#i only had a white so maybe ill put the skull makeup on her??

[yanhuisan]

this is my emotional support baby. im emotionally supporting her

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part six Word count: ±3400 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part six summary: Sam goes back to Zoë’s hotel to pick up his lost phone, but the state he finds her in is both shocking and familiar. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​ and @deanwanddamons​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     Preparing himself for a rant, Sam knocks on the door of room 17. He’s standing in the corridor of the Hampton Inn after the receptionist allowed him upstairs, recognizing him from the night before and believing his story when he gave her an excuse. It takes a while before someone grants him access to the suite, but when he’s about to knock for the second time, the door opens.      “Sam...” Zoë grunts, sounding like a sixty year old whiskey drinker who smokes at least a pack a day. 

     As he enters the room, he notices the gun in her right hand, which she held behind the door in case she had bad company. The music playlist from last night is still playing, 2+2= by Bob Seger currently on. Zoë adjusts her PJ shorts, the Nirvana shirt hanging from one shoulder and her wavy hair a bird’s nest; she looks like she’s experiencing the worst hangover ever.      “Are you alright?” Sam checks, carefully.      “Yeah, just a bad night,” she mutters.      “You were fine when I left,” he recalls, surprised by her state.      She doesn’t respond and drags her feet to the bathroom. Sam hears the water falling down in the sink. She’s probably attempting to freshen up a little.      “I left my phone here somewhere,” Sam informs, before Zoë asks about his visit.      No answer, not even a smart comment. Somewhat worried, Sam peeks around the corner. Zoë is leaning on the sink with one hand, pressuring her other palm against her forehead. She has her eyes firmly shut, every muscle in her body tenses; she’s in pain.      “You’re not alright,” Sam notices and walks in to support her, but she shrugs him off.      “It’s nothing, just leave me alone,” the huntress snaps.

     Without granting Sam another second of her attention, Zoë saunters into the room and turns down the music, annoyed by the sound of the guitar that only amplifies the throbbing inside her skull. Instead, she switches on the TV while rubbing her face, steadying herself against the back of the sofa. 

     As Sam observes her, the gears in his head start to turn. She seems ill, feverish almost, as if she’s fighting off an infection. Something about her conditions is familiar. Unable to catch a breath, clammy skin, dizziness. The feeling of being run over by a sixteen wheeler, a bass drum pounding through one’s head, as if they were inches from an amplifier at a concert all night long. Then it clicks. 

     “You had a vision.”

     Startled, Zoë looks aside. Shit. How the hell did he pick up on that? Surely she’s a mess, but Sam must have the exact same symptoms in order for him to figure it out this fast. She cannot let him know, though, and so she recovers quickly.      “No, I didn’t. It's migraines.” She shrugs it off and looks back at the television.      Sam keeps reading her while the local TV station brings them the latest news. She tries to concentrate on the screen, but feels Sam’s burning eyes. Then she snaps at him.      “Stop trying to find things that aren’t there, Sam.”      “You’re lying.” Sam knows.      She sighs with an eye roll and turns up the volume.      “No, I’m not. Now drop it.”      “I’m not gonna drop it.” He steps between her and the TV, blocking her view. “You were dying to know about my visions from the moment you learned I have them.”      “I’m watching that,” she voices, annoyed with his intrusion.      “And I’m talking to you,” Sam returns with an attitude.

     She gives him a look that could kill and steps around him to have a clear view of the screen again, trying her best to ignore the hunter and not blow up on the guy. He better not push her, because he has no idea what would be coming for him.      “Headaches, black spots, nausea right after you wake up,” Sam sums up. “You have them.”      “Would you shut the fuck up for one second?!” Zoë hushes him violently.

     It’s just now that the news on the TV catches Sam’s attention. She’s not just agitated with him because she doesn’t want to talk about the paranormal powers they have in common; there’s actually something on the local news that’s worth their attention.

“In Paragould, the body of a man has been discovered. This morning, Bill Van Dyke was found deceased in his own home, and the Paragould Police Department are considering his death to be suspicious. Local authorities claim that the family were home during the time of death.”

     “Shit,” Zoë spats.      “What is it?” Sam glances aside.      She sighs, still watching the screen as another reporter at the scene gives more information about the incident. “He died the same way Robert Shire did.”      “The girl’s father?” Sam checks, remembering the surname of ‘Shire’ engraved on Laura’s tombstone.      Zoë nods in confirmation as the reporter in the studio takes over again.

“Bill Van Dyke, the principal of Woodrow Wilson Elementary in Paragould, was a pillar of  support to the local community--”

     Zoë doesn’t hear the rest of the report, the sound fading out as her gaze locks on the school building, which is shown on the screen. She recognizes that building.      “It’s her,” she knows.      “That can’t be. You salted and burned her bones,” Sam brings to mind.      “I’m aware of that, Sam. I dug her up myself,” she hisses, as she opens her closet and takes out her suit, her actions hasty and on the edge of aggressive. “Something is keeping her here, an object maybe. Fuck!”      “Guess you’re staying in town a bit longer than expected,” he concludes.      “Guess so, but I don’t have time for this shit.” Zoë mutters and takes off her shirt, putting on a white blouse as if she’s alone in the room.      Sam averts his eyes, awkwardly, but the huntress isn't bothered.      “Nothing you haven't seen, Sam,” she comments, perky.      Nevertheless he turns away from her, uneasily staring out the window. For a second he considers offering their help on this job, but he’s quite sure she will reject anyway. Besides, they have their own case to deal with.

     Rushing, Zoë gets into her dress pants, which she just pulled out of dry cleaner plastic a moment ago.      “How can you be so sure it’s Laura?” Sam wonders.      “Laura was a 4th grader at Woodrow Wilson Elementary” she explains.      He shrugs. “So? What did Van Dyke ever do to her?”      “Her gym teacher knew about the abuse. My guess is that the principal knew too and didn’t do anything,” Zoë presumes, pulling a thin leather belt through the loops.      “How do you even know that her teacher was aware? You couldn’t have seen her already, not in his short amount of time. Admit it; you see things,” Sam’s pushes.

     Zoë huffs, half shaking her head and well aware that Sam will not buy the bullshit. She wasn't planning on telling him, but the younger Winchester brother might be the one person she can trust when it comes to her abilities. He’s special, just like she is, and neither of them have a clue what is going on. He’s in the dark, just like her. Telling him would involve certain risks, though. Afterall, he is a hunter, one who she just met.      “Zo, start talking,” Sam coerces.      “Alright! I see things! There, I said it. Happy now?” she cries out.

     The confession is as much as a surprise to Sam as it is to Zoë; did she just say that out loud? Shocked, Sam stares at her, but he’s not sure if he’s so stunned by the information of the statement itself or because of the fact that Zoë just told him the truth. Disoriented, his eyes wander off as it slowly starts to sink in what this means; he’s not alone.

     “You have visions, just like me?” he recaps.      “Not entirely,” Zoë says as she buttons her jacket. “You dream about the future, I dream about the past.”      “Like flashbacks?” Sam questions.      “Something like that, yeah. But there’s no possible way I could know these things, you know? Most of the time I don’t even know the people who are involved,” she explains, frustration evident in her voice.      “Tell me ‘bout it,” Sam replies with a chuckle.

     A glint of a smile pulls at Zoë’s lips as she looks up. A feeling she hasn’t experienced in quite a while comes to her. Relief, recognition, as if a weight just fell off her shoulders now that she finally told someone about the secret she has been carrying around for so long. She wishes she could just get it all out of her system, tell him about the other issues that she’s involved in, but she can’t. Besides, there’s little time and still a lot to do. 

     Zoë slips into her pumps, takes her FBI identification out of her duffel and puts it in her inside pocket.      “That’s how you pick your cases, isn’t it?” Sam now understands how Zoë can get to a scene with not much visual evidence, at least not visible to outsiders.      “First I didn’t, because I didn’t understand what was happening to me. But then I thought: Hey, I’m having these flashbacks for a reason, I might as well check it out,” she elaborates before she steps into the bathroom and starts applying makeup.      Sam nods at that, agreeing. “Good point.” Maybe he should start seeing the dreams as clues, too. If he had listened to the visions in the first place, Jessica might still be alive right now. 

     He watches how the woman of many faces basically shapeshifts, going from the groggy, hungover girl in PJ’s to an autorical, tough as nails federal agent. Zoë ties her hair back into a tight ponytail, the look really sending the message that she will take absolutely no bullshit. But under that facade, the role she takes on and hides behind, Sam sees something else; she is nervous, restless, anxious even.      “What’s going on, Zo?” Sam confronts her, his tone supportive, however.

     For a moment she stops fixing her hair and places her hands on her hips. The huntress takes a breath as she searches for words, deciding what she can tell him without giving him too much information.      “I’m on a bit of a time schedule,” she admits. “I need to finish this case before tonight.”      Sam narrows his eyes, concerned, trying to read her. “What kind of time schedule?”      “It’s personal,” she cuts off, immediately.

     Her eyes bore into his, warning him not to ask another question. It’s clear as day that she is not going to give him an inch on this. Intimidated by her gaze, he decides not to dig further.      “What happens if you can’t put her spirit to rest in time?”      “I’ll make it,” Zoë responds, sure of herself.      “You don't know that,” he argues.      “I’ll have to leave town, case closed or not,” she adds simply, walking around the bed to pick up her phone from her nightstand.      “What?! You’re just gonna give up a case?” Sam disapproves.      “I’ve seen hunters do it before,” she says with a tone, straightening her back and standing a little taller.      “So? Then they suck!” Sam exclaims.      Zoë snorts, not disagreeing with him there, but the young Winchester isn’t finished yet.      “Laura will keep haunting this town and every one who might have the slightest connection to her death. Do you have any idea how many could end up dead?” Sam tries to make her see.      “I don’t. Have. A choice,” she states, pronouncing her words slowly and loud, as if Sam suffers hearing loss.      “You do,” Sam corrects. “You always have a choice.”      “You should have a poster made with those words, Gandhi,” Zoë responds sassy. 

     She has gathered her keys and her motorcycle helmet now, ready to head out. Sam doesn’t seize his plea, though.      “Let us help you,” he offers.      After halting abruptly, the huntress slowly turns her head and stares at him for a brief moment, then she laughs out loud.

     “No way in hell,” she chuckles, apparently finding the proposition ridiculous.      “Why not?” Sam wants to know.      “Because I don’t team up with others. The moment you depend on someone other than yourself, you’re vulnerable. You start to trust people you shouldn’t trust and when it all goes wrong, people die,”  she states.      “What about covering each other’s backs? Looking out for your partner?” Sam brings up the bright side of cooperation.      “Apparently that isn’t for me, and believe me; I’ve experienced it,” Zoë comments, a speck of pain edging her voice.

     Sam is not sure what the young huntress means by that, but he can read from her eyes that whatever happened, it still hurts her. He keeps quiet for a moment, but then continues with a calm tone.      “Hear me out. We can take over the case completely and you can go wherever you need to go. We’re in the same hunting fields, so why shoot at each other in order to get rid of the competition when we can split up. Dean and I can handle this,��� Sam ensures.      “I believe you can, but I’m not the type who lets someone else do the dirty jobs. I got this one, I just need to make good time,” Zoë assures as she heads for the door. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have a crime scene to investigate.”

     She holds the door for Sam, her piercing eyes telling him without words to get out of her suite. The younger Winchester lets a sigh slip from his lips as he looks up at the ceiling for a moment. There’s absolutely no way to get through to that woman, he thinks to himself as he walks outside before she locks the door. The sharp thumps of her heels echo through the lobby, when she hastily parades to the parking lot while taking out her shades. Just before she walks out, Sam stops her by laying her hand on her shoulder.

     “Zoë…”      She spins around, not keen on the physical contact.      “If you need help, call me,” he insists.      “You know I won’t, Sammy,” she reacts, pushing the sunglasses onto her nose.      “Don’t - don’t call me Sammy,” he mumbles under his breath, watching her stride away to her Harley Davidson.      After putting on her helmet, she starts the engine and rides off, not even bothering to say goodbye. 

     Defeated, Sam turns to the Impala, which is parked on one of the taxi spots. A thin layer of dust covers the black car, which seems to boil in the early morning sun. It’s awfully quiet. No ear blasting rock tunes from the radio, no Dean jamming on his air guitar. Sam peeks through the window of the passenger’s side and finds his brother fast asleep. He can’t see Dean’s eyes because of the sunglasses he’s wearing to cut out the light his hungover brain cannot tolerate, but his head rests half against the window, tilted slightly backwards. Sam’s thoughts go back to the day before yesterday, when they parked the car in front of the pharmacy and Dean scared the shit out of him by slamming his fist against the window. Of course, Sam can’t resist doing the same thing and hits the window right on the spot where Dean’s leaning against on the other side.

     “Kelly Clarkson!” Dean cries out spooked, as he bumps his head up against the hardtop of the car.      With a big smirk on his face, Sam walks around the car just as victoriously as his brother did the other day, and settles in the driver's seat. When he sees his brother’s confused expression, he can’t help but laugh.      “Man, that’s so not cool,” Dean mutters with a raspy voice as he rubs his face.

     “Got what I came for.” Sam holds up his Blackberry.      “Did you have to wake me up for that?” Dean takes off his shades and narrows his eyes against the bright sun.      “No, that was just for fun,” Sam grins.      “Bitch,” Dean grumbles.      “Jerk,” Sam returns with a smile. “I have another update by the way.”      “Oh, yeah? What’s that?” Dean wonders, carelessly, resting his head against the cool glass again.      “We’re staying in town for a couple more days,”  Sam informs.

     He got Dean’s attention with that notification, all right. His older brother looks up at him and although he can barely keep his eyes open, Sam can tell that he’s curious for more info.      “What? Werewolf turned out to be a coyote?” Dean assumes.      “Not really, but there’s still a case here,” Sam begins to explain, while taking the car keys from his pocket.      “So? It’s Sullivan’s case, I ain’t touching that with a ten foot pole,” Dean makes clear.      “Aren’t you happy you can hang out with Denise?” Sam persuades, hoping to change his mind.      “Oh, no. I know what you’re doing.” Dean sits up straight and smirks, on to his little brother’s persuasiveness. “You’re trying to make this seem brochure perfect, but this isn’t about Denise. Spill it.”

     Sam sighs. Damn, there goes his master plan. Although he gets the impression that Dean can't stand the female hunter, Sam decides to tell the truth.      “I think Zoë needs help,” he admits.      “The last time you thought that I ended up in a bridal suite with a shapeshifter and you got dumped in a septic tank with our damsel in distress,” Dean recalls. “Did she ask for your help?”      “No, not re--”      “- Did she accept your offer?” Dean asks again.      “No, but --”      “- Then we ain’t helping her,” Dean decides.

     “Come on, Dean. We can’t leave her like that,” Sam tries.      “She’s a big girl, Sam. And a damn good hunter too. She’ll be fine,” Dean assures.      “I don’t know, man. Something doesn’t seem right,” Sam ponders. “She told me she’s on some sort of time schedule or something.”      “Yeah, her period. Guessing it’s coming up to that time of the month,” Dean grumbles, sarcastically.      He has lost interest in the conversation and crosses his arms in front of his chest, tugging deeper into the seat.

     “She’s gonna leave town tonight, case closed or not,” Sam clarifies.      Dean opens his eyes and looks aside. “You really think she would leave a job unfinished?” Dean wonders.      Sam shrugs. “Apparently.”      “That deadline must be pretty damn important,” the oldest brother concludes. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt if we stay until tonight, see if she manages to wrap up the case in time. But after that, we’re off to Texas. I was looking forward to that wolf hunt.”

     Satisfied with that compromise, Sam starts the engine. Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Looking Out My Back Door sounds from the radio of the classic car, built around the same time that this song was hitting the charts.      By the time the Chevrolet leaves the parking lot, Dean has looked up Denise’s number and is on the phone with her. Fuck the appropriate time to wait until reaching out. This is a booty call; the regular rules of dating don’t apply.

     “Hey… No, you didn’t forget anything. I just couldn’t wait to call you…. Yeah, I’d love to get together again. I’ll probably have to leave town in a few days, so… tonight? Alright, sounds great.” Dean gives Sam an exaggerated wink.      “At her place,” Sam half mouths, half whispers, making sure Denise doesn’t pick up on his words.      “One sec, sweetheart.” Dean presses his hand on the microphone and looks aside. “Having plans for tonight, Romeo?”      Sam glares at him and Dean returns his attention back to Denise, who started talking to him again.      “Your place, you say? At eight? Cool, I’ll see you tonight then… looking forward to it, too… Alright, bye.” They both hang up and Dean smirks satisfied.      “You are unbelievable, you know that?” Sam comments while shaking his head.      "Oh, I'm unbelievably irresistible,” his brother replies, victoriously.

     Just as Sam decides to turn right, a weird soft roar sounds from inside the car.      “What the hell was that?” Sam looks around.      “My GPS is telling you to make a left,” Dean explains.      The youngest of the two looks aside at his brother who’s pressing his hand on his hungry stomach. Now Sam looks over to the left and spots the yellow zigzag arrow above an In-N-Out restaurant. He laughs, he should have known.      “I see,” he grins and makes the turn. “Drive thru?”

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page). 

Read chapter seven here  

[flyingfishflopsthings]

Hide Your Face

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15415194

Summary: When Jameson suggests a trip to the theater, the egos jump at the opportunity. however, when the show turns out to be The Phantom of the Opera, Marvin isn't quite sure what to think.The villain seems very familiar.

Warnings: Self-Hatred, Self-Loathing, Panic Attacks

Words: 4004

It had been Jameson’s idea, of course. A way for them all to have a nice evening and relax for once. The others had agreed immediately; a trip to the theater was exactly, as he’d put it while winking at Schneeplestien, ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’ The German doctor had rolled his eyes at that and left, muttering something about booking tickets. The exact show was the joint idea of Jackie and Jameson, and so the tickets were booked.

That was how Marvin had found himself up high in the theater, feeling more and more uneasy as the show went on. It wasn’t the theater itself- he always felt most alive in buildings such as this, though normally he would be on stage himself- nor was it the height. It was the show itself. They were watching a musical, just as Jameson had wanted, which wasn’t the problem itself. It was just Marvin wished he’d had the foresight to look up a synopsis first. As it turned out, The Phantom of The Opera was not a show he liked.

He’d gone in almost blind, excited for the evening ahead. The music had been thrilling, and Marvin could certainly appreciate the dramatics of it, particularly in the overture. Jameson in particular was enthralled by the whole thing, it clearly being completely unlike anything he’d ever heard before. Even Schneeplestien was enjoying himself, looking the happiest he had since his return, the story helping him forget his worries for just one night.

But still, as the story progressed, an odd, uncomfortable feeling began in Marvin’s stomach as the masked villain was introduced. As the act dragged on, the feeling grew worse until the first half came to a head as he watched the heroine, Cristine, stand center stage, singing her desire to see under the mask before ripping it off the villain to reveal a horrifically deformed face. Around him, his friends gasped in shock at the stage make up, captivated by the story. Marvin felt sick and violated. Unconsciously, his hand flew to his own mask, ensuring it was still there. For the last few minutes of the act, he felt too dizzy to even pay the slightest bit of attention to the show.

Once the interval finally rolled around, Marvin excused himself, making a beeline for the bathroom to take a moment to collect himself. He stood in front of the mirror for a few minutes, focusing on his breathing. When he finally felt calm enough, he returned to the others, finding them enthusiastically discussing the musical over drinks.

“My goodness!” Jameson was signing. “We certainly didn’t have musicals like this when I’m from!” Chase laughed, smiling wider than he had for months.

“You know, Jay? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a musicals dude. How long were you planning on keeping this a secret?” he teased, nudging the gentleman slightly. A broad smile spread across Jameson’s face as he winked at his friend.

“I am rather partial to the moving pictures, yes, but nothing beats the spectacle of watching something in person!” He leant in slightly, hand movement’s becoming more discreet, grin becoming more shit-eating. “I’d appreciate you not spreading that around though. I do have a reputation to uphold!” Despite himself, Marvin found himself chuckling at their antics, feeling a small bit better as he settled back into his seat.

The second act passed slowly, though the magician tried to enjoy the songs rather than focusing on the story, to little avail. By the time it was finally over he was very much ready to head home and forget all about the damn show. He stayed behind the others as they walked back, staring down at the fancy shoes he’d chosen to wear out for the night, trying to ignore the others.

“I will admit, that was much more fun than I had expected. It was very good show.” “You know it! James and I picked a good one huh?”

“Dude, it was awesome! I’m not even into all this musical shit, and I thought it was pretty sick! I fucking loved that bit when-” Somehow, he managed to force himself to stop listening, counting the steps they took away from the theater instead.

Until they eventually reached home, this worked fine. Feeling ready to hide in his room and attempt to sleep, Marvin sighed in relief as soon as he stepped through the front door. In front of him, Jackie stopped suddenly, and Marvin walked head on into him.

“Jackie, the fuck-”

“Oh my god, guys, guys!” the hero laughed “Us, in Phantom of the Opera!” Marvin felt his heart sink, but did his best to sound nonchalant, as he barged past.

“Sounds dumb” he grumbled. Jackie caught his arm, still grinning at his stupid idea.

“Like think about it! It’d be like, the Phantom of the Magic show or something; Marv, you’d be the Phantom, JJ would be Christine and I’d be Raoul! It works so well!” he winked at Jameson. “Isn’t that right babe?”

“Well I am rather well known for my prowess in singing.” he quipped back, grinning mischievously. The hero dissolved into laughter, loud and obnoxious to Marvin’s ears. Soon, Chase joined him, and even Schneeps cracked a smile. Marvin’s face, however, stayed blank under his mask. It felt like it was tightening around his head, pressing so hard against his cheeks and nose it felt like something would crack. Maybe it would tighten so much that his skull would be crushed, or maybe the mask would break first, falling off and revealing his face to the world.

He didn’t really know which would be worse.

Yanking his arm back, he stumbled away from the others.

“Hey!” Jackie called out, as he broke into a sprint towards the bathroom. “Hey Erik! Where ya going?!” feet beating on the floor almost as hard as his heart in his chest, he burst into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Now he was staring into the mirror, eyes wide and shadowed by the constricting shield of a mask that squeezed his face so tight. He hated that mask; he hated it with a burning passion. He hated the sharpied on features, the cat nose and whiskers, and the card suites on the forehead, the designs he’d added to make it seem less blank, less empty. He hated it so, so much. Though for all he despised the mask, he didn’t hate it nearly as much as what was benief it. After all, his white mask wasn’t his only similarity to the Phantom. A twisted urge surged through his body. Letting out a wail of disgust and anger, Marin ripped off his mask, clawing it off of his face like some sort of parasite. He ignored the short stabs of pain as the elastic snapped, and hurled it across the room. It smacked against the wall with a thud and skidded across the tiled floor. Breathing heavily like a rabid animal, he turned back to the mirror, and raised a hand to his naked face.

It was hideous. Far worse than anything stage makeup could ever convey. A mess of scars and ridges from ill-healed wounds and curses tangled across it- many, relics of tricks gone wrong that had nearly killed him. Or maybe his face had always been like this. He couldn’t remember sometimes. His stomach turned as he retraced the carnage with his eyes, the horror that he knew so well, that made him so similar to the monster in that show. What was it the Phantom had called his own face? His carcass? He recalled bitterly. Oh yes, that fit well. A mangled, dead mockery of a person.

Hideous, hideous, hideous.

He growled angrily at the mirror, and began chanting desperately- a spell he’d tried time and time again until he could recite it in his sleep. He finished abruptly, staring wildly at his reflection which stubbornly stayed the same. Just as grotesque as ever. Clutching his face in his hands, Marvin shook. He screamed, frustration and self-loathing exploding out of his aura with such force that the mirror shattered with a forceful crack.

Instinctively he threw up a shield, stopping the worst of the glass and letting it fall harmlessly to the floor. He stood for a moment, breathing heavily and staring at the mess he’d made in shock. He blinked up at himself from a thousand tiny shards on the floor. He’d never lost his cool like that before. Not like that. He became aware of a furious pounding at the door.

“Marvin!” Chase yelled through the wood. “What the fuck’s going on? Are you okay in there dude?!”

“Piss off!” “Dude! Seriously, what’s up? Let us in, we want to help!” Marvin growled, the pins and needles of magic pricking across his skin.

“Just fuck off already Chase! Leave me alone,‘cause you can’t fucking help!” the sparks stung like a swarm of agitated bees, buzzing around his head until he could hardly hear anything else above the din. “Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone!” he screamed, unsure who or what he even meant. Tears crossed the ugly tangle of scars, slicing through them like a knife. He gasped for breath, but suddenly there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. “Go away go away!”

There was hushed discussion outside the door, until Chase’s voice came again.

“Okay Magic-Man, take some deep breaths for me. Let’s try calm down now dude. Now, are you gonna open the door or is Jackie gonna have to break it down or something? Cause I’m sorry bro but we can’t leave you in there alone.” Marvin dove for his mask, snatching it from the floor and smashing it against his face. There was a large crack in it from when it hit the wall, and the elastic was broken. Keeping a hold of it, he began taking deep breaths to calm himself down again, forcing oxygen in and out of his lungs. he waved a hand towards the door, letting it unlock and swing open.

The others shuffled back from the door slightly, to give Marvin more space to get out. Keeping his eyes on the floor to avoid their questioning looks, he brushed past them, mumbling something about going to bed, ignoring their demands for him to explain himself.

Marvin lay, staring up at his ceiling in the dark, feeling the last of the adrenalin slip away. A numbness filled him, emotional exhaustion muting everything. He shifted, trying to reach a more comfortable position. An hour shuffled past and he shifted again, huffing irritably. 1 AM, 2 AM. The hours crawled past agonisingly slowly, cruel whispers chasing around the magician’s mind as his insomnia shackled him to the waking world.

Carcas they taunted. Monster, hideous. You’re mask is cracking and they’ll all see what a freak you are! They’ll be horrified and they’ll see how right Jackie was. Well, they already know you’re fucked up; just look at that performance earlier! Once they see your face, there’ll just be no denying it. Monster. Carcas. Freak. Hideous.

After what felt like a million years, sunlight began to creep through the blinds. Marvin watched it crawl across the walls and brighten the room until he was interrupted by the harsh buzzing of his alarm clock. Reluctantly, he shut it off and dragged himself up. He needed some fucking coffee.

Replacing the broken mask with a spare, Marvin pulled on some fresh clothes. Sighing, he left the safety of his bedroom and headed to the kitchen.

The others were sat around, chatting over their morning coffees when Marvin walked in. As they noticed him, the conversation stopped, leaving a thick fog of awkwardness in the air. Chase coughed slightly, and tried to grin, though it came out a sort of grimince.

“Uh, Marv! Hey! You good bro?” The magician gave him an equally poor smile.

“Yep. yeah, i’m good. Just, you know. Getting some coffee. You?” He waved a hand, and the coffee in the pot lept into an empty mug on the side. It floated over lazily into the magician’s waiting hand. He took a long sip as Chase watched enviously.

“Man, it is so unfair you can do that” he muttered. “So, anyway. Uh, about last night-” Marvin’s jaw set slightly.

“It was nothing.” he lied. “I was just tired and needed the bathroom.”

“The mirror exploded.” Scheeplestien pointed out.

“It was an explosive shit?” “Bullshit.”

“Catshit, actually.” Chase groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Ugh, dude, come on. You literally screamed and then you had some sort of meltdown. That was not an explosive shit. You need to tell us what's up, magic-man. You can talk to us you know.” Marvin snorted in disdain.

“That's pretty fucking rich coming from you, Chase. ‘Cause you talk to us all the goddamn time don't you? You tell us what’s fucking going on when you’re drunk off your ass at three in the fucking morning right?” Chase looked stunned, blinking like Marvin had just punched him square in the jaw. He opened his mouth to say something, but Schneeplestien was quicker.

“Now that’s not fair Marvin.That is a completely different thing, a thing for a different time. Chase was only trying to help.”

“I don’t need help because nothing happened.I was tired and there’s nothing to talk about.” He drained his coffee, not caring that it was still slightly hot, and slammed it down.

“Marvin-”

“No.” he yelled, eyes flashing behind his mask. “I’m done. It was nothing.” turning away, he marched out of the room, ignoring the glass that shattered in his wake.

For the rest of the day, the others avoided him, making excuses to leave any room he walked into. He said nothing, telling himself it was what he wanted and what he deserved. They should back off, and they should avoid him. No matter how much he repeated this though, he couldn’t shake the feeling of shame and hurt each time it happened.

Hours later, Marvin sat in his own room, practicing tricks that shouldn’t be that hard, yet grew increasingly more frustrating. After a particularly unsuccessful trick, he flung his deck of cards to the floor in an impromptu game of 52 pick-up. A neat, gentle knock came at the door.

“No.” he snapped. “Go away.” flopping down onto his bed, he stared at the ceiling until another knock sounded a moment later. “Fuck off!” There was stillness, for long enough that it seemed the visitor was gone. Just as he began to sigh in relief- or perhaps disappointment- a more forceful knocking began.

Marvin groaned. It was clear that whoever it was behind the door was not going to leave him alone. Pulling himself off of his bed, he stomped over to the door, flinging it open.

“What.” He glared.

Jameson took a small step back, raising his hands in a display of peace. “I just wanted to see how you were doing old chap.” he signed, more than a little nervously. “You’ve been in such a tizzy all day, make no mistake!”

“I’m fine.” Marvin closed the door, but a polished shoe stuck in the crack, keeping it open. “Jamie,” he protested. “What are you-”

“You, good sir, are a liar!” proclaimed Jameson with a flourish. His expression softened slightly, mustache twitching with concern. “Please, tell me the truth. allow me to help.” he took off his hat, and started fiddling with it at his chest; a respectful gesture fused with a nervous tic into something so utterly Jameson. The door was opened with a sigh.

“Well it seems like you’re not gonna fucking leave me alone, so you might as well come in.”

With a slight beckon, Marvin turned and receded deeper into his room again. Centered on the far wall, a double bed sulked; bed sheets crumpled and beaten, hanging half onto the floor.  Opposite, a chest of draws, gutted in the magicians’ search for a new mask. Cards and props lay scattered about the floor, amongst clothes and spell books. It was a far cry from his usual tidy room. Jameson took it all in silently, raising his eyebrow a fraction when Marvin finally looked back at him.

“If this is your version of fine, my friend, then the definition of ‘not okay’ must have changed without my knowing.” he noted. “Now, what on earth is going on with you?” Marvin said nothing, unwilling and unsure of how to proceed. Huffing, Jameson shook his head. “Honestly. Well then, as you, Marvin, are insisting on being as stubborn as a mule, it would seem that I must figure it out myself, if you don’t have any objection to that? No? Right then.”

He peered about the room, contemplating where to begin before his eyes landed on the discarded mask.

“Ah-ha!” he signed triumphantly. “Yes, this is a good place to start.” As he considered it for a moment- picking it up and turning it over with a look of thoughtfulness- Marvin began to feel nervous. Letting him in was beginning to feel like a very bad move. “This mask. It broke last night in the bathroom, am I correct? Yet rather than leave it there, or carry it back, you held it against your face, and then replaced it with a spare. Why?” he mused.

“Stop.” Jameson plowed on regardless, like he hadn’t even heard him.

“And then there’s the timing of the-” there was a split second of hesitation as he picked his phrasing. “-Incident. It was after Mr. Jackie made a jest about the musical, comparing you to the villain, who also, of course, wore a white mask.”

“Jamie, stop.”

“Not forgetting the mirror, which-” “Jameson, please! That's enough. Stop.” Marvin begged. “Please stop.” Jameson froze, hands mid sign. He blinked.

“Marvin?”

Trying to steady his breathing and racing heart, Marvin rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling very, very weary.

“Look.” he said. “You’re gonna guess it soon aren't you? If you haven’t already figured it out that is. I-” He looked away for a moment. “I’d rather you didn’t. But I also know you’re not gonna leave unless you get answers either, right?” he chuckled without humor. Jameson looked extremely concerned now.

“No, I- I can go if you want me to. The last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable!”

“I- No, no, stay.” Marvin heard himself say. “I suppose I need to tell you at some point anyway.” he bit his lip, unwilling to continue.

“What is it?”

“It’s, well. It’s-” his voice shook, as did his hands twice as hard, as he reached up to his mask. “It’s pretty disgusting.”

His fingers hooked round the mask and he stopped, unable to undress in such a way in front of another. Surely Jameson would run, terrified, to tell the others of the monster among them. The thought scared him, petrified him in a way that few others could. It wasn’t a risk he wanted to take, it wasn’t a risk he felt he could take.

But still.

A part of him wanted to be free of the secret, to be able to discard the mask, for the constant fear of being found out to be gone. A part of him longed for the constant what if?s to be over. A part of him wanted to trust Jameson. He took a deep breath and in one swift movement, removed the mask, sqeezing his eyes tight as every instinct yelled ‘mistake!’ definingly loud.

The mask fell to the floor, landing with a thump he could barely hear over the beating of his heart. He heard too quick steps backwards, and his stomach sank. Of course. What was he thinking? Cautiously, he opened his eyes, scared to see the look of horror on his friend’s face, palms sweaty with nerves. Jameson’s hands were clasped over his mouth and his eyes were wide with shock.

“Told you it was bad, huh?” he mumbled. The youngest ego shook his head slightly to collect himself, before asking;

“What happened?” Marvin shrugged.

“Fucked up spells mostly. Explosions, curses, that kinda shit.” he sat down on the end of his bed, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Definatly some curses in there. No matter what I do, I can’t get rid of this, this-” wildly, he gestured at his face. “Freak show.”

“Goodness, Marvin, I- I’m so sorry. I never knew, I never would’ve even guessed you-” Marvin waved him off. “You would’ve, you were just about to, remember? But yeah, no, you wouldn't have known. No one else knows. And I don’t want them to either. They’ve got enough to deal with without knowing that they’re living with a monster.” A self decrepitating smile slid across his face. “They probably think i’m dangerous enough as it is after last night, don’t need this horror show scaring them too.”

Jameson frowned, biting his lip.

“Monster?” he repeated. “Why ever would you think yourself a monster?” The magician snorted.

“Uh, hello? Have you even been paying attention Jameson? Because of my fucked-up, deformed face! It’s bad enough I throw a magical temper tantrum whenever I get angry! Everyone knows that something like that, and something like this makes me a monster!” His voice rose and he clenched the bit of shirt in his fists. Magic pricked along his skin in ripples, making his hairs stand on end. Jameson cringed back slightly, fear clear on his face. Seeing his friend’s expression, Marvin willed the magic to vanish, putting his hands up reassuringly.

“Shit, Jamie, I’m sorry.” he clamored. “I didn’t mean- urgh.” burying his face in his hands, he did his best not to cry. “I’m sorry.” he mumbled. “I’ve got no right to yell at you about this. It’s not your fault.” A hand on his shoulder made him look up as Jameson sat down next to him, a serious look on his face.

“Now you look here, friend.” he signed. “Don’t you dare call yourself a monster because it is most certainly not true! A fellow’s appearance does not define them; your face does not make you a monster!”

“But what about in the play? The phantom was a villain because of his fucked up face.”

“The phantom was a villain because of his actions.” Jameson countered. “Not his appearance.”

“But-”

“No. You’re a good person Marv my friend. And those scars don’t change that a bit!”

“All the monsters we know look like monsters. Why would I be any different?”

Marvin thought of the resident monsters, Anti and Dark, and how no one could possibly mistake them for what they were, with their strange, other worldly auras, blacked out eyes and in Anti’s case, his mutilation.

“What about that Warfstash fellow?” came the argument “He doesn’t look monstrous now does he? Yet he’s the most dangerous of them all!” the younger ego’s face softened slightly. “Look,” he continued. “The point I’m doing my damndest to make, and you, for some incomprehensible reason are doing your best to ignore, is that how you look does not define you! It doesn’t make you good or bad, or whatever other terms you could possibly want to use. The other’s wouldn’t think any less of you if you chose to show them.” Sighing wearily, Marvin leant against his friend.

“Maybe.” he conceded, closing his eyes. “Maybe you’re right.”

They sat, in close silence, simply thinking in the company of the other. Later, Marvin would emerge from his room, maskless for the first time ever. Later, the others would gape and gasp in shock and concern. Later, he would explain everything. Later they would apologise and offer their support. Later, it would all work out okay. Later, there would be other challenges.

But for now, he would sit there with his closest friend, and begin to truly wonder if the play could be wrong.