#if i have to read one more tma fic that uses this justification as a Means Of Comfort i am going to lose my mind

[arodrwho]

"you're still human bc you're terrified of xyz" and "you're still a good person bc you feel so overwhelmingly guilty about xyz" are awful takes actually

[marlasomething]

A Tight Weird Family 4: Daisy

Last October I wrote a TMA fic and posted it on AO3. However, I know it is veeeery long and only two chapters so…I decided to repost it on Tumblr chopping it off per character.

I poured my heart into this tale that I wrote because TMA, as silly as it might perhaps sound, helped me to actually be FAR MORE BETTER now at all levels that I was before I discovered it and…I cannot be thankful enough.

This takes place in my main AO3 TMA AU universe, but can be read separately (just: they brought their consciences back in time and had created a completely alternative timeline, the Institute now also serve as a refuge for runnaway kids because I have issues and Gerry is alive because I love him too much).

This is dedicated to Nadia and Paloma, thank you for  being there and indulging all my writing.

Characters in this chapter: Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner, some random people (for now)

TW: swearing, mentions of police brutality and general violent tendencies, trauma, death

Words: 1232

Previous chapter: Sasha

Next chapter: Gerry

Daisy almost broke her phone as she hung up the fifth call of the day from one of her former colleagues, all using Christmas Eve as an excuse to give her conversation and discover whether she was going to speak about their… doubtful ethical practices with anyone that could bring about any sort of repercussions to The Force now that she had gotten out.

Fucking cowards; she thought. They were morons, too. How on Earth did they think Basira and her had had it so easy to resign without much justification or the appropriate time of previous notification if it wasn’t by some good old-fashioned blackmail?

She wasn’t proud of it; she knew Basira wasn’t either but…they needed out. Daisy in particular, in she wanted not to become even more of...

She didn’t recall much of their previous timeline between the other hunters’ attack and getting shot by Basira and, for an instance, finding herself trapped on a form that didn’t match her… No, that shouldn’t match her and, yet, had done so just perfectly.

However, she knew it had been bad, worse than ever before; nothing of the part of her worth anything left. The feelings, though…those she remembered with absolute clarity.

She had enjoyed it. She had loved it. The only thing she hadn’t enjoyed (to put it in words somehow) was the absence of Basira right by her side, and she almost got it by the end… It was terrifying to imagine doing something like that to the only person she had truly cared about for a very long time, willingly wanting her to turn into an equal monster to the one you had finally embraced...

Just as it was horrifying realising that, given the right context, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t do it all over again.

She didn’t want to; she wanted to try to be better. To not be a monster.

And, deep down, she knew the core of it all had little to do with The Hunt itself. It had just used what was already there, as so many other parasites do.

She contemplated calling or texting Basira about their former workmates, but she knew she was attending some important business today. She didn’t know the details, but she knew she wasn’t exactly comfortable speaking about them, and she didn’t want to push.

She was tired of pushing.

She caught her own reflection on a window and felt…rather small. When they were all somehow brought back to their former selves, she had found herself again in the ultra-trained slightly overly-human-strengthened body she had had when she had still been a cop. For an instance, she wanted to get rid of herself. Burn her own flesh if needed.

On the one side, it had been a relief to find a human anatomy, regular teeth, regular-sized limbs, not more hair than the regularly human-expected... It had been a welcomed change (that, and being alive again in general; that had been a fucking awesome change).

But, on the other side…This had been the Daisy she was still struggling to discover how she really felt about, the Daisy that had scared Jon so much ¡that he would have rather faced actual horrendous monsters than gone back to that time she almost killed him and not-so-almost Michael Crew.

Crew…she wondered; what was he be doing right now? Maybe she could track him…

Shut it; she growled to herself, she couldn’t give in.

She went back to the reflection on the mirror; the few months away from the Police, not feeding the Hunt as she had previously done, added to the fact that now she just exercised like a normal person instead of almost as a professional trained killer (she knew most of her new people would argue that was exactly was she was, but she wasn’t just there to admit it, out-loud or to herself) had made the extra-height and shoulder-width she hadn’t even notice before she had gained through her years at the security forces disappear, and her general appearance was thinner and softer. For a regular person, she would still look quite intimidating, but for her…

She found for the second time in less than five minutes fighting against herself; a voice that sounded just like she had used to telling her what a pathetic insult to her previous self she had become.

At least, I am not as bad as after that…

She struggled just picturing the letters that formed the word coffin in her head.

“So much to unpack…” she started muttering; this time actually vocalising, trying to make herself feel more real, more grounded.  She shouldn’t have stayed alone after the first two calls, she should have seen the pattern, she should have anticipated how much it was going to affect her, now that she was so pathetically weak…

…something interrupted her thoughts, as she saw two figures approaching her on the window.

She turned.

A couple, clearly disgustingly rich, was looking doing at her as if she was some, well, lesser dog.

If there was something she was actually proud about her time in the Police was how rude and aggressive she had been with every single rich stuck-up person that had come in with some nonsensical complain and/or request. She hated all those entitled bastards, from the first to the last of them (of course, this generalization had cost some serious aggravations in the life of people that had actually had serious matters to report and were badly dismissed…but she was not ready yet to open that particular door in her memories).

“Who the fuck are you? The Institute is closed, is bloody Christmas Eve” at their more than slightly scared expressions, she grimaced.

I still got it. She thought, proudly. As she feasted without even noticing for a second in the primordial fear to her predatory attitude, completely forgetting her previous concerns.

However, the woman reacted in a way she didn’t expect.

She slapped her husband (she supposed that much) whom, she realised then, was carrying a trolley with…a creepy looking baby, firmly staring at her, their eyes twitching from one colour to another, from one moment to the next.

As she looked at the child, she felt weaker again; as if they had fought and won against their own fears.

“What the…?” she didn’t know what she referred exactly, anything of the situation, actually.

“No time to explain to you.  Those are The Archivist’s office? Uh, changed places from Gertrude’s….”

She approached Sasha’s office and Daisy felt herself grew overprotective; of all the new people in her life, she believed Sasha was one of her favourites.

She guessed it was partially because she hadn’t had to deal with her before, but she didn’t really care much for the reason. She just liked the woman.

“You cannot enter there.”

She couldn’t describe precisely what happened next…

The woman took something from inside her locket, which seemed to be a folded piece of paper, stared at in for a moment and, before she could help it, she was moving away so they could enter freely.

Fuck fuck fuck.

At least, she knew who to look for.

If the couple were using cursed texts to help their way to get whatever they wanted, there was one person on The Institute that could be just perfect for assistance.

And she knew just where to find him.

[playfullyevil]

TMA fic - Comfort Food

Martin fluff

Hugs need to happen before the bad things come next week.

Martin had gotten rather good at avoiding eye contact with anyone who happened to be wandering the Institute’s halls as he made his way into work.  Walking through the main door, he cast his eyes to the floor, ducking the gaze of the person behind the reception desk.  He made his way to the recessed door along the left-hand wall and the stairs beyond. 

He used to be so social, stopping to chat at the reception desk, sometimes he even brought pastries.  Occasionally, he would pop in on the research department to say hello and check in on anything that may due to be archived.  At any other job, Martin Blackwood would have been known as, “friendly but a bit odd.” Among the institute staff, you had to be especially strange to be labeled “the odd one”.  The institute collected those sorts of people, or converted them. As an employee of The Magnus Institute, Martin was simply “the friendly one”. Not anymore, not since...

His once open, youthful face, with bright eyes and a quick smile now blank and dead eyed as those working in artifact storage. He had always been pale but now could be accurately described as ashen. A seemingly boundless optimism had fueled him through all his years in the institute including his stay in the archives, the incident with Jane Prentiss, and even its aftermath. All of that had reached its end with the disappearance of the head archivist.

Settling at his desk, the archival assistant took stock of the papers piled on his desk and sighed. No matter how hard he worked, it seemed he could barely make a dent in the chaotic shelves. He missed doing proper research on the statements, when he had the time to go out and conduct the occasional interview.  Really do the job thoroughly. 

There just wasn’t the time for that anymore and he rarely left the institute's basement.  Elias wanted the archives properly organized and he wanted it done yesterday.  Sometimes, Martin could do a bit of googling to verify or cross reference the occasional fact. More often than not the statements were recorded with only the sparse notes already included in the files. If there even were any.

He had weeks ago stopped asking Tim for help, not that he could reliably find the man. It didn’t look like he had been to his desk today, but it was early yet. His coworker had been showing up to work less and less. When he was in, he spent most of his working hours moving papers from one box and back again, on autopilot. More and more Tim would disappear into the storage room to lay on the cot there, staring blankly up at the ceiling. 

A flash of fluorescent pink caught Martin's eye from under a file folder. He shifted it aside to reveal a note written in flowing script. 

Martin,

You haven’t been by to see me in a while, we should catch up.  Meet me for lunch?

-R

The large, cursive R trailed off into a swirling floral pattern at the bottom of the note.

For anyone not assigned to the archives to make their way down here was a rarity. The archives weren’t a musty basement but a warm, welcoming place they are not.  There were enough strange things that go on in the rest of the building that few people deliberately seek out the creepier areas below ground level.  

Rosie usually kept herself busy on the third floor with the rest of the research staff.  Martin wasn’t sure if he had ever seen her down in his little corner of the institute. Obviously, she knew her way around as she was able to find his desk and leave a note without any difficulty. 

It had been at least two months since Martin had last taken lunch in the company of another person.  He’d barely been up to the canteen since before Christmas, preferring to eat at his desk. If he ate at all. He had skipped breakfast and the thought of lunch made his stomach voice its displeasure.  Martin affixed the sticky note to the clock on his desk and got up to make some tea.

Buried in work time lost its meaning, speeding by while at the same time passing in long, draw out stretches.  Boxes brimming with chaotic folders piled to the left of the desk were gradually, but steadily making their way to the organized stack on the right.  Statements were skimmed, supplemental material glanced at, and verifiable facts were typed into a search engine.  Most ended up in a box marked for the discredited section.  A yellow sticky note declared it the “Pile of Nonsense”. A few made it into a stack earmarked for further investigation and eventual recording attempts. First digitally, but if all else failed, out came the cassette recorder.

Martin was reading through the account of Rachel Tyler when a polite cough drew his attention.  Looking up, he saw Melanie standing in front of his desk. “Anything interesting?” she said nodding her head toward the paper in Martin’s hand.

“What? Oh, Ms. Tyler seems to believe the coffee shop that opened up near her office is run by witches.”

“Witches? The broom riding kind or the child-eating kind?”

“The kind with ‘satanic glyphs marking their pale skin and ornaments to their dark master embedded in the flesh of their face,’” Martin read aloud.

Melanie’s hands shifted to rest on her hips, “Sounds like a stuffy, old lady upset that the kids making her coffee don’t share her delicate sense of aesthetics.”

“Likely so, ‘The music pulses from the speakers in a dark rhythm that attempts to hypnotize the clientele.’” Martin continued. “Must not have been very effective hypnosis, the shop closed in 1989.” He closed the file and slid it into the box on the right.

“Too bad, sounds like a fun place.”

“Must have been ahead of its time.”

“Must have.” Melanie agreed, “Oh, before I forget, there was a woman up in the lunchroom asking after you.”

Martin’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“Rosie, I think she’s called.”

“Oh no," he groaned, looking at the clock. "it’s nearly two.” 

“Well she was still up there a few minutes ago.  If you hurry you can probably catch her.”

Martin briefly considered the pile of work in front of him when his stomach made a conspicuous gurgle. Melanie raised her eyebrows at the noise before heading off to her own work. Getting up, he pushed in his desk chair and headed up the stairs toward the canteen. 

The lunchroom was empty except for Rosie, who was sat down at a table near a window.  She spotted him as he entered and waved him over with a warm smile.  “Martin, come over and have a seat.  I made lasagna last night and have far too many leftovers.”

He hurried across the open space toward the table and slid into the seat. A rare sunny day was pouring light in through the window and Martin squinted at its brightness.  He’d been working in a basement for over a year now and his eyes were out of practice dealing with this quantity of natural light.

“Christ, you look like hell.  You really haven’t been taking care of yourself very well lately, have you?”

The archival assistant looked down sheepishly and raked his hand through his hair. He idly wondered when the last time he’d actually run a comb through it. 

“Sorry, it’s just been a rough week,” he mumbled.

“It’s more than that,” she insisted. “I’ve barely seen you the last couple of months, no one has. I know things are… strained down there but you don’t have to avoid me.”

“I didn’t want to be a bother…”

“Nonsense! You’re no bother. Here, eat.” The older woman pushed a plate piled with lasagna toward him. He reluctantly picked up the fork and began toying with the food, eventually bringing a bite to his mouth. It was delicious, a perfect balance of pasta, sauce, cheese, and spice.

“Go on then,” she encouraged. “I’ve got a container for that Tim of yours too.

Martin choked on his food and stuttered out, “Tim's not! H-he’s not my, my— anything!”

“That’s not what I meant but that sounds like a conversation for another time.” She flashed a conspiratorial smile before knitting her brow in concern. “I worry is all, you’ve been skulking around like a kicked dog. I won’t make you talk about it if you don’t want to, but I need you to understand that I’m here for you if you do.”

“I, I uh, thanks,” he said quietly, speaking more to his plate than to Rosie.

“You’ve had a rough go of things this last year and it’s okay to need help dealing with that. I’ve spent my share of nights on the couch in my office but living in the basement of this old building couldn’t have been easy." She gestured to the abstract molding that gave the suggestion of eyes. "Even during all that you still managed to be your cheery self.  This has obviously hit you much harder and I want to help if I can.”

Silence hung in the air for several minutes broken only by the quiet sounds of Martin eating.  Not an awkward silence but one shared by people comfortable enough with each other they don’t feel the need to fill every empty space with words.

Eventually, Martin spoke up, “Thank you for the lasagna, it is really very good.”

“Thanks,” Rosie smiled, “it would seem that, despite my best efforts, I have become my mother after all.”

Martin looked up from his plate with a questioning look.

Rosie shook her head, “She had a habit of trying to solve problems by cooking them away.  Anytime someone she knew was upset she would be in the kitchen baking sweets. Which reminds me…” She reached down under the table to retrieve a container.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Martin dear, I baked these because I wanted them.  Believe me, I have a bigger tin in my desk right now and even more at home.  Save me from myself and take the damn biscuits.”

“If you insist.” Martin saw right through Rosie’s “justification” but he also knew better than to argue the point. Besides, Rosie was an excellent baker.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.” Martin said, “Thank you, for everything. The biscuits, the lasagna, the… everything.  I really should be getting back, there is so much work to be done.” He stood up and began to stack the containers Rosie had given him.

The older woman had risen from her chair and walked over to Martin.  Her arms slightly open, offering a hug but giving him the space to decline should he wish.  He hesitated briefly but stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her soft frame.

Surrounded by her warm presence, Martin felt safe for the first time in as long as he could remember. Something broke in his chest and he felt himself start to cry softly into her shoulder. He didn’t realize he’d been drowning until she offered him the life raft and Martin clung to it desperately. Rosie gave him a little squeeze but did not let go then began to rub circles into his back. 

Martin wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that.  Pent-up stress and grief bled out as tears into Rosie’s blouse.  She made no move to pull away even as he began to shake and make ugly sniffling noises. The older woman just held him, murmuring reassurances to the crying man.

Taking a shuddering breath, Martin gathered the broken pieces of himself and stepped away from the embrace.  He sniffled and wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just that-- I don’t know what… everything is--” he threw his arms up in exasperation and looked helplessly at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to apologize for being a human being with limits.”

Martin grinned sheepishly and huffed out a laugh. “It’s just, this place, it’s…”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” She smiled and scratched Martin gently between the shoulder blades for a few moments. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Honestly? I don’t know, but I do feel much better than before.”

“I’m not sure if a fortress made of pillows will help you endure everything but I’m willing to give it a go if you are.  My office couch may be hideous but it is comfortable and the cushions are sturdy.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Martin laughed and started toward the exit.

“Don’t forget your food,” Rosie called after him.

“Oh, right. Thanks again.”

Rosie handed him several containers of lasagna and a tin of biscuits. “Make sure Tim gets some. I don’t want him to think I’m playing favorites.”

“Will do. You’re the best Rosie.”

“So they tell me.” She smiled and waved her goodbye.

Crossing the main foyer, Martin smiled and nodded to the receptionist as he passed.  He descended the stairs with more bounce and vigor than he had in months.