#that or like- add it but take away the gross shit (but preferably pretend it doesn’t exist)

[no1ryomafan]

The subject of the getter manga spin offs came to my mind randomly today talking to some of my friends and I’ve been thinking about how IIRC the only major spin off manga to not be translated is High, aka the Mahjong one with a all girl team. The only other ones to follow are a manga made for the PS game and the “try to remember” manga that arma’s first 3 ep director made, but those are in a weird territory of spin off classification, at least compared to the others, but I also chalk up their lack of translations being their hard to find, especially because try to remember was considered lost media. (Until my friends randomly found it lol) But I’ve been wondering to myself something regarding that: While High simply could’ve never been translated because finding the proper scans could be hard, I feel another factor people gloss over it compared to the other spin offs is because there’s a absence of the OG getter team.

Because even though I talked about how Go team been not adapted properly in animes and the toei go show was likely overlooked because of that-to manga readers-I also note it is the only Getter show to NOT be fully subbed even though getting the footage doesn’t seem to be a issue. All the other getter manga spin offs feature the OG team in some capacity, most of them are their own tellings of getter so we get adaptations of the team. The only example I can think of that didn’t do this was Hien, but that had Hayato in it. Meanwhile High is a new getter team completely so people seem to turn an eye to it, even though the girl pilot is- very much clearly “Ryoma but gender bent” lol. (And I do know a handful of people who like her but not a TON)

I don’t wanna make bad assumptions about the fandom because it’s just more so how it goes, the first line of protagonist’s will ALWAYS be the most popular with there only ever being a few exceptions to this, but it is kinda a shame Getter falls victim of most of the fandom either liking Ryoma and/or Hayato the most-mainly Ryoma but I met plenty Hayato fans and y’all are insane /pos-and don’t really bother to bat a eye to the other characters which I just feel leads to these things getting neglected. And I’m- guilty of this but I’m trying to talk about the others more.

[cuntess-carmilla]

The level of performance you demand from bi people as a whole, but especially of bi women, is motherfucking insane. I really don't get why you all demand bi women virtue signal their sexuality by "rejecting" men in order to not deem them gross lesbophobes by virtue of existing. "Even" if they prefer men that's not necessarily out of some internalized homo/biphobia. They just like men. That’s kind of part of (most bi people’s) bisexuality. Shocker, I know.

A lot of the behaviors you all accuse bi women of (not taking other women seriously as partners, for example) are behaviors a lot of lesbians in denial exhibit too but in us you see victims of our own pain and misogyny who need help and understanding, while in bi women you see vile irredeemable perpetrators who must be ostracized and punished.

You blame them of their own abuse at the hands of cis straight men in ways that if you remove the "bi" from "bi women" you would recognize as disgusting victim-blaming, WHILE rejecting them & pushing them out of LGBT spaces, which, guess what you fucking geniuses; leaves them to have cis straight men as their only viable option. Funny how that works. You're all "women should stay away from dating bi women" or "bi women fetishize lesbianism by wanting to be with women" but shame bi women for being with men IN THE SAME BREATH. What the fuck do you want them to do? Be celibate for your own biphobic comfort?

I legit saw idiots on Twitter say "normalize lesbians only dating other lesbians" as if that's not what's normalized already. Bi women are already seen as gross sluts that kiss women at parties to turn men on and only seriously date men. What the fuck isn’t normalized about lesbians dating lesbians only?

You think that I, a literal fucking dyke, didn't see women at some point as hot for sex and men as the only viable partners for serious relationships? Would you see me as a disgusting dangerous misogynist for having been there, or as struggling with internalized homophobia? If it’s the later, why don't you extend that same compassion to bi women? Only difference there is that I'm a lesbian and they're bisexual.

Sure, they like men so being with men isn't INHERENTLY torture for them like it is for me, but you don't think that thinking/behaving that way is traumatizing for them too? They love women and are depriving themselves of that experience out of internalized biphobia, misogyny and homophobia. You think that doesn’t fuck them up too? They're hurting too, but you think that, unlike a lesbian who does the same, THEY deserve that suffering.

And no one is telling you to date them or to suffer for them through it just because they're suffering too. What you're being told is to see them as the non-straight women they are who're suffering too and understand the complexity of their situation the same way you would someone like me.

You think too that the “solution” to the horrendous rates of IPV they face with cis straight men is swearing off men. Would you tell straight women to do the same if they don’t want to be abused by male partners? You wouldn't. Because you see straight women as not having "an option" but think bi women do and thus they MUST be asking to be abused. Literal “asking for it” shit. It's all victim blaming + Boys Will Be Boys, but add a "bi" to it and it's progressive somehow.

This points to you seeing women's attraction to men as only ok when it's not "chosen", just a passive reception of misogynistic violence (which, way to take away the agency of women’s sexualities, you dumb bitches), but when they IN THEORY have a "choice" because they also like women, their attraction to men is active instead of passive, and thus they're cock-sucking sluts who’re choosing to endanger themselves. You see women whose desire for men is active, as deserving of whatever results from their involvement with men. You can't be a biphobe without being a misogynist.

You see bisexuality as a fractured amalgam of homosexuality + heterosexuality instead of its own standalone identity, and thus they can and MUST choose one or the other, because their “heterosexual” attraction and their gay attraction are in active competition within them like the fucking two wolves shit. You can’t be a biphobe without being a homophobe.

Bi women's attraction to men is NOT normalized and biphobes are living proof of it. It's not normalized; they're bisexual, not straight. Their attraction to men coexists with, interlinks with and isn't independent of their attraction to women. Bi women ARE shamed and punished for liking men because they don't like men alone, they simultaneously like women and those are inseparable for them.

If it was normalized, it wouldn't be widespread to blame them for the abuse they receive when involved with men, like they should pick a side for their abuse to count or matter. They wouldn't be pushed out of LGBT spaces for being with men, it wouldn't be seen by other LGBT people (even many bi women themselves) as a flaw in their sexuality that makes them a gay-straight chimera. They wouldn't feel ashamed of their attraction to men. They wouldn't be seen with suspicion for liking men if it was normalized.

Them simultaneously liking men is seen as not loving men "correctly" AND as not loving women “correctly”. No LGBT women (including cis bi women and straight trans women) are seen as doing love and sex "correctly".

You can only claim bi women's attraction to men is normalized if you see bisexuality as a Lego combo of straight + gay and thus their attraction to men is separable from their attraction to women. It's not. They're not cherry-picked bits and pieces of heterosexuality and homosexuality. They're 100% bisexual, always, no matter in what way their bisexuality expresses itself. Be it bisexual with no preference, bisexual with a preference for women, or bisexual with a preference for men.

It's not 50-50% straight-gay, 25-75% straight-gay, or 80-20% straight-gay respectively. ALL are 100% bisexual-bisexual. If you can't respect that, you're a homophobe and a misogynist.

And yes, it is HOMOphobic to see bi women with suspicion for liking men. You see "homosexual" attraction as inherently in jeopardy if there's a coexisting "heterosexual" attraction because the gay one will be lesser and you see the "straight" one as a threat that'll take precedent. That’s your gay insecurity from internalized homophobia speaking.

Then too, there's a reason biphobes think bi men are secretly gay, and bi women are secretly straight. You see men as the superior and inevitable choice for both. That's misogyny. If you're a biphobe, you ARE undoubtedly a misogynist and a homophobe, even if you're gay and/or a woman yourself.

Every time people make armchair judgements of bisexual women as man-worshipers all I can think of is my sister who cried rivers of tears to me about how painful and stressing it is to over-perform her attraction to men who're not even her type (she likes gnc men!) just to stay closeted, and when I think of that, I wish so badly I could slap each and every person doing that.

And yeah! You read right, GNC MEN. Bisexuality is "gay enough", "even" in their different-gender attraction, that plenty of bi women prefer gnc men, and plenty of bi men prefer gnc women. In fact, plenty of bi people, including the cis ones, are gnc themselves (with a specific tendency towards androgyny but there's many who're distinctly masculine/feminine at it) and thus much more visible as gay than someone like me; a fucking lesbian, but I'm fem-presenting.

"Bi people can stay closeted while in relationships." So can gay men and lesbians who have beards, who hide our partners, whose partners are trans and closeted, if we're trans and closeted ourselves, or if we’re single and not visibly gnc.

My relationship would be seen as straight by outsiders because my fiancé is a closeted trans lesbian. Unless you’re a transphobe you would NOT call that a fucking privilege. It’s not a fucking privilege that she’s forced to hide herself and hide that the nature of her exclusive love for women is gay. That shit fucking kills her inside. It’s not a privilege that to keep the love of my life safe and myself too I have to pretend that our love is straight when it was so fucking hard for me to just detect, let alone ACCEPT and take pride in that I don’t like men.

All of that keeps us safe, but at great emotional cost. Being closeted is safety for all LGBT people, but it’s not a privilege, it’s PAINFUL. You understand this when it comes to gay men and lesbians, and can feel compassion for us. Why not for bi people? Why are you so angry at bi people? Why do you hold so much contempt for bi people?

I'll tell you why: BECAUSE YOU'RE BIGOTS.

[lovetenya]

𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬.

pairings: class 1-a boys x gender neutral reader

warnings: none other than swearing, otherwise just softness.

author’s note: this came to me because i’m feeling shitty and want a little love. when i say sleeping, i literally just mean sleeping. please don’t be gross, it’s against school rules.

according to the UA student handbook, sleeping anywhere other than your assigned room is strictly off-limits. especially if that place is the dorm room of another student that you have your eyes on. however, there’s something about your boyfriend’s twin sized bed, with blankets that smell like him, that’s just so comfortable.

maybe it’s the way that a twin sized bed fits two only if you’re completely wrapped up in each other, violating any laws of personal space. your legs tangle with his, and your face fits in the crook of his neck because it has to so that you don’t fall off.

or maybe it’s how sharing a twin bed encapsulates young love, so much love held in such a small place, begging for more room to spread and flourish. it’s all so intimate, so loving, so vulnerable. and honestly, there’s nobody else you’d rather be that person with, lying underneath his covers and waking with puffy eyes.

enjoy your night, and have sweet dreams as you doze off with...

tenya iida:

if you somehow convinced him to allow this, you've already won in my mind.

i mean, first of all, you’re sleeping with tenya iida. second of all, you get to be held in those big, strong arms.....................

you’re pretty lucky to catch him on a day where he’s feeling generous (or lonely) enough to let you break the rules and come to his room to cuddle, only to eventually fall asleep

i think he would sleep on his side, and hold you close so you’re chest to chest.

he’d hold the back of your head in one hand and place the other on your lower back

whatever you prefer, he will do

if you hog the blanket, he lets you, because he can't sleep with his legs under the blanket anyway! you can have his share of it and keep him warm, too

mashirao ojiro:

SOOOOOO CUDDLY!!

not at all hard to convince him to let you sleep in his room (or to get him to come to yours) bc he misses you a lot when you’re not around :(

you’re his comfort and he’s very shy (even around you)

you’d have to be the little spoon bc his tail can’t be squished and needs room to be free (it moves involuntarily sometimes, and he’d hate to accidentally whack you with it!)(he might cry)

HE’S a blanket hog and he knows it so he keeps an extra one for you

he also has stuffed animals on his bed that koda got for him hehe

denki kaminari:

he’d ask you to come to his room to help him study, but he ends up needing a lot more help than either of you expected, so you end up staying much later

he’s very cuddly but he’s also very energetic so it takes a while for him to calm down enough to actually lay down and sleep

you’d get tired before he did, and have to ask him to come lay down once he finishes that last problem

he finally does, and he tosses and turns a little before he gets comfy and finally relaxes into your arms

he holds you like a koala bear (even if you’re shorter than him, he loves clinging onto someone and feeling them)

or he sleeps like a starfish and drools everywhere. i can’t tell which one.

or he also likes being the little spoon cuz it’s cozy!!!

eijirou kirishima:

alexa, play love of my life by queen.

kiri doesn’t need any convincing to get his ass over to your room and would beg you to come to his whenever he felt lonely or like he needed a cuddle buddy

your phone pings with several texts from eijirou <3

eijirou <3: can you come over???

⤷ y/n: it’s a school night, ei.

eijirou <3: just for ten minutes???

⤷ y/n: it’s not because i don’t wanna, it’s cuz i can’t. if aizawa catches me, i’ll be in deep shit, and i do NOT (!!!) feel like cleaning with bakugo again

eijirou <3: bakugo isn’t that bad. come on!!!

eijirou <3: please?

⤷ y/n: [Read 10:37 PM]

eijirou <3: babe... i’m shivering.......

eijirou <3: i think shoto did something to me... i’m so cold..... please help

⤷ y/n: what’s wrong? do you need me to get recovery girl? or aizawa?

eijirou <3: no. i need YOU TO COME AND CUDDLE ME BEFORE I DIE FROM A LACK OF LOVE <///3 so much pain... no cuddles...

eventually, you cave and go to his room to cuddle, but not without cursing yourself for submitting to his relentlessness in capturing your full attention

he would lay directly on top of you while trying not to crush you, but has no shame in how content he is while snuggled into your neck and smushing you under the blanket

he would pepper your face in kisses and do even more once you tell him how gross his morning breath is <3!!!

mezo shoji:

he would be so sweet and so soft with you because he’s used to people being afraid of him for his looks and doesn’t want to scare you away :(

even getting him to remove his mask was hard at first, but once he trusts you and knows you don’t think he’s hideous, the curtain falls and he’s just such a love bug

he’s gonna lay down on his back and have you lay on his chest so he can hold you, and you’ll wake up just like that, feeling his chest rise and fall with every breath

& when he wakes up with you in his (many) arms? he’s never been happier.

hanta sero:

sero... sabes cómo guapo eres?

i love that everyone thinks he’s latino that’s so cute to me

anyway, i think that sero would lay his head on your chest. he’d have his arms wrapped around your torso and his head on your chest and he’d just snuggle right in.

you could pet his hair and he’d love that so much, humming contently until you eventually put him to sleep completely

you’d be more likely to be convincing him that he can’t stay in your room tonight rather than convincing him to come over, this man never leaves your room and will sprint there if you even send him a “:(“ text

he’s fine with blankets, cuz he doesn’t really get cold and he has more than one and he’ll just pull another over the two of you if you ever need it!

shoto todoroki:

i know that what i’m about to write is basic but i literally could not possibly care less. shoto is cute and we all know it so i’m gonna indulge what you already know and add my own too

also if you’re anti-shoto please unfollow me <3 i won’t miss you, stupid bastard!

shoto is touch starved in all the worst ways, and often flinches away from contact without meaning to, only to apologize for his behavior (even if he can’t control it)

he needs soothing, calming touches to remind him that he’s loved and that you care about him for who he is, not who he will be.

and also to remind him that he isn’t hideous because of his scar. he’s still quite beautiful, actually.

although he loves his dorm room and how calm it is, sometimes it reminds him too much of home and he needs a break from it.

when he needs to escape, he’ll send a simple text saying, “can i come to your room?” he won’t play games or pretend like he’s fine when he isn’t.

he just wants you, and to be comforted by you.

he’s your personal space heater or air conditioner, so whatever extreme your body decides to run on, he’ll regulate you.

he likes the comfort of a weighted blanket and loves sharing blankets even more. that level of trust and intimacy—that neither of you are going anywhere—is so comforting to shoto

he’ll never want to let you go

katsuki bakugo:

this sleepover is BYOB. (bring your own blanket.)

he’s the biggest blanket hog, and will wrap his entire body in the blanket and not leave a single shred of it for you. you could be shivering, and he’d tell you to shut up and go to sleep bc you both have class tomorrow.

EVEN THOUGH HE MADE YOU COME OVER!!??!

he won’t admit that he was lonely and wanted attention, but the way he hold you tightly lets you know how he really feels

or if he had a nightmare, he’d call you and ask if he could come to your room to cool off before falling sleep all wrapped up with you.

and he would buy a huge blanket to go over your two individual blankets so that you’re comfortable but still sharing and close to each other <3

be prepared to sleep early and wake up early too, cuz he goes to sleep by 9 and isn’t interested in funny business. he gets up for his pre-workout run by 5, and can’t really be quiet about it cuz he needs to eat before he goes. he’s sorry for waking you, but only a little.

if you’re a talker, and like to babble about your dreams of the future before falling asleep, he’ll listen for a little bit before losing his patience and saying, “no more talking, just cuddle me and go to sleep already.”

izuku midoriya:

baby love <3!!!

he’s less likely to ask you to come over as he is to dutifully race to your room to comfort you

no matter what’s planned for tomorrow or how late it is

and he’s not scared to get caught, he really doesn’t mind cleaning duty if it means he was there to be the for you when you needed him

he’s so sweet and outwardly loving, i think he’d either lay directly on top of you or lay by your side and tangle all his limbs with yours

so many kisses on knuckles and on faded (or recent) scars (you are so loved)

his blanket is big and cozy enough for the two of you and you wake up warm underneath it, still snuggled up to izuku <3

⤷ back to my masterlist.

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

In Search of Lost Screws (RQBB '21)

Here at last is my entry for the 2021 Rusty Quill Big Bang!

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Rating: T Word count: ~30k Warnings: Chronic Illness, Mild Body Horror, Internalized Ableism, Canon-Typical Spiders, Mention of Canon-Typical Suicidal Ideation, Alcohol Other tags: Cane-user Jon, EDS Jon, Canon-compliant, Season 5, Set in 180-181 (Upton Safehouse period) Characters: Jon Sims, Martin Blackwood, Mikaele Salesa (secondary), Annabelle Cane (secondary) Relationships: Jon/Martin Summary: While staying at Upton House, Jon and Martin accidentally break their bedroom’s doorknob, and can’t get back into the room until they fix it. Meanwhile Jon tries not to break into literal pieces without the Eye, and also to pretend he’s having a good time as he and Martin lunch with Annabelle, parry gifts from Salesa, and quarrel about whether Jon’s okay or not. He's fine! It's just that the apocalypse runs on dream logic, and chronic pain feels worse when you're awake. Excerpt:

“Have I mentioned how weird it is you’re the one who keeps asking me this stuff?” “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help? I just…” Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouse’s dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. “I can’t seem to corral my thoughts here.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s actually kind of fun, it’s just—I’m so used to being the sidekick,” Martin laughed. “Besides, I miss my eldritch Google.” “Should I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?” Another laugh, this one less awkward. “No. That won’t work, remember? This place is a ‘blind spot,’ you said.” The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice. “Right, right. I forgot,” Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger he’d felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds he’d allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadn’t somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutes’ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think I’ll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martin’s face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him. “Honestly, it’d almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.” “Hey.” Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. “I think I’ll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.” Was it just because of Hopworth that Martin’s elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way he’d learnt not to fear out there?

Huge thanks to @pilesofnonsense for hosting this event; to @connanro for beta-reading; and to @silmapeli for their amazing illustration, whose own post you can find here.

If you prefer, you can read this fic instead on Ao3. I won't link it directly, since Tumblr has trouble with external links, but if you google the title and add "echinoderms" (my Ao3 handle), it should come up!

Crunch. “Oh god. Shit! Oh god, oh no—”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

A clatter, then a noise like a small rock scraping a large one. Jon’s heart plunged; halfway through his question he knew the answer.

“I—I broke it? Look, see, the whole thing just—take this.” Martin tore his hand out of Jon’s and dropped the severed doorknob in it instead. Then he dropped to the floor, diving head- and hands-first for the crack between it and the door as if that crack were a portal between dimensions. Jon closed his eyes and shook this image away, hoping when he opened them again he could focus on what was real.

He should have known this would happen from the moment they left for breakfast. Every time he’d opened that door its knob felt a little looser. Why hadn’t he warned Martin? Well, alright, he didn’t need powers to know that one. He just hadn’t thought of it. Been a bit preoccupied, after all. And even if he had thought of it, that was exactly the kind of conversation he’d been shying away from all week. Watch out for that doorknob; it’s a little loose, he would say, and yeah, probably Martin would answer, Oh, thanks. But there was a chance Martin would say instead, Why didn’t you tell me?—and all week Jon had obeyed an instinct to avoid prompting that question. All week he had made sure to enter and exit their room a few steps ahead of Martin, and hold the door open for him. Martin probably just saw it as Jon’s way of apologizing for their first few months in the Archives together, and once that thought occurred to him Jon had started to look at it that way himself. Maybe that’s why he’d forgot this time.

“Nooo-oooo, come on come on!”

“I don’t think you’ll fit,” Jon said, when he looked again and found Martin trying to wedge his fingers under the door.

(Martin used to leave Jon’s office door open behind him—perhaps absentmindedly, but more likely as a gesture of friendship and openness, which the Jon of that time would not suffer. Sasha and Tim, n.b., only left his door open on their way into his office, when they didn’t intend to stay long; Martin would leave it gaping even if he didn’t mean to come back. Every time Jon had sighed, pulled himself to his feet, and closed the door behind Martin, drawing out the click of its tongue in the latch. And a few times he’d closed the door in front of him, so as to exclude him from a conversation between Jon and Tim or Sasha that he, Martin, had tried to weigh in on from outside Jon’s office.)

“What are you looking for?”

“The—the screw, I saw it roll under there. It fell down on our side. Oh, my god, it was so close—if I’d reacted just half a second earlier, I could’ve?—shit.”

“Oh.” Jon huffed out a cynical laugh.

“I can’t believe it. I broke Salesa’s door! He welcomes us in to an oasis, and I break the door. Oh, god—I’ve broken an irreplaceable door, in a stately historic mansion!”

A few more demonstrative huffs of laughter. “No you didn’t.”

Martin paused. He didn’t get up, but did turn his head to look at Jon. “Yes I did. It’s right there in your hand, Jon—”

“I should’ve known. Check for cobwebs, Martin.”

“Oh come on.”

“This can’t be your fault—it’s far too neat. This is all part of Annabelle’s plan.”

“Do you know that?”

“W-well, no. I can’t, not here. I just—”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Jon. Pretty sure it’s just an old doorknob.”

“Did you check for cobwebs?”

“Of course there are no cobwebs. A spider wouldn’t even have time to finish building the web before somebody wrecked it opening the door!”

“Then what’s that?” With the tip of his cane Jon tapped the floor in front of a clot of gray fluff in the seam between two walls next to the door, making sure not to let it touch the clot itself.

Martin rolled over to see where he was pointing, and almost stuck his elbow in it. “Ah. Gross. Gross, is what that is.”

“Christ, I should’ve known this would happen. I did know this would happen,” Jon reminded himself—“just ignored the warning signs because I can’t think straight here.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Jon. It’s a corner. Spiders love corners. I mean, unless you can prove the corner of our doorway has more spiderwebs than anywhere else in the house—”

“Well, of course not. You forget she’s got her own corner somewhere, which we still haven’t found by the way—”

“So, what, you think Annabelle Cane lassoed the screw with a strand of cobweb.”

“Not literally? She could be sitting on the other side of the door with a magnet for all we know!”

Martin peered under the door again with an exasperated sigh. “She’s not.”

“Not now she’s heard us talking about her.”

God, what a delicate web that would be, if all he had to do to avoid the spider’s clutches was reach a door before Martin did. Perhaps if he’d knocked first that’d have saved him. Maybe Martin was right. How could Annabelle know him well enough to foresee this mistake? Most of the time he hated people opening doors for him, after all.

Why do people see someone with a cane and think, Only one free hand? How ever will he open the door!? They don’t do that for people with shopping bags—not ones his age, at least. Letting another person open a door for him felt to Jon like… defeat, somehow. Like admitting the dolce et decorum estness of this version of reality all nondisabled people seemed to live in where he couldn’t open doors. And that version of reality horrified him. Not so much the idea of being too weak to open them—that sounded merely annoying. Like knocking the sides of jar lids on tables and swearing, only with doors. He had beat his fists against enough Pull doors in his time to figure he could live with that. It was more the idea of becoming that way. Letting his door-opening muscles atrophy ‘til it became the truth.

But sometimes you just let a thing happen, and forget to hate it. That was the thing about pride. Sometimes your convictions and your habits stop fitting together—you believe Fuck this job with all your heart, but still tuck in your shirt when you come to the office. And then you fly back from America in borrowed clothes, and pop in at the Institute like that on your way to Gertrude’s storage unit, and that’s what changes your habits. Not the knowledge you can’t be fired; not your now-boyfriend’s plot to put your then-boss behind bars. A thirdhand t-shirt with a slogan on it about how to outrun bears.

On his way out this morning the doorknob had felt so loose in Jon’s hand he almost had told Martin about it. But Martin had been full of let’s-go-on-an-adventure-together-style chatter—like when they’d left Daisy’s safehouse, only, get this, without the dread of entering an apocalyptic wasteland—and listening to him put the door out of Jon’s mind before he’d had time to interject.

Their first day here—or at least, the first they spent awake—Jon had inadvertently taught Martin not to accept invitations from Salesa. The latter had bounded up after Martin’s lunch in linen shirt and whooshy shorts and was, to Martin’s then-unseasoned heart, impossible to deny. So Jon had spent thirty minutes on a creaky folding chair, lunging out of his seat on occasion to collect a ball one of the other two had hit wrong, and trying to keep Salesa’s too-bright white socks out of sight. He’d pretended he preferred to sit out, knowing Martin would worry if he tried to play. But he hadn’t done as good a job hiding his boredom as he thought. “Thanks for putting up with that. Sorry it went on so long,” Martin had said as they re-entered their bedroom. “I just couldn’t say no to him, you know? For such a cynical old man he’s got impressive puppy eyes.”

“It’s fine? You know me, I don’t mind… watching.”

“I just mean, I’m sorry you couldn’t play. How’s your leg, by the way? Er—both your legs, I guess.”

“It’s fine. They’re both fine. I didn’t want to play anyway, remember? I don’t know how.”

“Sure you don’t,” Martin replied, words tripping over a fond laugh.

“I don’t!”

“Come on, Jon. Everyone knows how to play ping-pong.”

Martin had turned down Salesa when he showed up the next day in khaki shorts and a pith helmet with three butterfly nets, without Jon’s having to say a word. More emphatically still did he turn him down when Salesa mentioned the house had an indoor pool, and offered to lend them both antique bathing suits like the one he had on, “Free of charge! A debtor is an enemy, after all, and in this new world I have no wish to make an enemy of” (sarcastic whisper, fingers wiggling) “the Ceaseless Watcher who rules it. I have nothing to hide from you,” he’d alleged, for the… third time that day, maybe? Each morning Jon resolved to count such references; he rarely missed one, as far as he knew, but kept forgetting how many he’d counted.

But Salesa was a salesman, and over time his efforts had grown more subtle. He stopped showing up already dressed for the activity he had in mind, and instead would drop hints at meals about all the fun things they could do if only they would let him show them. Martin loved how the winter sunlight caught, every afternoon around four, in the branches of a tree visible outside the window of their bedroom. “Ah, yes,” Salesa had agreed when he remarked on it one morning. “Turning it periwinkle and the golden green of champagne.” (He poured sparkling wine—the cheap stuff, he said, not real champagne—into an empty juice glass still lined with orange pulp. Over and over, without once overflowing. The oranges weren’t ripe enough to drink their juice plain yet, he said. But they’d still run out of juice first.) “If you think that’s beautiful”—he paused to swallow bubbles come up from his throat, waved his hand, shook his head. “No. On one tree, yes, it is beautiful. But on a whole orchard of bare trees in winter”—he nodded in the direction of Upton’s orchards—“the afternoon sun is sublime. You can see how the twigs shrink and shiver under its gaze; the grass rustles with a hitch in its breath as if it fears to be seen, but with each undulation a new blade flashes gold like a coin,” &c., &c.

“Wow. Sounds like you really got lucky, finding such a nice place to, uh. Sssset up camp?”

Jon knew Martin well enough to hear the judgment in his voice; if Salesa recognized it then he was an expert at pretending not to. “And it's only a two-minute walk away,” he’d said, instead of taking Martin’s bait. “It would be such a shame for my guests not to see it.”

“Oh, well. Maybe in a few days? It’s just, we’ve been outside nonstop for ages. It’s nice to be between four walls again. Besides, we don’t know the grounds as well as you do—and the border isn’t all that stable, you said? Right?”

“It is if you know how to follow it! I could accompany you—show you all the best sights, with no risk of wandering back out into the hellscape by mistake.”

“We’re just not really ready for that, I don’t think. Right, Jon?”

“Mm.”

“Are you sure? If it were me, a foray into a beautiful natural oasis would be just what I needed to convince myself that my peace—my sanctuary—is real.”

“If it is real,” Jon couldn’t stop himself from muttering.

Salesa remained impervious. “You would be surprised how difficult it is to feel fear in a place like that. I don’t think that is just the camera.”

“We‘ll think about it,” Martin conceded.

“Yes—you should both think about it. I am at your disposal whenever you change your mind.”

And so on that morning they had narrowly escaped. Would they had fared so well today. The problem was, on these early occasions Jon had interpreted Martin’s No thankses as being, well, Martin’s. But after a few more of Salesa’s sales pitches Jon began to second-guess that.

“Is it warm enough in here for you both?” Salesa had asked them last night at dinner. “I worry too much, perhaps. I only wish the place took less time to warm up in the morning. At breakfast time, in sunny weather like we've been having, I’ll bet you anything you like it’s warmer out there than in here.”

“It’s alright; we’re not too cold in the mornings either. Right, Jon?”

“Hm? Oh—no.”

“Perhaps we three could take breakfast out there, before the weather changes.”

“Ha—that’s right,” Martin had laughed. “I forgot you still had that out here. Weather changes. Brave new world, I guess.”

Salesa smirked and shrugged. “Well, braver than the rest of it.”

“R…ight. ‘We three,’ you said—so not Annabelle?”

“Mmmmno, probably not her. I have tried taking spiders outside before; they never seem to like it much.”

Nearly every day, here, Jon found a spider in their bathtub. The first time Martin had been with him. Martin had picked the thing up with his fingers and tried to coax it to leave out the window, but by the time he got there it’d crawled up his sleeve.

“Excuse me.”

Martin pulled back his own chair too and frowned up at him. “You okay?”

“Just needed the toilet.” He tried to arrange his mouth into a gentle smile. “Think I can do that on my own.”

The other two resumed their conversation the moment Jon left the dining room. Before the intervening walls muffled their voices Jon heard:

“I suppose that does sound pretty nice.”

“Pretty nice, you suppose? Martin, Martin—it’s a beautiful oasis! What a shame it will be if you leave this place having done no more than suppose about it.”

“It is a bit of a waste, I guess.”

“You wouldn’t need to sit on the ground, if that’s what concerns you. There are benches everywhere.”

He’d been just about to cross through a doorway and out of earshot when he froze, hearing his name:

“Oh, ha—not me, but, Jon might find that nice to know,” Martin said. “Thanks for.” And then silence.

Was that the whole reason he kept declining invitations to explore the grounds? To keep grass stains out of Jon’s trousers? Martin was the one who’d sat down on that godforsaken Extinction couch; why did he think—?

Not the point, Jon told himself as he sat on the toilet and set his forehead on the heels of his palms. He tried to watch the floor for spiders, but his eyes kept crossing. The point was that if—? If Martin was lying about wanting to stay inside—or, more charitably, if he was telling the truth but wanted that only because he thought Jon would have as dismal a time out in the garden as he had at ping-pong—then…?

He imagined holding hands with Martin while surrounded by green. Gravel crunching under their feet. Martin smiling, with sunlight caught in the strands of his hair that a slight breeze had blown upright.

“And if you get too warm,” he heard Salesa tell Martin, as he headed back into the dining room, “we can move into the shade of the pines! You know, they don’t just grow year-round? They also shed year-round. The floor under them is always carpeted in needles, so you need never get mud on your shoes.”

“Huh,” Martin laughed. “Never thought of it that way.”

“But of course there are benches there too,” Salesa added, his eyes flickering up to Jon.

As Jon hauled himself into his seat he asked, in a voice he hoped the strain made sound distracted ergo casual, “So, what, like a picnic, you mean.”

Not a fun picnic. Not very romantic, since their third wheel was the first to invite himself. Salesa neglected to mention how much wet grass they would have to trek through to get to his favorite spot; that there were benches everywhere didn’t matter since they couldn’t all three fit on one, so they ended up sat in the dirt after all—and n.b. it required a second trek to find a patch of dirt dry enough to sit on at this time of morning. Jon was so sick with fatigue by the time they sat down he could barely eat a thing, though he did dispatch most of Martin’s thermos of tea. His hands shook and buzzed, and felt clumsy, like they’d fallen asleep; he ended up getting more jam in the dirt than on Salesa’s soggy, pre-buttered toast. He felt as though the rest of his flesh had melted three feet to the left of his eyes, bones and mind. Eventually he elected to blame his dizziness on the sun. When his forehead and upper lip started to prickle, threatening sweat, he stood up and announced, “It’s too hot here.”

Or tried to stand, anyway. One leg had oozed just far enough out of its joint that it buckled when he tried to stand; indigo and fuchsia blotches overtook his sight. He pitched forward, free arm pinwheeling—might have fallen into the boiled eggs if Martin hadn’t caught him. “Jon! Are you okay?”

God, why was Martin so surprised? This must have been the fifth or sixth time he had asked him that question since they left the house. One time Jon had bent down to brush dirt off his leg and Martin had thought he was scratching his bandages. So he asked him were they itchy, had they started to peel, did they need changing again, were they cutting off his circulation (no, not yet, not yet, and no). How could someone be so attentive to imaginary ills and yet miss the real ones? At another point, an enormous blue dragonfly had buzzed past, and instead of Did you see that? Martin had turned around to ask Are you okay. Now, on this fifth or sixth occasion, for a few seconds of pure, nonsensical rage he wondered how Martin dared stoop to such emotional blackmail. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Jon thought; aloud he snorted, as in malicious laughter. His throat felt thick, like he might cry.

“Fine, I’m just—sick of it here.” He pulled his arm free of Martin’s and overbalanced. Didn’t fall, just. Staggered a little.

“Should we move to the shade? We could try to find those famous pines, I guess.”

Jon sank back to the ground. “What about Salesa? Do we just leave him here?”

“Oh. Right,” said Martin. Salesa had eaten most of Jon’s share, and drunk both Jon’s and Martin’s shares of wine. Now he lay asleep in the dirt, head pillowed on one elbow, the other hand’s fingers curled round the stem of a glass still half full. “I guess, yeah? I mean he seems to know the place pretty well, so. It’s not like he’ll get lost out here.”

“We might, though.”

Martin sighed. “True. Should we just head back to our room, then? Maybe get you a snack.”

“Not hungry.”

“A statement, I meant.”

“Oh. Alright, sure,” Jon made himself say. “That sounds like—sure.”

So then they’d headed back, and only Martin had a free hand, and Jon was too tired by that point to distinguish his mind’s vague warning not to let Martin open the door from his usual pride on that subject—and that kind of pride never does seem as important when it’s your boyfriend offering. So he’d dismissed the warning and, well, look what happened.

When he got up from his knees and turned round Martin frowned at Jon. “Are you alright? You’re sat on the floor.”

Jon frowned, too—at the seam between the floor and the hallway’s opposite wall. “I was tired.”

“You hate sitting on the floor.”

“I sat on the ground out there,” Jon said, with a shrug that morphed into a nod in the direction they’d come from.

“Yeah, under duress,” Martin scoffed. “In the Extinction domain you wouldn’t even sit on the couch.”

There was something odd in Martin’s bringing that up now; somewhere, in the back of his mind, Jon could hear a pillar of thought crumbling. But he lacked the energy to find out which of his mind’s structures now stood crooked. “I think this floor is a lot cleaner than that couch,” he said instead, with an incredulous laugh.

“Even with the cobwebs?” Martin didn’t wait for Jon’s answering nod. “Fair enough,” he said, one hand on the back of his neck as he twisted it back and forth. He dropped the hand, sighed, cracked his knuckles. Looked at Jon again. “Yeah, okay. Guess we don’t have to deal with this right now. Let’s find you another bedroom first.”

“Maybe that’s just what Annabelle wants,” Jon muttered, deadpanning so he wouldn’t have to decide whether this was a joke.

Martin snorted. “I’ll risk it.”

Find was a generous way to put it; in fact there was another bedroom only two doors down. By the time Jon got his legs unfolded he could hear the squeak of a door swinging open down the hall. When he looked up, Martin said as their eyes met, “Nope—bed’s too small. You good there ‘til I find one that’ll work?”

“Seems that way.” Jon tried to smile, relief warring with his usual If you want something done right urge. In the quiet moment after Martin neglected to close that door and before he swung open the next one, Jon made himself add, “Thank you.”

“Of course. Oh wow,” Martin said of the next room, in whose doorway he’d stopped. “This one’s a lot nicer than ours. It’s got a balcony. Wallpaper’s pretty loud though. D’you think that’ll keep you awake?” Laughingly, “I know you don’t close your eyes to sleep anymore, so.”

“How loud is ‘pretty loud’?”

“Sort of a… dark, orangey red, with flowers?”

Jon shrugged. “I won’t see it at night.”

“Oh, god. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Should we do this one, then?” Instead of closing the door, Martin swung it the rest of the way open, then strode back to Jon’s side of the corridor, arm already outstretched. Jon managed to stand before Martin could reach him, but, as it had done outside, his vision went dark for a few seconds. He felt Martin’s hand on his shoulder before he could see his frown.

“You alright?” Martin asked yet again.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“It’s just—you don’t usually blink anymore, except for effect.”

“Oh.”

Out there, none of the watchers blinked. At first, soon after the change, Martin had asked Jon to try, “Because it just feels so weird. Like I’m under constant scrutiny. Literally constant, Jon. You get why that feels weird, right?” (Jon had agreed—sincerely, though he wondered why Martin needed to ask that question in a world whose central conceit was that being watched felt weird. He’d also chosen not to point out that his scrutiny, like that of Jonah Magnus, was not, technically, constant, since he did sometimes look at other things. But he still rehearsed this retort in his mind every time he remembered that conversation.) Turned out it was hard to time your blinks properly when your eyeballs didn’t need the moisture. He’d forget about it for who knew how long, then remember and overcompensate by blinking so often Martin at first thought he was exaggerating it on purpose as a joke. It got old fast, in Jon’s opinion, but even after he learnt Jon didn’t intend it as a joke Martin still found it funny. “You’re doing it again,” he’d say every time, shoulders wiggling. Eventually Jon had asked him,

“You know you don’t blink anymore either, right?”

“Oh god, don’t I?” When Jon shook his head, with a smile whose teeth he tried to keep covered, Martin squeezed his own eyes shut and pushed their lids back and forth with his fingers. “Ugh—gross!” And for the next half hour he’d done the whole forget-to-blink-for-five-minutes-then-do-it-ten-times-in-as-many-seconds routine, too. After that they had both agreed to pretend not to notice the lack of blinking. Jon figured he couldn’t hold it against Martin that he’d broken this rule though, since Jon himself had broken it first, on their first morning here:

“You blinked,” he had informed Martin as he watched him stir sugar into his tea. Martin, who had not only blinked but broken eye contact to make sure he dropped the sugar cube in the right place, replied with a scoff,

“Didn’t know it was a staring contest.”

“No, I mean—”

“Oh! I blinked!”

“…Right,” Jon said now. “I’m—it’s nothing.”

Martin sighed. He closed his eyes, but probably rolled them under their lids. Jon used the inspection of their new room as an excuse to look away, but took in nothing other than the presence of a large bed and the flowered wallpaper Martin had warned him about.

“‘Kay. If you’re sure.”

Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, Jon looked down at his grass-stained knees and prepared himself to ask, Look, does it matter? I’m about to lie down anyway, so, functionally speaking, yes, I am fine.

“So, you’ll be okay here for a bit while I go figure out what to do about the door?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll come check on you as soon as I know anything, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Although—if you’re asleep, should I wake you up?”

“Yes,” Jon replied before Martin had even got the last word out. He heard a short, emphatic exhale, presumably of laughter. “Wait—how would you know, anyway?”

“Oh. Yeah, good point.”

Jon looked down at his shoes. His fingers throbbed in anticipation, but he figured he should spare Martin the horror of getting grass stains on a second bedroom’s counterpane. The first shoe he pulled off without untying, since he could step on its heel with the other one. But he had to bend over to reach the second one’s incongruously bright white laces, biting his lip when he felt his right femur poke past the bounds of its socket as between a cage’s bars. On his way back up his vision quivered like a heat mirage, but didn’t go dark. He scooched himself up to the head of the bed. Made sure to face the ceiling rather than the red wallpaper.

A few months into his tenure in the Archives, Jon had discovered that if you close your eyes at your desk, even just for a minute, you can trick your whole body into thinking you’ve been gentle with it. But that trick didn’t work anymore. Out there, this made sense; interposing his eyelids between himself and the world’s new horrors couldn’t push them out of his consciousness, any more than it had helped to close the curtains at Daisy’s safehouse. Martin’s sentimental attachment to sleep had baffled him, as had his insistence on closing his eyes even though they’d pop back open as soon as his body went limp. Here, though, Jon sympathized with Martin’s wish. He too missed that magic link between closed eyes and sleep. Probably he should just be grateful for this rest from knowing other people’s suffering? The thing he had wished to close his eyes against was gone here. But now that most of his bodily wants had synced up with his actions again, it felt… wrong, like a tangible loss, that he couldn’t assert It’s time for rest now by closing his eyelids. That it took effort to keep them joined. Jon even found himself missing the crust that used to stick them together on mornings after long sleep.

That should have been his first sensation on waking, their first morning here. After seventy-one hours his eyelids should’ve been practically super-glued together. Instead, they’d apparently stayed open the entire time. It wasn’t uncomfortable—he hadn’t woken up with them smarting or anything. Hadn’t noticed one way or the other; after all, when not forced awake by an alarm, one rarely notices the moment one opens one’s eyes in the morning. He just didn’t like knowing that he looked the same waking and sleeping. It didn’t make sense. The dreams hadn’t followed him here, so what was he watching? He could see nothing but the ceiling.

He rolled over, hoping to look out the window. Doors, technically. Between gauzy curtains he could make out only wrought-iron bars and the tops of a few trees. A nice view, he could tell; when he got his second wind he was sure he’d find it pretty. For now he wondered how much more energy debt he had put himself in by rolling over.

Drowning in debt? We can help!

How had he not foreseen how horrible it would be inside the Buried? The inability to move or speak without pain and loss of breath—“Just imagine,” he muttered sarcastically to the empty air, as though addressing his past self. “What might that be like.” He’d lived for years with the weight of exhaustion on his back—heavier at that time than it’d ever been before. And he knew how it felt to risk injury with every movement. What an odd frame of mind he must have lived in then, to think his magic healing wouldn’t let him get scratched up down there. Had he thought it would protect him from fear? I must save my friend from this horrible place! But also, If I get stuck there forever, no big deal; I deserve it, after all. There seemed something so arrogant about that now, that idea that deserving pain could somehow mitigate it. That because monsterhood made him less innocent, it would make him less of a victim. How could he have thought that, when he’d known pulling her out of there didn’t mean he forgave her? He should apologize to Daisy for—

Right. Nope, never mind.

He began to regret rolling over. If he planned to stay on his side like this for long, he shouldn’t leave his shoulder and hip dangling. He could already feel their joints beginning to slide apart. But his body had started to drift to that faraway place from which no grievance ever seemed urgent enough to recall it—neither pain now nor the threat of greater pain later. Nor the three cups of tea he’d drunk.

After he and Martin had fallen asleep on Salesa’s doorstep, Jon had vague memories of being led up the stairs to their bedroom, though he remembered neither being shaken awake nor getting into bed. Just a seventy-odd-hour blank spot, followed by pain of a kind he had thought he’d left behind.

It wasn’t that watchers couldn’t feel pain, after the change. They could, but it was like how real-world pain felt through the veil of a dream. Your actions didn’t affect it as directly as they should. In the Necropolis Martin had asked him, “How exactly does a leg wound make you faster?” If he’d had the courage to answer, at the time he would have said something about his own wounds not seeming important now that he had to tune out those of the whole world. That wasn’t it though, he knew now. Pain just worked differently out there. When Daisy attacked him, it had hurt—but the wound she left him hadn’t protested movement. Not until he and Martin entered the grounds of Upton House. You could bear weight on an injured leg just fine out there, because it wouldn’t hurt more when you stood on it than otherwise.

Sometimes, when his joints slid apart while he slept, he could still feel it in his dreams. Up until 13th January 2016 (for months after which date he dreamt Naomi Herne’s graveyard and nothing else), his sleeping mind used to craft scenarios to explain its own pain and panic to itself. Running from an exploding grenade, staying awake through surgery, that sort of thing. But over the years, as the sensation grew familiar, his dreams about it became less urgent, their anxieties more mundane. He’d shout for help from passing cars, then feel like he’d lied to the stranger who opened their door to him when it turned out running to get in the car hurt no more than standing still.

Even before the change, it’d been ages since he’d had to worry about that. Since the coma, Beholding had fixed all these accidents, the way it’d fixed the finger he tried to chop off. They wouldn’t reset with a clunk, the way they had when he used to fix them by hand. It was more like his body reverted to a version the Eye had saved before the moment of injury. When he tried to pull open a Push door he’d hear the first clunk, followed by about half a second of pain, then after a gentle burst of static—nothing. Just a door handle between his fingers that needed pushing. If he tripped on uneven pavement he might still go down, but his ankle wouldn’t hurt when he stood back up, and the scrapes on his hands would heal before he could inspect them. Here, though, in this place the Eye couldn’t see, Jon lacked such protections. He didn’t have the dreams either? And that was more than worth it as a tradeoff, he was sure. But it still smarted to remember that pain had been his first sensation waking up in an oasis. Not birdsong, not sunshine striped across linen, not the warm weight of another person next to him. He knew he’d come back to a place ruled by physics rather than fear because he’d woken up with gaps between his bones.

“Jon? Are you awake?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes.”

“Cool.” Martin sat down on what felt like the corner of bed nearest the door. “I think I know how to do this now.”

“How to put the doorknob back on?”

“Yeah. God, I still can’t believe it twisted clean off in my hand like that. With no warning—like, zero to sixty in less than a second. I mean, can you believe our luck? The thing’s perfectly functional, and then suddenly it just—comes off!”

“Er…”

“Oh, god, sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“What? Oh—hrkgh”—Jon rolled around to face Martin, hoping the little yelp he let out when his leg slopped back into joint would sound like a noise of exasperation rather than pain. He found Martin sat looking down at the severed doorknob which poked up from between his knees. “No, Martin, of course not, I know—”

“Still, I’m sorry about—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine?”

On that first morning, Jon had managed to get his limbs screwed back on properly without making enough noise to wake up Martin. He’d limped out of their room and down the hall, pushing doors open until he’d found a toilet, whereupon he sat to pee and marveled that the flush and sink still worked. It was bright enough inside that he hadn’t thought to try the light switch on his way in—too busy contorting his neck to look for the sun out the window. On his way out, though, he flicked it on, then off. Then on again and off again. How could it work, when there was no power grid the house could connect to? Automatically Jon tried to search his mind’s Eye for a domain based in a power plant or something. Right, no, of course—that power did not work here.

When he got back to their room he found Martin awake. “Oh—morning,” Jon told him with a shy laugh.

“It—it is morning, isn’t it,” Martin marveled. Then he asked if Jon could hand him the map sticking out of his backpack’s side pocket. (What good are maps when the very Earth logic no longer applied here, after all. But Martin was rubbish at geography, so Jon still had to provide the You Are Here sign with his finger for him.) Jon grabbed the map on his way back to bed, and was about to tell him about the miracles of plumbing and electricity he’d just witnessed—not to mention the bathtub he’d admired on the long trek from toilet to sink—when Martin frowned and asked, “Why are you limping?”

“Am I?” Jon had shrugged, then cleared his throat when the motion made his shoulder audibly click. “Daisy, must be.”

“No, Jon. That’s the wrong leg.”

He slid both legs out of sight under the blankets and handed Martin the map. “It’s nothing. It just… came off a bit. Last night."

Before Jon could add It’s fixed now though, Martin said, “I’m sorry, what?”

Jon had assumed Martin understood the kind of thing he meant, but that he’d misled him as to its degree—i.e., that Martin objected to his talking about a full hip dislocation like it mattered less than what happened with Daisy. So he’d said,

“No, sorry, not all the way off—”

And Martin just laughed. “What, and you taped it back up like—like an old computer cable?”

“Sort of, yeah? It—it does still work, more or less.”

“Right, of course. No need to get a new one, yet; you can just limp along with this one. No big deal! Just make sure you don’t pull too hard on it.”

“I mean.” By now he could sense Martin’s sarcasm, his bitterness; that didn’t mean he knew what to do with them. So he'd said with a huff of laughter, “I can’t just send for a new one. That’s—that’s not how bodies work. You have to….” Wait for it to sort itself out was the natural end to that sentence. But he hadn’t been sure he could say that without opening a can of worms.

“Wait so… what actually happened? Are you okay?”

Only at this point had Jon recognized Martin’s response as one of incomprehension. What happened exactly? he had asked, too, when Jon told him the ice-cream anecdote. Did no one ever listen when you told them about these things?

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s fine.”

“Oh come on.”

“It’s. Fine! It’s not important.”

And then for days Martin kept alluding to it. Like some kind of reminder to Jon that he hadn’t opened up, disguised as a joke. Every time something came out or fell down he’d mutter, “So it came off, you might say.” Eventually they’d fallen out over it, and now neither one could come near the phrase without this song and dance.

“Don’t worry about it, Martin,” Jon assured him now; “I’m over it.”

“…Uh huh. Well, putting that to one side for the moment—I think I can fix this?”

“Oh? Great!—”

“—Yeah! It should be simple, actually. I think I just need to replace the screw that fell out? I mean, there doesn’t seem to be anything actually broken, just, you know,” with an awkward laugh, “the screw lives on the wrong side of the door now. But if we can just put a new one in the door should be fine.” He looked to Jon as if for help plotting their next steps.

“I—I don’t, um. Think we have one.”

Martin’s shoulders dropped; the corners of his mouth tightened. “Yeah, I know we don’t have one, Jon. I just mean, we need to find out where Salesa keeps them.”

“Oh!” Jon replied, in a brighter tone. Then he registered what this meant. “Oh. Right.”

“Y…eah.”

“Any idea where to look?”

They checked what seemed to Martin the most obvious place first. Salesa used one of the ground-floor drawing rooms as a sort of repository for everything he’d left as yet unpacked—all the practical items he hadn’t been able to repurpose as toys, plus some antiques he’d been too fond of or too nervous to part with. Two nights ago, Salesa had noticed the state of Jon’s and Martin’s shoelaces, and insisted they let him replace them with some from this little warehouse. “Please, come with me; I’ve nothing to hide. You can have a look around, see if I have anything that might help you on your journey….” As he said this he’d counted to two on his fingers, as though listing off attractions they should be sure not to miss.

Jon watched Martin perk right up at this. All week Salesa had kept pleading with them to tell him about any luxuries they had wanted while touring the apocalypse, so he could try to find something to fulfill those wants. “Well, I—I don’t know about luxuries,” Martin had ventured the third time this came up. “But I do think we might run out of bandages soon, so. If you’ve any extra?”

“Of course, of course, yes, how prudent of you, always with one eye on the future. Must be the Beholding in you.” (Neither Jon nor Martin knew what to say to that.) “But there will be plenty of time for that. I meant something for now, while you are here, while you don’t need to think of things like that.” And sure enough, each time Salesa had come to them with presents from his little warehouse (booze, butterfly nets, more booze, antique bathing suits, &c.), he’d forgot about Martin’s homely request for gauze and tape. Martin insisted they change the dressing on Jon’s leg every day; by now they’d run through the bandages he brought from Daisy’s safehouse. So when Salesa suggested they accompany him to his repository, Martin said,

“Sure, yeah! That sounds really helpful.” (Salesa clutched his heart as though he’d waited all his life to hear such praise.) “Er. The things in your warehouse, though. They’re not L—um.” Leitners, Martin had almost called them. “You don’t think they’ll develop any… strange properties, when we leave here, do you?”

“Of course not,” Salesa had answered, stopping and turning all the way around in the corridor to face Martin with a frown. “Martin, I promise, only my antiques are cursed—and even then, not all of them.” He’d resumed the walk toward his little warehouse, but turned around again and held up a hand, as if to preempt a question. “There are, indeed, yes, some items out there, touched by the Corruption, which can pass their infection on to other things they come in contact with. But, no,” he went on, his voice fighting off a joyous laugh, “no, the only item I have like that does almost the opposite.”

“Oh.”

Salesa nodded, but did not turn around this time. “Strange little thing. It’s an antique syringe that, so long as you keep it near you, repels the Crawling Rot. I like to think it helped dispatch that insect thing Annabelle chased away. But if you try to get rid of it,” he added in a darker tone, “all the sickness, the bugs, the smells, even stains on your clothes—everything disgusting that it’s kept away—they remember who you are, and they hunger for you more than anyone else. The man who sold it to me….” He shook his head ruefully, hand now resting on the door.

“Was eaten alive by mosquitoes,” Jon muttered.

“Something like that, yes,” said Salesa, as he jerked open the door.

Jon hated the way his and Martin’s shoes looked now. He hadn’t had to put new laces on a pair of old, dirty shoes since he was a kid, and the contrast looked wrong—the same way starched collars and slicked-back hair on kids look wrong. Jon’s trainers were gray, their laces a slightly darker gray, so these white ones wouldn’t have looked quite right even without the dirt. Martin’s had once been white, but their original laces were broad and flat, while these were narrow and more rounded. The replacements’ thin, clinical white lines looked something between depressing and menacing. Too much like spider web; too much like the stitching on Nikola’s minions. When they came undone on this morning’s walk, Jon had made sure to tread on them in the mud a few times before tying them back up. Poor Dr. Thompson’s syringe must have retained some of its power here, though, because they still looked pristine. Jon wondered if it had no effect on spiders, or if without it this whole place would have been draped in cobwebs.

Martin seemed pleased with their haul, though. Despite Salesa’s amnesia on the subject, his little warehouse held more plasters, gauze, medical tape, antibacterial ointment, alcohol wipes—the list went on—than one man could ever use. In a strange, raw moment Jon liked to pretend he hadn’t seen, Salesa had wrung his hands as his eyes passed over this hoard. His lip had quivered. He’d practically begged Martin to take the whole lot away with them. “What harm will come to me here? And if it does come, what good will it do, protecting one lonely old man from skinned knees and paper cuts? The two of you—where you are going—the gravity of your mission!” At this point he’d seized one of each their hands. “Everything I have that even might help, you must take it. Please.”

“I—yeah,” Martin stuttered. “This is—really helpful, yeah. We’ll take as much as we can fit in our bags.”

Salesa had let go their hands by this point, and crossed his arms. “Right, yes, bags, of course, the bags. Are you sure you don’t want my truck?”

“Oh, well, thanks, but I don’t think either of us knows how to—”

“To drive a truck?” Salesa uncrossed his arms and began to reach for Martin’s shoulder. “I could teach you—”

“It won’t work without the camera anyway,” pointed out Jon. “We have to walk.”

Martin sighed. ”That too. ‘The journey will be the journey,’ as Jon keeps saying.”

“I said that once,” Jon protested.

No such success on this return visit. They found a small pile of miscellaneous screws, one of which Martin said would work (though it was the wrong color, he alleged, and had clearly been meant for some other purpose), but the screwdriver they needed remained elusive. “I mean, I can’t be sure they’re not in here—the place is as bad as Gertrude’s storage unit. We could spend all day here and still not be sure—”

“Let’s not do that,” said Jon, pushing an always-warm candlestick with a pool of always-melted wax out of Martin’s way with his sleeve for what felt like the hundredth time.

“No arguments here.”

“Where to next?”

“I guess it makes sense that they’re not here. This room’s all stuff Salesa brought, and why would he bring home-repair stuff when he didn’t even know where he’d wind up.”

“Except for the screws.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like he keeps screws here, remember? There’s just a couple random ones lying around, like he forgot to put them away or something.”

Jon peered between the clouds in his mind, trying to catch sight of Martin’s thought train. “So you’re saying the screwdriver should be…?”

“Somewhere less… frequented, I guess? They’ll probably still be wherever they were when Salesa found the place.”

“Not somewhere that was open to the public, then.”

Martin sighed. ”I mean yeah, probably. Not that that narrows it down much.”

“Somewhere… banal, less posh.”

“Not sure how much less posh you can get than this place. But yeah, I guess. Have I mentioned how weird it is you’re the one who keeps asking me this stuff?”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to help? I just…” Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouse’s dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. Odd that his eyes weren’t immune to dust, when leaving them open for seventy straight hours hadn’t bothered them. And why didn’t the syringe keep dust away? In Dr. Snow’s day (not far removed from Smirke’s, n.b.), Jon seemed to recall that dust had been used as a euphemism for all waste, including the human kind Dr. Snow had found in the cholera water. It was like how people today use filth—hence the word dustbin. And hadn’t Elias once called the Corruption Filth? Jon opened his eyes and watched Martin swirl back to full color. “I can’t seem to corral my thoughts here,” he concluded.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s actually kind of fun, it’s just—I’m so used to being the sidekick,” Martin laughed. “Besides, I miss my eldritch Google.”

“Should I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?”

Another laugh, this one less awkward. “No. That won’t work, remember? This place is a ‘blind spot,’ you said.” The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice.

“Right, right. I forgot,” Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger he’d felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds he’d allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadn’t somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutes’ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think I’ll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martin’s face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him.

“Honestly, it’d almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.”

“Hey.” Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. “I think I’ll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.”

Was it just because of Hopworth that Martin’s elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way he’d learnt not to fear out there?

“Oh—I know,” Martin said, clicking his fingers and pointing them at Jon like a gun. “We passed a shed this morning, remember?”

Jon squinted. “Not even remotely.”

“No yeah—on our walk with Salesa. I tried to ask him what it was for, but he kept droning on and on. By the time he stopped talking I’d forgot about it.”

“Huh,” said Jon, to show he was listening.

“That seems like a good place to keep screws and all, right? If it’s so nondescript you can’t even remember it.”

“Sure.”

“Great! Are you ready now, or d’you need to sit for a bit longer?”

“I’m ready.” This time he accepted Martin’s hand, not keen to trip on something cursed.

“Anyway, if we don’t find them and Salesa’s still out there, we can ask him on the way back.”

Jon’s heart shrunk before the prospect of inviting Salesa to be the hero of their story. Please, Mr. Salesa, save us from our screwdriver-less hell! They would never hear the end of it. It would inevitably remind the old man of the countless times in his youth when he’d been the only man in the antiques trade who knew where to find some priceless treasure. Let Salesa open their stuck door and they’d find Pandora’s bloody box of stories behind it. He winced and let out a grunt as of pain before he could stop himself. “Let’s not tell him, if we can help it.”

“Of course we should tell him,” Martin protested. “We can’t just leave it broken like this.”

“But if we can fix it without his help—?”

“What? No! Even then, he’s our host. We have to tell him. It’s his door, he deserves to know its—I don’t know, history?” Martin sighed, shoving one hand in his hair and holding out the other. “If he’s got a doorknob whose screw comes loose a lot, he should know that, so he can tighten it next time before it gets out of hand. I mean, we’re lucky it only chipped the paint when it—when it fell off, you know?” (Jon, for his part, hadn’t even noticed this chip of paint Martin referred to.) “And—and suppose he’s only got this one screw left,” tapping the one in his pocket, “and the next time it happens his last screw rolls under the door like this one did.”

“And what is he supposed to do to prevent that scenario? There aren’t exactly any hardware stores in the apocalypse.”

Big sigh. “Yeah, fair enough. I still think we should tell him. It just feels wrong to hide secrets from him about his own house, you know?”

“Fine,” sighed Jon in turn. ”Should we tell him about the scorch marks on the window sill as well?”

“No?” Martin turned to him with an incredulous look. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I mean—I was, but—”

“Please tell me you get how that’s different.”

“Enlighten me,” Jon said wearily.

“Seriously? Of course you don’t tell him about the?—those were already there! If we’d put them there, then yeah, of course we’d need to tell him.”

“So it’s about confessing your guilt, then. Not about what Salesa makes of the information.”

“I mean, I guess?” Martin looked perplexed, lips drawn into his mouth. “Actually, no. Because those are just scorch marks, they don’t—you can still get into a room with scorch marks on the windowsill, Jon.”

“And yet if you’d left them you’d tell him about it?”

“Well yeah but if I told him about it now it’d just be like I was—leaving him a bad review, or something. It’d just be rude. ‘Lovely place you have, Salesa. So kind of you to share your limited provisions with us refugees from the apocalypse. Too bad you gave us a room whose windowsill could use repainting!’”

Jon laughed. “Yes, alright, I get it.”

Martin’s sigh of relief seemed only a little exaggerated. If he hadn’t wiped pretend sweat from his brow Jon might have bought it. “Okay, that’s good, ‘cause”—when Jon kept laughing, Martin cut himself off. “Hang on, were you joking this whole time?”

“Sort of?”

“Were you just playing devil’s advocate or something?”

“I mean—not exactly? For the first seventy or eighty percent of it I was completely serious.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know. It was just—fun. It felt nice to take a definite sta—aaaa-a-aa.” Something in Jon’s lower back went wrong somehow. An SI joint, probably? The pain caught him so much by surprise that when he stepped with that side’s leg he stumbled forward.

“Whoa!” Martin’s hand closed around his upper arm. Jon yelped again, from panic more than hurt this time, as his shoulder thunked in its socket. “Jon! Are you okay?”

“Don’t do that,” Jon hissed, trying lamely to shake his arm out of Martin’s grip. It didn’t work. The attempt just made his own arm ache, and produce more ominous clunking sounds.

“I—what?”

“It was fine. I don’t need you to catch me.”

Martin let his arm go. “You were about to fall on your face, Jon.”

“I’d already caught myself—just fine—with this.” He gestured to his cane, stirring its handle like a joystick.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“I don’t know, look?”

“It’s not—?” Martin scoffed. “Look when? It’s not like a rational calculation. I can’t just go ‘Beep. Beep. See human trip. Will human fall on face? If yes, press A to catch! If not, press B to’— what, stand there and do nothing? It’s just human nature; when you see someone falling that’s just what you do. I’m not going to apologize for not calculating the risk properly.”

“Fine! Yes, okay, you’re right. Forget I said anything.” Throwing up his free hand in defeat, Jon set off again—tried to stride, but it was hard to do that with a limp. Even with his cane, he couldn’t step evenly enough to achieve a decisive gait.

It was fine, Jon reminded himself. He’d had this injury (if you could call it that) a thousand times before. When it came on suddenly like this it never stuck around long. Sure, yeah, for now every step hurt like an urgent crisis. But any second it would right itself as quickly as it had come undone.

“No, no, I understand! Point taken! Note to future Martin,” the latter shouted from behind Jon, voice troubled by hurried steps; “next time let him fall and break his bloody nose.”

Trusting Martin to shout directions if he went the wrong way, Jon pressed on, rehearsing comebacks in his mind. Is this not a boundary I’m allowed to set? You don’t let me read statements in front of you. Isn’t that part of human—isn’t that my nature, too?

Oh, yes, human nature, that must be it. You didn’t lunge after Salesa at ping-pong the other day, did you? I saw you opening doors for Melanie when she got back from India. You stopped for a while, did you know that? You all did, everyone in the Archives. And then—it’s the strangest thing!—you all started up again after Delano. Maybe you lot don’t see the common factor here; people always do seem to think it’s more polite not to notice.

So what if I had broken my nose? You nearly broke my shoulder, catching me like that. Does that not matter because you can’t see it? Because it wouldn’t scar?

They were all too petty to say aloud. Too incongruous with the quiet. He could hear his own footsteps, and Martin’s, and the clank of his cane’s metal segments each time it hit the ground, and a few crows exclaiming about something exciting they’d found on his right. Nothing else.

“Looks like Salesa went inside,” Martin shouted from behind him.

Jon stopped walking and turned around. “What?”

“Left a couple things out here, but yeah.” Martin jogged to catch up with him, from a greater distance than Jon would have expected given how much limping slowed him down. He must have veered off course to inspect the clearing Salesa had vacated. In one hand he carried an empty wine glass by its stem, which he lifted to show Jon.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” When he caught up with Jon, Martin stood still and panted. “Guess it won’t be as easy to ask him about it as we thought. If we don’t find what we need in there,” he added, glancing demonstratively to something behind Jon.

Following Martin’s eyes, Jon finally saw the shed. Nondescript boards, worn black and white by the elements. Surrounded by hedges three months overgrown.

Turned out it wasn’t a shed anymore, though—Salesa had converted it to a chicken coop. “Explains the boiled eggs,” shrugged Jon.

“God, they’re adorable. Do you think it’s okay to pet one?” Martin crouched in front of a black hen with a puffball of feathers on top of her head. (Martin called her a hen, anyway, and Jon trusted his authority on animals other than cats). “I don’t really know, er, ch—hicken etiquette,” he mused, voice shot through with nervous laughter.

The black hen sat alone in a little box, and didn't seem to want attention. A little red one they’d found strutting around the coop, however, ventured right up to Martin and cocked her head, like she expected him to give her a present. While Martin cooed over her and the other chickens, Jon went outside and laid flat on his back in the grass under a tree. “Take your time,” he shouted. “I’m happy here.”

Sure enough, when Martin emerged from the coop and helped him stand back up, whatever cog in Jon’s pelvis or spine he had jammed earlier was turning again. And by the time they got back to the house, Martin had talked himself into the idea that maybe all the house’s doorknobs that looked like theirs came loose a lot, and Salesa had taken to keeping the screwdriver to fix them in, say, the hall closet, or in their toilet’s under-sink cabinet.

“I think we’re gonna have to find Salesa and ask him about it,” concluded Martin, when these locations turned up nothing they wanted either.

“If you’re sure.”

Jon sat down on the closed toilet seat. Hadn’t that been what he said just before the last time he sat down on the lid of a toilet before Martin? He’d dutifully turned away, that time, as Martin undressed, wanting to make sure he knew he’d still let him have some privacy. But then, of course: “Where should I put these, do you think? —Er, my clothes I mean.”

“Oh. Um.” Jon had turned his head to look at the stain on Daisy’s ceiling, for what must have been the tenth time already. “I can hold onto them if you like.” Which then meant Martin had to get them back on before Jon could undress for his own shower and hand him his clothes. As he’d piled his trousers into Martin’s hands a tape recorder fell out of one pocket and crashed to the floor, ejecting the tape with Peter’s statement on it. “Shit,” Jon had hissed and ducked to the floor to pick it up, trusting the slit in his towel to reveal nothing worse than thigh.

“Shit,” Martin echoed. “I hope that wasn’t your phone.”

“No—just the recorder.” Still on the floor, Jon clicked its little door shut and pressed play. Sound of waves, static, footsteps. He switched it off. “Seems alright.” Thank god, he stopped himself from adding. Jon didn’t want to lose this one, this record of how he’d found Martin, in case he lost him again. But he didn’t want Martin to hear the sounds of the Lonely again so soon, either. That was why he’d stayed with Martin while he showered, rather than waiting in the safehouse living room. He wouldn’t have insisted on it, of course. He didn’t exactly believe Martin would disappear again? But long showers were such a cliché of lonely people, and steam looked so much like the mist on Peter’s beach, and when Jon asked how he felt about it, Martin said that thought hadn’t occurred to him,

“But as soon as you started to say that, I.” He’d stood with his teeth bared, half smiling half grimacing, and bringing the tips of his fingers together and apart over and over. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Heh—it scares me too now, if I’m honest. That’s… a good sign, I guess, right?”

They had come a long way since then, Jon told himself. They were more comfortable with each other now. On their first morning here, they’d showered separately, but after (Martin’s) breakfast Jon’s irritation had faded and he had resolved to pretend along with Martin that this was a holiday. So they’d got to use the enormous bathtub after all— the one at whose soap dish Jon now found himself staring as he sat on the lid of the toilet. When the heat made him dizzier, as he’d known it would, he had relished getting to rest his cheek on Martin’s arm along the rim of the tub, where it had grown cool and soft in the few minutes he’d kept it above the water.

“Let’s have lunch first,” Martin said now; “you’re getting all….” While he looked for the right word he dropped his shoulders and jaw, and mimicked a thousand-yard stare. “Abstract, again. Distant. People food should help a little, yeah? Tie you back down to this plane a bit?”

“Probably,” Jon agreed, smiling at Martin’s tact.

But to get to the kitchen they had to pass through the dining room—where they found Salesa snoring in a chair at the head of the table. “Let’s just ask him now before he gets up and moves again,” maintained Martin. Jon shrugged his acquiescence and leant in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. Why hadn’t he used the toilet before letting Martin lead him here?

”Um, Mikaele?” Martin inched a few steps toward him, but a distance of several feet still gaped between them. “We have something to ask you, if that’s—hello? Mikaele?”

A likely-sounding gap between snores—but nope. Still sound asleep. Salesa sighed, licked his lips, then began to snore again.

“Mikaele Salesa,” called out Jon from his post at the door, rather less gently. “Mikaele Salesa!” He turned to Martin, meaning to suggest that they eat now and trust the smell of food to wake Salesa, but stopped himself when he saw Martin creeping timidly toward Salesa with his hand outstretched.

“Sorry to disturbyouMikaele,” Martin squeaked out, so quickly that the words blended together. He gave Salesa’s shoulder the lightest possible tap with one fingertip, then snatched his hand back with a grimace of regret as Salesa’s own hand reached up, belatedly, as if to swat Martin’s away. “Oh, good, you’re—”

Salesa interrupted with a snore. Martin sighed and turned to Jon. “What d’you think? Should I shake him?”

Jon pulled out a neighboring chair and sat on it. “No need for anything so drastic. Try poking him a few more times first.”

“Right.”

Once he’d tired of rolling his cane between his palms Jon bent down to set it on the floor. He’d learnt his lesson about trying to hang it on the back of these chairs, though in this fog it had taken several incidents to stick. Every time it ended up crashing to the floor, when he scooched his chair back or when Martin tried to reach an arm around him. Then again—he conjectured, bent halfway to the floor with the cane still in his hand—if he did drop it, that might wake Salesa.

Two nights ago Jon had got up to use the toilet, and knocked his cane down from the wall on his way back to bed in the dark. It crashed to the floor; Jon swore and hopped on one foot back from it, imagining the other foot’s poor toenail smashed to jagged pieces as it thumped to life with pain. Meanwhile he heard rustling from the bed, and Martin’s voice, querulous with sleep. “Jon? Jon, what’s—happened, what—are you.”

“Nothing it’s fine go back to”—he’d hissed as his knee decided it had enough of hopping—“don’t get up, just. I’m gonna turn on the light, if that’s alright.”

“What fell? Are you okay?”

“The cane. I knocked it over in the dark.”

“Oh.”

He got no verbal response about the light, but guessed Martin had nodded.

From a distance his toe looked alright—no blood, anyway, so he could walk on it without risking the carpet. Jon picked his cane up from the floor and steered himself to the foot of the bed, where he sat down. His toenail had chipped, it looked like—only a little, but in that way that leaves a long crack. If he tried to pick it straight he’d tear out a big chunk and it would bleed. But if he left it like this it would snag on the sheets, on his socks, until some loose thread tore the chunk of nail off for him. What could he do for this kind of thing here? At home he’d file the nail down around the chip, then cover it in clear nail polish, and just hope that’d hold out until the crack grew out and he could clip it without bleeding. But here? A plaster would have to do, he guessed. They had plenty of those now.

Jon hated bandaging, ever since Prentiss—in much the same way that Martin hated sleeping in his pants. He’d had time to learn all its discomforts. How sweaty they got, the way they stuck to your hairs, the way lint collected in the adhesive residue they left. Didn’t help he associated them with that time of paranoia. They didn’t make him act paranoid, understand; he just habitually thought of bandage-wearing as what paranoid people do. It made an echo of his contempt for that time’s Jon cling to his perceptions of current Jon. On his first morning here, when the ones on his shin where Daisy’d bit him peeled off in the shower, he hadn’t bothered to replace them. After all, the bite only hurt when something pulled on it or poked or scraped against it, so he figured his trousers would provide enough protective barrier.

“That healed fast,” Martin had remarked, when he noticed the undressed wound in the bath—and then, when he looked again, “Yyyyeah I dunno, I think you might still want to bandage that. We don’t want dirt getting in there.”

“Do I have to?”

“Humor me.”

When they got back to their room he’d let Martin dress it himself. Martin had sucked air through his teeth. “This is days old—it shouldn’t be all hot and red like this.” According to him these were early signs of infection, which would get worse if they didn’t take better care of it—i.e., keep the wound freshly bandaged and ointmented. Jon refrained from pointing out that when the cut on his throat had got like that he’d left it uncovered and been fine. But he did ask what worse meant. “Really bad,” testified Martin. “I had a cut on my finger get infected once. Really disgusting. You don’t want to know.”

Jon smiled at him, raised his eyebrows. “After Jared’s mortal garden I think I can handle it.”

Martin smiled too, but wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “There was pus involved.”

“Oh, god! How could you tell me that!” gasped Jon, hand to his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it also hurt? A lot? And it can make you ill. So we should try to avoid it, yeah?”

He’d tried to disavow the disappointment in his sigh by exaggerating it. “Yes, alright.”

“Don’t know why you’d want to leave it exposed anyway. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Well, sure, when you do that,” Jon had muttered, flinching away. As he asked the question Martin had lightly tapped the skin around the gash through its new bandage. A second or two later Jon added, “Less than when I got it? It’s hard to tell; it’s… different here.”

With a sigh that caught on phlegm and irritation, Martin asked, “Different how?”

He hadn’t been able to answer then, but he knew now, of course. It hurt the way things do when you’re awake. Not with the constant smart and throb it had when he’d first got it, but, it snagged on things now. Had opinions on how he moved. When he bent his knee more than ninety degrees, that stretched the skin around it painfully. Also if he knelt, since then the floor would press against it through his trousers. And stepping with that foot felt odd. Didn’t hurt, exactly, but sort of… rattled? Like a bad bruise would. This all seemed so small, compared to the moment of terror for his life that he’d felt when Daisy bit into him—that gaping wound in his new self-conception, which his healing powers had sewn up so quickly. The ritual of bandaging it every evening seemed so otiose, so laughably superstitious. He despised the thought of adding another step to it.

While Jon went on examining his toe, Martin asked, “What was the... thumping. It sounded like.”

“Oh—no—I didn’t fall; it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No—yes—stop, it’s nothing, don’t get up. I just forgot I left it on the—leaning against the doorwall” (he hadn’t decided in time whether to say doorway or wall and ended up with half of each) “so I walked into it, er, toe first.”

“Oh,” Martin said again. Jon could hear him subsiding against the pillows behind him. “It came down?”

Big sigh. Jon’s fingernails met his palms. He set his foot back on the floor, and when his hip whined in its socket he clenched his teeth and kept them that way. In his mind he heard days’ worth of similar jokes. When he couldn’t get a jammed jar open: So you’re saying it wouldn’t… come off? When they got back their clean laundry: Can you believe all those grass stains came out?—oh, sorry: that they came off, I meant. Always with an innocent laugh, like Jon’s original phrasing had been just, what, like a Freudian slip, rather than something perfectly comprehensible that Martin had refused to engage with, taken from him, and rendered meaningless on purpose. “No it did not,” he snapped, “and I would appreciate it if you’d quit throwing that back in my face.”

“Whoa, uh. O…kay. What’s… going on here exactly?”

“You—?”

His heart plummeted; his face stung with embarrassment. Came down, Martin had said—not came off. He’d just been confirming that Jon’s cane had fallen down.

“Oh, god—nothing, never mind. You did nothing.”

“Well that’s obviously not true.”

“I just—I thought you’d said ‘came off.’ I thought you meant, had my toe ‘come off.’”

“Oh,” said Martin, yet again. When Jon turned to look he found him still blinking and squinting against the light. “Do you… need me to not say that anymore?”

“Not when I—?” Not when I’ve hurt myself, Jon meant. But Martin hadn’t done that, so this grievance didn’t actually mean anything. He’d been seeing patterns where there were none, and now that he’d seen through the illusion Jon knew again that Martin never would say it like that. “No, it’s fine. Do whatever you want.”

Martin turned the tail end of his yawn into a huff of false laughter. “Nope. Still don’t believe you.”

“Everything you’ve said makes perfect sense with the information you have. It’s all just—me. Being cryptic again.”

“Okay, uh. Are you waiting for me to disagree? ‘Cause, uh. Yup—you’re still being cryptic. No arguments there.”

Jon just sighed, really scraping the back of his throat with it. Almost a scoff.

“Sooo do you wanna fill me in, or.”

“No?” With an incredulous laugh. “Well, yes, just.”

He hadn’t known how to start from there, while so tightly wound and defensive. It seemed cruel to raise such a sensitive subject when Martin sounded so eager to go back to sleep. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear Martin whimper apologies. Didn’t want to deal with how fake they would sound. They wouldn’t be fake; he knew that. But they would sound fake, which meant it would take an effort of will, a deliberate exercise of empathy, to accept them as real. He wasn’t in the mood to hear yet another person say I’m sorry, I didn’t know; much less to respond with the requisite It’s okay; you didn’t know. It would take a strength of conviction he didn’t have right now.

“Y—you don’t have to explain it tonight? I’ll just, I’ll just not use that phrase anymore, and maybe in the morning you’ll be less in the mood to lash out at me for things that don’t make sense.”

And what was there to say to that? It had taken Jon three tries to force out, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Good night, Jon.”

“Good night. I still need the light, for.”

“That’s fine. Just turn it off when you come back to bed.”

“You won’t wake him up,” a new voice interjected.

Annabelle. Jon couldn’t see her, but he had learnt by now to recognize that voice, with its insufferable upbeat teasing inflection like every sentence she said was a riddle. He caught a glimpse of movement, then heard the click of her shoes on the floor. She must have poked her head round the doorway at the far end of the table while she spoke, then scuttled off again. At last he got a good look at her, as she put her blonde-and-gray head through the closer door.

“He’s a very heavy sleeper,” she informed them, with a smile and a shrug. “You can shake him all you want; it’s not going to work.”

Martin cleared his throat—trying to catch Jon’s attention, presumably. But Jon feared Annabelle would vanish again if he took his eyes off her. Not that he wanted her here, either, but?—he at least wanted to know which direction she went when she disappeared.

“What are you doing here, Annabelle.”

She shrugged two of her shoulders. “Just offering you some advice.” Then she used the momentum from the shrug to push herself backward, out of the doorway back into the corridor. Before the last of her hands disappeared off to the right, she waved to both of them.

“Well, how about some ‘advice’ about this, then—”

“She’s already gone, Martin.”

“Seriously? God—which way did she go?” Jon pointed; Martin bolted down the hallway after her. “Oi! Annabelle!”

“Shhh!”

“Annabelle! Do you know where Salesa keeps the—”

Jon did his best to follow him, praying all his limbs would go on straight this time. “Don’t!”

“What? Why not?” he heard, from the other side of the wall. Thankfully he could no longer hear Martin’s pounding footsteps. He overtook him in the hallway, just about able to make out his face around the dark swirls in his vision. “She’s as likely to know as Salesa, right?” Martin continued. “And it’s not like she’d lie about it. I mean, what would be the point?”

“I just don’t think we should give her any kind of advantage over us,” Jon snarled. The attempt to keep his voice down made the words come out sounding nastier than he intended.

Martin scoffed. “You don’t think maybe this is a bit more important than your stupid principle about not accepting help from her?”

“Is it?” Jon took hold of Martin’s sleeve, having just now caught up to him. “The new room’s fine. It’s even nicer than the old one, right? We could just stay there.”

“I already told you, Jon. I’m not just gonna leave it like this.”

“’Til Salesa sobers up, I meant.”

“If we have to, yeah, but—? All our stuff’s in that room. The statements’re in there.”

“I just don’t think we should show her that kind of vulnerability,” Jon hissed, shifting from foot to foot in his eagerness either to sit down or go somewhere else. “I don’t want to give Annabelle something she can use over us.”

“How does this make us more vulnerable than we are eating her food?”

“It doesn’t, alright? That doesn’t mean we should add more to the pile!” He watched Martin shrug and open his mouth, but cut him off in advance: “Last time we had this argument you were the one maintaining she was dangerous.”

It was on their first night here—their first awake here, anyway. They’d been heading back to their room, Martin lamenting that he’d not packed anything to sleep in when they left Daisy’s safehouse. “Won’t make much difference to me,” Jon had shrugged at first.

Martin had shaken his head, grimaced at something in his imagination. “I hate sleeping in my pants. It’s just gross. Dunno why anyone would choose to do it.”

“How is it gross?” Jon had laughed. He’d expected to hear some weird thing about its being unsanitary for that much leg to touch sheets that only got washed every two weeks, and to argue back that in that case shouldn’t he sleep in his socks. Disdain for the body seemed damn near universal, and yet manifested so differently in each person whose habits Jon had got to know up close. Georgie had heard that underarm hair helped wick away the smell of sweat—so she let that hair grow out, but shaved the ones on her stomach for fear they’d smell like navel lint. And Daisy, a woman who used to sniff her used-up plasters before throwing them in the bin, would spray cologne in the toilet every time she left it. Jon had enjoyed getting to know which of bodily self-contempt’s myriad forms Martin subscribed to.

But this turned out not to be one of them. Instead Martin explained, “It’s so sweaty. Like sitting on a leather couch in shorts, except the leather’s your other leg? Ugh. I hate waking up slippery.”

“That’s why I put a pillow between mine,” laughed Jon. “Suppose I will miss Trevor’s t-shirt, though. Now that I don’t have to worry about showing up in people’s dreams like that.”

“Oh, god, right—what is it? ‘You don’t have to be faster than the bear’—?”

“‘You just have to be faster than your friends,'” Jon completed, in the most sinister Ceaseless-Watcher voice he could muster. Martin snorted with laughter.

And then they’d opened the door to discover Annabelle had done them a fucking turndown service. Quilt folded back, mints on the pillows, and a pile of old-timey striped pajamas at the foot of the bed. “Huh. Cree…py, but convenient, I guess. Least they’re not black and white, right?” Martin unfolded the green-striped shirt on top, then handed it with its matching trousers to Jon. “These ones must be yours.”

“Mm.” Jon let Martin hand him the pajamas, then tossed them onto the chair in the opposite corner of the room (from which chair they promptly fell to the floor). The mint from his side of the bed he deposited in the bin under the bedside table.

“So who’s our good fairy, d’you think? Salesa, or.”

“Annabelle,” Jon hissed. “Salesa was with us all through dinner.”

Martin nodded and sighed. “Yeah.” He sat down on the bed, still regarding the other set of garments—these ones striped yellow and blue—with a puzzled frown. “God, I’ll look like a clown in these. You sure I won’t give you nightmares about the Unknowing?”

But Jon said nothing, still hoping he could avoid weighing in on Martin’s choice whether or not to accept Annabelle’s… gifts.

“It’s probably Salesa’s stuff, at least. Not Annabelle’s. I mean,” Martin mused with a brave laugh, “he’s got a lot of weird outfits on hand apparently.”

“Unless she wove them out of cobwebs.”

“That’s not a thing,” Martin groaned, making himself laugh too. “Spider webs aren’t strong enough to use as thread.”

“Not natural ones, maybe,” Jon said with a shrug and a careful half smile. With no less care, he turned the sheets and counterpane back up on his side of the bed, restoring the way it’d looked when he and Martin made up the bed that morning. Stacked the frontmost pillow back upright against the one behind it. Punched it a little, more as a way to break the silence than because it looked too fluffy. Then sat down in front of them and put his shoe up on the bedside table so he could untie it—glancing first at Martin to make sure he didn’t disapprove.

“I mean, I guess,” Martin mused meanwhile. “Not sure why she’d bother, though. Maybe it’s”—with a gasp and a smile Jon could hear in his voice—“maybe she’s put poison in the threads, and that’s why yours and mine are different. Mine’s got—I dunno, some kind of self-esteem poison, like, a reverse SSRI, to make me feel like you don’t need me, so when she kidnaps you I won’t try to save you. And yours….”

As Jon pulled off his now-untied shoe one of the bones in his hip jabbed against some bit of soft tissue it wasn’t supposed to touch. He gasped and dropped his shoe. It thudded on the floor.

“You alright?”

“Fine. Some kind of dex drain, probably.”

“Ha.”

After a silence, Martin spoke again: “Are you sure you’re okay staying here for a bit? Sorry—I kinda bulldozed over your objections earlier.”

Jon finished untying his other shoe, then paused to think while he shook the cramp out of his hand. “No,” he decided. “You didn’t bulldoze, you just…questioned. And you were right to.”

“Still, I mean. It might not be a great idea to stick around here with the spider lady who’s had it in for us since day one. Have you re-listened to the tapes from the day Prentiss attacked, by the way, since you got them back from the Not-Sasha thing?”

“Right—the spider, yes.”

“Yeah, exactly! You wouldn’t even have broke through that wall if it hadn’t been for the spider there!”

Jon nodded and scrubbed at his eyes, trying to muster the energy to match Martin’s tone. This was an important conversation to have, he knew. And a part of him shuddered with recognition to hear Martin talk about those tapes. He had re-listened to them—first at Georgie’s, one night in the small hours as he cleaned her kitchen, thinking clearly for the first time in months and trying to pinpoint the exact moment his thoughts had been clouded with paranoia, so that he might know what signs to look for if something else tried to infect his mind like that. And then again after Basira found the jar of ashes. That time he’d just wanted to suck all the marrow he could from the memory of Martin with his sensible corkscrew and his first answer to Why are you here, even if it did mean having to hear himself ask if Martin was a ghost. A few weeks later, however, after Hilltop Road, he’d done a fair bit of obsessing over the spider thing with Prentiss, yeah. He just wished he could remember what conclusion he’d come to.

All he could remember was going for those tapes yet again only to find them missing from his drawer. But he’d been chasing phantoms all day; it was late at night by then, and when he’d dashed out to tell Basira his fear Annabelle had stolen them, stolen his memories from him just like the Not-Them had, he’d stood there over her and Daisy’s frankenbag for what felt like an hour, mouth open, unable to utter a sound. It felt too much like going to wake up his grandmother after a dream. So he’d told himself to sleep on it—that he’d probably left the tapes in some other obvious place, and would find them in the morning. And when he remembered his panic, the next day at lunch, and checked his drawer again, the tapes were back, right where he expected them. He’d dismissed it as a dream after all. But no—Martin must have borrowed them. He must’ve been worried about the Web, too.

“It’s… it should be okay. I don’t think it’ll be like that here.”

Martin sighed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That thing where you just—decide how something is without even telling me why you think so. I mean it’s one thing out there, when you ‘know everything’” (this in a false deep voice) “and can’t possibly share it all, but here? When you’re just guessing, like everyone else? Why don’t you think it’ll be like that here? And what does ‘like that’ even mean?”

“I'm sorry—you’re right—I just mean, I don’t think she has her powers here. Based on what Salesa said about the camera, and on what happens when I try to use my powers….”

“Salesa just said the Eye can’t see this place, though. What about that insect thing he said found its way in?”

“I mean.” Jon shrugged. “We managed to find our way here without the Eye’s help.”

“Yeah, but if the Web has no power here then how could she have called me on a payphone? She had to have known where I was to do that, yeah? And she couldn’t know that from here unless the Web told her to do it, right?”

“Maybe? We don’t even know if the Web works like that.”

“Told her to do it, made her want to do it, gave her the tools to do it, whatever. You know what I mean. Look—we know the Eye’s not totally blind here, since it can still feed on statements. Right?”

Jon wondered now how either one of them could have been so sure of that. “Apparently,” he liked to think he had said—but more likely he’d replied simply, “Right.”

“So then by that logic the Web still probably likes it when she—I don’t know, when she manipulates people here. It probably still gets, like, live tweets from her about it. How do we know it can’t use that information to weave more plots around us?”

“If that’s even how it works,” Jon had replied again. “The other fears don’t work like that—they don’t plan, they just.” He tried to sort his intuition into Martin’s live tweet metaphor. “The fears just like their agents’ tweets, they don’t… comment on them, o-or build new opinions on what they’ve read. It boosts the avatar's… popularity, I guess? Their influence?” Jon hadn’t even logged into Twitter since before the Archives. “But unless the Web is different from all the other fears, it doesn’t—it’s not her boss. It doesn’t come up with the schemes, it just.”

“Isn’t it literally called the ‘Spinner of Schemes’, though? The ‘Mother of Puppets’?”

And Jon couldn’t remember what he’d said to brush off that one.

“Of course she’s dangerous,” Martin said now. “I just don’t see what sinister plot of hers we could possibly be enabling by asking her where to find screwdrivers.”

Jon scoffed. “She’s with the Web, Martin! The ‘Mother of Puppets,’ the ‘Spinner of Schemes’? You’re not supposed to be able to see how the threads connect. Anything we ask her gives her another opening to sink her hooks into.”

“So what, you just don’t want to owe her a favor?”

“Yes?” Jon blinked—on purpose, needless to say. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I mean—why do you think she’s here, Martin, ingratiating herself with us?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s the one place on Earth that hasn’t been turned into a hell dimension?”

Jon snarled and set his head in his free hand. The dizziness was coming back. “In her statement Annabelle said the trick to manipulating people was to make sure they always either over or underestimate you.”

“Okay,” granted Martin, as though prompting Jon to explain how this was relevant.

“She’s trying to humanize herself,” he maintained, scratching an imaginary itch behind his glasses. “We shouldn’t let her.”

“I mean, she is physically more human here.”

“Is she? She doesn’t seem to be withdrawing from the Web; she’s not—like this.” Jon turned his wrist in a circle next to his head.

“Yeah but she’s been here for months, right? Maybe she’s passed through that stage.”

A bitter huff of laughter. “So you’re saying she’s reformed.”

“No. I’m saying the fact she’s not all—loopy here doesn’t necessarily mean she still has any power.”

“She’s got four arms and six eyes, Martin!”

“And you sleep with your eyes open and summon tape recorders, Jon!”

“Well,” mused Jon with a wry smile, “not on purpose.”

“That’s my point! You’ve only got—vestiges here, yeah? I’m not saying we should trust her; I don’t wanna be friends or anything. I’m just saying I don’t think the actual concrete danger she poses here is what’s making you hate the idea of asking her for directions.”

“What about that insect thing Salesa said she chased off. Does that not sound spidery to you?”

“We don’t know that! Maybe she waved his syringe at it.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath through his nose. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to bring up this next part; he feared it might make Martin too afraid to stay here any longer. “I think she’s plotting against us.”

Blink. “Well, yeah. Of course she is. She’s been plotting against us for—”

“Here, I mean. I mean, I think that’s why she’s here. She’s been hiding from the Eye on purpose so she could lure us into her trap with her spindly little”—Jon thought of the earrings that dangled from Annabelle’s ears like flies, swinging with her every sudden movement. Unconsciously he struck out with his hand as if to catch one, closing his fist around empty air. “Without my being able to see either her or the trap. At best, she’s here gathering information about us so she can report it back to her master.” He pictured the thousand spiders he’d seen birthed during Francis’s nightmare crawling back and forth with messages between here and the nearest Web domain—

“I thought you said the fears didn’t work that way,” pursued Martin—

“And every little thing we tell her is one more thread she can use to pull on us.”

“Okay, but, even if you’re right, ‘Hey Annabelle, our doorknob’s busted, can you help us find the tools to fix it’ isn’t actually a fact about us.”

“But that’s just the best-case scenario, Martin! The worst-case scenario is that she predicted we’d get locked out of our room, or even loosened the screw herself—”

“Not this again—”

“—because she knew we’d have to ask her for help, and wherever she tells us to look for the screwdriver is where she’s laid her trap! Think about it—this couldn’t happen outside the range of the camera, right? It would only work in a place where I can’t just know where to find something. That’s the only scenario where we’d ever ask her for directions.” Martin sighed, crossed his arms, rolled his eyes. Jon looked right at him, hoping to catch them on their way back down. “What if her plan is to trap us here forever so we can’t go stop Elias? What if by trusting her with this, we give her the tools to keep the world like this forever?”

Again Martin sighed. He bit his lip, at last seeming not to have an argument lined up already.

“I can’t actually stop you from going after her”—Jon heard Martin scoff, but pressed on—“but I can’t take part in this.”

“You sort of already did stop me, Jon.” He lifted his arm, pointing vaguely in the direction she’d gone. “We can’t catch up with her now.”

That wasn’t quite true, Jon knew; Martin had chosen to stop and listen to him. Instead of pointing this out in words Jon smiled, meekly, and reached for Martin’s hand. “Guess that’s true. Are you, er, ready for lunch now?”

His answering scoff sounded fond, indulgent, rather than incredulous. “Yeah, alright.”

With Martin’s hand still in his, Jon turned around—an awkward business, while holding hands in such a narrow passage—and began to walk back towards the dining room. At the end of the corridor stood a tall, thin, many-limbed figure, holding a water carafe, a stack of glasses, and four steaming plates of food.

“You boys getting hungry?” As she stepped toward them her shoes clacked against the floor. How had they not heard her approach? And what was she doing back at that end of the corridor?

“How did you—?”

“I have my ways. I’ve brought lunch for you both, if you’re amenable.”

“Oh—well, thanks, you’re, you’re just in time, actually.” Jon didn’t dare look away from Annabelle Cane long enough to confirm this, but suspected Martin had directed that last bit at him as much as her. “Can I help you with those?”

Annabelle managed to shrug without dislodging anything from the four plates in her hands. “You can take the napkins if you want,” she said, extending toward Martin the forearm from which they hung.

Jon sat back down in the chair he’d left at a haphazard angle—though it felt weird, since he usually sat on the table’s other side. He thanked Martin when he handed him a napkin, and allowed Annabelle to set an empty glass and a plate of food in front of him. It was a pasta dish, with clams—from a can, he reminded himself. A can and a jar of pasta sauce. Couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to put together.

“Salesa’s still out of it,” observed Martin. “Don’t think he’ll make too much of his.”

“A shame,” Annabelle agreed. She set a plate down in front of the sleeping Salesa anyway. “Maybe the smell of food’ll wake him up.”

“Are you going to eat with us?” Martin asked, as he and Jon both watched her deposit a fourth plate across the table from them.

“I may as well. We do still have to eat to live here, don’t we?” Jon could tell she meant this comment as an invitation for him to join their conversation, but he didn’t intend to take her bait. “Besides,” Annabelle went on, “this way you’ll know I’ve not saved the best for myself.” With one hand she picked up her own plate again; another of her long, thin arms reached out to take Jon’s plate.

He dragged it to the side, out of her reach. “No, thank you.”

“Alright. Martin,” she said, looking over at him with a patient, patronizing smile. “Will you switch plates with me?”

“Oh, my god,” Martin groaned into his hand. “Sure, why not.”

Something small and gray skittered across the table toward her. For half a second Annabelle took her eyes from Martin. Her nostrils flared; one of her eyes twitched; Jon heard a stifled squawk from behind her closed lips as she swept the skittery thing over her edge of the table. He made no such effort to hide his scoff. Did she think she could play nice, by declining to hold little spider conversations in front of them? That they’d think she was on their side as long as they couldn’t see her chatting to her little spies?

“Thank you,” Annabelle sing-songed meanwhile, returning her gaze to Martin. “You’re sweet.”

On their first morning here, after showering and then shuddering back into their filthy clothes, Jon and Martin had barely left their room before Annabelle dangled herself in their path, with cups of tea (Jon refused his) and an offer to show them to the pantry. From this tour Jon had concluded that all food in this place was tainted by her influence. And he didn’t actually feel hungry at that point? He remembered Martin remarking on his hunger before they’d both fallen asleep, but Jon had felt only tired. Surely that meant he still didn’t need food here, right? It’d been like that before the change, after the coma—he’d needed sleep and statements to keep up his strength, but could function just fine without… people food. So he’d resolved to accept nothing offered him here—or at least, nothing Salesa and Annabelle hadn’t already given him and Martin without their consent. No tea, none of Salesa’s booze, no use of the huge industrial washing machines, no food.

That resolution lasted about nine hours. He knew because on that first day time still felt like such a novelty he and Martin had counted every one. Once he’d tried and failed to compel Salesa—once he’d heard him give a statement and managed to space out for half of it, rather than transcending himself in the ecstasy of vicarious fear—Jon started to grow conscious of his hunger. After two hours he felt shaky; after four he started picking quarrels, first just with Annabelle when she showed up with snacks, then with Salesa, and then even with Martin; after six he felt first hot, then cold. Finally around the eight-hour mark he was hiding tears over an untied shoelace, and figured it was worth finding out how much of this torment people food could solve. He sat through dinner, flaunting his empty plate—then stole to the pantry for something he could make himself. Settled for dry toast and raisins. “Couldn’t you find the jam?” Martin had asked him.

“Didn’t think of it,” Jon lied, once he’d got his throat round a lump of under-chewed toast.

“You want me to get some for you? That looks pretty depressing without it,” Martin said, with his eyebrows and the line of his mouth both raised in a pitying smile.

“Better make it one of the sealed jars.”

“What, so Annabelle can’t have got to it?” Jon nodded, chewing so as to have neither to smile back nor decide not to. “You know she made the bread, right.”

Of course she had. Jon dropped his head onto his fists. “Fuck.”

“What did you think?” mused Martin with a laugh. “That Salesa just popped down to the supermarket?”

“I don’t know—that they’d taken it from the freezer, maybe?”

“I mean, that’s possible,” Martin granted with a shrug. “Should I get you that jam?”

Big sigh. “Fine.”

In reality he’d stared up at the row of jam jars in Salesa’s pantry for a full ten seconds before deciding not to have any. He feared spiders would spill out of the jar onto his hand as soon as he got it open. But he also feared he might not be able to open it at all—only hurt himself trying. Way back in their first year in the Archives together, Martin had once seen him struggling to get open the jar where he kept paperclips. Jon hadn’t realized he was being watched—or, that is, that Martin was watching him. In the Archives the sense of someone watching was so omnipresent one soon lost the ability to distinguish Elias’s evil Eye from other, more mundane eyes. Anyway, after three minutes’ effort and nothing to show for it but a misplaced MCP joint in his thumb, Jon had given up on paper-clipping the photos Tim had pilfered for him to their relevant statement and begun hunting through his desk drawers for a stapler instead. And then a high-pitched pop above his head made him startle so badly he gasped, choked on his own spit, and flung the picture in his hand across the room like a paper airplane.

Around the sound of his own cough he could hear Martin shouting Sorry, and Tim and Sasha laughing on the other side of the wall. Martin’s laugh soon joined theirs, though it sounded desperate, sheepish. He dove after the photo Jon had dropped, and then, when he came back with it, explained, “Got the paperclips for you.”

Jon frowned. “This is a photograph, Martin.”

“No, I mean—?” His laugh came out like a whimper; he picked the unlidded jar up an inch off the table, then set it back down. “Here.”

Okay, so, not exactly an auspicious start, but, it still became a thing? Martin opening his paperclip jar. At first he’d wished he could just remember not to seal it so tightly; he could get it just fine when he stopped turning it earlier. At least when the weather hadn’t changed since the last time he opened it. But then when they all started leaving the Archives less often, and the break-room fridge filled up with condiments that all seemed to have twist-off lids… he’d kind of liked that? Martin would hand him the peanut-butter jar, with its lid off and pinned to its side with one finger, before Jon had even finished asking for it. This seemed to be the pattern behind all his early positive impressions of Martin: the jar lids, the corkscrew, the way he managed to make mealtimes at the Institute feel like proper breaks. Martin had seemed like such an oaf to him at first—clumsy, absent-minded, always seeming to think that if he professed enough good will with his smiles and cups of tea and I know you won’t like this, but, then no one would notice his impertinent comments and all the doors he left wide open. All the dogs and worms and spiders he let in. He’d seemed to Jon the human embodiment of a fly left undone—more so than ever after the morning he’d walked in on him wearing naught but frog-print boxer shorts. But he had this easy grace with things that needed twisting off. Banana peels, bottle caps, wine corks, worms.

And then when he came back after the Unknowing Martin was never around. Jon and Basira and Melanie all lived in the Archives, like Martin had two years before, but by that point he wasn’t on Could you open this for me? terms with any of them. But he hadn’t needed people food anymore, and if he subluxed a joint it would heal instantly anyway. So he’d just struggled and sworn, feeling stupid for shrinking from the pain even after having chopped off his own finger. And it got easier with practice. By the time he and Martin reunited, he’d got so used to it that sometimes he’d hand jars to Martin already unlidded. Martin hadn’t seemed to notice. Finally, one evening a day or two after that row they had over the ice-cream thing, Jon had opened a jar of pasta sauce (he’d taken up people food again at Daisy’s safehouse, if only to make their time there feel more like a regular holiday), and reached out to hand it to Martin—then paused and retracted the hand that gripped the jar, remembering his promise to be more open about.

“This is, um.” He’d glanced up at Martin, then back to the floor as the latter said,

“Huh?”

“This is one of those things that’s got better since the coma. Since I became an avatar. I can, um. I can open jars now? Without.” He’d almost said Without hurting myself, then remembered that wasn’t technically true. Deep breath. “Without lasting harm. It—it hurts for a second? But the Eye heals it instantly. That's why I’ve been.”

“Oh,” Martin said, seeming to stall for time as he absorbed this information. He accepted the jar which Jon again held out to him, and turned it around in his hands, eyes on its label. “Yeah, I—I noticed, you’re really good at opening jars now,” he went on with a laugh. Again he paused, and blew a sigh out of his mouth. “Right. Okay. Thank you for telling me?”

“I’ll try and be better about….”

Martin nodded, turning back to the stove and beginning to stir sauce into the pasta. “Yeah. I, uh—I didn’t know that was why you used to need me to open them for you?” Since the other night’s argument, Jon had gathered as much. He nodded too. “I thought you were just, heh, you know. Weaker than me.”

“I mean, I am—”

“Well yeah but you know what I mean.”

“I do. I should’ve told you.”

“No, I—actually I think you’re in the clear on that one, if I’m honest. I just—it’s just weird? I thought I was done having to” (another blown-out sigh punctuated his speech) “having to reframe stuff I thought was normal around some unseen horror. Sorry,” he added when he’d finished beating sauce off Daisy’s wooden spoon; “that’s probably not a great way to.”

“No—it’s fine?”

“Suppose it sounds like an exaggeration, now, after all we’ve.”

Mechanically, Jon nodded, without deciding whether he agreed or not. Around an awkward laugh, he confessed, “‘Unseen horror’ might be the nicest way I’ve ever heard anyone describe it.”

“Er. Yikes? That sounds like you might need some better friends, Jon.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, laughing again. “I—I just mean, it’s nice to hear something other than?” Jon paused and pushed his little fingers back the hundred or so degrees they each would go. First the left, then the right. Other than what? Well, doubt, for a start. Though most of the doubt he heard from outside himself was implicit. Careful silence from people he told about it; requests people made of him seemingly just so he’d have to tell them he couldn’t do that; impatience, bafflement, suspicion from strangers. Why are you out of breath, the woman behind the Immigration desk had asked him at O’Hare, as if breathlessness incriminated him somehow. But that wasn’t the response he’d subconsciously measured Martin’s phrase against. What he had in mind now was more like… bland support. Hurried support. Assurances quick and dutiful, yet so vague he could tell the people who gave them were thinking only of the mistakes they might make, if they dared to acknowledge what he’d said with any more than half a sentence. The I’m sorry you’re in pain equivalents of Right away, Mr. Sims.

That was it—unseen horror was an original thought. Martin had put it in his own words, rather than either borrowing Jon’s or using none at all. “Other than a platitude.”

So at Salesa’s when Martin came back with the jam jar he handed it to Jon. Jon made a show of trying to open it, but could feel his middle finger threatening to leave its top half behind. It frightened him, in a way he’d forgot was even possible. For such a long time now, pain had just been pain? He’d grown so unused to the threat it held for normal people. The threat of actual danger, of injury. He’d set down the jar on the table in front of him, and crossed his arms in front of it.

“Can’t get it, huh?” Martin asked; Jon shook his head.

How much danger, though, he wondered. Earlier that day, after he and Martin got out of the bath, his left index finger had popped out while he was buttoning his shirt. It still ached when he used the finger, or thought about the cracking sound it had made—but didn’t throb anymore without provocation. Not much danger there; not even much inconvenience. He supposed if he hurt his middle finger too then he might have some trouble with his trouser button the next time he had to pee? Right, yes, what a cross to bear. I hurt myself doing x; now it hurts to do x. But it already hurt to do x, didn’t it? Didn’t x always hurt, before the change? Why did he so fear to face an hour or a day where it hurt more than usual, but not so much I can’t do it?

“So you’re saying it won’t… come off?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“What if I open it and it’s full of spiders?”

Martin had smiled, rolled his eyes, pulled the jar toward him, and twisted its lid off with a pop. “See? No spiders in this one.

“While you’re here, Annabelle,” Jon heard Martin say, “I don’t suppose you know anything about where Salesa keeps his screwdrivers?”

Annabelle tapped her chin and said, very pleasantly, “Hmmm. Perhaps they’re where he left them after the last time something broke.”

Martin’s lips drew closer together. “Yeah,” he nodded, “probably. Any idea where that might be?”

“Perhaps he keeps them next to whatever screw comes loose most often.”

“And do you know which screw that is?”

She shook her head, though who knew whether that meant she didn’t know or merely that she didn’t mean to tell him. “Perhaps he only uses the item when he’s alone,” she said, with a shrug and a sly smile.

“…Ew.” Annabelle cackled like a school kid pulling a prank. “Right, great,” sighed Martin. “Thanks a lot. Forget it. You done, Jon?”

Jon glanced sleepily down at his plate. Only half empty, but cold by now. “Yes.”

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Annabelle,” Martin said, sliding his and Jon’s plates toward her side of the table.

Instead of energy, lunch gave Jon only a slight queasy feeling—like one gets from eating sweets on an empty stomach.

“God”—hissed Martin, with clenched fists, as they ambled back to their room—“‘Perhaps he keeps them next to the screw that gets loose most often.’ Yeah, figured that out already, thanks! Can you even believe her? Sitting down to eat with us, as if she’s all ready to help, and then the best she can do is,” he paused and straightened, then said with a finger to his chin in imitation of Annabelle, “‘Oh, hm, guess he only uses it alone. Oh well!’”

“Don’t know what else you expected.”

Martin sighed, his arms crossed now. “Guess I should’ve done what you asked after all, since that accomplished nothing.” After a moment he went on, “Least it wasn’t a trap, right? I tried not to give her anything she could use against us.” With a smile Jon could hear without looking at him, “You notice how I pointedly didn’t offer to help clean up?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jon confessed, laughing a little.

“No?!” Again Martin paused on his feet, frowning, incredulous. Jon wished he wouldn’t; standing still made him dizzier, took more effort than walking, like that poor woman in Oliver’s domain. Daniela? Martin shook his head at himself. “Ugh—then who knows if she noticed, either. I thought I was being so obvious!”

“I mean—”

“Wait, hold up, let’s double back.”

“Are you going to go back and tell her it was on purpose?”

“No, just”—he echoed Jon’s laugh—“no, of course not. I just wanted to try that wing’s toilets next. Didn’t want her to see which way we were going.”

“Oh.” By this time Martin had turned around and started to walk the other way; Jon hung back. “Er. I thought—I thought we were going to our room first.”

“What, the new one you mean?” asked Martin, turning his head around to look back at him.

“…Yes,” Jon decided. Until this moment he’d forgot about that, and been daydreaming of their original bed.

“Sure, if you want. Do you need a break?”

“I… I think so, yes.”

Martin turned the rest of the way around, shuffled toward Jon and looked him over, with a concerned frown. He took his free hand between his fingers and thumb, brushing the latter over Jon’s knuckles. “Yeah, okay. You still seem pretty out of it. How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” answered Jon, though he smiled in relief at Martin’s willingness to change the plan for him.

“Food didn’t help?”

His stomach seemed hung with cobwebs; his mind, like a large room with half its lights burnt out. His light head seemed attached to his heavy, aching body only by a string, like a balloon tied to an Open-House sign. He still needed the toilet. “Not really?”

“Yeah, thought not. You need a statement, huh.”

Jon shrugged, avoiding Martin’s eyes. “Probably.”

In the interim bedroom Jon sat down at the edge of the bed, bent down over his legs, and untied his shoes, wondering why his life always came back around to this. His hip got stuck like a drawer that’s been pulled out crooked, so he had to lever himself back up with his arms, trapping fistfuls of counterpane between thumbs and the meat of his palms. It made his hands cramp, but that helped—the way it would have helped to bite his finger. When he’d got himself upright again he sat and blinked for a few seconds, hoping each time he opened his eyes that his vision would’ve cleared.

Martin sat down next to him and put his hand on Jon’s arm. “You’re blinking again. You okay?”

“Just… kind of dizzy? It’s an Eye thing.”

He let Martin pull him towards him until their shoulders touched. “Yeah. Makes sense. Nap should help. Statement’ll definitely help.”

“Right.”

They agreed to lie on the bed rather than properly in it, not wanting to have to put the covers back together afterward. Jon set his head on that squishy part of Martin’s chest where it started to give way to armpit, knowing to angle himself so the scar tissue pressed the hollow part of his cheek rather than anywhere bonier. It was normally dangerous to lie half on his back, half on his side like this, but he’d lately discovered he could use Martin’s leg to keep his hip from falling off. He could feel the muscles in his shoulder twitching and cramping, whether to pull the joint out or keep it in who could tell. But it’d be fine as long as he shrugged the arm every few minutes.

All the ways they knew to spend time in each other’s company had come together in Scotland, where he’d had none of these worries. Even after the change, on their journey, with nothing but sleeping bags between them and desecrated earth, he’d borne only the same aches he’d been ignoring since he read the statement that ended the world. Jon imagined lying next to Martin like this on the cold stone of a tomb in the Necropolis, surrounded by guardian angels’ malicious laughter. Not feeling the cold, or the grain of the stone against his ankles and the bandage on his shin—just knowing it was there, like when you watch someone suffer those things in a movie. Less vivid even than a statement about lying on a tomb; in Naomi Herne’s nightmare he’d felt the stone in her hands.

“Hfff, okay—ready to get back to it?”

“Mrrr.”

“…Jon, are you asleep?”

He shrugged his hanging shoulder. “No.”

Nose laugh. “Come on, wake up.”

“Mmrrrrrrr.”

“My arm’s asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It won’t wake up ‘till you get up off of it, Jon,” said Martin, gently, between huffs of laughter.

“Hmr.” Jon rolled away to face the wall with the window, freeing Martin’s arm.

“Do you want me to go look without you?”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

Cold air washed over his newly-exposed arm, ribcage, side of face, the outside of his sore hip. It was cold on this Martinless side of the bed, too. He rolled back over into the shadow of his warmth, but that still wasn’t as good as the real thing. Maybe he could pull the covers halfway out and roll himself up in them.

“Aaagh, no—Jon”—Martin’s cool hand on top of his as he tried to hook his fingers round the counterpane— “we’re trying to leave the room the way we found it, remember?”

“Hmmmrrgh.” He consented to leave his hand still when Martin’s departed from it. A few seconds later, a rustle against his ear, the smell of smoke and old clothes.

“Here.”

Jon crunched the jacket down so it wouldn’t itch his ear. “You won’t need it?”

“Probably not.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll be back for it if I have to go outside again, yeah?”

“Okay.”

In his mind’s eye they trudged into the wind, hand in hand. It blew Martin’s hood off his head, and inverted Jon’s cane like an umbrella. He shrunk himself further under Martin’s jacket, relishing the new pockets of warmth he created as his calves met his thighs and his hands gripped his shoulders.

“Ooookay…! Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” managed Jon around a yawn.

Martin had been right about the wallpaper. Not only was the red too bright to look at comfortably; it also had the kind of flowered pattern just complex enough that every time you look back at it you’re compelled to double-check where it repeats. Every fourth stripe was the same as the first, right? Not every second? And that weird little scroll-shaped petal—he’d seen that one too recently. Was it the same as?—No, that one was a bud. He pulled Martin’s jacket up so it covered his eyes.

They’d put their jackets through the laundry with everything else, their first day here, but that hadn’t got the smell out. Enough time had passed between the burning building and their arrival here for the smoke to embed itself permanently into their jackets and shoes, like how duffel bags once taken camping always smell like barbecue. And everything they’d ever shoved in those backpacks still had some of that odd, sour, Ritz-cracker smell of clothes left unwashed too long.

Daisy used to smell like smoke and laundry, too, once she quit smelling like dirt. It was the smell of the old green sleeping bag she’d zipped up to Basira’s. She said she’d have showered it off if she could; she didn’t like it. To her it was a Hunt smell—it reminded her of her clearing in the woods. But there weren’t any showers in the Archives. She’d point this out every time, in the same wry voice, so Jon was sure she’d intended the metaphor. No showers in the Archives: you couldn’t hide your sins in a temple of the Eye. This had comforted Jon—or maybe flattered was the word, though he knew her better than to think she’d have done so on purpose. He just wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d hid his sins pretty well from himself, after the coma. It was easy; you just had to lose track of scale. No one could remember all of them at once, after all. Others had had to point the important ones out to him.

Were those footsteps he could hear out there? Not Annabelle’s—? No; her clicky shoes. These were blunter. Could be Salesa, awake at last, come to invite them to play a game with him. “How do you two feel about… foosball?” he would say, drawing out the last word in a husky whisper. Only then would he swing the door wide open to reveal himself in a shiny jersey, shorts, and studded shoes. He set his fists out before him and turned them in semicircles, pretending to manipulate the plastic rods of a foosball table. Jon curled still more tightly into himself at the thought of Salesa’s face, how his showman’s grin would crumple like a hole in a cellophane wrapper when he realized the fun one had gone and that he faced only the Archivist. “Oh—hello. Jon, is it? Where has your lovely Martin gone?”

“Oh, uh. Martin needs a screwdriver to fix our door, so I.”

He watched Martin march his silent way slowly, solemnly down a corridor that grew darker, grayer, vaguer with every step until the webs that lined its every side and hung in laces from the ceiling began to catch on his shoes, his belt, his glasses.

“I let him go off alone.”

Jon’s whole body flinched. He gasped awake—oh shit. How had he just let Martin go? He had to—couldn’t stay here—find Martin—keep him out of Annabelle’s clutches—

Stick-thin bristling spider legs tapped the floor of his mind like fingers on a table. Find Martin. Jon instructed himself to sit up, swing his legs over the side of the bed and reach down to grab his shoes. He twitched one finger. See? You can do this. In a minute he’d try again and be able to move his whole arm, push himself up onto one hand. Find Martin.

Also probably go to the toilet. With an empty bladder his head would be clearer, he could figure out which direction to look first.

After Hopworth, while he laid on the couch in his office waiting for the strength to throw himself into the Buried, Jon had imagined Martin and Georgie and Basira and Melanie all stood around that coffin, wearing black and holding flowers. Denise? No, it definitely had three syllables. A scattered applause began as Jonah Magnus emerged from his office, closed behind him the door printed with poor dead Bouchard’s name, and stepped up to the podium. Georgie, not knowing his face, began to clap; Melanie stayed her hands. Elagnus’s shirt, hidden behind suit except for the collar, was striped in black and white. A ball and chain hung from his sleeve like an enormous cufflink. He opened his mouth to speak, and a tape recorder began to hiss.

“What are you doing here?” asked Basira.

“Never underestimate how much I care for the tools I use, Detective. I wouldn’t miss my Archivist’s big day.”

“So they just let you out for this.”

Elias shrugged with false modesty. His chain jingled. “When I asked them nicely.”

“How did you even know he was dead?” interposed Melanie. “Basira, did you tell him about the—”

“She didn’t have to,” said Elias, raising his voice to cut Melanie’s off. “Nothing escapes my notice, and I like to keep an eye out for this sort of thing.”

“Well—it’s—good to see you.” Tim’s voice. Unconvincing, even then.

Jon steeled himself to hear his own voice stammer out, “Yes—y-yes!” but heard nothing except the hissing of the… tape. Yes, that was the wrong tape—the one from his birthday.

“Anyway. Somebody mentioned cake.” Elias jingled as he arranged his hands under his chin.

Tim scoffed. “They didn’t serve cake at my funeral.”

“I preferred going out for ice cream anyway,” pronounced Martin, his arms crossed and his nose in the air. Jon pushed himself up on shaking hands. Find Martin.

They had gone for ice cream at John O’Groats before the change, while living at Daisy’s safehouse. Martin had apologized on behalf of the kiosk for its measly selection—no rum and raisin. Jon pronounced a playful “Urgh,” assuming Martin had cited this flavor as a joke. “I think I’ll manage without that particular abomination.”

“Wait, what? Why did you order it at my birthday party then?”

Jon stood still with his ice cream cone, squinted into space, and blinked. “I did?”

“My first birthday in the Archives, yeah!”

“Huh. That’s… odd.” Martin placed a gentle hand on Jon’s back to remind him to resume walking. “I suppose I must have been—huh. Yes,” he mused, nodding slowly as his hypothesis came into focus between his eyes and the ground. “I must still have thought I was tired of all the good flavors at that point.”

He heard Martin scoff a few steps ahead of him. “What, and now you’re happy with plain old vanilla?” Then he heard arrhythmic footsteps thumping toward him from Martin’s direction; he looked up to find Martin reaching his napkin-draped free hand out toward Jon’s ice cream cone. “You’re dripping again,” he explained.

Jon mumbled thanks and shrugged a laugh. “I-I’ve, uh. Come back around on most of them.”

“Except rum and raisin?”

“No—I’ve come around on it, too, just, uh.” He tried to make the shape of a wheel with his ice-cream-cone-laden hand. It flicked drips of vanilla across his shirt. Martin came at him with the napkin again. “Thank you. I just disliked that one to start with.”

“…Right. Okay, so what revolution occurred in your life before the Archives that overturned all your opinions on ice cream flavors?”

So Jon had told Martin about that summer when his jaw kept subluxing. He’d used that word, assuming Martin was familiar with it already—incorrect, as he knew now. Presumably Martin had gathered from context that Jon meant he’d hurt his jaw, in some small-scale, no-big-deal way whose specifics he’d let slide as an unimportant detail. But then as the anecdote wore on he must have begun to feel the hole in his knowledge. And lo, at last Martin had invoked that dread specter the clarifying question.

“Okay but so your grandmother had no problem with you basically living off ice cream all summer?”

“Well, she did when I could chew. But not when it was that or tinned soup.”

“Ah—right. ‘Cause you hurt your… jaw, you said?” Jon nodded. “What happened exactly?”

“Oh. Uh. Happened? Nothing, just my—I was born, I guess. Just part of my genetic condition; I happened to get it especially bad in the jaw that year. I-it’s much better now, though,” he hastened to add when he noticed Martin’s frown.

“What genetic condition? You never told me you had one.”

“Didn’t I?”

At the time, the anger in Martin’s answering scoff had surprised him. “No, Jon, you never said.”

“Oh. Sorry? I—I mean, you’ve seen me with this for years—I just?—thought you knew.”

“Seen you with—what, the cane, you mean? I thought that was Prentiss!”

Jon glanced to the doorway to double-check that was where he’d left his cane.

“What? No,” he had mused. “Of course not. I’ve had this since….”

“But you never used it.”

“No—surely, I—”

“Not once before Prentiss.”

Even as he’d said the words, Jon’s memory of that time had returned to him and he’d known Martin was right. Before Prentiss attacked the Institute he’d brought his cane with him to work in the Archives every day, and every day left it folded up in his bag. All out of an obscure notion that if he’d used it before Elias and before his coworkers, they’d take it as a plea for mercy, an admission of weakness or incompetence. God, he was naïve back then. He’d used the cane often enough back in Research; why hadn’t he worried Tim and Sasha would find its new absence conspicuous? That they’d worry just as much about his refusal to use it? The whole thing seemed even more stupid, too, now that he knew Elias must have noticed the change. How it must have pleased him, to see his shiny new Archivist so obsessed with proving he was fit for the job.

“Yeah but,” Jon pursued, instead of voicing any of this, “Tim never—?”

Martin nodded and shrugged. “I don’t know; I figured Tim didn’t get them in the legs as much as you did. I didn’t see you guys after the attack, remember? Not ‘til you got out of quarantine.”

“Right, no, of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,” said Jon mechanically, already consumed with the question he asked next. “Martin—did you think it was the corkscrew?”

From Martin’s sigh Jon figured he’d been expecting this question. “Kinda? At first, yeah. Half for real, half just—you know, as a habit? Like, ‘Look, a way to blame yourself!’” He splayed out his hands, rolled his eyes.

“Yes—I do that too.” Jon barely got the words out above a whisper; he couldn’t not smile, but fought to keep it from showing teeth. A muscle under his chin spasmed with the effort.

“But then I noticed you switching sides with it a lot, so, yeah. I knew it couldn’t be just that.”

“Really?” He waited for Martin’s answering shrug. “You’re the first person who’s ever noticed that. Or at least commented on it.”

“Sorry?”

“No—it’s.”

This attempt to communicate a similar sentiment, Jon recalled as he reached for his shoes, hadn’t gone as well as the one a few days later (over unseen horror &c.). Beholding had at that moment presented him with the image of a fat, hunched woman in shorts. She shuffled forward a few steps in a queue at Boots, next to him, and shifted her weight so the cane in her right hand supported her nearer leg. He felt a strong impulse he knew wasn’t his own—one born partly of resentment, part exasperation, part concern—to tell the woman that was bad for her shoulder, that she should switch hands too. But knew if he tried she’d either pretend she hadn’t heard it, or tell him off for criticizing her. Jon didn’t know what she would say more specifically; the Eye didn’t do hypotheticals. It had given him no more than this single moment of preverbal intuition. After the change he could have sought out other conversations Martin had had with his mother, and they might have given him a pretty good idea. But he’d promised Martin not to look at things like that.

He managed to dislodge a finger while tying his shoe. The other shoe he’d pulled off without untying; in a fit of impatience he tried now to shove his foot into it as it was. No good—he got the shoe on, but it just made the other index finger, the one he’d hooked into the back of the shoe behind his heel for leverage, pop off to the side too. Jon was afraid to find out what shape it would end up in if he pulled his finger back out of the shoe like that, so he had to untie it after all, one-handed. Then carefully extract his finger. It sprung back into place as soon as he removed the offending pressure (namely, his heel), but he still whimpered and swore. The corners of his eyes pricked with indignation when he remembered he still had to pee.

In this case, for once, Beholding had told him the important part: that that was why Martin had noticed. Had he noticed Melanie, too, Jon wondered, when she got back from India? She would switch hands sometimes, too—but, of course, without switching legs. He wondered if that had picked at the same unacknowledged nerve of Martin’s that his mother’s habit had. It had bothered Jon, too, but in a different way. He’d resented it a little, but also felt humbled by it, the way he always did by others’ discomfort. Getting shot in the leg seemed so big? Like such an aberration. So uncontroversially important—probably because it was simple, legible. Georgie could convey its hugeness to him in three words. She got shot. Obviously there was more to the story than that; there were parts he could never…

Well, no. There was a part of it he felt he should say he could never understand: that she’d kept the cursed bullet because she wanted it. In fact he was pretty sure he did understand that. But he didn’t have the right to admit it, he didn’t think. And no reason to hope she would believe him if he did. The second he’d learnt the bullet was still in there, after all, he and Basira had rushed to dig it out. Surely, from her perspective that could only mean he didn’t and could never understand. Or maybe he just wanted her to see it that way—wanted her to get to keep that uncomplicated resentment of his ignorance. It made his perspective look stupid and ugly, sure. But the truth made it look self-absorbed and pitiful. The truth was that until Daisy insisted otherwise, he’d assumed only he could see his own corruption and assent to it: that the others must not have known what they were doing.

Then again, maybe even if Melanie knew that, she would see only that he had underestimated her. Maybe it didn’t matter how much she knew.

Melanie switched off which hand she held her white cane with now, too. But that was probably healthy? Jon knew no more than the average person about white-cane hygiene. He just remembered feeling the floor drop out of his stomach when they’d got coffee together during his time in hiding and he had seen her switch her original, silver cane from hand to hand. Part of him had wanted to scoff or rationalize it away. How much could the shot leg hurt, really, if she still noticed when her arms got tired? But another part of him shuddered at the thought one arm alone couldn’t compensate for the weight her leg refused to take—that she had to keep switching off when one arm got weak and shaky from supporting more weight than it should have to. It wasn’t that he hadn’t experienced pain or impairment on that scale. He had, though the thought of a single injury sufficing to cause it still made him feel cold inside. It was that he kept seeing proofs, all over, everywhere, that the parts of his life he’d only learnt to accept by assuming they were rare weren’t rare.

Leitner hadn’t made the evil books; he’d just noticed they were there. And then had his life ruined by their influence, like everyone who came across them. Jon had had no time and no right to deplore the holes Prentiss had left in him and Tim, because on the same damn day he learnt someone had shot the previous Archivist to death. Alright, so it was him, then, right? Him and Tim—just doomed, just preternaturally unlucky. Tim, handsome face half-eaten by worms, estranged (as Jon then assumed) from a brother who seemed so warm and accepting in that picture on his lock screen; Jon, saved from Mr. Spider only by his childhood bully, now fated to take the place of another murder victim—and also half-eaten by worms. But no; he and Tim had got off lightly. Look what had happened to Sasha the same fucking night. The very thing whose influence convinced him the world had it out for him? Had killed Sasha. Literally stolen her life. How many lives around him got stolen while he mourned his own?

“I want you to comment on it,” Jon had managed to clarify. But Martin had scoffed as he stood in the foyer of Daisy’s safehouse, hopping on one foot to pull off the other shoe:

“Yeah, well. You haven’t exactly led by example on that one.”

“How could I?”

He accepted Jon’s scarf and long-discarded jacket, hanging them up beside his own. “Gee, I don’t know—commenting on it yourself?”

“On… switching which side I used the cane on.”

“Don’t play dumb, Jon. On this ‘genetic condition’” (in a deep, posh voice, with a stodgy frown and fluttering eyelashes) “you’ve apparently had this entire time. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought you knew, Martin! Why would I mention it in a childhood anecdote if I didn’t think...?”

“Well I didn’t know, okay? You never told me. You never tell anyone anything about what’s going on with you, you just—you just make everything into another heroic cross to bear.”

“That’s not—?” He wanted to tell Martin just how little that made him want to say about it. But he guessed Martin was really talking less about the EDS thing, more about how he’d spent their whole first year in the Archives pretending to dismiss the statements that scared him. How he’d sent Tim and Martin home when he’d found out about Sasha. How he’d stayed away from the Institute even after his name got cleared for Leitner’s murder. “What do you want to know.”

“Why you never—?” In a similar way, Martin seemed to reconsider his initial response. “Yeah, okay, right. Object-level stuff, yeah?” Jon nodded and wanly smiled. “Okay, so. What’s it called?”

After taking a minute to ditch his shoes, wash the sticky ice-cream residue off his hands, and drink some water, he’d sat down on the couch with Martin and told him its name, what it was, what it did. What does that mean, though, Martin kept asking, so he’d explained how it applied to the anecdote about his jaw. Martin asked why it meant he needed a cane.

“Be…cause all my joints are like that.”

“Yeah, but why does it help with that? What is the cane actually for, is what I’m asking.”

Jon hated being asked that question. “It—it means I don’t fall over when one of my joints stops working? A-and… also makes walking hurt less. I suppose.”

“So, when they’re working right, that’s when you don’t need it?”

“No—yes?—sort of. Now sometimes I just need it when it’s been too long since I had a statement. I get sort of. Weak.” Quickly Jon added, “But I don’t need it for stability so much since the coma.” He’d shown Martin how now, when he pulled out his finger, the Eye would just sort of erase that version of reality—how the dislocation wouldn’t snap back, but simply cease to exist. As if his body were a drawing on which the Beholding had corrected a mistake. He put his palms together behind his back, in the way he’d been told one couldn’t without subluxing both shoulders, and told Martin to watch how the hollows between his shoulder bones vanished. He opened his jaw ‘til it jarred to the side, and told Martin to listen for the static.

But Jon had never shown Martin how these things worked before the coma. Martin had no reference for this kind of thing; he understood only enough to find the sights unsettling. “That’s—no, that’s okay, I’ll”—he stuttered as Jon fumbled with his kneecap in search of a fourth example—“I-I get it. I’ll take your word for it.”

“I just thought.”

“No, I—? I don’t need you to prove it to me, Jon.” (The latter nodded, blushing, trying to smile.) “I get… I’m sorry. I guess I get why it’d feel easier not to say anything if? If you think it’s either that or have to convince people it’s a thing.”

Again Jon nodded. He suspected Martin wasn’t through talking yet. But Martin still wasn’t looking at him, eyes squeezed tight against Jon’s party tricks. So, to show he was listening, Jon said, “Yes. Er—thank you, Martin.”

“I just don’t like it when you hide things from me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You could at least ask if I want to know about them, yeah?”

Even at the time, Jon had doubted this. If they’d had this conversation after the change, he might have pointed out to Martin that when you mention something the other person has no inkling of, you make them too curious to decline your offer of more information, even if afterward they’ll admit they wish you’d never told them.

“Or ask me if I even recognize what you’re talking about, the next time you start going on about some childhood anecdote where you incidentally had a dislocated jaw. Honestly, would it kill you to start with, ‘Hey, did I ever tell you about x’?”

“No, it wouldn’t. You’re right. I’ll try. What… kinds of things did you—? For the future, I mean. What kinds of things did you want to make sure I tell you about.”

Martin sighed, in that way he did when he thought Jon was going about something all wrong. But after a pause to think, he did ask, “About this, or in general?”

“Either—both—first one, then the other.”

“Okay. I guess… I want to know when you’re hurt, mostly. Like—I can’t believe I even have to say this—that’s kind of important, actually? How am I supposed to know how to behave around you if I never know whether you're secretly in pain or not?”

This seemed weird—both now and at the time. Jon figured he must be missing something. If Martin thought he only needed the cane because of Prentiss then, sure, that might have affected how he imagined Jon’s discomfort to himself, but? Wasn’t the cane itself an admission of pain? Why did Martin think he owed him more than that—that he had owed him more than that at the time, no less? Did he not realize how fucking private that was? What a surrender of privacy the cane represented?

But, no, he reminded himself now; nondisabled people don’t realize that, unless you tell them about it. Repeatedly. Over and over. It only seems obvious to you because you lived it already.

“Er.” At the time he’d just shown Martin his teeth, with the points of his left-side canines joined. Nominally a smile, but more like a show of hiding the grimace beneath than an actual attempt to hide it. “That’s harder than you might think? Technically I’m always….”

“Oh.”

“Sorr—”

“—What do you mean, ‘technically’?”

“I’m—not always aware of it?” He disliked that phrase, in pain—how it implied a discrete and exclusive state. One could not be in Paris and at the same time in London; similarly, most people seemed to assume one could not be in pain and also in a good mood. In raptures. In a transport of laughter. That when one admits to being in pain, one implies that’s the most important thing they’re conscious of.

“Well that doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, I know—‘if a tree falls down in a forest’—blah blah blah.” With a gentle smile to acknowledge he’d picked up this mode of speech from Martin. He turned his wrist in circles so it clicked like an old film reel. “Philosophically speaking, if you’re not aware of pain, you can’t be in it. Maybe ‘technically’ isn’t the right word.”

“Oh yeah ‘cause that’s the angle I want to know about this from.”

Jon sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I just mean, it doesn’t always matter to me.”

“Well it matters to me,” Martin scoffed.

“Yeah—I’m getting that. Is there any way I can explain this that you won’t jump down my throat for?”

Martin sighed, groaned, pulled at his hair a little but made himself stop. (He doesn’t pull it out, Jon knows—he just likes having something to grab onto during awkward conversations. Usually emerges from them looking like a cartoon scientist.) “Okay, yeah,” said Martin. “I get it. I’m sorry too.”

“I mean—when you get a paper cut, that hurts, technically, right?”

“Well yeah, a little, but that’s not the kind of—”

“But just because you notice that hurt doesn’t mean?” He paused to rearrange his words. “You’re not going to remember it later unless someone asks why you’ve got blood on your sleeve.”

“Y—eah. Sure.”

“Is that…?”

“When you’re suffering, then. I want you to tell me that. And—whenever something weird happens? Like, before it stops being weird and you talk to me like I’m stupid for not already knowing about it.”

“What if”—this far into his question, Jon worried it might come off as a smart-alecky, devil’s-advocate thing. So he paused, pretending he needed time to formulate its words. “What if I haven’t decided yet whether it’s weird or not.”

“That in itself is pretty weird, Jon.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want to be part of that conversation. I want you to trust me enough to bounce ideas off me! It’s not like—? I mean why wouldn’t you do that?”

Jon had shrugged and grimaced, hands in his trouser pockets. “Not to worry you?” he’d suggested. But as he bit his lip and shimmied down from the bed Jon knew now that that was the sanitized version—and probably, if you’d asked him a day before or afterward, his past self would have known that too. Most things you told Martin, he’d either ignore them completely or latch onto them, refuse to let them go, and interpret everything else you said in the light they cast. Jon had learnt not to raise any given topic with him until he was sure he wanted to risk its becoming a long, painful discussion. This was part of why he hadn’t kept his promise, he told himself as he turned their interim bedroom’s doorknob. Why he’d said so little about anything weird that had happened to him at Upton House.

“Martin?”

“Oh hey, Jon—you’re awake.” Martin glanced in his vague direction but stayed bent over his work, so Jon could not meet his eyes.

“You found the screwdriver.”

“Yeah! And a screw that matches better, see?” He fished the first one they'd found out of his pocket and held it up next to the door for comparison. Jon supposed they looked a little different—bright yellowy gold vs. a darker gold. “They were in the library, of all places. There’s a little box full of ‘em that he keeps right next to his reading glasses, apparently. Guess he must break them a lot. How are yours, by the way? Any bits feel loose?”

Dutifully, trying to keep his dazed smile to himself, Jon pulled off his glasses. Folded and unfolded each arm, jiggled the little nose pieces. He shook his head. “Don’t think so. You can have a look yourself though, if you like.”

“Remind me later. Should’ve brought the whole box, probably,” Martin said, voice strained as he twisted the screw that last little bit. “There!” His open mouth broadened into a smile. “Time to see if it worked. You wanna do the honors?”

Jon shook his head, breathed a laugh through his nose. “You should do it. You’re the reason it’s fixed.”

“I mean, yeah,” shrugged Martin as his hand closed round the doorknob, “but I’m also the reason it broke.” It opened with a click. “Ha-ha! Success! Statements—our own clothes—our own bed! Er. Ish.”

Something tugged in Jon’s chest; he’d forgot the statements were why Martin thought this quest so urgent. He lingered at the side of the bed while Martin rummaged in his backpack, remembering for once to toe his first shoe off while standing.

“Man. Looks sorta underwhelming now, after the other room, huh?”

“Least our wallpaper’s better.”

“Tsshhyeah, and our view.”

Jon didn’t turn around, but surmised Martin must be looking out at that tree he liked. “Is it four already?”

“Uhh—nearly, yeah. You were out for a while; took me ages to find that damn thing. Here you go,” announced Martin as he slapped a zip-loc bag full of statement down on the bed.

(“So they won’t get water damage,” he had answered a few days ago, when Jon asked him why he’d individually wrapped each statement like snacks in a bagged lunch. “What? It’s not like we have to worry about landfills anymore. If I put them all in the same bag, you’d take one out and not be able to get it back in.”)

“What happened to my jacket, by the way? And yours?”

“Uhhh.”

“Right, okay,” Martin laughed; “I’ll go get them before I forget. I’ll put this away too, I guess” (meaning the screwdriver still in his hand). “Don’t wait for me, yeah? I don’t mind missing the trailers.”

Jon smiled. “Sure.”

As Martin hurried off, Jon sat down to untie and pull off his other shoe, threaded the lace back through the final eyelet from which it’d come loose, picked up the first shoe and untied that one, then stood up and set them by the door next to his cane. Both hips and all ten fingers behaved themselves throughout. As he walked by the vanity he grabbed the coins he’d removed to do laundry the other day and stuck them back in his trouser pocket. Useless, of course, but he’d missed having something to fidget with. He squatted down and peered under the vanity for the hair tie he’d dropped, for the fifth or sixth time since he’d misplaced it. Didn’t find it. That was fine; he had another one around his wrist. His knees felt weak, so instead of standing back up he crab-walked to the foot of the bed and sat down with his back against it. Straightened his legs out before him on the floor. Then he dug the coins from his pocket and counted them. Yup—still 74p.

Danika! Not Daniela—Danika Gelsthorpe. God, he would never forget one of their names out there. Never underestimate how much I care for the

“I'm back. What’s down there? Did you find the screw?” asked Martin as he hung their jackets up behind the door.

Jon shook his head. “Forgot about it. I was looking for that hair tie.”

“Well you’re on your own there; I’m done finding things today. The screw can wait,” Martin laughed—“he’s got a whole bag inside that box in the library. Do you need a hand getting up?”

He let Martin help him. Both knees cracked; the world’s edges went dark for a second. “Thank you,” he said, and it came out more peremptory than he’d meant it.

“Statement time?”

“Right. You don’t mind? I can wait ’til we’ve both had a rest, if you don’t want to be in the room while I.”

“No, I’m alright; I’ll stay here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hated statements.”

Martin shrugged. “Not these ones so much, now that. Heh—they’re almost nostalgic, if I’m honest. ‘Can it be real? I think I’ve seen a monster!’”

“They are a bit,” agreed Jon, looking down at the plastic-sleeved statement and making himself smile.

“Go on. Seeing you feel better will make me feel better too.”

That made it a bit easier to motivate himself, Jon supposed. From the moment he’d lain down on the bed he’d felt like he was floating on gentle waves—like if he let himself listen to them he could fall asleep in seconds. But that wouldn’t make Martin feel better. And no guarantee it would him, either, once he woke up again. He rearranged the pillows behind himself so he’d have to sit up a little; this might help keep him awake, and it meant he could rest his elbows on the bed while he held up the statement, rather than having to lift them up before his eyes. It made his neck sore, a bit, this angle, but that was fine. That might help keep him awake, too.

He sighed, readying himself for speech. Then heard a click, and felt a familiar buzz and weight against his stomach. The tape recorder had manifested inside his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket.

“Statement of Miranda Lautz, regarding, er… a botched home-repair job. Heh. Seems appropriate. Original statement given March twenty-sixth, 2004. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

[Image ID: A digital painting of Jon and Martin on an old-fashioned canopy bed with white sheets and orange drapes. Jon sits on the near side of the bed, reading a paper statement. He frowns slightly, looking down at the statement in his hands; he wears round glasses perched low on his nose. He’s a thin man, with medium brown skin dotted by scars left from the worms, and another scar on his neck from Daisy's knife. His hair is long and curly, gray and white hairs among the black. Jon sits supported by pillows—several big, white, lace-trimmed ones behind his back, and one under his knees. His right leg is slightly crossed over his left ankle, on which a clean white bandage peeks out beneath his cuffed, dark green trousers. He wears an oversized red hoodie and red-toed brown socks. Sat on the far side of the bed, next to Jon but facing away from both him and the viewer, is Martin—a tall and fat white man with short, curly, reddish brown hair and a short beard. He has glasses and is wearing a dark blue jumper and gray-brown trousers. Past the bed on Martin’s side, the bedroom door hangs ajar; in this light, it and the wall glow bluish green. On the near side, though, the light grows warmer, the orange canopy behind Jon casting pink and brown tints onto the white pillows and sheets. End ID.]

It seemed to be a Corruption statement, or maybe the Spiral. Possibly the Buried? A leak in Ms. Lautz’s roof caused a pill-shaped bulge to appear in her kitchen ceiling, about the size of a bread loaf. Water burst from it like pus from an abscess (as she described it. Nothing else Fleshy though, so far). Ms. Lautz repaired the hole in her ceiling, but every morning a new one reappeared somewhere else. Sometimes they appeared bulging and pill-shaped like the first one; other times she found them already burst, covering the room in water shot through with dark specks like coffee grounds.

Jon wished he’d refilled his empty water glass before starting to record. His mouth was so dry that every time he pronounced an L his tongue stuck to its roof. At this point he’d welcome a hole to burst in it and flood his mouth with water. Then again, he did still have to pee.

Eventually she and her spouse hired someone to find out what was wrong with the roof. She described hearing boots tramping around up there for half a day while they checked out all the spots where she and Alex had reported leaks. The inside of Jon’s trouser leg pulled at the bandage on his shin, making it itch. The repair men told Ms. Lautz it’d be safer and barely any more expensive to replace the whole thing. The ring and little fingers of Jon’s left hand were starting to go numb from having that elbow too long pressed against the bed. Miranda and Alex thanked the roof people and sent them off, saying they’d think it over.

He began to regret crossing his legs this way. He’d balanced his right heel in the hollow between his left foot’s ankle and instep, and in the time since he’d arranged them that way gravity had slowly pushed his foot more and more to the side, widening that gap. By this time he was sure it was hyperextended—possibly subluxed? It hurt already, and, he knew, would hurt more when he tried to move it. This rather ruined his fantasy of heading straight for the toilet when he finished reading.

Martin was right; these old statements seemed positively tame, now. He knew he owed it to Ms. Lautz to engage with her fate, but?

No. No buts. Whatever hell she lived in now, it looked just like the one she was about to describe for him, only worse. You can’t even pretend you’re sorry she’s living out her worst fear if you stop in the middle of reading that fear’s origin story. Never underestimate how much I

Once the repair men had left, Miranda Lautz wandered into her kitchen for lunch. She found her ceiling bulging halfway to the floor, with the impression of a face and two twisted arms at its center. Like someone had fallen through her roof, head first. Jon’s stiff neck twinged in sympathy. Miranda screamed and strode to the other side of the house in search of beer, figuring she'd find better answers at the bottom of a bottle than in her own head. When she got back to the kitchen with them, the beer bottles didn’t know what to do either, but said—

“God damn it. Not ‘ales’—‘Alex’. Obviously.”

He let the statement’s pages flop over the back of his hand, let his head tip backward until the top of it bumped against headboard and his eyes faced the ceiling. That settled it, then, didn’t it. If he had the Ceaseless Watcher looking through his eyes, he wouldn’t make a mistake like that—and he certainly couldn’t change position while recording. On top of his more substantial regrets, Jon had spent their whole odyssey before they came to Upton House ruing that he’d sat at the dining-room table to read Magnus’s statement, rather than on the couch or the bed. The chairs at that table had plain, flat wood seats—no cushion, no contouring for the shape of an arse. When he opened the door to the changed world, the cataclysm had preserved his bodily sensations at that moment like a mosquito in amber. He’d had a sore tailbone and pins and needles down his legs for untold eons. Right up until he and Martin crossed from the Necropolis onto the grounds protected by Salesa’s camera, where his tailbone faded out of awareness and his head filled up with cotton.

“Ohhh. ‘Alex’. Okay, that makes a lot more sense,” laughed Martin meanwhile. Jon could feel Martin’s shoulder bouncing against his. “She must’ve written it in cursive, huh.”

“I can’t do this right now, Martin.”

“Oh—okay, yeah. You rest; I’ll finish it for you.”

Jon closed his eyes and let air gush out from his nostrils. But you hate the statements, he knew he should say. Wouldn’t this make it easier, though? To let Martin have out this last bit of denial first?

The tape recorder in his pocket still hissed, still warmed and weighted down his stomach like a meal.

“Thank you,” he said.

The operator on the phone said she and Alex should wait for the ambulance to arrive, rather than try to free the man in the ceiling by themselves. Jon turned his neck back and forth, hoping Martin couldn’t hear its joints’ snap/crackle/pop. He picked his elbow up off the bed and shook out his hand. But when the paramedics cut the ceiling open, only a torrent of water gushed into their kitchen—water flecked with a great deal of what looked like coffee grounds. A day or two later the roof people called, to ask if they’d decided whether to have the roof repaired or replaced. They assured her none of their employees had gone missing. At the time of writing, Miranda and Alex still hadn’t decided what to do about the roof. A week ago, they’d found a squirrel-shaped bulge in their bedroom ceiling; they’d packed their bags and come to stay with Alex’s sister in London.

“Right! That wasn’t so bad.” Martin set the statement down and stretched his arms over his head. “Huh.”

“Hm?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just—it’s been a while. Thought it might feel, I don’t know, worse than that? Or better, I guess, since the Eye’s so ‘fond’ of me now.”

“I don’t think they work here.”

“What?”

“The statements. The Eye can’t see their fear.”

“Oh.” Jon could feel Martin deflating. He let himself avalanche over to fill the space. “You don’t feel better, do you.”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s just—slower here, like it’s taking a while to load or something. Remember how long the tape recorder took to come on last time? It was like—you were like— ‘“Statement of Blankety Blank, regarding an encounter with”—Oh, right,’ click.”

That was true. The tapes had known Salesa would give a statement before it happened, but with these paper ones they’d seemed slow on the uptake. Martin had also sworn the recorder that manifested to tape Mr. Andrade’s statement was a different machine than the one Salesa’d spotted that first morning. Jon wondered which machine the one in his pocket was.

Not relevant, he decided. He shook his head in his palm, stroking the lids of his closed eyes. “No—if they worked here I wouldn’t be able to stop in the middle of one.” As soon as he said it he winced, bracing himself for argument.

After the change he remembered wailing to Martin about how he couldn’t stop reading Magnus’s statement—how its words had possessed his whole body, forced him to do the worst thing any person ever had, and forced him to like it, to feel Magnus’s triumph as they both opened the door. Martin had pressed Jon’s face into his clavicle, rubbed his nose in the scent of Daisy’s laundry soap, covered the back of Jon’s head with his hands. Tried to interpose what he must then have still called the real world between Jon and what he could see outside. He’d said over and over, I know, and We‘ll be okay. Jon had known that meant he wasn’t listening, and yet still hadn’t been prepared for the argument they had later, when he mentioned in sobriety the same things he’d wailed back then.

“Hang on”—Martin had pleaded—“no, that can’t be true. I’ve been interrupted in the middle of a statement loads of times—and I know you have too.”

“By outside forces, yes, but you can’t decide to stop reading one. Believe me, Martin, I wouldn’t have—”

“Tim did.”

“No, he didn’t—”

“Yes he did! He was gonna do one and then Melanie—”

“No, Martin, I’ve heard the tape you’re talking about. Tim introduced the statement but didn’t actually start—”

“He did so! He read the first bit, and then stopped. ‘My parents never let me have a night light. I was—’”

“‘Always afraid, but they were just’....” Behind his own eyes he’d felt the Eye shudder and throb with gratitude. Just that sort of stubborn, it had seemed to sing, in a bizarre combination of his own voice with Jonah’s with Melanie’s, which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening.

“Yeah,” said Martin, forehead wrinkling. “And then he said, ‘This is stupid,’ and stopped.”

“You’re right.”

Jon still had no satisfying answer to that one, and cursed himself for having opened that can of worms back up again. It had been Tim’s first-ever statement, he reminded himself, and maybe Tim had never intended to get even that far. Maybe he’d been waiting for someone to interrupt him, as Melanie eventually did. Even out there, the Eye couldn’t really show him things like that. He could find out what Tim had said—could look it up, as it were—and what he’d thought, but motivation was a bit too murky, multilayered, complicated. It wasn’t real telepathy? The vicarious emotions the Eye gave him access to worked in broad strokes, generalities—just like common or garden empathy. Sure, he could imagine other people’s points of view more vividly, now that he could see through their eyes. But he still had to imagine them to life, based on the clues around him and what emotions those clues stirred in him. It didn’t work well for situations like this; he could hear Melanie’s footsteps and feel Tim’s reluctance to read a statement, but that was it. Enough to concoct plausible explanations; not enough to pick out the truth from a list of them. Plausibilities were too much like hypotheticals.

In the timelessness since that argument with Martin, though, Jon had also wondered whether it mattered if Tim had read the statement before recording it. He didn’t have footage, as it were, of Tim doing so; either the Eye had more copies of the statement’s events than it needed already and so had deleted that one from storage, or, conversely, perhaps it could no longer see versions of it that relied too heavily on the pages Mr. Hatendi had written it on, since Martin had burned those. But Tim’s summary, before he started reading. Blanket, monster, dead friend. It was bad, sure (like the assistants’ summaries always were, a ghost of past Jon interposed). But it sounded like the summary of a man who’d read it with his mind on other things. Inevitable and gruesome end. How he tried to hide; he couldn’t. Not at all like that of someone skimming it for the first time as he spoke. He did rifle through the papers though? So Jon couldn’t be sure. The suspicion ate at his mind, especially here. Could he have kept the world from ending just by—reading Magnus’s statement, before he went to record it? The way he used to way back at the start, before he trusted himself to speak the words perfectly on the first try? You didn’t mean to record it, did you? No, I’m sure you told Melanie and Basira you were just going to

“Guess that makes sense,” Martin said now. “So, you’re still feeling…?”

“Not great?”

“Yeah.”

“I… I feel human, here.”

“Oh wow. That’s—”

Jon told himself to put the hope in Martin’s voice to bed as soon as possible. “I know I’m not—not fully.” He allowed a smile to twitch the corners of his lips, flared his nostrils around an exhale that almost passed as a laugh. “Most humans don’t spontaneously summon tape recorders. Or sleep with their eyes open.”

“Yeah, but still, you don’t think maybe—?”

Again Jon hastened to cut Martin off. “A-and even if I was, it’s. I know that should be a good thing? But—”

At this point Martin interposed, “Should be, yeah! You don’t think it might mean you could—I don’t know, go back to normal? If we stayed here for a while?”

“Maybe? I-I might stop craving the Eye so much, but we’d still have to go back out there eventually, to face Elias, and. To be honest with you, Martin?” He huffed a laugh out, bitterly. “My ‘normal’ wasn’t exactly...”

“Right.” Martin sighed. “So you mean you feel like you used to, as a human. Which was…”

“Not great.”

“Right.”

“I haven’t been very well, here.” Jon shrugged for the excuse to duck his head. He could feel himself blushing, the heat spilling from his face all down both arms. Good thing the tape recorder in his pocket had gone cold.

Next to him, Martin puffed air out of his cheeks. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m dizzy and confused without the Eye, and it—it can’t fix me here? When I.” He drew in breath, lifted his heel off his ankle and set that leg to the side, letting its foot roll into Martin’s shin. Bit his lip and scrunched his nose in preparation. Flexed the other foot’s toes, trying to isolate the lever in his ankle that would—there. Clunk. Then a noisy exhale: “Jyyrrggh. When that happens,” he choked out, voice strained by both pain and nerves. “It’s like before I became an avatar. I have to fix it myself, and it doesn’t just.” Magically stop hurting, he hoped went without saying; already he could hear Martin sucking air through his teeth. It made Jon’s cheeks itch. “Shouldn’t have let myself get used to a higher standard, I suppose.”

“What? No—of course you should have. Did you think I was gonna say that?”

“No, of course not; I just meant—”

“You deserve to feel healthy, Jon.”

“Do I? Health is clumsy, it’s callous, it, it lets terrible things happen because they don’t feel real—it can’t imagine them properly, can’t understand what they mean….”

“Okay, first of all, ouch.” Jon snarled a laugh at that, without knowing whether Martin meant it as a joke. “Second of all, that is not why you—why the world ended, okay? Especially, ‘cause, you weren’t ‘healthy’ then. You read Elias’s bloody statement because you were starving, remember?”

“Hmrph,” pronounced Jon, to concede he was listening without either confirming or denying the point.

“And thirdly, you’re not ‘callous’ out there? You don’t”—a scoff interrupted his words. “You don’t ‘let things happen because they don’t feel real’—that’s sure not how I remember it. Okay? I remember you crying for—god, I don’t know, days, maybe? Weeks?—about how you could feel everything, and couldn’t stop any of it. That’s the thing we’re hiding from here, Jon, so if you don’t actually feel any healthier here then what even is the point?”

In a voice embarrassment made small Jon managed, “I mean? I’m still kind of having fun.”

“Really? You don’t seem like it—”

“Not today, maybe—”

“Right, yeah, no; spending all day trying to fix a doorknob isn’t exactly—”

“But I don’t want to leave yet. I should still have a few good days left before the distance from the Eye gets too….”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” For a few seconds he tried to think of something better to say, then gave up and told the truth, though in a jocular voice to hide his self-consciousness. “Always was the person who got ill on holiday.”

“Oh, god, of course you were—”

Voice growing higher in pitch, Jon pleaded, “It didn’t usually stop me from enjoying it?”

“What about America?” laughed Martin. “Did you still enjoy that one?”

“Of course not—I got kidnapped.”

“I mean, yeah, but you were pretty used to that too by then, right?”

“God.” Jon sniffed, crunchily, reeling back in the snot he’d laughed out. “Besides. That was a business engagement.”

Martin acknowledged this comment with a quick Psh, as he turned himself around on the bed to face Jon a little more. “Can I trust you to”—he stopped.

“Yes.”

“No, let me—that wasn’t fair; I can’t ask you that yet.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Martin; I didn’t—”

“Of me, I meant, it wasn’t fair.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’ve been ignoring your distress all week because I wanted it not to matter.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘distress,’” pointed out Jon. “Plus, I have been sort of, er. Secretive, about it.”

The exasperation in Martin’s sigh was probably meant for him, not for Jon, the latter reminded himself. “Yeah, but you’re not subtle. I can tell when you’re hiding something. It wasn’t exactly a big leap to figure out what. But I told myself it was temporary, and that you were acting like.”

Jon laughed preemptively. “Yes?”

“Like a little kid in line for a theme-park ride.” Again Jon laughed—less at the comparison itself than at how much Martin winced to hear himself say it. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taken you more seriously.”

“And I should have told you what was going on with me.”

“Yup,” concurred Martin at once.

“I know you hate it when I keep things from you.”

“I do—I hate it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry too.” Martin waved this away like a fly. “I just—you said you think we’ve got a few more days, before it gets too much or whatever.”

“Yes.”

“Can I trust you to tell me when we need to leave?”

Jon tried not to answer too quickly, knowing vaguely that that might sound insincere. “Yes,” he said again, after pausing for a second. “You can trust me.”

“Okay? Don’t try to spare my feelings, or anything like that. Like—don’t just go, ‘Oh, well, he’s having a good time. That’s fine; I don’t have to.’ Yeah? ‘Cause I won’t have a good time if I’m worried you’re secretly suffering.”

This Jon did know; it sent a thrill of recognition down his spine, as he remembered their first day’s ping-pong adventure. “Right. I’ll do my suffering as publicly as possible.”

“Uh huh.” Martin’s arm tightened around Jon’s shoulder. “Just don’t worry about disappointing me? I mean, sure, I like it here, with the whole ‘not being an evil wasteland’ thing, but I’d much rather be out there with you happy than with you than spend one more minute in paradise with her.”

With a smile, Jon replied, “That might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I suppose we do.”

As they walked on out of the range of Salesa’s camera, Jon glanced backward one more time and thought, Yes, that makes sense—but couldn’t quite recall what he had expected to see. It was like when you look at a clock, and tick Check the time off your mental to-do list, then realize you never internalized what time it was. “Pity,” he mused.

“What?”

“It’s, er, going away. That peace, the safety, the memory of ignorance.”

“That’s… Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Do you remember any of it? W-What Salesa said? Annabelle?”

“Some, I think. It’s, uh… do you mind filling me in?”

“Wait, you need me to tell you something for once?”

“I guess so. It’s, er… it’s gone. Like a dream. What was it like?”

After a pause Martin said, “Nice. It was… it was really nice.”

“Even though Annabelle was there?”

“I mean, yeah, but she didn’t do anything,” shrugged Martin. “Except cook for us. That was weird.”

“She cooked?” Jon watched Martin nod and smile around a wince. “And we let her do that? I let her do that?”

With a scoff Martin answered, “Under duress, yeah.”

“Huh.” Jon twirled his cane in circles, wondering why he’d thought he would need it. “Well, she didn’t poison us, apparently.”

“Nope. And believe me, we had that conversation plenty of times already. Er—maybe just let me put that away for you before you take somebody’s eye out, yeah?”

Jon nodded, folded his cane and handed it to Martin, then made himself laugh. “Was I… a bit neurotic about it.”

“About Annabelle?” Again Jon nodded. “Oh, we both were. We kept switching sides—one day I’d be like, ‘But she’s got four arms, Jon!’ and the next you’d be like—”

“She had four arms?”

“Yup. And six eyes. But your powers didn’t work there, so we thought maybe hers didn’t either? Never did find out for sure. God—you remember the day we got locked out of our room?”

“Er….”

“So that’s a no, then.”

“Sorry.”

Martin’s lips billowed in a sigh. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“So… what happened? Who locked us out? Was it Annabelle?”

“No, no, no one locked us out. It was just me, I uh—I sorta broke the doorknob? God, it was awful. Went to open it and the whole thing just came off in my hand, like” (he made the motion of turning a doorknob in empty air, and imitated the sound Jon figured it must have made coming off) “krrruk-krr.” Jon fondly laughed; he could imagine Martin’s horror at breaking something in a historic mansion. “It was just one screw that came loose, though, so you’d think, easy fix, right? Except the bloody screwdriver took forever to find. Turns out Salesa kept them in the library, of all places.”

“S-sorry—what does this have to do with Annabelle?”

“Oh—nothing ultimately, just.” Martin grimaced at his own recollection. “God, we had this whole argument over whether to ask her about it, and when I finally did can you guess what she told us?”

“What?” managed Jon; his throat felt small and weak all of a sudden.

Martin put a finger to his chin, and blinked his eyes out of sync. “‘Perhaps he keeps them next to something that breaks a lot,’” he recited, with an inane, self-congratulating smile. For a fraction of a second Jon could recognize it as Annabelle’s I’ve-just-told-a-riddle expression. But the memory faded and he could picture her face only as he’d seen it in pictures before the change.

“O…kay. And was that… true?”

“I mean, yeah, technically. Useless, though. And after we spent so long agonizing over whether it was safe to ask her….”

Jon allowed himself a cynical laugh. “Are you sure she didn’t orchestrate the whole thing?”

“Ugh—no, it wasn’t her. We had this conversation at the time. You made me check for cobwebs and everything.”

“And you… didn’t find any?”

“Of course not, Jon; it was a doorway.”

“Right. Doorway, yes.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling better? You still seem a bit….”

“No, I’m—I feel fine, I just can’t seem to. Retain anything concrete about… where did you say it was? Upton House? God that’s strange, that it would just be….”

Part of Jon felt tempted to deplore it as a waste of space, on the apocalypse’s part. These stretches of empty land were one thing, but a mansion? Couldn’t they at least get a Spiral domain out of it?

“I mean, not really. He told us all about it, remember? With the magic camera?”

“Right, yes,” Jon agreed.

“Well, we got it all on tape, if you want to listen to it later.”

“Yes, that sounds—all of it?”

“Well not the whole week or anything. It just came on whenever it thought it was important, I guess.”

“So not the part about the doorway.”

“Nope.”

“Pity.”

[cloudhayato]

I’ve decided to live in the woods now so here are some animals I associate with the KHR characters.

Tsuna: Spotted hyena. They’re the most social of the carnivora and Tsuna loves and thrives around his friends. :) The males also tend to be less aggressive because hyena clans are matriarchal and they’re low in the social hierarchy. Just like Tsuna at school, maybe? 0_0

Gokudera: Oh, so very Chihuahuacore. Only likes one person and is super attached to them. Bites and snarls at everyone else who tries to approach them. Gets upset when someone else joins the family or enters his house. Loud. :/

Yamamoto: A capybara! They’re semi-aquatic animals that are super chill and friendly. They’ll get along with a wide array of animals because of how they’re very social animals, are very calm, and also benefit some other animals like birds for example, though that’s mostly for eating ticks and insects from their fur. A chill friendly guy who helps others? Yamamoto.

I also can’t find more information on this picture, since caiman, another crocodilian, will eat capybara, but it makes me think of how Yamamoto will befriend villains first. Like Byakuran and Squalo for example <:3c

Ryohei: A grizzly bear really does fit him best in my head. They big and powerful animals, associated with the kind of toughness that Ryohei strives for! Also while most animals play fight, bears being no exception, I felt the need to mention this because Ryohei violence moments <3. They’re also known to stay with their siblings for awhile, even after leaving their mother, when they’re usually solitary creatures. They’ll den together, though food is not shared, and while circumstances can cause them to separate, the fact that they stay together at all is charming. Just a big strong animal that can be close to their siblings... That’s just adds to this in my opinion ówò

Hibari: A chicken. They have violent social hierarchies that involve fighting in order to get to the top of the pecking order. This can get really bad sometimes, and they can also get a taste for blood. What is Namimori if not a giant chicken coop? What is Hibari if not the head honcho establishing his place through aggressive pecking?

I rest my case.

Mukuro: Another more predictable animal here, but Raven. They’re birds who work in smaller social groups than crows, which fits better with him and the Kokuyo gang. I mean, apparently adolescent ravens will join teenage gangs with one another. They can mimic the sounds of other birds and animals, like Mukuro and his fucked up possession. Ravens are clever and will trick one another, like if the know another raven is watching them, they’ll pretend to hide food while actually hiding it somewhere else. They can also remember the faces of humans who wronged them and will hate them forever. <3 Fun fact: A group of ravens is called an ‘Unkindness.’

Chrome: She’s like a poorly socialized cat who’s really anxious and is suddenly put in a new environment. She just hides and doesn’t approach anyone, not even coming out for food at first. Slowly you have to try and get her comfortable around you, including the use of food, and now she just follows you around and sits with you.

Lambo: Ferret. Hear me out here, ferrets are mischievous and playful creatures. They love to hoard things and drag them into hiding places, like Lambo hiding things in his gross hair, they can dead sleep, which Lambo does throughout the series but the most prominent example I can think off is in Ciao Ciao!, and lastly, I think he’d do a weasel war dance.

Fuuta: He’d be a red fox. They’re associated with being sly and clever, which is a trait Fuuta displayed when he was running away from the men pursuing him, and throwing them off his tracks with little tricks. They live in small, familial social groups, like how Fuuta prefers to stay home with Nana and his siblings. I also wanted to choose an animal featured in The Little Prince, and the fox was the animal that gave him sage life advice.

I-pin: Hey did you know hares are born precocial and are able to fight and fend for themselves immediately after birth? That’s why I chose them for I-pin, who is already a very successful hitman as a young child. They’re also prominent in Chinese folklore as living on the moon (also interpreted as a rabbit) which then spread to other Asian cultures.

(It’s important to note that I-pin’s design is a bad caricature, but I do want to take into account that she is Chinese and instead focus on displaying that respectfully. That’s why I wanted to include an animal from Chinese folklore/mythology since even though her portrayal is shit and so much shade towards Amano for ever thinking that was okay, it doesn’t sit right either to completely erase that part of her.)

Byakuran: I want him to be some kind of bird. Probably a cockatoo because while they can manipulate you to believe they’re sweet, loving, funny birds, their souls are tinged with evil. The only thing they crave is total destruction and chaos, but also tasty fruits and get sad if they’re the only one left and alone. :(

Shoichi: Rabbits can die from stress. Shoichi gets stomachaches from stress. Checkmate atheists. Spanner also thinks his out of place anger is funny, and I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a rabbit temper tantrum but that shit is so funny. Another characteristic I thought about is how closely rabbits can bond, to the point where if their bonded partner or friend die, they grieve and get depressed, even potentially passing away from it. Byakuran was a horrible person, and Shoichi knew he had to be stopped, but when we see his face after his friend’s death, it’s a hard expression to forget. It’s a small moment, but one that comes to mind often when I think of Sho-chan.

Xanxus: Okay so hippopotamuses are seen as goofy, dumb looking creatures, but they’re actually super fucking dangerous. Agile and surprisingly aggressive, they are literally one of the most dangerous animals because of this. You are more likely to get murdered by a hippo than a lion out in the wild. They’re so fucked up, just like Xanxus.

Squalo: I bet you thought shark but nope! Killer whale. Orcas fight in pods, like how Squalo is a squad leader in Varia (almost made boss too), and these creatures are murder machines. They’ve actually been documented killing great white sharks and fucking whales. Like how Squalo is the strongest swordsman orcas are the fucking apex predators of the sea.

Fun fact: I was also considered sperm whales for Squalo because they’re the loudest animals on earth.

Okay this post ended up getting much longer than I intended I’m done now I’m leaving the range of the cell towers goodbye everyone.

[candied-peach]

ao3: “ugly like me” rating: T warnings: some remus typical stuff, food mention, sympathetic remus, sympathetic deceit, DRLAMP, creativitwins genre: fluffy hurt/comfort description: Remus has a wish. ( @tsshipmonth2020 prompt: DRLAMP)

Remus wants.

He wants, but he knows that he can never have it. The others are, well, themselves, and he's him. He's dirty, he's gross, he's a trash man and he doesn't hate who he is. Not anymore. But if he could have the wish that dies, unbidden, on the tip of his tongue-

He wants to dive into the soothing tranquility of Logan's room and let it wash him away. He longs to brush Logan's hair back from his face as he devours his mouth and finds out if the logical side tastes like Crofters and coffee. He wants to lounge on a bean bag chair in Virgil's room and make fun of the spider curtains. He would soothe Virgil when he has a panic attack and watch shitty conspiracy theories on the TV at three in the morning, when only the two of them are awake. He wants to wallow in nostalgia with Patton, pretending that the gap-toothed kid in a crown in the scrapbooks isn't two parts of a shattered whole. He would (try to) bake cookies with the moral side, dolloping his freckled nose with chocolate chip-studded cookie dough and kissing it off. He wants to pet Deceit's snake (and it's only partially a euphemism). If he could ever be allowed it, he would lift Deceit's hat free from his head and run his fingers through the fluffy, unruly strands, would kiss his way down the scales of Deceit's face, admiring the glitter of the light on them.

If he could have whatever he wanted, his brother wouldn't look at him like he's nothing but the broken half, the things he wishes he could forget he ever possessed.

But he can't. The others are together now, even Deceit, and he doesn't belong there. The others share sweet nothings in the hallways and kisses in the kitchen. They invite him to movie nights and he tries to take them up on them, because he doesn't want them to know. Dee Dee was obvious, but for once, Remus holds a secret close, like something precious and rotting. But it hurts, watching their easy closeness, the little in jokes that he can never be a part of, the affection that will forever be denied to him. Sometimes after movie nights, he goes into his side of the Imagination and destroys things. When rock chips fly from the impact of his morning star to the sound of blood trickling in the distance, Remus can almost pretend that he doesn't care.

It almost works.

Until Moana is playing on the big screen and he's saying something inanely profane about Maui's oar, but the others are huddled so close and he can't help the longing as he glances their way, and catches Virgil's eyes.

His understanding eyes.

Remus doesn't say a word, he just sinks out, landing on his bed with a careless thump. He scrabbles to lock the door, breaking one of his fingernails and wincing at the sizzle of white hot pain that slashes through his finger.

"Remus," Virgil says behind him, and he jumps, his heart feeling like it's about to rattle out of his chest. He turns and Virgil is there, slouched against the wall, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets.

"Virgey!" He exclaims brightly, trying to pretend that his hands aren't trembling and his eyes aren't wet with incipient tears. "What brings you to my shitty domain?"

"You know what," Virgil says. It's quiet, but it hits Remus like a physical blow all the same. He rocks back and forth on his heels, trying to calm himself. It doesn't work.

"Got bored," he tries, offering a dismissive shrug. "Wanna help me dissect something?"

"No," Virgil says, his nose scrunched up. "Remus, I- maybe I got this all wrong, but-"

"Probably!" Remus interrupts, his voice panicky fast.

"Remus, do you like me? Us?" Virgil asks, his face red.

"Of course I like you, Virgey," Remus says, deliberately misunderstanding the question. "Even my needle in the eye brother!"

"That's not how I meant and you know it," Virgil says, giving him a direct stare. Remus flushes bright red, like a lobster in a pot.

"Maybe," he admits, in a dull mumble. "But it's okay, Virgey. I can just stop coming to movies and meals and shit, that's-"

"What?" Virgil asks in disbelief. "Wha- why would I want you to do that?"

"Because I'm me?" Remus says. It's not quite a question. "I'm gross, Virgey Wirgey, I know that, I'm not like you and the others, I-"

"That is bullshit," Virgil interrupts him. "Absolute bullshit. And I'll prove it to you." Before Remus can pull away, Virgil has seized his wrist and they're both rising up, back in the living room he'd so recently sought to escape.

"Remus?" His brother asks, surprised. "Are you crying?"

"No," he denies.  He touches his cheek, startled to find wetness there. "Of course not," he doubles down. "Why would you care anyway?"

"Because I care about you," Roman says. Remus stares at him, wide-eyed.

"We all do," Logan adds. "Virgil, have you-"

"He thinks that he's too gross to be loved," Virgil says bluntly. Remus winces. He wouldn't put it quite like that. That makes it sound...bad. Like it's not the truth. But it is, he knows it is, it has to be-

"Remus-" Deceit is suddenly there, one gloved hand cupping his face. "Remus, you are not and never will be 'too gross' to be loved." He makes air quotes with his other hand.

"But-" He weakly protests.

"I love you!" Patton exclaims. Remus's jaw drops. "I have lots of love to give!" Patton says, noticing his shock. "I wanted to ask you a while ago, Remus, but I thought maybe you just didn't feel that way, and I didn't want to pressure you."

"But me and Deceit thought differently," Virgil continues. "We know your tells, dude. Lived with you forever, you know." Remus flushes harder.

"You're my brother," Roman says. "I know that we've had our differences, but I- I want to work on that. With you. If- if that's okay with you." Almost without his input, Remus's head bobbles up and down.

"Do you believe us now, cephy?" Logan asks.

"Cephy?" Remus repeats. Logan's cheeks tint faintly pink.

"You seem fond of cephalopods," Logan explains. "If you would prefer that I didn't call you that, of course I won't-"

"I love it," Remus says immediately. He would do anything to see that delighted glint in Logan's eyes again.

"Would you join us?" Deceit asks, very softly. Remus looks around the living room, eyes hot with unshed tears, and nods.

"Yes, please," he says.

Sometimes you can get what you wish for.

tag list: @k9cat @paravigilant-virgil @ancient-fruity @airiervessel @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @bexxbeauty @yalltookmyurlideas @ihateitwhenyourejustvague @matthindavick @killjoy-3000 @littlestliu @ambersky0319

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP Meme Lines from "AHS: Coven" Episode 9: "Head"

You get a little older, we'll add a little hooch in there.

That will really keep us warm.

There's nothing to be nervous about.

Keep your hands steady.

Just like we practiced on the range.

I don't wanna miss.

I was the same way when I was your age. Worse, even.

I couldn't keep my breakfast down. Ruined my shirt.

We've been hunters for generations.

You stay here.

You'll get a clean shot.

Put her down!

No mercy. Never forget what they are.

We need to talk.

You and I ain't got nothing to say to each other.

Take your skinny ass and that filthy thing and get out.

You don't wanna talk to me? Fine.

I won't be long.

This better be good.

That one you can keep.

What makes you think I want it?

Why'd you keep her around?

She amused me.

You thought you could use her as a bargaining chip.

What'd she say? I can't hear.

You shut up.

I came here to talk terms.

You think it's so easy. Stroll in here and expect we gonna fix this truce?

Oh, to hell with the truce.

What I'm looking for is an alliance.

Are you insane?

I told you to shut up.

You can't trust them as far as you can spit.

Now, we need to stop this petty quarreling.

We've got bigger problems than what goes on between us.

How many dead?

This concerns you and your people as much as it does mine.

You're making a mistake.

I can live with that. Not too sure about you, though.

Can't protect your own and expect me to do it for you.

You're kidding yourself if you think that after they're done with us,they're not coming after you.

I'll fret about that when the time come.

Right after I pop the champagne.

Take this filthy thing out back and burn it.

I don't ever wanna see it again.

Sweet release. At long last.

Could people please not move things?

Let me do it. It's my mess.

I need to say something, or I'll simply explode.

I need to know for certain that you don't think I did this to you.

You were like a baby bird pushed too soon from the nest.

Will you be my mother now?

I've always loved you like a daughter.

Wrap your arms around me, dear girl.

I don't need magic to tell me what I already know.

I know you would never hurt me.

I never doubted you for a second.

I thought you were in Europe.

Nothing a few silver bullets couldn't take care of.

A lot of things have happened. Some of them out of my control.

You don't take initiative, [NAME].

You follow orders.

Your only job is to gather intelligence.

You don't get your hands dirty.

You're the man on the inside.

Don't think.

You'll just end up getting somebody killed.

I'm much more capable than you think.

An innocent desk clerk and a maid lost their lives because you were sloppy.

Your recklessness puts everything we've worked for at risk.

The hunt isn't only about the kill.

A good hunter stalks his prey with care and only strikes when the time is right.

We need you back inside that house.

Tell me you don't actually have feelings for her.

You haven't forgotten what she is?

I'm part of a sacred order.

Don't think I don't appreciate the sacrifices you've made.

I know how confusing it can be to pretend to love someone who's your enemy.

What a marvelous invention.

So before we move on to our lobster bouquetière a little melon ball palate cleanser.

Should we be looking into it?

Selling it, perhaps?

Forgiveness is and always will be the high road, the preferred road.

Would that we had such luxury.

Not to worry. It's just a bit of monkshood in your balls. Causes temporary paralysis.

It's supposed to be quite terrifying. Is it?

Are you terrified? You should be.

At any rate, I'm not going to kill you. Well, maybe after dessert.

I put a lot of effort into the key lime pie.

I do love a key lime pie, even more than an île flottante.

I was never worried you'd be hapless enough to try.

[NAME], you're a fatuous fool and a drunk!

You're weak-willed, boring, and your fashion faux pas give me nightmares.

I know you had the best of intentions but you could've asked me first.

There are secrets in the flames, and I came back with more than a few.

Why do they look so familiar? The generous donors wish to remain anonymous.

Hurl your baseless accusations. They have no power now.

You're the one that should be put to the stake.

You were the one found guilty of a capital crime.

I could have you banished.

You wouldn't dare.

I hear they're not seeing anyone right now.

Stop it! Stop it right now.

The real danger is outside these doors, not inside.

I'm tired. I need to lie down.

It's dangerous out there.

We'll see to absolutely everything.

Hug me again.

Why don't you go tell someone?

Ugh, sick people really gross me out.

We've been looking everywhere for you.

Who said you could come in here?

Get out before I call security.

You brought this darkness into my home.

When did he tell you that?

You're a liar. Or a lunatic.

I don't believe it.

You're mocking my grief.

That proves you're a fraud.

How can you know that?

She doesn't deserve your help.

You bring nibbles? I'm starving.

Time for some sensitivity training.

What fresh hell is this?

I wanna die. I'm ready.

So we're gonna have a little film festival.

No, wait a minute.

What's happening to me?

You're feeling the wrath of broken promises.

Oh, wow, that's some stinky shit.

Now, you never use this unless under extreme circumstances.

Hey, can I try the incantation this time?

Damn. That is so cool.

We make a great team.

You're such an awesome leader

I've got so much to learn from you.

I meant to change the locks.

Let go of me.

I said, let go.

You're drunk.

I needed the courage to come back.

Can you see my heart? Can you see it's bleeding? That I'm living in a hell of regret and remorse? That my life has no meaning without you?

Can we have this conversation alone, please?

I've told you how I feel.

Take your stuff and leave.

No, I'm not going anywhere.

I'm filing for divorce.

All I want is to protect you.

Your shit's in a box in the closet. Get it and then get out.

You got a dog?

You hate animals, and all other living things.

We needed some protection around here.

Why do you think I came back?

Females are more loyal and aggressive when it comes to protecting their families.

What's in there?

You have to leave now.

I'm not certain

I know how to thank you.

I'm sure this isn't enough, but in truth, nothing could ever be enough.

You've given me a gift that can never be repaid.

I confess I had dark moments.

The thought of losing my son shook me to the core.

I questioned my faith in the Almighty.

Why does he say that?

God knows all.

I can't accept that.

I wanna be a good father.

We're done. Maybe one day you'll understand.

You knew you'd get away with it.

My turn.

Now it's your turn.

Like to play another hand?

Yeah, you just keep dealing till I win my money back.

What did you do to him?

What we need is a guard dog, one who will attack on command.

You kept your eyes closed your entire life.

What is that heinous caterwauling?

If this doesn't touch your soul, you don't have one.

When will my perdition end?

I gotta go.

Sit your ass down and get yourself to work.

Go back to sleep, baby.

Go back to sleep.

[shinsorokiri]

UA Idol | Chapter Eight

Hitoshi Shinsou x Reader

Word Count: 2,005

Warnings: Language

A/N: Ahhhh here we are at Chapter Eight! I can’t wait to write right more for this I really love it, I wish I knew just how long this was gonna be but honestly I have no idea at this point. We’ll see, but for now, enjoy!!!

───────────────────────────────────

“So, you made it without managing to murder Mina, huh?” Shinsou smirks at you, and you roll your eyes. You’d made it to the airport after him, and you had just gone through security. You and Mina had spotted the rest of the contestants sitting and waiting for the plane to start boarding, and among them was Denki and Shinsou. You plopped down next to your tired friend, rubbing your temples in the process. “I was… genuinely so close, Shin. You… you don’t even understand,” you mumble. His laughter brings a smile to your previously frowning face, and you look over at him. “Well, good thing you didn’t because then I would only have Denki throughout this entire trip and I’m gonna be honest, I don’t know if I could do that.”

“You couldn’t. I was thinking of you, congrats, you saved Mina Ashido’s life.” “Wow, didn’t know I’d grow up to be a hero,” he grins at you and you shake your head with a smile. “That was so cheesy, I’m gonna throw up,” you say, and he shrugs. “I only say cheesy things to the people I like.”

“So… me and Denki?”

“And my mother.”

“Oh wow, I’m in the exclusive club, now aren’t I? Mom, Denki, and kitten?” you ask, giving his arm a light push, using the nickname he oh-so-affectionately calls you all the time. He snorts, glancing over at you and shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you are.”

Before you can respond, one of the flight attendants opens the door to the walkway for your plane. Lucky for all the UA Idol contestants, you all were VIPs. Very Important Passengers. Which means, you all got to board first. You and Shinsou are right next to each other, along with Denki and Mina behind you two. “Okay. How long do you think until they realize they’re madly in love and make a move on each other?” Mina whispers to Denki and he scrunches his nose. “I give it… two months. Who do you think will say it first?��

“Shinsou. For sure. And as much as I’d like that two months thing, I think it’ll take at least three. (Y/n)’s a tough nut to crack,” Mina says, and Denki smirks. “Well if she’s so tough, that means she’ll probably crack under pressure, right? She’ll say it first.”

“Well then, Denki Kaminari. Looks like we have ourselves a bet.”

“Looks like we do, Mina Ashido. Also, did you see that one emo girl who never took her headphones out? She’s so fucking pretty.”

“Oh, I know. Personally, I go for the cuter and softer types… like that girl over there, with the black hair and cute face,” Mina subtly motions to the girl she’s talking about and Denki glances. “I respect it, but I wouldn’t pursue it.”  

“Would you two stop talking about your crushes right in front of us? It’s annoying,” Shinsou cuts in, shooting Denki a glare. “Yeah, I preferred your hushed whispers from earlier over the louder lovey-dovey talk,” you add in and Denki and Mina look fake offended. “Excuse me, but I will have you know-”

“Tickets?” Mina gets cut off by the stewardess asking you and Shinsou for your tickets with a big smile. You two hand them over and walk down the hallway to the plane. “I vote we sit far away from them, that way we don’t have to hear about their love lives for these ten hours,” Shinsou says to you and you grin. “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You and Shinsou grab your seats, luckily getting on early enough to honestly have your pick. “Let’s get as close to the side door as possible, better chances at surviving if it… well… you know…” Shinsou says, and you raise an eyebrow at him. “Hitoshi Shinsou, are you afraid of flying?”

“What? No. No of course not. Nope. Not at all. It’s not like we’re on a metal death trap floating through the air. What would give you that idea?” he says, sinking in his seat. You give him a sympathetic grin. “Well, don’t worry, okay? If you need any comfort at all through the flight, I’m right here. I’ll protect you, sweetheart,” you tease, trying to take his mind off of the ‘metal death trap floating through the air.’ You’re too busy putting your carry on in the compartment above you to notice the blush on his entire body, which he silently thanks whatever god that exists for, and he scoffs, hoping that it disappears. “Thank you, honey. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You laugh, squeezing your way past him to the window seat. He claimed the aisle seat, probably because he didn’t want to look outside and see just how far up the plane is. You glance over at him to see just how nervous he is, and the poor thing is a total wreck. Without thinking, you grab his hand. “Seriously, Shin. I’m not a big fan of airplanes either. But I’m here for you if you need me.”

He glances down at your hand intertwined with his, and he swears his heart skips a beat. For some reason, every time the two of you touch it feels like he’s put at ease while also being zapped with 100 volts. It’s a feeling he could honestly get used to. He looks up at your face, silently noting the light pink dusting your cheeks. “Thanks, (Y/n). I appreciate that.” The two of you sit in silence, never letting go of the others hand, when the stewardess starts her speech. You two both train your attention on her, but your hands are still entwined the whole time.

You pretended to listen to her, but really all you could think about was how perfect Shinsou looked. You could tell he had gotten even less sleep than usual the night before, but he still looked like the most attractive human being on the face of the planet. And the fact that you two were still holding hands? You didn’t know contact with another person could feel so good. What you didn’t realize is that Shinsou was thinking the same exact thing about you the whole time. The stewardess and pilot’s words went right through one ear and out the other for both of you, so hopefully everything on the flight went okay.

You glanced out the window, staring at the runway. A ten-hour flight to Los Angeles sure was going to hit you hard. If you thought you had insomnia before? Wait til you’re thrown into the epicenter of American Entertainment. You see the runway begin to move, and then feel a tight squeeze on your hand. You look over to see Shinsou paler than usual and gripping your hand and his arm rest ridiculously tight. “Take offs and landings are the scariest parts because that’s when things go wrong and crashes happen most often,” he mumbles and you frown, squeezing his hand back. “It’s gonna be okay, Shin,” you assure him, gently rubbing his hand with your thumb. This seems to help him a bit, but he still looks absolutely horrified. The plane begins its ascent, and he closes his eyes tightly. You squeeze his hand in reassurance, which he gladly returns, and before you know it, you’re in the sky. No crash. Not even any turbulence.

“You can open your eyes now, Shin,” you gently say, and he opens one eye, looking over at you. “Ten hours of this. I’m going to die of anxiety if the plane doesn’t nosedive into the ocean itself,” he says, and you snort, shaking your head. “Shinsou, I refuse to let you die. I will distract you this whole flight, and who knows. Maybe you can get some sleep.”

“Wow, my knight in shining armor,” he says, a small smile gracing his worry ridden face. “How about we watch a movie? Take your mind off of what’s happening right now?” you suggest, pulling out your headphones and plugging them into the tv in front of you. Shinsou nods, following your actions. “Hmmm... what do you want to watch?”

“Uh... how about... this. This is actually a tv show, so technically it will be even more distracting. And it will take longer to finish. We might not even finish, actually,” he says, landing on a show called ‘How To Get Away With Murder.’ You grin, nodding your head. “This will do,” you hum, and you two begin at the same time. The show quickly grabs both of your attention, and before you know it you two are deep into the show. You keep muttering theories to each other, sharing shocked looks at the plot twists, and cringing at the romantic scenes.

After about four episodes, you find yourself leaning against Shinsou, paying more attention to his screen than your own. Albeit, your eyes were starting to become way too heavy to even focus on Annalise Keating and the Keating Five. Shinsou notices, and he himself is getting a bit tired, so he pauses the show for both of you. He then wraps his arm around you, solely to get more comfortable. Definitely not because he just... wants to hold you. No. Ew. Gross. Totally not. But his heart does almost jump out of his chest when you snuggle against him. He can’t help the smile from spreading across his face as he rests his head on top of yours. His eyes slowly close, and he drifts off into a deep sleep.

“Holy shit, Mina.”

“Huh? What?”

“Look. They’re sleeping,” Denki whisper screams, frantically pointing at the two of you. “Oh… my god. They are literally perfect for each other,” she practically squeals, and Denki violently nods his head. “This is the cutest shit I’ve ever seen, I need to document this moment,” Denki says, taking a picture of the two of you. “Please send that to me, I need it,” Mina says with a shit eating grin. “Of course, of course,” Denki smiles, immediately sending it to her. “At this rate, maybe they’ll get together sooner than either of us thought?” Denki suggests, and Mina considers it for a moment. “Maybe, but I am telling you, (Y/n) is very… skeptical when it comes to relationships. I know it looks like they’re super flirty and already a couple but if he mentions it too soon then… there’s a good chance she will sprint away from the situation and never talk to him again. Sadly.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I would like for it to happen sooner than later, but Shinsou isn’t the best with emotions. He feels them, and he feels them a lot, but he hates them. So, he pretends he doesn’t feel them and in doing so he ruins every romantic opportunity he ever has,” Denki says and the two of them stare at each other for a moment. Suddenly, they both get smiles on their faces. “Looks like we just need to gently push them together, then, eh?” Mina wiggles her eyebrows and Denki nods. “Oh. One hundred percent.”

“Look at us. Being little matchmakers,” Mina says, winking at Denki. He laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, well, if you don’t match make me too, I’m gonna be pretty upset about it,” he says, and Mina rolls her eyes. “Oh please, trying to find someone who could deal with your hyperactive ass is too much to ask of me.” “Damn, Mina. Hurtful.” “Don’t hate me because I speak the truth. Let’s just focus on Shinsou and (Y/n), okay? Cause let’s be real, you don’t need me to help match you up with someone. Besides, I caught your ‘cute emo girl who never took out her headphones’ staring at you while we were getting settled into our seats.”

“Yeah? Well, I saw your soft girl with the black hair check you out when you put your bag in the overhead.”

And with that, Denki and Mina fist bump.

[sweets-fanfics]

Homecoming 22

Title: Some Social Call

Wordcount: 2085

Warning: violence and Micah

Tag: @rollyjogerjones @nikishadow

AN: Writing in second person is really hard so I’ll now be writing in first. Eventually I’ll fix the past chapter to be in first person as well.

Also I love ya’ll be sure to look up my ao3

––––––––––––––––––––––

I got off of Suzie and hitched her near the Annesberg sheriff building and hoped she wouldn’t get loose and run off. I looked around for Micah or my father. “They said to meet here…” 

Just as I was beginning to think I got the address wrong Micah rushes out of one of the small houses and pushes me against a wall, “Was you followed?” He demands.

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Answer the question!”

“No, you dumbass. I wasn’t followed.” I finally pushed him off of me and went to hit him, however, Dutch chose then to make himself known and stopped my fist. 

“Micah reckons we have a rat.” He says calmly as he gets between me and Micah.

“No shit we have a rat.” I glare at Micah who smirks.

“Drop it with you thinkin’ it’s Micah.” Dutch groans. 

“Well, who then? What evidence?” I ask.

“Well, Molly certainly told. But I feel someone else too.” 

“The Pinkertons showing up, right as we boys get back? Really suspicious.” Micah chimes in causing me to roll my eyes.

“Maybe we made too much noise. I remember reading about Blackwater and then from what Arthur’s told me it was worse than the papers had put it. Then you boys almost get you all killed in Saint Denise. Maybe bein’ an outlaw isn’t something we can be anymore.”

“I think the best thing we can do is let the weak go.” Micah gestures towards me making me have an urge to shoot him, “Move on, get the money and go.”

“No.” Dutch sighs.

“Well, we should do something to get everyone safe. Cornwall, the damn Pinkertons. They are everywhere. It’s time to think about ending this.” I try to urge my father.

“Let’s just deal with the matter at hand here.” Micah throws his hands up and begins walking to the Pier.

“Yes, first, we gotta deal with Cornwall, then we find out who the loose end is.” 

“I’ll help ya anyway I can, Pa.” I sigh trying to get on his good side. “But this ain’t some revenge mission, right?”

“Oh, of course not.” Dutch rolls his eyes but seems to like that you called him Pa again and smiles at me. “How’s little Bea today?”

“She was fine. A bit angry when I had to leave her with Abigail.”

“She’s got your fighting spirit, that’s for sure.” Micah tries to add in until I give him a glare.

“You know, Henry and Micah get along so well. I’m sure you two would if you gave him a chance.” Dutch says casually. 

“Uh... Let’s just focus on this first.” I walk back a bit more from the two.

“Alright then, Cornwall’s boat should be here soon. This man somehow has his dirty hands in everything and he’s slowly killing everyone.”

“And what are we supposed to do about it?” I ask.

“We are just gonna make a deal, Princess.” Micah sighs.

“What does that even mean?” 

“He wants us to stop robing him and we want out. He’s America, and I want out of it.” Dutch begins to rant.

“It doesn’t make sense, Pa… But I’ll follow your lead.”

Micah looks over the lake, “Here it comes.”

“Alright. Let’s hide behind these boxes.” All three of us crouch and wait.

The boat pulls up and the first person I spot is Milton and his dumb hat. I glare at Micah who pretends not to notice me. “I want to thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Cornwall,” Milton says as he kisses Cornwall’s ass.

“This was a business meeting, Mr. Milton. We are not friends.” Cornwall shoot’s back, not falling for it. “I’ve spent a lot of money on your people and I still get nothing. This Van Der Linde is robbing me and you haven’t even caught him yet.”

“We are very close, Mr. Cornwall. I know I’ve been saying this a lot.” 

Cornwall seems to ignore Milton and speaks to one of his people before turning his attention back towards the Pinkerton. “I have heard it before…” He quickly yells something to his worker again.

“We are doing everything we can in the confines of the law,” Milton assures him.

“The law?” Cornwall says back in disbelief. “I think we both know what you can do with your laws! Find Me Dutch Van Der Linde! Bring him here! Good day, sir.” Cornwall finishes his statement as Milton and Ross begin to walk away. 

Cornwall begins to talk to another worker as Dutch motions for Micah to follow the Pinkertons.

“It’s a nonsense that will bring a plague on both our houses.” Cornwall suddenly shouts making me realize how similar he and my father are. 

“Perhaps, there is already a plague on your house, Mr. Cornwall,” Dutch announces moving into view leaving me extremely confused as to what he’s doing. I stand from my hiding spot and look at him as he gives me a knowing smile, trying to assure me it’s okay. It definitely doesn’t seem okay.

“What do you want, sir?” Cornwall hisses.

“I’m not quite sure just yet,” Dutch admits making me want to throw my hands up in frustration. 

“Your impudence will be your undoing, sir,” Cornwall warns. I notice him getting angrier.

“I’m already undone.” Dutch motions to me as I slowly come into view, “Even my only daughter, thinks I’m crazy… And like this poor fellow you’re talkin’ too. My feelings are hurt.”

“You robbed me, sir.” Cornwall’s voice seems to boom.

“And you robbed him, funny world.” Damn, I wish my father would stop talking.

“You have a very criminal way of looking at the world, sir. I did no such thing.”

“You kill, I kill. You rob, I rob… Only I choose who I rob and kill and you rob and kill everyone in your path.”

“I’ve heard just about enough…”

Dutch quickly cuts him off, “Listen, give me your ship, ten thousand dollars, safe passage out of here and I let you live.” 

I stare at the back of my father’s head in disbelief. We are in no position so demands like this. “Father…” You begin to mumble.

“Not now, Y/N.” Dutch waves me back.

Cornwall turns to his men and laughs, “I’ll do no such thing.”

“You sure?” Cornwall raises an eyebrow at Dutch, “Good. Cause I prefer it this way.” 

Before anyone moves Dutch pulls out his pistol and shoots Cornwall sending everyone into a frenzy. I feel like it’s all in slow motion as Cornwall grabs his chest and falls into the river.

Dutch pushes me behind a crate as he chuckles. “You have lost your damn mind!” I yell over the gunfire.

“Noise, dear daughter, noise.” 

I pull out my pistole and begin to shoot at Cornwall’s men until I hear a bullet buzz pass my head from behind. I glance over my shoulder and see a bunch more men running towards us.

“Shit. Pinkertons.” Dutch moves his aim towards the men filing down the pier towards us. “We gotta meet up with Micah. He went to retrieve the papers that Cornwall handed to Milton.”

“Oh, I’m sure Milton will hand the papers over,” I mumble to myself.

We make our way back into Annesburg when I see Micah waving papers over his head. “I found something interesting!” Sure you did.

“Let’s get up to him.”

As we shoot our way through the mill Dutch keeps repeating how we had to do this but all I can seem to focus on is how even though Micah fires his pistols he never actually hits anyone. I bump him making him hit one of the Pinkertons square in the head. He gives me a dirty look but I simply shrug.

“You sure you can keep up with us princess?” Micah asks in a teasing tone. Without looking away from him I aim and fire twice killing to agents. “Wow… not gonna lie, that was kinda hot.” He smirks.

“You are a pig.” You groan and move forward. 

“At least we finally got Cornwall out of business for good,” Micah yells to Dutch.

“You better not have put him up to this.” I snap.

“I only follow orders, princess.” 

“I thought this wasn’t revenge, Pa.” I ignore Micah and turn to my father while we have a lull in the shooting.

“It wasn’t we got the paper we came for.” Funny, I was never told we came for papers. “Let’s get out of here.” My father announces before beginning to shoot again.

I spot and oil wagon near a bunch of agents and smirk before firing at it and making it explode.

“Let’s take these horses and get out of here.” 

The three of us starting getting on the horses as Micah smirks again, “At least we tried talking.”

“Ya’ll have lost your damn minds.” You yell.

“I have guilt about a lot of things, daughter. But this was not one of them.” Dutch says firmly to you before taking off. 

As the three of us ride through the forest agents appear to keep trying to shoot us. Eventually, however, it stops and we are able to stop and catch our breath while Dutch looks at the papers.

“Looks like Cornwall signed a contract with the Army. They are going to be moving dynamite to Saint Denise from Annesburg mines. And there are bonds at the oil factory.” I see the spark in my father’s eyes that I don’t tend to like.

“Pa, Everyone is closing in on us. I thought we were supposed to be hiding.”

Dutch shakes his head and goes towards the horse he’s riding. “Micah, look into the dynamite. Take Bill and Arthur, then you and I can have a chat.”

“About what?” I ask them.

“The plan, daughter. Micah and I gotta figure out how it’ll go. You just head back to camp and take care of that little girl.” 

Then they both ride off leaving me alone to my thoughts.

_______________

When I head back into camp Bea already seems to be waiting. She spots me getting off my horse and beelines towards me. I put on my best fake smile and spin around to hug her. 

“Hi, my love!”

“Momma, did you talk to the bad guy?”

“I tried, baby.” I put her on my hip and walk to our tent where Arthur is sitting on the cot with his journal and pencil in hand. “How was your hunting today?” 

“Ah, only got a few rabbits.” He looks up at me and see’s my disheveled hair and frown. “What happened?”

“Pinkertons were there of course.”

“I figured all that shooting we were hearing was you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just… I’m not sure, Arthur. Micah was making me more uncomfortable than usual. And my father said how he and I should get along.” I got the shivers thinking about it and made a grossed-out face.

“I don’t want you to goin’ anywhere near him.” Arthur stands up and pulls me and Bea into a giant hug.

“You guys are disgusting.” Micah just seems to ruin everything.

“What do you want, pig?” I ask without pulling away from Arthur.

“Remember what your father said? I’m just here to tell Arthur that I’ll need his help when he’s free.”

“I’m not, at the moment so go away,” Arthur says to him, obviously not busy at the moment.

Bea peeks at Micah before hiding her face in my neck again. “She’s pretty adorable. Maybe I’ll take care of her sometime, ya know? Take her fishing-”

“No.” Both Arthur and I saw together.

“Fine fine. Just asking.” As he sauntered away I couldn’t help but feel disgusted.

I look at Bea with a serious expression, “Beatrice Morgan, you are never allowed to speak to that man do you understand me?” She nods and kisses my cheek before reaching for her father.

“Y/N Morgan, I think you shouldn’t either,” Arthur adds as he takes her and places Bea on his shoulders.

“I’m an adult. I know I’m going to be forced into more situations where I must deal with that man.” Arthur doesn’t look happy but agrees and drops the subject for the night.

The rest of the night seemed to be a blur. I tried to focus on only my family and those I actually care about but I couldn’t shake the uneasiness and want to run away every time I would catch Micah watching me.

[charmingcentry]

Bechloe - Secret

Summary: Chloe’s family invites Beca over but the redhead’s family doesn’t know the two are dating.

Post-PP3

-

Chloe’s eyes slowly flutter open, the sunlight beaming through her thin curtains. There’s an aroma of chocolate and vanilla wafting around the redhead’s room, a sign of baking happening in the Beale house. She sits up from the mattress and glances towards her ominous cat clock - her older brother Elijah purchased the clock for Chloe’s 14th birthday and somehow still works. The time only read 9 A.M and the redhead wondered why her mother is already baking. Chloe then stands from her bed, shuffling her feet as she walks downstairs.

Chloe’s been home for the past week to visit her family while she’s on summer break - a much-needed break after the Bellas’ USO tour. Her girlfriend, Beca, had flown three days after Chloe, Theo having her immediately start on a project with a rising musician. The redhead would’ve insisted on having the brunette room with her but Chloe didn’t want the risk of her family walking in on the two cuddling or... other activities. Nevertheless, Chloe frequently saw the brunette during her lunch break or after she finished for the day. 

“How come you’re baking early?” Chloe asks, retrieving a glass of water as she examines what her mother is baking.

Mrs. Beale pours a cup of flour into a bowl. “Just for tonight.” The redhead sits at a stool on their kitchen island, raising an eyebrow.

“What’s tonight?”

“Oh, Beca didn’t tell you? I invited her over today for dinner!”

Chloe’s heart stops for a moment and she immediately downs the glass of water, walking away swiftly. “I- I’ll go ask her about that.”

The Beale family has known Beca for many years; Chloe’s constant rambling about the brunette from Day 1 of meeting Beca has been non-stop. 

And for ranting and gushing over the brunette, Chloe hasn’t mentioned their secret relationship. Granted, the two recently began dating one another, Beca pulled Chloe aside after her performance for DJ Khaled and confessed her love - as cliche as it seems, Chloe wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Well, except right now she’s in panic mode, frantically moving her thumbs across her phone screen. She selects Beca’s name and presses her ear to the phone, shutting the bedroom door behind her. 

Chloe hears Beca pick up and takes a deep breath. “Okay, first of all, good morning, I love you. Secondly, why didn’t you tell me that my mom invited you to our place?! I mean, we now have to pretend that we aren’t dating and are just friends and that’s going to be really complicated since I’m super affectionate. Also, she’s already baking so I know she won’t have her mind changed about this!” 

There’s a pause.

“Well good morning to you too Chlo,” Beca chuckles into her phone. “First, let’s calm down okay? It’s just a dinner it’s not like they’re inviting us to like a double date or something.”

The redhead grimaces at the idea of a double date with her parents. “Ew gross. And I cannot be calm! They don’t know we’re dating!”

“Well, why don’t we tell them tonight? It shouldn’t be that hard... your parents are the nicest people ever.” Beca adds, attempting to comfort her panicking girlfriend.

“I- But I’m scared... what if something bad happens?”

“I’ll take you to my hotel room and we can cuddle or whatever. I’ll be right beside you throughout the whole thing okay?” Chloe smiles at Beca’s suggestion

“Okay...”

“I’d love to talk more Chlo but Theo is on my ass... not literally but, yeah. He’s making work extra hard today since I’m leaving early. Love you, babe!”

“Love you too Becs.”

The call ends and the redhead collapses face-first onto her mattress.

Tonight is either going to be a shit-show or the best night of her life.

-

Chloe is seated on the couch, anticipating for the doorbell to ring; her family is preparing the table while the redhead pretends to read a novel. Each sentence she reads ends with a quick glance towards the door, her heart rate increasing if she notices a car passing by or a dog-walker. The redhead resumes her fake-reading and the first note of the doorbell has Chloe climbing over the couch.

“I’ll get it!” The redhead rushes towards the door, making sure that her family doesn’t open the door before her. Chloe swings the door open and sees Beca, fiddling with the hem of her collared shirt. The redhead glances behind herself and presses a short kiss on the brunette’s lips, keeping the door open with one foot. Chloe escorts Beca inside her home, the brunette walking in casually as the redhead begins to fidget with her hands, rubbing the sweat on her jeans. 

“Mom, Beca is here!” Chloe yells; her mother immediately exits the kitchen to greet the brunette.

“Hello, Beca it is so nice to see you!”

The two share a quick embrace. “It’s nice to see you too Mrs. Beale.”

“Agh please,” Chloe’s mother waves Beca off dismissively. “Call me Theresa. Anyway, the food is still cooking so you guys can stay in Chloe’s room for now!”

“Sounds good mom.”

Ignoring the temptation of the aroma of roast beef and pastries, the couple begins to walk upstairs, heading for Chloe’s childhood bedroom. Beca smiles at the number of stuffed animals huddled in the corner and the flowery wall-pattern that adds character to the redhead’s room. The brunette sits on Chloe’s recently made bed and frowns at the sight of a panicking redhead.

“Hey, you wanna talk about your pacing around the room?” Beca says, watching her girlfriend pace back and forth in the small room.

“Just, I’m scared of telling them!” Chloe says and the brunette urges her to continue. “Like what if they don’t accept us? Or maybe don’t let us see each other anymore! Or they kick us out!” The redhead begins to hyperventilate, along with her eyes beginning to water. Immediately, Beca stands up and holds Chloe’s hands, pulling the redhead closer.

“I don’t know your family as well as you do but I do know one thing. They love you no matter what Chloe and it always be that way. Okay?” Chloe nods, a smile spreading across her face. “Everything will be fine. And I mean hey, at least I’ll be with you.”

The redhead nods once more and places another kiss on Beca’s lips, this one lasting longer than the last. Their lips break apart when they hear footsteps approaching Chloe’s room and when the two look towards the open door, they let out a sigh of relief from the sight of no one there. 

“Chloe! Beca! Dinner is ready!” The redhead’s older brother screams from below

Beca looks to Chloe as they both let out a deep breath. “Ready Chlo?”

“Definitely.”

The brunette and the redhead walk downstairs towards the dining room, loving the scent of freshly made dinner. Chloe sits next to Beca and once they join the table, the redhead’s family starts grabbing for food - Chloe’s family waits until everyone is joined at the table to start eating. Beca places food onto hers and Chloe’s plate, immediately stuffing her face with Theresa’s famous roast beef.

“How’s the musician life Beca?” Chloe’s father, Michael asks as he pours a cup of iced tea for himself

The brunette swallows her food before answering. “Pretty busy, it’s keeping me productive at least. I mean, I would’ve preferred being a producer but being a musician is pretty cool too.”

“Didn’t you work as a producer beforehand?” The oldest Beale, Robert, questions

“Ah, I quit. The people there were gigantic di- I mean rude people. They just uh, didn’t treat me well so I left.” Chloe lets out a laugh at Beca’s avoidance of using a cuss word, she’s happy that the brunette knows not to swear so often around her family.

“What about you sunshine?” The redhead blushes at her mother’s old nickname for her. She glances towards her mother’s direction and notices Beca teasingly mouthing the word “sunshine” and kicks her under the table. 

Chloe faintly smiles as Beca’s face begins to scrunch up. “N-nothing much actually. Vet school will be starting soon which is exciting. But, uh, yeah nothing really.” The redhead gulps loudly. “B-but Beca here is very productive actually.”

“You okay Chloe? You seem kind of nervous.” The second oldest Beale, Elijah, inquiries, his mouth forming a frown. The redhead begins tapping her fork against her plate repeatedly as she tries to form an answer.

The brunette slips her hand under the table, placing her hand on top of Chloe’s thigh and gently squeezing it - Beca’s way of secretly comforting the redhead other than holding her hand. The redhead glances quickly towards her girlfriend and back to Elijah. Chloe clears her throat as she places her silverware down. 

“Actually I uh, have to tell you guys something.” The family slowly lowers their silverware as they focus on the youngest Beale. “So uh...” The redhead slips her hand under the table as well, lacing her fingers with Beca; Chloe begins to relax. “Me and Beca are dating. And we have been since her DJ Khaled opening performance...”

She slowly raises their interlocked hands up, awkwardly smiling and blushing. Chloe squints her eyes, preparing for screaming and anger... yet, she’s met with a few chuckles. Her eyes slowly open and she sees her family, grinning cheek to cheek. 

“Oh Chloe... we always kind of suspected that the two of you were dating.” Chloe’s father says, chuckling at the end of the sentence

“Yeah, I thought you two were dating since like you met her from the way you spoke about Beca.” The brunette’s ears flush red at Robert’s comment, fighting back an amused smile

“Same here sweetie. But just know we love okay? And are fully supportive of this relationship.” 

Chloe’s eyes begin to tear up, feeling emotional from her family’s acceptance of her. The redhead turns to the brunette and plants a quick kiss on her lips, both of their eyes rolling when they hear Elijah fake gag. They pull away and continue eating, small smiles on everyone’s faces.

“Also I kind of saw you two kissing upstairs in the bedroom and told everyone,” Robert adds, quickly standing up from the table with his plate

Beca and Chloe shoot their heads towards the oldest Beale who is making his escape. 

“If you could excuse us for a second mom, dad.” 

The redhead and the brunette stand from their own chairs and begin chasing Robert around the house. 

“Get back here you idiot!” 

Chloe couldn’t have asked for a better family and a better girlfriend. 

-

Hello! Thanks for reading this whole thing lol. Anyway, school for me is starting up again and this may be my last writing piece for a couple of days or weeks. I may not have time to create ideas for future stories so if you want, please request me any prompts that you would like to see me write! I will try my best to get to them during my free time. Thank you!

[living-dead-parker]

Theatrical Chaos - P.P

Summary: Requested by @justanothermarvelfanaccount   -  First off, your stories are incredible and I absolutely LOVE reading them. Also, if you have the time, could you possibly write a peter parker x reader where reader works at a movie theatre and can get them into free movies before they come out? Maybe peter and the rest of the science squad can wreak havoc in the theatre and tony has to bail them out. Thank you!!

Hope y’all enjoy the science squad once more!! I also took some liberties from the original request, but tried to follow it as much as possible!! 

Warnings: cussing, spoilers for Halloween (2018) but that came out over three months ago so it should be acceptable at this point to speak about it

Word Count: 1.8k

Gif is not mine!

Getting a job was not really something you wanted to do. But, you gotta make money somehow. Sure, Tony likes you enough to just give it to you if you ask, but you don't like buying into his rich man capitalistic ways. That and you have too much pride, despite having asked him for hundreds of dollars. So, you got a job at a movie theater. Gross. The only benefit is the family discount and you get to watch movies for free. So, when you lean against the warm popcorn machine -curse the owner for these extremely cold conditions!- and you notice the familiar faces of your five bestest friends in the world coming into the theater, your frown turns into an upside down frown.

"Y/N! We're gonna watch the Halloween movie!" Shuri says.

"You mean the best comedy of 2018? Bc damn!" Harley says excitedly.

"Oh, must be fun, fuckers. While 'lil 'ol me is stuck working. How rude!" you add as you move over to the counter. The theater you worked at was one of the cheaper ones that show movies that left the bigger theaters months ago. Just last week you found out you'd be getting Bohemian Rhapsody in five months!

"Can we get some popped corn and some carbonated water with high fructose corn syrup?" Michelle asks, speaking in her deeper voice. A running gag among the group to throw off people at retail stores. Totally unnecessary, but totally worth it. Except not when it's being done to you.

"Yeah, can you throw in some of the circular colored chocolate sweets with the 'm' on them? And a red iced drink with cherry flavored syrup for taste?" Ned asks.

"Just say popcorn, Coke, M&M's, and Cherry Slushie for fuck's sake!" you groan as you begin working on their order.

"Yeah, can you throw in the tortilla chips with the classic cow byproduct classified as Nacho with a green pepper garnish on top? And a tea, preferably one of the iced varieties, raspberry to be exact," Shuri adds. You roll your eyes as you continue working on the order. Harley and Peter were the only ones to order using proper language and totally not fucking with you by telling you they meant something completely different than what you heard -which they did not!

After twenty minutes, their order was complete and you were sending them on their way to enjoy the movie. You still have another hour and a half until you were off, so they'd be done by the time you're off. You watch as they walk away, Shuri hitting Harley on the back of his head, causing the rest of the group to laugh.

You were manning the concession stand for a few minutes before being told to do your final theater inspection. This just meant going into every showroom and staying for five minutes to make sure everything was fine. So you begin, going from showroom one all the way to showroom ten. Upon reaching showroom ten, you see Peter, Ned, Michelle, Shuri, and Harley sitting in the dead center. There were only four other people in the room with them; a couple in the very back -most likely doing something they shouldn't be because they looked very guilty- and another couple in the front who look angry at each other.

"Okay, but why can't he just let her take a shit in peace?" Shuri asks loudly. The couples didn't seem to mind the comments being hurled by the teens, and in fact seemed to find them extremely funny.

"Hey," Peter begins, speaking in a mimicking type of voice as it cuts to Michael banging the restroom stall in the movie.

"Occupado!" Harley cuts in with a fake high-pitched voice as the camera pans to the Dana in the restroom, looking around cautiously and screaming.

"Sorry," Peter says through a muffled laugh as Michael begins to kill Dana.

"Let's have some fun, this beat is sick!" Michelle sings as Michael begins to smash Dana's head against the restroom stall door.

"I wanna take a ride on your disco stick!" Harley sings along. Harley seemed to be the one cracking up the most, laughing at everything, making the most comments, screaming from laughter at random times.

It came as a surprise to you but nobody was telling Harley or the others in the group to shut up. Maybe it was mostly due to the fact that the movie came out a few months ago, so for sure these people have seen it already one way or another, or just did not care enough about it to get upset. Plus, the couple way at the back seemed to just need some privacy to get to doing their business. You're supposed to report that kind of stuff when you see it, but you decided to turn a blind eye because they were being quiet and there was no one in their row. They weren't bugging anyone.

As the movie goes on, Harley and Peter seem to be making the most comments, laughing the most at everything. Michelle and Shuri stopped paying too much attention after a while, which you found funny. Ned would just laugh, but he seemed sort of into the movie. The kind where you don't care but you're being forced to watch it so you might as well just watch it.

"Hey fucker," Harley begins as the scene where the prison bus is flipped over and the small kid is exploring what happened after his dad had been missing for a few minutes now. "If an old man in a bus that just flipped over tells you to run, you fucking run!"

The kid did not run. No matter how much Harley screamed, he did not run. In fact, he died. He's gone. Michelle and Shuri boo at the fact that he didn't run. Peter just giggles as the scene transitions and the movie continues. Over the course of the movie, Peter and Ned hold hands and make jokes to each other. You can hear Peter -loud and clear, you might add- tell Ned that he can beat his meat with a knife any day. When Peter catches your playful glare, he blows a kiss your way. You pretend to catch it and then throw it on the ground before stomping on it. Peter playfully glares at you to which you pretend to ignore.

You should've left long ago, but then the movie reaches a pivotal moment. Michael discovers Allyson and he begins to chase after her. Suddenly, a revamped version of Michael's theme song begins to play and Michelle goes on about how the song is a 'certified bop' and how it deserves all the Grammy's. Harley stands up -literally stands up! Nobody stops him either- and begins to Milly Rock to the beat of the song. Shuri and Michelle stand up as well and join in on the dancing, doing all sorts of dumb dances.

Ultimately the movie nears its end, and when you check the time, you see that you have 20 minutes left until it's time to clock out. With that thought in mind, you decide to leave the room and head back to the concession stand to finish cleaning your station, help some customers, and eventually clock out. Ten minutes go by in a flash and the group of teens are rounding the corner and into your line of vision. You hand a bucket of popcorn to some random teenager who wouldn't stop trying to flirt with you.

"Hey, maybe I can come back later and we can catch a movie together?" the kid asks. You roll your eyes and grab the small nozzle that you use to spray butter into the popcorn.

"Beat it or I'll cover you in butter and tell the girl that you came with what you said," you tell him as you aim the nozzle to the little jerk. He mutters something about you being a bitch before leaving. As if you didn't already know you were a mega bitch.

The teens watch it all unfold and Peter can't help but want to punch the kid. He does refrain but the immense need to do it fills his mind. Maybe later, when the punk comes back. They all approach you as you begin to clean up once more.

"How may I help you today?" you ask as you give them all your fake smile. Harley pushes past everyone and looks at the menu, making you roll your eyes.

"Yeah, I'll take three buckets of popcorn, and one thicc bih," Harley says before winking at you.

"The only thicc bih here is Peter," Michelle comments. Shuri and Ned nod as Peter turns in a circle to show off the junk in his trunk. He really does have a bubble butt.

"Thank, I grew it myself," Peter says proudly as he winks at you.

"Mr. Thiccums getting too confident. I'll be off in five, let me just clock out and get changed," you say to the group of teens. They nod and move over to the mini arcade area as you begin clocking out of your register. With a quickness like never before, you head to the employee restrooms and quickly change back into your street clothes. When you head back out to the main lobby, you see people crowding the arcade area.

Worried -since your friends were there last- you head over to the arcade area and your face flushes at the sight in front of you. Tony Stark -genius billionaire playboy philanthropist- was attempting to pull Harley's arm out of the claw machine.

"Harley, I need you to let go of the stupid-" a violent groan escapes Tony's lips, followed by a yelp, "-stuffed animal! I can always buy you one!"

"Fine!" Harley screams and within a few seconds, his arms is coming out of the claw machine, red marks all over his arm. Your brows furrow in confusion. How did this all happen so fast? You were only in the back for about 15 minutes. From the corner, you notice Shuri, Michelle, and Ned laughing as they record. Soon, Harley is charging at them, screaming about how he'll punch them for laughing at him. Peter holds Harley -and some chuckles, admittedly- back. Harley screams for Peter to let him go.

In a bold move, you step into the arcade room and push past everyone. You're still on the premise, so you gotta do something about it. You sigh and clear your throat before yelling at the group of yours.

"Hey, fuckers," you say loudly to get their attention. They all turn and pull away from each other. You even notice Tony flinch a little. Ned may be the mother bear in the group, but you were the mother bitch. Nothing got through you. "Stop with your fighting and screaming now or I'll give you a reason to scream!"

The group goes quiet as they nod. You turn around and begin the walk out of the theater, Tony and the others in tow. Surely, this would make the news much later.

Please leave some feedback or requests! Also plz send in asks or come talk to me!!

[raendown]

Part 1 of a commission for @white-crow-haruno

Pairing: KakashiYamato Word count: 2536 Rated: E Summary: Just a bit of fun between two good friends. No strings attached and no commitments. Kakashi wouldn't have things any other way.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Wood and Wine (Crack It Open)

“You brought wine?” Kakashi lifted his one visible eyebrow at the bottom in his guest’s hand. Then he snorted when Tenzou pulled it closer to hold against his chest like a protective mother.

“Well I didn’t want to show up empty handed, that’s bad manners.”

“This isn’t a date, kohai.” Still, Kakashi opened the door a little wider to let him in.

Setting his bottle on a nearby table so he could slip off his sandals, Tenzou rolled his eyes. “I know that, thanks. As if I would ever date you. Can you imagine what sort of disaster that would be? No thank you.”

Kakashi snagged the wine and headed over to the kitchen. It wasn’t worth the effort to even pretend to be offended. They had both agreed to having no strings attached when they started this arrangement and so far neither one of them had found any reason to deviate from that. Good friends they might be but Tenzou was right; they would tear each other to pieces if they ever tried to date. Kakashi was at least man enough to admit that it was in large part thanks to him since he had absolutely no interest in dating anyone at all. Fucking was good enough for him.

If he wanted companionship, well, that’s what friends were for and with Gai and Tenzou on the roster he had all the friends his antisocial tendencies could handle.

“Did you want to drink this first or something?” he asked, fridge door open and one hand still on the wine in case he needed to pull it out again. Tenzou waved him off.

“No, that’s just for you. I’m trying to watch what I put in my body.”

“Shame, I was planning on fucking you from behind.” Kakashi snickered at his own joke.

“Classy. Real classy.”

Shutting the wine away for now, Kakashi waved his guest in. “Come on then. I sure you know your way to my bedroom by now. Well, you should. I don’t always blindfold you.”

Walking ahead of him, Tenzou stripped out of his shirt when they were only halfway down the hall. Kakashi approved since it gave him an excuse to ogle all those well-crafted muscles even if he usually preferred to do the undressing himself. It was just hotter when he got to unwrap his own presents.

Belt dropped on the floor and trousers already undone, Tenzou fell back on the mattress as soon as they walked in to the room, arching his back in a languid stretch that showed off his abs quite nicely. Without further ado Kakashi knelt over him and dragged his tongue along those delicious lines. If Tenzou was going to put them on display then of course Kakashi was going to take what was on offer. They had done this enough times to know exactly how to press each other’s buttons.

“Ugh, don’t tell me you’re in the mood to tease,” his friend grumbled. Kakashi smirked and dragged his teeth along the man’s oblique.

“And what if I am? Maybe I feel like tying you down and taking my time. Tease you until you can’t take it anymore and beg me to fuck you so hard you walk funny for a week.”

Shoving his head away with a snort, Tenzou lifted his hips to reach for the pouch tied to the back of his waist. “Maybe you feel like that but I don’t so get on with it and fuck me. If you try to make me beg I swear I will leave and you can fuck your own hand.”

“Ooh, sassy. You know I like that too.” Kakashi took the lube when it was passed over, a new brand he’d never seen before but instantly took a liking to as soon as he popped off the cap and got a whiff. “Mm cherries!”

Pretending not to see the way Tenzou rolled his eyes again, he tossed the bottle off to the side for now and leaned down to wriggle his fingers under the hem of those trousers that were still in his way. If he wasn’t allowed to pleasure of stripping his partner out of his shirt then at least there were still miles and miles of tanned legs to reveal slowly like a mid-July Christmas gift. And in the wake of his fingers Kakashi eagerly trailed kisses along every bit of skin revealed until he had Tenzou panting before they’d even truly begun.

Tossing the other man’s last bit of clothing aside, Kakashi gave brief consideration to removing his own. Naked sex was a treat he didn’t indulge in with many people but he could trust Tenzou. After a few seconds he decided against it only because to get naked himself he would need to stop and pull away – only for a minute or so but now that he had Tenzou naked and spread out like a feast before him he realized he was wildly impatient. Not for lack of trying, he hadn’t had sex even once the entire time his friend was away on that last mission and he was very ready for this dry spell to end.

“I thought I just said no teas- ah!” Tenzou’s reprimand cut off when Kakashi sank his teeth in to the man’s thigh, his tongue following after to sooth what he had hurt.

“Now, now. Just because I’m grabbing a quick bite to eat doesn’t mean I can’t savor my meal.”

“You know it’s gross when you compare me to food?” In direct contrast to his words, Tenzou leaned back and crossed his arms above his head, stretching himself out like a buffet.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” Kakashi told him.

He could catch a hint, however, so he set aside his plans of lifting up those long legs and opening Tenzou slowly with his tongue. That could wait for another day when they both had a bit more patience. For now he reached for the lube again and squeezed a generous amount on to his fingers, grinning when the other man obligingly spread his legs without needing to be asked. He did so love an eager partner who knew what they were doing.

Both of them enjoyed the slick friction of his first finger sliding inside, tight but not too tight, not even close to the limits they had reached together before. Kakashi twisted and pumped his middle finger only a handful of times before pausing to slide in another. When Tenzou grunted he licked his own lips with anticipation.

“You did say not to waste time,” he said.

“I did,” Tenzou agreed. “So stop wasting time. You know I can take more.”

“Mm, that you can.” He gave no more warning than that before shifting his angle to prod that sweet spot deep inside, the one that always made Tenzou howl with pleasure when he hit it just right.

Like right now, he noted, watching the man’s head fall back to cry out a garbled string of curse words, all the muscles in his body tensing under the onslaught of unexpected pleasure before relaxing entirely to invite more. Kakashi took that invitation quite happily. Using one hand to push those beautifully muscled thighs just a little further apart, his slid his fingers in as deep as he could and then pulled away just far enough to add a third.

This part he refused to rush, though only because he didn’t want to hurt his friend. As much as Tenzou liked to brag that he could take it Kakashi was all too familiar with how badly it tended to ruin the mood when one partner failed to prep the other enough. Pain was for masochists and missions. He still enjoyed himself though; it wasn’t exactly a chore to watch Tenzou writhe on his fingers and moan like a shameless night worker, both hands fisted against the headboard and pulling on it until the wood creaked in protest. When a sharp crack ripped through the air Kakashi took that as his cue to finally stop.

Grabbing the lube one more time, he used his other hand to free his length and doled out enough cherry scented gel to cover it generously. A whimsical smile touched his face at the thought of having Tenzou lick it all back off like a frozen ice treat but instead he shuffled forward to toss both tanned legs over his shoulders.

Pushing inside that tight heat felt about as close to nirvana as he thought he would ever experience. All the times he’d called this man a tight ass when they were younger, he couldn’t have known back then how right he was. The grip around his cock was insane, filthy and perfect, one of the best fuck’s he’d ever had. If Kakashi had even a slightly better grip on his own emotions then maybe the two of them might actually work as a couple but what they had here was fine too. Two friends who could find each other whenever they needed to work out a little tension, that was really all either of them were willing to put up with.

“Shit, did you grow another inch since last time?” Tenzou panted, fists tightening around the headboard again and stroking Kakashi’s ego at the same time. He always had been good at multitasking.

“Nah, just a better angle.” Rolling his hips for emphasis, Kakashi winked. “Let’s see if you can ride me as good as last time.”

Tenzou grunted and rolled his eyes back but it didn’t stop him from giving as good as he got. Crossing his feet behind Kakashi’s shoulder, shifting to hold his weight high on his own upper back, he used what bit of leverage he could find to push back in to every thrust and snap his own hips down each time Kakashi slid back in to him. The difference was incredible and it left the two of them cursing under their breath with pleasure before long.

After that it was like a race, both of them desperately chasing their own end yet at the same time trying to get the other to come first. Tenzou clenched down around the shaft fucking him each time they separated and Kakashi did his best to keep that perfect angle to aim for his friend’s prostate on every thrust. With double handfuls of tanned ass he pulled their bodies together almost violently and let his eyes roam along the planes of the gorgeous body riding his cock. Was there any sight better than a willing body enjoying the pleasures he had to give?

In the end Tenzou came first but he pulled Kakashi along behind him only a few seconds later, both of them gritting their teeth to muffle their ecstasy out of sheer habit. Shinobi were meant to be quiet in all things, after all.

When they had both had a few moments to get their breath back Kakashi tilted his head to contemplate a job well done. Lax muscles and flush cheeks, belly painted with strings of his own cum, Tenzou certainly looked like a satisfied customer. His eyes were half-lidded and glazed as he stared up at the ceiling with a slightly goofy expression, giving Kakashi a very strong urge to ruin the perfect picture he made. Only with a great amount of self-control did he manage to resist leaning over to poke his friend in the ribs.

Instead he gave a light warning swat to the ass still clenching around him before pulling away to reach for the tissues on his nightstand. Their position at the very end of the mattress made it a bit of an awkward stretch but he snagged the box with one finger and latched on with a bit of chakra. After pulling out a couple for himself he tossed the box down on Tenzou’s chest.

“Damn,” he mumbled. “It is always a pleasure, I must say. And I really needed that. Tried to pick up a couple weeks ago between C-ranks but the woman I spent two hours chatting with turned out to have a boyfriend.”

“Have you ever considered that you might actually be a sex addict?” Tenzou asked him, only half serious.

“Considered the idea. Discarded it. I’ve gone ages without when I’m actually out on duty and not gone in to anything like withdrawal. I just really like sex when I’m home and there’s nothing else to do.” Kakashi shrugged and shuffled off the bed to stuff himself back in to his pants.

He watched as Tenzou sat up and lifted his arms for a lazy stretch. “I mean, that’s fair. Can’t say I’m any different; if there’s something on offer then I’m not going to say no.”

“Exactly. Now, are you gonna stay and help me drink that wine or do you have something else to do tonight?”

“Might as well; gonna be a while before I trust my legs to get me back across town anyway.” His friend shrugged and reached for his pants.

Kakashi turned for the door, already mentally rooting through the kitchen to remember where he left his corkscrew, then he paused to turn back with a smirk. “I thought you said you were trying to watch what you put in your body?”

“And I thought you were going to fuck me from behind,” Tenzou shot back.

“Yeah that’s fair. So, wine? Maybe some pretzels? That’s really all the food I have in the house so it’s that or chewing on your fingernails.” He laughed at the wrinkle of Tenzou’s nose before ducking out of the room and actually heading for the kitchen this time.

Since it was just the two of them here he didn’t bother to pull his mask back on, glad for the chance to breathe freely in the company of one of his few trusted people. He wondered sometimes what the big deal was about relationships. There wasn’t anything he needed that he didn’t already have, nothing he could find in a relationship that he couldn’t already get. If he wanted great sex there was always Tenzou – and other willing bodies, they were hardly exclusive – and if he wanted companionship then the two of them could hang out for a while before his friend went home, though Gai usually covered the companionship part with his ridiculous daily challenges.

The only difference he could see was that he didn’t have anyone to help with chores and he always fell asleep alone but since he didn’t mind cleaning his own mess and he hated sleeping next to other bodies that actually worked out pretty well. No matter what any busybody acquaintance thought, Kakashi was perfectly happy with his current situation.

Footsteps from behind told him Tenzou must have gotten dressed at light speed. Without turning around he pointed at a random drawer and said, “Look through that, would you? I can’t remember where I left my corkscrew.”

As Tenzou moved to do so, Kakashi smiled to himself. Good sex and great company that he got to kick out later when he’d had enough of being social, what more could a guy ask for out of a lazy weekend?

[feixing02]

📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂📂

((……so I was gonna do 250 of em because that’s how many emojis there are but I realized when i transfer from docs it doesn’t number everything. Also I’m tired of this sitting here. Soooo have like 175 lol

She’s got a handful of human teeth she kept that were gifts from crows.

Falls asleep on the RED base couch sometimes b/c she just wants to rest her eyes.

Never sleeps on the BLU base couch. Wilhelm is in the building.

Keeps a jar of sourdough starter.

The starter has been named Charles.

If all the flour gets used and she can’t feed it she will get antsy.

Doesn’t understand why people love their parents when the parents are shitty to them.

Says she doesn’t like coffee.

Doesn’t like coffee unless it’s mostly milk and sugar.

Secretly admires the Spies knife flippy skills.

Will do the ‘definitely not watching’ side eye if knives are being flippied in the vicinity.

Makes up hoverboard tricks on her spare time occasionally.

Does it in a closed room so her board doesn’t go flying away.

Makes lots of banging sounds against the wall as it slips from her feet.

Very good at peeling potatoes, cutting fruit, chopping veggies…

Was never taught to cook anything complicated.

Well versed in cooking basics, through.

Can draw faces pretty well.

Wants to take life drawing lessons.

Wants to see a musical on Broadway.

Is constantly uncomfortable if her hands feel dirty.

Keeps a lighter and cigarettes in her pockets.

Doesn’t smoke.

They’re for a certain disembodied head.

Or on the off chance someone asks for one.

Not very familiar with types of alcohol.

Doesn’t have much alcohol because she doesn’t like the sting.

Favourite fruit is apples, though she’s picky with them.

Red delicious is the favourite type of apple.

Do not give her a granny smith she will not eat it.

Really likes marbles as an aesthetic.

Owns a denim dress that goes down to her calves.

The dress is shaped kinda like a bag.

Fashionistas everywhere are horrified.

Really likes saltwater taffy.

Dislikes getting stuff stuck in her teeth.

Just suck on the taffy instead of biting it.

Bite ice cream and popsicles instead.

Has made kick the can ice cream on base.

If she gets a nosebleed while they’re not working she’ll just let it drip into a garbage can/sink until it stops.

Dislikes licorice.

Writes letters to James still when something troubles her.

Doesn’t send them.

Used to gross smoke smell.

Thinks glasses are cute.

Gives herself pretty janky haircuts.

Sometimes will remember stuff that makes her happy and just start giggling.

Doesn’t do it when around people much, since it looks a little crazy if you can’t see her thoughts.

Still gets uncomfortable watching people kiss in movies.

Or in real life, tbh.

Pain tolerance is pretty crap compared to the mercenaries.

Gets better as she spends more time in the gravel war.

Likes small spaces.

There’s a cupboard on BLU’s side that’s just big enough not to be uncomfortable she hangs out in.

It’s secret.

Will go there when she doesn’t want to be approached by anyone.

Mostly aimed at Wilhelm tbh.

The kind of person to take napkins from restaurants.

Lives in the middle of nowhere after the war.

Close enough to get groceries in a tiny town but no one knows her.

Continues to write letters to people on the teams.

Actually sends most of them now.

Lives with two cats.

Never finds out what happened to James.

((James dies from lung cancer and is in a p awful state because of his OCD.

Showers really late at night on base.

Takes her paintball gun and a towel to partially cover up.

Anybody try to sneak in and she will scream.

Tries to get Jean to stop chain smoking by offering candy.

Gets briefly addicted to the candy.

Goes traveling for a while after gravel war ends.

Knows a bit of Mandarin.

Doesn’t eat apples by just chomping down on one.

Will always chop them into slices first.

Dislikes oranges.

Makes loaves of bread to add to their supplies sometimes.

Makes cookies and different pastries often once she realizes she has tons of people to eat them now.

Don’t have to worry about making too much.

Likes the routine of baking.

Terrible at lying.

Bad about making breakfast.

Is too lazy to do much in the morning.

Would rather spend the energy on work.

Dislikes tea.

Unless it’s mostly sugar.

Wears a scarf and beanie when it’s cold.

Likes the comfort of really heavy blankets.

Will be really uncomfortable if blankets are too light as she’s trying to sleep.

Drinks a full glass of water as part of her morning routine.

Doesn’t know how to shuffle cards.

Doesn’t know how to play poker.

Developed a habit of keeping her back to the wall.

It’s pretty unconsciously enforced at this point.

Good at folding clothes.

Good at cleaning in general.

Dislikes cleaning in general.

Bad at improvising.

Gets anxious when forced to improvise.

Doesn’t know how to drive a car.

Wouldn’t be a good driver if she ever learned.

Didn’t see the stars until she was out in New Mexico.

Too much light pollution in the cities.

Spiders look cool to her but she’s still got some level of arachnophobia.

Likes how suits look on guys.

Has a habit of ordering lots of food and just slowly chipping away at it.

Would probably not eat enough if she weren’t doing exhausting work every day.

Likes honey on toast.

Cautious of all animals.

Loud chewing is especially gross to her.

If you stick gum anywhere other than the garbage she will silently judge you.

She’s had to clean too much of that for it not to give her flashbacks.

Shortest among the teams.

Reads those really cheap romance novels.

Prefers crunchy to soft food.

NO MAYONNAISE.

Favourite books are “Daddy Long-Legs” by Jean Webster and “The Adventures of Perrine (En Famille)” by Hector Malot Adapted by Edith Heal.

Goes out flying at night sometimes so that she can do it without the risk of being shot.

Keeps cassette tapes.

Knows how to make lao puo bing (sweetheart cake).

Has issues writing things that are interesting to read.

She can do formal and functional but expressing feelings is hard.

Rarely wears dresses, likes them but they’re not as convenient.

Thinks marriage could be nice but isn’t super hung up about it.

Makes lists to organize things she has to do.

Forgets stuff easily if they don’t have to do with other people.

Sings in the shower.

Is a bit of a crybaby but mostly in private.

She makes a point to run the fuck away or suppress that shit in front of peeps.

Modern AU (kid version)

Loves Hamilton.

Probably said to Dr. Humboldt at one point, “I have the honour to be your obedient servant.”

Likes her job as a receptionist.

Continues to take transit for like over an hour to work there even as her residence changes.

Her penny board is red with white trucks and blue wheels.

Pretty into battle tetris.

Isn’t great at it but plays a lot on the school computers when she can.

Favourite candy is Hi-Chew.

Never been to a sleepover.

Hasn’t ridden a bike.

But could probably figure it out in like ten minutes.

Buy her a frappuccino it’s her favourite.

Will sit outside clothing shops and sketch what’s in the display.

Knows how to make paper stars.

Wants to learn piano.

Has a lot of celebrity crushes on comedians.

Pretty clueless about current events.

Knows the public transit system super well.

Deity AU

Likes splashing around in water.

Especially with her wings out.

Will take opportunities to land on Diva’s head in pigeon form.

Sitting on people’s head as a birb is funny to her.

Mortals don’t understand what her birbs are saying unless she wants them to.

It just sounds like normal bird sounds.

Cue pigeon following her friends around and reciting the Bee movie.

Has a hoard of pretty marbles.

Shapes them when she’s bored.

Gives marbles as gifts sometimes, just as like a pretty thing.

Writes things and pins them up in her trees.

Sometimes poems she’s seen and likes.

Steals glass bits from mortals to hang up in her tree.

There’s some wind chimes up there too over the years.

She likes the sound.

Will sometimes talk to stray cats about her troubles that she’s too nervous to talk to Diva about.

Tells him about James this way.

Sometimes checks in on Ludwig secretly through gift eyes when she misses him but doesn’t want to approach for whatever reason.

Feels bad about it because it feels like spying.

Has a pile of gifts she made but hasn’t given yet.

Actually is pretty rich off of her job.

Even if she’s not paid much, Penna barely ever spends the drachmas on anything.

Wears backless sweaters in the modern age.

Gets a bit of a ‘hoard shiny things’ compulsion as time goes on.

Sometimes pretends to be an injured bird so humans will pick her up.

Meets James in 1840s.

Doesn’t tell him she’s a god.

Eventually kills him with Diva.

Touches her torc as a nervous reaction to be reassured that Divitiae was there for her.

[of-rats-and-asters]

No.6: FBI agent AU

"He was just one more agent made to spy on some nerdy students to protect the world against those dangerous, murderous terrorists wanting to overthrow the government. The thought made him grin even more. If only they knew. "

In which Nezumi really doesn't give a shit about rules or morality. He does care about Shion though.

Nezumi was turning the spoon inside his coffee mug. Not that he needed to. He always drank his coffee black, without sugar. He didn’t even like the taste, really. He just despised sugared coffee even more. However he loved the music the spoon made against the sides of the mug. It was a sound that reverberated through him, a life-long memory that he didn’t even remember where it came from. And it didn’t matter. He just enjoyed the damn noise of the spoon hitting against the earthenware of his mug.  The coffee was mostly there to avoid social interactions though. The others at the office would come at some point in the night and cheerfully offer him “Hey Nezumi, would you come share a cup with us? We’re at the machine” and he would flash them a smile, you know, one of those polite-borderline-sexy smiles and raise his own steaming mug of bitter beverage and go “Thanks guys I have everything I need right now.” And that would be good. They would let him for a few more hours. He would also look more like a normal person. He supposed it was more normal to keep awoken in the whole night at work thanks to coffee. Nezumi wasn’t really normal, he supposed. He preferred working at night. He actually moved around the night the way his fellows gesticulated in the day. He was just like the rodent he was named after, in the end. Therefore, it was only midnight and he was perfectly alert.  A sudden sound broke his daydreaming.

“Hey Shion are you around?” A girl appeared on his screen, all deformed because webcams were like that, they distorted reality, and made people look ugly. Nezumi always laughed when he saw all those posts on social Medias about “NSA agents spying people’s computer”. If the guys only knew what he was bound to see every night... The girl leaned forward, scrutinizing her own computer screen before sighing. The “Shion” she was likely referring to wasn’t there yet, apparently. Safu shook her head before taking something next to the computer – Nezumi couldn’t see what. There were limits to his power after all. Then he heard some tapping on her keyboard. She was fast, gosh. Hey girl no need to rush like that. He though. And he stayed motionless for a few more minutes, observing this stranger tapping furiously like her life depended of it.

“WHAT THE FUCK NEZUMI!!” Woops. Nezumi quickly composed himself and tried to wear a neat, confident smile as he turned around his chair. “Hello, Inukashi.” His colleague was already glaring at him, there was no need to keep pretending anymore. Nezumi’s smile disappeared just as quickly as he had summoned it. “Get the hell out of my monitor, rat.” Nezumi smirked. Nezumi wasn’t his real name of course. Like everyone here, he was bearing a code name and no one here knew what his real name was. He was just one more agent made to spy on some nerdy students to protect the world against those dangerous, murderous terrorists wanting to overthrow the government. The thought made him grin even more. If only they knew. But right now, his biggest concern was the colleague standing – if this was the word: they were so small that Nezumi was almost looking up at them from his chair – in front of him, looking very furious, and very ready to punch him. “This. Is. My. Seat.” Nezumi had to repress a chuckle – that would most likely have signed his right for a slap on the face and he didn’t want to bother with this right now.

“It is, indeed, your seat…” he said swiftly, as he got up and gestured toward it. “Properly kept warm during your absence… But what were you doing anyway?” He winked at the other. He knew where Inukashi had gone, and it wasn’t like the other one was going to admit it. Rushing off work because he saw a stray dog on the street wasn’t exactly allowed, and they both knew it. Inukashi eyed suspiciously at him as he slowly sat on the chair, before waving Nezumi away. “I don’t even want to know what the fuck you were doing.”

Nezumi couldn’t hope for a better way to end the conversation, as he took his mug and returned to his seat, and his currently black screen – he didn’t have to check on it, he knew it wasn’t time yet. Sipping some of the now-lukewarm coffee, he observed carefully as Inukashi was grumbling, changing the set up on his monitor, and eventually going back to work. Then Nezumi turned back to his own business. He was supposed to put on a surveillance on certain individuals tonight. Most of them were asleep already though. He didn’t even bother checking their webcams or internet browsers, they were long gone; One of them, Nezumi had laughed at the sight a couple hours ago, had gone through his risible routine for the night: looking for illegal porn on some creepy website, completely unaware that all his actions were perfectly recorded by the FBI, all neatly stashed in a folder with his ID number on it; After some proper masturbation the guy had immediately gotten to erase his historic – without even going to wash his hands or something first. Gross. It always made Nezumi laugh, how stupid they could be. Those people with their internet historic, like if it would change anything really. This guy, with his dirty pants and his fast breathing, he wasn’t aware he was cautiously watched upon. And not only by the FBI, because really, in the end did it really matter? It wasn’t like the FBI gave a second thought on this creep’s porn preferences. No, the real threat, here was a very specific malware installed on his computer. Nezumi had noticed it the very moment he had checked on the monitor, and he really regretted he would never see the day where the guy would notice it too. Nezumi knew very well what this malware did. After all, he had been the one creating it. That’s what he did, sometimes during his free time. Creating ransomwares and selling them to some low-key criminals. It was easy cash, and always a nice little add-up for his big project. And it was so easy to erase his tracks.

Nezumi was cut from his thoughts by Inukashi calling out to him.

“Hey guys we have a bloke there, he’s drunk and all. I think he passed out.” Nezumi got up, walked towards Inukashi and leaned on the other’s screen. He noticed that, indeed, a man had passed out, looking completely wasted, on their computer keyboard.

“Well. Why would we care?” Like, seriously, what happened all across the country wasn’t their problem.

“We can’t let a guy die like this?!”

Nezumi threw one more look at the disgusting well-in-his-forties man on the screen. What a waste of flesh, seriously. He wanted to puke. A quick glance at the images currently running on his monitor showed some clearly-illegal underage porn. Disgusting indeed.

“Hey cool down, man, we’re the fucking FBI, not an emergency center.”

Inukashi gave him that look. That kind of judgemental stare and Nezumi rolled his eyes.

“Listen, kiddo –”

“Stop calling me that!” Inukashi could growl at him all they wanted, Nezumi was fully aware the brat was all bark and no teeth. He gave them a knowing look. “Maybe you tricked the FBI into believing you were 18 – maybe – but you won’t trick me.” And before the angry teen could keep on he added “What’s the guy’s name?” He quickly searched on the screen for the surveillance file. “Ahhhh…. Rikiga. I should have known better. You know why we look after him?” Inukashi shook his head weakly. They had gotten very pale all of a sudden. So pale Nezumi wondered how in the living hell they had hoped to keep their age a secret. And what this kid had so special that the FBI would actually hire them. Anyway. “He pimped children. See?” Nezumi took a careful step aside, both wanting to allow Inukashi a better view on the screen, and also wanting to get out of the way in case the younger vomited – which, according to their heavy gulping, could happen any time. Inukashi suddenly fled towards the toilets. Bingo.

Nezumi shrugged before sitting back in front of his own computer. Right in time, it seemed. The familiar silhouette appeared. Brown hair that he knew perfectly, by now, and a chestnut gaze that was deeply rooted in his memory. Even deeper than the song of spoons against mugs. Nezumi put on his headset. Shion was there, fumbling with his keyboard, in a rushed way that suggested his excitement. “Safu!! You there?” He called. Nezumi gave a quick check and noticed that Safu was indeed online. If Inukashi hadn’t set their monitor on some drunkard’s, he would have heard a voice in echo “Yeah I’m there. I have been waiting for so long, what were you doing?”

Shion’s face lit and he started babbling right away. Nezumi was considering tuning him off when something caught his attention. “I made a discovery. Like. An earth-shaking discovery, Safu!” Shion, true to himself, could barely hold still on his chair as he showed papers to the camera. Nezumi squinted. He had an idea what those papers told and if he was right…. “Safu, you remember this fire, fifteen years ago. The one which killed so many people in the forest. I made researches on it.” Oh No. Please tell me you didn’t. “Turns out it wasn’t what we thought it was.” No. “It wasn’t an accident, Safu.” Nezumi snapped. He didn’t have much time. Throwing himself at his computer, he furiously tapped at his keyboard. In a matter of minutes, everything would be set. On the corner of his eyes he noticed Inukashi getting out of the toilets, hand on their mouth and looking a little less white. Not the good time. Think. Think. THINK. Nezumi turned and unplugged all the phones around him. Hoping it would make him gain a few precious seconds. On his computer, he noticed Shion look of puzzlement… “What… Wait a minute, Safu… something just happened, I think my computer is glitched or something.” Shion’s computer wasn’t glitched. Nezumi knew perfectly well what was happening; at this very moment a tiny grey mouse with silver eyes had appeared on Shion’s screen. All connections were lost as the mouse would speak. “Don’t say a word. You need to get out of here. Now.” Nezumi spoke quickly to his mic, not even taking the time to check on Shion’s reaction. He imagined it well enough, after the amount of time spent watching over him. The widened eyes, the flushed cheeks and sharp inhale as he recognized the voice he hadn’t heard in so many years.

“What the fuck are you doing, Nezumi?” Nezumi threw a nasty glare at Inukashi. They had the decency to shut up as Nezumi was fumbling around. “Shion. Listen to me. Down your street, near the coffee shop. There’s a manhole. You go there. Right. Now.” Shion’s answer threw his headphones came as weak.

“Nez –”

“NOW!” On his screen, he saw Shion’s getting up suddenly, looking quickly around him. Nezumi wanted to punch the man, if he kept loosing time like this, they would be both lost. But Shion seemed to understand the shit he was in, because he suddenly took his papers, and left, not even taking a glance back. Turning to Inukashi, Nezumi growled “A word from you, and I will skin your dogs alive one by one before feeding them to my rats”. He supposed the message passed somehow as Inukashi stayed still, jaw hanging open, arms went limb and obviously not knowing what to do.  Nezumi didn’t have the luxury to dwell on it as he heard the clamour in his office. His co-workers were coming back from their break. It was now or never. Shoving Inukashi away, Nezumi ran to the window. He had chosen this office because it was located on the second floor. Months carefully preparing for this day. And now it was finally – FINALLY – happening. Excitement and fear both pumped through his veins as Nezumi opened the window, jumped on the balcony of the first floor and swiftly made his way to the pavement below. His escape only took a few seconds. And now he knew he didn’t have a choice. He had to be quick. For the first time in many years, he ran so fast his breathing hurt and he tasted blood in his mouth. He didn’t know if his mind was playing tricks on him as he seemed to distinguish dark shadows pursuing him. But he was more lithe and faster than them. Certainly more used to it, too. Soon he was running crazily in the sewers. Soon he was engulfed in darkness, but he knew the area better than anyone. Soon he was able to make up the shape of a young boy ahead. Soon he knew it was only the beginning.

[kazdumps]

It’d been days since then; Qi Rong had made a shelter and from then on didn’t see anyone. That was fine with him, meeting people either turned into a fight, or the someone was already dead. He had enough things to deal with. He wasn’t used to actually finding himself food to sustain but now that he was mortal (or somewhat like mortal) he needed to eat.

Eat, sleep, drink, and shit. Over and over again. Sometimes add more sticks to shelter, but his routine didn’t deviate much. If it was not for the cold, sleep wouldn’t be much of an issue, but because of it, it became a struggle. Even then, he didn’t expect anything to come from it.

That was until he heard footsteps from outside. He held his breath, hoping that whomever was out was passing by, and maybe wouldn’t even see this wooden structure. It wasn’t very big, and surrounded by shrubbery, it was easy to miss.

For a minute there was silence, and he actually thought that he wouldn’t be bothered. That was, until his eyes flicked upward.

A hulking figure stood at the entrance between the branches. While his view was slightly obstructed he could see part of them. Their hair hung loose, but no tangles infiltrated the hair odd in their desperate situation. Eyes abyss-like landed on Qi Rong and didn’t move.

He didn’t get up, not yet, but his hand hovered anticipatingly at his belt. A simple machete but would be easy to throw and run when things turned sour. The man didn’t introduce himself, but one of his status didn’t need to. Just from his eyes alone, still an unwavering gaze, the green ghost knew it was He Xuan Black Water Submerging Boats. Now the title, just like Night Touring Green Lantern, was useless. A remnant of the past but the title, even left unsaid, still rang with an air of intimidation.

“No need for that,” He jabbed a finger and the weapon that he was desperately trying to conceal. His words held no emotion to betray his intentions, but he could see the axe strapped to his back.

Even in this meeting between calamities, the wind would not cease. Qi Rong was not sure which fate was better; whether he’d prefer to face the blade in He Xuan’s possession or Mother Nature’s unyielding wrath. All that he pondered, he knew it wasn’t his end decision. At the same time, he would not sit still.

“Do you think I’ll just lay here as you attack? Just because you are above and I’m below? That I’d give my life so easy because you found me first? You’re a fucking idiot, even more so then my cousin!”

“I’m not here to fight,” He still stood at the entrance but either due to his eyes adjusting to the dark or the other adjusting his position. His expression was downward, eyes slightly droopy, and there was a slight but noticeable shake to his body. “ I want a truce. During the night.”

For a moment more they stared at each other. Their hatred might not be as much as the one Qi Rong held for Hua Cheng and vice versa. However, that didn’t stop He Xuan to purposely find reasons to fight (after being egged on by the green ghost several times). And now, especially during this death game with only one to come on top, truces seemed only sustainable in fantasy or idiocy.

“Why during the night only? There’s only a few of us left… do you think I’m stupid enough to fall in a trap? HAHA! What do you take this ancestor for, dogfucker?” He growled, the more he talked the more his mouth reverted to old habits. Even so, his talk was filler giving him time thinking of the best defense. If he jumped up to his feet too fast then the unstable structure could fall easily; but that kind of incident could incite some brief confusion in which he could get an advantage.

“I…” he sighed mumbling something short under his breath “At this rate, with this weather, we will both freeze to death. If we sleep in the same… quarters, using a combination of any tools that are beneficial and our body heat, then our life span will extend. If you’d really rather drag us both down, so be it, but it will benefit us. Understand, you’re the last person I’d come asking for a favor. And I would not ever consider sleeping even in the same vicinity as you unless drugged. Unfortunately, you really are one of the last people around.”

He was about to tell him off; this ancestor had been through worse than a little cold and he had no care for the pathetic life before him. But then his mind flashed to Gu Zi. The small child huddled in a ball, desperate to cling to another day. His eyes had been half open when he was found, the last sign of his struggle between life, death, and sleep.

It would’ve been a slow death. He wonders what the little boy did before fully succumbing. Did he call out for his father? Was it from a small hope that his dad could do anything or a delusion of hypothermia? Did he even have a voice left or was everything just echoing in his head? Maybe, no noise at all reached him and he drowned in the silence he couldn’t break.

The cold was unpredictable. The first night he’d made a fire but in the nights following even the air snuffed even a bit of embers. And now, the weather is its worst yet. He needed to live. Shivering here was as unpredictable as a rolling dice and he couldn’t take that chance any more. His son couldn’t be disappointed, even if he was gone he knew the little boy would cry at the thought of his dad in pain. Being a ghost was so much easier, but now the deep unnerving feeling of not being able to come back filled him. Mortality plagued every fiber and he needed the security of keeping a heartbeat.

“First rule, you keep your weapon outside the shelter- Hell I’d take it myself but I know you’d whine about it. Second, once the sun rises and the warmth comes back, you leave immediately. Third, to make it clear, I have no intention of helping your shitty life. This is for me, myself and I,” Silently he added his son, but the other didn’t need to know of anyone else.

Silence ensued and he saw He Xuan back away. A mix of pride of intimidating him, confusion of intimidating , and fear that he’d die surged through him until he heard a loud clunk. Following the noise the tall man shuffled into the shelter. He came in shoulder first before ducking so he didn’t hit his head nor topple the thing over.

“What’s in your bag?” While the hatchet was gone a brown satchel hung at his side.

“Food, medicine kit, and various plants. Unless you're actively dying in the night from frostbite, you won’t get any.”

“How do I know you're not hiding anything you could attack me with? You’re a deceptive fuck like that,” He would spit if his mouth wasn’t dry holding onto the little water he’d found in the morning.

“ I don’t care if you look. I don’t even care if you touch. But I’m watching your every move. Just because we have a truce doesn’t mean you're taking what is mine and I’m only sharing anything that could benefit this shelter,” He tossed the bag, his eyes didn’t have any light to reflect so two pools of black followed his hands.

It wasn’t long to look through the bag, and after finding no shovels, knives, needles, miniature spears, or the like that could be efficiently utilized against him, he threw it back.

“Fine, you're clean,” A hidden portion of him was glad the water ghost had no hidden weapons in his bag. It almost gave him complete relief that he’d find himself bleeding when he awoke.

It didn’t take long after for He Xuan to settle himself next to Qi Rong.

“Couldn’t start a fire, either?”

“Well clearly you fucking couldn’t,” What was the others plan? The water ghost had never been the talking type, even when he’d hidden himself as a Heavenly Official, instead he locked himself away from the world plotting an unsatisfactory revenge.

“That’s what I implied with the word ‘either’… it’s because the ground is too wet in this area”.

“Why are you trying to be ‘goody goody’? I won’t lower my guard around you, even if you knelt and begged me to,” He liked the idea of such a thing happening, and wondered if the cold was getting to him to make him only remember such an idea now.

“… I’m being polite, otherwise this shitty situation gets ten times worse. Can’t you pretend to be pleasant tonight?”

“This ancestor is a joy to be around. I just despise you.”

“And you despised Xie Lian, Hua Cheng, Lang Qian Qiu, and any other person you meet. You constantly flaunt yourself around only showing off you're the worst. And while you're gross and unpleasant to be around, you still aren’t even close to being the most powerful. You remind me of a spoiled little kid who while seeking attention from his parents found kicking is easier than being gentle. Now, you think playing scary ghost will get you some fame.”

“…” He silently debated stabbing him “Fuck you, piece of shit. No brains.”

“And then the childish insults; you’ve never really grown since being ten, huh?”

“I thought you said you were being polite or something!? And now-“

“Shhh,” He put a finger to his own lips, which only made his blood turn from boiling to melting.

“And now!! Silencing me! You fucking-“ He Xuan clasped a hand over Qi Rong’s mouth and leaned close to his ear.

“Noise. Outside.” Those two words landed on his neck, and even with their intentions the warmth of his breath reaching his cold skin soothed like an ointment on a burn. He could barely even hold onto his surge of anger, it dissipating as quickly as it was built.

Usually if a hand was brought over the green ghost’s lips he wouldn’t hesitate to bite down and sink his teeth into the flesh. But a sense of rare self preservation and the fleeting warmth that had almost drug-like effects coursed through his body and he stayed still and silent.

Straining his own ears, he heard faint rustling. Whether animal or person it wouldn’t be ideal to be caught. Minutes passed by, and though the noise faded into the night, his mouth was still held. Still, he couldn’t even stir himself to fight it. Whatever it’d been, it was a wake up call. If they fought with raised voices, and lost control of their surroundings, they’d wind up as if they’d never even made the truce in the first place.

“I’ll remove my hand,” It wasn’t even loud enough to be a whisper, only his mouth moving the air in between the only audible thing “And then we’ll lay down parallel facing each other. We’ll be the warmest. If you have a complaint, actions are better than words”.

It was a rare moment that even the direct commands didn’t ignite anything in him. Every fiber of his being wanted to retaliate, whether with words or kicks, but the cold air kept his brain in check. All his focus was on warmth and survival. And after feeling such a warmth, he decided that despite the bad blood between them, he’d work with the other calamity.

However, it didn’t make it any less awkward to have to stare at him while sleeping. Even closing his eyes, his inner mind told him he was being stared at, and he’d peek out only to see it was true. And despite every precaution the sense of danger wasn’t completely alleviated. He Xuan must’ve felt the same way, because he didn’t appear to be sleeping either. Even though they both were alive again, his eyes had a glassy glaze to it. Maybe he’d always been that way since birth. Or maybe his life had drilled it into him.

“Hey,” His voice was once again soft. It’d been hours since the first noise so they might’ve been close to being clear now.

“Was originally your idea, but fine. I’ll flip over-“

“Come closer.”

“What,” He tried to only mouth it all, but the t came out crisp.

“ It’ll be warmer. If I’m freezing I can only guess you are too.”

It was true. Though he didn’t feel the air like when he was alone, he also remembered the brief moment in which they’d been close enough a hand was over his mouth and his breath was on his neck. Obviously the position wasn’t ideal, but being closer may bring more comfort and lead to a better sleep,

“You better not snore in your sleep.” He scooted closer, until their noses almost touched.

It really did make a difference, like a comfortable hearth. He could almost feel the life between the two of them, and it made him dizzy. Wanting to stop the feeling of the world twirling around he buried his head into whatever was near. It was an unconscious decision but soon he heard a “Hmpf” that echoed through him. His motions hadn’t caught up with his mind and only then realized his head was buried into the other's chest. A rush short circuited him, and he just prepared to shove against him when two arms wrapped around his back.

He went rigid but felt nothing sharp poking into him. The arms remained.

“Warmest” His pulse pounded against his skull. It was mind boggling that the other calamity wasn’t bothered. He was known for being relentless when he had a goal, so he could only assume this mutual seek for heat had led him to be alright with the sudden action. Through the thick clouds of his brain whirring warning sirens, he remembered being told actions were better than words.

Soon his heart (he could barely get used to this thing) stopped racing and his breathing sank up with the one he was buried into. The embrace was finally something he could get used to.

Oh, it was actually comfortable in someone else’s arms. It’d become a fuzzy memory for someone to… hold him so gently.

[katrinawritesthings]

Jonghyun/Taemin; Problematic Fave (Part 4/4); PG

He still has to ask Key what their favorite song is, too. He’s fairly certain that it’s “White T-Shirt,” but it might also be “Orbit,” because “Orbit” is exactly the kind of gay shit Key is into, even if it is a little slow.

ao3

1-2-3-4

Jonghyun,

Hey!! Taeminnie again. I’m on my couch writing this, all snuggly in blankies because Spring still hasn’t made up her mind and it’s raining pretty hard outside. I do love the rain, but I prefer to experience through a window rather than in the middle of it. I’m watching Key’s little pups while they’re at work so they’re up here with me. Key doesn’t like them on the couch but they’re really really warm and what Key doesn’t know won’t hurt them. I’ll send a pic for you to see!

Speaking of Key, they told me that they saw you coming out of a recording studio as they were going in the other day. Honestly, at this point, I think their feelings towards you are more complicated than mine ever were. They’re still mad at you in defense of me from nine months ago, but I think that’s mostly out of spite because I told them that they couldn’t stay mad forever. They also lowkey want to book you again for another shoot, really love your little line of accessories, and are extremely bitter that they like more than three songs on your She Is album. They won’t admit it, but ??????fuck i forgot??????? is their favorite song.

As for me, I think I’ve finally come to a conclusion for my favorite. I know, it’s been, like, three weeks, and I’ve cycled through all of them being my favorite (except “Moon,” and I’ve already explained what was wrong with that one), but I’m serious now. I really think that I like “Dress Up” the most. It feels weird to say that, seeing as how I always liked your softer songs the most, but I can’t deny that “Dress Up” is fun to jam to.

I wanted to tell you again that this comeback of yours has been so good and healing for me. The fun songs, the bright colors, the inherent and blatant queerness of everything, your pink hair…. All of it makes me feel bright and fuzzy on the inside. Before, your stuff would cheer me up just by being gentle and uplifting, but now it cheers me up by making me feel all excited and bouncy and validated. So, thanks for that!

Thank you for letting me love you, too. I know I say it a lot, but it’s just nice to have a fave to think of and love and feel all fuzzy about again. Maybe I’ll get a real romantic datefriend one day and be able to be super gay with them, or maybe I’ll friend marry Key and get all of my emotional fulfillment from that, but until then, it’s nice to draw comfort from you. Thanks for letting me and, really, all of your fans do that. I know it’s kind of part of the job description of being an celeb, but still. It means a lot to a lot of us that you put so much of yourself out there and act as support for us, even from afar.

This is getting kind of long, so I’ll stop here. I know this week is your last week of promotions, so good luck on all of your music shows and I hope you’re having a nice day!!

Love, Lee Taemin ❤

P.S.: If you ever see Key again and they try to give you two dollars, just take it and pretend like you know what it’s for.

Taemin hums to himself as he reads his letter over. That’s a pretty good first draft, he thinks, and he’s pretty sure that his opinion isn’t affected at all by how he’s hanging half upside-down off of the couch and squinting at it on his phone.

Key’s little pupps snooze gently, one in his lap and one nuzzled against his leg. Taemin scrunches his nose. Hmm. Maybe he won’t send Jonghyun a picture of his lower half, even if there are cute dogs in it. That would be kind of weird, he thinks. Maybe he can get Key to--oh, no, he’ll have to scoot them off of the couch before Key comes to pick them up so he doesn’t get in trouble. Dang.

He still has to ask Key what their favorite song is, too. He’s fairly certain that it’s “White T-Shirt,” but it might also be “Orbit,” because “Orbit” is exactly the kind of gay shit Key is into, even if it is a little slow.

Taemin’s left eye scrunches when he reads over the little paragraph about his favorite song. Every time he thinks about “Moon” he feels all gross inside and he should really stop thinking about it, but he just. Wants to passive aggressively remind Jonghyun that it was gross at least one more time in his letters. After this one he’ll start working on forgetting it exists. At least it helps him keep his love for Jonghyun grounded.

“Dress Up,” though. “Dress Up” is good.

The whole comeback is good, and as Temin scans his letter he feels himself warming up inside all over again. A smile cracks open his face, cheeks flushing as pink as Jonghyun’s lovely, lovely, lovely hair. It’s so nice and fun and bouncy and--

“Fuck,” Taemin hisses. He was turning halfway over to smile into his carpet and his legs slipped off of the couch. He crumples gracelessly, grunting softly as he struggles to get his hands under him and push himself up. “God, fuck,” he mutters. Pushing his bangs out of his face, he leans against his couch to just blink for a moment and let the blood rush out of his brain and into the rest of him.

Key’s little pups whine and snuffle at him, Garcons's wet little nose booping his temple. Taemin leans away, then lifts a hand to pet their soft little heads.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tells them. “Mwah.” He kissies Garcons's little head when he keeps nuzzling at him. The press of his lips seems to calm the pup and Taemin vaguely wonders if that has anything to do with the way Key pulls themself out of anxiety attacks with a million little kissies to who or whatever is nearby. Probably.

Instead of trying to clamber back onto the couch, he slowly slides himself the rest of the way off and rolls to lie on his tummy. Tugging a pillow down from the couch, he holds it under his chin as he finds his phone again. A pup hops down from the couch and wiggles to curl up on his butt; glancing over his shoulder, he finds Comme Des. He lazily reaches behind himself to give him a little pat before he looks back to his phone to finish scanning his letter.

Blah blah blah, blah blah dogs, Key blah blah, songs blah, the comeback makes Taemin’s soul feel alive, blah blah… aha. Taemin reads over the next paragraph with his top lip between his teeth. Hmm. Feels a little repetitive in places. He’ll work on that. The P.S. he has to work on too; he wants it to be in the actual letter and not a P.S. He’ll figure out how to add it in without making it seem too bulky or whatever. Besides that, though….

“I think this is good,” Taemin hums to himself. He lifts the phone up to Garcons on the couch so he can see. “What do you think?” he asks. The little pup sniffs his hand and then licks him. Taemin assumes that means “yes” and gives Garcons a little scritch behind his ears. Then he rolls to his back--apologizing again for disturbing Comme Des and letting him snuggle up under his arm instead--and taps his letter to edit it.

Honestly, he missed how fun this was; just sitting here and editing out his thoughts and feelings. Thinking them over and figuring out exactly what he wants to say is so… calming. Even his first letter back where he sent, like, three pages detailing his entire emotional response to everything was soothing. Since he started writing to Jonghyun again his anxiety has been better than it has in months and he’s been able to reason his worries away almost as well as he could before he even got all hecked up in the first place. He thinks he might start up a diary anyway, in addition to his almost-weekly letters to Jonghyun. It might get him back to where he started.

As he’s deleting a word in the third paragraph, his phone vibrates in his hand with a text from Key. He hums. Now would be a good time to ask about their favorite song, yeah, before he forgets again. He opens the texts of the day and scans them quickly: “good morning egghead,” “I’ll bring you a muffin when I drop the kids off,” “do you think thick stripes or thin stripes look better in plaid,” “one of these days I’m gonna say something important and you’re gonna regret letting my texts pile up,” and “wow okay I know I just said that as a joke but I can not Fucking believe this and u gotta reply rn or I’m gonna call you!!!”

“Hmm,” Taemin hums again. He scrunches his face in confusion. What. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Key use any punctuation in a text, let alone three whole exclamation points. He sits up, resting one elbow on the couch so he can focus better on his phone as he texts back, “Thick stripes and also what’s your favorite song of Jonghyun’s again and also What???”

Taemin isn’t sure if it’s the immediateness of Key’s reply or the contents of it that makes him drop his phone. Either way, he hisses and scrambles to pick it up and confirm that what he thinks he saw is really is what he thought he saw.

It is: Key sent him a picture of them with Jonghyun, like, right next to each other, taking a selfie, together, Key looking huffy and annoyed and Jonghyun smiling gently with one hand kind of blurry in a little wave.

Taemin can’t fucking believe it, either.

“Ohmhy fuc k ign gdo,” he texts back. He is so upset and jealous. What the fuck. This is so unfair. It’s not even that Key is with Jonghyun and he isn’t, or that Key doesn’t appreciate Jonghyun’s loveliness, or even that he’s so far up Jonghyun’s ass again that it burns him up on the inside to not be there; it’s that that morning Key literally offered to take him to work with them and he declined. It’s his own dang fault that he isn’t blushing and smiling and hiding behind Key’s arm with his heart making him all giddy right now.

“I went to a radio station to grab a friend to hang out with and he was here and he says hi,” Key texts him next. Taemin groans quietly and wilts back down to the floor, texting back a single frowny face. Then he throws his arm dramatically over his eyes and whines again. Heck. Hecking fuck. He does not believe. Lifting his arm just enough to see his text, he types “Tell him i’m in the middle of writing a letter to him.”

“I’m not playing back and forth between u two jfc,” is Key’s reply. Taemin huffs, then sighs. Yeah, that’s kind of what he figured they would say. “listen tho he’s trying to give me a free album bc I guess that’s a thing that singers do but I don’t want it so do u want me to tell him to just sign it to you instead,” Key sends next. Taemin gasps this time, suddenly all excited again. He sits up quickly, then grunts and lies back down, pressing his hand to his forehead under his bangs to fight the sudden wooziness. Whoops. Key’s pups nuzzle and whine at him; Taemin doesn’t know if it’s from worry or annoyance at his constant movement.

“Yes pls,” he texts back, and then scoops both dogs up in his arms to snuggle them under his chin. With two soft little fuzzballs against him and the prospect of a bright, shiny, new, signed album coming his way soon, Taemin feels his inside get all warm and fuzzy again very quickly. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life than the fact that he loves his fave and he loves being able to love him.