#ok back on disaster jon

[sparky-is-spiders]

For the anon request: "Elias cooking. Jon feels normal about it"

So I wrote a bit of this at home, a good chunk on an NYC subway, a decent amount on a plane, and the rest this morning in an airport while running on persistent low-level anxiety, about 45 minutes of sleep, and one (1) donut. 90% of the edits were correcting "Jonathan"s back into "Jon"s because my note app cannot conceive of a short nickname.

Anyway, I hope this is alright. I'm going to be honest I'm pretty sure I gave Jon too much of my voice here but I'm tired so it's staying. JonI'm so sorry I'm so mean to you in this. It's projection I'm giving you all my social issues.

Anyway I just want to say that it's probably best to imagine the "is this a pigeon meme while reading this. Only the guy is me and the caption is "is this a romantic relationship?" Because oh boy does none of my knowledge there come from practical experience (or even a real interest in having one of those). So. If this is unrealistic behavior for a dude dating his boss that'd be why lol. Anyway I am proud of how much scenery describing I did. It's my least favorite part but I know its important. Whatever that's enough background info. No serious TWs needed I think? Jon is a disaster so if you're very very sensitive to potential second-hand embarrassment I guess there's that?? But it's pretty minor I think.

Jon can't help but glance nervously at every tube stop. It's embarassing, really. The odds of a coworker getting on this specific train car at this specific time are so low that it's laughable to think about. Besides, he's hardly doing anything wrong. Taking the tube isn't a crime. It's not against institute policy to have dinner with someone.

(It is absolutely against institute policy to be having a romantic dinner with this particular someone. In all aspects, this is a terrible idea that Jon should never have agreed to.)

Realistically, if any of his co-workers spotted Jonathan Sims From Research on the tube, they would follow the sacred rules of public transport and not speak to him, and then forget it all the next day anyway. Perhaps they would assume he was running errands, or going to a museum, or (in a generous over-estimation of his social life) going to spend time with a friend. If they spotted Jonathan Sims From Research glancing around furtively and looking extremely nervous while on the tube, they might have questions. Some of the nosier ones might even ask him. Certainly, it would end up in the institute's highly active gossip mills. He certainly doesn't want any undue attention trained on him. Especially now that he and Elias are... well.

Jon is an embarrassing seventeen minutes early. Part of him considers going for a nice, relaxing stroll through the neighborhood, but he feels that might be both creepy and pathetic. Besides, giving him yet more time to think might make him too anxious to show. He’s fairly certain the only reason he was able to make it this far was the narrow focus of traveling to an unfamiliar place on time.

(An unfamiliar place. Like he was visiting some far-off city somewhere and not a different part of the city he’d lived in for the better part of a decade.)

Elias apparently lives in a quaint townhouse in Chelsea. The bricks a re a cozy red-brown, with a charcoal gray roof and white trimming. There is a small, neatly manicured lawn surrounded by a brick fence that comes up to Jon’s chest. There’s a garden plot nestled against the wall beneath a window with a few coniferous shrubs and a dying azalea bush. It would look like every other townhouse on the street (and just about every townhouse Jon had ever seen), if it weren’t for the complete lack of personal touch. Jon checks the little slip of paper Elias had written his address on just to be sure he’s in the right place. It is exactly the same as the last dozen or so times he looked.

Jon feels a prickle at the back of his neck and whips around. Across the way, a couple are watching him. Do they think he’s suspicious? That he doesn’t belong here? Do they know that he’s here to see Elias? Do they know why? It’s all ludicrous, of course. It’s not as if they know him or that they could read his mind. But something about this whole situation makes him feel as if he has “I’m having an affair with my boss” scrawled all over his face. He turns swiftly, marches up to Elias’ front door, and knocks.

Barely a minute later, Elias flings the door open. The first thing that Jon notices is that he looks somewhat harried. The second thing he notices is that Elias is wearing an apron, which is apparently enough to short out something in Jon's brain. In theory, Jon was aware that Elias probably wouldn’t invite him for dinner just to order takeout, and that he must surely cook his own meals at least occasionally, but there’s something so bizarre and incongruent about the sight that Jon momentarily forgets himself.

“Ah, Jonathan. You’re here early,” Elias ushers him in with a hand that has flecks of sauce on it, and Jon snaps out of his… momentary lapse. “Get the door, would you? You can put your bag down on the table there.” Elias is already walking off somewhere, probably the kitchen. Jon follows his instructions and takes a moment to consider whether or not he should take off his shoes as well. Was Elias wearing shoes? He can’t remember. The apron was sort of distracting. It was a deep, rich green. There was a floral pattern, Jon was pretty sure.

You’re being ridiculous. Focus.

There’s a shoe rack next to the table Elias asked him to place his bag on, and Jon is pretty sure he recognizes Elias’ normal work shoes. He tries not to think about what it means that he can recognize Elias’ footwear and toes off his own shoes, leaving them beside the rack.

As he slowly wanders in the general direction Elias went, he takes stock of the house. The walls are a bland, inoffensive beige. The shoe rack, table, and coat rack are all the same medium brown wood, and are the only items of furniture in the entryway. There’s a mirror above the accent table and a welcome mat with a mossy coloration (Jon wonders if he should put his shoes back on again to wipe them down, but thinks better of it). A narrow stairwell leads up into a darkened second story. Through a curved archway opposite the stairs, he can see into a living room with dark gray, blocky furniture and an old brick fireplace. Much like the garden, it’s neat and orderly, but bare of anything personal. No mess, no photos, no… charming knick-knacks. It rather reminds Jon of his own flat, really, although Jon’s isn’t quite so tidy.

He’s tempted to wander off and explore the living room or the shadowy upstairs, but he hears Elias calling his name from somewhere deeper into the house.

Down the hall and to the left, past where the stairs end, is a nice dining room. The walls have a dark red wallpaper with creeping black vines, and the table and chairs are made of a deep, dark wood. There’s a bar in the back of the room, and a lone potted plant in the far right corner sits silent vigil over the space.

At the end of the hallway is a door (closet? bathroom?), and to the right is another archway leading into the kitchen. Elias is in there, stirring something in one of several large pots on the stove. He’s wearing a white button-up, ash-gray slacks, and the apron. It does indeed have a floral pattern. And soup splatters. Jon has no idea why it matters so much to him. There’s something domestic about it, he thinks. He’s reminded of quiet evenings doing homework at the dining room table, listening to his grandmother cook. It inspires all sorts of wild fantasies in his mind where Elias and him live together and Jon sees this every morning. Which is tremendously inappropriate for a fling this new, especially when he knows it’s bound to go down in flames somehow (Jon isn’t stupid. He knows how romantic entanglements with one’s boss tend to go. This can’t possibly last). But he watches Elias cook pasta for them and no matter what he tries to tell himself, his brain just won’t listen.

At some point, Jon comes to the realization that he hasn’t said a word since he got here. The silence had felt companionable but now he wonders if it was simply awkward. It would hardly be the first time. He should say something, probably. Unfortunately, the words just won’t come.

Thankfully, Elias saves him from the quickly growing awkward silence. “My apologies for making you wait. I got caught up in work, so dinner will be slightly late,” he gestures to his clothes with the hand that isn’t stirring sauce. “I had hoped to be more… presentable.”

“It’s quite alright. And you look…” Jon searches for a word that conveys seeing you like this makes me want to keep you in my life forever but which also does not imply that Jon might have any real opinions on the subject. He dodges perfectly adequate at the last minute (he is, despite all evidence to the contrary, socially aware enough to know how that might be received) and settles on “nice.” Elias looks at him and does something with his eyebrows. Jon thinks he might be amused.

Before Jon can either insult him or reveal any hints of emotional vulnerability, he plows on. “I should probably apologize as well, for arriving so early.”

Elias chuckles warmly. “Well, I appreciate the eagerness.”

While Jon is trying to find a way to bridge the gap between I spent almost the entire day fretting over this dinner and an hour pacing my flat and I need this to work out quite terribly and I am invested in this relationship at the bare minimum of whatever is socially acceptable, a timer dings.

Elias gently taps his wooden spoon against a pot three times. “Ah. There we are then. I would very much like to go freshen up. Would you mind setting the table, dear?” And then Elias is striding out of the room, while Jon tries very hard to remember all the symptoms of a heart attack and compare them to whatever it is that’s happening in his chest cavity.

…

[raya-hunter01]

Lights, Camera, Action! Pt.9

Lights, Camera, Action!

Jey Uso x Black Female OC! (Shantell)

Roman x Black Female OC! Tangela

Solo x Black Female OC! Sofia

Jimmy x Trin

Rating: 18+

Warning: Smut; oral, sex, fluff, defloration (Virginity) masturbation

Words:

Summary: How do you keep it together as Smackdown’s production director and navigate your life as the girlfriend of Mr. Main Event Jey Uso.  Follow Shantell as she navigates her life as a girlfriend, sister, and confidant to the bloodline. Follow her on her journey to self-discovery of love and happiness.

Fatu Family Home

Joe’s POV

I think this family gathering was a horrible idea as I’m watching Mama Tanya and Aunt Sandra look like they are about to kill each other. “Mama, get Aunt Sandra,” I whispered as she shook her head in defiance at me.

“No, Joe I ain’t getting in it, and neither are you. She opened her mouth and looks like she bout to catch the fallout,” my mom said shrugging her shoulders. Sighing in defeat, I turned around to look at the disaster before me.

“Why you gotta bring up old stuff, I’m trying to make it right!” Sandra screams at Shantell’s mom.

“I don’t want my daughter and grandchild mistreated,” Tanya replied getting in Sandra’s space. “I think you just mad Shan and I had got so close, and she wasn’t flying out to Ohio to see you as much. We were her new family, and you know I would never hurt that baby,” Sandra says smugly.

“No, I’m mad because you harassed my baby, interfered in her relationship. You overstepped your place as a mother and caused my child pain! Then had the nerve to be mad at Shantell because that Taraji character played your whole damn family,” Tanya said without fear.

“I wanted my grandchild to have a family and a name of legitimacy!” Sandra exclaimed, getting frustrated at Tanya for not understanding her point of view.

“Please make them stop,” Shantell whispered as Jey took her hand trying to calm her down.  “Ma, I think we need to stop and calm down,” Jey said trying to stop the drama before it got worse.

“Boy, I’m yo mama, shut up! The grown folks are talking, finish what you were saying Tanya,” she said firmly as Jey backed up towards Shantell knowing everything was about to get messier than it already was.

“ I said in the end you looked like an asshole, the trollop wasn’t pregnant, and you almost lost your son because of your need for perfection,” Tanya said smiling at the angry look on my aunt’s face.

“You just gotta keep pushin don’t you? A true bitch till the end,” Aunt Sandra said frustrated as Tanya laughed at her.

“Damn right I do, now you gotta live with the fact that the girl you wanted to push outta his life is actually pregnant with your grandchild,” Tanya said without missing a beat.

You could see she had touched a nerve, as my aunt jolted back like she has been burned with hot coals. Then without warning, she slapped Shantell’s mom; it was like everything stopped.  Ah, shit it’s on, and ain’t no stopping it.

Shantell’s POV

“Mama are you ok!” I screamed, not believing what was happening. I tried to go over to her but Joe and Jey held me back. “Stay right here baby,” Jey said trying to block me from the drama.

“I ain’t stayin’ nowhere! You need to get yo damn mama!” I yelled as Joe held me tighter. “I know yo temper, you stay yo lil ass right here. We don’t need you getting hurt,” Joe said as I stopped fighting against him.

“Dis shit gon’ be bad,” Jimmy said to Trin as he pulled her close to him. “Maybe you need to step in, Jon before somebody gets hurt” Trin said, her expression matching mine of pure shock. This was a hot ass mess and how quickly everything went downhill has me stumped as fuck. Thank God Solo, Sofia, and Tangela aren’t here yet to see this.  

Trin’s POV

“Thank you for that, Tanya whispered looking at Sandra like she was about to snap at any moment. “What you mean?" Sandra started questioning but was cut off by Tanya punching her dead in the eye with such force it made my eye hurt. "Sweet Jesus!" I yelled cringing at the sound of her fist connecting with her target.

“Oh shit!” Jimmy screamed, running towards his mom to check on her as she was nursing her eye. Welp, this escalated quick as hell, I can’t believe this shit. “Thanks, for provoking me,” Tanya smirked looking at Sandra moaning in pain as Jimmy is holding her up trying to make sure she was ok.

“Dad you ain’t gon’ do nothin!?” Jey yelled as Papa Kish waved him off. “Nah, they need to settle this shit. My grandbaby gon’ need both of them, so they need squash this.  let’em fight,” he said honestly as Jey and Jimmy looked at their dad like he was crazy.

“Pops this is crazy!” Jimmy exclaimed as his dad cut him off. “Move out the way Jonathon, let’em go,” he responded calmly without any room for argument. The minute Jimmy let her go, she ran at Shantell’s mom, tackling her into the pool. “Oh my God!” I screamed, not believing what the hell I was seeing it was truly grandmas gon’ wild.

Shantell’s POV

“Mom stop it!” I screamed as she clocked Sandra again but this time with a right hook.

“I’m going to kill her!” my mom yelled, it almost seemed like a dance. They were trading blows, grabbing hair, bobbing up and down in the pool literally trying to kill each other.

“Not if I kill you first!” Sandra yelled as all of our faces were glued to the water looking at them trying to tear each other apart. “Somebody please stop them!” I pleaded as my mom grabbed Sandra by her hair and dunked her head under the water.

“You need to be baptized! Cleanse yo evil ass, all the shit you been doing!” My mom screamed as Sandra was fighting to come back up.  “Come on pops break this up,” Trin pleaded as he let out an exhausted sigh. “Please papa somebody gon' get hurt," I pleaded trying to get past Jey as he held me in place.

"Alright boys break it up," Papa Kish ordered as Joe and Jimmy jumped in the pool finally breaking up the fight.

“She started it!” my mom yelled as Joe picked her up sitting her on the edge of the pool. Meanwhile, Jimmy was trying to get his mother under control, finally sitting her down a few feet from Tanya.

“Now I hope ya’ll got that all out yo systems because that was the first and the last time ya’ll do this. We are family whether either one of you likes it or not,” Papa Kish said looking at them both drenched and trying to catch their breath.  

“Everybody let's go inside while these two work this mess out,” he said giving them one final look before walking inside the house with the rest of us following closely behind trying to give them some privacy.

In spite of all that had just happened, I couldn't help but smile seeing Solo come inside the house holding Cameron close, leading Sofia inside. “Hey, sis what we missed?" He asked giving me a kiss on the cheek before walking into the living room.

“Bro, ya’ll missed everything,” I whispered to myself, closing the door behind me, shaking my head at all that had happened today.

------------------------

Dinner

Shantell’s POV

I can’t help but feel nervous as I’m sitting in the lion’s den, I mean the Fatu family home. The tension is so high in here you could cut it with a knife.

Then the fight between my mom and Sandra left me stumped, confused, and a little angry. I still can't believe it as I'm looking at their disheveled faces and Sandra's eye that seems to be turning colors.

“Shantell, I’m so happy you and your mom came,” Papa Kish said as I smiled. “Thanks for having us,” I said looking at Sandra trying to get a feel for how this was going to go. “I say we don’t eat, she may try to kill us all,” my mom whispered as I gave her a pleading look to chill. “So, Tangela did you get cleared for your new building?” I asked her as she smiled.

 “Girl, they gave me the run around, but we finally closed. Joe being home these next two months will definitely help me get things up and running,” she says excitedly as he kisses her hand. “I’m so proud of you baby,” he whispered as I smiled at them.

The silence was thick as we were grasping at straws to have some sort of conversation. “Sofia how has work been?” Sandra asks as Sofia looks at her in shock. “Um, it’s been busy,” she responds looking at Solo as he smiles at her encouraging her to talk to his mom.

“Uh, I think we need to address the elephant in the room. I heard about it earlier and I’m guessing you and Ms. Tanya have settled everything. I just wanted to address the sudden change of heart,” Sofia said looking at me and then Trin.

 “Mrs. Fatu, you invited us here, which I’m thankful for but Sofia’s right. What made you want to turn over a new leaf,” Trin added as I shook my head in agreement.

Taking a deep breath, she began explaining herself. “I said some things that I shouldn’t have out of frustration, and don’t call me that. You know I love all ya’ll girls, it’s Mama Uce or just Ma,” Sandra said putting down her fork, looking around the table at the somewhat judging eyes.

“Shantell, you and I were very close, then Taraji came along saying she was pregnant by Joshua. I know I was wrong to tell you to leave him, but I was protecting my family,” she said as I felt Jey’s eyes on me as I was focused on his mom.

“What about after? Why keep making snide comments, I have never done anything but love your son and respect this family,” I said honestly really wanting an answer.

“I felt you were taking him away from me, all ya’ll were taking my babies away. It’s always been me and my boys.  They were all I had while their father traveled the world, now I’m here alone,” Sandra said looking around the table at everyone wiping her tears.

“Mama we gon’ always be your babies but we have our own lives,” Jimmy started but was interrupted “Son, let your mama finish,” his dad said encouraging his wife to get everything off her chest.

 “In my family the women always took care of the children, stayed home and I always wanted more but I never had the courage to step out,” she whispered. “So, you have resentment towards us?” Trin asked looking at her with tears in her eyes.

 “No! Envy maybe but never resentment. I love all you girls even though I got to work on a better way of showing it,” she said wiping her tears, looking at my mother.

“I know me, and you had had it out earlier, we needed that. I also think it's agreeable to assume with everyone this is going to take time,” my mom said trying to voice her opinion without getting anyone upset. “Yea, I think baby steps are good,” Sofia said as several of us nodded in agreement.

“I agree," Trin and I said at the same time causing a light laughter to bounce throughout the room. “Hey, baby steps are all it takes,” Papa Kish says raising his glass. “Let’s toast,” he said raising his glass as we all joined in.

“I’ll do it,” Jey said taking over the toast as his dad smiled. “To new beginnings and family,” Jey said with a small smile as we toasted. I hope it truly was a new beginning ahead because this isn’t healthy for anyone.

-----------------------------------------------

Shantell’s House

Jey’s POV

“Good night, Muhammad Ali,” Jey joked as my mom rolled her eyes at him before going inside.  “Good night son,” she said closing the door, giving us some privacy. “Today was insane,” Shantell sighed as I pulled her into my arms.

“Yea, it was but at least we are in a better place than we were before,” I whispered trying to point out the improvement. “Josh, our moms beat the shit outta each other today,” she groaned as I chuckled.

“Girl stop being modest, yo mama whooped my mama’s ass.  Even tried to damn drown her ass. Remind me to never hurt you again, Ma may kill me and hide the body,” I said trying to lighten the mood.

“You are terrible,” she laughed slapping my shoulder. “I wish I could stay over, but I know your mom is here,” I said gently kissing her as she melted in my arms.

“You make this so hard,” she whined against my lips, grabbing me by my shirt. She pulled me closer reclaiming my lips in an even more powerful kiss. “Mmm, baby don’t start, I got three weeks before I can have you," I groaned nibbling on her neck.

Shantell’s POV

“Don’t you start,” I moaned as his hand began to roam under my shirt. I was under his spell until the porch light came on. We jumped apart like teenagers, both of us quietly snickering at the situation.

"This is all your fault," I whispered as he smirked at me. "I'm innocent, I just wanted a good night kiss, yo ass was trying to seduce me," he said as I playfully slapped his shoulder as he pulled me closer.

“Shantell, I know ya’ll ain’t out there giving the neighbors a show,” my mom accused us as Jey removed his hand from under my shirt trying not to laugh.

“No ma’am we are just saying goodnight,” I lied snickering as Jey laid his head on my shoulder shaking with laughter.

“Girl, gon’ tell that man to cut that car off, and get in this house. Hell, the baby already been made, and it ain’t like ya’ll can do anything right now anyway,” she said bluntly as Jey ran to cut off his car.

“Well, she didn’t have to tell you twice," I teased as he scooped me up in his arms. “Nope, you heard Ma, she invited me to stay,” he said as I laughed laying my head on his shoulder as he carried me inside…Yea, I'm definitely falling even more in love with this man every single day.

----------------------------

Family Meeting After Smackdown

Jey’s Bus

Jey’s POV

I can’t believe I’m standing here practically listening to Paul beg Shantell to give him some ideas to fix the shit they did at SummerSlam. They had Joe and Jimmy do a gaslighting promo on me. After snapping on everyone, I quit the WWE and walked out through the crowd.

“We wrote Jey out to give him a couple weeks home with you while you’re under doctor’s care. That also gives us time to decide where to go from here. I’m just saying, give me a couple ideas to take to the table with the writers Shantell,” Paul begged as Shantell continued to stare a hole through him.

“I told you I wasn’t talking to you,” Shantell said irritated rolling her eyes. Well damn, this is a first and I hate it because Paul is like a big brother to her. I hate to see them fighting because they make such a great team.

“Shan, come on I’ve apologized a thousand times, I’m trying to fix it,” he pleaded as she cut him off “No! You want me to fix it, and you get credit for it,” she accused as Solo snickered at the look of distress on Paul’s face.

“I told you the old man was just wanting to throw his weight around a little bit,” Paul said as Shantell covered her face with her hands and screamed. “ You didn’t stand up for them, this was their story and you let him dip his nose in it. Fuck him wanting to throw his weight around, you lied to them and to me,” Shantell said standing up, pacing in front of the bed.

  Just when I didn’t think I could love this woman anymore, here she is in front of our boss, setting his ass straight about his failure to lead. She’s my ride-or-die and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Shantell, give him at least a starting point, you know I have been counting on this vacation. They could try to cancel it with all this goin’ on,” Joe said looking at Shantell with pleading eyes as we all sat in silence for a few minutes.

“Ugh…Fine, I’ll send him a couple ideas later this week,” she whispered as Joe ran up to hug her. “I owe you,” he whispered holding her tight.  “You just enjoy your vacation with Tang,” she said hugging him back.

"Oh, and Levesque, you need to be planting the seed that Tamina needs help to fight Rhonda and Shayna. That will help bring Trin in next month," Shantell said shooting Tamina and Trin a smile.

Shantell’s POV

“Tonight is about trying to salvage the guy's storyline, not our upcoming one,” Tamina says looking nervous. “Girl, ya’ll are the bloodline, and it will help further the story because when Joe comes back, he was supposed to be trying to sway ya’ll to come over to his side and betray Jey," I said explaining the previous plans to her.

"He wants gold in his bloodline, that gives ya’ll the spotlight. We know Jey is coming to protect ya’ll even though he’s on the outs with Jimmy," I said as Trin smiled in understanding.

 "I got ya, then Jimmy is going to be trying to stop me from joining or it could bring him back into the fold trying to keep us safe under Roman’s thumb," she said following my lead.

"Then when we are about two months out from mania, pull the trigger and let Jey and Jimmy feud. That alone will lead them to their dream match at Wrestlemania,” I said smiling as Jey and Jimmy did their secret handshake seeming to like the idea. 

“I actually like it and have an idea since you brought that up,” Paul said looking at Heyman who wore a gleam in his eye that let me knew we were back on the right track.

"We need to call an emergency meeting with the other writers, Paul said coming over to hug me. “I guess I will hug you", I laughed as he hugged me tighter.

"Get some rest munchkin I’ll call you Monday," he said moving so Heyman could give me a hug as well. "You know we are going to fix this I promise, because we have all put in so much hard work. This isn’t going to be in vain,” he reassured me as I nodded giving him a kiss on the cheek as he smiled.

"Good night you guys be safe and enjoy the house show tomorrow," Paul said as they walked off the bus. Hopefully, everything could get back on the right track, as I looked at the comments online. Some fans seem to believe Jimmy, and others think he’s gaslighting Jey so I guess we shall see what happens from here.

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Taraji’s POV

“I hate her, I swear to fucking god," I muttered to myself watching Jey’s SummerSlam vlog. This bitch is all over it, look at them looking so happy as they walked down the ramp before SummerSlam taking in the building and set.

“So, if I win I’m bringing yo sexy ass in the ring no questions asked,” Jey said smirking at her as she blushed.  “I ain’t getting in there, you comin’ over to me,” she said laughing as he kissed her. “Why does he keep touching and kissing her, he was never like that with me. 

“If I lose, I’ll give you the signal to go get Sam and get the bus running, we’ll haul ass and we’ll hit up McDonald's,” he said snickering as her eyes lit up. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” she said as he held her hand, kissing it as they walked down to the ring. “I really hate this bitch, wait what did he say,” I whispered to myself, rewinding the video.  

“I got yo cravings locked in my brain baby, I gotta make sure you and lil Uce good,” Jey said leaning over to kiss her. She’s pregnant……Nah, I didn’t hear that," I said out loud continuing to watch the video.

“If I may ask, What did you pray for?” Stu asked Jey as he got up off his knees. He seemed anxious as he paced back and forth, wringing his hands. Finally, he stopped and looked at the camera.

"In a couple months, I’m gon’ be a daddy man, continuing my own bloodline. Ain’t nothing betta than that Uce,” Jey said seeming to get emotional as he continued pacing waiting for his entrance.

“ So to answer your question, I prayed for health and strength; I prayed for my family. So, I'm bout to head out there and put on for my bloodline," Jey said spraying water on himself before hitting the curtain, heading to the ring.

"No!!!" I screamed throwing a bottle at the TV and breaking it. This bitch is pregnant. PREGNANT! That was supposed to be me!" I screamed in frustration as I knew now there was never a chance of Jey coming back to me.

---------

OBGYN' Office, Pensacola, FL

Jey’s POV

I hate hospitals and after what happened to Shantell. I cringe whenever we drive by one. I can honestly say this is a good doctor visit though. "Shantell everything is looking good," Dr. Borden said as we both let out a sigh of relief. "Ok, so no complications," I asked looking at my son on the ultrasound machine.

" Mr Fatu the baby is fine, and if you’d like to know the sex we can draw blood to be sure," Dr. Borden said as Shantell smiled. "I told him we should be surprised, but he said he already knows it’s a boy," she said holding my hand as I couldn’t control my smile.

“I know because a reliable source told me,” I said smiling, kissing her hand. "Well we also need to talk about all this stress you’ve been under Shantell, it’s not healthy," he said giving her a stern fatherly look.

"I know Doctor Borden, I’m going to take it more seriously and avoid stress. Our child is our first priority and I will leave any situation that is causing me stress," Shantell said with determination as her words kind of really stuck with me as the doctor printed out a copy of the ultrasound.

"Good because I would really hate to see anything happen to you or this baby. You deserve to be happy and have your dreams come true," Doctor Borden said giving her a hug and shaking my hand.

"You ready to go, baby," I asked as she nodded, kissing me before she got dressed. I'm glad the doctor had good news for us but I still had some worries.

Shantell’s POV

“You’ve been quiet since we left the doctor,” I said as Jey grabbed my hand, placing it on my lap as we drove home.

“Would you ever leave me? I mean after what the doctor said about taking care of yourself, and stress he started as I gripped his hand tighter. “Josh, I’m still here, aren’t I?” I asked trying to drop the subject but he continued.

“If something is causing you stress, I wouldn’t blame you for leaving he said glancing at me with a sad smile. Even if it’s me that’s causing the stress, I would understand baby," he said, his voice sad and full of emotion.  “Josh, can we drop this?” I asked as he pulled me into a kiss as we stopped at the red light.

“Just let me finish before I lose my nerve, if things get stressful let’s just promise to talk to each other and make the decision together, please,” he pleaded as I kissed him again.  "Josh, we will be ok,” I assured him as we continued our journey home.

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R&B Brunch Club

Joe’s POV

This little club is amazing and never disappoints as the DJ is walking in the crowd giving people a chance to sing along, finishing the lyrics when they cut the beat. I had invited Jey and Shantell to come out with us to get outta the house and have a little fun. We all needed it, and it was good to see them so carefree with everything that had been going on.

"I see you jammin', sangin' to yo man over there!” The DJ said pointing at Shantell. She was singing, swaying to the music with Jey. He had his arm wrapped around her waist, cheesing, and nodding in agreement with the words she was singing.

I got to admit it’s a vibe up in here right now, as I kissed my wife. She blushed, before laying her head on my shoulder. They were playing My First Love by Avant feat. KeKe Wyatt and the crowd was singing along at the top of their lungs.

I saw the DJ making his way over to our table with a spare microphone offering it to Shantell as she smiled taking it out of his hands. I swear somebody gon' have to surgically remove Jey's smile as he's waiting to hear her sing.

“You better sang that shit too!" I said hyping her up as she smiled at us, before turning back to Jey and began singing.

Times keep changing

Come sun or rain

Tangela’s POV

I couldn’t help but smile, I didn't know Shantell could sing and she was singing the hell outta that song. She had Jey entranced as she wrapped one arm around his neck as he bit his lip slightly showing off his grillz, pulling her closer as she serenaded him.

Kill the beat!," The DJ shouted as Joe smiled, pulling out his phone, going live on his Instagram.

“Let him know what it is sis!”I shouted as she gazed into his eyes and began belting into the microphone.  

Long as I live (long as I live)

You will be

My first love (and my only love)

It was amazing hearing the crowd singing the chorus, backing up Shantell. “Yea, you betta sang that shit, you my first love too," Jey said throwing a one up in the sky before leaning down kissing her neck holding her close as they swayed to the music.

“You gotta make sure he know that shit baby girl,” Joe said as Shantell gently pushed Jey to sit down. He was devouring her with his eyes as she leaned down singing to him, making sure he heard her.

Long as I live (long as I live)

You will be my first love

And I choose you again

Shantell leaned over to give Jey a kiss as he pulled her into his lap deepening the kiss as Shantell without looking passed the microphone back to the DJ. "Ok, I got to send Trin a picture," I whispered as I took a picture of them.

"No pictures, I look horrible," Shantell said laughing, seeing the flash as Jey turned her attention back to him taking her in another passionate kiss. "You look beautiful," he whispered to her caressing her face lovingly. "That’s what the R&B Brunch is about! Let’s keep it goin' ya’ll," the DJ said as Why I love you so much by Monica began playing. 

" Come on wifey, let’s dance," Joe said as I looked at him in shock. "You….You want to dance," I asked as he smiled leaning over to kiss me. "Yea, can’t a man dance with his wife," he asked leading me out to the dance floor.

Shantell’s POV

"See cuz can dance, I don’t know why he so shy bout that shit," Jey said looking at Tangela and Joe on the dance floor looking like their gliding on air. "It’s in the blood, ya’ll all smooth with it," I said smiling at him as he blushed slightly.

"You know I never heard you sing before," Jey said caressing my face. "Well, I gotta hold some things close to the vest,"t I said as he kissed me again.  "Well, your my first love too," he whispered as I blushed laying my head against his neck as he held me close.

"Always and forever," I whispered caressing his beard as the chaos of the club seemed to not exist as it was just me and him. This date night with Joe and Tangela has been truly fun. We definitely need to do this more often as life is moving so fast. I also knew I needed this time off to reset.

-------

Smackdown one month later

Gorilla

Trin’s POV

"I can’t do this," Trin said pacing as Jimmy and I looked at each other smiling. "Girl! Yes you can this is what we’ve been waiting on," I encouraged as Jimmy took her in his arms. "Hey, we here, and it’s gon' be great baby," he said kissing her as she relaxed.

"You on in one minute Trin," I said looking at Tamina getting jumped by Rhonda and Shayna. I could feel her mind shift as she focused. "That’s my girl," Jimmy smiled moving away from her as he came to sit beside me. "Go kill it, girl!" I shouted as her music hit and she went out into the arena to a hug pop.

"Is that Jimmy’s wife Trin!" Cole shouted as Trin cleared house. You know it is Cole, only one person can jump that high in the women’s division and I’m personally glad to see her back Barrett said as Rhona and Shayna ran off.

"Camera five get a close-up of Trin then phase back out to Rhona and Shanna," I ordered as the crowd began chanting “welcome back" as Trin was overcome with emotion. "Hard camera focus on Trin for a minute, then camera seven I need crowd shots" I advised.

"Shan, you know I got you, and it’s good to have you back," Stu said as I smiled. "It’s good to be back, Stu. I really missed ya'll," I said into my headset.

"Look at her out there," Jimmy said almost in tears as Jey rested his hand on his shoulder. "It’s official, she's, back in the fold," Jey said smiling at me as Jimmy nodded looking proudly at his wife.

The crowd was so amped they wouldn’t let her speak as she tried to control her emotions. "Yeah, I’m back!" She shouted as the crowd roared louder." Camera eight I need a shot on Tamina," I said as I saw her tearing up.

"My sister ain't by herself no more, she's got me and we coming for those WWE Women’s tag team championships! Your days here are numbered just like they were in the UFC" Trin shouted dropping the mic as Tamina stood beside her.

 "Camera two and Nine I need a pace between the ring and the aisle, I need a good shot of this stare-down to take us off the air," I requested.

"The war is on, Tamina has some help now!" Cole screams as Smackdown goes off the air. I watched Trin and Tamina celebrate as Jey sat on the other side of me. Trin was finally officially back on the roster and tonight was my first day back.

If this past month was any inkling of what's to come, I can say these next few months should go by fast and bring us all closer together.

Nowhere left to go but up from here......I hope.

Taglist:@reci24 @southerngirl41 @vebner37  @jeyusos-girl @melaninsugababy @romanreignkisser @bebesobrielo @arination99 @2-muchsauce @empressdede @alyyaanna @jeyusosgirl @christinabae@hennyyybarb

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Ok I'm the same anon from angst fic JonDami where Dami just fake his one dead and runway, I think about this because that comic painel where Bruce and Dami talking with each other and "I have lost two grandfathers because of your choices" and Bruce just responded with "if I was the one there, I could have saved Alfred"

At this moment these words still hurts me at night, and then Dami just never comes back after that, he just never comes back. Gotham can burn alone, he never comes back and when Jon finds the motive ... Oooohhhh just pain just pain ( I already started to write this, I'll share the link when I finish it with you if you want) - 🌻

God Jon finds out THAT'S the reason Damian will never go back and is just FURIOUS. So he agrees with Damian - Gotham can burn. He never goes back either. Even if there's a disaster, he'll go with his father as far as city limits, then stay on the outskirts. And don't even THINK about letting Bruce Wayne anywhere NEAR him because he will freeze that motherfucker's ass and let him die of hypothermia.

But with Damian he's so sad for the othr, and tells him so many times. Eventually he does so while holding Damian's hand, grabbing it to get and keep Damian's attention, and eventually it becomes a habit where he just...grabs his hand and doesn't let go. Damian doesn't either. And they grow from there.

[arunneronthird]

Ok, but now I'm imagining the comedic possibilities of Jon crushing on Tim because it would piss off Damian AND Kon!

Damian would be upset because "you're my best friend, you're supposed to think my brother is gross too!"

And Kon would be upset because "you can't like him, he's my best friend, that's a betrayal of the highest sort!"

And if they ever did hook up and tried to tell their best friend or brother about the experience, it would just be "lalala! I can't hear you!" 🤮

But wait, there's more! (Slaps hand on ship "this baby can hold so much angst")

What if Damian and Kon ALSO were both desperately in love with Jon and Tim and they're miserable now because they missed out due to both being terrified of rejection and now their both weighed down by "what if". Then because of the awkwardness, slowly everyone loses their best friend and brother. They all feel isolated but Jon and Tim have no idea why.

(I'm a DamiJon shipper, so this hurt to write. Hopefully my fandom don't come for me 🤣 ...I could ask this anonymously but momma didn't raise no b****.)

in my head theres literally nothing funnier than making jon have a crush on random people cause he is a bi disaster in my heart, but dami and kon having A Moment is somehow even better

damian would actively try to push tim off a window and probably succeed, kon would have an identity crisis and go back to outer space for whatever kon does in outer space every time he has a tim crisis

thanks for bringing angst to the table too i am here for it and always here for it, honestly dami would probably not even know what was annoying him, the guy cant understand love to save his life, kon is... actually reasonably canonly in a weird place with tim already, which i find fascinating

[get-your-fuckin-star-bitch]

Right. They got sent to interrogate “Sarah” by Elias. Michael would probably still be recovering at that point, and there’s no way Jon could do anything like that alone. So what’s Elias supposed to do, feed him another statement? Tim and Sasha wouldn’t exactly be cut out for that sort of job, nor would Martin, and Basira’s not working at the institute.

Melanie, maybe?

Nah. That’s a recipe for disaster. Although… Elias would be desperately trying to hold onto his plan at that point, so. He might pair em anyway.

And so Nikola threatens Jon, etc, etc, but he’s not really the archivist-

Hang on.

Why would she even bother messing with him? He was never Gertrude’s assistant…

So michael gets bothered by a mannequin, which must be super not-fun to have happen while you’re still not finished recovering from having been shot.

He doesn’t know shit about the gorilla, and is just really getting fed up with the questions about Gertrude, so Nikola just says she’ll “let him think about it” or something.

And then the moment he gets let out of the hospital, B&H nab him.

Nikola plans to find some way to either get information out of him or at least carve him up in a way that’ll make sure the skin fits.

Elias… does nothing, obviously, cause he doesn’t give a shit.

It’s Yasmina who finds him and gets in touch with Jon to get him out.

This winds up with Jon nearly getting flayed and Yasmina being a fucking badass.

I mean, she does work in retail. Specifically in a clothes department at a department store. So she already very much hates mannequins. Kicking their plastic asses is an incredibly satisfying experience for her.

Michael is… almost on death’s doorstep when she gets to him. Nikola hasn’t even been torturing him or anything, he just… hasn’t been able to feed or anything for DAYS, and it’s slowly draining the life from him.

He’s going to die if they don’t get him to a mirror or something.

Which Yasmina knows, because she’s seen this happen with him before.

She orders Jon to go get a mirror. He does. Michael doesn’t wake up at first, but after a few moments, he reaches out for it and goes through.

They stand guard by the mirror, which ends up being a very good idea, cause Nikola — who’d run away instead of getting caught in Yasmina’s mannequin murderfest — comes back, very pissed off, and tries to smash the mirror. Probably has other mannequins with her, too.

Only retreats when Michael comes back out of the mirror and fucks her shit up.

He’s not fully ok, simply cause he hasn’t had any statements recently, (Elias cut him off), but he almost tears off Nikola’s face, which is awesome.

He’s extremely worried about Yasmina being there and seeing him like this, but she’s beaming. And basically informs him that he’d been incredibly badass just then.

“You saved our asses.”

“I- but i look like-“

“You? You look fine. As long as you’re not wearing somebody else’s skin, I don’t mind whatever you want to appear as. Come on, I want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

[monstersqueen]

"poor little meow meow" is not about pathetic wet cat energy, it's when your kitty comes back from having committed mass murder and you're here going "oh were they being mean to you again?" and your kitty utterly convinced of their innocence goes "meow" in the most pathetic voice.

vriska is a good poor little meow meow (though she would hate it)

guangyao is a good poor little meow meow

jon disaster archivist sims is actually innocent of his most outrageous atrocities, but also he ended the world and is very pathetic

catra is. a cat who committed atrocities. and also is pathetic. and listen she was ABUSED and TRYING TO GET SOME CONTROL OVER HER LIFE and ABANDONNED BY THE ONE SHE HOLD MOST DEAR and yeah ok she's a more poor little meow meow than jon

:((

[vaguely-smart]

A very subjective ranking of the Superman and Lois characters

Love

Jonathan Kent

Ok I love this child so much. He's the epitome of gifted kid burnout and I relate to him to an unhealthy amount. I hope the writers give him more plot in season three and that they actually follow through on the storylines they write for him. Jon deserves to be treated better by the showrunners and most of the characters. He either need to get in a better place or just, like, spiral downwards and become a villain and/or just leave his family for a solo story (preferably either in a Disney sitcom with Jon-El or in a vampire hunting/befriending adventure) 10/10 Good Boy

Natalie Irons

Nat is a very close second to Jon in my opinion. She's just so nice. Her vibes are immaculate and I would want to be her friend. Her story is so interesting and I hope next season focuses more on the Irons rather than the Cushings. I love that they actually show her being smart and how they give her autonomy (unlike Jon). Her (and her dad's) hero moments feel the most earned to me and I would watch an entire show where they were the main characters. 10/10 good vibes

John Henry Irons

I'm sad to say this but I think John Henry Irons is probably the only actually good parent in this show, named after two parents. He actually talks things out with his daughter and treats her like a capable person?!? What a shocker. I gotta say, whenever he was fighting Clark in the first season I was rooting for him. All I can ask is that they stop hospitalising him, considering he's going to be working against intergang, hopefully he won't get sidelined into the ER next season. 10/10 best parent

Jon-El

I debated whether or not to put Jon-El higher than John Henry Irons. I think I like Jon-El more but in a more detached, point and scream "boyyyyyy" way than any actual feelings. He is great, though, and I'm pissed he didn't make it into the finale. He better be back next season. He doesn't get super developed but he's definitely a dramatic gay theatre kid with daddy issues. I am here for it and I will not hear otherwise. I just want the writers to give him screen time, therapy and a boyfriend tbh. In the words of Luz Noceda he is a "bad but sad boy" 10/10 dramatic disaster gay

Tah-Rho

I was indifferent/bored with him in season 1 but I'm season 2 I live for him. He's literally just vibing. He just wants a family. I just want to watch whatever random shenanigans he gets up to instead of helping the main story. He's just the weird uncle. I want to know what goes on in his head. He's so fun to watch. 10/10 chaotic bastard neutral 

Like

Denise Olowe

I have nothing against Denise. She seems like a chill person. She'll probably end up dating Jon and I wouldn't be opposed to it (she'd definitely be the best he's had). I'd totally be down to see her get more character development down the line. Like if they want to have a 'civilian' storyline, I'd much rather follow her family than whatever we're meant to call Sarah's disaster of a family. 10/10 seems nice

Kyle Cushing

Kyle gets an unnecessary amount of hate. Cheating is usually one of the only unredeemable actions in my eyes that good characters can take because it is just a wholly selfish action but I'm willing to give Kyle a chance. Sure he did cheat but it was in his bad phase when he was also being a bad parent and (possibly?) an alcoholic. He stopped of his own volition, though, and worked on himself to make sure that he could be a good father and husband. As far as I'm concerned the only thing he should really be trashed for is not telling his wife. I genuinely don't think the Kyle we see in season 2 is the same person who had an affair. Another thing is you can see how much Kyle genuinely loves his family. He's so supportive of both Sarah and Lana and he is their number one supporter. I honestly think he's the second best parent in the show. Sure he's an absolute idiot in some of the things he does and says but he is trying to work on himself and he just constantly gets sh*t on. (I do think a lot of this is tied to the fact that Eric Valdez plays home really well) 10/10 he's trying

Jordan Kent

I don't have that much to say about Jordan. He's chill for the most part. I want him to succeed and be happy and stuff. Sometimes his vibes are off and vaguely serial killery but for the most part I like him. 10/10 I like him

Mitch Anderson

It's fun to watch him suffer. I live for whenever his bad decisions decide to come back to bite him. It's just so fun to watch. I did feel really bad for him in episode 10, though. It broke me when he and Jordan-El were trying to talk about Bizarro Superman. I really wish he didn't die in that episode. I would have preferred it if he died in the final battle with Ally. It just felt anti-climactic, how it played out. I literally didn't even realise he died. 10/10 should have died in episode 15

Indifferent

Sam Lane

I don't know what to say here. He's there. He does stuff. It is interesting how he sometimes switches between a minorly antagonistic role and a protagonistic one. I don't have any strong feelings about him except that he should have been a better dad. 10/10 he sure was there, wasn't he?

Lois-El

She's there. She doesn't really get much screen time. I really felt for her when she was leaving Kal, though. 10/10 girlboss?

Lois Lane

Pretty similar to her dad, honestly. Seriously though it really feels like she drops the ball with Jon so much (not as much as Clark, though). I have faith that her character could be good if she wrote her well, so I more hate the execution rather than the actual character, if that makes sense. I hope they do her better next season 10/10 could have potential if literally anyone else wrote for her

Jor-El

He's there. He looks sad. 10/10 he needs a hug

Kal-El

I'm sympathetic towards him but also it pains me to watch his scenes. Like stoooopp you pain me. 10/10 second hand embarrassment

Chrissy Beppo

People rag on her too much. Like sure, she definitely is annoying and feels too entitled about information but put yourself in her shoes. Her idol just came in and bought half of her newspaper so now they are co-owners but Lois doesn't treat her like an equal and she definitely is keeping a tonne of secrets. From the audience's perspective Lois's actions are understandable but Chrissy has every right to be pissed at Lois, especially since their profession is all about telling the truth and journalistic integrity. Of course she doesn't want to be lied to. 10/10 annoying but not wrong

Dislike

Sarah Cortez

I'm a lot more forgiving of Sarah because she's an actual teenager and at least she told Jordan basically straight away that she kissed Aubry (though it shouldn't have happened in the first place). The whole trying to make Jordan and Aubrey friends thing is kind of strange but I can see where Sarah's coming from. Aubrey can relate to what she's going through, which she feels like she can't really talk to Jordan about because as far as she knows his home life is pretty great. There's also the fact that Jordan in no way expressed how upset he actually was about the kiss to Sarah's face. It's easy to say that Sarah literally thought Jordan wasn't too hurt. I know at least with my friends when we were 14/15 a bunch of people had dated or confessed crushes on other people and we were still all friends. You can totally be friends with people you've had/have romantic feelings for and Sarah might have been thinking along those lines. All in all, some of Sarah's actions are rude/annoying but she seems like she's trying but is just finding a little hard to see things from Jordan's perspective because she's so caught up in her own drama (which I might add, a lot of which has been publicised to the entire town) 10/10 will probably be better once she knows the secret and grows up a little

Clark Kent

Clark, what are you even doing?!?! Whatever it is, it pains me! He's just so dense. And blind (you sure you don't actually need real glasses, my dude?) He just is just such a bad parent to Jon. Can we please go back to season 1 writing for him? Please?!?! Hopefully the showrunners look at people's reactions to Clark and do something about it!!! 10/10 do better you idiot!

Candice Pergande

I dislike every one of her scenes except for the last one. When she goes to talk to Lois and Sam she does actually look remorseful and like she is trying. It feels like we were meant to see more scenes of her like that but they were cut or something. Obviously she should have taken accountability but she's doing it for her father so she's not doing it from a strictly selfish standpoint and it's very easy to see how she might feel stuck and scared in this position. She feels like she could have potential and I hope if she is kept around (unlike Teagan) that the writers will expand more on her character and actually make her likeable. 10/10 let's hear her out

Hate

Lana Lang

I don't even know what to say about Lana. I feel like most of it has already been said by other people. She's just so insufferable and rude all the time. She's so entitled and I hate how she reacted to Clark's secret, especially by being mad at everyone except for Clark. Like b*tch just shut up!!! Please! I get Lana's under a lot of pressure but it's so obvious that she doesn't care about her behaviour and neither do the writers. It's so annoying. I hope she gets sidelined so much more next season 10/10 please, either get a reality check or just leave

Lucy Lane

She's just annoying and is given too many chances. How come Lucy who was the right hand man for a litteral world ending cult gets forgiveness easier than Jon who took drugs like three times. 10/10 shouldn't she be behind bars or something?

George Dean

I couldn't decide whether to put him or Ally at the bottom. He is intentionally insufferable and, I gotta say, the writers finally succeeded at something. He's so smug and annoying and I can't stand him! 10/10 of course he's in politics 

Ally Allston

Booooooooo. Not that intimidating. Really annoying. I hate how she talks. I hope she doesn't return and just stays in prison for the rest of her life (this goes for both of them) 10/10 I hate her (squared)

Best Boiiii

Timmy Ryan

"Even Chads deserve character development"

"And love"

10/10 deserves an enemies to lovers arc

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

[buterflies-and-ladybugs]

Up-Grade

Notes: Hi everyone! I just relized I never posted chapter 3 on Tumblr so here it is. Enjoy!

AO3 1 2

Chapter 3:

Claude was expecting a lot of things to happen when Marinette met his friends. While her not liking them was one thing he did not expect her to punch Damian twice. Sure Damian could be ... Blunt but he hasn't even said anything the first time. The second time was kind of his own fault, but there was still a chance that this was salvageable; he would just have to find it in the dumpster fire of a first meeting. A very large dumpster fire, and the day started out so well to ...

[Two hours earlier]

Marinette was not excited for her first day back at school. While she was excited to meet Claude's friends, she didn't have the best experiences with school or Gotham so put them together and you have a recipe for disaster. What would happen next, she would meet Bruce Wayne or any of his children and punch him or her for stealing her brother. With her luck it may happen. She always seemed to have the weirdest sense of luck. For example, she once was able to save a man from getting hit by a car. In doing so, she lost the cookies for her class, but the man ended up being the one who helped her learn Miraculous magic and she got to meet the Kwami. The kwami were a mix between spirit guides and familiars. They wouldn't have to stay near the holder of their jewels which are almost all embedded into specific pieces of jewellery. However, their companionship came at a cost mainly protecting this reality from other possible apocalyptic endings.

Anyway, she was wearing her pajamas and eating a bowl of fruit and an omelette and The CoffeeTM when Claude came out.

"Mornin' Mari"

"Hey Claude. I made you an omelette with cheese and vegetables for you. It is in the microwave so it doesn't get too cold." Replied Marinette, earning her a face of shock. "What do you not like about vegetables? I can make you something else if-" she started before Claude grapes her in a bear hug.

"You're the best Mari. I wasn't expecting you to make something so I was surprised."

"That makes sense. I guess?"

"You guess?"

"Nothing, let's just get ready. I'm going to get dressed."

"M'kay." Said Claude between mouthfuls of food.

Eventually they were ready after Marinette was once again disappointed in his outfit. After a quick goodbye to Mrs. Kathrin they walked to school. Luckily it was just around the corner. As Claude and Marinette rounded the corner into the school while talking about UMS II which was coming out soon Claude spots Damian. Before Claude could say anything Marinette shouted

"You. Your A Fucking Wayne!" And punched Damian in the gut. If Claude was being honest she only went slightly lighter than yesterday.

"Marinette what the Hell. Are you ok Damian?"

"Wait, you're one of Claude's friends he talked about. Oh my goodness I am so sorry I completely let my emotions get the best of me I-"

"Tch. Don't be an idiot I am obviously Wayne and me and Claude are acquaintances at most, '' in his condescending tone.

That earned him a punch to his face. Which brought them back to the beginning. However things were only getting worse.

"What did Wayne do this time?" asked Felix's icy cold voice.

As soon as she saw him Marinette froze

"Mari?" called Claude and she ran.

"What happened? Who made Damian bleed?" Asked Jon who looked angry and amused at the same time.

"She broke my nose. I told you she wasn't an angel like you claimed Claude." Said Damian.

"What did you all do? I have to find her before something happens to her'' replied Claude who started running after her.

"Wait. Claude!" Said a voice but it was useless because they were already left in the dust.

Marinette's POV:

Marinette didn't know what happened. She was walking with Claude and she saw him. A Wayne. Now it wasn't in Marinette's nature to be impulsive most of the time, but she was angry. And you don't mess with an angry Marinette. She held herself back and when she realized that she may be hurting a random kid. Especially after Claude said something, and this kid Wayne had the audacity to call her an idiot. He definitely deserved what he got, but then there were more people. Too many people. All she could do was run. Just like always.

Run. Run. RUN.

From Claude, her demons, her mind. She just had to escape it all and keep running. Ignore the looks, and the voices just run. She had no destination in mind. All she had was instinct, and that is what brought her here. Back to her and Jays spot before-

You killed him

He was stolen. She hid in the corner that even the best hiders couldn't find. She decided to rest. And that was all it took for them to find her.

[cappymightwrite]

What are your thoughts on Ned Stark ?

Hi!

I have conflicted feelings on Ned. Probably just below Stannis, he's the Westerosi man most in need of therapy, in my opinion. Actually, that's an interesting comparison — Ned and Stannis, which I know has been commented on before. They're alike in many ways, in terms of reserve etc., which makes the fact that Robert saw Ned as his true brother all the more painful to Stannis (though of course this is never explicitly stated). But anyway, back to Ned.

There's certain things I struggle with in regards to Ned, even though I understand the reasoning behind his actions, or rather, inaction. So, it makes thinking back on him in a wholly positive and fond light somewhat difficult, as I suppose it must be for Sansa in a way, as well as for Jon, once his parentage is revealed. I don't wholly dislike him though, I actually value him a lot, I just take issue with:

Him never apparently trusting Catelyn enough to be honest about Jon's parentage (+ the way he avoids telling Jon, to some extent)

No matter how loving they were... there is this unresolved (and now forever unresolved) barrier at the heart of their relationship, an unequal exchange of trust, which was within Ned's power to lift, to make fully mutual. But he didn't. Now, he had his reasons, self-sacrificing and seemingly honourable as they may appear, and certainly the narrative required this secret to be kept. But even so, in terms of how I regard his character? It rubs me the wrong way because he never gave her the opportunity to sympathise and fully understand him, he cut himself off from that. And yeah, maybe it might not have improved Jon's situation all that much, but he never gave Cat the opportunity to think of him differently, in a way that wasn't dictated by the social mores of their world:

It had taken her a fortnight to marshal her courage, but finally, in bed one night, Catelyn had asked her husband the truth of it, asked him to his face.

That was the only time in all their years that Ned had ever frightened her. "Never ask me about Jon," he said, cold as ice. "He is my blood, and that is all you need to know. And now I will learn where you heard that name, my lady." She had pledged to obey; she told him; and from that day on, the whispering had stopped, and Ashara Dayne's name was never heard in Winterfell again.

Whoever Jon's mother had been, Ned must have loved her fiercely, for nothing Catelyn said would persuade him to send the boy away. It was the one thing she could never forgive him. She had come to love her husband with all her heart, but she had never found it in her to love Jon. She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned's sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him. Somehow that made it worse. – AGOT, Catelyn II

"It was the one thing she could never forgive him" — yeah, me too honey! Ok, sure, we don't know for sure if Cat might have "overlooked" Jon's uneasy place in their household "for Ned's sake", if she knew he was actually her nephew — the world would still believe him to be Ned's, so to outward appearances the awkwardness is still there. And yeah, we don't know if she could have "found it in her to love Jon", but the truth certainly would have made it far more likely! But Ned decided that it had to be this way, that only he could participate in carrying this secret. So, I hurt for Cat AND Jon really.

I get why he doesn't tell Jon the truth. I understand his warped logic, how the trauma of his past informs this sort of self-punishing mentality of I must keep this honourable promise made of love till the day I die even though to the outside world it will appear as a stain upon that very honour... and to punish myself further for failing Lyanna I will never unburden myself to anyone, this is my cross to bear alone. I understand that, it's very manpain-y. But the problem is... it doesn't just punish Ned, it punishes Cat and Jon, and his other children too! Because they are by no means blind to this elephant in the room of their parent's marriage, and it's hard to rationalise:

He looked at her uncomfortably. "My aunt Allyria says Lady Ashara and your father fell in love at Harrenhal—"

"That's not so. He loved my lady mother." – ASOS, Arya VIII

Your father loved your mother, but he also had a child with another woman, whose identity he would never talk about. Your father loved your mother, but his dedication to this secret ultimately trumped being fully honest and open with her. It's hard not to feel that Ned's present came second to making up for the "sins" of his past. This is why he desperately needed therapy, lol, because (to take a line from my Byronic Hero meta) Ned's "traumatic past informs his present life," and to the detriment of that present life and those present relationships as well. But hey, that's the tragedy.

Also, I think his whole I'll tell you the truth when I next see you to Jon is really sketchy, because when exactly might that be, Ned? An avoidance tactic if I ever saw one. But really, I don't think he'd be emotionally equipped to have that conversation anyway... he might have said he'd tell him someday, but deep down, I'm sure he hoped he may never have to. And then he conveniently dies, taking the secret with him (or so we think)!

Allowing the death of Lady

Bran's wolf had saved the boy's life, he thought dully. What was it that Jon had said when they found the pups in the snow? Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord. And he had killed Sansa's, and for what? Was it guilt he was feeling? Or fear? If the gods had sent these wolves, what folly had he done? – AGOT, Eddard IV

"And for what?" Yes, quite. I don't really have much to say on this... I think this passage speaks for itself. There's probably some other things I could talk about, but those are my main two gripes.

That being said... what I value about Ned are his words of wisdom

The thing about Ned, for me, is that despite the unmaliciously meant pain he inflicts on his loved ones (which I do understand the reasoning behind, the trauma that informs it etc)... he's still ultimately a figure of hope to me, a notably flawed, but no less significant, ideal within the narrative too. And I think you need that — we need the memory of Ned as readers, and so do the Starklings. So, I love him more for what he represents, rather than his parenting and lacklustre husbanding skills. I value the fundamental truths he emphasises through his words, and the legacy of those words, embodied within his children.

For example:

"Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa… Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you… and I need both of you, gods help me." – AGOT, Arya II

Honestly, people can "squabble" about which Stark sibling is more important, more this, more that, till the cows come home. But that's what it is... "squabbles", and it misses the mark completely about why the Starks are the heart of the series. They are the Starks, plural. They may be different from one another, but they are "pack", and come winter, (TWOW, to be exact), once reunited they will "protect one another, keep each other warm, share [their] strengths", because those are the values Ned taught them.

These are the things to remember, despite all the hellishness. This is why Ned's death wasn't in vain, it wasn't an edgy twist, or the first whiff of grimdark... because his legacy didn't end with him, it lives on, it is felt throughout the series, right up until the most recent book:

"Be that as it may. My father sat where I sit now when Lord Eddard came to Sisterton. Our maester urged us to send Stark's head to Aerys, to prove our loyalty. It would have meant a rich reward. The Mad King was open-handed with them as pleased him. By then we knew that Jon Arryn had taken Gulltown, though. Robert was the first man to gain the wall, and slew Marq Grafton with his own hand. 'This Baratheon is fearless,' I said. 'He fights the way a king should fight.' Our maester chuckled at me and told us that Prince Rhaegar was certain to defeat this rebel. That was when Stark said, 'In this world only winter is certain. We may lose our heads, it's true… but what if we prevail?' My father sent him on his way with his head still on his shoulders. 'If you lose,' he told Lord Eddard, 'you were never here.'" – ADWD, Davos I

I love this line so much, and I love that it comes from Ned, that just as we are gearing up to head into the darkest parts of the series (because Winds is apparently going to be very dark)... we have this light, this hope, this "what if we prevail?" And it's connected to this repeated refrain about the certainty of winter — "in this world only winter is certain" vs. "winter is coming" — which is closely tied to Ned as a character. So, yes, "winter is coming", but don't be decieved into thinking that that spells disaster, that no warmth can be found, for there is always darkness before the dawn, just as there is always a winter before the spring... and in the winter the wolves shall "keep each other warm", they will "prevail."

In conclusion

Whatever his flaws and mistakes, and there are several, at the end of the day... I will love Ned for giving us hope, for reminding the readers, and characters, of what is really important — to take strength from your loved ones, to give them strength in return, and to not give into despair, no matter how harshly the snows might fall and white winds blow. Yes, it's not certain whether they'll live, but likewise, it's not certain whether they'll die either... and that's where you find the hope, the light against the grim dark.

So, for me, he's a character who makes my heart sink, but then he makes it swell again. That's the duality, and it's a choice which you put most stock in... I'll choose the hope he inspires every time ;)

[gentlemancrow]

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

OK so I saw @hey-there-hunter ‘s JMart Wedding Challenge and I pretty much fan ficced immediately??  Like it was an instantaneous plot bunny that stabbed me in the brain and would not let me free until I made it exist.  SO HERE YOU GO!  Read it here or head on over to AO3 below!  And enjoy some unapologetically aggressive fluff with weddings!  Also subtitled someday Crow will stop abusing excessive astral imagery and symbolism for extended metaphors, but today is not that day.

Read on AO3 instead!

Written in the Stars Will Have to Do

Jonathan Sims always thought of himself as a man with a deep appreciation for the great literature of the world.  A passionate turn of phrase, crystalline motes of clear imagery like snowflakes reflecting light in his mental scape, a devastating contemplation on the nature of good and evil in the hearts of all mankind, everything that could express the beauty and tragedy of the world in ways he never could.  Prose was a bright paintbrush on a ragged canvas of the universe he had known from an early age was swathed in shadow and pain and evil, and those words on those pages, for at least a moment, were another world he could hold in his hands, could cradle and protect, could mourn.  He liked the power of them as well, of the tinkling brightness of alliteration, the oaky sophistication of a well-aged metaphor, the evocativeness of the idiosyncrasy in a simple simile, laying bare truths in ways he never could have articulated for himself.

There was one thing he could not abide by in language, however, one cardinal sin liable to besmirch any piece of lush and sparkling verse or prose and taint it forever.  And that was idioms.

Jon loathed idioms and their dismally quirky cliches dressed in familiarity’s tacky clothing almost as much as he hated spiders.  Perhaps it was something about their reliance on common knowledge and repetition.  He couldn’t bear reading the same book twice, or even a book that felt too familiar, it only made sense that hearing a hackneyed phrase repeated in that awful singsong sardonic tone of someone who knows full well they’re saying something asinine that has been repeated ad nauseum for millennia would scrape at the back of his skull and down his spine.  They were too whimsical and blasé, crutch words for when one’s limited lexicon came up empty, or worse, for ill comedic effect.  They reinforced that staunchly English notion of skirting about the true depth and breadth of emotion for clipped niceties and unfeeling banalities.  Idioms to him were mere verbal window boxes, colorful and meaningless, dressings for untold disasters behind the shining windows they peacocked before.  

He hated them all with vaguely equal rancor, but there was one he could definitely single out as the one he hated the most, and that was the one about hanging the moon.  Such and such thinks you hung the moon, to me you hung the moon, and so on.  This particular rhetorical felony attracted his wrath only marginally because any moon symbolism never failed to feel outlandish and infantile, a mawkish image of love and care rampant in nursery rhymes and cheap commercialized slogans for t-shirts and wall art.  That was the least of it.  He hated the idea of hanging the moon mostly because once, another lifetime ago now it seemed, Tim Stoker had lobbed it in his face in a fit of smoldering rage and he had been completely, complacently, ignorant of its magnitude.  

Funny thing was, he couldn’t even remember what the actual fight had been about any longer.  Though he could remember exactly where he was standing, cornered next to the file cabinet for the year 1985, January through February, and the label had been peeling up on the upper left-hand corner.  He remembered he’d discovered a hole in the elbow of his jumper that morning and he had been obsessing over it all day, fussing with the dangling green thread and tugging at the knit as if it might magically close the wound.  He’d put his finger clean through it with his arms crossed haughtily over his chest without even realizing he’d been fiddling with it when something flippant about Martin came out of his mouth.  It hadn’t even been cruel, he couldn’t even remember how Martin had come up in the argument in the first place, he could only remember Tim’s mouth moving like he wanted to say something else, then him forcibly stopping himself before he snarled.

“Yeah well, god knows why, but he thinks you hung the moon, so you might try treating him at the very least like a human being once in a while.”

It was such a small thing.  Small words for a small feeling cloaked in a chintzy veneer of idiomatic dismissal.  A trembling little bird cupped in his scarred and battered hands and smothered.  Or so he thought.  Sometimes trembling little birds turn out to be phoenixes, and those who looked to someone else to hang the comfort of a wise, silvery moon in the sky already have the hammer and the picture wire at the ready.

As far as Jon was concerned, the moon only rose on their Somewhere Else because Martin deigned to pull the strings every night, not him.

It was Martin who brought him tea every morning, set it down on the breakfast table with that little flip of the tag and the deft, one-fingered turn of the handle toward him.  It was Martin who scolded him because whites are a separate load, Jon, were you raised in a barn?  Martin who talked him through every episode of the Doctor Who reruns that were the only thing their ancient aerial could pick up.  Martin who planted flowers in the garden and brought muffins from the sweet old lady at the grocers because they traded baking recipes.  Martin who still looked at him with diaphanous pools of ethereal moonlight in his eyes and his smile like he alone hung it in the sky over his head to wash him in its radiance.

Even after everything.

Even after it had been Martin who had to hold the knife buried in his chest as he lay gasping wetly for breath in an alleyway in Another Chelsea to keep the hemorrhaging at bay.  Martin who had cupped his face in his bloody hands with tears streaming down his and forced him to focus, furious love blazing in his sea mist eyes as they locked with his, screaming at him and him only, heedless of anything else.

“Look at me.  LOOK at me, Jon!  Stay with me!  Stay with me, DAMN YOU!”

Stay with me had not been a plea, it had been a command.  He had never once said please because it was never an option.  Shivering, breathing blood through his teeth, the streetlights a fading, star studded halo in Martin’s strawberry blond curls be damned, he was right.  Against every tangled thread of fate twisted deep into his flesh, or perhaps because they had been the only thing that held his torn innards together, he made it to the part where he awoke a few fractured times to nothingness, and then to fingers he knew every inch of inextricably bound up in his and a fierce whisper in his ear.

“I’m here, Jon.  I’m still here.  I’ve got you.  I’m going to fix this.  I’m going to get us out of here.  We’re going to be okay.”

It had been Martin who orchestrated their clandestine escape from the hospital the moment they both agreed he was well enough to survive under his rudimentary medical care and before the authorities got too invested in an urban ghost story of two men who didn’t exist.  Not to mention one of which should, by all medical and logical law, be dead.  It had been Martin who had stolen the necessary antibiotics, drugs, and wound care supplies, Martin who had picked enough pockets to buy passage on a midnight train to the only place they could think to go, and expressly told Jon not to ask where he learned how, even though he knew full well he would later.  Martin who had fought for everything and kept him hidden and safe while he lay in a dingy hotel room somewhere in Scotland, drifting in and out of consciousness between kisses, cold compresses, spoonfuls of whatever he could get him to swallow and keep down, and desperate ‘I love you’s.

Martin had been the one who hung the moon even on the nights Jon couldn’t see it, just so he knew it was there, that the light might finally guide him home.  Not him.  He could have never done something so selfless and simple and beautiful.  No not him.  Not The Archivist.  How could he have ever known that?  Stupid, myopic, pedantic, all-seeing and blind.  A blustering, sanctimonious Tiresias in a sweater vest and half-moon glasses.  And how important was the moon, anyway that he was expected to hang it too?  Would not night still come and the stars still shine?  The stupid, vapid saying should have been about the sun anyway.  Something that nourished and guided and warmed.  Not the moon.  Not the thing of night and hungry wolves and quiet loneliness.  Not a thing of the darkness they fought and still not won, not exactly, not in a way that mattered.  How could he have known the weight of such a thoughtless, frivolous, meaningless phrase and how far and how long Martin had borne it for him to protect he who hung his moon?  

He could see the weight of it so clearly now.  He could see it especially on the darkest days, which came, in grotesque mockery, the moment they found something like their safehouse and rest at last.  Jon had conned his way into a job at the village library with an ancient head librarian who didn’t care much for too many questions, or background or credit checks, and was more than happy to pay in cash.  With Martin’s help of course.  Martin himself had taken up stocking at the village grocers, and their life had teetered onto something so close to quaint and normal it suddenly laid bare the gravity of the depths of darkness they had escaped.

No longer did they have to run, no longer did they have to fight, they could finally lay down the chase and curl in upon each other to lick their wounds in quiet.  But without the driving, primal instinct to live, to survive, that ushered in the days where all the hurt came back to roost and brood and fester.  The days where he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, or the days Martin couldn’t bear the sound of his voice, or the days they shouted themselves hoarse, stormed apart for hours then came back, silent and broken, red-eyed and exhausted to hold each other and weep into the spaces between neck and shoulder where it still smelled like love and home.

He could see so painfully clearly the toll following him to the ends of the cosmos and back had etched its marks into his goodness, his body and soul, see how often he would walk down the road from their cabin, just a little ways, to stand on the heather spotted hills and gaze out into the frigid infinity of the gray sea.  Cold terror would grip him then, incite a desperate want to run after him, to throw his arms around him and bring him home, but also the fear it would only be to have him turn to mist and slip through his fingers forever.  He always had a cup of steaming tea waiting for him when he came back, just in case.

But again, and always.  It was Martin who would pick up Jon’s hands, kiss every slender, scarred finger through his tears and be the first one to utter ‘I’m sorry.’  Martin who told him with just a single scathing flash of stern blue eyes and not a single word uttered that he was certainly coming to bed and not banishing himself to the couch like an idiot.  Martin who wrapped him in his arms and warmth and boundless love and reminded him, “One way or another.  Together.  That was the deal, right?  You don’t get to back out now.  No returns, refunds, or exchanges, I’m afraid.”

And even through the deepest sobs he would find the laugh Jon didn’t think was in him.  Martin sifted through the mire and the muck and held fast to the tiny, shining things so easy to lose in the darkness.  Things Jon was certain were lost forever, only to be reignited and hung in the brightening sky of their story.  Even if they weren’t quite the moon yet.

It had also been Martin who, on a perfectly ordinary day, on a simple walk through the local farmers market, stopped to peruse one of the usual unremarkable stalls filled with crystals and oils and trinkets.  Jon had wandered off to procure the parsnips and the strawberries, unrelated recipes Martin swore, he had been tasked with finding.  When he returned he found him, a radiant monument tall among the faceless locals, rusty curls caressing his face in the salty breeze, carved of marble and rose quartz and gazing down at a pair of hematite rings on a velvet display box.  His eyes were distant, but not in the enthralled, disembodied way they were when he looked at the sea, or the broken way when they weren’t speaking, but in the contemplative, regarding of puzzle pieces way when he would look into the fire during their talks and turn his words in his mind over and over again like a rock tumbler until they were polished just right.

“Getting into crystals now, are we?” Jon had joked, “Surely I’m not so dull to be around that that’s becoming an attractive hobby.”

Martin snorted and shook his head.

“Supposed to mean healing, or grounding, or something.  Aligning your meridians, I think the lady said?  Whatever that means,” he elaborated, reaching out to touch.

They clinked weightily together, thick and glossy and the dark astral gray of a moonless night.  Martin turned over the card that went with them and read.

“’A grounding stone that belongs to the planet Mars.  It strengthens our connections to the earth and aids the warrior on their journey.  It is a stone of invincibility, but also fragility.  It balances yin and yang energies with its magnetic properties for the perfect reflection upon one’s own soul, astral, physical, and spiritual.’”

“Hematite, is it?” Jon asked, “Also more commonly called bloodstone.  You know if you scratch it, it leaves a red mark.  Like it’s bleeding.  Watch.”

He picked up one of the rings and firmly ran it down the corner of the card Martin had been reading from.  Sure enough, the black stone had left a faint, but starkly crimson mark on the yellowed paper.

“It BLEEDS?” Martin exclaimed in horror.

“It’s just a kind of iron oxide, so, rust, basically,” Jon explained with a chuckle, “Kind of weirdly romantic if you think about it?  This intimidating shiny black stone like armor, made of iron to boot, but with a bleeding heart at its core.”

“I just thought it was pretty, I didn’t know it bleeds,” Martin had laughed in that incredulous way he always did when Jon was telling him something he didn’t actually want to know, but appreciated anyway.

“I find that the strongest, prettiest things often do,” Jon had said in reply.  He remembered saying that particularly clearly, waxing poetic, feeling a swell of affection for the hugely beautiful man he leaned against and was adorably aghast at bleeding rocks.

“Yeah, I reckon they do,” Martin murmured back.

And then his cheeks had flushed bright red under his freckles and the stone steps of his shoulders crumbled a bit under the crushing ancientness and vastness of what he had originally been pondering.

“So, I mean, before you spoiled it with the blood thing.  I was thinking… Well, I was just having a browse and I saw these and I thought they were quite fetching, and then the lady told me they meant grounding and healing and a journey, like on the card.  A-And there were two of them, all by themselves, and everything else was so colorful and flashy these were just so… Um.  Maybe the blood and rusty iron thing makes it more poetic now, actually?  I don’t know.  Sorry I-  This sounded so much better in my head.”

It wasn’t his fault, Jon remembered thinking.  Martin couldn’t find the words because there weren’t any.  Not in this universe or any other.  Not for what they’d gone through, and especially not for what they meant to each other.

“I guess I was just thinking.  If… I bought one.  And wore it.  Sort of like.  Um.  You know.  Would… Would you-?” he had asked, his voice trembling.

Jon had never said yes, yes of course he would, faster or with more conviction in his life.  And there was that look again, rising from the ashes, that flooding of golden, unbound love and light, of eyes turned sky blue, of looking at the man who hung his moon in the sky come back to him.  He could still hang Martin’s moon all over again after so many nights of black clouds and darkness, even if it was only paper.  They’d paid for the rings in rumpled bills, exchanged them right then and there, and kissed each other as the crowd of oblivious people in a world they did not belong in flowed like a river around them.  Jon forgot the bag with the parsnips and strawberries.

But it didn’t matter.  It didn’t even matter that Martin’s fit nicely on his ring finger, but Jon had to wear his on his thumb, and even then sometimes on a chain around his neck for fear of losing it.  It didn’t matter that it was the closest thing they were ever going to get to a proposal and a wedding, consigned now forever to the shadows in a borrowed reality with only each other.  Because it was theirs, and they could begin to figure out how their broken pieces fit back together again.

But like most things that don’t matter, it didn’t until it did.

It began as simple things.  Seeing a wedding on some program they weren’t actually paying much attention to and Martin making a flippant, innocuous comment as he combed his fingers lovingly through Jon’s long and silvered chestnut hair in his lap about how he would have loved to have a cake that had a different flavor on every tier at their wedding.  Just so everyone could have something they liked.  And Jon woke up from his half catlike stupor and looked up at him with such aching regret as those words settled into the pit of his heart alongside ‘he thinks you hung the moon.’  

And soon they began to gather a collection of completely innocent remarks that ran the gamut from ‘would they have worn black or white?  Or one of each?  I don’t know… does it really matter?  And were these engagement rings or wedding rings?  I don’t know.  Neither?  both?  And do we say husband instead of boyfriend now?  Fiancé?  Whatever you want, Martin…’ To the heavier, cancerous weights that sank to the bottom of his gut, even below hanging the moon, like ‘I know Tim would have thrown the most amazing bachelor party for both of us, and his mum had always talked about him getting married someday like it was a farfetched pipe dream, but she would be happy for them, he thinks.’

He could never answer those questions.  There was too much at stake, too much finality and familiarity in them, a strange weightlessness in a world that weighed far too much.  The sun and moon continued their eternal dance of time, ignorant, unbothered, but Jon kept collecting those silent debts of normal life, secreting them away in a hidden singularity in his heart that only grew heavier and metastasized farther the more times Martin walked out at night, not him, beaming starlight from his eyes and his fingertips, to hang the moon again.  So soft, so full of wooly cows and pink heather and the smell of tea and sea salt and Martin’s shampoo on the pillow next to him did it become, that it was almost inevitable that one morning Jon awoke absolutely convinced none of it could be real.  

The moment he decided that, everything made so much more sense.  He could breathe again.  There was a reason he could never sit still, never just feel at ease or talk about the future like it was a real thing that could still happen.  He knew why the silence made his brain itch and why he still glanced around corners and glowered at anyone who dared let their gaze linger on his Martin too long.  Why Martin’s ring fit and his didn’t.  There was too much debt to the universe to be paid, too many broken promises, too many corpses in his wake, he had done nothing to deserve this idyllic life of love and peace and smallness and Martin.  It had to be Her doing, It’s doing, some carefully woven torture chamber that would lure them to the apex of their joy, the center of the web, where they would just be devoured over and over to empty husks and set up like chess pieces to fill with love and light just to knock down again.  He wasn’t free after all.

Jon had been halfway into his coat and halfway out the door to do, he didn’t know, something, anything, to go to the library to use their computer and research something he didn’t know he was looking for when Martin had seized his hand and whirled him around.

“Jon.  STOP.  It’s over.”

And he’d stopped.  He’d looked into those baleful blue eyes, fallen into their depths, landed on the precipice of madness, and broken.  It wasn’t over.  Not for him.  He finally understood.  It was still there.  The Eye.  It always had been.  Though not really, he understood slowly as he wept on his knees in their doorway into Martin’s chest, it had indeed closed forever on him, but it lingered as distant static, like a phantom limb, a metaphysical itch that could never be scratched.  Martin had cradled him close and listened, listened so patiently as he ripped the jagged black fear from the deepest, ugliest part of his heart, hauled it up bloody and messy from his throat and finally laid it bare for both of them to see.  And when it was done and he couldn’t cry anymore Martin had locked eyes with him in a way that made him forget any others could have ever existed outside of crystalline blue and filled with moonlight.

“Listen to me.  I know you think you have some cosmic burden to bear.  That you’re still wearing some… some fucked up crown and sitting on a throne of skulls and death and eyeballs or whatever image you want to put there, and that you have to sit and hurt and watch over everything so it doesn’t happen again, but...  Sorry, Jon, but that’s bullshit.  It’s just a scar now.  That’s all.  Just like the rest of them.  Ugly and beautiful and proof that you —Jonathan Sims— are still alive.  And you are not The Archivist anymore.  You’re just mine.  My Jon.”

He’d held his Jon’s stunned face in his hands and peppered kisses over the pock marks in his skin, over the slash on his throat, the burnt fingers that still couldn’t bend quite right, even the one on his chest, the one almost always hidden by fabric but the one he didn’t need to see to find.  His heart and fingers would always remember exactly where it was.  And he’d kept his lips there a moment, then turned his ear to his chest and wrapped his arms around his waist to listen to his heartbeat like a trembling little bird.

“If I can hear it and feel it.  So can you,” he whispered.

Unsteady fingers curled desperately into Martin’s silky locks, hematite loop cool against his scalp, “Thank you…”

Martin stayed for the kiss on top of his head he knew was coming and smiled.

“Okay, so it’s simple to fix if you think about it,” he murmured into Jon’s chest, “We just need that thing, you know?  The thing that makes you feel like you’re still doing the thing, but you’re not.  What was the word for it again?  A placeholder?  Like when you quit smoking and you hold a pencil or a straw or something that’s not actually a cigarette so you can wean yourself off the ritual?”

Jon blinked owlishly down at him as he dried his eyes.

“A… placebo?  Are you talking about a placebo?”

“Yeah!  That’s it!  We just need to find you a placebo for Knowing things!  That’s all.  Like… reality shows, or-or zoo cams or something!  We’ll figure it out together.  Alright, love?  I promise you.  It’ll be okay.”

Jon was skeptical, so very skeptical, but if Martin was determined to find a balm to soothe his jagged, ontological scars he would happily play the part of lab rat for him.  They’d tried a myriad things to replicate the feeling of Knowing and looking something deep within him still craved.  The zoo and animal livestreams were a bust, cute and entertaining as they were, but animals weren’t ever the purview of The Eye and the camera itself was barely a scrap.  Reality shows came closer, the more salacious the better, but even that temporary fix wore off when Jon’s disgust with the overall content and participants outweighed any benefit.  Martin was just happy to have finally converted him to Bake Off, at least.  They tried people watching in the square in the village, but it made Jon far too self-conscious and guilty.  He used the binoculars exactly once, and that was to look at the cows in the fields, and the choose-your-own-adventure books Martin had been certain would strike a sagacious chord wound up in the donation bin at the library.  But that was when he was struck with a bolt of genius.

Unbeknownst to Jon, which brought him no small measure of glee, Martin ordered, received, and then set up with a literal bow in their back garden the finest telescope he could afford on his meager savings.  He’d researched for days, asked on every amateur astronomer forum he could find, and had it delivered to the grocers so he could make it a proper surprise.  He’d even gone so far as to attack and blindfold a hapless Jon the moment he made it home from work on the day it was ready, and stood behind him giddily bouncing as he tore the tea towel away from his eyes.

“A… Telescope?” he’d blurted dumbly.

“Yes!  It’s perfect, right?  I asked around to find the one that had all the best features, and this one has the best overall magnification and the most lenses, but it doesn’t have the little satellite positioning thing?  I figured you wouldn’t want that anyway, you always like figuring things out and finding things on your own better.”

Martin had been positively radiant.  Jon had just stared at the gawping black tube and chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed what to say.

“I mean… thank you, Martin, really.  It was a sweet thought, but if the binoculars didn’t-“

“Screw the binoculars!  This is different!” Martin happily insisted, “You can look at so much more!  Stars and planets and galaxies and what have you, and it can maybe be sort of like you’re looking for other worlds?  Wormholes or whatever?  Or signs of The Fears and where they’ve gone?  Or even if the stars are the same here as they were back before?  Space literally has so many things to LOOK at we can’t even count them!  This has got to be it!”

Jon tried to smile and laugh and agree to try it out, at the very least, if only because Martin was beaming so sweetly with pride and hope.  Though that first night he didn’t, ushering them back in with promises of tomorrow, Martin, I promise tomorrow.  Tomorrow had been a lie.  As had been the next night.  In fact, it took Jon a full week to even remember they even had a telescope, and that was only after getting the smuggest, Cheshire grin out of Martin after casually mentioning there would be a visible, if partial, lunar eclipse that night.  He’d relented, only because he’d entrapped himself, and they’d both bundled up, looked in the manual for the best size lens to view the moon with, poured a few glasses of wine, and turned their eyes to the stars.

Martin had gone first, gripping the eyepiece and adjusting the focus all the while gasping in awe.  It was so beautiful he’d burst into poetry with a crooked grin.

“Art thou pale for weariness?  Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, wandering companionless among the stars that have a different birth, and ever changing, like a joyless eye that finds no object worth its constancy?  Sounds a little familiar, eh?” he joked, casting a wry look over his shoulder.

Jon rolled his eyes fondly.

“Gross.  Keats again?”

“Nope, Shelley this time, and even he thinks you ought to have a look at the moon.  I think you’ll find you have a lot in common.”

Jon had sighed obligingly and shuffled to the telescope, fully expecting to look at something bright and round with a bit of a shadow on it that was distinctly unremarkable, have another glass of wine, and then go back inside to snuggle by the fire.  What he saw in that tiny pinhole of light pierced straight through the hazel brown of his eye and plunged him into another world entirely.

The sands of the moon glowed the purest white in the refracted light of the distant sun with which it waltzed.  He could see in crisp, shadowy relief the innumerable scars she bore, the depth and breadth of Ptolemaeus, the boundless lonely flatness of the maria, named for the oceans they were once thought to be, an insult to the rock plains forged a millennia ago in birth by cataclysmic fire.  Every crater remained wrought in perfect, frozen detail with no erosion or foliage to slowly heal them over, and she beamed them proudly, ostentatiously in her heavenly light.  A hulking, ancient protectorate, hung by the hands of creation at the dawn of time for a fledgling planet, hundreds of thousands of miles away, and yet so crystal clear and unafraid as he perused her millions of years of cosmic sentinel through a lens.  It was dwarfing, humbling, viscerally awe inspiring in a way he dared not voice for fear of snuffing out the fragile glow of wonder and excitement welling in his chest he had been so certain was gone forever.

Astronomy had never been something that had particularly interested Jon, back when his entire reality from the moment his childish hands had touched a single book was spent peering into shadows and watching his own back.  There was no point in wondering what lay among the stars when danger and death lurked so close behind with slavering jaws ever poised at his throat on terra firma, but now.  Now, he had been living in an alternate world, dimension, reality, somewhere, he couldn’t even say for sure.  He’d been hurled potentially through the very stars that twinkled coquettishly above, flashed through their nebulous veils and curtains under their indifferent gaseous gazes, but seen nothing.  Here was a vast expanse of complete chaotic indefiniteness inviting him in to see what few had ever seen, to guess and hypothesize and gesture wildly at secrets only the stars could keep.  To Know.

Jon had jerked back so suddenly from the telescope to survey the entirety of the astral dome above them that Martin had choked on his wine.

“Jon?  Are you quite alright?”

“Yes, I…” he’d murmured, only even half hearing that Martin had said anything at all, stars reflected in his wondering dark eyes, “I’m fine, I just… How… How much more can this see?  How deep does it go?”

Jon hadn’t seen the victorious smirk on Martin’s face as he set down his wine glass and picked up the instruction manual and lens guide.  They’d watched the rest of the eclipse, of course, marveling through the lens at the inky trickle of shadow over craggy white, but then they’d changed the lens to the strongest one, according to the guide, and spent the rest of the evening triangulating their position beneath their slice of the universe and plotting out the various stars, planets, and constellations above.  Jon had even dashed inside to grab a mostly blank notebook and had filled several pages with notes and observations and things to research later, all while Martin held back tears watching him come so alive over a project he didn’t even know he needed.  Eventually though, sleepiness and cold claimed him, and he kissed his beloved goodnight and left him, more than gladly, to ride out the intellectual flare up until it burnt both him and itself out.  

Martin had no clue what time it was when he finally returned, and it didn’t even matter.  All that mattered was at some point, a practically frozen Jon had climbed into bed, snuggled up close behind and wrapped his arms around him to kiss the back of his neck so softly like the wings of a butterfly and whisper.

“Thank you.”

Another victorious smirk and a loving murmur.

“Told you so.”

Where there had been nothing but an Eye shaped hole in him, scarred around the edges and aching in its vacuum, Jon had filled it with the names of nebulas and quasars, of the myth of Andromeda, and Orion, and Castor and Pollux, or Hercules, and why they had all been hung in the stars for eternity.  The stories were much the same as he remembered, but he’d found slight eccentricities, tiny irregularities in the sky which fascinated him even more so.  Night after night he would look at a different astral body, chart it down in his notebook, then come bounding in with starlight beaming from his eyes and his fingertips with some cry of eureka.

“Martin!  Did you know here Polaris is in the south and Sirius is in the north?”

“Martin!  Did you know the Andromeda Galaxy is actually a little closer to the Milky Way here?”

“Martin, you have to come see this!  Oh, no it’s not weird this time, it’s just I finally got Saturn in the telescope and you can actually see the rings!”

His nightly herald would always be different, but Martin would always rise from the comfort of the couch, put his slippers on, and let Jon talk as long as he needed to about his latest discovery, watching him smile again while he, too, watched the matching smile it never failed to ignite illuminate Martin’s face and they lit each other up in the fused brilliance of a binary star.

Martin no longer hung the moon for Jon, he’d finally just up and quite literally given it to him, and there was no mortal way to repay him for that.  Or so he’d thought.  It came to him, as most flashes of brilliance do, on a night he hadn’t even been thinking about it at all.  All he had been doing was sitting in a lawn chair with his telescope long after Martin had gone to bed, chewing his pencil idly, vaguely missing a cigarette and pondering notes on Vega and Lyra between watching it through his lens.  He’d been stuck for days on Vega and its potentiality for another solar system and what that could imply for their new Earth and their new sun, as well as Lyra and the tragic tale of Orpheus and his doomed love.  Even in their new reality he still turned back at the end of the story, still could not contain the roiling, effusive adoration to his own downfall.

Bitterness had risen like bile in the back of Jon’s throat as he replayed the myth again in his head, unsure why it was vexing him and rewinding in his brain so torturously.  “Stupid, stupid man, if he’d only just…” he’d thought again and again, each time giving the star-crossed musician a different decision, a different choice, urging him down another path somewhere, anywhere along his journey, but in the end, he’d always looped back around to the original.  It was the point of the story, after all.  Not so much the love itself or even the loss of it, but the power of it over one man and the creation born from his mourning and eventual destruction.  Patently Greek.  But the chorus would always begin again in Jon’s head.  If he’d kept his Eurydice, if his songs had been happy, if he hadn’t spent the rest of his life mourning so intensely he was eventually destroyed for it, would he have become the paragon of healing he was, the oracle, the lynchpin of the fate of the world he had eventually become?  Which of them was the stupider man?

Jon was only mortal now, he was no longer all-seeing oracle and dark savior, he had no authority to say, but it was a trifle easier to ponder the hubris of Orpheus instead of his own.  He couldn’t help but think, achingly, sometimes the heroes just deserved to pull their beloved from the pit of Tartarus, promise to love them for eternity, and then simply get married, ride off into the sunset, and live happily ever after.  A story wasn’t a story if it didn’t write itself upon the very bones and sinews of its heroes, that was the law of the universe, but when the story was done and the cracks and fissures in their tissues had faded to myth and legend, what became of the heroes who did not die a tragic or heroic death and were not hung in the stars?  What happened to heroes left behind?  Twisting his bloodstone ring on his thumb idly as it caught the shivering fire of those stars in its dark mirrored surface, the musical arrow of the muses pierced his heart, wide-eyed in wonder.  He’d asked the universe, but he already knew the answer.  He’d always known.  He knew, and he knew it with such clarion joy as he had never known anything before.

He could no longer be the man who hung Martin’s moon, he hadn’t been for a long time.  That much was clear to him, but he could certainly do something else.  Perhaps they had grown past the need for moon hangings in the first place.  He knew how their story ended.

It took months of saving, secreting, preparation, and then finally just simply waiting for the perfect, clear night.  The moment it came, the moment he knew it was the night, Jon struck without hesitation.  Poor Martin wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the couch, into Jon, when he returned from a late shift at the grocers, but found himself instead stuffed right back into his coat with a picnic basket in hand and hauled out into the frigid night in a flurry of Jon with little time to protest.  He bounded up the hill behind their little cottage beneath a perfect blanket of stars flaming coldly overhead, trailing Martin’s hand in his behind with his breath coming in silvery puffs of clouds, and paying no heed to the whining.

“Jon, whatever it is, does it have to be NOW?” Martin panted, “I am absolutely knackered and it’s beyond freezing and wouldn’t it be nicer just to curl up with a cuppa and fall asleep in front of Star Wars or something?  Doesn’t that have enough stars and space in it?”

Dauntless, Jon only tugged harder.

“There’s tea in the basket, and I’ve seen Star Wars.  And yes, it has to be tonight, it’s really important, I promise.”

“Look.  I love you.  So much.  You know this, and please know it is with the utmost love and deepest affection in my heart that I point out that you say that every time, and you’ve still shown me Pluto like, a hundred separate times.  While I quite like it, and I still feel sorry for it being bumped out of the solar system and all, it’s just a dot?  How many times can you look at a dot?” Martin sighed.

His words finally threw a caltrop into Jon’s warpath, and he paused, turning over his shoulder woundedly.

“What?  No, it’s not Pluto, I swear just- Please, Martin?  I’ll never ask again if you don’t want to, but just for tonight, please?” he pleaded.

Martin winced, and immediately folded under the onslaught of doleful honeyed brown eyes under a nimbus of stars.

“Oh, lord there you go with the puppy dog eyes.  Okay, okay fine, but there better be a nip of whiskey in this,” he chided lovingly with a gesture at the thermos in the basket.

The smile flared back to life brightly on Jon’s face as he turned back up the craggy little footpath to the top of the hill.

“Of course, hot toddy with tea.”

“Ooh, lovely, you do know me.”

The rest of the way was trivially short to the small, flat hilltop surrounded by heather where Jon had already set up a blanket and the telescope over a pristine vista of the dark line where the stars sank into the sea.  He ushered Martin to sit down first, then perched on his hip beside him and poured him a generous helping of tea and whiskey from the thermos before pouring his own.

“Thanks, much.  Right then, what exactly are we up here to look at that we couldn’t see from our garden?” Martin asked, accepting his cup of potent hot toddy and sipping it gratefully around the lemony steam that billowed up.

Taken aback by the sudden logic lobbed into the center of his romantic posturing, Jon looked momentarily stunned, as if someone had slapped him upside the head.

“Oh!  Oh, um, well-!  Ahah, that is to say- Uh.  There is a reason for all this.  It’s not that we couldn’t see it from our garden, we very much could have.  B-But it’s so beautiful up here, and you can kind of hear the sea?  And it’s nice and peaceful, and the heather is still blooming a bit and um…” he trailed off, cheeks burning.

“Okay…?” Martin probed, frowning a little.

“Er, actually...  It’s less about the stars than it is- W-Well it is about the stars.  Let’s get that clear.  But to be completely honest I mostly just… I-I well.  There’s something I need to tell you?”

Jon was ill-prepared for the look of abject horror on Martin’s face as he went paler than the moon overhead.

“Shit, what is it?  Did you find something?  You saw something?  There’s been a sign of The Fears?  Oh god it’s not HER is it?” he asked frantically, nearly slopping hot toddy all over his lap.

“What?  No!  No, none of that!” Jon spluttered, aghast.

Martin regained a modicum of color in his face and breathed in measuredly.

“Okay, so then what is it?  Oh god, you’re not… Jon you’re not ill, or something, are you?  Please, you can just tell me if-“

“No, I am not ill either, damn it, Martin!  If you would just listen to me!  I-!” Jon moaned exasperatedly, “I just wanted to do something… nice.  Something nice for you.  And nicer than I normally would because I am apparently much worse at crafting romantic moments than I thought and-“

“Wait…” Martin cut in, eyes gleaming with realization, “Jonathan Sims… Are you grand gesturing?”

“Well I am certainly trying but you are making it exceedingly difficult!” he retorted, red in the face and breathless.

“Oh my god, you are!  I’m so sorry!” Martin laughed brightly, “Oh god Jon you poor thing I’m so sorry, I’m awful, I’m the absolute worst!  No please!  Don’t let me spoil it.  Please go on.”

Grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead, Jon tried to summon the words again, only for Martin’s strong, warm hands to take it from him and tip his chin up to gaze into his eyes.

“Hey.  Hey, Jon.  Look at me,” he breathed, looking into his eyes idolatrously, “I’m sorry.  I love you.  You can tell me.”

Taking the steadiness from those clear blue depths he needed, Jon focused on them, on the strawberry blond curls tossing in the icy breeze, of the kiss of chilled pink under his freckles, and that eternal, sunshine smile.

“Okay,” he finally answered, smiling softly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, and a long swig of whiskey laced tea for good measure, Jon drew himself up and fished deep in his soul for the words he had waited a millennium to say.

“Okay… So here it is.  Um… I’ve um, I’ve had a lot of time alone lately with my new hobby, as it were.  So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.  A lot of it is overly complicated and ridiculous and doesn’t deserve to live outside of my head but… a lot of it has been about you, about us.  And I know we don’t need to-to put a label on us or put us into a… a box or anything like that.  But every time I look at this ring on my finger, I can’t help but remember we never actually talked about what they meant,” he began, holding out his left hand and fidgeting with the loose band around his thumb.

“Oh Jon, don’t worry about that.  It was just me being a big sappy, sentimental dork.  And if I recall correctly, we’d had a pretty awful row a night or two before, and I just wanted to feel close to you again, I guess?  We both know what they mean to us.  It doesn’t matter,” Martin assured him sweetly.

“Except that it does!” Jon insisted passionately, “That’s the point!  You are a big sappy, sentimental dork, Martin.  I bet you were the kid that had a dream wedding all planned in a notebook with pictures cut out of magazines and everything.  I adore that about you, but big sappy sentimental dorks should have big sappy, sentimental moments like huge, expensive seaside weddings with three-flavor cakes and all your friends and family and rose petals and dove releases and whatever else your heart could dream up.”

Martin snickered and shook his head, charmed at least by the mental image of kissing Jon on a seaside cliff at sunset while doves flew in glorious formation around them and everyone they had ever known and loved cheered.

“Pfft, I don’t need a grand wedding and all that, I just need-”

“Me.  I know,” Jon finished for him with a smirk, “I knew you’d say that.  Maybe not.  But you deserve one.  And I know I don’t use that word lightly, but it’s necessary in this case.  You deserve it.  All of it.  Me on one knee with a ring in a box, you deserve us picking out flowers and tuxedos and arguing over the font on the invitations.  You deserve Tim’s awful bachelor party and laughing at me at the altar because I had to read my vows off a card and they’re still so stiff and awkward and they pale in comparison to the beautiful poem you wrote about me.  You deserve smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and crying as we exchange rings.  All of it.”

Martin weighed his words carefully on his tongue with a sip of his boozy tea to chase away ghosts of things that never even were.

“I mean, sure, not going to say I never wanted that.  And I did have that stupid wedding notebook, by the way.  But all that became a pipe dream the minute we wound up here, right?  No use being upset about something that can never be.”

“That may be so, but the crux of it is… you also contented yourself with the idea of it never coming true not because we’re here, but because you didn’t think I wanted it,” Jon answered, his unspoken truth hanging heavy in the chill night air between them, “Every time you tried to tell me you wanted to be with me forever, I brushed it off and painted it gray and tucked it away and carried on the way we always were like nothing happened and it didn’t matter.  Because it was alright, really, you were just so happy to have what we have, that I didn’t die in your arms that night, that we were still together after everything.  That I at least kept that promise after I’d broken so many.  You were so grateful just for what you were gifted after we thought we would end with nothing you didn’t dare think to ask the universe for more and I am so, so sorry it took me so long to see that, Martin.  I’m so sorry.”

His voice broke.  The breath caught in Martin’s chest as he reached out to touch his wrist comfortingly.

“Jon, I-“

“No, please.  Please let me finish I… I can’t give you any of those things.  I can’t give you our friends back, I can’t give you cake and doves and the sunset and crying through vows in front of the vicar.  I can’t even give you an elopement at the register office because we still don’t legally exist.  And I guess for a long time I resented myself for that.  For all of it.  For stealing that from you, for dragging you through literal hell only to give you a shadow of a life stuck here with me because I betrayed you.  But- no stop, don’t say anything yet I’m not done.  B-But now I finally realize.  You’re right, Martin.  You were always right.  It doesn’t matter.  Those things are all just… things.  I said to you once, a long time ago, and I’m still not even sure if you really heard me, that I didn’t want to just survive.  It was true then, and maybe it wasn’t true for a while, but it’s certainly true again.  We did not fight tooth and nail to just survive.  We fought to live, and live together.  So what I’m saying is… I know now I don’t have to give you tuxedos and white roses as long as I give you something… Something to prove to you that you are my everything, my entire world, something to show you that I love you more than I have loved anything in my entire life.  That I want forever with you.  S-So I…” he trailed off, sucking in his breath to give his gesture of undying love the ardor and grandeur it deserved, “I bought us a star.”

The proclamation rang out like the toll of a bell, its gravity sonorous and quaking.  Martin blinked.

“You… I’m sorry?” he squeaked.

Jon set his empty thermos cup aside, flailed his hands in the air and shook his head frantically

“I-I know, I know it sounds mental just hear me out!” he protested, “Technically I didn’t buy the star, if we want to get picky about it.  I mean obviously no one can own a star.  Just the rights to name it?  It’s a thing you can do online.  I was a bit gobsmacked it was real to be honest.  I just had this silly idea when I was out looking at the stars.  I was looking at Lyra and thinking about you and Orpheus, and I… W-Well I just typed it in, ‘can you name a star?’ and it came right up.  Right then and there.  It um… comes with… hold on.”

Remembrance placed a gentle bookmark down on Jon’s fluttering thoughts, and he rummaged in the picnic basket for a moment before pulling out a navy-blue manila folder covered in stars and full of the paperwork and certificates that had come with registering theirs.  He handed it to Martin, who took it in place of his own empty cup, numb, muscles quivering under his jaw, and opened it to the glittering gold typeface that proclaimed ‘Congratulations!’.

“It comes with paperwork, too!  See?  So, it’s official, at least?  The Jon-Martin star.  Not a marriage license I know, but at least our names are together on something legal?  Our real names?  I figured even if we manage the fake identity thing we’d have to get married as not us.  Not really.  So…  I-It could be like our marriage certificate?” Jon explained, chewing his lower lip.

Martin said nothing as his hand turned the pages of the documentation, his eyes distant in a way Jon had never seen before.  Not disembodied and enthralled, not broken, not even regarding puzzle pieces.

“Oh!  Um, also I-I got us a binary star.  I forgot to mention that bit,” he went on, filling the sudden void, “It’s, ah- What a binary star is- It’s technically two?  But they’re caught up in each other’s gravity and they orbit each other so tightly they look like one star together, one that just shines a little brighter.  They’re bound together forever by the most powerful cosmic force in the universe.  Just like us.”

Only silence answered, punctuated by one last crisp whisper of paper, and then the folder closing with Martin’s spread fingers atop it, bloodstone gleaming in the vivid pale light of the night.  Jon’s heart pitched frantically in his chest, and desperate, stranded tears pricked at his eyes.

“I uh… I would have rather gotten us a whole constellation.  Heh, you know?  But they don’t do that, obviously,” he tried softly, his fingers barely brushing Martin’s knuckles, “They record heroes in constellations, after all.  Great deeds, doomed romances, lovers who can be together no other way… That would have been a better way to honor us, I think.  Our story.  A-And who knows?  Maybe back on our world there are a few new stars to remember what we did, to mark the place we left it, so that everyone we left behind can look up and remember us.  They don’t know how the story really ended, and they probably never will, but we do.  We do, and I want to end it right here, right now.  With our star shining above us ‘and they lived happily ever after.’”

Martin still said nothing, but his head bowed, casting a slice of shadow over his eyes, and his shoulders quivered as a thin, bright line of wet silver trickled down his cheek.  Jon felt the very sky shatter above and begin to crumble around him.

“Please… M-Make no mistake, Martin.  P-Perhaps the gesture is silly and meaningless, but it was all I could think to do to go with everything I’ve said tonight.  Martin… Martin, don’t you see?  These are my wedding vows to you.  This is me saying ‘I do’ and also ‘Martin K. Blackwood would you do me the honor of making me the happiest man in the universe?’  All at once.  This is me saying I swear to you I will be yours, through everything, until the end of time.  M-Maybe I wasn’t before.  Maybe I was still punishing myself, but I’m telling you, I’m ready now to have my happily ever after.  With you, Martin.  If you’ll have me.  If I haven’t-“

He would never finish.  In a dizzying blur of blue folder, flashing hematite, and a wreath of golden curls, Martin kissed the words off his lips.  He kissed him so hard and so fierce, through wracking sobs with his hands woven so raptly into his long, wavy locks he thought his lips would bruise and his fragile soul would finally shatter to pieces in Martin’s arms.  Undone, all Jon could do was surrender and kiss him back with equal passion, thumbing away the hot tears as they spilled freely down his cheeks and anointed them both with their cleansing, hoary heat.  Their lips parted and they panted softly against each other in the space between, each afraid to break the sacred, pulsing silence.

“You’re crying,” Jon whispered at length, “I’ve said something wrong. Martin, darling I’m so sorry.  I never meant to-”

Martin laughed, raspy with tears, but ethereal, sparkling, like stardust floating on the breeze.

“People are allowed to cry when they’re happy you stupid, silly man,” he murmured in between kissing him again, and again.

“Oh.  Oh.”

He kissed him one last time, that idiot man who always burnt the toast and always knew the facts but never knew what to say, who finally figured it out and bought him a star, and threw his arms around him, enveloping his slight, fragile form protectively in his embrace.

“I love you.  I love you so much.”

Jon sank into that warm, familiar comfort and buried his face in his shoulder.

“I love you, too, Martin.  I want to be yours for the rest of my life.  I want to be me, I want to be us.”

“I know.  I’ve always known.  Oh god, you do know that right?  I know that you love me, it’s written in everything you do and say.  I have never, ever once doubted you love me with everything you are.  Even in the moments I was afraid that… that maybe we just weren’t meant to be together, I still knew it wouldn’t be because you didn’t love me.  Never because you didn’t love me.  Just maybe that we didn’t fit together anymore,” Martin replied in a small voice through his tears as they spilled down his cheeks.

As much as he wanted to vehemently deny there was ever a chance they might have not fit back together again after they had both been so shattered, to kiss him and tell him not in a million years would there ever have been a future where they weren’t Jon and Martin against the world, Jon knew it to be inescapably true.

“I’m so sorry you ever had to be afraid of that,” he swore, digging his fingers into Martin’s back pointedly, “After everything.  After we fought so hard to escape fear itself.  That I almost let it truly win in the end.  That I couldn’t just let go… Because… Because this was never about The Eye, was it?”

A heave of breath and its shuddering exhale shook Martin’s body free of lifetimes of grief, and fear, of ugliness carried far beyond the borders of their souls.  His fingers curled tighter in unspoken reply.

“No Jon, no it wasn’t, but I’m so very glad you finally figured that out.”

“Me, too…” he whispered.

They held each other in the quiet wake of being a moment and let the astral plane wheel calmly overhead.  An impatient star twinkled.

“Wait… you never answered me,” Jon finally said as he pulled back, sliding his elegant fingers down Martin’s strong arms.

“Huh?” Martin blurted, scrubbing under his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.

“About marrying me tonight.  You never actually said yes, so…”

A twinkle in his eye and a slight mischief to his grin, Jon dove back into the picnic basket and emerged with a velvet ring box.  Martin’s hands flew to his mouth.

“You didn’t.”

“Of course I did!  Nothing fancy, but I thought it was high time to retire the blood rings,” he explained rising from his former perch on his hip to kneel properly.

The box cracked neatly open, and inside lay a simple, white gold band with a tiny circle of milky moonstone embedded in it on a midnight-blue satin cushion, blindingly bright against the dark.  Martin sobbed joyfully all over again.

“So, uh… I suppose if it had just been us, if we’d just been together, without everything, and we’d arrived at this moment.  I would have done much the same.  I would have brought you somewhere beautiful, somewhere I could teach you some inane fact you didn’t actually care about, but liked because it came from me.  Emulsifiers in ice cream and rum raisin…” they both snickered, “And I would have tried my best to make it into some sort of romantic metaphor but completely bunged it up and you would be laughing as I got down on one knee, just like this.  And it would have just been simple.  To the point.  Just… Will you marry me?  So…”

Jon assumed the traditional position, on one knee, arms outstretched, his every slender point a star in a perfect constellation of love.

“Will you marry me?”

Their eyes met, across a thousand different realities, across a thousand different worlds, carried on celestial winds to fall hopelessly, inexorably, into each other’s orbit.

“Yes, yes I do believe I will.”

With one last farewell kiss upon it for what it had meant for them both, Jon slipped the bloodstone ring from Martin’s finger and replaced it with the delicate band made of starlight.  It took its place radiantly, and shone as Martin drew his hand back to admire it with an equally radiant grin before it dimmed with concern.

“But what about you?” he asked worriedly as he watched the old ring entombed lovingly in the box.

Jon only smirked and produced a second box from the basket, which he offered on his open palm out to Martin.

“Naturally, I got one for myself.  Couldn’t pass up a chance to get a wedding ring that actually fits, could I?  It’s just… Don’t you think you deserve to give it to me the way you would want?” he urged.

Martin took the box eagerly, biting his lower lip in thought.

“Not sure you want to give me that freedom.  I had about five different ways of asking you in my head and all of them you would have hated so, so much.  But I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t kind of the point,” he answered wryly.

Jon chortled.

“Sorry I, the unromantic one, sprung this on you, the romantic one.  But I did want to surprise you.  I-I mean you can still write me a vows poem later?  If you want to, of course.  I’d love to have it, even if I don’t actually get to hear it at our wedding.”

Martin’s face flushed immediate crimson and his eyes darted coyly away as he toyed with the wedding band box in his lap.

“Oh that?  A-Actually I… I have it memorized, i-if you really wanted to hear it.”

“You- WHAT?” gasped Jon, his cheeks flushing in tandem.

“Oh yeah, I wrote my vows poem for you ages ago and I’ve gone over it so many times I know it by heart.  It was comforting, okay?  I-I’d read it again when times were good and I thought maybe you’d actually- um… a-and when times were not so good, when you were gone, in your own head, when I was afraid we were broken for good, whenever I needed it.  I’ve read it over a thousand times and never changed a thing from the first time I penned it.  Never needed to.  I’m surprised I haven’t recited it in my sleep at this point,” Martin admitted sheepishly.

Jon’s entire body flushed with a solar heat that melted his joints and his heart into a swirling flare of adulation.

“I can think of no better way, then, to receive my ring,” he breathed, reaching out to cup Martin’s cheek in his hand, “I’ve had my turn, now it’s yours.”

In mirror ballets of love exchanges, Martin cradled Jon’s hand against his cheek as he spoke the first lines of the vows etched ever on his being softly into his palm.

“Let he who, shadow dwelling, must In paper, pen, and book be bound Shake off the chains of dark and rust And chart his own bright fate unfound.

Let he with lifelong burdens borne Cut paper wings with thread of gold And hand in hand, the sky forsworn Flit clouds and sun in laughter bold.

Let he whose blood and soldier’s ken The world did shield from dark and fear Heal fast those wounds, be whole again And sleep at last, held close and dear.

Bring him to me with spirit free With stars in eyes and music sung From lips a joyful promise be One soul conjoined, one fate’s thread strung.

Two hearts rejoice in love renowned. We lift our heads, alive, uncrowned.”

He waited until the last couplet to pull the ring from the box and slide it onto Jon’s finger where it too, fit perfectly, like it had always been there, and shone defiantly bright in the moonlight.  Jon wept.  He had been weeping since the first words of verse left his beloved’s lips, but seeing that ring like a piece of his missing soul returned to him undammed the tears effusively.

“God that was… Martin, I don’t have words.  I-It was… so beautiful.  You’re so beautiful.  Thank you,” he cried fervently, “I wish I could tell you properly how much that meant, but I just-“

“Hey… That’s alright.  I’m the words guy.  You’re the emulsifiers guy.  Making you cry is all I need to see to know how you feel,” Martin assured him warmly, reaching out to brush his tears away as he chuckled.

“Yeah… add this one to the running tally.”

“Oh, I have,” Martin snickered, “Speaking of!  Now we’ve done the crying through vows bit.  Shouldn’t we say the ‘I do’ bit, as well?”

Jon pursed his lips with a shrug as he reached out with his left hand to take Martin’s left as well, twining their fingers together

“Yes, I suppose we should.  I don’t see why not.  Well then, Martin, do you?”

“I do.  And Jon, do you?”

“I do.”

“You may now soundly snog the groom.”

“Martin…”

The emphatic drawl of his name the way Jon only called it when he was frustratingly enamored of him perished gently against Martin’s velvet lips as they caressed his.  They kissed slowly and reverently, sealing a pact ordained by the heavens long before either of them had seen the stars in the other’s eyes, lighting with white flame the torch to guide them for the first time, forward.  They broke it only to punctuate it with two more featherlight kisses and a breathless laugh, bowing their foreheads together in deference to the forces of fate and the universe.

“I know this isn’t the wedding either of us ever dreamed of, but as far as I’m concerned, it was perfect,” Jon murmured, nuzzling closer into his husband, swaddling the new, fledgling and beautiful word in his heart.

“Well, hey, what is a wedding really other than just a formal declaration that this is it?  This is us, we’re forever, no matter what.  We did it.  And you did it for me, in the STARS, Jon… Can we just remember that again?  You put us in the actual stars.  I am so writing a ballad for our constellation later, you do know this.”

“Oh lord.  Of course you are.  But really, it was the least I could do, after you’ve done so much for me, sacrificed everything for me.  Waited for me for so long.”

“And you came back to me,” Martin reminded him passionately, “And I don’t just mean back to life, here, in this world.  I mean you came back, Jon, MY Jon, the Jon I was in love with the moment I laid eyes on him.  The fidgety and obstinate Jon who can’t make a decent cup of tea to save his life, who puts on two different socks in the morning because his nose is already in the paper or a book, who teaches me about bleeding rocks and binary stars and still reacts to the simplest acts of kindness like a warm cranberry orange scone without asking for one like they’re divine miracles he is undeserving of, who looks at me like I hung the moon or something every time.  Even when I thought I was a complete and total waste of a human being, you, Jonathan Sims, the most beautiful, amazing, brilliant man to ever walk the Earth, looked at me like I hung the moon.  And that was… Still is… everything to me.”

The heavens shifted, the stars wheeled, the last piece clicked smartly, smugly into place.

“W-What did you say…?” Jon asked with such urgency, grabbing his hands so fiercely, Martin startled.

“Wh-I-I don’t-?  Which part?  The moon hanging part?” he stuttered, rolling his eyes fondly as he realized mid-sentence, “Oh, right.  Ugh, Jon are you seriously going to get after me about your weird vendetta against idioms at our wedding?  Because if you are that would be annoyingly adorable and so intensely you and kind of perfect, but also can you not on THIS particular occasion?”

The laugh that tore from Jon’s throat was half mad, half euphoric as the weight of the moon lifted from his shoulders and became naught but an indifferent sentinel disc in the sky once more.

“No no no, it’s just… It’s funny, I had more than a few things very, very wrong for a very, very long time.  That’s all.  Don’t worry about it,” he explained, leaning in and pressing a delicate kiss to Martin’s forehead, “If you’re the one who hung the moon after all, then I suppose ‘written in the stars’ will have to do for me.”

Martin lit up with literary glee.

“Oh ho!  Two space related idioms in one go?  What a rare treat!  Maybe this is your gateway drug into puns…” he teased impishly.

“Absolutely no chance in hell.”

They both laughed, laughed with the billowing icy breath that reached with victorious fingers up to the heavens.  They laughed, messily sniffing back the pesky drip of tears and cold.  They laughed with lightness of the encumbrance of hematite armor shed, its bloody protections no longer needed to cage wounded hearts and keep them safe and close.  They laughed in breath and also in the dancing points of light in their eyes as they fell into one another free from gravity.

“So uh… Do I get to see my star tonight, or don’t I?” Martin finally remembered, relishing the utterly horrified yelp from Jon.

“Oh god I completely-!  Y-Yes!  Yes of course, it’s already set up at the proper coordinates!” he had already sprung to his feet, “Oh, though, hang on, it took longer to get to the star viewing part than I anticipated, so I might need to adjust it a bit.  Oh!  And I have a little strawberries and champagne, if you like?”

“I do like, please and thank you!”

Jon set to readjusting the telescope to the proper ascension and declination while Martin poured them two glasses of crisply bubbling champagne.  They twined their arms to drink a toast from each other’s glass, ‘to us’ or ‘to happily ever afters’, or to several other messily rambled toast worthy sentiments.  They couldn’t decide and toasted to all of it.  They ate plump red strawberries and licked the juice from each other’s fingers as they looked at their star, which was, after everything, just a dot, just like Pluto, but Martin had to admit that he rather liked looking at dots after all.  And that one was their dot.  The warm intoxication of love and champagne begged for music, and someone fumbled in the cold for a wedding playlist on some app, somewhere, it didn’t matter, just as long as they could join hands, gaze into each other’s eyes and dance inelegantly, stepping on each other’s toes, under the umbrella of stars in a gentle rain of moonlight.

“I don’t see your problem with cliches, idioms and all that, really…” Martin mused at length, laying his head on Jon’s shoulder as they slowly spun to the rhythm of a longing ballad and the song of the sea, “Like this stupid, great song.  They’re familiar and cozy and everyone knows them.  They’re like… like old friends.  Always there to rely on when we can’t come up with the words ourselves, because sometimes we can’t.  And if something trite and silly sums up the way you feel, why not just let it be?  Sometimes things are said over and over again because some truths are universal, you know?  They’re just… human.”

Jon pressed a kiss into the mop of curls that tickled his nose and smelled faintly of toasted sugar and lavender and mused on all of the romantic cliches that had just passed through his mind unbidden.  Who was he to deny he was but one star in the sky, a single gear in the grand mortal mechanism of the universe.  If he had handed himself over to the humanity of it all instead of rusting, stopping, looking outside where there was never anything to see, perhaps he could have had this dance much sooner.  It didn’t matter though, until it did, because that night Martin took his breath away, made his world go round, he was head over heels for his match made in heaven, and better than heaven, they were written in the stars.

“You know what, Martin?” Jon laughed in reply, “Tonight, being what it is, I am willing to concede.  You are absolutely right.”

“I’m glad…” came the tender acceptance, followed by a distinctly puckish beat of silence, “Then does this mean I can I start saying love you to the moon and back?”

“Don’t push your luck...”

[celosiaa]

hi me again 🥺 sorry for making you tear up even if it was in a good way (hopefully?) 💕 i don’t mind the wait at all, i completely understand and it’s 100% worth it (honestly i get so excited whenever you post a new fic)!! soooo... i was doing some research for a project on epilepsy and i got thinking about epileptic martin?? like particular in s1 maybe he didn’t tell the other archives crew as he didn’t know them that well/hadn’t worked closely with them before (ok sorry tbc as i am rambling)

hello friend!!! I am so sorry that this took me a literally unreasonable amount of time to write! I really enjoyed the research I did for this, and I love this hc forever. And I hope this is what you were looking for <3

CW seizures, nausea, misgendering

Focus.

Just focus.

For god’s sake.

It’s been nearly an hour of Martin sitting at his desk, trying desperately to rein in any sliver of concentration he can muster to look at the laptop screen before him. He feels awful doing it, but every time Jon has passed by his desk that day, he’s found himself pretending to click around or to type—though he’s got the brightness set so far down there’s no way he’d be able to see it anyway. After a few attempts at turning it back up, he’s had to immediately look away, as the pounding behind his eyes resumes again. So for now, he’s stuck with reading statements—something he is loathe to do even on a good day.

And this certainly wasn’t.

He knows better than this, knows that he’s very nearly approaching disaster—what with the not sleeping out of hypervigilance, not eating out of anxiety, and not having his seizure meds for the past two days, as he’d managed to run out of his flat without them. And there’s no doubt in his mind that he cannot send anyone back to his flat. Not with Prentiss still on the loose.

Selfish selfish selfish

No, stop it.

You haven’t even done anything.

Wishing more than anything that his mind did not constantly run him ragged with thoughts like this, Martin looks up from his papers, intending to find a rubber band to snap against his wrist as a distraction, but instead—

Instead he finds himself frozen, colors fading in and out across his vision, heartbeat steadily climbing as his fingers go numb.

No no no no

Not now not now please not now

Realistically, he knows it’s only been a few seconds, but the seconds feel like years against the rapid thrum thrum thrum in his ears, made even worse when he sees Tim approaching from the periphery.

Damn it damn it

Please please please

“Hey Marto!”

Like clockwork, the focal aware seizure ends, and at last—at last he is able to move enough to look up at where Tim stands, leaning against his desk, smile fading rapidly as he watches Martin blinking in the suddenly-too-bright light.

“You alright?” he asks, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at his face, doubtless taking note of how quickly he is breathing now to match his settling heart rate.

“Y-yeah, sorry, um. Was just thinking,” is all he can reply, fighting to put an easy smile back on his face.

It seems to have been the wrong move, as Tim only shifts to sit atop his desk, expression quickly becoming overrun with concern.

“Okay, well…you look like you’re having a panic attack, mate,” he says lowly, reaching across him to grab his water bottle and set it nearer to him. “What do you need?”

Even with his misguided interpretation, Martin can’t help the flood of affection he feels toward him in this moment—because that’s just Tim, isn’t it? Never assumes, just asks what will help and then does it.

If only I weren’t such a mess, and would let him.

“Oh, n-no it’s not—it’s not that, Tim, I’m—I’m alright. Must’ve…drifted off, or something. Had a nightmare.”

There is no way Tim buys that, no way in hell—but thankfully, he lets it go.

“O…kay then. Well. If that’s the case, I was just thinking of grabbing some lunch, do you want anything? Don’t reckon you’ve eaten properly in a bit, yeah?”

God, Tim.

I don’t deserve this.

Yes, you do. You deserve a friend and you need to eat.

You need to eat.

“Uhh—th-thanks, erm.  Where—where are you going?” he asks, wishing to god his voice didn’t sound so shaky.

He takes a few intentionally deep breaths after that—thinking that perhaps it is a panic attack, after all.  Without realizing that several seconds have gone by since his question, he feels Tim’s bracing hand on his shoulder, knowing that he’s not going to ask again—but offering him a clear sign that he’s there all the same.

“Just the corner shop,” he murmurs, starting to rub his thumb over the shoulder seam of Martin’s t-shirt. “Nothing fancy. But I can get you a sandwich, if you like. Well, no—I am getting you a sandwich regardless, but I thought I might be considerate for once and ask if there was anything in particular that you want.”

“Yeah—erm, yeah, just. Anything that’s warm would be nice,” he says at last, sinking a bit as Tim removes his hand from his shoulder. “Thanks, Tim. That’s—that’s really kind.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously,” he says, clapping his hand back against Martin’s shoulder with force before standing. “Be back in a bit. Drink that water.”

“I will,” Martin nods, earning himself some finger guns of approval before Tim starts walking towards the lift. “Thanks, mate.”

And he’s so close now, so close to shouting after him, to asking him to pick up his meds from the chemist, if he calls them in—

Just ask just ask just ask

—and then Tim is around the corner, and out of sight.

Damn it all.

He tells himself it’s probably for the best anyway—that he’s not really even sure he can get them. But it doesn’t stop him burying his face in his hands, tugging at his hair in frustration and shame. Really though, he ought to call first before mentioning anything—perhaps they have a delivery service, or they’ll refuse him, or something.

And what then?

The idea of finding himself suddenly on the floor of the archives, alone and in the dark with the worms having crawled all over him while he seized—

Have to call.

Reaching bitterly for his phone, he takes a deep breath as it rings, preparing his best “customer service” voice.

“Boots, how can we help you today?”

“Hi! Erm, I was wondering if—if I could get a refill for my prescription? For—for carbamazepine,” he says, cheery voice belying the dread with which he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Sure thing! Just need your name and date of birth and I’ll look you up.”

“Right. Erm—well, it’s Martin, but I think you’ve still got me under, erm. Mary Blackwood,” he says, forcing himself not to grit his teeth at the foul taste his deadname leaves in his mouth. “Date of birth October 15th, 1987.”

“Alright, let’s see here—“

Please please please

“—it looks like you’ve already got your refill, Miss Blackwood. Our system says you picked up your medication on the 19th.”

“It’s—it’s Mister, actually. Erm,” he stammers, stomach churning over the entire thing. “L-listen, I—I’ve had to leave my home quite suddenly, and—and I am unable to return there for the time being. So I don’t—I don’t have access to my meds. And I, erm. Really need them.”

Pathetic pathetic pathetic

“I’m really sorry, Mister Blackwood. You’re going to have your doctor call in another prescription for you before we can get you that refill. Unfortunately, it’s out of our hands.”

Of course.

“Oh, right. That’s erm—that’s okay. Thank you so much,” he says as brightly as possible, unwilling to blame anyone for something out of their control.

“You’re quite welcome. Take care.”

With a long, shaky sigh, Martin throws his phone back onto his desk, returning his head to its rightful place, buried in his hands. There’s no way he can call his doctor today—or tomorrow even, with it already being a Friday afternoon. No chance of him getting his refill, then. And no chance of sending Tim back to his apartment either.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic.

It was just a focal, nothing too bad.

Nothing unmanageable.

I can make it.

Steeling himself with somewhat tremulous determination, he takes another long breath—blinking back against the steady pounding in his head, and getting back to work.

—

“Aw come on, Sasha! Take a break with me!”

“Not on your life. I’m still furious with you, you know,” she replies, tossing her hair like a lion’s mane over her back. “Can’t believe you’d go all the way to the good café for Martin, and not offer me anything. Not even crumbs, Stoker!”

“Listen—” Tim grins back, hands raised in self-defense. “He looked like he could use some soup! I don’t know what else to say.”

“And you didn’t get me any? What about me doesn’t scream ‘I could use some soup, thank you?’”

“It’s different!! It’s—Martin? You alright?”

As he was walking past their bickering, eyes firmly fixed on the floor on the lookout for worms, Martin had suddenly stopped short—looking anxiously up and over their heads, framed by the doorway of Jon’s office.

“Martin?” Tim repeats, already halfway to standing in worry, following Martin’s gaze behind him and finding nothing.

Faster than he can turn back around, Martin’s muscles all tense at once—and he tips backwards onto the floor with a heavy thud.

“Shit! Martin!”

Tim darts forward at once, in some feeble attempt to catch him, but of course, far too late to do so. In his shock, he can do little but stand over him for a few seconds, taken aback upon seeing his eyes still open where he lies still on the floor.

“What happened?” Jon demands, stepping quickly out of his office towards them, where Sasha now crouches near his head.

“I-I don’t know, he just—”

And then Martin begins to convulse.

“Oh my god, he’s—he’s having a seizure,” Sasha gasps as she claps a hand over her mouth, from where it had been pressed against his forehead.

“Fuck. Fuck, what do—what do we do? Do we call 999?” Tim shouts, unwilling to sit by and watch as this all goes on around him, already grabbing Sasha’s phone from her nearby desk.

“I—I think so, let me—”

“Wait.”

Two sets of eyes land upon Jon as he interjects, crouching near Martin’s flailing left arm, waiting for him to set it back down before quickly grabbing at a bracelet circling his wrist.

“I-it’s a medical bracelet. Says epilepsy,” he says lowly, quickly sitting back on his heels as Martin’s arm begins to jerk again.

“Fuck. I—I had no idea,” Tim breathes, running an anxious hand through his hair. “How could we not know?”

“We should—” Sasha breaks off quickly to swallow a lump in her throat, before continuing. “We should be timing it, did anyone see the time?”

“I-I don’t—it’s probably been less than a minute, right?”

“I think so. I’m—here, I’m googling it to make sure—”

While she does so, Martin’s head begins to slam into the ground—and Jon immediately pulls off his cardigan, folding it quickly and placing it beneath him to cushion the blow.

“It’s alright, big guy,” Tim says, settling down to kneel next to Jon, who now has a hand gently pressed to his shoulder—not holding him down, just resting there in a comfort Martin probably cannot receive.

Tim rests his own hand against Martin’s thigh all the same.

“Okay, I think we’re good so far,” Sasha says at last, setting her phone down with a timer running on the screen. “Just time it, and—and keep watch. If it goes past five minutes, we call 999.”

“That’s—that’s it?” Tim says in dismay, snapping his eyes back to his friend, still convulsing on the floor. “There’s nothing else we can do?”

“No. We just have to watch out for him,” she replies, voice low as she adjusts Jon’s cardigan beneath his head. “Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

Not the answer that Tim was looking for.

And so they wait—silent save for the rhythmic smacking of his limbs against the carpeted floor, and the occasional whispered platitude, though all know he cannot hear them. The seconds tick by in agony while they sit helpless, all eyeing the timer on Sasha’s phone creeping up steadily past three minutes.

“I don’t like this,” Tim says, knowing how useless it is to say so—Sasha raising her eyes to meet his for the first time in a while.

“Me neither.”

“Nearly three and a half minutes,” Jon mutters, worrying at his bottom lip while still resting a gentle hand on Martin’s shoulder.

“We’ve got you, Martin,” Tim mutters. “We’ve got you.”

Ten more seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Forty.

And at last—at last he goes still, right past the four-minute mark.

“Alhamdulillah,” Jon sighs as he lets his chin briefly rest against his chest, a sentiment echoed by everyone around him.

“Okay, turn him on his side, here—Tim—”

“Got it,” Tim says as he moves to crouch next to her, helping roll him towards Jon, head pillowed on the arm Jon stretched out across the floor as a cushion.

As soon as they get him in the recovery position, they watch as saliva runs out of his mouth, surely fit to choke him had they not turned him—and he begins to snore forcefully, catching Tim very much by surprise.

“Wh-what—” he asks in bewilderment, struggling to hold back a bit of shocked laughter.

“The website said that’s normal,” Sasha assures at once, reaching behind her to grab a box of tissues from her desk behind her. “He’s going to be sleepy for a bit.”

“Okay. That’s—okay,” he says, watching as Jon takes the tissues from Sasha and wipes at Martin’s face so very gently, before tossing them aside and taking his hand.

Taking his hand.

…interesting.

Stowing THAT away for later.

As Jon starts to move his thumb across the back of Martin’s palm, the snoring stops—and his eyes begin to flutter rapidly, attempting to force their way fully open.

“Hey Martin, can you hear me?” Sasha says rather loudly, bending over him and tapping his shoulder lightly.

All she receives in response is a moan, deep and low, as he squeezes and unsqueezes his eyelids, coughing a bit against the pooling saliva. Jon reaches for the tissues again at once, cleaning his face as best as possible.

“You’re okay mate,” Tim says, patting his hip before leaving his hand there for support. “You’ve had a seizure.”

It takes a few moments, but at last, Martin opens his eyes, looking vaguely around without meeting Jon’s eyes.

“Wh’ happ’n?” he slurs—all three of them exchanging a meaningful glance, a bit alarmed.

“You had a seizure, Martin,” Sasha repeats, stroking at his hair while Tim starts rubbing his hand up and down his arm, hoping it will somehow help to ground him.

Remaining still for a few moments, still blinking, Martin tries to take it all in— looking down towards where Jon still rubs at his hand, though still seemingly unaware of his presence.

“What happened?” he asks again, voice less slurred, but still weak.

“A seizure, Martin,” Jon says, trying desperately to catch his eyes. “You’re alright.”

At once, Martin wrenches his hand away from Jon’s grasp in favor of clapping it over his mouth, muffling a small and desperate gasp behind it.

“Shit. You gonna be sick?” Tim asks, already looking around him for something to grab as Jon once again prepares his tissues.

He does not respond right away, instead pausing for a few deep breaths—at last shaking his head no. In both relief and the absence of something to do with his hands, Jon fusses at the cardigan again—positioning it just so.

“Wh—oh, seizure,” Martin breathes, and Tim cannot help but feel relieved at his gaining a bit of orientation back.

“Yeah.”

Eyebrows knitting together, Martin moves the hand clapped over his mouth to rest on his eyes, sniffling a bit before speaking.

“M’so sorry,” he gasps—and it’s enough to break Tim’s heart.

All of their hearts apparently, as they immediately place their hands on him in a gesture of comfort.

“Hey, no, none of that,” Sasha soothes, brushing back his fringe again.

“M’sorry.”

“Martin, it’s alright,” reassures Jon, with such rare gentleness that even Martin lowers his hand to look—wincing quickly as he does so, and placing it back over his eyes at once.

“Do the lights hurt?” Sasha asks worriedly, placing her hand to cover his own, hoping to block more of it out.

“Yeah—ah,” he grits out with a pained little gasp, and Jon gets to his feet.

“I’ll get them,” he says, and walks quickly to the switch, sending them into a darkness illuminated only by the light from the hall.

With a quiet sigh of relief, Martin lowers his hand again, eyes still closed, and rubs absently at his nose. Stumbling a bit as his eyes adjust to the dark, Jon makes his way back to kneeling beside him, taking up his free hand again.

“Your head okay?” asks Tim, prompting Sasha to card through his hair to look for any swelling. “I’m sorry I didn’t—I couldn’t catch you.”

“…what?” comes the vague response, delayed by a few seconds as Martin tries in vain to sort through what was said.

“Still confused,” Sasha mouths at him silently—and he nods, instead going back to rubbing up and down Martin’s arm, as Sasha moves to massage his neck.

“M’sorry.”

“Hush, darling. It’s alright,” she says, and Tim knows without a doubt she will sit there all day, repeating these same things to him as long as he needs.

And loves her for it.

“…wh—Jon?”

Eyes more focused than ever, Martin looks down to where Jon still rubs a thumb over his palm, stunned very his very presence in this space.

“Yes, I’m here,” he murmurs, offering a small squeeze of affirmation, inadvertently painting a soft grin briefly across Martin’s face—before it drops quickly again in horror, as the reality of the situation sinks in again.

“Oh god. I—oh god.”

“It’s okay, Martin.”

“No no no.”

“It’s alright,” Jon comforts, more soothing than Tim had ever imagined would be possible for him. “Just be still. You’re alright.”

Five minutes turn into ten, turn into fifteen as Martin’s confusion slowly fades away—his recovery naturally filled with a deluge of apologies, patient soothing from his friends, and tending to the waves of nausea that come over him every few minutes. Ever so gradually, he becomes better able to hold a conversation; better able to hold their gaze, asking what happened before he went down, explaining that his…well, everything is sore, but that it’s nothing unmanageable.

There is very little that Martin would call “unmanageable,” of course, but it’s the most they will get out of him.

“I think I can sit up now,” he says after a bit, bracing his arms underneath himself to prepare, and Tim reaches out to support him at once.

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

A bit slow, a bit clumsy, they get him up—not without some worried questioning when he hunches forward, face buried in his hands as the headache worsens with the change of posture. But luckily, it dulls as quickly as it comes, and Martin soon finds himself able to look up, even to offer a bit of a sheepish smile.

“Want some water?” Tim asks as soon as he looks steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m on it,” he says, refusing to accept any of Martin’s guilt-laden excuses, and dashes off to the kitchen at once, leaving Jon and Sasha still vaguely holding onto him in the fear that he might fall again.

“I’m alright, guys, really,” he assures, though he makes no effort to shrug their hands off—so there they stay.

“Do you know what caused this, Martin?” Sasha asks, folding his collar from where it sticks up at the nape of his neck.

With a heavy sigh and an exhausted pinch to the bridge of his nose, Martin replies, face reddening with shame.

“Yeah. You’re—you’re going to laugh.”

“Why would we laugh?” Jon asks so earnestly, so softly that it wins him a long and surprised look from Martin.

“I…dunno really, just. It’s just that it’s—it’s all my own fault. Stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“I—I don’t—” he cuts off for a moment to hiss painfully as he rubs at his temple again, and Sasha’s hold tightens ever so slightly as a precaution. “I don’t have my…seizure meds with me. I left them at my flat when—when I ran. From Prentiss.”

Of course.

Of course he did.

“I would have gotten them for you Martin!” Tim shouts as he returns with the water. “Any of us would, mate. You should have said.”

“I didn’t want to send you back to my flat. She might…she might still…be there.”

He fades a bit as he speaks—rubbing once more at his temples, and Sasha resumes her ministrations of massaging his neck.

“Alright, just—it’s alright, Martin,” Jon soothes, a bit alarmed at the way he’s hunched back over—seemingly nauseous again, as he moves the bin a bit closer to himself just in case. “What can we do now?”

After a few long, deep breaths, his churning stomach finally settles long enough for him to answer, albeit a bit more vague-sounding than moments before.

“I tried…I tried to call the chemist, but…they won’t refill it unless I…unless I talk to my doctor. And it’s not like I can just go.”

“You have to get some from A&E then,” Tim insists, sitting back down next to him and pressing a hand atop his shoulder.

“No, I can’t.”

“We’ll go with you,” mutters Jon, before clearing his throat, returning to his best confident-boss tone. “We’ll keep watch for the worms. Go prepared.”

“You don’t—“

“We will,” Sasha says emphatically, leaving no room for argument—and even Martin knows when the battle is lost. “We’re happy to do it, Martin. Seriously.”

“Thank you,” he very nearly whispers, face flushing beet red as the undue attention of the afternoon catches up with him. “That’s really…too kind.”

“Well, you’ve got to get it somehow, mate,” Tim says with a chuckle, earning himself a warning glare from both Sasha and Jon. “What? I’m sure Martin wants this to happen again even less than we do. Which is saying a lot.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, surprising them all by chuckling briefly in return. “Reckon you’re right about that. I didn’t—this is pretty much my worst nightmare, so…just so you all know how sorry I am.”

“Yes, you’ve said,” Sasha laughs. ��And it keeps continuing to not be your fault.”

“Right. Sure.”

He does not sound at all sure—but she lets it go all the same.

“We should go today, Martin,” Jon says as he stands, already grabbing a canister of CO2 in preparation. “Don’t want you to miss another dose.”

“And take that thing on the Tube?” Martin laughs, fully smiling for the first time since the whole affair began. “Think we might get some looks.”

“It’s the Tube, mate. Stranger things have happened,” Tim chuckles, rolling his eyes good-naturedly before jumping in to assist him in standing.

“Suppose you’re probably right about that.”

“Let’s go then,” says Jon, face steeled as if armed to the teeth and ready to tangle with anything coming his way. “Work that needs doing.”

[equalseleventhirds]

i’m still thinking so much abt tim’s first day in the archives. like ok, things are Complicated bcos of jon getting promoted over sasha, but tim is still going to the archives with his two friends/coworkers from research, it’s a mess down there but he knows the people and will, presumably, be doing research, and he’s gonna be Cheerful And Friendly bcos of course he is! of course. jon’s gonna be in his office and tim will hang out with sasha and it’ll be, ok not great, but it’ll be fine.

and then he walks in and jon’s not immediately visibile (he notices the closed office door, goes ‘oh okay’) so he’s gonna like, settle in at his desk, wait for sasha, whatever...

Suddenly Martin, running around the archives after a dog, definitely panicking bcos oh god he’s gonna get fired, and does tim like... recognize him? tim’s much more friendly than jon, did he get to know all the library staff? even if he did, one of them is randomly in the archives, and there’s a dog, and okay tim is gonna join in bcos there’s a dog!

do you think, while they were running between shelves and file cabinets and stacks of paper after this enthusiastic spaniel, tim managed to yell out ‘by the way, why are you here?’ and martin yelled back ‘i work here now--i mean, elias told me i do? he, uh, didn’t tell my new boss though--’ and tim has to stop chasing for a moment to just laugh bcos oh BOY that’s gonna be a DISASTER, how pissed is jon, no, please, martin, how pissed is he, and martin also stops to pout at him, and they are having a Moment...

and then one of them looks up and sees this friendly dog standing over a Mess of the Doggy Variety and staring at them with big puppy eyes, and martin looks at this and groans and then stares at tim with his big puppy eyes, please tim will you go tell jon, i can’t, tim please, and tim groans and laughs and goes to get jon

[arcticdementor]

The hilarious headline in the Daily Beast yesterday read like a cross of Clickhole and Izvestia circa 1937: “Is Glenn Greenwald the New Master of Right-Wing Media? FROM HIS MOUTH TO FOX’S EARS?”

The story, fed to poor Beast media writer Lloyd Grove by certain unnamed embittered personages at the Intercept, is that their former star writer Greenwald appears on, and helps provide content for — gasp! — right-wing media! It’s nearly the exclusive point of the article. Greenwald goes on TV with… those people! The Beast’s furious journalisming includes a “spot check” of the number of Fox items inspired by Greenwald articles (“dozens”!) and multiple passages comparing Greenwald to Donald Trump, the ultimate insult in #Resistance world. This one made me laugh out loud:

In a self-perpetuating feedback loop that runs from Twitter to Fox News and back again, Greenwald has managed, like Trump before him, to orchestrate his very own news cycles.

This, folks, is from the Daily Beast, a publication that has spent much of the last five years huffing horseshit into headlines, from Bountygate to Bernie’s Mittens to classics like SNL: Alec Baldwin's Trump Admits 'I Don't Care About America'. The best example was its “investigation” revealing that three of Tulsi Gabbard’s 75,000 individual donors — the late Princeton professor Stephen Cohen, peace activist Sharon Tennison, and a person called “Goofy Grapes” who may or may not have worked for Russia Today host Lee Camp — were, in their estimation, Putin “apologists.”

…

For years now, this has been the go-to conversation-ender for prestige media pundits and Twitter trolls alike, directed at any progressive critic of the political mainstream: you’re a Republican! A MAGA-sympathizer! Or (lately), an “insurrectionist”! The Beast in its Greenwald piece used the most common of the Twitter epithets: “Trump-defender.” Treachery and secret devotion to right-wing politics are also the default explanation for the growing list of progressives making their way onto Fox of late, from Greenwald to Kyle Kulinski to Aaron Mate to Jimmy Dore to Cornel West.

The truth is, Trump conservatives and ACLU-raised liberals like myself, Greenwald, and millions of others do have real common cause, against an epistemic revolution taking hold in America’s political and media elite. The traditional liberal approach to the search for truth, which stresses skepticism and free-flowing debate, is giving way to a reactionary movement that Plato himself would have loved, one that believes knowledge is too dangerous for the rabble and must be tightly regulated by a priesthood of “experts.” It’s anti-democratic, un-American, and naturally unites the residents of even the most extreme opposite ends of our national political spectrum.

…

Follow the logic. Isikoff, who himself denounced the Steele dossier, and said in the exchange he essentially agreed with Meier’s conclusions, went on to wonder aloud how right a thing could be, if it’s being embraced by The Federalist and Tucker Carlson. Never mind the more salient point, which is that Meier was “ignored by other media” because that’s how #Resistance media deals with unpleasant truths: it blacks them out, forcing reporters to spread the news on channels like Fox, which in turn triggers instant accusations of unreliability and collaborationism.

It’s a Catch-22. Isikoff’s implication is a journalist can’t make an impact if the only outlet picking up his or her work is The Federalist, but “reputable” outlets won’t touch news (and sometimes will even call for its suppression) if it questions prevailing notions of Conventional Wisdom.

These tactics have worked traditionally because for people like Meier, or myself, or even Greenwald, who grew up in the blue-leaning media ecosystem, there’s nothing more ominous professionally than being accused of aiding the cause of Trump or the right-wing. It not only implies intellectual unseriousness, but racism, sexism, reactionary meanness, greed, simple wrongness, and a long list of other hideous/evil characteristics that could render a person unemployable in the regular press. The label of “Trump-defender” isn’t easily removed, so most media people will go far out of their way to avoid even accidentally incurring it.

…

The consistent pattern with the Trump-era press, which also happens to be the subject of so many of those Greenwald stories the Beast and the Intercept employees are complaining about, is that information that is true but doesn’t cut the right way politically is now routinely either non-reported or actively misreported.

Whether it’s Hunter Biden’s laptop or the Brian Sicknick affair or infamous fictions like the “find the fraud” story, the public increasingly now isn’t getting the right information from the bulk of the commercial press corps. That doesn’t just hurt Trump and conservatives, it misinforms the whole public. As Thomas Frank just pointed out in The Guardian, the brand of politicized reporting that informed the lab-leak fiasco risks obliterating the public’s faith in a whole range of institutions, a disaster that would not be borne by conservatives alone.

But this is only a minor point, compared to the more immediate reason the constant accusations of treachery and Trumpism aimed at dissenters should be ignored.

From the embrace of oligarchical censorship to the aggressive hawking of “noble lies” like Russiagate to the constant humbugging of Enlightenment values like due process to the nonstop scolding of peasants unschooled in the latest academic jargon, the political style of the modern Democratic mainstream isn’t just elitist and authoritarian, it’s almost laughably off-putting. In one moment it’s cheering for a Domestic War on Terror and in the next, declaring war on a Jeopardy contestant flashing the “A-OK” sign. It’s Dick Cheney meets Robin DiAngelo, maybe the most loathsome conceivable admixture. Who could be surprised a politically diverse group finds it obnoxious?

During the Trump years conventional wisdom didn’t just take aim at Trumpism. The Beltway smart set used the election of Trump to make profound arguments against traditional tenets of democracy, as well as “populism,” (which increasingly became synonymous with “the unsanctioned exercise of political power by the unqualified”), and various liberal traditions undergirding the American experiment. Endless permutations of the same argument were made over and over. Any country in which a Trump could be elected had a “too much democracy” problem, the “marketplace of ideas” must be a flawed model if it leads to people choosing Trump, the “presumption of innocence” was never meant to apply to the likes of Trump, and so on.

…

By last summer, after the patriotic mania of Russiagate receded, the newest moral panic that the kente-cloth-clad Schumers and Pelosis were suddenly selling, in solidarity with famed progressive change agents like Bank of America, PayPal, Apple, ComCast, and Alphabet, was that any nation capable of electing Trump must always have been a historically unredeemable white supremacist construct, the America of the 1619 Project. The original propaganda line was that “half” of Trump supporters were deplorable racists, then it was all of them, and then, four years in, the whole country and all its traditions were deemed deplorable.

Now, when the statues of Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt came down, there was a new target, separate and apart from Trump. The whole history of American liberalism was indicted as well, denounced as an ineffectual trick of the oppressor, accomplishing nothing but giving legitimacy to racial despotism.

The American liberalism I knew growing up was inclusive, humble, and democratic. It valued the free exchange of ideas among other things because a central part of the liberal’s identity was skepticism and doubt, most of all about your own correctitude. Truth was not a fixed thing that someone owned, it was at best a fleeting consensus, and in our country everyone, down to the last kook, at least theoretically got a say. We celebrated the fact that in criminal courts, we literally voted to decide the truth of things.

This new elitist politics of the #Resistance era (I won’t ennoble it by calling it liberalism) has an opposite view. Truth, they believe, is properly guarded by “experts” and “authorities” or (as Jon Karl put it) “serious people,” who alone can be trusted to decide such matters as whether or not the Hunter Biden laptop story can be shown to the public. A huge part of the frustration that the general public feels is this sense of being dictated to by an inaccessible priesthood, whether on censorship matters or on the seemingly daily instructions in the ear-smashing new vernacular of the revealed religion, from “Latinx” to “birthing persons.”

In the tone of these discussions is a constant subtext that it’s not necessary to ask the opinions of ordinary people on certain matters. As Plato put it, philosophy is “not for the multitude.” The plebes don’t get a say on speech, their views don’t need to be represented in news coverage, and as for their political choices, they’re still free to vote — provided their favorite politicians are removed from the Internet, their conspiratorial discussions are banned (ours are okay), and they’re preferably all placed under the benevolent mass surveillance of “experts” and “professionals.”

Add the total absence of a sense of humor and the inability of “moral clarity” politics to co-exist with any form of disagreement, and there’s a reason why traditional liberals are suddenly finding it easier to talk with old conservative rivals on Fox than the new authoritarian Snob-Lords at CNN, MSNBC, the Daily Beast or The Intercept. For all their other flaws, Fox types don’t fall to pieces and write group letters about their intolerable suffering and “trauma” if forced to share a room with someone with different political views. They’re also not terrified to speak their minds, which used to be a virtue of the American left (no more).

From the moment Donald Trump was elected, popular media began denouncing a broad cast of characters deemed responsible. Nativists, misogynists and racists were first in line, but from there they started adding new classes of offender: Greens, Bernie Bros, “both-sidesers,” Russia-denialists, Intellectual dark-webbers, class-not-racers, anti-New-Normalers, the “Substackerati,” and countless others, casting every new group out with the moronic admonition that they’re all really servants of the “far right” and “grifters” (all income earned in service of non-#Resistance politics is “grifting”). By now conventional wisdom has denounced everyone but its own little slice of aristocratic purity as the “far right.”

[davidmann95]

"Infinite Frontier": has DC actually learned anything and will things actually be better?

‘Learned anything’ might not be the right way of putting it, because this doesn’t seem to be a refinement on anything they’ve done before so much as - as Bleeding Cool speculated in November (that’s a donotlink so go ahead and check it out) - laying the groundwork for a much bigger shift a little ways down the road to fully digital-first titles collected in trades and only a handful of remaining regular periodicals centered around the biggest marquee names and aimed more at bookstore and supermarket audiences than the comics direct market, presumably alongside OGNs and some prestige/Black Label material. They’re consolidating their titles around recognizable names, making a Walmart-style anthology a tentpole Batman title and experimenting with fewer but thicker monthly comics with backups, and slapping relatively few #1s on even major shifts like Bendis/Marquez on Justice League which would seem to suggest the BIG change is still to come. For now, and again this seems to line up with this being the endgame, the goal seems less than a handful of remarkable titles than linewide consistency; few if any of these books are going to end up all-time classics even if there are several standouts, but even the worst of the bunch look merely tepid rather than total disasters in the making, and in that regard it feels like the improved version of the basic Rebirth creative ethos. They’re here to button up their shirts, demonstrate some professionalism and competence, and prove they can make a model aimed outside the Wednesday Warriors work.

Anonymous said: You know how you wanted Superman writers to start harping on how “he’s just a regular guy” and do cosmic space god Superman? Apparently PKJ has said he plans to do exactly that with Superman in his run. Also seems like Jon will get one of the main books and Clark will take over the other, so Bendis won’t be writing him, he’ll be written by PKJ or Lewis most likely. Interview is on Coliseum of Comics YT channel.

Anonymous said: I don’t think Bendis is writing Hon as Superman. Given that FS seems to be dictating the direction of the line, Lewis or Watters seem more likely for that job. Would prefer either of them, they’re both good indie workers.

Between tweets, this interview that I’ve had relayed to me by a friend, and new solicit material: the plan seems to be that PKJ will only be handling both Superman and Action Comics for about a year, and after a big Action story illustrated by Mikel Janin he’ll remaining on that while Superman goes to someone else. And with very pointed notes that there should be space for both Clark and Jon ‘between the two books’, Jon standing in front of Clark in multiple promotional images, and Superman #29′s mention of “a new Superman”, it seems likely that Jon will in fact be taking on the title himself in the present along with Superman proper (probably as you said with Lewis or maybe Watters - if it’s not a self-contained future book I doubt Bendis is doing it after all) while Clark and PKJ remaining on Action. He even apparently said he was involved with the original 5G plans as they morphed into Future State, and that stuff from that is going to continue to be mined: between this and the Future State Batman being in the Infinite Frontier group shot along with Yara Flor Wonder Girl and the Flash of Future State: Suicide Squad, I think we’re gonna see a lot of legacy characters taking over in the present and that’s when we’ll see the big new wave of #1s absent here (probably paired with some cosmic type like Waverider or Spectre going “events are happening earlier than they were ordained!”). I’d go so far as to guess the digital first vs. few remaining periodicals will be divided between the new generation heroes and ‘classic’ material, though which is which would depend on DC’s priorities and which they feel would be best serviced where.

Further thoughts on the books outside my previous immediate initial takes now that full solicits are out:

* Is Justice League just being used as a catch-all for all the stuff the other ‘Infinite’ branded covers didn’t cover, or is this indicative that Bendis/Marquez Justice League will rope in a lot of characters beyond its immediate cast, given the big DCU group shot for this line was already on Infinite Frontier proper? The solicit mentions Flash for instance being part of the team even though he’s only on this cover, not the main one.

* That Superman Red & Blue is being launched alongside this - with further King stuff in the works for Black Label too - would seem to suggest that DC’s actively going to continue putting together prestige works, rather than putting those entirely by the wayside in favor of the mass-market stuff. There was word awhile back that Black Label might be going under as part of this shift, so glad that a place for a more creatively free approach seems to be remaining intact. Also they got the Final Fantasy logo guy to do a Superman cover, so cool!

* Ok, so it’s a new Swamp Thing altogether, along with more next generation stuff maybe that’ll be an in for me.

* Oh thank god the Batman logo is finally good again after a decade. Not exactly excited though for these Williamson backups with Damian, even should him seeming to rejoin Talia turn out to be a misdirect.

* “In the aftermath of Dark Nights: Death Metal, catch a glimpse of brave new worlds within the DC Universe...but what are these strange planets? As we delve into the parallel lives of the Man of Steel and the Dark Knight, we'll meet new villains, new heroes, alternate realities, and a transdimensional collision that you will need to see to believe! It's the dastardly debut of a cadre of new villains, including the Spider Lady and her poisonous webs, Dr. Atom, who sports a Kryptonite pendant, and the maniacal machinations of the Unknown Wizard! You've never seen Batman and Superman like this before—so buckle up and get ready for the start of a new era courtesy of writer Gene Luen Yang and artist Ivan Reis!” THIS IS EVERYTHING I WANT FROM COMICS, INJECT IT INTO EVERY VEIN IN MY BODY. I assume this is where we’ll see Calvin Ellis given his presence on the Infinite Frontier cover? And is Reis gonna stick around, or will it be a different artist each issue for this multiverse story?

* Spoilers for the apparent new Wonder Woman status quo behind rot13: Fb rfcrpvnyyl nsgre ure nccnerag qrzvfr va Qrngu Zrgny naq gur pbfzvp fgnaqneq frg ol Vzzbegny Jbaqre Jbzna, vg frrzrq bqq gur svefg fgbel ol gur fnzr grnz gnxvat bire ure obbx jnf tbvat gb or nobhg ure svtugvat Ivxvatf. Ohg ab, fur'f va Inyunyyn, orpnhfr fur'f nccneragyl nyy nobhg fbyivat TBQ CEBOYRZF abj. Tbq, cyrnfr yrg guvf grnz fgvpx nebhaq naq svanyyl znxr guvf obbx nyy vg fubhyq or.

* And as one era begins, another ends with Grant Morrison’s alleged final DC comics arriving on the same day in March with Wonder Woman: Earth One Volume 3 and The Green Lantern Season Two #12.

[bisexualsforprompto]

Worth Chapter Four

“Oh Lila! Do you think Damian Wayne will be on the tour today?!” Rose asked after Kay and Marinette left the lobby. Lila smiled, ‘back in business’.

“Oh my Damidear is so busy, he sadly doesn’t have enough time.” Rose deflated a little. Alya shook her head, “You deserve better girl.”

Lila put her hand on Alya’s shoulder, “Oh no Alya! Damian’s amazing, he even wants to marry me someday. He gave me a promise ring,” she lied as she flashed her pearly whites. “Unfortunately I had to leave it at home, too many unsavory characters like Marinette would try to take it from me.”

Alya shook her head, “I can’t believe that girl, especially what she just said to you. Could she have been more rude?”

Lila sighed and put an over dramatic hand to her forehead, “I just don’t know what I ever did to make her hate me!” Alya patted her shoulder sympathetically, “There, there girl. Trust me Mari-“

“Oh my god!!!” Exclaimed Kim as he pointed out the window. Lila frowned as more people gathered towards Kim. She started seething, they should be paying attention to her. She spun around crossing her arms to see Alya had crossed to the window too.

“No way!” The Ladyblogger shouted as she peered out the window. Lila sashayed over to see what all the fuss was about only to see Marinette of all people get in-

“A limousine!” Rose squealed.

‘How on Earth did Marinette get a limousine to pick her up?!’ Lina fumed. Lila lit up, an idea.

“I can’t believe Marinette would do that!” Lila cried, waiting for all eyes to be on her, “She knew the Waynes were sending me a special limousine! I was gonna bring all of you! It was supposed to be a surprise, but Marinette hi jacked it!” She started to wail as the class she had wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger ran to comfort her.

“First she insults you, now this!” Alya huffed as she started to walk outside, “I’m going to give her a piece of my mind. My bestie is totally out of line!” Lila started to panic, she tugged on Alya’s shirt bringing her back into her circle of followers.

“No wait! It’s too late now! Look they’re driving away!” Lila said, the class could’ve sworn she sounded almost relieved as the limousine drove past.

“That girl is gonna pay.” Alya depanned as she punched her fist into her hand. Lila smiled deviously, ‘You won’t know what hit you Marinette Dupain-Cheng.’

•~•~•~•~•~•~•

“God you’re such an attention whore!” Kay yelled teasingly at her once blonde girlfriend. Chloé tossed her hair and patted her girlfriend on the head, “You say that like it’s a bad thi-“

“See what I have to deal with Alfred!” Kay interjected as she giggled while Chloé started tickling her. “Hey! Hey! Cut that out!” Marinette sighed and smiled lightly as she shook her head at her dorky best friends.

“So Miss Marinette,” Alfred started keeping his eyes glued on the road while the couple stayed in their own little world, “How are you liking Gotham so far?”

Marinette smiled at Alfred’s politeness. “I haven’t seen much, but from what I’ve gotten to see, it’s beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking. I’m a bit of an amateur designer and this city is full of inspiration.” She heard Chloe scoff beside her, “Amateur?! Alfred, this girl has designed for the Gabriel Agreste, my...my mother even wanted to take her on.” Chloé remarked, wincing at the thought of her mother. Kay put a sympathetic hand on her girlfriend’s shoulder, “It’s ok.” She whispered softly into her ear. “Yeah! Mari is so good! She designed the costumes for the movie my mom is directing!” Kay exclaimed, beaming in pride at her closest friend.

Marinette blushed and smiled softly, “Thanks guys.” Chloé rilled her eyes and muttered, “Amateur, ridiculous utterly ridiculous.”

“As much as I’ve enjoyed meeting your friend and seeing Miss Bourgeois again,” Alfred started as he pulled in front of a tall sleek building, “It would appear, Miss Kay, that we have arrived.” Marinette’s eyes widened as she instinctively reached for her sketchbook, “this is Wayne Enterprises?” She asked bewildered.

“Indeed it is Miss Marinette. Oh! Master Damian and Master Dick will be waiting in the lobby.”

•~•~•~•~•~•~•

“TT.” Damian complained as he folded his arms.

“Hush baby bird!” Dick exclaimed, beaming, as he ruffled Damian’s hair causing the boy to glare at him. “The French class should be here soon and I’m sure they don’t want a grumpy sourpus on their tour.”

“I’m not grumpy.” Damian brooded. Dick let out a chuckle, “Sure thing baby bird.” Damian scowled. “Oh lighten up! Besides, your cousin is gonna be here!”

“Khan is not my cousin.” Dick rolled his eyes, “Friend, whatever, same difference.”

“What gave you the impression that Khan of all people was my friend?” Damian asked as he faced his brother with an icy glare. “Really baby bird?” Dick laughed, “She's the only one you hang out with aside from the Teen- your team and Jon.” Dick said putting an arm around his brother which Damian promptly shoved away, “Not to mention she’s not even a hero and you still chose to spend time with her.” Dick finished in a low whisper.

“Kaylené is tolerable.” Damian said, resigned. “Oh all of a sudden she’s Kaylené?” Dick teased.

“Shut up.” Damian stated, “and I’m surprised you’re so happy.” Dick furrowed his brows, “Why's that?”

“Because you forgot who’s practically attached to her hip. You know wherever Khan is, Bourgeois is not far behind.” Dick’s eyes bulged, “Oh sh-“

•~•~•~•~•~•

“By the way Chloé, why is Dick so afraid of you?” Kay asked casually as they began to walk towards the building. Chloé smirked, “Oh don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Chloé patted Kay’s head as the curly brown haired girl cocked her head to the side. Kay was still wondering.

Marinette didn’t want to know.

“Ahhh. Wayne Enterprises!” Chloé exclaimed tossing her hair, “My home away from home.” Kay chuckled at her girlfriend’s flamboyance.

“Thought I was your home away from home.” She teased as they pushed open the glass doors into the building. Chloé scoffed tossing her hair once more, “Don't be ridiculous,” she said rolling her eyes, “You are my home.”

“Get a room.” Said a lanky tall boy with black hair and blue eyes. He had just walked up to a man who shared his same features but was more buff and a short boy who with copper skin and green eyes.

“Timikins!” Chloé exclaimed as she embraced the man. The buff man next to him shied away in fear while the smaller one rolled his eyes. Wearing a dazzling smile, the one looking the eldest of the three walked up and hugged Kay.

“How’s my favorite cousin doing?” The eldest man asked with a grin. Kay smiled cheekily as the man rubbed her hair playfully. “Great! Thanks for waking us up Dick!” The smallest boy, the one next to Dick, was scowling with his lips slightly upturned like he was hiding a smile.

“Mari meet Damian!” Kay said as she gestured to the green-eyed boy.

“Nice to meet you.” Marinette said extending her hand.

“TT.” Dick shot Damian a glare. “Nice to meet you too,” he grumbled. Dick smiled at her apologetically. Tim and Chloé separated and walked over to the group gathered in the Wayne Enterprises lobby.

“How long do we have until your intolerable classmates arrive?” Damian asked sharply. Dick winced and Tim let out a sigh. Kay frowned lightly.

“Don’t worry about them!” Chloé said waving off the subject that Kay was not comfortable with. Marinette got slightly worried when she saw the smirk on Chloé’s face. She got really worried when Chloé’s expression twisted into a mischievous grin. “Worry more about your new girlfriend over here.” Marinette face palmed as Chloé gestured to her. Kay smiled.

“My what?” Spat Damian drilling holes into Marinette’s skull.

“Kay ships you too.” Chloé said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I don’t speak fandom.”

“Oh my god yes!” Dick squealed. “It’s perfect! My brother and MDC!” Marinette’s eyes widened, “You recognized me?!” She sputtered. Dick nodded his head wildly,

“Oh you’re practically family already!” He said bringing her in for a bone crushing hug. Stoneheart’s grip had nothing on Dick Grayson.

“TT.” Damian pouted. Dick pulled away from Marinette sheepishly.

“My otp will sail!” Kay exclaimed as she fist pumped Dick.

“I don’t have enough coffee to deal with this.” Tim said rubbing his temples and walking up the stairs he had come down from.

“This is gonna be awesome!” Kay practically shouted as she and Dick beamed at each other’s newly found common interest.

Of course right on cue, Lila Rossi entered the room sending all happiness crumbling down.

Taglist (I’m on mobile so I got cut off at 50, but I’ll get the rest of you):

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