#somebody save jon!

[greensaplinggrace]

unfortunately i'm like 160 episodes into tma and still don't get the obsession with martin. like i don't hate him but also- literally every other character and relationship is more interesting. also fanon version of him sucks lol. canon version of him is actually appealing to me in some ways, but considering fanon martin makes 90% of tma fic unreadable, i'm not too stoked about even having him tagged half the time.

[adriheavymetal]

[spooksier]

jonathan sims........

oh my god guys.

[cherrrydragon]

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: HOME

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SUMMARY ↳ Home is where the heart is. Tony's eyes study you carefully. "You sure you're okay?" "I'm home, Tony," is all you say." pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: none wc: 3.2k

all of your replies from last chapter really made me chuckle, glad to see that the writing hit like it was supposed to lol

Miguel refuses to let you go anywhere without getting checked out by somebody. A Spider-Doctor looks you over, poking and prodding at you. She asks you a bunch of questions, some miniscule and some strange.

“Does it hurt when I press here?”

“Is your vision blurry?”

“Does your body feel different on an atomic level?”

She deems you good to go. Your friends are all waiting for you outside the office. Miguel immediately hands you a Web-Watch before stalking off somewhere (grump, you swear). It feels heavenly in your grip. Man, how you missed it. You quickly wear it, placing it just under your web-shooters. The weight of it is reassuring.

With a glance at your friends, you feel a surge of gratitude for their unwavering support. “I should…”

Peter smiles, waving you off. “Go, kid.” The rest of them nod encouragingly. You almost want to cry at their understanding expressions. The watch beeps as you put in your destination. That familiar hum of the universe greets you as the portal opens up. With one last wave to them, you enter it.

Earth-143258

Queens, New York.

Home. You’re finally home.

You breathe in the air. It’s night time now. Avengers tower stands tall, a lighthouse providing a way home. The cool night air swirls around you, carrying with it echoes of past memories. You decide you’ll walk there.

As you walk through the familiar streets, the city feels simultaneously unchanged and yet subtly different. The sounds of the city—distant traffic, people chatting, the occasional siren—blend with the comforting hum of all that New York is.

The familiar sights and sounds evoke visuals, reminding you of the countless times you've swung through these very streets, fighting crime and protecting the innocent.

Passing by old haunts and familiar landmarks, your heart swells with a mix of nostalgia and determination. You catch glimpses of everyday life—families out for an evening stroll, street vendors closing up shop, and the occasional patrol car passing by. Each step feels like a reunion with a part of yourself that you've missed during your time away.

Avengers Tower looms ahead, its imposing silhouette against the night sky serving as a beacon of hope and security. With each stride, you feel more grounded, more connected to this world than ever before. As you approach the entrance to the main lobby, you pause for a moment, taking in the scene before stepping inside.

“Welcome home, [Name],” greets FRIDAY. It sounds like she’s smiling. The warmth in her voice is noticeable, almost as if the building itself is happy to see you return. The spacious, modern interior of the lobby feels like a sanctuary, a place where you've spent countless hours.

“Where’s… where’s everyone?”

“Would you like me to tell them you’re here?”

You swallow. “No, can you just. Can you tell me where they are?”

FRIDAY's voice, smooth and comforting, responds immediately, "Of course. Tony is in his lab, working on a new project. Natasha and Clint are in the training room, sparring. Steve is in the gym, and Bruce is in the kitchen.”

You nod, feeling a mix of relief and anticipation. It’s been too long since you’ve seen them, but you need a moment to gather yourself before facing even one of them. After a few moments of reflection, you stand up, feeling more grounded. It’s time to reconnect with your team, your family. You decide to head to the lab first. You have to see Tony first.

The lab is a hive of activity, filled with the hum of machinery and the soft glow of various screens. The familiar sights and sounds embrace you like a well-worn glove. Tony is hunched over a workbench, tinkering with what looks like a new piece of tech. For a moment, you simply watch him, the flickering lights casting shadows on his face.

“Hey, Tony,” you call out softly, your voice carrying a mix of emotions.

Tony freezes, pausing his work. He turns around slowly, and for a heartbeat, his expression is unreadable. “I’ve officially gone crazy. I’m seeing things.”

You step further into the lab, your heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and excitement. Tony's gaze remains fixed on you, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to discern whether you're real or a figment of his imagination.

You chuckle softly, trying to ease the tension. "If you're seeing things, then we both are, because I'm definitely standing right here."

Tony sets down his tools, his eyes scrutinizing. "Well, I'll be damned. Look who decided to drop back in from the multiverse." His sass seems infinite.

He strides over, and before you know it, you're enveloped in a bear hug that speaks volumes of relief and genuine affection. "You’re here," he murmurs, his voice gruff and wavering. “You came back.”

You smile, eyes watering. “Miss me?”

“Every damn day,” he replies fiercely. “It’s been months, kid.”

Your heart tightens at his words, and suddenly the dam breaks. A choked sob escapes you without your permission. You bury yourself deeper in Tony’s embrace. Tony only holds you tighter. The weight of everything comes crashing down on account of you finally letting go of everything you’ve been holding in for far too long.

Tony feels like a lifeline, grounding you in a flood of emotions built up. You’ve longed to feel this safe since you first landed in the other universe. His silent reassurance speaks volumes. There is no need for words in this moment, only the warmth in familiarity.

Tony doesn’t pull back until you do, brushing a hand down your face to wipe away your tears. “You wanna go see the others?”

You nod, feeling a rush of gratitude for Tony's understanding as you sniffle. Tony asks FRIDAY to gather your folk into the common room. He fills the silence with mindless chatter about what’s happened since you’ve been away—small little missions here and there, new tech he demanded Miguel to learn about.

“Oh, I’ve gotta let Wanda and Strange know you’re back. Wanda especially has been a little restless.”

“You asked them for help?”

He looks at you. “You were suddenly stranded in the multiverse. Why wouldn’t I?”

Your legs feel so numb you’re not sure how they still work. “Right.” A realization overwhelms you with a sense of belonging. It’s a feeling you haven’t felt in a while.

When you enter the common room, a wave of nostalgia hits you. You just want to sink into the comfy couches and take a three year nap. It feels like stepping back into a cherished memory. Natasha and Clint are already there, looking up as you and Tony walk in. Natasha’s eyes widen imperceptibly, you’re surprised you catch it. Clint’s usual expression breaks into a warm smile.

“Hey, stranger,” Clint says, voice barely above a whisper. His smile is warm, genuine, and it feels like coming home.

“We were starting to think you were avoiding us.” Natasha’s steps toward you are careful and coordinated, everything about her is. But her eyes are softened.

You manage a watery laugh. “Missed you guys too.”

Natasha is the first to move, closing the distance between you with her characteristic grace. She wraps you in a hug that is both gentle and firm, conveying unspoken words of relief and joy. It surprised you greatly, her willingness to openly show affection like this.  Clint follows suit, patting you on the back with a warm hand.

“Steve’s on his way,” Natasha says, stepping back but keeping a hand on your shoulder. “He’s been worried sick.”

Bruce arrives next, hair messy. His eyes dart around the room, landing on you. He breathes a sigh of disbelief, crossing the room to get to you. Bruce's hug is tentative at first, as if he's afraid you might disappear. But when he feels the solid warmth of your form, his grip tightens.

“Hey, kid.” It’s all you need to hear. You smile and wrap your arms around him. 

“Hi.”

Before long, Steve bursts into the room, his expression a mixture of disbelief and joy. His eyes widen slightly when he sees you, and for a moment, he seems rooted to the spot. Then, with a few long strides, he closes the distance between you.. “You’re really here,” he says, pulling you into a hug that almost lifts you off your feet.

You return the hug with equal fervor, feeling the tension and weight of your absence melt away in the embrace of your friends, your family. “Where’s Bucky?”

“Currently breaking several traffic laws to get here,” he chuckles, letting you go reluctantly. 

“And Pepper?” you ask Tony, looking over Steve’s shoulder at him.

Tony blinks. “FRIDAY, please tell Pepper [Name]’s back.” You roll your eyes, not really surprised. “She’s out right now,” Tony says, giving a winning smile. “Nevermind that, let’s throw a party.”

Chuckles fill the room as Tony rounds behind the bar. Typical Tony, ever the partygoer. “Can I drink too?”

Tony squints at you, so you pull out the puppy eyes. “Come on, I deserve it. I was so far from home,” you pout. 

“One drink. One,” he points at you, turning to grab you a bottle to pour.

“They’re not legal, Tony–” cuts in Steve, because of course.

“Don’t be a party pooper, Cap.” Tony passes you your drink. You grin at Steve as you sip it. “You’re a bit of a rule breaker yourself.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head in mock disapproval as he takes a seat nearby. You imagine a warm blanket settling on you after a long night. Everyone gathers around, sharing stories and catching up on what has transpired during your absence.

Sam shows up with Bucky, walking towards you with a grin and his arms out. You don’t think you’ve ever received so many hugs in one night before. Bucky awkwardly pats your head, then pokes it for “leaving us so long.”

Wanda shows up next, dragging Vision behind her. She smiles widely upon seeing you, looking a little wistful. You kind of wish the drinks you’d been sneaking could take effect. Cursed super metabolism. Too many emotions have been felt tonight.

"Wanda," you say warmly, reaching out to embrace her. She returns the hug with a heartfelt squeeze, her voice tinged with relief. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

Vision nods, a faint smile on his lips as he greets you warmly. Wanda’s eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she embraces you tightly, whispering how much she missed you. “Strange sends his regards,” sniffles Wanda, fondly brushing her fingers against your forehead.

The doors to the common room slide open again, and this time, it's Pepper who walks in. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of you standing there, and she rushes forward, enveloping you in a tight hug. "I can't believe it," she murmurs, her voice trembling with emotion. "Welcome home."

You feel your heart squeeze. You would’ve thought she wouldn’t be able to meet you tonight, since she had prior plans, but here she is. For you.

Throughout the night, amidst the laughter and shared stories, you find yourself reconnecting not just with your friends (read: family), but with a part of yourself that had felt lost. Tony asks FRIDAY to play your favorite song. 

Tony's eyes study you carefully. "You sure you're okay?"

“I’m home, Tony,” is all you say.

He seems to relax at that, nodding slowly. “You are, and we’re not letting you out of our sight anytime soon."

The night outside is calm, New York’s lights twinkling like stars. The moment feels precious. You wish you had your camera to capture it.

Your camera that was gifted to you back in the other universe.

Hm.

You're fingers start to fidget with your green and blue bracelet.

Eventually, the revelry winds down. Everyone bids their goodnights, and you find yourself standing on the balcony of Avengers Tower, gazing out at the cityscape that stretches before you.

The night air is cool against your skin, carrying with it a sense of peace and contentment. You take a deep breath, letting the moment wash over you. In the quiet of the night, with the city bustling below, you feel a renewed sense of self.

You will all your worries away. You’re right where you need to be. You’re heart must truly lie here.

You find that your room is the same as you left—comfortable, familiar, and filled with reminders of your life here. Pictures litter the walls, ones of you, of your friends, you with your friends. The bed is inviting, and you collapse onto it, exhaustion mingling with the exhilaration of being back home.

You reach for your Web-Watch, now resting beside you on the bedside table. It's a tangible reminder of where you've been and where you are now. In the other universe, you felt like you were constantly flying. Never a moment’s rest. At the very least, you were flying with people you liked.

But here, in this room, surrounded by mementos and the quiet hum of the city outside, you feel grounded. This is your home, your family, and they've welcomed you back with open arms. 

No matter, now you just want to sleep. You nestle into the softness of the pillows, allowing the weariness of your journey and the emotional release to finally catch up with you. Your thoughts are a jumble of faces and voices, memories and new beginnings.

Sleep comes easily, cradling you in its embrace as you drift off into a deep, restful slumber. 

Gwen’s Earth has always been pretty. Soft hues captivate you. It’s a world where the sky seems perpetually painted in pastels, casting a serene glow over the city below. Since you dipped on them last time to go home, they’ve decided that today is hang out time.

It’s always a sort of dance, swinging with the others. You and Gwen are more effortless in your grace, Pav comes close. The two of you twirl around each other, feeling the rush of wind and the freedom of the swing. The cityscape blurs past, a vibrant tapestry of lights and shadows.

“Show offs!” yells Miles, a ways behind you. Gwen's laughter rings out beside you, a melody of happiness that lifts your spirits even higher. The two of you share a glance, matching grins under your masks.

Miles zips past with a playful whoop, joining in the aerial dance with his own unique flair. He’s getting faster with his swinging. Hobie passes by as well, bumping you with his shoulder teasingly. You all swing through the cityscape, weaving between skyscrapers and navigating the intricate web of New York's skyline. 

As the night winds down, you find yourselves perched atop a familiar rooftop, looking out over the city sprawled beneath you. The lights of the city twinkle like stars, a breathtaking sight that never fails to inspire awe.

"I missed you guys," you admit, the words carrying a weight of sentimentality. "Being here, with all of you."

“Awe,” coos Pav, hands squishing his cheeks.

Miles grins, nudging you playfully. "You’re the one that disappeared on us.”

You laugh, feeling a surge of gratitude for these friends who have become your family across dimensions. "I promise, no more disappearing acts without warning."

With a final glance at the city below, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. In this moment, you’re surrounded by friends who care about you. Who could ask for more?

Together, you watch the sunrise paint the sky in hues of orange and pink, a new day dawning over the city that never sleeps.

“So…” hums Gwen, hands behind her back. You raise an eyebrow at her. “What was it like?”

You shake your head good-naturedly at her. Pav nods at her, looking at you. “Yeah, what did you do there?”

“Well for starters,” you clap your hands together, turning to face them all. “You guys got DC comics in your universe?”

“Like, Superman and stuff?” ask Miles.

You nod. He blinks. “No way.”

“Yes way,” you chuckle at their reactions, enjoying the disbelief on their faces. “Yeah, and guess where I landed.”

“Central City?”

“Themyscira!”

“Metropolis?”

You suck in air through your teeth dramatically. “Gotham.” They share a wince. Seems about right. "It's like someone took the grittiest, darkest parts of New York and turned them up to eleven," you explain, gesturing animatedly. "Never a dull moment. You've got Batman and the whole Batfamily running around. Don’t go to a carnival because Poison Ivy will attack it.”

Gwen raises an eyebrow. "Wait, you hung out with the Batfamily?"

You nod. “Yeah, I got like, initiated. I got myself enrolled in school, and Damian Wayne got involved. That snowballed into me getting involved with their superhero world, ‘cause you know, I wasn’t gonna stop being Spinnerette.”

Hobie fist bumps you in agreement. “Met Superboy, he’s a real sweetie. Consequently met his parents, and holy shit, Lois Lane is so cool.” Gwen nods hard in agreement. “I also technically made history when I remade Tony Stark's new element.”

You shrug at their stares. “I was trying to build a watch to get back home!” you defend, then turn to Hobie. “Which, by the way, you have to teach me how you did it. I’d rather not get stranded again, thank you.”

“Sounds like you had a blast over there,” teases Gwen, hooking her arm around you.

You scoff. “Once I got past the looming realization that I could be stuck there forever and never see my friends and family again, sure.” It’s a joke, but not really. “It was a bit unfair, I guess. I knew just about everything about them and they knew nothing about me. But I did… make friends there.”

“Just friends?” Pav leans in. You gulp, remembering what happened just before Miguel found you.

“Just friends,” you huff, shoving Pav back playfully. “Damian’s about as complicated as you’d expect, but he’s a good friend. Touchier than I thought he’d be. Intense, blunt, but still kind. And Jon’s… Jon’s Jon,” you continue, thinking back on your life in Gotham. “Real sweet, like I said. Earnest, kind, and desperately needs some brown contacts,” you chuckle fondly. “They’ve got a dynamic going on. But they’re also… just people. Like us.”

“Sounds like a really crazy telenovela,” hums Miles.

“Trust me, it was,” you agree, thinking of the rollercoaster of emotions and events you experienced. “But it was also… eye-opening. I learned a lot about myself, about what I’m capable of, and about what really matters to me.”

You lean back on your hands. “I just hope everything's okay. I kind of just… left.”

“You wanna go back?”

You hesitate, considering the question carefully. “Part of me does. I left things unfinished. But another part of me…” You glance at your friends, feeling a swell of warmth in your chest. “Another part of me knows that this is where I belong. With you guys. With my family.”

“Damn right,” says Gwen, punching you lightly in the arm.

“They don’t need me, anyway. I just hope they’re not too worried.” The sunrise bathes the rooftop in golden light, casting long shadows and warming the cool morning air. You take a deep breath, feeling at peace with your decision. For now, in this moment, you’re exactly where you need to be.

notes: if you don't know, '143' is slang for 'i love you', each number corresponds to the number of letter in each word of the phrase. reader's universe, earth-143258 means 'i love you in every universe', same rules.

[chosomindslave]

What artist does the JJK characters listen to?

Summary: stated it the title

Genre: very informative

Satoru Gojo🧿: 100% rod wave. idk what be wrong with Gojo but I just feel it in my CORE he listens to rod wave vigorously. Trust whenever Ijichi is chauffeuring you two you’re either gonna hear Turks and Caicos or Heart on ice… something is wrong with him seriously…

Suguru Geto🐵: mfer don’t listen to music 😞. He prolly only hear it as monkeys making their distinctive sounds…

Kento Nanami🥖: The Jacksons… (Michael Jackson, Janet Jackson, etc) idk Nanami gives off grown man vibes but not grown man Kevin Gates vibes. I could see him listening to Janet Jackson, or even En Vogue… yk he’s really just that bitch. He probably listens to artists like Joe and Jon B also, you never know, but I can say one thing for sure , HE HAS TASTE

Choso Kamo🩸: it’s really whatever Itadori is listening to at the moment, he doesn’t have an exact preference

Yuuji Itadori👊🏽: Ice Spice, IKIK ITS CRAZY BUT PLSSD don’t sit there and tell me Itadori wouldn’t be walking down the hallways at Jujutsu high saying “like what let’s keep it a buck” NO SERIOUSLY, or “im still shaking ass in the deli” LMAOOOO

Megumi Fushiguro🐕‍🦺: Guns N Roses… look man he had a hard life LMAO but still then yk he just gives off the type to like Rock music, I can see him liking pierce the veil also…

Nobara Kugisaki🔨: SZA , she’s definitely a scissor girly. But even still then I do think she also listens to artist like Ariana Grande. Yesss kwueen

Yuta Okkotsu🗡️: before Africa, most def YONCÉ, but after coming back from Africa all mf hear is war sirens . What the fuck did Gojo have him look for THAT BITCH IS PTSDIFED lord somebody save Yuta

Maki Zenin🦚: girls generation. Idk after I seen that mfn edit with her and Kugisaki I just KNEW she was an snsd fan. BESIDES look at the way she dressed in the movie, and me ready to risk it all for her. SNSD APPROVED

Toge Inumaki📢: Sukihana, Sexy Red and Cupcakke. Look man, this mf a troll you think his top three artists aren’t the cuntiest of all time? His impulsive thoughts take over each time. Just know he ain’t a freak but he listen to nasty asss songs, cs why are you listening to somebody talk about eating niggas ASS?

(tumblr wouldn’t let me add in a gif for him FUCK YOU)

Panda🐼: Lana Del Rey: look man Panda is all about is aesthetic, you can’t tell me mf don’t be having his lil ciggy hanging out his mouth, looking out the window playing Summertime Sadness NEXT

[green-tea-crow]

I'm saving and savoring every episode, because even though I haven't even finished s2, I know I'll only get to hear all of these for the first time once. And god I'm not ready

On a different note I think my heart will burst out of my chest if I don't find somebody with who I can be like Jon is with Martin very soon

[amber-laughs]

how far do you think ned would have gone to hide jon's parentage? e.g. if someone found out would he make them have a little accident so they died or something like that? or do you think he would feel it is too far?

I've thought about this before! I think its one of those questions where most people in the fandom would have a different nuanced answer and none of them would be wrong. So let's start with: Ned has already answered this question (kind of).

"He saw us. You love your children, do you not?" Robert had asked him the very same question, the morning of the melee. He gave her the same answer. "With all my heart." "No less do I love mine." Ned thought, if it came to that, the life of some child I did not know, against Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon, what would I do? Even more so, what would Catelyn do, if it were Jon's life, against the children of her body? He did not know. He prayed he never would. Game of Thrones - Eddard XII

First of all I hate when people use this scene as a “Ned doesn’t see Jon as his son” moment because imo it’s the opposite. He doesn’t list Jon with his bio children but he’s saying he’d react with the same paternal instinct and, unlike Cat, he wouldn’t save them at the expense of Jon. So we have half an answer. Would Ned sacrifice Jon's life for Robb's? No. But would Ned sacrifice anyone life for Robb's? Jon's? Sansa's? etc. We don't know for sure because he doesn't either. But we do have some instances of what happens when Ned feels his family is being threatened.

"A brothel," he said as he seized Littlefinger by the shoulder and spun him around. "You've brought me all this way to take me to a brothel." "Your wife is inside," Littlefinger said. It was the final insult. "Brandon was too kind to you," Ned said as he slammed the small man back against a wall and shoved his dagger up under the little pointed chin beard. A Game of Thrones - Eddard IV

Ned Thinks Catelyn is being disrespected and shoves a dagger to Littlefinger's throat I mean come on!

(...) 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. A Game of Thrones - Catelyn II

Specifically for R+L=J Ned does not like being questioned. He scared Catelyn so bad she didn't bring up Jon's mother again for a least a decade. He presumably scared the servants and soldiers so bad they never mentioned Ashara again.

“Still, she was struck again by how strangely men behaved when it came to their bastards. Ned had always been fiercely protective of Jon.” A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VI

And there we have it. And let's not forget if Robert found out about Jon it's not just him that dies, Ned dies and if Robb takes up arms against them he probably dies too like in the WotFK which is only if nobody Lannister style takes them all out before anyone has time to get that far. So in my personal opinion yes, if somebody found out about R+L=J Ned would do what he needed to do.

[wizardsnorlax]

Spiral Jon driven insane by how no one believes him and everything in his world telling him what he saw and felt and knew wasn’t real

Spiral Jon driven insane by how no one believes him and everything in his world telling him what he saw and felt and knew wasn’t real

Spiral Jon driven insane by how no one believes him and everything in his world telling him what he saw and felt and knew wasn’t real

Spiral Jon driven insane by how no one believes him and everything in his world telling him what he saw and felt and knew wasn’t real

Spiral Jon driven insane by how no one believes him and everything in his world telling him what he saw and felt and knew wasn’t real

Spiral Jon driven insane by how no one believes him and everything in his world telling him what he saw and felt and knew wasn’t real

Web!Martin saving him from the Distortion by telling him he believes him. Web!Martin saving Jon because Jon knows he has a plan and things he does have reason

YES! YOU GET IT! But also: unlike in the main timeline, Spiral Jon has had a taste of positive reinforcement and is even more desperate for approval and needs so many reminders that he has somebody who genuinely and completely cares about him and he did not in fact pull some horrible trick to make Martin like him

[duchess-of-oldtown]

The thing about Stannis that people often forget that he was only 17 when Robert's Rebellion started. His parents are dead, his older brother who was meant to be in charge and head of the family has practically abandoned him with all the responsibilities of being Lord of Storm's End, being head of the family and raising Renly who was 3 or 4 at this time. He's seventeen and all of a sudden he has to make a choice between what he knows is the "right" thing to do which is staying loyal to the Crown or standing with his brother, who he no doubt loves despite his later declaration in ACOK. He's seventeen and there's an army outside the walls, everybody inside those walls has to rely on him when he knows that they really want Robert, he is in charge when doubtless he wants Robert back. He's the one who is meant to be in charge after all, the one with the experience, he's only 17. He has to watch Renly grow thinner and thinner, likely going without food himself just to give Renly an extra mouthful here and there. He has to see people turn on House Baratheon from inside the castle, probably knowing them all his life. He has to punish them or end up looking weak, he can't afford weakness. Not when there are hundreds depending on him. And Robert. He's depending on him too, afterall. Then comes the news that Rhaegar is dead, King's Landing is Robert's and he's King now. Weeks later, Stannis gets news that the Siege is about to be lifted. Doubtless he looks out over the walls and sees who has come to save him. It's not Robert. It's Ned Stark, who Robert went to war with, who Robert sees as a brother, far more than he's ever treated Stannis. And even then Stark has to run off for another duty, leaving Stannis to deal with Storm's Ends recovery. Then when things are settled, the Baratheons unite. Robert has a task for Stannis rather than a thank you or an apology. Stannis grits his teeth and gets on with it. He fails to capture the last Targaryens. He returns only to hear Robert's grumbles. And when comes time for dealing with succession, Renly- who is only a child - gets Storm's End. Stannis gets Dragonstone, the reminder of his failure not his achievements. It breaks Stannis's trust in Robert. In the following years, Robert becomes more and more of a disappointment. He beds Delena Florent at Stannis's wedding ruining the nuptials which are nothing more to Stannis than a political move no doubt recommended by Jon Arryn. He becomes more lazy, more distant, less and less of somebody to look up. To make matters worse, Renly who Stannis protected, starved for and practically raised, still looks up to Robert, pushing Stannis away. By AGOT, Stannis is isolated by his own House, trapped in a loveless marriage, weighed down by duties he never asked for, responsibilities that he has to shoulder because Robert won't, crushed under the knowledge of the Lannister Twincest and its repercussions and he's just been pushed aside again by Ned Stark, this stranger who Robert idolises so much. Its the last straw so he leaves. Months later, Robert is dead, Renly is at the heart of trouble and the Realm is bleeding again. Stannis declares himself King, not only because Melisandre wraps the shroud of messiah around him or he really feels any sort of higher calling or ambition. He does it because that's what he does, he cleaned up Robert's messes, he steps into Robert's shoes and does his duty. Just has he's been doing since he was just a child.

[gerrydelano]

SKINDEEP

Rating: M Words: 13.3k Characters: Jon Sims, Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Danny Stoker, Sasha James, Melanie King, Caroline Brodie, Callum Brodie, Gerry Keay (in memorium)

Relationships: Gerry/Tim, Martin/Danny, Sasha & Tim, Melanie & Caroline Brodie, Danny & Tim

Synopsis: Alternate ending for Pharos by Right (inspired by this anon) where Tim doesn't manage to stop Danny from swinging the hammer while Gerry read the incantation to start the Change — i.e., Gerry is killed to save the world, and then the world goes quiet.

(Actual ending of PBR will commence after posting this because I needed to get it out of my system. Got possessed.)

To those unfamiliar, PBR is my massive Archivist!Gerry series, and this requires the context of most of it, but especially my most recent chapter. If this intrigues you at all, there's 430k more words where this came from!

CWs: Character death; Head trauma; Severe injury; Grief; An intense breakdown ft. drowning imagery; Mention of drug use

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Jon opens his eyes to the sound of screaming, burning, and a loud ringing in his ears. He coughs against the ash in his mouth, halting in his attempt to roll onto his side as his ribs clip a hard object underneath him. He must have been thrown backwards into something when the—

When the bombs went off. The bombs went off. It’s must be over.

But the screaming. Oh, the screaming, it’s louder than the ringing and the burning and the voice that he can almost hear saying shhh, it’s alright, I’m right here! Oh, G-d, somebody help! The voice calls his name. His name is Jon. His name is his name again.

Stiffly, he rises to his elbow and coughs again, his chest sore and his legs weak and oh, G-d, his leg— there’s a gash in his leg, a large one, and he can feel the blood running down into his sock.

His name is called again, and he’s almost afraid to rub soot into his remaining eye even on the off chance that he might clear it and find the source of the sounds, the screaming, the voice. Bleary, he stumbles forward onto his less-injured leg, peering around in the smoke for a shape he might recognize.

There is a shape, tall and upright, but it’s silent. A spire in the fog. Not the source of his name.

He keeps looking. He keeps listening. He crawls.

“Jon, where are you! Judith? Tim! I need help, somebody help me!”

Martin? That’s Martin’s voice, high and desperate and rough with smoke, too, there’s smoke everywhere, they need to get out of here. They need to leave, before the police arrive, before the structure collapses, before—

The screaming has transitioned into bawling, deeply pained cries for help, and only when he finally sees Martin’s shape hunkered over a spasmodic, outstretched body does it click. Danny is hurt. He was hurt in the explosion, and Martin needs help with him. Jon drags himself over to Danny’s other side and reaches out for his arm to find his sleeve wet with blood, but not torn. Danny screams again at the contact of his hand, startling Jon into letting go.

“How—” Jon coughs again. “Where is he hurt, what—”

“I-I don’t— Everywhere!” Martin panics, his hands on Danny’s chest like he’s about to start compressions. He doesn’t, of course, because Danny is horrifically alive, and there is blood seeping through his ringmaster’s jacket like the fabric has just been lain upon a dark puddle.

Jon reaches out for his hem to lift it, earning a smack from Danny’s frantic, bloody hand. He persists. He gasps.

The open wound is a perfect split down the middle of his stomach, disappearing at his groin, and most certainly extending up his chest into a V. He’d heard about the autopsy seams. He could never have imagined they would split open again.

Quickly, Jon lowers the shirt again and presses down on the wound, earning another guttural sound of agony. Martin is weeping but trying not to let it slow him down, trying to pin Danny’s arm to his side with his knees. Jon tries to do the same, but then who will get his legs? They surely go down his legs, too.

“Tim?” he hears himself croak out. “Tim, where are you?”

No answer. He could assume the worst, but he remembers that tall shape and turns around. It’s still there, standing a distance away in utter stillness, like another wax statue that hasn’t been taken down in the blast or a troupe member that refused to be exterminated, but Jon knows that sound. The sound of phantom water.

“Tim!” he shouts. “Tim, come over here and help your brother!”

No answer.

Jon turns around again and waves a hand through the smoke. There is daylight shining through a busted out window, casting beams onto the filthy, ruined floor. Tim is hovering a few yards away, staring down at the ground and soaked to the bone as water pours from the top of his head all the way down his body. He doesn’t look injured — why would he? He’s still clenching his fist around what Jon can only assume is the detonator.

“Tim!” he shouts again. “Tim, we need you to— oh.”

At Tim’s feet, there is a dark pool. It creeps slowly across the floor towards Jon’s own extended shoe, glinting red in the dusty daylight. Jon traces the seeping to its source, and meets Gerry’s open eyes.

“Oh, no… No, no, no.”

The blood is pouring fast from his head, spreading out from under the mess of his hair. His mouth is parted almost in surprise, frozen around an unspoken word, like he’s been interrupted from a dream.

This has to be a dream.

“Jon, could you please focus!”

Jon realizes he’s let go of Danny entirely. Jon stutters back around, stutters his next half-words. Nothing comes of his violent nausea. He almost wishes it would. Maybe it would wake him up.

“I— Martin, Gerry is—”

“I know!” Martin snipes, and then takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I know. I know, and I can’t think about that right now, not when— Danny is still alive, please, help me keep him that way!”

“We need… We need an ambulance, we need… Where’s my phone…?”

Jon pats at himself, feeling the tack of bloody handprints on his clothes as he goes. When he finds his phone, he finds the screen cracked, but it still works when he presses his sticky thumb to the sensor. His free hand moves back to Danny’s arm, squeezing his bicep hard.

“Y-Yes, hello? We’re at the House of Wax. Yes, that one, in— in Great Yarmouth. There’s been— There’s been an explosion, people are hurt, we need… please, send an ambulance. Send two. Send all of them! I don’t care, please, just— please, help.”

Jon doesn’t realize he’s started to cry until he’s bowed forward enough over Danny that the next time his arm flails, it clips him on the face. He recoils and nearly drops his phone, barely catching it to put it back into his pocket before he secures his hands around Danny’s arm again and holds tight. He dreads turning his head again, but he has to.

“Tim,” he says more carefully this time. “Tim, you need to move. You need to do something.”

No answer.

“Either help us, o-or go find Judith, or the Hunters, or see if any of the troupe are still alive.”

No answer.

“Anything, Tim! Can you hear me?”

No answer.

“He can’t hear you,” Martin sniffs. “I don’t— I don’t think he can hear anything.”

The water in his ears may be too much. He may be frozen in his avatar state, consumed by repulsive satiation. He may be lost, too.

When Danny’s screaming dies down into whimpers, his thrashing into mere twitches, Jon finds himself just as worried as Martin. He lets Martin take up the mantle of trying to keep his attention — Danny? Angel, can you hear me? Stay with me, stay awake! I can’t lose you here, not like this! — because what could Jon possibly say? What could he offer to either of the Stoker brothers now?

A clattering sounds from afar. Jon snaps his head up to look for the source of it, spying Judith stumbling over a pile of rubble to reach them. She’s covered in soot, clutching her arm and limping. When she reaches their pocket of the room, her eyes go to Gerry first.

“Oh, G-d.”

Jon swallows hard. “Where are the other Hunters?”

“Dead. Think they fragged each other.”

Her voice is dreamy and distant. She crosses over to Tim, and bends down to pick something up off the floor. Gerry’s walking stick, forgotten in between the two scenes. She doesn’t wipe the blood off of the handle, inspecting the head of the hammer in the light for something Jon can’t see. He watches her study Tim like a marble statue in a museum, until his eyes drop once again to meet Gerry’s.

This has got to be a dream.

“What happened to him?” Judith asks of Danny.

“I— I don’t know,” Martin struggles. “I think a lot of his old wounds opened up, but I don’t know how, I don’t see why they— Jon, how long until the ambulance gets here?”

Jon blinks. “I didn’t ask.”

Martin doesn’t chastise him, instead nodding with a tearful sound. He’s come to lean his forearm across Danny’s collarbones, his other bent to cover as much of the vertical line down his chest as he can. Like he’s holding together some little paper art project, waiting for the glue to dry. His wrist is angled strangely, and for the first time, Jon notices his gritting teeth. He’s hurt, too, and he’s fighting through it.

“I’ll go wave them down,” Judith says, starting to step over the growing lake of Gerry’s blood. A thin branch of it is close to touching the edge of Danny’s.

“What’s our plan?”

“Plan?” Jon almost mocks. “What can— What can we even do now?”

“You were all about contingency plans before,” she says dryly. “You didn’t plan for something like this?”

“Well, obviously not, Judith! Of course I didn’t think—”

Didn’t think… what? That only some of them might die? That the rest of them would have to live with it? Of course he didn’t plan for that.

“I say… let it get sectioned.” She shakes her head at the scene. “Let it all get put away.”

“How do we do that?”

“Tell them that something unbelievable happened, that they got caught in the crossfire, that you don’t know what happened to them because something was happening to you, too. Isn’t that the truth?”

It sounds too easy. “Won’t we be detained anyway until they decide we’re not lying?”

“We all need a hospital. I have a feeling we’ll be fine, when they see the rest of the scene. The choir’s dead, too.” Judith turns to Tim once more. “…I’ll put this in my car before they get here.”

She leaves with the help of the walking staff, calm and direct, and Jon doesn’t think he has it in him to be a Hunter, after all.

Tim pays her no mind, still staring stone still at Gerry’s body. He’d landed on his back, mostly, one leg tipped to the side and his hand delicately curled in the puddle. The other is resting serenely on his hip, almost like he’d been posed that way. One of his eyes is severely bloodshot, grey shining up through the darkness of it like a coin. The longer Jon looks at him, the clearer the sunlight is through the window. It’s a beautiful day outside. It’s the middle of summer. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“How did— How did this happen?”

“There was an explosion, Jon,” Martin mutters.

“No, I know, but— but the rest of us… We’re fine, we’re… Why him?”

“I don’t have an answer for you. I didn’t see what happened.” Martin lifts an arm for a split second to wipe his nose, leaving a smudge of red on his face. He stares down at Danny’s face, paler than fear has ever left it, one-track minded as ever. It’s not as if Jon can blame him. What else in this room is worth worrying about now? It’s all over. They were just in time, and they were too late.

Jon forgets until the sound of sirens. He spins around to face Tim again, to tell him that he needs to control his leaking before someone sees, but the only evidence that Tim was ever standing there in the first place is a small disturbance in the blood where it has been thinned and expanded with water.

Firefighters first, police, and then the paramedics with their stretchers and their questions and their back away, let us take over. Martin tries his best to explain the extent of Danny’s wounds, launching into the true lie that Judith encouraged without rehearsal.

“We were just walking around, and something weird started happening, there— there was music, and dancing? But it was terrible dancing, not bad to look at but bad to be a part of, we couldn’t stop, there are— there are more people lost in here somewhere, I just know it, but I don’t know where they are. There was—” A sob. “There were people without skin.”

Danny can pass very well as a mere victim of whatever supernatural nonsense had taken place, certainly. His wounds are too severe and his clothes too close to pristine over them to make any sense to the ordinary eye.

Jon is asked about Gerry.

“I—” His throat stops up with a cry. “I didn’t see. I think… I think the blast must have… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Should he mention the Magnus Institute? Will that hurry up the Section Eight process? He doesn’t know what to do. When a paramedic asks to see his leg, he’s powerless to do anything but obey, limping out of the building with the help of a firefighter.

Martin isn’t permitted into Danny’s ambulance, the paramedics too frantic to stabilize him. Jon catches one of them noting the texture and colour of his blood in confusion, in distress, and looks down at his hands to find them more maroon than crimson in the sunlight. He sways.

While he’s being bandaged on the back of an ambulance, a stretcher carrying a body bag is rolled by and loaded into another. He watches as a series of dark, wet spots form on the ground leading up to the step into the back before the doors close.

Good. Someone should stay with him until the end. Jon only knows Jewish funerals, the strict customs that being sectioned might not care to honour. Perhaps Gerry wouldn’t care one way or another if someone were to guard his body, but he still shouldn’t be alone.

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They bring him straight to the morgue.

Tim follows behind the man with the stretcher in silence, in absence, and cares nothing for the mess his footsteps leave behind. When the swinging door shuts in his face, he steps right through it. He watches the man handle his lover with ambivalence, with some anxiety, and waits as long as it takes for him to leave. He is going to be alone with Gerry if it kills someone else.

When there’s no one left in the room, he releases his grip on disappearance and watches the perfect stillness of the black bag. He doesn’t feel that old sense of being observed anymore. It’s his turn to stare.

He reaches for the zipper.

Pulling it down takes an eternity, his hands numb with hate. When he’s peeled back the sides to free Gerry’s face, to let his body breathe, he takes in the sight without so much as a shaken gasp. Gerry’s eyes are still open, the one damaged with the impact to his skull, the other clear as day, but catching no light. Not anymore.

Tim reaches out to shut them with his fingertips. To wipe a speck of blood from his forehead. To stroke dust from his cheek.

Gerry’s head lolls with the touch, no control left to be had. The fluorescent lights cast a shine on the blood-matted depression in his skull.

Tim’s eyes catch on the purple bruise on the side of her neck, nestled sweetly just above her collar. His fingertips drift down to touch it, to beg for a pulse. He remembers why he never bothered with prayer.

Gerry never bothered with it, either. What would he want to happen next? It’s up to Tim now. One decision he never wanted to make for her.

Tim remains by his side until the morgue doors open again, at which point he makes eye contact with a startled hospital employee. Water pours from his head and shoulders to spread across the tile floor at his feet, his hand still resting on Gerry’s lifeless breastbone. The worker doesn’t scream, staring back and breathing hard, until Tim forces two words past the outpouring of water from his mouth.

“Get— out.”

Now, they scramble to run, and he turns back to his love for one last, long glance. The next time someone interrupts him, he’ll have to leave. He can’t keep Gerry like this forever. It wouldn’t be fair.

He needs to be out in the waiting room as family when someone finally comes looking for some. He needs to be composed. He needs to be human. To handle this like a husband.

Tim reaches for Gerry’s chin to straighten his head again. Dignity.

Gently, he reaches his hands behind her neck to feel for the clasp of her collar first, and then the chain that holds her padlock. He can get the rest of his jewelry and his jacket back when they strip him for cremation. No one else should get to touch these. Not for anything.

Gerry would choose cremation. He wouldn’t want to be locked in a pine box, slow to decompose. He wouldn’t choose to leave remnants for desecration should someone feel like fucking with the Archivist just a little more. He feared the sink even more than he feared burning. He wouldn’t choose to be Buried.

That doesn’t mean it sits right with Tim. For there to be nothing left of her, just like that. Like she was never here.

He knows what Gerry wanted. He knows exactly what happened.

Tim tucks the collar and padlock into his pocket, no regard for the blood on them, and looks down at Gerry’s bloodless, peaceful face. Carefully, he bends down to place his lips over hers one last time, as if he had a final breath to give her. All he’s ever had was a kiss. He’s still colder than she is.

He zips the bag shut, but lingers just that moment longer.

When the doors open again — the same worker, this time with reinforcements and a right there, see! — Tim lets himself be seen before he revokes the privilege, disappearing with all that he can take with him. He walks past them as any live man ordinarily would, sure to brush shoulders with the one that he knows now will never forget his face. The shudder makes him stronger, and he needs it. There is nothing else left in him.

He walks back into the world in an empty hallway, and keeps going until he finds Jon and Martin in the waiting room. Jon shoots upright when he sees him, stumbling on his new injury. Tim takes a seat beside him. Jon’s questions are a blur of sound and disinterest, until a long silence passes and Tim hears him say:

“I don’t understand.”

“It was the bomb, Jon,” Martin tries. “Something must have hit him when it went off.”

“No,” Tim says, his voice foreign in his throat and his own ears. They need the truth. “It was Danny.”

Martin recoils with a curled lip, disgusted by the notion. “No, that’s not true. You don’t know that.”

“I do know,” Tim refutes. “They had an arrangement.”

“An arrange— what?” Jon shakes his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“You knew about this?” Martin demands. “You knew and you just—?”

“Choose your next words very carefully, Martin.”

Martin shuts his mouth. Jon’s better leg bounces with tension. He breaks the next silence with a question that Tim wishes he couldn’t hear.

“What do we tell the others? When, h-how?”

Tim stares at the floor. “In person, when we get back. I’ll do it.”

“We have no idea how long we’re going to be here,” Martin tells him. “Danny’s in bad shape. He might be stuck here for a long time.”

“If you want to stay with him, you should. I won’t.”

Martin almost looks offended, hurt, before he reins himself back in with a cleared throat. “They won’t let me see him yet.”

“It takes a long time to suture the entire body,” Jon contributes. “Those wounds went down to the muscle.”

Tim would wince if he could. Martin does, leaning forward to scrub at his face with the one hand not in a sling. He’s washed the blood off of his hands, but his clothes are still soaked in it. Jon’s are, too. Tim doesn’t feel the need to tell them that their bags are in the trunk of the car they drove here. They’ll change when they remember.

“It feels wrong to be so calm,” Jon says suddenly. “I feel like I should be throwing the biggest conniption of my life.”

“That’d be a pretty big conniption,” Martin mutters.

“It would be, yes. But I can’t seem to… access it.” His brow creases, as if in confusion. “This still doesn’t feel real.”

“It’s real,” Tim says simply. “Gerry’s dead.”

Jon’s face scrunches up in refusal as he turns away to lean into his hand. Martin stares at the floor at Tim’s feet for a while before he speaks up.

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim has nothing else to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Martin bolts out of his chair when Danny stirs, fingertips to the edge of his bed.

“Danny?” he asks, tentative. “Danny, can you hear me? It’s Martin, I’m right here.”

Danny whines in protest. His arm shifts barely a centimeter before he seizes up with pain again, eyes flying open as he gasps. Martin freezes; he learned from the sore spot on his cheek. Don’t get too close.

“Look at me, over here. That’s right, right over here. See? It’s only me.”

At first, Danny says nothing. His eyes are bleary with the frankly lethal amount of sedatives they’d given him after the last time he’d lashed out at an orderly when she tried to change his bandages, his mouth slack and weak. His chest heaves with shallow breaths, but he looks at Martin and keeps his eyes locked on him. Martin will take that.

He sits back down in his chair, pulling out the magazine he’d gotten from the waiting room. It’s hard to turn the pages one-handed, his left arm still in the sling. “I was just reading this trashy thing here, but none of the gossip is all that good.”

Not that he expects a response or anything. He just wants Danny to get used to the sound of his voice again, to his presence in the room. Eventually, it feels stupid to make this kind of small talk, though. He tosses the magazine down at the very foot of the bed and leans forward on his knees.

“Can I… get you anything? Water?”

Danny licks his lips, but says nothing. Martin can hear his breath trembling.

“Okay… when you change your mind, you let me know. The doctor said we might try to sit you up a little bit today, if you’re up for it? Just a little bit, not too far. Only until you’ve had enough. I… I think it’s a good idea to try.”

It’s difficult to look Danny in the eye when he’s still so drugged out, so silent. Martin regrets looking away, though, because then all he can see are his heavily bandaged limbs. The padded cuffs around his wrists.

“I wish I could just take these off of you, but… but you hit an orderly, so—” Martin lets out a curt breath. “It’s for your own protection, too. So you don’t rip your stitches. It’s been a few days, though, and you’re doing a little better, so maybe they can start weaning you off the morphine, a-and if you’re more alert, you won’t get so scared anymore when somebody comes by to help.”

“Tim.”

Danny’s voice is wrecked from screaming, reduced to a small, thin whisper. Martin looks down at his laced hands. “Tim isn’t here.”

He takes a long moment to form a second word, licking his dry lips again. “Where?”

“He’s— Jon is… teaching him how to sit shiva.” If Martin could lower his head any more, he would. “They’re about halfway through.”

Danny’s eyes glaze over as they drift up to the ceiling. Martin gives him a moment; that might have been a confusing thing to say while he’s still only partially in his head. It was devoid of context, it was a stupid way to answer that question, dammit, he’s going to need to start over.

“What, um… What do you remember?”

There is another stretch of quiet while Danny seems to think. The sound of hospital machines chews on Martin’s bones. In the end, Danny only comes up with one murmured, deadened word.

“Crack.”

Martin’s stomach solidifies into a brick inside him. He fights the way his leg wants to shake, running his hands over his thighs and pressing down hard. “You remember that?”

Danny nods minutely. “The dancer… thanked me.”

“…But you didn’t do it for her,” Martin suggests. “You did it for Pharos. Right?”

“Right.”

An empty little echo, barely an exhale. Danny’s eyes slip shut, finally, and in the bright light from the window, Martin can see the faintest glint of a tear stuck in the corner of just one. It doesn’t dislodge to fall when he looks up again, clinging instead to his lashes. Martin aches for him in a way that perhaps no one else has it in them to ache.

“I won’t… claim to know what sort of ‘arrangement’ you and Pharos had, or why, but… I know you. I know you wouldn’t have done it without an honest reason.”

“Honest,” Danny huffs.

“I know you,” Martin says again. “I know you’d never—”

“Stop. Stop it.” Danny shifts and shock-stops again, a pained sound caught in his throat. He keeps his eyes screwed shut tight. “Please, don’t. Just stop. Stop.”

“Okay,” Martin murmurs. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He sits in helplessness as Danny fights the pain of trying to turn away and hide, as he struggles against the wave of grief and regret that Martin can see written plain across his face. Tears build up in Martin’s throat, too; he’s only cried in private since that day, too set on being strong for Danny. No one else could stay in Great Yarmouth just to wait around for Danny to wake up or become a more cooperative patient or explain himself. Tim couldn’t stay in the city that rushed to burn Gerry’s bones.

To be so absent from the mourning process back in London makes Martin feel like a terrible friend. He can’t cite feeling less than close to Gerry as a reason for it; of course his death makes Martin want to curl up into a hole and stay there, but there’s— there’s another factor in the situation, and if no one else can stomach it, then he will. Why stop now?

“Can I hold your hand?”

Danny makes a disagreeable noise. Martin accepts the rejection as gracefully as he can, sitting back in his chair to diminish the temptation to reach out anyway.

“Maybe I could get you that water—?”

“Leave,” Danny spits out on the tail ends of a sharp breath. “Just… please, go. Go home.”

“Well, no, I won’t be doing that much. I can leave the room for a while, I’ll go down to the waiting room again, but… No, Danny, there’s no way I’m just leaving you here. It’s a three hour drive, and you’re in no shape to be by yourself. You need someone to bring you home when you’re ready.”

It must hurt like hell to cry. Martin can see the tendons in Danny’s neck standing out with how harshly he’s turned his head away, his body jolting painfully as he tries to keep himself quiet. How could anyone possibly be expected to hold all this in? Martin isn’t judging him. He wants to cry, too.

“I love you,” he says, even knowing it might even make things worse. Just on the off chance that it doesn’t. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

He stands up without waiting for a response, grabbing up the magazine from the foot of the bed. The waiting room is a better place to check his texts.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Every desk in the bullpen filled, but an empty Head Archivist’s office. Sasha glances towards it every now and again, still half-expecting it to creak open and to see Gerry yawning in the doorway. They haven’t erased the nap counter from the white board. They haven’t been touching the calendar, the last blue dot left behind on the day before they all left for Great Yarmouth. It’ll simply gather dust, she suspects, because what function does it serve now? No more estrogen. No more joy.

There is no joy left in Tim. It’s been wrung out of him in a way that Sasha has never seen before. Never in his wildest depressions or losses has he ever looked this grim. His eyes sink into shadows when he turns his head the right way in the light. The wet spots on his shirt could almost be mistaken for sweat if he didn’t radiate such a coldness that sitting across from him makes her want to tighten her cardigan around herself. She hasn’t seen him smile since their meeting in the safehouse, when the corners of his mouth turned up in a halfhearted attempt at saying I’ll see you soon before she hugged him goodbye the second time.

She joined in on Jon’s attempted shiva. They all had, except for Martin. Jon explained the rules; only some of the restrictions, as Gerry was not a Jew, but he said that for the time being, they were to see themselves as Gerry’s immediate family. Who else would mourn him properly? It not being his custom hardly mattered in this case; it was something where he would otherwise have nothing. According to Jon, shiva was meant to contain the grieving process into something manageable. To allow for the full depth of it to sink its teeth in, to truly sit in it, and then when the time came, face the world again with renewed strength. It was the only way he knew how to grieve, and so it was all he could do to share it.

Tim had followed the rules in silence. Sasha watched him from her low cushion and waited for an opportunity to touch him, to console him, but he never gave her one. On the morning of the seventh day, Jon took it upon himself to say play the visitor and recited a blessing in front of Tim, bidding G-d to comfort him among all the mourners in Jerusalem, and reached to help him up off the floor. “Arise,” he’d said, and Tim had.

It just wasn’t Tim’s custom, either. It’s been a week since they returned to work, and he’s still a stone gargoyle in his desk chair, empty of light and effort. Jon told her that for spouses, the mourning period will be considerably intense for at least a year.

A year. Two years. Three years, four. Eventually, the years without Gerry will outnumber the ones they had with him, and Tim will feel it like no one else. Sasha looks at him, and she feels moths crawling underneath her clothes, trapped there in her own grief.

Sasha has lost enough sisters. This one is especially cruel.

“So…” Martin begins, breaking the long silence. “What exactly are we going to… do now? Here, I mean, at the Institute.”

“The same thing we’ve been doing, I presume.” Jon sets a pile of papers off to the side. “The Unknowing was only one ritual of many potential rituals. I think it’s only natural that we should keep trying to stop as many as we can.”

“But—” Martin bites his tongue for a moment. “I mean… sure. But something has to happen next, right? I mean, Elias—”

“Elias is mine.”

Tim’s voice doesn’t even sound like his voice anymore. Sasha shifts in her seat.

They’ve talked about this already. Judith went back into the rubble to find Begging the King and bring it to her father, who studied page 77 with a thoughtful face. There was only so much he could speculate about the incantation, but the long string of words at the end made him surmise that it was an attempt to bring forth all of Smirke’s Fourteen at once, and that the results could have been catastrophic. None of them knew how far Gerry must have read, or if he’d even been reading it at all by the time Danny swung the hammer, and so it’s difficult to say that the sacrifice was worth it.

But it looks like they wiped the chessboard entirely. Elias can’t come back to the Institute and reinstate himself as Head, he can’t ‘promote’ anyone to the Archivist position and start over whatever the hell he’d been doing with Gerry the whole time, he can’t show his face while it’s still Faraday’s. Whatever game he was playing, he’s lost.

Sasha doesn’t know if she’s allowed to feel triumphant or if she should just settle for being afraid of the retaliation that could creep up on them should he switch bodies again, or send something after them, or pull another gun. She wants to believe he won’t risk it; not with Tim still around to want revenge. She’s willing to bet he’s more afraid of Tim than he ever was before.

“…Okay, but, after that.” Martin’s skepticism is hesitant, but reasonable. “I just feel—”

“Lost,” Jon suggests, sounding far away.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sasha repeats, too. Tim has the right idea, in his almost-vow-of-silence. There’s not a whole lot else to say.

Another length of quiet sweeps through the Archives. Sasha can’t bring herself to touch her laptop, or get up for a box of folders. She can’t imagine recording statements onto her phone. She can’t imagine moving, paralyzed into her chair by the crawling sensation at the small of her back, the bend of her knees, in her sleeves.

“Hellooo?”

Sasha, Jon and Martin all jump in their seats as Divshah elbows her way into the Archives. She’s carrying a tray of coffee cups with both hands. Dread drops into Sasha’s stomach like a cement block.

“Oh, um—” Jon swallows. “H-Hello, Divshah.”

“Hi!” she chirps. “I haven’t seen you guys in a while, so I thought I’d bring something by! Scoot, scoot!”

She hops over to the bullpen and sets the tray down in front of Sasha and Tim. Sasha numbly accepts the biscotti as Divshah passes it to her, watching the cups as she distributes them by memory until there’s only one left in the very middle. Divshah takes it into her hands and straightens up to look around the room with a smile.

“Where’s Gerry?” She gasps gently. “Is he asleep?”

Sasha looks up at Tim to find him entirely unmoved. There is a droplet forming at his hairline. One glance at Jon and Martin tells her that she’s going to have to get up from her chair after all, because this conversation can’t happen in here.

“Um… Divshah, come with me really quick.”

Confused, Divshah places the last cup down on Sasha’s desk. “What’s going on?”

Sasha doesn’t respond just yet, shaking out her clothes a bit as she stands. If she doesn’t look down and around for the moths, they may just fade away.

Divshah follows her to Basira’s old room down the hall, her cheerful smile traded for something more apprehensive. Sasha shuts the door and sighs, catching her own face in both hands for a moment before she bites the bullet.

“You don’t have to bring cocoa for Gerry anymore,” she begins.

Divshah wilts. “Oh, no! Does he not work here anymore?”

“No, he doesn’t. Because, um.” Sasha swallows roughly. “Because— he died, Divshah. About two weeks ago.”

For a moment, Divshah just stares at her. She’s not like them, though, and she’s quick to blink. “What?”

“There was an accident. He… took a bad blow to the head. It happened really fast. There was nothing anyone could do.”

Instant are the tears. Divshah covers her mouth with both hands, shaking her head. “No, that’s— How could that happen? That’s not right, I don’t— He couldn’t—”

“I know,” Sasha interrupts, her own throat stopping up again. “I know, come here.”

Divshah slips into her arms like a river, clinging tight to the back of her cardigan. If there are moths around, she doesn’t seem to notice them, or care. Why would she? She’s been touched by the Corruption, too, and nothing seems to faze her. This is the first time Sasha has seen her look anything less than simply happy to be alive.

It takes a while for her to stop crying, pulling back to sniff so hard it must hurt. “How’s Tim doing?”

“Not well,” Sasha admits. “He’s really not himself right now.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine,” Divshah says nauseously. “I’m so— I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make it worse with the— with the cocoa, I just wanted to—”

“I know, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Sasha pets her hair; her dark roots have grown out past her ears, the bleach-fried ends freshly lopped off. “Just… He needs some space. They all do, they were all there for it.”

“Oh, G-d.” Divshah hides her face again, letting out another round of tears. “That’s— That’s awful.”

“Yeah, from what I gather, it… it was.”

She could be more comforting, probably. She could be better. Or she could be honest, and cry a little bit, too. Divshah hugs her one more time, and Sasha plucks off her glasses to bend and bury her face in her shoulder. She hasn’t done this with Tim yet. She doesn’t know how much longer she can take it.

“I’ll, um… I’ll go.” Divshah wipes her face, stepping away and towards the door. “Enjoy your biscotti.”

Sasha steps out after her, watching as she pauses in front of the Archives doors and looks in through the window with a tearful face before she carries on towards the stairs at a brisk walk. Good that she didn’t go back in. She has some tact after all.

That was mean to think. Sasha taps her own cheek in reprimand, to shock the tears back inside, before she goes back into the Archives with a straight face. Tim is still sitting with his back to the door, the cocoa still sitting in front of him. Jon meets her eyes with concern, arms wrapped tight around his stomach. His kurta today is pink.

“She’s gone,” Sasha tells them, sitting down.

“What did you tell her?” Martin asks.

“What else? I told her the truth.” Sasha stares down at the cocoa cooling in front of her. “She didn’t take it very well. Cried a lot.”

Jon and Martin both nod, but only Jon voices his opinion. “Good. Someone ought to. S-Someone other than us, I mean. Anyone, really.” And then he gasps. “Oh, G-d, someone has to tell Tazia.”

Sasha winces. “You do it. I can’t. Not after Divshah just now, I— I can’t.”

He pulls out his phone to scroll through his messages for the large group chat they’d made back in Venice. The only way that anyone would even have her number. The only other person that Sasha can think of that knew Gerry, really knew him, and will care that he’s gone.

Tim moves, suddenly, to take the cocoa from the desk and swipe it into the bin.

The remainder of the day moves like molasses. The moment the clock strikes 5:00, Sasha stands up and requests that Tim follow her. He rises and does, and the drive home is silent. He waits on the doorstep for her to find her key and use it, perhaps consciously stopping himself from walking straight through. Without another word, he retreats to his bedroom and shuts the door.

Sasha doesn’t know what to do with the rest of her evening. She spends most of it on the couch, texting Melanie. Danny got home yesterday, having left the hospital against medical advice, and is largely immobile in bed. He still won’t speak much, either, apparently. Sasha can’t wrap her mind around the fact that she currently lives in a world where the Stoker boys — of all people — have gone speechless.

It’s half past midnight when she hears the crash. It jolts her out of bed and into the hallway, towards Tim’s room, before an even scarier noise halts her worried footsteps entirely. A garbled wail, like a scream underwater, interspersed with loud, hacking sobs. She looks down at her feet; there’s water seeping out from under his door. When she knocks, the only response is another item shattering — the bedside lamp? A picture frame? Sasha reaches for the doorknob to find it locked.

“Tim?” she calls out against the door. “Tim, can you hear me?”

The drowning noises don’t stop for her. Every image her mind conjures up of what he might look like right now only serves to split her heart further apart. She almost doesn’t want to see, but it feels like she needs to know. She needs to know in order to fix it. She needs to be able to hold him, to shush him, to simply be with him until the pain eases. She needs him to want her to.

“Tim,” she repeats, pleading. “Open the door, let me help you.”

“No!” comes the shout, hysterical. It’s barely intelligible as a word through the slosh of water that must have spewed from his mouth alongside it. “Go— away!”

Fine, then. If he wants her to do this the hard way, then she will. Sasha leaves the hall to dig through her room for the new lock-picking kit Melanie got her for her most recent birthday. The lock on his door is simple and plain like all the others in the house’s interior, so it barely resists when she fits the tool inside it. The phantom water is cold under her bare feet as she stands in the growing puddle, until the lock pops open and she ventures inside.

The floor is almost entirely flooded, and there’s a large wet spot on the center of the bed. She was right, the bedside lamp had been thrown to the ground, pieces of glass scattered in the water. She can’t see yet what else had been broken in the dark, but she can see Tim’s shape in the moonlight through the window, curled up between his side table and the edge of his mattress on the floor. He grasps at his chest like he’s suffocating all over again, water cascading down his body at an almost threatening speed. It’s a wonder there’s any room for him to cry through the outpouring.

There is no splashing sound when she walks through the flood to reach him, the water only as real as they believe it to be. Sasha chooses to believe he could breathe through it if he wanted to. That he will, eventually, when this has run its course. It’s been such a long time coming.

She sits down on the floor under the window, her dressing gown skimming the top of the puddle. Tim jolts like he’s in the tank again, his head banging against the side table, and Sasha lets herself wince because he’s not even looking at her. He can’t yet. He’s not ready.

So, she waits. She watches as it all comes rushing out of him at once, until he’s reduced to trickles and trembling and softer cries that finally sound more like weeping than a waterfall. He leans against the mattress and she finally sees what he’s been clutching in his fist; Gerry’s padlock on its chain.

There’s still nothing to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Melanie zips up her backpack with a sigh. “Martin, come on! You’re coming with me!”

“No the hell I’m not.”

“You have to! I’m down an assistant, and you know Callum. You went to his birthday party this year!”

Martin slams his mug down on the counter hard enough that she sees some of his tea splash out of it. “I’m not going to be a part of this video, Melanie. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”

Melanie crosses her arms. “You’re really not even going to give me a statement for it, either? You don’t have anything to say about our dead friend?”

He whirls around with a vengeance. “What do you want me to talk about, Melanie! The time I stole his keys and went behind his back and got Leitner all NotThem’d, so he compelled me and made it really clear that he’d never trust me? Or the time I nearly strangled him to death and proved him right? Or maybe for something lighter, how about the time we went to a flesh witch’s house and he hacked up his tonsils in front of me, that was a blast!”

“Okay, I get it!” Melanie cuts him off. “Fuck you.”

“Just— go do your thing, and don’t bring this up around me ever again.”

With a scowl, she turns around to snatch up her bag and storm out of the house. She hates this Martin. He’s worse than punctuation-user Martin, because now he uses punctuation all the time and he’s mean in person. Even when he had that bullet inside of him, he wasn’t quite so cutting.

She knows it’s because of Danny leaving, but it’s been three bloody months. He should be starting to level out again. He should be starting to— well, to get over it would be unrealistic to expect of him. How are any of them supposed to get over any of this?

Maybe she’s faring better because she’s the one Danny said goodbye to. The only one, because she was the only one he could trust not to beg him to stay. She’s the one who gets pulse check texts now and then, and sometimes the name of whatever continent he’s made it to. When he said he was in South America last weekend, she almost called him a liar.

Melanie doesn’t want to be angry at Martin, but it’s hard when he’s angry at her. For harboring something that he’s been deprived of. For persisting in the face of the paralysis that’s taken over the entire Archives, still, to this day. For being almost relieved by it, because Danny’s absence gave her enough space to breathe to decide on her next, long overdue project. One that he could never have helped her with.

It starts snowing halfway through her bus ride, speckling against the windows to dissolve into droplets. Melanie watches them trickle away, going over the intro to her video in her head again and again and again.

This is a video I’ve wanted to make for a long time, but it’s also one I never wanted to have to make at all. I’m going to start this by asking for some basic courtesy, because while I know this is the internet and I’m broadcasting from a channel about supernatural crap that a lot of skeptics like to make fun of, I’m going to be telling you about that close friend of mine that passed and I will not tolerate disrespect towards his memory. There will be times where I can only give so much proof, because some of the events I’m going to outline are from a long time ago, and yeah, have to do with supernatural crap that didn’t exactly leave behind a lot of clues. Long time viewers will know that the real stuff can’t always be captured digitally, and I want to finally tell you who opened my eyes and changed my entire career path with that knowledge: his name was Gerard Keay.

It was hard to deliver the lines into the camera when she first started recording. Took way too many takes, and she’s still not sure about the script. She might have to rewrite it a third time, maybe a fourth before this is over. This is going to be a big project. It’s going to be all the more difficult without Danny’s help.

One thing that makes it easier are the number of witnesses willing to appear on camera and speak on it.

Divshah wanted to tell her story the very day that Melanie asked her if she would, eager to tell the world the truth about how Gerry saved her from an abusive relationship without even knowing her name, and how he was never unkind to her, or dismissive of her disposition. She knows she’s a lot to handle, but Gerry never put out the idea that she was too much. He was accepting, and friendly, and he always put something in the tip jar.

Melanie sent Timothy Hodge an email. She plans to put a screenshot of his reply in the video, too, with his permission; he wants to put Jane Prentiss behind him, but he will admit with no hesitation that the only reason he’s alive today is because of Gerry. Gerry noticed, Gerry saw the signs, and Gerry personally saw to it that he was brought to a hospital. Gerry did that.

Next on her list is Caroline Brodie.

The snow is sticking to the grass a little bit as she walks up to the door and knocks. Caroline answers quickly, expecting her at this time. She ushers her inside and to the living room, where she sits on the couch to wring her hands in anxious hesitation.

“Thank you for doing this,” Melanie says after she’s taken out her camera and tripod. “I know it’s… out of the blue, after all this time.”

“No one could have predicted that this would have happened.”

“Still, it’s been… what, a little over a year? Since—”

Since Basira took the umbra from Callum. Since Gerry scared him to save him. Since the worst time of this family’s lives finally came to a tentative end.

Caroline nods. “Just about, yes. It feels like so much longer ago, but… also like it was only yesterday. Do you ever get that feeling?”

“All the time.”

Melanie offers a small smile, and then turns on her camera. Caroline shifts to sit up straighter, presentable, nervous.

“So, you’re making this video as… a memorial?”

“Sort of. But also… there’s a lot of people out there who have some really wrong beliefs about who he was. And people who did know him only got him in passing, he was like some… mythic figure, even to me at first. So, now that he’s not here to have his privacy invaded more, I figured it’s finally time to shed some light on the situation and kind of… clear his name.”

Tim had granted his assent, though not in so many words. He knew she wouldn’t be exploitative about it, but the real root of his reason was clear: everything is pointless now, so it didn’t matter what she did. Jon and Sasha had already given a few accounts each, full of stories and love. They’ll surely think of more to add as time continues to pass, in the absence of any contribution from Tim. Melanie won’t press him the way she pressed Martin earlier. It’s different.

Caroline wraps her mind around it, and doesn’t pry about what his name needs clearing from. “What is it you want me to say?”

“Just… the truth of your experience, I suppose? This video is about Gerry, about the person he really was, everything he did to help people… So, whatever you remember about him, I’d really like to hear it.”

Caroline nods again, clearing her throat. Melanie gives her a thumbs up when the camera starts recording, gesturing for Caroline to look at her while she speaks. It takes a long moment and a deep breath, but she does.

“I didn’t know Gerry very well. I only met him a few times, and the most prominent of those memories was the scariest moment of my life. Even scarier than losing my child was watching him— tied to a chair, and afraid. It worked, is the thing; the scary thing worked. I-I couldn’t even begin to recount it for you, what the process of… freeing him, was like, but it saved his life. It gave me my baby back.

“And just before the scary part began, I remember Gerry… sitting in front of him, just talking to him. He showed him a scar that I can still see in my mind if I think back on it — a big, black handprint on his leg — and told him that he wasn’t alone in what he was going through. That letting people notice that he’s hurt and letting them help him was the only way to heal. I remember him pulling his rucksack into his lap and showing him all these little trinkets he’d gotten from people over time, and one of them was—” She laughs wetly. “One of them was from Callum. They’d met before on a bus one day, and my son flicked a paper ninja star at him. Something I might’ve scolded him for had I been there, but then… maybe Gerry wouldn’t have flung it back. Maybe they wouldn’t have had their fun, and my son would have one less fond memory of a kind stranger who paid attention to him. Gerry kept that ninja star pinned to his bag that whole time, because he must have been short on fond memories, too. I didn’t know him well, but I know that’s the kind of person he was. The fond sort.

“And Callum listened to him. He has friends, now. Good friends who come over and stay the night sometimes, and lightbulbs don’t break in our house anymore. He’s happy. He’s healthy. He’s safe. And we’re closer than ever, we’re in a good place. That whole time was… very dark for us, so dark, and if you’re asking me about Gerry… I’d say he did his best to shine just a little bit of light on the future he wanted for my son. No one made him do that, no one made him care. He just… did. And I wish I had taken the chance to thank him for that.”

After a hesitant hand motion from Caroline, Melanie shuts off the camera and dabs at the corner of her eye. She hadn’t been there for Callum’s rescue, or his second saving, but she’d heard the stories of their respective horrors. She didn’t know about the sentimental part of it, but she believes it. She knows it.

“Thank you, Caroline,” Melanie says again, and she’s taken off guard by the swelling of pain in her throat that comes with the words. She turns her face away to roll her eyes up to the ceiling, bouncing a hand on her leg. She’s not supposed to cry, not here.

Caroline gets up and rushes back with a box of tissues, handing the whole thing to her. Melanie laughs, and accepts it, letting herself let just a bit of it out before she forces it all back inside. Another mumbled thanks, and an equally quiet you’re welcome.

“Are you done already?”

Melanie jumps, snapping her head back around to see Callum standing at the foot of the stairs. His hair is in need of a trim, his shirt baggy around his arms and hanging low past his waist. He stares at her sullenly, one hand on the banister as he sways with the clear desire to enter the room.

“I don’t know,” Caroline says to him, and turns to Melanie. “Are we?”

“I, um— I think that’s just about all I needed, yes. We can watch it over and you can tell me if you want to do another take, but I think… I always think interviews are best kept organic, you know? We never recall things the same way twice, and we can’t… replicate the same emotion.”

Caroline agrees, looking down at her folded hands before she glances back up at her son. “Were you listening?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want to come and talk with us?”

He gives Melanie a wary look before he slumps over to the couch to sit beside his mother. He doesn’t react much when she runs a hand through his hair and rubs his back once, his eyes tracing the camera and Melanie’s belongings.

“Why can’t I do one, too?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Caroline says. “We’d be telling the same story, wouldn’t we? I don’t want your face on any more… computers, or televisions, or any of that.”

“But he died.” He says it so plainly. “Shouldn’t I say something?”

“What would you say that she didn’t say already?” Melanie prompts.

He looks at the camera again. “Turn that on.”

“Why?”

“Because if I have to say it twice, I’ll get it wrong.”

Melanie looks at Caroline for permission. Caroline hesitates a moment longer, petting Callum’s hair again.

“Are you sure, honey?”

He nods. “A lot of people… have died, for me. And maybe he didn’t die for me, but he died, and I knew him. I want to do this.”

Caroline’s eyes well up again, and after another beat, she relents. She scoots over to the other side of the couch to let Callum take her seat in front of the camera, and Melanie starts to fiddle with her equipment again. Before she hits record, Callum asks her a difficult question.

“When’s Danny coming back?”

Melanie swallows. “I don’t know yet, kiddo. But I’m still in touch with him, so when I know, you’ll know.”

“Okay.”

She readjusts in her seat and angles the camera a little lower to focus on his face, and starts recording.

“Whenever you’re ready, go ahead.”

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

He listens to the rumble of the train around him in place of any sort of music, no headphones on his person since he left. Self-deprivation, perhaps, but that was almost the point. Instead he’s filled his life with the sounds of the world around him, voices to mimic and borrow, the machinery of travel and distance. No nice little daydream to get lost in. He hasn’t earned that.

His bag is light on his lap. He’d only brought enough with him that he could carry on his person at all times, replacing things when he needed to the same way he’d swindled his way onto planes, boats, trains like this one, when he wanted to take his time instead of traveling through mirrors. Excuse me, that’s my seat. Oh, you already punched my ticket. The same way he’d grifted their way to Greece the first time he left home with Martin and—

Home. What a lost notion.

It’d be a lie to say he didn’t still daydream. His dreams are different now; no longer limited to the Circus the second time, no longer Watched by that haunting pair of silver eyes. They’re broader again, now with new hammersplat sounds and Tim is there, turning away from him. Sometimes they’re not about anything at all, ordinary dreams that he didn’t realize he could still have. Ones that leave him emptier than the ones that wake him up with chills or a shout, because he hasn’t earned those, either.

But some mornings, he would wake up in a motel without arms around him and sincerely wonder where they went. Had Martin gotten up to get them coffee? Was he showering, or off finding a vending machine? Will he be back soon?

The illusion never lasted very long. It was always a source of stinging while the rest of him stayed numb and distant, removed from the experiences he could be having in Zimbabwe and Costa Maya and Sydney if this were a vacation. If this were anything but a chance to think. Mostly, he wandered.

He’s finished, now.

The train comes to a screeching halt, and he rises with his bag to exit. His legs have had eleven months to heal, nearly ten of them spent walking, and still they ache with each step. He doesn’t need a taxi for the rest of the way, or a bus. He’ll bide his time now that there’s so little of it left.

It’s the first of July. The crickets are loud in patches of grass when he reaches the start of the lawns, and the sun warms the back of his neck. He doesn’t count the minutes on a watch, or pull his phone from his pocket. He wouldn’t search for a mirror to jump through even if he thought he could land right inside the house. He still doesn’t even know if he’ll be welcome there.

Try as he might to stay numb, his stomach twirls up into tighter and tighter knots the closer he gets to the street. The more his legs ache for him to stop and rest, just for a little bit more time. The more he wants to turn around and go back to somewhere, anywhere, that no one could ever have the chance to know him.

He can’t, though. It’s been long enough. He can’t let the world creep into August; hah. August. The worst time of Tim’s life, and death. He must have replaced the losses in his heart by now. Danny keeps coming back, against all odds. Gerry never will.

Danny stops walking to breathe against the memory, the knowledge. The shame that builds and builds heavier and heavier with every day that passes, no matter how long he’s taken to deconstruct it. Maybe that was another one of Gerry’s gifts; all that Weight. Reva told him all about the sink. Whenever they were out instead of him, that’s where he would be, without fail. That was his home in their head.

So maybe that’s Danny’s punishment, too. Every morning, he is lowered back into that tank, and he thrashes all day until someone has their twisted idea of mercy and pulls him out to let him sleep, only to start all over again tomorrow. He never drowns like Tim did. His fault, too.

It doesn’t feel like punishment enough.

He leaps away from a speeding car before it has the chance to honk at him for drifting into the road. Adrenaline tingles in his limbs, his lungs, just the barest little taste of something alive. He looks ahead at the street signs and knows he has to keep going, he has to turn left, and to do that, he needs to forget how to feel again. Just until he gets onto the doorstep.

When he does reach it, he stands there for a while. He hasn’t earned the right to knock on the door and say hello, certainly not to smile and wish for one back. But he’ll be standing here all day if he doesn’t, and he can’t waste any more time. It feels like taking, but he does it.

Melanie answers the door. Her face falls in an instant, her eyes wide and skipping over his body as if in search of wounds or changes or evidence that he’s only a mirage. He lets her process his presence in silence until she finally finds it in her to speak.

“Holy shit.”

“Hi.”

“Hi!” She laughs, backing up to usher him inside. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s— Well, I won’t say anything is fine, but I’m just… really glad to see you. You haven’t been texting.”

“Sorry.”

She makes a piteous face, pausing on her way to the kitchen. He knows she’s going to offer him tea in the mug with the holographic telly on it and he’ll accept it to be gracious, not because he thinks it’s fair. For a moment, they hover in place at a distance from each other, equally at a loss for words, or affection, or mending.

“Um…” she recovers, pointing towards the hallway. “I’m… going to go get Mar—”

Again, she pauses, this time in a cold startle. Danny turns his head to face the music; Martin is already standing in the mouth of the hallway, staring at the pathetic scene with the flattest expression Danny has ever seen on him. Danny keeps his own face just as empty, careful not to betray the depth of how that expression makes him feel. It wouldn’t be fair. He has no right to beg.

“…Ah.” Melanie clears her throat. “You know what? I’m gonna— I’m actually going to head to the store, we don’t have… milk. I’m going to go get some milk.”

“Sure, Melanie.” Martin doesn’t bother to look at her. “Go get some milk.”

His voice is different. Not in tone, but in quality. His hair is different; shorter, in an unfamiliar stage of hopefully-growing back out. It was only a matter of time before Martin cut his hair. Danny remembers stopping him the first time he held scissors down to the scalp, convincing him it wouldn’t be worth it to cut it out of anger. He’s been angry, and Danny wasn’t here to stop him.

Of course he’s been angry. That is something Danny deserves.

As Melanie grabs her keys and leaves the house, Danny turns his body to face Martin fully, his bag still on his shoulder — he can’t set it down yet, he can’t make himself at home. He braces himself for the tirade, the accusation, the hatred. All things he’s earned.

Martin takes a step forward. Danny doesn’t realize he’s taken a step back until the look on Martin’s face is more hurt than hollow. This conversation will be held across the room.

“Happy Birthday,” Danny tries.

“What were you thinking?” Martin says instead of ‘thanks.’ “You disappeared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How could you do that to me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop— saying you’re sorry, and tell me what was running through your head!”

“I couldn’t be here, Martin!” The confession leaps forth without another hesitation, prompted forward by Martin’s demand. “I couldn’t just— exist here, waiting for Tim to be able to look at me again! I couldn’t just wait around for him to feel obligated enough to forgive me, and you know my being here would have put that pressure on him. I couldn’t— I couldn’t think here!”

“So you went to Tanzania?”

“Yes! Yes, I did, and I went just about everywhere else, too, and did almost every drug known to man, and I didn’t have a lick of fun because I was running! You have to know Elias is probably after me, too, after I fucked up his plans. I couldn’t stay anywhere for more than a few days, I had to just keep moving, I barely— I barely processed any of what I was seeing, I just needed to think.”

“About what?”

“About why I did it!” The bag slips from his shoulder, and he hardly notices the sound of it hitting the ground past the blood in his ears. “You said in the hospital that I did it for Pharos and I agreed with you, but was I just agreeing because you said it? Or did I do it because I knew it’d be the best thing for Nikola?”

“You wouldn’t have—”

“But what if I did!�� He can’t fight the smile as it pulls at his mouth. “What if I did, Martin?”

Martin stops arguing. Danny battles to neutralize his face again, and fails. The best he can do is continue to explain himself.

“I had to figure it out on my own, I couldn’t just— let your belief in me influence how I remembered things.”

“No one really— remembers the whole Unknowing, I mean. It was the Unknowing. You can’t try and force yourself to recall every single detail of an event like that, the whole point was to confuse us.”

Danny scoffs. “Don’t you think I know that? I soaked in that for years before you people dragged me out of it by the hair. I learned to navigate it, I learned to cause it, and you think I wouldn’t have been able to coast on that during the ritual? You think it’s that impossible that I could have just slipped back into my old role? Seriously, Martin? You still love me enough to lie to yourself like that?”

You still love me at all? Danny can’t take the words back. Martin crosses his arms, leaning against the wall to look down at the floor.

“And what conclusion did you come to?”

“A different one every day.”

He sees the minute shake of Martin’s head, the disbelieving desire to scoff as he turns his eyes back up to the ceiling. “So, what you’re saying is that this was pointless. You didn’t come back with some big epiphany, you didn’t have your come to Jesus moment in Cambodia, it was all just— a waste of time.”

“No,” Danny says firmly. “I still couldn’t just be here. I need you to understand that.”

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just tell me.”

“Because you would have tried to stop me, or asked to come with me, and I wouldn’t have been able to say no to you! I needed to be alone, Martin.”

“Since when has ‘alone’ gotten anyone anywhere good? You said before you did every drug known to man, h-how is that a good thing? How did that help you?”

“It helped me forget sometimes.” Danny curls and unfurls his fists. “You don’t know how hard it was to look any of you in the eye before I left. Any of you, even you.”

“I never blamed you for—”

“Maybe you should have. Maybe I wanted you to! Maybe I needed someone to blame me, because it can’t just be me blaming myself! I can’t trust myself, you know that.”

“But if no one blames you, then isn’t that a signal that it wasn’t your fault?”

“I swung the hammer, Martin! I did that. And I still don’t know for certain if I did it for Pharos or not, so no, it’s not a signal that it isn’t my fault. It just tells me that no one takes my actions seriously, even when they’re catastrophic.”

“You saved the world, technically.”

“Don’t.”

“You did, though,” Martin insists. “Adelard said that incantation could have been the end of everything—”

Danny shakes his head. “We have no idea how accurate that is.”

“And we’ll never know! Because it’s over, and because Pharos saw it coming. He trusted you.”

“And what about Gerry, then, huh? What about the one all of you actually miss? The one I took away from Tim without a second of hesitation because Pharos decided that the collateral would be worth it?”

“That sounds like a Pharos problem. And it sure sounds like you put a lot more thought into what Pharos was asking of you than you were probably thinking of Nikola in the moment.”

“G-d, you’re not even listening!” Danny can’t control his gestures, arms frenetic and jerking to grab for his own head. “Martin, I murdered the love of my brother’s life! I killed him, he’s dead because of me! No amount of justification is going to change the result! I don’t care about the incantation, I don’t care about the end of the world, I care about the world I have to live in now! I always have, that’s all that matters to me! There needs to be a consequence for what I did!”

“Is that another reason why you left without so much as a note?” Martin asks. “Inviting some kind of consequence?”

“Maybe it is! Now, are you going to deliver one or are you just going to— forgive me?”

For a long time, the adrenaline of raising his voice had kept the tears at bay. He doesn’t know precisely when they started to burn in his throat, but all at once, the notion of forgiveness creates such a deep longing in him that he can’t help the way it jumps out. He can’t retract the way it sounded; like a lie, like bait, like pleading. Danny does his best not to drop his head, muscling through as his eyes water, looking Martin in the face as if he stands a chance of challenging him. He feels like the frenzied bull in the arena, while Martin stands calm and resolute in the distance, daring him to come closer.

It’s Martin who steps forward again. Danny backs up one more step, instinct over impulse, but there’s only so far he can go before his back hits the wall. Martin is slow in his approach, reaching out with his hands first to show that they’re empty, they’re open, they’re safe. Danny is powerless to him, then, when Martin pulls him down into his arms.

“I’m going to forgive you, Danny.”

Danny sobs into his shoulder. “Why?”

“I don’t— I don’t like being angry, it makes me mean. Just ask Melanie, I’ve— I’ve been awful to her this whole time. I don’t see the point in holding a grudge against you for… for what happened to Gerry, or for you leaving to sort out your thoughts. I can’t punish you any more than you’ve punished yourself. I refuse to even try.”

“Why?”

Martin cradles the back of his head as he shakes. “It wouldn’t do any good. Not like… actually trying to fix things might.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“You’re home. That’s a start.” Martin kisses the spot behind his ear. “And don’t get me wrong, I’d love to keep you all to myself as long as I can, but Melanie’s going to be back with that milk we don’t need, and… I think the person you really need to talk to is Tim.”

For a while, the most Danny can do is weep. He hasn’t cried much since he left, if at all — hell if he remembers anymore. The wall behind him and Martin’s sturdy frame in front are the only things keeping his legs from giving out underneath him, the Weight still there and still suffocating and still too oppressive to dig himself out from. He lets Martin hold him until it makes more sense to let him lead him to the couch, and then time distorts until he’s lying with his head in Martin’s lap, breathing slower.

He hasn’t earned this, but he’s selfish. He needs it.

They decide to text Sasha, not Tim, just to make sure he’s home, and leave it at that. Danny takes a shower before anything else and changes into a fresh set of clothes from his dresser, still full of his things. He looks at himself in the mirror and wills it not to crack. The scar on his forehead. The scar on his lip. His identity in seams. He can’t face his collarbones, or his wrists.

Martin offers to go with him, and he finds the strength to say no. The most he can give is leaving his bag in the house, a promise to come back. Today, he thinks he keeps his promises.

Tim’s house is too far to walk to, so he takes the bus as close as it’ll bring him. He hopes that Sasha doesn’t answer the door, too tired for another round of what happened with Melanie and Martin. He wonders if he’s earned the right to want this to be direct. To the point. Not painless, but bearable. He can bear quite a lot before it breaks him. He could take any comeuppance Tim has to offer as long as it isn’t forgiveness, too.

It won’t be. It couldn’t be. Not this time.

With hands unfeeling, he knocks. He listens for the heaviness of the footsteps that approach the door, for a moment forgetting if Tim’s are still audible at all. When he doesn’t hear anything, he figures that no, they aren’t, and why would they be? Tim is more of a ghost than ever. Danny doesn’t know how to prepare himself for what he’ll see when the door opens.

Tim is dry, at least. His hair is down, no longer or shorter since the last time Danny saw him. They’re the same, in that regard; Danny’s hair still hasn’t grown a centimeter since he first encountered the troupe. Tim can’t cut his for anything now because there’s every chance it’ll never grow back.

His eyes are vacant, empty black holes in his head. Frightening to passersby, no doubt, but to Danny, it’s something else. Something words can’t describe, so he doesn’t try.

“Hey,” he starts, because Tim doesn’t say it first.

For a long moment, Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move to let Danny into the house, or step onto the porch to join him. Simply stands in the doorway like a statue, studying him for change the way that Melanie and Martin had. Studying his eyes for traces of… what, guilt? Shame? He’ll find it in abundance.

“I just came by to tell you… I’m done running, now.”

The calm question comes up from inside a deep well. “Where were you?”

“Um… around.” Danny looks down at Tim’s shirt and shrugs. “All over.”

Tim hums, and still he doesn’t move. “Have fun?”

“Not especially.”

“Alright.”

Danny thought he could handle the comeuppance. “I just didn’t… think it’d be right to tell you over the phone.”

“When you left, or when you got back?”

“Either.” Danny tucks his hand behind his hip to fidget in private. “…Tim, I’m sor—”

Tim holds up a hand.

“What’s done is done.”

“Which part of it?”

“All of it. You can’t take it back. I don’t want you to try just to be disappointed that I can’t forgive you yet.”

“I don’t want you to forgive me yet,” Danny admits. “…Or at all, if you really can’t. I know Pharos said that I’m the only one you might be able to—”

“Might.”

“Exactly. And I left because… I didn’t want you to feel obligated to honour that just because he said it. I left so you could have some time to yourself, without me… pressuring you to move on.”

“You left for yourself.”

“That, too. I needed time, I thought… I thought we could both use the time. I didn’t expect to walk back into welcoming arms.”

Tim doesn’t need to say good for the sentiment to come across. He’s silent for another long while, unmoving in the doorway. A barricade between the outside world and his private space, so empty now with his loss.

“What’s done is done,” Tim repeats. “And I don’t forgive you yet. But… you’re back now. Which means we can start to try and get there someday.”

Danny’s throat closes up. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. And you didn’t have to come back, but you did.” Finally, Tim’s eyes shift to look over Danny’s shoulder at the street. “You did the one thing I couldn’t do for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Danny rushes out before Tim can stop him again. “If I could go back—”

“You can’t. He wouldn’t even want you to. What’s done is done.”

Danny drops his head. “What’s done is done.”

“Yeah.” Tim turns his eyes back to Danny’s face, his stare so deadened that Danny can feel the blood on his hands. “We can talk about this some other time.”

“Okay.”

There is a beat of quiet before the door is shut in front of him. Danny swallows the rejection and forces his eyes to stay dry, forces himself to turn around and step off the porch and head for the bus stop. One step at a time, one speculation after another; when will some other time be? What will tomorrow look like?

There’s so much left to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

[a-crystalclearsquid]

Always an angel, never a god.

Jon, on his brightest, could make Damian feel anything and everything like no other. He would simply smile and Damian would breathe easier. Jon could simply express his kindness as he always does and the latter would fall a little more in love. It would be that Jon would immediately stop whatever it was that he was doing in favor of comforting a homeless guy in the street. Jon, who would be patient with a child who refuses to listen to the mother out in public.

It was always the little things- the smallest gestures that caught Damian off guard on how easy it was to fall in love again when he thought that he was completely taken over.

But even on Jon’s darkest days, it would not deter Damian.

It would be that a bully would wear out Jon’s patience and throw the first hit or even when he would completely avoid talking or making contact with anyone else just because the day is not going his way. Or even being irritated at his friends’ tiniest movements because he has an assignment due and he could not concentrate.

All those things simply meant that Jon was also human (as he was) and had his flaws. It made Damian appreciate his partner more.

The fact that Jon has his own human struggles as the rest of them had Damian be comforted but also annoyed as he could not ease it away.

So what he does is to be a better partner more in the battlefield. That way, he knows he could prevent Jon from experiencing the harsher wounds.

It comes in many forms as it is displayed through thousands, millions even, ways: Love.

It’s so hard to put it into words.

Especially for Damian, who was taught that actions proved better evidence to one’s thoughts and feelings. While he simple does not disagree, there are times when one has to use words where one’s actions are not sufficient or is the most appropriate way to let somebody know just how much you care about them.

An example would be right now, where Damian is helpless besides Jon, who is recovering inside a kryptonian pod in the Fortress of Solitude.

Where, even to the best of Damian’s medicine and surgical knowledge, is unable to assist in any way to the recovery of a comatosed Jon Kent.

All that knowledge and practice and for what? To be told that the best he could do as of now is to converse one-sidedly to Jon in hopes they would get a reaction out of him.

So here he is, the grandson of the Demon, proclaimed assassin by the age of 8, Robin to two Batman by the age of 10, has died at least three times by the age of 14, and completely helpless to by the bedside of the love of his life at 21, struggling to form words to bring back his lover from the depths of his own subconscious.

“Jonathan,“ he says his name as how one might start a prayer. “Habibi,“

my love, my life,

He grips the wrist of Jon, to feel the faint pulse, assuring himself that Jon is still here.

“I miss your warmth,

and I miss your presence.

I miss you in every waking hour, knowing you’re barely within my reach.

And I’m tempted,

oh, so tempted to bring you to the waters where I was born.

Yet, I am not so desperate as to turn my back on everything that I have fought for -that we have fought for- just for you to be disappointed in me when you return.

I have yet to lose faith that you’d never wake.

And it was because you have made me promise to by your side and never lose hope.

So here I am,

Barely holding on to hope,

Always on the edge on doing the drastic measures.

The only thing stopping me?

That would be you,

My most and dearest beloved.

All these years, and all the doubts everyone in my life has given me, save for you.

You had never given up on me, you’ve always been by my side, and you’ve always rooted for me even in times I don’t deserve,

You have made me felt no safer than in your arms.

So please,”

Damian begged,

“Return to me and make me feel safe within your comfort again.

As you have been by my side, I am also here, Jonathan.

Return to me and I will show you my devotion.

My faith wavers not as I wait for you, no matter how impatient I might seem.

Please come back to me,“

With nothing to do but sit and wait by Jon’s bedside, barely sleeping in case of missing something, his brothers bring him his books and his sketchpad.

They also bring him Alfred the cat for company, who was now sleeping by Jon.

He appreciates the little distractions, though it does no good as he keeps on looking over Jon every few minutes.

So he inclines to bring out his sketchpad and starts imitating the sleeping form of his little feline friend, and when he’s done with that, he sketches everything else he could see within his sights.

And when he also exhausts those within his peripheral vision, his hand finally gets the courage to draw Jon.

It wasn’t like the other portraits of Jon sleeping he has done so far.

It’s different, but also the same.

The way that it’s so peaceful gives out a nice scene. The way that Jon’s bruises and cuts are now mostly gone relieves Damian. The way Alfred the cat is calmly rested on top of Jon’s chest, comforting both pet and owner of the repeated rise and fall movement.

He finishes the sketch and Damian wishes he had paint with him, so that he may properly bring the art to life.

He was tired now.

Though trained by the best to function for weeks with limited to no amount of sleep, Damian couldn’t help his tired eyes and his tired mind, grudingly succumbing to slumber, but not before taking in Jon’s hand in his.

He yearns for the hour Jonathan wakes again.

To be able to recieve and exchange smiles with his beloved again.

Damian rests his eyes, knowing he will easily wake at the slightest movement of his beloved.

Even for just a simple twitch of the finger, or on the skipped heartbeat of the monitor, Damian is most confident he will be able to detect it.

For now, he simply escapes to the plains of his dreams, hoping his subconscious grants his wish. Even though knowing that it would not be real, he would at least get to spend a second reliving on a far-away memory or to experience a new one.

For whatever can emphasize his hopes and faiths, Damian will always be waiting in the land amongst mortals.

[rubykgrant]

I had this one funny concept for a Magnus Archives AU that basically had Jon just constantly being pulled out of the main-character role, so stuff always STARTS to happen, but then it never actually WORKS, and I just thought of a very funny addition to it, so I'm sharing it again-

-At some point, Jon has a bit of a stress-induced breakdown at university and just drops out. Even though they aren't dating anymore, Georgie offers him a place to stay while he kind of tries to sort himself out, and he just. Stays. It's fine

-As a result, Jon is much less pretentious, but a LOT more blunt. He just doesn't keep any of his weird thoughts to himself, and has no inclination to keep up a "professional" appearance. Thus, Georgie gets gremlin-Jon as her roommate. It's fine

-Georgie eventually meets Melanie, and they collaborate on a few projects regarding various supernatural topics. Because Jon is just THERE, he always winds up heckling Melanie about her "spooky show". While it is annoying to hear them argue, Georgie notices that Jon and Melanie ironically motivate each other when it comes to research

-Melanie invites/dares Jon to come with her on a few investigation trips. Spooky stuff keeps trying to kill Jon, he's like a magnet for this stuff, but also nothing ever manages to kill him. He and Melanie work together more, having this weird antagonistic-rivalry thing going on as they explore creepy areas, and film monsters trying to bite off Jon's head. Then they both go back to Georgie's apartment, where Jon cooks everybody dinner. This is actually sort of nice???

-Georgie and Jon eventually visit the Magnus Institute, for spooky reasons, and learn about the recently missing Archivist, while meeting the "temporary research team"; Martin, Tim, and Sasha. They're all a little unorganized, but willing to help answer questions if they can. Jon has ZERO hesitation or humility, just flat-out telling Elias he's weird, and also telling Martin "You look like the human personification of a classical painting of a sky full of clouds in soft morning light. Where's the bathroom?"

-Elias is silently losing his mind, because this rude little man is practically RADIOACTIVE with fear-marks, but Jon has no interest working here, and even if he did, Jon doesn't have the "qualifications" for being an Archivist (not that it really matters, but for the farce of legality, it would help). Martin is perpetually flustered, because he truly can't tell is Jon is flirting with him or not (to be fair, Jon isn't sure either. he's not gonna stop, though)

-Georgie comes along at some point to see the library, and Elias is BAFFLED by her; she has almost as many marks as Jon, but somehow feels "blank" when he tries to SEE what caused any of these fears (he doesn't understand she is incapable of feeling fear like that). Well, Georgie sure has the qualifications for the Archivist position! Elias offers her enough money for her to take the job, and as a bonus (for Elias... or so he thinks), Jon helps her record/catalogue various statements

-Georgie keeps being a wrench in the works. Nothing bad happens to Sasha. The very first day Martin doesn't come in for work, Georgie asks Jon to go check on him, he sees the worms, tells Georgie, who makes up a more believable lie to get some rescue people over there, and Jane Prentiss is dealt with right away. Martin doesn't get trapped in his apartment for days and days. Georgie saves everybody from the Circus shenanigans. It goes on like that. Occasionally, Elias will call somebody like Peter to try and scare people, but Georgie keeps fixing it, and Jon keeps being a fear-magnet who also won't die (Elias is most sincerely pissed-off)

-Also, because Martin's apartment still got all gross, Georgie and Jon invite him over to stay until he finds a new space. Martin still isn't sure if Jon is flirting with him, but he kinda likes being doted on... (at this point, yes, Jon approaching him with romantic intent. He doesn't change anything about his behavior, so to Martin, there is no difference. It might not be clear until Jon asks what Martin wants to do for their 6 month anniversary)

[sheinthatfandom]

Bryan ignoring pac in the beginning just to go after Claudio

just let you know that they are still so unwell about each other

Also outside of kayfabe Claudio is kicking him so lightly in the neck it showed in camera and pac went harder like hello we’re live on tbs right now

and then you add in the fact that as soon as Yuta had pac in the cattle mutilation Claudio just calmly walked over and picked him up like he’s a little baby

And I didn’t even wanna punch him!!!!

He had to breathe through it with the same meditation technique that Bryan had told him. 

OMG, Claudio, and you are facing off and it’s in picture in picture. This is a hate crime against me because I hate it.

Excalibur STFU I CANT HEAR WHAT CLAUDIO IS SAYING TO YUTA!!!!!

Yuta knowing all of Claudio’s moves but Bryan isn’t in the fucking corner

Pac bitch you not even in this family

Claudio keeps trying to talk to Yuta and Yuta don’t want not a non of it

Bryan is clocked in!!!!!

Bryan being so tiny really means his head kicks just look the best and most devastating

Yuta where’d you go

Ohhhh mox showed up

Bryan can not lose this match

Yutas got pacs weapon!!!!!

Yuta and Claudio arguing in the apron

Bryan said fuck Jon moxley!!!!

Fucking ref COULDNT even notice Yuta had a weapon

Umm Bryan… you left Yuta defenseless

CLAUDIO DO NOT DO IT!!!!

Come on Danny!!! Somebody come save Yuta Bryan wtaf!!!!

Finally Bryan is back and Yuta is reaching out and Bryan is doing yes chants mf your boy is dying!!!!

Turn around hold Yuta give him a kiss or something got damn

Now watch that shot of Yuta reaching for him and Bryan not noticing be the thing that gets replayed and showed to Yuta like see he don’t care

[tonightillbeonthathill]

Bruce Springsteen: I understood that underneath this illusion of freedom was an oppressiveness that would kill me

My Hometown (Bruce Springsteen Live at LA Coliseum, Los Angeles, CA - September 1985)

Bruce Springsteen: “At some point I said to myself—and I know this is one of the things that caused me a lot of distress—I said, Well, okay, what if I am the guy in ‘Born to Run,’ with the bike and the girl, shooting down the road. But when you get out there a little ways, there’s not that much traffic. And you can’t see the people in the cars next to you; all the windows are tinted. And all of a sudden you’re out there, but where is everybody? So I guess I kinda thought, Well, all right, you know; so maybe I get to do these things, but what about everybody else?

And that didn’t come from a real selfless motivation or some idea to do good. Because I understood that it was a self-preservation question. I realized that you will die out there, simple as that. I understood that underneath this illusion of freedom was an oppressiveness that would kill me. And that where maybe I was different was that I knew it.

So when I got in that situation, I felt tremendously threatened, and I did not know why. It was totally instinctive. Matter of fact, I don’t think I really knew why until not that long ago. But initially, when I was twenty-five, it was just instinctive—I felt threatened, I felt in danger. And it was funny because those were the exact opposite responses that people generally have. But I didn’t know why I was havin’ ’em; I was just havin’ ’em.

So initially, I wanted to just reject the whole thing—‘This is bad; all this is bad’—as people have done before. I think you look at some of the older rock and rollers, they’ve chosen to reject it and their opposite choice was to move to religious fundamentalism. But I got so alienated from religion when I was younger that there was no way that that was ever gonna be an alternative, in that sense, for me. I just could never see it.

I think when I got in that spot, I really did feel—and not in a paranoid fashion— attacked on the essence of who I felt that I was. So at that point I realized that, unattached from community, it was impossible to find any meaning. And if you can’t find any meaning, you will go insane and you will either kill yourself or somebody will do the job for you, either by doping you or one thing or another.

I began to question from that moment on the values and the ideas that I set out and believed in on that Born to Run record: friendship, hope, belief in a better day. I questioned all of these things. And so Darkness on the Edge of Town was basically saying, You get out there and you turn around and you come back because that’s just the beginning. That’s the real beginning.

I got out there—hey, the wind’s whipping through your hair, you feel real good, you’re the guy with the gold guitar or whatever, and all of a sudden you feel that sense of dread that is overwhelming everything you do. It’s like that great scene in The Last Picture Show where the guy hits the brakes and turns around. The Darkness record was a confrontation record: ‘Badlands,’ ‘Adam Raised a Cain,’ ‘Racing in the Street’all those people, all those faces, you gotta look at ’em all. Right through to ‘Darkness on the Edge of Town’—that was a whole other beginning.

Now, you strip a whole bunch of things away from the thing, and you lose a lot of your illusions and a lot of, I suppose, your romantic dreams. And you decide…you make a particular decision. And that is a decision, I believe, that saves your life—your real life, your internal life, your emotional life, your essential life. Because you can live on, and a lotta people do; there’s all sorts of people livin’ on out there, you know. But I knew—and this ties right in with the discussion I had with Jon about Born in the U.S.A.—that the reason I began to do what I did was for connection. I desperately needed connection. I couldn’t get it; I wanted it.

And that’s why the guitar was my lifeline. That was my connection with other people, more than anything else. Because other things will not sustain you. Maybe for a while you’ll be distracted and have some fun, but in the end, your real life, you’ll die, you will really die. And then once that happens, I believe there’s only a certain amount of time before the physical thing catches up to you.

So you’ve got that situation, where I turn around—on the live record, that’s where ‘Badlands’ fits.”

[cherrrydragon]

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING

← back to chapter list

SUMMARY ↳ Not everybody takes time to appreciate the holidays, it seems. Damian’s brow furrows as he inspects your arm. “You were…” “Awesome?” “Reckless.” pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: nada wc: 3.2k

totally forgot to mention this last chapter, but this fic now has an official playlist!

It takes some convincing from Damian and Jon for them to let you go back to work. Jon says you shouldn’t be back so soon after getting shot. You tell him that your body is fine and ready to go, and also remind him that one of the first things you did when you were better was spar with the whole damn Batfamily. He looks properly sheepish after being chastised.

Damian says that you don’t need the job anymore, since you live with his family now. You tease him, asking if you technically classify as his sugar baby. He scoffs, turning away. It gets him off your case.

Sam damn near jumps over the counter to get to you when they see you walk in. “[Name]!”

At Sam’s shout, Carrie and Garrett pop their heads out from the back. Carrie’s face lights up, smile lines showing as she rushes over to join you and Sam’s hug. Garrett lets one of his rare smiles show, patting your head.

“You shouldn’t be back so soon,” frowns Carrie, pulling back.

You would lift up your shirt to show that you were fine, but she’s right, you shouldn’t be back so soon. A bullet wound on a normal person wouldn’t be completely healed just yet, but, you know, super healing. You’ve been left with a very faint scar. Jon spent his time tracing it, eyes hard and lidded. It gave you goosebumps when his fingers would pass over it.

You wave them off, laughing softly at their concern. "I'm fine, guys, really. It's good to be back."

Sam eyes you skeptically, arms crossed. "You better take it easy, though. We can handle things here."

Carrie nods in agreement, though she's smiling. "Just don't overdo it. We were worried sick about you."

Garrett gives you a nod of approval, his expression serious yet supportive. "Glad to see you're up and about, [Name]. Take care of yourself."

You promise them you will, appreciating their concern and warmth. Sam ushers you behind the counter, immediately putting you to (light) work, much to your amusement.

"So, spill," Sam insists, leaning in conspiratorially. "What happened?”

“What do you mean?” you ask as you organize some sugar packets.

“Dude, Robin and Superboy literally hauled your ass out of here.”

“They just took me to the hospital, Sam,” you sigh. “I got shot, it was pretty urgent.” Shoving a pastry in Sam's mouth, you push past them to ready the coffee makers. “In other news, I moved in with my future rich spouse.” It’s a way to distract them from questioning too much.

Predictably, Sam chokes on the bun. “What!? Hold on, back up a minute, when did you start dating somebody?”

“It was a joke, we’re just friends,” you chuckle. “He’s a huge worrywart and refused to let me go back to my apartment. Could barely walk out of the front door this morning. Said I didn’t even need this job anymore, basically said he’d take care of me.” He didn’t really, but whatever. “Isn’t he sweet?”

“So you’re telling me he basically said you can be the rich trophy partner? Why the hell are you here then?” Sam deadpans.

You match their expression. “Wow. Nice to know I was missed.”

Sam rolls their eyes. “You’re impossible. Who’s the guy anyway?”

“Damian Wayne.”

Sam blinks. Once. Twice. “Can you repeat that? I could’ve sworn you said Damian Wayne. Son of Bruce Wayne. Heir to Wayne Enterprises.”

You huff, placing a hand on your hip as their brain fumbles. “Dude, you bagged the big one. Holy shit, I didn’t know you could pull like that.”

“I told you, we’re just friends.”

“I thought he was, like, stuck up, or something. Cold ice prince type.”

You feel the need to defend Damian’s honor, even if Sam has no true ire towards him. “He’s nice. A good friend. He’s just… awkward.”

Sam takes time to look at you, a brow raised. You hope they're not doing that thing when they just look at you and know all of your secrets. Eventually they hum, dropping it.

“...You think you can ask his dad to pay my tuition–”

Tonight marks your first official patrol with the Batfamily. You're already suited up, crouched on the ledge of a rooftop with Damian. His cape billows in the wind. The city below is alive with lights and sounds, a symphony of Gotham’s nighttime pulse. You adjust your stance, feeling the adrenaline start to course through your veins. Damian is focused, his eyes scanning the streets for any sign of trouble.

"Keep your eyes sharp," Damian says, his voice a low murmur. "Gotham's quiet tonight, but that can change in an instant."

You nod, your own senses heightened, every sound amplified in the quiet of the rooftop. The tension in the air is palpable, a reminder of the city's ever-present dangers.

Damian glances at you, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "You ready for this?"

“Been ready, are you?” you challenge with a smile.

Suddenly, a voice speaks into your ear. It's Barbara. "We've got a situation near downtown. Reports of a robbery in progress."

Damian tenses, his eyes narrowing. "Let's move."

You both leap from the rooftop, descending into the city's shadows. The thrill of the chase ignites your senses as you navigate the rooftops with practiced ease. Damian is a blur of motion beside you, his movements precise and controlled.

Your arm muscles tense and release with every web swing. You take time to twirl and flip around Damian in an elegant dance as he swings with his grappling hook. The two of you move around each other in synchronized harmony.

As you near the location of the robbery, you spot the scene from above. A group of masked men are trying to break into a high-end jewelry store. The glass is shattered, and the alarm is blaring. Damian signals for you to flank them from opposite sides.

You land silently behind a dumpster, observing the thieves as they hurriedly shove jewelry into bags. Damian moves in from the other side, his presence a shadow in the night. You wait for his signal, your muscles coiled like springs.

With a sharp nod from Damian, you spring into action. You leap out, webbing one of the thugs to the ground before he even realizes what’s happening. Damian disarms another with a swift kick, his movements fluid and efficient.

The remaining thieves scramble, but they're no match for the two of you. You dart between them, your webbing and acrobatics keeping them off balance. Damian is a blur of motion, his strikes precise and powerful. Within moments, the robbers are subdued, webbed up and disarmed.

Damian steps back, catching his breath. "Nice work," he says, his tone grudgingly approving.

"Were you practicing those moves to impress me?” you ask cheekily.

“Why, were you watching me?”

“I just can’t take my eyes off of you,” you sigh dramatically.”

“Stop flirting, losers,” Stephanie teases on the comms.

Just as you're about to talk back, a low rumble echoes through the alley. The ground shakes slightly, and you exchange a wary glance with Damian. A nearby manhole cover bursts open, and a hulking figure emerges from the sewers. It's Killer Croc, his massive form towering over you both. What the hell.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Croc growls, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent.

You throw up your hands. “Come on man, I wanted an easy night.”

Croc advances with heavy footsteps, his massive claws glinting in the dim light. Guess he’s not in the mood for chit-chat. Croc chuckles, the sound sending a chill down your spine. "Think you can stop me, little bats?" His voice reverberates through the space, filling the space with menace.

“I am not a bat,” you mutter. “Only in spirit I guess." Killer Croc has a similar demeanor to that of Rhino, at least in terms of size. You’ve dealt with more than enough of them to be well equipped to deal with this situation.

You exchange a quick nod with Damian, silently communicating your plan. "Let's do this," he says, his voice low but determined.

Without hesitation, you both spring into action. Damian charges forward, engaging Croc head-on with a series of lightning-fast strikes and evasive maneuvers. Meanwhile, you use your agility and webs to dart around Croc, aiming to distract and disorient him.

Croc swings a massive fist, aiming for Damian, who narrowly dodges and counters with a precise kick to the knee. You take advantage of the opening, firing webbing at Croc's arms, aiming to restrict his movements. The webs hold momentarily before Croc tears through them with brute force. Boo.

"Keep him distracted!" Damian calls out, his voice cutting through the chaos.

You nod, focusing on keeping Croc off balance while Damian assesses the situation. With each move, you gauge Croc's reactions, looking for vulnerabilities to exploit. His strength is immense, and you start to hope this won’t take long. You’d like to get a decent rest tonight.

Damian maneuvers around Croc, striking with calculated precision. His training and experience shine through as he lands blows with pinpoint accuracy, each one aimed at weakening Croc's defenses. You watch in awe, both of Damian's skill and the sheer determination in his eyes.

As the fight wears on, Croc becomes more aggressive, his attacks growing wilder and more unpredictable. You dart in and out, using the environment to your advantage, hoping to find an opening. It's a dangerous dance, the alley echoing with the sounds of combat and the occasional growl from Croc.

Croc is getting overwhelmed, which means he’ll get desperate. His eyes keep darting to the window. He’s gonna try to escape, shit.

He shoves Damian to the side with his arm. For a split second, you want to make sure he’s alright, but you know he is. Trust that he is. You seize an opportunity to leap onto Croc's back as he charges out of the alley and onto the street. The sudden movement sends pedestrians scattering, and cars screech to a halt to avoid the monstrous figure rampaging through the city. You wrap his shoulders, providing you some extra distance from him as he tries to reach for you. He bucks and twists as he runs, trying to shake you off.

Croc flips up cars as he runs. Your claws dig into his shoulders as you steer him out of people's way the best you can, while simultaneously trying not to get thrown off. People scream and flee as cars swerve to avoid the chaos. With each passing moment, your muscles strain under the weight and movement of the monstrous villain.

“Should you be on vacation or something? It’s the holidays! Take a day off, Christ,” you grumble.

Croc chuckles dangerously. “Hang on tight, not-bat.”

It’s your only warning (aside from your senses screaming at you to get out of the way. Too bad you can’t) as Croc makes a superhuman leap, crashing straight through a window of Gotham Mall. Your suit protects you from the glass as it crashes down around you. Shoppers scream and scatter as the massive creature barrels through the aisles, sending displays and merchandise flying.

“Do you have any non-destructive hobbies?” you huff, dodging his grabby hands. Croc cuts a corner narrowly, slamming you slightly into a wall.

“Swimming. In the sewers.”

“Well, of course, where else?” Oh shit, there’s a baby in the way! You throw a web from each wrist, pulling yourself over to the stroller. You pick it up and narrowly move it out of Killer Croc’s way, putting it down next to the mother and quickly webbing yourself back onto Croc.

“Thank you!” the mother cries.

“You’re welcome!” is all you can say before your web pulls you back onto Croc. You curl your hand into a tight fist and hit him right in his head as you return. Croc staggers from the force of your punch, shaking his head as he attempts to regain his bearings. His momentum slows, giving you a moment to catch your breath.

“Spinnerette, report,” Bruce asserts in your ear.

“Uh, Killer Croc’s rampaging in Gotham Mall. Trying to minimize the damage,” you breathe, dodging another swipe from Croc. 

The noise of glass shattering and displays being knocked over is deafening. You hear Damian's voice cut through the chaos over the comms, “I’m en route. Hang tight.”

You cling tighter to Croc, using your agility to stay out of his reach as he wreaks havoc through the mall. “Yeah, hanging tight is kind of the plan,” you mutter, half to yourself.

You web his face, causing him to growl in frustration. Croc has a thick hide as protection, so your fangs won’t be able to pierce him. Your venom is useless here, which sucks because it would’ve been really nice to have in this situation.

Okay, you’re on the third floor of the mall, since the bastard jumped real high. How can you trap him? His advantage is his strength, so you need to restrain him so that he can’t use it. The whirring of a grappling hook catches your attention. Looking behind you, you see Damian swinging over to you, surprisingly gaining speed.

You spray a web towards him, catching him by the chest. Damian grips it as you pull him towards you. He lands with ease on top of Croc’s back. Croc's roar of frustration reverberates through the mall as Damian joins you.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you quip.

"Thought you could use a hand," Damian replies, his eyes never leaving Croc.

You grab his hands and wrap them around the makeshift web reins you had attached to Croc. “She–” you tap the ring you gifted him you know is under his glove, “–will tell you what to do. Don’t let him hurt anybody.”

Damian tries to catch your hand as you swing away, but you’re too quick for him. You gain speed, swinging ahead and away from Croc. “Tell me where a big glass window I can crash through is, K.”

“Take a left here.”

You swerve to the left. You can hear the commotion behind you as Croc thrashes and roars, but you focus on finding an exit point.

“Straight ahead.”

There. A large window overlooking the city. You see other buildings sparking with lights. Bracing yourself, you send yourself hurling into it. The glass shatters as you crash through it, arms out in front of you to protect yourself. Screams of people fade away behind you as you fall into the air. You’re lucky, there’s an intersection below you.

You swing onto a nearby lightpost. “I need the biggest and stickiest web you got, K.” You launch off and aim your hands in the middle of the intersection.

“Certainly, but it won’t be big enough for Killer Croc,” she says as a good and proper spider web slinks out and attaches to nearby light posts and buildings. The spiral pattern doesn’t extend to the radius of the web. “You’ll need to spin the rest of the web yourself.”

Bouncing off the center of the web, you start spinning the web across the intersection. The web begins to take shape, forming a large, intricate net that spans the entire intersection. Civilians look up in awe at your work. 

“Spinner!”

You look over as you hop across the web to see Nightwing grappling over. “Get the civvies out of here!”

He pauses, then nods. He swings down, quickly directing people away from the intersection to safety. He enforces power into his words, arms gesturing for them to go.

“Robin and Killer Croc are approaching.”

Using the web as momentum, you launch yourself and spray a web onto the ledge from which you jumped off. Climbing up, you stare down the large hallway of the mall. Croc is running straight towards you. He hasn’t thrown Damian off yet, so that’s good.

“Come on! I’m right here!”

“What are you doing–” hisses Damian in the comms.

Killer Croc growls, charging at you. His steps are thundering, echoing in the mall.

You brace yourself, waiting for the right moment. Croc lunges forward with a roar, his massive form barreling towards you. You time your move perfectly, leaping to the side just as Croc lunges out of the window space. You grip Damian’s cape, tugging him off of Croc as he begins to fall. The web bounces up and down as he lands in the center, trapped.

You pat Damian’s shoulder before jumping off the ledge after him. More webs spray from your wrist as you restrain Crocs arms to the web. You ignore his curses and yells as you struggles against your trap. It’s no use, the web holds firm.

“Holy cow,” whistles Dick, walking over. He reaches out to poke the web, but you snatch his hand away.

“Do that and we’d have to amputate you. It’s really sticky,” you frown solemnly. You’re joking of course.

Dick pulls his hand away, holding both of them up and a surrender gesture. “Okay, okay, I won't touch it,” Dick says with a grin, clearly amused. He looks around at the chaos in the mall, where people are cautiously peeking out from hiding places or rushing to leave.

“You know, you’ve certainly made a mess,” he comments, gesturing to the shattered glass and displaced merchandise around you.

“Actually, I think I’ve done worse.”

“Guess you’re fitting right in,” Dick remarks, his tone light but approving.

“Have I earned my rite of passage?” you smirk.

“Maybe if you can survive a month without causing a city-wide panic,” he teases, flashing you a grin.

Damian lands gracefully behind you, his cape billowing dramatically behind him. He surveys the scene with a critical eye, his expression serious and focused. You can tell he eyes Croc’s trapped form before he hurries over to you.

You hear the sirens of Gotham’s police force wail closer. “Always late to the party, it seems,” you hum, pursing your lips. You groan and flex your shoulder, still tingling from your little wall slam earlier.

“I’ll take it from here,” Dick reassures as the cop cars come to a stop near the scene. “You crazy kids go.”

Damian seems to have no qualms about that, since he grabs your hand and tugs you away. You let him drag you around, swinging with him as he grapples away. You swing through the night with Damian, adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

Coming to a stop on a rooftop, Damian’s hand runs down your arm, squeezing gently. “Are you hurt?” he asks gently.

“A little bruised, but I’ll be okay.” Your arm tingles under his touch. You chalk it off as pain.

Damian’s brow furrows as he inspects your arm. “You were…”

“Awesome?”

“Reckless.”

You catch his hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I knew what I was doing, birdie.” He sighs, a mixture of relief and frustration evident in his voice. “I know, I know,” you reply softly, bringing his hand to your lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “But I’m here, and I’m fine.”

He meets your gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You handled yourself well back there.” The moment lingers between you, the adrenaline of the night’s events slowly fading into a quiet calm. Damian’s thumb strokes over your hand, a silent gesture of reassurance and gratitude.

Damian holds your hand tight as he guides you home.

The next day, Spinnerette is trending.

notes: short chapter because its really just a filler but next one is gonna pop off i PROMISe

also, i hope i captured killer croc correctly? have literally never watched or read anything with him in it so im SO sorry if he is nothing like how he is supposed to be

also i straight up yoinked this scene from Spider-Man: Miles Morales, just replaced rhino with croc.

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

god loves you (but not enough to save you)

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/HLXc9Sx by confessionsofanoldcassette " 'What year is it?' She asked, and there was urgency in her voice that startled him slightly.   '2017.' Jon said and saw as the expressions on the two women’s faces turned to something between fear and horror.   'I need to sit down.' Qualit said."   -   Two women show up to the Institute claiming to be avatars, but not of any Fears. The Archivist and his assistants are unsure if they can trust the mysterious inhumans, but as the Unknowing draws ever nearer, they may need all the help they can get. Will the two women be able to make their way back to their universe, or will they be trapped in a universe of fear? Words: 1628, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, M/M, Multi Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Original Female Character(s), Martin Blackwood, Melanie King, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Basira Hussain, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Nikola Orsinov, Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus, Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Gertrude Robinson(mentioned), Sasha James (mentioned), Not-Them (Mentioned), The Slaughter (The Magnus Archives), The Desolation (The Magnus Archives), The End (The Magnus Archives), The Beholding (The Magnus Archives) Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Basira Hussain & Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker Additional Tags: I throw my ocs in s3 for funsies, what could go wrong, Angst, Canon Compliant, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, tim stoker lives, The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), This Author Regrets Nothing, space lesbians go to London, Everyone gets along cause um I need friendship, I constantly drop oc lore and yall enjoy it (you better), Avatars, Magic, How Do I Tag, Unexplained Time Travel, There Was Only One Bed, (it was a cot but shhh), religious trauma, Title from an Ethel Cain Song, Might be OOC, No beta we kayak like Tim read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/HLXc9Sx