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[warabidakihime]

Rules and Roses Chapter 4

★ characters: kibutsuji muzan x reader x akaza

★ plot summary: Kibutsuji Muzan has finally decided to expand his empire, and the way he intends to do so is by running for the highest political position. With you, his darling wife, at his side, he believes he can achieve and have everything the world has to offer. He is, after all, the Phoenix of Phario.

★ fic playlist: sometimes, same day, as time stops, wolf’s song (this is also the vision board for the fic). 

★ content warnings : implied violence and abuse, profanities, toxic relationships, smut.

★ Previous Chapter

a/n:

hello!

just want to hop on here and say thank you to everyone who has been giving their likes and reblogs. huge thank you to those who are taking the time and effort to read my story as well. i've been wanting to continue this story for so long but i'm just so busy with work, but i'm glad i am able to find the time to write and update as regularly as i can.

hopefully someday i can hear your thoughts through your comments though haha i would really love to hear what you think about Rules and Roses and the way i write the characters as it is my first time. tbh, i am extra curious to know if i'm giving muzan's character justice HAHA but yeah, it never hurts to leave comments so feel free to send them my way.

i also would like to give those people who have not read the manga a heads up, that in this chapter and in the succeeding ones, there will be minor to moderate manga spoilers, so ready with caution.

also, moving forward, things will steadily pick up, so get ready HAHA!

enjoy reading everyone!

-

The sun had barely risen over Areswood, its golden hues taking its time enveloping the sky, but Muzan and Douma were already up and busy at Obelisk Kibutsuji, going over their next course of action for their campaigns for the next few months.

Muzan stood at the center of his spacious office. A large map of Phario's electoral districts sprawled across the narra table in front of him, dotted with colorful pins representing key areas of support. 

Douma, on the other hand, leaned over the map, his eyes narrowing as he assessed their next move. 

"We need to double down our efforts in the southern districts," Douma said, twirling his fan languidly. "The latest polls show we're losing ground there, but it is the opposition's home turf, so I'm not surprised," he added with a hint of mirth.

Muzan nodded, rubbing his temple as he processed the information. He'd been up since dawn, reviewing speeches and strategies. The weight of the campaign was beginning to show in the faint lines on his face and the dark circles under his ruby eyes.

Unlike Douma, Muzan couldn't afford to make light of the situation. Keeping a straight and serious face, he continued to rack his brain for strategies. After a few minutes, Muzan finally spoke, catching everyone's attention.

"Let's schedule a town hall meeting in Azudellin. We need to connect with the voters there and show them we're listening to their concerns."

"Today?" Douma asked.

"Yes, why? Do we have other agendas for today?"

Douma quickly checked his calendar on his phone.

"We have an interview with the Areswood Times in an hour, then a fundraiser lunch at noon, followed by debate prep, and a gala dinner with key donors tonight."

Muzan sighed, his frustration evident in his voice. "We can't afford to delay this. Azudellin is slipping away from us."

Douma, feeling a bit depleted himself, shrugged. "The earliest we can fit it in is next week. It might be too late by then, but who knows? Maybe a miracle will happen."

In the midst of a very important meeting, a knock separated everyone from their own thoughts. One of Muzan's executive assistants, Nakime, walked in with a stack of freshly printed leaflets, oblivious to the tension in the room.

"Sir Kibutsuji, Sir Hashibira, these just came in. The design team finalized the new posters and pamphlets for the campaign trail."

Muzan barely glanced at the leaflets, his mind racing. 

"Thank you; just leave them on the table."

Nakime quickly left after obeying his orders, clearly sensing the gravity of the moment.

With mindless eyes, Muzan continued to rack his brain for any backup plan or anything that could be of significant help to the predicament they currently have. Letting out a resigned sigh, Muzan finally opened his eyes and turned to everyone. 

"We'll have to make do with what we have," he said, turning to Douma, who's listening intently. "At our interview with Areswood Times today, maybe we could give Azudellin a special shout-out—say something that can please their ears. This is your specialty, so I leave this to you." 

Douma nodded, a peculiar smile present on his face. "I'll handle it. I'll make sure our message is loud and clear in the interview today."

Muzan merely nodded at his running mate before turning to the rest of his party. 

"Let's deploy a few of you to Azudellin today; get some boots on the ground. We'll organize smaller meet-and-greets throughout the week to keep our presence felt until we can hold the town hall altogether. Take this chance to highlight your own platforms and campaigns as well, but don't oversell yourselves and turn off the locals. Understand? We can't afford any missteps."

A chorus of 'yes, sir.' and 'understood' rang in the room after listening to Muzan's orders. As usual, his commanding voice and his overall demeanor exuded charisma and extreme strictness, which made everybody in the room yield to him so easily.

Muzan scanned the room, making sure everyone's conviction matched his own. Technically, his party has been dominating almost all polls across the entire country, and it's safe to say that he is the number one candidate to win the elections, but he didn't want to remain complacent.

He doesn't want to attribute his victories to silly things like fate or destiny. He did that before and miserably paid the price; after learning his lesson, he vowed to never rely on foolish things ever again and will do everything in his power to ensure his indisputable victory.

Taking a deep breath, Muzan felt assured again. 

"Alright. This meeting is adjourned. Thank you, everyone."

*

"Oh, really? That's good to hear, darling. I'm happy for you," Muzan said softly, followed by a fond chuckle as you continued to share what happened during your hair appointment.

You were at the salon, enjoying your usual 'pamper time.' While you were getting your hair done, an A-list celebrity approached you. Initially, she only intended to have a small chat, as you are technically an A-list celebrity yourself. However, as your conversation continued, Ume confided in you that she recently got engaged but hasn't announced it to the public yet.

She personally requested you to be her wedding planner, and of course, you gladly accepted.

"Ahh! I'm so excited. I'm still preoccupied with Ms. Rivera's wedding, but so many ideas for Ms. Ume's wedding are already flooding my mind," you told your husband gleefully.

Muzan chuckled again, his eyes turning into crescent moons as a smile spread across his face, a total contrast to the serious expressions he had earlier.

Muzan prided himself on being level headed even in the most dire situations, but all that bravado would always melt away whenever he was with you. He couldn't help it. Your energy has always been contagious, and when it came to you, he was nothing but a man hopelessly in love with his wife.

Douma, seated in the backseat with Muzan, looked at his running mate with pure intrigue, watching him transform into a lovesick puppy while talking to you.

"Ah, yes, the meeting went great, my love. There were a few bumps here and there, but we managed," Muzan said to you. Knowing you, he anticipated your worry and was proven right when he heard the concern in your voice.

"I see... well, if there's anything I can do to help you guys, you know I'd be more than willing," you said from the other line.

Muzan smiled softly, clearly touched by your investment in his endeavors as much as he was in yours.

"Well, if you're free next week, you can tag along to our town hall at Azudellin," he proposed.

You smiled, having left the salon and decided to go to the mall for some much-needed retail therapy. Akaza wasn't with you today, as he had something to take care of, so Gyokko, one of your security guards, was accompanying you today.

"I don't have anything planned next week. I don't mind joining—wait, can I also do my own charity event there? I haven't done one in a while, and don't you think this is the perfect time? It could help your campaign."

Muzan immediately smiled at this. "You're more than welcome, darling. I'll have my people assist you with your preparations. Just let me know what help you need."

"Aww, you don't have to! But thank you. Let's talk more about this at home later. Maybe we could tailor this with your own community outreach initiatives. I believe you have a couple, right? We can make it a joint one, hitting two birds with one stone."

Muzan was listening intently when Douma reached out to let him know they had reached their destination. Muzan gave him a curt nod before returning to you.

"That's right. Alright, let's talk about it later, Y/N. I need to go; Douma and I are here at the studio already. Take care on your way home, okay? Call me if you need anything."

You nodded with a happy smile on your face. "Okay. See you later, my love. And good luck today. I love you," you said with passion.

Muzan replied just as passionately, "I love you too. Mhm, yes. Goodbye. See you later."

After ending the call, he turned to Douma; his whole demeanor had already changed. "Let's go."

Douma complied, climbing out of the car after him.

As they walked inside the building and toward their dressing room, escorted by a handful of media staff, the vice presidential candidate subtly nudged his running mate.

"It seems like that phone call improved your mood, Pres ."

Muzan smirked, his strides toward the TV studio exuding confidence and pride. "My first lady is quite the wonder woman."

Douma chuckled softly, amused by Muzan's demeanor. "It seems like she has quite an effect on you."

"She does," Muzan replied, his tone unapologetically confident. "She's not just my wife; she's a force to be reckoned with and my equal."

Douma raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Muzan's unabashed praise. "You sound almost unbeatable when she's on your side."

Muzan merely nodded, the cocky smile on his face still present. "Indomitable."

Douma chuckled softly. "You've really got it bad, haven't you?"

Muzan shot him a sidelong glance, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Do you not feel the same about Shinobu?"

Douma chuckled again. "Hey now, don't underestimate me. My wife is a force of nature herself."

The proud CEO of Obelisk Kibutsuji and Phario's leading presidential candidate simply offered his running mate a rather shallow chuckle as a response and a nod to convey that he agrees with him.

Finally, they reached the TV studio, and the two of them noticed that it was a full house.

"Are you ready?" Douma asked Muzan.

Muzan's gaze swept across the room, his presence commanding attention.

With a confident smirk, he declared,

"To make history? I was born ready.'"

He made his way to the stage, greeted by applause and camera flashes, projecting an aura of assured victory as he took his seat on the couch.

*

The day was finally coming to a close. After spending the entire day at the mall shopping, you were exhausted and hungry.

Initially considering Italian cuisine, it suddenly occurred to you that the downtown burger joint you and Akaza had visited a couple of days ago was nearby.

Opting for convenience and familiarity, you decided to head there and also decided to order takeout for both Akaza and Muzan, as well as Kokushibo and the maids and guards.

Surely, both had returned home by now or were on their way. Muzan's jam-packed schedule guaranteed he would appreciate indulging in fast food after such a long day, and Akaza would undoubtedly welcome the gesture.

And it wouldn't hurt to treat your house staff every now and then. It is something you do every now and then, as it's one of your ways of showing appreciation for the services they provide you.

For Muzan, you chose to order the same as yourself, knowing he preferred healthier options but trusting he would enjoy something you approved.

You already ordered Gyokko to prepare the car, so when your orders are ready, you can just hop in and make a beeline home. As you waited at the counter, you hummed to yourself, glancing around the familiar surroundings of the burger joint.

Once again, a sense of déjà vu struck you, from when you entered earlier and throughout your stay. It's honestly starting to worry you.

"It's nice to see you around here again, my dear."

You turned to the voice—a kindly old lady. "Excuse me?" you asked politely.

The old lady smiled warmly. "It's been quite a while since your last visit."

"Oh, I've been busy these past few days," you replied with a smile. "I really enjoyed my first time here last week."

Confusion crossed the old lady's face at your response.

"Aren't you one of our regulars?"

You frowned, puzzled. "I'm not sure I understand..."

"You've been coming here for years , haven't you? Or am I mistaken?"

Your unease grew visible. "I'm sorry, but I think you have me confused with someone else."

Before you could finish, the old lady turned and retrieved a photo from the wall behind her, returning to you with a smile.

"This is you and your fiancé, right?"

She handed you the photo.

In it, Akaza had his arms around your waist, both of you beaming happily.

Your eyes widen in sheer shock.

"What..."

Turning the photo over, you saw a note scribbled on it:

Hakuji Soyama x L/N Y/N - Just got engaged! (03/03/2015)

-

taglist: @bffrrufr @unadulteratedhandsbanditdreamer @unlikelybananawerewolf

[pinbones]

You go to the dentist. The wall is plastered with advertisements for aesthetic dental surgeries and products. The radio is playing. Its is playing advertisements.

After the dentist you go to the corner shop next door. Its door is covered in faded pictures of ice creams and their prices. Half of these are no longer sold and the rest are more than double the price now. You buy the cheapest crap you need, while listening to adverts on the shop's radio, and bring them to the till. The package of the bread advertises two other types of bread. The till is swamped with last-minute-impulse goods, including vapes. The total leaves a bad taste in your mouth. You have to pay extra for a bag, and the bag reminds you to visit that chain shop again.

You get in your car and turn it on. The radio is somehow still playing adverts. As you drive you pass billboards, handmade business signs, signs tied with zip-ties to railings, ads on the side of buses, ads printed onto the back and sides of cars, tiny ads you can't quite make out peppering the community display board and the lampposts.

You arrive home. The letter slot is wedged open with spam and local business leaflets. You let yourself in and unpack. The Alexa in the kitchen slowly cycles through advertisements, reminders that you haven't bought X in a while and should reorder, and inane headlines. You switch it off at the plug.

You sit down with a snack and turn on the telly. It's playing adverts. You turn off the telly and open Youtube. An unskippable ad plays. The video begins as you take a bite. This video is brought to you by their sponsor.

[gelblasters56]

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[mo79zz]

InDesign 2

In this workshop I designed a zigzag fold leaflet that shows my Adobe workshop so far. I learnt how to format my InDesign page to suit the brochure type style I was going for and made sure that the measurements were correct for each fold: 100mm - 100mm - 97mm. This totals up to 297; the length of an A4 page. I had to understand what page showed what as there were folds involved so I needed to make sure my front cover was on the correct section of the page. The layout for each section (left to right) is "inside1, inside2, inside3, flap, back, front". It would get printed on a double sided sheet of paper, so I needed to make sure each part was cohesive to the next.

Additionally, I also learnt about drop cap, paragraph, character and object styles and their preferences, including font, size, leading, kerning etc. These settings allow you to create a style and apply it to all objects/text without having to change each one manually. This skill will be super helpful when it comes to bigger projects where there is a large body of text needed and they all need to be the same style - including headings/subheadings.

I really enjoyed this workshop and the thinking behind having to line up each section to make it work as the physical copy opens up and would love to use this style leaflet/brochure in my work in the future.

[reenasingh12]

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[digipubu6]

28 Feb | B2: Planning your Publication

SAS

Today you will be planning out the content for your publication, based on your Proposal. 

Overview of publication requirements

There are a few guidelines for you to follow, so please keep these in mind.

Publication can be any format (eg. book, magazine, information guide, puzzle activity book, leaflet, comic, zine, newspaper, foldout posters...)

Any page size (eg. A5, A4, square 20cm x 20cm etc...)*

Minimum 28 inside pages + 4 cover pages.

Any additional pages MUST be in multiples of 4 for printing purposes.

*Foldout posters must be minimum set of 5, A2 in size, double-sided.

Flatplanning helpsheet here.

TASK 1: Write a bullet pointed list of all the content you would like to cover in your publication. 

For example, if I was creating a magazine, I might include content such as an editors letter, a contents page, a short factfile, an interview with someone relevant, a longer article on a topic, adverts, puzzles etc. 

TASK 2: Consider the publication format you have chosen and how you would like your reader to move through your publication. Write a 200+ word summary about how you plan to organise the order of your content. Explain why ordering your content in this way is best for your readers. 

Tip: a common way to pace a publication is by starting with bitesize content first to ease in the reader, longer form articles in the middle, then shorter content again at the end - think of it like a sandwich.

TASK 3: Sketch out a flat plan on paper for your publication. Click here for help with flatplanning. 

You could pay some consideration to layout design (but this is not too important at this stage). The main purpose of your flat plan should be to essentially map out the order of the sections.

Add all work to your Supporting Document.

You have 5 weeks until Thursday 30th March to fully complete your publication, before we move on to the remaining products.

[waxonwaxoffprojects]

Inside the box, there will be a leaflet, like what you get inside medicine boxes with ingredients, side effects, instructions and other details to make this seem as real as I can. Here, I have scanned a folded sheet of paper and placed the two documents of text over each other to look like a double sided print. There is some satire in here as well as as much contextual knowledge needed about the product. I quite like the layout, it’s simple and to the point. This could change or be reworded but for now this will be quite small and hard to read as the box to place it in will be small as Potentia have to include this legally but don’t really want people to read it either. 

[skbsnssspprtsservices]

[justtasia]

Situatuon update/little story time under cut:

It took me like 40 minutes and honestly I have no idea whether they are willing to hire me or not. I was interviewed by two quiet chill guys which is nice because they doesn't make me more anxious but they were demanding for sure.

I applied for the position of a customer consultant but in a totally different field than one I had worked before. At the beginning, they asked about quite obvious things, such as "what sales indicators are you familiar with", "what the standards of customer service looked up in my previous job", "which of your skills you can use in this job" ect.

Easy.

In second, more practical part they wanted to test if I can use some "marketing witchcraft" (i love to call it that way) like language of benefits to sell phone X instead of phone Y that theoretical client want.

Feel like I could do it better cuz I knew what I want to archieve but got lost in my own explanation in a few moments. I know something about technology, but it's not my main interest. It defenitley wasn't my best performance, but it wasn't the worst one either. Just hope they see that I'm trying my best and I care.

And little offtop: before we got to that, one of them asked me to take out my phone and use it as a requisite X to scene. I honestly didn't expect something like that, but in the morning I unhooked my acrylic straps just to look more like a healthy functioning serious adult and god, I'm so glad I did it. No ideal if they would see anime stuff as professional but it was better for me personally. I swear I would have started laughing my ass off if a 30-something y/o man insisted that he want phone with catboy Reiji and Laito merch. That's just too bizzare.

^ The acrylics in question. Fun fact, they are glued together with double-sided tape. Firstly I did it cuz they hit each other and made noise with every movement. Then I found od that their backs were poorly secured in production. I also had a Yuma keychain from the same series and the print came off quickly. That tape unintentionally lenghten they livespawn. Little weird at first glance but works!

But that's just my silly thought. Back to the point: After that little roleplay they did another specific thing I wasn't really prepared for. They gave me company's leaflet and told me to remember as many details as possible while we were still having chit-chat. After a few minutes, they started asking me questions about what I remembered. Same as with the previous one - it's hard for me to judge whether they were satisfied enough, because it wasn't perfect either. I focused more on the first casual conversation and because of that my answer was quite accurate or slightly different from the content of the leaflet.

I feel quite mixed but I'm not focusing on thinking abt a negatives yet. If nothing changes by friday or I get a negative response then... Wellp. It is what it is. Psy szczekają, karawana jedzie dalej. As we says. I'll just keep looking.

(Not DL related thing this time)

I'll have a job interview in an hour. Please wish me luck and keep your fingers crossed for me. I'm really stressed out this time and I really need it >.<

[yellowocaballero]

Human Relations Snippet: Jon and Sasha versus Bad Telenovelas

This is a birthday request from @hihereami who wanted something very Latin American and an excuse to show me her favorite shows. This takes place in early Season 3, before Jude Perry but with Sasha working at the office. Jon fudged some stuff. It features incredibly stupid office dynamics, bad relationships, and a shared history that produced two very different people. Happy birthday, Ami!

CW as usual for Human Relations: explicitly discussed transphobia, references to 19th century racism, and a depiction of a platonic abusive relationship. 

Sasha now understood that she was talking to an expert. 

“Fine,” she said grudgingly, gathering the papers back up. She left out her great outline and timetable, though, because Martin should definitely appreciate it. “But the number one rule here is to keep up an active support system, right? Which means Jon needs more than just you.” Martin gave her a hilariously prissy look, which she responded with an equally prissy one. “He thinks we have a psychic bond or something.” They did but Sasha didn’t want to admit that. “Look, I’ve been harassing Jon for months about how shitty Jonah is. But if he’s going to listen to me, he needs to know that...I guess that I care about him more than I hate Jonah. That I’m not doing it out of spite or with some ulterior motive to get something out of him.”

Martin closed the manila folder, carefully attaching a label on it and writing down their coded filing system on the tab. “You don’t care about him more than you hate Jonah. You are doing this with ulterior motives. But it would be pretty hypocritical of me to care about that, so...he likes television? And he likes hearing about your life and the things important to you. He’s like this historical, cultural, political, anthropological sponge. I mean, he knows everything about everything, but it’s his passion. So if you want to combine the two…”

And, of course, once Martin said that then the answer was obvious.

Sasha liked to be the smartest person in the room.

The problem with people like Sasha was that, very frequently, they were the smartest person in the room. For seventeen years of her life Sasha had been remarkably and thoroughly assured that she would go places, she was really going to make all of us proud, she’s going to take care of us in our old age, Mrs. Pérez’s son just wastes every day with his girlfriend but here you are, studying all day with your complete lack of friends! 

Once she skipped town - well, town, country, Americas, oceans - all of that had been replaced with shiny grades and the bragging rights of Oxford and the implicit looming pressure of her scholarship. Sasha had always been the smartest person in the room. She couldn’t afford anything else - not if she wanted someone to care, not if she wanted to get anywhere in life. 

Every adult was somewhat of a child inside: happily ignoring a toy until it was taken away, at which point they would scream and scream. And when Sasha didn’t feel like the smartest person in the room - or, worse, others didn’t see her as the smartest person in the room - there was nothing tolerable about it. 

Upon retrospect, workplace and academic discrimination, in addition to some healthy insecurity, bothered her so much that she sold her soul to the devil about it, but apparently this was an semi-common occurrence. Abuela had been right. Teach Sasha to doubt her again. 

Mrs. Pérez’s son probably hadn’t accidentally sold his soul to the devil. He and his girlfriend were probably happy with their hard working but low-paying jobs, their cute little smattering of babies, and their mass every week. They’d have long, happy lives, and the amount of life-or-death situations they were put in were probably no more than usual. 

Well. Sasha would literally rather die than do that, and that resolve had been tested very thoroughly. She stood by it. Sasha had never regretted a decision she made in her life, besides the ones that sold her soul to the devil, and also maybe some things about Tim. But most of her decisions were good. And even if they weren’t good, she stubbornly stood by them.  

That’s why this was difficult. For all of Sasha’s insecurity reasons that, to be fair, had mostly drifted into the background of her life while she had been on the run for murder. And because it was Martin. 

“Sasha, I’m not sure what help I can give you.”

Godfuckingdammit.

“Please?” Sasha slid into the seat across from Martin, giving him her best big cow eyes. “Don’t hog the emotional manipulation. You’re the expert in making Jon do what you want, just...work your magic!”

Martin looked up from the statement he was organizing shot Sasha an extremely flat look. Martin was extremely good at looking extremely unimpressed. “Because I’m the one who can magically make people do what I want.” 

Sasha winced. “At least you didn’t sell your soul to a demon about it?”

“I know you tell yourself a lot of people do that to make yourself feel better about doing it, but literally nobody does that.” At Sasha’s double wince, Martin sighed. “Don’t listen to Jonah. You didn’t do anything a normal, non-satanic person wouldn’t do. If I could…” Martin trailed off slightly, staring a little in the distance, before shaking back to himself. “I’m not helping you manipulate Jon. That’s my place in this ecosystem.”

“Then we should team up,” Sasha wheedled. She reached into her briefcase - which nowadays contained little more than alcohol and Statements, she wasn’t sure that Georgie had been a good influence on her - and yanked out the print-outs before slapping it on the table. “See, I did research!”

Martin slid the papers closer to him, leafing through them quickly. Sasha waited for him to look very impressed and appreciative of how socially competent yet intellectual she was, but he didn’t look very impressed at all. “ “Help someone in an Abusive or Controlling relationship”, ‘3 ways to support someone stuck in a controlling relationship’, ‘How can I help someone in a toxic relationship’...”

“You aren’t going to deny it, are you?” Sasha asked heatedly. “Because Tim just does not get what I mean no matter how many leaflets I show him because he ‘framed me for murder’ or whatever -”

“Do not pretend as if you’re forgiven him for the murder thing.”

“I fucking hate his guts over it. I will never, ever forgive either of them.” Sasha’s heart spiked in her chest, and she forced herself to take a few calming breaths. “This is a problem. Jon and Jonah are a problem. I don’t think we’re in a position to take on Jonah right now - even if I am working on it. But Jon is a weak link here. We know he’s impossible to kill -” At Martin’s extremely alarmed look, Sasha quickly elaborated, “ - and I wouldn’t want to, although he would really technically deserve it with all of his human rights violations. It would be far easier, and a better use of our resources, if we got Jon to our side. Then hopefully those two could...blow each other up, or something.”

Martin stared at her, expression implacable. Sasha became abruptly aware that she had just threatened to blow up this guy’s semi-boyfriend, and resisted the urge to apologize. She wasn’t apologetic. This was what she had to do, and Sasha always did what had to be done. It didn’t matter if she hated Jon so much that she wanted him dead, when he would be more useful to her alive. It doesn’t matter if she knew that, deep down, Jon was an exceptionally kind and caring person who loved very deeply, and that who he was now was a product of a great deal of influences mostly out of his control. If he was who Sasha was going to turn into, given enough time. 

She would stick to the plan. Sasha was going to get herself and her Assistants - including Melanie now, for some reason, who still refused to believe them about the psychic vampire thing despite how many times Jon confessed to it - out of this. 

Finally, Martin said, “I’m not going to deny it, Sasha. I’ve printed out all those guides, I’ve read all of the books, I’ve done everything. I’ve been working on this since - I think since I decided that I loved Jon more than I hated him. I’ve got Jon’s trust. And, way more importantly, Jonah is convinced that I’m harmless. He doesn’t pay any attention to me. I think he, like, secretly hates it whenever Jon has someone - whatever. But he is obsessed with everything you do.” At Sasha’s disturbed look, Martin shrugged. “He micromanages. Jon complains about it. I don’t think Jon gets that he really spills the cards on all of Jonah’s plans when he gets drunk and bitches about him.”

Sasha now understood that she was talking to an expert. 

“Fine,” she said grudgingly, gathering the papers back up. She left out her great outline and timetable, though, because Martin should definitely appreciate it. “But the number one rule here is to keep up an active support system, right? Which means he needs more than just you.” Martin gave her a hilariously prissy look, which she responded with an equally prissy one. “He thinks we have a psychic bond or something.” They did but Sasha didn’t want to admit that. “Look, I’ve been harassing him for months about how shitty Jonah is. But if he’s going to listen to me, he needs to know that...I guess that I care about him more than I hate Jonah. That I’m not doing it out of spite or with some ulterior motive to get something out of him.”

Martin closed the manila folder, carefully attaching a label on it and writing down their coded filing system on the tab. “You don’t care about him more than you hate Jonah. You are doing this with ulterior motives. But it would be pretty hypocritical of me to care about that, so...he likes television? And he likes hearing about your life and the things important to you. He’s like this historical, cultural, political, anthropological sponge. I mean, he knows everything about everything, but it’s his passion. So if you want to combine the two…”

And, of course, once Martin said that then the answer was obvious.

*******

Sasha was now willing to admit that Martin was smarter than she was.

It was always kind of a crapshoot when looking for Jon. He was only around the Institute half the time, probably less, and he refused to buy a cell phone so anybody could stay in contact with him. Tim had also flatly refused, because Jon would inevitably go to him for help with figuring it out, and apparently that could take hours. Sasha had volunteered to help Jon with accessing some online archives, and apparently she had explained it so confusingly that Jon was left refusing to touch a computer for a month. 

The farthest they could go was convincing him to take a Jitterbug for emergencies. Tim had taken great pains to explain the LifeAlert function, to Jon’s increasing lack of amusement. When Sasha had explained the adventure to Georgie, a known social media sensation over wine at their weekly girls night, she had found it hilarious and was very impressed. 

“Jon must be really attached to you guys,” Georgie had said, carefully nibbling at her luxury chocolate. Girl’s nights with Georgie were decadent. “I mean, not that he doesn’t talk about all of you nonstop, but he can spend ten years incorporating the Beholding into every piece of technology in the country while willfully refusing to learn how to work a computer.”

Sasha hadn’t missed Georgie’s word choice - deliberately refusing instead of an incapability to learn - but something else in the sentence was stranger to her. “I thought he was all about all kinds of knowledge.”

“I hear that the future can be terrifying for a lot of people,” Georgie had said wisely. “No matter how much of it they experience.”

“Is it terrifying for you?”

“Goodness, no.” Georgie had flashed her a bright grin - not so much a showing of teeth as it was a peek at a bone-white skeleton. “I always know what the future holds.”

 As it stood, Sasha got lucky today. She wasn’t forced to make Jon use his dreaded phone, and as a result she wasn’t forced to understand what the fuck Jon did all day. He was in the Magnus Institute, and when Jon was in the Institute there were three places he could be. 

The Archives, which Sasha had just come from. The Institute Library, occasionally terrifying the graduate students and more frequently helping them write their papers. Sasha had heard that they had communally begun sacrificing one grad student to his hunger per week in exchange for study sessions. Which...she should discourage...whatever, it was probably ethical. Or, at the very least, voluntary. 

The only other location Jon visited was Magnus’ office, where he could spend hours relaxing on the evil little bastard’s couch and annoying him. That was a last resort scenario, and was usually saved for complete and total emergencies.

Thankfully, today, Sasha found Jon in the ‘D’s. He was lying on his back, legs propped up on the bookshelf across from him, reading what looked like a very fascinating philosophy text regarding humanity’s search for aliens that Sasha silently resolved to borrow from him later. He didn’t look up when Sasha approached, so she carefully tipped a book off the shelf above him to fall on his head.

He yelped, dropping his book and sitting upright. He rubbed at his head, scowling, and Sasha saw that he had restyled his hair since the last time she had seen him. It had been growing long, but instead of cutting it and returning to his short twists styled into a loose curtain over his forehead he had pulled it back into a puffy bun. It was...somewhat more fashion forward than Sasha had ever seen from him. He had swapped his greatcoat for a primmer and shorter pea coat. Even his glasses were now thin-rimmed, circular, and kind of stylish. 

“Oh my god,” Sasha said, “has Martin started dressing you?”

“Martin can barely even dress himself,” Jon said automatically. “It was Georgie. She said I have to ‘clean up nice’ if I ever ‘want a man’. What does any of that mean?”

“Isn’t it kind of weird that your wife is setting you up with someone?”

“The concept of monogamy becomes ridiculous after the first eighty years,” Jon said, also automatically. Then Sasha’s words sunk into his brain, and he flushed. “Georgie and I aren’t together right now! And she’s not setting me up with - how can you even consider - what makes you think I’m a homosexual -”

Sasha stared at him flatly. Jon gave up. 

“Just let me know if I need to explain gay shit to you,” Sasha said. “It’ll cost a hundred pounds for me to explain queerness and three hundred if you want to learn about trans issues. Recompense for my emotional labor.”

“Young people think they invented these things. It’s ridiculous.” Jon stored the book back on the bookshelf behind him without looking, before carefully dropping his feet and rolling up. Sasha’s back ached in sympathy. Some people got all of the demon deal luck. “What does Martin say? ‘People are gay, Steven’? Historical figures are gay and trans, Sasha.”

“...are you a historical figure that’s -”

“I apologize for being a cisgender man that’s ruined your life, yes.” Jon arched an eyebrow at her as Sasha spent a second in confused agony over whether or not she was getting through to this guy. “I assume there’s no emergency, considering this conversation, so why are you here?”

There was no way to make this offer sound genuine. Jon would look for the catch - because there was one - or what she was trying to pull. There was something she was trying to pull, but she wasn’t about to admit it. 

In the end, Sasha settled for a fragment of honesty in her heart. Jon always had a way of drawing that out of people. 

“I haven’t watched my telenovelas in years. And I don’t know anybody else who speaks Spanish, and so much of it doesn’t translate that I refuse to watch it subbed with someone else, and they’re something I used to watch every night but now I haven’t seen them in years. And you speak Spanish. So.”

Jon stared at her, blinking owlishly, before his mouth twitched into a small smile. It flowered, moving from a hesitant movement of the lips into a real, close-lipped smile that sent his usually severe and sharp expression into something resembling excitement. Understated enthusiasm over novelty. 

How weird, Sasha thought. That you could be 200 years old and still find excitement over something novel. Over something new. Or, maybe, over someone choosing to trust you with a part of their lives. 

Or maybe it wasn’t that weird. How could someone keep living for that long if something as simple as this didn’t bring you joy? Sasha was only thirty four and she already felt so tired of life, all the time. Either tired or overwhelmed. She wondered if Jon still felt overwhelmed. 

“Sounds like fun,” Jon said. “Can I bring my notebook?”

“...yeah, sure.” Sasha paused, almost uncertain. “Hey. When you get to, like, two hundred -”

“Technically two hundred and twenty.”

“When you get to two hundred and twenty, do you finally feel like an adult?”

Jon stared at her, faintly surprised, before his expression settled into something a little wry. “Anybody who says that they ever feel like an adult is a liar. That’s how you know that Jonah’s full of shit.”

Somehow, it was almost a little reassuring.

First time she had ever said that about Jon. 

********

Their adventures, of course, were quickly throttled by practicalities. 

Sasha suggested just watching it on a laptop, but Jon’s expression had wrinkled in distaste. Jon suggested just watching it at her place, but Sasha liked to pretend that he didn’t know where she lived. Far too much intimacy, and somewhat hilariously Jon seemed very awkward about being alone with a woman in her flat. Also they were still working, technically. 

Martin, overhearing their argument in the Archives as Sasha collected her laptop, suggested Jon’s place, since it was pretty nice and cozy and close to the Archives. This forbidden knowledge, the shining proof that sometimes a little knowledge could be a terrible and traumatizing thing, the sheer mental image that imprinted itself behind her eyelids, shook Sasha to her core.

“For christ’s sake,” Martin said, “we are not fucking.”

“Sounds like someone who’s fucking our boss would say!” Tim called, from his position asleep on the break room couch. Sasha had spent roughly five hours yesterday convincing him that her plan to manipulate Jon’s psychological weaknesses was the most effective defense against evil fear powers that they had, and since he had lost the argument he was now resentfully napping on the couch. “If I walk in on you doing it in the office over a desk I’m going to fucking kill both of you and then myself!”

“Does this place have an HR?” Melanie asked, from where she was sitting at her desk actually trying to work. “Can I report all of you to HR? Please?”

“Jon can hardly fire himself,” Sasha told her sympathetically. “This shit will all make sense if you accept the fact that -”

“God, I get it, enough with the workplace hazing!” Melanie threw up her hands, as Jon unsubtly whispered something in Martin’s ear that made him blush. “You can all drop it now, it was never funny!”

“If Sasha just let me prove it to you,” Jon said, exasperated, “then you can see -”

Simultaneously, all three of them snapped, “Do not!”, cowing Jon immensely. 

Tim was no help in problem-solving, since he was resentful that Sasha was doing this at all. He had been spending almost all of his time lately throwing himself into research into the rituals, into anything that explained the strange and obscure rigor of this universe. Jon only explained as much to them as Jonah let him, and the most he ever did was mysteriously drop off boxes that held a lot of information about clowns and sawdust.

He always seemed a little surly as he did it. Sometimes he looked very guilty. Sasha noticed, every time. She couldn’t afford not to. 

All Sasha could try to do for Tim was help him. Their relationship had already been fractured by the way they kept secrets from each other, and although they both wanted to repair it they were forced to confront the fact that now they had to tell each other things. Accept help. Sasha hated acknowledging that she couldn’t do everything by herself, and Tim hated putting Sasha in the danger he relentlessly and suicidally threw himself into, but neither of them would let the other continue on their self-destructive path. 

It wasn’t sweet. But it was the most solid and tangible proof Sasha had that they loved each other. Maybe it was the most solid proof anybody could have: that, in life or death, they’d choose wherever you were. 

If Sasha followed Tim into whatever dangerous shit he was getting himself into, then he would be more careful. Tim wouldn’t survive it if he lost her, and she knew it. 

Between her and Tim, and Jon and Martin...why did all of their relationships feel like mutually assured destruction?

Eventually, Jon’s solution was, as usual, the worst one. Jon’s solution to every problem always worked, but it was always the one thing that nobody wanted to do and that everyone hated. But anything else was either vetoed or improbable, and Sasha refused to back out once she committed to something, so that was how Sasha stuffed a laptop and an HDMI cable into her bag to trail behind Jon as they rode the elevator up to the third floor. 

The number three rule of the Archives was not relevant right now (let Sasha have two cups of coffee before bothering her about how terrible their lives were). But the number two rule of the Archives was this: don’t fuck with Rosie. They both gave her their brightest grins as they passed, impeccably polite without actually asking if Jonah was inside. Rosie smiled munificently at them and complemented Sasha on her heels. They were in. They were now breaking the number one rules of the Archives. 

The number one rule of the Archives was, of course, this: never talk to Jonah Magnus unnecessarily. 

On the bright side, from this perspective Sasha could see how Jon worked his magic - that is, how he always entered Jonah’s office through kicking the door open and infuriating the other man tremendously. He actually took the time to open the door a crack first, completely silently and almost imperceptibly, before crashing it open in as annoying a way as physically possible. 

“I need your fucking office!” Jon called. 

When Sasha poked her head in behind him, she was treated to the sight of a terrified employee cowering in the hard plastic chair in front of Jonah’s desk. Sasha was well aware how that chair could feel like an electric chair. Across from him, Jonah looked distinctly unamused, already kneading his brow. 

“I’m in a meeting, Jon.”

“Good for you.” Jon pointed at the door, and the employee silently scurried out. “Not anymore. Now fuck off, I need your office.”

Impossibly, Jonah looked even more unamused. “Fucking your Archivist on my desk in the middle of the day is a bit beyond the pale even for you, Jon.”

Sasha was immediately so fucking disgusted that she switched into Spanish and called him a great deal of incredibly rude things for an incredibly long period of time. 

Talking over her, Jon said, “Take out your resentment over 1899 on someone else. We want your television, we’re watching Sasha’s programmes.”

“Right. Like how you and that boy Martin are always watching programmes -”

“Me cago en tu puta madre--”

“Honestly, Jonah, just because you had all of those men over for revision of your manuscripts doesn’t mean everyone’s as euphemistic as you are. And Sasha, that’s remarkably vulgar.”

For the first time, Jonah looked alarmed. “What is she saying?”

“Sólo porque tienes un rabo chiquito -”

“Go learn Spanish.”

“Ms. James, this is a professional office, and -”

“Melanie’s fucking right, we need a fucking HR.” Now this was a matter of pride. Sasha flounced into the office, collapsing onto one of the dumb uncomfortable leather couches facing one of those screens that rich people had in their offices to show their powerpoint slides or whatever. “I’m going to Stare you to death if you don’t leave us alone to watch telly.”

Hilariously, Jonah looked at Jon, alarmed. “Can she do that?”

Jon opened his mouth, before Sasha shot him a look. “She’s progressing amazingly rapidly. At this point, not even I know what she’s capable of.”

What a wingman. Jonah looked faintly uncomfortable, but he went back to his computer anyway instead of doing the rational thing and getting out. “This grant is due in three days, Jon, and I have no time for your little fancies. Do what you will, but leave me out of it.”

Sasha was not thrilled at the prospect of Jonah fucking Magnus hanging out in the background while Sasha and Jon watched telenovelas. She’d be outnumbered by the evil fear demons, for one. But Sasha had a sneaking suspicion, and maybe if she couldn’t genuinely stop this guy’s evil plans she could annoy him to death.

At the very least, it would make her feel better. Sasha was beginning to recognize the value of anything that just made you fucking feel better. Maybe Tim was onto something with constantly being a giant bitch all the time. 

“Ignore that cunt,” Sasha said in Spanish, catching Jon’s attention as she stood up to plug in the HDMI cable and turn on the television. “I got crisps and chocolate in my bag, I’m putting on Marimar.”

“Is she insulting me again?” Jonah asked. “Jon, what’s she saying?”

“I’m afraid I only consume trauma,” Jon said, also switching to Spanish. His accent was fucking bizarre. He sounded like her great uncle, or an even worse version of Sucedió en La Habana. At her boggled look, he elaborated, “The Witness gifted me with understanding of all languages very early in my development, but it bestowed verbal fluency in...1910? Perhaps? I’m afraid that without a little practice and frequent use I’m a little bit stuck there. I was able to beat my Chinese and Russian into sounding modern, but I’m afraid that people now tell me my Chinese is somewhat 1960s and my Russian is fairly 1980s.” He scowled. “Why does modernity change so much?”

“I think telenovelas can fix this for you,” Sasha decided. She paused a beat as Jon sat down beside her, a careful distance away. “The Witness? Is that a weird translation thing? You called it the Beholding last time.”

Jon shifted, a little guiltily. In English, he said, “The term Beholding’s better...it’s more academic, and more people use it…”

“What are you two -”

“Is ���The Witness’ your word?” Sasha asked, and to her horror she found her tone almost gentle. It was almost easier, in her own words.

This time Jon truly looked uncomfortable, and he shifted back into Spanish - perhaps, Sasha thought, because Jonah could not understand it. “Smirke contributed all of the nomenclature for this, and he never...well, none of Jonah’s little circle liked me very much.”

“Wow, wonder why.”

“Exoticism only gets you so far, I suppose,” Jon joked weakly, before sharply swerving the subject. “I always felt as if it gave me its own name. When I began to understand, really understand what it was and how we could feed each other...I felt as if it told me. And that’s what it told me. So it’s always been my name.”

Hm. Sasha wondered what it was like, to have your religion be - so tangible, so grounded. Sasha believed, and she had faith with all of her heart, but - well, you wouldn’t need faith if you had incontestable proof. Faith was about believing because you knew something in your heart. But Jon...when he had nothing else, maybe, he had this.

“I just put down ‘James’ because I thought it would make that small-dicked asshole more likely to hire me,” Sasha finally offered, her only equivalent for something like this. “Tell you what. Call me James Martinez, and I’ll curse the name of the Witness, okay? If you’d like me to.”

Jon brightened, and for a second Sasha saw her own faith in his brilliant green eyes. “My gift is shared with you, Sasha. Of course you can.”

It was not a gift. It was a terrible and disgusting curse, and it was one that Jon had inflicted upon her. But Sasha was playing nice...and this was knowledge, understanding Jon was knowledge that could save her life one day...and there was something strange about Jon’s hesitant and multi-barbed trust. 

It had to be the trust of somebody who had it betrayed a hundred, thousand times. But he gave it so easily, and he reached out incessantly. Sasha knew lots of people who cared too much, although she had never been one of them - Tim and Martin, for one - but she could already see how it was making them a little bitter and jaded. 

Jon wasn’t. Sasha didn’t know why. 

So Sasha kicked off her heels, tucking her legs underneath her as she pulled up her favorite episode of Marimar on her laptop. It was a comfort show, having context wouldn’t help, she had rights. 

“Okay,” Sasha began, a little aggressively, “we’re starting a lot of the way in, so I have to catch you up. Like a lot of telenovela protagonists, Marimar is a wholesome young girl who lives in a little sad hut shack on the beach and she can’t read. She’s raised by her grandparents and her dog talks. This is the essential premise of the show.”

“Wow,” Jon whispered, “just like me.”

“I - okay, you are not obligated to give me your backstory, but what?”

“Martin keeps calling me a ‘sad little Victorian orphan’,” Jon said defensively. “And dogs talk to me too!”

“...what do they say?”

“If you’d believe it, nothing interesting.” He paused a beat. “But Georgie’s cat is kind of a psychopath, if that helps.”

“That’s a stereotype against cats,” Sasha accused. “Just because humans don’t understand cat body language -”

“Oh, no, cats are lovely, my favorite animal. But the Admiral’s kind of a freak.”

“If you two are going to sit here and trash talk me in my own office,” Jonah said, aggravated, “then please at least take it outside.”

Actually, this was a great idea.

Sasha ran through the plot of Marimar, down to the love interest with the terrible chest hair (Jon and Sasha then got into an argument over chest hair that was so heated that Sasha suspected Martin had chest hair), the evil step-mother (they both agreed that women in soaps tended to fall within the madonna/whore complex), and the weird amounts of humiliation. Sasha loved to hate Mr. Douchey McChesthair in this one - he wooed Marimar and promised to raise her up from poverty, but he ended up ditching her when she wasn’t refined enough for him. She wins him back at the end with her nice dresses and inherited money, and they settle down with a baby and a big house. Sasha always hated the ending. Marimar should have become a career woman. 

“It’s massively cheesy,” Sasha warned, finally playing the episode and letting the cheery theme song play, “so don’t sit here and point out the logical inconsistencies. We know. It’s part of the experience.”

But Jon just arched an eyebrow, unbuttoning his own pea cot to throw over the back of the sofa and lounge in his seat. “Watching telenovelas, in the office of the Director of the facility where you work, with his boss, in London, is the experience? And we’re all - how do you put it - evil fear demons?”

“You haven’t met my auntie,” Sasha said darkly. But she ended up shaking her head too, picking at her stockings a little. “The experience is...eleven pm, and the whole house is dark. The kitchen light is on, this flickering yellow thing that pops and buzzes. There’s cicadas outside, and somewhere you can hear someone playing music too loudly. Dad’s in his ripped up armchair, snoring. Mom’s on the couch, reading a magazine. They’re only half-paying attention, but it’s late, and you feel like you never get enough time with them. So you sit on the couch next to Mom, and because neither of them say anything you watch the show with all of your attention, just happy to be near them...it’s family bonding, you think. It feels like it.”

Jon was silent, staring at her. Not fixedly, or intensely - just looking, as if he was waiting patiently to see if she would say anything else. But Sasha trailed off, picking at her stockings, until she forced herself to stop. She didn’t want to say anything else. She was worried that he would know what she wasn’t saying. He always did.

“My grandmother couldn’t read,” Jon said finally, and Sasha fought the surprise. Jon never talked about this, not in any specific words. “But she would darn clothing by the fire at night. She did it for the neighborhood and earned some extra money.”

“What about you?” Sasha asked, hoping it was a safe topic. “What did you do?”

Jon grinned at her, sharp and amused. “I got into trouble.”

They both turned their attention back to the television, and Sasha silently mouthed the words along with the screen as Jon paid rapt attention. 

It was later in the show, when Marimar was showing up all of the people who did her dirty when she was poor. She had a fine dress, lingering on the arm of her rich and kind of creepy father, and she walked around with her head held up high. Her old husband who treated her terribly saw her at the opera and he was stunned by how hot and cool she was now. 

“Good for her!” Jon said abruptly. “Go find someone better, Marimar!”

“Oh my god,” Sasha groaned. “She ends up with him!”

“What!”

Quicker than Sasha would ever have expected, Jon got wrapped up in the episode. He gasped with her at the right parts, cheered at the screen whenever Marimar said something particularly sassy, and they booed whenever Douchey McChesthair showed up. 

When Sasha glanced behind her - not that she did - she saw Jonah fixedly ignoring them. He was gritting his teeth a little. Every so often he would glance at the screen, obviously look terribly confused, then go back to his computer. 

When the credits rolled Jon declared this second-hand trauma, which terrified Sasha deeply but raised interesting questions about her own future diet. 

“It’s about the humiliation, fear, and voyeurism,” Jon told her. “Supernatural trauma and devastation tastes rather similar to these telenovelas.”

“...what do they taste like?”

Jon thought hard. “Taste, but if it was a feeling.”

“...what’s the -”

“What’s the feeling you have?”

Sasha was forced to concede the point, and put on another episode. 

In this one, Marimar’s new dad tied tragically, and she very cunningly has him sign all of his money over to her. Sasha cheered her on very enthusiastically, and Jon agreed that Marimar was the definition of girlboss, but he found it kind of a dick move. 

“I thought you hated pretentious, old money rich white Britons,” Sasha accused. She knew that Martin had been working on him and trying to convert him to socialism,, but it was slow going. 

“I do hate entitled, old money people,” Jon said shortly. “But it’s hardly illegal to work your way up the social ladder and improve your station in life. Marimar isn’t putting the work in, she’s just inheriting all of this blood money. If she doesn’t make something of her life then what’s the point in all of that suffering?”

“You do know how social mobility is a lie fed to the lower class by the upper class to keep them complacently participating in the system, right?” 

“I’m not saying many people do it,” Jon said, ignoring Marimar’s grotesquely fake sobbing, “but it’s possible. I’ve met plenty of people who worked hard and became successful.”

“Yeah, and those people were lucky. Most of us just sit around in poverty and suffer.” Sasha rolled her eyes, unwrapping her chocolate bar. “Not all of us can be Dr. Faust.”

“You didn’t sit around,” Jon said, turning to face her. Sasha didn’t meet his eyes, focusing on her chocolate instead. “You were smart, you worked your way up, you got your scholarship, and now you’re part of something far greater than yourself. You took what happened to you and you used to make you stronger, just like I did. Anybody can do it if they work hard enough.”

Sasha’s teeth clamped down on the chocolate.

Abruptly, stupidly, she got angry. 

“I’m not better than the thousands of other trans women who got kicked out, Jon,” Sasha snapped, but Jon didn’t flinch. “I’m just luckier! I know I worked hard, but I’m not more - more worthy of what I have than the brave women back home who have nothing. And I’m not going to stomp on them to make myself feel better like you do!”

“I do not -” Jon started, outraged, but Sasha cut him off. 

“You tell yourself that you worked hard for the security, money, education that you never got as a child! But you deserved all of that! That’s shit that anybody who lives deserves. But because you think of it as some kind of stupid reward, then it’s something that can be taken away. And when what you have can be taken away at any moment, then you have nothing!”

She cut herself off abruptly, unwilling and incapable of saying anything more. There were lines you couldn’t cross with Jon, and lines that she didn’t deserve to cross no matter how callous he was. She couldn’t accuse him of forgetting where he came from, or of betraying his people. Sasha knew well that Jon had never forgotten, not for a second. 

He had just - twisted everything around. He had to justify to himself what he’d done, so he’d taken the truth and molded it to fit his own desires and call it holy. 

It had killed her. It had killed her, how Jon told her that they were the same, but he did all of this shit to her anyway. But maybe that was no surprise: Jon hadn’t done anything to her that he hadn’t done to everybody else, and he hadn’t made any justifications to himself about his behavior towards her that he hadn’t made about everybody else. 

You couldn’t live like he did with emotional honesty. Good people could do bad things - Sasha knew that better than anyone - but it required a truly disgusting level of willful blindness and cowardice that Sasha had never tolerated. 

“Nobody gave me being a woman,” Sasha whispered, too full of - something, to even look at Jon. “I didn’t take it from anyone. I didn’t steal it. It was something that I always deserved, and that I always was. And because of that, nobody will ever take it away from me.” She exhaled heavily, forcing herself to stop shaking. “Nobody can make me something I’m not. Not even you.”

Jon stared at her, toxic green eyes wide and something foreign in his expression. It looked almost as if he believed her. Ha. “Sasha, I -”

“I swear, it’s like you two are making an effort to be as intrusive as possible. Jon, can’t you control your own Archivist?”

Jon almost jumped, as if he had forgotten that Jonah was in the room at all. Something in his chest seized closer, and a year ago Sasha would have just called it a twitch. 

It wasn’t. It was an aborted, concealed cringe, seen only once before. But there was only one other person in this world who cared about that. 

“Jonah!” Jon said, switching back to English immediately. “Sorry, we were just - having a really heated discussion about - uh, about -”

“Brujeria and how it changed when adopted by members of the Catholic church,” Sasha said smoothly. “I think his weird compulsion thing is just advanced witchcraft.”

“Yes! Yes, of course - you remember, I took inspiration from p - pagan rituals, you know, for our early work. I think you called it -”

“Bizarre?” Jonah asked, arching an eyebrow. “Jon, there were bones involved.” Jon silently pointed at the human skull taking up proud residence in Jonah’s cabinet of curiosities. “That’s different, a friend gave me that.”

“ ‘Have you seen Barnabas lately, Jonah’, I said. ‘He hasn’t seemed to have written lately’, I said. ‘Have you grown distant?’, I said. And you said -”

“Yes, he was very distant,” Jonah said dryly. “You hardly complained. You hated the man.”

“I hated all of your friends,” Jon said. He was smiling, once again relaxed with his arm spread over the back of the couch. Sasha furiously bit into a chip. “Didn’t mean you let them die.”

“Yes, but he was your least favorite, so I figured there was no harm done there.”

Improbably, Jon brightened. He smiled again, a curved slash of the mouth that had always been reserved for Jonah. It always spoke of secrets, a private joke. “You do care.”

“I’ll care more if you stop chattering when I’m trying to get us funded for another cycle.”

“Whatever.” Jon turned to face the screen again, letting the smile fall into a curiously blank expression. “Next episode, Sasha?”

“Sure,” Sasha said slowly. “But it only gets worse from here.”

 It would never stop being weird how - well, maybe that was no wonder. How could Sasha begin to understand a relationship as strange and esoteric as theirs? Two hundred years in the making, forged by cruelty and passion? Two lives, intertwined so closely they fed in a parasitic loop, starving the other to feed themselves? 

“Oh, I don’t mind a little tragedy,” Jon said. He spoke in English, vowels carefully rounded, posh accent meticulously stretching his words. “It’s the most entertaining.”

Sasha thought about print-outs. She thought about a many-eyed, malicious tumor of fear and pain consuming humanity alive. She thought about the face of God, and the tired and resigned face of Martin. When Sasha spoke, she stayed in Spanish.

“Even though she gets married to Mr. Douchey McChestHair at the end?”

“I’m sure he’s not all bad,” Jon said, and wouldn’t say anything more. 

[robbenjon]

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As Fate Would Have It (part 18)

Paring: WinterSoldier!Bucky x Spy!Reader

Catch Up here | Masterlist | Words: 4k |

Taglist is open. Send an ask.

Warnings: Themes of contemplative murder… eh, some other stuff. Took a bit of a dark turn.

Note: Alexei Shostakov (Red Guardian) in this story is canon divergent and so will not share any similarities with the version we get in the BW movie. I also haven’t proofread. Comments and feedback is welcome.

Vocabulary: Snezhinka is russian for ‘Snowflake’ and Vot der'mo  roughly translates to ‘Shit’. Also, Voroshilov is a tank named after a military general.

Several Months Later…

The window was left the slightest bit open. The winter air crept in like an uninvited guest, blowing the cold onto your toes, making you shiver. You didn’t try to fight it. The cold kept you alert, awake, even if your body protested from lack of sleep and proper nutrition.

You stared over several maps, documents, newspaper cut-outs and conspiracy pamphlets, printed in English, Russian and French, scattered on your desk. The work lamp had taken on a yellowish hue as the bulb started to wane.

Your vision would blur and then snap back to focus as you read over the words that melded together in your brain to form nothing cohesive. No concrete leads, no possible hunches… just nothing. The Winter Soldier was a ghost, and your body felt like it hadn’t recovered from the shock of finding out Bucky was alive. But you had to find something to go on, some small clue you’d overlooked. You couldn’t lose him. Not again. Not like this.

The trail for the Winter Soldier had led you to a small town on the outskirts of Belarus. There was nothing there but chilly weather, suspicious locals and an entire culture of food steeped in fried potatoes and salted meats. Alexei had been reluctant to let you go along with your wild goose chase, but you insisted that you were going anyway, no matter where it led you, and he insisted on being backup.

The keys jingled before the lock to your rented hostel room click and turned. Alexei walked in with snow dusting the shoulders of his red leather jacket that strained at the seams against his large frame. Two paper cups were in his hands. It didn’t escape you that the earthy, dark aroma of coffee didn’t pervade from the steaming liquid.

“That better be coffee, Alexei,” you said with the panache of someone with a short fuse.

Alexei laughed as he balanced the paper cups and locked the door behind him, his neck and upper spine bending so he could pass through the doorway. “Any more coffee and you’ll get a heart attack.”

“At this point, it would be an improvement!” You slammed your fist in frustration, chasing loose leaflets to the floor.

“No new leads, I see,” Alexei handed you the cup of tea. A gentle smile on his face pulling his cheeks back and relaxing the age lines around his mismatched blue and brown eyes. He may have looked closer to fifty, but from his size and athletic ability, he was as formidable as a bodybuilder in his twenties. “You should rest, Snezhinka. You can’t help anybody if you can’t even stand straight.”

“I am standing straight!” you contested.

Alexei poked your upper-chest with his index finger lightly and you staggered like a piece of paper blown by the wind. The hot tea sloshed over the edges and just missed your shirt.

“Vot der'mo!” you swore as you steadied yourself.

“See?” Alexei cocked his head to the side with a proud smirk.

You frowned at him, peering your eyes like daggers. How did he not understand how important finding Bucky was to you? You had told him everything after that night in Versailles. Seeing Bucky alive, talking to him, having a piece of that life you thought was dead return from the grave only to be swept away, leaving you with more questions than answers, that messed with your head. You needed someone to talk to, someone to keep you from spiralling too far. And you trusted Alexei, with your life if need be. He had been the one who found you and offered you a job with the company. Working, keeping busy, it had saved you. It gave you something to distract yourself with while everyone around you aged and moved on with their lives.

“I can’t stop!”

Alexei sighed as he sat on a weak, wooden chair that creaked under his weight, “I’m not telling you to stop, Snezhinka. I’m telling you to rest.”

“I can’t. Every minute I waste is another minute that he’s out there, getting further and further away from my grasp!” You were being unfair and loud, and it was just like Alexei to let you go through the motions. He just took your tantrum with no judgement. “Don’t you see? I have to find him! I have to-- If you knew him like I did, if you saw how broken he was in that room…” You drank a sip of the tea with shaky hands to soothe the dryness growing in your throat.

Alexei sighed, his chin falling onto the sharp protruding joints of his shoulder bones as he stared at the spot where his ribs had been fractured by Bucky. “This Voroshilov really means that much to you, even after he tried to kill you?”

Voroshilov. That nickname never ceased to make your lips twitch upwards. Alexei had started referring to Bucky as Voroshilov because, as he put it, fighting the Winter Soldier was like going toe-to-toe with a Russian heavy tank.

“He does. When I was a child, I had nothing… No one, except…” The image of Yelena, young and scruffy around the edges popped into your head. You drowned the image out with another sip. “Then the Widow’s took us in. And they trained us to let go of everything that made us who we were, but a part of me kept dreaming. Kept hoping there was something better out there. He became that dream for me. He gave me my humanity back. The least I can do is do the same for him.”

Alexei set his cup down and nodded, “Okay.”

“Okay?” you repeated in confusion.

“Okay,” Alexei said as if you hadn’t heard him the first time. Then he sat up and left the room.

Alexei had been gone for days and the only thing you could do from going up the walls was focus on the outdated intel piling up in your small room. The files would range from ambiguous speculation about a shadow organisation that stole the homeless from the streets to experiment on them, to horror stories of a ruthless killer who was more machine than man. No matter which thread you tugged, it always ended up being a snipped end not tied to anything else.

When Alexei returned, he had a bruised nose, a black eye and raw knuckles.

“What the hell happened to you?” you asked.

“Broker double-crossed me.”

You rushed to his side with gauze and rubbing alcohol, but he simply shook his head and pulled out a thin, manila file stamped with Cyrillic letters obscuring the KGB seal. He swapped the file for the rubbing alcohol and walked over to the mirror to tend to his own wounds.

You huffed in amazement as you tentatively opened the manila jacket, heart pounding like a jackhammer. “You know, you could have just told me what your plan was before you barged out of here.”

“You needed to rest,” Alexei said simply, wincing when the alcohol-drenched gauze came in contact with several scrapes and cuts on his face.

You flipped through heavily redacted pages about a former Hydra operative who defected to the KGB once Hydra lost the war. In the legible areas of text, the operative was quoted as having mentioned a super-soldier with a metal arm. The report was over forty years old and the lead was flimsy at best, but it was still more than you had to go on a second ago.

“Can we trust this?” you asked.

Alexei had finished cleaning himself up and wiped his hands on a beige towel, “For the most part.”

“It’s not much to go on.”

He cracked a smile, “Your gratitude warms my heart, Snezhinka. As always.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, “My gratitude is always implied. I just can’t believe you went through all this trouble for another dead end.”

Alexei tossed a set of keys at you. You caught them effortlessly without looking away from the blacked-out pages. “What’re these?”

“Keys.”

“I can see that. Why are you giving me keys?”

Alexei pulled out your duffle bag from under the bed and started tossing what little extra clothing you had into it. “Because the broker mentioned where that operative is hiding.”

Your eyes grew large, a twinkle of excitement and hope bubbling to the surface of your weary face. “What?”

“I didn’t bloody my knuckles for an outdated file, little one.” He zipped up your duffle bag and flung it over one of his shoulders. “You’re driving. I need some sleep.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home.”

Reality hit you like a tonne of bricks. Russia. You hadn’t been back since that harrowing day in the mountains. Chills travelled up your spine like minute pinpricks, reminding you of the trail of scars and needle marks that never faded from your back. You instantly dropped the manila file onto the adjacent table, tied your hair with a hair tie banded around your wrist and pocketed the car keys.

 Your snowboots crunched into the sleet covered ground. The dissolving ice covering the driveway was slippery, sparkling with shards of rock salt. You looked up at the old, pre-war building with bars blocking the windows and layers of limescale turning the white of the walls to sloppy brown from years of rain.

You turned to look at Alexei as you slammed the car door shut, “Are you sure this is the place?”

Alexei took the final puff from his rolled cigarette and crushed it under his foot, pulling the collar of his thick jacket closer to his neck. “Trust me, this is the place. I put the fear of God himself into that weasley broker. He wouldn’t lie.”

You looked at the signpost dug into the earth next to the steps of the building. Reading the word ‘sanatorium’ made your stomach flip and turn in discomfort. In another life, you could have easily seen yourself being strapped to one of the many beds kept in that building. Shouting insane things like, “I don’t age,” and “I saw a dead man come back from the grave with a metal arm and no memories of me.”

You sighed, “Of course this is the place.”

Alexei chuckled dryly.

The two of you walked into the building looking like two fugitives afraid of being identified by someone in the right place at the wrong time. The large door creaked like an effect out of a horror movie, making you more on edge than before. You scanned the area in search of anything that stood out. There was nothing outwardly threatening besides the muffled moans of patients locked behind doors and spots of discolouration that could’ve been anything between vomit or dried blood. Your nose itched for no reason.

Alexei made his way with giant steps towards the receptionist that looked like a dried-out raisin smeared with red lipstick and wearing grey scrubs. He put on his most dashing smile and turned his charm up to eleven. The previously hostile and disinterested looking receptionist transformed into a model of etiquette and false politeness. You bit back a smile and tried to keep your gaze on the bare, undecorated walls of the institution. Alexei snuck some cash under his palm towards the receptionist who disappeared into a back office, and after a few minutes, another staff member with a baton strapped to his hip unlocked a metal door and nodded his head for you and Alexei to follow him.

The moans were louder now, and more blood-curling. You walked for a while, passing row after row of locked metal doors rusting at the hinges. The man stopped next to an open doorway that led to a pathetic looking recreational lounge filled with old board games and stacks of questionable books.

“Five minutes,” he said with no life on his face or in his voice.

You nodded and took a step, then the man pulled out his baton to act as a barricade between you and the doorway. “Only one.” He looked up at Alexei.

Alexei narrowed his eyes but took a step back. “I’ll wait here,” he said. “The patient’s number is 28.”

You shot Alexei an apologetic look and made your way into the rec-room. Your eyes bounced from one old and greying patient to the next, looking out for the one with the number 28 stitched onto their clothes. It was surreal, being here. You looked at each wrinkled, sagging face accompanied by thick, or thinning heads of silver hair and saw a little of yourself in each of those strangers faces. Had time been kind to you, you would have looked exactly like them. Several patients regarded you with curiosity and scepticism. Your white hair seemed to catch a lot of inquisitive eyes.

Feeling like a circus freak put on a pedestal, you swallowed your anxious thoughts and pushed forward. In the back, facing a window that looked out onto a walled fence, sat a frail, feminine form with long, oily greying hair. The number 28 was stitched onto her clothes.

“Can I join you?” you asked the old woman.

She stared blankly at the wall, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, fully formed cataracts in her eyes. You realised then that she wasn’t staring out the window, she was blind.

“Your accent is different,” the old woman said with a knowing smile that made the hairs on your arms stand erect.

“Do I know you?”

“You’re voice is still young. How is that?”

You moved closer to her, trying to see past the age on her face, down to what she would’ve looked like had you known her in another time. And then, like a spark to gasoline, your brain caught on fire with years of unresolved anger.

“Kathy?” you said her name with utter disdain.

The old lady made a croaking noise that was intended to be a laugh, “In the flesh.”

You had dreamt about coming face to face with Kathy many times when you were in that Hydra facility. Your hatred toward her and Yelena was one of your five-a-day in that cramped prison cell. On coherent nights, you had imagined exacting vengeance on them both. Countless times, in countless ways. Driving a knife between her ribs until you punctured her heart. Poisoning her food. Snapping her neck. Burying her alive in a cold steel coffin like the one she had locked you in. In every one of those scenarios, Kathy was always the same age as the last time you saw her. Picturing this feeble, old woman with purpling veins and cloudy eyes in young Kathy’s stead somehow didn’t seem as satisfying. Time had dealt her a bad hand. She had had her comeuppance. And it angered you that it wasn’t by your hands.

“What, no hug?” she jabbed.

“Screw you,” your hands balled into fists, nails piercing through your tough skin.

“There she is,” Kathy let out another croaky laugh, her bony, crooked fingers reaching out for your face. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You recoiled and took a step away, folding your arms to prevent yourself from doing something you’d regret, “I came here for answers.”

Kathy moved her head for the first time since you started talking, shifting it to crane up. Her eyes were directed nowhere near where you were standing. “So… you need something from me?”

You kept your jaw shut tight. Not giving her the satisfaction of an answer.

“Fine, but you have to do something for me first.”

“You must be nuttier than a nut-bar if you think I’ll do a thing to help you!” you whisper shouted to not upset the other patients.

“Trust me, this is something you won’t want to pass up.”

Begrudgingly, you took the bait, “Spit it out.”

“I need you to swear to me that after I tell you what you want to know, you’ll kill me.” Kathy’s face was stone-cold serious. No fluctuation in her voice or twitch of her facial muscles. She proceeded to try and explain herself, perhaps in an attempt to persuade you to feel empathetic to her current state. “You have no idea what it’s like for me here. The slop they force down my throat each day that they pass for food. The constant rotation of meds that makes me feel like a damned lab rat. The humiliation of needing someone to change my sheets when I piss myself. And I can’t even read a book to pass the time.”

“Even if I wanted to, it’s not like the security here is lax.”

“You’re a fucking spider. You and I both know the locks on those doors aren’t enough to stop you.”

You were conflicted, and a little bit surprised by her request, but you would say or do just about anything to find Bucky. Your soul was damned enough already. “Fine.”

“Swear it!” Her hand snatched onto yours, scaring you for a brief second. “And I’ll know if you’re lying.”

The patients were growing rowdy from the disruption caused by Kathy’s shout. You yanked your hand away and signalled for Alexei to relax his shoulders when he looked like he was about to charge through the much smaller guard beside him.

You stared into Kathy’s eyes, knowing full well she couldn’t see you and answered truthfully, “I swear.”

She smiled, pleased with your answer, then she placed her hand back on the armrest. “What do you want to know?”

You dragged a chair over and sat close enough so Kathy’s whispers wouldn’t be a problem but far enough so that she couldn’t reach for you again. “In a KGB report written in ’47, you mentioned you had come in contact with a man with a metal arm during your last mission as Hydra. I want to know what happened.”

“Der Wintersoldat,” she said. “I remember that mission like it were yesterday. Are you sure you want to hear this story? It may be hard to swallow.”

“I’ve been to hell and back. A damn story isn’t going to be the worst of it.”

Kathy licked her dry lips and cleared her throat so she could speak clearer, softer. “After the war ended and Schmidt was defeated, a power vacuum tore at the heart of Hydra. The allies were rooting us out all over Europe. I was part of a division tasked with finding and obtaining any samples of the Erskine’s serum and destroying any evidence.”

You frowned, “Why would Hydra ask you to destroy their own serum?”

“I wasn’t tasked with finding Hydra samples,” Kathy coughed a dry, raspy cough. “There were rumours of the Russian’s having a sample. Intelligence said they had already started testing the serum on viable candidates. So while the Allies hunted Hydra, I hunted the Russian’s –could you get me some water? My throat is dryer than my scheide.”

You took a long, pensive breath and then got up from your chair to grab one of the plastic cups staked next to a plastic jug of water. When you returned to your seat, you handed her the cup and watched impatiently as she sipped slowly. The guard tapped his wrist, his body language leaning more towards annoyed. You held up five fingers to ask for more time but he looked to be heading your way. Immediately, Alexei put one hand on the guard's shoulder, spun him around and clocked him hard enough to knock him out instantly. Alexei caught the guard before he could tumble, shrugged at you innocently before placing the guard on the floor gently.

“Your friend's got quite a way with the locals,” Kathy joked before handing you the cup and continuing: “I had managed to discover the whereabouts of the Widow’s main operations. To think, the Red Room was moonlighting as a group home for the displaced and orphaned youths of the war, much like yourself I gather.” She chuckled. “Smart. Hiding in plain sight. The only problem was, our numbers weren’t sufficient for an attack, and with the rumours circulating of potential super soldiers being trained by the dozen, we didn’t have the manpower. So Hydra sent one of their remaining assets to assist.”

You knew instantly who she was referring to, “The Winter Soldier.”

“Yes,” Kathy held back another cough. “Until that night, I had thought him to be nothing more than a ghost story, but he was very, very real. One of his arms was made entirely of impenetrable metal. I never saw his face, only his eyes. I had never seen such hollow, soulless eyes before. He single-handedly shifted the fight in our favour, and he was… unstoppable. The next thing I knew, smoke was rising from broken windows and screams were lost to the fires.”

You blinked repeatedly, trying to remind yourself that Bucky and the Winter Soldier weren’t the same person. They couldn’t be. Suddenly it was all making sense. That’s why he’d looked so broken, it’s because he was. Hydra had turned him into… a monster. Was he the reason Yelena was missing an eye? Did he really kill all the Widows?

You rubbed your face and eyes with the ends of your fingers and tried to keep calm. Despite the rise of bile in your gullet and the feeling of dread filling your empty stomach, you held strong. “What happened next?” your voice wavered.

Kathy’s eyelids grew heavy, her head slowly anchoring down. “Some of the Widows managed to escape, the Winter Soldier made it his priority to hunt every last one down. The ones we got talking revealed there wasn’t an army of super soldiers. Most of their experiments had failed. There was only one subject who survived. A boy.” She paused for a moment, the memory bearing too much emotional heft for her to cruise through apathetically. “I found him hiding in the woods. Scared, alone and young. So, so young. But I had my orders…”

Suddenly, Alexei snapped his fingers at the doorway to get your attention. A whistle blew as the sound of feet running your way echoed throughout the concrete walls. “Snezhinka, we are out of time!”

“Hold them off for a few minutes, please.”

Alexei nodded and barrelled down the hall like a gladiator of Rome. The sound of grunting and fighting made its way to your ears, and the ears of all the other patients, causing them to burst into hysterics. Several guards shouted in Russian before they met Alexei’s fists, but you blocked it all out, focusing only on Kathy.

“Kathy, we’re running out of time. What happened next?”

Kathy was lost in her memory, disassociating for a moment, “The boy, he looked at me with such childlike fear. Nothing had shaken me like those brown and blue eyes of his. So peculiar. So rare… So beautiful. I had to let him go. I had to. But my team wouldn’t listen to reason so I killed them. All of them. And then I ran. I changed my name, my hair… And my reward was this.”

The mention of a boy with brown and blue eyes shook you to your core. The thought was there, waiting to come to the surface, but it couldn’t be. The coincidence was too high. It couldn’t be the same person.

Kathy laughed maniacally as more of the patients burst into an uproar. You shook her at the collar of her clothes to try and get her to return to her senses, “Kathy, I need you to focus. The soldier, you must know something about him, anything!”

“Before he left –the soldier–he mentioned a place to one of his men.”

“What place?” you had to stop yourself from shaking her a second time.

Kathy whispered, “Siberia.”

You released your grip on Kathy just as Alexei stormed back into the room with a sweaty brow. “We’re leaving, now!” he urged.

“It’s fine, I got what I came for,” you looked at Kathy one more time before walking away.

“Our deal?” She shouted in anger, confusion visible on her weathered face. “I heard it on your voice. You didn’t lie. You swore!”

You smirked, a slithering darkness surrounding your next words, “I am killing you, Kathy. Just like I promised. I’m just giving you a chance to die slowly.”

Alexei stared at you as if you had turned into a stranger, and in turn, you looked at him the same way. The two of you made your way through the facility, taking down a few more guards along the way, and got back into your car. Police sirens bellowed out from down the road as you sped away in the opposite direction.

Chapter 19 coming soon!