#au jon and martin though…. no one talk to me ever oh my fucking god
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thepunkmuppet · 8 months ago
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GUYYYSSSS I’M GONNA SOB MY FUCKING EYES OUT
I can’t find the post but right before listening to the episode, I saw a post that said “jonathan sims going to therapy? it really is an alternate universe” and BRO I THOUGHT JON WAS THE STATEMENT GIVEEERRRRRR 😫😫😫 UNTIL HIS NAME WAS REVEALED AS DARRIEN WHEN MY FACE WENT FROM LITERALLY GUTTURAL SOBBING OVER MY WET CAT BINGUS WHO I MISS SO DEARLY AND SOMETHING LIKE THIS
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AND THEN I WAS ALL BITTER AND LIKE “OH STUPID DUMB TUMBLR USER YOU CALLED HIM JON JUST BECAUSE HE’S THE COMPUTER VOICE THAT’S NOT HOW IT WORKS BITCH” until I realised au jon and martin were in fact in the therapists office.
RRAAAJSHHDHDJDJ GUYS I ACTUALLY CRIED HELP I FEEL SO DUMB I MEAN HE WAS STILL THERE BUT LIKE AHHHHHHHH
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pitviperofdoom · 4 years ago
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"Vet AU" as in veterinarian? Definitely curious about that, vets don't get nearly enough love in fiction :) I had never considered that as an AU, but now I'm immediately picturing how it would go!
The Vet AU! Yes, Vet as in Veterinarian.
This one’s a bit scattered, so I’ll just post what I have written and let it speak for itself:
---
Martin was in the middle of doing payroll when Sasha poked her head into the office with a polite knock on the doorframe. “Hey Martin, Room 2 is ready for you.”
“Oh! Thanks.” Quickly, Martin finished filling in the last number, then saved the spreadsheet and got up from his chair. At the sight of her, he bit back a chuckle—she had one of the new puppies settled against her shoulder, wiggling and poking around like a furry little worm. “Tim leave you on babysitting duty?”
“Not his fault,” Sasha said with a grin. “He’s dealing with the rottweiler situation in 5. You good?”
“Yeah, fine—remind me who’s waiting for me in 2 again?”
“According to the appointment schedule, you’ll be handling a general check-up for ‘Sticks’,” Sasha replied. “New patient, new owner.”
“Right, right, yeah.”
They usually stuck him with the first-time patients. Not that Tim and Sasha weren’t perfectly friendly and welcoming, but Martin—at least according to them—had very calming manners. He had the appearance of someone pleasant, patient, and according to Sasha, far less likely to go off on people who came in asking to declaw their cats.
“I have gone off on people for asking to declaw their cats,” Martin had said when she told him this.
“Oh, obviously. You just look like someone who wouldn’t, that’s all.”
That was what he got for being the only one with years of retail experience.
As he approached the door to the examination room, he took a few settling breaths. First-time appointments weren’t always a big deal. A majority of the time, they went smoothly; the animals weren’t familiar enough with what went on in a vet office to be nervous about it, and their owners were just as eager to be polite and pleasant as he was. But once in a while…
Well, once in a while you got someone like Peter fucking Lukas—
He shook his head. No, don’t think about Peter Lukas. Peter Lukas wasn’t worth wasting the space in his brain.
Martin settled his face into a resting pleasant expression, and opened the door.
It didn’t take a great deal of self-control not to stop in his tracks, but it did take a little. More than none. It wasn’t anything bad! Nothing against this new pet owner.
Less than nothing, if Martin were privately, sheepishly honest with himself.
The person was standing by the examination table, with a cat-sized pet carrier beside them. They were tall enough for Martin to look them in the eye without tipping his chin down, which put them a cut above most. Their hair was shoulder-length, mostly black with a bit of dark blond creeping in at the roots, framing a jawline and cheekbones so sharply defined that there had to be at least a bit of makeup involved. The snakebite piercing and the bar through the eyebrow really rounded out the whole look, especially with the long black coat, and the tattoos on the hand that rested on top of the box.
Very nice hands, Martin noted, then shrugged off the observation and funneled all his nervous energy into the safety of politeness.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Dr. Blackwood.”
They shook the hand he offered. “Gerry. Ke—Delano. Thanks for seeing me.”
“No trouble at all,” Martin replied, nodding toward the pet carrier. “I assume that’s my patient in there?”
“Oh, right, yeah—gimme a second.” Gerry Delano unlocked the carrier, then carefully reached in and lifted its occupant out onto onto the table.
“Oh, aren’t you lovely,” Martin murmured. “This is Sticks?”
“That’s him,” Gerry replied, as the small, fluffy, and perfectly black rabbit stretched forward to give a spot on the table a sniff, then retreated back into a loaf shape. Gerry stroked him gently. “Least I think it’s a him.”
“Well, let’s see, then.” Martin reached out, careful not to spook his new patient, and started examining her. He—yes, he—handled it all about as calmly as a nervous rabbit could. Martin didn’t have to grab a towel, at least, nor did he have a repeat of the time a nervous lop tried to jump off the examination table entirely. Sticks tolerated all the poking, prodding, and manhandling, and only got wriggly once before a quick pause and readjustment calmed him back down.
“So how long have you had him?” Martin asked, once he was done. Sticks immediately fled to the nearest safe haven, which turned out to be his owner’s armpit.
“Less than a week, since Monday,” Gerry replied, petting him as he attempted to burrow deeper into his jacket.
“Well, he’s a touch underweight,” Martin told him. “There’s some information I can give you on rabbit care, if this is your first time owning one. He’s not neutered, is he?”
“Probably not,” Gerry replied, grimacing. “I don’t know much about his history. I took him off an acquaintance who got him as a present and wasn’t doing a very good job of things.”
Martin pulled a face. “Pets make poor presents, yeah. Well, he’s old enough to be fixed, and with history like that he probably hasn’t gotten the shots he needs. After we’re done here, you can talk to Rosie out front, schedule another appointment to get those done. What do you feed him?”
Gerry, as Martin discovered, was an absolutely model rabbit owner. He’d done his homework, read up on how to keep a rabbit happy and healthy, and hadn’t scrimped on expenses. It was no wonder Sticks was happy to hide under his arm for the remainder of the appointment; he had a good home with good food and toys and what sounded like a nice setup, habitat-wise.
“What sort of vegetables are good for him?” they asked at one point. “I’m thinking of growing some. I’ve got the space, but I’ve heard too much causes problems?”
They want to grow vegetables for their pet rabbit, Martin thought, a little dreamily. “Leafy greens are a safe bet,” he replied out loud. “Romaine, parsley, cilantro, kale, that sort of thing. Work them in slowly if he’s not used to them, and he’ll be fine. I can give you a list, if you’d like?”
When the appointment was done, a future one scheduled, and the patient safely back in his carrier, Martin finally let himself ask the question that had been on his mind.
“So, is there a special meaning to ‘Sticks’?” he asked. “Is it short for something, or does he like to play with them, or…?”
“What?” Gerry looked confused for a moment, before the question seemed to click. “Oh, no, not Sticks like—he’s Styx as in the river.”
“Oh! Styx, of course. Sorry, I just—I heard it, but I didn’t see it written down—”
Gerry’s grin was crooked, like they were trying to hold it back but only partially succeeding. “It’s fine. And thanks for everything.”
“Oh, no problem, you’re doing great,” Martin assured him, smiling back. “He’s lucky to have you.”
He was pleasantly baffled when a bit of color crept into Gerry’s face. “Right, well, who can resist a bunny.”
“You’d be surprised,” Martin said as he showed him out of the room. “If I get one more new rabbit owner telling me about their lovely outdoor hutch—”
Gerry looked scandalized at the thought as he left, which was another point in his favor.
“What’s that look for?” Tim asked as Martin passed him on the way back to the office. “Oh dear. Don’t tell me Jon has competition again?”
“Oh my God, Tim, give that a rest. There was never any competition!”
“Yeah, Tim, keep it straight, will you?” Sasha called out from the temporary puppy pen. “Oliver wasn’t competition. Martin was jealous of him, remember?”
“Nothing straight about it,” Tim shot back.
“I have payroll to do,” Martin reminded them primly. “You trust me with our finances and then you treat me like this. How dare you. I’m defrauding both of you, see if I don’t.”
***
It wasn’t that Martin fell in love easily, per se. It was just that he had a very specific set of standards when it came to who he found attractive, and in his line of work he always ran into people who either met every single one of them, or disappointed him in every possible way.
When he stepped into examination room 4 and found Jon Sims trying to herd three kittens away from the edge of the examination table at once, he kept his deep sigh on the inside. Jon was batting a thousand, and he’d been coming around long enough for everyone in the clinic to know about it.
“Hello again, Jon,” Martin said, doing a wretched job of hiding his smile.
Jon looked up with a helpless expression. “It’s kitten season,” he said, and Martin poured all his sympathies into a more situation-appropriate sigh.
“It’s kitten season,” Martin agreed. “So, where did these little ones come from?”
“These came from the colony in Battersea,” he replied. “Well, sort of. The mother already has an owner, and said owner keeps letting her out every day, even though I’ve told her time and again there’s that unfixed tom I’ve never been able to catch—and that’s just the one I know of—”
Martin scowled as he examined one of the squirming kittens. Much easier to manhandle than rabbits, he thought, apropos of nothing. “Better than being born on the street, I suppose.”
“Small mercies,” Jon agreed. “Anyway, when the kittens were born she told me either I could take them or she was going to take them to the park and give them out for free, which really isn’t a choice at all. Poor things.” The ginger kitten in his hands squealed until he settled it more comfortably against his shoulder, where it calmed down and immediately tried to eat his hair.
“Gonna find a foster for them, then?” Martin asked.
“I don’t have much of a choice,” Jon sighed. “I’d do it myself, but—you know how Duchess is.”
“Yes. How is Duchess, by the way?”
“Cantankerous as ever. You don’t happen to have room, do you?”
“Room, yes. Time…” The black kitten was finished with her exam, and protested when she was put back in the carrier. “Did Sasha tell you about the puppies?”
“I haven’t seen Sasha today,” Jon replied, handing over the ginger kitten when Martin reached for it. “What puppies?”
“Rosie came in early this morning,” Martin informed him, wincing when the kitten bit hard on his thumb. “There was a box waiting by the door, with four puppies inside. No note or anything. So, that’s been fun.”
“I can imagine,” Jon said distastefully. “Are you serious? Someone just left a box of puppies on the doorstep? Like foundlings in a Dickens novel?”
Martin snorted before he could think better of it, startling the kitten into biting him again. Jon was the only person he’d ever met who would use a word like foundlings. “More or less. They are cute, though. Tim says his brother might be interested in taking one, and Sasha says she’s got friends who volunteer at a dog rescue. Retrievers usually aren’t too hard to adopt out.”
“Well, good luck to you. I suppose the season’s hard on everyone.”
The three kittens were in good health, which Martin was more or less expecting. Kittens tended to have a better chance when born in a home than out in the street—even in a less than responsible home. Between the two of them, Martin and Jon got them back into the battered old carrier, where they went back to wrestling each other in the blankets. Jon reached in to tickle one between the ears and got nipped for his troubles, but it only made him smile.
“Well, anyway,” Martin went on, realizing that he’d been staring long enough for it to be rude. “I don’t think you need any follow-up care instructions?”
Jon laughed quietly before closing the carrier. “No, I think I’m alright. Thank you, Martin.”
“It’s not problem. Always a pleasure.” Martin beamed. “Good luck on finding them a foster. And—catching that tom.”
“One of these days, I swear.”
Martin showed him back out to the front. Not necessary, considering how often Jon walked that hallway. But it felt nice to walk beside him, talking shop or chatting about nothing, all to the background tune of healthy, vocal kittens.
After waving Jon off, he turned back to find Sasha watching him from behind the front desk, chin in hand, the very picture of unimpressed.
“What,” said Martin.
“He’s been coming in for months,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you going to make a move or not?”
“No I’m not going to—Sasha, he’s a client.”
“So? It’s not like you’re his doctor. There’s no conflict of interest or weird power dynamic when your role in his life is taking care of animals he brings in.” Sasha sat back, letting the swivel chair roll backward. “You’re already chatting like old friends every time you see him.”
“I know, I know, it’s just—it’s weird?” Martin shrugged helplessly. “We only ever meet during business hours, so it’s like—how much of our, our, our friendliness is just a working relationship?”
“Easy fix!” Sasha spread her hands wide. “The man works at a cat rescue! You can just swing by and say hello anytime!”
“He works there part-time, and I don’t know what hours! Not like I can just stand outside and case the place until I see him.”
At that moment, the door to the back swung open, and Tim poked his head out. “Could I get some help? Bailey’s giving me some trouble and I need an extra set of hands.”
“Be right there,” Martin replied. To Sasha, he said, “Look, I’m fine. It’s not a big deal, we’re just two people who keep meeting in very specific circumstances. And that’s all it needs to be.”
Sasha sighed. “I just think you’re making this out to be more complicated than it needs to be.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Martin muttered, and followed Tim into the back.
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ghostbustermelanieking · 4 years ago
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tma as “the haunting of bly manor”: self-indulgent au ramblings
this started as me really loving thobm’s ending (both in general and as a representation of what i want out of tragic gay love stories in horror) and thinking “wow it’d be cool if tma ended like that,” and ended up here because i started analyzing the parallels and where other characters fit in and couldn’t stop thinking about it. indulge me on this one please
(putting this under a cut in case anyone is watching the haunting of bly manor and doesn’t want to be spoiled. i don’t think you necessarily need to have seen thobm to understand this but it probably helps.)
· okay as pieces of horror that deal a lot in tragedy and death and love and themes of being trapped and fighting against things and reliving moments in time and losing yourself to outside forces, i think thobm works really well as a template for a tma au
· to start off: martin is the storyteller. of course martin is the storyteller
·“statement of martin k. blackwood regarding… a ghost story” more on this later
· the magnus institute stands in for bly, and it’s pretty much the same except it’s in the middle of fuck-all nowhere, and is much less staffed, and half the staff just like. lives there out of necessity
· it isn’t just a temple to the eye though; it’s mostly that, but it’s also kind of like a sinkhole for all the powers. the land it’s on is a mess and divided up between the powers like a mini fearpocalypse
· consider: tim and sasha as owen and hannah come and suffer with me
· ok aside from the inherent tragedy of their stories being in parallel, consider: tim would make those awful puns and sasha would absolutely pretend to hate it
· ok but also consider: sasha dies and no one notices, not even her. she’s taken by not-sasha the lady in the lake and she dies and no one notices it, but everyone wonders where sasha’s always going, why she always seems to be so out of it.
· imagine sasha fading into the background not realizing that shes dead... tim not understanding why she's pulling away or constantly disappearing, why she acts so strangely when he suggests they run away... sasha reliving moments with tim, unable to understand why she keeps coming back to the moment where she pushed him out of the way when something was in the institute, not realizing it’s the last time she saw him alive
· “tell him i love him…” oh my god
· not sasha is the lady in the lake. just because.
· jonah elias magnus is a little bit the lady in the lake a little bit peter quint he’s got the backstory of this being his house and being there for fuck-all-ever, and he’s using all these people as cogs in the machine, trying to get them to lose themselves to the eye or anything else there, using their lives and wellbeing to benefit himself (especially jon more on that later)
· (it should be noted there’s a very good fic with a huge manor and ghosts and romantic stuff and jonah possessing people called antigonish that makes way more sense than this but anyways)
· basira and daisy are a little bit quint and rebecca jessel. not entirely; their backstory is different and so is their dynamic, and daisy doesn’t possess basira to kill her and trap her there forever or anything like that. but she does go over to the hunt and ask basira to come with her. the difference is, basira wants to
· georgie is henry wingrave. minus the spousal infidelity and secret daughter, but in that she refuses to come to the institute. she’s brushed enough with it (with the end) that she doesn’t want to come anywhere near it, or anyone involved. she’s henry wingrave who separates herself from everyone for her own preservation but also loses jon and melanie in the process… who calls all the time because she misses them and wants to either apologize or beg them to leave but can never get up the courage to say anything… who comes back to get them out and dies briefly and has her encounter with the end… who talks to sasha when she reveals she’s dead and says, “tell him i love him…” who helps melanie leave in the end…. jesus christ
· melanie and jon are both dani yes i will elaborate
· melanie is dani in that she’s the last to come, and she thinks it’s going to be a new start even though it’s anything but. (she’s running, although not from a ghostly fiancé, but from the slaughter and the war ghosts and the humiliation she faced on the internet.) she comes to give a statement and ends up never leaving, and the slaughter only tightens its hold on her. georgie disapproves. melanie wants to leave when she figures out she’s trapped but she doesn’t know how
· jon is dani in that he is the second to last to come, and also the linchpin to ending all of it. but he’s also a little bit the kids, in that he’s being manipulated and taken over by the eye and in a lot of danger but he has no idea. he’s still the archivist he still takes statements and elias (who’s a lot less present here but still has some sway over everything) is manipulating the hell out of him ala quint to miles and flora
· the covering mirrors motif pops up here somehow mirrors looking glass eye all of that
· jon still takes statements, and statements are a version of dream-hopping. where they can relive their statements and their fondest memories and all of that, but jon is unwilling voyeur to all of it
· tim and martin are the ones who don’t stay at the institute overnight. jon and melanie and sasha and basira do. gradually tim and martin start to leave less and less
· it ends in a big confrontation i’m not sure how. lake + eye imagery, the power well trying to pull everyone in. sasha accepts she’s dead. georgie comes for her loved ones. jon gives himself over to the eye to save everyone, so they can all leave
· here is where storyteller martin comes in because imagine that ending of dani and jamie in a jm context. holy fucking shit
· jon and martin who leave the institute and go to scotland on borrowed time, knowing jon will inevitably lose the rest of him to the eye someday, but wanting to spend whatever time they have left together. the safehouse period but it lasts for years pls imagine. all of that. oh my god
· jon eventually going back to the institute to protect martin and martin following him and getting there too late… that entire scene by the lake… holy shit holy shit
· storyteller martin who won’t talk about it for years before finally giving the statement (possibly at georgie and melanie’s wedding just because, possibly not like that at all). who gives the statement futilely hoping it’s the key to seeing jon again because that’s always worked before. storyteller martin who is still looking for jon years later, who fills the sinks and tubs and sleeps with the door cracked open. storyteller martin who sleeps unknowingly with jon’s hand on his shoulder
· this is messy and unformed but i’ve been screaming about it for weeks oh my god someone draw this for me
· i don’t expect actual tma to end anything like this but i’d die if it did
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edelwoodsouls · 4 years ago
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maybe in another universe - ch. 2 [fic]
Jon isn’t expecting anything good when he’s evacuated to the countryside. Living with his crush rival he can just about handle. The secret magical world in the upstairs wardrobe, on the other hand, might just break him.
AKA: Narnia AU
Word Count: 3,570 | Also on Ao3 | Chapters: 1,
chapter two: in the land of the watcher
It's raining.
No, that's not really a good word for it. The skies have split open and are casting down an ocean, and usually Martin would thrive, curl up with a collection of Keats or Wordsworth and have melancholy thoughts as he stares at the grey clouds above.
But no such luck. He's been forced out of his room by Ms Perry, the iron-fisted housekeeper - all four of the teenagers have been relegated to the library, where they can supposedly do as little harm as possible.
It's a tense affair. Basira is curled on one of the sofas with an Ancient Greek to English dictionary and a battered book that looks like it's been set on fire several times. Melanie has managed to pry one of the ceremonial swords off the wall, and is practicing swinging it at precarious angles.
Jon is most definitely not reading the crumbling tome clutched in his hands, though he's trying very hard to pretend. Martin can feel the eyes boring into him, sat where he is in the middle of the room, legs crossed in front of a large, malfunctioning radio.
He's been trying to get it fixed for what feels like hours now, to cling to the pulse of information that has been snatched away in this remote and antiquated house. He can feel Jon getting closer and closer to the end of his very thin patience with every jump of static.
After what feels like the millionth time of almost, when he can feel Jon's irritation about to froth at his lips, Martin finally throws his screwdriver on the ground. The silence in the room is overbearing. "Let's play a game."
"Yes," Melanie says immediately, accentuating the word with an alarming jab of her sword in his direction. "What're you thinking?"
"Hide and seek," Basira chimes in, looking up from her book with a smirk. "This house looks brilliant for it."
"I second that," Melanie nods. "Martin?"
"Yeah," he nods. "Sounds like fun."
"Three votes for hide and seek. It's decided then."
"Don't I get a vote?" Jon mutters, not looking up from where he's gripping his book very tightly.
"No, Jon, you don't, because you're a spoilsport and you'll suggest something like re-alphabetising the library or being good little so and sos. And even if you did, majority rules. So-" Melanie thrusts her sword an inch from Jon's face, "buck up and join in, or fuck off."
Jon looks about ready to attempt murder with his bare hands, but before he can get a word out, Melanie throws her sword dramatically onto the floor with a loud clatter, and closes her eyes. "ONE... TWO... THREE..."
Martin grins as he pulls himself off the floor and flees for the door. It's been a long time since he's felt young enough to play games, let alone had the friends to play them with. There's something so childish, so delightful, about running in a place not meant for running, folding himself into somewhere hidden and waiting with baited breath to be found.
Being hunted, without the consequence of failure.
Jon barrels past him, arms flailing. Martin's never seen him run but god, he's fast. He shoots down the corridor and vanishes behind a flurry of curtains.
Martin continues on until he reaches a closed door. Behind him he can hear Melanie's counting, yelled at the top of her lungs - no doubt the housekeeper will kill them later for disturbing the professor. She's nearly finished, and the adrenaline pounding in Martin's veins is reaching heights it hasn't in weeks, and he needs a hiding place now.
There's a spider's web strung in the corner of the doorway, a tiny house spider nestled at it's centre. Almost invisible, if not for Martin's keen eyes, his bone-deep expectation that he'll find at least one no matter where he goes.
It's just a spider, he tells himself, and the thought sounds hollow even to him.
But he throws open the bolt of the door anyway and tumbles into the room, slamming it haphazardly closed.
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, leaning against the door, and that's why it takes him so long to notice the ornate wardrobe at the other end of the room. There's nothing else here, as if this space was designed solely to house a single piece of furniture.
And it's beautiful, deep maroon wood carved with all sorts of imagery Martin can't make sense of - eyes staring out unblinking from one door, webs strung across the other, both surrounded and wreathed in flames.
Some nameless thing in his gut calls him forward.
The click of those carved doors opening sounds too loud, like the snap of fingers right beside his ear. A breeze dances across his cheeks, though the doors and windows are closed, and the collection of coats inside are still.
Without thinking, he delves in.
<linebreak>
He should be surprised by the winter wonderland at the back of the wardrobe.
Somehow, he isn't.
The world in the wardrobe seems to go on forever. He's been wandering for miles, he's certain of it - the chill is beginning to set into his fingers, kept at bay only by the adrenaline still humming through his body at the sheer magic of it all.
Suddenly, ever pretending that magic wasn't real seems like such a childish thing to do. It's right here, in front of him. The snow soaks through his shoes, collects in his hair. His breath puffs in little clouds before his face.
Just an hour ago, he was staring at a dreary English afternoon.
He's definitely not in England anymore.
Still, even with all this magical strangeness, he's not expecting the lamp post. Stood proudly alone in a clearing, as if the other trees have shrunk away from its alien material. It's lit, casting a faint glow on the snow, and he can hear the burn of gas inside the glass.
He stops short. "What."
He hovers at the edge of the clearing, unwilling to disturb the perfect snow circling this strange spectacle. It feels reverent, deferential - something that shouldn't be here, even with all its magic. It feels wrong.
"You're not from around here."
Martin yelps, attempting to spin around too fast to look behind him. Instead he trips over his own feet and goes tumbling into the snow, sending eruptions of white powder up into air.
The voice that startled him laughs, a low and dry sound. "Sorry, friend. Didn't mean to startle you."
Martin's view is obscured by his damp curls and the snow beginning to drip into his eyes, but he just about makes out the hand gloved in fingerless black leather thrust into his face. Each joint is marked with ink, and Martin could swear every symbol is a wide, unblinking eye.
He accepts the proffered hand instinctively, hauled up with surprising strength into standing on his feet.
"Thanks," Martin says, cheeks bright pink not just from the cold.
The figure laughs again, shifts into the pool of light under the lamp post - and Martin gets his first real look at the man. Long, inky hair falling into his eyes. His clothes are a mismatch of leather and dark-dyed fabric that look old, in a way that defies a specific era of fashion but gives a distinctly archaic feel.
The guy brushes his hair behind his ear, revealing his face - five o'clock shadow curving along his sharp jawline, and the longest eyelashes Martin's ever seen, and bright, dark eyes.
For a moment, Martin short-circuits.
"Do you have a habit of falling head over heels for strangers?" the man grins. From deep in his pockets he procurs a metal lighter and a pipe. He leans easily against the lamp post, as if it's totally meant to be there, and takes a drag. The smoke that reaches Martin is strangely sweet and spiced, like cinnamon and cloves.
"Uh, no," Martin says, brushing the snow off his clothes distractedly. "You just startled me."
"I'm very sorry," the guy says. He sounds more amused than anything. "Where are my manners? I'm Gerry."
"Martin."
"Nice to meet you, Martin. You're not from around here, are you?"
"No," Martin frowns. "How did you know?"
"Well, for one thing, you're human."
"I'm- sorry?"
"Human. Homosapien. Son of Adam. Take your pic, really, there are so very many labels."
"I guess? Are you-"
Martin cuts himself off as Gerry shifts his weight and the folds of his clothes settle differently, revealing his legs. Unlike the rest of his ensemble, they're clothed in fur that looks like it was originally some ochre shade, and has been dyed rather shoddily black.
Except they're not clothed...
"You're a goat," Martin blurts out, nonplussed, the filter between mouth and brain paper thin.
"I'm a satyr," Gerry frowns in mock admonishment. "Hint two that you're not from around here - that's incredibly rude of you."
"Oh! Uh, sorry."
"I'm messing with you, Martin," Gery grins, a glint-toothed expression that makes Martin slightly dizzy. "But yes, I'm not human. No one born under the eye of the Ceaseless Watcher is."
"I'm sorry, the...?"
"Ceaseless Watcher." Gerry's easy grin flickers, his eyes darting towards the trees. Martin follows him instinctively, but sees nothing except the vanishing darkness of the trees. "The god of Magnus."
"And Magnus is...?" Martin feels very far behind in this conversation.
"This land. Everything you can see in this winter world, from sea to mountains to sky- that's Magnus."
"Right... so I got here how?"
Gerry shrugs. "Who can say, really. The magic here is- unpredictable. Has a mind of its own."
"Magic," Martin repeats. Unsure how to feel about this word being thrown out like they're talking about gravity, or the alphabet - institutional. Factual.
"Magic," Gerry agrees, smirking at Martin's bemused expression.
He should really be getting back. The thought appears distantly, lethargically. He's getting cold, and the others will no doubt be getting worried about him. Or Melanie will, at least. He can imagine Jon rolling his eyes. He's probably gotten stuck somewhere and can't get out. He'll come wandering in eventually.
But Martin doesn't really want to leave. He wants to continue on this adventure, explore this world that believes in magic like it believes in the sunrise each morning.
He wants to keep talking to this mysterious, incredibly pretty man. Goat. Satyr.
"You look cold," Gerry notes, offering Martin a drag of his pipe. Martin accepts more out of instinct than anything, cringeing as the fumes make him choke. "Come back to mine for tea? I just got some amazing jasmin tea from a dryad who owed me a favour, and I promise it's worth the walk."
Martin hesitates, for just a moment. Considers the risks of wandering off with a strange man he met in the woods.
"Just as long as it's not oolong," he says eventually, with a shudder. "I'd love to."
Gerry loops their arms together and begins leading him into the woods. "No oolong, I promise."
<linebreak>
Gerry, as it turns out, lives in a cave.
It's a very nice cave, Martin has to admit. The walls are lined with bookshelves packed to bursting - tomes titled in some language he can't read that, as he stares at the letters, suddenly begin to make sense. The floor is covered up by rugs, vibrantly coloured and filled with detail. He feels almost guilty stepping onto them with his wet shoes, walking over intricately stitched faces and landscapes.
He turns to see Gerry tapping the snow off his hooves with a cute little dance, before shrugging off his long leather coat, revealing a waistcoat - and nothing else - beneath. Martin can see now, without a doubt, the thickly haired legs beneath his long grey skirt. There are burn scars crawling across his bare arms - across most available skin.
There are more eye tattoos, too, starkly black against his pale skin. When Martin stares for too long, he's convinced he can see some of them blink.
"Take a seat," Gerry says, nodding towards a pair of invitingly soft arm chairs positioned next to a fireplace.
As Martin sinks thankfully into the chair - he hasn't had to walk that far, possible ever - he watches, transfixed, as Gerry flicks his hand in the direction of the fireplace.
It bursts to life instantly.
"How did you do that?" he asks, eyes wide.
"What?" Gerry blinks momentarily. "Oh, that- magic. A gift from the Lightless Flame."
"The Lightless Flame?"
"One of the gods of Magnus."
"I thought you said the- the Ceaseless Watcher was the god of Magnus?"
Gerry lets out a laugh, low and bitter. "The only one that matters. All the others have... not faded, exactly. Retreated, you could say. Bowed down. The Ceaseless Watcher rules these lands. All others pay subservience."
"Right." The dark tone in Gerry's voice is beginning to unnerve him.
"Doesn't mean there aren't those of us who don't give a shit," Gerry shrugs, that easy demeanour plastering over the top of whatever just slipped out - though now Martin has seen it, the mask doesn't quite seem to fit. "We pay what we have to, to stay alive."
Martin nods wordlessly. He can understand that.
"I'll just make some tea," Gerry continues, darting up some steps towards what Martin assumes must be a kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable!"
Martin adjusts in his seat. Breathes in the quiet, broken only by the steady crackling of the fire beside him. He can feel it, already, beginning to scare the chill from his fingers, beginning to lull any of his hesitations.
A strange rush of adrenaline floods him suddenly at the thought. He sits up, threads his fingers together, eyes darting around the space.
He's forgotten what it is to be comfortable, he realises. This feeling lowering him gently into calm is unnatural, alien - and not to be trusted.
Before he can begin to think about that too deeply, Gerry reappears, two steaming cups in hand. Martin accepts it gratefully, trying to shelve his discomfort for another day's mental spiral.
He'd hate to ruin the first nice thing to happen to him in a while.
"Is it always so cold here?" he asks, taking a careful sip and sighing as it warms him almost instantly. "Where I came from, it was summer. I mean, it was a horribly rainy summer, but still."
Gerry lets out a small laugh. "It's always winter here."
"Always? Like, never anything else?"
"That is the definition of always. But yes, that's the general idea. Summer is too- positive, for Magnus. Winter is hopeless and dreary and lonely. There is far more to fear in a winter's night."
"That's not at all ominous."
"The lack of change is terrible, too," Gerry continues. His eyes are fixed on the fire, the flames casting strange shadows across his skin. "We don't even get Christmas to look forward to."
"You have Christmas?" Martin frowns. "In Magnus? As a concept, at least? I thought that was a particular religious holiday in my world."
Gerry shrugs noncommittally. "There are many winter traditions that overlap. Some things bleed from one world to another. Maybe it started here, for all you know."
Martin opens his mouth to argue about the improbability of all this, but quickly shuts it again. He's only just been introduced to magic and other worlds - and he's pretty sure logic isn't going to enter the equation any time soon.
"What's it like in your world?" Gerry asks suddenly, fixing Martin with a curious, almost hungry look. "Much better than here, I'd suppose."
"I wouldn't count on it," Martin laughs sharply. "There's a huge war going on. Thousands die on the battlefield. Thousands more die back home as the world sets itself on fire. It's- a nightmare."
Martin curls his hands close around his cup, letting the heat burn his hands. The pain sharpens his senses, grounds him in this moment, before memories of smoke and flame can consume him.
"I'm sorrry," Gerry says softly. "That sounds awful."
"Heh," Martin tries for a weak, concillatory smile, though he's sure it falls short. He covers it up with another sip of tea.
Gerry starts talking again, but Martin can barely hear the words. There's a sudden distance to the world, for all that he clings harder to his scalding mug, for all he tries to keep his eyes wide. The sound is muffled, and his vision of the room is beginning to blur.
He has just enough time to look at his cup of tea, at the earthy sediment he can just about make out swirling at the bottom, before understanding, and horror, and a hundred other things crash into him.
But he's asleep before his cup hits the floor.
<linebreak>
He wakes slumped in the armchair, and for a moment can't remember where he is. The fire has been snuffed out, leaving only smoking remains, and the chill is beginning to leach back into Martin's bones.
The cave is dark. Martin shifts, groggy- and regains his senses with a suddenly sharpness as he catches movement on the other side of the room.
Gerry is hunched on the stairs towards the kitchen, staring vacantly at his hands, at the eyes on his knuckles. He doesn't seem to notice Martin at all.
"Gerry?" Martin says softly, standing up carefully. His cup lies in shards on the floor, a pool of stone-cold tea leaking from the ruins. He can't remember dropping it.
He can't remember falling asleep.
"I'm sorry," Gerry whispers, so quietly it's barely more than a snatch of air.
"Why?" A chill trickles down Martin's spine; it's nothing to do with the cold of the room. "What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I didn't- I don't want-"
"Gerry," Martin says, and there's an edge of steel in his voice that doesn't leave room for debate. "Tell me what's happening."
The satyr looks up finally, and somehow Martin isn't surprised that his eyes are glowing bright green, like lanterns in the dark.
"We pay what we have to, to stay alive."
The chill in Martin's veins solidifies to ice. "What did you pay? What do you have to do?"
He already knows the answer, in the hummingbird beat of his heart, in the shortness of his own breath. And still, it feels like a hammer blow, like the slam of a coffin lid, when Gerry speaks.
"You."
"Me?"
"Humans," Gerry says, voice rough and shaking, like he's barely holding himself together. "They aren't native to these lands. They don't exist here. If they ever come, if there's enough of them, they say the end of the Ceaseless Watcher will be near. The world will finally change."
"I'm just one person, though."
"Not for long," Gerry shakes his head emphatically. "Where there's one, more will always follow. So- he kills them."
"Who kills them?" Martin demands. "Stop being so fucking cryptic and explain things to me."
"The pupil of the eye."
Martin is just about ready to hit this guy.
"We're supposed to give him any humans we find," Gerry rushes to explain. "I'm supposed to send you to him."
"But you're not going to, right?" Martin says slowly, inching towards the poker by the fire. It's an impromptu weapon, but it just might buy him a few seconds. "Because I dazzled you so much with my company that you've decided to have a change of heart?"
For a moment, the silence stretches, and Martin is certain he's about to have to fight for his life.
Even with all the unexplained magic in his life, he doesn't like his chances.
Something changes in Gerry's face. He sets his jaw, balls his fists. He blinks, and his eyes return to their normal, unfathomably dark shade.
"No," he says. "I'm not going to. Come on."
Before Martin has a chance to register anything, Gerry seizes his hand and drags him out into the snow.
They run. For what feels like hours, rushing past a blur of trees and ice and rock so fast Martin is sure it must be some type of magic. Gerry's grip is vice-like, but Martin only clings harder.
He imagines bombs falling behind him. A world of darkness and debris, too hot for the season as fires burn through its skyline.
Has he really just traded one daydream-turned-nightmare for another?
When they reach the lamp post's clearing, Gerry skids to a sudden stop, kicking up snow in a shower. He turns to Martin, wild-eyed with a feverish adrenaline.
"You know your way frrom here?" he demands, gripping Martin's arms and searching his face for the answer before he has a chance to speak.
"Uh- yeah- I think so," Martin stutters.
"Good. You need to run. Don't stop, don't talk to anyone - or anything, not even yourself. The trees might hear you."
"The trees?"
"There are eyes everywhere."
Somehow, Martin gets the feeling Gerry isn't being figurative.
"What about you?" he asks. "If the- pupil of the eye, what if he finds out you didn't turn me over?"
Gerry gives him a pained smile. "Run, Martin. While you still have the chance."
"But-"
"I'm so glad to have met you." The way Gerry says this, so softly, so sincerely, brings Martin up short. "Now go."
He doesn't need telling again. With one final, memorising glance at Gerry, a dark figure among a landscape of snow-
Martin flees into the dying night.
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drjackandmissjo · 5 years ago
Text
Roses are Red, Tattoos are Forever
Chapter 3 --- previous chapter
Feysand masterlist
The Sherlock Conundrum
Florist and tattoo artist Au, Modern Day
“Can you please stop with this madness? Hugh Laurie is clearly the best Sherlock ever!”
They were both sitting on the couch of his living room. Really close to each other. She had her left knee under her body and was fully facing him. He had been throwing glances at her way the whole time she’s been there, and now was admiring her everything as they bantered lovingly.
After a particularly rough client, that had taken her nearly seven hours to finish, she came into his shop claiming: “We’re both closing earlier, I need to rest and so do you.”
At his attempt to tell her off, cause “I don’t need to rest I am in pristine fit every second of every minute”, she simply replied with an elongated ‘Please’ and a pair of puppy dog eyes that would’ve put a Labrador to shame.
Useless to say, they ended up on his couch half an hour later, a marathon of the fourth season of House M.D. on the television and chips and popcorn all around.
Feyre is harder than she looks, tougher. She likes to drink whiskey and burning liquor and beer.
Rhys, on the other hand, is a refined rosé man. He drinks fruity drinks and cocktails and vodka. He tried the same stuff that she drinks, once, when they went out with the rest of the inner circle after Az had received a promotion. It didn’t end well.
Feyre and Cassian will forever tease him about it.
Since their taste in alcohol was on such a wide spectrum, they decided to settle for some sparkly Coca-Cola for that fine night.
About halfway through episode six, the debate had begun. The show was soon forgotten and left as a white noise machine that lulled them into their silliness.
“Feyre Darling. You are being delusional. Dr House’s got nothing on RDJ’s Sherlock. Just cause the character was inspired by Conan Doyle’s work it doesn’t mean it can be considered a Sherlock.”
She laughed. A delicious sound that was filling his days more and more each morning. “Do you know that Conan Doyle based Shelly on a doctor, right? Also, yeah Jude Law’s better than Wilson, that is true.”
“Can we just agree that Cumberbatch and Freeman are equally amazing.”
“Yeah, duh! But, controversial opinion: I don’t actually ship Jonhlock romantically.”
“More like platonic soul-mates? Makes complete sense. They are not interested in each other at all. You are right, Fey-ruh Acheron.”
‘HOW DARE SHE...’, he thought severely displeased.
“Oh please don’t be pissed at me. I like them together and everything, but in my mind, Sherlock is pretty much ace-aro. I mean, Cumberbatch was also Smaug. Which in the books is described as a dragon while the movies decided to portray him like a vixen...” He solemnly nodded.
That is, indeed, a severe problem in mainstream media.
“That is, indeed, a severe problem in today mainstream media. We live in a world where people don’t know the difference between one another! Daenerys Mother of Dragons? More like Dany The Soccer Mom of three cool lizards. That would be more appropriate!”
“Don’t talk to me about Dany, I’m still pissed about Jonerys. I mean, fan-service much? Okay, I can deal with that. But don’t freaking kill Viserion and try to make us all believe that HIS MOTHER WOULD FUCK HER NEPHEW THIRTY MINUTES LATER!”
She laughed again.
‘Gods above and below,’ he thought, ‘how much can a person love another?’
“Agree 100% on Viserion, though Jon after Ygrit should’ve just zipped up his pants and close business. You experience that kind of love once in your screentime. And when you do, Martin kills the counterpart off immediately after the big scene. You know that sadist is gonna kill you off, so just spare him the dirty deeds to write.”
“The dirty deeds are the reasons he is taking so much to finish that freaking book. Also, salty much?"
"You dare calling me salty? It’s been years and you still weep over Robb’s body.”
“Excuse you, it is a very fine body. Have you seen Richard Madden lately? With that kilt at Kit and Rose’s wedding? Fine AF.”
She was now scooting over, moving closer to his face to find a reaction.
“Fine, you’re right. But Darling, you know damn well I am attracted to that man, you can’t just casually throw his name around! That would be like me, saying that Misha has aged like a fine whisky.”
“And where would a lie hide in that sentence?”
“ANYWAY. We were talking of something terrifically important.”
He decided to add a Meaningful Pause to give himself some dramatic effect...
“How can you say you don’t ship Jonhlock romantically?”
‘Honesly I love that woman. She is my other half, I would die for her and with her. My life without her has no meaning.
But if her answer doesn’t please me then so help me God I will suffer through a meaningless life with the strength of my ships.’ His mind said.
“I told you before the 'The Hobbit/Game of Thrones' parenthesis. When I read the books I thought of Sherlock as a madman who cared about Watson profoundly, but mostly cares about himself and his work. Someone who doesn’t dwell into feelings, doesn’t really enjoy sexual times and, truly, a modern-day asexual and aromantic asshole with a kink for unofficial police work. Yes, He and Watson are amazing together, and especially with RDJ and Jude Law I saw the sexual tension, which then I also saw in the BBC’s version. But for me, since I read the books first, Jonhlock will always be the exact relationship shown by House and Wilson. Sorry to disappoint.”
She was so close to him, he could smell her shampoo and count the freckles across her nose. She was staring directly into his soul. Rhys was fully clothed in an old tee and some pants and yet he’d never felt more naked.
“You never disappoint me. As a matter of fact, you never cess to amaze me, Feyre Acheron. You are perfect and beautiful both on the inside as well as on the outside. Here I was, looking for a polite way to kick you out of my apartment after you say you don’t ship one of my OTPs and now, here still I am trying not to be drowned into you and trying not to get lost into your eyes and I love you so fucking much that it physically hurts.”
His inner monologue at the time? ‘Fuck. FUCK. What the fuck did I just say???’
She had managed to fry his whole brain with her smart reasoning and perfect voice and now he had ruined a perfect moment by saying cheesy stuff to a girl that didn’t particularly care for cheese.
That was the end of Rhysand Sphera as we all know and love him.
Cause of death: killed by Feyre Acheron as result of saying something completely idiotic.
Only...
“Do you really mean that?”
She sounded hopeful and scared at the same time. The horrors she had to face in the past came running back to her and were written all over her face. Rhys took her hands in his. They were both trembling.
His mouth had probably never been that dry and yet aching to speak at the same time. He could only nod and pray she reciprocated.
That was the moment of truth.
“Of course I mean it. All of it. Each unsaid sentence and each shared glances. Every time I bring you coffee or a send you a picture of a dog that walks into my shop with its owner even though I’m terrified of them. The dog, not the owner. Even though some owners of dogs are terrifying. I have been in love with you for so long, I forgot how it feels not loving you. I look back at those times when you were not in my life and even back then I knew I was missing something. And when he-who-must-not-be-named showed up and swept you off your feet away from me, I was broken beyond repair. But you came back and made me hope that maybe, maybe all my dreams could become true. But you were hurt and also broken, and you needed time to heal. You still do. I shouldn’t have said anything, but you’re just so fucking amazing that I struggle to not scream ‘I Love You’ every time you breathe. I am utterly in love with you and hopelessly devoted to you. I understand if you still need time to heal or would rather be with someone else. But I said it, and I do not intend on taking it back.”
She was kneeling on the couch, her hands still clutching his, tears streaming down her face.
“Don’t take it back.”
Rhys thought he had heard what he wanted, so he had to ask, “What?”, a dumbstruck disbelieving-his-luck expression plastered on his face.
“I said don’t take it back. I feel the same way. I am utterly in love with you and hopelessly devoted to you too. I thought you hated me after, well, Tamlin. It is pleasant knowing we reciprocate each other’s feelings.”
Feyre laughed again, breaking the spell between them. Only, now the deed was done. Neither of them could hold their emotions in any longer. Feyre leaned in and so did Rhys, and their lips met halfway in a once in a lifetime, epic romance, Full on Princess Bride type of kiss.
After they both ran out of breath, they simply remained connected in every way possible given their awkward position. Foreheads never leaving each other, hands clasped together, lips barely touching. That spell, though, didn’t last for long. Soon they yearned to touch each other’s skin and feel each other’s bodies.
They were never going to have enough of each other.
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Text
chapter 1 of an au i am writing
this is jokingly titled “power of friendship au” in my doc, but that’s essentially it - tim, sasha, and jon (for now) team up while they’re all still interns to befriend all of the creatures they meet!  the timeline is obviously a bit different from tma canon, but it will still be mostly non-spoiler. this chapter in particular has only mid-early season one spoilers, so you all should be fine! as usual, under the cut...
"We are not supposed to be doing this," Tim hissed, but he made no move to run.
Jon wasn’t listening. The box of cigarettes in his hand was nearly crushed, but he stood his ground as they made their way to Old Fishmarket Close.
"Do you really think we're gonna—" Sasha's voice wavered. "I mean, the file in Gertrude's office said it’s not—it isn’t always there, right?”
“We’re going to find it,” he said resolutely. The hills were high, higher than any of them had expected, but they managed to make their way up to the alleyway that was listed on the map.
It was dark out. Jon convinced them all earlier that day to come with him and help after they left for the night, and Tim was doing a very bad job of hiding the fact that it made him incredibly nervous to be out this late. The streets were nearly empty—at nine o’clock on a Tuesday evening, no one was going to be out and about.
A quiet voice echoed from in the alleyway—”Can I have a cigarette?”
Sasha screamed. In her haste to wrap herself around Tim for safety, she nearly hit him in the face. Somehow, though, Jon stood his ground.
“You can have a cigarette if you come out of the alleyway. We know what you are. We just want to talk.” He set the pack of cigarettes down just a bit out of reach, then sat down in front of the alley with his legs crossed. “We can wait here all night.”
“Wait, what? Maybe you can, but some of us have work tomorrow. Or have you forgotten about our literal job? The one we met at? Earth to Jon, but we do still have to work. In the twenty minutes it took us to get here, capitalism as an institution has not yet been overthrown.”
“Shut up, I’m trying to concentrate.” Jon sat there staring at the alleyway. “Come out of the alley now, please.”
His stare was incredibly intense, seeming to cut through the darkness obscuring the figure and illuminate the alley. As they sat there in the alley, a voice that was most certainly not the one from before—and was also certainly not human—echoed out from the alley.
“Fine.”
“Come out where I can see you,” Jon said. 
The vaguely human silhouette in the alley warped and twisted, changing from human to inhuman in barely a second. It skulked out of the alley, sitting down across from Jonathan.
He could see how from certain angles it could maybe look sort of human. If it tried. It reminded him of one of those optical illusion sculptures in museums—from one angle, it looked like a giraffe, from the other two elephants. Except from one angle, this thing was human, and from the other… well, most definitely not.
“Do you have a name?” Jon asked. Somewhere, quiet static hummed. 
“No,” it said. “You call me the Anglerfish, though.”
“Do you want a name?”
“Maybe. If you pick a good one.” 
“Louis,” Tim said.
“Felix,” Sasha said at the same time.
“No,” the Anglerfish said, decisively.
“You’re a fish, right? What if we just call you Ariel?” Sasha tilted her head to one side, thinking hard. “You look like an Ariel.”
“Ariel as in The Tempest?” Jon asked, looking confused. “I mean, sure, the water reference is there—”
“Ariel as in The Little Mermaid, you fucking idiot,” Tim said with a sigh that could have shaken the city down. 
“Never seen it.”
“What’s a mermaid?” the Anglerfish asked, testing the word out in its human voice. 
“Oh my god. Firstly, your name is Ariel now.” Tim pointed at the Anglerfish. “Secondly, you get a pass for not knowing because you’re a spooky monster thing. Thirdly, Jon, how have you not seen The Little Mermaid? Did you just straight-up not have a childhood?”
Jon didn’t reply.
“So we’re going to my apartment and renting it off Netflix and—I can’t believe I’m having a slumber party! I’m not a kid anymore… but it’s necessary. Objectively speaking.” Sasha looped her arm through Jon’s, pulling him to his feet. 
“Are we sure this is necessary?”
“Yes,” Sasha said, glaring at Tim. “I think I actually have some microwave popcorn we can make, do a full movie night.” 
Jon sighed, following Sasha as best he could.
“What’s a movie?” Ariel asked quickly. “What are those?”
“You have a lot to learn,” Sasha said, with a wide grin. “But if you like it here and want to talk about it more, then… well, you can just chill with us!”
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Patel? Amy Patel?”
“Alright, Amy, and do you think you can tell me some more about how this all happened? I know you gave your statement to Gertrude already, but—”
“Oh, no, it’s no trouble,” Amy said, gesturing into her flat. “I moved, but I still have my address down if you want me to give it to you. And, er, the flat that used to be Graham’s, I can get you that address too if you need it.”
Sasha shook her head. “You don’t have to give us all that. Just by letting us in you’re doing enough already.” 
Amy smiled in that bemused sort of way that older adults tended to smile at younger ones, with a look in her eyes that said something like “who are these little children and why are they trying to be professional around me?” 
“We should—I should have introduced myself.” Jon gestured to Tim and Sasha. “That’s Tim Stoker, this is Sasha James, and I’m Jonathan Sims—we work with the Magnus Institute, under the head archivist. We’re only interns, though.”
“I’d noticed,” she said. “Come on, sit down. I’ll put on some tea if you’d like?”
“Tea would be lovely,” Sasha said before the others could interject. “Now, can you tell us a bit more about your experience with Graham?”
“Oh, well, where to begin,” Amy said, pouring milk into a saucepan on the stove. “I mean, I’ve told you basically everything in my statement already. You contacted me saying there was an update a while back, but honestly I’d almost forgotten about it. The whole thing. It was a few years ago now, so… yeah.”
“Alright. Um. Do you—can you tell us anything about what you do now? Like, the sorts of jobs you’ve been doing, or—”
“Yeah, uh… yeah. Like I said in my statement, I do statistical analysis mostly. Been taking a few more classes sort of in the field of criminal studies—” she waved her hand— “all that sort of stuff. I actually did take a liking to it, might try working with that sort of stuff in the near future. I’m already looking for applications."
"That's very interesting, Amy," Jon said, fidgeting with the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. 
"It really is," she said as she strained the chai, setting four mugs on the table and sitting down next to them. 
Jonathan had taken the box of cigarettes out, and was now shaking them absentmindedly a few centimeters away from his face as he thought.
"Oh, can you not smoke in here?" Amy asked quickly. "It's just—my landlord hates when people smoke inside, we have an area over outside for it—"
"I don't smoke," Jon said, looking somewhat confused. Sasha took the cigarettes from,him and put them in her pocket.
"They're for our friend Ariel, Jon just carries them for it."
"It?" Amy looked more confused than ever.
"She eats them," Tim explained. "And she told us to call her 'she' in front of other people, Sasha."
By this point, Amy had taken a long drink of chai.
"You kids work with monsters. Right? All those things in the statements. Other people have to have given statements, there's got to be some others that are true."
Jon nodded solemnly. "We've been looking into other cases with provable aspects—yours does, by the way, we know yours is at least partially true." 
"How comforting," Amy said with a wry smile.
“And… well, this is going to sound very bad, but I would prefer it if Tim stopped sleeping with people to get information.”
“Hey! That was one time!” 
Amy laughed. “So you’re asking me to help you get information. Right?”
Jon nodded, having started to fidget with the cuffs of his shirt once Sasha had taken away the cigarette box. 
“I mean, I do have access to quite a few databases. If you wanted my help, though, you’ll have to promise something.” It sounded like she was talking to some unruly teenagers. 
“Certainly.” He tried to look as professional as possible.
“Please just take care of yourselves,” Amy said with a sigh. “You guys are just kids and you’re running yourselves into the ground, and you’re putting so much work into this—I’m scared you’re going to either get hurt by one of these things or hurt yourselves trying to befriend them.” 
“I—” Jon tugged at the button on his sleeve for a moment. “I understand where you’re coming from here, I really do, but there’s, there’s just so many and I want to give them a chance. Because we still have to—if there’s any chance they’re a good person, deep down, I want to help them.”
Amy sighed, leaning back in her chair. “If you’re serious about this—”
“We are,” Sasha said quickly. 
“Then I’ll help you.” She picked up a pad of paper sitting on the table and scribbled something on it in smooth, curling handwriting. “That’s my phone number for my work phone, just call it if you need anything. I usually have it on me.”
She thought for a moment. “Give me a sec. You’ll want this.” 
Leaving Jon, Tim, and Martin alone at the table, she walked into her bedroom and returned carrying what appeared to be a very old, very worn-out three-ring notebook. There were dividers of various colors separating things, a bookmark that was just a piece of ribbon stapled into the spine, and a label on the front that read “MONSTERS”. 
Jon flipped through it quickly, looking through the sections. The dividers were labeled with different numbers, and at the front was a table of contents with each number labeled with a small explanation of each different number. 
“This is incredible, Amy,” he said, turning the pages reverently. “There’s so much detail here—this could be more than we have at the Institute, really.”
“Well, I have had a bit of help,” she said amusedly. Opening up the cover, she moved her hand over something inside and set it down on the table. As she did, the inside cover was revealed.
“Is that skin?” Tim asked, looking disgusted. “Ew.”
“What, am I too gross for you?” a voice suddenly said. Sitting on Amy’s sofa was a man who looked to be about Tim’s age, with his hair long and poorly dyed black. All of his joints were tattooed with tiny open eyes, and he wore dark eye makeup in circles around his eyes that trailed down his face. The clothes he wore were ripped and tattered, but it was obvious that they had at one point been a t-shirt for a band, a leather jacket, and a pair of dark jeans. 
He was also hovering several feet in the air.
“Nice to meet you, everyone,” he said with a grin. “I’m Gerard Keay, and I used to work for your boss.” 
Jon stood there open-mouthed for a few moments. “Sorry, what?”
“I used to work for Gertrude. That’s your boss, right? She still there?”
“Yeah, she’s still there. Uh, just—you’re a ghost, aren’t you.” 
“Yep,” he said, leaning back to hover above the couch with his hands behind his head. “They taking the book with them, Amy?”
“I think so. Because, well, they’re—I think they’re more able to investigate these things than I am.”
“Shame,” Gerard said with a sigh, pushing off the wall and sighing. “You were cool. Plus you didn’t mind if I listened to music on your phone while you worked.”
“You can still see me sometimes,” Amy said with a laugh. “Not like I’m dead. And besides, that wouldn’t really be too much of a problem, would it?”
Gerard rolled his eyes. He very pointedly turned away from Amy and looked at the interns, hovering in a cross-legged position in the air. “Well. My life is in your hands now. I mean, not really life exactly, I’m still dead, but my existence is in your hands. Don’t fuck it up.”
“We won’t,” Tim said. 
“Well. This has certainly been informative.” Amy moved closer to the door. “Thank you for giving me Graham’s old notebook, and for a very interesting discussion. I assume I’ll be hearing from you shortly?”
“Yes. I think we’ll start at the beginning? What’s the oldest entry you have in this book?”
“That’d be… the one right at the start of section three for distorted reality. He likes to hang out in graveyards, you’ll probably be able to find him pretty quickly. Blond hair that’s all long and frazzled-looking, tall, kind of thin—if you see him in a reflection or through glass he looks tall, unnaturally tall, and his hands look all gross and creepy.” She shuddered, moving to open the door. “You still have my number?”
“Yep.” Sasha held up the page. 
“It’s really been lovely,” Jon said. “Thank you.” 
“No problem at all,” Amy said. “I’ll see you all soon.”
thats all folks! thank you so much for reading it. i may upload chapter 2 soon, but that is it for now!!
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waveridden · 5 years ago
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FIC: pieces of you stuck on me
Jon and Basira have both had… well, frankly awful experiences with missions that Elias has specifically assigned. But they can handle these things - or at least, he’d like to think they can. They’re literal secret agents, after all. It’s their job to handle these things.
(A spy AU; specifically, a M:I Fallout AU. JonMartin, 2k. Content warnings apply for canon-typical violence and one death via gunshot.)
AUcember || read on Ao3
#
“You look tired, Jon,” says Basira.
Jon is tired - tired enough that he can’t tell if that’s Basira’s way of showing that she’s worried or if she’s making fun of him for something. He settles for running a hand through his hair and saying “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been tasked to get you to your next mission in one piece.” She arches an eyebrow at him. “Heard the last one nearly ended with you in lots of pieces.”
“One piece, just with bullet holes.”
“Great work as always, Agent Sims.”
Jon rolls his eyes. He doesn’t enjoy the field work the same way that Basira does, or that Tim and Melanie tend to. He’s just… unlucky, in that he needs to go out on missions often. “What exactly am I doing today?”
Basira pushes a door open, and Jon follows her onto the tarmac. “New mission,” she says. “Straight from Bouchard himself.”
“Oh, straight from Bouchard,” Jon mutters. “Makes me feel so much better.”
She huffs a breath out through her nose. “You and me both.”
Jon and Basira have both had… well, frankly awful experiences with missions that Elias has specifically assigned. Basira came back from one and wouldn’t speak to anybody for a full six weeks; Jon still has limited range of motion in the hand that he burned. But they can handle these things - or at least, he’d like to think they can. They’re literal secret agents, after all. It’s their job to handle these things.
“Any idea what it is?” Jon asks, even though he’s sure Basira doesn’t. Elias is notoriously tight-lipped. He’s sure he’s going to get onto this plane and have a dossier there waiting for him, and he’ll be the only other person in the world to have all the information in it.
“Think it’s a follow-up to what happened in Prague,” Basira says breezily. “Don’t wince like that.”
“I’m not wincing,” Jon mutters, even though he was wincing. Prague had been… horrible. Tim had nearly died. That’s not the best feeling for a team leader.
“Mmmmhm,” Basira says, and then abruptly stops moving.
Jon follows her gaze to the ramp of the plane. There are two women standing there: Daisy Tonner, and someone who Jon swears he’s met before.
“Basira,” Daisy says, cautiously.
Basira takes a tiny breath through her nose, and for an instant Jon feels horrible. Daisy went AWOL on a mission, got disavowed, and got immediately snapped up by some other agency. He’s not even sure which one. He knows that Basira misses her horribly. And judging by the look on her face, she wasn’t expecting to see Daisy again.
So instead, Jon shifts his attention to the other woman. He tilts his head, trying to size her up. It’s someone he hasn’t seen in years, but it’s someone he’s seen. It’s-
“Sasha,” he says suddenly. Of course it’s Sasha, why wouldn’t he remember Sasha? They’d been on investigative teams together, and then she’d left for another agency. But they’d always gotten along well.
Her face lights up all at once, beatific and friendly. “Jon! I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me, I’ve changed my hair.”
“Changed your hair,” Jon repeats. He remembers her hair being darker and longer, that much is true. “Of course. It’s good to see you.”
“Good to work with you,” she says. “It’s my understanding that this is an inter-agency mission.”
“Right,” Daisy says. Her voice is too gruff, and Jon can feel Basira shift minutely next to him. “Bouchard reached out to our people, something about nuclear power cores, I don’t really know the whole thing. He wanted us to provide support for this mission.”
Basira shoots Jon a look. “Nuclear power cores?”
Jon clears his throat, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “Things in Prague went… poorly.”
Daisy slowly raises her eyebrows. Sasha just keeps smiling, which is almost more unnerving.
“Very poorly,” Jon says, just to be clear.
Basira just sighs. “Fine,” she mutters. “You have ways to contact us if you need it?”
“Always.”
“Great.” She nods curtly at Daisy and spins on her heel, footsteps fading quickly as she heads back inside.
Jon glances at Daisy. “You alright?”
“Alive,” she says, and grimaces. “She, uh… how’s Basira?”
“Also alive,” Jon says. It feels like the kindest way to say that she’s been doing poorly.
Daisy exhales, a slow huffy breath. “What the hell happened in Prague?”
Jon opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. It’s a classified mission, perhaps more than most. “I’m not sure how much you can know.”
“How much does my agent need to know to do her job?”
“There was an incident,” he says, which is a colossal understatement. “I’m assuming you’ve heard of the Syndicate.”
Sasha leans in, eyes sparkling with fascination. “Orsinov’s Syndicate?”
“It’s barely hers,” Jon points out. “Nikola Orsinov has been in maximum security lockup for the past three years, ever since-”
“Since a previous mission,” Daisy says sharply.
“Right,” Jon says sheepishly. He’s always been awful at this confidentiality thing. “A mission that Agent Tonner here and I were involved in.”
“ Jon, ” Daisy says, exasperation laced through it. “What happened in Prague?”
He sucks in a breath. “Orsinov’s Syndicate has been after a couple of nuclear power cores. A team of agents and I were tasked with preventing them from buying those cores. The mission came down to either getting the cores ourselves and letting an agent die, or sacrificing the cores for the sake of the agent.”
“And you picked the agent,” Sasha finishes, as though it’s obvious. Maybe to her it is. She’d worked with Jon for a long time.
“I picked the agent,” he says softly. It feels like an underwhelming way to explain what had happened: the dim lights of the city, the gunshots, the shouting. Tim yelling that he’d never fucking speak to Jon again if Jon saved his life instead of the world. He’s held to that promise, too; he hasn’t said a word to Jon since then.
Daisy nods slowly. “Word of advice, Sims?”
“Sure.”
“Next time, don’t pick the agent.” She gestures at the plane. “Get on. James, keep me updated.”
“Yes ma’am,” Sasha says smartly, and starts up the ramp on the plane.
Daisy gives Jon one last meaningful look - what meaning he’s supposed to get out of it, he can’t say - and then turns to leave, the opposite direction from Basira.
Jon sighs, and turns to the ramp. Time for a new mission, he supposes.
  #
  They end up in Paris, at a nightclub. At a very loud nightclub, naturally. It’s all part of the mission, but that certainly doesn’t mean Jon has to like it.
The dossiers have informed Jon that the nightclub will be housing a charity event, run by one Helen Richardson. She’s famously wealthy, famously charitable, and famously vicious in underworld circles. And the key to getting those nuclear cores is getting into that event.
It’s easy enough to get into the club, and to get changed into formalwear. It’s something of a relief to actually arrive in Paris; Sasha is eerily silent the whole trip. Jon doesn’t remember her as being talkative, exactly, but he remembers her talking and not just dodging questions. Maybe it’s a side effect of being more experienced. That seems… possible.
The dossier, unfortunately, did not tell them how to find Helen Richardson, or get into her charity event. That’s Elias for you, Jon supposes. All the information you could want, except for the information you actually need.
He lifts a hand to his ear, where he’s synced his comm with Sasha’s. “Anything?”
He can hear the tone of her voice replying, but he can’t make out any actual words. The music is head-splittingly loud, and even with Sasha speaking directly in his ear there’s no way to actually hear her. Instead, he looks around frantically, trying to spot anything or anyone that looks like Helen.
What he finds, instead, is Max Mustermann, staring across the club at him.
Slowly, he presses the button on his comm. “Sasha,” he says urgently. “Sasha, there are Syndicate agents here.”
Mustermann starts moving towards him. “ Shit, ” he mutters, and starts looking for a door. The closest one is the restroom, and he takes a moment to hope that nobody’s inside before he slips in. He looks around - nobody seems to be there, and if they’re hiding they’re about to get a nasty shock - and pulls out his gun. God, he hates shooting people, but he’s not seeing a way out of it this time.
The bathroom door swings open. Jon barely has time to take a breath before something goes flying directly at his head. He ducks, swearing as he goes, and then Mustermann is careening into him, knocking him to the ground.
Jon tries to wedge an arm up between their bodies, give him some leverage to knock Mustermann off, but the man is much, much stronger than Jon. He settles an arm across Jon’s throat and he wheezes, trying to angle his gun, trying to do something, anything-
“Orsinov says hello,” Mustermann says, and Jon scrabbles at his forearm as he presses down, driving into Jon’s windpipe, there has to be something he can do-
There’s a very loud bang. Something warm and wet splatters across Jon’s face, but the pressure at his throat goes away. Jon gasps for air, shoves the body off, scrabbles for his gun. He sucks in a breath and looks up. “Sasha-”
The words die in his throat. It’s not Sasha.
The last time Jon saw Martin Blackwood, it was when they had just captured Orsinov. She wasn’t even properly arrested yet, but she was still arrested. Martin had been forced undercover working with her, trying to find enough evidence to send to his handler to get him out of the Syndicate. The arrest was supposed to be what got him out of the game, got him somewhere safe. Clearly, it hadn’t worked.
Slowly, Martin lowers his gun. He looks breathless. He looks guarded. He looks… he’s looking at Jon. “Alright?”
“Alright,” Jon manages, even though he’s suddenly sure that nothing about this is alright. “Hi.”
Martin doesn’t smile. “You’re here for Helen, then?”
“I am. You?”
“You really shouldn’t tell other people your secret missions.”
“Martin-”
“I shouldn’t be here,” Martin says suddenly, like he’s remembering something. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Martin, breathe-”
“You shouldn’t be here either-”
“Martin!” Jon pushes himself to his feet, staggers for a step or two but comes to a stop in front of him. He has so many questions - what is Martin doing here, why would he kill Mustermann, shouldn’t he be safe, why isn’t he safe - but he forces himself to push all of them down. “Stop. We can figure this out.”
Martin stares at him in disbelief. “You think it’s that easy? To just… just figure it out?”
“Of course not.” He takes another step closer. “Not easy. But if you’re here, I’m making sure we both get out of here.”
“You say it like it’s simple.”
Jon huffs out a laugh, just this side of hysterical. “Nothing about this is simple, Martin. But I told you I’d get you out, and I meant it.”
Martin takes a deep breath. “Fine,” he says shortly. “It… fine. I’m glad you’re okay.”
Jon glances back at Mustermann. “Me too,” he murmurs. “Thank you for that.”
“You need to get cleaned up.” Jon turns back to Martin, who makes a face and mimes scrubbing at his cheek. “You’ve got a little… you know.”
Jon lifts a thumb to his cheek and wipes away some blood. He looks expectantly at Martin. “Better?”
Martin doesn’t laugh, not quite, but he says “Not at all, really.” And there’s something to his voice, a mirthful tilt in it, that makes Jon think that maybe they can get out of this in one piece.
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blackgwenstacy · 7 years ago
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‘tis the season (to be merry)
[shows up five days late with starbucks and a gay fanfic] hey y’all merry chrysler
Happy holidays to @connorstolll !! I was your secret santa for @pjosecretsanta2k17. I hope you enjoy your Solangelo college au <3
word count: 2,200
summary: Will Solace is a little in love with his roommate, and holiday party shenanigans only confirm that he’s a lot in love with his roommate.
warnings: alcohol use, a few f-bombs, and STEM major roasts
There’s a certain feeling one gets after taking their very last final of the semester. A freeing feeling, like the entire world has been lifted off their shoulders and each anxiety-ridden thought suddenly flees from their mind.
Will hasn’t felt this relieved since before the semester started. After those stressful weeks, he wants nothing more than to spend his break sleeping, eating, and binge watching Netflix.
And pining after his roommate. His dorky, adorable, oblivious ass roommate.
Will’s had somewhat of a crush on his college roommate, Nico di Angelo, for the past six months. They’ve roomed together for a year now, but it took some time for Will not to be intimidated by Nico’s dark features, brooding expression, and his infinite knowledge on the secrets of the universe.
Once Will had grown used to all of that, however, boy was he gone.
It’s not like Nico seemed to notice any difference in the way Will was acting toward him. It was quite ironic to Will, especially because Nico was the one who  loved to rip characters apart and analyze their every word and action. Watching any movie with Nico was one hell of a psychoanalysis.
Then again, Will could be a bit more. . . expressive about his affections. But it’s not like he was letting every opportunity to admit how he feels slip through his fingers, allowing himself to suffer in silence.
(That was exactly what he was doing.)
“Hey,” he calls out upon entering his dorm, stuffing his lanyard into his backpack and tossing it at the foot of his bed. As much as he’d like to sleep forever, he told Travis he would attend he and his brother’s party tonight, so he ought to get ready for that. 
“Hey,” Nico responds. He’s in bed, occupied with a rather thick looking book, an empty mug of coffee resting on the nightstand next to him. Will frowns, already knowing Nico was hardly going to pay him any attention, hyper focused on whatever literature he was studying. “How was the Physics exam?”
“Physiology. Anatomy and Physiology.”
“That’s not the same thing?”
“I’m just glad it’s over.” Will plops onto the stiff mattress of his dormitory bed, removing his boots and peeling off his socks. “I thought you were finished with assignments?”
Nico doesn’t look up from the book. “I am.”
“Then why are you reading—” Will gets up, crosses the short distance between their beds and bends over slightly to glance at the book cover, “—Canterbury Tales?”
Nico still doesn’t pay Will any mind, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. Will struggles to ignore how adorable Nico looks with them on. “I’m taking English Lit next semester— ”
“Oh my god.”
“Did you know J.K. Rowling got inspiration for the Tale of the Three Brothers from the Pardoner’s Tale?”
Will did not know that, and actually thinks it’s pretty cool, but he’s still in disbelief of the fact that Nico was still studying, even after all of his finals.
“Aren’t you tired of reading?”
“Me, the English major, tired of reading? Preposterous.”
“Don’t you want to do something fun?”
Nico drops the heavy book in his lap, taking on a defensive tone. “I think literature is very fun, thank you.”
“Okay,” says Will, “and action potentials are as great as Disney World to me, but even I want nothing to do with them after talking all those exams.”
“You, the STEM major, want nothing to do with action potentials?”
Will chokes back his laugh. He want’s Nico to take him seriously, his sarcasm be damned.
“Take a break, man.” 
Nico frowns, taking off his glasses, and Will tries not to look disappointed.
“I don’t know,” Nico sighs. He crawls across his bed and shoves Canterbury Tales into his overflowing bookshelf kept at the foot of it. “It feels weird. Like, I keep thinking there’s something I should be doing.”
“What you should be doing,” Will starts, “is rewarding yourself for surviving Hell Week.” He drops the bomb. “The Stolls are having a holiday party tonight. You should come with me.“
Nico looks the opposite of intrigued. “No, thanks.”
“Come on, Nico,” Will stresses, “You haven’t left the residence hall in two weeks. You’ve only left this dorm room to take your finals.”
“I think having to evacuate last week because Leo started a fire in the communal kitchen counts as me leaving the residence hall.”
Will rolls his eyes. He knows Nico doesn’t have much of a party personality, but some of Nico’s friends would be there. It would be good to catch up with them and get some human interaction.
“It’ll be crowded, and noisy,” Nico objects. “Did you know noise is one of life’s most common stressors?”
Will hums, and quips, “So is loneliness.”
Nico glares at him. “You know, when I decided not to request a different roommate next semester, it’s because I thought there wasn’t any way you could possibly get more irritating.”
Will ignores the jab. “Are you sure it’s not because you love me?”
Nico amusedly raises one of his eyebrows.
“Fine,” Will relents. “I’ll go by myself. Alone. Even though loneliness is one of life’s most common stressors—“
“You are the biggest Drama Queen,” says Nico.
“Says you.“
Nico rolls his eyes, standing up. “Fine, I’ll go. But not for long, I’m already mentally exhausted.”
“Okay, cool,” Will says calmly, though on the inside he was dancing on flowers and rainbows. He gathers up his toiletries and his towel. “We’d better shower. It starts at seven.”
“You better not use my fucking stall, Solace, I swear to god.”
Will doesn’t know what he was expecting when Nico agreed to go to the Stoll’s party with him. Perhaps he thought Nico would spend the whole time sitting quietly, keeping to himself and counting the minutes until it would be over. Maybe he thought the festive atmosphere would warm Nico’s heart like his smile did to Will’s cheeks, and he would confess his love to Will after the two shared a cliche kiss under the mistletoe.
Whatever he was expecting, it definitely wasn’t this.
“And since we’ve no place to goooo, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,” Nico sings, or slurs rather, along with Dean Martin’s suave voice. His face falls. “I can’t believe Jon Snow died.”
“He came back,” Will reminds him.
Nico’s face lights up, and so does Will’s heart. “Woah, you’re right.”
They sit next to each other on a raggedy green sofa in the Stoll’s apartment. There’s music playing in the background, the playlist going back and forth between traditional Christmas songs and whatever’s on the Hot 100 this week. There’s a few dozen people that are here, most of them Will knew by association. They’ve only been here an hour and Nico’s on his third cup of eggnog.
“I’ve been thinking,“ Nico starts, “when I was a kid they made us pick grass and put it in a box under the tree for the camels to eat on Three Kings Day and when I was a kid I didn’t question it but now I’m not a kid and camels don’t eat grass. Wait—do they?”
Will isn’t sure if he’s amused or concerned by how many conjunctions Nico just used in one sentence. Nico has a conniption every time Will uses a comma in an unnecessary place when they text.
“—They live in the desert. There’s no grass in the desert. Wait—is there?”
Nico doesn’t indulge in alcohol very often. Not that Will has ever seen, at least. He wonders if he usually sings Christmas carols and talks about camels when he’s drunk.
He watches as Nico scowls and peers curiously into his red cup. “I think there’s something in this eggnog.”
“Yes. Rum. I told you that before you drank it.”
Nico’s eyebrows raise, far enough for his bangs to hide them, blinks with wide eyes. “Oh shit.”
Then he shrugs, and downs the rest of the spiked drink. Unbelievable.
Will snorts. “You’re going to regret that.”
Nico grins mischievously. “Me, the college student with an existential crisis, having regrets?” he says, looking about the room. His eyebrows fly into his hair again. “Does Percy have samosas?”
Nico stumbles to his feet, and disregards Will as he chases down Percy for some of his samosas.
Well, at least Nico wasn’t miserable, Will thinks. He was enjoying himself, sort of. This could’ve been worse.
Will sits through a horribly rehearsed, yet hilariously iconic Mean Girl’s Jingle Bell Rock reenactment by Leo, Piper, Percy, and Jason, and a marshmallow eating contest between Cecil and Lou Ellen. It’s been twenty minutes and Nico still hasn’t returned. Will hopes he’s not throwing up eggnog and samosas in the bathroom right now.
He waits five more minutes before getting up to go look, passing a couple passionately making out under the mistletoe in the hallway. He checks the bathroom, which happens to be empty, and unwillingly checks the two bedrooms, which are not so empty. He hopes the Stolls change their sheets before they crash later.
Having no luck thus far, Will ventures into the kitchen. Maybe Nico’s judgement wasn’t totally impaired and he decided to find some water to flush his system. Or he was looking for more eggnog.
“Hey, Will,” a familiar voice says. Connor Stoll, sitting atop the kitchen island, grins down at him. He has a red solo cup in one hand, the other rests around the shoulders of his boyfriend, Mitchell. He raises his cup. “Eggnog?”
Will shakes his head. “I’m good.”
“DD?” Mitchell asks.
“Well, I guess so now.”
Mitchell raises a pierced eyebrow.
“I came with Nico. He’s kind of tipsy.”
“It’s Grandma Stoll’s famous holiday eggnog,” says Connor, raising his cup in praise. “Pure fuel.”
“Hey, have either of you seen him? I’ve been looking for him for half an hour—“
“Found him,” Mitchell smirks, pointing with his cup. Next to him Connor bursts out in rambunctious laughter.
“Oh, yeah, he’s feeling merry, all right!”
Will spins around, and — Oh. Oh.
Nico was dancing rather uncoordinatedly in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a dozen people, an Ariana Grande song blaring from the speakers. Everyone whoops as the dark-haired boy gyrates his hips on an offbeat.
Will lets out a bark of laughter, unbelieving of what he was witnessing.
“Strip tease!” a voice that sounds suspiciously like Leo yells.
Nico smirks at the suggestion, but doesn’t move to take off his clothing. That is, until, he catches Will’s eye in the crowd of people.
He sends Will a wink, and begins to pull off his sweater. Will can feel his stomach flip, his face heating up.
There are hoots and hollers, and people scramble to pull out their phones. It only seems to egg Nico on more. Will thinks there’s a bit too much liquid courage pumping through his veins.
He. . . should probably stop this. Nico would be mortified in the morning if Will let him give all their classmates a drunken strip-tease.
Nico’s stripping doesn’t advance very far, however, because his sweater promptly gets stuck over his head. Everyone roars with laughter, Nico’s giggles muffled by the knitted fabric.
Will grows anxious at all the phones recording tonight’s events. There was no way Nico wanted to be the center of everyone’s social media attention. He pushes his way through the crowd, grabbing at Nico. “O-kay!”
He pulls the drunken man away from the limelight, into a less crowded hallway.
Nico speaks from inside his sweater. “Will, is that you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m stuck.”
Will laughs fondly. “I see that. Here.”
Will helps Nico pull his sweater back down. Nico huffs and ruffles his hair, looking flustered.
“I think,” says Will, fixing Nico’s bird nest hair, “you’ve had too much eggnog.”
Nico hiccups in response.
“We should probably go back to the residence hall,” Will suggests, and Nico nods exaggeratedly in agreement.  His brown eyes catch on something above them.
“What?” Will asks, and follows Nico’s eyes. Oh.
A mistletoe, in all it’s holly jolly glory, hangs mockingly right above them.
Yeah, they’re not doing that.
“That’s so cliche,” Nico comments, squinting at the fake branch.
“I agree,” says Will. He grabs Nico by the shoulders, spins him around so he can guide him. “Let’s go.”
It took nearly an hour to get Nico back to their dorm. Will struggled with guiding the stumbling man all the way to his car, then had to drive slower than usual due to Nico’s complaints of motion sickness. And as much as he adored Nico, he would still kick his ass for throwing up eggnog and samosas inside of his car.
“Oh, you are going to hate me tomorrow,” Will says to Nico, tapping through the stories on his Snapchat feed. There were various clips of Nico’s clumsy performance tonight. Hysterical as it was, Will felt slightly embarrassed for him.
Nico looks over from where Will had tucked him into his bed. “Enough to change my roommate request?”
Will laughs at Nico for the hundredth time tonight. “I hope not.”
“It’s okay,” Nico yawns before continuing, “you’re a STEM major and I still haven’t requested a new roommate. You could be in league with the First Order and I still wouldn’t request a new roommate.”
Will snorts. He wasn’t sure how Nico could be intoxicated and still manage to be a fucking nerd.
Will puts his phone to sleep, setting it down on his nightstand. He turns in his bed to face Nico. “Why’s that?”
“You said it yourself,” says Nico. Will stares at him for a long time, not quite sure what he meant. Nico smiles at him, and turns in his bed. “Merry Christmas, Will.”
Christmas wasn’t for another week. Nonetheless, Will smiles fondly, and turns off his lamp. He lies down and indulges in the butterflies that warm his stomach. They match the fluttering of his heart.
“Merry Christmas, Nico.”
the Ariana Grande song Nico was dancing to was Wit It This Christmas LMAO
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