that. Dissatisfied with one thing or another. And they weren’t in his office yelling, so he couldn’t care less.

Tim is the first one to bring it up. “Did you see that?”

“No,” Jon says without even looking up from the manuscript he’s attempting to not murder with a red pen (he’s not doing too well).

“Gertrude has a grandson and he’s incredibly hot.”

Jon’s pen pauses long enough for him to realize that he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care to know, anything about Gertrude’s personal life that she hasn’t already divulged to the staff. “Good for her.”

Tim drops down into the chair on the other side of his desk. “He just stormed into her office like a tall, hot, goth tornado.”

“Tim,” Jon sighs, setting the pen down so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you have, I don’t know, anything to be doing?”

“Yeah, and I want you to come with me.”

“What?”

“I’m gonna go pop into Gertrude’s office, bring that new client brief to her — maybe introduce myself to this grandson of hers.” Tim wiggles his eyebrows in a way that Jon has learned is meant to be enticing but looks more like they’re drunk at a disco club. “Just thought I’d see if you wanted in on it.”

Jon goes through a quick mental scroll of appropriate reactions before finally just letting his hands drop onto the desk with a dull thud. “Get out of my office.”

Tim holds up his hands, grinning, not the least bit put off by Jon’s tone. He pushes himself out of the chair and heads back to the door. “Alright, fine. Not all of us can have a nice boyfriend like Martin.”

Jon throws one of his (multiple) stress balls, and Tim cackles as he dodges back into the main floor of the office.

Sasha pokes her head up from over the edge of her cubicle. “I already told you not to do it!”

“I like to live life on the wild side!” Tim calls over his shoulder, stopping by his desk long enough to scoop up a sheaf of papers.

“And I like to keep my nose where it belongs,” Jon grumbles as Sasha heaves a heavy sigh. Jon watches as she lifts her cellphone and aims it after Tim’s retreating form. “What are you doing?”

“Filming it, so I can play the moment of his murder on loop at his funeral.”

Jon honestly can’t blame her.

In the end, it only results in Tim shuffling back to his desk with a slightly cowed expression — still living, which Sasha tries to reassure him is a plus. “She just gave me That Look of hers the moment the door opened,” he says.

Sasha nods sympathetically, and Jon tries not to say I told you so.

Forty minutes later, and Jon has pretty much forgotten the fact that someone, with some sort of familial relation to Gertrude, had stormed into the office. Tim’s energy level is back to normal, though Jon can see his head swivel towards Gertrude’s office door every so often.

Jon has a stack of papers in one hand as he heads to the copier when the door to Gertrude’s office opens.

Everyone stops what they’re doing and stares — and Jon is sorry to admit that he is no exception.

A tall, pale young man with long dark hair steps out into the general office. He has a duffle slung over one shoulder, and a sour look that could probably curdle milk.

He is also incredibly familiar, and Jon can’t help the confused swoop of emotions that hits his stomach. “Gerard?”

The man stops, and he looks up at the sound of his name. The frown is gone in an instant, though the expression that replaces it is probably the physical equivalent of what Jon feels at that exact moment. “Jonathan.”

And then Gerard laughs and crosses the space between them with an easy, loping stride.

Jon barely has enough brain power to set the papers down and extend one hand before Gerard clasps it warmly in both of his own. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Gerard gives him a once-over, and there’s a degree of fondness in his smile as he meets Jon’s eyes. “You’ve changed a lot.”

“It’s been ten years.”

“Just over, yeah.”

Jon’s keenly aware of the attention from the others on his back, but he can’t help it. “You’re related to Gertrude?”

Gerard makes a vague sort of shrug and hum in the back of his throat. “Long story.”

“I—” Jon starts before realizing that he doesn’t know what he actually wants to say. “I should be getting back to work but—” No, that wasn’t it, but there’s too many pieces that he doesn’t know how to process.

“Oh, yeah. Totally. Hey, I’ll be in town for the foreseeable future. Drinks? On me.” Gerard smiles in a way that makes Jon feel twenty again, young and reckless and dangerous. “We can catch up.”

“I’d like that,” he says, and he means it. He gives Gerard his cell number and a watery smile as the other man turns to leave.

Jon watches him go in stunned silence.

The doors to the office barely swing shut by the time Tim pounces, shaking him wildly by the shoulders. “What was that?!” he practically howls, yanking Jon away from the papers he makes a feeble attempt to grab. “Jonathan Sims, what was that?!”

“My… ex from college.”

Across the room, Sasha attempts to stifle a gasp of surprise behind her hands.

Tim sags dramatically against him, and Jon stumbles beneath the sudden extra weight. “You absolute bastard!”

“What?!”

“I just learned way too much about you in that one sentence.”

Jon attempts to shove him off, but it doesn’t work. “Don’t you have work to be doing?” he asks.

“Too late, this will be all I think about for the rest of the day.” Tim stops the dramatics and glances towards the door to the office, but Gerard is already gone from the hallway. “Well, now you’re obligated to introduce me to him.”

“I will do no such thing—”

Gertrude appears in the door to her office, and Jon and Tim immediately straighten their posture. She levels the two of them with That Look. “Don’t you have work to be doing?” she asks, and Jon snatches up his papers as Tim nods rapidly with a ‘yes ma’am, right away!’

Still, she gives Jon an amused little smirk before disappearing back into her office, and Jon spends a few precious seconds trying to decide just what that look is supposed to mean.

#the magnus archives #jongerrymartin #a lil miss fic #i still need to think of a good otp tag for them #no spooky archives au

143 notes · View notes

tim-stonker · 5 years ago

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, mentioned Georgie Barker/Melanie King Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Elias Bouchard, Melanie King, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, mentioned Basira Hussain, im sorry queen it was a 5+1 and u were number 6 Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, more like AU elias isnt a bitch, 5 Times, Mutual Pining, implied Nonbinar Jonathan Sims, he's gnc, Getting Together, Comfort No Hurt, bc we need that, Just Pals Being Soft, dimples as a plot point Summary:

5 times people didn't see jon's smile plus the 1 time someone did

i wrote some gay shit about jon smiling and it became this. whole thing is under the cut, check it out on ao3 if u wanna !

-5

Jonathan Sims was an unexpected candidate for the position of Archivist, following Gertrude Robinson’s rather abrupt retirement (Elias still wasn’t sure if she was actually telling the truth when she said she wanted to spend more time travelling with her grandson. He didn’t even know if she actually had a grandson.) When word got out that there was an opening for head archivist, it surprised both Elias and Jon’s manager when he put his application into the pool. While Jon wasn’t the highest position in Research, he wasn’t at the lowest tier either, and everyone knew that being Head Archivist was much like being the mayor of a ghost town. Sure, you had a fancy title, but not much else. The Archives were in the basement, they were cold and dusty, and typically, if a budget needed to be cut, it was the Archives that took the brunt of the slashes. But, Jon was organized, faked his confidence well enough, was willing to put in the work, and, if Elias was being honest with himself, there wasn’t exactly a queue out the door to take over the vacancy that Gertrude left.

The interview went well enough, though Jon was clearly filled with nervous excitement. He kept reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear - it was too short to stay in place, but much too long to not be a bother. His voice almost echoed in Elias’ office, strong and precise, even when he struggled with some questions that Elias asked about his strengths and weaknesses. Elias appreciated the way that Jon carried himself, the slight aura of grandeur and pride that he seemed to give off, contrasting starkly with his awkward attempts at being personable.

Though Elias told Jon that he’ll be in touch within a few days to inform him whether or not he’ll be transferred to the Archives, he’s already certain that there’s no better candidate, and, if nothing else, he loathes having new hires from outside the Institute. He can overlook a few missing qualifications if it means he can cut down on the number of interviews he has to conduct.

Elias waited a few more days, finished up more interviews, and found his suspicions were correct. Jon - despite the roughness around his edges, and his lack of a library sciences degree (an aspect that makes Rosie raise her eyebrows at Elias when he mentions it) - is the best fit for the archives that Elias has. He calls Jon into his office again, watching as Jon delicately maneuvers into the chair on the other side of Elias’s desk, fingers picking at the sleeves of his cardigan.

“I’m happy to tell you, Jonathan, that after much consideration, that you have been promoted to Head Archivist. Your transfer from the Research department will be put through promptly, and - unless you have any objections - you can begin your new role as soon as next Monday. Congratulations.”

As Elias spoke, he watched as Jon’s eyes widened, eyebrows raise, as the tension melted out of his shoulders. The corners of his lips seemed to flicker, wanting to curl upwards, but not quite able to.

��I, oh, wow. Thank you, Elias. I, uh, I’m really excited to be working in the Archives.” Jon stammered out. His voice had less of the confident bravado that it had during his interview, and while that would usually make Elias reconsider his choice, the fact that all of Jon’s nervous ticks seemed to have disappeared sated his concern.

Elias nodded, hummed, and launched into the less fun aspect of promotion, namely discussion of new contracts, pay raises, the fact that Jon would be able to ask some of his co-workers to become his assistants, but any vacancies will be filled at Elias’s discretion. Jon nodded along and asked the appropriate questions at the right time.

Perhaps he’s just bad at expressing emotions, Elias thought, though the thought is both fleeting and insignificant. It gets pushed out of the way, quickly, and is discarded, not to be thought again.

When the meeting was over, Elias stood up to show Jon to the door. Just before Jon left, Elias stuck his hand out, and once again said, “Congratulations, Jon.”

Jon looked startled for a second, before reaching out and giving Elias a hearty handshake.

“Thank you, Elias, really,” Jon replied. While saying that, the corner of his mouth twitched once again, and for a moment, Jon’s face began to break out into a smile. Eyes excited and bright, before he schooled his expression back into one of vaguely happy neutrality.

Elias released Jon’s hand, and when his office was once again empty of everyone except himself, he briefly wondered why anyone cares enough about smiling to prevent themselves from doing it.

Like most intrapersonal thoughts, though, Elias waved it away, going back to his own work, just glad that he didn’t have to get Rosie to put up any more job listings on Linkedin.

-4

Tim was surprised when Jon approached him with the job offer. Sure, he and Jon had worked together for a few years and Jon frequently complimented Tim on his work and whenever Jon actually showed up to work get-togethers, he seemed to awkwardly stick to Tim’s side like glue until the event was done. But Jon always declined Tim’s invites to non-work social gatherings, and sometimes it was hard to tell if the snark in Jon’s voice came from malice or…. Something else.

Tim had chalked all that up to awkwardness or to Jon’s work ethic, but for some reason, he never thought that Jon actually considered Tim to be a friend, even though he did tentatively think of Jon as one. So it was rather shocking when Jon marched up to him, a small stack of papers in his hands at the end of the workday, and announced,

“I’ve been promoted to Head Archivist.”

“Oh, well, congrats, Jon,” Tim said, smiling. He clapped Jon on the shoulder. “Yeah, I heard you put your application in.” Tim didn’t mention that he heard because some of their co-workers were making jokes about hoping to see the last of Jon, with his insane work ethic and snappish remarks.

Jon nodded. “I’m also allowed to pick my own assistants since many of Gertrude’s have quit or been reassigned since her absence.”

“That’s cool.”

“I was wondering if you would like to join me in the Archives, Tim.”

“Oh,” Tim said, eyes widening. Jon looked straight at him, unflinching, though his hands were curled into tight balls at his sides. This was certainly unexpected.

“I think we work well together. You do really good work, and while I’m not exactly sure what… extra work transferring to the archives will entail, I’m that your presence will be beneficial.” Finally, Jon broke Tim’s gaze. “Also, I… quite enjoy your company.”

“Wow, well, thank you, Jon,” Tim managed to stammer out. He looked at Jon’s now sheepish expression and how his cheeks had taken on a slightly red tinge from the honesty. “Uh, can I… think about it? For a few days? It’s just… kind of a big change.”

“Oh, of course, Tim,” Jon nodded earnestly, passing Tim the stack of papers, which Tim now saw as a would-be employment contract, with different sections highlighted, presumably the parts that Jon thought Tim would find important. Jon made like he was about to turn to leave before he paused and said, “Also I. I won’t be offended if you decide to stay put.”

“Oh, I know,” Tim said, even though he wasn’t sure why he knew. Jon nodded again.

“Well, see you tomorrow.” And with that and a brief wave, Jon walked away, leaving Tim to stare at the employment papers and to think about what to do. And Tim did consider it. He had a pretty good thing going on in the Research department. He was well-liked, and many of his managers said that he could probably get promoted to a higher position with a better salary in a few years, and though the entry position of archival assistant was better paying than his current gig, Tim knew he was never going to get promoted from that role.

Tim had friends in Research, but he also had friends in artifacts, and finance, and HR. The more he thought about it, it wasn’t like his work-social life would end if he went to the basement. And, as much as his co-workers liked to poke fun at Jon, Tim did genuinely enjoy his company. He liked his wit, and snark, and the way he tried to play off his awkwardness and usually failed. And despite his somewhat clumsy attempts at socializing, anytime Tim talked about his life outside of work, Jon listened, made jokes, and was friendly.

Jon was also quite easy on the eyes, in his own strange way.

Tim found it wasn’t really much of a hard decision after all. So when he walked into work the next day and tossed the signed contract on Jon’s desk, all he said was, “It better not be as dusty as everyone says it is.”

Before walking off to his own desk to finish up his own projects, for a moment he thought he saw Jon duck his head to smile. But when he looked back, Jon was just holding the contract, and though his eyes were happy, his face was straight.

-3

Sasha enjoyed her work as an archival assistant, despite all the dust, and Jon’s moodiness, and the strange errands that the statements sent everyone on. It was an unorthodox job, cleaning up the decades of bizarre filing that Gertrude left, hunting down follow-ups from people who were clearly drunk, sick, or delirious at the time that these ‘occurrences’, well, occurred.

She certainly enjoyed her co-workers, basement dwellers that they were. While archives and research had many employees and had been on floors where different departments mingled, the four of them - Tim, Sasha, Martin, and Jon - were stuck down in the cool basement, surrounded by files, and books, and old foundation. While she had been on amicable terms with Tim before, the forced proximity brought them much closer, and she was happy to meet and befriend Martin. Pretty quickly the three of them began to go out for drinks after work, plan dinners, and movie nights, and get-togethers on weekends. They sometimes invited Jon, but the answer was also unanimously no.

Still, despite Jon’s rebuffs at having a social life, Sasha always felt like her relationship with him was… different than the others. While Tim and Jon had prior acquaintanceship, Sasha only briefly knew Jon in research; and Jon was either oblivious or blatantly ignoring Martin’s crush on him, rebuffing his attempts of flirting and courtship with harsh words and mumbled, unfocused ‘thank yous’ when Martin brought him tea.

It surprised her how highly Jon thought of her, and how well they got on.

“Here’s that statement you were after,” Sasha said, after knocking on Jon’s office door. Jon turned in his chair to face her, hand outreached to take the folder when she got close enough.

“Thank you, Sasha,” Jon said, as he grasped the folder. Sasha nodded and was about to let go when she glanced down and saw Jon’s hand.

“Is that nail polish?” She asked suddenly, voice coming out more accusatory than she intended. Jon snatched the folder away from her, curling his fingers into his palms as soon as the paper hit the desk surface. He still wore his face of neutrality, but his jaw was tense. Sasha was surprised at how defensive, and how quickly, Jon reacted to the question, but immediately saw she needed to remedy it. She quickly added, “It looks nice.”

As soon as the compliment was said, Jon seemed to relax a bit. His jaw unclenched and slowly he unfurled his fingers. His nails were a simple black, though it was a messy job and they were already chipping.

“Oh, thank you.” He said softly.

“Did you do them yourself?” Sasha asked, even though she couldn’t imagine Jon asking for help to do his nails.

“Yes, er. As a child, I always wanted to paint my nails but I couldn’t, so.” He held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. “They’re not very good, are they?”

Sasha shrugged. “Pretty good for a first time, though. Next time you’ll want to push your cuticles back first, and you should probably get a varnish too. It’ll stop them from chipping so much.”

“Oh, okay. Thank you, Sasha,” Jon said, clearly not expecting advice. Sasha gave one last nod, and a, “No problem.” before leaving Jon’s office.

After that - or maybe Sasha just noticed it more afterwards - Jon seemed to come to work ‘prettied up’ more often. He seemed to listen to her nail advice, and while he often sported plain, black nails - sans chipping, thanks to the nice clear coat he put on - a few times he came into work with blue, or red, or green nails. While Martin and Tim always complimented them, if they noticed, Jon began going up to Sasha to show her every fresh set. Often it would be a week or two between appearances; Jon seemed to just let the previous coat chip off completely before repainting them, approaching Sasha with his hands curled in a way so that he could view his own nails before showing them off to her. Sasha always made sure that she seemed excited to see them, even if they weren’t always that good. The way that Jon seemed to loosen after every compliment, the way his face would soften just a tad made it worth it.

Soon it became their little routine, even as Jon’s habits changed. While it started with nails, soon Jon would awkwardly approach her to show off the fancy braid he just learned how to do with his growing hair. Often, they were messy and uneven, large strands falling out of the cheap hair ties, but Sasha would say it was nice, before offering to fix it for him. Jon always declined, disappearing into his office and coming out later, braid abandoned and hair in its usual neat bun, but Sasha always offered. For a while, Jon had taken to looking at the clothes Sasha came to work in, awkwardly complimenting her on whatever coat or blouse or shoes she had worn. It took Sasha a few times to realize what he was saying - or at least thinking.

“I like your skirt,” Jon mumbled one day, as he and Sasha walked into the archives. “It’s very pretty.”

Sasha hummed, looking down at it. It wasn’t anything fantastic, just a black a-line skirt with a vaguely plaid pattern, long enough to be work-appropriate without annoying her. She mostly wore it because the growing pile of dirty laundry in her flat left her few other options.

“Thank you, Jon,” she replied, before pursing her lips. “You know, I think you would look quite nice in a skirt.”

A bold move, Sasha knew, but after Jon sputtered for a moment, he managed to choke out, “You… you do?”

“Oh, yes. You got nice, slender legs, and if one a little longer it would just add to the frumpy librarian look quite nicely.” Sasha laughed a little, unable to resist the urge to tease a little. Jon gave a polite chuckle and nodded.

They repeated this process a few more times, over a few weeks. Jon would give Sasha a sincere, if not a bit bumbling compliment on her wardrobe or appearance (often for items Sasha did not care for that much) and after thanking him, she would flip it around and say, “I think this lipgloss colour would suit you better than me” or " a blouse like this would make your collarbones look good” or even being as bold as saying “You should get a dress like it, then we can match.”

Jon would brush the comments off with a laugh or a denial, but Sasha could see the wheels in his head-turning, the way he would occasionally look at whatever pair of pants he was wearing that day and frown.

Eventually, Sasha’s hard and not-so-subtle work paid off when she saw Jon shuffle into the archives, not in his usual attire of plain cardigan and button-up, tucked into a pair of boring pants, but with a new look: a cardigan and plain button-up tucked into a shockingly boring skirt. It suited him, though; the long grey fabric skimming his ankles, the way it would flow behind and the way his feet would kick it in front. Jon’s fingers seemed to be absent-mindedly twisting themselves into the fabric, as he made his way towards his office.

Sasha was right; Jon did rock the frumpy librarian look.

“Good morning, Jon,” Sasha greeted, cheerfully. Jon looked up.

“Morning, Sasha.”

“New wardrobe?” She asked, nodding at his outfit. Jon seemed to falter a little, standing still, waiting for her assessment. “I like it! Really suits you.”

And while that was a bit of a lie - Sasha found it to be a bit boring, and she would never have even considered buying herself, though it did quite Jon wonderfully - Sasha couldn’t bring herself to feel the least bit bad, when she heard Jon mutter a soft, “Thank you,” before hurrying to his office. For a split second, Sasha would have sworn that his lips were pulled into a smile, thought for a moment she saw a flash of his teeth, but he was opening and closing his office door before she could confirm.

-2

Despite all her grumbling, thrown insults, and jabs, Melanie didn’t actually dislike Jon. Well, no, she did dislike him, immensely. He’s smug, and rude, and has a know-it-all attitude, and he absolutely did not take her show seriously. But, behind all of that, he respected her abilities and her competence, if not the way that she uses it. She thought of it like she wouldn’t want anything to hurt Jon unless it was her giving him a good slap around the head.

Still, when she ended up hanging around the Archives more - and shockingly, no one, not even Jon, tried to stop her - after her show fell apart and took most of her professional network with it, she’s surprised how much common ground she shares with Jon. At first, they needed someone else in the room with them, to grease the wheels of conversation - either Sasha siding with Melanie every once in a while, or a well-timed joke from Tim, or Martin’s placating tone - but every time they found themselves able to stand each other without any assistance, even starting their own conversation. Without her show, with its staged dramatics and clickbait titles to feed Jon’s antagonisms, they find that they have similar opinions and histories with the supernatural.

“Most statements and stories are completely false,” Jon had repeated many times. But soon he began to add, “But the ones that are real are… deeply concerning, and hard to come by.”

More than a few times Jon had caught Melanie digging through filing cabinets, looking for a statement with a shred of truth in it, anything to follow up or make a story out of. After the third time that Jon threw open the door to the filing room and nearly gave himself a heart attack when the light illuminated Melanie’s hunch over figure, reading through a pile of folders that she most certainly was not going to put away properly, Jon sighed and asked, “Why don’t I just give you some statements that seem real.”

Melanie looked up from the file in her hand that she was about to discard. “You’d do that? Isn’t that against ‘policy’ or something.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “I’m sure it’s no more breaking rules than allowing you in here in the first place.” He eyed the pile of statements on the floor, the open drawer with crumbled papers shoved in. “Besides, I’m tired of having to spend an entire day refiling after you pop in.”

And so, Jon started keeping track of statements he believes. First on sticky notes, then on looseleaf paper, and eventually in a notebook so that Melanie can keep track as she goes along, Jon wrote down the name and case number of what he believes are credible cases, and Melanie dug them out of their dusty tombs. Even if she didn’t put them away - which she rarely did, can’t go making Jon’s life too easy, she thought with a grin - it was clear that he appreciated knowing exactly where they came from. She still browsed around, skimming through statements that Jon doesn’t believe, but she puts those ones back where she finds them if they weren't worth her time.

Their strange friendship continued like that for a few months. They steered clear of personal topics, even, no, especially, as Melanie began going on dates with Georgie. Occasionally, a personal detail would slip in; Jon mentioned that he hates denim skirts after telling Melanie about a statement that, for some reason, explicitly mentions them (“And what makes you an expert on what women should wear?” Melanie asked, annoyance clear in her.

Jon furrowed his eyebrows. “What? No, I’m talking about me. I hate wearing denim skirts.”

“Oh,” Melanie says, the wind coming out of her sails. “Uh, me too.”). At one point Melanie mentioned that she loves artificial blue raspberry, which made Jon scrunch his nose in disgust. Before they knew it, Melanie and Jon knew about the other’s thoughts on movies, books, fashion, the weather, politics, animals, food, and whether or not Rosie is dating that one woman from HR.

It was a slow and gradual shift, one that caught both of them off guard. But neither was anxious to prevent it and really, Melanie was kind of interested to see where it would go. It’s with that thought in mind, seeing how this will go, that she throws a folder onto Jon’s desk. He hadn’t looked up when she knocked and entered without waiting, but with the manila folder obscuring whatever paperwork he was doing, he sighs and lifts his head.

“Yes, Melanie?”

“This statement was misfiled,” Melanie said, glee and gloating oozing out of her voice. She cackled when she saw Jon scowl, arms crossing automatically. He glanced down at the casefile.

“It most certainly was not,” Jon huffed, picking it up. He doesn’t even mention how it wasn’t a file he gave her, so keen to prove her wrong. “It was filed by year, 2006, subsection ‘non-human creature’, subsection ‘false’ and-”

“Exactly,” Melanie interrupted. “It’s not fake.”

“What do you mean it’s not fake.” Jon narrowed his eyes. “It’s about a bloody sea monster!”

“A sea monster which is described in another statement from 1984,” Melanie threw another folder onto his desk, which Jon hadn’t noticed in her hand in his haste to disagree, “And, one that causes damage similar to this accident report,” Melanie unlocked her phone and shoved it into Jon’s face. His eyes crossed and squinted as he tried to read the news article on the screen. “Which, by the way, all occur in the same region of the Barents Sea.”

Jon lifted his eyes from the phone screen, still slightly glaring at Melanie. He looked away after a second, raising a hand to scratch the side of his face.

“Well, then, I guess we will have to look into it some more,” his voice was different than what Melanie was used to. Behind the movement of his hand, Melanie thought she saw some falses of teeth and saw a slight twinkle in his eye. He quickly dropped his face, expression and voice back to normal, “But, this is not permission for you to go back to rummaging through my files!”

Melanie grinned wolfishly, putting a hand on her hip. The gentle voice and expression were already leaving her mind. “Like I ever needed your permission, Jon.”

-1

It was almost surprising how well Daisy got on with Jon. She supposed it was because they were both a bit quieter than the people around them, got a bit more drained from human interaction than others, a bit more like old souls. Only, Daisy was more of an ‘old soul’ because the thought of all the therapy she had to go through years ago still made her tired and because she was literally about fifteen years older than everyone else in the Archives.

“Why is it that your joints hurt more than mine even though you’re a baby?” Daisy asked, after finding Jon laying on the floor of his office, hair and dress fanned out on the floor. When she had questioned his state, he just mumbled, “m’back hurts.”

Calling him a baby made him grumble more. “I’m not a baby, I am a grown man-”

“More like an old man.” Daisy joked, sitting down cross-legged by his head. “Seriously, you’re too young to be aching this much.”

Jon shrugged, shirt rustling against the carpet. “I’ve always ached. I guess having a desk job just made it worse.”

Daisy nodded. She couldn’t really relate; all her old aches hadn’t been physical, and before the archives all her jobs involved in a lot of moving - whether it was fast food as a teenager, or retail as a young adult, and then the police.

“You should go to a chiropractor, get a massage.” She suggested.

“Chiropractor and masseuse are two different professions.”

“Piss off, you know what I’m saying.” Jon rolled his eyes and squirmed a bit on the floor.

“I don’t like the thought of someone… massaging me.”

“It feels really good,” Daisy replies, thinking back to the few massages she had gotten in her life. “And chiropractors don’t really massage, they just snap your joints back into place and then give you weird exercises to do.”

Jon shrugged again and didn’t say anything. Daisy wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t have anything to say, or if his previous movement made something along his spine twinge. After a minute of silence, with Jon’s face occasionally morphing from boredom to discomfort, Daisy got an idea.

“Stand up,” she said, getting to her feet herself. Jon looked up, startled.

“Why?”

“Just do it,” Daisy stuck her hand out for Jon to take. With a little effort, Jon sat up, groaning a little, before taking her stand to stand. As soon as he was upright, Daisy reached down to hold Jon from under his armpits.

“Uh, Daisy, what are you doing?” Jon asked, arms sticking straight out, stiff, as Daisy brought his body closer to her.

“I’m going to reset your back,” Daisy said, as Jon’s face squished against her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this a few times, it usually helps.”

Jon mumbled something, before yelping when Daisy stood closer to her full height and he was lifted a few inches off the ground. Jon’s arms instinctually went around Daisy’s shoulders, even though she was fully supporting his weight.

“Okay, you gotta relax your body, untense your muscles- Jon that is the opposite of untensing. There you go, okay, you’re going to hear a crack,” She said, before squeezing Jon into her body, forearms pressed across different parts of his back. There was a loud crack as she felt Jon tighten his arms around her and give a little yell into her shoulder.

She loosened her grip, but still held him close for a second, just in case. She felt his mouth move against her shirt, and at first, she thought he was mumbling something, but then the movement ceased for a few seconds. Another small movement, and then no motion once again. Finally, she lowered Jon to the floor and released him. He stood, and quickly went to smoothing out his shirt.

“How’d that feel?” Daisy asks, noticing how he wasn’t automatically going back to lie on the ground. Jon stilled for a second, before saying,

“It feels a lot better. Thank you, Daisy.”

Martin knew he wasn’t subtle, at least not when it came to Jon. He knew practically anyone who came down to the Archives could tell he had a crush, knew that his attempts to coddle, and talk to, and make Jon proud were just about as sly as painting a banner that said: “I WANT TO DATE JONATHAN SIMS.”

He almost couldn’t help it. Sure, he had gotten a bit better at not letting Jon treat him like a doormat over the years - sometimes Jon even seemed pleasantly surprised when Martin told him off for being mean - but there was still an undeniable urge to be gentle with him, to treat him kindly, to make him smile.

Not that anyone had any recollection of Jon smiling - hell, Tim even made a few jokes that Jon was probably in a terrible accident as a smile and ‘broke his smile muscles, but left his annoying muscles intact’. It wasn’t very funny, but Martin and Sasha still laughed.

Still, in some masochistic kind of way, Martin enjoyed this prolonged courtship. And even though his friends were sure that nothing was advancing, that Martin was still being a pining fool (which wasn’t an inaccurate description) and Jon was still being an unrequiting idiot, Martin was sure that he was making progress. Jon and he were having more… moments. More times where they would make eye contact and Jon’s face would soften, more conversations where Jon would ramble off-topic, at ease and relaxed, before remembering himself and Martin and roping him back into the conversation. There would be times where Martin would pass Jon a cup of tea, mug angled so that Jon could easily grab the handle, and yet Jon would take the mug in such a way that their fingers would brush. Sometimes they even lingered there, the heat of ceramic burning his hand, almost unnoticeable in comparison to the heat of his face as Jon glanced at him through his eyelashes, saying, “Thank you, Martin.”

Maybe it was just because no one else was privy to these moments, or maybe Martin really was just a yearning fool, desperately grasping at anything that suggested Jon returned his affection, but no one else seemed to understand these moments or take them seriously.

“Your crush is getting out of control,” Tim said one day, after watching Martin bring Jon tea in a mug covered in hearts. “Like, legally speaking, I think it’s too much.”

Martin rolled his eyes. Jon had stared at the mug for a few seconds before taking it, and even though it was still piping hot, much too warm to comfortably drink, he took a sip as soon as it was in his grasp. “This is lovely, Martin. Thank you.”

“Leave it alone, Tim, it’s fine,” Martin replied, going back to sit at his desk.

“No, it is getting a bit ridiculous,” Sasha agreed. “I mean, how long have you been after him? Like, I love Jon, trust me, but he’s either oblivious or ignoring your, uh, flirting attempts.”

“He’s not ignoring them.”

“So he’s just oblivious?”

“I don’t think so.” Sasha and Tim looked at him strangely. He sighed. “Look, things are fine, okay? It’s fine, just let me… do my thing.”

“Fine, we will ‘let you do your thing’ but, for the record, you probably could have gotten with at least three people in the time that you’ve been lusting after Jon,” Tim said, earning a laugh from Sasha.

But it was fine, whatever he and Jon had. It was certainly more than what he had been getting before, and even though he wanted more - chest aching at the sight of a frazzled or tired Jon, feeling the need to brush his hair out of his face, to press tender kisses to his eyelids, the near unbearably desire to just hold him, and care for him - Martin wasn’t unhappy. And somehow he knew Jon wasn’t either.

Sometimes Jon even sought Martin out, intentionally leaving his stuffy office only to walk over to Martin's desk and chat with him for a few minutes before returning. Often he would have to return a minute later, muttering about leaving a pen or a pencil or a hair tie. (One time, as Jon turned around to leave, Martin saw the pen on the edge of his desk, and said, “You left your pen.”

Jon had turned around, looking almost disappointed. “Oh. Yes, thank you, Martin.”

He collected his pen and returned to his office. Martin didn’t see him until he said goodbye for the night. The next time he saw Jon dropping something at his desk, he didn’t mention it.)

When Jon actually remembered to eat lunch now, he would only come out to eat if Martin hadn’t eaten already, as he had taken to sitting either across or directly next to him during meal times. If Jon was sitting next to him - usually because Melanie or Basira were sitting across the shifty breakroom table - Martin could feel Jon gently, almost shyly, pressing his knee against Martin’s leg. Jon’s face was always blank, but if Martin made any move to shift away, Jon’s head would snap towards him until contact was either completely broken or restored.

Of course, there wasn’t an easy way to explain this to anyone else. How could Martin have possibly hoped to quantify glances, and touches, and the new intonations when Jon said ‘Martin’, the name now completely different than what Jon used to call him, despite no letters changing. How to explain it when no one else seemed to notice the magnitude of these changes if they noticed the changes at all?

So Martin rolled his eyes and made jokes with the others as they teased and prodded him about his ‘crush that was going nowhere on the boss’, and hoped, like so many times before, that Jon couldn’t hear them through his office door.

As pathetic as it sounded, Martin was prepared to play the long game, to continue this dance he and Jon had begun as long as it took, to tolerate the unbearable loneliness that crept up on him at home so long as he got to see Jon at work, to keep bringing him tea every day until, well, until something happened, or until one of them left the archives. Martin had made peace with that fact, though he loathed to admit it, even to himself.

And then, Jon asked for his help one day.

“Can you stay late with me this evening? I need some assistance looking into a statement.” Jon had been formal, professional when he asked.

“Of course,” Martin said, if not because any time spent with Jon was a good time (usually, not even Martin was in deep enough to enjoy some of Jon’s moods), then because he did take his job seriously. “Anything you need.”

“I can stay behind too if you need extra help,” Basira offered, turning to look at Jon.

Jon nodded at her. “Thank you for offering, but I’ll only be needing Martin.”

And he has to admit, hearing that did bring warmth to his face and to his chest.

The help that Jon needed was minimal. Some of it was just reaching a file of a self that was too high since the stepladder that he used to use had broken, and Martin knew that Jon had too much pride to ask for help reaching something when everyone was in. Otherwise, all he needed assistance with was looking over a few files to see if a name popped up in all of them. All in all, it only took about half an hour, including the time it took to re-sort the files and put the relevant ones on Jon’s desk.

As Martin was preparing to leave, Jon approached him one more time, also clad in his winter coat and bulky scarf tucked under his chin. He stood in front of Martin, looking intently. Martin waited for, well, something. Jon took a deep breath.

“Would- Are you- Do,” Jon scowled at himself, took another breath and reached up to tug his scarf lower again so that more of his face was visible. “Martin, would you like to go out to eat with me?”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin replied, cheeks reddening slightly. Jon paused for a moment.

“I mean this as a date.”

Martin looked at Jon, bundled in his winter wear, hair slightly tangled, fumbling over asking Martin out!

“I knew that’s what you meant,” Martin said with a smile. He looked down at Jon’s hands, clenched tightly into themselves. He reached a hand out and carefully brushed a finger along the knuckles of on. “Of course, I would like to go on a date with you.”

And when he looked up, he saw Jon smiling, and it felt like seeing the stars for the first time. Jon always said he looked much older than he was, which Martin was inclined to agree, but when he smiled, he looked more his age. The tiredness and stress that plagued his expressions disappeared under the glow of his grin, eyes crinkled, and. Dimples.

Jon had dimples, nestled in between his smile lines, a secret that Martin knew he was now the only one in the Institute besides Jon who knew they existed.

“You have dimples,” Martin said, a smile creeping onto his own face. “They’re cute.”

Jon sputtered a, “No they’re not!” and Martin could see he was trying to return his face to its usually impassive expression, but it seemed that every time he got close, his grin would break through. Eventually, Jon tugged his scarf up to cover his mouth, but Martin still saw his eyes crinkled, somehow still felt Jon smiling through the layers.

“They’re cute,” Martin repeated, wanting to pull Jon’s scarf down again. This want was different than what he usually felt, a desire not tinged with sadness or loss. Maybe it was presumptuous, but Martin knew that this urge would be met. Maybe not now, but soon.

And Martin thought about Jon’s smile, even when he asked, voice muffled behind the layers of wool, where Martin wanted to go to eat, and would Martin like to walk, transit or take a cab there, and, and and.

Martin thought about Jon’s smile, knowing he was one of the few people to see it, knowing that he would get to see it again

#jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #fanfic #links #jon x martin #i hate having to share fics to tumblr idk why but they always look so UGLY

30 notes · View notes

never-a-clever-username · 2 years ago

Text

!!!!!!!SPOILERS FOR TMA 200!!!!!

—————————————————

Arguably since the fears are all from one and then split you could say that if one loves something the others do as well.

AU idea:

The Beholding falls in love with Jon after he starts working at the Magnus Institute. Elias isn’t fully aware of what’s going on but hey if the Eye wants this random dude in the Archivist position I guess that works Gertrude was straying anyway.

So Elias kills Gertrude, promotes Jon and Jon is like uhhh okay? So it’s Jon, Tim, Sasha, and Martin in the archives and Jon starts reading statements and all that jazz, investigating and such. The Eye is PSYCHED and Elias is feeding off the whole thing and being his creepy self. The Eye is vaguely aware of The Web’s mark but is like oh he’s already met one of us yay!!

And then Michael pops up after swallowing Helen Richardson. Originally The Distortion came to harass the archivist and his assistants out of spite but meets Jon and is like … hold on. It’s kinda cute. What’s this feeling??? Cue Obsession. It starts Making doors for Jon to open to spend time with him, offering to kill the guy who bumped into him at the grocery store, etc. Tries to convince him to align himself with the Distortion. And the Eye is like FUCK OFF!!!! Makes Elias tighten security and is constantly freaking him out by assaulting him mid meeting with knowledge that DISTORTION IS BACK GET IT AWAY FROM JON!!

Meanwhile Jon is like what the FUCK is this tall dude popping out of nowhere for ???? And is increasingly freaked out by the number of worms in the institute following Jane Prentiss barricading Martin into his apartment. And so when she attacks the works go after Jon like before but there’s more of a oh wait this one is important feeling. And Jane just fucking GUNS IT to Jon who freaks out and grabs Martin and they run into the tunnels. They find Gertrude and all that jazz but I like to think that in this AU the Not!Sasha doesn’t happen bc I need Sasha, Tim, and Martin to be like…you all see the crazy guy hovering around Jon right???

Anyway all that shit happens and now Jon has two entities dogging his heels that he’s unaware of and then Elias is like hmm this isn’t moving fast enough for me and starts feeding Jon’s paranoia about Gertrude getting offed because yeah the archivist has to get marked, then Jon is framed for murder and suddenly he’s meeting all these avatars and with each one their entity is like HELLO THIS ONE IS IMPORTANT STAY CLOSE TO THEM. So Jon returns to the institute with a new bodyguard (Daisy), several more phone numbers, and a fuckton of questions. And Elias isn’t answering anything but is very happy that his Archivist back and yes Beholding he is safe and sound.

Cue the influx of the most bizarre courting gifts every seen.

Severed hands from the flesh, flowers that have odd molds on the stems from Corruption, an army of spiders that follow Jon around that Martin has to take out of his office before he passes out. Peter Lukas offers to send him on an all expenses paid trip to a remote private island in the Pacific. Nikola sends a basket of skincare products and Jon is horrified but at least they smell good?? Oliver Banks brings Jon statements and also baked goods because who doesn’t love food and Jon is a skinny Minnie. And you know they’re not ALL gonna fall in love bc I think Jude would rather cut her fingers off but she’s feeling big sister like and gives him a friendly burn and stays in touch with him. And Simon Fairchild is like oh alright another grandson yes I’ll send him some obscure texts beholding avatars usually like that shit. Etc etc.

Rosie enjoys calling down to the Archives when a new package comes in. Tim and Sasha keep a running tally on what is coming in next. Martin is like a rock through the whole thing and Jon appreciates that someone is taking his feelings into account because it’s stressful and he has no idea what the fuck is going on! But Martin is happy to show his support and be there for him and they start to fall in love and the Eye is like oh this one makes My Archivist happy we’ll keep him. And shenanigans are abound meanwhile Jon is like perhaps I’ll just stay in my apartment for the rest of my life with Martin.

Anyway just an idea

So far my fave genre of TMA fanfic is “Jonathan Sims, Archivist, is loved by the fears and they’re all trying to get him and oh yes obviously Martin is their partner the Entities would never take him from Jon.”

#tma #tma spoilers #Jonathan sims #this poor man needs a break #Martin Blackwood #Tim Stoker #Sasha James #chaos in the archives #loving entities au

11 notes · View notes

the-firebird69 · 3 years ago

Text

CCSO gives all-clear after Port Charlotte businesses evacuated due to suspicious substance

PjA got arrested for calling the police because he had a scope in his truck in the car. Let me get in trouble for blaming the pharmacist because he's a patient and had to pick up medicine so he's sitting there threatening her she didn't have to pick up medicine that's what he was doing and it was really Jenna and they're fighting because she's fighting to get her position back and using things to get him out of here and everyone wants him out and she is one who is George to try and hit him because he's a dick and she says that's supposed to do that he says you're not supposed to do that at all it's probably.

He got shaking down they went through his stuff and look through what he has and they found pictures of Chris and they start charging formally for stocking and harassment and it started to figure out where he had the pictures because it said he's a Target and also some things about you and is evil and must be terminated in a whole bunch of stuff like that and they found ammo and then the process of booking him he looks around and says wow this place is terrible tries to get away and they put their foot down and trip them any positive balances I'm injured I'm injured handcuffed him and put him into the police car because he refused to cooperate and his searched his house thoroughly they found bombs and weapons fare familiar and plans to blow up government buildings here in town and steal those money from the bank and all sorts of stuff they said you're going away for a long time so he's in jail it is not getting out and this is Joe at the sheriff's office and he's in jail at the sheriff's office in Port Charlotte the one that you went down and looked at actually they tried to put you in there and you do about it usually do about Darth Vader and it done too much but he's pretty conpident chemistry conpident too at soliciting help and they do actually they got some teams down and saw a woman that are in fighting after you went down there huge teams did and they put Brian in there. It's a huge fight here now.

It's not normal for people to do it Brian is doing with regards to our son and we want him gone forever and these people will probably fumble again cuz they fumble every time but with the evidence that they have booked in pictures and it's online it's likely that they're going to chase him down until he's done which they should which explains why you go to Tunis and we're going to hit him too

I've never seen so many unprovoked attacks on someone in my life this is kind of bja did I said why don't we just kill him every time he tries something so he did start getting really bad so now it's made him trying to teach him not to see him doing completely made and ruined wrecked decided of trying to until he's gone to decide to kill him too he's gone

Both areas are under siege or Jason is in Haiti and her Brian is in Port Charlotte and here BJ's getting rid of its own and some acts and tons of Jason's grandson and Iall die

Thor Freya

0 notes

imagine-loki · 7 years ago

Text

A Warrior’s Life

TITLE: A Warrior’s Life

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Forty-Eight AUTHOR: wolfpawn ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Viking Loki coming to your village, raiding, and pillaging, before deciding there is something about you that intrigues him and deciding to take you back to Asgard with him. There, you are forced to learn a new life and language, and though you hate what has happened to you, you learn that Loki is not as bad as you think.

RATING: Mature

Vali was staring up attentively at his father, who was talking incessantly to the child as Maebh attempted to get some rest. “Your mother is the bravest woman you shall ever meet my son, she has risked her life already for you, and would do it again in a heartbeat.” He stated quietly. Vali pursed his little lips together. “Give her another while little man, she is very tired today. Apparently, someone was feeding the most of the night and had her awake. Might you have any idea as to who that could have been?” the infant gave a small gurgle as it looked back at him. “Do not act innocent now.” He smiled, adoring that he was getting to have time with his son.

“It is called cluster feeding.” Loki turned to see his mother entering the dwelling.

“I did not hear your arrival.” He rose from the chair he was sitting in to welcome her.

“You were too busy speaking with your son.” Frigga smiled, looking down at the small bundle in her son’s arms. “He is more like you every passing day.”

“A terrible affliction.” Loki sighed, earning him a small slap on his arm from his mother, to which he chuckled.

“You are a very handsome man, he is very fortunate.” She insisted as she held out her arms so to receive her youngest grandchild, Loki handed him to her immediately. “My word, he is gaining weight quickly.” She noted.

“With all he has been eating, I would be concerned if he weren’t.”

“How is Maebh?”

“Exhausted. She has not yet fully recovered from the birth and her injury, which both require her to rest, but now he wants to feed from her day and night, meaning what little rest she does get is broken.” Loki looked to the bedroom, his face displaying his concern.

“Is she eating enough?”

“Truthfully, I think not,” Loki admitted. “I know a mother loses condition after a child, and after a while should return to what she was before, but Maebh has done that already and Vali is not yet two full moons old.”

“That indeed is too quick. If he is feeding as you say he is, he is taking too much of the food she eats as his milk.” Frigga took a moment to think. “Call your maid and have her grind oats, both into flour and just enough to crush them. Add the flour to all Maebh’s meals and have bread baked for her with it. Boil the crushed oats with milk for her, have that done immediately.” She ordered.

Loki did not take the time to question his mother, instead, he called on Gertrude and instructed her on what to do. Gertrude nodded obediently and set about doing what was requested of her immediately. When that was done, Loki turned back to his mother, who was busy making faces at her grandson, causing him to chuckle slightly for a moment. “And this will help Maebh?”

“The oats will both increase her milk, which assists her in feeding Vali, and it is also filling, meaning she will begin to keep her weight.” The queen explained.

“Thank you mother.” Loki smiled with gratitude.

“I would not be much of a mother were I not to help care for my son and his family when it is possible for me to do so.” She looked to Vali again. “She has made you so happy Loki. You deserve everything you now have. I often see her as a gift from the great Odin himself.”

“I feel this goes higher than even him,” Loki stated.

“I know you love Nafi, more than words can express, but to be given a son, a true son.” Loki gulped uncomfortably. “I know you see him as your child, and I commend both you and Maebh for keeping him, and raising him as your own, you are both wonderful parents to him and do not question my love for him either, but in truth, having a child that will carry your line…”

“I know what you are saying, mother. In one respect it is angering to be reminded of that horrid fact, but yes, it is every mans wish to have his son, his successor.”

Frigga studied her son’s face. “What is it Loki?” She was always so close with him over the years; she could see there was something bothering him.

“Of late, I feel as though the Norn’s and Gods alike are insisting on constantly reminding me that Nafi is not mine.”

“How so?”

Loki explained how he came upon Aslaug in the village as she spoke venomously to Maebh, and of her threat to come to visit Nafi. “I thought nothing of it myself, she had little time for him when she lived under the same roof as him, but Maebh has been very concerned that she would do something in spite.”

“There are many that would pay close attention to a new mother’s intuition,” Frigga warned.

Then Loki told his mother of Nafi befriending Barwin Tyrson. Her eyes widened when he told her of the two boys speaking of Tyr.

“That is slightly concerning.” Frigga acknowledged.

“What do you think we should do?”

“It is a difficult situation, Maebh is right, he cannot be forced to remain away from the other boy, it shall have him asking questions, but as you stated, it then leads to a far higher chance of Tyr’s widow seeing him.” Frigga took a long breath as she mulled over what she was going to say. “I would let them remain in each others company, but ensure they are under your watchful eye here, or perhaps even at our home. You have to prepare yourself Loki, the day may come that you may need to tell Nafi the truth.”

“It will destroy him.”

“And you too perhaps, but it may be the right thing to do.”

“What if he states that he wishes to return to her?”

“Then we tell him that our door is always open to him, and await his return.” Loki and Frigga turned to see Maebh standing at the bedroom door, looking almost as exhausted as she had when she had went to sleep. “Is he hungry again?” She indicated to Vali.

“He is almost there, why don’t you get something quick to eat dear before you feed him, strengthen yourself up a little.” Frigga encouraged.

“Always the mother hen.” Maebh smiled, walking over to the table, just as Gertrude placed the bowl in front of her. “How do you know of this meal?”

“How do we know of it, how do you? This has been a staple part of our diet for generations.” Loki explained.

“We have had it that long also; it is a very common breakfast meal on Midgard. I recall when we were young, Daire used grouse when my father used to order us to eat it, complaining that it was the food of peasants and he a prince.” She lifted the spoon, checking the consistency of the oats. “My father always maintained that if it kept the lowliest of peasants fed and capable of the large acts of labour they did, then it would sustain a prince.” She smiled sadly as she thought of her own family, her eyes tearing up slightly.

Loki and Frigga exchanged concerned looks. “Eat up; this little boy needs you back to full strength soon.” Frigga advocated.

It took three bowls of the meal to sate Maebh’s hunger. In that time, Vali had become aware of his mother being in close proximately to him, and began to fuss, trying once again to get to her breast.

“There are barely two mouthfuls left darling; he can wait that long.” Loki insisted as Maebh placed her spoon down and went to take the baby.

“He is right, in fact, I shall change him while you finish; that will distract him long enough for you to get sorted.” Frigga offered, taking the slightly angsty Vali from his father as Maebh finished her food.

“So you think we should tell him?” Loki asked her as he watched his mother exited the room with their smaller child.

“If it appears that he may find out in some other manner, then yes, I do. It is better for it to come from us that from another source.” Maebh put a spoonful of food in her mouth as Loki processed her words and considered his response.

“But you do not think to do so yet?”

Maebh swallowed, shaking her head. “He is only seven summers old. Not to mention, you need to decide exactly what it is you wish to tell him. Do you wish to reveal to him who sired him? You will also have to prepare for any questions he may have, some of which you will not wish to answer, and you need to ready yourself for if he is angry.”

“Do you think he will hate me?”

“I think not. You and he are the victims in all of this Loki. Neither of you did anything wrong to deserve this.”

“I could never figure out why. Why him? Why him repeatedly? Did they love one another? Why did she carry his child and destroy any of mine?” Loki was close to tears, looking at his hands on the table.

“You must accept that you will more than likely never get to know the answers to any of these questions Loki,” Maebh replied sadly. “Even if you were to ask, I doubt she would ever answer truthfully.

Frigga entered the room again with an alert and hungry Vali in her arms, effectively putting an end to their discussion. Maebh took the child from his grandmother and went to sit by the hearth with him. Soon he was feeding contently, Maebh herself feeling far better after the filling meal.

X X X X X X X

Over the following two weeks, Vali continued to feed well, but the alteration to Maebh’s diet meant that she too seemed to gain some weight, much to Loki’s and indeed her own relief.

“Well, this is noteworthy,” Loki commented as he walked into the living area of their home in the early morn to see Maebh sitting in a chair by the still warm embers of the hearth. “Has Vali been awake?”

“No, I just woke myself.”

“And you are not feeling exhausted?” Loki pulled Maebh out of the chair before sitting in it himself and pulling her onto his lap.

She shook her head. “No, I feel well actually.”

“You have been looking so much better of late darling, I think you are finally returning to yourself.” Loki placed a loving kiss on her forehead, which Maebh leaned into. “I have missed you so greatly.”

“You have been home a few weeks, you silly man.”

“Yes, but you have been so tired and weak, not at all your usual self, and yes I know taking care of our beautiful little son is tiring work, but you have not had your usual spark. I missed that.” Loki explained.

Maebh looked at him sadly. “I have missed you also, as you too have been slightly different of late, you seem so concerned all the time.”

“I have been concerned, about the raids, Svartalfheim, Ásvaldr, you, our children; it is all a lot to deal with.”

Maebh combed her fingers through Loki’s hair, pulling them out again when they met resistance from a few tangles. “So we both have not been ourselves of late; I fear our marriage is becoming settled.”

Loki frowned looking at her face. “What does that mean?”

“It means that we are no longer in the early phase of it where we lust for one another incessantly and do not have too many great responsibilities. Now we have children, diplomacy, a seemingly unhinged ex-wife and general chaos in its stead.”

“I do not agree,” Loki replied indignantly. “I still lust for you incessantly.” He swallowed loudly. “Do you not?”

His response was a passionate kiss, one he could clearly read as her expressing her emotions; she yearned for him too, much to his relief. He deepened it, one hand sliding up her thigh as the other was positioned by the nape of her neck. She gasped as he took his lips from hers and began to kiss down her neck to her collarbone. “Loki.” She fisted his slightly tangled hair as he kissed, bit and sucked the protruding bone across her chest, making his way then down between the two mounds of her milk filled breasts.

“They are so much bigger now,” Loki noted, looking at his wife’s chest, which was viewable as the nightdress she was wearing was not tied fully at the front so to allow Vali to feed when needed. “Do they hurt?”

“He fed during the night, so they are not too tender at present. Ah! Loki!” She could not control her words as Loki took them in his hands, kneading them gently.

“I have missed you in every aspect, my love.” He stated, his hips lifting slightly in search of some friction.

“And I you.” Maebh returned as she brought the hand that was not in his hair to his sleep pants, untying them to get them out of the way.

No sooner had she loosened them when Loki lifted his ass enough to pull them down and sit, now bare on the chair. “I do not think we have much time before everyone is awake.”

“Will you last long?”

“After months without you, my darling, I will be lucky if I do not have to satisfy you by other means.” He admitted much to his own shame.

“Well, I feel similar, so…” Maebh lifted herself up on her knees and used her hand to align Loki’s harden shaft against her.

“God’s, you are already ready for me.” Loki’s head lolled back at the amazing sensation. “Is it safe for you to do this again?”

“Yes, Eir stated a week ago that when I got my strength back, it was safe to do so. Although, even with feeding Vali solely from my breast, there is a small chance I can become with child again.”

“Are you alright with...oh Gods, Maebh.” Loki lost his train of thought as Maebh sank down onto him. “How are you still so tight?” He grasped her thighs, not paying any heed to how tightly he did so.

Maebh winced, wondering to herself how having Vali had not meant she would be better able to take her husband quickly. After the initial small pain, the familiar feeling of phenomenal pleasure began to fill her once more. Slowly she rose up and sank back down, repeating the movement as Loki guided her with his hands. All too soon, he began to raise his hips up to meet her thrusts, earning him a few gasps as Maebh attempted to remain quiet so not to wake the children.

“Gods, I love you Maebh.” Loki’s voice was hushed but deep with lust. “I am not going to last much longer.”

Maebh voice remained silent, but her breathing was shallow and harsh as she concentrated on her movements and on her own impending release. She felt the all familiar tightening in her lower abdomen as her body began to clamp around Loki, trying to pull him in deeper and milk him of his seed. She bit her lower lip to prevent the scream she so desperately wanted to release from her lungs as her body shook and she fell over the edge of her pleasure.

Loki pulled her down by the nape of her neck so to stare into her eyes as he too found his release, adoring the feel of Maebh’s body contracting around him as she continued to grind into him as she rode out the last of her own orgasm. Just as hers finished, his started. Unlike Maebh however, he had not been able to prevent the grunts that he vocalized as his seed erupted from his long neglected body.

Both of them gasped for air as they tried to regulate their breathing once more, with their foreheads still touching as they looked into each other's eyes, both filled with adoration. “What if you become with child again?” Loki asked between breaths.

“I said to you before Loki Odinson, I will gladly carry all children you fill me with.” She replied.

“There would barely be a year between them.”

“It is quite unlikely that I will become with child again so soon, it is merely a warning not to be shocked were I to.” Maebh smiled, as Loki began to play with some of her hair.

Loki was about to reply when something caught Maebh’s eye and her face fell in horror. Looking around, Loki realised what it was she was looking at. Nafi was standing at his bedroom door, looking utterly traumatised by the scene in front of him. Thinking fast, Loki covered Maebh’s chest and slowly she rose off him, her night dress falling over her legs again as Loki pulled up his pants, which thankfully was out of the boy’s view before he rose to his feet.

“Together or just you?” Maebh asked quietly.

“This is my job I think,” Loki commented. Nodding, Maebh walked to their bedroom, not able to take the slightly ashamed look from her face as she passed Nafi, who stared at her wordlessly. “We are going for a small walk,” Loki informed him. Nafi just nodded and went to his room to retrieve his boots.

#loki #other #submission #submitted fic #wolfpawn #a warrior's life #chapter 48 #viking au #village #pillaging #raiding #invading #asgard #intriguing

55 notes · View notes

archivesdiveronarpg · 8 years ago

Photo

Congratulations, ALLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of GERTRUDE. This application was truly a joy to read, Allie! We’ve been waiting for someone to come along and bring our complex mother (and captain, and lover, and adulteress) to life, so it’s safe to say that simply seeing an application for her in the inbox was a treat in itself, but your understanding of her and your attention to detail absolutely blew me away! I adored the way you depicted her as deliberate, if not a bit two-faced, in the wake of her husband’s death, and your mention of her avoidance of alcohol as a result of his excessive drinking was something even I hadn’t considered but loved so, so much. Thank you so much for applying! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within twenty-four hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Alias | Allie

Age | 21

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | Very active! All my friends leave me when they go back to school, so I’m usually on daily.

Timezone | EST

In Character

Character | Giya Godrej (Gertrude)

What drew you to this character? Every time I’d read or watch a version of Hamlet in class I would just yearn to get into Gertrude’s head! This would be the perfect chance to do so, don’t you think? Since I’m so fascinated with her I do think that I have a good grasp on her, but she’s one of those characters that can never fully be put in a box. You can’t completely condemn her or justify her as a character, and there’s so much fun gray area to play in. I can’t say enough good things about her bio and how you made her such a strong flushed out character.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? I think that Giya has such a crazy juxtaposition of denial and self awareness in her life that she’s just bound to combust eventually, or if she can overcome her guilt she’ll be able to rise to the top. (Obviously all of this will be discussed and plotted out with the other characters)

1) Giya has obviously found it hard to be around her son lately because of the guilt and how much he reminds her of his father and what she did to their family. The three musketeers. She really fucked that one up. Still, the guilt she feels is leading her to want her to be a better mother to him and make sure he turns out to be the amazing man she knows he is. There’s the possibility of her growing more and more worried and concerned by his antics, and she’ll go to any length to help the one thing in her she loves more than herself. There’s no part of her that wants to come clean about Clark right now, and she justifies keeping the secret because the truth would only hurt him. But, there’s also the possibility of him finding out about her relationship with Clark.

3) I could definitely see Giya becoming a leader/mother figure to all the younger female Montagues because she’s all about empowering women. In all honesty, I see her growing closer to all of the younger Montagues during this war and there might even be more maternal instincts that she never even knew she had kicking in. She’s already has that kind of dynamic with Odessa which I can’t wait to see developed. Giya comes off as humble, but she’s pretty freaking impressed by herself and all that she’d managed to achieve in life and there’s no way she’s not excited to bestow those lessons and tactics on someone as deserving as Odessa. She was very surprised at the interest that Odessa took in her job at first, but the younger woman is slowly proving herself to Giya.

4) I can see Giya going to Roman and/or Hector and looking for help or advice on her relationship with Hiran. Or maybe she’ll try to convince herself they’re the bad influences on him? Either way, there’s a lot of potential for her having some plot lines with these two.

5) I know that currently Gia is recovering from what happened at the Masquerade (I read the event summary and I’m assuming that’s still applicable) the attack is something that is going to set a fire under her ass and it’s not something she’s going to take sitting down. Orion better watch out.

6) Giya’s relationship with Clark could either be strengthened at this time, or turn very tumultuous. Although she’s a strong woman who doesn’t need protecting, she’d going to expect that he provides a sense of security for her and Hiran. I think a lot of their relationship is going to depend on how he handles the war. Also, there could always be a sneaking suspicion that Clark knows more about his brother’s death that he’s letting on. That would definitely lead to an existential crisis for Giya.

In Depth

What is your favorite place in Verona?

Full lips turning up in a small smile, with only the most tasteful hint of sadness, Giya let out a small, contemplative, hum. “Well I always loved being home with my two boys. It’s been hard, after everything. But I can’t stay cooped up forever. Haref would have never wanted that for me, and I have to be strong for my son.” What was she supposed to say, Clark’s apartment? A place where they could both momentarily escape the paranoia of what they were doing? In all honesty, if it wasn’t for the memory of her husband, the great man he was, and her son Giya would have no qualms about that answer. She never felt the need to explain herself to those who didn’t know her, as if they had any moral high ground to judge her from. Unfortunately, that would never be the case, of which Hiran was a constant reminder.

What does your typical day look like?

Giya was aware that she was still constantly evoking sympathy among her peers, but some quality closest to pride stopped the widow from playing into that more than she needed to. The brunette could have effortlessly turned her answer into a tearjerker, waxing poetic about her deceased husband and how much her life had changed since his passing. But why lie more than she needed to? Instead, she narrowed her piercing eyes for a few seconds to create the illusion she was thinking thoroughly before she spoke. “I’ve been spending a significant amount of time with Odessa Vernon.” Beat. The poor thing. The words Giya would never verbalize silently trailed behind her sentence. If anyone knew what it felt like being treated like a human porcelain doll with feelings more delicate than her frame, it was Odessa. “She’s turning out to be quite the impressive little spitfire, and at the risk of sounding like an old lady- she reminds me of myself at her age.”

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

Giya made a conscious effort not to light up at the question, for this was one she could answer with complete honesty. Not as grieving widow. A worried mother. A guilty adulterer. But a Montague. “You’d think they’d know better than to throw rocks and hide their hands. Then again, intelligence has never been a Capulet’s strong suit.” The triumphant smirk that didn’t grace Giya’s full lips was heavy in her voice however, she just couldn’t help herself. “It shouldn’t last long, I have great confidence in the Montagues.”

In-Character Para Sample:

Cabernet Sauvignon. Her old wine of choice. The mixture of dark fruit and even darker pepper wafted through the air and sent Giya to a time she’d never thought she’d be trying so hard to forget.

The night she drank more red wine than she thought humanly possible. Back when her precious Hiran was just a young boy, before she realized that at least one parent should set a good example and she and swore off alcohol. She was also still very much in love with Haresh. He was charismatic, magnetic, and everyone knew it. They’d taken the day to shop for sport supplies, and the two boys spent a full hour testing basketballs. Leaning against a nearby shelf, feet sore and back cramping, Giya had made the mistake of suggesting they just pick one already. Hiran was hurt by her tone, and stormed off; inconsolable. Harsesh looked at her as if she had just told their son Santa Claus killed his favorite puppy.

When they got home that night, Giya was at the end of her rope, and that scared her. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this whole parenting thing. It came so natural to Haresh. Everything always did. He was father of the year and she was … what? Mommie Dearest. Joan Crawford. Norma Bates.

“Mom. I was annoyed by him.” She sobbed over the phone, mascara sliding down to her wine stained lips. “I was annoyed by my baby.” What that she heard on the other line? Static? A fucking laugh? The woman who she hardly spoke so candidly to actually had the nerve to. A quick reminder why she hardly ever called home. Giya thought she was broken as a mother, and this was funny to her? “That’s going to happen sweetie, it doesn’t mean you love him any less.” She was right about her daughter’s love for her grandson, and Giya would never stop striving to put his happiness before hers. Maybe it wasn’t something that came naturally, but she never stopped hoping it would be. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for Haresh.

Something inside Giya clenched at the thought, rendering her speechless for a moment. “It smells lovely, dear. But I’ll just have a water with lemon.” Her smile might have been tighter than it needed to be. Still, the novice bartender took the sample glass out from underneath her nose and granted her the peace and quiet she desired. No longer feeling obligated to sniff the new house wine, Giya turned her attention back to her phone. She resented not being able to work with Damiano in person, but she was still considered to be too fragile for anything but the occasional catch up email. She itched to be back at her head boss’s side, and was growing weary of chasing away all the questions she had regarding appropriate mourning procedures. Then again, she had nothing to prove to herself. She mourned the loss of her husband, but knew that he’d want her to carry on as the strong asset she was to the Montagues.

Extras: www.giyasinspo.tumblr.com

1) Giya was able to shed most everything from her life pre-riches, except for the fact that she popped out of her mother’s womb cursing like a sailor. Poise wasn’t exactly the first lesson taught in her household, it was something she realized she had to teach herself. Usually skilled at catching herself in front of other people, she acts properly mortified and apologetic when a curse slips once a blue moon. It’s the one thing about her that hints at her not so pristine upbringing, and she hates it but can’t shake the habit.

2) She’s a Virgo, and has always been very competitive when it came to the odd board game here and there. Still, she doesn’t even like to show that side of her, she keeps her emotions close to her chest.

3) Deciding that her husband was doing enough drinking for the both of them, she only has the odd glass of white wine here and there. Mostly when she’s with Clark, but lately his drinking has been irking her more than usual.

#accepted #accepted: gertrude

5 notes · View notes