#also you didn’t ask the question but here is the answer anyway: no. Martin does NOT return the courtesy and treat Andrés' child like his own

[blorbosexterminator]

I don't know why but this has been bouncing round my head for a few hours and I need answers. Does Rafael exist in the Children of the dust universe??? And if so, does he ever meet the step children his father loves more than him? Please and thank you!

Excellent question. Here is a little bit of history. While I was writing Children, and the first season of season 5 was released, I decided to be democratic and ask readers whether they'd prefer Rafael to exist in that universe or not. Not surprisingly, the unanimous vote was Andrés-core (they didn't want him), so I didn't mention or allude to him in the main verse.

But between us, I always was fond more of the idea that he exists in that universe, mainly just because it makes everything funnier.

There is an old snippet I have somewhere in a forgotten document where Rafael does meet the twins and it's killing him because Rafael's entire worldview is that his father doesn't love him not because of any personal reason but because he's just not a father material, so he sees the twins and all of that tumbles down and his misery is very funny to me.

The bottomline answer is he exists and he doesn't depending on what we want!

(Except that if I do write the sequel and the sequel's sequel I'll have to bring Rafael into existence because I wouldn't want to make any major changes to the heist trajectory itself. Tatiana is Gabriel's piano tutor in that verse btw.)

[avasghost]

foreign birds: update #2

wake up new foreign birds update just dropped

so yeah. 13k in and nothing has gone extremely wrong yet which is good! it's all going pretty good. so here's excerpts for chapter 7-10.

if you missed it, you can find the wip intro here and the first update here. and also the playlist here because i have good music taste.

so ! the story is progressing nicely and the four timelines are working out really well. i finally introduced gabriel (in the college timeline) and he's becoming one of my favourite characters ever (based on the 1 singular scene with him i've written so far, in a chapter i'm going to include in the next update bc i don't want this update to be that long). this book is probably going to be relatively short with the projected word count being 50-60k words, so at this rate i might finish it for camp in april next year? but idk. i'll probably be sad if i finish this book any time soon so i won't be rushing it.

excerpts & taglist below the cut!

CHAPTER 7

in chapter 7, we jump back to the third timeline, which follows martin going to college and the development of his relationship with gabriel, who's already dead in the fictive present.

in this chapter martin leaves his hometown finally and drives for a while and then has dinner in a little diner where he aspires to not be like the people in his hometown.

When I left my hometown for college, I didn’t check its fleeting image in the rear-view, didn’t even feel it slink away around me and disappear into fields and hills. All I felt was the relief of separation, the green unfurling like a new country.

and here's the end of the chapter:

I ate the burger and paid and left. The sky had deepened, and the stars glittered in small clusters above my head. It didn’t feel too different from back home, where Jasmine and I would lie on our trampoline and count them, scanning the sky carefully for all the tiny lights. I kept driving. The roads grew smoother and buildings grew taller and more industrial. Cars crawled like ants, headlights a searing yellow. The traffic lights tossed green and red beams across the highway. The stars disappeared.

CHAPTER 8

in the main timeline (martin back in his hometown after death of gabriel) martin goes to a laundromat and meets rainey for the first time in three years! oh the tension

here he is the night before being sad bc thats just what he does:

I spent two nights in the motel room alone. The telephone on the wall didn’t ring and no ones’ knuckles thrummed on the door. If they did, I probably wouldn’t have answered anyway,sprawled on the paisley duvet cover in a silvery sheen of smoke. I kept my pack of cigarettes under the edge of my pillow, and smoked into the empty hours of the night as the silence outside the window festered and the room grew shadows and slowly faded from sight. I kept the side-lamp on, and sometimes I leaned into the rind of yellow light that ringed the bedside table. As smoke flumed between my teeth I’d shut my eyes and it would become a halo, the circle of light, the only thing that made me visible.

martin sees rainey in the laundromat after not seeing her for like three years, and she leaves and he follows her outside. they talk awkwardly and then rainey asks why he came back. he avoids the question. (she's the "you" pov)

“So are you back for good?” I approached slowly, then leaned against the wall a few feet from you, warmed by the sun baking on the stucco. “Doubt it. I always hated this place.” “Same.” A cloud of smoke. A cough. “This town is a shithole. I never left, though. Got a pretty good gig writing magazine columns. Pretty decent pay. What were you majoring in again?” I didn’t mention her thieving, decided it wasn’t important. “Photography. Not much of a career to come out of that, though.” “Did you drop out?” “It’s complicated.” Gabriel’s face, swimming. Gabriel’s body crumpled on the ground, blocked out. I blocked it out. “Why did you come back here, then?” “That’s also complicated.” “There’s really nothing left here. Most people our age moved away ages ago and now the only people left are people like Greta and a few little kids.”

later, martin is sitting in his motel room watching the news and gabriel shows up as a missing person.

I sat in my motel room that evening and waiting for the News to clip through the frenzy of static that rang in the back of my head even after the static stopped and a woman with a pearl necklace and too-white teeth began speaking, her voice hollowed by the grain of the audio recording. I pressed the back of my head against the wooden headboard and tugged at the button on the sleeve of my shirt. Her words slipped together, words about the forecast, how it was supposed to be partly sunny tomorrow and rain all night. But then, my stomach dropped. Gabriel’s face flashed on screen, Gabriel with his curly black hair and amber skin, Gabriel with his dimples and subtle smile, Gabriel with his gold earring and colourful silk shirt, mostly unbuttoned so you could see his crystal necklace crooked to his chest. I sleeved a grease of sweat from my forehead as the news reporter’s voice rang in my ears, words still hazy but some sticking out like the sting of metal—student's body found off campus, likely an accident, still searching for answers, will be missed, prayers for his family, so sorry for their loss. And then his face was gone. As suddenly as it had appeared, I could no longer picture his features in my head. He was so close and yet already so far gone.

CHAPTER 9

i skipped this chapter for now but it's in the childhood timeline. moving on.

CHAPTER 10

martin goes to the only nightclub nearby where he doesn't expect to recognize anyone.

i wrote basically this entire chapter in my math class in a notebook which is cool. it's been kind of the best time to get writing done lately (but don't worry its only when i'm done my work i'm not failing i swear)

he's a little disorientated because last time he went to a nightclub it was with gabriel. then he sees someone in the crowd, who he recognizes as rita, a girl he went to school with. i've seriously got to stop describing halos all the time but i can't

The woman, Rita Ellis, was a year younger than I was but graduated a year before me. Skittish and friendly, she’d usually nooked herself behind the pages of the mass-market fantasy novels they sold in grocery store lineups and only spoke when spoken to. Tartan skirts and hair in two braids, she usually sat with her parents in front of my family in mass and I used to watch the light scintillating through the stained-glass windows amber through her hair, give her a soft halo that turned her blond head bright yellow. Today she was haloed by the red and blue lights that scattered above her head, and her hair ran long and wavy across her shoulders.

and then, shortly after

Her voice rang above the noise and I stared at the space behind her ear, where a man with black curls and a gold earring laughed at some unheard joke. Gabriel’s face almost replaced his as he turned towards me, then vanished into bright fractures again.

she asks the usual questions about why he's back and he says he missed it. she says she stayed because her mom had cancer and is still here because of her dad.

then she asks him to dance, and they talk for a while and she tells him she missed him a lot. she asks him to come over to her place but he doesn't bc he wishes he was here with gabriel instead but he's dead so. making due ig. then he gets sad about gabriel not being there and leaves suddenly.

“Sorry. I have to go.” “Her smile slunk back into itself and she slid her hands down my arms before pulling them away. “Of course. It was nice seeing you again, Martin.” “And you. I’ll see you around.” I lost sight of her in the crowd as I made my way toward the exit, with its neon sign stamping red letters in my eyes, a lure. Bodies shuffled against me and sour breath ghosted my face and sweat braised my forehead when finally I shouldered open the door and stepped into the husky chill of night.

soon after

Images swirled in my head, images and faces blending together—Rita’s breath, Gabriel’s eyes, your red hair. The lights and the colours that continued to splotch inside my eyelids and quiver across the pavement in front of me, the yellow moon, all the dark-windowed houses and dead shop signs.

he gets back to his motel and decides to look through a stack of photos he has in his suitcase that he took, most of which are of gabriel.

the end:

I shuffled through the deck of polaroids until the clock above the bed read 2:44 and the stack began to repeat itself, Gabriel Gabriel Gabriel, his face reappearing so many times throughout the stack that it began etching itself in my head again, the familiar curls, his bright eyes, his floral scent and long fingers. The lump pitted in my throat began to grow and I decided not to turn on the news, not to scour every headline for his face, like I so wanted to. It wouldn’t do me any good. It wouldn’t bring him back. I shoved the polaroids into the drawer of the side-table next to the Gideon bible with shiny golden letters, and shut the drawer.

and those are all the excerpts i have today! until the next update,

-- ava

taglist (i just have one for everything, ask to be added/removed): @flip-phones @chewingthescenery @ghostsofmemories @dallonwrites @wildswrites @annlillyjose @letsgetsquiggly @strangerays @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @teaandtypewriters @kahaaniyaa @coffeeandcalligraphy @47crayons @writing-is-a-martial-art @pepperdee @oceancold @unorganisedbookshelf @musingsbycaitlin @sunstone-iolite @femmeniism @raywritesstories @rodentwrites @cheerfulmelancholies @these-starrynights

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

This Dark Thing That Sleeps In Me - a Magnus Archives AU, Chapter Five

This is a DARK AU; it is not a kid-fic, though Jon is young. Bittersweet ending ahead.

Spoilers for the whole show, though this is very much an alternate universe.

Something truly new was coming this way—new to Jon, new in a way that frightened him, and he was so unused to being scared that it took the breath right from his lungs.

It approached, this thing, like a storm, like the tide, and everyone else in the room turned and bowed toward the door as if they were puppets on a single string.

AO3

Art by @iiiumihottie

Jon thought the carriage was amazing. He ran his fingertips over the dark red lacquer, stared with wide-eyed wonder at the gilded framework depicting battles and ocean waves and indistinct kings, studied the patterned seat fabric, which was unlike any fabric he’d yet encountered.

Martin kept checking around them. The next wave of Fingers weren’t close yet, so they should be okay.

“So you’re saying the date has to wait,” Mike said.

Martin gave him a look of such exasperation that Jon decided, on the spot, that he liked them both. 

Before Martin could answer, Jon said, “What’s it like being a vampire?”

Martin and Mike both stared at him.

“How… did you know that I am?” said Martin.

Jon blinked. “I mean. Isn’t it obvious?”

“No?” said Martin. He looked at Mike for confirmation.

Mike shrugs. “Not really, no.”

“Oh.” So he’d said a weird thing. The yelling would come next. Jon dropped his gaze.

But Martin didn’t yell. “You can actually see that?” he said, light and chipper and not at all accusing, and Jon risked a single glance up. 

Huh. No yelling seemed to be forthcoming “Yes.”

“What does that look like?”

In Jon’s entire fourteen years, no one had ever asked him that question. “I see red inside of you,” he began at once, leaning forward. “I see it like mist, just beneath your skin, but mostly from the side, not exactly if I look dead on. It’s a little like the purple storms that come sometimes, stealing life the moment they rain, but nobody else can see those, apparently, so I don’t know if you can, or if you know what they look like.”

“Purple,” Martin began, but Jon couldn’t stop now. 

“I look at you, and I can see hunger, and feel hunger, and I can tell it’s for blood, and I’ve read books, and I know there haven’t been vampires like you since the First Iteration, but here you are, and that means you’re either very old or very young, because the Will of the End decided the new vampires were no good and got rid of them, though I certainly don’t know why, so either you somehow survived that ‘cleansing,’ or somebody made you new, and that’s just baffling because why would the Will of the End have left you alive so long, anyway? And also, what is it like to drink blood?”

Mike started laughing. 

What was with this kid? “You see all that, do you?” said Martin.

“Yes,” said Jon, half hyper, half terrified. Any moment now, he’d be told to shut up. “So what’s it like?”

“Hungry,” said Martin, answering softly. “All the time. It means very patient friends who… help.”

“They let you have their blood,” Jon said.

“I want it to stay personal so it doesn't turn... wrong,” said Martin quietly, and redirected, tilting his head toward Mike. “What do you see when you look at him?”

“Whoa, now,” said Mike.

“You laugh, you’re part of the show,” Martin said primly.

Mike stuck his tongue out at him.

Jon looked. Jon shivered. “Tall jagged mountains, dark brown and spattered with white. I don’t know where they are,” he whispered. “Cold and sharp like knives. So far away you can’t make out the details. I think they’re enormous. The wind is so loud that it feels like your ears are bleeding.”

They all stared at one another.

“Eye?” suggested Mike again.

“Then why can’t we see him clearly?” said Martin.

“I’m not Aligned,” said Jon. “It never happened.”

“That really isn’t possible,” said Martin.

Mike nodded. “Looking right at you, I can see you… sort of. But if I turn my head away, I don’t—and I almost forget you’re there. It’s weird.”

“I think that's why nobody came,” said Jon. “When I turned ten.”

Martin sighed. “Maybe we’ll find out.”

“Bet your friend Sasha could make out a thing or two,” said Mike.

“You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Who’s Sasha?”

“Works for the Heart of the End with me. She’s a natural philosopher.”

Ooh! One of those people who did experiments and discovered things. “So what does she do? Test things with fire and acid and such? Hey—is the Will of the End separate from the Heart? The books sometimes speculated Jonah Magnus was both.”

“Where did you read that? No, they’re two people,” said Martin. “Oliver Banks is the Will of the End.”

“How does that work?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there when it was all set up.” Martin checked out the window again, visibly nervous.

“Should… should we just let them get me?” said Jon. “The empty things were coming for me, after all.”

“The Fingers?” said Mike.

“Yes. Hey, why are they called Fingers? They have full bodies.”

“Because… well, I suppose because they reach out and grab whatever the Will of the End wants,” said Martin.

“Oh,” said Jon. “That’s more boring than I’d hoped.”

“What did you hope?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jon. “Maybe they all came together like clay and made a huge, single hand. That’d be pretty frightening, right?” he said, demonstrating with his hands an approximation of clay being mushed together.

“I like this kid,” said Mike, and Jon reddened.

The carriage angled suddenly, front end tilting so Jon was pressed back into his seat. He gasped. “Are we falling?”

“Oh—no, we’re on the path,” said Martin.

Jon stared at him. “What’s that?”

“Ever made it to the far end of London?”

“No, I… it felt like I shouldn’t.” His past self had said to stay away from this side of the city, so he had.

Martin wrestled with the window, which opened with a squeak. “Take a look.”

Jon carefully stuck his head through. At first glance, they seemed to be floating. All around them was a precipitous drop, terrible all the way down to white, foaming ocean. Jon, of course, leaned right out the window to see more.

Martin grabbed the back of his jacket, discovered its structural integrity was suspect, and held his arm instead.

Jon gave him a panicked look.

“Just so you can look without falling,” Martin says. “It’s all right. Go on.”

Permission to see?

Permission to see! Jon never got permission to see. He leaned back out the window.

The cab (and dead horse) trotted along a gently curving path that rose from the ocean like a wall, and it was so narrow that the wheels skirted right along the edge. There was no room for error; there was no room for another carriage. Fascinated, Jon looked back at London.

He had never imagined anything like it. Books did a fair job of describing things, but they were nothing like sight. London sprawled. It smoked like one big chimney. People like ants crawled all over its streets, and carriages of various sizes and wealth reflected sunlight like knives. It was gloriously ugly; uneven, asymmetrical, an absolute mess of housing and occasional manors.

And Jon realized with a shock that he could not tell where his home had been.

He had no reference point. There were many alleys, many row houses like he’d seen from his windows, many old, out-of-date buildings looming between the newer builds. The place he’d grown up was… lost to him. He hadn’t liked it, but still. This was a very, very weird feeling.

(And a familiar one. You can never go home again came to him from his past self, which he didn’t understand, but felt hollow and powerful and true.)

Martin tapped his shoulder. “Look the other way,” he said.

So. That might have been the reason his gut said to stay away, because once he'd got an eyeful of this place, he wouldn’t have been able to. 

This palace—fortress?—seemed to rise from rock thrust up from the sea, and it was a strange, black stone laced with purple chunks and purple branches, castellated and columned. Its edges matched the edges of the foundational rock on which it sat, and so its shape was odd; it had so many windows (and so many floors) that Jon was overwhelmed, forgetting how to count, and had to crane his neck to look up, up, up at the tallest, narrow tower, which rose so high in the air that its top seemed to narrow to a point.

“It’s something, right?” said Martin.

Jon didn’t want to come back into the carriage, but if he didn’t, he couldn’t ask questions. He compromised by pulling partway in before speaking. “It seems… large?”

Mike snorted.

“It is,” said Martin.

“Why is it so large?”

“The Heart of the End likes fancy things,” said Martin.

Well, it seemed fancy. “When was it built? How?”

“That’s before my time, I’m afraid,” said Martin.

“So you’re a young vampire,” said Jon.

Martin smiled. “I’m not that young—been doing this for over a century. Not entirely sure how long—lost a couple of years there, after my change.” 

“It’s called the transformation, ” Jon informed him primly. 

Mike snorted again.

“Be nice,” said Martin said to him. “I’m the only vampire right now, and the Heart called it the change.”

Jon looked betrayed. “He changed the name?”

Don’t laugh, Martin told himself. “He did.”

“I don’t like it when they change the names of things,” said Jon, his voice cracking. “Then nobody knows anything.”

“Probably half the reason he does it,” Martin muttered.

“Don’t need to know anything, though, do you?” says Mike. “It doesn’t really matter.”

And fuck, did the carriage get cold, and huge, though nothing had changed, and no one had moved, but suddenly they were so far away from each other that they could not see one another’s faces. Martin gasped. The irrelevance hit him in the chest, like it always did. They’d fucked like this, a couple of times, and it had its pros—all about pure sensation, no sense of self—but he didn’t honestly enjoy forgetting who he was or why it mattered.

It didn’t affect Jon that way. It didn’t affect Jon at all. “But it does matter!” Jon shouted, not angrily, but just because everyone was far.

“Mike, please!” Martin gasped, his voice sounding distant and tinny and tinny.

Jon looked around. “This is so weird!” he shouted, then winced at his own volume.

Mike frowned, and suddenly the carriage was normal. “He’s Eye,” he said. “Can’t mark him for the Vast.”

“He’s not marked by the Eye, either, according to Annabelle.” Martin was shivering. “Warn a guy, would you?”

“Sorry. But he should’ve been marked.”

“By all means, take it up with the disembodied eyeball.” Martin said, and rubbed his face as the carriage finally came to a halt. “Thank the grave, we’re here,” he muttered, hopped out, and held the door for Jon. 

Jon looked fine. He hopped down, nearly lost his footing, and leaned into Martin’s grab. 

This boy was skin and bone. “When did you last eat something?” said Martin.

“Yesterday,” said Jon. “I’m not hungry right now.”

Martin sighed. “Sure. Come on. It’s time to meet my natural philosopher friend.”

“Sasha.”

“That’s right.”

Mike followed.

“You sure?” said Martin to him, over his shoulder.

“Just because they don’t ring your bell like I do,” said Mike, left it at that, and followed.

#

Jon tried to see everything as they went inside; to note the pillars and archways, to wonder at the windows so high nothing could see through them, to ponder at the dark shadows left and right. So many doors, so many pathways. The floor hid some kind of shiny pattern in polished, dark stone; his boots, still soaked from his dunk in the sea, slipped on it more than a little. But then they turned away from this main, broad foyer, and through one of the arched and pointed doors.

It was a hall. Lined with more doors, and only a stone flag floor instead of shiny patterned black. This was a far less intimidating area.

Still. The weight of this enormous structure seemed to press down on him, and Jon hunched. “I’m sorry, I’m making a mess,” he said.

“It’s okay. Someone will clean it up. Come on.” Martin sounded like he meant it.

“Hey,” Jon said. “Are you nice because you’re a vampire?”

Martin blinked at him, pausing with his hand on yet another door. “What?”

“You’re nicer than anyone I’ve met,” said Jon. “The only factor not shared by others is that you’re a vampire. So. Does that make you nice?”

“Uh… I think being nice makes you nice?” said Martin, who had absolutely no idea where to go with this.

Jon looked dissatisfied. “That’s like saying fire burns because it’s hot.”

Martin took another turn. “All right, well,” he said. “I think being kind—which is more important than nice—is a choice.”

“Why is it more important?”

What was with this kid? “Nice is fake. It’s being polite when you don’t actually mean it, and not bothering when it costs you anything. Being kind is better. It means you don’t get anything out of it, and you’re choosing to do the right thing to others whether or not it hurts you.”

Jon suddenly felt off. “Is being kind to me hurting you?”

“What? No, no, it… I mean, it doesn’t always hurt.”

“Oh.” But something did. Jon knew. Martin’s kindness to him was dangerous to Martin, or… or…

He couldn’t hold onto that answer, and it was gone. He sighed.

“You’ve really never met anybody who’s just even nice to you?” said Martin.

“No.” Jon was quiet. 

Martin took that in. “I’m sorry. People should’ve been,” he said, and opened another door.

It was a dark room, very dark, with a single table under bright white light and two silhouettes of people.

“Marto!” said a man. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“I have a conundrum,” said Martin.

“And so you bring your problems to me, as always,” said a woman with cheer, and stepped out of the gloom. She was pretty; her kinky hair was thick and pulled back in a bun. She was dressed in an odd white uniform, a long coat with too many buttons to be decorative, and on her head was some kind of bizarre contraption of brass and glass and limbs to move the lenses around. “Ugh. You could’ve just said it was him.”

“Yo,” said Mike over Martin’s shoulder.

“What? No, it’s this kid,” said Martin.

Both people startled.

“What… what the fuck is that?” said the man, coming forward into the light. 

Jon knew him. Knew Sasha, too. He was beginning to get a feeling about all of this regarding his past self. 

This man wore a positively indecent white shirt that didn’t even have buttons and just closed in a vee under the red sash around his waist. His black pants were so tight that Jon could see far too much; his earrings sparkled (and didn’t match, but that was somehow better). His lips had to be artificially pink, and so did the blue shading around his brown eyes; dark hair, tanned skin, and a grin that made Jon want to grin back all felt like something he knew like the back of his hand, though he had definitely never met this man before. 

“This is Jon. So it’s hard to see him,” said Martin.

“Yeah, can see that. Why?” said the man.

“I can’t tell what I’m…” said the woman, who had to be Sasha, and bent down a little to make eye-contact. “You’re alive, right?”

“I think so,” said Jon. “If not, I’m annoyed that I still get hungry and need sleep.”

“A valid point.” She smiled. “I’m Sasha.”

“I know. Martin told me.”

“Did he, now?” she said, glancing over his head at Martin.

The man (Jon almost had his name) leaned in, peering. “What happened to you? You look like a wet cat.”

Martin sighed. “Kind of a lot? I had to fight Fingers.”

“Oh, nasty,” said the man with relish.

Sasha frowned, eyeing Jon’s clothes with clinical precision. “Underfed,” she said, leaning in. Her eye through that single goggle was enormous. “And you are Uncertain. I don’t know how, but you are.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m fourteen, Ms. James.”

“Tim, can you get some clothes for them both?” said Sasha. “Jon, you can use my chemical burn shower. Martin, use the one in my room. You both need it fairly badly.”

“Sorry,” said Martin.

“Can I watch?” said Mike.

“Not helping,” Martin muttered at him.

Tim grinned and opened his mouth to say something, and then he froze.

They all froze.

Something truly new was coming this way—new to Jon, new in a way that frightened him, and he was so unused to being scared that it took the breath right from his lungs.

It approached, this thing, like a storm, like the tide, and everyone else in the room turned and bowed toward the door as if they were puppets on a single string.

Jon panicked. Should he hide? What should he do?

Steady, said that self, that past, that source of Answers, telling him to brace, to be still, to be smart.

Jon tried to calm his mind, but couldn’t help holding his breath.

chapter six

[esther-dot]

RE: jon's legitimacy in regards to the IT vs the books and the show. While him being a legitimate son would certainly give him more legitimacy, doesn't Westerosi law of succession indicate that Jon would still have a stronger claim over Dany due to him being Rhaegar's son? My knee jerk reaction is that he would, because at the end of the day, he's Rhaegar's son. And in the show, he's Rhaegar's only living son.

And this doesn't even factor Aegon. When Aegon is put into the equation, I can easily see that George might never give us an answer to the question of "is this really Aegon?" Because when you think about it, the real issue is if the people of Westeros and of KL will believe that Aegon is Elia and Rhaegar's son or not. (Answer: they will). But since the power will be in the hands of the people, I can see George hiding the truth. Because then he'll be able to show us that if the people believe that Aegon is Elia and Rhaegar's son and Aegon proves that he'll be a good ruler, then does the truth really matter?

And that's a good question when you think about it.

At this point, I regard book!Jon (canon Jon), and show!Jon as two different characters. And in all honesty, show!Jon (and show!Jon only), was not a good king during his very short tenure as KITN. He used it as a means to an end to "fight the dead" (/insert eyeroll here).

I'll be more inclined to believe that show!Jon is a good ruler if Kit pushes through a very belated showing of Jon actually governing at the Wall during the course of the show. Aka, a belated arc of Jon doing the politicking he does in ADWD.

(in reference to this ask)

I love that point about what the people believe! I’ve talked before about the importance of what other characters (not our POVs) think in relation to what’s gonna happen with the Northern succession crisis, that people may support Jon's claim (via Robb's Will) because Sansa is married to a Lannister, whereas others may be more concerned about Jon because of his reputation. Regardless of what a certain POV thinks is true or wants, Martin will write other characters having opinions and that will impact what is/isn’t done. I think we all kinda agree that’s what is gonna happen with Dany and Aegon, the people accept him, Dany decides he isn’t who he says and fights him which means they will have a certain perception of her. I really admire Martin’s attempts to allow so many characters agency, not make them behave in a convenient way for a main character.

As for Show Jon being a good king or not, his writing was so contradictory it’s hard to discuss! I’ve felt that D&D (and now, Kit) believe they gave us a story that isn’t at all what we saw?As in, I kinda get why Kit says Jon would have been a good king because that’s what D&D wanted the takeaway to be, but they’re ignoring half of what they gave us to do so. D&D presented a story in which Jon made poor decisions, and then just ignored it while attempting to vilify Sansa for ultimately being right at every turn. It was as if in their minds, it was more admirable that Jon showed loyalty to a person who didn’t deserve it, than Sansa seeing the signs and not getting suckered in the first place. (I just deleted a paragraph of ranting...moving on!!!). Anyway, the reason I say I understand Kit’s assertion is that I’m sure he is focusing on show Jon doing certain things no one else was willing to do. a) saw the greater threat and urged people to put aside grievances to address it b) prioritized that/ saving lives over everything even his own crown c) made allies/friends of enemies to form a force and save the realm

To me, these are things that Martin values in addition to all the practicalities of governance. I thought Jon bringing the FF South was clearly the right thing to do. We also can understand why the Watch was furious, but still, Jon’s ability to see the humanity in the vilified and the practicality of his choice are things I admire. In s8 we’re clearly meant to see that in giving up his crown to save his people and the rest of Westeros, Jon did what was right, and I am sure that the willingness to sacrifice his own power (when so many others were seeking crowns), is what Kit looks at when he says Jon was a good king. Of course, that reading means we have to have amnesia about s7 which made it seem like giving up his crown wasn’t about saving his people but being a fool in love. So we kinda have two contradictory stories, but I’m guessing Kit is following D&D’s lead here.

His experience as king echoes what happened to him as lord commander, where he took unprecedented action because he saw the bigger picture but lost the confidence of his people, so while we hope book Jon has grown wiser and creates allies without alienating his people, that he is able to this time get people to rethink their stances in order to serve the greater good willingly, you can look at Jon s7-8 in a far more favorable way than most of us do. Knowing how critical Martin is of war and the Targ habit of making everything burn as a result of their self-absorption….I certainly think there are Martin ideas here that just got totally fucked by D&D. Because that’s the big problem here. As much as we gripe about everything in s7-8, it was Jon who had it the worst in those seasons. Kit has to know Jon was destroyed for the sake of Dany’s story, so I would imagine he’d have a lot of pro Jon sentiment to offset that bs. I keep wondering how they’ll address the incongruities in his story, if Kit is even aware of Jon’s failures or if perhaps, because of the horrible writing, his sequel will operate with a parenthetical that Jon didn’t quite make sense in s7-8, so let’s ignore that weirdness and focus on who Jon is at his core. 🤷🏻‍♀️ His comments about preferring earlier seasons is a hopeful sign for seeing him including more character-driven things in the sequel/having Jon do some of the essential but boring things good leaders do. I wonder if HBO would allow that tho, or if they’d insist on spectacle.

As for the bastard issue, I thought unless someone legitimized a bastard, there was no inheriting, and going ahead and legitimizing too many kids caused a lot of problems for the Targs! In ASOS, Cat and Robb argue because she was suggesting a distant relative be listed next in line to inherit Winterfell when they realize they need an additional heir, and it’s only Robb’s decision as a king that would place Jon in the line of succession. But I’ll tag @eonweheraldodemanwe who is by far more knowledgeable than me about these things, if you want to send asks his way.

[katealot]

TMA/ Check Please AU

Martin is a lacrosse boy who is best friends with two theatre kids:

Sasha because she’s the sports team manager who frequently stage manages

And Tim because he’s one of Sasha’s theatre friends, (and is a little in love with her)

John is also a lacrosse jock, but no one outside of their team would be able to tell because “isn’t that the wicked smart dude in my physics 2 class? He plays fucking lacrosse?”

John is kind of a loner because he doesn’t really connect with people. Everyone either thinks he’s too intimidating or too mean to genuinely form a bond with, which makes everyone else avoid him, which makes him incredibly lonely.

(So I’m basing this off occudo’s halloween party comic, if that wasn’t evident. If you haven’t gotten a chance to look at it, please do)

So one day Martin is eating lunch with Sasha and Tim and sees John over at a table by himself and is just so smitten by how unaffected John seems with his solitude.

He mentions this to Sasha and immediately her red flags goes up.

She’s like 1) a member of MY team possibly suffering isolation based anxiety? not on my watch. and 2) a member of MY team IDOLIZING that loneliness??? Not On MY Watch.

So the next day she goes and sits across from John, and Martin and Tim just kinda cluelessly follow her.

And before John knows it, his incredibly good defender teammate, his sports manager, and some random kid are sitting with him at lunch every day and laughing with each other and asking him questions like he’s a part of their group.

And then he just… miraculously finds himself hanging out with them more and more often. He’s going to parties, for Christ sake. Small parties, but parties nonetheless.

One unsuspecting night, Martin and John are walking back to the lax hause from a men’s hockey team party, and Martin is just casually askingJohn kind of unintentionally vulnerable and tender questions, and John is just… casually answering them:

“Why didn’t you used to come to these kinds of parties? It’s mostly people from the team anyway.”

“Oh, well… I guess I just… never felt like I was invited, you know?”

“But of course you where invited. You’re our mate, after all. And we like hanging out with you.”

“Heh,” John laughs weakly and shifts uncomfortably, “you don’t have to say that, it’s okay.”

Martin stops walking.

“I’m not lying. We like you, John. We want you here,” he pauses, and then, “Who made you feel like you aren’t worth being around?”

…

The next week or two is weird. John had ended up weirdly breaking down in front of Martin, and Martin had weirdly been very gentle and understanding about it. And they are since both convinced the other secretly thinks they’re a freak for how they behaved.

Meanwhile Sasha has been DYING for two weeks, listening to both boys lament about how they ruined the friendship between them, and the other probably secretly thinks they’re a freak for how they behaved. And Sash wants desperately to share the burden of Knowing that these two clearly care about each other with someone else (read: Tim), but Tim simply does not care enough about lacrosse boy drama to notice there is any.

Then ONE night,

They’re all at another party and mingling around when John, who is too drunk to remember they are supposed to be avoiding each other, bumps into Martin and is like “!!! It’s you!! Gosh it’s good to see a friendly face. You look nice, by the way, tonight. Forgot to mention that earlier.”

That’s the night John kisses Martin. And the night where Martin makes sure John gets home safe.

It’s the night John asked Martin to stay, just a little longer, with him, in his bed that night.

And the night before John woke up snuggled in Martin’s arms and finally had the sense to say, “… So that wasn’t all just a dream, then.”

They go on an ACTUAL first date after that, to the brunch place everyone’s always talking about.

John learns Martin likes french toast more than waffles. Martin laughs over how earnestly John believes coffee is better than tea. They both finally feel like they can actually relax.

[lewis-winters]

Hi but I actually really want your detailed character analysis for each guy in the Craver interrogation scene 👀

Oh anon, the monster you have unleashed.

Ok so like. This is only one of many of my (often contradicting, bc if I am anything I am a flip-flopping bitch #taurus-gemini cusp) readings of this scene. But it certainly is the most interesting:

Ok, so let's start with the three boys outside of the beating room. Namely, Floyd Talbert, Ron Speirs, and George Luz.

There is only one agitated fella in this frame, and it's not George Luz. George is very secure in himself here-- there's tension lining him and making him stiff and his attempts at humor fall flat, but the fact that he is making attempts at all is a sign that he knows who he is in this moment and he knows what he is being called to do. And that's to distract Tab.

Tab, on the other hand, is struggling with two sides of him. One is the vindictive side that wants to be in the room with the other guys. But that side is largely trumped by his very rational, very Company 1st Sergeant side. He isn't agitated because he wants to join in. He's agitated because he knows he should stop them, and he's right. He should. Though the beating is "justified", the Military Police will most likely not think so. He's 1st Sergeant, he's in charge of most, if not all of the men in there. If the MPs investigate this incident, he will have to be the one to answer for them. And also I just think he doesn't want to see anybody get into trouble. Except he can't go in there and stop them because they have a point, or at least, they think they do. Craver hurt one of their own, and now there is no reasoning with them. Look at who's inside: Bull and Martin and Malarkey. NCOs, just like Tab. None of them outrank him, but they are still leaders in their own right. And if Tab were to go in there and stop them, they'd chew him out for it.

Tab is waiting for someone like Ron to come in and stop it. Because Tab knows he himself can't.

Except. Except. Except.

Ron doesn't stop it. Ron, in fact, enables it.

And this is where we also see Tab start to lose respect for Speirs.

IRL, Winters said that Tab resigned as 1st Sergeant because he kept comparing Speirs' leadership to Winters' leadership, and though the show itself doesn't actually make that the official reason for Tab's resignation in the next scene ("I miss being back amongst the men"), there are traces of it in this scene.

When Ron enters the room, the first thing Tab asks him is "How's Grant? Is he dead?" Speirs bypasses that question entirely for the sake of joining in on the beating, gun drawn.

From Tab's point of view, that means Ron has every intention to kill Craver.

And, of course, if we apply what we know from what IRL Winters told us, that means Tab is also thinking, in that moment; "No, Dick would never do this. Dick would never let it get this far."

And you can actually see that moment of clarity + subsequent disappointment (as well as relief at finding out Grant will live and disbelief that this just fucking happened) on his face here:

Furthermore, this is also the moment Tab (and, by extension, every body else in the room) finds out that Grant is going to make it after Ron tells them.

So not only is Tab thinking; "Dick would never do this. Dick would never let it get this far," he is also thinking "Why the fuck didn't he tell us that in the first place?! If Dick had been handling the situation, we would have gotten the news immediately! He wouldn't have allowed something as risky as this happen!"

And he's right.

But in fairness to Ron, this is probably the first time any of Easy has seen him lose his cool.

Because Ron is actually losing his cool here. This is his "it's my dog!" moment. He let the anger get to him, and therefore he made a terrible miscalculation.

I've already talked about this in this Grant/Speirs ask, but let me reiterate it here:

We (and Easy Company) are very used to thinking that Ron acts without compassion, mercy, or remorse, therefore when we first view this scene, we think that what is out of character for him is not shooting the replacement. We (and Easy, but especially Tab) are wrong. That is probably the most in character thing about Ron in this scene. What is truly out of character for him here is him drawing out the gun with the intention of shooting this motherfucker in the face.

See, one of the reasons why we think he doesn’t act with compassion, mercy, or remorse is because in the first half of the series, we don’t see him outside of the glimpses Easy company gets or the stories they exchange. But after episode 7, he’s suddenly with us all the time, and we see that his advice to Blithe was more of a… miscommunication, in a way.

Act with no compassion, no mercy, and no remorse toward the people you want to protect your men from. But this is where this scene gets complicated. At first glance, we think "ah, yes, he's protecting his men from this replacement."

Except-- there is literally 1 replacement vs. at least 1 squad of men (roughly 9 to 11 men). Why the fuck does a squad of soldiers (veterans too!) need protection against 1 replacement who has not had the same training and combat experience as them? They don't need protection here, they can handle themselves.

Oh, and another thing that adds to this predicament: Ron knows that Chuck is going to live.

Out of everyone in that room, Ron is the only one who knows that Chuck is actually going to live. So his internal struggle isn’t so much “oh I should act with no compassion, mercy, or remorse– but easy company has ~changed~ me.” In my opinion, his internal struggle in this moment, the reason why his hand trembles as he's preparing to shoot Craver, is this: “If I shoot him, I'm not protecting my men. I'm taking revenge.”

Which isn’t in his moral code.

Ron acts with no compassion, no mercy, and no remorse, yes, but there’s a certain level-headedness to him that keeps him in line at all times: only against those he's protecting his men from. Sure, he’s prone to bouts of petty anger sometimes (see in the next scene: More and his photo album), but he never lets that get in the way of his judgement (see: More didn’t back down, but neither did he do so in a disrespectful way and Ron recognized that, therefore he conceded his own defeat and didn’t punish More). He does what is necessary in the moment and never takes it beyond that.

But Chuck’s shooting drives him to the point of wanting to take revenge. He enters that room, gun drawn, with all the intention of shooting this motherfucker in the face. He knows it's a bad move. But he does it anyway. And him entering the room with his gun drawn enables everybody else. We, as an audience, have to remember that what they are doing is illegal and is very, very punishable by military law. Also: beating someone up like this, no matter how fucking vile, isn't the right thing to do, either. But sure, the MPs might be gracious enough (or if a certain Nixon is generous enough to tip them to look the other way), to let them probably get away with it on account of saying that the replacement tried to fight them and they simply fought back (yes, that does sound like rhetoric used to excuse police brutality; isn't that what this is in a way?). But if Ron pulled the trigger? If Ron had actually killed him? That would have been fucking bad.

It's not a Captain's job to enable his soldiers to do something illegal that'll most likely get them court martialled and/or killed. It's a Captain's job to protect his men. From their opponents, as well as from themselves.

In this moment, Ron is not doing that.

I know we like to get all vindictive and be all like "yeah that's what he deserves, this is justice!" but this isn't justice. This is revenge. And, again, revenge is not part of Ron's moral code. If only because revenge, more often than not, gets people killed instead of keeping them protected. If he shoots Craver, that will not only implicate him. It will implicate everyone else in the room.

He realizes it here:

Ron only comes to his senses when he already has the gun trained on Craver's face. Portrayed beautifully by Settle, might I add.

... This is a reach on my part, but I think his next movement is very powerful-- idk if it was written into the script or if this is just something Settle decided to do, but after he wipes the blood off and he turns away, Ron then takes his hat off. Which to me invokes in me the image of a king taking off his crown, or an executioner taking off his hood. It's almost as if he's relinquishing his authority in this moment-- not over Easy (since he does give them an order literally seconds after he takes it off), but over the right to be judge, jury, and executioner.

He recognizes that he did a whoopsie.

You know who I think also recognizes it?

George fucking Luz.

Look at his face. Look at his fucking expression here:

This is the face of a man who knows the what ifs and the could haves. He's put two and two together and he's pissed.

That's why I think another layer of him staying outside isn't just to comfort Tab. It was self-preservation. He still had his wits around him at this time-- arguably he and Tab are the only ones thinking straight in this moment; it's no coincidence that it looks like he's looking at Tab here-- and a part of him believed that Ron would, too. Except, he didn't. That's why he's angry. Ron came up short.

Or idk, I could be projecting, I mean I would be pretty pissed off in his position. Pissed at Craver, but also pissed at Speirs-- if my Captain, my leader, the guy I trusted decided to do something reckless like that and put all the lives of my fellow soldiers on the line simply because he wanted revenge or simply because he wanted to scare people and therefore get a grip over the situation, I would be angry, too. Remember, Speirs has a layer of protection, somewhat. Probably wealthy family, some wealth squirreled away. Not to mention he's a commissioned officer less likely to be used as a scapegoat. These men, everyone in that room, are enlisted working class men. Most likely, they don't get the luxury of a scapegoat or a tip off or bail. Had Speirs gone through with it, they'd have a body on their hands. And if the family of this replacement pushed, the MPs will no doubt pick someone in this room and pin it on them. Or hell, they'll take everyone, punish all of them, and then execute several. They were just lucky this replacement didn't actually have anybody on his side.

This was dangerous. But Ron let it happen. He didn't protect them like he promised he would. And to some degree, George and Tab know that.

Although, I can argue, everybody in this room realizes that. Except, they realize it too late.

They realize it the second Ron pulls the gun.

I've said it before, in this ask right here, that Liebgott flinches in this scene. Which is funny, considering when Ron enters the room, he's the one who's most in Craver's face. Him and Babe. Which is understandable, considering the three of them were close, as can be gleaned from the Last Patrol. Of course Lieb and Babe would get dibs on Carver's face. Of course they're the ones who get to bloody them up good. Carver shot their best friend-- of course they're angry. Liebgott especially-- I feel like this is the episode where he lets all his anger out. For ep 1 - 9, he's fine. He's funny and jovial-- a little irritable, especially in the Last Patrol, but only at Web, really. And not even by that much. What he mostly is, is tired. And that's it.

But this is after Landsberg and after the mountain top, too. He's angry and he has no outlet. So of course he's the one getting the most hits on Craver. And when Speirs enters the picture, he's delighted in some way. But it doesn't last.

At first he's watching Speirs (as beautifully depicted in this gif set), he is the only one watching Speirs. Then, Craver is pistol whipped and held at gun point and what does Joe do?

He flinches. Babe also flinches. And then they, and the rest of the room, look away. They all look away. From Bull to Babe to Johnny to even Pat and Popeye. Frank physically steps back. Malarkey literally closes his eyes. The only one looking is More. It's almost like the weight of what they have done has finally sunk in for all of them.

But, it's not enough to spur them to stop Speirs. In fact, except for Malarkey, they turn back to look.

Because, like Speirs, the need for revenge is pulling them toward this need to see this replacement die. But unlike Speirs, they don't know if Chuck is alive or not.

And that's where it gets Yikes. And in a way, maybe Tab is right. If Dick had been in Ron's position, 1) this replacement would have been given to the MPs immediately, and; 2) Grant's safety and the news of Grant's safety would have been the top priority. And though that would have not quelled their anger, they would have at least been comforted by the knowledge that Grant was going to live.

Listen, Ron abides by the same code of honor Dick and all the other officers abide by, and he has held up that same code of honor many times. In different ways and through different methods, yes, but always with the same goal in mind: protect. Always protect.

But not here.

Ron did not give them the comfort of knowing Grant's status and he put them in a dangerous situation. He did not think of them first. No doubt spurred on by his own trauma and his own simmering anger and lack of a proper outlet, a proper enemy to take it out on, he was blinded by his rage and simply thought of himself and his revenge. Not his men.

Ron slipped up. They're just lucky he caught himself before it got any worse.

[bluejayblueskies]

can i be gentle?

Words: 7.1k

Relationships: Jon & Tim, Tim & Martin

Tags: Canon Divergence, Tim Lives, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Post-Unknowing, Injury Recovery

Warnings: suicidal thoughts/ideations, blood, injury, hospitals and hospitalization, survivor's guilt, body horror, minor gore, gun and knife violence, mentions of death, mentions of canon-typical worms, implied child abuse, meat, alcohol, swearing, crying, smoking

Ao3 link in source

.

Tim aches. It’s full-body, radiating through his arms and back and legs, and he wishes more than anything that he could go to sleep, to chase away the pain for at least a little while. It feels like he’s been hit by a bus.

 Or been on the receiving end of several kilos of C4 igniting all at once. But that metaphor’s a bit too on-the-nose, in his opinion.

 He should be dead. He should be dead. 

 (Does he wish he were dead? He hadn’t cared, in those few moments of clarity before he pushed the button on the detonator and the colors solidified into black nothingness, whether or not he would wake up when the smoke cleared. It’s hard to tell. He’d attached so much of himself to revenge, before, when it was easier than feeling everything else bubbling up underneath, and now that it’s been ripped away from him, he doesn’t know what emotion should be filling the gap. Probably relief.

 He doesn’t feel relieved.)

 The nurse is speaking to him. Her lips are moving, but he can’t hear her. His ears ring and ring and ring, and it sounds like spirling, mocking laughter.

 They do some tests. Blast-induced hearing loss, the pamphlet they give him proclaims. Prognosis is good. Most patients recover in 6 weeks. Hearing aids can help with high frequencies.

 His ears ring and ring and ring, and he’s alive.

 He’s alive.

 Jon is not.

 .

.

.

 “It’s because of him, you know.”

 Martin startles badly at Tim’s voice. Tim wonders if it had been too loud; the ringing in his ears is incessant, and every word spoken sounds as if it’s coming from a very, very far distance. He moves a bit further into the room that they’ve placed Jon in, his hands shaking where they grip the wheels of the wheelchair they’d given him. Hard to walk when your leg is shattered. And some ribs as well. 

 Martin says something, Tim thinks, as he’s turning. His eyes are wide and rimmed with red, and he’s looking at Tim expectantly. Tim sighs, then winces as the motion sends tendrils of pain through his ribcage. “I can’t hear you, Martin. Either speak up—way, way up—or just… move your lips more or something. I don’t care.”

 “What?” Martin enunciates, and it’s so ridiculous, Tim wants to cry.

 He answers anyway.

 “Me. Being here. I’m alive because… because of him.”

 It was stupid, thinking he could protect Tim from an entire building collapsing on top of them. But his hand had gripped Tim’s wrist and he’d pulled him to the floor and he’d covered Tim’s body with his own, so when the shock wave had hit, Jon had gotten the worst of it.

 Tim refuses to feel guilty about it. He does anyway. Because they’d argued, and Jon had stalked him, and Tim had cultivated his anger and fear into a simmering ember deep in his chest, but at the end of the day, Tim wasn’t supposed to survive.

 Jon was.

 Tim swallows, hating the bitter taste in his mouth, and says, “Do you… do you think he’s going to wake up?”

 Martin says something, too softly for Tim to hear. His mouth twists into something small and pained, and he looks at the floor.

 It’s answer enough.

 Tim doesn’t ask again. 

 .

.

.

 They arrest Elias a few hours later, after Martin’s collected himself enough to bring his plan to completion. Tim’s only regret is that he isn’t able to see the look on Elias’s face as he’s dragged away.

 Knowing Tim’s luck, he’d probably have just looked smug.

 The name Peter Lukas crosses Martin’s lips, spelled out in exaggerated motions when he visits Tim again. Tim thinks, absurdly, of the hydra. Cut off one head, two grow back.

 Lukas probably won’t be better. Knowing their luck, he’ll be much worse. But Tim thinks of the way Melanie had shaken after she’d come out of Elias’s office, of the haunted look in Martin’s eyes when Tim had asked how his plan went, and can’t find it within himself to care.

 .

.

.

 They release him from the hospital with a hefty prescription of pain meds, small plastic hearing aids tucked in each ear, and a thick folder of discharge papers. Martin’s there when they do; the bags under his eyes are dark and smudged, and he nods mechanically as the nurses talk to him, outlining Tim’s care regime for the next few weeks. His eyes keep flicking to the side, to the corridor that leads to the long-term care section of the hospital. Wordlessly, Tim reaches over and takes Martin’s hand in his, giving it a single squeeze before holding it tightly.

 Martin lets out a breath through his nose and squeezes back.

 “Do you want me to, er. To take you back to yours?” Martin asks once they’re out, his voice on the softer side of muffled and overlaid with that constant ringing but audible enough now that he doesn’t have to shout. 

 Tim feels something almost like embarrassment curling in his stomach. “I, uh. I don’t have a place anymore.” Tim drums his fingers on his thighs, looks at the ground, and says, “I canceled my lease. About a week before we left for Great Yarmouth.”

 There’s silence between them—or at least, as close to silence as Tim can get right now. Tim thinks Martin says something, a word or two brushing up against the edges of what the hearing aids allow him to hear, but he can’t grasp any of it. So, Tim looks up at Martin, at the pinched, pained expression on his face, and says, “Don’t pretend like you didn’t know.”

 “Know what?” Martin says bitterly. “That you never expected to come back? Yeah, I got that part. I even got why, you know? Doesn’t make it better, though. I didn’t want to lose you, Tim.” Martin pauses, then says, so quietly Tim can barely hear it, “I didn’t want to lose anybody.”

 “Yeah,” Tim says. But that’s not how this works. We were never going to all survive. Everything is fucked, and it still is, and it always will be.

 “I’m sorry,” he says and finds he means it. Then, to clarify: “For hurting you. And… and for Jon.” He doesn’t elaborate on that point. He doesn’t know what he would say even if he tried. “But I’m not sorry for going, and I’m not sorry for pressing that button. If I would have died, I wouldn’t have been sorry for that either.”

 “Right,” Martin says slowly. “But you didn’t. And the Circus is gone now, so do you…?”

 “Do I still want to kill myself?”

 Martin winces.

 “Hey, your question, not mine,” Tim says, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture. After a moment, his hands drop back to his lap, and he gives a small shrug. “Don’t know. I knew I would do what I needed to in order to destroy the Circus, and I did. Thought I would die in the process, but I didn’t. I’m still trapped in the world’s shittiest job, and I don’t really…”

 Tim shrugs again. “I don’t know,” he repeats. Then, because it feels true: “It was never… it was never the dying bit I was chasing, you know. I didn’t do this because I thought it would be a good way to get killed. I did it for Danny, and that’s it. Plain and simple. So if you’re asking if I want to die, the answer is no. But I can’t guarantee that I won’t make the same decision again if I have to.”

 Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, calmer than Tim expects, he says, “Okay.”

 “Okay,” Tim echoes. Then, with a levity that only feels slightly forced: “I suppose it’s back to your place, then. Just be sure to buy me dinner first.”

 Martin doesn’t smile at that like he used to, but his face does soften a bit. His voice is lighter when he says, “Oh, I will. Within your dietary restrictions, that is. Which means no alcohol.”

 Tim groans. “You’re no fun.”

 “Uh huh.”

 They begin the commute back to Martin’s flat, and the atmosphere between them grows more lighthearted than it’s been in months. Tim feels something warm and familiar curl in his chest, and he realizes just how much he’s missed this. It’s not quite easy conversation, not like it used to be, but it’s nice all the same.

 Tim’s ears ring, and his entire body aches, and he still feels a numbness in his core in the shape of suspicious glances and calliope music and a face he can’t remember, but for the first time in a long, long time, he allows himself to smile.

 .

.

.

 Tim doesn’t visit Jon often. At first, it’s the guilt, acute and cloying and weighing him down. Then, it’s old hurt and stale anger, resurfacing and driving away any passing thought of Jon that isn’t tinged with bad memories and broken trust. After that, it’s just habit.

 It also hurts, if he lets himself admit it. To see Jon lying there, motionless and clad entirely in white, the heart monitor attached to him reading out a constant horizontal line even as his eyes move in small, jerky motions behind his eyelids. 

 See? a part of him whispers. He’s not human. Maybe he never was. Maybe he was always a monster, and you just never noticed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

 A newer part of him, one that gets more prominent by the day, recognizes that even if Jon isn’t human anymore, he never would have chosen this. This stasis, this half-death. Not what came before, either. That part of him remembers the way Jon’s hand had gripped his tightly as they’d opened that trapdoor, and how it had continued to do so even as the worms had begun to bite into their skin. He’d tried to protect Tim then, too, putting himself between Tim and Jane Prentiss. For all the good it did, when the worms began to come from all directions. But Tim remembers the way the terror and pain in Jon’s eyes had been tinged with sadness, with a silent apology as he gripped Tim’s hand hard enough to bruise and they both accepted that this was it.

 It hadn’t been, in the end. And now it is, with Jon all-but-dead and Tim still here, wheeling his way into Jon’s hospital room for the first time in weeks. 

 He’s halfway in before he realizes he’s not alone.

 “Oh,” he says. “I… I didn’t know you’d be here.”

 Martin lets out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Where else would I be?” he says, and it’s tinged with something bitter and broken that takes Tim a bit off-guard. It’s become almost routine now, for Martin to visit Jon, and usually, he comes back looking drained but otherwise fine. Sometimes, when Tim asks him for status updates on our resident medical mystery, Martin even manages a small smile and responds, still dreaming.

 Martin scrubs a hand across his face, and Tim realizes belatedly that he’s crying.

 “Martin?” Tim says carefully, moving a bit closer to where Martin’s sitting. “Are you… did something happen?”

 “No,” Martin says, his voice catching in a way that indicates that something very much did happen. “It’s fine.”

 “Is it…?” Tim pauses, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Is it about Jon?”

 Martin’s laugh this time is more like a whimper. “Nope, he’s- he’s the same as always. Still asleep.”

 Tim moves closer but doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically in the background, and he waits. Patience has never been his strong suit, but it’s been something that’s been required of him as of late, and he’s getting better at it.

 He likes to think he’s getting better at a lot of things.

 Martin doesn’t speak again for a few minutes. He stares at his hands where they rest just shy of one of Jon’s, his fingers restless against the sheets, coming up occasionally to fiddle with the thin black ring that rests on the middle finger of his right hand. Then, so quiet Tim almost can’t hear it, he says, “My mother died today.”

 Oh.

 “I’m sorry,” Tim says. They’re empty words, but they’re better than the good riddance and about time and you’re better off without her sitting on the back of his tongue, begging to be released. He doesn’t think they would be appreciated right now, no matter how true they might be.

 “Yeah,” Martin says. He’s still staring at his hands. “They called me a few hours ago. She… she passed away in her sleep. Natural causes. From- from her illness.” He falls silent for a few moments, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Then: “I… I think I should be sad?”

 Tim studies Martin’s face—the tear tracks down his cheeks, the unhappy set to his mouth, the way he’s shaking ever so slightly where he sits. His face is one of grief, but Tim doesn’t ask. He waits for Martin to continue, and after a moment, Martin says, “She was the only family I had left. She- she was my mother. I took care of her, I- I did my best to be a- a good son.” He takes in a shaky breath, curls his hands into fists, and says, “I haven’t seen her in months, you know. I- I visited at first, but she… she never wanted to see me. So I just stopped going. I’d call, every Saturday, but it was the same every time. She’s resting. She doesn’t feel up to talking right now. Call later, and we’ll see what we can do.” 

 Finally, Martin looks at Tim, and the guilt in his eyes is so acute Tim can feel it cut through him to his core. “I should be sad that she’s dead, but… but all I can feel is relief. And that hurts. I- I don’t know… why am I relieved? God, she was right, I- I’m horrible, no wonder she- she never wanted to see me, I- why can’t I- I can’t—”

 Martin cuts off with a wet sob, and all at once, Tim understands.

 “It’s okay,” he says, and he collects Martin’s hands from the sheets, holds them tightly in his own. “You can feel however you like, it’s- it’s okay.”

 He squeezes Martin’s hands, just once, and repeats, “It’s okay.”

 He knows Martin won’t believe him. But still, he sits, and Martin cries, and he says, It’s okay.

 It’s okay.

 .

.

.

 The hearing aids are a permanent fixture in his ears now, as most people have full hearing restoration after six weeks apparently doesn’t include him. The tinnitus is still particularly bad some days, but they help with everything else. It’s not perfect, but it’s a small price to pay for living, he supposes.

 He’s not sure when, exactly, he decides that he’s glad he’s alive. But he does. 

 He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear at all, when the Flesh attacks. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the wet, sticky sounds of things that shouldn’t be able to move without bones slipping through the vents, shattering the relative peace they’d begun to cultivate. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear the pops of Basira’s gun, bullets burying themselves in things that barely flinched at the contact. He wishes he hadn’t been able to hear Melanie’s screams of anger, the responding screams of pain from things with too many eyes and teeth and limbs as her knife carved a violent path through them.

 There are yellow doors and hands slick with blood and a sudden quiet as the last of the twisted, mangled creatures falls, sliced neatly in two in a way that’s just a bit too clean. 

 Melanie is breathing heavily, but her hands are steady and her eyes are hard with something raging and violent. When Basira reaches tentatively for her knife, saying, “It’s over now, Melanie. We’re- we’re safe,” Melanie stiffens but doesn’t resist.

 “This isn’t right,” Tim says after Melanie comes back to herself in bits and pieces, enough to shudder at the blood coating her arms up to the elbows and mutter something he can’t quite catch before disappearing into the toilet. “None of this is. God, can we ever catch a fucking break?”

 “We can deal with it later,” Basira says. She’s calm, but she can’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. Her Al-Amira is splattered with viscera. “Right now, we need to make a call. Get this cleaned up.”

 “What,” Tim says bitterly, “so we can continue hiding away in the Archives? You’re the one who said we should start sleeping here. Should have known it wouldn’t be safe. It’s not like it was before.” 

 He rubs at one of the small circular scars on the back of his left hand, his skin crawling with a phantom itch that makes him vaguely nauseous. 

 “We stay here,” Basira says, leaving no room for debate. “We make the call, and we stay here.”

 Tim makes a low, frustrated noise, and bites out, “Fine. Because Basira always knows best. Whatever.” He unlocks his wheelchair and says shortly, “I’m going outside for some fresh air. The smell of rotting meat is making me sick.”

 Basira doesn’t follow him.

 Martin does.

 They situate themselves just outside the glass doors, and they don’t say anything for a long time. Martin still looks vaguely ill. His face is pale, and his hands are fidgeting at his sides. His fingers are resting on his ring, twisting it back and forth, agitated. His shoes are stained a glistening red.

 Finally, Martin tilts his head back so it hits the wall behind him and says to the air above him, “Is it horrible that I wish Jon were here?”

 Tim snorts, anger still bubbling under the surface of his skin. “Because we’d have done so much better with our own flavor of spooky bullshit?” He bites out a bitter laugh. “Maybe he could have compelled them to explain exactly why every single monster out there has a personal vendetta against us. Working for an eldritch horror of voyeurism doesn’t give you much in terms of an offense.”

 “Stop,” Martin says sharply. “You know what I mean.”

 Tim does. He’s just not particularly inclined to wax nostalgic about the power of friendship and comradery when he’s got bits of meat stuck in his hair. 

 Still, he finds that he means it when he says, “I wish he was too. For what it’s worth. Which isn’t a fucking lot, but it’s what we’ve got.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says. His hand brushes against Tim’s, and they fall back into silence.

 The police arrive, followed closely by the ECDC. It’s a messy affair, even messier than the last time Tim had been in this situation, and Tim wants nothing more than to get away. Forever.

 He doesn’t make any jokes this time. He just nods in the right places, and when they’re finally released and he and Martin return to a flat they haven’t seen in weeks, he can feel weariness cutting through him to the bone.

 When he wakes the next day, Martin’s gone. His note, stuck to the door of the fridge, says, At the hospital. Be back around noon.

 It’s ten in the morning, and the sunlight is bright as it streams in through the kitchen window.

 Tim digs out the bottle of rum that Martin keeps tucked in the back of his cabinet and pours himself a drink.

 .

.

.

 “Peter Lukas wants me to be his assistant.”

 Tim looks up from what’s turning out to be quite an impressive doodle of the little figurine of a frog in a top hat he’d purchased back in research from a charity shop and says, “Absolutely not.”

 Martin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, holds it there for a moment, and then says, “I don’t know if I have a choice in the matter, really. It’s… it’s not safe here anymore.” Quieter: “He said he can help. Off- offer protection.”

 Tim audibly scoffs at that. He sets down his pencil and notepad and crosses his arms across his chest. He can already feel a headache coming on. (More than the usual, that is. He’s almost able to tune out the constant ringing in his ears now.

 Almost.)

 “What’s he going to do, isolate them to death? It’s not like the Lonely’s any better of an offensive force than the Eye. We’re doing just fine without involving him.”

 “Are we?” Martin’s voice is hard and a bit choked when he continues, “We’re living down here because it’s not safe to stay outside for too long. We’re still finding bits of- of flesh in- eugh.” Martin shudders and folds inward on himself. Quieter, enough so that Tim has to watch the motion of his lips to make out the words, he says, “Jon’s not waking up.”

 Tim feels something inside of him twist. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what’s happening with him.” A touch bitterly—old habits die hard, he supposes—he says, “Maybe he’s just not done going through his monster metamorphosis yet.”

 “Tim.”

 Tim sighs. It’s a profoundly weary sound. “Yeah, yeah. I… I miss him too, you know.”

 He’s surprised to find that it’s not a lie.

 “Right.” A small, shaky smile crosses Martin’s face, and he says, “I- I suppose they’re right, then. Distance does make the heart grow fonder.”

 “Somehow,” Tim says, “I don’t think whoever coined that phrase had this situation in mind.”

 Martin’s smile fades as quickly as it had come, and Tim feels a pang of guilt. “Sorry,” he says, pushing away from the desk and wheeling across the room to where Martin sits. He hesitates, just a moment, before placing his hand on Martin’s where it rests on his knee. “I… I suppose I’ve forgotten how to be lighthearted about all of this.”

 Martin nods. It’s a small motion. He’s silent for a long moment; Tim squeezes his hand and says nothing. Finally, Martin looks down at his hands and says, “It’s been four months, Tim. Nothing’s changed.” He pauses again, his mouth pinching around the edges. “I… I visited him today. I begged him to wake up, to- to do anything to indicate that he’s even still there. I don’t know why I expected him to answer. It’s not like anything’s different now. He- he’s never going to wake up, Tim.”

 Martin’s voice cracks, and he repeats, wetly, “He’s never going to wake up.”

 Then, Martin’s crying, heaving sobs that overtake him completely and have him hunched over, dripping salty tears onto the back of Tim’s hand. “Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says, leaning forward as far as he’s comfortably able to and wrapping Martin in as hard of a hug as he can manage. He rubs his hands in circles across Martin’s shoulderblades, feeling Martin’s shaky breaths against the side of his neck, and says, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

 He repeats it, again and again, as Martin cries into his shoulder and says, over and over, words thick with grief, “He’s dead, Tim. He’s dead.”

 “It’s okay,” Tim says. Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.

 Eventually, Martin’s body stops shaking and he pulls back, the tear tracks on his cheeks already beginning to dry. His eyes are red-rimmed and glistening, and he looks tired, grief apparent in every line of him.

 “I said I’d think about it,” Martin says, in a voice rubbed raw and hoarse. “When Peter called me. I- I said I’d think about it. I- I don’t know why…” He cuts off, makes a small, distressed noise, and says, “What do I even have left? If- if this can help, what- what do I have to lose?”

 Tim feels a pang of hurt flash through him, but he suppresses it. He squeezes Martin’s hands, gives him as wide a smile as he can without breaking, and says, “You have me. And I’m not leaving—you’re stuck with me. So don’t think for a second that if you take Peter’s deal, I won’t be there still. I’m like a bad penny, or, I don’t know, a- a fungus or whatever. The point is, you’re not going to get rid of me. Whether or not you decide to work for Lukas—which you shouldn’t, by the way, in case I haven’t made that abundantly clear—you’re not going to be lonely, okay? Not on my watch. I can be very persistent when I put my mind to it.”

 Martin looks at Tim, eyes wide, and another small, hiccuping sob escapes him. “You really mean that?”

 “Yes, Martin,” Tim says, exasperation and fondness filling him in equal measure. “Christ, just because things got… rough for a bit, it doesn’t mean I stopped caring about you. Honestly, don’t know if I could. You’re a very lovable person, you know. It’s not like being your friend is a hardship.”

 Martin laughs a little at that, his voice still thick with tears. “Well, when you put it like that…”

 Tim gives him another smile, and this one feels easier. Like it would be harder not to smile. Still, he’s careful with his words when he says, “So, then. What are you going to do? I’ve made my opinion more than known, but…” Tim swallows around the lump in his throat and continues, “It’s your decision.”

 “Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

 Peter calls again. And when Martin hesitates for a long moment before giving a quiet yet firm no, the relief that sweeps over Tim is enough to make him feel weightless.

 .

.

.

 Two months later, as a man who smells of death shuts the door behind him, Jon takes a rattling breath and finally opens his eyes.

 .

.

.

 “Tim?”

 Tim raises the hand that’s not holding a rather large bouquet of white daisies and baby’s breath in a half-wave. “Hi, boss. Been a while.”

 The look Jon gives him is half-shocked, half-nervous. “I… I suppose it has. Six months, apparently.”

 Tim makes a sound of affirmation before wheeling himself fully into Jon’s hospital room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “You know,” he says, allowing a blanket of levity to fall over him, “when we said you should get more sleep, this isn’t exactly what we meant.”

 Jon just stares at him for a moment, face blank and eyes wide. Then, a laugh escapes him, a small hiccup of amusement. “Yes, well. I can’t say that I feel particularly well-rested.”

 Tim imagines what it must have been like, to be locked in a dreamscape stasis for six months. He can’t say that the idea sounds particularly relaxing. “Yep, sounds about right. Guess we can cross ‘spooky coma’ off our list of possible cures for sleep deprivation.”

 Jon folds inward on himself a bit, hugging one arm to his chest and gripping the other tightly. “Right,” he says, his voice small. He looks away from Tim, focusing on the small window in the corner of the room, and says, “I… I’m sorry, Tim.”

 Right. Jon still thinks Tim hates him.

 Tim lets out a long, weary sigh and makes his way to Jon’s bed. He practically shoves the flowers into Jon’s hands; Jon takes them, more out of surprise than anything, white petals tickling the bottom of his chin. “It’s been six months, Jon. You’ve been… honestly, a bit dead? No offense. And I’ve been alive. And we both know it was meant to be the other way around.”

 Jon opens his mouth, and Tim holds up a hand. “Don’t. I know. I already hear enough about it from my therapist, I don’t need to hear about it from you too. The point is that I’ve… I’ve had time to think. And some of the things you did, I can’t forgive you for. But some of it…”

 Tim shrugs. “Martin would always go on about how it wasn’t your fault. About how you were suffering just as much as us. And maybe I didn’t believe it because I was already angry, or maybe I didn’t believe it because all I could think about was finally getting a chance at the revenge I’d chased after for years. But then you were gone, and the Circus was gone, and I just… didn’t have anything left for the anger to hold on to.”

 Jon clutches the flowers tightly in his hands, looks down at the petals. “But you were right,” he says quietly. “A- about me.”

 Tim casts himself back six months and sifts through a metric ton of bitter remarks and angry assumptions. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

 Jon lets out a slow, shaky breath. “About me not being human.”

 Oh.

 “Jon—”

 “Do you know what I was dreaming about?” Jon cuts in before Tim can say anything else. “I- I don’t remember, not really, but… but I can guess. I… I Know, somehow, that- that they were the same dreams, over and over and over again.” Jon takes one of the flower petals between his fingers and rubs it back and forth, a nervous gesture. “I started having them soon after I took this job, you know. Naomi Herne was the first one, and I- I didn’t understand why. Every night, she was trapped in the fog, forced into her own grave, and I would try to move, because it- it felt like I should have been able to, but it- it never worked. So I… I stopped trying after a while. I would stand and watch as she relived one of the worst experiences of her life, every night, and I- I couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

 Jon crushes the petal between his fingers. “She was the first one, but- but there are so many more now. Lionel Elliott and Jordan Kennedy and- and, Christ, Georgie—”

 Jon makes a small, unhappy noise. “I don’t know when I realized that they could see me in their dreams too. That in trying to help, I- I’d just made myself another source of terror.”

 Jon falls silent for a few moments; the quiet is filled by the familiar tick tick tick of the clock in the corner. Then, so quietly Tim has to focus on his lips to catch the words, he says, “I… I think I made a choice. Before I woke up. I don’t… I don’t know what it means for me, not really, but I know it means that I’m worse than I was before.” He lets out a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “So, you were right. I’m just- just even less human now.”

 Jon falls silent again, and for a few moments, there’s just tick, tick, tick. Tim rolls the words over in his mind, looks at Jon’s pinched, unhappy expression, and says, “Okay.”

 Jon looks at him then, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Okay?”

 Tim shrugs and repeats, “Okay. You’re not human. I’m not going to pretend like that thrills me or whatever, but it’s… honestly, it’s a lot less of an issue for me now than it was back then.”

 “I- I don’t…” Jon trails off with a frustrated noise. “What?”

 Tim sighs. “A lot’s changed, Jon. Things have… well, things have kind of gone to hell. Honestly, we could use a few monsters who are on our side for a change.”

 Jon blinks at him in stunned silence for a few moments more before saying, bewildered, “... Right. Uh, I- I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you’ve been, then.”

 A wry smile cracks across Tim’s face. “I’ve been just peachy, thanks for asking. Blow up one Circus and suddenly every spooky monster out there wants to kill you. It’s been one big, long, horrible sleepover in the Archives. But hey, at least Elias isn’t there! Now we’ve just got Lukas, and if one or two staff members disappear every once and a while, well—that’s just how it is at the Magnus Institute. Nothing to be concerned about. Sometimes, we still go out for drinks.”

 “Tim,” Jon says flatly. The exasperated expression on his face is so familiar—so Jon—that Tim feels a tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding slip away. 

 “Yeah, yeah,” Tim says, waving a hand absently in Jon’s direction. “Point is, I’m not disappointed or angry or whatever that you’re back in the land of the living.” He pauses, and then, more sincerely: “Martin’s not the only one who’s missed you, okay?”

 Jon’s lips part into an O. Then, his mouth twitches up into a smirk, and he says, “Mm, you’re right. Basira did stop by earlier, and then of course Georgie, and I bet even Melanie—”

 “Unbelievable. And here I was nice enough to come all the way over here, to bring you flowers.”

 “Mm, they are very nice flowers.”

 “Damn right they are.”

 Jon smiles then, a fragile thing, and says, “Thank you, Tim. I… I’ve missed you too.”

 Tim could point out that Jon had been asleep for the majority of the time in question. But he knows that’s not what Jon means. So instead, he offers Jon a smile in return and says, “Be honest: more or less than the Admiral?”

 Jon shoots Tim a flat, unimpressed look. “Tim, don’t be ridiculous. Of course less than the Admiral.”

 .

.

.

 Tim’s been out of the wheelchair for a week when he finally manages to make his way to the roof of the Institute, still learning how to maneuver the crutches he’s moved on to. He swears he can feel every motion of the pins and the rods in his leg—skin covered with even more scars for the collection—as he finally heaves himself through the door and into the cool night air. 

 The view is just as good as he remembers.

 There’s the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, and Tim’s entirely unsurprised to see Jon silhouetted against the glow of London, leaning against the wall that rings the roof with his back facing Tim. The cigarette glows a dull red as he raises it to his lips and breathes in.

 Jon doesn’t say anything, even as Tim painstakingly makes his way over to where he’s stood. Tim props his crutches against the wall before leaning his weight heavily against it, arms crossed atop the wall in a mirror image of Jon as they both look out onto the city below, humming with life and light.

 Finally, after a particularly long drag of his cigarette, Jon says, “I’m going to get Daisy.”

 There’s no room for argument in his voice. But that’s never stopped Tim from trying anyways. 

 “I thought you were done doing stupid shit that’ll get you killed,” Tim says, turning his head to look at Jon. Jon’s staring forward, but Tim gets the distinct impression that Jon isn’t looking out at the city at all.

 “It won’t kill me,” Jon says quietly. He moves his hands as he talks, surprisingly competent sign language that he’s begun using tentatively in his conversations with Tim. When Tim had asked him where he’d learned it, Jon had been quiet for a long moment before telling him that he hadn’t.

 Well. At least the Eye was being useful for once.

 “Yeah, whatever,” Tim says. “Dead or not, you’ll still be gone. You know people who crawl into that coffin don’t come back.”

 “I don’t—” Jon cuts off with a frustrated noise. After a moment, he continues, “I have a plan. I- I read a statement, and it said that I would need an anchor. A- a piece of myself to keep here. I can find it when I’m down there, and- and use it to guide me back.”

 “Right,” Tim says dryly. “Because our plans have always gone so well.”

 “What would you have me do, Tim? I- I can’t just do nothing.”

 “Why not?”

 Jon affixes him with an expression that’s half-affronted, half-stunned. “Tim.”

 “What? Jon, we barely know Daisy. She tried to kill you. No, don’t give me that look.” Tim jabs a finger in Jon’s direction. “You know I’m right.”

 “I…” Jon trails off. After a moment, he hugs his arms to himself, his snubbed-out cigarette still smoldering slightly on top of the wall. “I know. But I… I still have to go. I… I’m still going to go.”

 Tim exhales slowly and says, “Right. Suppose I should have expected that.”

 There’s silence between them for a moment. Then, Jon removes his hands from his arms and signs as he says, quietly, “Why don’t you hate me?”

 Tim stares at Jon for a long moment before saying, “What?”

 Jon sighs and repeats, the motions of his hands larger and more emphatic, “Why don’t you hate me? Basira and Melanie, they- they keep looking at me like I’m some… thing, and- and maybe I am. No, not… not maybe. I’m not… I’m not human anymore, and I- I know what you said, but what happens when I—?”

 Jon cuts off with a small, choked noise, like the air’s been sucked out of him all at once. Weakly, he signs, “I’m so hungry, all the time. What happens when I… when I can’t take it anymore? When I- I become dangerous, a- a monster, will you—?”

 Jon’s fingers curl into fists, and he drops his hands to his sides, angling himself away from Tim and staring at an arbitrary point in the distance. “It’s better this way,” he says, loudly enough that Tim can make out the words above the hum of London at night and the ever-present ringing in his ears. “I… I don’t want to go. I don’t want to lose this, to- to lose you and- and Martin. But maybe it’s better than becoming something that will hurt you.”

 Jon won’t meet Tim’s eyes. Carefully, Tim reaches across the space between them and takes Jon’s hand in his, uncurling Jon’s fingers gently in an attempt to release some of the tension. Slowly, he says, “You know, I… I shouldn’t be alive right now. Back after the Unknowing, when I woke up in the hospital, I… I didn’t want to be. It was supposed to be whatever it takes, and to me, that was always going to mean my death. Revenge and poetic justice and all of that. I should have died, but I didn’t. And… and you did. And it’s not something I feel guilty about, because we both made the same choice in the end, but that… that doesn’t stop me from feeling, sometimes, like it was my fault somehow.” He lets out a sharp laugh and says, “Well, I was the one to actually blow the place up in the end, but, you know.”

 Tim holds Jon’s hand carefully in his like it might break otherwise, the mottled texture of the scar tissue firm against his fingertips. His eyes find the thin white line slashed across Jon’s throat, the stark white bandage poking out from the collar of Jon’s shirt where it covers a fresh scalpel wound in his shoulder, the pale pink spots that pepper Jon’s skin in a mirror image of his own. He can’t see the splash of jagged scars across Jon’s back, a memory of shrapnel and white-hot explosions, but he knows they’re there. “You asked why I don’t hate you?”

 When Jon nods mutely, Tim says, “I just… ran out of reasons why I should. I still wanted to, but…” He shrugs and gives Jon a wry, humorless smile. “We’re all just stuck in the same shitty situation. And I guess at some point, I just decided that you hadn’t chosen to be here any more than I did.”

 “Oh,” Jon says, barely audible. 

 Tim takes Jon’s other hand in his, squeezes them firmly, and says, “And I’m sorry. Not for- for how we used to be, because I think the blame for that falls pretty evenly onto both of our shoulders, but… but for everything else. For what’s happened to you. Figured I’ve spent enough time feeling sorry for myself, I might as well extend you the same courtesy.”

 Jon’s fingers tighten around Tim’s, and he mumbles something Tim can’t quite catch. Then, he extracts his hands from Tim’s and signs, shakily, “I’m sorry too. For everything. But for what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you’re here. That you’re not dead. I- I know it’s been bad and- and I wish I could fix that, but I… I don’t know if I can.” Jon’s eyes when they meet Tim’s are sad but determined. “But I can fix this. I- I can get Daisy back. I can find my way out.”

 Tim looks at the firm set to Jon’s mouth, the furrow of his brow, and says, “Okay. But I’m going to hold you to that. Otherwise, I might have to go in after you.”

 Jon looks horrified. “Tim.”

 Tim holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, come back in one piece and we won’t have to worry about it.”

 Jon opens his mouth, then closes it again. There’s a long pause before he finally says, decidedly, “I will. I- I promise.”

 Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tim wants to say. Instead, he shuffles closer to Jon and leans against the wall again, crossing his arms on top of it and looking out over the city. “Good,” he says softly. 

 After a moment, Jon shifts to face the city as well. His arm brushes against Tim’s, and Tim lets that point of contact ground him as he looks up and up and up at the stars above, pinpricks of light on a satin black sky. 

 “Thank you,” Jon says, just loud enough for Tim to hear. 

 Tim moves his hand to cover Jon’s where it sits on the wall and squeezes once. “Yeah.”

 They stand there until sunlight begins to tickle the edges of the horizon. And when Jon gives Tim’s hand one last squeeze, the other holding the lid of the coffin open, and says, “Be back soon,” Tim believes him.

 .

.

.

 Three days later, Jon climbs out of the coffin with dirt caked underneath his fingernails and a thin, sharp hand clutched in his. “Tim,” he says, and Tim ignores the pain in his leg as he lets his crutches drop to the floor and hugs Jon tightly.

 “Looks like I’m staying above ground after all,” Tim jokes, his voice light even as his words come out wet and choked.

 Jon’s laugh vibrates against Tim’s chest. “Yeah,” he says, burying his face in the fabric of Tim’s shoulder to hide his smile. “Yeah.”

[nat-20s]

 Part 8 of the wonderful! Au: the boys answer some questions! Up to you to decide if they actually clarify anything!

(also on AO3)

~*~

Martin: Hey everyone! I know what some of you are thinking right now: it's not Tuesday, why is this episode in my feed? I know significantly more of you are thinking: I don't consistently keep up with podcast releases, how much free time do you think I have, buddy? To answer your queries: this is a bonus episode! We're answering listener questions to clear the air and/or have fun. Also, I don't know, around 20 to 40 minutes a week, as that is the average amount of time per episode? Maybe during your commute? My husband's omnipotence has been gone for five years, we just have to guess at that sort of thing now.

Jon: For legal reasons, that last statement was a joke. In fact, to cover all of our bases, we do not guarantee that any of our responses are genuine.

Martin: Just because we say we'll answer things doesn't mean we'll answer truthfully. Though, honestly, I think we might make it more enjoyable if we do tell the truth. Like, I don't necessarily have a fun lie prepared for our first question from konspiracyking97: "What's their fuckin deal anyway?"

Jon: Is this referring to the oblique references  we've made about being from a parallel reality and only ending up here as a consequence of ending one apocalypse and potentially starting another or the general premise of the show?

Martin: Oh, it's gotta be general premise, yeah?

Jon: In that case, I'm Jon, the other voice you're hearing is Martin, we're married, and we talk about things that are..nice? Good? Usually generally but occasionally rather specifically pleasant.

Martin: That pretty much covers it. It's not a complicated show. Uhh, next question comes from Shane: are either or both of you aliens? Nope!

Jon: Well..

Martin: No. We are 100% human people from Earth, we are under no definition extraterrestrial.

Jon: Eh..

Martin: Okay, first off, I know the tone of that 'eh' and "not fully human" is not synonymous with alien, so even if 100% is being a bit generous, we're still from the same planet as our listeners.

Jon:..

Jon: But. We sort of aren't though. Technically speaking.

Martin: No no no no no. I don't care if it's parallel, Earth is Earth is Earth, regardless of whatever nonsense metaphysics might be occurring.

Jon: So what you're saying is that if you got sucked through a portal and landed on an Earth where dinosaurs were still the predominant species, you wouldn't consider yourself to be an alien?

Martin: Nope!

Jon: I'm certain that they would consider you an alien. All of their mammals are probably shrew sized.

Martin: Sounds like a them problem.

Jon: Sounds like a-?! You know what, no, this will be an off the record debate, for now, I suppose I concede that the two Earths and our physiologies are similar enough that we might, maybe, not count as aliens.

Martin: Thank you. Anyway, our next question is from anonymous, and asks, "Is all of this an ARG?"

Jon: A whomst?

Martin: Alternate reality game. It's a method of storytelling that's interactive with audience, and usually has, I dunno, a certain suspension of disbelief to it where it pretends to be something actually happening in the real world until a dramatic reveal. A lot times it was used as a marketing gimmick, but others have done it just for fun. I can show you some examples after the show?

Jon: So it's in essence a more involved creepypasta?

Martin, delighted: Aw, babe, I'm never going to have a handle on what pop culture you are and aren't aware of, huh?

Jon: We were born within a year of each other, and I've told you that I was a deeply morbid teenager, you should probably be able to intuit some of things, love.

Martin: This coming from a man who has yet to see "It's a Wonderful Life", but has seen every film in the "Banjo Cannibals" franchise, including the Easter special. Jesus doesn't exist in the Banjo Cannibals universe, why does it have an Easter special?

Jon: The movies are rather shoddily translated from Russian, so I'm fairly certain the Easter component of that special was invented wholesale in the English version.

Martin: You say that like it answers more questions than it raises.

Jon: Yes, because it does. Oh, and to answer anonymous's question, no, this isn't an ARG. From my understanding of it, if it were, it'd be a poorly constructed one, as there's no real game element to any of this.

Martin: Hmm. Well, sometimes the game component is just trying to figure out what's going on with the story, or if there's any deeper content, and people are definitely doing that with this show.

Jon: That's not by design though. It's more a side effect of us having poor brain to mouth filters, I'd say.

Martin: Harsh, but fair. Oh, this next one is from Zac, no K, who asks, "Are you two actually even married?"

Jon, flat: We are, but it's under false names because this whole thing is an elaborate insurance scam.

Jon, incredulous: Yes, obviously, we're married. What did you hear in this podcast that would make you wonder otherwise, and how do we rectify it?

Martin: Clearly we need to up our quota for how "disgustingly in love" and "horrifically sappy" we are per episode. Which segues nicely into the next question from Gwen, "What's your favourite wonderful thing you've brought so far?" My answer: my husband. He's kind of my favourite in most things, you know?

Jon: Boooooo

Martin: Why, what's your favourite thing?

[Jon reluctantly sighs]

Jon, indulgent: being married.

Martin: A: serves you right for trying to pretend you're the less horrifically sappy and romantic one even though earlier today someone put a love note in the lunch they packed for me-

Jon:- Lies and slander! I have never, in my life, done that, even once.

Martin: Oh, sure, not even once. And you definitely don't reserve the lilac sticky notes specifically for my lunches because you know I like the colour. 

Jon: I..I don't.. you're rather ruining my image here.

[Martin snorts]

Martin: Can't have the audience think that you are, on occasion, an incredibly doting husband-

Jon: -A title I would argue we both share-

Martin: - which is obviously why, even with it being your favourite thing you've brought, being married to me is just a small wonder-

Jon, audibly rolling his eyes: As I already explained-

[A Pause}

Jon: Actually, you're right-

Martin: Wait-

Jon:- I really should have brought it as a larger wonder-

Martin: Wait-

Jon: though I should warn you, I think I'd have far too much material for just one little segment-

Martin: No no no no no-

Jon:- In fact, I think I might have too much material for just one little episode-

Martin: Joo-oon-

Jon: I might have to do a whole series! Where would I even start? I mean I could talk about how every day I get to watch the early morning sun highlight your curls when I get up first, or hear you quietly humming and shuffling around the kitchen when you do, or I could talk about how the lunch notes only started in the first place as retaliation to the notes you would leave on the mirror for me to find, or how every time I get to see you at ease in a way that you aren't with anyone else, it takes my breath away, or I could talk about how cute I find the lines between your eyebrows that you only get when you're thinking something petty, but you know it's petty so you don't want to say anything-

Martin: Okay, okay, Christ, I give !up I surrender, and will cease my teasing on this particular topic.

Jon, probably making the :3 face: You don't have to stop. I mean, I could also discuss how very, very attractive I find your voice when it takes on a teasi-mmph!

[There's a pleased hum, then a pause.]

[The audio quality is slightly changed, as if the recording has been stopped and then started later]

Martin, giddy: Uh, heh, anyway, Eric asked what the least favourite thing we've brought was, and because of Jon's attempt to embarrass me live-

Jon, overlapping: It's definitely not live-

Martin:- on air, I'm gonna say it's my husband.

[Jon scoffs]

Jon : If the past few minutes are any sort of indication, I'm going to go ahead and saying that you are lying.

Martin, sighing contentedly: Maybe a bit, but how was I supposed to resist when your indigance gives you that adorable little nose scrunch? In reality, my least favourite thing was probably, um, mini golf? Which, I still don't think is inherently bad, definitely superior to regular golf, but when it's the only thing a next door two year old wants to do with you, the charm begins to wear off a bit.

Jon: Wow. A rather scathing review of a toddler.

Martin: Not so much a scathing review of a toddler as it's a scathing review of minigolf's inability to keep its appeal after the third time in the same week.

Jon: Mmm, the sound effects rather quickly go from part of the atmosphere to part of the irritation, don't they?

Martin: So what's your least favorite thing we've covered here?

Jon: Oh, love, I'm not going to pretend to have nearly enough memory of what we've covered so far to have a least favorite.

Martin: Really? Nothing that you regret or rescind?

Jon: Well, regret, certainly. It was one of the weeks where you went first, and your second item was mutual aid funds, and what they can do for marginalized communities, and I had to follow it with fucking Slapchop.

Martin, poorly suppressing laughter: In your defence, Slapchop, or whatever offbrand we have, is pretty useful, especially when either your scar or my arthritis is acting up.

Jon: I'm still not convinced you didn't somehow see my notes for the recording and decided you get revenge for the first year that we knew each other.

Martin, no longer suppressing his laughter: Yep, you got me! This marriage wasn't an act of insurance fraud, but it was a near decade long con to humiliate you on a podcast that about twenty people listen to. I'll draft up the divorce papers immediately, and then we can finally go our separate ways. 

Jon: I'm glad you've at last admitted it. Such a weight off of my shoulders. Goodbye forever then.

Martin: Right.

Jon: Right.

[A beat.]

[There's a pfft from one of them, before both dissolve into giggles that lasts a good 30 seconds.]

Martin, slightly out of breath: I can't believe we're the kind of people that talk this much about speciality kitchen gadgets.

Jon: Sorry about that.

Martin: God, don't apologize. I'm, like, deliriously happy with our varying degrees of useful cooking ware filled life. If you had told 25 year old me that one day he'd be debating the merits of getting a tortilla press with his husband, he'd have wept, I tell you.

Jon: Funny, if you told 25 year old me the same thing, he would've said "You don't know the future,piss off" and then quietly have a bit of a panic at 3 am that night.

Martin: I bet you were insufferable in your mid-twenties.

Jon: First of all, who isn't, secondly, I was fresh out of Oxford, and third, I was insufferable in my late twenties, as you can attest to, and I'm insufferable now, as you can further attest to, so extrapolation would indicate that, yes, I was insufferable back then.

Martin: Probably a different kind of insufferable, though.

Jon: There are different kinds?

Martin: Of course! You used to be "prick boss" insufferable and now you're "smug in a way that I can't admit I find hot or it will go straight to your head" insufferable.

Jon, in the aforementioned smug tone: Oh, really?

Martin: See, see! Straight to your head.

Jon: Well straight is probably the wrong descriptor-

Martin: Oof, 4 out of 10 joke, babe.

Jon: That would be a far more convincing rating if you weren't grinning right now.

Martin: It's a genuine review, I'm just well known to be a sucker.

Jon: You and me both, darling.

Martin: Okay, if you're pulling out darling, you're clearly in too giddy of a mood to be focused on recording. Last question, from Jess, "You two mentioned meeting at work, but how did you actually end up together?" That's easy, Jon pulled me out of a hell dimension and then we went on the lam together to Scotland.

Jon: If that's not the way to tell a cute boy you like him, I don't know what is.

Martin: All right, that wraps up this bonus episode, and as the old saying goes, hiding from murderers in a cottage is more conducive to romance than suggesting you gouge out your eyes together.

Jon, cut off: Hey-!

[hikarimiyanaga]

Loving You (Part 5)

Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3 I Part 4

Because exams make me stressed. But I did get through some of them. And I think I only have one more to go! So here comes an update!

Warning : Omegaverse. Beta!Reader x Omega!Wanda Maximoff. Curse Words. Mentions of Bullying. Indication of Self-Harm.

Also, just tell me if I need to add more warnings so I can edit as quickly as I can.

Taglist : @mitchiesdungeon / @upsidedowndanvers / @trikruismybitch / @fayhar / @madamevirgo

-

Monday comes and you stretch your body. You were spent yesterday. There was an emergency at the firm, so your Mom and your sisters had to be there. So you spent half of the day cleaning the house with your Ma but then she also had to go because the emergency got bigger so you had to go do all the cleaning and chores by yourself. You also didn’t get to talk to Wanda because your phone was inside your room all day. The morning was a blur and you snap out of your daze when someone talks to you.

“Did I do something wrong?” Wanda asks before you could even go to your locker. You furrow your eyebrows and shake your head.

“What? No.”

“Then why didn’t you talk with me yesterday?” You yawn.

“Do I have to?” Wanda gets taken aback as you push past her. She looks shocked at your question. She thought that things were going well? Did she really do something wrong? She clutches her chest as she goes to her first class. Pietro pushes you away from your locker and you let him. It was like the old times where people just shove you or push you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you an idiot?” You don’t answer. You just get your book and close your locker. “Y/LN!” He grabs your arm and you have had enough.

You haven’t had enough sleep.

Your body hurts like someone just smashed it with a sledgehammer.

People are suddenly talking to you.

Your own family doesn’t trust you.

Janine just tried to bully you again last week. You had a nightmare about all the things she had done last year.

You got mad so suddenly because people think you’re trying something when you just want a quiet life.

You’re falling faster and you can’t risk it if Wanda is not your soulmate because you knew that if you do fall then that’s it. A one-time deal that you had no say in.

You dread every day that you get older because it’s just a step away in proving to everyone that you won’t get accepted to colleges.

You’re a Beta who doesn’t deserve to live.

Tears fall and you take a deep breath. Pietro lets go and you thank the stars. You don’t need anyone trying something with you today. You were silent as you wipe your tears away while going to your class.

-

“Y/LN.” Natasha calls out during lunch and you sigh. You were inside the library and people still somehow found you. You look up to her and sigh as you pack up your things and get your bag. She drags you outside and you just let her. Will this be the day that the Avengers would finally bully you? You just hope they don’t drag along Wanda… damn it. It’s your fault again. Your stomach falls as Natasha drags you to the cafeteria. Will they publicly humiliate you?

“Natasha! What are you-“ Natasha stops as you both get to their table.

“Explain.” You stop as Wanda hides behind Pietro.

“What?”

“Why are you suddenly being a dick?” Angel holds out her hand for them to stop.

“Why are you wearing a jacket?” You pull down your sleeves to hide your wrists and both Wanda and Angel lunge at you, you try to push them away but Natasha tackles you down. She holds you down as Wanda and Angel look at your wrists. They let go as they gasp. You stop resisting and sigh. Natasha checks and glares at you.

“WHAT THE FUCK!?” She shouts at you and you don’t even flinch. You look at her with blank eyes and she gulps. What the hell happened?

“Get off me.” You mumble and Natasha complies. You get your bag and get the letter that you received yesterday. “Here.” You hold it out to Wanda and she shakily gets it. You stand and try to leave but Angel stops you. Wanda opens it and cries as she reads. She hugs you and gives Angel the letter. You don’t hug her back.

“What the hell!? Who the fuck sent this!?” Angel shouts and Natasha snatches the letter out of her hand. “You fucking assholes!” Pietro holds Angel back as the Avengers read the letter. Their faces get angrier by the second.

“Who the fuc-“

“Does it matter?” Wanda pulls away and you snatch the letter up. “It’s the truth anyways. Hope you had-“ Angel slaps you and you scoff. “Is that-“ Pietro grabs your collar. He snarls at you.

“This isn’t the truth! For fuck’s sake!”

“It is.” You mumble and Wanda grabs your hand. She drags you to the courtyard and pushes you on the bench that you two always hung out on. She straddles you and you immediately feel calm. She whispers comforting words and you can’t help but hug her. You realize your actions while in daze and you can’t help but cry. You whisper your apologies over and over but Wanda just keep shushing you and rubbing your back.

-

You groan as the school bell rings. You went to the nurse and got your wrists bandaged up. You’ve been out of it and only went to classes like a drone.

“You okay?” You nod at Angel and get your things into your bag. It’s a good thing that your hand just wrote notes automatically since you knew that nothing got inside your head. “Let’s start tomorrow, okay? Rest up.”

“Thanks.” You mumble as you get out of your last class. You realize that two people were waiting for you and Angel.

“Hey, babe.” Angel greets and Natasha smiles as they hold hands. They kiss and Angel turns to you. “Bye, Y/N, Wanda.”

“Bye.” You both say and wave at them as they leave. You sigh as you face her.

“Wanda. I’m really sorr-“ She hugs you and you hug her back.

“Don’t be. Just.” She pulls away and flicks your forehead. “Tell me next time.”

“About?”

“The letter and the thoughts.” You nod and sigh. You both walk outside.

“It’s just.” You sigh as you run a hand along your hair. “My thoughts got out of hand and there was just no one else in the house.” You clench your fists. “They spiraled before I noticed.” Wanda holds your hand and you calm down.

“That’s why tell me. I’ll run to you if you ever have them.”

“Why?” She smiles and pulls you closer to her.

“Because I meant what I said. I don’t think I could live without you.” You kiss her and she kisses you back.

“Aren’t we moving too fast? We just met a month ago.” She chuckles and pulls away.

“Maybe. But I don’t care.” She intertwines her hand to yours. “This feels right. You feel right.” You smile at her words.

“I love you.” Wanda’s heart beat faster and you smirk as she blushes. “I love how your hand fits with mine. How your scent calms me down. How kissing you feels like I’m on cloud nine.”

“Sweet talker.” She kisses you.

“No. Just being honest.”

-

You go to school next day with your bandaged wrists exposed and you feel everyone stare at them. You go to Wanda’s locker.

“Hey.” She smiles at you and closes her locker. She takes your hand and you kiss her.

“You’re not covering them.” You hum as you both go to your locker.

“Mom and Ma got angry which is why I’m going to Therapy later. Sorry I can’t meet with you.” She shakes her head as you take your books.

“Your emotional health takes priority.” You pout as you close your locker.

“But you’re my cure.” She pushes you away and you chuckle.

“Shut up.” She mumbles as you take her hand.

“Y/N? No jacket?” Angel asks as she, Natasha, Steve, Bucky and Pietro approach you two.

“Nope.” You show them your wrist and shrugs. “Why bother?” Angel smiles. “By the way, can we start on Thursday for the project? I have a session today and a date tomorrow.”

“Oh? So it’s official now? You two are dating?”

“Oh. They are if they’re not then I’m going to beat up Y/N.” You chuckle as Wanda rolls her eyes.

“You’re only older by twelve minutes, Pietro, don’t push it.”

“Older is older, Wanda.” You laugh as you all get to class.

-

Lunch comes and Wanda picks you up from your classroom. You both go to the cafeteria.

“Finally eating like normal people?” Angel asks as you and Wanda sit on their table.

“We do eat.”

“Sandwiches and juice. The cafeteria offers much more.” You shrug as you eat.

“Convenient is convenient.” Angel shakes her head at you.

“Y/LN.” Tony calls out and you look at him.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry for being sexist assholes.” You stop and so does everyone else around you. They wait with bated breath. “We judged before we even knew you.” You smile at him and before you could even reply, Natasha says something first.

“Sorry for getting jealous. I don’t like it when anyone else asks for Angel’s number.” You chuckle and nod.

“Thank you for apologizing.” Tony holds out his hand and you accept it.

-

“Y/N!” Alsie calls out from her car and you turn to Wanda.

“That’s my ride. See you tomorrow?” She nods and you kiss her.

“I love you.” You grin.

“I love you too.”

-

“So what do you think was the cause?”

“Two phrases. It was ‘always your fault’… and-“ You mumble the last part and your therapist, Dr. Martin lean towards you.

“Y/N. Speak up, I’m af-“ You cut her off.

“Wanda is just pretending.”

“And you believed it?” You laugh.

“Yes. That’s why I was in a daze. I believed every line and every word.”

“Why is that?” You sigh.

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Everything that was happening.” You take a deep breath. “People were being nice to me. My sisters suddenly visited. My mom and ma started getting interested in my life… I guess everything was changing and I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Or rather you were afraid of it.”

“Yes.”

“I know changes are a scary thing but they are inevitable. You have all these happenings, what do you think is the root of them?”

“Wanda.”

“Who?”

“Well, she’s-“ You take a deep breath. “I think I’m falling for her.”

“Think?” You shake your head.

“I already am.” Linda smiles and you sigh. “I just- I think it’s too fast. Everything that’s happening.”

“And why is that?”

“I’m just a Beta! I don’t deserve-“

“And that’s why you’re so afraid. You’re second gender.” You nod.

“It’s the reason why I got bullied. Why teachers are ignoring me. Why people avoid me.”

“Why you also got disconnected with your own family.”

“Yes. I believed that I deserved everything because of something that I cannot control.”

“It’s good that you do remember our past sessions.” You chuckle.

“Things are changing and I have to accept them for what they are.”

“Yes. And you’re second gender?”

“Is something I did not choose nor should be ashamed of.”

-

“How’d it go?” Alsie asks as you stretch your body after leaving Dr. Martin’s office.

“Good.” Alsie nods then stands.

“Where’s the letter?”

“Why? What do you need it for?”

“Things.”

“You’re going to find who wrote it, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” You comply and give her the letter.

“Tell me who it is before you destroy their life, will you?”

“Why?”

“I might want to get in a punch or two.” Alsie grins and nods. You both get out and go home.

-

You go to school the next day and stretch as you walk down the hallways. You see Wanda and smile as you approach her.

“Hey, gorgeous, good morning.” “Morning.” She yawns and you take her hand.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just tired.” Pietro chuckles as he approaches you two. “Mom made her clean our garage all night.” You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Why?”

“She was caught sneaking out.”

“For what?”

“You. I wanted to see you.” You grin and kiss her.

“You could’ve just video call me.” She pouts.

“That’s not the same.” You laugh.

“I guess not.”

-

You hum as you sit on the bench. You just finished your date with Wanda and you were both on a stroll around the park. Wanda straddles you. You hug her and she hums.

“Don’t you have curfew today?” She frowns at you.

“Do you want me to leave?” You shake your head.

“Of course not, but I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be a bad influence.” You kiss her. “When I meet your parents, I want them to know my intentions with you.”

“What intentions?” You hum.

“That’s for them to know and for you to find out.” She pouts and you chuckle.

-

You yawn as you and Angel hover your laptop. You were at the cafeteria with the Avengers. You’ve brought your laptop for the day so you two could start the project. Both Wanda and Natasha are fuming with your and Angel’s closeness but you just ignore them. This project costs about quarter of your grade in an AP class. Both you and Angel love them. Really. But priorities need to be put first.

“You two are serious about that project, huh?”

“Quarter of overall grade.” “AP Class.” You both answer and Natasha sighs. Wanda holds your hand and you look at her.

“What’s up?” She shakes her head and you give her a small smile.

“Just wanted to.” You chuckle and kiss her hand. You spend the whole lunch holding her hand whilst paying attention to Angel and making plans for the project. “Y/N.” She calls out and you look at her. She was holding up your meal’s spoon with food on it. “You need to eat.” You sigh and nod. You accept the food and hum. She smiles as you finish it. You kiss her cheek and get back to Angel. She eats her own food as she makes random patterns on your palm.

-

You groan as you and Angel spend your last class, just researching for the project.

“Miss Wanda that much?” You glare at her and she snickers.

“Shut up.” You grumble and focus on your research.

-

“That was good.” You hum as you pack up your things and laptop.

“We’re already halfway done.” You both get out and both Natasha and Wanda were waiting for you two. And you flinch as Natasha approaches you.

“Y/LN. Here.” She gives you a book and you look at it.

“Wha-“

“An apology for the last time. I got jealous and was immature. I should’ve trusted you and Angel more.” You sigh.

“You should.” You cross your arms. “She’s your soulmate, woman.” She groans.

“I know. My instinct just told me that you were a threat.”

“Why? I’m only a Beta.” Wanda hits you softly and you smile at her. “Besides.” You take Wanda’s hand and kiss it. “I only have eyes for her.”

“Okay. We get it.” Angel gets Natasha’s hand. “You two are running for the cutest couple.”

“I’m pretty sure you two won that last year.”

“Well now, we have serious competition.” Angel smiles and she holds up her hand. You slap it with yours. You both laugh. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

“See you too, Gel!” She and Natasha waves at you and Wanda before leaving. Wanda holds in her laughter and you turn to her.

“Gel?” You scoff at her as you two walk together.

“It’s a nickname!”

-

“What’s that?” You hum and raise an eyebrow at Alsie. It was already Saturday before you knew it and you had a date with Wanda tomorrow since she was busy today. “New book? That’s not your usual genre.”

“You mean her usual documentary, mystery or thriller?” You glare at Valerie who smirks. You sigh as you keep reading.

“Someone gave it to me.” Your two sisters look at each other and they both hum.

“Wanda?” You shake your head and they get taken aback. You had more friends?

“Then who?”

“Romanoff.”

“Natasha? You’re friends with Natasha Romanoff.” You nod and they gasp. You close your book and glare at them.

“WHAT?” They get up in front of your face and you shield yourself with the book. They barrage you with questions and your eye kept twitching as you get more annoyed. The hell is wrong with them? “Stop!” They both back off as you glare at them. “What’s with you two?”

“You know her parents?” You raise an eyebrow as you nod.

“They just switched to our firm last week.” Oh.

“The emergency?” They nod. Alsie gets up and Valerie nods at her.

“They were the reason why we were all needed there.”

“Even Ma?”

“Ma was there to calm the employees down.”

“Ah.” Alsie comes back and holds out a brown folder to you. It says Romanoff Airlines on the side and you take it. “This is?”

“Open it and read it.” You nod and Alsie turns on the TV.

Romanoff Airlines. Opened in 1956 and has been one of the Pioneer Airlines in both Europe and America. This is because of their partnership with Stark Industries who provide the latest technology to Air Transportation through them.

Current Owners: Melina Vostokoff and Alexei Shostakov. Both are Russians and ex-spouses. Although they are divorced, they still live together with their two children.

Heirs: Natasha Romanoff and Yelena Belova. Both are adopted and have decided to take their biological parents’ surnames but are still living in America and with their adoptive parents.

Natasha Romanoff. Currently attending high school. Can speak many languages (Exact number was not extracted), is friends with Tony Stark, Vision Stark and many others. Is a helper of martial arts clubs. Martial Arts Expert. Is a gifted student, passing all of her classes with flying colors. Decided not to take any AP Classes because it was ‘time consuming’.

Yelena Belova. Currently attending middle school. Can speak many languages. Martial Arts Expert. Gymnast. Gold Medalist.

You read everything before closing it.

“You okay?”

“Why switch to our firm?”

“Apparently because their previous firm was shady and we were recommended by Natasha.”

“Did you ask her why?”

“Yep. She just said that we know why.” Their words click inside your head and you look shocked.

“Me?”

“Most likely.”

“Huh.” You give the folder back to Alsie and hum.

“You good?”

“Yep.” You say as you open your book and continue reading.

A/N:

Because Angst makes me feel things.

I don't think I would ever write a series without an ounce of angst.

Thank you for Reading!

[extratragic]

birthday girl

warning: blood, mentions of an injury. nothing graphic but the mc gets injured.

summary: Joel ends up taking care of you on your birthday

word count: 2.5k

a/n: i felt like i needed to post a sweet joel fic after the not so sweet thots i’ve had today :) anyway this is my first hockey fic so pls don’t be mean lol i’m sensitive. also i went through like six gifs cause i couldn’t decide on one lolol

Being with Joel was weird. Not a bad weird, but your relationship was difficult to explain. The quick version was that you were dating without the labels. That was your choice, though, not Joel's. If he had it his way, the two of you would be coming up on your eight-month anniversary.

You were the massage therapist for the Flyers. Well, the assistant massage therapist. It was more like being an intern, but you got paid. Becoming certified wasn't hard and it didn't take long, and it really did help that Martin Roza, the Flyers massage therapist, was a family friend. You’d been with the Flyers longer than Joel had been in the NHL, and you didn’t want a relationship to mess with your reputation. You were older than Joel by four months. Today was actually your twenty-second birthday, and Martin, along with the training staff, decided that your present was going to be you staying with them on the bench that night.

Everything was going great until halfway through the second period.

Travis was a few feet in front of the boards separating the guys from the ice, and one of the Buffalo players skated up to him. You couldn't tell who had the puck or where it was going until it hit you.

You didn't even process it until your hand was on your jaw and you were facing Martin. You could feel the blood on your palm.

"Tunnel, tunnel!" You said, stumbling over your feet as you tried getting away from the bench.

Raffa quickly put his arm around your shoulders and helped you walk away. You had to get out of Joel's sight, at least. He worried about you a lot and he wasn't shy about letting you know how much he hated seeing you hurt. When the two of you were out one night, someone bumped into you and made you fall, ending up with you scraping your knee. You were almost certain that if Claude wasn't there, Joel would've gone after the guy who accidentally caused the cut. As soon as you knew you were out of sight from fans and cameras, you stopped walking and took your hand off of your face.

"Oh my god, I'm bleeding!" You exclaimed, looking up at Raffa.

"Hold this to the cut, okay? That's a pretty good gash," he said, putting a towel on your face. You whined and held the towel, walking with him until the two of you were in the trainer's office.

“How bad does it hurt?” He asked.

“It hurts. Like, I can feel it but it’s not processing yet,” you told him.

The actual pain didn’t hit until you were sitting down.

“Fuck!” You yelled, pulling the towel away from your face.

"No, no. Keep the towel on your face until I'm ready to clean it. Do you wanna get blood all over your shirt?" He asked as he moved around, grabbing a few things from the cabinets and drawers.

"No," you whined, holding the towel to your jaw again. The white Gatorade towel was slowly being stained with your blood the longer you held it to your face. "Can you hurry up? This hurts," you snapped.

"Well, yeah. A puck hit your face at a high speed. It’s gonna hurt, but I’m gonna help,” he said.

You glared at him and he turned to face you, setting a few things on the table next to you. The next few minutes were silent as he cleaned your jaw and neck, eventually stitching the gash.

"How are you this bad with pain?" He asked.

"I message people. I don't do the whole injury thing," you sighed.

He hummed and nodded, feeling around your jaw, neck, and cheek. “I think you're good, just pretty bruised. Does it hurt to talk?” He asked.

“A little bit,” you answered. “I’m just happy you can move your jaw. And I don’t think you have a concussion. You can go to the hospital if you want to, but you seem okay,” he said once he took his hands away from your jaw.

“Thank you,” you mumbled.

“Of course. You wanna go back out or do you wanna stay in here?” He asked, taking his gloves off and throwing them away. “How much time is left?” You asked.

He held up his finger and walked out of the room, looking at one of the televisions in the hallway. “Three minutes until intermission,” he answered once he was back in the room.

“I’ll go out next period. I’m gonna stay here until then if that’s fine,” you said.

He nodded and grabbed a new pair of gloves, slipping them on. He left after telling you that he was going back to the bench. You leaned back in the padded chair and sighed, closing your eyes. You had no clue how the hell the guys went back to playing when they got a puck to the face. This hurt like hell.

Halfway through intermission, the door swung open and hit the wall loudly. The noise made you jump and nearly drop your phone. You looked at the door with wide eyes, seeing Joel looking at you.

“Oh. Hey, Bee,” you said nervously.

“‘Hey, Bee?’ Your face is bruised and that’s all you say?” He asked.

“Hey, Bee. I got hit in the face with a puck. I left 'cause I knew you’d freak out like you are right now. I’m fine, though. Nothing but a bruise, according to Raffa,” you told him.

After the last fifteen minutes of sitting by yourself and scrolling through social media, the pain had gone down some with the help of the pain pill Raffa gave you, and you were feeling pretty calm about the whole thing.

He huffed and walked over to you, getting down on his knees to cup the uninjured side of your jaw. “I didn’t think it hit anyone. But then I saw that you were gone and then Raffa was gone, and I was so fucking worried. I’m gonna beat the hell out of whoever did this,” he said and you gave him a small smile.

“Raffa said it was Teeks. you can’t beat up a dad-to-be,” you giggled.

Joel groaned and stood up, kissing your head before walking out. “Konecny!” he shouted. You stood up and walked out, watching as he walked over to Travis.

“Holy shit,” Nolan said.

“Shh. Joel’s attempting to be intimidating,” you told him.

The two of you, along with half of the locker room, watched as Joel scolded Travis for a few seconds until he started talking.

“You-- watch where you swing your stupid stick. That flying puck? It hit y/n,” he said.

Travis’s eyes went wide and he looked around the room until he saw you standing across from him.

“I’m fine,” you said, waving your hand to the side.

“You sure? That thing’s huge,” Nolan said and you glared at him.

"I’m fully aware. Thank you for pointing it out, Patty,” you said.

He cracked a smile and shrugged. While Nolan was smiling at you and you were glaring at him, Travis walked over to the two of you.

"I'm sorry, y/n. Is it bad? Like, did it do more damage than that?" He asked.

“It’s fine, Teeks. Seriously. It’s just a bruise and a few stitches. You didn’t mean to hit me,” you told him.

“It’s fine? Just like that?” Joel asked, looking at you with wide eyes.

You raised your eyebrows and looked up at him. “I told you that I’m fine, J. I need you to chill out. Travis would never purposely hurt me,” you told him.

He scrunched up his face and you grabbed his hand, pulling him closer to you to put your hands behind your back. Everyone knew about your relationship, and they stopped questioning it and giving the two of you looks after a few months.

"I’m good. Travis is fine,” you said quietly. He nodded and you looked at Travis. “I’m fine, I swear. Raffa said it’s just a bruise. No concussion, nothing broken. You don’t have to apologize,” you told him.

Nolan and Travis left you with Joel, but Claude and Kevin were quick to take their spots in front of you. They were both there to check on you and make sure you were okay, but Kevin was also there so he could talk shit on Travis. Joel went along with the shit-talking and you rolled your eyes, tugging on his hand. Once Kevin and Claude walked away, you pulled Joel out of the locker room so the two of you were alone.

“You’re sure that you’re fine?” He asked, gently holding your face in his hands.

You closed your eyes and smiled softly, nodding. "I’m okay, J. You have another 20 minutes of hockey to focus on, though,” you reminded him.

“You won’t be out there, right?” He asked.

“Of course I’ll be out there. You’re gonna kick ass and I gotta watch,” you told him.

Joel argued with you, of course, but he gave in when you pulled the birthday card on him. He loved spoiling you and hated telling you no, so it was easy to make him accept that you were going to watch the game from the bench. This time, though, you wouldn't be the one closest to the ice.

The Flyers ended up winning 4-1, and now Joel could finally get you to his apartment so he could be the one taking care of you.

"How about a bath?" Joel asked, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand as he drove towards his apartment.

"That sounds amazing. You have the stuff that I like, right?" You asked.

He smiled and nodded, making you smile. "Do you wanna eat?" He asked.

"Nothing that I have to chew a lot. I'll just snack on things, but you can make whatever," you told him.

Joel scoffed softly and squeezed your hand. As if he'd let you snack on things alone. Sure, he was hungry, but he would just snack on whatever he had in his apartment with you.

"I'm not eating a whole meal without you on your birthday. I'll snack with you. At least we had breakfast together," he said.

"Thank you, J," you said softly, bringing your hands to your lips and kissing the back of his hand.

"Always, baby," he said, kissing your knuckles.

When the two of you got to his apartment, Joel went straight to the bathroom to get the bath ready while you made smoothies for now and snacks for later.

"What are we eating?" Joel asked, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind.

"We're having smoothies while we're in the bath. You know that I hate eating in the bath," you said.

He chuckled and kissed your shoulder, watching as you put together two plates full of fruit and whatever food you felt like you could eat on one plate, putting the fruits and some different snacks on the other plate. It was obvious that Joel's plate was the second and he smiled when he realized that you weren't going to let him eat the same thing as you. If you were at Joel's place, he was never hungry. You even bought groceries sometimes since you were over there so much, and he eventually caught on to everything that you bought for him and for you, and he'd do the grocery runs when food was running low.

Once you finished making the plates, you put them in the fridge and went to the bathroom with Joel. While you stripped and got into the tub, Joel only took his shirt off.

"Aren't you getting in?" You asked, pouting at Joel when he turned to walk out.

"Give me a few minutes, okay? I'll be right back," he said, softly pecking your lips before leaving the bathroom.

He was gone for about five minutes before he walked into the bathroom and got into the bath with you. He sat behind you, happily letting you rest against his chest. The two of you sat in silence for a little bit, just soaking in the hot water together.

"Thanks for winning, by the way," you mumbled, playing with his fingers.

He kissed the crown of your head and hummed. "Good birthday?" He asked.

"Top five, easily. Would be top three but I got a puck to the face," you said and he chuckled.

You grinned and tilted your head back, puckering your lips. Joel leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. He kissed your cheek next, placing multiple kisses on your skin and over your bruise, careful to avoid the stitches. You giggled when he nuzzled his face in your neck and placed a few kisses there.

"Want me to wash your body?" He asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed. "I did that while you were gone. But I could wash yours," you offered.

"Oh, for sure. Switch me," he said, putting his hands on the sides of the tub.

You laughed and slid back, taking his spot after he got out of the tub and quickly climbed back in, laying back against your chest. You grabbed the soap and one of the washcloths, washing his upper body.

"Didn't you do this at the rink?" You asked.

"Like, a basic shower. This is so much better," he said.

You smiled and shook your head, kissing his shoulder when the soap was rinsed off. "Can I lay on you?" He asked. You didn't answer him verbally, choosing to pull him back instead. He sighed when he laid back on you, closing his eyes once his head was on your shoulder.

Once the smoothies were gone, the two of you got out of the bath. You went to get the plates from the fridge while Joel drained the water. You got to his room right before him, your eyes lighting up when you saw what he had done.

"Joel," you said softly, looking around his bedroom.

The soft blanket that was usually on his couch was on the side of the bed that you slept on, along with a heating pad and one of his many extremely soft pillows. Your pajamas- one of his shirts and a pair of boxers- were laid out on your side of the bed. There were two candles, ones that weren't usually in his room, on his nightstand and dresser. All of your skincare products were sitting in front of the mirror. Once you started spending more time at his place, he went out and bought everything that you had in your bathroom so you could have everything at his place, too.

Joel wrapped his arms around your waist, careful to not let your towel fall, and kissed your jaw, the side that wasn't bruised.

"Happy birthday, princess," he mumbled against your skin.

"I'm about to get down on one knee and propose," you said, making him laugh. 

“You'd have to be my girlfriend first, y/n," he said.

You leaned back against his chest and he kissed your cheek. "Will you be my boyfriend, Bee?" You asked. You could feel him grin against your skin.

"Always, y/n/n," he said softly.

“Good, now let’s eat. I’m starving.” 

[teenwolffan-with-nolife]

The Witch and The Wolf Pt.60

Word Count: 4,072

Characters: Derek Hale, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Chris Argent, Kate Argent, Braeden, Jordan Parrish, Kira Yukimura, Liam Dunbar, Berserkers, Lydia Martin, Malia Hale, Peter Hale, Calaveras, Reader

Pairings: Derek Hale x Witch!Reader

Warnings: angst, death, fluff, i think that’s all

Masterlist     Series Masterlist

“As soon as I figure out what you’re planning, it’s over for you.”

You stood across from Peter, the two of you were upstairs in the loft, away from Derek’s hearing range.

“I’ve got nothing to hide, (Y/N),” he smirked.

“You’re working with Kate!” you exclaimed.

“Technically, I’m not. We had a mutual plan, working to shut down the Deadpool,” he crossed his arms while you rolled your eyes.

“How stupid do you think I am?” you scoffed.

“You know what? Screw this, I’ll just tell Derek that you're working with Kate,” you replied, taking a step back before he stopped you.

“If you tell him that I was working with Kate then I’ll tell him that you’re pregnant,” you froze in your steps, taking a deep breath before you turned to him.

“Werewolves are in the womb for a shorter amount of time. I can already hear a heartbeat,” he leaned against the wall as you clenched your jaw.

You couldn't add to more stress, especially now with Scott and Kira missing.

“Don’t think I’m not watching you,” you replied.

“Oh, I would never,” you could see that stupid cocky grin on his face as you exhaled sharply, walking down the stairs.

You could see Derek leaning against the table, resting his head in his hands. You could tell he was upset, and you could feel his pain.

“Hey,” you said softly, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he put his arm around your waist, pulling you in slightly.

“Are you okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just getting these weapons ready for Mexico,” he replied.

Your face dropped slightly.

“I thought we agreed that you were going to stay here.”

Not this again

“No, you said that. I never replied.”

“Derek, it's not safe,” you ran your fingers through your hair.

“It’s not safe for anyone. But Kira and Scott are gonna die if we don't do something.”

“You could die, though.”

“So could any one of us.”

“Well, I don't care about them, I care about you!” he was surprised when you raised your voice, taking a deep breath.

“They’re your friends, (Y/N),” he put his hand on your cheek, stroking it softly.

“I know, I didn't mean that,” you shook your head.

“If I don't come back then so be it. I’d die for Scott any day,” he replied.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, your eyes watering before you sniffled, shutting them tightly.

“Braeden said she got the van. We’re supposed to meet her downstairs in a few hours,” Derek said.

You nodded your head softly, sitting down next to him on the couch while he laid his head on top of yours, holding you close.

---

“No, I’ve been calling Lydia for a while, she’s just not answering,” you frowned, walking into the garage with Derek and Braeden by your side.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Lydia isn't picking up. She went to the school to grab something with Kira’s scent,” Stiles explained.

“Well, we can’t wait for her,” Derek said.

“How about she meets us on the road?” you suggested.

“No, we can’t just leave her alone,” Stiles shook his head.

“I’ll text Mason. He’s probably at school anyway, I’ll tell him to look for Lydia,” Liam asked.

Stiles sighed, before nodding his head.

“What’s the worst Kate can do to Scott and Kira?” you could feel Stiles’ anxiety radiating off of him.

“I don’t know,” you replied softly.

“Right… she can’t steal a true alpha’s power, right?” you turned to face Derek, while he shrugged.

“If somehow she was able to turn me 15 again, who knows what she can do to Scott,” he said.

You sighed, rubbing your fingers through your hair.

“Let’s go,” you nodded.

“Okay, yeah I’ll ride with Derek and Liam since I have experience with out-of-control teen wolves,” Stiles nodded.

You rolled your eyes, before turning to Peter, who had a smirk on his face.

“I’m gonna ride with Peter and Malia,” you immediately said.

You could feel Derek giving you a confused look.

“Someone has to keep an eye on him,” you explained.

“I’ll be doing that,” Malia shrugged.

You could feel all eyes on you while you clenched your jaw, looking at Peter’s smirk.

“I thought you hated Peter,” Liam asked.

“I do,” you replied quickly.

“So then just come with us,” Derek raised an eyebrow, immediately suspicious of you.

“Yeah, whatever. Let’s just go,” you avoided eye contact with Derek before making your way to the truck.

You waited for Derek, Liam, and Stiles to sit inside, before you went in beside them. Braeden pulled you over, stopping you.

“What’s the problem?” she asked.

“Peter, we need to keep an eye on him. He’s working with Kate,” you explained quietly.

“Why can’t Derek know?” she asked.

“He's going to want to do something, but I just need to come up with a plan. The only problem is I have no idea what Peter’s planning,” you muttered.

“Okay, we’ll drive behind him. Does that work?” she asked.

“For now,” you nodded.

She walked to the front seat, while you sat across from Liam and Stiles, holding Derek’s hand.

---

“Okay,” you put the lock around the chains, securing them before pulling on them, making sure Liam wouldn't be able to break through them.

“Here,” you saw Derek hand him the triskelion talisman while you gave him a look.

“It’s been in my family for centuries. It’s a very powerful supernatural talisman,” he explained.

Reverse psychology

You were surprised it would work on werewolves but didn't question it.

“Are you okay,” Derek whispered softly to you.

You raised an eyebrow, before nodding your head.

“I don’t need powers to feel the anxiousness radiating off of you.”

You had barely focused on anything that was going on. Most of your energy was focused on making sure you wouldn't get sick on the way and focused on keeping your pregnancy a secret until after Scott, Derek, and Kira were safe.

“I’m fine. Are you okay?” you replied.

He nodded before you put your head on his shoulder.

The car was nearly silent for a few hours, with the occasional words from Stiles, but you could tell he was also scared for Scott's life.

You heard Liam groaning, while you sat up, realizing the moon was up, it was night.

“Okay. Liam, look at the talisman. Each spiral on the triskelion means something, okay?” you tensed slightly as Derek moved closer to Liam, seeing Liam’s eyes glow yellow.

“Alpha, beta, omega. It reminds us that an alpha and fall to a beta, and that a beta can become an alpha,” Derek explained.

“Can an alpha become an omega?” Liam asked.

Derek nodded his head softly.

“Use it as a mantra. Alpha, beta, omega,” Derek said.

“Alpha, beta omega,” Liam repeated.

“Slower,” you said.

“Alpha… beta… omega,” he repeated slower.

He shut his eyes tightly, while you saw him digging his nails into his hands.

“It’s not working!” he yelled.

“Keep trying,” you said.

You felt the entire van shake, while Braeden swerved slightly. Liam broke from his handcuffs, immediately attacking Derek.

“Prohibe.”

Your eyes were purple as you pushed Liam aside, using all your strength to pin Liam down.

“Liam! Focus!” you yelled.

“Well, it’s clearly not working,” Stiles exclaimed.

“Do you have any better mantras?!” you yelled.

He sighed, before frowning.

“Yeah, I do actually.”

“Colligationem,” Stiles made his way next to Liam.

“Liam, what are three things that cannot long be hidden?” Stiles asked.

You felt Liam digging his claws into your arm as you winced, taking shaky breaths.

“Liam! What are three things that cannot long be hidden?” Stiles asked again.

“The sun, the moon, the truth,” you felt Liam release his grip on you as you let out a deep breath.

You heard Liam continue to repeat it, before his eyes reverted back to his normal color, falling to his side.

You broke the spell from him, stumbling back.

“(Y/N),” Derek put his hand on your arm, examining your wounds.

“I'm sorry, (Y/N),” you could hear the weakness in Liam’s voice as you shook your head.

“Don’t worry about it, kiddo,” you watched as you slowly healed, while Derek frowned.

“How did you do that?” he whispered.

“A spell,” you started.

“You can't heal yourself with magic,” he replied.

“Derek,” you shook your head.

“I’m not an idiot, I know you’ve been hiding something from me,” he replied softly.

You could see Stiles and Liam looking at the two of you while you sighed.

“Can we talk about this later?” 

“Who knows if later is even gonna come?” 

You frowned, looking up at him.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Forget I said anything,” he scoffed.

“Derek,” you put your hand on his shoulder while he scooted away from you.

You put your hands on your head, looking outside the window.

---

The past few hours were silent, while you bounced your leg, biting the skin around your nails.

You felt the van come to a halt, seeing La Iglesia outside the window.

Derek stepped out first, seeing him being pulled out of the van while you jumped, hearing him yell out.

You ran out of the van in fear, feeling your heart racing as you saw a berserker holding down Derek, running its bone fist through Derek.

“Repellunt,” your tears were at bay as you used your magic to pull the berserker off of Derek, pulling Braeden’s gun from her while firing repeatedly at the berserker.

You watched as it ran away, your tears falling freely as your heart began to ache, seeing Derek slumped over across from you.

You ran to him, throwing the shotgun down, putting your hand over Derek’s wounds.

“I-I can heal you. J-Just give me a second,” you could hear his shaky breathing as blood continued to fall out of his wounds.

“Instaurabo,” your eyes were purple, while you put your hands on his wounds. 

Nothing happened, while you continued to try, your tears blurring your vision.

“(Y/N),” you heard Derek groan.

“I don't know why it’s not working,” you continued to repeat the spell.

“(Y/N),” he said again, slightly strained.

“You guys, go in. Find Scott and Kira. Save them. I’m right behind you,” you watched as Stiles hesitated, before nodding his head.

“Save him, (Y/N),” you heard Stiles say before he, Malia, Peter, and Liam ran into the church.

“(Y/N),” Braeden put her hand on your shoulder.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” you asked.

She shook her head no.

“I-It’s fine. I just have to clear my mind,” the thought of losing Derek like this stuck in your head, while his blood covered your shaking hands.

“Looks like Lydia was right after all,” Derek laughed softly, before you heard him coughing, blood coming out of his mouth.

“No, you’re not dying like this,” your voice wavered as you looked down at him.

He put his hand on top of yours while more and more tears rushed down your face.

“You need to go help Stiles,” he said softly.

“I’m not leaving you,” a small cry fell from your lips before you bit them, taking a deep breath.

“You need to,” he said.

You cried softly, shutting your eyes.

“I can’t do this without you,” you cried.

You saw his eyes water slightly as he sniffled.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“No,” you shook your head, pressing your hands onto his wound tightly as he groaned.

“We can still save you,” you continued to press onto the wound and he yelled out in pain.

“(Y/N), I’m begging you to stop,” he said.

“No, you're not dying!” you yelled.

“Braeden,” you heard Derek say.

You felt her pull on your arm while you pushed her off.

“I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you too, Derek. Please, let me try,” you begged.

“We’re not alone,” you heard Braeden say as you tried to hold back your tears.

“Okay, we’re going to split up. Take a shotgun,” she motioned as you shook your head.

“What about Derek?” you said.

“If you don't leave him, all three of us are going to end up dead.” 

Your hands were shaking as you took Derek’s gun out of his pocket.

“Shoot anything that moves,” he nodded his head while you stood up shakily.

Your heart was aching fiercely as you took deep breaths. You felt an overwhelming sense of anger taking over you. Kate did this to him, and you were going to make her pay.

---

You walked around the building, keeping your eyes out for any sign of anyone or anything. You heard a noise, peeking over a corner to see Kate making her way with a berserker next to her.

You aimed the shotgun at the berserker, firing rapidly, yet seeing no effect on it. You heard the shotgun click, as all the bullets laid on the floor.

You saw the berserker charging towards you as you pulled out your gun, aiming it at the berserker to try and phase it, but nothing happened.

“Obice,” you formed a barrier around yourself, jumping slightly as the berserker hit it, trying to break through.

You felt it break through as you stumbled backward, while it put its hands around your throat, pushing your back against the wall as you struggled for your breath.

You tried to pull it off of you, only for its grip to get tighter.

“You know I wouldn't want to hurt a pregnant woman. You’re making this hard on me,” you could hear her taunting voice as your eyes watered slightly.

“Then do it. Kill me. You already killed Derek. Kill me too,” you saw her frown slightly, before shaking her head.

“I didn't do anything to him,” you felt slightly dizzy before hearing a gunshot from beside you, aiming at Kate.

She groaned while the berserker took its grip off of your neck, as you gasped for air.

“(Y/N),” Parrish ran to you, helping you up.

You noticed more and more cars pull up near you, seeing Chris walking to you. You tensed slightly, seeing Araya walking next to him.

The Calaveras

---

You heard guns firing continuously at Kate and the berserkers as you ran to Derek.

“Look, we have help now. They must have something we can use to save you,” the tears never left your eyes as he looked at you, a soft smile on his face.

“Thank you for making life worth living,” you felt like your heart was about to burst from your chest as you shook your head.

“No, Derek,” he closed his eyes, while you heard his last breath fall from his mouth, seeing his body stop moving.

“Derek, wake up. Get up, p-please,” you cried, wrapping your arms around his limp body.

You gasped for air, shutting your eyes tightly as you pulled him in, your body shaking with each sob.

---

“We’re almost out of ammo,” your eyes were bloodshot, your jaw clenched as you stood next to Parrish, keeping your eyes on Kate as you continued to fire at her.

“Screw this,” you threw the gun onto the floor, running to Kate.

“Hold your fire! Stop!” you heard Chris yelling, while you continued running to Kate, wrapping your arms around her neck tightly.

“You're gonna pay!” you yelled, your eyes glowing purple.

“If you kill me you’ll just turn into a demon again. Is that really what you want, (Y/N)?” her voice was strained as you tightened your grip on her neck.

“I don’t care!” you shouted.

You could feel the life leaving her body.

“(Y/N), let her go. You don't want to do this again,” you heard Chris approaching you as you clenched your jaw, pressing down on Kate.

“(Y/N) you don't want to go down this path again,” Chris warned.

“She killed Derek. She has to pay,” a tear fell from your face while Kate smirked.

“You’re not as strong as you think you are, (Y/N),” her eyes flashed a dark green before she growled, striking your face.

She pushed you down, before wrapping her hands around your neck.

“You were so close. Say hi to Derek in hell for me, okay?” you heard a gunshot, seeing Kate getting pushed off you while a yellow bullet flew into her arm.

Yellow wolfsbane

Chris pulled you up.

“Let me take care of her, (Y/N),” Chris shook his head. 

Kate grabbed a gun from her pocket, aiming it at you as she stood up.

Before you processed it, you heard a sound, a wolf howling.

You tensed as the wolf charged towards Kate, pushing her over and attacking her.

“Back up,” Chris pushed you back slightly, while you continued to watch as the wolf attacked Kate.

Your eyes went wide, watching as the wolf shifted into something else, into someone else.

Derek stood in front of you, looking down at Kate as you gasped, tears of joy rushing down your face.

He turned to face you while you ran to him, wrapping your arms around him tightly.

“I wasn’t dying, I was evolving,” he said softly.

“So much for no Pokémon, yeah?” you put your hands on his face, putting your forehead on his.

“Shut up,” he scoffed, putting his hands on either side of your face, before pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Oh my god,” you let out a breath of relief, tightening your grip on him.

“I love you so much,” you said softly.

“I love you too, (Y/N/N),” you closed your eyes softly before gasping, remembering the rest of them.

“Scott!” you yelled out.

You turned to Chris, who nodded his head.

“Go save him. I’ll take care of Kate,” you nodded softly before the two of you ran into the church.

---

“Where the hell are they?!” the two of you ran into the church frantically, looking for any sign of Scott or Stiles, or any of them.

“I can hear them… they're this way,” Derek continued to lead you further into the church.

“You have your powers back,” you said.

“Yeah, I feel better than ever,” your eyes widened, seeing Kira, Stiles, Liam, and Malia all laying on the floor, while Scott was pinned down by Peter.

Something was different, he wasn't just a werewolf anymore. He changed too.

“Traho,” you pulled Peter off of Scott, while Derek wrapped his arms around him, restraining him.

“It’s nice to see you’ve got your strength back, Derek,” Peter said, letting out a bitter laugh.

“Was this your plan all along? To kill Scott?” you scoffed.

“He doesn't deserve to be an alpha,” he barked while Derek tightened his grip.

“You don’t either. You’re a monster, Peter,” you spat.

Scott walked shakily in front of Peter, his eyes glowing red.

He swung his fist, while you looked at him in surprise, seeing Peter collapse onto the floor, unconscious.

“I don't think I’ve ever seen you knock out someone like that,” you said.

“Oh, shut up,” he wrapped his arms around you and Derek, while Derek tensed, before hugging Scott back.

“What happened to you?” Scott asked Derek.

“I’m okay,” Derek nodded, a small smile on his face.

You walked to Liam and Malia, helping them up while Scott helped Kira.

“I feel like I broke something,” Stiles muttered.

You scoffed, while the six of you hugged each other tightly.

Scott tensed, before looking up.

“I hear something,” Scott said.

Derek frowned, before raising an eyebrow.

“There's only seven of us here,” he said.

You frowned slightly, confused.

“I hear it too,” Malia nodded.

“Hear what?” Stiles asked.

“The extra heartbeat,” you bit your lip slightly, giving a look to Derek, trying to find the words to say.

“It’s coming from right here. Is there someone under us?” Liam asked.

“Guys,” you said softly.

“We’ll split up,” Derek held your hand before you shook your head.

“Guys,” you raised your voice, while the rest of them turned back to look at you.

“There’s no one else here,” you said.

“What do you mean?” you turned to face Derek, while he frowned.

The rest of the pack kept their eyes on you while you took a deep breath.

Just say it

You gave Derek a nervous smile, before scratching the back of your head.

“(Y/N),” Derek put his hand on your shoulder.

“T-The heartbeat is coming from… our kid…” your voice trailed off while you saw Derek’s face drop, hearing the rest of the pack yelling.

“You’re pregnant?! Is that why you’ve been acting like a bitch to me?!” Stiles exclaimed.

“How are you pregnant? I-I mean, well, I know the how but like… what?” Scott was baffled, shaking his head.

You continued to look at Derek, trying to get a reaction.

“Are you upset?” you heard the rest of the pack’s voices die down.

“Guys… give us a moment alone,” you felt your heart racing as Derek motioned for the rest of them to leave you two, taking Peter with them.

They nodded, walking out while he put his hand on your cheek.

“Did you want kids?” he asked softly.

“No, I-I mean raising a kid in this life… it isn’t safe, and-” 

“Hey,” he put his hands on either sides of your face, wiping away the tears you didn't know you had.

“It doesn't matter if I want a kid, it isn't safe,” you shook your head.

“If you want kids, we will figure this out and we will be safe. So, do you want kids?” he asked again.

You nodded softly, while he wrapped his arms around you tightly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“It looks like we’re having a kid,” he pressed his forehead against yours as you let out a shaky breath, laughing softly.

“How are we gonna do this?” you cried softly.

“All I know is that we can figure this out, together,” you nodded, while he continued to hug you tightly.

“I am more than happy to have this kid with you. I love you, (Y/N), and I’m going to love this kid too.”

He put his hands on your waist while you put yours around his neck.

“I don't know how I thought you were going to react,” you shook your head.

“Well, I wouldn't have control over this. The best I can do is support the woman I love,” he said softly.

“I'm lucky to have you,” you put your head on his.

“Well, I have a badass girlfriend who fought a bunch of berserkers, hunters, and Kate Argent while being pregnant. So, which one of us is really the lucky one?” you smirked softly while he put his arm around your shoulder, the two of you walking out of the church.

---

“I promised Araya that I would go back with them after this, and help them,” you stood next to Chris, the two of you outside of the church.

It was bright outside, the sun was shining. To anyone else, it would look like a picture perfect scene.

“When will you come back to Beacon Hills?” you asked.

“I don’t know yet. Not for a while,” he shook his head.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly, feeling tears come to your eyes as you blinked them back.

“Thank you for everything, Chris. I-I don’t know what I’d be without you,” you felt him pause, before hugging you tighter.

“I love you, kiddo,” you pulled away from him, seeing him crying as you laughed softly, wiping away your tears.

“Stay safe. Don't get yourself killed,” you said softly.

“Same to you. You have your own family now. You need to be careful,” you nodded, while he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You watched as he walked away, getting into the van as Derek walked to you, pressing a kiss to your cheek before he put his arm around your shoulder.

You watched as the van drove off, before turning to Derek.

“Ready to go home?” he asked softly.

You nodded, resting your head on his shoulder before the two of you made your way to the van. The rest of the pack was already waiting, as Derek held your hand tightly, pressing a small kiss to it.

“I love you, (Y/N/N),” he said softly.

“I love you too.”

[when-they-write-stuff]

SterekWeek2020: Day Seven (Halloween)

(so late, but finally here!)

~

Derek was acting strange.

And yeah, Stiles supposed he really shouldn’t be that surprised. Derek was always acting strange in some way or another, it seemed like. For a man who had basically built his reputation on the idea that he was this big scary werewolf, Derek Hale had shown himself to be a lot more complex than that.

But the point was, Derek Hale was acting strange. And Stiles didn’t know why.

It started with the little things. Things like Derek vanishing out of nowhere and coming back to the loft much later in ruffled clothes and a pleased expression on his face. Stiles had asked the betas on multiple occasions what the hell was happening, but none of them ever seemed to know.

Or really care, for that matter. Erica would shrug and drag Boyd off to her room for some ‘alone’ time and Isaac would proceed to wrap himself in blankets and hog the TV, the volume up much too loud to cover up what Stiles could only assume were sounds he was glad he didn’t have the enhancements to hear.

Sometimes, there were perks to being human.

Derek always came back, of course. The first time he’d vanished, Stiles had been over helping Isaac with his homework— something Scott had roped them into. It had started as a pack study group, except then the young Alpha had gotten back together with Allison and spent more time at her house than at the loft anymore.

It didn’t help that Isaac needed the help, too. And Stiles would like to say that he had a heart of gold, thank you very much, and was kind enough to never abandon the beta.

Also, he got to hang around Derek— er, the other betas. At the loft. Nothing else.

The one downside was Peter.

When Stiles had asked him about Derek’s mysterious getaways, Peter had only smirked over the top of his book. And Stiles knew the asshole knew exactly where Derek kept going, but he was very conveniently keeping that information to himself.

Which made Stiles feel a little less bad when he spent time at the loft pretending Peter didn’t exist. 

The first time Derek had vanished out of nowhere, Stiles had waited until the man came back. And Derek had come through the loft door hours later, shirtless and in ripped pants, looking like he’d gotten into a fight with a mountain lion and lost. But when Stiles had bombarded him with questions, refusing to leave until he got some sort of answer, Derek had just shrugged and locked himself in his room, leaving Stiles alone in the silent loft.

He’d tried to get Derek to talk since, he really had. Stiles had even attempted to follow the man once, but he’d only made it to the preserve before he lost Derek among the trees.

It was probably werewolf stuff, Scott had said. He didn’t seem very intrigued that Derek was living a secret second life, but Stiles supposed he hadn’t expected the boy to be. He just wanted someone to be as curious as he was and the betas were a bust, Scott was too obsessed with Allison, and when Stiles had tried to bring it up with Lydia, she’d proceeded to turn around and walk away.

It was Derek’s business, she’d said. Which… yeah. But still. Stiles was confused.

Months ended up passing since that very first day. Derek continued to act strange on certain days and go on mini-vacations, and Stiles continued to be utterly lost. It wasn’t until he’d nearly given up that things finally changed.

It was Halloween night when Stiles finally figured out Derek’s little secret.

He knew the betas planned to go around town in their beta forms, scaring the crap out of little kids, but Stiles had already decided he wasn’t going with them. Because when someone inevitably called the cops and Stiles’s dad showed up, he was not going to be the betas scapegoat.

No, Stiles planned on hanging out at the loft with the others to watch scary movies. Derek had been a little stubborn when Lydia first volunteered his place to meet up, but the man had eventually given in. Even Derek Hale knew better than to argue with Lydia Martin.

And Stiles totally wasn't looking forward to spending time at Derek’s loft. Totally not at all.

He might’ve been a little.

Except Derek wasn’t at the loft when Stiles arrived.

“Okay,” Stiles said, coming back into the main room after doing a thorough search of the loft. “Where the hell is our mighty Alpha?”

“Why does it matter?” Scott asked, looking confused. He was curled up on the couch with Allison, and she didn’t look too worried either. From where she sat in the other chair, Lydia didn’t even glance up from her phone.

“He’s gone,” Stiles said. “Again. Doesn’t that ever strike any of you as strange?”

“Not really,” Scott said. Allison shrugged.

“Maybe he's out doing something.”

“Like?”

She glanced at Scott, who shook his head. “Keeping an eye on the betas?”

“Derek doesn’t babysit the betas,” Stiles said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m pretty sure he’d sooner eat his own hand.”

“Gross, Stiles,” Lydia said, making a face. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“You know it’s true. He’s gone again. On Halloween night. What the hell is more important than scary movies and candy on Halloween night?”

“Why do you care so much?” Lydia said, a familiar glint in her green eyes. It was that knowing look she’d gotten the first time Stiles had complained about Derek’s antics. Glaring at her, Stiles fished out his keys and started toward the loft door, grabbing his hoodie from the back of the nearest chair.

“I don’t,” he said. “But the asshole is being weird and I’m going to go figure out what he’s doing.”

“Oh, come on, Stiles,” Scott called. “You’re going to miss the movie!”

“There’s plenty of time to watch scary movies tonight,” Stiles said, waving a hand over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

Stiles was pretty sure Scott started to say something else, but he didn’t stick around to listen. 

And yeah, maybe Derek’s business was Derek’s business or whatever. But Stiles was pretty damn curious and he’d had enough. The man was hiding something from them and for some reason, nobody else seemed to care.

What if he was in trouble? Secretly dying? Had an embarrassing hobby that Stiles totally wanted to know about?

The possibilities were endless.

He wasn’t exactly sure where to go looking for the man. The preserve was usually Derek’s go-to when Stiles attempted to follow him, but that never ended well. One time, he’d ditched the Camaro on the side of the road and literally disappeared— and Stiles hadn’t even known what to think about that.

Maybe Derek was also part ghost. A werewolf alpha ghost.

Okay, maybe not.

Stiles ended up deciding to do a quick drive of the town. Because if Derek really was being a ‘disproving Alpha’ to the betas, then he might as well find out before wasting his night looking for one grumpy-growly werewolf. And maybe he could get to see Derek chew them out too.

That was always amusing.

There were already tons of people out, even though it wasn’t that dark yet. Stiles wasn’t really sure where the betas would go, but he may or may not have put a tracker into Isaac’s phone the first time Isaac let him borrow it. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t trust the boy or anything, but Derek’s betas always seemed to be getting themselves in trouble. And Stiles knew there was no way he was ever getting his hands on the phones of the other two.

He’d put a tracker in Derek’s too, if he could only figure out what the man’s freaking password was. It wasn’t like Derek was good at technology but damn, if the man didn’t know how to keep unwanted visitors out of his phone.

Isaac’s phone placed him all the way across town. In one of Beacon Hills larger neighborhoods, probably scaring the crap out of innocent little kids, if Stiles was right.

He was.

He caught sight of the betas almost immediately— and quickly ducked down. Because Stiles hadn’t gone with them for a reason, remember? And that reason was looking at him right in the face in the form of flashing police lights and Stiles’s dad looking disappointed, giving the betas the chewing-out that Stiles had kind of hoped to see Derek giving.

The grumpy Alpha, on the other hand, was nowhere in sight. Stiles did spot a small group of trick-or-treaters and their parents watching, though. 

And a giant black dog, standing a little ways away from the flashing lights.

Stiles tilted his head, watching the dog curiously. He couldn’t make out a collar, but it seemed well-behaved enough, sitting on someone's lawn and watching the betas get lectured. It almost looked… interested. In a scarily human way.

Suddenly, dark amber eyes were locked on his own and then the dog was watching him.

Stiles jerked, hitting his elbow on the steering wheel with a curse. And when he looked back, rubbing at his funny bone, the dog was gone.

As if it had never been there.

Stiles stared for another long moment before shaking his head, wondering faintly if he was going crazy.

He drove off before he could get caught by one of the betas or worse, his dad, determined to have nothing to do with them being idiots. At this point, it was much darker, and Stiles figured he was never going to find Derek unless the man wanted to be found.

Which clearly, he didn’t.

So Stiles headed home, deciding to grab a few of his favorite horror movies before heading back to the loft. He’d probably already missed the first one, but that wasn’t a big loss. Scott had brought it and the boy had terrible taste in movies. 

He still hadn’t seen Star Wars yet.

Stiles hadn’t spent Halloween at home since his mom’s death. Before, they used to decorate the house and hand out candy, but things changed when she passed. And Stiles wasn’t a little kid anymore. His dad worked Halloween night anyway, and Stiles hated to be alone in the silence, so he usually ended up going to the McCall’s instead of hanging out alone. 

Or, that’s what he’d done before the pack. Before he had other people to spend the holidays with.

Stiles would never admit out loud how much he kind of loved it.

Which brought him back to his sour mood and the fact that Derek wasn’t around tonight. Stiles didn’t think he’d be so offended if the man would just tell one of them what he was doing. It wasn’t like he was worried about the asshole or whatever, but… it’d be nice to know.

That’s all it was.

Stiles grabbed a few movies, a bag of chips (because Derek never had any good snacks around), and headed back out into the night to see a large black dog sitting on his lawn.

The large black dog.

Stiles froze, movies in one hand and the bag of chips in the other. For a moment, he didn’t move and the dog didn’t either, looking at him with those eerily knowing eyes.

“Uh,” Stiles finally said, taking a nervous step back. “Hey, there, doggie?”

The dog growled. And if Stiles was being honest, it looked a lot more like a wolf than a dog, big enough to probably rip out his throat with ease.

Stiles suddenly froze, staring. 

A grumpy-growly wolf-dog. Following him and the betas around, all while Derek was on the loose who-knew-where...

“No freaking way,” Stiles breathed. “Sourwolf?”

Either he was losing his mind and talking to stray wolf-dogs, or Derek was sitting right in front of him. Not ripping his throat out, which Stiles supposed he should be grateful for, but was this really the secret the man had been keeping for months?

“Oh my god, dude, you go furry now?”

The dog snarled, stalking forward. Stiles squeaked, dropping both the movie and bag of chips. He stumbled back, ramming against the door, and fumbled blindly for the doorknob. Except, before he could yank it open and maybe spend the rest of the night hiding from an angry wolf-dog-thing, it was getting larger, less furry, and suddenly Derek Hale was standing in front of him.

Stiles yelped, clapping his hands over his eyes and turning his face away.

“Dude, genitals!”

Yeah, that sentence actually left his mouth.

And it wasn’t like Stiles had never imagined seeing Derek naked before, but if he had, it would not be in a situation like this. Stiles was far too shocked to remove his hands for a moment, but he was pretty sure that a grown man standing naked on his front porch was going to get the cops called and— and his dad could not see this.

Oh god, his dad could never see this.

“D-Derek?”

“Stiles.”

Stiles flinched, lowering his hands but keeping his eyes firmly closed. Turning around blindly, he felt around until he found the doorknob and turned it, stumbling back into his house. And after a moment, he heard what sounded like Derek following.

“Shut the door behind you,” Stiles said, finally opening his eyes but keeping them straight ahead. “I swear to god, dude, shut the door and hope for both our sakes that nobody saw you go from furry to nude in like, three seconds.”

Stiles heard what sounded like an unimpressed grunt, but he was really trying to pretend like there wasn’t a naked werewolf behind him, thank you very much. After a second, he heard the door shut, and then footsteps moved forward.

“Nope!” Stiles shouted, squeezing his eyes closed again. “Nope, do not take another step, dude! Not until you have some clothes on!”

“Stiles,” Derek growled, definitely sounding irritated now. Stiles waved a hand over his shoulder, cutting the man off.

“Nuh-uh. I’m going to go get you something to wear and you are going to stay… right where you are. Wherever you are. No moving, no going anywhere. No going furry again!”

“Stiles—”

“I swear to god, Sourwolf, I will murder you if you don’t listen to me right now.”

Derek went silent and Stiles waited for a moment longer before realizing he had the upper hand here. More than relieved, he stumbled toward the stairs, keeping his gaze firmly averted until the living room was out of sight 

On the top of the stairs, Stiles could easily freak out in peace. He was pretty sure Derek could still hear his heartbeats but whatever.

There was a naked werewolf one floor below. Derek Hale was naked in his living room.

And the man had just been a damn wolf.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Stiles said, heading for his dad’s room. The last time he’d attempted to make Derek wear his clothes, it had nearly ended in a murder, so he figured he’d go with the safe option this time. And that ended up being a pair of sweatpants and Beacon Hills PD t-shirt that Stiles was going to make sure his dad never wore again.

Derek Hale and the Sheriff sharing clothes might be something Stiles would never recover from.

He paused at the top of the stairs again, debating just throwing them down and telling Derek to fetch. But that probably wouldn’t end well either. Taking a deep breath, Stiles moved back downstairs and turned into the living room again, turning his gaze to the floor the moment he caught sight of a bare chest and Derek’s slightly peeved expression.

The man hadn’t moved, at least.

“Here,” Stiles said, thrusting the stack of clothes forward. He heard Derek grunt and could easily imagine the man rolling his eyes, but Derek took them without a complaint.

Stiles turned a little ways away, eyeing the wall with interest until the rustling of clothes turned into silence once more and he glanced back to see Derek finally clothed.

“Oh, thank god,” Stiles said. Derek rolled his eyes.

“Are you happy now?”

“Am I— no, asshole, I’m not happy! You were just naked. And before that, you were a freaking wolf. A wolf! When the hell did that happen?”

Derek’s face tightened. “It’s new.”

“New as in it started a few months ago? You know, when you started disappearing out of nowhere?”

Derek didn’t answer. Stiles groaned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I hate you sometimes, you know that?”

“I can just leave,” Derek shot back, folding his arms over his chest. Stiles threw up his hands.

“Yeah, well, why did you come here in the first place?”

“Why were you following me all over town?”

“Following— following? I wasn’t following you, asshole! I didn’t even know where the hell you were! I was looking,” Stiles said, glaring. “There’s a difference.”

Derek’s tight expression didn’t change. “Okay, why were you looking?”

“Because I was worried!”

Derek’s eye twitched. But before he could say another word, the doorbell rang and Stiles startled, glancing at it and cursing. 

“Trick-or-treaters. But we don’t have any candy to hand out.”

“So just ignore it.”

Stiles went silent and a few seconds passed before the doorbell rang again. Cursing again, he waved Derek off and hurried into the kitchen, scrounging around before finding a box of granola bars. Figuring that would have to be good enough, he rushed back over to the door and pulled it open.

There were only a handful of kids on the step, thankfully. The air filled with the chorus of “trick or treat!” and Stiles put on his best smile, offering the granola bars forward.

One kid frowned. “Where’s the candy?”

“Not here, dude.”

“Why not?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him, but before he could say a word, the kid stiffened with a gasp. Turning around, Stiles realized Derek had come to stand behind him, the man’s eyes glowing bright red and his face half-shifted.

A second passed. Then, a chorus of screams filled the air and all of the kids turned, racing from the doorstep. Stiles blinked after them, then turned back toward Derek, staring at the man incredulously.

“Dude, what the hell?”

Derek looked unbothered, the red fading from his eyes as he turned back around. Stiles gazed after him, then glanced back over his shoulder, swallowing hard at the glares from the parents on the sidewalk. He was pretty sure one of the kids was crying.

Oh, this was just fantastic.

“Oh my fucking god,” Stiles said, slamming the door closed. “Derek, you can’t just do that!”

“You can’t give granola bars out instead of candy.”

“Um, excuse me,” Stiles said, gesturing around. “But do you see any candy lying around? And you probably just scarred all of those kids for life, you know!”

Derek shrugged, dropping down onto the couch. “They’ll be fine.”

“I can’t believe this is happening right now.”

The man raised an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t just nearly given a bunch of children heart attacks. Stiles stood rooted to the spot for a moment before stalking over, jabbing a threatening finger in the werewolf’s face.

“You’re going to tell me how this started. Now.”

Derek didn’t look fazed. And dammit, if Stiles didn’t hate him sometimes.

“Derek, I swear to god—”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Derek said. “It’s new. My mother could full-shift and now I can too.”

Stiles clenched his jaw. “And you didn’t think to tell the rest of the pack?”

“I was learning how to control it.”

“You know, some of us could have helped.”

Derek gave him a flat look. And Stiles did his best not to flush bright red, crossing his arms as he dropped into the armchair across from the man. 

“I could have helped.”

“Hm.”

“You were a dog,” Stiles stated. And to the man’s continued silence, he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god, you can turn into a dog.”

“A wolf, Stiles.”

“Wolf, dog, whatever. You can literally rip throats out now.”

When he glanced through his fingers, Derek almost looked a little pleased. And nope, that wasn’t fair at all. Stiles had a real reason to fear for his life when he pissed the man off a little too much, now. And that was not something to be pleased about.

Not in his book, at least.

“You could have told someone, you know,” Stiles said grumpily. “I mean, other than Peter.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah, Peter,” Stiles said, “Trust me, the Creeperwolf knows.”

Derek actually looked a little surprised at that. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I wouldn’t have told anyone.”

“What?”

Stiles looked at him in disbelief. Because seriously? He’d been trying to figure out what Derek was doing for months now. And the man still seemed surprised that Stiles had wanted to know? “Dude, do you know how many theories I had?”

Derek looked at him blankly. Stiles huffed.

“I swear to god, I thought you were in trouble or dying or something. That’s stressful, dude!”

“I was fine.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t tell anyone that.”

Derek looked confused for a moment. Then his face did something weird-- Derek actually looked more like a soft teddy bear for a moment, instead of a grumpy werewolf, and Stiles didn’t know what the hell to do with that. “I was fine, Stiles.”

Stiles crossed his arms, glaring down at the floor. Derek sighed.

“Well, now you know, right?”

Stiles looked at the floor for another moment before glancing back up. “Why show me tonight? I wouldn’t have figured it out.”

“You were driving all over town looking for me, Stiles.”

“I was concerned!”

Stiles could’ve sworn the corners of Derek's mouth twitched. And yep, this whole thing was weirding him out. From the wolf, to the nudity, to the fact that Derek Hale looked like he was about to smile.

Stiles leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not going crazy, right?”

“Really, Stiles?”

“I’m just saying, dude,” Stiles said, raising his hands. “This is all kind of weirding me out.”

For a moment, Derek looked uncomfortable. “The shift?”

Stiles blinked. Derek glanced away.

“It’s different. From the others. It's strange.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said. “No, of course that's not it, dude. You being a literal freaking wolf? That’s the coolest thing ever, man.”

Derek glanced up, face a little red. Stiles huffed.

“I guess I’m just not used to having naked werewolves hanging out in my living room.”

The red went all the way to Derek’s ears this time. He scowled, but Stiles thought he could look grumpier. The glare didn't quite reach his eyes and the red of his face was definitely amusing. “Shut up, Stiles.”

“Hmm, sure. So are you going to tell the rest of the pack at some point?”

“At some point.”

Stiles grinned a little bit. “So I’m the only one who knows, then? Other than Peter the Creeper, at least. God, I feel so special.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “For now.”

“I'll take it,” Stiles said, grinning wider. To Derek’s flat look, he raised his hands. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.”

The man's eyes flashed bright red at that and he smirked. “No, you won’t.”

“I-is that a threat, Sourwolf?”

“You said it yourself. I can rip out throats now.”

A shiver ran down Stiles's spine, but he couldn't tell if it was a terrified one or not. He didn't think so. “I didn’t need that imagery.” And the whole smirking-threat thing totally wasn’t a strange turn on. Not at all.

Dammit.

Except before Derek could say a word again, or maybe catch wind of Stiles's teenage hormones betraying him, the doorbell rang once more. Stiles startled and Derek’s eyes flickered red again. Before the man could go scar more innocent children, though, Stiles jumped up and grabbed the box of granola bars. "Don't you dare."

Derek gave him a flat look. Stiles shrugged.

“I didn’t plan on being around tonight,” he said. “I don't have candy to hand out. Everyone is gathered at the loft anyway. Err, minus the betas perhaps.”

“They might be back by now.”

"Or they're in jail."

Derek didn't look fazed. "It'd be a good lesson."

Stiles rolled his eyes at that, glancing toward the door as the bell rang again. Derek raised an eyebrow, waiting, and Stiles glanced down at the box of granola bars again. Then, he sighed. “Okay, fine, big guy, you get one more scare. Then, we’re going to the loft. Understood?”

The man looked surprised. Stiles smirked a little.

“Or you can stay here and explain to my dad why you’re wearing his clothes when he gets off his shift.”

Stiles was more than entertained to see Derek look terrified for a moment. The big bad wolf, literally looking like Stiles had just threatened him with a stick of wolfsbane. And, full shift wolf or not, Stiles was totally remembering that.

“So?” he said, tilting his head toward the door. And was he a terrible person for allowing this? Maybe a little bit? “Are you gonna go?”

There were definite fangs in Derek half-smirk. That really shouldn’t have been such a turn on too.

Stiles was pretty sure someone was going to call the cops on his house too, just like with the betas. And wouldn’t that confuse the hell out of his dad? Stiles supposed he could always throw them under the bus a second time if needed.

Seconds after Derek opened the door, screams filled the air. Stiles glanced down at the box of granola bars in his hands.

Well…

He set them on the front porch with a ‘take one’ sign when they left, just in case. And Derek made sure Stiles knew he thought the entire thing was stupid and 'granola bars should never be a replacement for candy.' Stiles had never realized the man was such a Halloween snob.

The entire box was still there the next morning.

[hepaidattention]

denial

part 3

where Allison never died in s3 and Lydia and Stiles are still going strong in the flirting game but still stubborn, so Allison decides to set them up (with Scott’s help of course).

find part one here

find part two here

Scott was a little afraid to ask Allison why she had driven them out into the woods at 9 o’clock at night. Thankfully he had enough intuition to know that Lydia’s text about Stiles planning stupid things and dark forest in Beacon Hills go hand in hand. That and she said she was going with him (wherever that may be) to make sure he stayed safe, so it probably meant Allison wanted to come out and follow them. He was still lost in the why, but at least he could figure out the root of it without having to ask too many questions. 

“Oh, there’s Stiles’ jeep!” Allison exclaimed, the excitement that she was expressing admittedly concerning. “Thank god, I thought we’d never find it.”

Scott had no idea they were even searching for said jeep, but in Allison’s defense Scott never asked. He hadn’t said much of anything since she got in the car, really. God, Stiles was right, he needed to get it together and say something.  He parked behind Stiles’ car and turned to face her for the first time in a long time. “So, what’s the plan?” he blurted, without much thought. Thankfully it wasn’t the worse of things to ask. 

“Well, I’m thinking we just go in, you can follow their scent right? I wanted to make this big grand scheme in setting them up together but then I realized first we need to know where we are in relationship status, you know? Like, for all we know they’re dating and just telling us they’re not. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised - have you noticed just how much time they spend together? AAlnd the texting, it’s non-stop, it’s...” she paused, stopping mid-sentence to look at Scott with an awkward shaping smile. “Sorry, I had a lot of coffee before getting in the car. I’m a little... wired.”

Be cool, Scott. Be cool. “No worries, I like it when you’re wired.” No, that was not cool. That was weird. Good god.

Allison sweetly smiled with the mouth, but the squinted eyes spoke volumes. She chose not to comment on his bizarre behavior and said, “I just want to spy on them, I know it’s like serious boundary crossing - but I need to know where they’re at before I start meddling.”

Scott nodded, slowly, then said, “Well they’re talking about their chemistry test tomorrow, if that helps you any on your hypothesis.”

Allison turned to him, eyes wide, “Oh my god, you can hear them right now?”

Scott just shrugged, still trying to seem as cool as possible. “Yeah, they’re only about a mile out I think. You know, if you had all of those questions, you could have just asked me before dragging us out here in the middle of the night.”

Allison laughed, “You? You wanted me to ask you Lydia and Stiles’ relationship status? And how are you supposed to know, huh? Are you some kind of relationship psychic?”

“Well, no,” Scott felt like he was blushing. Oh god was he blushing? “but I won’t deny I’m curious about them, too, so I … eavesdrop on occasion.”

“Oh my god,” Allison was grinning at him now, amusement sparking behind her eyes and making it to her beaming smile. “Scott McCall, do you spy on Lydia and Stiles on a regular basis?”

Scott was scratching the back of his neck now, “Would I be a bad person if I said yes?”

Allison was laughing. She was so pleased by this and it was a little odd for Scott to see. For one, it was hard for any of them to find the joy in things now and days. But second, he never realized how invested Allison was in Lydia and Stiles. She set them up for homecoming that one time, but she never ever really said anything else about them. 

“So what do they say? How often is the flirting? And oh my god, are they dating?”

“No on the dating,” Scott said amused. It was obvious the answer was no, but he entertained Allison and her passions anyway. “If they were dating we’d know. Trust me.”

Allison nodded and sunk into the passenger seat, “You’re right, heartbeats. You’d know if they were lying.”

“Well, that is true,” Scott offered, “but I meant mainly because Stiles is a horrible liar, and I honestly don’t think he could keep dating the girl he’s liked since 3rd grade a secret for more than maybe 30 seconds.” Allison laughed again, bringing a spark of joy in Scott’s own spirit. He forgot how much he loved hearing her laugh. 

“Okay, you do make a valid point. So then what about the flirting?”

“Non-stop.”

“Both sides? Equally?”

“Can I be honest?”

“Uh yeah, you better,”

Scott hesitated, almost afraid how Allison would react. “Lydia flirts more.”

Allison gasped, “No way.”

“I mean, that’s not saying Stiles doesn’t flirt, but Lydia... she initiates it most of the time. Stiles is just too clueless to pick up that it’s flirting. Any time I mention to him how she was flirting he insists it was just bickering.”

“Bickering is one of Lydia’s most common methods of flirting,” Allison crossed her arms and shook her head. “It confuses most men, we can’t be too hard on him over that.” Allison’s head fell to the side and she looked at Scott with curious eyes. “What are they talking about now?”

“It’s getting harder to hear them, but they’re talking about the Nemeton now.” Scott sat up at that, like a dog who heard something alarming. He looked at Allison like she heard it too (she did not, lack of supernatural hearing and all that), then he said, “Why is Stiles searching for the Nemeton?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Allison was genuinely surprised. “Here I thought you guys told each other everything.”

“Stiles likes to keep secrets when it comes to his safety. Allison, why would you guys let him go out there in search of that? I mean, what it did to him the first time - Deaton said that Stiles might always be vulnerable to the Nemeton’s pull. If he found it it would-”

“It would be fine because Stiles can take care of himself.” Allison cut off his panic with common sense. “Besides, he has Lydia. They always seem to make it out alive when they’re together.”

Scott growled at the implication that what they were doing was going to end in the need for survival. “Not helping.”

“Scott, c’mon, it’s not like they’ll even find it. Stiles has been searching for it since everything went down - it only is found when it wants to be found.” She gave his arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. It helped. She always helped calm his nerves. “Plus, Stiles honestly probably just made this his plan because he knew Lydia would be too worried about him not to go along.”

Scott was shocked. He had no idea Stiles had been searching for the Nemeton, and he knew this was likely because Stiles knew how he would react if he did. “We should follow them. Just in case.”

Allison had the faintest of smiles casting over her lips as she softly nodded and said, “Okay, c’mon.”

They quietly stalked through the woods, just close enough that Scott could still hear their conversation, far enough back that they could run to the car and never be seen before the two made their way back themselves. Occasionally Allison would ask what they were talking about now, but the answers were always boring. School. A movie they watched last week. They’re bickering about which direction to go. And of course, Lydia telling Stiles he’s an idiot. 

“That’s the fourth idiot tonight,” Allison said breathlessly. 

Scott stopped and turned, seeing the wheels turning behind her eyes. “Yeah? Let’s be honest, Stiles is kinda an idiot sometimes. Even Stiles would tell you he can do math in his sleep but his common sense radar has been broken since-”

“He was born, yes I know,” Allison was thinking about something so sternly, her brows were causing a little wrinkled V above the bridge of her nose. “Scott, the only time I have ever known Lydia to tell boys they’re idiots is the one’s she likes. Like really likes, like Jackson likes, okay? And I’m not talking about her seeing an actual idiotic teenage boy and telling them they need to read a book or two. I mean her, oh my god you’re such an idiot I want to suck your face off use of the term idiot.”

He frowned, “How do you tell the difference?”

“This is Lydia Martin we’re talking about, Scott. If she’s being condescending, trust me, you’ll know.” She still wasn’t moving and the longer they stood there the farther their voices were becoming. Allison added, “And she’s said it four times.”

“Does that give you your answer then?” Scott heard Lydia giggling at something beyond stupid Stiles said, and Scott just started to realize how right Allison was on how this was basically just a very dark way of a date. Both so desperate to spend time with each other but also too stubborn to say anything about it that they’ll go out of their way to walk about a damp, dark forest just as an excuse to get dinner and dessert after. Scott considered for a split second that this wasn’t any different, Allison dragging Scott out in the middle of the night to “stalk” Stiles and Lydia but lacking in the actual stalking part. But he brushed off that thought the moment it passed through his mind - this was clearly a purely platonic friends thing. 

“I think I need to talk to Lydia.” Allison decided.

Suddenly, their voices were getting closer again. They were turning back. “We better go - sounds like they’re heading back this way.”

Allison furrowed her brow in confusion, “What? Why?”

Scott had to listen to find out. 

“Lydia, wait. So you got some mud on your shoes, I’ll replace them.”

“No, Stiles. This entire everything is useless. Wandering around the forest in the middle of the night is literally a huge waste of my time. I could be doing so many other things right now,”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Oh I don’t know, school for one? Do you even do your homework anymore?”

“Well, anymore implies that I ever did it, so...”

Scott looked at Allison and shrugged, “Sounds like Lydia got impatient.”

“She’s probably just trying to lead him off the scent. She’s been really worried Stiles is going to find it.”

Scott gave her a skeptical look, “Why does that sound like she knows where it is?”

“Probably because she does?” Scott looked at her with a slacked jaw. She just rolled her eyes, arms crossed across her chest. “What? Scott she’s like a supernatural metal detector, okay? I highly doubt she wouldn’t be able to sense it.”

“You said Stiles wasn’t in danger of finding it-”

“And he’s not because Lydia is here to make sure he doesn’t. See? Plan is fool proof. Now can we please go before Stiles and Lydia spot us?”

Their voices were getting even louder, it was evident they should leave. But he was even more afraid for their safety now. 

“God Lydia, could you at least slow the fuck down?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

“Shit - how do you even move that fast in heels?”

“It’s called grace and poise. You should try it sometime.”

Scott heard Stiles trip, then curse under his breath. They were getting way too close for comfort.

They were coming in hot. Scott knew they had to go. Explaining to nosy Stiles that he was spying on him was one thing, but Lydia was another. Scary Lydia.

“Scott, let’s go. C’mon!”

Scott finally put one foot in front of the other and made a run for it to the car. Once they reached it, he could tell Lydia and Stiles were not far behind. He started up the engine and zoomed off down the street, hoping to god neither of them saw or heard the car before they could get away. 

Scott was silent, they both were. All Scott could think about now was what all he didn't know about Stiles and his schemes recently. Allison, she had one thought in mind the entire car ride home: she had to talk to Lydia.

-

to be continued 

[vro0m]

vro0m’s rewatch - 39/288

2009 Bahrain GP

Recap + GIFs

It’s round 4. Quali report : the Toro Rossos didn’t make it into Q2. Lewis managed to make 5th, while Kovalainen is 11th. He seems happy. Jenson is 4th. Seb 3rd. It’s a Toyota front row, Trulli on pole. Didn’t see that coming tbh.

We’re told Lewis kept a low profile and didn’t talk much after the Australian scandal. But they managed to get an interview with him. (I posted a snippet of it here fyi)

He says he hasn’t had a very relaxing season so far but he’s enjoying his time in Bahrain. It’s tough at the moment. They talk about the scandal and he says it’s been a huge low after the success of last season. They wanted to work hard and do their best even though they don’t have a great car and be quiet and it hasn’t been the case. He says :

“I race because I love racing. This has been my dream for many many years, I never thought I’d be– I’d get here and be in this position. But the greatest thing was that I had– I had so much support, it was really the key to– otherwise I would have, probably would have been hiding somewhere.”

There’s been of course a lot of criticism of his sporting integrity. He says “the harder you work the better you’ll do”. He feels like he’s always been one of the fairest drivers on the track (look I agree now but at the time, not so much...). The journalist asks if he still enjoys being an F1 driver, because he’s seen him around the paddock and he doesn’t seem as excited as he used to.

He answers no. (I didn’t see that coming). He says he loves driving the car, he loves his job, but when you’re surrounded by politics when you just wanna have fun and entertain and win and race your heart out it’s tough. Everyone has to have an opinion about it.

The journalist brings up the fact that his commitment has also been questioned, apparently he’s said some stuff about it. He says he’s committed to the sport and the team, he loves his team. He’s happy with where he is and has no desire to move anywhere else. However he wasn’t too sure at the time he said what he said whether he would be there for the next 5 years. The journalist asks what made him doubt it. He answers you never know what happens, does he wanna be in the limelight, etc. (Being famous is clearly hard on him.) But it’s the price to pay so he does it. He affirms now he’s definitely made his decision to stay, even with all the bad stuff that comes with it, because of his fans. He says whatever happens, he’ll go out there and give it 110%, always.

Racist Eric Clapton is on the grid again. Anyway.

It’s very very hot. Ecclestone is wearing a red jacket for some sponsor and Martin Brundle is making fun of him : “we gotta ask him about that ridiculous jacket, haven’t we? ...But you know what, I’m too embarrassed for him, I’m not gonna ask him about that.”

Formation lap.

And they’re racing!

Fantastic start from Lewis! He jumps to third place after the first corner.

He even got to 2nd place but ran wide and the Toyota got it back. He’s under pressure. I’m not too sure he’ll be able to keep the spot. Loads of contact in the midfield. Ah yep. Button got him, he’s now 4th.

10 laps in. Glock - Trulli - Jenson - Lewis - Seb. Seb is struggling and Barrichello is closing in on him. Glock pits from the lead, that’s very early. Trulli also pits. Everyone started on the supersofts but the tyres aren’t doing too well. Lewis also pits then, but stays on supersofts and is now 7th, ahead of Glock though.

Almost 20 laps in, Seb is in, he didn’t pull enough of a gap though and ends up behind Trulli. So it’s Button - Trulli - Seb - Lewis - Barrichello. It’s still very close.

20 laps left now. Seb back in the lead, then Button, Raikkonen, Trulli, Barrichello, Lewis is 6th from Nico after his second pitstop. Seb pits again and is 3rd, but Raikkonen has to stop again.

10 laps to go, Button in the lead, Seb, Trulli, Lewis is 4th.

And it’s the end of the race!

Order unchanged. 4th is very encouraging given the car.

He says he’s delighted with 4th, happy about his start but it was very hard to keep up with the others (“Vettel was so fast!”). They have a lot more work to do but it’s good points for the team.

The journalist asks what he’s learned about the car that he didn’t know so far, given the first races of the season weren’t really normal conditions.

He chuckles : “Not much!”

[nyctolovian]

Summary: Where Jon and Martin get to grow old together and live out the rest of their lives in a village. Told from the POV of a 7-year-old girl, Trish, who just moved in next door.

Written in preparation for the emotional trainwreck that would be the finale of TMA :”)

Trish peeked out from behind the bushes to look at the cottage. She was new in the neighbourhood, but she had already heard all sorts of stories about it from the other kids she played with. There was a ghost in there, or a wizard, and anyone who stepped foot into its boundaries would be cursed and get kidnapped by a giant clown with claws for hands. 

If you asked Trish, she’d tell you she didn’t believe in stupid fairytales and ghost stories like this. While the other kids still believed in Santa Claus, she already knew that it was just her parents sneaking treats into her Christmas socks. There was no way there was some sort of cursed monster living at the bottom of the hill.

Still, as she stood outside it’s fences, wiping her sweaty palms against her skirt, she gulped nervously. The way the other kids acted as they told her to get the ball because “you were the one who kicked it there!” still scared her. What if there was a bad guy in the house? She was only seven! What could she do?

She ran through several possible scenarios. She’d run. If she couldn’t, she’d kick the bad guy as hard as she could; her aunt had always said she had a good kick. If not, she’ll bite as hard as she can. Or she could–

“Excuse me. What are you doing in front of my house?” came a low voice.

Trish leapt backwards in fright with a squeak. 

Standing behind her was an old man with a stubble in a long yellow dress (woman?), carrying several bags of groceries on her left arm. With her other hand, she wielded a cane. There were pale scars all over her dark skin and Trish wondered if this old lady might have been a pirate. Her dark eyes seemed to stare into Trish's soul as her lips were set in a downwards curl. Her eyebrows were thick and tightly knitted in a permanent-looking scowl. She reminded Trish of Mdm Taylor from school, except older and grumpier.

"I… Uh, I…" Trish shifted from foot to foot, her palms growing even sweatier. "I… My ball…" She pointed towards the ball in the lawn. 

The woman with the beard followed her gaze to the bright pink ball beside the front door. "Ah," she said, sighing loudly. She walked to the front gate.

With her hands full, she had to fumble with the latch for a good minute before pushing the gate open. "There we are," she said. "Get your ball."

Trish blinked. It was that easy? 

She ran past the lady with the beard and picked up her ball. She hugged it close to her chest and looked back up at the old lady, half-expecting her to declare that there was a price for taking the ball back, or that she was trapped here forever. 

However, instead the old lady just hobbled through the gate. Some of her grocery bags got caught between the gate and she let out a groan. Trish's eyes darted between the old lady and the bags before she placed her ball back down, stepped forward and took some of the groceries from the lady with the beard. 

"Oh, um," she said. "Thank you."

"It's okay," Trish replied, lifting the bags and walking towards the front door of the cottage. "I help my Ma take the groceries all the time."

The lady with the beard followed after and reached into the pockets of her dress (which were very deep pockets, Trish enviously noticed). As soon as she unlocked the door, Trish lugged the grocery bags into the house. 

It was a clean house, and it smelled a lot like her Gramma's house. Old people smell, she reckoned. 

"Where's your kitchen?" 

"Over here."

Trish followed after her into the kitchen and she placed the groceries down where she was told. 

"What's your name?" the old lady asked.

Trish froze. Her mother told her not to trust strangers and not to tell strangers her name. But perhaps she had already broken some of the rules since she just walked into a stranger's house. But she wasn't kidnapped yet so it was probably safe.

"I'm Trish."

"Ah, thank you so much, Trish. You have been of tremendous help." The lady with the beard began to pack her groceries away. "Usually, my husband would help me with all this."

"What happened to your husband?"

"He's in the hospital."

Trish gasped.

"He's going to be fine. Don't worry. It's just his knee. He'll be back in a week."

"Phew!" Trish dragged her hand across her forehead. "That's good. What's your name by the way?"

"Oh. My name's Jon."

"Jon?!" Trish shouted. "But that's a boy's name!"

The old lady looked confused. "I… yes? It is a masculine name, I suppose?"

"Are you a boy?"

Jon's eyes widened. "I see. Well… I'm neither a boy or a girl. But I am a he. As in, um, for example, 'his name is Jon and he likes eating peaches.'" 

"How are you both not a boy or a girl though?"

Jon frowned in thought. "I just am. It just happens sometimes for people. Some people aren't a boy or a girl."

"Then, what are you?"

Jon frowned. "I'm nonbinary."

"Non…"

"Non-bi-na-ry," Jon repeated, slower, and Trish followed after. He smiled. "It can be a difficult word to pronounce."

"It's not that hard. I can do it," Trish said, rolling her eyes. Adults always made it seem like everything was too hard for her to do. "Nonbinary! See!"

Jon smiled. It was a small one, but Trish spotted it anyway. 

She puffed up her chest and announced, “I need to go now. Bye bye!"

"Bye," Jon replied, waving his hand.

On the way out, Trish picked up her ball and made sure to close the doors behind her.

***

When Trish next spotted Jon, she was at the market with her father. As soon as she sees him, she tugs her dad's shirt and whispers loudly, "That's Jon at the fruit place. He lives in the cottage at the bottom of the hill."

Her father hummed absently as he picked out the vegetables. "Why don't you go say hi, sweetheart?"

With a nod, Trish headed over to the fruit stand where Jon was. He spotted her before she reached him and gave her a little wave. Today, he is in a button-up shirt and black pants.

"Hello, Trish," he greeted. "Helping your mother out?"

"Nope. My Da's shopping this time." She points to her father, who was still engrossed in examining the vegetables. She peered into Jon's basket and saw that in it, there were apples, mangoes and peaches. "Is your husband back yet?"

"Hm? Yes, he is. But he's resting at home. The surgery did a number on him."

"Surgery?!" Trish screeched. Jon winced at the shout and she muttered an apology.

Forgivingly, Jon shook his head. "Sometimes, when you get old, your joints will get a bit painful so the doctors have to replace it with an implant. He's on the road to recovery now so no worries."

“Implant…?”

Jon took time to explain what that meant. Trish had a million questions swirling around her head and she continued to press him for answers. Unlike a lot of adults, Jon took time to answer her questions to the best of his abilities. 

Trish was about to ask how on earth someone can survive being cut open by another person when someone interrupted them. "Retired to teach primary school children, eh, Jon?" the fruit seller said, folding her arms. "Didn't know you were taking in new students."

Jon scowled. "You know full well—"

"Enough of you," the fruit seller brushed him aside in favour of leaning over her counter to look at Trish. "Heya, pipsqueak. Haven't seen you before."

"I’m not his student… My Ma and Da and me moved in last last week. My Da's there," she said, pointing.

It was also then that her father seemed to have settled the payment for vegetables and came over. “Trish, there you are. Where’s your friend? I thought you went to talk to him.”

Trish tugged Jon’s shirt. “Here.”

Da's eyes widened. “Oh! You’re Jon?” He quickly schooled his expression into a friendly smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that. The way she talked about you… I just thought she was talking about her classmate so I was…”

“Expecting a seven-year-old and not a seventy-year-old,” Jon replied, raising an eyebrow. “That’s understandable. I’m Jonathan Blackwood-Sims. Nice to meet you.” 

“Nathan Fujisaki. I’m Trish’s dad. Nice to meet you too.”

Jon’s phone began to ring and his brow furrowed. “Apologies,” he muttered as he placed his grocery bag on the stand before fumbling out his phone. He frowned as soon as he saw the caller-ID and picked it up immediately. “Martin, what’s wrong?” His eyes darted from side to side before he cupped a hand over the receiver and turned away from the rest of them to whisper into the phone.

“His husband,” the fruit seller said. “The two of them fuss over each other a lot.”

"Is that so?"

The fruit seller's eyes lit up with glee at the opportunity to gossip a little. "Yeah. When they first moved in, I was, like, 15? It's a lot better now but back then, the two of them were hardly ever apart. He taught me for a year, you know? And I don't know what arrangement they had with the school but they were practically glued to the hip anytime outside of class."

"So he is a teacher!" Trish exclaimed. "He reminded me of Mdm Taylor so I thought he might be a teacher."

"Yeah, he does have that vibe about him, doesn't he?" the fruit seller said. "Cross about everything and anything. He had that even when he was my teacher. And he was pretty scary back in the day too. Nothing seemed to get past him."

"If you truly believed that, you would know better than to gossip about me," Jon countered as he returned to pick up his grocery bag. 

"How is he?" Trish asked.

Jon winced. "It's… better now. But I should head back as soon as I can." He began to make his move and said, "Take care."

"Would you like a lift?" Da offered. "It's on the way."

"I…" Jon glanced down at his cane before he let out a sigh. "Yes, please. I would appreciate that."

It didn't take very long to fetch Jon to his house. Da gave Jon his contact number in case he and his husband needed any help. Jon stared openly, expression unreadable for a moment, before he gave a brief nod and rushed into the house.

On the way home, Da was frowning. "He seems familiar…" he muttered when Trish asked. "Like I've seen him somewhere before."

***

Stupid Da. Stupid Ma. 

They weren't listening to her. In a fit of anger, she ran out of the house and to the first place she could think of. It wasn't fair, she thought. Trish's lower lip wobbled as she curled harder into herself. 

Suddenly, the door to the cottage at the bottom of the hill opened. A large old man with a thick beard wearing a pair of boxers and a singlet emerged and his eyes fell upon the small girl who had squished herself into a corner of the porch. "Oh my god!" squeaked the old man. "Wh-What are you doing out here? Where are your parents?"

Trish glared up through the tears in her eyes. "You're not Jon," she said, her voice rough from crying.

 "Oh, he's… he's out right now," the man said, smiling apologetically. "Would you like to come in and wait for him? Or, uh, or not. We can wait for him outside."

Trish nodded.

"Feel free to sit in the chair there.”

Trish shook her head. 

“Okay. Would you like something to drink then? We have tea, and milk."

"Milk."

With a gentle smile, the man went back into the house and came out, dressed in a knee-length skirt and a loose shirt. He had also brought out a cup of milk, which he placed in Trish's hand. He went back inside for a moment, before returning with a piping hot cup of tea for himself.

The man limped over to a rocking chair and sat down heavily with a sigh. As he placed his own cup down on the table beside himself, Trish noticed the massive scar on his left leg that ran from his mid-calf up to his knee. "Are you Jon's husband?" she asked. "Martin?"

The man's eyes practically lit up. "Oh yes!" He drummed his fingers against his belly delightfully. "I'm guessing that you're Trish then?"

She nodded.

"Jon's told me a bit about you," he said.

"Are you also non… nonbinary," she said the word slowly to make sure she got it right.

From the look of it, she had because Martin smiled again. "Nope. I'm a man. Just one who finds skirts incredibly comfortable."

"I don't like skirts," Trish said frankly. "They're too wooshy and swishy."

"Perfectly understandable." Martin nodded. 

"Where's Jon?"

"He's doing groceries."

Trish stuck her lower lip out. "He's always doing groceries."

Something between a laugh and a sigh escaped Martin's chest. "He is, isn't he? My poor husband just can't sit still. He has to go to the market once a day or he'll get cranky. Or crankier than usual."

Trish nodded as she took a sip from her cup. 

"So, what are you doing here?"

Trish lowered her cup. "I don't know."

"Did something happen to make you cry?" Martin asked.

Curling in harder into herself, she muttered, "I'm not telling."

"Oh, um… Sure."

"Does it hurt?"

"Hm?" Martin followed her gaze to his knee. "Oh, you mean my knee? It was hurting really badly before I went to the hospital. I mean, it's still hurting a bit now because I'm recovering so I take a bit of painkiller to deal with that. It'll get better soon."

"Does it hurt when they do it on you?"

"Mm… not really? They give you an injection that makes you sleep through the entire surgery. It's kind of when you wake up that you start feeling the pain."

Trish frowned. It sounded a bit unrealistic. How could you sleep through being cut open? She didn’t get the opportunity to ask Martin anything though because, in the distance, a small figure could be seen hobbling towards the house. Martin immediately straightened up. "There he is," he said, before waving. 

Trish followed suit with a big wave of her own, putting her entire arm into it. 

“You have a little visitor,” Martin said as soon as Jon stepped past the gate.

“I can see that very well,” Jon said, rolling his eyes. He made a small detour to their side of the porch to give Martin’s forehead a kiss. Then, he looked at Trish and probably noticed her red-rimmed eyes. "Did something happen?"

Trish frowned. "Ma and Da won't let me have a birthday party. They said it's a waste of time and I'll forget it anyway."

"Oh…" Jon pursed his lips. "Do they know you're here now?"

"No. And I don't want them to."

"They must be worried sick," Martin remarked with a small frown. 

Shrinking into herself, Trish muttered sourly, "Let them."

“I know you’re angry at them and you don’t want to see them right now but it is quite  unkind to cause them needless worry,” Jon reasoned gently. “I shall give them a call, okay? Just to let them know you’re here. I promise I’ll let you stay here until you’re ready to talk to them again. But you wouldn't want them to think you're in danger, right?”

Trish pouted hard, but eventually nodded.

“Right,” Jon said with a nod before heading into the house. He came back out after about 5 minutes with some cut fruits. “We have permission for you to stay until dinner,” he said as he sat down in the other chair with a low grunt. “Now, I hope you didn’t have to suffer Martin’s nagging for too long while I was away.”

“Nagging?!” Martin shot back with an offended voice. “And don’t you think I suffer when you insist on leaving a trail of cups all over the house? Do you think you’re Gretel or something?”

“Actually,” Jon said, knowing full well what he was doing, “Hansel was the one who left the trails.”

Martin groaned comically and Trish giggled a little.

***

“You know what?” Trish yelled as she threw the door open. From the kitchen, Martin made a weird squeaky noise.

“It would be polite to knock. Martin’s already got a weak enough heart already,” Jon chided as he stood up from his sofa and went to the entrance. 

“Oh… Um...” She gently closed the door again before knocking. Then, she patiently waited as the sound of Jon’s shuffling slippers got closer.

“Trish,” Jon said exasperatedly as he opened the door. “You don’t have to close the door again if you’re already inside. We know you’re here.”

“Oh, okay,” Trish said, walking in.

Martin came into view and he was laughing a little. “God, you sound like such a curmudgeon.”

Frowning, Trish asked, “Cur…?”

“A grumpy old person,” Martin explained. “You know, like Jon.”

Teasingly, Jon poked Martin’s rib. “Oh yeah? Is that resentment in your voice, Mr Blackwood-Sims?”

Martin grabbed the offending hand. “Oh, absolutely not. You’re my curmudgeon. I’m not resenting you anytime soon.”

“Sap,” Jon muttered, covering his mouth with his hand, but that did nothing to hide the smile in his voice.

Trish rolled her eyes. “Aaaaanyway,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “I’m here to announce something.”

“Yes, yes, announce away,” Jon said.

But he was making goo-goo eyes at Martin so Trish decided she’d leave the very important announcement of her birthday party for another day.

***

Having chicken pox and being forced to stay in her room for an entire week was already bad enough. But then, it just had to be on the week of her birthday. What’s worse was that Trish had gone and scratched at her skin, and even though it was healed, she had some scars on her arms and face. And she really did not appreciate scars as a birthday present.

Ma chided her for not listening and handed her a bottle of cream to apply over the scars. “If you properly apply it, then maybe it’ll get rid of those scars,” she said.

Not wanting any of the scars to remain, Trish religiously applied the cream every night. But they didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon.

“It isn’t the end of the world if it does leave scars anyway. Look at the both of us! We have scars and we’re doing fine,” Jon comforted her, which wasn’t very comforting.

“It’s okay if you two have scars. You’re old people anyway,” Trish said, popping one of Martin’s freshly baked cookies into her mouth.

“Ouch!” Martin said, sitting down beside Jon at the dining table. “That’s a bit mean, Trish.”

Wincing, she muttered, “Sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Jon said. He peered over at her arm. "I think it's fading. It's just a bit slow so be patient with it."

Trish nodded. However, even as she sat there talking with them, her index finger kept returning to rub over the most prominent scar on her forearm. The tiny bump of the scar annoyed her and she wished she could tear it out, but she knew that would likely only make the scar worse.

"You know, Trish," Martin said, "it's normal for kids to get scars. We all get scars from at your age too."

"Jon too?"

"I…" Jon frowned. "I don't recall much of when I was young unfortunately."

"How come?"

"Complicated stuff," Jon said, making a vague gesture. "It'd be too long a story to explain."

"Well," Martin interjected, "he doesn't remember his. But I do." He lifted his arm to show the pale jagged patch on his elbow. "This one I got from when I fell off a tree outside my house. I got a kite snagged onto the branches so I had to get it down. It's a bit faded now actually." 

"Yeah, but that's a cool scar. Mine is just from stupid chicken pox," Trish grumbled. Then, she lifted her head. "What about those though? The dot-dot ones both you and Jon have? They're not from chicken pox too, right? They're really big."

"Oh, these?" Martin said, running his hand over the pockmark scars on his face and arms. 

"Yeah. How did the both of you get it? It looks really bad…" Trish frowned. "What kind is it?"

"Um… yeah," Jon said. "It... It was a… bad disease."

Martin sighed. "It was an office-wide infection. From when Jon and I worked in the same place." He then switched the subject by showing a long scar he had on his finger. "Oh, Trish, look at this one. Guess how I got this one? It was kind of dumb. I got it when I was, I think, 5 years old? I stuck my finger into the fan."

Trish scrunched her face. "Why did you do that?!" she shouted. "What if it got chopped off?"

"I don't know to be honest. I was five, Trish. I wasn't a very smart five-year-old."

"Five-year-olds generally aren't very smart," she assured Martin, who threw his head back and laughed.

They continued to talk about scars and dumb injuries for the rest of the afternoon. And by the time Trish went home, she realised that even if the scars remained in the end, she wouldn't be that upset. 

***

As Martin’s knee got better, he began to join Jon’s grocery trips more often. The marketplace got a little bit more noisy on the days Martin went with Jon. 

Firstly, Martin and the fruit seller seemed to have this bit that involved making fun of Jon, even though Trish didn’t necessarily understand most of the jokes. (For some reason, Martin likes to make fun of Jon for liking peaches.)

Then, Martin had what Jon called “itchy fingers'', which meant that Martin liked touching things he wasn’t supposed to. There was this one time when Martin had decided to poke something pink on the side of a carton, which turned out to be used gum. “You’d think you’d grow out of touching things unnecessarily, Martin,” Jon reprimanded as he dragged his husband to the toilet to wash his hands.

Trish just thought they were quite funny.

Sometimes, she would be with Da for groceries when she bumped into them. On those days, Da would talk to them about grown-up stuff that Trish had no hope of understanding. But it was fine since, with Martin at the front seat most of the time, this meant that Trish can lean to her side and whisper to Jon.

Sometimes, Trish would see Jon and Martin walking around together in the neighbourhood. More often than not, Martin joined Jon on his daily trips to the market, and they would slowly walk hand-in-hand. It was during those times that Jon most often had a smile on his face, and at times bursting into uproarious laughter.

Sometimes, Trish would dash over to greet them. People often told Trish that she was a bit too chatty for her own good. But around those two, she felt that maybe it was alright to talk a bit more because Martin would always smile warmly at Trish as she talked about the frog she found on the side of the road or about her stupid homework assignment. Jon, on the other hand, often had something to add to whatever Trish was saying, be it with questions or a weird trivia of his own. 

Of course, there were days where Trish was far too busy to call out to them. It was highly impractical to rush out to them during a game of Hide-and-Seek.

Sometimes though, the two of them would walk especially close to each other, and they’d be whispering, or at least, one of them would be. There were times when Martin looked greyer than usual, and his gaze would be distant even as he ran his fingers along railings, fences, or any surface available. Other times, Jon would look rattled, his eyes darting about and breaths shallow. The non-cane-wielding hand would not be holding Martin’s on those days, instead, it would be tracing the scar over his neck, or twisting his hair in a quiet frenzy.

And then, sometimes, they would sit together on the park bench, holding hands and whispering and chuckling to themselves.

Those were the days when Trish knew better than to disturb them.

[ava-candide]

Poldark’s Aidan Turner on playing Leonardo da Vinci

The newly married heart-throb actor learnt to paint left-handed for his new role, and he’s still daubing now, he tells Ed Potton

Aidan Turner takes on the role of Renaissance polymath Leonardo

I’m trying to work out where Aidan Turner is Zooming from. Is it London, where he moved to in 2017 after his Ross Poldark became the drooled-over king of Sunday-night television? Dublin, where he grew up, trained as an actor and returned to spend the first lockdown with his parents? Or Rome, where he shot his new series, Leonardo, in which he plays a young Leonardo da Vinci?

“None of the above!” Turner says. “I’m in Toronto.” The enigmatic charm, feline eyes and gleaming locks that he deployed so mercilessly in Poldark, The Hobbit films and Being Human are all there. “My missus is working here,” he explains, and so is he. That’s the American actress Caitlin FitzGerald, his partner of three years, whom he met when they starred in the 2018 film The Man Who Killed Hitler and Then the Bigfoot. At first I assume the “missus” is laddish affectation but it turns out that it’s official: Turner and FitzGerald, both 37, got married in secret in Italy in August after filming finished on Leonardo. You can almost hear the sighs of disappointment ripple around the world.

Turner won’t say any more — he is famously guarded about his personal life — but he looks insanely happy in the couple’s rented apartment. FitzGerald — whose grandfather Desmond was a CIA agent and organised several plots to assassinate Fidel Castro — is shooting a series, Station Eleven, in Toronto while her husband works on another project that he’s not allowed to talk about. In their downtime they’ve been watching I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, an HBO documentary series about the Golden State Killer, and, on a lighter note, Ottolenghi and the Cakes of Versailles. They share the apartment with Charlie, an ebullient Norfolk terrier that Turner has to eject from the room halfway through our interview when he starts yapping. “I’m surprised he behaved for so long,” he says

Eight-part series Leonardo has been criticised for warping history

Like many of his fellow thesps, Turner has been doing a great deal of lockdown painting. “We have a roof garden here and the light has been really good,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this because I don’t know if the landlord knows. It’s not messy work anyway!” Unlike some of his peers — I’m looking at you, Pierce Brosnan — he has yet to unleash his daubings on the world. How would he describe his style? “I struggle to say abstract, but I haven’t quite figured out what it is yet.” Did it help with playing Leonardo? “I don’t know. If you saw my paintings, you’d assume very much not,” Turner says. He has a studied line in self-effacement, honed after years of “sexiest man on TV” questions.

Leonardo premiered in Italy last month and was watched by seven million, many of them doubtless keen to see Turner brooding in a succession of smocks. The eight-part series has been criticised for warping history, having the artist accused of murder and featuring an apparently fictional muse, Caterina da Cremona, played by Matilda De Angelis from The Undoing. Luca Bernabei, the chief executive of Lux Vide who produced the series, defended it stoutly. “Matilda De Angelis’s character did exist. She was a model Leonardo asked to paint,” he said. “We have been really careful in our research. But this is not a documentary, we are not historians and this is not a university history lecture.”

And if the history pedants are spluttering, the art pedants should be happier — the series goes to considerable lengths to make the painting look authentic. Each episode is themed around a different masterpiece, from the portrait of Ginevra de’ Benci to The Last Supper to the Mona Lisa, and the candlelit cinematography is often sumptuous. Turner’s research included a private view of a Leonardo exhibition. “I spent some time alone with the actual paintings, which was brilliant,” he says. “They’re just like high-definition photographs. I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that a human had done this.”

Aidan Turner attended an artist’s boot camp before filming started

The series opens in Florence in the 1460s, with Leonardo a pupil of Verrocchio, played by the veteran Italian actor Giancarlo Giannini. Before the shoot Turner and his co-stars went on an artists’ boot camp (brush camp?) supervised by professionals. He says the hardest part was learning to paint, as Leonardo did, with his left hand. He compares it to learning to ride a horse for Poldark, which he pretended he knew how to do before going on a crash course when he got the part.

Brushwork was the same, he says. “I realised I had to get good quite quickly and look like I knew what I was doing with my left hand, which is more difficult than you would think. It’s keeping it steady — you find it just moves around a lot. Leonardo was very slow and precise — I think I got it down. After a few weeks you start picking up the brush with your left hand, it becomes natural.”

Leonardo was a vegetarian, Turner tells me, “and apparently later in life opened some sort of vegetarian restaurant”. He was also gay, something that, despite reports, the series does not shy away from. Was this Turner’s first time kissing a man on screen? He laughs. “Of all the things I was expecting you to ask next, that wasn’t one of them! In a lot of ways it was just another love scene. The fact that the gender was different — that was never a thing. No, it felt right. It didn’t feel any different at all. But yeah, to answer your question, that was the first time, which I’d never really thought of until now.”

What did feel weird, he says, were the Covid protocols. “Suddenly people are wearing masks and shields and hazmat suits. We had a big sanitisation machine as we walked in that would spray us. You take off the mask when you shoot the scene and it’s a bit strange for a second. Then you realise it’s the first time you’ve seen your co-star’s face that day. It’s not conducive to a very creative environment, for sure. But we made it work and nobody got sick.”

Turner spends a chunk of the first episode painting De Angelis, and both actors know what it’s like to be ogled. She has been asked endlessly about her naked locker-room sequence in The Undoing, just as he has been reminded of his shirtless scything scene in Poldark. Before that there was his lusted-after vampire in Being Human and his sexy dwarf in The Hobbit — branded a “dwilf” in some quarters — although that “definitely wasn’t the intention”, he says. “I think I just had less prosthetics on my face. My make-up call was 20 minutes and everyone else was sitting in the chair in the morning for three and a half hours. It wasn’t good to be around the other dwarfs in the mornings, that’s for sure.

“I get why people are interested,” he says of the ogling. “It’s just when it keeps coming up.”

We move on. According to a recent survey Cornwall has overtaken London as the most desirable place to live in Britain. Does he think Poldark played a part in that? He laughs. “Maybe we nudged a few people in the right direction. I think people forgot how beautiful that side of the world is. One of the first reviews of Poldark we read was like: ‘We can’t believe that this is our country, it looks like the south of France.’”

Could Poldark return, and would Turner be in it? If they stuck to the chronology of Winston Graham’s books they would have to leap ahead a few years. Maybe he could play an aged-up Ross Poldark in latex and fake paunch? “I don’t know if I’d be keen on the ageing-up thing,” he says. “It never really works. I don’t know whether they need to be too strict with that gap anyway. There’s the possibility someday, maybe. I enjoyed working with everybody on Poldark, from the writers right down to all the cast and crew. It really is like a family. So I’d be open to chat about it. But not for a while.”

Before that he will appear as the apostle Andrew in The Last Planet, the forthcoming biblical epic from Terrence Malick, revered creator of The Thin Red Line and The Tree of Life. Well, he doesn’t know for sure if he will appear. Actors of the calibre of Rachel Weisz, Mickey Rourke and Jessica Chastain have seen their performances in Malick films vanish during editing.

“You want what’s best for the film. And if you don’t fit into it, you don’t fit into it,” Turner says in the tone of hair-shirt devotion that actors tend to use when talking about Malick. With a cast including Ben Kingsley and Mark Rylance as Satan, the movie is meant to tell the story of Jesus through a series of parables. Turner doesn’t really have a clue, though.

“You don’t necessarily know what you’re signing up to. You’re signing up to Terrence Malick,” he says. The director has “a great way of working. Everything is around ‘where is the sun’ at this particular time. That’s our natural light and it’s all we use. So things happen fast. There’s no trailers, hair, make-up, we’re just all together. You don’t know from day to day what you’ll be doing. It’s quite renegade stuff. That’s the way I always wanted to work.”

It’s closer to the immediacy of the theatre, which is where Turner started out. The son of an electrician, Pearse, and an accountant, Eileen, he represented Ireland at ballroom dancing before falling into acting. After studying at the Gaiety School of Acting in Dublin he acted in plays for five years and in 2018 he returned to the stage to rave reviews in Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore in the West End. Rave being the operative word — his performance was bracingly unhinged. “I can’t wait to get back to the theatre,” he says. “That’s what we’re looking at probably next.”

Turner’s character in The Lieutenant of Inishmore was an Irish freedom fighter, but he is reluctant to talk about the prospect of Irish reunification (“So I don’t get shot when I get home,” he told one interviewer). Culture is safer ground, and his native country is going through a purple patch with Sally Rooney in literature, Fontaines DC in music and the likes of McDonagh, Jessie Buckley and Denise Gough in drama. “It tends to happen in waves,” Turner says. “Coming out of drama school, Colin Farrell was such a big thing. When these actors really make it you can feel some of their light begin to shine on the industry back home.”

Like Farrell, Turner is an international star, although it has mainly been in period roles: Poldark, Leonardo, Andrew and his breakout turn as the 19th-century poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti in the 2009 series Desperate Romantics. It must be something about the hair.

That could be about to change, though. Toronto often stands in for New York, which suggests that his current mystery project has a contemporary setting. Does he yearn to act in jeans? “Yeah, you’re right,” he says with a laugh. “After Leonardo, I think tights and knee-length boots are out for a while.” Many would beg him to reconsider.