#instead and he’d add: it would probably take you a whole month to finish so be grateful it’s just that

[pergaminaa]

Modern au

Manon and Dorian are kinda sorta pretentious af and they made sure their daughter has a name that has its own weight but also they made sure it’s beautiful.

Their daughter’s name and middle name translates to: beautiful gracious queen (her first name is welsh like her mama and Dorian was the one to pick her middle name and he made sure both names worked together both in sound and meaning)

The daughter accidentally learned of her name’s meaning and with her ego it wasn’t a good kind of knowledge.

Because when anyone referred to her as ‘princess’ she’d just roll her eyes (like her mom) and mutter “why call me a princess when I’m a queen”

Anyway baby ate her pride when she started school and was forced to learn how to write her name. Because her name (first) is long. With eight letters there were a lot of tears involved.

Manon negotiated (she actually lost the negotiations because her daughter is small and too pitiful she had to help) again pushover mama so anyway baby would write it only three times and Manon would write the rest.

Dorian was like ‘witchling, you can’t do that’ and he’d sit with his daughter instead because ‘you need to learn how to write your name’ but his daughter argues that his and Manon’s names are short and they don’t understand her plight

Dorian is like, it’s only two letters more than his name, and three letters more than Manon’s so it’s really not that bad.

He lays down on the floor next to the tantruming child. He helps by writing her name twice but she has to do the rest.

Honestly Manon is weak and gives in easily this is why Dorian took over homework because he can handle their child and her dramatics (which she takes after him that’s why he GETS her while Manon just gives in)

[brigdh]

Brigdh, these are *wildly* evocative titles! I need you to know that I waffled so so much on this choice, but the one I think I need to know about the *most* is war criminals doing compensated dating.

The WIP meme!

@napneeders and @likethehotsauce also asked for this one, thank you all!

And thank you for liking the titles, but I don't think I can take any credit for them; they're just the prompts I used for inspiration. Case in point: this one! This is from when everyone was describing their favorite characters as war criminals (maybe we're still doing that? I feel like there was a peak in the term over the summer), and then someone combined that with angsty high school AUs, and voila, a bizarre combination that I somehow found incredible compelling. (Also, if you're unfamiliar with the term compensated dating, it's basically the same as a sugar baby/daddy relationship, but often with the connotation that the baby is still in high school.)

This is one where I can't really post it as finished fic because that set-up is too complicated to explain in an author's note, so you've got the whole thing below. Modern AU, Ed-focused.

Ed’s dad wasn’t around anymore. That was fine – good, actually, it was a good thing – but it turned out that the old man had paid more in rent than he’d wasted on booze. Ed should have known. His dad was a shit father and a shit husband, but he was white, and still had his high school footballer muscles, and had a way of talking to other men that made them laugh with him instead of at him. He’d never had any trouble holding down a job, no matter how often he went in late and hungover.

Ed’s mom never had a bruise on her face, these days. She never walked funny or flinched too easily. But she still wasn’t happy. She started getting home late; the few times Ed glimpsed her in daylight, there were bags under her eyes, and her mouth was pinched and thin. Ed caught her hunched over the kitchen table, writing with one of the Bic pens he brought home from school. She didn’t hear him come in, and he got close enough to read the first few lines over her shoulder before she noticed him. It was an application for the night shift at the little grocery store down the road.

“When would you sleep?” he asked.

His mom made a little sound, half snort of amusement and half exasperated sigh. “A lot of people have a second job, Ed. We should be grateful that I can work.” She smiled at him, eyes crinkled and warm. She really believed it, was the thing. All the things she said about how the world worked, and it made Ed’s instinct to shout that it wasn’t fair, wasn’t right, feel small and childish. “Besides, it’ll be temporary. Just until your father gets back.”

Ed had fucked up. He’d already known that, of course, but now there was a whole new side to how he’d fucked up.

Obviously the solution was for him to get a job, but nowhere that hired teenagers paid over minimum wage, and when Ed counted up the hours he could skip school before the social worker called the house, it didn’t add up to enough. Jack had offered to teach Ed how to pick pockets in exchange for Ed blowing him, but he suspected lifting a few wallets here and there might be fun drinking money, but it wasn’t the kind of thing that paid the rent. Ed would have to get into harder crimes to make it work, stuff with real risk if he wanted the real rewards.

Or. There was a girl who came to school every day now with designer clothes, jewelry with real stones, the newest model phone that she updated practically every month. She lived not far from Ed, and he knew none of it came from her parents. She didn’t have a lot of friends, though she’d been nice enough when they were kids. Now people whispered whore and skank when she walked by; her eyes never flickered and her fingers tap-tap-tapped on the strap of her Birkin bag.

That was Ed’s other choice. Less dangerous than crime, probably; certainly less chance of his mom finding out, since technically compensated dating wasn’t illegal. And anyway, Ed wasn’t really a virgin, so why not?

People looked at him, sometimes; he knew that. He liked it, usually. He’d been figuring out how to dress to make them look longer. When he walked home along the side of the road, sometimes a car honked at him. Not to tell him to get out of the way, but because of what they saw.

The girl with the fancy clothes, people called her needy too. Said she had no self-respect, that anyone could have her. A sick curl of recognition had squirmed in Ed’s belly. He was like that – he needed people to want him. It was like he was hungry and other people’s attention was the only thing that filled him up. It scared him: how much he needed it, the stupid things he’d done to get it. So he tried not to think about it, to stomp the craving down into the dark places of his mind where he put the things that bothered him. He could never get rid of it for long. though. He hated how weak it made him feel, how desperate.

The idea of people paying to look at him, to touch him – that didn’t sound so bad. If someone wanted to give Ed things, just because they desired him, ached for him, even loved him, maybe that would soothe the hunger in him. He could make them be the ones who needed.

In the end, it wasn’t really much of a choice at all.

[heliads]

Okay

So

I think this is how you request? I’ve never requested anything before >w<

But before I do that I wanted to applaud you for all your hard work!!! You are such an amazing writer, one of favorites atm, and you definitely deserve some praise!!!

For my request, I’m not sure if you are still into Ouat or Peter Pan from the show, but I’m like, obsessed. I’ve had this soulmate idea in which Peter pan’s plan to steal the heart of the truest believer failed, so now he has to take the heart of his soulmate. This is harder for him because he doesn’t know how to love. He hates it out of fear of what it could do to him, yknow yknow? So he goes along with the plan and he captures her. He expects her to fight back but she doesn’t. In fact, she’s quite happy to give up her heart for him if it meant that she wasn’t useless. (She had no family other than her sister, who had recently died. She’s lived her whole life feeling unvaluable). Over the past few days, they get to know each other, and he starts to feel bad that he was her soulmate. Like, why does such a sweet girl have to be his??? How could she just be fine with giving up her heart, HOW COULD SHE BE FINE WITH HIM NOT LOVING HER WHEN SHE CLEARLY DESERVES ALL THE LOVE HE COULD GIVE HER?!?!

She just tells him that a soulmates job is to make their lover happy, and if this made him happy then she would gladly give him her heart. It’s not like he’s doing it just for himself anyway, he is doing it for all the lost children in the world.

After he finishes the setup necessary for the ritual, he takes his soulmate to Skull rock. By the point, Peter isn’t even sure if he wants to steal her heart anymore. Could he have fallen in love this quickly???

But she encourages him to do it, despite being frightened of it herself. Before he takes her heart, Peter asks her if she had any last words. She quietly mumbles that she loves him more to an anything. She then asks him if it will hurt, to which he responds by saying that he’ll numb the pain as much as possible.

Going against his better judgement, Peter kisses her softly as he takes her heart. She immediately passes out. Peter pan has big boy realization and can’t bring himself to kill her, so instead he puts her heart back in and kisses her in the hopes she will come back to him.

Insert fluffy ending here with more kisses!!

I am so so so sorry in advance if this is super specific or doesn’t make any sense. I’ve just had this idea stuck in my head for months and it won’t get out. Of course, you can add or change the idea to make it simpler for you to write!! Take as much time as you need and have an amazing day!!!

oh this idea >>

masterlist

Peter Pan is really out of luck. No, really. He says this about once a decade, when his latest plan for glory goes a little topsy turvy, but it’s real this time. Peter has finally caught his last break, found himself in a trap that he just can’t slip. Peter can name a fair number of people who’d be just delighted to hear that the King of Neverland has finally lost his way, but Peter himself isn’t one of them. 

That probably has to do with a little something about how he’s going to die. Peter always knew his life came with strings attached, namely the giant hourglass ticking down his last hours until he finally croaked, but for some reason he always thought that he’d be able to find his way out of it. Peter is a mastermind at exploiting loopholes, but despite all of his centuries of figuring things out in the nick of time, he may have just now met his match. 

Peter thought he had it settled when it came to the heart of the truest believer. Kidnap a kid and carve out his vital organ, that’s all it took. It should have been an easy task, too, certainly within Peter’s grasp. It’s a shame the truest believer also came with a team of die-hard do-gooders ready to tear the world apart to save their son, but who could predict something like that?

Henry Mills was Peter’s last chance, though. Or, to be specific, the last chance that Peter even remotely wanted to consider. He has explored all other opportunities, never given up hope on finding another way, but at last, he’s going to have to admit it. Peter is going to have to do the one thing he swore to always avoid. 

Peter can feel the eyes of the other Lost Boys on him now, silently waiting for him to make the inevitable call. They’ll support him in whatever choice he makes to save himself, of course; Neverland disappears when Peter dies. He’s sworn that he’ll ship them all off to safer shores should that day arrive, but no one wants that, either. The Lost Boys have always had a chance to leave, they just never took it because this life on Neverland was always preferable to anything else. 

He knows what he has to say, though. Peter has known it for a while. The one last gamble he could possibly deal, the last chance he will ever have to not die before a month is out—

His soulmate. 

This is the one option Peter was really hoping to avoid. Something about the whole soulmate affair has really bugged him all this time. Forget the odds of ever finding your soulmate when he’s immortal living on an island where no one could track him down if they dared, Peter isn’t the type of person who makes sense in the whole soulmates agenda. Peter doesn’t like weaknesses, and having someone out there who’s supposed to mean the world to you, love above all else, makes his skin crawl.

Technically, he supposes his soulmate isn’t a weakness at a time like this. In fact, his soulmate is going to be the only thing capable of making Peter strong again. See, if he wants to go on living, he can sacrifice someone else’s heart to the magic of Neverland:  that of his soulmate.

Anyone else would call it cruel. Peter is not anyone else, which is why he’s considering this. To be honest, he really hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near his soulmate, but he’s not so averse to the whole concept that he’d go into a grave rather than risk it. Peter clings to life like no one you’ve ever seen before, and he’s going to keep on doing it, soulmates be damned.

Peter can’t quite put a finger on why he has such a strong dislike of the soulmates thing. Maybe it’s because understanding the soulmate predicament would make him open to such weaknesses as love brings. Love is for fools who have nothing else to give, kids and blind men who would plunge a knife into their own chests if it meant meeting somebody who was supposedly meant for them. The only thing that Peter has ever needed in this world is his immortal youth, and if a soulmate were ever to get in the way of that, he’d take them out himself.

That’s the plan, at last. Peter doesn’t have to worry about the time it could take to track down his soulmate. He’s had his shadow keep vague tabs on them for no particular reason. He’ll tell himself it’s so he can head the other way if they ever draw near, but it’s not like that’s actually a good excuse. No one comes near Neverland unless they can avoid it or they’re one of his kind. Clearly, Peter’s soulmate would never be the type to fit in here, because soulmates are a sham. Peter refuses to believe anything else.

Still, he has to meet them, has to look them in the eyes as he carves the heart from their chest. It’ll be quick and clean, that’s all Peter needs. After that, he can live forever with another weight lifted from his shoulders. Two weaknesses removed from Peter’s world:  death and love. What more could he possibly want?

Peter actually goes to the trouble of locating his soulmate himself. This job needs to be clean, he can’t afford to have any more storybook heroes on his tail. Look how well that turned out with Henry. This is Peter’s last shot, after all; it happens without error or it doesn’t happen at all.

To his surprise, it’s relatively easy to find his soulmate. She’s walking alone at night when he finally comes to her world, trading a dimly lit house for a chilly twilight. The walls are silent, still as a grave, and the girl doesn’t look back once as she leaves. Strange.

Peter waits until she’s out of the line of sight of the house just in case, then starts following her. Once they’ve turned off of the street, Peter quickly closes the distance between them. The girl turns to stare at him, and her eyes widen. She must be feeling it too, then, the rushing feeling in her chest. Peter’s hit by it now too. He didn’t ever wonder what it would be like to meet one’s soulmate, so the reaction of being in such close quarters to the one person designed for him takes him by surprise.

Peter bites back an unwelcome smile and a rush of butterflies to his stomach. “I’m going to need you to come with me,” he says. He’s got a knife in his hand just so she gets the point. Like he said, no slip ups. Not this time.

He’s expecting a fight. That’s how Peter would react if someone approached him at night with a weapon, after all, yet for some reason his soulmate just nods. “Alright,” she replies.

Peter blinks in surprise. “Alright? I’m kidnapping you.”

“Alright,” she repeats, this time with a soft smile, “are you, though? You look really confused about it.”

“Yeah,” Peter says without thinking, “you seem like you’re not taking this seriously. Aren’t you going to try to run or something?”

The girl lifts a shoulder. “Where would I go? Besides,” she adds with a small laugh, “you’re my soulmate. That seems like a fascinating kidnapping to me.”

Peter thinks he’s gone out of his mind. “I’m going to kill you. This is not fascinating. I need your heart so I can live forever.”

His soulmate tilts her head to the side as if considering something, and then nods. “Okay.”

He must be crazy. “Why is that okay?”

The girl spreads her hands. “I have nothing. Nobody left, no family. It would be something to let someone live forever, wouldn’t it? Once you see enough death, you start to wish somebody could do it. If all it took was my heart, I think that’s a fair price. Where are we going, soulmate?”

Peter almost opens his mouth to stop her before he remembers that this is what he wants, someone willing to give up their heart so that he could live. This is actually the best possible scenario, but then why does his chest twinge with something almost like guilt when he nods and gestures towards the sky? And, upon seeing his soulmate’s face light up as she realizes that they’re to fly to Neverland, why does Peter feel like a monster for giving this girl a snapshot of all that she could have had if he hadn’t been afraid of her and taken her to his island for any reason other than sacrificing her heart?

It doesn’t matter what this girl thinks. What matters is Peter staying alive. He can focus on that, not the way the eyes of his soulmate shine with all the stars as they fly through the night air, how Peter feels more powerful than he’s ever felt before because they’re so close to each other. Y/N— he doesn’t remember asking her name, but he must have at some point because it’s now folded carefully within the depths of his memory— makes him feel strange. Better. More alive. 

It’s distracting, and Peter can’t take another distraction right now. He all but abandons her to the wilderness of the island when they touch down on Neverland, muttering something about needing to get something before disappearing again. 

To her credit, Y/N seems surprisingly good at navigating this strange new world. She finds her way to the Lost Boys’ camp within a few minutes, and by the time Peter plucks up the courage to head there as well, she’s already locked in conversation with a few of the boys. Even Felix is nodding along. Some unwelcome voice in the back of Peter’s head tells him that she fits into Neverland so well for a reason, but he refuses to listen. 

After all, Y/N is only here temporarily. She knows it, too, which just makes Peter’s unsettled surprise grow more intense. She doesn’t try to run or flee her fate in any way. Instead, she asks Peter questions about the magic of Neverland, what it would be like when her heart has been traded in and everything is as it should be. After some initial hesitation, Peter talks. He talks more than he thinks he has to anyone else, and comes away from every conversation feeling a surprising lightness in his chest. 

A couple of days pass after his soulmate arrives on Neverland, and Peter begins to realize that if he wants to get through this at all, he’s going to have to plan the ritual sooner rather than later. Already, something almost like guilt is pricking at the edges of his consciousness, making Peter wonder if this is really something he could do. To tear the still-beating heart out of Y/N’s chest, even with her explicit permission, seems somehow so wrong that even Peter with all his centuries of depravity feels like he’s missing something. 

It will come, though. This will pass. Peter has the Lost Boys depending on him. Peter himself knows nothing about death, that grand adventure that he has yet to experience, and he plans on keeping his demise to the distant future, if it ever does happen at all. He has to kill Y/N, even if it feels like he’s killing himself in turn. 

The hour arrives at last, Peter makes sure of it. He takes Y/N’s hand and they fly to Skull Rock, out of the judging eyes of the other Lost Boys. Those that were so keen on him finding any way to live now seem less sure of Peter Pan’s divine right to never fail. Peter isn’t sure of it either. 

The only one who’s sure of anything is Y/N. She watches him with those same bright eyes as Peter reminds himself of words to spells. He had wondered if her quiet strength would desert her when the moment of her actual death arrived, but she remains just as brave as ever. That marks her as better than Peter, he supposes. 

At last, when he can push it off no longer, Peter turns to her again.

“It’s time,” he murmurs. 

Y/N nods once. “It’s okay.”

How like her, to absolve him of this last guilt. He doesn’t deserve this. Maybe this is why Peter has avoided the topic of soulmates all this time— he wasn’t afraid of a weakness but the knowledge that he would never be good enough for anyone. Especially not a soulmate like Y/N. 

Peter squares his shoulders, reaches for her. “Is there anything you want to say? You know, before–”

He stops himself before the treacherous words come out. Before he kills her. Before he rips her heart out of her chest, ending the life of the one good person in his life, the one person he had been sent to love and instead ended up murdering just so he could have more years of empty life.

Y/N flinches slightly, and Peter realizes that she actually is terrified despite her calm front. “I don’t know,” she whispers, “Maybe that I love you. More than anything. If this is what it’s like to have a soulmate, to feel like this, I��m glad I got it.”

Peter must have reacted strongly, because she holds up a hand to stop Peter’s response. “I know it’s bad timing, but I wanted to say it once. You have to do this, Peter. Not just for you but all of the Lost Boys, everyone you haven’t saved yet. Promise me, won’t you? Promise me you’ll find all the kids who need you. You’ll have all the time in the world to do it. Bring them home.”

“I promise,” Peter says hollowly.

Y/N jerks her head up and down, a trembling acceptance. “Alright, then.” She eyes him cautiously. “Do you think it’ll hurt?”

Yes, he wants to say. “I’ll try to make any pain as little as possible.” He owes her that much.

Y/N flashes him a quick smile that neither of them believe. “Do it.”

Peter stares at her, and before he can stop himself, he leans forward slightly and kisses her. It is a mistake in anyone’s book, but Peter can’t help it. It goes against his better judgment, his limited common sense, but it also gives him a rush from head to toe that he could not explain if he tried.

Y/N’s eyes are shut, which makes it easier. Peter plucks her heart from her chest as easily as if it were a single emerald leaf from a tree. Instantly, Y/N crumples to the ground. Peter looks at her body in a tangle of limbs on the floor of the cave, and he knows. He can’t do this. It is the only thing that will save his life, and it is too great a price to pay.

Within a second, Peter puts Y/N’s heart back in her chest. She still doesn’t stir, and Peter finds himself swept away on a tide of fear, utterly wracked with the horror that maybe he was too late, that his realization took just too long to come about. He kisses her again in the hopes that it might do something, anything. He’s heard that soulmates are supposed to have a special kind of magic in them; if the stories were true, if there is anything left to Y/N and Peter, let it go all to her. Let her wake up. Please.

Y/N lets out a shuddering gasp and sits up. Peter’s breath leaves him in a rush and he clutches her to him, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as if she’s giving him strength instead of the other way around.

“You’re alright,” he says weakly. It’s as much to reassure him as her.

Y/N shakes her head against his chest. “Didn’t it work? It should have worked, Peter.”

Peter pulls away briefly, unwillingly, so he can look at her again. He doesn’t know how much time he has left now, but he’d gladly spend the rest of them just watching the sun set in her eyes. “I couldn’t do it. I can’t kill you, Y/N.”

Y/N’s eyes widen. “No. No, you had to do this. You’re going to die.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I’ve lived a long time. You deserve your shot at life, just like me.”

Y/N opens her mouth to argue against this, and then she falls silent. Peter furrows his brow, confused at her sudden hesitation, and then he realizes that the entire room seems to be glowing. He turns around to see what Y/N’s looking at, and then he sees it and loses the ability to function.

The hourglass is glowing. As Peter watches, all of the grains that had been steadily collecting at the bottom fly up to the top, and this time, they stay there. Even after Peter waits, they refuse to fall. For some reason, he is no longer capable of dying, at least not through the steady progress of time that had once marked his centuries.

It must be the soulmate thing. It’s the only thing Peter can think of, that something must have come of the bond between him and Y/N. It’s funny, isn’t it, that Peter has spent all of this time running from the mere mention of a soulmate and now she’s the one to save his life?

He faces her once more, and this time, he lets himself smile back at her. “I think we’re alright.”

She laughs. Peter thinks he could listen to the sound on repeat for days at a time. “I think we’re more than alright, actually.”

For once, Peter does not have any cause to fear. He has his life, but more than that, he has his love. Love is not something to shun or hide, it makes him strong. He holds out a hand for Y/N and helps her up. They have a new life to lead, hundreds of thousands of lifetimes until time itself ceases to function. Peter thinks it’s just about enough time to get started.

requested by @hinayugi, i hope you enjoy!

ouat tag list: @lovesanimals0000, @amortensie, @w1shes43, @lost-ender

[triple-7-heaven]

Kill Switch - Interlude

a/n: had fun writing this little bit from lip's perspective, doesn't add any new events just a retelling of the story so far from her side; i enjoy perspective changes in my personal stories and drafts, hope you can enjoy too! the real next part is about half done and i'm off tomorrow so i'll probably have time to finish it :-) part 1 part 2 pairing: reader x kim lip; words: 1.7k ; categories: loona, kim lip, reader insert

Where is my mind?

On him. The stranger I rode with that night. It’s not rare to see another rider in these streets, but… He caught my eye. Even from far away. I’m not sure if it’s because I’d never seen him before, or because of his… Looks. The all-black sportbike, purring loud enough to let me know something illegal was going on inside of it. Those broad shoulders underneath a black textile jacket. And the matte black helmet and visor that hid his face for those few short moments before I finally saw him smiling at me. I thought it would be fun to play with him a bit. I watched him set his hands back on the grips, and when I knew he wasn’t looking, I tapped his kill switch, and left him behind.

Come on, play with me, play with me… 

Thankfully, he did. Chasing me down, screeching to a stop beside me at the next red light. My heart stopped when I saw his face. I don’t know what I was expecting, but… It wasn’t that. Just my type, pretty eyes, a cute laugh. 

"Haven't seen you around before," he said, a bit out of breath. It was true, as I’d never seen him either.

"Maybe I'm too fast for you," I said after thinking for a second. What a stupid, snarky thing to say… 

"Don't you get away from me before I can even ask your name," he said. The tone of his voice was hot when he said it. He revved a little when the light turned yellow. 

"That just makes me want to even more," I said. I didn’t mean it. Or maybe I did. We rode together at breakneck speeds for a long stretch, and the whole time, I thought about what to do next. 

I’m not really supposed to date, I guess I shouldn’t… But I want to. It can’t be that hard to keep a secret, right? No, it’s not worth it. I don’t even know him, what if he’s a weirdo? But he’s so cute… Dammit. 

I made the decision to lose him in the side streets. Knowing my bike could turn more sharply than his, I veered off to the right. I felt a pang in my chest when I saw him trying to search for me, but all I could do was head home. 

I came to regret it. In my free time, I searched for him. I figured if nothing else, we could be friends. But I should’ve known that wouldn’t be good enough. I imagined how his body looked underneath that jacket. I imagined how his hands, hardened by track riding and mechanic’s work, would feel moving down my body. I imagined how he’d see me, love me, instead of my idol’s image, how he’d care about me, take me to dinner, go on rides with me, come home with me… Okay, I got a little out of control. I constructed a perfect image of him in my head, created this man that I’d always wanted, packaged in the body of the man I saw that night. We all get out of control, I think, when we think we’ve gotten lucky. 

But time passed, and I still didn’t find him. I was terrified I’d lost him for good. I sulked. I rode the speed limit and didn’t take any fun, tight turns anymore. My fantasy continued as I pictured him searching for me, too; his moto-cinderella. Turns out it wasn’t a fantasy, and he found me after all. I took him to the prettiest place I could think of, so that maybe he would make a move on me there and create a good memory. 

"You caught me," I said. ‘Caught,’ like I was trying to hide, or something.

"Finally. Where have you been? Haven't seen you in a month," he said.

"What do you mean where have I been? You've been looking?" I teased. It made me feel so good to know he was thinking of me the whole time too. I couldn’t let him know I was searching so desperately for him, could I? He’d think it was weird.

"Well, no. I don't know. I go to that café a lot, the one you passed earlier, and I just figured you passed by there a lot, so I thought it was weird that I hadn't seen you," he said, exasperated. It was cute to see him stutter. Did I really make him that nervous? 

"I do, I always go by right after work. Maybe you're there at a different time?" I said. I took my jacket off to feel the cool nighttime air.

"Before I lose you again, for the love of God, tell me your name," he said. 

"Jungeun. Kim Jungeun," I said. He seemed relieved to hear it. 

"I can't lie to you, Jungeun... I have been looking for you. Ever since that one night. I know it's weird, but... I don't know. You're beautiful," he said abruptly. The blush on his face told me he regretted saying that much. I wordlessly passed him my phone to give me his KaTalk. I hoped he’d take the hint.

"I don't wanna keep you, it's getting late," I said. I looked at him expectantly, but he cast his glance away. He was fidgeting with his hands the whole time.

"Got work tomorrow... What about you?" he asked.

"Yeah, wish I didn't," I sighed. I curled up on the bench and yawned.

"What do you say we do something afterwards, then? It'll be Friday night, after all," he said. Perfect..! 

"That sounds pretty good to me. You'll message me?" I said. All according to plan. Well, except for the part where he was supposed to kiss me and confess his undying love for me. That could be rescheduled. He gave me a nod and a cute smile, so I headed out. 

Our first time hanging out was great. He did take me to dinner… We talked for hours and hours, and he shaped up to be exactly what I hoped for. He was just so shy. No matter how many signs I gave him, he never made any moves, not even holding my hand or kissing my cheek. I thought maybe it would happen when he took me back to his garage: still no. I thought it would happen when we watched a movie that following Sunday, but he seemed tense and nervous. 

And then I kind of… Accidentally ghosted him? I was slammed with so much work at one time, I could hardly find time to eat and sleep, let alone text my mysterious motorcycle-riding love interest. I felt awful about it, but every time I caught a break, all I could do was fall asleep. 

It was Friday night, and I had some time off. So I went out with my friends, bar hopping and forgetting about the week behind me, even forgetting about him after I got drunk enough. Some asshole guy from Hongdae stuck himself to my friend group, and my friends let it slide since they thought he was cute. He was particularly interested in me, talking to me when I clearly wasn’t listening, buying my drinks when I didn’t ask, then even touching me when I didn’t initiate it. I laughed along; why ruin the night for my friends by freaking out about something so small, right? As he pulled me into the next bar, I swear I saw him, my rider boy. My heart hurt. My head hurt. Everything hurt. I felt disgusting, like I was cheating on someone who I didn’t even belong to. I hoped to God it wasn’t him. But from the front of the bar near the open windows, I heard that engine, and a lump formed in my throat. 

“Jane, I think… I think I’m gonna head home,” I yelled over the noise and music, hoping my friend wouldn’t press me for more details, or press me to stay. 

“You okay?” she asked and stroked my arm. I just nodded, and quickly found a taxi on my phone before nearly running away from the bar. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. 

Did I just ruin it? Would he ever talk to me again? Fuck. The taxi driver was silent and I was too. As soon as the door to my apartment shut behind me, I burst into tears. My body felt filthy with that drunk asshole’s handprints all over it, but I couldn’t hardly enter the bathroom; I couldn’t bear to look at myself. After some hours of lying on the bathroom floor, I could finally take a deep breath without shaking. I pulled my phone out of my jeans, bunched up in a pile on the floor, and tapped on his name. 

[01:34]

jungeuniiie: sorry, busy week... was out with my friends tonight, i feel bad for answering so late! :-/

God, I hope he answers.

chickenstripper97: oh no problem haha

jungeuniiie: maybe we could hang out tomorrow night?

He sounded different. He must have seen me… Would it be too bold to ask him to hang out so soon?

chickenstripper97: ohh actually having a rough time lately, probably gonna stay in

jungeuniiie: oh okay, no problem. hope you feel better :-(

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. It was my fault. He was probably down and out because of what he saw. I never wanted him to feel like I didn’t want him, because I did. I wanted to know him, to figure him out, to learn who he was below the surface. I had to show him I cared somehow.

So the following day, I put together a small care package for him. It wasn’t much, just some snacks, but… I hoped it would give me an excuse to see him. I still had his address in my navigation history, so I plugged it in and took the short ride over that night. Was that creepy? Probably not. I knocked, but no answer. Maybe he was out riding or at the gym; he looked like he’d go to the gym. I left it there for him with a note so he knew it was from me. 

I want to love him. I want him to love me. Is it too soon to say that? Is it unwise to say such a thing about someone I don’t really know? Maybe if I took a chance, maybe if I listened to my intuition for once, instead of squeezing my eyes shut and waiting for the fear of rejection to pass, I could be happy. I just want to know what he’s thinking, but I bet he does, too. Why can’t we be more honest..?

[bluejayblueskies]

oh if you did a little something for jonmartin and "hiding their face in the other’s neck" i would be so 🥺💕

touches prompt list

a little post-circus kidnapping hurt/comfort! cw for wounds/injury, mild blood, mentions of non-consensual touching, and mentions of kidnapping

.

There is a stranger’s elbow digging into Jon’s side.

He shifts from one foot to the other, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his side while surreptitiously giving the stranger a glare that he hopes adequately conveys his dislike of the current situation. The tube is packed, as it always is at this time of day, and there are… so many strange hands. An elbow, at least, is better than the hand that had pressed to his back as the individual it belonged to had instinctively tried to maintain their balance.

After all, Nikola didn’t touch him with her elbows.

Jon doesn’t want to think about that. He doesn’t want to think about any of it. He wants to lie down in a soft bed and get his first good night’s sleep in a month and finally have the space to process. Alone.

Instead, Martin stands next to him on the train. His hand rests just beneath Jon’s where it grips one of the metal poles, and Martin takes care not to brush against him despite how crowded the car is. Jon considered telling Martin, when they first got on the tube, that it was okay—that his touch would be… well, it wouldn’t be bad. But he’d stayed silent, allowing Martin to cultivate a careful space between them. They’ve been silent for the past twenty minutes as they’ve passed by station after station on their way to Martin’s flat in Brixton.

“I have a flat,” Jon had said uncomprehendingly when Martin had suggested (or rather, gently begged) that Jon come back to his flat with him. “It’s, um. It’s nice. Spacious. S-sturdy locks.”

“You… you don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” Martin had said, sounding and looking very much like he wished Jon would anyway.

“I’m fine.” Jon was not fine. But he could be fine until he got back to his flat. It was always good to have a short-term goal.

Martin gave him a look that clearly said that he thought Jon was full of shit. Jon was, but it was still unnecessary. He was just trying to keep it together. What did Martin want—him sobbing and crumpling to the floor right here in the Archives? No, that wouldn’t do at all.

“You were kidnapped. Twice now. I really don’t want it to happen a third time. Besides, I…” Martin trailed off and fluttered his hands at his sides. “I—I should take a look at your hand. And your, um. Wrists.”

Jon looked down at his arms. They were, indeed, quite red and raw and scabbed over and likely to scar. Nikola had been irritated when she’d seen that he’d been tied up so tightly, but she’d decided there was nothing to be done about it. She would just ‘make do with what she had.’ And, well. She had never stopped Breekon and Hope when they’d cinched the ropes just a little bit tighter each time.

“I have first aid supplies in my flat,” Jon lied. He was fairly certain that he had a backpack of What the Ghost merchandise and a single mattress to his name at the moment. “I can take care of it.”

“So can I.” Martin took a deep breath. “I just… I don’t want to see you hurt, Jon.” His cheeks were flushed a rosy pink, and he looked over Jon’s shoulder at the wall behind him. “J-just for tonight, at least? I want…” Martin swallowed. “I want to make sure you’re safe.”

And then Martin had turned those lovely blue eyes to his, and, well. Here they are.

Jon adds 24 hours onto his mental countdown of the time he has left until he’s allowed to break down and tells himself that he can manage. It’s… important to have long-term goals as well. He splits this one into steps.

Step one: get to Martin’s flat without crying. He achieves this easily enough. He finally escapes the cloying presence of strangers as Martin’s door shuts behind them, and then it’s blissfully quiet. Martin flips on a light, illuminating the space in pale yellow. It’s a little bit messy but otherwise spartan. The walls are painted a dull eggshell white, the floor made of cheap lino. Martin sits Jon down on the couch and disappears into the bathroom. Jon stares at the wall and focuses on breathing evenly and thinking about anything other than how smooth his skin feels when he slowly rubs his fingers together.

Step two: let Martin bandage his wounds without crying. This is… more challenging, if only because it hurts. Martin apologizes profusely as he wets a cotton ball with isopropyl alcohol and gently cleans the inflamed areas. Jon sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down, focusing on anything other than the stinging, burning sensation in his wrists and hands. Funny—he’d thought that at this point, he would be used to the pain, but he’s not. All he knows now is what to expect.

Martin carefully wraps his hand and wrists in bandages. For a moment after he’s done, he delicately holds Jon’s hands in his like they’re porcelain. His hands are warm and soft, and Jon imagines how lovely they would feel against his cheeks. He thinks briefly that Martin is going to raise his unbandaged hand to his lips and lay a kiss across the back of it, but Martin doesn’t. Instead, he sets Jon’s hands back in his lap and stands, mumbling that he’s going to go make some tea.

Jon scrubs his uninjured hand across his eyes, just once.

Step three: sit on the couch with Martin and drink tea without crying. Martin presses a mug of steaming chamomile into his good hand and lays a plate of biscuits between them. “Th-they’re your favorite,” Martin says with a small, nervous laugh, like Jon’s not already staring at the plate with something choked sitting in the back of his throat. “I—I figured you probably haven’t really eaten today, and… I don’t really know what you’ve eaten lately. So, um. Yeah.”

Jon thinks of the things that Nikola had called food, then chooses not to think of them at all. He tucks the memory into a box next to cold hands and exposed skin and burning ropes and slams the lid before it can all come spilling back out again. “Thank you,” he says earnestly. He gingerly takes a biscuit in his stiff, aching hand that hasn’t had the time to heal properly and probably won’t get the chance to do so in the future and pops it into his mouth whole so he doesn’t get crumbs on Martin’s couch.

Step four: eat a biscuit that tastes like the best biscuit you’ve ever had and is the first palatable food you’ve had in weeks without crying.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks and comes back to himself. He’s staring blankly at Martin’s face, at eyebrows folded in concern and mouth curled into a small frown. Martin’s freckles are smudged into smears of tan, and the lines of his jaw waver like a mirage in front of Jon’s eyes. That’s odd, Jon thinks. Then, he feels something wet hit the top of his cheek.

Oh, no.

Quickly, Jon reaches up and scrubs the tears away from his eyes. As soon as he lowers his hand, more spring up in their place. He curses and sets his mug of tea down heavily on the table, taking one more look at Martin—whose eyes are now wide with worry—before turning away and attempting to pull himself together.

Step five: stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

(Stop crying, his grandmother says as he stands in the living room, hands and knees dirty and hair a mess. He’s managing to say words between his sobs, words like book and stole and spider. She’s frowning at him, but her voice is still patient and calm when she says, You’re not making any sense, Jonathan. Stop crying, please, and speak clearly. You had a nightmare?)

“Jon, what’s—” Martin catches himself, which Jon is thankful for. He thinks that if Martin had finished that question—asked him what’s wrong—Jon wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from saying, what isn’t? “What can I do to help?” he says instead, a hand hovering carefully in the air between them like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch Jon or not.

“Don’t look,” Jon manages to say. He immediately feels ridiculous and follows with a quick: “S-sorry, it’s—I don’t k-know how to—I’m not—I’m n-not good at—”

“I’m not looking,” Martin says softly.

Jon cuts off, takes a breath, and turns his head back toward Martin. True to his word, Martin has his eyes closed, though his hand remains in the air between them. Jon presses his good hand to his mouth for a moment to hide how the sight rips a new, more ragged sob out of him. Then, tentatively, he reaches forward and takes Martin’s hand.

Martin inhales sharply. Jon almost lets go, but Martin curls his fingers around Jon’s hand and squeezes. He holds Jon’s hand tightly yet so achingly softly, and Jon could weep. (Or rather, is weeping.)

“Can I hug you?” Martin says abruptly, like he’d been fighting an internal battle about whether or not to say it and had just lost. His cheeks darken, but he doesn’t say anything else or take it back. His jaw shifts as he pinches his lips together and worries them back and forth.

Jon is… not the kind of person who initiates or seeks out hugs. He always makes them too stiff, or he holds on just a bit too long and makes them awkward, or he doesn’t know what to do with his hands and ends up just dangling them uselessly in the air. He’s also never really seen the point of them if he’s being honest. As a form of greeting, surely handshakes or waves or head nods get the point across just fine. Right now, though, there is truly nothing in the world that Jon thinks would make him feel safer than having Martin’s arms around him.

Jon nods, then remembers that Martin can’t see him and whispers, in as composed a voice as he can muster: “Please.”

Step six: hug Martin Blackwood without falling apart completely.

Martin’s arms are soft and warm around him. His chest is flush with Jon’s, and he’s holding him so close that Jon is practically on Martin’s lap. All Jon can think is that it’s been so long since he’s been held by something not made of sawdust or plastic. He grips the back of Martin’s jumper with lotion-soft hands and cries tears that have been collecting for a month into the fabric as he buries his face in Martin’s neck. Martin’s hands rub large circles across Jon’s back, and he’s whispering gentle words into Jon’s ear. Things about safe and okay and time and here.

By the time Jon feels thoroughly wrung dry, his cheeks are sticky and his head is throbbing and he’s desperately in need of a glass of water. He takes a few deep breaths, then carefully extracts himself from Martin’s arms. Martin lets him go easily, though his hands remain resting lightly on Jon’s elbows as if he can’t bear to let him go completely.

Jon thinks he knows the feeling.

Martin’s eyes are still closed, and Jon is hit with such a swell of affection he can hardly breathe around it. “Y-you can open your eyes,” he says, a bit sheepishly. Martin does, and if he’s affected by the state of Jon’s face, he doesn’t show any indication of it. “Sorry,” Jon mumbles, twisting his ring—now on his left middle finger instead of his right—around and around mindlessly. “I just…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s elbows gently. “I understand. Any time you need me to look away, I will. Okay? I just…” He takes a breath. “I’ll always be here. F-for you when you need me.”

If Jon weren’t thoroughly out of tears, that would make his eyes water. Instead, he nods and offers a small, weak smile. “I know. Thank you, Martin. It… just. Thank you.”

Step seven: fall asleep safe against Martin’s side in the bed that he insists is big enough for two, face pressed into Martin’s neck once again and hands curled loosely in Martin’s sleep shirt.

He’s so drained by the time they’re there, so wrung-out and empty and relaxed, that he manages to do so almost immediately. He thinks he hears Martin murmur, “Sleep well, love,” as he drifts off. But it disappears into the fuzzy border between sleep and wakefulness, slipping from Jon’s mind entirely as he fades to black.

[my-tin-can-mans]

She Knows Part 2, (Wolffe x Reader)

OH BOY. First I'm sorry this took me so long I've been busy with college. But! this is the longest fic or anything really I've written so wow. Hopefully you enjoy.

Warnings: angst, mentions of Alcohol, mentions of cheating slight smut (minors do not interact or read).

Note: italics are flashbacks

“So, what do you usually do during leave?” the question threw you a little of guard. You’d been stationed with the 501st for four months now, four months since you’d broke it off with Wolffe after… everything. You had been the head medic in the 104th battalion, but quickly put in a request for a transfer after the humiliation Wolffe had put you through. The only position available was with the 501st, working under their head medic, Kix. It was a demotion sure, but honestly it took a lot of stress of your shoulders and well, anything to get away from the situation you were in.

Working with Kix almost 24/7 forced you two to grow close and form a close relationship. It was more of a brotherly/sisterly love than anything else, though others saw how well you two had worked together and insisted you would make a good couple, you both were comfortable where you were, which you were grateful for, it was nice to have a friend as kind and understanding as Kix.

Tomorrow the whole battalion would be stationed on Coruscant, the general had some jedi duties to attends to and the war was at a standstill for the moment, giving the men time to relax instead of being thrown under another general for a while.

You had been checking bacta supplies when Kix happened to spring this question on you. Freezing your hand in motion as you had begun to type up an order to restock while planet side. You’d never actually had a leave without Wolffe. Most of the time on leave was spent in that dark corner of 79’s, the other half in a hotel bed.

“Mesh’la, come on, up. I promised the men we’d meet them tonight for a round.”

“But I don’t wanna go Wolffe can’t we just stay here? The sheets are so soft and I don’t feel like wearing clothes.” You’d whined.

“I already told them we would be there, now come up before I drag you out of bed.”

“you wouldn’t,” you peeked your head out from under the covers, narrowing you eyes at him, he stood at the foot of the bed, wearing his blacks sans shirt. He himself had just untangled from you and the sheets. How he had the willpower to do so you had no clue. He dawned his famous predatory smirk on his face

“Are you questioning my word Mesh’la, because you know I always keep my word.” He took a step forward, his thighs now touching the mattress.

“of course not Wolffe,” you gave him a sweet smile, “but I bet I could change your mind.”

“oh?” he raised an eyebrow. “do tell.” He placed his hand on either side of your feet, leaning over the bed

“why don’t you come up here and find out.”

With one swift move Wolffe was on top of you now and you brought your hands to his face pulling him in and kissing him, it was rough and passionate, you really didn’t want to leave and you wanted him to know that, hoping he would see how desperate you were and decide to stay. But after a few moments he pulled back, looking down at you with that damn smirk again, “that was quite convincing.”

Before you could retort anything Wolffe had left from his position on top of you, yanking you up to your feet in the process, “but unfortunately like a said before, I am a man of my word and I already gave it to my brothers, sorry mesh’la but you’ll have to show me your negotiating skills another time, I promise ill make up for it.”

“To be honest Kix I’ve never really done much with my leave time, ya know? I just kinda destress and go out every once in a while.”

“Oh? Well do you have any plans for our first night off then? Me and a couple of the boys are gonna be at 79’s if you’d like to join.”

The mention of 79’s made your heart skip a beat. You hadn’t been back there since you’d found out about Wolffe. “I don’t know Kix,” you sighed, 79’s was a clone bar, and also a favorite hangout spot for the man you had been trying to forget about.

“oh come on, you think Jesse’s a horrible flirt now, just wait till you see him drunk, you’ll be laughing so hard your stomach will be sore in the morning.”

You snorted a laugh in response, Jesse and you were also pretty close, but he was notorious for always trying out stupid pick-up lines on you, he took every opportunity he could to flirt with you, even when he had gotten injured and you were stitching him up, “you look so pretty when your concentrated.” He had said.

But the issue at hand still itched in the back of your mind, what if Wolffe was there? Going back to your holopad, typing up the order you were previously working on to make yourself seem less concerned about your next question you asked him, “the 104th isn’t on leave right now are they?”

“no I don’t think so, why?” Kix had since turned around focusing on organizing medical supplies to help you order.

“Nothing, just, ya know making sure.” You’d told Kix about what happened between you and Wolffe. Just about every clone knew you two were dating, Wolffe always had to make it known you were his. So Obviously everyone was curious as to what had happened.

He turned and looked at you, realizing what you meant, “Oh Kriff, this is your first leave without him isn’t it?”

You nodded, too afraid, after months of finally getting yourself together you didn’t want to revert back to breaking down again.

“Hey listen, if you don’t want to be there I understand. But maybe it would help ya know? We’ll all be wasted you’ll totally forget about him I promise we’ll have a good time.”

It was very convincing, you’d seen the 501stparty and 79’s before, they went hard, unlike Wolffe who was usually more private and reserved. That didn’t mean you two still didn’t have fun in your own way on leave.

Much to your dismay you’d put on a dress and Wolffe had dragged you to 79’s anyways. The second you’d stepped into the place the music and dark lighting consumed you. It was loud tonight. The 501st was celebrating a successful occupy over a separatist world and you could tell. The blue armor was spread throughout the crowd, some at the bar hitting on the women already occupying it, and some on the dance floor.

You wished Wolffe danced more with you, you loved to dance but he only ever accompanied you once, and that was after a drinking competition with Thorne who was hard to beat. He didn’t even remember it in the morning.

Without a second glance to all the men, Wolffe grabbed your wrist and led you back to the booth he always sat at. Instead of the usual commanders, Sinker and Boost sat there awaiting their commanders arrival after being promised a drink with him. You slid into the booth and Wolffe sat right up against you.

He was broad so he took up most of the space, he always presented himself in such a way that he was always there, chest puffed out, shoulders broadened and head held high. When he got situated he spread his legs, taking up more space and knocked his with yours. The two of you practically sat in each other’s lap with how close you were to each other. he placed his hand on your thigh, resting just below the sundress you and reluctantly put on earlier.

It was a last resort to get him to stay in with you. It was his favorite. The first time he saw you in it he’d practically kneeled before you, although you were sure he was just trying to get a peak underneath.

Four shots were already at the table when you two had arrived and Sinker, who was sitting in front of you, had passed one your way while Wolffe grabbed his own downing it without even flinching.

As the night drove on, the men began to become tipsy and Wolffe’s hand grew higher and higher. It was when Boost was at the climax of telling you a story from before you had signed on with them that Wolffe finally breeched your center, rubbing his index finger over the already wet spot in your panties.

You jumped, not expecting him to be so bold as to touch you in front of his men. You turned to look at him but he was looking straight on at Boost, absolutely engrossed in the story he was telling. Without making eye contact he leaned over, giving you a small peck on your temple, while at the same time, he pushed you underwear over to the side and slipped a finger into you.

His face was flushed, from the alcohol or the devious act he was performing you couldn’t tell. It was probably a mix of both. Wolffe rarely showed PDA in public especially in front of him men. So you were practically in shock with what was happening right now.

You went to grab a sip of your drink while he slowly pumped his finger a few times before deciding to add another. You let out a chocking noise.

“Hey you okay?” Sinker seemed concerned at your reaction.

“Yeah, yeah just fine, drink must’ve gone down the wrong piper there” you tried to play it off.

He bought it just fine, resuming the conversation that had started up after Boost’s story. When you turned to look at Wolffe again he was wearing that shit eating grin he often dawned and maker you wanted to wipe it clean off.

When Sinker and Boost were distracted enough, Wolffe leaned into you, “come on now mesh’la, I did say I'd make it up to you, and as I recall we’ve already proved I’m a man of my words.”

“Well I guess a few drinks wouldn’t hurt.” You thought back to all the times you’d seen blue armor on the dance floor and envied the fact you hadn’t been there as well, “but I better get a couple of dances out of you guys”

Kix chuckled, “I can promise you, if you stop by for long enough those men will be fighting over who gets to dance with you next.”

You bellowed out a laugh at that. The thought of Jesse, tup and the rest fighting over you was quite the scenario. “Just comm me what time you boys are gonna be there at.”

He nodded his head in agreement, both of you chatting lightly about other topics as you finished the order.

****************************************************

The ship had landed a few hours ago, longing for a good night’s sleep you had left the barracks for the stay, packing up your necessities and checking into a hotel a few blocks out of the main traffic for some peace and quiet.

As you were getting ready for your night at 79’s Kix had sent you a comm message, letting you know they were on their way and would be arriving in 10 minutes. All you had left to do was dress yourself. You rummaged through the bag of clothes you had. It wasn’t much, mostly GAR issued scrubs and a few dresses. You heart stopped when you saw the dress though. The one that was always Wolffe’s favorite. You picked it out, holding it up so you could see the whole thing.

Kriff. This dress brought back so many memories. It almost hurt to look at it. if you were being completely honest with yourself though, you did look damn good in it. screw it you thought. Time to make better memories in it.

After you slipped the dress on you hailed an air taxi to 79’s once inside you scanned the bar, looking for the men who were going to take up your evening. You spotted them at the bar ordering drinks and from the looks of it Jesse was already on his shit and flirting with the bartender.

You walked up to them and their heads turned. Jesse let out a whistle, “Damn, look at you! If I didn’t know any better I'd say you were trying to entice me.”

Kix shook his head at that. Putting his face into his palm. Tup who happened to be standing beside Jesse elbowed him to which Jesse frowned at. “Could you not flirt with my favorite medic?” he turned to you, “you look nice by the way, but not in a creepy I want to get with you way like he meant.”

You let out a giggle. You were already having a great time and you hadn’t even been in the building for five minutes. You took a seat at the bar between Kix and Jesse, Tup to the other side of him.

As the night ticked by you happened to get pretty tipsy, never getting truly drunk for fear you couldn’t make it back to your hotel safely. The men held their alcohol well though and although they were drinking twice as much, they were probably the same level intoxicated as you were. You all stayed at the bar, cracking jokes and telling insane stories, often Jesse would flirt with you or the bartender but it wasn’t too much and you both welcomed the light heartedness attention he gave.

An hour in you heard a voice behind you, “Hope I didn’t miss too much.” You swiveled in the bar seat, turning around to be face to face with the captain of the 501st.

“Captain!” Kix exclaimed, “what took you so long?”

“Sorry boys had a few reports I needed to fill out before the night ended.”

“Well, were glad you here now.” You said.

You got up to give the captain a hug. Something you defiantly wouldn’t do sober, but the alcohol had given you a little confidence. Rex looked surprised by the affection but embraced you anyways. He leaned down and you put your chin over his shoulder patting him on the back staying like that for a second.

It was then that you wished you hadn’t hugged Rex, hadn’t drank as much to give you a confidence boost, and hadn’t stepped a foot in this maker forsaken bar again.

He sat there, in the seat he always sat in when he came here. Only this time he wasn’t with any of his troopers or the other commanders. This time he was with another girl. She was a purple Twi'lek and she was drop dead gorgeous. And the dress she was wearing, or lack thereof because of how tiny it was , made you look like you had just picked yours straight out of the garbage. And you couldn’t help but wonder.

Was that her?

“Kriff Wolffe, what the actual Kriff!” you screamed, you didn’t care about the other guests in the hotel, you were so mad you were practically seeing stars.

“I'm sorry mesh’la I'm sorry I'm so so sorry.”

“No. No! don’t you dare call me that right now. I can’t – I don’t even have words for you right now.”

“please, please let me explain,”

You whipped you head around to him, seeing a whole new layer of red. “Explain? What is there to explain Wolffe. You cheated on me then proceeded to not tell me while apparently everyone else knew and I found out through one of your brothers! Isn’t that enough of an explanation.”

You sat down on the bed, head in hands. He kneeled down in front of your feet. Placing his hands atop of your knees. “I'm sorry.” He whispered. You slapped his hands off you, the thought of him touching you after another woman practically revolted you.

“you already said that.”

“I know, and I mean it I am, it was a mistake, I- if I could take it back I would, Maker I- I hate myself for letting it happen.”

“you should hate yourself.”

“I do, I do. Please, tell me what I can do to make this better.”

For a man who was supposed to be well tactical he kept making all the wrong moves.

“Wolffe there is no making this better. What’s done is done and now it's time to move on.” you finally made your decision, after debating back and forth in the air cab on how to react.

“Yes of course let’s move on, it was in the past but I love you Mesh’la I want you that’s all.”

Kriff that’s not what you meant. “No Wolffe, I mean I’m moving on. from you. I- I can’t continue to be with someone who has done what you’ve done. It's- it's not fair to me.”

By this point tears were strolling down your face. You turned your head to wipe them, not wanting him to see how much he had broke you. “no, no please I- I love you please we can fix this we can work this out please just stay I- I need you.”

“I love you too Wolffe, but there is no fixing this. I loved you so much that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, I gave you everything thing, I gave you all of me and you took that and you stomped on it, you might as well of placed my heart in a dumpster and set it on fire.”

He put his head in your lap. A single tear rolling down his face. “please, please don’t go, I'm so sorry.”

“I know Wolffe. But I can’t accept your apology.”

Your head was pounding. He wasn’t supposed to be on Coruscant right now. Kix had said so himself. You pulled back from Rex. He placed his hands on your shoulders his face blocking the view of him. He smiled warmly but his expression quickly changed when he saw yours.

“you look like you’ve seen a ghost” he joked.

But you facial expression didn’t lighten, in fact it only got worse. With every waking second, every harsh beat of whatever hit song was playing over the speakers you drew yourself inwards more and more.

“hey hey what wrong?” Kix had left his seat at the bar quickly coming to your side. Him and Rex both dawned a look of concern.

“You said he wouldn’t be here.” You turned to Kix, channeling you emotions onto him.

He looked confused at first, but the realization hit him and he turned his head to look over Rex’s shoulder. Rex followed his line of vision and they both saw him. Sitting there in the booth, while the woman clung to him, practically in his lap.

She was kissing his neck, which honestly surprised you, Wolffe was never one for public displays of affection. Or maybe that was just with you. Because he seemed to be enjoying this.

Rex turned around to face you again, a look of panic and empathy on his face, “Kriff I'm so sorry I- he was on a solo mission with General Koon and they’re stationed here for the night so I told him I’d be here. I'm so sorry, it was an honest mistake.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d heard that from a man in this room.

You felt like the whole room was spinning, be that the alcohol or the nervousness and upset that came with seeing him again you weren’t sure. All the men you had come here with were suddenly surrounding you with sympathetic looks and it felt like someone had placed a spotlight on you and you just wanted it to go away.

This night was meant to help you forget him, be happy and have fun with your new assigned battalion. Kriff was the so much to ask for!

“hey hey come on now,” Jesse finally broke the silence, “forget about him! If I remember correctly I promised you a dance earlier?”

This made you finally break out of your trance. You needed a distraction, and had been waiting for someone to dance with all night.

“actually I would love to Jesse.”

“right this way then”

He held out his hand for you and took you to the dance floor. The song that was playing was loud and upbeat, you and Jesse moved together to the beat, it was fun and you really enjoyed it, when the beat of the song dropped everyone on the dance floor was jumping to it, you and Jesse did the same

When the song stopped, you were practically out of breath, you let out a laugh of relief, actually feeling a little better. You looked up are Jesse and he was smiling at you.

“Feeling better, huh?” he asked.

“A little, thank you.”

A few second later another song had come on. This time it was more slow, the partners on the dance floor started to grab each other.

Jesse grabbed your waist. “Come on huh? let’s give that son of a blaster something to look at, plus this might be the only time I get to be this close to you, despite my attempts” he smirked at you.

You nodded your head, letting out a giggle at his lame excuse to flirt with you again. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he pulled you in closer, your chest practically touching his. And finally you both started to sway to the beat.

A few seconds in Jesse started rubbing his thumbs on your hips, trying to calm your nerves, and it worked. Caught up in the music you started to lightly grind your hips into his, although it was soft guarded by his armor, he still took notice to it. smirking at you and grinding in time with you. His hands started to rise, growing closer and closer to under your breasts, but never reaching, knowing he would be crossing a line, and although Jesse was a flirt, his last intention was to make anyone uncomfortable.

He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck. You could feel his breathe on your skin, and his nose rubbing up and down. He placed a soft his on your shoulder and the next thing you knew you were being turned around. His hand were back on your waits, but his cheat was now pressed up against your back. He gave you a harsh grind into your ass and you gasped. His arms now wrapping around you, pulling you impossibly tight into him. His head resumed its spot into your neck.

“is this okay,” he whispered into your ear.

“yeah.” You breathed. He kissed you neck this time. but it was just one short one, it was slow, and hot, you closed your eyes. he placed them all the way up your neck, all the way up to your jaw. All the way close to your mouth, and he whispered again, is this okay.

You nodded your head, eyes still closed and you turned you head towards him a little encouraging him. And his lips met yours.

You hadn’t kissed very many people. Wolffe giving you the majority of your experience. and although they were clones, they felt completely different. When Wolffe used to kiss you he practically stole your breath, he put everything he had into kissing you, and it was almost always hot and it made your insides flip, no matter how many times he kissed you, you always felt dizzy and perfectly happy, like his kissed could cure any problemed you had. To say Jesse was a bad kisser would be a lie, it was a good kiss, but it almost made you feel the opposite, all you could think about was Wolffe.

And when the song ended and you opened your eyes you were facing him again. Him. And he was sitting there with his lounge practically down the woman’s throat. And it hurt, hurt to know that he didn’t even acknowledge you. Hadn’t even cared that the person he once begged to stay with was with someone else now. Even though you weren’t actually. It hurt that he used to kiss you like that and now he was kissing someone else like that.

you weren’t sure if it was the beginning of the next song, or if your head was going fuzzy, but all you could hear was ringing in your ears. Jesse had unwrapped his hands from around you and the moment he did you sprang towards the doors of 79’s.

you heard the faint sounds of Jesse, rex and Kix calling out for you but you couldn’t be bothered to hear what any of them had to say. You left the building and walked a few blocks. Finally coming across an empty alley. You pressed you back against the cool metal of the building you were beside and let out a breathe. The air was cool and crisp against your skin, but it felt good.

After all the time you spent forgetting about him you were practically back at square one. And it pissed you off. How dare he have this effect on you.

You let out a sigh, gathering your emotions. And when you finally felt calm enough you went to comm Kix, letting him know you’d be going back to your hotel for the rest of the night, but you were interrupted.

“Mesh’la.”

ending notes: soooo, im not sure if im gonna do another part on this or not, i have some ideas for other fics but im kinda cramped on time at the moment so we shall see.

Tags

@fandom-garbage @dionysuskid21

[mercy-burning]

Connection - BLURB

Couldn’t get this concept out of my head, so you really have @spenciebabie and the anon from that post to thank for this 🤩

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: SMUT (18+) Warnings: mutual masturbation, cum eating Word Count: 1.3k

MASTERLIST

You knew he wasn't sleeping. You weren't either, for that matter, and you were pretty sure you were both awake for the same reasons.

Within the past few years it had become blatantly obvious that you and Spencer were in love with each other. And until about a month ago, you were the only ones who hadn't picked up on it. Coincidentally, you both had the realization at about the same time, which was why the past month had been awkward as hell.

It's not that you avoided each other, but you certainly avoided compromising positions. When being paired together for a case, you were careful to stay somewhat apart, because every time his hand brushed yours, your insides turned to utter mush. You also tried to stray away from looking at his hands, because... well, they were distracting, and that was putting it lightly.

Likewise, Spencer seemed to distance himself from you in almost every way whenever he could. Especially eye contact. When you'd briefly meet his eyes, his cheeks burned hot, and he averted his gaze instantly. Over time he'd learned to limit his free time looking at you in wonder, and saved it for the little moments he was sure you weren't going to catch him— Like when you were highly caught up in a conversation with JJ about the last episode of that medical drama you watched together every Friday night, your face lighting up and your pretty fingers pointing in every direction to make your points. Or when you had your earbuds in, softly singing along to whatever tune was putting you in a better mood.

Needless to say, you should have figured your team would find any excuse to get you to admit your feelings to each other, which was why you were both awake on opposite sides of a motel bed in Toledo.

Had you been a little smarter, you probably would have packed night clothes that left more to the imagination, but since it was always just you and JJ sharing a room, you were now wearing a thinner than thin tank top, and shorts that barely reached the bottom of your ass. You knew it was probably killing him to be this close to you at all, so you even put on one of your work blazer over your arms, telling him it was too cold and that it would warm you up. He'd opened his mouth and started to speak, but then his eyes widened for a second, like he realized something, and he shook his head with a soft mumble of, "Never mind..."

You didn't know this, but he was about to offer you one of his sweaters. And upon realizing that seeing you wear his clothes would end up giving him a near heart attack more than seeing you in your own, he decided it would have been a safer bet to let you keep your blazer on.

Unfortunately—or conveniently, depending on you you wanted to see it—the thermostat in the room was broken, and it was hot. Especially under the covers, and with the blazer on. You'd ended up taking it off anyway, after about a half hour of tossing and turning.

You and Spencer were both laying on your backs, staring at the ceiling, though you could just barely make out his hands from the corner of your eye as they fiddled nervously.

And because you stupidly couldn't help yourself, you turned your head to look at him. Seeing only the outline of his body from the moonlight filtering through the blinds, he never looked more mysterious... Like some entity that was just out of reach but that you wanted so desperately. He enticed you in a way you couldn't explain, more so now that you could clearly see his hands were attempting not only to keep themselves busy, but to cover something up.

But... You had to have been imagining that, right?

Apparently not, because then his hands moved up to his chest, ever so slowly, revealing a small tent in the sheets.

You couldn't help the gasp that fell from your lips, less out of shock and more out of absolute desire.

Spencer turned his head then, and his hands froze. You thought maybe he would have apologized profusely, trying to explain away what happened, but instead he surprised you by being silent. Soft lines of light illuminated the side of his face, and you could barely see his right eye as it stared into yours. You bit your lip and his gaze flicked down to see it, and his hands twitched.

You couldn't explain why, but your hand wandered under the sheets, your lower half aching in a way you hadn't felt in so long. And even though you were staring directly at Spencer, that didn't stop you. It probably should have, but if anything it made you burn hotter.

Turns out, he was in the same mindset— his hand shifted under the sheets almost immediately after yours did. The thought of what you were about to do sent a twitch throughout your whole body, made even more intense as your hand lightly brushed over your stomach and down past the waistband of your shorts. Your eyes were locked on Spencer's face, though in your peripheral, you noticed his hand slithering down his body through the sheets, until it reached the tent that formed there.

The moment your finger brushed over your clit, you whimpered, searing pleasure coursing through your body. You ran your finger gently through your folds to gather proper lubrication before bringing it back up to your clit, watching intently as Spencer's hand moved slowly up and down under the sheets.

Your eyes never left each other, the two of you keeping each other company in the most delectable way possible. Gradually your paces started to pick up, and you were both swept up in a cacophony of sinful wetness and whines and heavy breathing that only added to your pleasure.

You came first, staring deep into his eyes as your fingers nursed your clit through orgasm. Your hips rolled up into your hand as you panted and whined, and even as you came down, you noticed Spencer's hand was still moving quickly. His lip was tucked tightly between his teeth, and his eyes were hungry, like he was just on the precipice.

An idea came quickly, leading you to remove your hand from your shorts and bring it up to your mouth. You winked at Spencer, just before sticking your tongue out and slipping your finger inside. You sucked it clean, moaning out around it and reveling in the taste of yourself as he choked out a groan and finally found release. He stuttered a bit, like he was refraining from saying something in the heat of the moment, and by the first syllable, you knew immediately that it was your name.

You watched as he came down, how his eyes softened and his lip released itself from the grip of his teeth. But what took you by surprise was how he mirrored you, bringing his hand back up and staring you dead in the eye as he licked it clean. That heat pooling between your legs returned, and you clenched your thighs together in an attempt to suppress it, watching his tongue dart out to collect the cum coating his skin.

When he was finished, his hand dropped down to his chest, and you remained staring at each other, small smiles forming between you that said more than enough. The magic that you two had created just then sent over this new wave of confession—of connection—that was definitely going to make it harder to stay away.

Not that either of you minded.

***

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[cursestothemoon]

Hi Charly! Could you do a headcannon about Fred and his virgin girlfriend having sex for the first time? But she’s feeling self conscious because he’s more experienced and she’s worried about not being as good as his past partners not me projecting or anything 🙃

as a virgin who cant drive this request really resonates with me

welcome to the fred show pew pew

ill stop.

17+ IF YOU ARE TAGGED AND DON’T WANT TO BE TAGGED IN SMUT PLEASE LET ME KNOW

warnings:NSFW, vaginal penetration, loss of virginity, fingering

ok so

first i wanna get into fred before you came around

his sex life specifically

i think fred likes to have fun

nothing wrong with that

so yeah he's been around the block

a few times

so he knows what he's doing when it comes to sex

he takes pride in how good he is honestly

but i also think his first time wasn't all that

he probably lost his virginity rather young

14 maybe 15

the girl was 16 maybe 17

and he kind of pressured himself to lose his virginity after hearing his amazingly cool older brothers talking about 'this bird i shagged...'

it was bill

and fred loves bill

idolizes bill

so in his efforts to be just like him he had to lose his virginity

which he did

but he was beyond nervous and fidgety

he's almost certain the girl felt so bad she lied and said she finished when really he was in there for two minutes TOPS

but he got better over time

also he made sure that the person he was with finished first because he's still a little embarrassed abut that first time

george is the only person who knows about his first time, he didn't want anyone else to know

ESPECIALLY bill

anyway

so by the time you guys start dating fred is very experienced in the bedroom

you are not

you are a virgin

thats ok

😌

i feel like fred would just assume your not a virgin if you didn't tell him otherwise

because 1) you are drop dead gorgeous and could get it literally any time you wanted

and 2) he just assumes everyone does it unless told otherwise

you would be talking one day and somehow your first times would come up and fred would go beet red and admit how terrible it was for him

and then you'd kinda just 🙂

because you don't have a first time story

fred would not catch on at first

he would be very confused

then you'd go pink and come out with it

"...i'm a virgin, freddie."

he was honestly surprised

but once he noticed how genuinely uncomfortable you were admitting it, like it was something bad

he'd go into protective, comforting freddie mode

would go above and beyond to tell you that it wasn't a bad thing at ALL and he wishes he would've waited

and then he goes

"now that i know, i'm going to make sure your first time is amazing, love."

then he'd kinda just pause and go red again as he thought about what he said

"i mean, assuming you'd want your first time to be with me. totally cool if not, but i reckon that would be rather odd considering we are dating... unless you are breaking up with me...wait don't break up with me."

you'd just giggle and pull him into a kiss

"i want my first time to be with you, only you."

"i am so glad we are on the same page."

ok fred would go ALL OUT to make sure your first time was amazing

unforgettable

and you ARE finishing.

it would be over summer

you're staying at the burrow for the next month

and fred has it all planned out

you had told him you were ready a few weeks ago and he told you he wanted to surprise you for your first time

so you've just been waiting

he'd set up a cute little tent in the meadows of the burrow

string up some lights in the trees

plethora of blankets and pillows in said tent

wait i forgot their tents are like huge inside

aW WAIT IT WOULD BE LIKE A WHOLE CUTE LITTLE ROOM

STOP🥺

anyway

he'd have some food

some water

many condoms

he's so excited

oK so the sun would just be setting

and fred says he has something to show you outside

he also knows with a full house no one is going to come looking for you two, but just in case george knows the plan and is there for damage control just in case

so you go out with fred and hes practically skipping and hes all giggly

and you are starting to feel his giddiness so you guys are just this giggly mess together

then he gets to the spot

the sex tent

and it's beautiful

you are blown away

and he is just so happy seeing you happy

so you guys eat a little

talk

have some fun

he will feed you food to be romantic

you will get a grape dropped down your shirt

fun times all around

and then your eyes kinda lock

and his are all crinkly from laughing

his freckles just a bit more prominent in the summer season

you are suddenly hit with this intense feeling of love

how much you are in love with him

how much he's in love with you

and you're sure you've never been more ready than you are right now

fred is feeling floaty

you are looking at him with this look in your

and it makes him feel all warm and fuzzy

he'd reach out to cup your cheek, his thumb gently running across your cheek bone

then he'd pull you closer and rest his forehead against yours

your nose would brush and he'd run the tip of his nose along your nose before placing a kiss on it 🥺

you push forward and capture his lips in a kiss

and its on.

he pulls you into his lap

you guys are in heavy a make out

his hands are on your ass

your hands are in his hair

then he pushes you closer with his hands on your butt

the feeling of his hardening cock in his trousers against your clothed clit has you shuddering because jesus christ almighty

you've never felt anything like that before

you whimper into his mouth and fred is sure he's died and gone to heaven

so he does it again

after a few more times youre moving your hips on your own accord

you'd never admit to him that you'd fantasized about this very moment

in this very position

but instead of him it was a pillow you were grinding against

anyway

you guys moved to the bed in the tent

fred pulls away and he's holding your face in his hands so gently and looking at you with so much love

"I need to know that you are completely certain that you want this. I need you to be absolutely sure, love."

"I want this. I want you."

there was no hesitation in your voice

so he'd slowly take off both your clothes making sure that at any given moment he's got more off then you to make sure you never feel uncomfortable or embarrassed

so like if you've got your shirt off, fred has his off two and is working on his pants THEN he'd move your pants

now you are in your bra and underwear

he's in his briefs

and he can't help but take you all in

your skin

your curves

each dip and line

everything about you is just so beautiful

and he's just barely touching you as he's dragging the back of his fingers down from your neck to your belly button just watching as your skin erupts in goosebumps

he's never seen anything so beautiful

i think it was in that moment that he knew, no matter what, he would always be in love with you

all of you

he looks for your approval before reaching behind you and unhooking your bra

when your bra comes off thats when you get the butterflies in your belly

and lets be honest

on the inside

fred's a mess

like he might get choked up

regardless

the tiddies are out

fred leans down and starts to place slow, loving, kisses across the skin of your chest and in the crook of your neck before trailing them down to your breasts

you let out a shaky breath as he takes your pebbled nipple into his mouth

his hand moving to tease the other one

he's sucking and licking the sensitive nub making you breathless

then he'd drag his tongue down to your belly button then just below it before sucking a hickey onto your hip

he'd KISS IT AFTERWARDS TOO 🥺

he'd look up at you silently asking if you were ok and if he could remove your panties

you nod

youre nervous and excited and just ready

so he pulls off your underwear

and suddenly you feel very naked

but you also feel more comfortable than you ever thought you would

because it's fred

and he's your best friend

and he's just so

comforting

and you'd trust him with your life

so its a positive experience

his brings his thumb to rub gently circles on your clit before running two fingers up your slit to collect your juices

you let out a breathy moan as he slides a single digit into your entrance

his head is resting on your thigh placing sweet kisses on the skin as he adds in a second finger

his other arm is hooked around the thigh that his head is resting against, with his hand falling just close enough to your cunt that he can rub slowly, tight circles on your clit

you cum pretty quickly from fred's intense, intimate fingering

and he makes sure to make a show of putting his fingers in his mouth moaning at the taste of your release

he moves up to your lips, pulling you into a kiss

and you can taste yourself on his tongue

and there is something so erotic about it

that has your pussy clenching

ok so he pulls off his boxers and you audibly gulp

he's

l a r g e

and he notices your apprehension

he doesn't want to lie and say its not going to hurt

because in all honesty it might hurt

fred presses a calming kiss to your forehead as he lines himself up with your entrance

"im going to go slow, alright. if at you want me to stop tell me, ok, bunny?"

"ok, i might be bad at this."

"never"

aND HE'D SAY IT WITH SUCH A SWEET SMILE AND THIS LOVING TONE

BECAUSE YOU COULD NEVER BE BAD AT ANYTHING EVER IN FRED'S EYES

ESPECIALLY THIS

BECAUSE HE THINKS YOU ARE LITERALLY PERFECT

AND HE LOVES YOU SO MUCH

anyway

it does hurt a bit

its uncomfortable

you do get a little teary because of the dull burn of the stretch

and fred's heart aches seeing the way your face screws up in discomfort

but after a few minutes

and a few kisses from fred

youre ready for him to start moving

he starts off slow

the pain is starting to dissipate

and it begins to feel really good

like really good

i forgot to mention it earlier but fred IS wearing a condom

back to the story

so pretty soon you guys are enjoying yourselves

fred is kissing on your neck and lips

youre tugging on his hair and letting out breathy moans and whimpers into his ear

you cum a second time before fred spills into the condom

he slowly pulls out

and the feeling of emptiness after he does so is your new least favorite feeling

you are just craving to be near him, to be impossibly close

he pulls you into his side and starts peppering kisses along your hairline

and his fingers are running up and down your back

and hes just holding you so tight

stop🥺

"i love you, bug."

"love y'too, freddie."

your slurred words made it lear to him that you were starting to fall asleep

you guys would have to wake up super early the next morning and sneak back into the house

and you'd both be super giggly and cuddly and just hanging off each other

fred wouldn't want to let you go and would pull you back into him every time you tried to leave and go into ginny's room (where you were staying)

aW then for the next few days you guys just cant keep your hands off each other

and you both are so in love

sHUT UP I LOVE FRED WEASLEY

tags:

@siriusement

@amourtentiaa

@lifeofkaze

@theorangedrummer

@erinruby003

@famdomhideout

@an2402lths

@escapingrealitybyreading

@readyg0erge

@maybesandohnos

@therealhouseelvesofhogwarts

@onlyfreds

[shirophantomvox]

Hisoka With a Short S/O

Hello, anon! I posted your other request but I’m very surprised that it didn’t receive any traction. I’ll have to re-blog it. It could be that there are a few posts about Hisoka with a tall S/O but I have not seen any posts about Hisoka with a short S/O. I won’t lie to you, this one was a bit challenging because I am not short in real life. In fact, I’m tall; too tall in my opinion. I hope you enjoy! As always, my inbox is open!

Headcanon 1: Endless amount of teasing. As tall as Hisoka is, being with a person that is nearly 3 feet shorter than he is is both amusing and adorable. He is 6 foot 3; he can reach the top of the cabinet, can touch the ceiling, and will hold your belongings over your head if he dislikes your attitude or if he feels like playing.

Headcanon 2: He enjoys being the superhero in most situations. Although he isn’t depicted as a superhero, he is considered to be one of the 5 main protagonists of the show. Unlike headcanon #1, he actually assists you if needed. If you want cereal and it is on the top shelf in the cabinet, he’ll get it for you. If you cannot reach the remote while laying in bed, he’ll toss it to you. During any situation where you need help, he will not tease you.

Headcanon 3: Sometimes his taunting could be rather sweet and innocent than hostile. If you have come from work and you appear to be upset, angry, or neutral, Hisoka will take it upon himself to cheer you up. Still distant from the whole “traditional affectionate phrases or names”, he’ll run to you and scoop you up into his arms. Instead of calling you and traditional pet names, he might call you his “little gnome” or “little Smurfette”.

Headcanon 4: He hates it when you ignore him. When you are feeling affectionate, Hisoka is often amused by what he considered begging. It’s not actually begging, but more of him being a stubborn mule. You’d throw your arms up in anger and walked away. As time went on, you caught on to Hisoka’s game and played it better than him. Whenever he tried to play hard to get, you walked away appearing to be unbothered. Hisoka didn’t mind either that is until he became “starved” or “hungry”. He turned into the beggar (pouting like a kid) for your attention, kisses, and cuddles. It was quite amusing to see him in this state and so tempting to capture the moment. To add insult to injury, a few times when you were watching TV or about to go out with friends, you purposefully applied glossy or matte lipstick 4 inches away from his lips. When he tries to steal a kiss, you jerk away telling him to buzz off until he has apologized. Once you return, you come home to the magician on his knees cupping his hands apologizing.

“Small fry--”

“What,” you ask plainly raising an eyebrow.

“--I mean cupcake.” He chuckles nervously. “I’m sorry for my teasing words. I shouldn’t have disrespected you like that. Please forgive me.”

Boy! Could you imagine if Illumi caught him in this extremely vulnerable state? He’d probably throw up for weeks!

“Fine, I forgive you. Now get off my freshly vacuumed floor, please.”

He jumped up and swept you off the ground. You gasped a little out loud because his grip was heavy and quick, causing air to rush against your face. Meeting the magician’s small piercing golden eyes made your heart flutter, a feeling you hadn’t felt in a couple of months. A smile crept on your face, patiently waiting for his lips to meet yours. The sound of both pairs of lips crashing into each other was a joyful, passionate sound. Oddly enough, the kiss felt different as if Hisoka was actually sorry for his actions. He’d apologize many times before but in the past, those kisses did not feel like the one you were engaged with right now. Once he released, the sound of wet skin made you both blush deeply. Although Hisoka could be quite annoying at times, this particular kiss made you fall in love with him again. Not only did his quirky behavior make your heart pitter-patter but the goofy appearance after every intimate act left you laughing.

“What’s so funny, cupcake,” he asked growing slightly.

“Some of my glossy lipstick smeared on your lips. Good luck removing that!”

Headcanon 5: Pampers you if you ever injure yourself. There has been a bruise on your left shoulder that formed as a result of glass falling on from a cabinet in your childhood home. Your mother was trying t get the cup for you but ended up slipping out of her hand and severally cutting your shoulder. Hisoka found out about this bruise during his usual flirting matches where he pulled down the shoulder part of your beautiful purple blouse. He was shocked. He is so used to using Texture Surprise to fix everything that seeing an actual bruise almost made him cry. He tried to use TS on your damaged skin, but it wouldn’t work. By then your scar shows a permanent line but is healed. On occasion, that shoulder would hurt if you lifted too much, wore a tight undershirt, or burn yourself from hot shower water. Anytime you wince in pain, Hisoka gently presses a few kisses against your healed skin to calm your senses. Trailing kisses up and down your arm, he finished by kissing the back of your hand.

Headcanon 6: He (sometimes) refuses to bend down to kiss you so you can stand on a basketball, stool, or something else to reach him. Just the height difference between you two is astonishing! When you two are out in public, people can’t help but stare because they just can not wrap their minds around he two pf you dating. On a normal day at hime, yes, Hisoka will not kiss you if you are not standing on a stool of some sort. In the public eye, since you cannot carry a stool with you, he will often place his hand around your waist and lift you up nonchilantly.

Headcanon 7: Loves letting you wear his suited shirts. His crop-top shirts always look like a full t-shirt on you and the view is so adorable to him that he takes multiple photos of you and uses them as wallpaper. Besides the height difference, Hisoka is much bigger than you. Everyone loves sleeping in baggy or large t-shirts (As do I IRL) and a plus is the strong, satisfying aroma emitting from his freshly washed shirts. He loves to wear Dior!

Headcanon 8: If you are not tall enough for certain activities, he will not participate. This applies to amusement parks that have height requirements. What fun would it be if he went on the demon drop and he could not witness your terror? If you were to afraid to enter haunted houses, he would be very upset but would pass up the opportunity.

[ailelie]

strong

It starts when Jirou overhears a conversation between Aizawa and Present Mic that could be flirty or not. This leads to a lunchtime discussion of flirty vs. friendly and whether or not the two teachers are each other's types. This then spins into a conversation about "types" in general.

Lunch ends before Todoroki is forced to answer with his own "type."

Class is a special lecture on heroism and psychology. This brings up the cycle of abuse and Todoroki's mental "no."

After dinner, the conversation lazily turns back to types and Todoroki gets called out for not giving his before. "Strong," he says. He gets teased for not giving more--hair color, sense of humor, hobbies, gender--and he's like "those aren't important." Likes? Dislikes? They push. Then he thinks and shakes his head. Strong encompasses everything important.

Eventually the conversation circles back to the instigating situation: Aizawa and Present Mic: Flirty or Friendly? The students start to scheme and this draws in Mina who pulls in the rest of the squad.

Bakugou thinks the whole thing is stupid. Todoroki is surprised to agree with him. Bakugou also points out that even if they are, maybe they don't want anyone to know. And, besides, what does it matter? (Secretly Bakugou knows he isn't straight and he'd hate to be outed by nosy idiots).

Next day, they're assigned a project. They can work in groups. Groups form and discussions, but the project conversation keeps slipping back to the schemes. Todoroki accidentally makes eye contact with Bakugou and it seems he is just as exasperated. Then Bakugou asks the teacher if they can change up groups if they want to do something else for the project. Teacher says "yes" as long as they finalize groups by the end of the period. Then he asks if he can work alone. That is a "no." So Bakugou considers his options (Yaoyorozu’s group would be focused, but he does not want to work with Iida, etc) and ends up approaching Todoroki who is looking about as miserable as his face allows at his own table. Bakugou confirms he isn't in on the scheme yet and says they should work together instead. Todoroki agrees, much to the surprise and dismay of his friends. He just wants to get the project done.

Near the end of the period, Shinsou drops into a chair by them and says they have to be less annoying than Aoyama's group. And then asks why they peeled off from the others. Bakugou says the rest are too focused on whether or not the teachers are dating. Shinsou suppresses a smirk and says "They aren't." "Like I care?" "We're not talking about that," Todoroki says, pulling them back to the project.

They hash out a study schedule for the project. They've got a month to pull it all together. Finding a quiet place to study is difficult, though.

There is training. Todoroki watches Bakugou finish up a set and comments, "You're strong." Bakugou a bit high on endorphins and beating his personal best just says "No shit."

When their study spot is basically invaded for the third time in a row, Shinsou groans and says he might have somewhere they can study instead. He just has to ask first. Bakugou frowns because that reminds him of an option, too. So, until Shinsou can figure out whether his idea will work, they decide to try working on their project at Bakugou’s house.

Todoroki sees how Bakugou and his mother interact, which reminds him of the lesson on cycles of abuse. On the train back to UA he asks, out of nowhere, “Do you think all kids end up like their parents?”

Shinsou and Bakugou immediately answer “No.” Todoroki is like, “But your mother…” / “But nothing. That’s just how we talk. What’s the point in sulking around or hiding what you mean?” The two then glance to Shinsou who’s just like, “My parents abandoned me. I hope I can clear that bar.” / Bakugou’s eyes widen a bit at that, but he only says, “Yeah. We decide what we’re like. Not them.”

And for the second time that week, Todoroki thinks strong.

A few days later, Shinsou announces he has a place they can study, but it is top secret so they can’t tell anyone. The other two agree. (Bakugou’s house isn’t bad, but it isn’t super close either. Walking distance is much better than a train). So after classes, he walks them away from UA, into the nearby neighborhood, and to an apartment.

Inside the apartment is Present Mic with his hair wet and down, frowning over some papers with a grading pen in his hand. He glances up when Shinsou flicks on the hall light. Shinsou signs something and Mic replies and gets up. “Wha--” Todoroki starts to ask quietly and Bakugou replies before Shinsou can, “He’s going to put his hearing aids back in.” “You sign?” Shinsou asks, surprised. “I’m probably going to be deaf by the time I’m 30,” Bakugou replies with forced nonchalance. “I figured I should learn before I had to.” “You should talk with Yamada.” Bakugou raises his brows. “You live with Yamada?” Meanwhile Todoroki is looking around the room and notices the photographs. “And Aizawa?” he adds. Shinsou just smirks again. “You’ll see.”

Present Mic returns with his hair pulled back. “I didn’t realize today was study day,” he says with a bright smile. “Why don’t you take your friends to the table, Hitoshi? I’ll put together a snack.” He does just that and then returns to the living room and his grading. The whole thing reminds Todoroki of Bakugou’s mother when she and Bakugou weren’t arguing. And he asks, carefully because he knows he misses social cues, “Is Mr. Yamada your father?”

This, of all things, is what flusters Shinsou. “Adopted,” he says. “He and Aizawa.” Bakugou laughs. “So that’s why they’re not dating. They’re married?” Shinsou confirms this and reinforces the secrecy.

At some point Aizawa returns to the apartment and Hizashi invites Todoroki and Bakugou to stay for dinner. Then Aizawa offers to walk them back to UA before he goes on patrol. “We won’t say anything,” Todoroki promises; he knows the value of secrets. Then, after a long minute, Bakugou adds, quietly, “But maybe you should? It’d have been nice to know sooner it wasn’t impossible.” Aizawa only nods. He walks them to the gates and tells them to get to bed.

On his way to his room, Todoroki realizes the implications of what Bakugou had said and once again marvels at his strength. Speaking out against a teacher and professional hero, revealing something about himself like that--compounded with his self-confidence and drive and physical fitness…

Todoroki sinks onto his bed and thinks oh.

Once the thought is there, he has trouble not paying attention to Bakugou. It is a Problem.

He is not subtle. Bakugou calls him out on it and Todoroki answers honestly, “I want to understand you.” Like Bakugou is some kind of complicated puzzle.

Really, the only thing keeping Todoroki from becoming the center of attention as everyone tries to understand why Bakugou is the center of his attention is that the flirty v. friendly now duelling schemes are still on. By this point the teachers know. Yamada is having fun with it. Aizawa is ignoring it.

And Todoroki and Bakugou have dinner at their apartment about twice a week. The project ends (and they ace it), but this routine persists.

It is strange watching the two teachers interact with Shinsou. Todoroki even watches Aizawa and Shinsou train one afternoon and is again resentful about his father and own training. And it builds. They go to the apartment and everyone is so nice and family like. And the teachers ask Shinsou about his grades and tease him over his crush on some girl they never outright name. And it is this fury building. He knows how to swallow back his anger, all of his emotions really, but he’s been letting his guard down more at UA and apparently he’s forgotten the trick of it when he has this much going on inside of him (because it isn’t just the fury; it is also his confusion about Bakugou, his worries about his mother, etc). And on the way back to UA, he quietly demands to know why Aizawa never hurt Shinsou during training.

Why didn’t he hurt him? Why didn’t he insult him? Why? He’s crying but doesn’t realize it. Bakugou is frozen. And then Aizawa is hugging him and suggesting that they return to the apartment and talk instead. Todoroki is calming but everything is still spinning around him. Aizawa asks if Bakugou can return to UA alone and Todoroki surprises himself by saying “No. He can come.” Because Todoroki has no idea what he feels about Bakugou, not really, but he knows the other boy is strong and right now he needs strength.

They return. Yamada sees them and murmurs that he’ll make tea. Aizawa takes Todoroki to the couch. Shinsou signs to Bakugou asking what happened. Bakugou replies that he has no idea. Icyhot (and yes, Todoroki’s name signs are that combination) just started crying. Aizawa interrupts the conversation by asking Bakugou to join Todoroki on the couch. Yamada brings in tea and Aizawa starts asking questions. Bakugou isn’t sure what he’s doing there until he feels Todoroki lean very slightly against his shoulder. A cat jumps into his lap. His voice is basically a monotone, but Bakugou realizes he’s still freaked out. And, as he listens to what he’s saying, he realizes why. Shinsou sits on the floor on Todoroki’s other side and leans his shoulder against Todoroki’s knees.

And after the talking is done and Todoroki is staring down at his cold, undrunk tea and the teachers are in the kitchen talking silently. Bakugou says, “You will never be your old man, Icyhot. I’d kick your ass if you tried.” For some reason this makes Todoroki huff a small laugh. “Good.”

The teachers return. They have extra futons. The boys will stay the night and they’ll discuss everything in the morning. They move the couch and lay out the futons. Shinsou sleeps in his own room, so it is just Bakugou and Todoroki.

Todoroki can’t sleep. Now that he’s calmed from his earlier fury and breakdown, panic is setting in. He can’t believe what he just did. Bakugou notices and, instead of insulting him, asks if he wants to learn sign language. They spend about an hour going through the alphabet and basic words until Todoroki is tired enough to sleep.

In the morning, Todoroki refuses to press any charges against his father. The teachers say that they’ll arrange it so that he spends all of his holidays with them or at the school. And say that he has to start meeting with Hound Dog once a week to talk. Todoroki does not like the mandated counseling, but accepts it as his punishment for letting his emotions get the better of him.

The signing lessons continue. Each night, about an hour after curfew, Todoroki slips down to Bakugou’s room and learns sign language. Kirishima knows the sneaking is going on and that Bakugou is giving lessons, but he’s just so proud of Bakugou making friends on his own that he helps cover for them. (He doesn’t know why Todoroki is learning sign, but he doesn’t ask).

The flirty v. friendly schemes are ongoing and yielding mixed results. The debate is annoying. It has been a month, but the growing mountain of contradictory evidence is keeping the conversation alive. Izuku points out that this is the kind of thing Todoroki would normally be all over, but he doesn’t know how to make himself care. He doesn’t care about other people’s romances. He barely cared about his own before Bakugou.

Because that is definitely still a thing. After Bakugou didn’t make fun of him for his breakdown. After he started teaching him sign language every night. He just wants the other boy close. He doesn’t understand his own impulses beyond that. It is enough that he’s even eaten lunch with the Bakusquad a few times.

Meanwhile, Bakugou is opening up to the teachers a bit more. After seeing how they handled Todoroki’s breakdown, he finally takes Shinsou’s advice and mentions his own hearing loss and how it probably wasn’t going to get better. Then one night he brings up what he’d hinted at before. It’s been weeks since then, but he talks about how annoying the schemes have gotten and asks why the teachers don’t just tell everyone and then says that he’s gay and if they’re too cowardly to let little kids know they aren’t alone and anyone can be a hero, then he’ll just do it himself.

On the walk home, Aizawa tells him he’s right and that they’ll think about it. During sign language practice that night, Todoroki tells Bakugou that his friends had asked him before what his type was and that he’d said “strong.” And then he says, “You’re the strongest person I know. I like you.”

And Bakugou is like “you can’t just say something like that” and Todoroki’s just “why not? It’s the truth.” He maybe quotes or references Bakugou’s comment from over a month ago on the train about being direct. So Bakugou asks if they can talk about it tomorrow and Todoroki just nods and asks, “Do you mind if I eat lunch with you tomorrow? I like being close to you.” And Bakugou feels like he’s about to explode of something, but he agrees and all but pushes Todoroki out the door.

Kirishima is returning to his room after staying late in Kaminari’s room playing games. He checks the time. “Lesson end early?” he asks. Todoroki says, “I told him I like him.” Kirishima’s brows raise--”That would do it.”--and he wishes Todoroki a good night. As soon as he’s out of sight, Kirishima lets himself into Bakugou’s room, knowing his friend is not going to be able to process this on his own.

The day happens and isn’t particularly notable. Todoroki has eaten with Bakugou’s friends before, after all. That night, Bakugou says, “Okay. Let’s try this.”

Kirishima, good bro that he is, provides gossip cover by publicly confessing to Yaoyorozu. He wanted someone unlikely who would definitely not return his feelings and who no one in the class would expect. (She accepts. It is a Thing. They go on a date and he explains. When she looks upset, he says that he does admire her; he just never thought of her that way because he figured he didn’t have a chance. He asks her if she wants to try this while also using their relationship to draw away as much attention as possible from Bakugou and Todoroki. Todoroki is her friend, so she agrees. And thus begins their farce covering a real growing friendship and relationship during which they both gain confidence).

Meanwhile Todoroki and Bakugou go on a date. It goes rather well. Except Todoroki still wants closer.

They start cuddling during their nightly lessons, which somehow remain mostly lesson still. Todoroki curls against Bakugou like a cat, mimicking his gestures.

Bakugou talks with Kirishima about things. Todoroki talks with Shinsou. (He’d like to talk with Midoriya, but even he realizes that wouldn’t be the best idea). On weekends, when other students head home to see family, Todoroki stays with his teachers and Shinsou instead of staying in the dorms like he used to. He sleeps on a futon in Shinsou’s room and tells him about dating Bakugou and wanting more, but not knowing what that “more” is. Shinsou suggests kissing. (And maybe privately teases Bakugou about it but Bakugou just flushes and gets agitated and blusters about being careful. And Shinsou, for the first time, calls Todoroki his little brother (actual ages do not matter) and tells Bakugou not to hurt him. Bakugou is both insulted and relieved by this. As if he would).

So the next night Todoroki asks Bakugou to kiss him. So Bakugou, blushing even though (thanks to Shinsou) he’d known this was coming, does. Soft and chaste. He pulls back and Todoroki blinks slowly and says “Again.” Bakugou smirks or grins and kisses him again. This one is not nearly as chaste.

At some point Bakugou tries to be nice and use ‘Todoroki’ instead of a nickname and Todoroki is like ‘I don’t like all of the nicknames, but I like that you don’t use my family name.’ And Bakugou gets it, but the nicknames start getting nicer. Less ‘halfie’ and more things like “strawberry swirl.”

The first time he does this in front of others, Kirishima glares at him and is trying to figure out how to draw the attention away when Yaoyorozu suddenly calls for him using his given name. The whispers shift immediately. And Kirishima, when he recovers his senses, thanks her for her quick thinking.

But such attention drawing doesn’t last forever, especially as Bakugou and Todoroki start gravitating toward each other during school hours (and the lesson portions of their evenings grow shorter and shorter). Then one day when everyone is starting to question them about it (maybe they fell asleep on the couch together in the common room?), Aizawa enters the room and sighs and says, “I hope you’re not concocting another scheme to harass my husband and me.”

Pin drop.

But at least no one cares about Bakugou and Todoroki being friends (or napping together) anymore.

But people will find out soon (and Bakugou is kinda itching to come out now that Aizawa and Present Mic have; it feels too much like backing down if he doesn’t), so Todoroki and Bakugou talk about what they are and what they want. And for Todoroki it is simple. He just wants to be close. And maybe he mentions also not wanting to be his father and that Bakugou reminds him that he doesn’t have to be, that he can be strong. And Bakugou wants to date. He wants to do all the shit people assume he wouldn’t be interested in. And he wants to do that with Todoroki. Plus, Todoroki’s belief in his strength is good. He feels calmer with him around. (So, basically, they’re each a rock for the other; two strong people making each other stronger by reminding each other of their own strengths and believing in one another).

It isn’t love. But it is something.

So, later that night, Bakugou sneaks down to the kitchen and makes a bento for Todoroki. The next day at lunch, when Todoroki is with his friends, he goes over to them and rolls his eyes at the inevitable takeout lunch. “Don’t eat that crap,” he says, pushing it aside and dropping the zaru soba bento in front of Todoroki. “Made this for you.” Todoroki smiles and thanks him. Bakugou kisses his cheek and is pulling away when Todoroki catches his wrist. “Again.” Bakugou laughs and maybe calls him “insatiable” or something and kisses him on the lips before returning to his own table.

(Kirishima and Yaoyorozu were not briefed on this. Their eyes meet in wide panic because they can’t beat that. They’re plotting across the room when Bakugou notices and waves them off.)

And Todoroki’s friends aren’t sure what just happened, so they ask. Todoroki smiles. “I figured out my type,” he tells them. “Bakugou.”

[novelconcepts]

I am not sure if you have talked about this before but how do you think after moving back to America, Dani got in touch with Judy again. And if she did, what was their first meeting like with Dani introducing Jamie?

“You’re sure about this?” Jamie leans back, hands in her pockets, gazing at the serene white house, third on its block. “Could still go around the corner and wait, if you like. Saw a little shop...”

She trails off. Dani suspects her body language speaks for itself, all locked jaw and slight tremble. 

He wouldn’t have noticed, she thinks, and the rush of hot grief is so sudden, she has to close her eyes. Jamie hesitates, leans in until her shoulder presses lightly against Dani’s, lowers her voice.

“Whatever you want, Poppins. Reckon I can play nice as a friend as well as--”

“No.” She finds she can’t look at the house directly. It’s much easier, turning her eyes to Jamie. Much easier to search her face for signs Jamie isn’t okay with this, despite what she’s been saying all afternoon. 

She finds nothing but a slight smile, a furrow of Jamie’s brow. Jamie, holding honesty at the forefront as always. Jamie, who offered her company, and has--for months--shown no sign of flagging in her promise to see this adventure through. Wherever it may take them.

Wherever.

“No,” she repeats, her voice as firm as she can make it. “I’m not here to...I’m not going to...”

Play that role again, she can’t say, but she can tell from the way Jamie nods it’s coming across. I’m not here to be Danielle, she doesn’t say, and Jamie’s hand brushes her hip in silent solidarity. 

“Whoever you need me to be. And we don’t have to stay a minute longer than you want.”

It pains her, that Jamie would put that on the table--whoever you want me to be. Jamie’s told her all about her one and only brush with what she had, once, considered real love. How she’d told that girl the very same. How she’d seen it through, as Jamie does with all undertakings she values, to the very end. She’d been who that girl needed her to be--and she’d been the same for the women who had come after, to a lesser degree. A fumble in the dark. An agreement to never bring it up again. A test. A lantern. A buried memory. 

“You,” she tells Jamie now, “are you. And I’m me. And if that’s not enough for her...”

Jamie nods again. “Lead the way, then.”

She remembers the house being bigger, somehow. Cleaner. Remembers the porch sprawling open to offer more space for rocking chairs and bunched-up bodies clutching glasses of iced tea. She remembers the lawn extending out and out, littered with discarded bicycles and baseball gear. 

She remembers Eddie, knees bent, hands pressed into the concrete behind his reclining form. Remembers the way he’d greet her outside every day of summer, the light reflecting off his crooked glasses. The way he’d smile, turn his head, shout through the screen door: “Mom! Danielle’s here!”

No one shouts for her now. Nothing but the rap of her own fist heralds her arrival. No one is looking for Danielle today, and she’s grateful, because they certainly wouldn’t find her. Not with all the weeds of memory sprung up around the girl she’d been. Not with the jungle of unease growing thick around the woman she is. 

“Oh my--”

Judy’s older. So much older than she ought to be, Dani’s absence contained within little more than a year. There are creases Dani doesn’t recognize around her mouth, silver tucked into the muted red of her hair. A year, she thinks, without a son does this to a person.

A year without a daughter.

The screen door swings open so sharply, it catches Jamie along the hip, nearly tips her off the stoop. Dani’s hand closes around her wrist, an easy reflex months in the making, though Jamie’s already shifted her balance and adjusted her expression. Not irritation, not pain--a welcoming little smile, a quiet expression that says, Not here to make a fuss. Not here to be noticed, even. 

She waits for it to spill out of Judy’s mouth--a shocked exhalation of her full name--but Judy’s arms are already around her, and her voice seems capable of no more than a swallowed sob. No one, Dani thinks, has ever hugged her the way Judy does. Her own mother couldn’t manage it.

She’s folding. She’s folding before either of them can speak a single word, her heart careening behind her sweater, and if she closes her eyes--if she lets herself press into Judy’s arms, inhale the scent of fresh coffee and clean clothes--she can almost forget...almost forget...

“Honey,” Judy breathes, “how have you been?”

How. Not where. Not how could you. One simple word, summing it all up. Dani makes a choked sound, nearly a laugh, and lets one hand swing hopelessly out to the left. 

Jamie catches it without a sound. 

Judy is stepping back as though embarrassed, smoothing down her blouse, eyes wet. “You--your mother said you were traveling.” There is remarkably little accusation in that sentence, Dani thinks. Remarkably little offense. You didn’t tell me, but she did, and it’s all right. It’s all right that you couldn’t. 

“Europe,” she says croakily. “England, mostly. Got a job--”

“You look...” Judy trails off, peering into her face, and it’s small, the recognition. Small, but there in the parting of her lips, the slackening of her jaw. Your eye, she imagines Judy breathing, what’s happened to your eye, sweetheart?

“It’s been a long time,” Dani says, a bit shakily. “Lots to--I mean, if you have the time. I don’t want to intrude.”

Judy takes another heavy step backward, into the house, gesturing emphatically. “Don’t be silly! Don’t--God, Danielle, I’ve wanted to write. Your mother said she didn’t have the address, and I didn’t want to bother you, but...”

Jamie is still holding her hand, she realizes, as Judy’s shocked gaze moves from Dani’s face (Dani’s eye, she knows, the russet brown stark against the pale pink of her cheeks) to Dani’s outstretched arm. Judy takes in this new development for a moment, silently: a solemn young woman in a black knit sweater, the cuffs of her jeans turned neatly up, her sneakers white and her fingers implacably wrapped around Dani’s. Jamie, who smiles that soft, not here to be noticed smile, and inclines her head. 

“Mrs. O’Mara.”

“Hello,” Judy says. Not the way Dani’s mother would say it, not even now--clipped and cold and waiting for explanation. She says it with such an easy air of welcome, her head tipped curiously to the side. “Judy, please.”

“Jamie,” Jamie says, and something in Dani seems to cave inward. Some great, hulking shard of terror seems to dissolve in on itself. She is Judy, and you are Jamie, and I am--I am--

Her? No. Surely not, not with Jamie’s fingers tangled, with Jamie standing just off-center on this strange stage. The whole neighborhood, she realizes, can see her: standing with shoulders hunched, holding a strange woman’s hand, staring at her not-so-mother-in-law with bruised eyes. 

The whole neighborhood can see, and she doesn’t care in the least about any of it except to say--

“Dani. I actually go by Dani these days.” 

These days, like it’s been ten years instead of one. These days, so much grief and fear and love and joy packed into twelve months, she almost can’t comprehend it. Is she really the same woman who packed her bags in secret? Is she really the one who stood as tall as she could at a funeral in a black dress she hadn’t the heart to bring when she ran?

Is she, in fact, her--lonely, beastly, incapable of peace?

Jamie’s hand flexes once, a stroke of her thumb along Dani’s knuckles bringing her home. She draws a shuddering breath. 

“It’s been a long time,” she repeats. “There are...things we could talk about. Stories. If you want. Some of them, I should have...told you a long time ago.”

Judy, looks for a moment, taken aback. Looks, for a moment, like she has been handed a script so far from the one she’s memorized, she might not make it back into the scene at all. 

“Dani,” she says, turning the syllables over in her mouth. “Of course. Dani and--and Jamie.” Her mouth trembles, just once. The name, Dani understands, is so close. Those ie sounds, running parallel. So close, and so different. 

“We don’t have to,” Dani says. “If you’re busy.” If you can’t. I understand can’t. I understand not being able to let something like this in. “I probably should have called--”

“Don’t,” Judy says thickly. Stops. Swallows hard. “Don’t be silly. I’m--I’m just about to start dinner, if you’d like to stay?”

Stay, she doesn’t add, and tell me your stories.

Stay, she doesn’t add, and let me in to this room you always kept so carefully locked.

Stay, she doesn’t add, because we need each other, just a little bit. Maybe just this one last time. 

“Both of you,” Judy adds, when Dani hesitates. There is an understanding in her eyes--and a bewilderment, too--the two warring as she gazes at their profiles standing side by side on this too-small porch. “Jamie. It’s...it’s wonderful to...”

She can’t quite finish. Dani suspects she can’t quite lie. Because maybe it is wonderful to meet Jamie--or maybe it will be--but there is something cruel about asking a mother to gaze into the eyes of a woman who might never have crossed their paths if not for a horrible accident. A sudden tragedy. A grief Judy simply cannot release. 

There is something cruel about asking Judy to look upon Jamie now, but there’s something cruel about asking Dani to carry him forever, too. About asking Dani to shelve her heart in favor of her pain. She won’t do that, not anymore, not for Judy or anyone. There’s no telling how much time she has left, and she will not sacrifice a moment of it being someone she isn’t. 

“It’s okay,” Jamie says quietly. It isn’t entirely clear which of them she’s speaking to, as her fingers tighten around Dani’s, her shoulders angled back, her mouth turned up in that tiny smile that says, This isn’t about me. Jamie, who’d be anyone Dani needs right now. Jamie, who only wants to provide company. Jamie, who knows enough of the story to understand this will not be easy--and genuinely does not mind. 

Dani can see it. She thinks Judy can, too, even as her throat works around a sob. Her eyes are wet, darting from one face to the other. Something seems to solidify in her next breath, drawn deep, let out slowly. 

“Please,” she says, gesturing again for them to follow her in. “Stay.”

“We would love to,” Dani says, and Jamie’s hand does not slide, does not twitch, does not abandon her for even a moment as, together, they step into the house.

[clairenatural]

destiel, 1k, more fluff :) for the anon who asked for "im a barista and you just ordered the most complicated and hideous drink and I wanna judge you but you're kinda cute"  

Dean hates working the morning shift.

It’s something he does, both because he loves his employees too much to do that to them and because he has a very specific morning setup he doesn’t trust anyone else with, but he doesn’t enjoy it. The morning shift starts with a rush of grumpy people in business suits, the kind to just snap “coffee” at him while already checking their emails, and sleepy students in pajamas who stare at him like he’s speaking gibberish when he asks what size they want.

The initial rush fades into the mid-morning, when he gets more people in suits, this time awake enough to be polite, and interns, who always seem half-panicked but at least remember to say “thank you.” This is the easy time, when most baristas would relax and take a deep breath as their shift dwindles to an end.

Not Dean, though. Dean stays on high alert all the way until 10:30 when, like clockwork, he walks into the doors of the caf��. And he might be the reason why Dean is refusing to give up his morning shift, even though he complains constantly, even though he knows Kevin is good enough to open all by himself.

His name is Castiel, but Dean shortened it to Cas on the coffee cup two weeks ago and he hasn’t complained yet. A large cup, that he fills with the medium amount of coffee, adds an unhealthy amount of half-and-half, and fills the gap with whipped cream.

The concoction has two pumps of vanilla syrup, one of hazelnut, and three of caramel. They got pumpkin spice in last week, and he’s been adding two scoops of that in ever since. It’s the same amount of liquid as a drip coffee but entirely espresso shots—although Castiel asks for so much milk in it that Dean’s not sure if the caffeine matters. He finishes it off with a hefty drizzle of strawberry syrup, of all things—and then Castiel coats the top in cinnamon before he heads back out.

It’s a monstrosity. It’s more sugar than coffee. It offends Dean to even call it coffee. And Castiel has ordered it every work day, at 10:30am, like clockwork. For the past month.

He’d hate to be this guy’s dentist.

The first time he’d ordered it had gone badly from the start. Dean had choked a bit as soon as he heard the guy start ordering, in the deepest voice he’d ever heard say the word caramel. He planned to recover, deliver his standard “do you want some coffee with that sugar,” line (because nobody orders something like that at an artisan coffee shop unless they’re prepared to be shamed), but he looked up into eyes so wide and blue and earnest that the snark died in his throat. “Sure, okay,” he’d said instead, and then made the monstrosity to the letter. Castiel had given him a lopsided smile when he handed him the coffee, and tipped it towards him in a ‘cheers’ motion before turning away, and that...that was it for him.

Really, he tells himself, he’s just trying to figure this guy out. He’s not put together enough to be a professional, but he’s too sure of himself to be an intern. He delivers the order, the whole thing in its entirety, in a deep tone that ranges from monotonous, to frazzled, to deeply exhausted. He watches Dean make the drink like the whipped cream is going to jump across the counter and bite him, but he takes the order every time with that same easy smile.

They exchange a total of 73 words a morning, 54 of those being the order itself. And yet, Dean waits, every day. And he’s never been more careful with a strawberry drizzle—because, he tells himself, if he’s attaching his name to it it’s gonna be perfect, even if it’s hideous.  

There’s just something about this guy that Dean can’t put his finger on—something buzzing just under his skin, urging him to get to know him better. It doesn’t help that he’s really cute, or that his eyes are blue enough Dean thinks he’d let them see into his soul, or that he’s pretty sure that smile has branded itself into his brain. There’s just something else. Strong enough that, and he’s loathe to admit it, even to himself, Dean is willing to overlook the coffee order.

He has a special cup this morning—he’s already prepared it, put it at the top of the stack so it won’t be suspicious when he pulls it off.

I’ll forgive you for your awful taste in coffee if you call me, it says, a hasty number scribbled underneath and his name below that.

If it works, he’ll learn more about this guy. If it doesn’t, well—Dean figures there’s plenty of places more suited to make the coffee disaster than his shop, anyway. They specialize in artisan beans best served black. The syrup is really for whiney teens, Instagram photos, and, apparently, Castiel.

They do their morning coffee ritual, Dean hands off the customized coffee cup to Cas, and the rest of his shift passes in a hazy blur. He doesn’t get a text back until he’s back in his apartment, already having reconciled never seeing the mystery man again.

He still lunges for his phone the moment it buzzes.

While my brother was flattered by your phone number, he thought it was probably meant for me. -Cas

Dean’s still staring at the first message, trying to decipher it, when another one comes in.

I appreciate you overlooking his awful taste in coffee. For the record, I take mine black.

He grins as it clicks into place, only feeling a little guilty at the flood of relief that accompanies it. He types back a message immediately.

Oh, thank God. Do you want to get some actually decent coffee sometime?

He gets an I’d like that :) back a few minutes later, complete with the smiley face, and he grins down at his phone for several long minutes.

Making the coffee catastrophe every morning might be just be worth it. 

[e-milieeee]

hey cutea

Summary: In which Marinette brings Adrien to a bubble tea shop only to witness him order the most unappetizing flavour on the menu.

All’s well until Chat Noir does the exact same, and Ladybug makes an unsuspecting connection.

Tikki is also very unamused. If only they’d stop dancing around each other.

Notes: a month of procrastinating, the boba reveal,,, is finally here for day 1: cafe of @auyeahaugust! also for @buggachat because kelly started this with a drawing of an adrienette boba date and i spiralled :’) 

Word Count: 6.2k

AO3

The shop is called Thirstea, a pun which makes Adrien laugh for a whole thirty seconds as he stares at the storefront.

“Seriously,” Marinette is saying as he pushes the door open for her. “You’ve seriously never had boba? At all?”

Adrien shifts his backpack. He’s hit with the smell of something sweet—foreign, as well, but it’s pleasant enough—and the sight of a bustling interior. A small line has already formed, so Marinette tugs him aside and points at the large menu displayed on a colorful board behind the cashier.

“You can decide on which flavour you want,” she tells him.

Adrien peers up at the board. There’s so many to choose from—hundreds, even—from milk tea to fruit tea to mixed flavours and smoothies and…

His head is spinning when he turns back to Marinette. “Do you have any recommendations?” Because I have absolutely no clue. “What do you usually get?”

She tilts her head. “I have five go-tos. Roasted milk tea is a classic, but the honeydew milk tea is pretty good as well if I want something fruity. If I want something lighter, I’ll get a fruit tea—I like lychee black tea. Uh… there’s also the real fruit bobas, and I usually get taro. Oh! And the matcha latte is one of their best. And I usually get it with tapioca, but if you want to be healthier, grass jelly or aloe vera both taste pretty good. But I mean, it is your first time here and you should probably try getting tapioca just to see if you like it. And brown sugar milk tea, but they said they ran out today…”

The words go in one ear and out another, because Adrien is too busy staring at the way she talks: enthusiasm shining in her eyes, the way she waves her hands in the smallest, cutest gestures to make her point, and…

“Adrien?” Marinette tilts her head. “Um, have you decided? Or do you need more time? Because that’s completely alright too.”

In a panic, he nods and blurts, “I’ve decided!”

She nods sagely, and they enter the line. Adrien has not yet in fact decided.

He continues to stare at the menu from the corner of his eyes, going through all the categories until he settles on real fruit smoothie. Adrien goes through the list: watermelon, strawberry, mango, peach, blueberry, raspberry, winter melon—

“What would you like to order?”

Adrien snaps back into reality. He is not ready to order.

Oblivious to his conundrum, Marinette smiles at the cashier and fetches her wallet out of her backup. “I’m paying for us both!” she tells the girl cheerily. “I’ll have a peach green tea with half ice and thirty percent sugar. With tapioca.”

Adrien gawks at her order. She’d lost him after peach green tea—is he supposed to order like that too?

“Adrien?” Marinette prompts, now waiting for the order that he does not have.

He squints at the menu again, hoping his panic isn’t visible on his face. He scans them. Watermelon. Strawberry. Mango. Peach. Blueberry. Raspberry. Winter melon. Durian.

Durian.

“Durian,” he settles.

Marinette’s mouth quite literally drops open.

He’s not too certain what’s that surprising about his order—is it the wrong thing to order? Perhaps it doesn’t exist on the menu and he’d hallucinated it. A double-check later and the word is still clearly imprinted underneath winter melon. “Marinette?” Adrien asks carefully. “Um, I’m not too sure about the sugar and ice—which do you usually choose?”

She finally snaps her mouth shut.  “Durian?” Marinette echoes at last, ignoring his question.“Ah, are you certain about that?”

Adrien nods. “I can still add the pearls—the tapioca in, right?”

“Yeah,” she agrees absentmindedly, “but—durian?”

Adrien takes another peek at the menu. “The real fruit smoothie, right?”

“Have you… tried durian?” “When I was younger, once. Have you?”

Marinette swallows, and Adrien waits for her verdict, concerned. He’s honestly baffled why she’s so confused about his choice, but a moment later, Marinette squares her shoulders and gives the cashier a smile, this time slightly shaky. “And a durian smoothie with tapioca for him. Um, sugar and ice levels?”

Adrien has no clue what to ask for, so he tries, “The standard one for both...?”

Apparently that’s an acceptable answer because the cashier nods and jots down his order on a small notepad. Marinette pays, and they wait at the side for their order.

Marinette has gone quiet. She sorts through her bag for a little while, and Adrien waits in apprehensive silence. There’s quiet jazz music playing in the background and it makes him feel like he’s in an elevator. It’s becoming unbearably awkward.

Finally, Marinette lifts her eyes to look at him. “Sorry about that,” she apologizes. “I just… didn’t know you liked durian.”

“Oh.” He sounds equally awkward. “I liked the fruit the last time I had it which was about two years ago. Do you not like it?”

Her nose wrinkles. It’s cute. Wait, what?

“My mom really likes durian,” Marinette is explaining, and she motions with her hands again. “Apparently her hometown back in China had a dessert store that sold durian pastries and she had this brilliant idea of making them for Chinese New Year a couple months ago and the whole bakery reeked of durian and I could smell it all the way up into my room—” She clamps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. I forgot you liked it.”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” he replies, flustered. Marinette has a habit of saying a lot in very little time and it doesn’t help that he gets easily distracted by her movements. “I didn’t realize durian was so… controversial. I hope it won’t make you uncomfortable or something with the smell.”

“I guess it’s not that popular here,” she replies with a shrug. “But my mom did say that people either hate or love durian. And the smell’s fine. I don’t like it, but once you spend a week with it stinking up your room, you kind of develop immunity.”

Just then, the waitress behind the counter sets down their two drinks. “For Marinette?” she calls.

Marinette takes the bag with a quick thank you, grabs two straws, and then returns to Adrien. She holds up their drinks.

Adrien takes the cup from her extended hand. The durian smoothie is a creamy white, and the black tapioca bubbles sit at the very bottom. He follows her movements as she shakes her cup then stabs a straw into it.

He can see Marinette eying him in his periphery as he raises the straw to his lips and takes a sip. The drink is cold and sweet and has a rich taste that explodes on his tongue in a plethora of flavours, and Adrien decides he likes it. He really likes it.

“So?” Marinette asks. Adrien wonders if she knows how skeptical her expression is. “Do you… like it?”

He chews on one of the pieces of tapioca. “Yes. Yeah, this is really great.”

The skepticism doesn’t disappear from her face, but she raises her boba to his. “Cheers,” Marinette says weakly.

***

On a good day, a cup of boba has two hundred fifty calories when the tapioca is replaced by grass jelly and the sugar level is brought to less than half. On a bad day, if her sweet tooth demands regular sweetness and tapioca, it can be driven up to seven hundred calories.

It’s why Marinette has begrudgingly limited herself—for the sake of her wallet and health—to only drink boba once a week.

And it’s why she and Chat Noir, decked in hoodies and track pants in an attempt to look normal, are lined up underneath the blazing sun at Thirstea.

Their disguises don’t do much, because a crowd has formed around them. First there are whispers of is that Ladybug and Chat Noir, then a girl summons up her courage to ask for a selfie, and finally, the press starts driving in. By the time that happens, they have luckily made it inside the shop, where the air-conditioning blasts out on the highest setting.

Another snap of the camera. Chat Noir is staring pensively at the menu when a thought hits Ladybug. “Have you ever had boba before?” she asks him.

He nods absentmindedly, still looking. Everyone in line is whispering or peering at them, and Ladybug sees a phone held up in the back, most likely recording.

They make it to the counter when Nadja Chamack and her team, armed with cameras and microphones, invades the shop. The girl at the register looks slightly overwhelmed and a little alarmed, but she doesn’t tell the press to leave.

“Ladybug!” Nadja calls. “You’ve been photographed once or twice coming to this shop in the past month—is this your favourite bubble tea shop?”

“Yup!” she replies.

“What’s your go-to order?”

“Depends on the day.” Ladybug turns back to the cashier, leaving Chat to deal with the press. He has the uncanny ability to drag on a brief topic for an unsolicitedly long amount of time. “I’ll have an original milk tea with tapioca,” she tells the cashier. “Regular ice and seventy percent sugar.”

The girl looks a little starstruck, but she jots down the order. With a tug on Chat’s tail, he turns around from entertaining the press to place his own order.

“One durian smoothie, please!” he chirps, chipper as always.

Ladybug chokes on air.

The girl taking their order also seems taken aback, but her recovery time is much quicker than Ladybug’s. Instead, offering him a quick, slightly strained smile, she jots his order down. “Is that all, then?”

Chat takes the chance to pay for both of their orders while she’s caught in her confusion. By the time Ladybug snaps back to her senses, it’s too late—Chat is already pulling aside to wait for their bobas to finish. Nadja and her crew take the chance to start their questions again.

“Chat Noir,” Nadja addresses when it’s clear Ladybug’s still out of commission. “If I heard you right, you chose a durian smoothie?”

He gives a nod so proud that Ladybug swears she dies a little inside.

“Could you tell us why? From what I know, durian is a well-debated fruit. Many people love it, but many also cannot stand the smell.”

Chat ponders the question thoughtfully. “The smell is rather funny,” he finally replies. “But I like the flavour! It has a very rich texture as well, and tastes pretty different from the smell, so it doesn’t actually taste bad.”

“Ladybug?” Nadja gestures for the cameras to face her. “What are your thoughts on durian?”

She’s too busy thinking about Adrien Agreste raising his cup of boba to bump against hers—a durian smoothie—and his casual enthusiasm for the fruit that Nadja’s words don’t even click in her brain. Who would’ve expected Chat Noir to have the same (terrible) taste as her crush? The coincidence leaves her feeling disjointed.

“Uh… Ladybug?” Chat waves his hand in front of her. “Are you okay?”

She finally snaps out of her reverie long enough to scramble for a response. Ladybug manages a sheepish smile in Nadja’s direction. “I’m doing fine, thank you.”

Chat frowns. “Ladybug, that wasn’t her question—”

Before either of them can say anything more, the girl making the drinks pops her head out from the counter. “Your drinks!” she says, then beams at both of them. “Here’s a buy-one-get-one free coupon! Please come by often!”

Chat’s eyes glimmer when he accepts his durian smoothie. Ladybug takes her own with much less enthusiasm. Focus is hard enough with the snap of Nadja’s cameras and the chaos all around them—the fact that an even larger crowd has gathered outside Thirstea in order to catch a glimpse of their favourite superheroes makes it worse. It’s all too much to take in, and Ladybug’s brain is still stuck on Adrien Agreste and Chat Noir and durian smoothies.

“We’re going to take off,” Chat tells Nadja, then waves at the camera. “See you guys around! Come on, LB.”

She allows him to drag her out of the store, then with a flick of his baton and a snap of her yo-yo they’re swinging off, bobas in hand and the rest of Paris watching them go.

But Ladybug isn’t thinking about them at all.

When they finally settle down somewhere secluded, Chat immediately stabs his straw through the top of his drink and takes an obnoxiously loud slurp. Ladybug can smell the scent of durian from where she’s sitting, and instinctively, she wrinkles her nose and shifts away. She pokes her straw into her own drink, still staring off at the distance.

A coincidence, yeah. Her crush and her partner both have awful taste in bubble tea flavours. It’s nothing but a coincidence.

“Are you going to drink yours?” Chat is asking, still slurping obliviously. “I wanna try your flavour.”

He makes a grab for her drink, and Ladybug ducks away. “Your breath smells like durian. You can’t drink from my straw.”

“Hey! Let me try!”

For a little while Chat wrestles for her drink, nearly spilling his own in the process. In the end he snatches out from her fingers, laughing raucously. Ladybug is giggling as well, forgetting about her predicament for the moment. This is what she’s used to; their routine of banter and playfulness that’s easy—it’s straightforward. Not confusing.

That snaps her right back to the problem. Chat sips her drink, smacking his lips in a purposefully annoying way, and makes his verdict. “Not bad. I like mine better. Wanna try?”

Ladybug shakes her head and reclaims her drink. As casually as possible, she asks, “Do you get boba often?”

“Mm, no. This is actually the second time I’ve gotten the drink.” He swirls his straw around. “Honestly, with all the percentages you give for the sugar and the ice, I’m not too sure what to say. My friend took me to get boba a little while ago, so…durian is actually the only flavour I’ve ever tried.”

A casual dump of information, information that really wouldn’t have meant anything. It’s vague enough that any other person wouldn’t have made any sort of connection; it’s the information they often share between each other.

Except for the fact that she—Ladybug, Marinette—might be the friend in question. And Chat Noir—Chat Noir is…

She stares across the building, where an ad of Adrien, the Fragrance is displayed.

No way.

“Um,” Ladybug stammers. “Your friend took you out for boba because you’ve never had it before?”

He’s painfully oblivious to her panic. “Yeah, about a week ago. You know, it’s pretty funny because she had a similar reaction to you when I ordered the durian smoothie. Apparently she hates the smell too.”

“Your friend?” Ladybug echoes.

“Yeah, my friend. Are you okay, m’lady?”

Can’t really breathe properly, so I’m not really okay, but youcan’tknowandIdon’treallyknowwhat’sgoingonrightnow—

“I, um, just realized I have something to do,” Ladybug stammers out, because it’s the only thing she can think of saying. She flails, but somehow manages to get to her feet. “Uh—uh, do you want my milk tea? I can’t swing around very well if I’m holding it because it might get on my suit and my hair—oh my God, my hair! I got ice cream once and tried to eat it while going around Paris on my yo-yo and it went so badly and honestly I feel like the bubble tea will do the same so you can drink mine too since I can just get another one by myself soon but I really gotta run—”

She all but shoves the cup into his confused hands. It’s a whole miracle Chat doesn’t drop it then and there, just like it’s a miracle Ladybug hasn’t screamed or slipped up or promptly tripped over air and simply… lay there crying.

“Ladybug–” she hears him call, but it’s interrupted by the zing of her yo-yo.

She takes off as fast as possible.

Marinette has never been so hasty in detransforming, but as she slips through the rooftop back into her room, she’s already calling Tikki out before she touches down onto her bed. She slams onto pillows and the soft mattress in her regular clothing, buries her face into the nearest cushion, and screams.

She really doesn’t deserve Tikki’s patience, but her kwami stays beside her and pats her with tiny paws until Marinette’s throat is hoarse and she has more or less yelled the remaining cinders of her panic and confusion into her pillow.

When Marinette finally raises her head to look at Tikki, her kwami has her hands on her hips. “Well?” she asks. “I didn’t want to interrupt your breakdown, but now that you’re through, can you tell me what it’s about?”

Marinette thinks about the cup of boba and the boy she’d left back on the roof. Then the one that sits in front of her in class, with the same shade of blonde hair and emerald eyes, both ordering durian boba.

“I think Chat Noir is Adrien Agreste,” she tells Tikki weakly.

Tikki has a scarily-good poker face. “Have you now,” she replies with calmness Marinette is incapable of. “And why do you think so?”

“Because—because—because they both like durian!” It comes out as a distressed wail.

Tikki ponders the question. Then replies, “I see.”

It’s such an awfully vague response that Marinette is tempted to bury her face into her pillow to scream some more. But she doesn’t, instead pulling out her notebook from the stand and a pencil. “I’m going to draw a venn diagram,” she announces with newfound determination. “I might just be jumping to a conclusion too quickly. And—and there was that one time when Chat was there but Adrien was too, right? When Gorizilla attacked?”

“Right,” Tikki agrees. “But you also did a similar trick with Multimouse and the fox Miraculous, so…”

“Chat didn’t have the fox or mouse Miraculous. Anyway… they both have blonde hair and green eyes.”

She puts that in the similar column. She thinks about it for a couple seconds more, and writes “composed” in Adrien’s column and “a mess” in Chat’s.

“Oh, come on.” Tikki flits closer. “You know very well Adrien isn’t as composed as you make him out to be. The only reason you don’t recognize it is because you’re even worse around him.”

Marinette stubbornly keeps those two where they are, even if she knows deep down that Tikki is right. For a while, she goes on making her list, with Tikki criticizing almost every decision she makes. Adrien Agreste has neat hair, a polite smile, the best grades in class and manners that would woo anyone’s parents. Chat Noir’s hair is messy and untamed, his smile is almost always accompanied with a raucous laugh and shutting up isn’t in his vocabulary. He steals food and drinks and everything he can from her whenever she brings it.

She scribbles and erases and thinks and stresses, getting a week’s worth of confusion down and then some.

“Marinette,” Tikki finally advises when Marinette has run out of ink. “Why don’t you just ask Adrien tomorrow at school subtly about it? If he didn’t mind telling Ladybug he went out for boba with Marinette, he probably wouldn't have qualms telling Marinette about getting boba with Ladybug. It’s not as if your identities need to remain a secret anymore.”

Ask Adrien.

Ask Adrien.

Sure, they’re on good terms now. They’re friends. Marinette’s crush has faded into a more manageable level, and she can talk to him without her voice rising an octave higher than its usual key. She hasn’t tripped and fallen on her face in front of him for at least two weeks.

But this—with the possibility that Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir? To think she’d waxed poetic about Chat Noir to Tikki every night for months? It’s unspeakably insane to think about, and she doesn’t have the courage and probably never will but Marinette thinks she’s genuinely going to die if she doesn’t get closure—

“Okay,” she agrees at last, because it’s the only logical answer.

***

Adrien is the one who comes to find Marinette before she can go find him.

“Hey!” he calls from behind her.

In a quite frankly astonishing display of improvement, Marinette doesn’t scream or fall on her face, even if she does freeze for a good couple seconds too long.

“Uh… Marinette?” Adrien taps her shoulder. “I wanted to return the physics notes to you. You gave me your notebook from last time because I missed the class. Here.”

She takes the notes from him, movements stiff. A million words to say come piling from her throat, but they stick to the top of her mouth drily and none make it past her lips.

Adrien Agreste. Chat Noir. They’re the same person? How can they be the same person? Is it just a huge coincidence? Who is Chat Noir? Who am I, even?

Before she can work herself into more of a panic, Marinette gives him a forced smile, hugging her notebook to her chest. “Thanks!” she shrieks. “I gotta—I gotta run. See you around!”

She trips over air on her way out, face beetroot.

***

“Listen,” Tikki whispers to her, munching on her cookie as Marinette locks herself in a stall of the girls’ washroom. “You gotta do it. Just… just don’t think that he’s Adrien Agreste. I heard imagining people as potatoes helps with stage fright?”

Marinette lets out a distressed noise. “Stage fright isn’t my problem, though!”

“Adrien fright? If you ask me, it’s pretty similar. Anyway, just ask him if he’s had bubble tea recently or something! You don’t know until you try. It won’t be that bad. What’s the worst case scenario?”

“That you-know-who turns out to be you-know-who!”

“We did not decide on these codenames.”

“Yeah, but what if someone hears—”

Tikki interrupts her by giving her a little pinch. “Calm down, Marinette! It’ll be fine. Besides, is it really that big of a problem if it’s true?”

No, it isn’t. Marinette has thought long and hard about it last night, lying awake on her bed, unable to sleep because of the heat and turbulent thoughts and theories all mixing together. Would it be a bad thing, if Chat turned out to be Adrien? No—she could think of a thousand more worse people for Chat to be, and if she were to be perfectly honest, no better person than Adrien. But at the same time, it’s overwhelming in the strangest way: the sort that sends her heartbeat spiking, thoughts scattering, stomach turning in a not-quite-unpleasant way.

Marinette really doesn’t know what to think about it, and that’s the scariest part.

“Okay.” Tikki interrupts her train of thought. “We should probably get going before you’re late for class. If you hurry, you can probably ask Adrien about it before the bell goes off.”

Marinette steels her back. “Okay,” she grinds out with wavering determination. “Okay, I’m gonna do it.”

Tikki lets out a squeak of Attagirl! before diving back into her purse. Marinette marches out of the stall, down the hallway, and into the classroom.

She really hates the way her throat still closes up when she scans the room and her eyes land on Adrien. All of a sudden, she’s reverted to herself months ago, when her crush on him had reached its peak; when she’d been a jumble of frayed nerves and blabbering and hand motions violent enough to whack any bystander that wandered too close.

No, Marinette tells herself firmly. No freaking out. No stuttering. I’m past that.

“Adrien,” she calls, and he turns away from his conversation with Nino.

“Hey!” his smile is a thousand watts too bright. “We were just talking about you. Nino said he’s never tried boba as well.”

The word boba nearly has her choking on spit. “Cool,” Marinette manages out. “That’s very… cool.”

Nino’s eyebrows furrow. “You okay?”

“Fine! Th-that’s great you want to introduce Nino to boba as well! I’m glad to hear you liked the drink.”

Marinette’s well aware that she sounds like a buffering tape-recorder right now. She marches to her desk, sits down just as stiffly, and pinches herself on the arm, out of Adrien and Nino’s sight. Alya has yet to arrive—it’s now or never, Marinette knows. The longer she waits, the more nervous she’ll make herself, and the harder it’ll be. So…

“Adrien!” she blurts out again, voice too loud. Even Rose and Juleka leave their conversation briefly to glance at her.

He’s good-natured as ever when he turns to her, and Marinette is struck with another wave of trepidation. It’s all too sudden. It’s all too much. She takes a deep breath, mind turning to absolute mush, and somehow stammers out, “Have you gotten boba since that one time?”

She really can’t blame him for looking so confused at her question, but to Adrien’s credit, he regains his composure rather quickly. The bewilderment on his face quickly shifts to mild curiosity.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I actually went yesterday with a friend. Thank you for introducing me! I’ll probably go more often now if I find the time.”

Marinette’s mouth is dry. Her hands are sweaty. Her head feels like it’s going to explode. Her heart has moved to her throat and she’s positive that it’s going to stop beating any moment now.

“Oh.” It’s the only noise Marinette feels mentally capable of forming. Sentences are hard. Speaking is impossible. “Um, yesterday?”

“Yeah, it was pretty hot yesterday. I went to Thirstea, actually!” He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s the only boba shop I know at the moment so it doesn’t really mean anything, but… my friend who I went with really liked it too, so I think I’ll stick to Thirstea for now. Until I try all the flavours I want.”

Amidst her own confusion, Marinette somehow manages to think, if you wanted to try all the flavours you wanted why did you get durian again yesterday? It’s second nature: if the boy in front of her is Chat Noir—a fact that, despite the inconclusive results given by her venn diagram, is becoming more and more clear—then Marinette can’t help but want to tease him back.

Except if Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir and Chat Noir is Adrien… God. She’s just going in circles and getting nowhere closer to the final destination.

It doesn’t even hit Marinette that she hasn’t responded to Adrien and that’s why he’s staring at her so apprehensively. The shrill ringing of the bell startles all the class back into their seats, Adrien included, who shoots her a small smile before turning back around.

The rest of the period finds Marinette unable to pay the slightest bit attention. Mme. Bustier’s words travel in one ear, out the other, all muted static compared to the main problem at hand.

And a problem it is. She looks at Adrien’s golden head in front of her, imagining the flicker of black ears. If she reached down and mussed his hair up, it would look like Chat’s. They’re the same height too, to think of it. All the differences she had listed on her venn diagram seem to melt away, until Marinette is faced with one terrible, wonderful, conclusion.

***

She doesn’t confront Adrien about anything after the first period ends, nor does she at lunch, nor after. It’s too overwhelming to think of, but it hardly seems fair to keep him in the dark. When she asks Tikki to confirm at lunch, the only thing her kwami does is shrug with an indecipherable expression on her face—Marinette takes it as a verification.

But it’s a different story after school. By then, Marinette has made up her mind.

Her first stop is Thirstea. It’s not as sweltering as it were the day before, even if she has to wipe the sweat from her forehead after waiting fifteen minutes outside. The store isn’t as bustling now that Ladybug and Chat Noir aren’t there, so Marinette takes advantage of the peace to calm her thoughts. They have patrol in thirty minutes; she has thirty minutes to gather her thoughts and figure out how she’s going to come through with this. But is thirty minutes really going to help? She’s had the whole day alone to her thoughts, and, like it or not, she’s barely gotten anywhere.

When she finally gets her order—a fruit tea for herself, a durian smoothie for Chat Noir—Adrien Agreste—there’s only twenty three minutes to go.

Marinette transforms into Ladybug, hidden in an alley, and goes to wait for her partner to show up on the rooftop they agreed to. Then, once she’s reached the rooftop, she calls off her transformation.

The boba is still cold in her bag, so she wraps her hand around them to fend off the blistering heat from the sun. It’s uncomfortable, waiting like this, but physical discomfort is still better than working up a storm in her own thoughts, which Marinette is trying to distance herself from. They come in waves of stress, anxiousness, uncertainty, and fear. But she has to do this.

Her mood must’ve been evident enough for Tikki to feel, even though her kwami has slipped inside her purse to give her thoughts some space. She pokes her head out.

“Marinette,” Tikki says, a hint of concern in her tone. “You don’t have to do this now if you’re not ready, you know. Chat Noir will understand.”

Marinette, having resorted to biting her nails—she must be really nervous, because that’s a habit she’d gotten rid of years ago—shakes her head. “I can’t keep pushing it back. It’s one thing not revealing each other’s identities, but now that I know… I can’t just… not tell him. It’s not possibly fair, not when he’s waited for so long.”

“...are you happy that it’s Adrien?” This question is more tentative, quieter.

Marinette props her chin in her hands and stares at the skyline. Is she happy that it’s Adrien?

“Yeah,” she replies. “Yeah, I am.”

***

Chat Noir vaults over onto the roof, and he’s six minutes early. Marinette sees him before he sees her; she watches him look around for a couple of seconds, slightly confused.

She takes a deep breath and steps out of the shade of the door. “Chat Noir!” she calls.

He jumps around. “M’lady, you—”

His voice trails off. “M-marinette? I—uh, hi! I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I was actually going to find Ladybug but I might’ve gotten the wrong building! What—what, uh, are you doing up here?”

After a day of planning out the words to say, it’s rather funny how she can’t even form a semblance of the sentences she’s thought up.

It’s also a miracle in and of itself that she doesn’t stutter, panic, or go absolutely speechless. Even if her script lays lost and forgotten in the back of her head, Marinette says in a surprisingly steady voice, “I was actually waiting for you.”

Chat Noir doesn’t move from where he’s standing, so she heads towards him. “Did… Ladybug tell you I was going to be here?”

“Uhmh,” is the noise that makes its way out of Marinette’s mouth. She clears her throat and tries again. “I brought you boba because it’s hot today,” she explains. “I also wanted to talk to you.”

She sees it behind his eyes; questions, confusion, but most importantly, the beginning notes of a realization.

“Wait.” He doesn’t budge from his spot, eying her cautiously. “What do you want to talk about?”

“About the fact that you’re probably Adrien Agreste?”

Even the air, laden with the heat of the day, seems to still between them. Marinette looks up at him, and his reaction is the only confirmation she needs that she is indeed right.

Chat Noir’s reaction is less loud than she had expected. It’s shock, probably, the stage that Marinette has been stuck in for the good part of the day, because he still remains frozen. Then, in a shaky uncertain voice, he asks, “Ladybug?”

Her next breath escapes her in the form of a huff, a half-choked laugh. “We’re idiots.”

His lips lift into a wavering smile. “What.”

And then Marinette is laughing, because it’s so stupid. All the pent-up emotions come tumbling out uncontrollably and she’s laughing and laughing, doubling over and clutching at her stomach and nearly dropping her bag of their boba drinks.

Through her own giggles, she hears Chat mumble, “Oh my God,” and the way he says it makes everything all the more hilarious.

When Marinette finally gathers herself enough to straighten, she’s wiping tears from her eyes. Chat Noir is watching her, although his expression has softened into something that looks suspiciously close to fondness.

“Is this why you asked me about boba this morning?” he questions. “If I’d gone to get it with a friend?”

Marinette gives her eyes one last wipe. “Yeah. I just—when you ordered durian boba yesterday and all that you said—it was too suspicious for me to ignore.”

“Oh.” He tugs his hands through his hair—messy golden hair, how hadn’t she noticed how similar Chat and Adrien always were?—and lets out another groan. “Oh. I’m dumb.”

“You could’ve been any other person if I hadn’t been, well, me,” Marinette points out. “Tikki told me it’s due time, anyway. But yes, you’re dumb. So am I.”

“My identity got exposed because I ordered a durian smoothie?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Oh my God.”

She’s beginning to see why Tikki had found it endlessly amusing watching her panic. Instead of further antagonizing Chat, Marinette reaches into her bag to take out his durian smoothie. She stuffs it into his arms, and he’s too confused to do anything but accept the drink and the straw it comes with.

“Don’t worry,” she reassures him before she can stop herself. “I won’t tell anyone that number one model Adrien Agreste runs around Paris in a leather catsuit. My lips are sealed.”

The moment the words leave Marineette’s mouth, she feels her face heat up. It’s one thing to tease him before, now it feels like she’s treading on the edge of a cliff with a long, long drop. He’s still her partner, but there’s another aspect that they will figure out—with time, undoubtedly—and now is too soon to push it so much.

To her relief, Chat Noir’s face lights up, and a much wider smile slips across his face. “I’m still in shock, you know,” he tells her. If that’s his in-shock voice, then Marinette is thoroughly impressed. “But thank you. My father might have a bone to pick with this outfit if he ever found out.”

Relief is cool against the heat. “Your father won’t be the only one with the bone to pick with you,” she replies. “The bell is quite a… bold statement.”

He laughs once more. “I happen to like the bell the best, so I don’t know what your problem is.”

He has no business to smile so brightly like that, Marinette thinks to herself. In front of her is the boy she’s turned down countless times—the same one she would wax lyrical to Tikki every night before bed. God, what a coincidence. Or really, what a stroke of luck.

She’s jolted from her thoughts when Chat stabs his straw into his durian smoothie with a loud pop.

“Do you want to talk?” Marinette offers. “Somewhere shadier, that is? You probably have a lot of questions. I know I do.”

Chat nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that would work.”

She starts towards the small door on the rooftop, then stops when she realizes that Chat hasn’t been following her. Instead, his gaze is fixed thoughtfully on his drink, like he’s contemplating something important.

“Chat?” Marinette prompts. “Hey, are you okay?”

Then his face brightens. “I’m taro-bly sorry,” he says. “I just got distracted because you’re such a cu-tea.”

Marinette’s jaw drops open. It’s not that she’s particularly surprised by the pun, given his penchant for dropping them at the most terrible (taro-ble?) of moments, but she had half the mind to believe she’d permanently shocked the humour out of Chat Noir. Moreover, the fact that it’s Adrien Agreste saying these so casually is still new to her.

The grin he gives her is absolutely shit-eating, yet somehow, it works perfectly in her mind on Chat’s face as it does on Adrien’s. It also snaps her out of her reverie.

“Now my head is going to explode,” Marinette grumbles. “C’mon, cat-boy. We have a lot to discuss.”

He catches up with her with a quick jog, still slurping out of his boba. “I’m glad it’s you,” he tells her when they fall side-by-side. “In case you didn’t know.”

Marinette hides her grin behind her own drink, but she thinks Chat catches it nonetheless. “Me too,” she tells him. “Even if you have terrible taste in boba.”

“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have terrible taste,” he points out, and they both share a laugh. 

Notes: Here’s my fics masterlist! 

[tamagochiie]

pairing: timeskip!kenma x fem!reader

synopsis: You come home late from your cousin’s funeral, and though Kenma didn’t expect much from you but perhaps a few leftovers you’ve managed to steal away from the dinner, he finds you with a surprise: a sleeping child cradled around your neck and a teenage boy hovering behind you.

Your poor boyfriend wondering what in the hell it is you’re plotting…

tags: angst and fluff, time skip!, slight spoilers if you squint

warnings: mentions of death, mentions of depression, cursing

w/c: 2.2k

tagging list: @angrylittleriri​ @chims-kookies​ @gooseyhouse​

a/n: hello! welcome to the second chapter of the series! i’m posting this a little later than expected because wifi is really trying to cock block me from posting :’) i honestly wasn’t expecting people to like or interacting with this fic, so my heart is super warm right now :>  

anyway, I hope you enjoy!

happy almost new year! see you all next week!

master list

<< life as we know it | life as he’s known it >>

You wonder what the younger version of you would think if you went back in time and told her she'd be eating at a dining table filled with food that wasn't microwavable, and the air wouldn't be filled by the sound of metal clanging and scraping against each other, but instead be filled by the lilting giggles of a little boy; his older brother pressing him to keep it down; and Kenma's casual yet awkward attempt to relate to the two.

She would probably cry.

Your parents' work piled up to the late hours of the evening and spilled into the morning, leaving you in a constant state of dejection. The house would be barren, nothing but the faint ticking of the old grandfather clock to keep you company. But even if your parents were home, it would still be the same; the air cold and unmoving.

Your parents were not warm nor were they emotional, and maybe that's what drew you to Kenma; he was quiet, rarely affectionate, and gave you more than enough room to breathe. Sure, there were the occasional forehead kisses, the head pats, the 'how are you doing' texts, and sometimes if he was brave enough, he’d interlock pinkies with you in public.

But you grew selfish, finding yourself wanting a little more each time you saw him, and you weren't sure if it was okay.

Was it okay to yearn for things? 

Was it okay to ask for more?

But Kenma saw through your facade of accepting things as they are and right into your neediness. He was willing to give as long as you asked or even when you were too shy to do so. He even gave you his whole life without sparing a second thought even if the realization that he had done so came much later.

"Here, let me." Kenma slips his hands over yours, taking the plate from within your grasp to wash it in your place. He bumps his hips against yours, causing you to stumble away from the sink.

You mumble a thank you before resorting to wiping down the dishes and setting them on the rack.

You delight in his banter. He asks you about your day, stealing glances between you and the stack of dishes before him while you give him the run down. He listens to you intently, gaze wandering a little longer when he hears an exasperated sigh escape your lips, but you let him know you're just fine.

"What about you?" You ask, tilting your head and playfully moving it in front of Kenma's face, blocking him from the plate he needs to scrub. "How was your day?"

He hums, tiptoeing over you to finish the chore like the diligent little worker he is. "It was another day," You frown at him and his lack of effort to push further. He rolls his eyes, chuckling at your pouty face. "I played another trial game with Eiji—"

"And how'd that go?"

"Oh, he's absolute shit—ow!" Your slap against his arm resounds throughout the apartment, causing Yuki and Eiji's to jerk their attention towards you both. You mold your face into a look of ease, sparing them a warm smile, telling them you saw a fly.

"The hell?! I wasn't finished!" The pudding head seethes. "Sure he was shit, but he was still better than you."

The cocky grin slipping across his lips matching with his lidded eyes has you throwing your hands, erupting a series of ow's. "You're such an ass, you know that?"

"Yeah, the ass you chose." He sneers, handing you the last plate to dry.

He rubs his arm in an attempt to soothe the stinging, glaring at you begrudgingly. It takes you a while to ease back into his trust, but you do, and he picks up where he leaves off as if he wasn't in any pain  to begin with.

He tells you about his little trip to the convenience store with Yuki for his strawberry milk, and the foreign, constricting feeling that wouldn't leave his chest until they came back home. How he couldn't let go of Yuki's hand when they were in the store, and if he did, it would send him in a state of sheer panic.

"Must be your mommy instincts kicking in," You joke, and he only rolls his eyes.

He also admits inadvertently turning all your favorite whites into various shades of pinks and blues. As someone as analytical as Kenma, he was challenged by the task of separating the lights from the darks. 

You snort, earning a scowl from your boyfriend and a string of explanations to defend his case. But it isn't the mistake that makes you laugh, but rather how far you've come after a month of adjustments and an unfortunate series of events.

The first two weeks were exceptionally trying. No one spoke a word and everyone walked on eggshells. Eiji was still too shy to look at you, his responses down to a bare minimum and quieter than a whisper; Yuki cried almost all the time over every little thing, and the vein in Kenma's neck was threatening to pop every time he did.

It didn't help when you and Kenma would end your nights at each other's throats, bickering till you fell asleep. And when morning came, you'd be greeted by the emptiness from his side of the bed.

And it helped no one when the two of you would avoid each other, never crossing paths or breathing a word the moment you came home until it was too painfully awkward to continue.

Two and half hours charged with petty arguments, things of the past, and all the little things that came in between only to have finally arrived at one conclusion: You weren't parents and you weren't Akihiro-san. You were your own people and it was okay to do things differently.

Even if different meant that Kenma might call the kids by the wrong name or forget the fact he's living with someone else other than you. Even if different meant that you'll be absent-mindedly teaching Yuki a few curses to add to his vocabulary or forgetting to enroll them in school.

The truth is no one from the family was going to return your calls, and you were probably going to spend the rest of your twenties making up bedtime stories and giving pretty bad advice to someone just a few years younger than you.

Which brings you here, wearing your bathing suit as you share your bubble bath with Yuki because he wanted to play with the rubber duckies he whined and moaned at Kenma to buy for him at the store.

Lathering his hair with shampoo, Yuki's head leans against your chest, eyes gleaming beneath the bathroom lights. He beams at you, giggling at the ticklish feeling as you massage his head. He brings attention back to his ducks, making crashing sounds as he splashes them into the water.

"Is that how ducks swim?" You ask, washing away the soap from his hair. "Don't they just kinda...float around?"

He shakes his head before twisting his body to face you. He's got a tough expression plastered on; brows furrowed, his jaw clenched, eyes unwavering.

A very serious boy.

"These are special ducks," He explains, raising one to your face."These are battleship ducks."

Your lips fall to an 'o', still not picking up what he's putting down but you pretend you do.

Is this what kids are into these days?

Yuki goes on to tell you about his special ducks; something about lasers in their eyes, super special flying skills, and...echo location? You ask him if he's sure—if you heard him right, but he's as firm with his stance as he is with the death grip he has on his rubber duckies.

You drain the tub before rinsing yourselves beneath the warm water of the shower. Yuki flips his hair around, air drying himself as he steps out of the tub. You tell him to brush his teeth while he waits for you to finish rinsing.

"Hey, Oba-san," Yuki's call is muffled by the foam of the toothpaste still in his mouth. "Are you and Kenma-san married?"

You nearly fall when you slip off of your bathing suit and into your pajamas.  "Ah, no, Yuki. We're not."

"But aren't you in love?" He asks, oblivious to the sudden shift in the atmosphere, spitting into the sink and washing his mouth.

Your eye twitches and you swallow the lump in your throat before it goes big enough for you to choke and die. "Uhh, people don't always have to marry right away just because they're in love..."

"But Kenma-san said he's been in love with you for four years."

"I—Yeah, well—"

"That's sounds like a really long time, Oba-san." You can't tell if he means to sound condescending. You can't tell if your mom has awakened from the grave and possessed the young boy because she woke up thinking she had a few more things she'd like to pester you with.

"Well, Yuki," You gather the little patience you have left, taking a deep breath as you step out of the tub. The bathroom tile is cold against the soles of your feet, sending a shiver down your spine. Enough to keep you sober for trivial conversation with a six year old boy. "Love—Love kinda looks different for everyone, Yuki."

You choose your words carefully, not wanting to say anything that might confuse him.

You help him into his clothes, his hair leaving wet patches onto his his dinosaur pajamas. He listens to you intently, looking right into your eyes. "There are people marry the moment they meet—or at least after a short while—because they can't help but feel sure?” 

And you can’t help but feel flustered at your own explanation, not too sure with your words, “...and other people don't do that. Some relationships move at a faster pace and other's move a bit slower; and Kenma-san and I...we're happy with how things are right now."

He hums, nodding his head as if he understands. "Even though Eiji-san and I are here?"

"Yes, little love." You assure him with the new nickname, booping his nose. "Even though you're both here."

You grab his towel and dry his hair. You pat down the tiny puddles of water on his face and neck, noting to wipe behind his ears.

"But," Yuki mumbles through the material of the towel, swatting your hand away to to catch his breath, "sometimes people don't like different..." Yuki pushes the towel to this side, his glossy eyes meeting yours and your heart cracks. "They didn't like my dad 'cause he was different."

"H-He didn't love someone th-that looked like y-you..." Yuki bites down on his bottom lip, keeping it from quivering and fixating his eyes onto the tiles of the floor to prevent himself from choking on his words. "H-He...He loved someone that look like Kenma-san."

You understand what he means. You know full well. Their father was gay and because of that, your family ostracized him without wasting another breath. As if it was easy as blinking.

You knew what their father had been going through, you had enough time to help, yet you stood idle, doing nothing but add to his loneliness.

You kept all the sunshine Akihiro-san shared with you during your bluest days, even when it had been so obvious he needed it more than you.

But not once did you ever think about returning a sliver of it. And you wonder maybe if you hadn't been so selfish and naive, a silver lining would've been enough to avoid something as painful as this.

Instinctively, you pull him close to you, threading your fingers through his still damp hair. You shush him and press kiss on the crown of his head as his petite figure trembles in your arms. You let him sob into your shirt, his fingers twisting the material in anguish.

And it breaks your heart that a little human like him would not only know the meaning of anguish, but how it feels to have it tear through his heart.

It takes a few moments for Yuki to catch his breath and for you to ease him. He slumps onto you as he regains his strength. You tell him you're sorry because you are and because you don't know what else to say.

You try to use his strawberry milk and his brother as an incentive to keep him from crying again. And after a few minutes it works.

You trail closely behind him when he walks out of the bathroom. He begins to run when he gets closer to Eiji, the  pitter patter of his wee little feet carrying in the apartment.

You watch as Yuki thrusts himself forward into the arms of his brother, and Eiji doesn't fail to catch him. The sight before you leaves you gawking in silence, watching Eiji unravel into his big brother form as  he lifts Yuki to the ceiling, playfully sniffing his under arms, the crook of his neck, and even his little bum before complimenting him, "Good job, you smell just like flowers."

His giggles float in the air, swarming around the apartment as if he hadn't been crying just a few minutes ago.

And as you watch the scene unfold do you  decide to step out of the sidelines, using this warm moment shared between the boys as your driving force to keep the last of your cousin's light safe. 

[patt-writes-stuff]

Pink (Hawks x gn!Reader)

Pairing: Hawks/Takami Keigo x gn! Reader

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: cursing but that’s about it!

Genre: Fluff, slight angst, Romantic/Relationship

Tags/Aus: boss x secretary, pining, slow burn, slight cannon divergence probably

Summary: 5 times your boss, Hawks, made you flustered + the one time you made him flustered

A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS!! This is my fic for the Attack on Academia server’s Secret Santa Event!! This is for @sugacookiies​ !! and I really hope you like it!!! 

~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸

Event No. 1

“Thank you so much for coming today, we’ll be sure to get back to you soon,” the lady who had been interviewing you said, smiling at you. You bowed your head slightly, thanking her for her time with a small smile on your face.

After exiting the room and closing the door, you took a deep breath, as if to calm your still very present nerves. You had been up for a job as a secretary at pro hero Hawk’s agency, something you were more than thrilled about.  

Growing up, you’d always been immensely intrigued with the world of pro heroes. Your room had been decked out in hero figurines and posters, the whole nine yards. Hell, even your comforter was hero themed at a certain point in time. It had just always fascinated you how these people would use their quirks for the good of humanity and to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

Sadly, your quirk, MoodLocks, wasn’t very useful in crime-fighting. All it did was allow your hair to change colors depending on your mood. It was pretty, of course, but you had a hard time controlling it and it could never help you beat an opponent. If anything, it would give the villain an insight into your thoughts and put you at a clear disadvantage.

So, as time passed, your childish fantasies of becoming a hero did as well. It didn’t bother you anymore, as you were more than happy with the career you’d chosen. Your love of heroes was still very much present, hence why you were so nervous about today’s interview. If you got the job, not only would the pay be incredible, but you’d also get the chance to help an actual hero. Maybe you’d even get the chance to meet more of them!

You were pretty sure you had made a fairly good impression so hopefully, you would indeed get a call from the agency soon.

Walking out of the agency, you couldn’t help but let out a yawn. You’d stayed up far too late last night googling commonly asked job interview questions so you wanted nothing more than to get back to your apartment and catch up on some much-needed rest. Maybe you and your roommate could order in.

“Oh God, I am so sorry that was my fault. I just finished this super stressful interview and I’m super tired so I was not watching where I was going-” your babbling came to a sudden halt as you looked up, brain losing all ability to form coherent thoughts.

Right before your very eyes was the man who’s “a bit too fast” in all his red-winged glory. You’d seen him in interviews online, of course, you kept up with most pro hero interviews, so you knew he was handsome. However, the cameras most certainly did not do the man justice. His yellow glasses were resting on his forehead, pushing his messy (and very soft looking) blond hair back. His gold eyes seemed to be looking right into your soul, calculating yet calm.

God, you wished you could make your eyeliner look remotely similar to his.

He raised an eyebrow at you, and you realized that you’d been staring for what you could only describe as an uncomfortably long amount of time.

Before you could embarrass yourself further, the winged hero placed a gloved hand on your shoulder. He looked at the top of your head, an intrigued expression adorning his face before morphing into an easy smile, he spoke, “‘S no problem, chickadee. Good luck with your interview.”

And just like that, the hero went along his merry way.

Curious what he’d been staring at, not to mention the nickname, you looked up at your hair, which had previously been a bright shade of orange due to being anxious, was now very pink. You blanched at the thought of having lost control of your quirk so easily, in front of a cute guy pro hero who might be your future boss no less.

‘Well,’ you thought, ‘at least I can say I met Japan’s #2 hero even if I don’t get this job.’

~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸

Event No. 2

Much to your surprise, and pleasure, you had indeed received a call from Hawks’ agency about a week later. After several follow up interviews (much more than you were expecting, honestly, but you suppose it made since he’s such a high ranking hero) a very thorough background check, you had gotten the job.

When you had gotten the job, you had been hoping that the blond would have forgotten your first encounter, since you had literally malfunctioned right before his very eyes. The chances of him forgetting weren’t exactly small, after all. You were sure he met plenty of people every day and your interaction had been incredibly brief.

A month into your job as his secretary, you seemed to be in the clear. Sure, he knew about your quirk, since he was your employer and the ever-changing array of colors in your hair aren’t exactly subtle, but seeing as he hadn’t mentioned it so he’d probably forgotten.

You’d stayed at the agency long after your shift was overdue to a couple of low-ranking villains attempting to rob a bank. It had been an easy win for Hawks, he was in and out of there long before his sidekicks had even gotten there, but the villains had caused a lot of unnecessary damage to the building, so there was a ridiculous amount of paperwork.

You couldn’t wait to get home and change out of your stuffy work clothes and into the comfiest pair of PJs you owned. Your roommate, always a sweetheart, had been kind enough to save you some leftovers from her dinner so all you had to do was warm it up, eat, shower, and crash on your bed.

Whilst you were getting ready to head home, your boss had decided that it was only fair to walk you home, seeing as it was late. You had insisted that he didn’t need to do that, even showing him the can of pepper spray you carried around your person at all times. Still, he’d insisted, and who were you to say no?

The winged hero had originally offered to fly you home, but you’d profusely told him it wasn’t necessary. So, the two of you ended up taking the train. The two of you got a couple of weird stares from your fellow passengers, seeing as the flying hero was taking a train instead of y’know… flying and his wings took a significantly large part of the seat the two of you were occupying (it seemed uncomfortable but he didn’t mention it). Hawks seemed to either not notice or not care, opting instead to have an animated conversation with you about the best fried chicken places in Fukuoka. It was mostly him talking, but you’d add to the conversation every once in a while, and sometimes people would interrupt and ask for an autograph, which he’d sign with a carefree smile on his face.

“You don’t have to walk me home, sir,” you told him after the two of you had exited the station closest to your apartment.

“What kind of hero would I be if I let a civilian walk alone across the dark streets of Japan?” He asked you, tone light and teasing. “Also, didn’t I tell you to call me Hawks? Sir makes me feel old.”

You rolled your eyes playfully at his words, turning to the left towards your apartment. You’d get there soon and a small part of you wanted to keep the banter going for as long as possible.

“I don’t think that would be very professional of me, sir,” you said playfully. He laughed and the two of you settled into a comfortable silence while you walked.

After a moment, he shoved his hands into his coat pockets and he spoke up, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, how exactly does your quirk work?”

“Oh well, y’know, it changes color depending on my mood, so red means I’m angry, blue can mean I’m sad or calm, pink means I’m flustered or embarrassed, purple means I’m scared, etc.”

“So your hair went pink the first time we met because you were starstruck by my devilishly good looks?” He asked in a faux haughty tone. “Don’t worry, I don’t blame you.”

The asshole remembered your first encounter.

Your hair turned pink and you celebrated inwardly as you approached your apartment. As you opened the glass door to the complex, Hawks laughed at your hurry.

“Good night,” you stated, tone indignant at his laughter, as you made your way inside.”

“‘Night, Pinky.”

~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸

Event No. 3

Working for the red-winged hero himself was both everything you were expecting it to be and completely the opposite of it at the same time.

The hours were crazy, something you were anticipating considering villain activity had been increasing and your boss was a busy public figure. What you were certainly not anticipating, however, was that Hawks would be such a teasing little shit.

Not only had the man remembered your first encounter, but after you had explained your quirk to him (he’d asked you about it despite it being in the agency’s records since you had applied for the position, you guessed he’d done it as a way to break the ice) he’d taken it upon himself to fluster you to get your hair to go that embarrassingly bright shade of pink.

He’d call you all sorts of nicknames ranging from pinky to songbird (your favorite was by far Pinky since it feels so personal. Not that you’d ever tell him that). He’d also gotten into the habit of trying out all sorts of ridiculous pick up lines on you. The greater majority of them were bird-related, of course. Those never really got you but they did make you laugh.

The one that probably got you the most was when he’d bring you your favorite drink or lunch from a place you’d mentioned you’d like offhandedly, saying he had just been “flying by” and remembered your conversation.

You didn’t mind his flirtatious banter in the slightest. He never crossed any boundaries and kept things professional when it came to business. It was pretty fun to see what nicknames or pickup lines he had up his sleeves.

The only downside was that you’d begun to develop a slight crush on the red-winged hero. It would never lead to anything, you were well aware of that. He was not only a famous hero who was constantly under public scrutiny, but he was also your boss.

It can’t hurt to dream though.

“What’s got you so distracted?” An all too familiar broke your very him-centric train of thought. You looked up from the paperwork you’d been blankly staring at. You’d been trying to multitask between eating and doing paperwork so you wouldn’t have to take any work home. After much insistence from your roommate, who was well aware of your crush on Your boss (she’d teasingly gifted you a pair of Hawks themed PJs on your birthday), you had finally given in and agreed to let her set you up on a date with a former schoolmate of hers.

“Nothing, just thinking about a date I have tonight,” you lied, looking up from your desk to meet those lovely honey-colored eyes you spent more hours than you’d care to admit thinking about. You scanned his body language, trying to gauge his reaction. Not that you could ever get a read on him. More often than not, it was impossible to get a read on him under the visage of carefree indifference he was so well known for. In the almost half a year you’d known him you’d never once seen the hero lose his cool or show any emotion other than the ones he wanted to portray. It was kind of unfair seeing as he could get a picture-perfect look into your thoughts and emotions just by looking at the color of your hair and here you were, left grasping at straws.

He seemed to have no outward reaction other than his shoulders tensing and his eyebrows scrunching up a bit in mild distaste. It was gone so fast you were sure you must have just imagined it.

“Pinky’s got themselves a date?” he said after a moment, a slightly forced teasing tilt to his voice. He crossed his hands and placed them on the taller part of your desk and leaned his weight on them, staring down at you with a cheeky grin.

“I guess so,” you said, fiddling with your chopsticks as you continued, “I’m kind of nervous though. I haven’t got on any dates since I started working here, I’m a little rusty.”

“How come you haven’t gone on any dates?” he asked, staring at you with an intensity you weren’t quite expecting from him. “Had a special someone in mind?”

The roots of your hair went white in surprise before you managed to school them into going back to your natural hair color. It was brief but he had surely noticed.

“I’d go on lots of dates if my boss gave me more days off,” you said, pushing past the momentary lull in the conversation and giving him a pointed look.

He let out a laugh, a real and genuine one, unlike the ones he’d let out during interviews or out in public. The thought made your face heat up. It made you feel special. Even if he didn’t see you in the same way you saw him, he at least trusted you enough to be real around you. That was enough for you.

“You’ve got nothing to be nervous about, kid, any person would be lucky to land a date with someone as beautiful as you,” He stated, looking at you with a certain emotion behind his gaze that you couldn’t quite decipher. “If your date happens to go south, just give me a call and I’ll pick you up. After all, what kind of hero would I be if I didn’t look out for my secretary?”

You looked at his retreating form, your hair as pink as bubble gum and heart threatening to beat out of your rib cage. He’d just called you beautiful. He’d also said that anyone would be lucky to date you. Did that include him? Did he like you?

“Hey Hawks,” you called out, surprising both him and yourself. Despite him telling you to just call him Hawks instead of ‘sir’, you’d stuck to calling him sir for the sake of professionality. “Thanks for the offer.”

~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸

Event No. 4

You let out a tired sigh as you watched the number of floors go up on the tiny screen atop the doors of the elevator you were currently in.

When you had signed your contract to work at Hawks’ agency, you were aware that you would need to be accessible 24/7, however, you thought that if he did contact you at an ungodly hour, it’d be for something important, perhaps something along the lines of a press scandal or a massive villain attack that you’d need to start filing paperwork promptly so that the agency could report the casualties or cost of the destruction. You had highly doubted Hawks, Japan’s literal #2 hero would call his secretary at 3:00 a.m. in the goddamn morning and order them to bring him a bucket of fried chicken from fucking KFC.

You clearly hadn’t known the man at the time, you thought as you stared at the red and white bucket in your arms.

The elevator dinged, alerting you that you had arrived at your destination. Making your way through the hallway, you tried to figure out why your boss would be so cruel as to make you get him fast food when he had two perfectly capable wings that could take him to and from the nearest KFC faster than you ever could. You bet it’d even be warmer.

You’d need to download UberEats on his phone.

Before your fist could make contact with the door, it was swung open, surprising your half-asleep brain. Before your eyes there was a very awake looking Hawks, his eyes zeroed in on the bucket you were holding

“Hey there, chickadee,” he said in a teasing tone, resting his arm on the door frame in a very attractive manner. God, if you were just a bit more coherent and a little less sleep-deprived, your hair would be the most embarrassingly bright pink color imaginable.

Thankfully, you weren’t and you could hear your bed calling your name from across the city, so without bothering to answer, you shoved the bucket of chicken into his arms before turning around to speed your way back to your at this point cold bed.

Before you could get very far, however, Hawks had grabbed your wrist with your free hand.

“You’re not leaving already, are you?” He asked you, letting go of your wrist.

“It’s 3 in the goddamn morning, Hawks,” was your deadpan answer.

“C’mon, you wouldn’t let your poor boss eat all alone would you,” you could tell his tone was meant to be light and playful but it was lacking his usual flare.

Your concern for the overgrown pigeon won out, and with a defeated sigh, you walked into his apartment, Hawks trailing behind you, visibly pleased that you stayed.

Despite all your time working for Hawks, you’d never actually been inside of his apartment. You had come here several times before to drop off documents he needed to sign or a new schedule (because the Hero Commission apparently couldn’t send emails directly to him) but you had always left the things at his building's front desk.

Hawks’ apartment was… emptier than you had expected it to be. It was nice, the furniture was obviously high quality, not that it was surprising considering he was a high ranking hero, but it lacked a personal touch. It had no pictures or knick-knacks in sight. It felt more like a house instead of an actual home.

“So, how’d your date go?” Hawks inquired once the two of you settled in his living room, him on the couch and you in the armchair next to it. He picked up a piece of chicken, offering it to you. However, it was far too early to even think about consuming food, so you politely declined.

“It was fine. He was nice,” you answered.

To be honest the date had gone well. He’d been nice, a complete gentleman. He’d taken you to a nice restaurant, he was great in conversation, he’d even walked you home but at the end of the night, the two of you had agreed that there was just no chemistry between the two of you whatsoever. You had decided to just stay friends.

“There won’t be a second one, though,” you added after a beat of silence.

“Good,” your eyes widened at his words and suddenly you had an epiphany.

Hawks had been jealous. He was jealous because he liked you. That’s why he had asked you to come here.

Before you could voice your thoughts, he spoke again, a sly smirk on his face, “By the way, I love your pajamas. I wasn’t aware you were such a fan.”

Your hair turned pink, as it often did whenever Hawks was around when you looked down at your clothes. In your haste to get Hawks his food so you could go back to bed, you had forgone changing clothes. You hadn’t realized you were wearing the Hawks themed PJs your roommate had gotten you as a gag gift. They were mustard-colored with lots of cute red feathers and tiny Hawks chibi heads scattered around the fabric.

He would never let you live this down.

~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸

Event No. 5

Following the KFC event, the two of you hadn’t spoken about the situation further. At this point, you were well aware of his feelings for you, and you hadn’t exactly been subtle about liking him. The two of you just hadn’t spoken about it. You weren’t official but there was an unspoken rule that neither of you would go on dates with other people.

You were fine with it. Really, you were.

Except that you were definitely not okay with it and you were very much upset that he had just answered that he was single when the lady that had interviewed him had asked him if he was seeing anyone.

Rationally, you understood why he said no. You weren’t official and saying yes would just throw the media into a frenzy while they speculated who he was seeing. You remember how crazy everyone went a couple of months ago when pictures of Mirko and Hawks in their street clothes hanging out started circulating on Twitter. They were trending for weeks, and you had had to answer call after call, explaining that no, they are not dating and no, they don’t have time to go on the 8:00 a.m. news to answer questions about what it was like to date as pro heroes.

On the other hand, you were tired of dancing around each other. You were aware that dating a pro hero would come with hectic schedules and even some danger, but you didn’t care.

“So I was thinking you could come over and we can watch that hero documentary you told me to watch- hey are you mad at me?” Hawks asked, brows furrowed as in confusion.

“No, I’m not angry at you,” you answered, putting your stuff away and heading to the agency’s doors. You were more than ready to go back to your apartment and there was a pint of your favorite ice cream waiting for you in the freezer with your name on it.

“You totally are,” he scoffed, following after you.

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are.” Your overgrown pigeon of a boss insisted, mimicking your tone, “If you’re not angry then why is your hair red?”

With a sigh, you spoke, failing to hide the snarky tone to your voice “So what if I am angry? Why do you care? It’s not like we’re dating or anything.” You walked out onto the sidewalk.

“Oh, that’s what you're upset about?” He asked, realization dawning upon his features. When you didn’t answer he kept talking, “You of all people know why I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. It’s just- nothing, never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” You told him, looking away with a defeated sigh.

You were about to walk away before he stopped you by placing his glove cladded hand  

“At least let me take you home,” it wasn’t much of a question, but you nodded anyways.

All of a sudden, you let out a shrill scream when he picked you up bridal style, hands instinctively clasping on to his coat to assure you wouldn’t fall.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you home,” he explained as if it were obvious. Before you had a chance to argue he set off into the sky.

You couldn’t hear anything but the wind in your ears and his heartbeat, but you finally understood why he loved flying so much. Exhilarating was the only word you could use to describe it. And cold. It was also really cold. You understood why he walked around with such a heavy coat now. You snuggled more into him, trying to get some more warmth, which caused Hawks to tighten his hold on you. The affectionate gesture alone had your hair going a shade of pink.

You got to your apartment building much faster than you ever would by taking the train, something that you regretted a bit since it meant he’d let go of you.

“Look, Hawks,” you started, “maybe we should-“

“Keigo,” he said, effectively cutting you off,

“W-what?” You spluttered, caught off guard.

“I want you to call me Keigo,” he said with a sense of finality, looking into your eyes with an emotion you couldn’t quite read, or at least one that you were just choosing to ignore. It’d just make what you were about to suggest harder.

“Look, Hawks,” you started, opening the door that led to the stairs, “I really like you, hell, maybe even more than that, and I want to be with you but I don’t want to be whatever we are right now forever.”

Ignoring the way his wings physically dropped at your words, you closed the door behind you and headed to your apartment.

~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸

Event No. 1

Once you got home, you immediately stripped out of your work clothes and into your Hawks-themed pajamas (because they're the comfiest, not because they remind you of him, obviously) and you’d taken out your ice cream and went to town on it. Your roommate had noticed the dark blue that had taken over your hair but you’d brushed her off, saying it was nothing to worry about. She’d been doubtful, but she had a night shift so she left, but not before making you promise to call her if you needed to.

You’d spent the rest of the evening eating your ice cream and watching tv before deciding to get some sleep so you would feel at least a little less sorry for yourself tomorrow.

You were currently in your room, scrolling through your phone on your bed before calling it a day when you started to hear a tapping sound. You’d ruled it out to be some tree branch knocking against your window due to the wind. However, the longer you ignored it the more incessant it became.

You nearly fell out of your bed when you realized it was Hawks, your boss, the #2 pro hero of Japan, tapping on your window while squatting on your fire escape.

You got up, heading towards your window and unlocking it before pushing it up.  You helped him in before sitting down on the bed and motioning for him to do the same. An awkward silence filled the air, neither of you was quite sure of what you should say.

“Hawks, what are-“ you started before being cut off by him.

“Look, Pinky, I love you so much it scares the shit out of me,” he declared. Your hair went the brightest shade of pink it had ever been at his words.

He played with the embroidered design of the throw blanket you kept in your bed. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the red-winged hero so vulnerable in all your time knowing him.

“But there’s a lot of crap that comes with my job and I could never forgive myself if I brought you into it and you got hurt. So-“ before he could finish speaking, you grabbed onto his coat’s collar with both of your hands and crashed your lips against his.

You’d waited almost an entire year for this. One thing was for certain, it was well worth the wait. You loved every single thing about him. And he loved you. That was all you needed.

After a beat, you pulled away, choosing instead to cup his cheek in an adoring manner. The two of you looked at each other with nothing short of pure unadulterated adoration.

“I love you Keigo,” you spoke his name for the first time, “as long as you’re by my side I don’t care about what happens.”

His reaction was, for lack of a better word, cute. His honey eyes were wide in shock, his face as red as his wings, and his aforementioned wings were puffed up in shock. Now you understood why he loved teasing you so much.

“So, do you wanna watch the documentary?” You asked him, walking out of your room and into the living room with a victorious smirk.

~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸~🌸

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

In Search of Lost Screws (RQBB '21)

Here at last is my entry for the 2021 Rusty Quill Big Bang!

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Rating: T Word count: ~30k Warnings: Chronic Illness, Mild Body Horror, Internalized Ableism, Canon-Typical Spiders, Mention of Canon-Typical Suicidal Ideation, Alcohol Other tags: Cane-user Jon, EDS Jon, Canon-compliant, Season 5, Set in 180-181 (Upton Safehouse period) Characters: Jon Sims, Martin Blackwood, Mikaele Salesa (secondary), Annabelle Cane (secondary) Relationships: Jon/Martin Summary: While staying at Upton House, Jon and Martin accidentally break their bedroom’s doorknob, and can’t get back into the room until they fix it. Meanwhile Jon tries not to break into literal pieces without the Eye, and also to pretend he’s having a good time as he and Martin lunch with Annabelle, parry gifts from Salesa, and quarrel about whether Jon’s okay or not. He's fine! It's just that the apocalypse runs on dream logic, and chronic pain feels worse when you're awake. Excerpt:

“Have I mentioned how weird it is you’re the one who keeps asking me this stuff?” “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help? I just…” Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouse’s dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. “I can’t seem to corral my thoughts here.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s actually kind of fun, it’s just—I’m so used to being the sidekick,” Martin laughed. “Besides, I miss my eldritch Google.” “Should I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?” Another laugh, this one less awkward. “No. That won’t work, remember? This place is a ‘blind spot,’ you said.” The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice. “Right, right. I forgot,” Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger he’d felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds he’d allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadn’t somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutes’ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think I’ll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martin’s face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him. “Honestly, it’d almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.” “Hey.” Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. “I think I’ll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.” Was it just because of Hopworth that Martin’s elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way he’d learnt not to fear out there?

Huge thanks to @pilesofnonsense for hosting this event; to @connanro for beta-reading; and to @silmapeli for their amazing illustration, whose own post you can find here.

If you prefer, you can read this fic instead on Ao3. I won't link it directly, since Tumblr has trouble with external links, but if you google the title and add "echinoderms" (my Ao3 handle), it should come up!

Crunch. “Oh god. Shit! Oh god, oh no—”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

A clatter, then a noise like a small rock scraping a large one. Jon’s heart plunged; halfway through his question he knew the answer.

“I—I broke it? Look, see, the whole thing just—take this.” Martin tore his hand out of Jon’s and dropped the severed doorknob in it instead. Then he dropped to the floor, diving head- and hands-first for the crack between it and the door as if that crack were a portal between dimensions. Jon closed his eyes and shook this image away, hoping when he opened them again he could focus on what was real.

He should have known this would happen from the moment they left for breakfast. Every time he’d opened that door its knob felt a little looser. Why hadn’t he warned Martin? Well, alright, he didn’t need powers to know that one. He just hadn’t thought of it. Been a bit preoccupied, after all. And even if he had thought of it, that was exactly the kind of conversation he’d been shying away from all week. Watch out for that doorknob; it’s a little loose, he would say, and yeah, probably Martin would answer, Oh, thanks. But there was a chance Martin would say instead, Why didn’t you tell me?—and all week Jon had obeyed an instinct to avoid prompting that question. All week he had made sure to enter and exit their room a few steps ahead of Martin, and hold the door open for him. Martin probably just saw it as Jon’s way of apologizing for their first few months in the Archives together, and once that thought occurred to him Jon had started to look at it that way himself. Maybe that’s why he’d forgot this time.

“Nooo-oooo, come on come on!”

“I don’t think you’ll fit,” Jon said, when he looked again and found Martin trying to wedge his fingers under the door.

(Martin used to leave Jon’s office door open behind him—perhaps absentmindedly, but more likely as a gesture of friendship and openness, which the Jon of that time would not suffer. Sasha and Tim, n.b., only left his door open on their way into his office, when they didn’t intend to stay long; Martin would leave it gaping even if he didn’t mean to come back. Every time Jon had sighed, pulled himself to his feet, and closed the door behind Martin, drawing out the click of its tongue in the latch. And a few times he’d closed the door in front of him, so as to exclude him from a conversation between Jon and Tim or Sasha that he, Martin, had tried to weigh in on from outside Jon’s office.)

“What are you looking for?”

“The—the screw, I saw it roll under there. It fell down on our side. Oh, my god, it was so close—if I’d reacted just half a second earlier, I could’ve?—shit.”

“Oh.” Jon huffed out a cynical laugh.

“I can’t believe it. I broke Salesa’s door! He welcomes us in to an oasis, and I break the door. Oh, god—I’ve broken an irreplaceable door, in a stately historic mansion!”

A few more demonstrative huffs of laughter. “No you didn’t.”

Martin paused. He didn’t get up, but did turn his head to look at Jon. “Yes I did. It’s right there in your hand, Jon—”

“I should’ve known. Check for cobwebs, Martin.”

“Oh come on.”

“This can’t be your fault—it’s far too neat. This is all part of Annabelle’s plan.”

“Do you know that?”

“W-well, no. I can’t, not here. I just—”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Jon. Pretty sure it’s just an old doorknob.”

“Did you check for cobwebs?”

“Of course there are no cobwebs. A spider wouldn’t even have time to finish building the web before somebody wrecked it opening the door!”

“Then what’s that?” With the tip of his cane Jon tapped the floor in front of a clot of gray fluff in the seam between two walls next to the door, making sure not to let it touch the clot itself.

Martin rolled over to see where he was pointing, and almost stuck his elbow in it. “Ah. Gross. Gross, is what that is.”

“Christ, I should’ve known this would happen. I did know this would happen,” Jon reminded himself—“just ignored the warning signs because I can’t think straight here.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Jon. It’s a corner. Spiders love corners. I mean, unless you can prove the corner of our doorway has more spiderwebs than anywhere else in the house—”

“Well, of course not. You forget she’s got her own corner somewhere, which we still haven’t found by the way—”

“So, what, you think Annabelle Cane lassoed the screw with a strand of cobweb.”

“Not literally? She could be sitting on the other side of the door with a magnet for all we know!”

Martin peered under the door again with an exasperated sigh. “She’s not.”

“Not now she’s heard us talking about her.”

God, what a delicate web that would be, if all he had to do to avoid the spider’s clutches was reach a door before Martin did. Perhaps if he’d knocked first that’d have saved him. Maybe Martin was right. How could Annabelle know him well enough to foresee this mistake? Most of the time he hated people opening doors for him, after all.

Why do people see someone with a cane and think, Only one free hand? How ever will he open the door!? They don’t do that for people with shopping bags—not ones his age, at least. Letting another person open a door for him felt to Jon like… defeat, somehow. Like admitting the dolce et decorum estness of this version of reality all nondisabled people seemed to live in where he couldn’t open doors. And that version of reality horrified him. Not so much the idea of being too weak to open them—that sounded merely annoying. Like knocking the sides of jar lids on tables and swearing, only with doors. He had beat his fists against enough Pull doors in his time to figure he could live with that. It was more the idea of becoming that way. Letting his door-opening muscles atrophy ‘til it became the truth.

But sometimes you just let a thing happen, and forget to hate it. That was the thing about pride. Sometimes your convictions and your habits stop fitting together—you believe Fuck this job with all your heart, but still tuck in your shirt when you come to the office. And then you fly back from America in borrowed clothes, and pop in at the Institute like that on your way to Gertrude’s storage unit, and that’s what changes your habits. Not the knowledge you can’t be fired; not your now-boyfriend’s plot to put your then-boss behind bars. A thirdhand t-shirt with a slogan on it about how to outrun bears.

On his way out this morning the doorknob had felt so loose in Jon’s hand he almost had told Martin about it. But Martin had been full of let’s-go-on-an-adventure-together-style chatter—like when they’d left Daisy’s safehouse, only, get this, without the dread of entering an apocalyptic wasteland—and listening to him put the door out of Jon’s mind before he’d had time to interject.

Their first day here—or at least, the first they spent awake—Jon had inadvertently taught Martin not to accept invitations from Salesa. The latter had bounded up after Martin’s lunch in linen shirt and whooshy shorts and was, to Martin’s then-unseasoned heart, impossible to deny. So Jon had spent thirty minutes on a creaky folding chair, lunging out of his seat on occasion to collect a ball one of the other two had hit wrong, and trying to keep Salesa’s too-bright white socks out of sight. He’d pretended he preferred to sit out, knowing Martin would worry if he tried to play. But he hadn’t done as good a job hiding his boredom as he thought. “Thanks for putting up with that. Sorry it went on so long,” Martin had said as they re-entered their bedroom. “I just couldn’t say no to him, you know? For such a cynical old man he’s got impressive puppy eyes.”

“It’s fine? You know me, I don’t mind… watching.”

“I just mean, I’m sorry you couldn’t play. How’s your leg, by the way? Er—both your legs, I guess.”

“It’s fine. They’re both fine. I didn’t want to play anyway, remember? I don’t know how.”

“Sure you don’t,” Martin replied, words tripping over a fond laugh.

“I don’t!”

“Come on, Jon. Everyone knows how to play ping-pong.”

Martin had turned down Salesa when he showed up the next day in khaki shorts and a pith helmet with three butterfly nets, without Jon’s having to say a word. More emphatically still did he turn him down when Salesa mentioned the house had an indoor pool, and offered to lend them both antique bathing suits like the one he had on, “Free of charge! A debtor is an enemy, after all, and in this new world I have no wish to make an enemy of” (sarcastic whisper, fingers wiggling) “the Ceaseless Watcher who rules it. I have nothing to hide from you,” he’d alleged, for the… third time that day, maybe? Each morning Jon resolved to count such references; he rarely missed one, as far as he knew, but kept forgetting how many he’d counted.

But Salesa was a salesman, and over time his efforts had grown more subtle. He stopped showing up already dressed for the activity he had in mind, and instead would drop hints at meals about all the fun things they could do if only they would let him show them. Martin loved how the winter sunlight caught, every afternoon around four, in the branches of a tree visible outside the window of their bedroom. “Ah, yes,” Salesa had agreed when he remarked on it one morning. “Turning it periwinkle and the golden green of champagne.” (He poured sparkling wine—the cheap stuff, he said, not real champagne—into an empty juice glass still lined with orange pulp. Over and over, without once overflowing. The oranges weren’t ripe enough to drink their juice plain yet, he said. But they’d still run out of juice first.) “If you think that’s beautiful”—he paused to swallow bubbles come up from his throat, waved his hand, shook his head. “No. On one tree, yes, it is beautiful. But on a whole orchard of bare trees in winter”—he nodded in the direction of Upton’s orchards—“the afternoon sun is sublime. You can see how the twigs shrink and shiver under its gaze; the grass rustles with a hitch in its breath as if it fears to be seen, but with each undulation a new blade flashes gold like a coin,” &c., &c.

“Wow. Sounds like you really got lucky, finding such a nice place to, uh. Sssset up camp?”

Jon knew Martin well enough to hear the judgment in his voice; if Salesa recognized it then he was an expert at pretending not to. “And it's only a two-minute walk away,” he’d said, instead of taking Martin’s bait. “It would be such a shame for my guests not to see it.”

“Oh, well. Maybe in a few days? It’s just, we’ve been outside nonstop for ages. It’s nice to be between four walls again. Besides, we don’t know the grounds as well as you do—and the border isn’t all that stable, you said? Right?”

“It is if you know how to follow it! I could accompany you—show you all the best sights, with no risk of wandering back out into the hellscape by mistake.”

“We’re just not really ready for that, I don’t think. Right, Jon?”

“Mm.”

“Are you sure? If it were me, a foray into a beautiful natural oasis would be just what I needed to convince myself that my peace—my sanctuary—is real.”

“If it is real,” Jon couldn’t stop himself from muttering.

Salesa remained impervious. “You would be surprised how difficult it is to feel fear in a place like that. I don’t think that is just the camera.”

“We‘ll think about it,” Martin conceded.

“Yes—you should both think about it. I am at your disposal whenever you change your mind.”

And so on that morning they had narrowly escaped. Would they had fared so well today. The problem was, on these early occasions Jon had interpreted Martin’s No thankses as being, well, Martin’s. But after a few more of Salesa’s sales pitches Jon began to second-guess that.

“Is it warm enough in here for you both?” Salesa had asked them last night at dinner. “I worry too much, perhaps. I only wish the place took less time to warm up in the morning. At breakfast time, in sunny weather like we've been having, I’ll bet you anything you like it’s warmer out there than in here.”

“It’s alright; we’re not too cold in the mornings either. Right, Jon?”

“Hm? Oh—no.”

“Perhaps we three could take breakfast out there, before the weather changes.”

“Ha—that’s right,” Martin had laughed. “I forgot you still had that out here. Weather changes. Brave new world, I guess.”

Salesa smirked and shrugged. “Well, braver than the rest of it.”

“R…ight. ‘We three,’ you said—so not Annabelle?”

“Mmmmno, probably not her. I have tried taking spiders outside before; they never seem to like it much.”

Nearly every day, here, Jon found a spider in their bathtub. The first time Martin had been with him. Martin had picked the thing up with his fingers and tried to coax it to leave out the window, but by the time he got there it’d crawled up his sleeve.

“Excuse me.”

Martin pulled back his own chair too and frowned up at him. “You okay?”

“Just needed the toilet.” He tried to arrange his mouth into a gentle smile. “Think I can do that on my own.”

The other two resumed their conversation the moment Jon left the dining room. Before the intervening walls muffled their voices Jon heard:

“I suppose that does sound pretty nice.”

“Pretty nice, you suppose? Martin, Martin—it’s a beautiful oasis! What a shame it will be if you leave this place having done no more than suppose about it.”

“It is a bit of a waste, I guess.”

“You wouldn’t need to sit on the ground, if that’s what concerns you. There are benches everywhere.”

He’d been just about to cross through a doorway and out of earshot when he froze, hearing his name:

“Oh, ha—not me, but, Jon might find that nice to know,” Martin said. “Thanks for.” And then silence.

Was that the whole reason he kept declining invitations to explore the grounds? To keep grass stains out of Jon’s trousers? Martin was the one who’d sat down on that godforsaken Extinction couch; why did he think—?

Not the point, Jon told himself as he sat on the toilet and set his forehead on the heels of his palms. He tried to watch the floor for spiders, but his eyes kept crossing. The point was that if—? If Martin was lying about wanting to stay inside—or, more charitably, if he was telling the truth but wanted that only because he thought Jon would have as dismal a time out in the garden as he had at ping-pong—then…?

He imagined holding hands with Martin while surrounded by green. Gravel crunching under their feet. Martin smiling, with sunlight caught in the strands of his hair that a slight breeze had blown upright.

“And if you get too warm,” he heard Salesa tell Martin, as he headed back into the dining room, “we can move into the shade of the pines! You know, they don’t just grow year-round? They also shed year-round. The floor under them is always carpeted in needles, so you need never get mud on your shoes.”

“Huh,” Martin laughed. “Never thought of it that way.”

“But of course there are benches there too,” Salesa added, his eyes flickering up to Jon.

As Jon hauled himself into his seat he asked, in a voice he hoped the strain made sound distracted ergo casual, “So, what, like a picnic, you mean.”

Not a fun picnic. Not very romantic, since their third wheel was the first to invite himself. Salesa neglected to mention how much wet grass they would have to trek through to get to his favorite spot; that there were benches everywhere didn’t matter since they couldn’t all three fit on one, so they ended up sat in the dirt after all—and n.b. it required a second trek to find a patch of dirt dry enough to sit on at this time of morning. Jon was so sick with fatigue by the time they sat down he could barely eat a thing, though he did dispatch most of Martin’s thermos of tea. His hands shook and buzzed, and felt clumsy, like they’d fallen asleep; he ended up getting more jam in the dirt than on Salesa’s soggy, pre-buttered toast. He felt as though the rest of his flesh had melted three feet to the left of his eyes, bones and mind. Eventually he elected to blame his dizziness on the sun. When his forehead and upper lip started to prickle, threatening sweat, he stood up and announced, “It’s too hot here.”

Or tried to stand, anyway. One leg had oozed just far enough out of its joint that it buckled when he tried to stand; indigo and fuchsia blotches overtook his sight. He pitched forward, free arm pinwheeling—might have fallen into the boiled eggs if Martin hadn’t caught him. “Jon! Are you okay?”

God, why was Martin so surprised? This must have been the fifth or sixth time he had asked him that question since they left the house. One time Jon had bent down to brush dirt off his leg and Martin had thought he was scratching his bandages. So he asked him were they itchy, had they started to peel, did they need changing again, were they cutting off his circulation (no, not yet, not yet, and no). How could someone be so attentive to imaginary ills and yet miss the real ones? At another point, an enormous blue dragonfly had buzzed past, and instead of Did you see that? Martin had turned around to ask Are you okay. Now, on this fifth or sixth occasion, for a few seconds of pure, nonsensical rage he wondered how Martin dared stoop to such emotional blackmail. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Jon thought; aloud he snorted, as in malicious laughter. His throat felt thick, like he might cry.

“Fine, I’m just—sick of it here.” He pulled his arm free of Martin’s and overbalanced. Didn’t fall, just. Staggered a little.

“Should we move to the shade? We could try to find those famous pines, I guess.”

Jon sank back to the ground. “What about Salesa? Do we just leave him here?”

“Oh. Right,” said Martin. Salesa had eaten most of Jon’s share, and drunk both Jon’s and Martin’s shares of wine. Now he lay asleep in the dirt, head pillowed on one elbow, the other hand’s fingers curled round the stem of a glass still half full. “I guess, yeah? I mean he seems to know the place pretty well, so. It’s not like he’ll get lost out here.”

“We might, though.”

Martin sighed. “True. Should we just head back to our room, then? Maybe get you a snack.”

“Not hungry.”

“A statement, I meant.”

“Oh. Alright, sure,” Jon made himself say. “That sounds like—sure.”

So then they’d headed back, and only Martin had a free hand, and Jon was too tired by that point to distinguish his mind’s vague warning not to let Martin open the door from his usual pride on that subject—and that kind of pride never does seem as important when it’s your boyfriend offering. So he’d dismissed the warning and, well, look what happened.

When he got up from his knees and turned round Martin frowned at Jon. “Are you alright? You’re sat on the floor.”

Jon frowned, too—at the seam between the floor and the hallway’s opposite wall. “I was tired.”

“You hate sitting on the floor.”

“I sat on the ground out there,” Jon said, with a shrug that morphed into a nod in the direction they’d come from.

“Yeah, under duress,” Martin scoffed. “In the Extinction domain you wouldn’t even sit on the couch.”

There was something odd in Martin’s bringing that up now; somewhere, in the back of his mind, Jon could hear a pillar of thought crumbling. But he lacked the energy to find out which of his mind’s structures now stood crooked. “I think this floor is a lot cleaner than that couch,” he said instead, with an incredulous laugh.

“Even with the cobwebs?” Martin didn’t wait for Jon’s answering nod. “Fair enough,” he said, one hand on the back of his neck as he twisted it back and forth. He dropped the hand, sighed, cracked his knuckles. Looked at Jon again. “Yeah, okay. Guess we don’t have to deal with this right now. Let’s find you another bedroom first.”

“Maybe that’s just what Annabelle wants,” Jon muttered, deadpanning so he wouldn’t have to decide whether this was a joke.

Martin snorted. “I’ll risk it.”

Find was a generous way to put it; in fact there was another bedroom only two doors down. By the time Jon got his legs unfolded he could hear the squeak of a door swinging open down the hall. When he looked up, Martin said as their eyes met, “Nope—bed’s too small. You good there ‘til I find one that’ll work?”

“Seems that way.” Jon tried to smile, relief warring with his usual If you want something done right urge. In the quiet moment after Martin neglected to close that door and before he swung open the next one, Jon made himself add, “Thank you.”

“Of course. Oh wow,” Martin said of the next room, in whose doorway he’d stopped. “This one’s a lot nicer than ours. It’s got a balcony. Wallpaper’s pretty loud though. D’you think that’ll keep you awake?” Laughingly, “I know you don’t close your eyes to sleep anymore, so.”

“How loud is ‘pretty loud’?”

“Sort of a… dark, orangey red, with flowers?”

Jon shrugged. “I won’t see it at night.”

“Oh, god. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Should we do this one, then?” Instead of closing the door, Martin swung it the rest of the way open, then strode back to Jon’s side of the corridor, arm already outstretched. Jon managed to stand before Martin could reach him, but, as it had done outside, his vision went dark for a few seconds. He felt Martin’s hand on his shoulder before he could see his frown.

“You alright?” Martin asked yet again.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“It’s just—you don’t usually blink anymore, except for effect.”

“Oh.”

Out there, none of the watchers blinked. At first, soon after the change, Martin had asked Jon to try, “Because it just feels so weird. Like I’m under constant scrutiny. Literally constant, Jon. You get why that feels weird, right?” (Jon had agreed—sincerely, though he wondered why Martin needed to ask that question in a world whose central conceit was that being watched felt weird. He’d also chosen not to point out that his scrutiny, like that of Jonah Magnus, was not, technically, constant, since he did sometimes look at other things. But he still rehearsed this retort in his mind every time he remembered that conversation.) Turned out it was hard to time your blinks properly when your eyeballs didn’t need the moisture. He’d forget about it for who knew how long, then remember and overcompensate by blinking so often Martin at first thought he was exaggerating it on purpose as a joke. It got old fast, in Jon’s opinion, but even after he learnt Jon didn’t intend it as a joke Martin still found it funny. “You’re doing it again,” he’d say every time, shoulders wiggling. Eventually Jon had asked him,

“You know you don’t blink anymore either, right?”

“Oh god, don’t I?” When Jon shook his head, with a smile whose teeth he tried to keep covered, Martin squeezed his own eyes shut and pushed their lids back and forth with his fingers. “Ugh—gross!” And for the next half hour he’d done the whole forget-to-blink-for-five-minutes-then-do-it-ten-times-in-as-many-seconds routine, too. After that they had both agreed to pretend not to notice the lack of blinking. Jon figured he couldn’t hold it against Martin that he’d broken this rule though, since Jon himself had broken it first, on their first morning here:

“You blinked,” he had informed Martin as he watched him stir sugar into his tea. Martin, who had not only blinked but broken eye contact to make sure he dropped the sugar cube in the right place, replied with a scoff,

“Didn’t know it was a staring contest.”

“No, I mean—”

“Oh! I blinked!”

“…Right,” Jon said now. “I’m—it’s nothing.”

Martin sighed. He closed his eyes, but probably rolled them under their lids. Jon used the inspection of their new room as an excuse to look away, but took in nothing other than the presence of a large bed and the flowered wallpaper Martin had warned him about.

“‘Kay. If you’re sure.”

Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, Jon looked down at his grass-stained knees and prepared himself to ask, Look, does it matter? I’m about to lie down anyway, so, functionally speaking, yes, I am fine.

“So, you’ll be okay here for a bit while I go figure out what to do about the door?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll come check on you as soon as I know anything, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Although—if you’re asleep, should I wake you up?”

“Yes,” Jon replied before Martin had even got the last word out. He heard a short, emphatic exhale, presumably of laughter. “Wait—how would you know, anyway?”

“Oh. Yeah, good point.”

Jon looked down at his shoes. His fingers throbbed in anticipation, but he figured he should spare Martin the horror of getting grass stains on a second bedroom’s counterpane. The first shoe he pulled off without untying, since he could step on its heel with the other one. But he had to bend over to reach the second one’s incongruously bright white laces, biting his lip when he felt his right femur poke past the bounds of its socket as between a cage’s bars. On his way back up his vision quivered like a heat mirage, but didn’t go dark. He scooched himself up to the head of the bed. Made sure to face the ceiling rather than the red wallpaper.

A few months into his tenure in the Archives, Jon had discovered that if you close your eyes at your desk, even just for a minute, you can trick your whole body into thinking you’ve been gentle with it. But that trick didn’t work anymore. Out there, this made sense; interposing his eyelids between himself and the world’s new horrors couldn’t push them out of his consciousness, any more than it had helped to close the curtains at Daisy’s safehouse. Martin’s sentimental attachment to sleep had baffled him, as had his insistence on closing his eyes even though they’d pop back open as soon as his body went limp. Here, though, Jon sympathized with Martin’s wish. He too missed that magic link between closed eyes and sleep. Probably he should just be grateful for this rest from knowing other people’s suffering? The thing he had wished to close his eyes against was gone here. But now that most of his bodily wants had synced up with his actions again, it felt… wrong, like a tangible loss, that he couldn’t assert It’s time for rest now by closing his eyelids. That it took effort to keep them joined. Jon even found himself missing the crust that used to stick them together on mornings after long sleep.

That should have been his first sensation on waking, their first morning here. After seventy-one hours his eyelids should’ve been practically super-glued together. Instead, they’d apparently stayed open the entire time. It wasn’t uncomfortable—he hadn’t woken up with them smarting or anything. Hadn’t noticed one way or the other; after all, when not forced awake by an alarm, one rarely notices the moment one opens one’s eyes in the morning. He just didn’t like knowing that he looked the same waking and sleeping. It didn’t make sense. The dreams hadn’t followed him here, so what was he watching? He could see nothing but the ceiling.

He rolled over, hoping to look out the window. Doors, technically. Between gauzy curtains he could make out only wrought-iron bars and the tops of a few trees. A nice view, he could tell; when he got his second wind he was sure he’d find it pretty. For now he wondered how much more energy debt he had put himself in by rolling over.

Drowning in debt? We can help!

How had he not foreseen how horrible it would be inside the Buried? The inability to move or speak without pain and loss of breath—“Just imagine,” he muttered sarcastically to the empty air, as though addressing his past self. “What might that be like.” He’d lived for years with the weight of exhaustion on his back—heavier at that time than it’d ever been before. And he knew how it felt to risk injury with every movement. What an odd frame of mind he must have lived in then, to think his magic healing wouldn’t let him get scratched up down there. Had he thought it would protect him from fear? I must save my friend from this horrible place! But also, If I get stuck there forever, no big deal; I deserve it, after all. There seemed something so arrogant about that now, that idea that deserving pain could somehow mitigate it. That because monsterhood made him less innocent, it would make him less of a victim. How could he have thought that, when he’d known pulling her out of there didn’t mean he forgave her? He should apologize to Daisy for—

Right. Nope, never mind.

He began to regret rolling over. If he planned to stay on his side like this for long, he shouldn’t leave his shoulder and hip dangling. He could already feel their joints beginning to slide apart. But his body had started to drift to that faraway place from which no grievance ever seemed urgent enough to recall it—neither pain now nor the threat of greater pain later. Nor the three cups of tea he’d drunk.

After he and Martin had fallen asleep on Salesa’s doorstep, Jon had vague memories of being led up the stairs to their bedroom, though he remembered neither being shaken awake nor getting into bed. Just a seventy-odd-hour blank spot, followed by pain of a kind he had thought he’d left behind.

It wasn’t that watchers couldn’t feel pain, after the change. They could, but it was like how real-world pain felt through the veil of a dream. Your actions didn’t affect it as directly as they should. In the Necropolis Martin had asked him, “How exactly does a leg wound make you faster?” If he’d had the courage to answer, at the time he would have said something about his own wounds not seeming important now that he had to tune out those of the whole world. That wasn’t it though, he knew now. Pain just worked differently out there. When Daisy attacked him, it had hurt—but the wound she left him hadn’t protested movement. Not until he and Martin entered the grounds of Upton House. You could bear weight on an injured leg just fine out there, because it wouldn’t hurt more when you stood on it than otherwise.

Sometimes, when his joints slid apart while he slept, he could still feel it in his dreams. Up until 13th January 2016 (for months after which date he dreamt Naomi Herne’s graveyard and nothing else), his sleeping mind used to craft scenarios to explain its own pain and panic to itself. Running from an exploding grenade, staying awake through surgery, that sort of thing. But over the years, as the sensation grew familiar, his dreams about it became less urgent, their anxieties more mundane. He’d shout for help from passing cars, then feel like he’d lied to the stranger who opened their door to him when it turned out running to get in the car hurt no more than standing still.

Even before the change, it’d been ages since he’d had to worry about that. Since the coma, Beholding had fixed all these accidents, the way it’d fixed the finger he tried to chop off. They wouldn’t reset with a clunk, the way they had when he used to fix them by hand. It was more like his body reverted to a version the Eye had saved before the moment of injury. When he tried to pull open a Push door he’d hear the first clunk, followed by about half a second of pain, then after a gentle burst of static—nothing. Just a door handle between his fingers that needed pushing. If he tripped on uneven pavement he might still go down, but his ankle wouldn’t hurt when he stood back up, and the scrapes on his hands would heal before he could inspect them. Here, though, in this place the Eye couldn’t see, Jon lacked such protections. He didn’t have the dreams either? And that was more than worth it as a tradeoff, he was sure. But it still smarted to remember that pain had been his first sensation waking up in an oasis. Not birdsong, not sunshine striped across linen, not the warm weight of another person next to him. He knew he’d come back to a place ruled by physics rather than fear because he’d woken up with gaps between his bones.

“Jon? Are you awake?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes.”

“Cool.” Martin sat down on what felt like the corner of bed nearest the door. “I think I know how to do this now.”

“How to put the doorknob back on?”

“Yeah. God, I still can’t believe it twisted clean off in my hand like that. With no warning—like, zero to sixty in less than a second. I mean, can you believe our luck? The thing’s perfectly functional, and then suddenly it just—comes off!”

“Er…”

“Oh, god, sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“What? Oh—hrkgh”—Jon rolled around to face Martin, hoping the little yelp he let out when his leg slopped back into joint would sound like a noise of exasperation rather than pain. He found Martin sat looking down at the severed doorknob which poked up from between his knees. “No, Martin, of course not, I know—”

“Still, I’m sorry about—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine?”

On that first morning, Jon had managed to get his limbs screwed back on properly without making enough noise to wake up Martin. He’d limped out of their room and down the hall, pushing doors open until he’d found a toilet, whereupon he sat to pee and marveled that the flush and sink still worked. It was bright enough inside that he hadn’t thought to try the light switch on his way in—too busy contorting his neck to look for the sun out the window. On his way out, though, he flicked it on, then off. Then on again and off again. How could it work, when there was no power grid the house could connect to? Automatically Jon tried to search his mind’s Eye for a domain based in a power plant or something. Right, no, of course—that power did not work here.

When he got back to their room he found Martin awake. “Oh—morning,” Jon told him with a shy laugh.

“It—it is morning, isn’t it,” Martin marveled. Then he asked if Jon could hand him the map sticking out of his backpack’s side pocket. (What good are maps when the very Earth logic no longer applied here, after all. But Martin was rubbish at geography, so Jon still had to provide the You Are Here sign with his finger for him.) Jon grabbed the map on his way back to bed, and was about to tell him about the miracles of plumbing and electricity he’d just witnessed—not to mention the bathtub he’d admired on the long trek from toilet to sink—when Martin frowned and asked, “Why are you limping?”

“Am I?” Jon had shrugged, then cleared his throat when the motion made his shoulder audibly click. “Daisy, must be.”

“No, Jon. That’s the wrong leg.”

He slid both legs out of sight under the blankets and handed Martin the map. “It’s nothing. It just… came off a bit. Last night."

Before Jon could add It’s fixed now though, Martin said, “I’m sorry, what?”

Jon had assumed Martin understood the kind of thing he meant, but that he’d misled him as to its degree—i.e., that Martin objected to his talking about a full hip dislocation like it mattered less than what happened with Daisy. So he’d said,

“No, sorry, not all the way off—”

And Martin just laughed. “What, and you taped it back up like—like an old computer cable?”

“Sort of, yeah? It—it does still work, more or less.”

“Right, of course. No need to get a new one, yet; you can just limp along with this one. No big deal! Just make sure you don’t pull too hard on it.”

“I mean.” By now he could sense Martin’s sarcasm, his bitterness; that didn’t mean he knew what to do with them. So he'd said with a huff of laughter, “I can’t just send for a new one. That’s—that’s not how bodies work. You have to….” Wait for it to sort itself out was the natural end to that sentence. But he hadn’t been sure he could say that without opening a can of worms.

“Wait so… what actually happened? Are you okay?”

Only at this point had Jon recognized Martin’s response as one of incomprehension. What happened exactly? he had asked, too, when Jon told him the ice-cream anecdote. Did no one ever listen when you told them about these things?

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s fine.”

“Oh come on.”

“It’s. Fine! It’s not important.”

And then for days Martin kept alluding to it. Like some kind of reminder to Jon that he hadn’t opened up, disguised as a joke. Every time something came out or fell down he’d mutter, “So it came off, you might say.” Eventually they’d fallen out over it, and now neither one could come near the phrase without this song and dance.

“Don’t worry about it, Martin,” Jon assured him now; “I’m over it.”

“…Uh huh. Well, putting that to one side for the moment—I think I can fix this?”

“Oh? Great!—”

“—Yeah! It should be simple, actually. I think I just need to replace the screw that fell out? I mean, there doesn’t seem to be anything actually broken, just, you know,” with an awkward laugh, “the screw lives on the wrong side of the door now. But if we can just put a new one in the door should be fine.” He looked to Jon as if for help plotting their next steps.

“I—I don’t, um. Think we have one.”

Martin’s shoulders dropped; the corners of his mouth tightened. “Yeah, I know we don’t have one, Jon. I just mean, we need to find out where Salesa keeps them.”

“Oh!” Jon replied, in a brighter tone. Then he registered what this meant. “Oh. Right.”

“Y…eah.”

“Any idea where to look?”

They checked what seemed to Martin the most obvious place first. Salesa used one of the ground-floor drawing rooms as a sort of repository for everything he’d left as yet unpacked—all the practical items he hadn’t been able to repurpose as toys, plus some antiques he’d been too fond of or too nervous to part with. Two nights ago, Salesa had noticed the state of Jon’s and Martin’s shoelaces, and insisted they let him replace them with some from this little warehouse. “Please, come with me; I’ve nothing to hide. You can have a look around, see if I have anything that might help you on your journey….” As he said this he’d counted to two on his fingers, as though listing off attractions they should be sure not to miss.

Jon watched Martin perk right up at this. All week Salesa had kept pleading with them to tell him about any luxuries they had wanted while touring the apocalypse, so he could try to find something to fulfill those wants. “Well, I—I don’t know about luxuries,” Martin had ventured the third time this came up. “But I do think we might run out of bandages soon, so. If you’ve any extra?”

“Of course, of course, yes, how prudent of you, always with one eye on the future. Must be the Beholding in you.” (Neither Jon nor Martin knew what to say to that.) “But there will be plenty of time for that. I meant something for now, while you are here, while you don’t need to think of things like that.” And sure enough, each time Salesa had come to them with presents from his little warehouse (booze, butterfly nets, more booze, antique bathing suits, &c.), he’d forgot about Martin’s homely request for gauze and tape. Martin insisted they change the dressing on Jon’s leg every day; by now they’d run through the bandages he brought from Daisy’s safehouse. So when Salesa suggested they accompany him to his repository, Martin said,

“Sure, yeah! That sounds really helpful.” (Salesa clutched his heart as though he’d waited all his life to hear such praise.) “Er. The things in your warehouse, though. They’re not L—um.” Leitners, Martin had almost called them. “You don’t think they’ll develop any… strange properties, when we leave here, do you?”

“Of course not,” Salesa had answered, stopping and turning all the way around in the corridor to face Martin with a frown. “Martin, I promise, only my antiques are cursed—and even then, not all of them.” He’d resumed the walk toward his little warehouse, but turned around again and held up a hand, as if to preempt a question. “There are, indeed, yes, some items out there, touched by the Corruption, which can pass their infection on to other things they come in contact with. But, no,” he went on, his voice fighting off a joyous laugh, “no, the only item I have like that does almost the opposite.”

“Oh.”

Salesa nodded, but did not turn around this time. “Strange little thing. It’s an antique syringe that, so long as you keep it near you, repels the Crawling Rot. I like to think it helped dispatch that insect thing Annabelle chased away. But if you try to get rid of it,” he added in a darker tone, “all the sickness, the bugs, the smells, even stains on your clothes—everything disgusting that it’s kept away—they remember who you are, and they hunger for you more than anyone else. The man who sold it to me….” He shook his head ruefully, hand now resting on the door.

“Was eaten alive by mosquitoes,” Jon muttered.

“Something like that, yes,” said Salesa, as he jerked open the door.

Jon hated the way his and Martin’s shoes looked now. He hadn’t had to put new laces on a pair of old, dirty shoes since he was a kid, and the contrast looked wrong—the same way starched collars and slicked-back hair on kids look wrong. Jon’s trainers were gray, their laces a slightly darker gray, so these white ones wouldn’t have looked quite right even without the dirt. Martin’s had once been white, but their original laces were broad and flat, while these were narrow and more rounded. The replacements’ thin, clinical white lines looked something between depressing and menacing. Too much like spider web; too much like the stitching on Nikola’s minions. When they came undone on this morning’s walk, Jon had made sure to tread on them in the mud a few times before tying them back up. Poor Dr. Thompson’s syringe must have retained some of its power here, though, because they still looked pristine. Jon wondered if it had no effect on spiders, or if without it this whole place would have been draped in cobwebs.

Martin seemed pleased with their haul, though. Despite Salesa’s amnesia on the subject, his little warehouse held more plasters, gauze, medical tape, antibacterial ointment, alcohol wipes—the list went on—than one man could ever use. In a strange, raw moment Jon liked to pretend he hadn’t seen, Salesa had wrung his hands as his eyes passed over this hoard. His lip had quivered. He’d practically begged Martin to take the whole lot away with them. “What harm will come to me here? And if it does come, what good will it do, protecting one lonely old man from skinned knees and paper cuts? The two of you—where you are going—the gravity of your mission!” At this point he’d seized one of each their hands. “Everything I have that even might help, you must take it. Please.”

“I—yeah,” Martin stuttered. “This is—really helpful, yeah. We’ll take as much as we can fit in our bags.”

Salesa had let go their hands by this point, and crossed his arms. “Right, yes, bags, of course, the bags. Are you sure you don’t want my truck?”

“Oh, well, thanks, but I don’t think either of us knows how to—”

“To drive a truck?” Salesa uncrossed his arms and began to reach for Martin’s shoulder. “I could teach you—”

“It won’t work without the camera anyway,” pointed out Jon. “We have to walk.”

Martin sighed. ”That too. ‘The journey will be the journey,’ as Jon keeps saying.”

“I said that once,” Jon protested.

No such success on this return visit. They found a small pile of miscellaneous screws, one of which Martin said would work (though it was the wrong color, he alleged, and had clearly been meant for some other purpose), but the screwdriver they needed remained elusive. “I mean, I can’t be sure they’re not in here—the place is as bad as Gertrude’s storage unit. We could spend all day here and still not be sure—”

“Let’s not do that,” said Jon, pushing an always-warm candlestick with a pool of always-melted wax out of Martin’s way with his sleeve for what felt like the hundredth time.

“No arguments here.”

“Where to next?”

“I guess it makes sense that they’re not here. This room’s all stuff Salesa brought, and why would he bring home-repair stuff when he didn’t even know where he’d wind up.”

“Except for the screws.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like he keeps screws here, remember? There’s just a couple random ones lying around, like he forgot to put them away or something.”

Jon peered between the clouds in his mind, trying to catch sight of Martin’s thought train. “So you’re saying the screwdriver should be…?”

“Somewhere less… frequented, I guess? They’ll probably still be wherever they were when Salesa found the place.”

“Not somewhere that was open to the public, then.”

Martin sighed. ”I mean yeah, probably. Not that that narrows it down much.”

“Somewhere… banal, less posh.”

“Not sure how much less posh you can get than this place. But yeah, I guess. Have I mentioned how weird it is you’re the one who keeps asking me this stuff?”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to help? I just…” Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouse’s dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. Odd that his eyes weren’t immune to dust, when leaving them open for seventy straight hours hadn’t bothered them. And why didn’t the syringe keep dust away? In Dr. Snow’s day (not far removed from Smirke’s, n.b.), Jon seemed to recall that dust had been used as a euphemism for all waste, including the human kind Dr. Snow had found in the cholera water. It was like how people today use filth—hence the word dustbin. And hadn’t Elias once called the Corruption Filth? Jon opened his eyes and watched Martin swirl back to full color. “I can’t seem to corral my thoughts here,” he concluded.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s actually kind of fun, it’s just—I’m so used to being the sidekick,” Martin laughed. “Besides, I miss my eldritch Google.”

“Should I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?”

Another laugh, this one less awkward. “No. That won’t work, remember? This place is a ‘blind spot,’ you said.” The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice.

“Right, right. I forgot,” Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger he’d felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds he’d allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadn’t somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutes’ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think I’ll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martin’s face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him.

“Honestly, it’d almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.”

“Hey.” Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. “I think I’ll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.”

Was it just because of Hopworth that Martin’s elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way he’d learnt not to fear out there?

“Oh—I know,” Martin said, clicking his fingers and pointing them at Jon like a gun. “We passed a shed this morning, remember?”

Jon squinted. “Not even remotely.”

“No yeah—on our walk with Salesa. I tried to ask him what it was for, but he kept droning on and on. By the time he stopped talking I’d forgot about it.”

“Huh,” said Jon, to show he was listening.

“That seems like a good place to keep screws and all, right? If it’s so nondescript you can’t even remember it.”

“Sure.”

“Great! Are you ready now, or d’you need to sit for a bit longer?”

“I’m ready.” This time he accepted Martin’s hand, not keen to trip on something cursed.

“Anyway, if we don’t find them and Salesa’s still out there, we can ask him on the way back.”

Jon’s heart shrunk before the prospect of inviting Salesa to be the hero of their story. Please, Mr. Salesa, save us from our screwdriver-less hell! They would never hear the end of it. It would inevitably remind the old man of the countless times in his youth when he’d been the only man in the antiques trade who knew where to find some priceless treasure. Let Salesa open their stuck door and they’d find Pandora’s bloody box of stories behind it. He winced and let out a grunt as of pain before he could stop himself. “Let’s not tell him, if we can help it.”

“Of course we should tell him,” Martin protested. “We can’t just leave it broken like this.”

“But if we can fix it without his help—?”

“What? No! Even then, he’s our host. We have to tell him. It’s his door, he deserves to know its—I don’t know, history?” Martin sighed, shoving one hand in his hair and holding out the other. “If he’s got a doorknob whose screw comes loose a lot, he should know that, so he can tighten it next time before it gets out of hand. I mean, we’re lucky it only chipped the paint when it—when it fell off, you know?” (Jon, for his part, hadn’t even noticed this chip of paint Martin referred to.) “And—and suppose he’s only got this one screw left,” tapping the one in his pocket, “and the next time it happens his last screw rolls under the door like this one did.”

“And what is he supposed to do to prevent that scenario? There aren’t exactly any hardware stores in the apocalypse.”

Big sigh. “Yeah, fair enough. I still think we should tell him. It just feels wrong to hide secrets from him about his own house, you know?”

“Fine,” sighed Jon in turn. ”Should we tell him about the scorch marks on the window sill as well?”

“No?” Martin turned to him with an incredulous look. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I mean—I was, but—”

“Please tell me you get how that’s different.”

“Enlighten me,” Jon said wearily.

“Seriously? Of course you don’t tell him about the?—those were already there! If we’d put them there, then yeah, of course we’d need to tell him.”

“So it’s about confessing your guilt, then. Not about what Salesa makes of the information.”

“I mean, I guess?” Martin looked perplexed, lips drawn into his mouth. “Actually, no. Because those are just scorch marks, they don’t—you can still get into a room with scorch marks on the windowsill, Jon.”

“And yet if you’d left them you’d tell him about it?”

“Well yeah but if I told him about it now it’d just be like I was—leaving him a bad review, or something. It’d just be rude. ‘Lovely place you have, Salesa. So kind of you to share your limited provisions with us refugees from the apocalypse. Too bad you gave us a room whose windowsill could use repainting!’”

Jon laughed. “Yes, alright, I get it.”

Martin’s sigh of relief seemed only a little exaggerated. If he hadn’t wiped pretend sweat from his brow Jon might have bought it. “Okay, that’s good, ‘cause”—when Jon kept laughing, Martin cut himself off. “Hang on, were you joking this whole time?”

“Sort of?”

“Were you just playing devil’s advocate or something?”

“I mean—not exactly? For the first seventy or eighty percent of it I was completely serious.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know. It was just—fun. It felt nice to take a definite sta—aaaa-a-aa.” Something in Jon’s lower back went wrong somehow. An SI joint, probably? The pain caught him so much by surprise that when he stepped with that side’s leg he stumbled forward.

“Whoa!” Martin’s hand closed around his upper arm. Jon yelped again, from panic more than hurt this time, as his shoulder thunked in its socket. “Jon! Are you okay?”

“Don’t do that,” Jon hissed, trying lamely to shake his arm out of Martin’s grip. It didn’t work. The attempt just made his own arm ache, and produce more ominous clunking sounds.

“I—what?”

“It was fine. I don’t need you to catch me.”

Martin let his arm go. “You were about to fall on your face, Jon.”

“I’d already caught myself—just fine—with this.” He gestured to his cane, stirring its handle like a joystick.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“I don’t know, look?”

“It’s not—?” Martin scoffed. “Look when? It’s not like a rational calculation. I can’t just go ‘Beep. Beep. See human trip. Will human fall on face? If yes, press A to catch! If not, press B to’— what, stand there and do nothing? It’s just human nature; when you see someone falling that’s just what you do. I’m not going to apologize for not calculating the risk properly.”

“Fine! Yes, okay, you’re right. Forget I said anything.” Throwing up his free hand in defeat, Jon set off again—tried to stride, but it was hard to do that with a limp. Even with his cane, he couldn’t step evenly enough to achieve a decisive gait.

It was fine, Jon reminded himself. He’d had this injury (if you could call it that) a thousand times before. When it came on suddenly like this it never stuck around long. Sure, yeah, for now every step hurt like an urgent crisis. But any second it would right itself as quickly as it had come undone.

“No, no, I understand! Point taken! Note to future Martin,” the latter shouted from behind Jon, voice troubled by hurried steps; “next time let him fall and break his bloody nose.”

Trusting Martin to shout directions if he went the wrong way, Jon pressed on, rehearsing comebacks in his mind. Is this not a boundary I’m allowed to set? You don’t let me read statements in front of you. Isn’t that part of human—isn’t that my nature, too?

Oh, yes, human nature, that must be it. You didn’t lunge after Salesa at ping-pong the other day, did you? I saw you opening doors for Melanie when she got back from India. You stopped for a while, did you know that? You all did, everyone in the Archives. And then—it’s the strangest thing!—you all started up again after Delano. Maybe you lot don’t see the common factor here; people always do seem to think it’s more polite not to notice.

So what if I had broken my nose? You nearly broke my shoulder, catching me like that. Does that not matter because you can’t see it? Because it wouldn’t scar?

They were all too petty to say aloud. Too incongruous with the quiet. He could hear his own footsteps, and Martin’s, and the clank of his cane’s metal segments each time it hit the ground, and a few crows exclaiming about something exciting they’d found on his right. Nothing else.

“Looks like Salesa went inside,” Martin shouted from behind him.

Jon stopped walking and turned around. “What?”

“Left a couple things out here, but yeah.” Martin jogged to catch up with him, from a greater distance than Jon would have expected given how much limping slowed him down. He must have veered off course to inspect the clearing Salesa had vacated. In one hand he carried an empty wine glass by its stem, which he lifted to show Jon.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” When he caught up with Jon, Martin stood still and panted. “Guess it won’t be as easy to ask him about it as we thought. If we don’t find what we need in there,” he added, glancing demonstratively to something behind Jon.

Following Martin’s eyes, Jon finally saw the shed. Nondescript boards, worn black and white by the elements. Surrounded by hedges three months overgrown.

Turned out it wasn’t a shed anymore, though—Salesa had converted it to a chicken coop. “Explains the boiled eggs,” shrugged Jon.

“God, they’re adorable. Do you think it’s okay to pet one?” Martin crouched in front of a black hen with a puffball of feathers on top of her head. (Martin called her a hen, anyway, and Jon trusted his authority on animals other than cats). “I don’t really know, er, ch—hicken etiquette,” he mused, voice shot through with nervous laughter.

The black hen sat alone in a little box, and didn't seem to want attention. A little red one they’d found strutting around the coop, however, ventured right up to Martin and cocked her head, like she expected him to give her a present. While Martin cooed over her and the other chickens, Jon went outside and laid flat on his back in the grass under a tree. “Take your time,” he shouted. “I’m happy here.”

Sure enough, when Martin emerged from the coop and helped him stand back up, whatever cog in Jon’s pelvis or spine he had jammed earlier was turning again. And by the time they got back to the house, Martin had talked himself into the idea that maybe all the house’s doorknobs that looked like theirs came loose a lot, and Salesa had taken to keeping the screwdriver to fix them in, say, the hall closet, or in their toilet’s under-sink cabinet.

“I think we’re gonna have to find Salesa and ask him about it,” concluded Martin, when these locations turned up nothing they wanted either.

“If you’re sure.”

Jon sat down on the closed toilet seat. Hadn’t that been what he said just before the last time he sat down on the lid of a toilet before Martin? He’d dutifully turned away, that time, as Martin undressed, wanting to make sure he knew he’d still let him have some privacy. But then, of course: “Where should I put these, do you think? —Er, my clothes I mean.”

“Oh. Um.” Jon had turned his head to look at the stain on Daisy’s ceiling, for what must have been the tenth time already. “I can hold onto them if you like.” Which then meant Martin had to get them back on before Jon could undress for his own shower and hand him his clothes. As he’d piled his trousers into Martin’s hands a tape recorder fell out of one pocket and crashed to the floor, ejecting the tape with Peter’s statement on it. “Shit,” Jon had hissed and ducked to the floor to pick it up, trusting the slit in his towel to reveal nothing worse than thigh.

“Shit,” Martin echoed. “I hope that wasn’t your phone.”

“No—just the recorder.” Still on the floor, Jon clicked its little door shut and pressed play. Sound of waves, static, footsteps. He switched it off. “Seems alright.” Thank god, he stopped himself from adding. Jon didn’t want to lose this one, this record of how he’d found Martin, in case he lost him again. But he didn’t want Martin to hear the sounds of the Lonely again so soon, either. That was why he’d stayed with Martin while he showered, rather than waiting in the safehouse living room. He wouldn’t have insisted on it, of course. He didn’t exactly believe Martin would disappear again? But long showers were such a cliché of lonely people, and steam looked so much like the mist on Peter’s beach, and when Jon asked how he felt about it, Martin said that thought hadn’t occurred to him,

“But as soon as you started to say that, I.” He’d stood with his teeth bared, half smiling half grimacing, and bringing the tips of his fingers together and apart over and over. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Heh—it scares me too now, if I’m honest. That’s… a good sign, I guess, right?”

They had come a long way since then, Jon told himself. They were more comfortable with each other now. On their first morning here, they’d showered separately, but after (Martin’s) breakfast Jon’s irritation had faded and he had resolved to pretend along with Martin that this was a holiday. So they’d got to use the enormous bathtub after all— the one at whose soap dish Jon now found himself staring as he sat on the lid of the toilet. When the heat made him dizzier, as he’d known it would, he had relished getting to rest his cheek on Martin’s arm along the rim of the tub, where it had grown cool and soft in the few minutes he’d kept it above the water.

“Let’s have lunch first,” Martin said now; “you’re getting all….” While he looked for the right word he dropped his shoulders and jaw, and mimicked a thousand-yard stare. “Abstract, again. Distant. People food should help a little, yeah? Tie you back down to this plane a bit?”

“Probably,” Jon agreed, smiling at Martin’s tact.

But to get to the kitchen they had to pass through the dining room—where they found Salesa snoring in a chair at the head of the table. “Let’s just ask him now before he gets up and moves again,” maintained Martin. Jon shrugged his acquiescence and leant in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. Why hadn’t he used the toilet before letting Martin lead him here?

”Um, Mikaele?” Martin inched a few steps toward him, but a distance of several feet still gaped between them. “We have something to ask you, if that’s—hello? Mikaele?”

A likely-sounding gap between snores—but nope. Still sound asleep. Salesa sighed, licked his lips, then began to snore again.

“Mikaele Salesa,” called out Jon from his post at the door, rather less gently. “Mikaele Salesa!” He turned to Martin, meaning to suggest that they eat now and trust the smell of food to wake Salesa, but stopped himself when he saw Martin creeping timidly toward Salesa with his hand outstretched.

“Sorry to disturbyouMikaele,” Martin squeaked out, so quickly that the words blended together. He gave Salesa’s shoulder the lightest possible tap with one fingertip, then snatched his hand back with a grimace of regret as Salesa’s own hand reached up, belatedly, as if to swat Martin’s away. “Oh, good, you’re—”

Salesa interrupted with a snore. Martin sighed and turned to Jon. “What d’you think? Should I shake him?”

Jon pulled out a neighboring chair and sat on it. “No need for anything so drastic. Try poking him a few more times first.”

“Right.”

Once he’d tired of rolling his cane between his palms Jon bent down to set it on the floor. He’d learnt his lesson about trying to hang it on the back of these chairs, though in this fog it had taken several incidents to stick. Every time it ended up crashing to the floor, when he scooched his chair back or when Martin tried to reach an arm around him. Then again—he conjectured, bent halfway to the floor with the cane still in his hand—if he did drop it, that might wake Salesa.

Two nights ago Jon had got up to use the toilet, and knocked his cane down from the wall on his way back to bed in the dark. It crashed to the floor; Jon swore and hopped on one foot back from it, imagining the other foot’s poor toenail smashed to jagged pieces as it thumped to life with pain. Meanwhile he heard rustling from the bed, and Martin’s voice, querulous with sleep. “Jon? Jon, what’s—happened, what—are you.”

“Nothing it’s fine go back to”—he’d hissed as his knee decided it had enough of hopping—“don’t get up, just. I’m gonna turn on the light, if that’s alright.”

“What fell? Are you okay?”

“The cane. I knocked it over in the dark.”

“Oh.”

He got no verbal response about the light, but guessed Martin had nodded.

From a distance his toe looked alright—no blood, anyway, so he could walk on it without risking the carpet. Jon picked his cane up from the floor and steered himself to the foot of the bed, where he sat down. His toenail had chipped, it looked like—only a little, but in that way that leaves a long crack. If he tried to pick it straight he’d tear out a big chunk and it would bleed. But if he left it like this it would snag on the sheets, on his socks, until some loose thread tore the chunk of nail off for him. What could he do for this kind of thing here? At home he’d file the nail down around the chip, then cover it in clear nail polish, and just hope that’d hold out until the crack grew out and he could clip it without bleeding. But here? A plaster would have to do, he guessed. They had plenty of those now.

Jon hated bandaging, ever since Prentiss—in much the same way that Martin hated sleeping in his pants. He’d had time to learn all its discomforts. How sweaty they got, the way they stuck to your hairs, the way lint collected in the adhesive residue they left. Didn’t help he associated them with that time of paranoia. They didn’t make him act paranoid, understand; he just habitually thought of bandage-wearing as what paranoid people do. It made an echo of his contempt for that time’s Jon cling to his perceptions of current Jon. On his first morning here, when the ones on his shin where Daisy’d bit him peeled off in the shower, he hadn’t bothered to replace them. After all, the bite only hurt when something pulled on it or poked or scraped against it, so he figured his trousers would provide enough protective barrier.

“That healed fast,” Martin had remarked, when he noticed the undressed wound in the bath—and then, when he looked again, “Yyyyeah I dunno, I think you might still want to bandage that. We don’t want dirt getting in there.”

“Do I have to?”

“Humor me.”

When they got back to their room he’d let Martin dress it himself. Martin had sucked air through his teeth. “This is days old—it shouldn’t be all hot and red like this.” According to him these were early signs of infection, which would get worse if they didn’t take better care of it—i.e., keep the wound freshly bandaged and ointmented. Jon refrained from pointing out that when the cut on his throat had got like that he’d left it uncovered and been fine. But he did ask what worse meant. “Really bad,” testified Martin. “I had a cut on my finger get infected once. Really disgusting. You don’t want to know.”

Jon smiled at him, raised his eyebrows. “After Jared’s mortal garden I think I can handle it.”

Martin smiled too, but wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “There was pus involved.”

“Oh, god! How could you tell me that!” gasped Jon, hand to his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it also hurt? A lot? And it can make you ill. So we should try to avoid it, yeah?”

He’d tried to disavow the disappointment in his sigh by exaggerating it. “Yes, alright.”

“Don’t know why you’d want to leave it exposed anyway. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Well, sure, when you do that,” Jon had muttered, flinching away. As he asked the question Martin had lightly tapped the skin around the gash through its new bandage. A second or two later Jon added, “Less than when I got it? It’s hard to tell; it’s… different here.”

With a sigh that caught on phlegm and irritation, Martin asked, “Different how?”

He hadn’t been able to answer then, but he knew now, of course. It hurt the way things do when you’re awake. Not with the constant smart and throb it had when he’d first got it, but, it snagged on things now. Had opinions on how he moved. When he bent his knee more than ninety degrees, that stretched the skin around it painfully. Also if he knelt, since then the floor would press against it through his trousers. And stepping with that foot felt odd. Didn’t hurt, exactly, but sort of… rattled? Like a bad bruise would. This all seemed so small, compared to the moment of terror for his life that he’d felt when Daisy bit into him—that gaping wound in his new self-conception, which his healing powers had sewn up so quickly. The ritual of bandaging it every evening seemed so otiose, so laughably superstitious. He despised the thought of adding another step to it.

While Jon went on examining his toe, Martin asked, “What was the... thumping. It sounded like.”

“Oh—no—I didn’t fall; it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No—yes—stop, it’s nothing, don’t get up. I just forgot I left it on the—leaning against the doorwall” (he hadn’t decided in time whether to say doorway or wall and ended up with half of each) “so I walked into it, er, toe first.”

“Oh,” Martin said again. Jon could hear him subsiding against the pillows behind him. “It came down?”

Big sigh. Jon’s fingernails met his palms. He set his foot back on the floor, and when his hip whined in its socket he clenched his teeth and kept them that way. In his mind he heard days’ worth of similar jokes. When he couldn’t get a jammed jar open: So you’re saying it wouldn’t… come off? When they got back their clean laundry: Can you believe all those grass stains came out?—oh, sorry: that they came off, I meant. Always with an innocent laugh, like Jon’s original phrasing had been just, what, like a Freudian slip, rather than something perfectly comprehensible that Martin had refused to engage with, taken from him, and rendered meaningless on purpose. “No it did not,” he snapped, “and I would appreciate it if you’d quit throwing that back in my face.”

“Whoa, uh. O…kay. What’s… going on here exactly?”

“You—?”

His heart plummeted; his face stung with embarrassment. Came down, Martin had said—not came off. He’d just been confirming that Jon’s cane had fallen down.

“Oh, god—nothing, never mind. You did nothing.”

“Well that’s obviously not true.”

“I just—I thought you’d said ‘came off.’ I thought you meant, had my toe ‘come off.’”

“Oh,” said Martin, yet again. When Jon turned to look he found him still blinking and squinting against the light. “Do you… need me to not say that anymore?”

“Not when I—?” Not when I’ve hurt myself, Jon meant. But Martin hadn’t done that, so this grievance didn’t actually mean anything. He’d been seeing patterns where there were none, and now that he’d seen through the illusion Jon knew again that Martin never would say it like that. “No, it’s fine. Do whatever you want.”

Martin turned the tail end of his yawn into a huff of false laughter. “Nope. Still don’t believe you.”

“Everything you’ve said makes perfect sense with the information you have. It’s all just—me. Being cryptic again.”

“Okay, uh. Are you waiting for me to disagree? ‘Cause, uh. Yup—you’re still being cryptic. No arguments there.”

Jon just sighed, really scraping the back of his throat with it. Almost a scoff.

“Sooo do you wanna fill me in, or.”

“No?” With an incredulous laugh. “Well, yes, just.”

He hadn’t known how to start from there, while so tightly wound and defensive. It seemed cruel to raise such a sensitive subject when Martin sounded so eager to go back to sleep. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear Martin whimper apologies. Didn’t want to deal with how fake they would sound. They wouldn’t be fake; he knew that. But they would sound fake, which meant it would take an effort of will, a deliberate exercise of empathy, to accept them as real. He wasn’t in the mood to hear yet another person say I’m sorry, I didn’t know; much less to respond with the requisite It’s okay; you didn’t know. It would take a strength of conviction he didn’t have right now.

“Y—you don’t have to explain it tonight? I’ll just, I’ll just not use that phrase anymore, and maybe in the morning you’ll be less in the mood to lash out at me for things that don’t make sense.”

And what was there to say to that? It had taken Jon three tries to force out, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Good night, Jon.”

“Good night. I still need the light, for.”

“That’s fine. Just turn it off when you come back to bed.”

“You won’t wake him up,” a new voice interjected.

Annabelle. Jon couldn’t see her, but he had learnt by now to recognize that voice, with its insufferable upbeat teasing inflection like every sentence she said was a riddle. He caught a glimpse of movement, then heard the click of her shoes on the floor. She must have poked her head round the doorway at the far end of the table while she spoke, then scuttled off again. At last he got a good look at her, as she put her blonde-and-gray head through the closer door.

“He’s a very heavy sleeper,” she informed them, with a smile and a shrug. “You can shake him all you want; it’s not going to work.”

Martin cleared his throat—trying to catch Jon’s attention, presumably. But Jon feared Annabelle would vanish again if he took his eyes off her. Not that he wanted her here, either, but?—he at least wanted to know which direction she went when she disappeared.

“What are you doing here, Annabelle.”

She shrugged two of her shoulders. “Just offering you some advice.” Then she used the momentum from the shrug to push herself backward, out of the doorway back into the corridor. Before the last of her hands disappeared off to the right, she waved to both of them.

“Well, how about some ‘advice’ about this, then—”

“She’s already gone, Martin.”

“Seriously? God—which way did she go?” Jon pointed; Martin bolted down the hallway after her. “Oi! Annabelle!”

“Shhh!”

“Annabelle! Do you know where Salesa keeps the—”

Jon did his best to follow him, praying all his limbs would go on straight this time. “Don’t!”

“What? Why not?” he heard, from the other side of the wall. Thankfully he could no longer hear Martin’s pounding footsteps. He overtook him in the hallway, just about able to make out his face around the dark swirls in his vision. “She’s as likely to know as Salesa, right?” Martin continued. “And it’s not like she’d lie about it. I mean, what would be the point?”

“I just don’t think we should give her any kind of advantage over us,” Jon snarled. The attempt to keep his voice down made the words come out sounding nastier than he intended.

Martin scoffed. “You don’t think maybe this is a bit more important than your stupid principle about not accepting help from her?”

“Is it?” Jon took hold of Martin’s sleeve, having just now caught up to him. “The new room’s fine. It’s even nicer than the old one, right? We could just stay there.”

“I already told you, Jon. I’m not just gonna leave it like this.”

“’Til Salesa sobers up, I meant.”

“If we have to, yeah, but—? All our stuff’s in that room. The statements’re in there.”

“I just don’t think we should show her that kind of vulnerability,” Jon hissed, shifting from foot to foot in his eagerness either to sit down or go somewhere else. “I don’t want to give Annabelle something she can use over us.”

“How does this make us more vulnerable than we are eating her food?”

“It doesn’t, alright? That doesn’t mean we should add more to the pile!” He watched Martin shrug and open his mouth, but cut him off in advance: “Last time we had this argument you were the one maintaining she was dangerous.”

It was on their first night here—their first awake here, anyway. They’d been heading back to their room, Martin lamenting that he’d not packed anything to sleep in when they left Daisy’s safehouse. “Won’t make much difference to me,” Jon had shrugged at first.

Martin had shaken his head, grimaced at something in his imagination. “I hate sleeping in my pants. It’s just gross. Dunno why anyone would choose to do it.”

“How is it gross?” Jon had laughed. He’d expected to hear some weird thing about its being unsanitary for that much leg to touch sheets that only got washed every two weeks, and to argue back that in that case shouldn’t he sleep in his socks. Disdain for the body seemed damn near universal, and yet manifested so differently in each person whose habits Jon had got to know up close. Georgie had heard that underarm hair helped wick away the smell of sweat—so she let that hair grow out, but shaved the ones on her stomach for fear they’d smell like navel lint. And Daisy, a woman who used to sniff her used-up plasters before throwing them in the bin, would spray cologne in the toilet every time she left it. Jon had enjoyed getting to know which of bodily self-contempt’s myriad forms Martin subscribed to.

But this turned out not to be one of them. Instead Martin explained, “It’s so sweaty. Like sitting on a leather couch in shorts, except the leather’s your other leg? Ugh. I hate waking up slippery.”

“That’s why I put a pillow between mine,” laughed Jon. “Suppose I will miss Trevor’s t-shirt, though. Now that I don’t have to worry about showing up in people’s dreams like that.”

“Oh, god, right—what is it? ‘You don’t have to be faster than the bear’—?”

“‘You just have to be faster than your friends,'” Jon completed, in the most sinister Ceaseless-Watcher voice he could muster. Martin snorted with laughter.

And then they’d opened the door to discover Annabelle had done them a fucking turndown service. Quilt folded back, mints on the pillows, and a pile of old-timey striped pajamas at the foot of the bed. “Huh. Cree…py, but convenient, I guess. Least they’re not black and white, right?” Martin unfolded the green-striped shirt on top, then handed it with its matching trousers to Jon. “These ones must be yours.”

“Mm.” Jon let Martin hand him the pajamas, then tossed them onto the chair in the opposite corner of the room (from which chair they promptly fell to the floor). The mint from his side of the bed he deposited in the bin under the bedside table.

“So who’s our good fairy, d’you think? Salesa, or.”

“Annabelle,” Jon hissed. “Salesa was with us all through dinner.”

Martin nodded and sighed. “Yeah.” He sat down on the bed, still regarding the other set of garments—these ones striped yellow and blue—with a puzzled frown. “God, I’ll look like a clown in these. You sure I won’t give you nightmares about the Unknowing?”

But Jon said nothing, still hoping he could avoid weighing in on Martin’s choice whether or not to accept Annabelle’s… gifts.

“It’s probably Salesa’s stuff, at least. Not Annabelle’s. I mean,” Martin mused with a brave laugh, “he’s got a lot of weird outfits on hand apparently.”

“Unless she wove them out of cobwebs.”

“That’s not a thing,” Martin groaned, making himself laugh too. “Spider webs aren’t strong enough to use as thread.”

“Not natural ones, maybe,” Jon said with a shrug and a careful half smile. With no less care, he turned the sheets and counterpane back up on his side of the bed, restoring the way it’d looked when he and Martin made up the bed that morning. Stacked the frontmost pillow back upright against the one behind it. Punched it a little, more as a way to break the silence than because it looked too fluffy. Then sat down in front of them and put his shoe up on the bedside table so he could untie it—glancing first at Martin to make sure he didn’t disapprove.

“I mean, I guess,” Martin mused meanwhile. “Not sure why she’d bother, though. Maybe it’s”—with a gasp and a smile Jon could hear in his voice—“maybe she’s put poison in the threads, and that’s why yours and mine are different. Mine’s got—I dunno, some kind of self-esteem poison, like, a reverse SSRI, to make me feel like you don’t need me, so when she kidnaps you I won’t try to save you. And yours….”

As Jon pulled off his now-untied shoe one of the bones in his hip jabbed against some bit of soft tissue it wasn’t supposed to touch. He gasped and dropped his shoe. It thudded on the floor.

“You alright?”

“Fine. Some kind of dex drain, probably.”

“Ha.”

After a silence, Martin spoke again: “Are you sure you’re okay staying here for a bit? Sorry—I kinda bulldozed over your objections earlier.”

Jon finished untying his other shoe, then paused to think while he shook the cramp out of his hand. “No,” he decided. “You didn’t bulldoze, you just…questioned. And you were right to.”

“Still, I mean. It might not be a great idea to stick around here with the spider lady who’s had it in for us since day one. Have you re-listened to the tapes from the day Prentiss attacked, by the way, since you got them back from the Not-Sasha thing?”

“Right—the spider, yes.”

“Yeah, exactly! You wouldn’t even have broke through that wall if it hadn’t been for the spider there!”

Jon nodded and scrubbed at his eyes, trying to muster the energy to match Martin’s tone. This was an important conversation to have, he knew. And a part of him shuddered with recognition to hear Martin talk about those tapes. He had re-listened to them—first at Georgie’s, one night in the small hours as he cleaned her kitchen, thinking clearly for the first time in months and trying to pinpoint the exact moment his thoughts had been clouded with paranoia, so that he might know what signs to look for if something else tried to infect his mind like that. And then again after Basira found the jar of ashes. That time he’d just wanted to suck all the marrow he could from the memory of Martin with his sensible corkscrew and his first answer to Why are you here, even if it did mean having to hear himself ask if Martin was a ghost. A few weeks later, however, after Hilltop Road, he’d done a fair bit of obsessing over the spider thing with Prentiss, yeah. He just wished he could remember what conclusion he’d come to.

All he could remember was going for those tapes yet again only to find them missing from his drawer. But he’d been chasing phantoms all day; it was late at night by then, and when he’d dashed out to tell Basira his fear Annabelle had stolen them, stolen his memories from him just like the Not-Them had, he’d stood there over her and Daisy’s frankenbag for what felt like an hour, mouth open, unable to utter a sound. It felt too much like going to wake up his grandmother after a dream. So he’d told himself to sleep on it—that he’d probably left the tapes in some other obvious place, and would find them in the morning. And when he remembered his panic, the next day at lunch, and checked his drawer again, the tapes were back, right where he expected them. He’d dismissed it as a dream after all. But no—Martin must have borrowed them. He must’ve been worried about the Web, too.

“It’s… it should be okay. I don’t think it’ll be like that here.”

Martin sighed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That thing where you just—decide how something is without even telling me why you think so. I mean it’s one thing out there, when you ‘know everything’” (this in a false deep voice) “and can’t possibly share it all, but here? When you’re just guessing, like everyone else? Why don’t you think it’ll be like that here? And what does ‘like that’ even mean?”

“I'm sorry—you’re right—I just mean, I don’t think she has her powers here. Based on what Salesa said about the camera, and on what happens when I try to use my powers….”

“Salesa just said the Eye can’t see this place, though. What about that insect thing he said found its way in?”

“I mean.” Jon shrugged. “We managed to find our way here without the Eye’s help.”

“Yeah, but if the Web has no power here then how could she have called me on a payphone? She had to have known where I was to do that, yeah? And she couldn’t know that from here unless the Web told her to do it, right?”

“Maybe? We don’t even know if the Web works like that.”

“Told her to do it, made her want to do it, gave her the tools to do it, whatever. You know what I mean. Look—we know the Eye’s not totally blind here, since it can still feed on statements. Right?”

Jon wondered now how either one of them could have been so sure of that. “Apparently,” he liked to think he had said—but more likely he’d replied simply, “Right.”

“So then by that logic the Web still probably likes it when she—I don’t know, when she manipulates people here. It probably still gets, like, live tweets from her about it. How do we know it can’t use that information to weave more plots around us?”

“If that’s even how it works,” Jon had replied again. “The other fears don’t work like that—they don’t plan, they just.” He tried to sort his intuition into Martin’s live tweet metaphor. “The fears just like their agents’ tweets, they don’t… comment on them, o-or build new opinions on what they’ve read. It boosts the avatar's… popularity, I guess? Their influence?” Jon hadn’t even logged into Twitter since before the Archives. “But unless the Web is different from all the other fears, it doesn’t—it’s not her boss. It doesn’t come up with the schemes, it just.”

“Isn’t it literally called the ‘Spinner of Schemes’, though? The ‘Mother of Puppets’?”

And Jon couldn’t remember what he’d said to brush off that one.

“Of course she’s dangerous,” Martin said now. “I just don’t see what sinister plot of hers we could possibly be enabling by asking her where to find screwdrivers.”

Jon scoffed. “She’s with the Web, Martin! The ‘Mother of Puppets,’ the ‘Spinner of Schemes’? You’re not supposed to be able to see how the threads connect. Anything we ask her gives her another opening to sink her hooks into.”

“So what, you just don’t want to owe her a favor?”

“Yes?” Jon blinked—on purpose, needless to say. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I mean—why do you think she’s here, Martin, ingratiating herself with us?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s the one place on Earth that hasn’t been turned into a hell dimension?”

Jon snarled and set his head in his free hand. The dizziness was coming back. “In her statement Annabelle said the trick to manipulating people was to make sure they always either over or underestimate you.”

“Okay,” granted Martin, as though prompting Jon to explain how this was relevant.

“She’s trying to humanize herself,” he maintained, scratching an imaginary itch behind his glasses. “We shouldn’t let her.”

“I mean, she is physically more human here.”

“Is she? She doesn’t seem to be withdrawing from the Web; she’s not—like this.” Jon turned his wrist in a circle next to his head.

“Yeah but she’s been here for months, right? Maybe she’s passed through that stage.”

A bitter huff of laughter. “So you’re saying she’s reformed.”

“No. I’m saying the fact she’s not all—loopy here doesn’t necessarily mean she still has any power.”

“She’s got four arms and six eyes, Martin!”

“And you sleep with your eyes open and summon tape recorders, Jon!”

“Well,” mused Jon with a wry smile, “not on purpose.”

“That’s my point! You’ve only got—vestiges here, yeah? I’m not saying we should trust her; I don’t wanna be friends or anything. I’m just saying I don’t think the actual concrete danger she poses here is what’s making you hate the idea of asking her for directions.”

“What about that insect thing Salesa said she chased off. Does that not sound spidery to you?”

“We don’t know that! Maybe she waved his syringe at it.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath through his nose. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to bring up this next part; he feared it might make Martin too afraid to stay here any longer. “I think she’s plotting against us.”

Blink. “Well, yeah. Of course she is. She’s been plotting against us for—”

“Here, I mean. I mean, I think that’s why she’s here. She’s been hiding from the Eye on purpose so she could lure us into her trap with her spindly little”—Jon thought of the earrings that dangled from Annabelle’s ears like flies, swinging with her every sudden movement. Unconsciously he struck out with his hand as if to catch one, closing his fist around empty air. “Without my being able to see either her or the trap. At best, she’s here gathering information about us so she can report it back to her master.” He pictured the thousand spiders he’d seen birthed during Francis’s nightmare crawling back and forth with messages between here and the nearest Web domain—

“I thought you said the fears didn’t work that way,” pursued Martin—

“And every little thing we tell her is one more thread she can use to pull on us.”

“Okay, but, even if you’re right, ‘Hey Annabelle, our doorknob’s busted, can you help us find the tools to fix it’ isn’t actually a fact about us.”

“But that’s just the best-case scenario, Martin! The worst-case scenario is that she predicted we’d get locked out of our room, or even loosened the screw herself—”

“Not this again—”

“—because she knew we’d have to ask her for help, and wherever she tells us to look for the screwdriver is where she’s laid her trap! Think about it—this couldn’t happen outside the range of the camera, right? It would only work in a place where I can’t just know where to find something. That’s the only scenario where we’d ever ask her for directions.” Martin sighed, crossed his arms, rolled his eyes. Jon looked right at him, hoping to catch them on their way back down. “What if her plan is to trap us here forever so we can’t go stop Elias? What if by trusting her with this, we give her the tools to keep the world like this forever?”

Again Martin sighed. He bit his lip, at last seeming not to have an argument lined up already.

“I can’t actually stop you from going after her”—Jon heard Martin scoff, but pressed on—“but I can’t take part in this.”

“You sort of already did stop me, Jon.” He lifted his arm, pointing vaguely in the direction she’d gone. “We can’t catch up with her now.”

That wasn’t quite true, Jon knew; Martin had chosen to stop and listen to him. Instead of pointing this out in words Jon smiled, meekly, and reached for Martin’s hand. “Guess that’s true. Are you, er, ready for lunch now?”

His answering scoff sounded fond, indulgent, rather than incredulous. “Yeah, alright.”

With Martin’s hand still in his, Jon turned around—an awkward business, while holding hands in such a narrow passage—and began to walk back towards the dining room. At the end of the corridor stood a tall, thin, many-limbed figure, holding a water carafe, a stack of glasses, and four steaming plates of food.

“You boys getting hungry?” As she stepped toward them her shoes clacked against the floor. How had they not heard her approach? And what was she doing back at that end of the corridor?

“How did you—?”

“I have my ways. I’ve brought lunch for you both, if you’re amenable.”

“Oh—well, thanks, you’re, you’re just in time, actually.” Jon didn’t dare look away from Annabelle Cane long enough to confirm this, but suspected Martin had directed that last bit at him as much as her. “Can I help you with those?”

Annabelle managed to shrug without dislodging anything from the four plates in her hands. “You can take the napkins if you want,” she said, extending toward Martin the forearm from which they hung.

Jon sat back down in the chair he’d left at a haphazard angle—though it felt weird, since he usually sat on the table’s other side. He thanked Martin when he handed him a napkin, and allowed Annabelle to set an empty glass and a plate of food in front of him. It was a pasta dish, with clams—from a can, he reminded himself. A can and a jar of pasta sauce. Couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to put together.

“Salesa’s still out of it,” observed Martin. “Don’t think he’ll make too much of his.”

“A shame,” Annabelle agreed. She set a plate down in front of the sleeping Salesa anyway. “Maybe the smell of food’ll wake him up.”

“Are you going to eat with us?” Martin asked, as he and Jon both watched her deposit a fourth plate across the table from them.

“I may as well. We do still have to eat to live here, don’t we?” Jon could tell she meant this comment as an invitation for him to join their conversation, but he didn’t intend to take her bait. “Besides,” Annabelle went on, “this way you’ll know I’ve not saved the best for myself.” With one hand she picked up her own plate again; another of her long, thin arms reached out to take Jon’s plate.

He dragged it to the side, out of her reach. “No, thank you.”

“Alright. Martin,” she said, looking over at him with a patient, patronizing smile. “Will you switch plates with me?”

“Oh, my god,” Martin groaned into his hand. “Sure, why not.”

Something small and gray skittered across the table toward her. For half a second Annabelle took her eyes from Martin. Her nostrils flared; one of her eyes twitched; Jon heard a stifled squawk from behind her closed lips as she swept the skittery thing over her edge of the table. He made no such effort to hide his scoff. Did she think she could play nice, by declining to hold little spider conversations in front of them? That they’d think she was on their side as long as they couldn’t see her chatting to her little spies?

“Thank you,” Annabelle sing-songed meanwhile, returning her gaze to Martin. “You’re sweet.”

On their first morning here, after showering and then shuddering back into their filthy clothes, Jon and Martin had barely left their room before Annabelle dangled herself in their path, with cups of tea (Jon refused his) and an offer to show them to the pantry. From this tour Jon had concluded that all food in this place was tainted by her influence. And he didn’t actually feel hungry at that point? He remembered Martin remarking on his hunger before they’d both fallen asleep, but Jon had felt only tired. Surely that meant he still didn’t need food here, right? It’d been like that before the change, after the coma—he’d needed sleep and statements to keep up his strength, but could function just fine without… people food. So he’d resolved to accept nothing offered him here—or at least, nothing Salesa and Annabelle hadn’t already given him and Martin without their consent. No tea, none of Salesa’s booze, no use of the huge industrial washing machines, no food.

That resolution lasted about nine hours. He knew because on that first day time still felt like such a novelty he and Martin had counted every one. Once he’d tried and failed to compel Salesa—once he’d heard him give a statement and managed to space out for half of it, rather than transcending himself in the ecstasy of vicarious fear—Jon started to grow conscious of his hunger. After two hours he felt shaky; after four he started picking quarrels, first just with Annabelle when she showed up with snacks, then with Salesa, and then even with Martin; after six he felt first hot, then cold. Finally around the eight-hour mark he was hiding tears over an untied shoelace, and figured it was worth finding out how much of this torment people food could solve. He sat through dinner, flaunting his empty plate—then stole to the pantry for something he could make himself. Settled for dry toast and raisins. “Couldn’t you find the jam?” Martin had asked him.

“Didn’t think of it,” Jon lied, once he’d got his throat round a lump of under-chewed toast.

“You want me to get some for you? That looks pretty depressing without it,” Martin said, with his eyebrows and the line of his mouth both raised in a pitying smile.

“Better make it one of the sealed jars.”

“What, so Annabelle can’t have got to it?” Jon nodded, chewing so as to have neither to smile back nor decide not to. “You know she made the bread, right.”

Of course she had. Jon dropped his head onto his fists. “Fuck.”

“What did you think?” mused Martin with a laugh. “That Salesa just popped down to the supermarket?”

“I don’t know—that they’d taken it from the freezer, maybe?”

“I mean, that’s possible,” Martin granted with a shrug. “Should I get you that jam?”

Big sigh. “Fine.”

In reality he’d stared up at the row of jam jars in Salesa’s pantry for a full ten seconds before deciding not to have any. He feared spiders would spill out of the jar onto his hand as soon as he got it open. But he also feared he might not be able to open it at all—only hurt himself trying. Way back in their first year in the Archives together, Martin had once seen him struggling to get open the jar where he kept paperclips. Jon hadn’t realized he was being watched—or, that is, that Martin was watching him. In the Archives the sense of someone watching was so omnipresent one soon lost the ability to distinguish Elias’s evil Eye from other, more mundane eyes. Anyway, after three minutes’ effort and nothing to show for it but a misplaced MCP joint in his thumb, Jon had given up on paper-clipping the photos Tim had pilfered for him to their relevant statement and begun hunting through his desk drawers for a stapler instead. And then a high-pitched pop above his head made him startle so badly he gasped, choked on his own spit, and flung the picture in his hand across the room like a paper airplane.

Around the sound of his own cough he could hear Martin shouting Sorry, and Tim and Sasha laughing on the other side of the wall. Martin’s laugh soon joined theirs, though it sounded desperate, sheepish. He dove after the photo Jon had dropped, and then, when he came back with it, explained, “Got the paperclips for you.”

Jon frowned. “This is a photograph, Martin.”

“No, I mean—?” His laugh came out like a whimper; he picked the unlidded jar up an inch off the table, then set it back down. “Here.”

Okay, so, not exactly an auspicious start, but, it still became a thing? Martin opening his paperclip jar. At first he’d wished he could just remember not to seal it so tightly; he could get it just fine when he stopped turning it earlier. At least when the weather hadn’t changed since the last time he opened it. But then when they all started leaving the Archives less often, and the break-room fridge filled up with condiments that all seemed to have twist-off lids… he’d kind of liked that? Martin would hand him the peanut-butter jar, with its lid off and pinned to its side with one finger, before Jon had even finished asking for it. This seemed to be the pattern behind all his early positive impressions of Martin: the jar lids, the corkscrew, the way he managed to make mealtimes at the Institute feel like proper breaks. Martin had seemed like such an oaf to him at first—clumsy, absent-minded, always seeming to think that if he professed enough good will with his smiles and cups of tea and I know you won’t like this, but, then no one would notice his impertinent comments and all the doors he left wide open. All the dogs and worms and spiders he let in. He’d seemed to Jon the human embodiment of a fly left undone—more so than ever after the morning he’d walked in on him wearing naught but frog-print boxer shorts. But he had this easy grace with things that needed twisting off. Banana peels, bottle caps, wine corks, worms.

And then when he came back after the Unknowing Martin was never around. Jon and Basira and Melanie all lived in the Archives, like Martin had two years before, but by that point he wasn’t on Could you open this for me? terms with any of them. But he hadn’t needed people food anymore, and if he subluxed a joint it would heal instantly anyway. So he’d just struggled and sworn, feeling stupid for shrinking from the pain even after having chopped off his own finger. And it got easier with practice. By the time he and Martin reunited, he’d got so used to it that sometimes he’d hand jars to Martin already unlidded. Martin hadn’t seemed to notice. Finally, one evening a day or two after that row they had over the ice-cream thing, Jon had opened a jar of pasta sauce (he’d taken up people food again at Daisy’s safehouse, if only to make their time there feel more like a regular holiday), and reached out to hand it to Martin—then paused and retracted the hand that gripped the jar, remembering his promise to be more open about.

“This is, um.” He’d glanced up at Martin, then back to the floor as the latter said,

“Huh?”

“This is one of those things that’s got better since the coma. Since I became an avatar. I can, um. I can open jars now? Without.” He’d almost said Without hurting myself, then remembered that wasn’t technically true. Deep breath. “Without lasting harm. It—it hurts for a second? But the Eye heals it instantly. That's why I’ve been.”

“Oh,” Martin said, seeming to stall for time as he absorbed this information. He accepted the jar which Jon again held out to him, and turned it around in his hands, eyes on its label. “Yeah, I—I noticed, you’re really good at opening jars now,” he went on with a laugh. Again he paused, and blew a sigh out of his mouth. “Right. Okay. Thank you for telling me?”

“I’ll try and be better about….”

Martin nodded, turning back to the stove and beginning to stir sauce into the pasta. “Yeah. I, uh—I didn’t know that was why you used to need me to open them for you?” Since the other night’s argument, Jon had gathered as much. He nodded too. “I thought you were just, heh, you know. Weaker than me.”

“I mean, I am—”

“Well yeah but you know what I mean.”

“I do. I should’ve told you.”

“No, I—actually I think you’re in the clear on that one, if I’m honest. I just—it’s just weird? I thought I was done having to” (another blown-out sigh punctuated his speech) “having to reframe stuff I thought was normal around some unseen horror. Sorry,” he added when he’d finished beating sauce off Daisy’s wooden spoon; “that’s probably not a great way to.”

“No—it’s fine?”

“Suppose it sounds like an exaggeration, now, after all we’ve.”

Mechanically, Jon nodded, without deciding whether he agreed or not. Around an awkward laugh, he confessed, “‘Unseen horror’ might be the nicest way I’ve ever heard anyone describe it.”

“Er. Yikes? That sounds like you might need some better friends, Jon.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, laughing again. “I—I just mean, it’s nice to hear something other than?” Jon paused and pushed his little fingers back the hundred or so degrees they each would go. First the left, then the right. Other than what? Well, doubt, for a start. Though most of the doubt he heard from outside himself was implicit. Careful silence from people he told about it; requests people made of him seemingly just so he’d have to tell them he couldn’t do that; impatience, bafflement, suspicion from strangers. Why are you out of breath, the woman behind the Immigration desk had asked him at O’Hare, as if breathlessness incriminated him somehow. But that wasn’t the response he’d subconsciously measured Martin’s phrase against. What he had in mind now was more like… bland support. Hurried support. Assurances quick and dutiful, yet so vague he could tell the people who gave them were thinking only of the mistakes they might make, if they dared to acknowledge what he’d said with any more than half a sentence. The I’m sorry you’re in pain equivalents of Right away, Mr. Sims.

That was it—unseen horror was an original thought. Martin had put it in his own words, rather than either borrowing Jon’s or using none at all. “Other than a platitude.”

So at Salesa’s when Martin came back with the jam jar he handed it to Jon. Jon made a show of trying to open it, but could feel his middle finger threatening to leave its top half behind. It frightened him, in a way he’d forgot was even possible. For such a long time now, pain had just been pain? He’d grown so unused to the threat it held for normal people. The threat of actual danger, of injury. He’d set down the jar on the table in front of him, and crossed his arms in front of it.

“Can’t get it, huh?” Martin asked; Jon shook his head.

How much danger, though, he wondered. Earlier that day, after he and Martin got out of the bath, his left index finger had popped out while he was buttoning his shirt. It still ached when he used the finger, or thought about the cracking sound it had made—but didn’t throb anymore without provocation. Not much danger there; not even much inconvenience. He supposed if he hurt his middle finger too then he might have some trouble with his trouser button the next time he had to pee? Right, yes, what a cross to bear. I hurt myself doing x; now it hurts to do x. But it already hurt to do x, didn’t it? Didn’t x always hurt, before the change? Why did he so fear to face an hour or a day where it hurt more than usual, but not so much I can’t do it?

“So you’re saying it won’t… come off?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“What if I open it and it’s full of spiders?”

Martin had smiled, rolled his eyes, pulled the jar toward him, and twisted its lid off with a pop. “See? No spiders in this one.

“While you’re here, Annabelle,” Jon heard Martin say, “I don’t suppose you know anything about where Salesa keeps his screwdrivers?”

Annabelle tapped her chin and said, very pleasantly, “Hmmm. Perhaps they’re where he left them after the last time something broke.”

Martin’s lips drew closer together. “Yeah,” he nodded, “probably. Any idea where that might be?”

“Perhaps he keeps them next to whatever screw comes loose most often.”

“And do you know which screw that is?”

She shook her head, though who knew whether that meant she didn’t know or merely that she didn’t mean to tell him. “Perhaps he only uses the item when he’s alone,” she said, with a shrug and a sly smile.

“…Ew.” Annabelle cackled like a school kid pulling a prank. “Right, great,” sighed Martin. “Thanks a lot. Forget it. You done, Jon?”

Jon glanced sleepily down at his plate. Only half empty, but cold by now. “Yes.”

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Annabelle,” Martin said, sliding his and Jon’s plates toward her side of the table.

Instead of energy, lunch gave Jon only a slight queasy feeling—like one gets from eating sweets on an empty stomach.

“God”—hissed Martin, with clenched fists, as they ambled back to their room—“‘Perhaps he keeps them next to the screw that gets loose most often.’ Yeah, figured that out already, thanks! Can you even believe her? Sitting down to eat with us, as if she’s all ready to help, and then the best she can do is,” he paused and straightened, then said with a finger to his chin in imitation of Annabelle, “‘Oh, hm, guess he only uses it alone. Oh well!’”

“Don’t know what else you expected.”

Martin sighed, his arms crossed now. “Guess I should’ve done what you asked after all, since that accomplished nothing.” After a moment he went on, “Least it wasn’t a trap, right? I tried not to give her anything she could use against us.” With a smile Jon could hear without looking at him, “You notice how I pointedly didn’t offer to help clean up?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jon confessed, laughing a little.

“No?!” Again Martin paused on his feet, frowning, incredulous. Jon wished he wouldn’t; standing still made him dizzier, took more effort than walking, like that poor woman in Oliver’s domain. Daniela? Martin shook his head at himself. “Ugh—then who knows if she noticed, either. I thought I was being so obvious!”

“I mean—”

“Wait, hold up, let’s double back.”

“Are you going to go back and tell her it was on purpose?”

“No, just”—he echoed Jon’s laugh—“no, of course not. I just wanted to try that wing’s toilets next. Didn’t want her to see which way we were going.”

“Oh.” By this time Martin had turned around and started to walk the other way; Jon hung back. “Er. I thought—I thought we were going to our room first.”

“What, the new one you mean?” asked Martin, turning his head around to look back at him.

“…Yes,” Jon decided. Until this moment he’d forgot about that, and been daydreaming of their original bed.

“Sure, if you want. Do you need a break?”

“I… I think so, yes.”

Martin turned the rest of the way around, shuffled toward Jon and looked him over, with a concerned frown. He took his free hand between his fingers and thumb, brushing the latter over Jon’s knuckles. “Yeah, okay. You still seem pretty out of it. How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” answered Jon, though he smiled in relief at Martin’s willingness to change the plan for him.

“Food didn’t help?”

His stomach seemed hung with cobwebs; his mind, like a large room with half its lights burnt out. His light head seemed attached to his heavy, aching body only by a string, like a balloon tied to an Open-House sign. He still needed the toilet. “Not really?”

“Yeah, thought not. You need a statement, huh.”

Jon shrugged, avoiding Martin’s eyes. “Probably.”

In the interim bedroom Jon sat down at the edge of the bed, bent down over his legs, and untied his shoes, wondering why his life always came back around to this. His hip got stuck like a drawer that’s been pulled out crooked, so he had to lever himself back up with his arms, trapping fistfuls of counterpane between thumbs and the meat of his palms. It made his hands cramp, but that helped—the way it would have helped to bite his finger. When he’d got himself upright again he sat and blinked for a few seconds, hoping each time he opened his eyes that his vision would’ve cleared.

Martin sat down next to him and put his hand on Jon’s arm. “You’re blinking again. You okay?”

“Just… kind of dizzy? It’s an Eye thing.”

He let Martin pull him towards him until their shoulders touched. “Yeah. Makes sense. Nap should help. Statement’ll definitely help.”

“Right.”

They agreed to lie on the bed rather than properly in it, not wanting to have to put the covers back together afterward. Jon set his head on that squishy part of Martin’s chest where it started to give way to armpit, knowing to angle himself so the scar tissue pressed the hollow part of his cheek rather than anywhere bonier. It was normally dangerous to lie half on his back, half on his side like this, but he’d lately discovered he could use Martin’s leg to keep his hip from falling off. He could feel the muscles in his shoulder twitching and cramping, whether to pull the joint out or keep it in who could tell. But it’d be fine as long as he shrugged the arm every few minutes.

All the ways they knew to spend time in each other’s company had come together in Scotland, where he’d had none of these worries. Even after the change, on their journey, with nothing but sleeping bags between them and desecrated earth, he’d borne only the same aches he’d been ignoring since he read the statement that ended the world. Jon imagined lying next to Martin like this on the cold stone of a tomb in the Necropolis, surrounded by guardian angels’ malicious laughter. Not feeling the cold, or the grain of the stone against his ankles and the bandage on his shin—just knowing it was there, like when you watch someone suffer those things in a movie. Less vivid even than a statement about lying on a tomb; in Naomi Herne’s nightmare he’d felt the stone in her hands.

“Hfff, okay—ready to get back to it?”

“Mrrr.”

“…Jon, are you asleep?”

He shrugged his hanging shoulder. “No.”

Nose laugh. “Come on, wake up.”

“Mmrrrrrrr.”

“My arm’s asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It won’t wake up ‘till you get up off of it, Jon,” said Martin, gently, between huffs of laughter.

“Hmr.” Jon rolled away to face the wall with the window, freeing Martin’s arm.

“Do you want me to go look without you?”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

Cold air washed over his newly-exposed arm, ribcage, side of face, the outside of his sore hip. It was cold on this Martinless side of the bed, too. He rolled back over into the shadow of his warmth, but that still wasn’t as good as the real thing. Maybe he could pull the covers halfway out and roll himself up in them.

“Aaagh, no—Jon”—Martin’s cool hand on top of his as he tried to hook his fingers round the counterpane— “we’re trying to leave the room the way we found it, remember?”

“Hmmmrrgh.” He consented to leave his hand still when Martin’s departed from it. A few seconds later, a rustle against his ear, the smell of smoke and old clothes.

“Here.”

Jon crunched the jacket down so it wouldn’t itch his ear. “You won’t need it?”

“Probably not.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll be back for it if I have to go outside again, yeah?”

“Okay.”

In his mind’s eye they trudged into the wind, hand in hand. It blew Martin’s hood off his head, and inverted Jon’s cane like an umbrella. He shrunk himself further under Martin’s jacket, relishing the new pockets of warmth he created as his calves met his thighs and his hands gripped his shoulders.

“Ooookay…! Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” managed Jon around a yawn.

Martin had been right about the wallpaper. Not only was the red too bright to look at comfortably; it also had the kind of flowered pattern just complex enough that every time you look back at it you’re compelled to double-check where it repeats. Every fourth stripe was the same as the first, right? Not every second? And that weird little scroll-shaped petal—he’d seen that one too recently. Was it the same as?—No, that one was a bud. He pulled Martin’s jacket up so it covered his eyes.

They’d put their jackets through the laundry with everything else, their first day here, but that hadn’t got the smell out. Enough time had passed between the burning building and their arrival here for the smoke to embed itself permanently into their jackets and shoes, like how duffel bags once taken camping always smell like barbecue. And everything they’d ever shoved in those backpacks still had some of that odd, sour, Ritz-cracker smell of clothes left unwashed too long.

Daisy used to smell like smoke and laundry, too, once she quit smelling like dirt. It was the smell of the old green sleeping bag she’d zipped up to Basira’s. She said she’d have showered it off if she could; she didn’t like it. To her it was a Hunt smell—it reminded her of her clearing in the woods. But there weren’t any showers in the Archives. She’d point this out every time, in the same wry voice, so Jon was sure she’d intended the metaphor. No showers in the Archives: you couldn’t hide your sins in a temple of the Eye. This had comforted Jon—or maybe flattered was the word, though he knew her better than to think she’d have done so on purpose. He just wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d hid his sins pretty well from himself, after the coma. It was easy; you just had to lose track of scale. No one could remember all of them at once, after all. Others had had to point the important ones out to him.

Were those footsteps he could hear out there? Not Annabelle’s—? No; her clicky shoes. These were blunter. Could be Salesa, awake at last, come to invite them to play a game with him. “How do you two feel about… foosball?” he would say, drawing out the last word in a husky whisper. Only then would he swing the door wide open to reveal himself in a shiny jersey, shorts, and studded shoes. He set his fists out before him and turned them in semicircles, pretending to manipulate the plastic rods of a foosball table. Jon curled still more tightly into himself at the thought of Salesa’s face, how his showman’s grin would crumple like a hole in a cellophane wrapper when he realized the fun one had gone and that he faced only the Archivist. “Oh—hello. Jon, is it? Where has your lovely Martin gone?”

“Oh, uh. Martin needs a screwdriver to fix our door, so I.”

He watched Martin march his silent way slowly, solemnly down a corridor that grew darker, grayer, vaguer with every step until the webs that lined its every side and hung in laces from the ceiling began to catch on his shoes, his belt, his glasses.

“I let him go off alone.”

Jon’s whole body flinched. He gasped awake—oh shit. How had he just let Martin go? He had to—couldn’t stay here—find Martin—keep him out of Annabelle’s clutches—

Stick-thin bristling spider legs tapped the floor of his mind like fingers on a table. Find Martin. Jon instructed himself to sit up, swing his legs over the side of the bed and reach down to grab his shoes. He twitched one finger. See? You can do this. In a minute he’d try again and be able to move his whole arm, push himself up onto one hand. Find Martin.

Also probably go to the toilet. With an empty bladder his head would be clearer, he could figure out which direction to look first.

After Hopworth, while he laid on the couch in his office waiting for the strength to throw himself into the Buried, Jon had imagined Martin and Georgie and Basira and Melanie all stood around that coffin, wearing black and holding flowers. Denise? No, it definitely had three syllables. A scattered applause began as Jonah Magnus emerged from his office, closed behind him the door printed with poor dead Bouchard’s name, and stepped up to the podium. Georgie, not knowing his face, began to clap; Melanie stayed her hands. Elagnus’s shirt, hidden behind suit except for the collar, was striped in black and white. A ball and chain hung from his sleeve like an enormous cufflink. He opened his mouth to speak, and a tape recorder began to hiss.

“What are you doing here?” asked Basira.

“Never underestimate how much I care for the tools I use, Detective. I wouldn’t miss my Archivist’s big day.”

“So they just let you out for this.”

Elias shrugged with false modesty. His chain jingled. “When I asked them nicely.”

“How did you even know he was dead?” interposed Melanie. “Basira, did you tell him about the—”

“She didn’t have to,” said Elias, raising his voice to cut Melanie’s off. “Nothing escapes my notice, and I like to keep an eye out for this sort of thing.”

“Well—it’s—good to see you.” Tim’s voice. Unconvincing, even then.

Jon steeled himself to hear his own voice stammer out, “Yes—y-yes!” but heard nothing except the hissing of the… tape. Yes, that was the wrong tape—the one from his birthday.

“Anyway. Somebody mentioned cake.” Elias jingled as he arranged his hands under his chin.

Tim scoffed. “They didn’t serve cake at my funeral.”

“I preferred going out for ice cream anyway,” pronounced Martin, his arms crossed and his nose in the air. Jon pushed himself up on shaking hands. Find Martin.

They had gone for ice cream at John O’Groats before the change, while living at Daisy’s safehouse. Martin had apologized on behalf of the kiosk for its measly selection—no rum and raisin. Jon pronounced a playful “Urgh,” assuming Martin had cited this flavor as a joke. “I think I’ll manage without that particular abomination.”

“Wait, what? Why did you order it at my birthday party then?”

Jon stood still with his ice cream cone, squinted into space, and blinked. “I did?”

“My first birthday in the Archives, yeah!”

“Huh. That’s… odd.” Martin placed a gentle hand on Jon’s back to remind him to resume walking. “I suppose I must have been—huh. Yes,” he mused, nodding slowly as his hypothesis came into focus between his eyes and the ground. “I must still have thought I was tired of all the good flavors at that point.”

He heard Martin scoff a few steps ahead of him. “What, and now you’re happy with plain old vanilla?” Then he heard arrhythmic footsteps thumping toward him from Martin’s direction; he looked up to find Martin reaching his napkin-draped free hand out toward Jon’s ice cream cone. “You’re dripping again,” he explained.

Jon mumbled thanks and shrugged a laugh. “I-I’ve, uh. Come back around on most of them.”

“Except rum and raisin?”

“No—I’ve come around on it, too, just, uh.” He tried to make the shape of a wheel with his ice-cream-cone-laden hand. It flicked drips of vanilla across his shirt. Martin came at him with the napkin again. “Thank you. I just disliked that one to start with.”

“…Right. Okay, so what revolution occurred in your life before the Archives that overturned all your opinions on ice cream flavors?”

So Jon had told Martin about that summer when his jaw kept subluxing. He’d used that word, assuming Martin was familiar with it already—incorrect, as he knew now. Presumably Martin had gathered from context that Jon meant he’d hurt his jaw, in some small-scale, no-big-deal way whose specifics he’d let slide as an unimportant detail. But then as the anecdote wore on he must have begun to feel the hole in his knowledge. And lo, at last Martin had invoked that dread specter the clarifying question.

“Okay but so your grandmother had no problem with you basically living off ice cream all summer?”

“Well, she did when I could chew. But not when it was that or tinned soup.”

“Ah—right. ‘Cause you hurt your… jaw, you said?” Jon nodded. “What happened exactly?”

“Oh. Uh. Happened? Nothing, just my—I was born, I guess. Just part of my genetic condition; I happened to get it especially bad in the jaw that year. I-it’s much better now, though,” he hastened to add when he noticed Martin’s frown.

“What genetic condition? You never told me you had one.”

“Didn’t I?”

At the time, the anger in Martin’s answering scoff had surprised him. “No, Jon, you never said.”

“Oh. Sorry? I—I mean, you’ve seen me with this for years—I just?—thought you knew.”

“Seen you with—what, the cane, you mean? I thought that was Prentiss!”

Jon glanced to the doorway to double-check that was where he’d left his cane.

“What? No,” he had mused. “Of course not. I’ve had this since….”

“But you never used it.”

“No—surely, I—”

“Not once before Prentiss.”

Even as he’d said the words, Jon’s memory of that time had returned to him and he’d known Martin was right. Before Prentiss attacked the Institute he’d brought his cane with him to work in the Archives every day, and every day left it folded up in his bag. All out of an obscure notion that if he’d used it before Elias and before his coworkers, they’d take it as a plea for mercy, an admission of weakness or incompetence. God, he was naïve back then. He’d used the cane often enough back in Research; why hadn’t he worried Tim and Sasha would find its new absence conspicuous? That they’d worry just as much about his refusal to use it? The whole thing seemed even more stupid, too, now that he knew Elias must have noticed the change. How it must have pleased him, to see his shiny new Archivist so obsessed with proving he was fit for the job.

“Yeah but,” Jon pursued, instead of voicing any of this, “Tim never—?”

Martin nodded and shrugged. “I don’t know; I figured Tim didn’t get them in the legs as much as you did. I didn’t see you guys after the attack, remember? Not ‘til you got out of quarantine.”

“Right, no, of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,” said Jon mechanically, already consumed with the question he asked next. “Martin—did you think it was the corkscrew?”

From Martin’s sigh Jon figured he’d been expecting this question. “Kinda? At first, yeah. Half for real, half just—you know, as a habit? Like, ‘Look, a way to blame yourself!’” He splayed out his hands, rolled his eyes.

“Yes—I do that too.” Jon barely got the words out above a whisper; he couldn’t not smile, but fought to keep it from showing teeth. A muscle under his chin spasmed with the effort.

“But then I noticed you switching sides with it a lot, so, yeah. I knew it couldn’t be just that.”

“Really?” He waited for Martin’s answering shrug. “You’re the first person who’s ever noticed that. Or at least commented on it.”

“Sorry?”

“No—it’s.”

This attempt to communicate a similar sentiment, Jon recalled as he reached for his shoes, hadn’t gone as well as the one a few days later (over unseen horror &c.). Beholding had at that moment presented him with the image of a fat, hunched woman in shorts. She shuffled forward a few steps in a queue at Boots, next to him, and shifted her weight so the cane in her right hand supported her nearer leg. He felt a strong impulse he knew wasn’t his own—one born partly of resentment, part exasperation, part concern—to tell the woman that was bad for her shoulder, that she should switch hands too. But knew if he tried she’d either pretend she hadn’t heard it, or tell him off for criticizing her. Jon didn’t know what she would say more specifically; the Eye didn’t do hypotheticals. It had given him no more than this single moment of preverbal intuition. After the change he could have sought out other conversations Martin had had with his mother, and they might have given him a pretty good idea. But he’d promised Martin not to look at things like that.

He managed to dislodge a finger while tying his shoe. The other shoe he’d pulled off without untying; in a fit of impatience he tried now to shove his foot into it as it was. No good—he got the shoe on, but it just made the other index finger, the one he’d hooked into the back of the shoe behind his heel for leverage, pop off to the side too. Jon was afraid to find out what shape it would end up in if he pulled his finger back out of the shoe like that, so he had to untie it after all, one-handed. Then carefully extract his finger. It sprung back into place as soon as he removed the offending pressure (namely, his heel), but he still whimpered and swore. The corners of his eyes pricked with indignation when he remembered he still had to pee.

In this case, for once, Beholding had told him the important part: that that was why Martin had noticed. Had he noticed Melanie, too, Jon wondered, when she got back from India? She would switch hands sometimes, too—but, of course, without switching legs. He wondered if that had picked at the same unacknowledged nerve of Martin’s that his mother’s habit had. It had bothered Jon, too, but in a different way. He’d resented it a little, but also felt humbled by it, the way he always did by others’ discomfort. Getting shot in the leg seemed so big? Like such an aberration. So uncontroversially important—probably because it was simple, legible. Georgie could convey its hugeness to him in three words. She got shot. Obviously there was more to the story than that; there were parts he could never…

Well, no. There was a part of it he felt he should say he could never understand: that she’d kept the cursed bullet because she wanted it. In fact he was pretty sure he did understand that. But he didn’t have the right to admit it, he didn’t think. And no reason to hope she would believe him if he did. The second he’d learnt the bullet was still in there, after all, he and Basira had rushed to dig it out. Surely, from her perspective that could only mean he didn’t and could never understand. Or maybe he just wanted her to see it that way—wanted her to get to keep that uncomplicated resentment of his ignorance. It made his perspective look stupid and ugly, sure. But the truth made it look self-absorbed and pitiful. The truth was that until Daisy insisted otherwise, he’d assumed only he could see his own corruption and assent to it: that the others must not have known what they were doing.

Then again, maybe even if Melanie knew that, she would see only that he had underestimated her. Maybe it didn’t matter how much she knew.

Melanie switched off which hand she held her white cane with now, too. But that was probably healthy? Jon knew no more than the average person about white-cane hygiene. He just remembered feeling the floor drop out of his stomach when they’d got coffee together during his time in hiding and he had seen her switch her original, silver cane from hand to hand. Part of him had wanted to scoff or rationalize it away. How much could the shot leg hurt, really, if she still noticed when her arms got tired? But another part of him shuddered at the thought one arm alone couldn’t compensate for the weight her leg refused to take—that she had to keep switching off when one arm got weak and shaky from supporting more weight than it should have to. It wasn’t that he hadn’t experienced pain or impairment on that scale. He had, though the thought of a single injury sufficing to cause it still made him feel cold inside. It was that he kept seeing proofs, all over, everywhere, that the parts of his life he’d only learnt to accept by assuming they were rare weren’t rare.

Leitner hadn’t made the evil books; he’d just noticed they were there. And then had his life ruined by their influence, like everyone who came across them. Jon had had no time and no right to deplore the holes Prentiss had left in him and Tim, because on the same damn day he learnt someone had shot the previous Archivist to death. Alright, so it was him, then, right? Him and Tim—just doomed, just preternaturally unlucky. Tim, handsome face half-eaten by worms, estranged (as Jon then assumed) from a brother who seemed so warm and accepting in that picture on his lock screen; Jon, saved from Mr. Spider only by his childhood bully, now fated to take the place of another murder victim—and also half-eaten by worms. But no; he and Tim had got off lightly. Look what had happened to Sasha the same fucking night. The very thing whose influence convinced him the world had it out for him? Had killed Sasha. Literally stolen her life. How many lives around him got stolen while he mourned his own?

“I want you to comment on it,” Jon had managed to clarify. But Martin had scoffed as he stood in the foyer of Daisy’s safehouse, hopping on one foot to pull off the other shoe:

“Yeah, well. You haven’t exactly led by example on that one.”

“How could I?”

He accepted Jon’s scarf and long-discarded jacket, hanging them up beside his own. “Gee, I don’t know—commenting on it yourself?”

“On… switching which side I used the cane on.”

“Don’t play dumb, Jon. On this ‘genetic condition’” (in a deep, posh voice, with a stodgy frown and fluttering eyelashes) “you’ve apparently had this entire time. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought you knew, Martin! Why would I mention it in a childhood anecdote if I didn’t think...?”

“Well I didn’t know, okay? You never told me. You never tell anyone anything about what’s going on with you, you just—you just make everything into another heroic cross to bear.”

“That’s not—?” He wanted to tell Martin just how little that made him want to say about it. But he guessed Martin was really talking less about the EDS thing, more about how he’d spent their whole first year in the Archives pretending to dismiss the statements that scared him. How he’d sent Tim and Martin home when he’d found out about Sasha. How he’d stayed away from the Institute even after his name got cleared for Leitner’s murder. “What do you want to know.”

“Why you never—?” In a similar way, Martin seemed to reconsider his initial response. “Yeah, okay, right. Object-level stuff, yeah?” Jon nodded and wanly smiled. “Okay, so. What’s it called?”

After taking a minute to ditch his shoes, wash the sticky ice-cream residue off his hands, and drink some water, he’d sat down on the couch with Martin and told him its name, what it was, what it did. What does that mean, though, Martin kept asking, so he’d explained how it applied to the anecdote about his jaw. Martin asked why it meant he needed a cane.

“Be…cause all my joints are like that.”

“Yeah, but why does it help with that? What is the cane actually for, is what I’m asking.”

Jon hated being asked that question. “It—it means I don’t fall over when one of my joints stops working? A-and… also makes walking hurt less. I suppose.”

“So, when they’re working right, that’s when you don’t need it?”

“No—yes?—sort of. Now sometimes I just need it when it’s been too long since I had a statement. I get sort of. Weak.” Quickly Jon added, “But I don’t need it for stability so much since the coma.” He’d shown Martin how now, when he pulled out his finger, the Eye would just sort of erase that version of reality—how the dislocation wouldn’t snap back, but simply cease to exist. As if his body were a drawing on which the Beholding had corrected a mistake. He put his palms together behind his back, in the way he’d been told one couldn’t without subluxing both shoulders, and told Martin to watch how the hollows between his shoulder bones vanished. He opened his jaw ‘til it jarred to the side, and told Martin to listen for the static.

But Jon had never shown Martin how these things worked before the coma. Martin had no reference for this kind of thing; he understood only enough to find the sights unsettling. “That’s—no, that’s okay, I’ll”—he stuttered as Jon fumbled with his kneecap in search of a fourth example—“I-I get it. I’ll take your word for it.”

“I just thought.”

“No, I—? I don’t need you to prove it to me, Jon.” (The latter nodded, blushing, trying to smile.) “I get… I’m sorry. I guess I get why it’d feel easier not to say anything if? If you think it’s either that or have to convince people it’s a thing.”

Again Jon nodded. He suspected Martin wasn’t through talking yet. But Martin still wasn’t looking at him, eyes squeezed tight against Jon’s party tricks. So, to show he was listening, Jon said, “Yes. Er—thank you, Martin.”

“I just don’t like it when you hide things from me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You could at least ask if I want to know about them, yeah?”

Even at the time, Jon had doubted this. If they’d had this conversation after the change, he might have pointed out to Martin that when you mention something the other person has no inkling of, you make them too curious to decline your offer of more information, even if afterward they’ll admit they wish you’d never told them.

“Or ask me if I even recognize what you’re talking about, the next time you start going on about some childhood anecdote where you incidentally had a dislocated jaw. Honestly, would it kill you to start with, ‘Hey, did I ever tell you about x’?”

“No, it wouldn’t. You’re right. I’ll try. What… kinds of things did you—? For the future, I mean. What kinds of things did you want to make sure I tell you about.”

Martin sighed, in that way he did when he thought Jon was going about something all wrong. But after a pause to think, he did ask, “About this, or in general?”

“Either—both—first one, then the other.”

“Okay. I guess… I want to know when you’re hurt, mostly. Like—I can’t believe I even have to say this—that’s kind of important, actually? How am I supposed to know how to behave around you if I never know whether you're secretly in pain or not?”

This seemed weird—both now and at the time. Jon figured he must be missing something. If Martin thought he only needed the cane because of Prentiss then, sure, that might have affected how he imagined Jon’s discomfort to himself, but? Wasn’t the cane itself an admission of pain? Why did Martin think he owed him more than that—that he had owed him more than that at the time, no less? Did he not realize how fucking private that was? What a surrender of privacy the cane represented?

But, no, he reminded himself now; nondisabled people don’t realize that, unless you tell them about it. Repeatedly. Over and over. It only seems obvious to you because you lived it already.

“Er.” At the time he’d just shown Martin his teeth, with the points of his left-side canines joined. Nominally a smile, but more like a show of hiding the grimace beneath than an actual attempt to hide it. “That’s harder than you might think? Technically I’m always….”

“Oh.”

“Sorr—”

“—What do you mean, ‘technically’?”

“I’m—not always aware of it?” He disliked that phrase, in pain—how it implied a discrete and exclusive state. One could not be in Paris and at the same time in London; similarly, most people seemed to assume one could not be in pain and also in a good mood. In raptures. In a transport of laughter. That when one admits to being in pain, one implies that’s the most important thing they’re conscious of.

“Well that doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, I know—‘if a tree falls down in a forest’—blah blah blah.” With a gentle smile to acknowledge he’d picked up this mode of speech from Martin. He turned his wrist in circles so it clicked like an old film reel. “Philosophically speaking, if you’re not aware of pain, you can’t be in it. Maybe ‘technically’ isn’t the right word.”

“Oh yeah ‘cause that’s the angle I want to know about this from.”

Jon sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I just mean, it doesn’t always matter to me.”

“Well it matters to me,” Martin scoffed.

“Yeah—I’m getting that. Is there any way I can explain this that you won’t jump down my throat for?”

Martin sighed, groaned, pulled at his hair a little but made himself stop. (He doesn’t pull it out, Jon knows—he just likes having something to grab onto during awkward conversations. Usually emerges from them looking like a cartoon scientist.) “Okay, yeah,” said Martin. “I get it. I’m sorry too.”

“I mean—when you get a paper cut, that hurts, technically, right?”

“Well yeah, a little, but that’s not the kind of—”

“But just because you notice that hurt doesn’t mean?” He paused to rearrange his words. “You’re not going to remember it later unless someone asks why you’ve got blood on your sleeve.”

“Y—eah. Sure.”

“Is that…?”

“When you’re suffering, then. I want you to tell me that. And—whenever something weird happens? Like, before it stops being weird and you talk to me like I’m stupid for not already knowing about it.”

“What if”—this far into his question, Jon worried it might come off as a smart-alecky, devil’s-advocate thing. So he paused, pretending he needed time to formulate its words. “What if I haven’t decided yet whether it’s weird or not.”

“That in itself is pretty weird, Jon.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want to be part of that conversation. I want you to trust me enough to bounce ideas off me! It’s not like—? I mean why wouldn’t you do that?”

Jon had shrugged and grimaced, hands in his trouser pockets. “Not to worry you?” he’d suggested. But as he bit his lip and shimmied down from the bed Jon knew now that that was the sanitized version—and probably, if you’d asked him a day before or afterward, his past self would have known that too. Most things you told Martin, he’d either ignore them completely or latch onto them, refuse to let them go, and interpret everything else you said in the light they cast. Jon had learnt not to raise any given topic with him until he was sure he wanted to risk its becoming a long, painful discussion. This was part of why he hadn’t kept his promise, he told himself as he turned their interim bedroom’s doorknob. Why he’d said so little about anything weird that had happened to him at Upton House.

“Martin?”

“Oh hey, Jon—you’re awake.” Martin glanced in his vague direction but stayed bent over his work, so Jon could not meet his eyes.

“You found the screwdriver.”

“Yeah! And a screw that matches better, see?” He fished the first one they'd found out of his pocket and held it up next to the door for comparison. Jon supposed they looked a little different—bright yellowy gold vs. a darker gold. “They were in the library, of all places. There’s a little box full of ‘em that he keeps right next to his reading glasses, apparently. Guess he must break them a lot. How are yours, by the way? Any bits feel loose?”

Dutifully, trying to keep his dazed smile to himself, Jon pulled off his glasses. Folded and unfolded each arm, jiggled the little nose pieces. He shook his head. “Don’t think so. You can have a look yourself though, if you like.”

“Remind me later. Should’ve brought the whole box, probably,” Martin said, voice strained as he twisted the screw that last little bit. “There!” His open mouth broadened into a smile. “Time to see if it worked. You wanna do the honors?”

Jon shook his head, breathed a laugh through his nose. “You should do it. You’re the reason it’s fixed.”

“I mean, yeah,” shrugged Martin as his hand closed round the doorknob, “but I’m also the reason it broke.” It opened with a click. “Ha-ha! Success! Statements—our own clothes—our own bed! Er. Ish.”

Something tugged in Jon’s chest; he’d forgot the statements were why Martin thought this quest so urgent. He lingered at the side of the bed while Martin rummaged in his backpack, remembering for once to toe his first shoe off while standing.

“Man. Looks sorta underwhelming now, after the other room, huh?”

“Least our wallpaper’s better.”

“Tsshhyeah, and our view.”

Jon didn’t turn around, but surmised Martin must be looking out at that tree he liked. “Is it four already?”

“Uhh—nearly, yeah. You were out for a while; took me ages to find that damn thing. Here you go,” announced Martin as he slapped a zip-loc bag full of statement down on the bed.

(“So they won’t get water damage,” he had answered a few days ago, when Jon asked him why he’d individually wrapped each statement like snacks in a bagged lunch. “What? It’s not like we have to worry about landfills anymore. If I put them all in the same bag, you’d take one out and not be able to get it back in.”)

“What happened to my jacket, by the way? And yours?”

“Uhhh.”

“Right, okay,” Martin laughed; “I’ll go get them before I forget. I’ll put this away too, I guess” (meaning the screwdriver still in his hand). “Don’t wait for me, yeah? I don’t mind missing the trailers.”

Jon smiled. “Sure.”

As Martin hurried off, Jon sat down to untie and pull off his other shoe, threaded the lace back through the final eyelet from which it’d come loose, picked up the first shoe and untied that one, then stood up and set them by the door next to his cane. Both hips and all ten fingers behaved themselves throughout. As he walked by the vanity he grabbed the coins he’d removed to do laundry the other day and stuck them back in his trouser pocket. Useless, of course, but he’d missed having something to fidget with. He squatted down and peered under the vanity for the hair tie he’d dropped, for the fifth or sixth time since he’d misplaced it. Didn’t find it. That was fine; he had another one around his wrist. His knees felt weak, so instead of standing back up he crab-walked to the foot of the bed and sat down with his back against it. Straightened his legs out before him on the floor. Then he dug the coins from his pocket and counted them. Yup—still 74p.

Danika! Not Daniela—Danika Gelsthorpe. God, he would never forget one of their names out there. Never underestimate how much I care for the

“I'm back. What’s down there? Did you find the screw?” asked Martin as he hung their jackets up behind the door.

Jon shook his head. “Forgot about it. I was looking for that hair tie.”

“Well you’re on your own there; I’m done finding things today. The screw can wait,” Martin laughed—“he’s got a whole bag inside that box in the library. Do you need a hand getting up?”

He let Martin help him. Both knees cracked; the world’s edges went dark for a second. “Thank you,” he said, and it came out more peremptory than he’d meant it.

“Statement time?”

“Right. You don’t mind? I can wait ’til we’ve both had a rest, if you don’t want to be in the room while I.”

“No, I’m alright; I’ll stay here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hated statements.”

Martin shrugged. “Not these ones so much, now that. Heh—they’re almost nostalgic, if I’m honest. ‘Can it be real? I think I’ve seen a monster!’���

“They are a bit,” agreed Jon, looking down at the plastic-sleeved statement and making himself smile.

“Go on. Seeing you feel better will make me feel better too.”

That made it a bit easier to motivate himself, Jon supposed. From the moment he’d lain down on the bed he’d felt like he was floating on gentle waves—like if he let himself listen to them he could fall asleep in seconds. But that wouldn’t make Martin feel better. And no guarantee it would him, either, once he woke up again. He rearranged the pillows behind himself so he’d have to sit up a little; this might help keep him awake, and it meant he could rest his elbows on the bed while he held up the statement, rather than having to lift them up before his eyes. It made his neck sore, a bit, this angle, but that was fine. That might help keep him awake, too.

He sighed, readying himself for speech. Then heard a click, and felt a familiar buzz and weight against his stomach. The tape recorder had manifested inside his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket.

“Statement of Miranda Lautz, regarding, er… a botched home-repair job. Heh. Seems appropriate. Original statement given March twenty-sixth, 2004. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

[Image ID: A digital painting of Jon and Martin on an old-fashioned canopy bed with white sheets and orange drapes. Jon sits on the near side of the bed, reading a paper statement. He frowns slightly, looking down at the statement in his hands; he wears round glasses perched low on his nose. He’s a thin man, with medium brown skin dotted by scars left from the worms, and another scar on his neck from Daisy's knife. His hair is long and curly, gray and white hairs among the black. Jon sits supported by pillows—several big, white, lace-trimmed ones behind his back, and one under his knees. His right leg is slightly crossed over his left ankle, on which a clean white bandage peeks out beneath his cuffed, dark green trousers. He wears an oversized red hoodie and red-toed brown socks. Sat on the far side of the bed, next to Jon but facing away from both him and the viewer, is Martin—a tall and fat white man with short, curly, reddish brown hair and a short beard. He has glasses and is wearing a dark blue jumper and gray-brown trousers. Past the bed on Martin’s side, the bedroom door hangs ajar; in this light, it and the wall glow bluish green. On the near side, though, the light grows warmer, the orange canopy behind Jon casting pink and brown tints onto the white pillows and sheets. End ID.]

It seemed to be a Corruption statement, or maybe the Spiral. Possibly the Buried? A leak in Ms. Lautz’s roof caused a pill-shaped bulge to appear in her kitchen ceiling, about the size of a bread loaf. Water burst from it like pus from an abscess (as she described it. Nothing else Fleshy though, so far). Ms. Lautz repaired the hole in her ceiling, but every morning a new one reappeared somewhere else. Sometimes they appeared bulging and pill-shaped like the first one; other times she found them already burst, covering the room in water shot through with dark specks like coffee grounds.

Jon wished he’d refilled his empty water glass before starting to record. His mouth was so dry that every time he pronounced an L his tongue stuck to its roof. At this point he’d welcome a hole to burst in it and flood his mouth with water. Then again, he did still have to pee.

Eventually she and her spouse hired someone to find out what was wrong with the roof. She described hearing boots tramping around up there for half a day while they checked out all the spots where she and Alex had reported leaks. The inside of Jon’s trouser leg pulled at the bandage on his shin, making it itch. The repair men told Ms. Lautz it’d be safer and barely any more expensive to replace the whole thing. The ring and little fingers of Jon’s left hand were starting to go numb from having that elbow too long pressed against the bed. Miranda and Alex thanked the roof people and sent them off, saying they’d think it over.

He began to regret crossing his legs this way. He’d balanced his right heel in the hollow between his left foot’s ankle and instep, and in the time since he’d arranged them that way gravity had slowly pushed his foot more and more to the side, widening that gap. By this time he was sure it was hyperextended—possibly subluxed? It hurt already, and, he knew, would hurt more when he tried to move it. This rather ruined his fantasy of heading straight for the toilet when he finished reading.

Martin was right; these old statements seemed positively tame, now. He knew he owed it to Ms. Lautz to engage with her fate, but?

No. No buts. Whatever hell she lived in now, it looked just like the one she was about to describe for him, only worse. You can’t even pretend you’re sorry she’s living out her worst fear if you stop in the middle of reading that fear’s origin story. Never underestimate how much I

Once the repair men had left, Miranda Lautz wandered into her kitchen for lunch. She found her ceiling bulging halfway to the floor, with the impression of a face and two twisted arms at its center. Like someone had fallen through her roof, head first. Jon’s stiff neck twinged in sympathy. Miranda screamed and strode to the other side of the house in search of beer, figuring she'd find better answers at the bottom of a bottle than in her own head. When she got back to the kitchen with them, the beer bottles didn’t know what to do either, but said—

“God damn it. Not ‘ales’—‘Alex’. Obviously.”

He let the statement’s pages flop over the back of his hand, let his head tip backward until the top of it bumped against headboard and his eyes faced the ceiling. That settled it, then, didn’t it. If he had the Ceaseless Watcher looking through his eyes, he wouldn’t make a mistake like that—and he certainly couldn’t change position while recording. On top of his more substantial regrets, Jon had spent their whole odyssey before they came to Upton House ruing that he’d sat at the dining-room table to read Magnus’s statement, rather than on the couch or the bed. The chairs at that table had plain, flat wood seats—no cushion, no contouring for the shape of an arse. When he opened the door to the changed world, the cataclysm had preserved his bodily sensations at that moment like a mosquito in amber. He’d had a sore tailbone and pins and needles down his legs for untold eons. Right up until he and Martin crossed from the Necropolis onto the grounds protected by Salesa’s camera, where his tailbone faded out of awareness and his head filled up with cotton.

“Ohhh. ‘Alex’. Okay, that makes a lot more sense,” laughed Martin meanwhile. Jon could feel Martin’s shoulder bouncing against his. “She must’ve written it in cursive, huh.”

“I can’t do this right now, Martin.”

“Oh—okay, yeah. You rest; I’ll finish it for you.”

Jon closed his eyes and let air gush out from his nostrils. But you hate the statements, he knew he should say. Wouldn’t this make it easier, though? To let Martin have out this last bit of denial first?

The tape recorder in his pocket still hissed, still warmed and weighted down his stomach like a meal.

“Thank you,” he said.

The operator on the phone said she and Alex should wait for the ambulance to arrive, rather than try to free the man in the ceiling by themselves. Jon turned his neck back and forth, hoping Martin couldn’t hear its joints’ snap/crackle/pop. He picked his elbow up off the bed and shook out his hand. But when the paramedics cut the ceiling open, only a torrent of water gushed into their kitchen—water flecked with a great deal of what looked like coffee grounds. A day or two later the roof people called, to ask if they’d decided whether to have the roof repaired or replaced. They assured her none of their employees had gone missing. At the time of writing, Miranda and Alex still hadn’t decided what to do about the roof. A week ago, they’d found a squirrel-shaped bulge in their bedroom ceiling; they’d packed their bags and come to stay with Alex’s sister in London.

“Right! That wasn’t so bad.” Martin set the statement down and stretched his arms over his head. “Huh.”

“Hm?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just—it’s been a while. Thought it might feel, I don’t know, worse than that? Or better, I guess, since the Eye’s so ‘fond’ of me now.”

“I don’t think they work here.”

“What?”

“The statements. The Eye can’t see their fear.”

“Oh.” Jon could feel Martin deflating. He let himself avalanche over to fill the space. “You don’t feel better, do you.”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s just—slower here, like it’s taking a while to load or something. Remember how long the tape recorder took to come on last time? It was like—you were like— ‘“Statement of Blankety Blank, regarding an encounter with”—Oh, right,’ click.”

That was true. The tapes had known Salesa would give a statement before it happened, but with these paper ones they’d seemed slow on the uptake. Martin had also sworn the recorder that manifested to tape Mr. Andrade’s statement was a different machine than the one Salesa’d spotted that first morning. Jon wondered which machine the one in his pocket was.

Not relevant, he decided. He shook his head in his palm, stroking the lids of his closed eyes. “No—if they worked here I wouldn’t be able to stop in the middle of one.” As soon as he said it he winced, bracing himself for argument.

After the change he remembered wailing to Martin about how he couldn’t stop reading Magnus’s statement—how its words had possessed his whole body, forced him to do the worst thing any person ever had, and forced him to like it, to feel Magnus’s triumph as they both opened the door. Martin had pressed Jon’s face into his clavicle, rubbed his nose in the scent of Daisy’s laundry soap, covered the back of Jon’s head with his hands. Tried to interpose what he must then have still called the real world between Jon and what he could see outside. He’d said over and over, I know, and We‘ll be okay. Jon had known that meant he wasn’t listening, and yet still hadn’t been prepared for the argument they had later, when he mentioned in sobriety the same things he’d wailed back then.

“Hang on”—Martin had pleaded—“no, that can’t be true. I’ve been interrupted in the middle of a statement loads of times—and I know you have too.”

“By outside forces, yes, but you can’t decide to stop reading one. Believe me, Martin, I wouldn’t have—”

“Tim did.”

“No, he didn’t—”

“Yes he did! He was gonna do one and then Melanie—”

“No, Martin, I’ve heard the tape you’re talking about. Tim introduced the statement but didn’t actually start—”

“He did so! He read the first bit, and then stopped. ‘My parents never let me have a night light. I was—’”

“‘Always afraid, but they were just’....” Behind his own eyes he’d felt the Eye shudder and throb with gratitude. Just that sort of stubborn, it had seemed to sing, in a bizarre combination of his own voice with Jonah’s with Melanie’s, which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening.

“Yeah,” said Martin, forehead wrinkling. “And then he said, ‘This is stupid,’ and stopped.”

“You’re right.”

Jon still had no satisfying answer to that one, and cursed himself for having opened that can of worms back up again. It had been Tim’s first-ever statement, he reminded himself, and maybe Tim had never intended to get even that far. Maybe he’d been waiting for someone to interrupt him, as Melanie eventually did. Even out there, the Eye couldn’t really show him things like that. He could find out what Tim had said—could look it up, as it were—and what he’d thought, but motivation was a bit too murky, multilayered, complicated. It wasn’t real telepathy? The vicarious emotions the Eye gave him access to worked in broad strokes, generalities—just like common or garden empathy. Sure, he could imagine other people’s points of view more vividly, now that he could see through their eyes. But he still had to imagine them to life, based on the clues around him and what emotions those clues stirred in him. It didn’t work well for situations like this; he could hear Melanie’s footsteps and feel Tim’s reluctance to read a statement, but that was it. Enough to concoct plausible explanations; not enough to pick out the truth from a list of them. Plausibilities were too much like hypotheticals.

In the timelessness since that argument with Martin, though, Jon had also wondered whether it mattered if Tim had read the statement before recording it. He didn’t have footage, as it were, of Tim doing so; either the Eye had more copies of the statement’s events than it needed already and so had deleted that one from storage, or, conversely, perhaps it could no longer see versions of it that relied too heavily on the pages Mr. Hatendi had written it on, since Martin had burned those. But Tim’s summary, before he started reading. Blanket, monster, dead friend. It was bad, sure (like the assistants’ summaries always were, a ghost of past Jon interposed). But it sounded like the summary of a man who’d read it with his mind on other things. Inevitable and gruesome end. How he tried to hide; he couldn’t. Not at all like that of someone skimming it for the first time as he spoke. He did rifle through the papers though? So Jon couldn’t be sure. The suspicion ate at his mind, especially here. Could he have kept the world from ending just by—reading Magnus’s statement, before he went to record it? The way he used to way back at the start, before he trusted himself to speak the words perfectly on the first try? You didn’t mean to record it, did you? No, I’m sure you told Melanie and Basira you were just going to

“Guess that makes sense,” Martin said now. “So, you’re still feeling…?”

“Not great?”

“Yeah.”

“I… I feel human, here.”

“Oh wow. That’s—”

Jon told himself to put the hope in Martin’s voice to bed as soon as possible. “I know I’m not—not fully.” He allowed a smile to twitch the corners of his lips, flared his nostrils around an exhale that almost passed as a laugh. “Most humans don’t spontaneously summon tape recorders. Or sleep with their eyes open.”

“Yeah, but still, you don’t think maybe—?”

Again Jon hastened to cut Martin off. “A-and even if I was, it’s. I know that should be a good thing? But—”

At this point Martin interposed, “Should be, yeah! You don’t think it might mean you could—I don’t know, go back to normal? If we stayed here for a while?”

“Maybe? I-I might stop craving the Eye so much, but we’d still have to go back out there eventually, to face Elias, and. To be honest with you, Martin?” He huffed a laugh out, bitterly. “My ‘normal’ wasn’t exactly...”

“Right.” Martin sighed. “So you mean you feel like you used to, as a human. Which was…”

“Not great.”

“Right.”

“I haven’t been very well, here.” Jon shrugged for the excuse to duck his head. He could feel himself blushing, the heat spilling from his face all down both arms. Good thing the tape recorder in his pocket had gone cold.

Next to him, Martin puffed air out of his cheeks. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m dizzy and confused without the Eye, and it—it can’t fix me here? When I.” He drew in breath, lifted his heel off his ankle and set that leg to the side, letting its foot roll into Martin’s shin. Bit his lip and scrunched his nose in preparation. Flexed the other foot’s toes, trying to isolate the lever in his ankle that would—there. Clunk. Then a noisy exhale: “Jyyrrggh. When that happens,” he choked out, voice strained by both pain and nerves. “It’s like before I became an avatar. I have to fix it myself, and it doesn’t just.” Magically stop hurting, he hoped went without saying; already he could hear Martin sucking air through his teeth. It made Jon’s cheeks itch. “Shouldn’t have let myself get used to a higher standard, I suppose.”

“What? No—of course you should have. Did you think I was gonna say that?”

“No, of course not; I just meant—”

“You deserve to feel healthy, Jon.”

“Do I? Health is clumsy, it’s callous, it, it lets terrible things happen because they don’t feel real—it can’t imagine them properly, can’t understand what they mean….”

“Okay, first of all, ouch.” Jon snarled a laugh at that, without knowing whether Martin meant it as a joke. “Second of all, that is not why you—why the world ended, okay? Especially, ‘cause, you weren’t ‘healthy’ then. You read Elias’s bloody statement because you were starving, remember?”

“Hmrph,” pronounced Jon, to concede he was listening without either confirming or denying the point.

“And thirdly, you’re not ‘callous’ out there? You don’t”—a scoff interrupted his words. “You don’t ‘let things happen because they don’t feel real’—that’s sure not how I remember it. Okay? I remember you crying for—god, I don’t know, days, maybe? Weeks?—about how you could feel everything, and couldn’t stop any of it. That’s the thing we’re hiding from here, Jon, so if you don’t actually feel any healthier here then what even is the point?”

In a voice embarrassment made small Jon managed, “I mean? I’m still kind of having fun.”

“Really? You don’t seem like it—”

“Not today, maybe—”

“Right, yeah, no; spending all day trying to fix a doorknob isn’t exactly—”

“But I don’t want to leave yet. I should still have a few good days left before the distance from the Eye gets too….”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” For a few seconds he tried to think of something better to say, then gave up and told the truth, though in a jocular voice to hide his self-consciousness. “Always was the person who got ill on holiday.”

“Oh, god, of course you were—”

Voice growing higher in pitch, Jon pleaded, “It didn’t usually stop me from enjoying it?”

“What about America?” laughed Martin. “Did you still enjoy that one?”

“Of course not—I got kidnapped.”

“I mean, yeah, but you were pretty used to that too by then, right?”

“God.” Jon sniffed, crunchily, reeling back in the snot he’d laughed out. “Besides. That was a business engagement.”

Martin acknowledged this comment with a quick Psh, as he turned himself around on the bed to face Jon a little more. “Can I trust you to”—he stopped.

“Yes.”

“No, let me—that wasn’t fair; I can’t ask you that yet.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Martin; I didn’t—”

“Of me, I meant, it wasn’t fair.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’ve been ignoring your distress all week because I wanted it not to matter.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘distress,’” pointed out Jon. “Plus, I have been sort of, er. Secretive, about it.”

The exasperation in Martin’s sigh was probably meant for him, not for Jon, the latter reminded himself. “Yeah, but you’re not subtle. I can tell when you’re hiding something. It wasn’t exactly a big leap to figure out what. But I told myself it was temporary, and that you were acting like.”

Jon laughed preemptively. “Yes?”

“Like a little kid in line for a theme-park ride.” Again Jon laughed—less at the comparison itself than at how much Martin winced to hear himself say it. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taken you more seriously.”

“And I should have told you what was going on with me.”

“Yup,” concurred Martin at once.

“I know you hate it when I keep things from you.”

“I do—I hate it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry too.” Martin waved this away like a fly. “I just—you said you think we’ve got a few more days, before it gets too much or whatever.”

“Yes.”

“Can I trust you to tell me when we need to leave?”

Jon tried not to answer too quickly, knowing vaguely that that might sound insincere. “Yes,” he said again, after pausing for a second. “You can trust me.”

“Okay? Don’t try to spare my feelings, or anything like that. Like—don’t just go, ‘Oh, well, he’s having a good time. That’s fine; I don’t have to.’ Yeah? ‘Cause I won’t have a good time if I’m worried you’re secretly suffering.”

This Jon did know; it sent a thrill of recognition down his spine, as he remembered their first day’s ping-pong adventure. “Right. I’ll do my suffering as publicly as possible.”

“Uh huh.” Martin’s arm tightened around Jon’s shoulder. “Just don’t worry about disappointing me? I mean, sure, I like it here, with the whole ‘not being an evil wasteland’ thing, but I’d much rather be out there with you happy than with you than spend one more minute in paradise with her.”

With a smile, Jon replied, “That might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I suppose we do.”

As they walked on out of the range of Salesa’s camera, Jon glanced backward one more time and thought, Yes, that makes sense—but couldn’t quite recall what he had expected to see. It was like when you look at a clock, and tick Check the time off your mental to-do list, then realize you never internalized what time it was. “Pity,” he mused.

“What?”

“It’s, er, going away. That peace, the safety, the memory of ignorance.”

“That’s… Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Do you remember any of it? W-What Salesa said? Annabelle?”

“Some, I think. It’s, uh… do you mind filling me in?”

“Wait, you need me to tell you something for once?”

“I guess so. It’s, er… it’s gone. Like a dream. What was it like?”

After a pause Martin said, “Nice. It was… it was really nice.”

“Even though Annabelle was there?”

“I mean, yeah, but she didn’t do anything,” shrugged Martin. “Except cook for us. That was weird.”

“She cooked?” Jon watched Martin nod and smile around a wince. “And we let her do that? I let her do that?”

With a scoff Martin answered, “Under duress, yeah.”

“Huh.” Jon twirled his cane in circles, wondering why he’d thought he would need it. “Well, she didn’t poison us, apparently.”

“Nope. And believe me, we had that conversation plenty of times already. Er—maybe just let me put that away for you before you take somebody’s eye out, yeah?”

Jon nodded, folded his cane and handed it to Martin, then made himself laugh. “Was I… a bit neurotic about it.”

“About Annabelle?” Again Jon nodded. “Oh, we both were. We kept switching sides—one day I’d be like, ‘But she’s got four arms, Jon!’ and the next you’d be like—”

“She had four arms?”

“Yup. And six eyes. But your powers didn’t work there, so we thought maybe hers didn’t either? Never did find out for sure. God—you remember the day we got locked out of our room?”

“Er….”

“So that’s a no, then.”

“Sorry.”

Martin’s lips billowed in a sigh. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“So… what happened? Who locked us out? Was it Annabelle?”

“No, no, no one locked us out. It was just me, I uh—I sorta broke the doorknob? God, it was awful. Went to open it and the whole thing just came off in my hand, like” (he made the motion of turning a doorknob in empty air, and imitated the sound Jon figured it must have made coming off) “krrruk-krr.” Jon fondly laughed; he could imagine Martin’s horror at breaking something in a historic mansion. “It was just one screw that came loose, though, so you’d think, easy fix, right? Except the bloody screwdriver took forever to find. Turns out Salesa kept them in the library, of all places.”

“S-sorry—what does this have to do with Annabelle?”

“Oh—nothing ultimately, just.” Martin grimaced at his own recollection. “God, we had this whole argument over whether to ask her about it, and when I finally did can you guess what she told us?”

“What?” managed Jon; his throat felt small and weak all of a sudden.

Martin put a finger to his chin, and blinked his eyes out of sync. “‘Perhaps he keeps them next to something that breaks a lot,’” he recited, with an inane, self-congratulating smile. For a fraction of a second Jon could recognize it as Annabelle’s I’ve-just-told-a-riddle expression. But the memory faded and he could picture her face only as he’d seen it in pictures before the change.

“O…kay. And was that… true?”

“I mean, yeah, technically. Useless, though. And after we spent so long agonizing over whether it was safe to ask her….”

Jon allowed himself a cynical laugh. “Are you sure she didn’t orchestrate the whole thing?”

“Ugh—no, it wasn’t her. We had this conversation at the time. You made me check for cobwebs and everything.”

“And you… didn’t find any?”

“Of course not, Jon; it was a doorway.”

“Right. Doorway, yes.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling better? You still seem a bit….”

“No, I’m—I feel fine, I just can’t seem to. Retain anything concrete about… where did you say it was? Upton House? God that’s strange, that it would just be….”

Part of Jon felt tempted to deplore it as a waste of space, on the apocalypse’s part. These stretches of empty land were one thing, but a mansion? Couldn’t they at least get a Spiral domain out of it?

“I mean, not really. He told us all about it, remember? With the magic camera?”

“Right, yes,” Jon agreed.

“Well, we got it all on tape, if you want to listen to it later.”

“Yes, that sounds—all of it?”

“Well not the whole week or anything. It just came on whenever it thought it was important, I guess.”

“So not the part about the doorway.”

“Nope.”

“Pity.”