#implied/referenced attempted suicide

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 119: May 2018

For the first, possibly only, time in his second life—maybe in his entire life—Gerard Keay existed in a single, solitary moment.

Ordinarily his every breath was simultaneously one he was taking for the first time, one he would take someday, and one he had taken a thousand times over. He could see every point in his life from every angle and every near-death experience that every person in the world had ever had. The whispers and echoes even suggested to him that, with a little effort and concentration, he could see every near-death experience that every person in the world would or could ever have, including the one that would eventually get so near as to tip them over the edge…if he so chose. Which he did not. As himself, he didn’t want to know about future suffering…and as a servitor of the End, it did not please his master simply to know that such things would happen, only to taste the fear of someone experiencing it—or anticipating that experience. Since he wasn’t the sort to sit behind a crystal ball wrapped in a turban and put on a mysterious voice to “caution” people about their impending doom, looking into the future was useless.

But right now, standing in the Panopticon built for Millbank Prison, staring at the body of someone he’d tried to consider a friend watching him with the eyes—eye—of someone he knew to be an enemy, he wished he had used it, just once, to see how this turned out.

Except. Except he couldn’t have. Whether because of the journey out of, or through, or alongside time or because of the way the Panopticon was warded to protect Jonah Magnus’ original body or for some other reason that he couldn’t quite manage to put his finger on, this moment existed solely and entirely in and of itself. Gerry couldn’t sense any of the moments strung along his past like beads on a necklace, nor see the black marks of death on any of the people in the room. Yet he wasn’t without power—he’d sensed the instant before the gun went off, felt the death of Peter Lukas add to the energy rush he’d got from destroying the two Hunters, tasted the disgust upon looking at Elias Bouchard’s body and realizing that nothing had truly died when Basira shot it—so it was only warded against being seen or felt or known from the outside, not from any other power wreaking havoc when it got here.

He just didn’t know what to do with that.

“Basira, what did you do?” Daisy demanded, her voice full of dread.

“Exactly what I meant for her to do.” Basira—or Jonah Magnus piloting Basira’s body—pushed to her feet and stood in front of them, as though this were an everyday workplace briefing, an image marred only by the splatters of blood on the jacket of her charcoal suit. “You see, Peter Lukas brought her here to destroy…that.” She gestured grandly at Jonah Magnus’ corpse without taking her heterochromatic gaze off of the rest of them. “He told her that doing so would destroy me, destroy my hold on the Institute, and put Basira—a mix of the Lonely and the Eye—in the proper position to take control of the Panopticon herself. Basira, of course, didn’t truly believe him.”

“Was he telling the truth?” Martin asked in a barely controlled voice that told Gerry he was having a hard time resisting the urge to compel Jonah—it seemed easier to think of the person speaking to them Jonah despite the outward form—despite knowing it wouldn’t work.

“About the first part, perhaps,” Jonah said carelessly. “I don’t actually know. Nobody’s ever tried before. The second, however—no, that is by no means how it works. Basira would no more have been in control of the Panopticon than she was of the Institute at any point in the last few months. Still, it’s immaterial, because she wisely chose not to trust Peter Lukas, and instead shot him. She is quite a good shot. And the instant she had shot him, she also shot Elias Bouchard.” A smirk curled Basira’s mouth. “Which is precisely what I wanted her to do.”

“Why?” Melanie began, and then stopped and stared at him. “Your eye. That’s how you fucking change bodies all the time—it’s tied to your eye. You just transferred it into Basira’s head.”

“A simplistic explanation, but it will do,” Jonah agreed. “The transfer is triggered by the death of one host body, and automatically takes over the next. I wasn’t entirely sure how well it would work without both eyes, but as you can see…it’s done admirably.”

“Let her go.” Daisy spoke sharply and firmly, but Gerry could hear the tiny note of pleading in her voice. He really, really hoped Jonah couldn’t.

“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that, Detective,” Jonah said, and even Gerry thought it was weird to hear the word Detective directed at Daisy out of Basira’s mouth. “Haven’t you heard that the eyes are the window to the soul? Well, I have, metaphorically speaking, closed the shutters. I’ve taken over Basira’s life force. I—nngh.”

He contorted, the same way Michael had when the Distortion tried to reassert control—the same way Martin did when he was fighting back the Eye—the same way Gerry knew he himself did when he was being punished for not giving the End what it wanted. There was a struggle going on. When he—no, she looked up, there was something—a relaxing of the posture, a determined set to the jaw, a flash of fear in the eye—that said Basira had gained the upper hand, at least for a moment.

“Daisy,” she gritted out. “Kill me. It’s the only way to get him out—aah—”

She contorted again, rolling her head on her neck, and resumed the posture that said Jonah was back in control. More calmly, he said, “Yes, that is true, but I will simply move on to the next body.”

“Don’t care,” Daisy growled. “Try to take me over, I fucking dare you. I’ll gouge you out of my head myself.”

“Ah, but it won’t be you, Detective,” Jonah said silkily.

“You think I’m going to let anyone else get close enough to you?” Daisy took a step forward. Gerry could read the grief on her face. He didn’t see the black marks on any of them, which could have meant they weren’t going to die, or could have meant there was no way they survived. Or could have meant that part of his power was suppressed here, in this place where only the Eye was allowed to see, and that seemed the most likely.

Which was fine. He would rather not know for sure. At the same time…

“It’s not proximity.” Jonah spread Basira’s hands out and smiled. It was not a nice smile. “I can control whom I take over, should there be more than one…option in the room. And if I simply transfer my consciousness into Martin’s body, well, I can use him as intended—to start my ritual—without having to resort to threats.”

“What?” Jon and Melanie shouted in angry, terrified unison.

“To bring the Eye into the world?” Martin raised his chin slightly and stared Jonah down with a triumphant smirk. “Nice try. It wouldn’t work. I’ve been Marked—”

“By all fourteen Fears,” Jonah completed.

“Thirteen,” Martin said, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his expression, just for a moment.

“I had suspected—or rather hoped—you didn’t know about that fourteenth one,” Jonah said, almost pleasantly. “Not that you understood, of course, but even if you had…oh, you would have continued to believe you weren’t of use anyway. Either way, it meant you came here, just when I needed you.”

“What are you talking about, old man?” Gerry growled.

The look in the grey eye was cold as it skimmed over Gerry. “Don’t think I don’t know who you are. Even without Basira’s memories.”

“I don’t actually give a flying fuck if you do or not, you body-stealing bastard.” Gerry glanced at Martin, then at Daisy, very briefly. They needed a plan here. None of them had one. They weren’t even sure what they were planning against, which meant there was only one thing to do. Stall.

“He asked you a question,” Martin said, his voice low and dangerous. “What are you talking about?”

“The keystone of the ritual I devised to—oh.” Jonah sighed with pleasure in a way that made Jon and Martin shudder. Even Gerry felt slimy at the way that sigh caressed the air.

Daisy snarled. “If you even think the word tingle, I will snap your fucking neck.”

“You would do that to your partner?” Jonah tried to raise one of Basira’s eyebrows and seemed annoyed that he couldn’t seem to manage it. Evidently Basira’s muscles didn’t work that way.

“Not my partner,” Daisy snapped. “She made that very fucking clear. And it sounds like Martin is strong enough to force an answer out of you if he tries hard enough, but the effort might kill him and then he’d be no use to you, yeah? Can’t go into a dead body. So tell us what the fuck your plan is. Not like we can stop it anyway.”

“That is true,” Jonah agreed. “It’s far too late for that. If you’ll all get comfortable…”

None of them moved. Jonah didn’t seem bothered by it. “Fine. Then I’ll begin.”

He steepled his fingers. It probably would have been more effective if he’d been leaning his elbows on a desk and resting his chin on the tips of them, but it would do well enough. “I suppose we should start at the beginning, as I’m sure you’re curious—why does a man attempt to destroy the world?”

“Power. Immortality.” Martin’s expression didn’t change, but Gerry heard the faint, gentle hiss of static in his words. “You’re not special in that regard. And if you tried to tell me there was any other motivation, I wouldn’t believe you. The Magnus family was rich but never rich enough, powerful but only in specific circles, important but never the kind another wealthy or powerful family would seek an alliance through marriage with, so you never had the opportunity for the kind of legacy the others in Smirke’s circle meant to build, did you? It was always about you. You meant it to happen during your first lifetime, and you failed, so you had to resort to…” He made a peremptory gesture that nevertheless conveyed his disgust at the unequal eyes. “This.”

The grey eye flickered with anger, and Gerry tensed, wondering—but before he could do anything, Jonah dropped his posture and placed one hand on his hip, looking not at Gerry but at Melanie with narrowed eyes. Gerry hadn’t even seen her start to move. “I would advise you not to do that, Melanie. I may need Martin, but I do not need the rest of you.”

Melanie froze. Gerry didn’t need to see her face to feel the burning hatred radiating off of it. Martin wrapped his hand around Jon’s, but made no other move. “Go on, then. We’ve established we’re more curious about the last three years than the previous two hundred. Is this why you appointed me to the Archives in the first place? To use for your ritual?”

“Oh, no,” Jonah said, relaxing and returning his gaze to the group at large, as pleasantly as if he hadn’t just threatened all of them. “On the contrary, you were…almost an unnecessary complication, at first. No, I had intended to use Jon.” He flicked his gaze to Jon briefly. “You came to me with the Mark of the Web already on you…Sasha had it too, of course, but I knew that Gertrude had, ah, marked her out as a potential successor and I was not about to risk my plans being delayed any further. So I selected you as the Archivist. My intention was to watch you, see how you handled the first inevitable attack that came your way, and then proceed. As for you, Martin, I appointed you as an Archival Assistant in hopes it would draw more attention to them. You were, ah, rather well known in our community as a troublemaker, and I was sure that anyone who knew you were working closely with the new Archivist would assume—correctly, as it happens—that a Beholding ritual was in the works, and attempt to stop it. It also had the added benefit of ensuring you could not quit and join another Fear’s ritual, knowingly or unknowingly.”

He spread out his hands briefly. “Of course, it hardly took any time before you came to Jane Prentiss’ attention, and led her—as I had hoped—directly to the Institute. When she attacked, I was watching from the beginning, my hand on the release lever. You performed well enough, Jon. I had intended to wait longer, to make sure the worms were all the way in and that you felt that fear down to your bones…but, well, circumstances dictated otherwise.” He flicked a contemptuous gaze at Gerry, just for a moment. “Still, it was enough to move ahead with.

“It took me some time after the attack to locate you, actually, and I do congratulate you on that. But when you and Melanie took your trip to Sheffield, I was watching you quite closely. I knew, of course, that Martin had likely filled you in on a great deal, although I was uncertain of how much. Still, the fact that you went willingly into a situation you knew was dangerous told me two things—first, that your curiosity would drive you into most places, and second, that your desire to protect those around you would drive you the rest of them. I tried to sow the seeds of paranoia between you, but even I admit that that was never particularly likely to succeed. The Stranger’s insertion into the Institute was a boon, of course, but as it remained primarily out of your orbit I was less concerned with it and more interested in the Spiral. After Sasha’s encounter with it, I thought it would be easy to nudge it to Mark you. In the end I had to bring one of its victims to the Institute—poor Helen, I had to put her in a cab myself, she was so confused—but she served her purpose. Between that and your first desperate flight through its tunnels, the Spiral has Marked you very deeply indeed.”

Jon put a hand on his side, but said nothing. It was as though they were all transfixed by the monologue. Jonah continued. “Jurgen Leitner was unexpected, and I admit I somewhat overreacted to that situation. I was still, of course, pretending at the time that I was unaware of just how much you knew, which was useful. I did not lie when I said I was concerned he might have told you too much too early, but it was nothing to do with the Fourteen and everything to do with what I worried Gertrude might have told him about my plans. I justified it to myself with the thought that I had meant to send you out into the world anyway. From there it was simply a matter of feeding you a few carefully curated statements to put you in the path of other Avatars. I was quite annoyed that Martin intervened and confronted Jude Perry before you could, but he was at least generous enough to hand over the late Mike Crew’s information so that you could, at least, get that Mark.

“I had not, I confess, paid a great deal of attention to Martin at that point. All of your assistants were little more than a means to an end, and while Martin had the potential to be either far more useful or far more of an obstruction, I was confident at that point that I could remove him without difficulty if necessary. But when you all gathered in my office to get me to confess to Gertrude’s murder, I certainly took notice.” Jonah’s gaze shifted to focus more on Martin than the rest of them, although Gerry could tell they were all, somehow, still pinned by it like flies in amber. “I had known you had some connection to the Ceaseless Watcher, but I had no idea how strong it was. I also had not realized just how many Marks you had yourself. I counted seven in total—the same number that Jon had. I still intended to use Jon for my plans, but I did begin watching you. And then the Stranger came after Jon, and you sacrificed yourself for him.

“Of course, by now I’m sure you know that I was always aware of where you were and what was happening to you. I knew that one of two things would happen. Either you would survive somehow, or Orsinov would in fact skin you and use you to attempt the Unknowing. I confess that I thought that the more likely outcome, and I had already laid my plans to isolate Jon from the remainder of the staff, to use your fate as a way to push him to acquire more Marks, perhaps to stray further afield from the Institute. Instead, the Spiral freed you and returned you to the Institute. And in that moment, I changed my plans. Your powers were growing quite strong, stronger than I think even you realized at the time, and it seemed to me you would make a better linchpin for the ritual. So I sent you to follow Gertrude’s path, knowing that something would attack you while you were gone.

“As soon as Miss Montauk met you at the Amtrak station, I knew you would be in a…desperate situation, shall we say, in addition to getting your own Hunt Mark. Rather than risk you heading to an embassy for assistance afterwards, I contacted an old friend who was able to get to America quickly and suggested he pick you up, that several weeks trapped on a boat with no sign of land or other vessels—only the empty sky and the fathomless depths of the sea—would be an amusing and novel way of tormenting someone. He fell for it, of course. He was always easy to manipulate with a bit of ‘fun.’ I even told him not to introduce himself to you, as you’d be more likely to trust him if you pieced together half stories and vague references and came to the entirely erroneous conclusion that I had sent Peter to pick you up.” Jonah smirked. “You still believe that, don’t you, Martin? But ask yourself—why would Peter have bothered to keep you company? Let alone point out the ‘sights’? No, it was not Peter Lukas you encountered. It was Simon Fairchild, and those weeks you spent knowing there was nothing between you and drowning but a bit of leaky wood Marked you sufficiently enough with the Vast.

“I admit that the Mark I worried the most about was the End. I was not yet aware that your…” Jonah glanced briefly at Gerry, and the expression was actually probably the most Basira-like face he’d seen since bursting in here as he continued, “…friend was here, but even so, you weren’t truly afraid of him. The biggest problem I faced was that if I put the End in your way too soon, you would simply die, whereas if I did so too late you might be powerful enough to see it coming, and perhaps even to guess why. But the Hunters took care of that well enough. I wonder if you realized it? No, of course you didn’t. But if you had ever listened back to the tape you brought back from that incident, perhaps you, if not the others, would have been able to sense it—the exact point during your father’s statement where your breathing stopped in the background. The point where, in fact, you did bleed out, Martin. The timing was just right, and you once again came through with flying colors.”

Gerry’s stomach lurched, and Jon swayed on his feet, but Martin remained impassive and steady as Jonah went on. “I could see from the debriefing we had immediately prior to the Unknowing that it was fortunate for me that the time before it was so short. Your abilities were coming on by leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face to face might result in you learning something you shouldn’t. I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was easy enough to cut a deal.

“All that remained, then, were the Flesh, the Slaughter, and the Web. The Flesh was easy enough; I simply wrote to Jared Hopworth, and he attacked with remarkable haste. Of course by that point you were well able to defend yourselves against him and his ilk, but it was terrifying enough that you didn’t know that for sure, so the Mark was made. I was thoroughly unconcerned about the Slaughter. I had initially trapped Melanie for no other reason than because I knew Jon was hiding with her, and perhaps as potential leverage against you should I need to use it, but by the time I had chosen to use you, I knew she would eventually Mark you herself.

“That left only the Web, and I admit, I was rather hard pressed to think of how to put you in its way. Jon and Sasha, of course, were both Marked by it, and they were beginning to lean into it more than they did the Eye, but not nearly quickly enough to Mark you. Melanie made most of her progress towards the Slaughter while you were away, or before your powers were sufficient to truly see it, whereas even Jon’s shifting allegiance was done directly under your nose, and in such a way that you were bound to detect it before it was enough to actually Mark you. I racked my brain to find a way to get the Web to do more than lurk around the outskirts of the Institute, but nothing seemed foolproof enough. Unsurprising, really, that something that thrives on manipulation and maneuvering would be difficult to manipulate in turn. But then Annabelle Cane set the bait out herself…and you took it, Martin, without a moment’s hesitation.

“And not a moment too soon, either. Peter felt you were getting too close to figuring out his plans, and decided to make his play for final control of the Institute. I had, of course, proposed a wager, allowed him to attempt to turn any employee of his choosing to the Lonely, and said that if he succeeded he would gain permanent control of the Institute. Really, Basira was the best choice for that from his point of view. She had the fewest tethers, she felt the most abandoned, and even before she began working closely with Peter, she thought she had nothing to lose. If only he hadn’t tried so hard.” Jonah laughed, rather cruelly. “Or just done what I asked him to do in the first place. But no, he had to try and get her on his side, convince her this was to save the world. He set off with her to find this place, while you set off for Hill Top Road. Melanie and Jon followed you to rescue you, and once I was sure you would arrive on time, I broke out of prison and came here to meet Peter and Basira…and to wait for you. I had intended to call you to me, but as it turned out, there was no need.

“And so there was only Basira’s decision. Peter told her that destroying my original body would let him—through her—control the Panopticon and see how close the Extinction was to genesis. He offered to let her kill me. Of course I knew what choice she would ultimately make. Could she have chosen anything else? And now…” Jonah spread out his hands. “Here we all are.”

Martin drew in a ragged breath, and Gerry could see that he was trembling slightly. For several seconds that Gerry could practically feel, nobody spoke.

Finally, Melanie broke the silence. “Why?”

Jonah blinked. He looked faintly annoyed. “I’m sorry?”

“Why this?” Melanie gestured emphatically at Martin and Jon. “Like, I get that you’re a sadistic bastard, you probably get off on torturing people, but the Ceaseless Watcher doesn’t get anything out of pain, so what was the point in traumatizing Martin over and over and over? How does that help you take over the fucking world?”

“Ah.” Just like that, Jonah was all self-satisfied smiles again. “That’s certainly simple enough to explain. It was Gertrude Robinson who gave me the idea, actually. She was unlike any other Archivist ever seen before—almost single-minded in her devotion to take down the rituals—and over the years, I couldn’t help but watch with fascination. It made me wonder why no ritual ever had succeeded before. It was possible there had been a long line of Gertrude Robinsons, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed? She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church. When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago. Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated — but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what needed to be done.

“You see, the fact of the matter is that the Fears can never be truly separated. Where is the line where fear of senseless violence crosses over into fear of being hunted, or the mask of the Stranger turns to the confusion of the Spiral? Even ones that seem to be in opposition cannot exist without one another, for how can you fear the Buried if you don’t know there is an alternative? The rituals intending to bring only one into the world were always doomed to fail. We call them by their own names, but in the end, they are all Fear, and they are all one. The only way to bring them through is to recognize all parts of it, and welcome it. So I crafted a new ritual, one that would invoke all of the Fourteen at once—with the Eye to oversee, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots. And that is where you come in.”

“You had me Marked with all fourteen Fears so I would be a conduit for all of them,” Martin said, his voice laden with horror. “So I could—what, channel them all?”

“Of course.” Jonah’s smile took on a decidedly cruel curve. “The moment I knew it would work was the moment I saw that the contracts had changed—that you were the Archivist, Martin. As I told you at the time, that had never happened before…because it never mattered before who the Archivist was. The timing wasn’t right, the groundwork wasn’t laid. This time it was—and the Ceaseless Watcher selected its own standard-bearer.” He sighed, almost wistfully. “It’s a shame—I had enjoyed the potential irony that the so-called Chosen One was, in the end, simply someone I chose. But I suppose, in the end, the irony is even greater—because you chose it.”

“Like hell he did,” Melanie spat.

Jonah lifted both eyebrows, evidently having decided to take the best alternative to a single arched eyebrow that was readily available to him. “Didn’t he? Did he not press on to investigate the hints of the Corruption he saw in that building? Did he not make an appointment with Jude Perry despite knowing what she was? Did he not sacrifice himself, again and again, to keep the rest of you safe? You had the knowledge that it would be safer to walk away—and still you chose to stay. Whether you want to believe it or not, your choices have led you here.”

“You talk too much, you smarmy bastard,” Tim growled.

But not enough, Gerry thought. He had laid out his entire plan, told them exactly what he was planning and what he had prepared Martin for, been talking for what seemed like twenty minutes straight…and they still had no idea how to stop him. Or at least Gerry didn’t.

“You’ve failed,” Martin said defiantly. His eyes flashed green, and Gerry did at least have the small satisfaction of seeing that take Jonah a bit off guard. “Because there’s one choice I won’t make, and that’s to join you. By my grandfather’s love and my grandmother’s courage, by the might of the sea and the strength of the stone, by all that is and will be, I defy you, Jonah Magnus, and I will never willingly help you to doom the world.”

The power that crackled through those words was different than the one that usually accompanied Martin’s compulsions—closer to the whirring of a tape recorder—and Gerry knew that it was the spell Alastair had woven that gave him the power to say it. And for a moment, he thought it had worked, that it had given them an edge.

Jonah, however, simply smirked. “That’s not really an issue, is it?”

Sasha’s hands curled into fists. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I have all Basira’s knowledge, and skill. And most crucially…” Jonah reached to the small of his back and withdrew a heavy steel object. “I have her gun.”

All of them made various noises of shock and alarm, and Basira’s brown eye flashed with panic. Jon, with a bravery Gerry knew he didn’t believe he possessed—or maybe just a desperation—moved in front of Martin, but Gerry saw the panic in Daisy’s eyes and knew who it was for. Sure enough, Jonah tipped the gun towards the ceiling—towards Basira.

He meant to shoot her in the head. Meant to kill her with a single bullet, and transfer his eyes to Martin. And none of them knew enough about that process to stop it.

“No,” Daisy snarled. She leaped for Basira, but Jonah easily eluded her. He was having more trouble raising the gun, though. Evidently Basira’s remaining eye—something Jonah Magnus had never had to deal with—meant she, or part of her anyway, had survived the transfer.

It gave Gerry a bit of hope that, even if he managed to get his eye into Martin, Martin could fight him off long enough to…what?

“Jon,” Martin said in a low voice. He reached out, took Jon’s hand, and squeezed it tightly.

Jon looked up at him. Most of the others were watching Jonah, so Gerry was pretty sure he was the only one who saw the sudden look of raw, naked terror that suffused his features. “No,” he whispered, so softly Gerry was sure only he and Martin could hear it.

“It might be our only chance. You promised.” Martin took his eyes off of Jonah long enough to meet Jon’s, and that brief eye contact said more than the greatest romantic speeches in history.

And Gerry refused—refused—to have those be his little brother’s last words.

Time—

—fractures, shattering into a thousand crystalline shards radiating out from a central point, and Gerry realizes that this is the moment everything has led up to, the fragile tipping point between eternity and oblivion, the truest point of inevitability. There is no path that could have been taken, no universe that has or will ever existed, where someone has not been brought to the very edge of the end of the world, be it Martin or Jon or Sasha or Tim, or someone long dead or someone as yet unborn, someone is presented with the moment of knowing that their next action will cause the apocalypse, and while the exact moment in time may not be so certain, its existence is a fundamental part of the universe, and the End both hungers for and fears it. At the same time, there are just as many paths leading away from this point as leading to it, just as many ways it can go, and this moment will not come again, so they need only find the path that leads away and all will be—all will be—all will be, and that is all they can ask of it. They can save the world, if they can only find the right way out.

His vision flickers, and the moment that Martin turns to face Jonah and Daisy crouches to lunge for the gun and Melanie and Jon square up to sacrifice themselves, a moment he sees through his own eyes as well as each of theirs, is the same moment as every other, and he stands in the center of a rapidly twisting kaleidoscope of mirrors and images, past and present and yet to come all happening at once and indistinguishable from one another. He sees a series of men—tall, short, fat, thin, middle-aged and barely out of their thirties, all unknown except the one he knows as Elias Bouchard—stand before him with expressions of pride, surprise, or smug satisfaction, all of which fade rapidly to terror as he pulls out a knife or a gun or a vial of poison, then to shock as he uses it on himself, then hears their screams abruptly cut off as his vision arcs through the space between them and lets him see another body, at once well known and but half remembered. He sees the ghost of a man he knows has the face he will have when he gets old kneeling in front of him with worry in the echo of his green eyes as he reaches for his face, sees an ancient and obviously sick man’s eyes flare with anger as he draws a knife to plunge into his hand, sees a woman in a sleeveless shirt lean forward with a knowing smirk as she holds out her hand for him to shake. He sees a hundred moments of triumph or laughter or just resignation as they pass a lighter around while a book hangs suspended over a pot. He sees the collapsing tunnel beneath the Mermaid Inn and feels the mud choking him so that he can’t even sing the next verse of the song that might save them, sees the solid curtain of darkness enveloping him and making his glasses worse than useless, sees Melanie lunge at him with a knife she got from God knows where and plunge it into his shoulder. He sees a knife press into his wrist, sees a flash of purple as a book in a mess of a bargain bin catches his attention, sees the fog swirl around him and make everything unfamiliar and strange. He sees the empty sky and sea out the window of a boat, sees something thick and white press into his eyes, sees a mound of flesh shambling towards him with malicious intent. He sees Jon cup his face in his hands, stare into his eyes, and solemnly promise to kill him if he ever crosses the line fully from human to monster, and feels the relief coupled with the determination to do everything in his power to keep that from happening flow through him. He sees a woman wearing the remains of a red dress and a body riddled with holes smile beatifically at him and ask Do you hear the singing, sees a mannequin wearing a ringmaster’s costume and a Pagliaccio    lean over to run a plasticine finger along his cheek and croon You know all about the power that can be written on a skin. He sees a pale, almost skeletal man with long black hair streaked orange and white land a sudden punch on his eye, which explodes into cold, agonizing pain such as he hasn’t felt in a long, long time—

—and snaps back to the present and to himself as he realizes what to do.

He circles behind Daisy, brushing her arm to get her attention as he does so, and moves up on Jonah’s—Basira’s left side, the side that still has her eye on it. Not taking his gaze from Jonah’s eye, he begins to sing. “Sally is a gal down in our alley…”

Melanie shoots him a quick look of confusion. Jonah, too, seems momentarily distracted from his attempt to shoot Basira’s body, although he recovers when the gun lowers and starts trying to raise it again. Daisy and Tim seem to get it first—a surprise, he would have thought Melanie and Martin would pick up on it quicker—and not only join in on the response portion but start moving as well, backing up and circling around Jonah/Basira as they sing. When the first chorus hits, though, Martin suddenly straightens, grabs Jon’s hand, and pulls him back as he begins to sing too. He lets Tim have the second verse, which is fine; it doesn’t matter what order they go in, only that they all take a turn before it gets back to Gerry.

There are probably better songs he could have picked, but it needs to be one with something they can all sing and with enough verses for them all to take one, and if it’s good and confusing, well, that works too. Certainly Jonah has no idea what’s going on, and he’s torn between struggling with Basira for control of the gun—she’s fighting him, Gerry is pleased to see—and trying to keep track of all of them.

Gerry lets the song buoy him. He feels the air around him grow colder, hears the rush of air he’s used to hearing when he draws on Terminus, and as he looks at the figure in the center of their milling circle, he sees the tendrils of black uncoiling from the back of Jonah’s eye and venturing throughout Basira’s body. The glow of life inside her is fighting back…but he can see that it’s losing. They’re not fully entwined yet, the death being visited on her by Jonah is used to enveloping and overwhelming and is only at a disadvantage because there’s half as much power as usual and it’s never had to do this before, but this is not a fight Basira can win on her own.

Luckily, she isn’t.

“Whatever you are planning,” Jonah says through clenched teeth as he struggles to wrench the gun upwards, “it won’t work.”

Sasha nearly stumbles over her verse, but manages to recover. “I left my gal to go a-sailing…”

She’s the last one in the rota. Gerry gathers one last burst of strength to himself and circles behind Jonah, feints to the left, and braces himself as they sing the chorus. He pops up in front of Jonah just as he manages to get the gun under Basira’s chin and has the satisfaction of seeing the look of shock and fear flash through his eye. Without conscious thought, he puts the same menacing ice into his voice as he did when speaking to Liliana Blackwood for the last time.

“Help me, Bob, I’m bully in the alley…bully down in Shinbone Al’…”

He reaches into the space in front of Jonah Magnus’ cold grey eye, clenches his fingers, and pulls.

[lifblogs]

Fandom: The Bad Batch Rating: Explicit Pairings: Royce Hemlock/Tech (Non-Consensual Pairing), Tech/Phee, Tech & Crosshair & Wrecker & Hunter & Omega & Echo Word Count: 3632 Summary: Tech is facing his first mission since Tantiss with trepidation. A word said to him in comfort is enough to bring repressed and forgotten memories to the surface, and he feels like he's being torn apart inside. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, PTSD, Flashbacks, Attempted Self-Harm, Near-Attempted Murder-Suicide, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Author's Note: I'm so sorry.

[cookies-over-yonder]

home

Young adult Lincoln Li-Wilson gets a call in the middle of the night from a friend he hasn't talked to in years: Taylor Swift.

ao3

please heed the warnings in the tags. thank you! <3

Link stares at his phone.

His phone with an incoming call from a friend he hasn’t properly spoken to in at least three years.

Taylor Swift.

He swipes to answer, hand shaking.

They didn’t have a falling out, just… drifted.

But to be frank, Link misses him constantly.

“Taylor?”

“Link?”

“Yeah, it’s me… uh… what’s up?”

“Can—um—can you come over?”

What.

Link hasn’t even seen Taylor since graduation.

Why would Taylor want him to come over right now?

It couldn’t be for a hook-up either—Taylor knows he’s ace.

But then he hears unsteady breathing on the other end.

“Is everything okay?”

“Um—I—”

Link hears a sob. His stomach drops.

“No. I—I need help… I didn’t know who to call. Sorry—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay, Taylor, just breathe.”

He doesn’t follow that instruction, because Link hears more sobs and gasps.

“Okay. Listen to me, Taylor. Text me your address. I’ll be there soon.”

“Mmkay… my back door is unlocked.”

“That seems unsafe.”

“I know. Anyway I—I’m in the… the bathroom. You’ll see it when you walk in.”

“Okay, I’m coming, just keep breathing.”

“I’m trying.”

Link gets Taylor’s address and drives over right away.

The backdoor is unlocked, and Link locks it once he’s inside.

This place is big .

It’s a condo on the bottom floor of the building, and it looks expensive .

Link isn’t surprised.

He finds the bathroom easily, and knocks before turning the knob and opening the door.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, laying eyes on Taylor, curled up sobbing next to a shit ton of pill bottles scattered across the floor. “Taylor, did you take something?” he asks, kneeling down in front of Taylor and brushing his much longer hair away from his face to get a look in his eyes.

He shakes his head quickly. “No, no, no, I didn’t, I called you instead,” he says between gasps. “I—I—I can’t breathe—”

“Taylor, Taylor, hey ,” Link cups his face with his hands and looks him in the eyes, “it’s gonna be alright, I promise. You’re sure you didn’t take anything?”

He nods, sobbing again.

“I’m gonna pick you up and take you to the couch, okay?”

He nods again.

Link scoops him up just as easily as he did way back when. In fact, Taylor seems slightly lighter than before.

He kicks some clothes out of the way and sets Taylor down on the couch, sitting across from him.

“Sorry I— fuck —I know we haven’t talked in years I just—I haven’t been as close with anyone since you,” Taylor says, wiping his tears and trying to steady his breathing.

Link grabs hold of Taylor’s hand, interlocking their fingers and squeezing. “Taylor, what happened?”

He can’t help but cry himself asking it.

“I—I just, I kept feeling like there was no point anymore. And—and I couldn’t shake it. I’m all alone, and I don’t know why I did this to myself. I miss Mom, I miss you, I miss everyone, and I—I just…” he pauses to catch his breath, and fails but barrels on, “I’m so fucked up in the head, Link. I keep having nightmares about sophomore year. I dropped out of college because I wouldn’t stop having panic attacks during class. I—I wanted it all to be over. I still do. I still do . That’s why I—I needed you.”

Link doesn’t know what to say.

Holding back a sob, he hugs Taylor as tight as he can, thankful he’s still here and alive .

“I miss my mommy ,” Taylor sobs into Link’s shoulder. “I miss her. I miss her. I miss her so much.”

“She still live at your old address?”

Taylor nods.

“Come on,” Link says, getting up.

“Where are we going?”

“My car. I’m taking you home.”

Taylor nods with a wobbly, “Thank you.”

[kamryn1963]

Summary: Al thinks this is the only way. Trudy and Hank try to get him to see otherwise.

TW: Suicide Attempt

@angstober Prompt 26: Persuasion

“Hey.” Trudy said as she looked up from where she’d been waiting for Al and Hank by the front doors of the district. 

“Hey. Al not here yet?” Hank asked back, frowning as he looked around for their friend. 

Their friend they were trying to keep a close eye on since Eddie Penland’s murder only three months before. 

“I guess not. I thought he was with you.”

“I thought he would be with you.”

Hank and Trudy looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. Silently the two of them headed to the locker room knowing that’s where Al was most likely to be. They figured he had just decided to shower there and was running late. 

Neither of them expected to enter the locker room and find Al sitting against his locker, gun to his chin, eyes closed and two letters set out in front of him. 

Both of them were frozen, unable to form words for several moments, as they stood in the doorway. Hank and Trudy knew what they were supposed to do in this situation, and had been trained on it. 

They just didn’t expect to find their friend, their little brother like this. 

Hank stepped forward first, Trudy standing back to not overwhelm Al more than he probably already was. 

“Al? Al, it’s Hank and Trudy. We need you to put the gun down, buddy.” Hank kept his voice soft, trying to remember what their instructors said in the academy about this. 

“Go away. I don’t want you guys seeing this.” Al rasped, his eyes still closed as he pressed the gun further into his chin. 

“We can’t do that, Al. We need you to put the gun down.” Trudy responded as she also stepped closer. 

“Why should I? What’s the point? Eddie’s dead, I’m a murderer. Why should I stay around?” Al questioned his voice growing more desperate and his finger coming down on the trigger. 

“Because there’s people that need you, Al. Me, Trudy, Camille, Shi, Justin. He needs his godfather. How would I explain to Justin that his favorite uncle was dead?” Hank knew it was low, using Justin against Al like this. But he also was well aware Justin might be the only person that Al would stay for. 

“He’d be better without me.” Al protested but his grip slowly loosened and Hank took the opportunity to rush forward, grabbing the gun out of Al’s hands and throwing it out the door. 

Hank and Trudy both knew that was a risky move but with the way Al was going, they both knew he could’ve very well ended up pressing the trigger anyway. 

As Al stood up clearly preparing to go grab the gun, Hank stepped forward to grab him while Trudy went to the bullpen to call for an ambulance. 

Just because Al was alive didn’t mean Hank and Trudy weren’t well aware Al could snap at any moment. This was just the beginning of a very long few weeks.

[merfairymakes]

A scene from Welcome Back, by beloved partner @lizluvscupcakes 's fic/AU!!!!! Please go give it a read if you can!!!!

[storytellersumayyah]

and grief said goodbye

tw: implied disordered eating, implied/referenced past suicide attempt, negative self image

Tristan could count on his hands the number of real conversations he’d had with his parents since the fire. Most of them had taken place after he walked away from Camilla- and even just thinking of her name made his heart hurt- because they had wanted to know everything. They had accused him of being involved, and that had stung more than anything else. Once they went back to the manor, the conversations centred on his new school.

And after he started, they stopped. Almost completely.

He left before his parents showed their faces. When he returned, he went straight to his room to do his work, and he never saw them in the living room working together. They would eat dinner together, but words were never exchanged. And their seats had changed. Victoria sat at the head. James on her right. Tristan two seats away. He knew why they still sat together. No matter how much his parents hated him for what he served as a reminder of, they would not let him get physically worse.

It made him angrier than if they had just left.

When they did speak, it was short sentences. Brief questions. One word answers. Victoria never called him by his name. James never called him Laurie. He never reminded them of what they were supposed to be for him. His father, who had once been grateful that Tristan was there, if only so his wife remembered they were married, seemed like he couldn’t wait for Tristan to leave. His mother didn’t even acknowledge his presence enough to despise it.

He didn’t ask them for anything. When he got an email saying his bank statement was ready to view, he took a deep breath and opened it. The balance had increased. The money was from James. Not Victoria.

He didn’t ask for anything because he would not be given it, and everything he needed, he worked out himself.

But there was something he couldn’t do alone. No matter how many hours he spent trawling the internet, no matter how much research he did, he couldn’t find the information. Anywhere. It was like the details had been wiped. For all he knew, they probably had.

He needed to ask.

So he waited. Until his mother switched on him again. Until his father called him Laurie. Until they asked what the letter had said. Until they told him they had filled in the documents for his college loans. Until they did something. But they didn’t.

He had stared death in the eye once and he had lived.

Maybe he could do it again.

“I need to talk to Mr Carter,” he announced at dinner.

Both his parents stopped eating.

“No,” James said, completely flat.

“It’s important.”

“I don’t care how important it is, we are not communicating with that man ever again,” Victoria snapped. She hadn’t recovered. She blamed Mr Carter for what happened more than she blamed Camilla. In her eyes, Camilla was just a girl. Mr Carter had encouraged and aided her project and nothing would undo that. Not even the testimony he had delivered in front of everyone who mattered, vouching for them.

“I need him.”

“You don’t,” James said. It was sharper. Almost like he knew what Mr Carter had been to his son.

But Tristan did. Mr Carter told him that he’d taken certain information from everyone’s files before they physical ones were destroyed in the fire and the digital ones as a result of the closure. He said if there was ever anything they needed, he would tell them.

He had sent the photographs taken at the dance a few months after Christmas. Tristan had hidden them from his parents. He’d told himself he would destroy them, but someone had captured the moment Camilla lit up as she told him how things had changed. And in that photo, he was smiling.

That was the version of them he wanted to remember. So he kept them all.

“I need him to tell Camilla-“

“You will not mention that girl if you want to stay here,” Victoria cut in.

“Mom. Please. Just this once. I just- I need him to tell her, I need him to try and tell her that I was wrong. That it was never her fault. And I shouldn’t have said it was. Because it wasn’t. It wasn’t because she is good and she is loving and I forgive her for what happened because my actions were not her fault and she needs to let go of the fear because it doesn’t deserve and-“ he took a deep breath.

“Tristan?” James kept his voice level.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I need her to know. Please.”

“Tristan,” Victoria said.

“Mom. Please. I will never bring either of them up again. Please.”

She didn’t reply.

“Dad,” he whispered, trying to remind his father of who they used to be.

“Tristan.” Victoria said his name again. Tristan hated it. His name felt like a death sentence. A prophecy he was doomed to fulfil. Sadness. That was his name.

“Please,” he tried, one last time.

“Just this once, I will allow it.”

He couldn’t believe her. “What? Why?”

“Because you need it. Because Camilla does as well. Because that is a heavy thing to carry. Because you have forgiven yourself, and you have forgiven her, and she deserves to know. Because nobody deserves to feel guilty or ashamed when they did the best they could,” Victoria said, and she looked at James as she gave her final reason. James looked down. Tristan knew they were both thinking of the summer, and sentences they couldn’t take back.

“Because you are our son. And this is the only thing you have asked us for since you came back,” James added.

Even though the manor was not home, and even though it wasn’t enough to make up for any of their mistakes, Tristan smiled.

And in that moment, grief wandered out of his room.

Two weeks later, and an ocean away, Camilla unlocked the front door to her first and real home with a deep sigh. Things at school were still tense and she was growing tired of it. She hadn’t been able to warn anyone she was returning, which had led to a mix of reactions, but Ari was trying her best, even as she kept him at arms length.

She’d broken him once. She wouldn’t do it again. Not after Tristan.

But there was no time to think of Tristan. Her A-Levels were just around the corner (well, they were a few months away, but same difference) and she needed Cambridge more than they needed her. Which meant meeting her grade requirements as a bare minimum.

She was going to go straight to her room, but then her mother called her from the living room. She had been so caught up in wondering what had happened to Tristan- she sometimes wished she had his number, but it would’ve killed her if he’d blocked it so perhaps it was for the best- that she hadn’t even noticed the pair of shoes next to hers.

She went into the living room. Her mum was sitting on the sofa, phone in her hands.

“Hey mama.”

“How was school?” She asked, almost nervously.

Camilla shrugged, awkwardly standing in the doorway. Her parents had forgiven her for her role to play in Tristan’s downfall. They had forgiven her for her role to play in the destruction that was caused. She would forever be grateful that they didn’t hate her, and forever scared that she would never be good enough to make them forget.

“I received a message today. From Mr Carter.”

Everything around her froze. Mr Carter had helped her. He had wiped away the tears that spilt on her eighteenth birthday. He had read her personal statement and had faith in her and told Tristan to run and let her slip away. But he had also broken her. She had cried the first time Mr Kennedy told her it was okay she got something so easy wrong because she was convinced he would call her stupid. He had knelt down before her and the image still terrified her.

She never wanted to hear from him again. The photo of her and Tristan, both realising they could be soft and accept who they were, was tucked away in her room, but that was the only thing from him she would keep. All the lessons he taught, all the lies he told, she would forget.

“What did he say?”

“Tristan-“ and that name still hurt but she couldn’t let her mother know how much they had meant to each other so she just kept her face as neutral as she could, which wasn’t very but it had to be enough.

Her mother wasn’t continuing.

“Tristan?”

“I don’t understand what it means. But Mr Carter said that Tristan needs you to know that it wasn’t your fault, and it was never your fault. He said he crossed a line when he told you it was and he’s sorry.”

Camilla did something she hadn’t done in what felt like a lifetime.

She cried in front of her mother.

She couldn’t help it. But she had been carrying the secret since she returned. Her parents hadn’t heard the conversation. Jonathan and Adelaide had assumed he was acting on pure emotion, but Camilla had heard the things he wasn’t saying. She had heard the way it was more than just a way to hurt her. She had heard the belief.

To know it was false, that he hadn’t meant it, that it was never real, convinced her that she could be good again. She could be soft. She could move on.

And so could he.

But then her mother did something that she hadn’t done in a lifetime either.

She stood up, and she walked over to her daughter.

And she hugged her.

And she didn’t let go, even as Camilla’s knees gave out because of the pure relief she was filled with.

“Come on babu. Just let it go. It’s okay.”

She didn’t bother wiping the tears away. Camilla needed them.

When she calmed down enough to talk, she sighed and pulled away slightly. “Can you tell him I said thank you?”

Her mother’s initial review of Mr Carter had been glowing, but when Camilla accidentally let slip that he had called her a stupid girl, she became his biggest hater. So it was a long shot, but she nodded and Camilla smiled.

It was the first real one since they’d come back, and for her mother, it was like watching her baby’s milestone all over again.

“Do you see what this means? Tristan has forgiven himself. He has forgiven you. Your father and I have forgiven you too. All that is left is for you to forgive yourself. You are allowed to do that Camilla. I promise.”

Camilla nodded. “I know I can.”

And for once, she wasn’t lying. She forgave herself, on the floor of her living room. In the original uniform she was meant to wear. With her mother, in her shalwar kameez because she didn’t let anyone take anything from her, hugging her.

And in that moment, grief walked out her front door.

-

buy me a ko-fi! | purchase my novel!

[sorryiwasasleep]

In this world, Mirabel Madrigal never sees the cracks.

Things don't change, and she gets left behind, because what else is new?

Mirabel is sick of it.

She doesn't feel like stepping aside. She doesn't feel like doing anything

She takes matters into her own hands.

[raccoonrobyn-imagines]

TW FOR IMPLIED/REFERENCED SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND EXTREME DEPRESSION BELOW! CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK

-----

Batman went alone to check on the reason due to all of his kids being on different missions to stop the assholes from setting any more fires in Gotham or other major cities. He doesn't particularly want his kids to come for a potentially dangerous recon mission, but at the same time, he's also gotten far too used to being followed by one of his kids at this point to enjoy the lonely silence that had followed him throughout his younger years as The Batman before Dick came bursting into his life wjth a homicidal rage.

This is all to say that he's feeling a bit unsettled over the silence that is usually filled in the Batplane by at least one child/young adult he's partially raised. That's not even touching on the fact that Damian is now going to college and is in his own apartment now after Bruce's and Alfred's nudging so that he may become at least slightly more self sufficient than Bruce ever was at that age (at least in being able to cook meals without burning the water and learning how to do other things that Alfred has always done for him.

Bruce has never had any long span of time without at least a joyfilled visit from one of his children since Jason died, leaving Bruce and Dick perpetually at each others throats due to their grief and Tim not having shown up yet. Bruce had never wanted to say it outloud, but he thinks that Alfred is right, like always.

He's getting empty nester syndrome... and that is a pun that he will have to keep Dick from hearing.

Suffice to say, by the time he touched down in the icy tundra of the Antarctic, he's feeling even more depressed over not having at least one of his kids chattering to him on the plane ride here.

Once the plane has landed, he can vaguely see in the distance a small glowing black and white blob on the snow. Instantly, he is relieved that his plane was soundproof and had been set to invisible due to the grey and black appearance of the Batplane and what would normally be such a loud and eye catching appearance in the nearly entirely white expanse of ice and snow that even in the near perfect darkness of the eternal night, anyone would notice.

Instantly, Batman puts his suit into Arctic camouflage mode and leaves the plane without a sound. As he sneaks closer to the small black blob, he can start to notice that the blob is not a blob... it is a person...? A small one at that. He is quickly worried once he's close enough to make out details in his binoculars, as the person does not have appropriate clothes or equipment on to be laying on the snow in the Antarctic winter night.

While he knows that this person is likely the cause of the eternal night, he also doesn't enjoy seeing people suffer for any reason. Bruce has instantly pulled a collapsible heating blanket from his backpack and has set off the chemical reaction within it to cause the heating to begin. He's moving far faster now, only barely keeping his stealth enough to allow him to vanish, should the person begin looking around for anyone coming up to them.

He's maybe 30 meters away from them when he can pick out that they're a teenage boy, and that they're crying.

He knows around three quarters as much as Cass does about body language, and while he can be off the mark, he knows what a child grieving looks like. He's seen it on his own face, and on each of his children's faces. He knows what the face of someone pretending to grieve looks like, and this boy has every mark of someone having their entire world collapse on them, leaving them to face the harsh realities of life on their own.

Bruce instantly drops the stealth and walks up to the child, reminded of how he had once been the only one to hold a young girls hand while she died. He still regrets not being able to help Ace when she needed it most before she was manipulated by everyone around her, but he can hopefully help this boy before it's too late.

"Hello." He says gently, his boots having crunched the snow audibly long before he was in speaking distance.

The boy, still staring up and into the stars as tears trail along his face, whispers, "Hello Batman."

Bruce sits on the ground around two feet from the boy. "Are you okay?"

The boy with white hair and glowing green eyes looks over at Batman, shimmering tears still budding up and falling easily down his face. "I don't think I am Batman. I can't do this anymore. I... I have messed up so much. I don't think I can continue on anymore, but I know that I am unable to die. I've already done that once, and I tried again, and I have caused so much harm and destruction since. My family is gone, Batman... It hurts so much... Do you know how to stop hurting...?"

Bruce's frown deepens even more. "What's your name, son?"

"Danny. I don't have a last name anymore." Danny replies, his face showing the pure pain thag comes from losing your family.

Bruce has had this type of conversation many times before, and he knows almost exactly what to say. "Danny, I'm going to tell you the truth because you dont need pretty lies to make you feel better. I know from my own life, and watching my children's lives, that losing your family is the worst pain you could ever go through. My parents died long ago, when I was much younger than you, and it still hurts today. I can't say that the pain ever truly goes away, but I can say that it lessens with time. It won't always hurt this bad, and it will have its ups and downs. Some days, it will be bareable, and on other days, it will be so debilitating that you won't be able to get up in the morning. The one thing I know that can help is being with anyone who you can either come to care about or doing something so that you won't be focused on the pain. You wouldn't be replacing your family by becoming a part of a new family or trying to make friends with new people. I know that for a fact. You would just be trying to help yourself become a part of something new. I know for a fact that if anyone that was in your family truly loved you, they would want you to try and heal and be happy despite them being gone. Would you like me to help you, Danny? I can help find you somewhere to go where you would be happy."

Danny had sat up while Bruce talked and had ended up next to Bruce, seemingly not noticing when he ended up leaning against Bruce's side, the heating blanket wrapped around his shoulders. "T-they really won't be mad?" He asks, his tiny head leaning against Bruce's shoulder.

"If they truly loved you, they would want you to be happy, no matter if they were here or not." Bruce states quietly.

"I... I don't know if I can be happy anytime soon..." Danny trembles, iridecent tears still streaking down his face.

"I know. I think they would know that, too." Bruce murmurs, gently rubbing Dannys back through the heated blanket. "Would you like to try a little anyway?"

Danny stares up towards the stars, and whispers, "I... don't know... but Jazz would want me to try."

"Then I will bring you somewhere that can help. Do you want me to carry you?" Bruce asks, his tone as gentle as a feather.

"Please... please help me..." Danny's voice is as weak and trembling as a baby bird that's just hatched. Having no way to protect himself and needing someone's care to begin to get any stronger.

Bruce picks up the boy and begins walking to his plane, and for the first time in weeks, he is able to see the sun beginning to rise on the horizon.

It seems like Bruce is no longer going to be an empty nester.

...These bird metaphors and slight puns should never reach any of his children's ears. He will only be teased mercilessly for them.

Danny Fenton is fourteen when he dies. He's fifteen when he ceases to exist.

All traces of Danny Fenton just gone. No records, no photos, no memories. It's like he was never born. Naturally, without Danny to turn on the portal comes no ghosts, so no Danny Fenton also means the GIW never came to be. Time is carefully set back on Amity Park. There are no longer any ghost sirens, charms, merch, or cracks in the pavement from Vlad knocking him out of the sky or scorch marks on the side of buildings from Skulker's stray shots.

The Fenton's only have one child, a smart, ginger woman who's pursuing psychology in some top-league out of state college like Harvard or Yale or Brown. There's no little brother to keep her confined to the little town in nowhere Illinois where she was born.

Sam and Tucker never became friends, because there was no Danny Fenton to bring them together.

The Fenton's portal never turns on, so they focus their research on the ambient ectoplasm in the air around them. They become leading scientists in clean energy. Ectoplasm is the perfect resource; endlessly reusable, infinite supplies that never deplete, no negative effects on the environment.

Danny Fenton is no one. There is no Danny Fenton. There never was.

And the world is better for it.

Danny doesn't exist, there is no place for him, nowhere for him to go.

This was the only way to stop the GIW from starting a war with the Infinite Realms. It was the only solution.

It still hurts.

Danny is fifteen. He has no last name anymore, no family, no friends, and no home. He could live in the Ghost Zone, but he doesn't want to. He's still human, even if it's only half. He doesn't want to go. It feels final, like turning his back once and for all on all he knew and was.

So he does the only thing he can think to do and watches the stars.

In the frozen tundra, no one around for miles, Phantom lays in the snow and stares up into the speckled darkness. He doesn't move. He doesn't breathe. He stays so completely still he's entirely dead.

The snow doesn't bury him. The sun never rises.

It doesn't stop snowing.

Danny doesn't exist.

He's dead.

What is he supposed to do now? Go and be Prince of the In Between? He doesn't want to. He wants to go home. He wants to cuddle up with Jazz and play Doomed with Sam and Tucker. He wants to hug his dad. He wants his mum to sing to him like she used to when he was little enough they still tucked him into bed.

Maybe he just won't do anything. Maybe he'll just stay here forever, not Danny or Phantom and far from alive. Just nothing. He's nothing. Nothing and no one.

---

Nobody can see the sun.

It's still there, of course. All you need to do is leave the atmosphere and bam, there it is. On Earth though? No sign of it.

It's like they've fallen into an eternal night.

Best part?

It's caused by very powerful magic.

Listen, Batman has a lot of patience. A lot. But it's been two weeks of this, Zatanna's off-world, Constantine's only just answered his goddamn phone and the planet has collectively decided panic is the only course of action. He's been Bruce Wayne for a collective ten hours in the past fourteen days. It's ridiculous.

Thankfully it only takes Constantine a few minutes to track the source to somewhere in the Antarctic after he finally shows up.

[moonage-system]

Heads up! When Orin is fronting and being a dick (thankfully semi-rare experience) please please don't send messages threatening his life or telling him to end his. He's the persecutor of our system, he will deliberately misinterpret that and threaten our lives. As in, he has tried to do shit to the body in the past and has threatened to just kill us. It was before I formed and Ellie was a teenager, just figuring out this system shit, so she was scared. Please be careful what you say to alters.

-💀

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My website

Chapter 87: July 2017

Martin didn’t need any kind of supernatural ability to know they were traveling up a river, finally, but it was going to take an effort he wasn’t sure he was willing to risk in order to determine which one. He didn’t think he particularly cared. Rivers meant human habitation, usually, so as long as they were in Europe he could probably make his way back to London sooner rather than later.

God, he was ready to be home.

The trip hadn’t been…terrible, all things considered. Truthfully, Martin had slept for most of it. He wouldn’t exactly call his slumber peaceful, but it was at least sleep. The owner and pilot of the boat, who still hadn’t properly introduced himself, actually came down to talk to him every once in a while, usually bringing him some rations and apologizing yet again that Martin couldn’t come out on the deck. Since the entire passage over had been one constant storm, such that Martin’s window either afforded him a view of nothing but sky or nothing but the sea, he wasn’t too terribly keen to go out in it. Seemed calmer now, though, which was a blessing.

The only odd thing…well, odder than the oddness he would have expected from being smuggled in a dinghy across the Atlantic Ocean…was the tapes. He knew he hadn’t brought any extras with him, honestly wasn’t sure what had happened to any of the recordings he had made himself other than the one he’d mailed to the Institute, but when he’d gone to try and put his trousers back on he’d found one in his pocket. Curious, he’d played it and found it to be a statement he hadn’t listened to yet—the recording Jon had made of Daisy when she’d come to drop off the tape of Gertrude and Aunt Mary. Martin wasn’t really sure he wanted to listen to more about the Hunt, but he’d listened anyway, as much for something new to do as to hear the little snippets of Jon’s voice.

The next time he’d slept, there had been a removal van on the side of the road in a rainstorm behind one of the doors in his dreams.

There had been three or four more tapes he didn’t remember, too, enough to stop the shaking and restore at least a little of the energy he’d accidentally expended on the security guard, enough to keep that aspect of him from starving for however long he was gone (Martin hadn’t even tried to ask his host or captor or whatever he was for his statement; he might not know what entity he belonged to, but he could feel the power radiating off him and knew without even testing that if the man wasn’t willing, Martin would be hard pressed to compel it out of him). But without a consistent wake-sleep cycle, without the sun to mark the passage of time by, he wasn’t actually sure how long he’d been gone, and it made him worry. Were the others okay? When was the Unknowing? Soon? Had the Stranger gone for Jon when Martin dropped off the face of the earth? Had Mustermann reformed, survived whatever Julia and Trevor had done, and gone back to report to Orsinov? He doubted that last one—Hunters were among the only things capable of killing a full-blown avatar, they could definitely take out a lower thing like Mustermann, and they hadn’t seemed particularly merciful. Still…he was conscious of the ticking of a clock, ever increasing in volume. However long it had been, they were running out of time.

He sat up and stretched. There still wasn’t room to stand—he’d been mostly crawling about to reach what he needed, on the rare occasions he moved about the cabin—and he’d given up on the trousers as being too much effort if he wasn’t going to see anybody other than the boat pilot, but if they were coming in to land he didn’t want to be walking around London—or wherever he was—in his underpants. And he was getting out of this boat, one way or another.

As he struggled and contorted to get the waistband above his thighs, he felt an odd sensation, as if his sternum had been struck with a tuning fork—like he was suddenly vibrating at exactly the right pitch. A feeling of rightness filled his being.

Despite himself, he grinned. They had to be on the Thames, because they had just crossed the invisible line separating the rest of the world from London.

Martin managed to get into his trousers at last, buttoned them up, and slid his feet into his much-abused trainers. He’d spent some time carefully flaking the dried crust of mingled mud and blood off of them once they’d dried out, and they were…serviceable. He was going to have to replace them, but that could wait. No sense in wearing new shoes to stop a ritual, after all. Maybe Elias would give them a day or two off after they saved the world and they could all go shopping or something.

With a sigh, he sat back, laced his fingers together, and stared at the palms of his hands. Neither one hurt—not right now, at least—or had suffered any loss of flexibility or function. Still, his eyes traced the outline of Jude’s hand wrapping around his palm and fingers on the right hand, the slightly jagged ridge in the center of the left palm, and the worm holes that still laced through both. And then, without conscious thought, his gaze drifted a little further, to the white, almost perfectly straight lines across the underside of both wrists. Those scars hadn’t been that visible for ages, but he’d started to notice that these days, when the other scars started aching, they did too. And it didn’t escape his attention that the worms had seemed to avoid that part of his body.

In a way, it was almost comforting. Not what they represented—only Jude Perry hadn’t actually intended for him to die—but the fact that they were there at all. It meant that the Beholding hadn’t completely taken him over, hadn’t…remade him in its image or whatever. He wasn’t sure that was possible, to erase the Marks left by another Fear, but every scar was another tally against his being of any use in a Beholding ritual. Or at least, he was still assuming that. Orsinov wanted to use his skin for the Unknowing, but it wasn’t him she wanted, just the power.

Right?

Martin worried at his bottom lip, then took a slow, deep breath. Well…if he was wrong, if collecting Marks like Pokémon didn’t actually keep him from being useful in a ritual, then at the very least it wasn’t as bad as if someone else was getting them. He was pretty much a full-blown Avatar at this point; the other Fears were going to be after him anyway, even if he didn’t have beacons branded into his skin. And he was probably too far along that path to transfer his loyalty and be fully claimed by another one. Melanie, Jon, Tim, Sasha—even Basira—any of them was at risk of those Marks doing far worse damage. They were his people, and it was his job as the Archivist to protect them.

He shook his head minutely. Where had that come from? He was an Archivist, if Elias was to be believed…but, no. The Knowledge settled heavily against his shoulders, as if he’d just been embraced proudly by a terrifyingly creepy uncle at a family gathering: Elias Bouchard might have appointed Jon to head the Archives, but as far as the Beholding was concerned, it was Martin Blackwood who was the Archivist.

Well. Shit.

There was a dull thump that reverberated through the entire hull of the boat, then a faint scraping noise. Martin glanced out the window over the bed and saw what looked like rough wood pressed against it, obscuring anything else that might be in view. Not being able to see didn’t matter, because that was a pylon. They had fetched up against a dock. All he had to do was open the hatch and he would be able to get away.

As the thought crossed his mind, the hatch overhead opened, allowing in the familiar smells of London, and the pilot backed his way down the ladder. He seemed both surprised and pleased when he got his head below the level of the deck to see Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, if his smile was any indication—Martin had never yet seen his eyes. “Oh, good, you’re awake and ready! I was just coming to fetch you. Your ride is here.”

“My…?” Martin decided, on the balance, not to argue with the person who’d got him this far. “Right. I’m coming. Uh…thank you for the lift.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure. Elias was right about you.” The man beamed, and from the twitch of his cheek, Martin rather thought he’d been treated to a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. Enjoy.”

With that cryptic comment, he headed back up the ladder, leaving Martin to crawl over and—for the first time in far too long—stand up straight. Doing so put him head and shoulders out of the hold. There was nothing to see but the side of the boat, but the daylight flooding the deck was a welcome sight. The humidity less so, but there was a wind blowing from the north that ruffled his hair. For just a moment, he stood still, letting the light soak into his bones and warm him.

Then he got on with the business of hauling his arse out of the hold and onto the deck of the boat.

The pilot was whistling cheerfully—way too cheerfully, considering that was definitely “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep,” which wasn’t generally a peppy song—as he coiled ropes at the stern, but Martin was more focused on the dock. More specifically, he was focused on who was standing on the dock, leaning against a post, partly in shadow, arms folded and glowering.

“Daisy,” he said cautiously.

Daisy grunted. She looked deeply annoyed. Martin didn’t need to even ask the Eye for assistance to guess why, a theory that was confirmed when she muttered, “Bouchard sent me. Wanted to make sure you didn’t get kidnapped again.”

“How kind of him,” Martin said dryly. He went over to the side of the boat and somehow managed to climb out of the boat without falling on his face—or into the Thames, which would have been worse. Still, he had to stand for a moment and get used to being on land again.

Daisy stared, or glared, at him, arms still crossed over her chest. Her gaze dropped to his shirt, and her eyes narrowed at the stain on it. “That blood?”

“Yup.”

“Yours?”

“Yup. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they know it wasn’t you.” Martin tested his legs and found they would at least cooperate for the moment. “Right, let’s go, then. I assume Elias wants me back at the Institute.”

“Institute’s not open yet,” Daisy said, surprising him a bit, but then again it was the height of summer—it had to be at least July by now—so the sun rose a fair bit earlier. “I’m not fucking going back there after hours.”

“Don’t blame you,” Martin admitted. “So, where to?”

Daisy’s phone rang. Martin couldn’t hold back a frustrated groan and was both comforted and slightly alarmed by the fact that Daisy gave an identical one at the exact same time. From the glare she shot him as she answered, she was thinking the same. “Tonner.”

She didn’t exactly soften at the voice on the other end of the line, or even really relax, but the hostility did dial back a notch. “Hey. What’s up?” There was a long pause as she listened to whoever was on the other end before she said, “Yeah, I know it. Who’s asking?…Uh-huh. Yeah, makes sense. Okay, I’m on my way.” Her eyes flicked to Martin’s briefly before she added, “Got something Bouchard sent me to pick up that might help anyway. Ten minutes.” She ended the call and pocketed her phone. “Come on.”

“Cinnamon Rose Books?” Martin guessed. He held up a hand when she glared at him. “I’m not in your head. It’s just an educated guess.”

“You’d better not be,” Daisy growled, but she didn’t reach for her gun or his throat, so that was probably as close to a peace offering as he was likely to get. “Yeah. The rest of them are gathering there for breakfast. Something about plans and that…Unmaking thing.”

“Unknowing,” Martin corrected her. Unease flitted through his stomach. “Yeah, good. Let’s go.”

Daisy’s car was…pretty much what Martin would have expected, a nondescript late model sedan that had seen better days, not battered enough to be called a junker or old enough to be an antique but dingy enough not to stand out. The fact that she indicated for him to get into the front seat rather than the back—or the boot—was another indication of the uneasy truce they currently had going, or so he assumed. He eased into his seat and just had time to put on the seatbelt before Daisy was pulling away and they were off.

Martin gave her a few minutes to be sure she was heading in the right direction before he asked, “How is…everybody?”

“Fine.” Daisy stared straight ahead out the windscreen. After a moment of silence, she added, “Nothing’s been sniffing around. Been tailing Sims to and from his place to be sure.”

“Thank you,” Martin said, both surprised and somewhat touched. When he’d asked her to keep an eye on everyone while he was gone, he definitely hadn’t expected that level of…concern. Unless Elias had told her to do it.

As if she was the one reading his mind, Daisy growled, “I’m not doing it for you. Or Bouchard. If anyone’s going to kill that little bastard, it’s going to be me.”

“You can certainly try.” Martin kept his tone as neutral as possible, but he could feel the protective urge rising in his chest, and something crackled in the air between them. Daisy shot him a death glare, but didn’t respond.

To cut the sudden tension that had sprung up, he added, “And…that other thing I asked you about?” When her scowl deepened, he pulled out the recorder and popped the tape out, then set it on the dashboard, its tape deck conspicuously open. “Not recording, see?”

Daisy grumbled under her breath, but did return her eyes to the road. “Got a couple names for you. Guys who didn’t buy the official line on why Basira and I aren’t around anymore. One of them was on the Brodie case and he’s pretty convinced Bouchard called in the tip, didn’t ask why, but he shouldn’t be hard to convince. If you can find that evidence.”

“It’s there. We just have to figure out how to get at it.”

“I put a flea in James’ ear about it. Don’t know if anything came of that yet.”

Martin braced himself against the dashboard as Daisy took a corner with, he couldn’t help but feel, unnecessary sharpness. “I guess we’ll find out.”

It didn’t take them long to reach the bookstore, and Daisy parked in the tiny space out front where the alleged car had once sat when it didn’t feel like running, which was most of the time. Martin managed to get out of the car relatively quickly and stretched, feeling his shoulders pop. Then he made his way up the path to the shop’s door as Daisy leaned on the bell.

He assumed it would be Gerry who came down, but when the door opened, it was Melanie who stood scowling at Daisy.

“Basira said you picked up something that might help,” she said, managing to make it sound accusing. “I’m here to make sure it’s actually useful before I let you bring it in.”

“You know, people usually say hello first,” Martin said dryly.

That fast, Melanie’s expression changed from irritation and suspicion to shock as she whipped around to see Martin. She flung the door open wider, launched herself at him, and promptly burst into tears.

“Hey, now, it’s all right, I was only joking.” Martin tried for a joke, but it definitely fell flat.

“I’m sorry,” Melanie wailed, the same way she had twenty years previously on the train back from Oxford. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t—I was so busy that I didn’t even think to ask if anyone had heard from you and I didn’t realize you were missing and—”

“And what could you have done if you did?” Martin said pointedly. “Melanie. It’s okay. Really—”

“I promised you I’d look after Jon,” Melanie hissed, stopping him in his mental tracks. “And he was suffering for two weeks knowing something had probably happened to you and I wasn’t there to help him and…Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me. I can’t imagine how he felt.”

Martin hugged Melanie tighter. Tears pricked at his own eyes, and he had to force them back. They wouldn’t help now. “It’s not your fault. And…it’s not your fault. I’m here now. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Apology accepted.” Melanie stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then gave a mighty sniff and turned. “Come on. I need to go make sure Gerry has cherry preserves now.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow at Martin, but she did follow Melanie into the shop. Martin took the time to lock the door behind them before following.

Melanie took the stairs two at a time, hopped over Umberto—Martin bent briefly to rub his ears—and practically broke down the door to the kitchen. “Jon!” she shouted in a voice too loud for the small space.

They were all there, Martin noted to his relief—Tim presiding over the stove while Gerry lingered nearby, Sasha and Jon studying a sheaf of papers, Basira watching with her elbows resting on the table. All of them jumped when Melanie shouted. Jon leaped to his feet with an expression of mingled fear and alarm, but a split second later, he lit up, his beautiful brown eyes widening.

“Martin,” he choked out, and then he was rushing around the table, and Martin stepped fully into the room and held out his arms to catch him in a tight embrace. He buried his face in the top of Jon’s head, smelling the tea tree shampoo he always used, and felt a sense of overwhelming calm come over him. He was home.

Jon pulled back from the embrace just enough to take Martin’s face in his and bring him down for a kiss, and, okay, now he was home, because he’d been waiting for this moment for—apparently—two long weeks. Three if you counted the week before that. Martin would happily have stayed like that forever, but the need for air did eventually force him to break the kiss. He rested his forehead against Jon’s briefly and soaked up the moment of closeness.

All their problems were going to come flooding back in a moment, but for the moment, there was this.

At last, reluctantly, he pulled back and looked up at the others. Sasha and Tim were both grinning ear to ear, and the relief in Tim’s eyes was palpable. Basira was just watching, a little uncomfortably, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the scene. Melanie was apparently rummaging in the cupboards for the cherry preserves. Gerry, behind Tim, was just…staring at Martin. What little color he had in his face had gone, and he looked both shocked and quietly devastated.

Martin felt an uneasy twinge. “What? What is it?”

Tim’s smile faltered as he turned to look at Gerry, suddenly worried, and Melanie straightened with a scowl and a jar in one hand. Gerry edged past Tim and walked towards Martin as if in a trance. Jon stood aside, leaving room for Gerry to stand directly in front of Martin.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached up and brushed Martin’s temple. In the same tone of voice Martin himself had used almost a year ago, he murmured, “Oh, Martin.”

With a sinking feeling, Martin realized that the spot Gerry had just touched was the spot where his father’s ghost had pressed a solid kiss before telling him he was proud of him. Obviously, there was something there to Gerry’s eyes—a sign of a new Mark.

“You were right,” he said quietly. “About my dad.”

“About—?” Gerry looked momentarily confused, and then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “He was in the Book? How do you know?”

“I met him. Apparently when you burned it, all the souls that were in it…didn’t exactly get set free, but aren’t exactly trapped either. It’s…complicated.”

Sasha gestured to the table. “Well, sit down and un-complicate it, then.” Martin flinched slightly at the echo of the words Julia had used, but either it was internal or Sasha did the polite thing and ignored it. “Or at least tell us what happened to you since…Chicago? Was that where you were the last time you talked to any of us?”

“Pittsburgh,” Jon said. “And I think…maybe there were things you were hiding?”

“A bit,” Martin admitted. “All right, yeah, I think I owe you guys an explanation.”

“You don’t owe us anything, Martin.” Tim pulled down a bowl and took a couple of the ingredients from Melanie. “But we’d like to hear what you learned. Did you get anything useful off this trip?”

“Maybe. You be the judge.”

While Tim and Melanie cooked in the background, Martin told his team what he had learned on the trip, about the feeling of being watched in Chicago, the weakness in Pittsburgh, and the kidnapping in Philadelphia. Daisy’s eyes flickered with interest when he told them about the encounter with Mustermann, and Sasha leaned forward when he told them about the things he’d learned from Julia and Trevor. Tim looked over his shoulder in some concern when Martin said that the tape recorder had shut itself off when he asked it to.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Should you be able to do that?”

“Probably not,” Martin admitted. “And that’s not even the worst of it, honestly. Talking to Mustermann…I-I didn’t get a whole lot out of him, he didn’t tell me where the ritual was going to be or anything, but I got a little bit. And…well, I compelled him. Pretty hard, actually. I asked him when it would be ready, and I had to practically make his head explode to get him to give me even a vague answer. I managed it, but it took a lot out of me. After we were done, I…kind of let slip that I’d spoken to you, Gerry. I mean, since you died. Trevor, um, didn’t take that well.” He held up his left hand, palm out, to show them the scar, eliciting a round of gasps and curses. “Stabbed me through the hand with his hunting knife. They…locked me up in the other room while they decided what to do with me, and that’s when I met the ghosts from the Book. One in particular.”

“Your dad,” Melanie said flatly.

Martin swallowed. “Yeah. He gave me his statement…I’m pretty sure I’ve got it on tape, but I don’t know which one. I was…I was bleeding out pretty heavily, and I’d used a lot of energy on that interrogation, so when he realized he could touch me, we realized I was probably not going to make it to hospital if I didn’t get something, so he told me about…everything. Apparently he used to sail with Salesa. And I’ve got a few more answers about Mum.”

Fortunately, nobody pressed him further; he wasn’t ready to share. Jon took his left hand in both of his and ran his fingers lightly over the scar. “But you made it to the hospital after that, right? They stitched it up? I, I assume the sutures were the kind that dissolve on their own.”

“Uh…no, actually,” Martin admitted. “After I had his statement and I was…feeling stronger, we realized it had closed up on its own. Which, while it was great for the immediate ‘not bleeding to death’ thing, is probably not all that good in the grand scheme of things. But it at least meant I was able to move. Papa rallied the rest of the ghosts to distract Trevor and Julia while I got away. I made a run for it and…well, eventually I ended up by the river, where I met…someone.”

“Someone,” Sasha repeated.

“Look, I didn’t get his name, okay? He said Elias had sent him to help get me home. I’d just realized I’d lost my passport and my wallet, so I wasn’t going to be able to get anywhere otherwise.” Martin took a deep breath. “I knew it was a trap, but…I didn’t really have much of a choice. And at least it got me home. Eventually. And at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t get a new Mark out of that one.” He squeezed Jon’s hand gently. “That’s it, really. What about you lot? What did you find out while I was gone?”

“A good amount,” Sasha said. “We found out—well, Tim and Melanie worked out where the Unknowing is going to be. The House of Wax, in Great Yarmouth. The three of us spent the last couple of weeks staking it out, and Tim and Melanie finally got that final proof a couple days ago, so we’re sure. And Gerry and Jon went to a storage unit Gertrude had rented up in Hainault and found a crate full of plastic explosives.”

“And a statement,” Jon added. “Which I haven’t read. You—you can have it. You should have it. Later. You might need it.”

Martin couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Jon. That’s…awfully sweet of you.”

Tim set a laden platter in the middle of the table. Martin realized that he and Melanie had been making naleśniki while the rest of them had been talking. “There’s one other thing. I think they’re almost ready.”

“What makes you say that?” Martin accepted a plate from Melanie and used a fork to lift the first thin folded pancake off the platter.

“Skin. That’s what they need, right? They wanted yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Well…they took a trip to a couple of cemeteries.”

Martin’s blood ran cold. “Who did they take?”

Tim sighed. “New graves. No flowers. The first had a name, no dates, no inscription. ‘George Icarus.’”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Martin glanced around at the others, who all looked equally bewildered. “Who was the other?”

Tim bit his lip and glanced at Melanie, who scowled. “You found that one out. You tell them.”

“Tim?” Gerry prompted, reaching up to tug Tim down to sit on his lap. It wasn’t even a sexual gesture, just a simple need to be close as Gerry wrapped his arms around Tim’s waist and settled his chin on his shoulder. Martin could empathize with that.

Tim leaned into Gerry for a moment, then looked at Martin and said softly, “Gertrude.”

“What?” Jon, Martin, and Gerry all said in unison.

Sasha blinked hard, several times. “Wasn’t she cremated?”

“Apparently not,” Tim said.

Jon exhaled hard. “So they did get an Archivist’s skin after all.”

Martin realized, with a slightly uncomfortable twinge, that he hadn’t told the others about his realization that he wasn’t just an Archivist, he was the Archivist. And then something else hit him like a lorry and he sat up straighter. “Wait. When was this?”

“Just the other day.”

“Tim, I need you to be specific. Wh—” Martin caught himself, barely. He didn’t want to compel his friends, and he definitely didn’t want to fall into the habit of using the Eye more than he had to. “Please. It’s important. I need you to remember exactly when they got these skins.”

Tim stared at Martin, looking a little worried, but he answered. “Sometime between the cemeteries closing the day before yesterday and it opening yesterday. I found out about it late yesterday evening, after we’d left the Institute.”

“Fuck.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time.”

“What? What do you mean?” Melanie demanded.

Martin looked seriously around the room at his team. “Mustermann said that once Orsinov had the skin she needed for her costume, she would ‘call in the Chorus and the Corps’, and three days later they would be ready to begin. Assume they waited until the darkest part of the night we got, say around midnight yesterday? It’s been one day. We’ve got two left.” He nodded as he saw realization dawn on everyone’s faces. “I hope you figured out a plan while I was gone, because we officially have to stop the Unknowing. Now.”

[john-macnamara]

John if you stay up too late and get too sleep deprivied on top of starting to be drunk you could seriously hurt yourself.

Your body may come back but so far you've retained all the things that happen to your mind.

I tried, I was too much of a coward to. So don’t worry too much about it. Apparently I’m selfish enough that I can’t even remove myself from the equation anymore.

[narvaldetierra]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 2

Don't forget to check the tags before reading.

[kamryn1963]

Summary: Kim knew if anyone understood what she was going through it was Al.

Notes:

Hello!

I'm taking a couple day break from my current WIP (So Long, London) but I got this idea last night and had to write it.

Set sometime in season 9 after the events of 8x16 and Kim being shot.

TW: Past suicide attempt is talked about in detail

Kim couldn’t sleep, couldn’t calm her racing mind, couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened or the bandages on her abdomen. She didn’t remember doing it but soon she was getting out of bed, leaving a note for Adam and driving to Al’s apartment. Now she was sitting on his couch at midnight as he made them both coffee. 

“I’m sorry for just showing up like this”. Kim apologized as Al came back into the room and handed her one of the coffee mugs as he sat down on the couch next to her with his own mug. 

“It’s okay. Clearly I wasn’t sleeping”. Al replied as he gestured to the paused movie on the TV and his journal out on the table. 

“Yeah but it’s midnight. Not the time I should just be showing up on people's doorsteps with my problems”. Kim said bitterly.

Kim hated that everyone was constantly worrying about her but she knew showing up at Al’s place at midnight was just going to cause people to worry about her more instead of less like she wanted. 

“Burgess, I don’t mind at all. If I didn’t want you here I wouldn’t have let you in”. Al responded as he turned to look at her. He took in the dark bags under her eyes and the exhaustion etched into her features. It was like looking in a mirror. 

Kim laughed but it sounded fake even to her own ears. She knew why she was here, Al would understand what was going through her mind, the trauma she experienced better than anyone in this unit. Kim didn’t know how to say that. Didn’t want to make Al relive his own trauma for her. 

“Can I ask why you're here though?” Al asked after almost ten minutes of silence. He didn’t want to push her but he wanted to make sure nobody was in serious danger or something. 

Kim hesitated but she knew that after showing up here suddenly, the least she could do was tell him why. 

“I thought you’d understand. How I feel. Adam and Kevin are trying to help and I know they mean well that they’ve had their lives in danger before. But they can’t fully understand. Can’t understand how it feels to lay there and wait to die”. 

“But I do.” Al filled in what she didn’t say. The part that was implied. 

“But you do”. Kim agreed. 

Al didn’t say anything for a moment, just sipped his coffee and stared off into space. Kim could see the emotions in his eyes. The tears that filled his eyes but before she could speak, tell him it was okay and he didn’t need to say anything, Al spoke again his voice quiet and distant. Haunted. 

“Do you know I tried to kill myself after I was stabbed? It was about a week after I got out of the hospital”. Al asked but it was a rhetorical question. There was no way Kim could’ve known. The only people that knew were Hank, Trudy and his therapist. 

“You what? Al..” Kim didn’t know what she expected Al to say. But it wasn’t that. She didn’t know that, didn’t even suspect things had been that bad for her partner back then. Sure Kim knew he hadn’t been doing well mentally or physically, but never did she think that. 

“Yeah. Hank and Trudy found me on the roof of the district. I was drunk but it was pretty clear what I was going to do intoxicated or not. I wrote the notes sober”. Al responded, his voice still distant and Kim saw the first tear fall. 

“They stopped me obviously. Talking didn’t work, and I had a foot off the ledge when Hank pulled me back. I was fighting him though, fighting Trudy, and Hank had to use his handcuffs to just get me to stop fighting. I ended up passing out at some point on the walk back to the car”. Al continued. He was crying more now. 

“I woke up In Hank’s spare room handcuffed to the bedframe with Trudy next to me watching me like a hawk. Hank had me on suicide watch for the next week and got me in with a therapist two days later. Let me tell you, suicide watch with Hank and Trudy was not a fun time at all. I do not recommend it”. Al trailed off again and Kim could see more and more tears streaming down his face. She was crying too. 

“It was bad Kim. I wasn’t doing well at all.. The nights were always the worst. I couldn’t sleep. I just laid awake replaying that day in my mind over and over again. Being arrested, being stabbed, thinking that was the end. But I woke up again and was thrown back into my life like I should be able to just live again after everything that happened”. Al took a deep breath as he wiped furiously at the tears on his face and turned back to face her. 

“It feels like everyones moved on and I’m stuck here unable to move because I can’t get past that day”. Kim said and Al nodded as he grabbed her hand in his. 

“It did for me too. And I know you’ve heard it before, but it does get better. You get past that day. It takes time and effort and it’s hell, but you live again”. Al responded and for the first time since she was shot and fought to survive, Kim actually believed that it might get better. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready for the fight ahead. I want to get better, I do. For Makayla and Adam and you and maybe even myself. But I’m so tired”. Kim was crying more now and Al pulled her into a hug as she cried. 

“I wasn’t either. On the second day I woke up after my attempt in Hank’s house, I overheard Hank and Trudy talking about me downstairs and all I really heard was the fear and worry in their voices as they talked about finding me and what I tried to do. That and knowing I couldn’t abandon Michelle so soon after finding her, made me do it, made me fight. It wasn’t for me until later, when I realized maybe I wanted to live. And now I have a wonderful granddaughter I wouldn’t have met if I didn’t fight”. 

Kim pulled away a little with a small smile as she thought about Mak and how much Mak had saved her. Kim wanted to see her grow up knowing that, similar to Al, she couldn’t abandon Makayla. Couldn’t make her lose another mom. 

“You're doing okay now, right?” Kim asked suddenly as she looked at Al. hearing about his suicide attempt had caused more worried and concerns in her mind. 

“I am. I’m still in therapy weekly and it helps a lot. Not just dealing with the stabbing but all the other shit I’ve seen and done but never worked through. It might be too soon for you right now, Kim, but therapy is available whenever you're ready”. Al said. He knew he wouldn’t have gotten therapy if Hank and Trudy hadn’t forced him. Al’s choices had been he got a therapist or they took him to the hospital so Al didn’t have much of a choice. 

“I’ll definitely look into it. And thank you, Al for listening”. Kim said sincerely. This helped more than she could put into words. 

“I’m pretty sure I just burdened you with my trauma more than I offered advice”. Al remarked which got him a swat on the shoulder. 

“You helped me. Hearing your experience helped”. Kim responded and Al chuckled as he raised his hands in surrender. 

“I’m glad to hear that”. Al said with a smile.

 Silence came back over the room but neither of them broke it. Kim was glad she came here. She hoped this helped Al some too. Because it had definitely helped Kim. She knew he’d understand.

[merfairymakes]

For my beloved partner, @lizluvscupcakes and her incredible fic, Welcome Back!!

Here’s the link if you haven’t checked it out yet!!

Summary: After fifty years off the air, Welcome Home has been retconned into the 21st Century, which has been no time at all for everyone there. But Wally has been aware for fifty years, and doesn’t take kindly to the sudden adjustment. OR, Wally is inadvertently gaslit after fifty years in actual hell.

[spncompostheap]

"Castiel!"

Cas Novak jolted awake, unable to shake off the vivid dream of his mother's voice still echoing in his ears. Slicing through the air like lightning, electrifying his senses, Cas’s mind reeled as he spiraled back through time to that fateful night, just after his ninth birthday.

Tightening his grip on the blankets pooling at his waist, a chill ran through Cas as he surveyed the dimly lit bedroom. His eyes strained against the darkness, as an unmistakable sense of disorientation overtook him. As his most intrusive memories surged forward, Cas suddenly felt too helpless to fight against them as they relentlessly pushed their way into the forefront of his reality.

Cautiously, Cas swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. Within moments, he’d been overwhelmed by a tidal wave of pain, fear, and loss—everything came crashing back, threatening to consume him until he fled the confines of his bedroom completely hoping to escape into the kitchen instead.

Raised voices filled his mind coupled with the sound of shattering glass, and his mother's desperate, unanswered pleas for help.

Pressing a trembling hand against the cool countertop, Cas’s mind etched every detail into his consciousness amidst his futile attempts at grounding himself. Pinching the meat of his outer thigh and intentionally digging in his fingernails, Cas was unprepared for the sensation of utter numbness which followed. As his heart raced, and breathing became ragged, Cas began to abandon all hope of remaining tethered within reality.

His mother's eyes were wide with fear as she had pleaded with him directly. “Just go back to bed, Castiel! Please, just go back to bed-”

Cas’s gaze shifted towards the refrigerator, as he longed for the familiar heaviness from having consumed a large but satisfying meal. Tension filled the air, pressing down on him. Despite the cool rush of air and the bright light that flooded the small kitchenette as the refrigerator door clicked open, time seemed to fold back upon itself. In that moment, Cas felt overwhelmed, knowing that he couldn't stop any of it now.

His father materialized before his eyes, face contorted with rage, as he had pinned his terrified wife against the wall with sheer brute force and the imminent threat of more violence to come.

Cas’s hands were already instinctively moving without his consent as he located last night's leftover pizza, a package of mini powdered donuts and the brand new box of Cookie-O’s cereal Anna had just brought home from the store. A quick scan of the freezer had revealed a gallon of vanilla ice cream his Aunt had tried to place just out of reach. Shoving aside frozen broccoli and healthy choice TV dinners, Cas had easily freed the ice cream from its hiding place before finding a spoon and spreading his entire cache of food items out across the counter.

He felt so very small as his father turned to face him, momentarily loosening his grip on his wife’s slender wrists.

The lid discarded without a second thought, Cas had attacked the gallon of ice cream with a large spoon, shoveling vanilla into his mouth as fast as humanly possible. Spoonful after spoonful, the cool sweetness of the ice cream mingled with the bitterness of his memories. Each bite was another desperate attempt to drown out the echoes of that night and chase away the pain before it became too unbearable.

His mother took advantage of her husband’s distraction and tried to make a break for it. Cas’s heart jumped into his throat as his father spun around, grabbing his mother by her hair, with his unyielding strength.

Before too long, Cas’s spoon hit the bottom of the ice cream carton. Dazed by the perceived loss, he raised the empty container to his lips, gulping down any residual melted goodness until nothing remained.

His parents scuffled until his father finally succeeded in overpowering his mother once more, pushing her down face first in one complete gesture. Cas’s mother lost her balance and fell to the ground.

With a heavy sigh, Cas forced himself to keep eating, his eyes now fixated on the leftover pizza before him. Driven by ravenous phantom hunger pains, Cas devoured slice after slice, the flavors of greasy cheese and savory toppings providing a momentary distraction from the torrent of haunting images flooding his mind.

Cas glanced down in horror at his mother’s now motionless form. A steadily growing puddle of blood had begun to engulf her body, seeping through her cotton nightgown.

Cas's fingers moved with a frenetic urgency, searching for something, anything, that might keep the demons away. His hunger persisted, clawing at his insides, refusing to be silenced as he grabbed the mini powdered donuts off the counter, tearing the packaging away.

Cas fled his father's rage, desperately seeking safety. He rushed into the bathroom, fumbling to lock the door behind him. Collapsing inside the bathtub, Cas curled into a ball, wrapping his arms tightly around his knees while trying to shield himself from the terrors of the outside world.

White powdery residue clung to Cas's fingers as he had shoveled all twenty-four miniature donuts into his mouth in rapid succession. Sugar coursed through his veins, eliciting a brief thrill of endorphins. Chewing mechanically, Cas was distantly aware of his increasing physical discomfort. One hand dropped to his waist absent-mindedly as he pushed the elastic waistband of his pajamas pants farther below the curve of his overstuffed belly. 

His father’s panicked cries permeated the air in the aftermath of what he’d done. His voice sounded alarmingly unhinged until he remembered his son and shifted focus towards trying to bang down the bathroom door.

Ripping into the massive box of Cookie-O's cereal next, Cas extracted the interior plastic lining before casually discarding the empty cardboard box onto the floor. Proceeding to cram fistfulls of miniature cookie-shaped pieces into his mouth, Cas desperately tried to stave off the intensity of unshed tears, fearing they would consume him.

When he finally ran out of food, a flicker of realization crossed his face as the room around him started to lose its form, and the once-familiar surroundings began to merge into a disturbing kaleidoscope of unreality. When the floor beneath him shifted before melting away, he felt the distinct sensation of treading water as if some powerful current were trying to drag him below.

“I know you know where she hid my gun, Castiel! You need to tell me where your mother put it right now or so help me I’ll be forced to-!”

Frantically searching through the shelves for more food amidst the chaotic emotional replay of his most traumatic memories, Cas was overtaken by fear until his hands had landed on the bottle of cooking oil his aunt kept near the stove for frying things.

Cas was acutely aware of his father’s ability to rip their house apart down to the floorboards until he found what he was looking for.

Although Anna’s economy sized Canola oil was an unusual choice, it was technically considered a food item. Still caught in the past and too far outside of his own body to function, Cas sought out whatever means necessary to physically weigh himself down. So he unscrewed the cap, as his fingers closed around the thick plastic bottle and took a big sip. As the viscous, oily liquid coated his tongue and slipped down his throat, the act of drinking something so thick and filling began to serve its purpose. 

When the gun went off, it was louder than anything Cas could have ever possibly imagined, yet still did little to drown out the subtle thud of his father's body hitting the floor.

Cas continued to drink until the thought of consuming more left him dangerously close to vomiting. Cradling his overfull stomach, Cas stumbled into the adjacent living room, slumping hard against the couch. Then slowly, returning to his body once Cas’s eyes tilted downwards as he palmed the sturdy firmness of his distended belly. As his anxiety and emotional distress faded into exhaustion, Cas allowed himself to accept the rush of comfort flooding his senses. Although Cas knew he should probably feel guilty, or at the very least disgusted with himself, for surrendering to his unhealthiest of coping mechanisms. Having been on antipsychotics for over a year now, it had become that much harder to hate himself, even amid times of crisis.

***

As light filtered through the kitchen windows, casting a gentle morning glow, Anna Milton appeared already dressed in her nursing uniform. Surveying the small kitchenette and adjacent living room, Anna’s gaze settled upon her loudly snoring nephew and the remnants of yet another midnight feast, the third one this week by her count. With subtle concern etched into her features, Anna approached Cas where he slept, balled up on the living room couch.

Anna paused to observe Cas as he rested, noting how one of his arms pressed tightly against the worn polyester upholstery, while the other clutched his rounded midsection as though he were experiencing discomfort. Ignoring the beads of sweat dotting across Cas's forehead, Anna bent down slowly before reaching out and carefully freeing one of her nephew’s arms. Gently pressing two fingers against Cas's radial artery at the pulse point, she made a conscious effort to avoid touchinging the angriest of his vertical scars. After counting to sixty twice just to make sure, Anna released a deep sigh, exhaling a torrent of breath she hadn't realized she’d been holding in.

Taken aback by her nephew's striking resemblance to her late sister, Anna felt further compelled to alleviate all the hardships life had thrown Cas’s way. While the continued nighttime binge eating was far from ideal, it stood out in sharp contrast to Cas’s ongoing struggles with anxiety, depression, and PTSD. Having nearly lost him several times throughout his short life, Anna treasured every day she had parenting her eccentric young nephew. She was also profoundly grateful for her continued collaboration with Dr. Mia Vallens, a psychiatrist whose expertise had been consistently demonstrated over the years through her innate ability to help Cas navigate his traumatic past.

Sticking to a strict routine of weekly therapy sessions alongside a carefully prescribed regimen of psychiatric medications seemed to be, at last, proving effective in keeping Cas's intrusive suicidal thoughts under control. So, even though moments of grief still crept in from time to time, when she missed the boy he could have been, Anna had learned to value Cas’s enduring resilience above all else.

"Time to wake up and take your meds, Cas," Anna whispered, keeping her voice intentionally low to avoid startling him.

Cas woke up slowly, his blue eyes blinking in the morning sun. He stretched, sat up, and then managed a small, tired smile that Anna suspected was meant purely for her benefit.

"Hey there, sleepyhead. It seems like you had quite the culinary adventure again last night," Anna said, pausing when she noticed Cas looking somewhat bewildered.

“Maybe you had bad dreams last?" Anna suggested placing a comforting hand on Cas's shoulder.

"I, uh, I don't entirely remember, but it seems like I might have gotten carried away again. I'm so sorry, Anna," Cas confessed, fidgeting with the fraying hem of his shirt.

"Oh Cas, you don’t have to apologize for anything. Just remember that you can always wake me overnight if you need to, alright? I'm here to support you, Cas," Anna said, trying to reassure him.

"Thank you Anna, I truly appreciate that," Cas said quietly, still looking away.

With a gentle squeeze of her nephew’s shoulder, Anna made her way back to the kitchen, determined to help him start the day on a positive note. She retrieved Cas's weekly pillbox, checking over each compartment’s meticulous organization. It was a testament to the structured routine they had both had a part in while trying to manage Cas’s ongoing mental health. Filling a tall glass with cool, filtered water, Anna placed it neatly beside the box of medications on the countertop. As she arranged these items, a soft smile crept across Anna’s face, a quiet reflection of much progress Cas had made in just the last year alone. Soon he would be turning fifteen at the end of the summer, and while the passage of time was evident in his growing maturity, her unwavering support for him remained constant in their shared journey towards happiness and well-being.

Removing a clean bowl and spoon from the dishwasher, Anna searched high and low for the recently purchased box of cereal. While she was well aware that Cookie O's probably wasn’t the healthiest choice for her nephew, his meds still needed to be taken with food. Additionally, the familiar childhood favorite always seemed to help, even during Cas's most challenging days. As her gaze swept across the kitchen, Anna frowned momentarily, giving in to disappointment over the now-empty cereal box laying discarded on the floor. Taking a deep breath, Anna tried to center herself, before refocusing her attention back onto Cas. Forcing herself to remember that Cas’s progress always came in small steps, could not be rushed, and that setbacks were a natural part of the journey.

***

Cas had woken up slowly, still grasping at details of what exactly had transpired overnight. Although he’d already figured out that he must've overdone it again with the eating thing, given Anna’s persistent hovering rather than her getting ready for work. While Cas genuinely tried to avoid all the negative shit that might push him into a bout of overthinking, he couldn't ignore the signs of having had another episode. Summoning the will to stand, Cas couldn't ignore how much heavier his body was getting. Touching his lips, he found them and his fingers to be smeared thickly with grease. The hint of acid reflux burned down the back of his throat, and there was considerably more tension gathering in his lower back from carrying so much new and extra weight. All these strangely familiar discomforts combined could only mean one thing, and judging from Anna’s increased weirdness around him, Cas hardly needed to guess what.

"Well, I guess we're out of cereal again," Anna said, her voice thick with annoyance as she paced around the kitchen.

Cas glanced up from taking his third pill out of five. His aunt was standing in front of him, her eyes closed, as she hugged an empty cereal box closely against her chest. Cas watched her for a moment, then went back to taking his piss. Studying his last one intently before swallowing it down with the remainder of water from his glass. There was no question how majorly his current medications were impacting his health both in positive and negative ways. This is especially true now that Dr. Vallens had increased all his dosages to accommodate his increased weight.

While Cas wasn’t terribly concerned about side effects like increased appetite or nighttime eating, he understood why Anna was so concerned. Not so long ago, he’d gotten very depressed, to the point where he couldn't even get out of bed or even go outside. Everything had felt impossible and he’d regrettably shut Anna out completely. Instead withdrawing further into himself, Cas made peace with despair, and had almost given in to his darkest, most impulsive desire.

Having survived long enough now to have begun processing his trauma and accepting his continued existence, Cas knew he couldn’t afford to slip back into his previous headspace. Food had always been there for him though, no matter what challenges he faced. So, while consistently overeating probably wasn't the healthiest way to deal with his stress, Cas figured it was a pretty good trade-off considering the alternative.

Flitting around the kitchen, Anna offered to make Cas scrambled eggs only moments after he’d resigned himself to frozen waffles instead. Even though the waffles were the extra healthy whole grain kind that tasted like cardboard, Cas knew better than to enable Anna when she was already cutting it close to being late for work. Busying himself with finding a clean plate and grabbing the peanut butter, Cas ignored the way Anna’s eyes followed him as she pretended to refill her already full coffee to-go mug.

Cas was well aware of his aunt's increased worries about his health, even if she never specifically said anything out loud. Mostly because It was usually a lost cause to convince her otherwise, and since he’d started steadily packing on more weight over the last couple of months, the whole issue had become a pretty awkward topic for both of them. Sometimes, Cas wished he could press a magical button that would make him normal again. Maybe then Anna would calm down long enough to try and relax.

"I want you to promise that you’ll do something for me today." Anna said, stopping abruptly while locating her car keys.

"Okay, and what would that be?" Cas snapped, failing to mask his sudden defensiveness.

"Relax, Cas, it's nothing too serious," Anna said, pausing briefly to select her words with care.

"I'd really like it if you could spend some time outside today while I'm at work,"

"Fine." Cas said, rolling his eyes with dramatic intent.

"Oh, come on, Cas," Anna teased, her eyes sparkling playfully.

"Fresh air and vitamin D can do wonders for the soul!"

Although he remained skeptical, Cas always found it hard to resist Anna's infectious enthusiasm. They had been addressing his avoidance of going outside in family therapy for a while now, and Cas was fully aware of his tendencies toward agoraphobia. Now that summer was nearly in full swing, he had exhausted all of his weather-related reasons for staying inside.

"Here's an idea," Anna continued, her voice carrying a mischievous tone.

"If you’ll agree to set foot in the backyard for just ten minutes today, I'll treat you to cheeseburgers and fries for dinner."

Cas's resistance wavered as his lips had twitched into a faint smile. Even though he knew Anna was only trying to sweeten the deal, he needed her to know that he could manage this one small task on his own, without added incentive.

"It's alright, Anna," Cas said eventually .

"You don't have to bribe me. I'll go outside if that's what you want."

Anna's eyes softened with gratitude as she pulled Cas into a quick hug.

"Thank you, Cas," she said, her voice filled with warmth.

"I appreciate this more than you know."

As Cas watched Anna heading to her car, he made a mental note to try to embrace the outside world at some point during his day. Little did he know how this decision would profoundly change everything about life as he knew it, forever.

[john-macnamara]

tw suicidal ideation/thoughts, attempted suicide mention

Oh. Suicidal thoughts and ideation. Which I guess I always have, but they get worse real quick. That and if things get bad enough… genuine attempts.

[He looks incredibly guilty]

Hello, do you have any timeslots available today? I realized we never got around to scheduling the next appointment.

@john-macnamara

i've got space at eleven if that works for you?