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miss-choco-chips · 3 years

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Favorite color

Ever since he was born, his world was filled with colors, a beautiful rainbow at his fingers. He’d look down at them at night, or when his parent’s leaving made him want to cry, or when a horror story told by a classmate in the playground scared him half to death, and find comfort in their silky touch and bright hues.

He was seven when he learned the meaning behind them. And the blaring lack of red signaled the first, but not last, heartbreak of his life.

Blue, green, purple, black… and bright yellow. A teacher, a missed opportunity, a first love, life and death… and friendship. No eternal love for Tim, it seemed.

Well. He hadn’t really expected any different. Who would love him forever, when his own parents didn’t?

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He had forgotten it, and it escaped his notice for many years. Until one night, following Dick Grayson as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop, when he noticed his purple string moving in synch with him. Pointing towards his hero, the boy who had given him his very first hug that night at the circus. His First Love, his Not Meant to Be.

That night, Tim packed up early and went home. He just couldn’t stand the red uniform contrasting sharply with his purple thread.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Dick left, he thought maybe now he could go back to his old habits, to run the streets looking for flashes of the new robin without the baggage of avoiding to look at his own hand.

No such luck.

The green made a whole lot of sense when news of Jason’s death reached him, tough.

It wouldn't be the last night he’d cry himself to sleep, holding the frayed ends of his fated Almost.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Becoming Robin was both easy and painful. Comfortable, because the blue string pointing him towards Bruce meant this was always supposed to happen; heartbreaking, because it took a kid dying. Because Tim might not have a romantic soul mate, but his hands, that had made a green string break to grant him access to the blue path, were stained red nonetheless.

Wearing Robin’s red, with all the hurt and bad memories it carried, felt like a subpar punishment.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Meeting his Yellows almost passed his awareness. In the middle of a crisis, every adult missing, no mentor to guide him, he couldn’t exactly spare a thought for the kids looking shellshocked at him, each other and their hands.

After, when Young Justice was officially formed, he firmly avoided looking at Bart, Superboy and Wondergirl. Their eyes followed him, pleading, but he’d learned no good ever came from strings that weren’t red.

And the red in his soul wasn’t from love.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Despite himself and his best efforts, they grew closer. Life or death situations had that effect on people, after all.

His own reluctance, which had in turn provoqued Kon’s anger, Bart’s dejection and Cassie’s confusion, slowly began to crumble. He was helpless in the face of their unrelenting friendship.

The strings grew shinier, stronger, healthier, the yellow a stark contrast to frayed (dead) green, cold blue, distant purple. Scary black.

Tim still despised the rainbow in his fingers, but… he could maybe withstand the sparks of yellow he’d catch from the corner of his eye, knowing just who were at the other end.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It wasn’t exactly team training. Greta, Anita, Cissie, Slobo and the others didn’t join them, for whatever reason. It was always the four of them, leaning on and learning from each other.

When Kon’s strength frustrated him, when the world around him seemed to be made of bubbles and sea foam, Tim stayed late at night every weekend to help. Every spare moment directed towards coaching him, again and again, through exercises he had to come by himself (Clark was no big help, here), until exhaustion made his muscles tremble and Kon’s anger had burned out from frustration to soft acceptance that he just wasn’t like the rest. Until he could hold still and let Superboy trace the side of his jaw with a careful finger, and exchange proud little smiles when his face remained unbroken.

Bart being raised by video games had the expected outcome; he had little to no practical, day to day life knowledge. He was the closest living thing to a Looney Toon. Which was fun and good when crime fighting, his crazy ideas often saved their ass last minute, but unacceptable if integrating him into society was to be considered. So Tim would take him out, hand in hand so he didn’t forget himself and ran on his own, to leisurely stroll down busy streets, arcades, schools, libraries. Talk to people in parks and visit recreational centers, barter with street vendors and ask the little boy selling flowers on Jump Street how his mother is doing. Whatever Tim could think of that would soften Bart’s cultural shock.

In that regard, Cassie was a godsend. With her own attentive mentor, and raised like a normal girl until she obtained her powers, she was the most well balanced member on their team. Tim had started to feel a little restless (how can he help her, how can he convince her to stay…), when he noticed her frustrated, sad face whenever Donna was mentioned on Tv, when any reporter or older hero compared the two Wonder Girls. Familiar as he was with imposter syndrome, Tim would rest his arm around her shoulders and turn to the rest of the team, loudly reminding everyone to ‘speed up guys, Cassie here’s already done with her training routine’ or slump tiredly against her while complaining about ‘how immature they are, I can’t deal, thank God you’re here to remind me competent people do exist’.

It was familiar, to help them along. To nudge them forward and watch their backs as they went, firmly making their way towards being the awesome men and woman he knew they’d become. Lending a hand here and there, working on steading their foundations, so he’d be remembered fondly when they inevitably took off and went on with their lives.

He was used to that, to looking for ways his fated people would want him around. Being a good brother to Dick, an eager student to Bruce (a good mourner for Jason).

What he wasn’t used to was reciprocation, though.

Tim had learned how to fly from the best, from Dick Grayson himself.The boy with no powers that looked at gravity and laughed, sayed “thanks, but no”. But there were some things only a true meta could experience, ways to move his body just so, to take advantage of wind currents to either speed or slow his movements. Kon also visited him in Gotham, unknowing or uncaring about its meta restriction, risking pissing off Batman himself just to spend time with Tim.

There was Bart, kind, cute, friendly Bart, who would stop eating and playing around to drag Tim to the training grounds and run laps around him, as silently as he knew how. Making Tim used to fighting against someone quicker than him, lighter on their feet. To count incredibly soft steps even when they made no sound, and use other senses to pinpoint exactly where the next hit was going to come from. And after they were done, there was always a warm smile and some sweet treat (always different, as if Bart was determined to figure out Tim’s preferences by trial and mistake), the new knowledge and delicious prize worth the dirt in unmentionable places.

As stated before, Cassie was an absolute godsend. But it wasn’t just because she was easier to deal with than the rest. Or because she understood the pressure he had on his shoulders, being raised in the shadow of two incredibly renowned heroes. When Tim’s position as leader had been taken away (after Bruce’s plans for taking out the league became known, and ‘what if he has the same for us’), she took him aside. Hugging him, promising him the team’s anger was going to pass, that she could see why those contingencies might be necessary, that even if she was officially in charge, she’d always defer to him when it mattered. Her trust in him and his heart was unshakable, firm as the arm he’d put round her when self doubt arose its head.

(It wasn’t supposed to be this way; if they reciprocated, they didn’t owe him, and then how was he supposed to keep them close? To convince him to stay, to love the boy with loveless fate?)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Jason was unexpected, but Tim couldn’t hold it against him. Even there, bleeding out in the Tower, he felt… at ease.

His predecessor was back. Bruce’s son was back. The prodigal Robin had returned, by some miracle. Tim’s shift had come to an end; even if he died here, he had succeeded in keeping Bruce sane, and now that the real deal was in town, Jason could take over and everything would go back as it should have been. Everyone (B, Dick, Babs, Alfred) would be happier. Maybe they’d mourn him, for a bit, but with such a joyous occasion as a beloved one returning home, it wasn’t like grief could stay for long.

Someone yelled, near. Warm hands shaking as they touched his face infinitely careful, small fingers intertwined with his in a very familiar hold, a strong and slender arm around his back as he’s being held in a half hug. Cries, pleas, demands.

And while nothingness claims Tim, drags him to a well of black, yellow still clings to his eyelids. A touch that keeps him warm even though unconsciousness is supposed to be so cold.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Death and life. Damian.

Tim can see the first one, what with all of the brat’s attempts to end him. It’s the second one that has him stumped.

He knows not all strings go both ways. His purple one, for example; even if Dick was Tim’s first love, everyone and their mother knew Babs’ was his. Dick had a string pointing towards Tim, but it was a mentor-student one. Same as the one he and Bruce shared. Jason, too; Tim’s side of the string was the green of Almost, while the former Robin’s color was black (Tim taking his place as Robin, and being the only one in the family offering his hand again and again despite his murderous actions, was in some poetic sense the death of an old role, and the birth of a new family dynamic).

Damian, though… Well. He was almost sure they had the same color for each other (how else to explain such dangerous rage), but really, unless the kid was willing to share, it was only suppositions for now.

His only comfort remained the three beams of light, of a yellow almost golden in its healthy shine.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

When Tim changed his suit following Conner’s death, everyone thought it was an homenage. A way to pay tribute to a hero that was his closest, dearest friend. A way to never forget (as if he could, ever, with the lifeless line of pale beige, once yellow, dangling from his twitching finger).

They weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t just that.

Red had always pained him, in a deep, almost forgotten place. A thorn on his side, scratching against his heart. For the longest part, yellow had filled him to the brim, until hurt and yearning had no place inside him. With Kon’s warmth missing, red bleed in the place between Cassie and Bart, despite their best efforts to close ranks and keep it out.

Their sad eyes followed him during the funeral, knowing what the color meant to him. Just how much he was hurting himself, right now. But, lost in their own grief, there was little to be done.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

By the time Tim got the call about Bart, he already knew.

He ignored the ringing phone, holding a sobbing Cassie in his arms, both desperately clutching at their only remaining yellow string.

Between the two of them, color like blood seeped.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Every so often, when Ra’s voice in his ear became too familiar for comfort, where lines draw in sand begane to erode and blur, he’d raise his hand, eyes locked on the three yellow strings, and watch as Cassie’s moved, disappearing end pointing always in her direction.

He was fairly sure that, wherever she was, she was doing the same. Reminding herself he was alive as well, hadn’t left her behind.

Her absence from his life was necessary, finding Bruce a priority, and the red of his new suit (his new name) was proof of just how deeply it all ran. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t yearning for her lighter color.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They were back, and he was hiding.

He wanted to run to their arms, hug them and never let them out of his view, far from where he could protect them (keep them). He wanted Kon’s hand on his face, delicate despite his strength, un-trembling when Tim’s own would softly join it on his check and held it there; Bart’s fingers between his own, too steady and constant for the boy who didn’t know how to sit still; Cassie’s arm on his waist, his own on her back, as they shared the weight of the world in their shoulders.

And because he wanted so damn much, he couldn’t do it.

He was covered in red. His first love discarded him, his Almost died so Tim could have his Teacher, his Life and Death was so heavily focused on the last bit… his hands lacked red, but oh, how much he leaked of it in his soul.

He couldn’t let them die again, be stained by his twisted fate; even if it meant he could’t hold them close any longer.

Letting go was more painful than holding on, but he was used to it by now.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

They find him. Of course they do; even without Kon’s senses, they all have beams of gold pointing them towards him, like Dorothy’s yellow brick road.

Tim knew it, was ready for it. And as such, had prepared the words that would push them away, to where it was safer.

Or so he thought.

“We are not leaving you.”

“Who cares about fate? You are ours, Rob.”

“It’s been long enough, Tim. Time to come home, we are done waiting.”

He denies them, shakes despite his usual iron clad control over his body, heart wrenching painfully at their decided expressions.

“You don’t understand. I’m Red Robin now. I’m not… I’m no good for you.”

“I could literally snap your back with the flick of a finger, shut up with that ‘I’m dangerous’ bullshit.”

“Yeah, even Bart could be dangerous given the right circumstances, you aren’t the only one here to watch for. It doesn’t mean shit to us.”

‘

“That’s right, I- wait, what do you mean ‘even Bart?”

“Not the point, Imp.”

They don’t get it. He takes his mask off, wants to give them a good look at his eyes, to read his emotions there and finally realize what’s wrong about him.

“Almost all my strings have something to do with death, or were touched by it. Don’t you see it?” He raises his hand, despite knowing they can’t see his strings, only their own. “I have no red here, only blood. I can’t… I’m not safe to love. I’ll never be loved.”

Kon snaps, something he had rarely done since their Young Justice days, hands on Tim’s shoulders, seemingly torn between shaking him and pulling him close. The latter wins.

(As it always does)

“This is love, you idiot! WE love you!”

Tim chokes on something (saliva, his own breath, emotions). Gasps, tears coming to his eyes unbridled.

He feels two pairs of arms joining the first one, a cocoon of warmth and unconditional love forming around him.

Bart’s sad eyes watch Tim from under Kon’s hug. “I don’t have red either, Rob. Romantic, platonic, filial… who gives a fuck”, he shrugs, before hiding his face against the red of Tim’s uniform. Uncaring of all it represents for him or perhaps doing his best to defy it.

Cassie just holds them all in the circle of her own embrace, forehead to the back of Tim’s head. Her hold is the tightest, and he just realizes- she lost all of them, didn’t she? To death and grief, all too far to touch, and now that they’re back in her arms, there’s little chance of her ever letting go again.

“Love has more than one form, Tim.”

He shudders in the middle of this weirdly emotional dog pile, and thinks. About Bruce and Dick’s pride when they successfully taught him something new. Of Jason’s reluctant smile when Tim first tugged him along to some joined patrol, sneakily edging him closer to the family with every interaction. Of Damian, who would often look down at his own hands (and Tim would honestly kill someone to know just which color the young boy had for Tim) and then at him, with something like hope in his green eyes.

He thinks… yeah. And this one…

(He gives up, closing his eyes and snuggling deeper into Kon’s chest, knees buckling but staying up thanks to his three rays of sunlight holding him in place between them.)

This one’s shape might just be his favorite.

#my writting #core disaster week #day two #Red string of fate #tim drake #kon el kent #bart allen #cassie sandsmark #bruce wayne #dick grayson #damian wayne #jason todd #angst #you've been warned

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karliahs · 4 years

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please leave a light on when you go

oneshot - jontim - 2k words

written for @jontim-week day 2, prompts: night out / touch / secret

“I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

And here’s where Tim could say sure, wave him off and go back to moping, buy everyone an obligatory round, flex his meaningless chat muscles and be home by half 9. “Mind if I join you?” he asks instead, and to his surprise Jon nods immediately, as if he’d been hoping Tim would say that.

read on ao3! or below the cut:

There’s no reason for Tim to be here. The Institute has some weird policies, including a truly esoteric dress code, but it doesn’t have mandatory team-building night-outs. Tim has no reason to get to know his coworkers, no need to ingratiate himself to them beyond what he can get by smiling, making bland comments about his weekend plans and never microwaving fish in the breakroom.

The pub they’re in, somehow identical to every workplace-night-out pub he’s ever been to, seems to be having some sort of throwback night. Early-nineties hits play just loud enough to grate, and Tim eyes his new coworkers, trying to muster up some enthusiasm for striking up a conversation. He imagines what they might say if he told the truth. <i>Hi, I’m Timothy. I left behind a career in publishing to be a junior researcher so that I can hunt monsters like fucking Scooby Doo. If you need me, I’ll be chasing answers I’ll never find, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about them even if I did! Another round?</i>

Maybe that’s why he came tonight. To have these thoughts somewhere other than his flat. His little studio can only hold so much brooding.

He’s interrupted from his current round of brooding, first by an unsteady grab at his shoulder, then by a cascade of beer, then by a glass clattering onto the floor followed by a hush in the surrounding buzz of conversation. A quiet, posh voice swears, and Tim recognises one of his coworkers bending down to try and clean up the mess, though it takes him a moment to place the name.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, glancing up at Tim before sheepishly looking back at the mess on the floor. Off to the side, a few tables give a sarcastic cheer and a round of applause. Tim worked food service long enough to instinctively dislike anyone who does this. He grabs some napkins and bends down to help Jon.

“Hey, no harm done,” Tim says, trying to remember how to sound friendly. He scoops up the somehow still-intact glass. “They’re wise enough to make them sturdy around here.”

Jon huffs, somewhat ineffectually blotting at the spreading puddle on the ground. “Did - your clothes, I didn’t, ah-”

“Only a glancing blow,” Tim answers, brushing at the damp spots by his hip. “And after I went to all this trouble to dress up for the occasion.”

Jon looks up in alarm, before registering that Tim hadn’t even bothered to change out of his work clothes. He gives a small, reluctant smile; one of the first expressions Tim’s seen from him that wasn’t some variant of thoughtful frown.

He’s seen Jon around a bit, in his few weeks at the Institute - about Tim’s age, relatively nondescript, tonight clad in a surprisingly lush leather jacket. Tim had made the mistake of asking him a couple of questions on his first day, when the person actually training him was on lunch. Jon had blustered and prevaricated for a few minutes before admitting it was only his second week in the job, so he didn’t actually know.

That was about the only time they’d interacted, though Tim had noticed a few other things. There were a few loose groups of friendships in Research, and Jon didn’t seem to be a part of any of them. He never seemed that steady on his feet, and he tended to avoid eating in public. He rarely asked for help, unless he needed something that would require him to use one of the library ladders, which he seemed determined to avoid. Tim had wondered idly about vertigo, or mobility issues, before reminding himself these weren’t the questions he was here to answer.

Tim had always noticed people, collected little details about them in his head whether he intended to or not, but he thinks his observations used to be about happier things, though it’s hard to remember exactly how he was, how he felt, before - it wasn’t the kind of thing he ever tried to memorise, the kind of thing he ever thought he could lose. Now he finds himself taking note of the coworker who comes back from their lunch break with faint puffy red marks around their eyes, or the older guy who checks his phone with something like dread in his eyes. Danny would have called it his older brother instincts (but what good did those instincts do him?).

Tim blinks back to the present, realising he’s been pushing a napkin over the same spot of floor for a while now. Jon offers him a hand up, though he braces himself on the bar with his other hand before he does. Tim takes care not to let Jon take too much of his weight as he’s hauled back up.

“Ah, thank you. And apologies, again,” Jon murmurs, gesturing awkwardly at Tim’s lightly-beered clothes.

“Happens to everyone,” Tim says easily. Jon still looks lightly anguished, and Tim silently wishes this could have happened to someone else, someone with the confidence to laugh it off. “I’m always convinced I’m going to drop something when I go in the silent study bit of the library,” Tim offers.

“Ah...that worry hadn’t actually occurred to me,” Jon replies, solemn enough that Tim can’t really tell if he’s joking.

Tim finger-guns. “Any other anxieties I can stir up while you’re over here?”

“I’m quite capable of stoking my own neuroses, thank you.”

Jon glances over his shoulder at the tables the rest of the department are occupying, perhaps doing the same thing as Tim and trying to psyche himself up for some more hollow smalltalk. Tim notes that his jacket seems slightly large on him, but in a way that kind of works. The collar of his shirt is slightly out of place beneath it. There’s a lump forming in Tim’s throat, even though nothing is happening - nothing but standing close to someone, noticing the little signs that they’re real and alive entirely independent from him. He’s aware, as he always is, of the hollow pit in his stomach, pain ebbing and flowing but never gone, new flares thrown off from a familiar wound, now pulsing with a kind of loneliness. All this, just from standing close to someone and trying to make them feel better about a mistake that didn’t matter.

“I...might go out for a smoke,” Jon murmurs eventually.

They duck outside to find dark clouds have given way to an anticlimactic drizzle. They stay close to the pub, shielded from the rain by the slight overhang of the roof. Jon fumbles with a lighter and Tim finds his gaze drifting over the rain-slick streets. It’s been a while since he’s been...anywhere, really, other than work and his flat. Longer than he can remember since he was outside in the never-quite-dark of the city.

Despite himself, Tim finds himself admiring the buildings across the way, modern painted shop-fronts on the ground floor giving way to weathered brick and occasional stone carvings above. It was the first thing he’d loved about London, how you only had to look up to catch a glimpse of its history, and it almost wounds him all over again, that that love isn’t gone too. It would be easier if he was just one thing, all the way lost. It would be easier if he didn’t still love the world that killed Danny.

Jon lights his cigarette, and silently holds the lighter out to Tim. Tim shakes his head, and Jon doesn’t question him about why he’s come out here if he doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t press about the way Tim must be looking; he knows he’s never had much of a poker face. Danny tried to teach him poker, on a visit home from uni; Tim left for six weeks and came back to playing cards and strategy guides everywhere - his brother, who never sit still even in his own head -

“Where were you, before this?” Jon asks. Tim wouldn’t have pegged him for a smoker, but he looks immediately more relaxed with a cigarette in his hands. Nice hands, too. It would be easier, if he didn’t-

“Publishing,” Tim answers, before he can drift again. He wants to say more, to make sure this undemanding presence isn’t going to leave his side, but his throat is still tight. “You?”

Jon frowns, as if debating something to himself, then gives a tiny rueful smile. “Tesco.”

Tim grins. “Was it a haunted Tesco?”

“Only by customers,” Jon replies, dry as bone.

The rain is picking up slightly, and both of them silently tuck further into their little alcove, bringing them shoulder to shoulder. The air tastes of smoke. Tim is watching moths in the streetlights above, partly out of fear that if he looks directly at Jon, he’ll realise how close they are and pull back.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Jon asks, voice hushed. He gestures and Tim follows the point of light with his eyes. “The smell, I mean?”

“Always kind of liked it,” Tim answers, matching Jon’s tone. Jon scoffs in disbelief. “What? You’re the one who inhales the things.”

“Exactly,” Jon says. “I have a biochemical justification for finding the smell tolerable. What’s your excuse?”

Tim spreads his hands, little spots of rain landing on his sleeve. “I never claimed to make sense.”

In the corner of his eye, Tim catches Jon hiding a smile with his next drag. It’s a good smile, one he wants to get a proper look at sometime. It’s as if now that he’s noticed one beautiful thing, he can’t stop seeing them: the buildings; the rain; the passing pair of drunk students across the way, walking arm in arm, holding each other up. There’s a curl of anger in his chest, that these things still get to exist, but for the moment it coexists with a kind of quiet warmth.

“You want to know a secret?” Tim asks, finally turning to look directly at Jon. Jon doesn’t speak, doesn’t nod, but he stares and waits, lights reflecting in his dark eyes, and for a moment Tim feels as though he must already know what Tim is going to say, that he can look into Tim’s eyes and learn everything he’s ever tried to hide. He can’t decide if it’s peaceful or terrifying.

Then Jon blinks and the feeling is gone, as quickly as it had come. “I like this party better,” Tim finishes, gesturing to the two of them. The things he could have said hang in the air between them.

Jon doesn’t quite manage to hide his smile this time, and yeah, that’s something Tim needs to see more of, all slow and crooked.

“Well,” Jon says, still in the same hushed voice, as if they’re sharing secrets. “If you ever need to borrow my smoking habit, get you out of an unpleasant social situation…”

“Knew that was why people smoked,” Tim says, nudging Jon’s shoulder with his own. “I’m not normally…” He trails off, unsure how to explain himself. Normally I’d care at least a bit, about all those people in there. Normally I’d at least have the energy to pretend.

Jon considers this half-finished thought for a long moment. “Abnormality is...rather the Institute’s specialty,” he offers eventually. Tim feels a kind of gratitude he can’t name or voice, so he doesn’t, just stands there listening to the rain while Jon finishes his cigarette, and for a long time after.

Not a bad night out, after all.

#jontimweek #the magnus archives #tma fic #jontim #new! thing!

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peppersonironi · 3 years

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Duke Thomas VS The "Good Child" Stereotype Chapter Three

Wooo! Chapter Two (not including the prologue) is up now for my @dukethomasbigbang fic! Today's art is by @a-sketchy-character and you can find the glorious piece HERE

thx again to my betas @queerbutstillhere & @theycallme-ook

Today has a special thanks to @batgirls-appreciation who dropped out as a beta, but this chapter couldn't exist without her!

Summary:

Duke pursed his lips, not quite sure why Cass had come down to the basement, only to look into his soul, shrug, and leave. But that didn’t matter right now. As Bruce would say, “The mission comes first.”

Read on Ao3

Duke frowned down at his empty pad of paper, trying to brainstorm. It had been a mere twelve hours since the failed Rick Roll (though, the Rick Roll itself wasn’t a fail. Duke would be daydreaming about the chaos for years to come), and the day shift bat was itching for a way to make up for it.

Alas, the creative juices were not flowing that day. Duke had tried everything - taking a walk, training, meditation, writer’s sprint, and even resorting to watching prank compilations on YouTube. But nothing worked. So, he found himself watching the target Bat - Bruce - in his “natural habitat.”

Also known as the living room, mid lecture.

“But I don’t know what I did!” Tim pleaded desperately, trying to convey to Bruce his confusion.

Bruce shook his head. “No, you do, Tim. Dick told me you all will appeal to my affection to get out of the consequences for your actions -” wow, Duke remembered Dick using that exact tactic just yesterday, and it worked - “So I will not allow you to shirk the punishment.”

Tim groaned. “This is tyranny! I’m an emancipated minor, I don’t need to deal with this.”

“Actually, yes you do. You will be doing chores for Alfred for the next two weeks, and you aren’t allowed to run off to Mount Justice.”

“Then at least tell me what I did wrong!” Tim cried, throwing his hands up in the air. Bruce rubbed his temples, then glanced briefly at Duke.

“You know what you did, and how it affected those around you. And you’re grounded because of it. No room for arguments. Now go work on the sprinklers, Alfred has mentioned they’ve been finicky.”

Tim scoffed and stalked out, soon after followed by Bruce.

Duke considered relocating as well - he couldn’t very well observe Bruce if said wild furry wasn’t present. But something about that conversation that sent a light shiver up Duke’s spine, some small spark of inspiration.

An idea began to form in his mind, and Duke smiled slowly.

*****

“For all Bruce’s waxing poetic on the merits of high tech stuff, this pipe organization is seriously ancient,” Duke muttered under his breath as he glanced from the blueprints he had secured to the mess of pipes and spigots and nozzles in front of him.

Though to be fair, this wasn’t the Batcave. Duke was in the basement of Wayne Manor - yes, he was just as surprised to find they actually had one of those that wasn’t dedicated to the dark and mystique training of Gotham’s Protectors. And impromptu Mario Kart challenges, because as Tim had once told Duke “We all know that’s the real reason Bruce got a giant computer setup.”

Duke cursed softly under his breath when he dropped a wrench that began to clang around in the messy cage of metal. He set the blueprints aside atop the gallons of paint he had chosen, and reached around and down to get the wrench. When he came back up, he found himself face to face with his sister Cassandra.

Oh shit, Duke thought, as he tried to figure out how to cover for what he was doing in the plumbing of the Manor.

Cass squinted at him and, not for the first time, Duke felt like he was an onion trapped beneath her gaze, slowly being peeled back layer by layer till the young woman before him knew every little detail about him. Every thought or plan he ever had.

Duke began to sweat, unable to keep his panic under wraps. Cass was scarier than Bruce, that was just a fact.

Cass tilted her head a fraction of an inch, and Duke thought he was a dead man. But, much to his relief and confusion, Cass shrugged and turned. She walked lightheartedly out of the basement and to the stairs, whistling tunelessly as she went.

Duke pursed his lips, not quite sure why Cass had come down to the basement, only to look into his soul, shrug, and leave.

But that didn’t matter right now. As Bruce would say, “The mission comes first.”

*****

As all members of the Wayne family knew, the Library was one of the best places, period. Aside from the living room which was always a mess of pillows, bean bags, inflatable dinosaurs, spare semi-automatic weaponry and knives, the Library was the most personal room in the expansive home that was the Manor. Sure, it was cleaner and home to fewer surprise nerf gun fights, but It still had an air of warmth about it. It was the place that they would go to to rest after a difficult patrol. Where you could find Jason reading some book in a corner, Tim busy with WE work at the large table, Damian trying to teach Alfred the Cat and Titus to read picture books, Cass and Steph trying to be subtle about making out (though to be fair that was only half the time, other times Cass was working on reading with Steph helpfully giving her guidance). Dick would always be trying to decide what to read and but he would never actually succeed, Bruce would sit in his tall armchair in the corner overlooking every small detail of his children with a not-quick-smile-but-pretty-darn-close on his face.

Duke himself also had his own spot that he would work on writing poetry, or just surf Tumblr. It was a window seat at the far side of the library which was technically big enough for three people, but Duke had a strict policy that it was his and his alone and no he totally wasn’t bullied by Cass that one time to snuggle. Why on Earth would you ever consider such a thing?

It was in this spot now that Duke was situated, though he was not alone. Titus - yes, Damian’s dog - was draped across his lap. Now, Duke didn’t mean to steal his little brother’s pets, but it just happened. Titus was in need of snuggles or belly rubs when Damian was away with Jon or on patrol at night, and Duke just happened to be the only one that said canine could bully into granting him.

Thankfully, like all bats were, Duke was a multi-tasker. He wasn’t put off by having to scratch a dog behind the ears whilst simultaneously checking the twelve blinking dots on his laptop screen that represented his family members.

Duke stared intensely at the diagram of the Manor as all the dots slowed down and finally stayed in their predetermined positions. Huh, Tim was right. Stalking family members did pay off!

The dots suddenly stopped blinking, and Duke snapped out of his self congratulations. It was go time . He switched windows, then quickly pulled out his phone and pressed a button.

There were several screams that echoed throughout the ancient halls, those screams spoke of terror and surprise, and passed along the message that something was very, very wrong in the world. The status quo had been broken, and there was no returning from this.

Duke smirked down at his computer, where a dozen different squares displayed camera footage of the real time happenings of the Manor. Said footage was showing several members of Duke’s family drenched in paint. The same paint that Duke had meticulously divided and poured into the ceiling sprinkling system that the Manor had for some totally-not-plot-related reason. The same paint which had been primed and ready to be sprayed out of the spigots coating each bat with the perfectly calculated, even layer.

The paint had just finished being deployed, and yet several people were for some reason trying to fight it off like it was an attacker. Duke noticed that the swinging of bo staffs, AK-47’s and katanas were altogether unsuccessful. Honestly, the people who were standing completely still in shock, or who were trying to shake off the paint were having much better luck.

But then everyone finally realised that they weren’t being sprayed anymore, and a collective sigh spread out across the Manor. The onslaught was done, and they could finally gather together and grab the pitchforks to hunt down the responsible party.

It was then that the glitter was deployed.

The chaos immediately multiplied tenfold, and the screams sounded up again. The air was filled with the sparkly dust that was way too thin to swat away. (No, Duke totally didn’t spend extra time researching to find the world’s finest glitter)

Duke was outright laughing at this point, so hard that he almost fell off the window seat. Titus barked suddenly, and Duke sobered enough to get back upright and watch the finishing up of the chaos. He had to admit, this felt wonderful. If he had to describe his current state of thrill in two words, he would have admitted that he felt altogether too close to the Hellmo Meme.

Unfortunately, Duke was not Stephanie, and ran out of glitter eventually. The vents stopped blasting the film of fairy dust, and the bats were given a reprieve.

Though the break was short lived, as just then, Bruce’s loud bellow sounded throughout the giant house.

“ALL OF YOU GET IN HERE!”

Duke chuckled as he scooched Titus over and set his laptop to the side so he could get up. This was all working perfectly! He’d arrive at Bruce's interrogation completely free from all paint or glitter, which would immediately prove his guilt. And if that didn’t work, then he supposed he could outright confess. But that wasn’t the point of this. The point was for Bruce to come to the conclusion on his own.

He walked down the hall, completely carefree. So happy and confident in his own abilities that he never even noticed that Cassandra’s paint or glitter didn’t go off. That she wasn’t even present where the tracker he had subtly placed on her earlier that day said she was.

*****

Duke hummed to himself as he skipped along the carpet, past the antique vases and random finger paintings, past the drawing rooms and bathrooms, and towards Bruce. All was quiet.

Though that began to trouble Duke, as he got closer to one of the rooms which was very special. It was where Cass had been situated, playing with Selina’s cat Isis, for the past hour. Now, Cassandra was quiet, sure. But not that quiet. And besides, wouldn’t the cat be screeching right about now? Cass didn’t seem like the person to give a nerve hit to an animal just because it was being loud ( cough Jason cough ).

He slowly entered the room and looked around, but was surprised to find it completely empty. Not just of girl and cat, but of paint and glitter too.

“You were mistaken.”

Duke whirled around to find Cass sitting in an armchair, wrapped in shadows, and stroking Isis in a manner not altogether different from that of an Evil Mastermind™.

“Uh…” Duke replied, “about what?”

Cass smirked, and Duke felt a shiver run up his spine. “Actions have consequences. ”

Duke frowned. Wait, what? He glanced around again, trying to figure out what Cass meant. On a surface level he understood, but there was something about the way Cass was eyeing him that told him something else was up.

The only thing he could find that was out of the ordinary, however, was the camera he had placed just yesterday. Huh, now that he thought about it, he was at just the right angle to see it. Which meant he was in direct view of the camera itself. Pretty darn to close to where he had been planning Cass would stand, actually.

Then a faint spitting noise came from above him.

Oh.

*****

Duke trudged forlornly into the room where the rest of the bats - except Cassandra, who had disappeared after the glitter had deployed onto Duke - had gathered. He was one of the last to arrive, muttering curses under his breath, so all eyes were on him as he opened the door and joined them.

Though that also meant that Duke could see them. He had to admit, that as disappointed as he was, it was still hard to keep a grin from spreading across his face. Boy, he had done a great job with color coordination, hadn’t he?

Bruce was front and center, covered in a dark gray paint which had the sheen of yellow glitter. Dick had black paint completely covering him (much more than Duke planned. Did Dick roll in the stuff?) along with blue glitter. Jason had both red paint and glitter on him. Tim had started off with a lighter colored paint - this time red - and then the look was finished by black glitter. Damian looked like a small Christmas tree in his green paint and red glitter. Harper had blue paint then covered in purple glitter, both of which were the exact shades of her hair. Duke wasn’t a monster ; he knew how to match colors.

The cousins - both honorary and actually - had also been present. Bette had been appropriately targeted with a flaming orange and gold combination. Kate had black paint and, instead of red, Duke had picked a rainbow glitter for her. From the slight glint in her eye, Duke supposed he had chosen correctly. Jean-Paul had been doused in yellow paint and red glitter, and he honestly looked like a very large and human shaped version of his sword. Luke was covered in silver paint and an electric blue glitter.

Bruce, however, didn’t give Duke a second glance, covered in yellow paint and black glitter (which had been meant for Cass, but honestly, it fit Duke quite well), though he was.

“Good, now we just have to wait for Steph,” Tim remarked, rolling his eyes.

Duke frowned. “What about Cass? She’s here too.”

Everyone gave Duke a weird look. “Uh, no she isn’t. She’s been hanging out with Selina and Babs all weekend.”

“Then your intel is wrong,” Duke countered. “She was just here! I planned on her being here!”

The silence in the room was palpable. Before, where there had been bickering and accusations, the quiet had taken over. Everyone stared at Duke with suspicion in their eyes.

Finally, Duke thought, sighing in relief.

Bruce opened his mouth about to question Duke’s statement when the doors to the room banged open.

“What’s up, Bitches? The Waffle Queen has arrived and looks as fabulous as ever!”

Duke stared, completely amazed that she actually seemed to like the purple on purple combo Duke had picked for her. Oh, yeah, now that he thought about it made perfect sense that Steph was the only one to like this.

“Wow, whoever did this really got my colors right!" Steph continued as she waltzed in and posed in front of everyone, her hip cocked and arm thrown up dramatically.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, and he began to growl at her. “This is not funny.”

Steph pouted. “What do you mean? I sure think it is!”

Oh boy, she didn’t notice she was digging her own grave, did she? From the looks of the other bats, they shared Duke’s sentiment.

“Stephanie Brown, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Stephanie smirked. “Yup! I look way better than you, you old fur- hey wait! Are you blaming me ?!”

Bruce glared even harder, and Stephanie started to protest, claiming that she was but an innocent victim of these pain-filled proceedings! It was not her fault! Nor was it her fault that she happened to get colors that she liked better than everyone else.

Bruce refused to hear what she said, and told her to go get changed. “You will be cleaning up this whole mess, and no patrolling until it’s done.”

Bruce turned and stalked out, and Steph was left speechless - for once - in the hall. She backed away, seeing the angry stares from the others. The only one who didn’t seem mad at her, was Duke himself. He opened his eyes wide, conveying pity. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed silently.

Instead of being reassuring, however, Steph squinted in suspicion. Oh shit, that probably hadn’t been the best move.

Just moments after Steph left, Jason threw up his hands. “Okay, who wants to have a water gun fight to clean off?”

There were several cheers of assent, but Duke quickly made his own escape at that time. He honestly wasn’t in the mood to get splashed in the face with water. Now was not the time for fun, as the failed prank still hung over him.

Now was the time for plotting.

*****

“Okay, but why on earth do you have a fully functioning sprinkler system in every room?”

“Yeah, Bruce, even for you that’s paranoid! What caused you to think that was necessary?”

“You.”

#duke thomas #duke thomas big bang #batfam #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #bruce wayne #dtbb21 #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #kate kane #jean paul valley #luke fox #bette kane

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bibliocratic · 4 years

Note

If you’re in the mood for a prompt I’ve been thinking about Jon getting hurt during the apocalypse and trying to hide it from Martin in a manner very similar to what he warned Martin not to do to him. I enjoy your writing very much! Have a good day!

I am always in the mood for some good old apocalypse hurt/comfort! Thanks for the prompt <3

jonmartin, series 5 adjacent but no spoilers, hurt/comfort

It's been a long two days.

Jon's breathing is hard-won, gravel-scraping up a dry and scream-torn throat. If he is sleeping, and Martin can't tell, even now if that's what to call it when the Archive's Eyes are closed, his head is mercifully free of dreams.

Martin's hands are sweat-lathered, muscles taut with a wired and overworked exhaustion. The scabs on his arms are itching from where Jon's blunted, gnawed nails dug and scored in a senseless panic, as the rest of his body convulsed, set upon some feverish pyre.

Martin doesn't even think Jon knew who he was. Doesn't know how long it will take for Jon to claw himself back.

It's been a long two days, but then days don't exist any more, so maybe he's getting the times wrong again. Martin shakes his shaggy head free from the dizziness building up, dust and grime clogging the smooth-running of him, adjusts his tremulous hold on the cricket bat, already soiled and discoloured dark along its edge. The sky hasn't taken on a night-pall since the world crashed sideways; it's the perpetual grey of an un-tuned station, studded with the great flexing, conjoining, bifurcating pupils that are now all staring at their beleaguered Archivist as he sweats and burns and cries out and whatever Martin can do for him, it is clearly not enough.

They'd thought it was the Hunt when it had attacked. Slaughter at a push. Jon had cast his face in a dissatisfied, pained expression, bemoaning his own slowness as Martin disinfected the snag-toothed wound of the now decimated beast, cleaning off the blood as thoroughly as possible, bandaging the area as Jon shook jittery with adrenaline and pain they'd no remedy for.

It was clearly sore to walk on. Jon had grunted as he stood, waved off Martin's fussing, trying to grind down any insurrection of his body even as they went mud-trudge slow across the vacant domain.

He'd grown ashen as his steps lost their stride and turned to shuffling. Martin had been the one to set his jaw and put his foot down, setting up camp in that nether-grey of something that would never be night again, shoring his spine with his own brand of stubbornness. Jon had agreed, but clearly not happy about their lack of progress, and they compromised on resting for a few hours, see if Jon's body would heal the injury on its own.

When Martin had asked Jon later if he was feeling better, Jon had said yes. Had said it was all healed up even as he shouldered his backpack, that they should really get moving. Martin had made a quip about Jon's super healing abilities and Jon had, he'd smiled like he was in on the joke, hadn't he?

Jon had said he was fine, and Martin believed him because he trusted him to tell him the truth.

They'd walked and walked through mire and moor and Jon had ploughed on, hadn't winced and stumbled. He'd been quiet, but then there were days like that for the both of them, that wasn't – should Martin have said something? Had the lines around his eyes been tighter, had he turned away from Martin as they walked, had there been anything he'd failed to see? As they walked, when they set up camp and Martin had helped Jon with the zip that was always getting stuck on their sleeping bag, when Jon had encircled his arms bodily around Martin and grunted a weary goodnight.

Martin had tussled free from the greedy, fog-banked maw of his nightmares to Jon panting and spasming next to him. Eyes all open, pocked across his body like boils, rolling sightless, his pupils shot wide in the damp frame of his skin, frothing spit at the corners of his mouth. His skin shiny, fish-scaling with sweat, his outward front of humanity losing ground as his flesh becomes more eyes than skin, his voice crackling like corrupted tape, his words, when they slicked garbled and gibberish from his lips, all stolen from other people's tragedies.

He throws his body around storm-wrecked and insensate, and he burns when Martin puts a hand to his forehead, and he won't wake, not for Martin's calls and shakes, not for anything.

When Martin goes to check, the wound on his leg has rooted from ankle to thigh, festering rot-black branches of something sludgy and swollen and varicose tracing the same lines as his veins.

The Corruption wars with Beholding upon the battleground of its Archive, and there is nothing Martin can do.

Their camp transitions to medical bay, but Martin is not a doctor. He tries to use the limited water they have to quench the fire-brand heat across Jon's skin; Jon flinching and fighting every pathetic gesture to comfort. Martin's mouth runs itself down shushing and failing to soothe his scalding delirium, Jon who sheds tears and pleads forgiveness and begs mercy for those he has lost. The dark lichen that is ensnaring the veins of his hip, his stomach grants him the cruelty of being able to see his burden of ghosts made material before him.

He cries at whatever Tim says to him. He tries to follow a phantom Sasha from the tent, struggles against Martin as he tries to keep him from walking out, from hurting himself more, Jon's slurring words barely understandable but for his moaning desperation that slips into anger for Martin to let go, it's Sasha, Martin, let me go, Martin!

He scratches and bites and Martin makes himself immovable, insurmountable. Jon's struggles always boil down to a grief-drowned sobbing eventually, and Martin can carry him limbless and half-collapsed back to bed.

Martin treats the yellow-weeping wound with what little antibiotic ointments they packed, cleans the swollen, reddened skin, and Jon wavers between the ghosts and shadows of his lying brain. Martin prefers the tearful, mourning Jon in some ways, because at least, there, in some ways, he at least remembers who Martin is, even if he might as well be as wraith-like as his hauntings.

It is better than Jon's terror.

When Martin looms large and unknown over him, Jon's legs scatter to push away. His eyes recognising nothing, staring up at him with suspicion. Jon's body has not been kindly used, these past years, and Jon won't let him touch his wound, kicks and pushes him away, tries to run even as his legs give under him. When every question is laced with the command of the Archive, and the compulsion tears answers Martin didn't want to give from his throat, the static in his head too much like Elias' violation and still Jon is panicking, asking his questions and not understanding the answers, and Martin dutifully retches up every horror Jon wants to be privy to, even if he's not sure it's only Jon asking, it's only Jon who wants to know any more.

Martin's body heaves up every unwanted honesty, peppering them with hysterical apologies of his own as he holds his hands over Jon's mouth to gag him, muffling the sound painfully as he presses his hands to clench Jon's jaw to immobile, even as Jon fights him, even as every eye stares and finds him wanting.

Martin is exhausted being a prison, of being so held as hated in the eyes of someone he knows loves him. But one of them has to be stronger now. Martin has never wanted to think of Jon as dangerous, but he watches the eyes grow rounded and alert as they feed on his dredged up horrors, the static ringing howling and hungry in his head. He's not entirely sure Jon will be able to stop himself from going too far.

When Jon calms, slips back into fever-dreams, there are bruises in the shape of fingertips around his mouth, and Martin can hardly bear to look at them.

The roots have receded their front lines, the puncture wounds puckered smaller when Martin checks again, and he can't look at that either.

It has been a long two days.

Jon's shivering has settled now. He rocks and frowns and breathes shallowly, but he doesn't bawl and sob names at the air. He doesn't try and ask any more questions. His fever broken, Martin thinks he's dream-walking again, for the roots continue their retreat steadily, the Archive feeding somehow.

Some pawing, creeping things have chanced their luck at an embattled, weakened Archive, and Martin's responsibility teeters between nurse and soldier. He's not a good fighter, but he's desperate for them both to survive this and that serves him well enough. There's blood scoring a bandoleer down and over his shoulder, a crest of viscera coating his shirt from some misbegotten creature of worm and want. He can't put weight on his right foot properly. He is so so tired, but still he sits, half folded, his grisly cricket bat over his knee, directly in front of the open mouth of their tent and the dreaming Jon, whose eyes scatter misted and blind under his eyelids.

Jon returns as Jon maybe a day later. Disorientated, groaning as he sits up, only two eyes in his head again. He calls out Martin's name, dry-throated, in his own voice again. He sounds sluggish and cautious. Not accusatory or betrayed or scared.

Martin kneels down by the sleeping bag, checking the untroubled skin of his calf is free from wound or infection. Jon's eyes are staring at him, nervy, over-bright, but he ignores them for the moment. Exhaustion has sanded down all his edges; he doesn't have the energy he wants for his anger, not yet, not when the worry has yet to pass from his system.

“How long was I, um, out of it?” Jon asks slowly. He looks uncomfortable. The tent is permeated with the unflattering smell of sickness and blood, both of which he has noticed if the slight wince in his expression is anything to go by.

“Three days, I guess,” Martin throws out, packing up the medical supplies now he's sure they won't be needed any more. “Not that time works any more, but you know. Estimate.”

“My leg...?”

Jon has the good grace to look guilty, and Martin feels a petty, digging stab of satisfaction. Good. Good that he knows he fucked up there.

“It got infected,” he replies shortly, shoving the supplies down to the bottom of his rucksack, kicking some clothes in a bundle near the mouth of the tent. He'll fold them separately in a minute; they're going to need to be cleaned at the next place they find water. “The thing that bit you, I think it must have already been aligned to Corruption, or whatever.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Yeah.”

“...Martin?” Jon's voice is low and tentative. He looks as weak as Martin feels. Martin closes his eyes, because he can feel what is coming, and he can't do this, not now, not with his thread-bare temper, the panic that's not unknotted from his bones. “Martin, why won't you look at me?”

Martin straightens from his hunch. Breathes out long and hard through his nose. Turns.

“Better?” he asks. He knows it comes out as a snap.

Jon's eyes go wide as they properly take him in, a blood-tainted furious wash-out of a man.

“You're hurt,” he breathes out, looking at the marks left by things Martin didn't kill fast enough, the little smarting wounds Jon dug in himself in his terror.

Martin wants to snarl at Jon to stop looking at him.

He doesn't.

“Yes,” Martin replies instead.

Jon's hands are taking on gestures of panic.

“Martin, will you – God, s-sit down, I-I-I'll get the medical supplies, take a look at them, make sure they're nothing – ”

“No,” Martin says. He's struggling to remain impartial, to remember how to be gentle to those he wants to treat gently. He breathes out another jagged exhale. “No. I'll sort them myself.”

Jon's pushing himself up to standing, staring critically at the disastrous image Martin makes, motioning to the rucksack.

“If you just let me – ”

“No,” Martin snaps. “No, I don't want you to help me, alright? What I want, ok, is to make sure you're all healed, and then I want as close to a bath as I can get in this bloody hellscape, and then I want to get some fucking sleep for a bit. That at the moment, that is the limit of what I am capable to wanting.”

There's a tense pause.

“You're angry at me,” Jon says in a small voice.

“Ten points there, Jon, really perceptive,” Martin snarks back. He can't look at Jon because he knows that would have stung, and he knows he wanted it to, wanted Jon to know a fraction of how much these last few days have hurt.

“Because I didn't tell you about my leg?”

“Oh, I'm not sure. Do you think that's possibly something I might be a bit upset about?”

“Martin...”

“If you're going to – to give me excuses, I don't want to hear them. Of course I'm upset! I'm furious actually. Because you told me it was fine. You told me it was healed, and I trusted you to tell me the truth, because unlike you, Jon, I can't read people's bloody minds, s-so trusting you is all I have to go on. Apparently that was asking too much from you.”

Jon flinches at that. Martin bites his tongue so hard it hurts, and tells himself that Jon deserves his honesty, not, never his cruelty. That this is not the man he wants to be.

“I am angry,” he repeats, deliberately quieter. “And we will talk about it later. But I – I cannot deal with it right now. Not without saying something I'll regret. So I want you to drop it, and just – leave me alone for a bit.”

Jon nods jerkily, looking cowed and miserable.

“Alright,” he says. “Alright, I'll – er, go, have a scout around for any water?”

It's as open an offer for space as Martin's going to get.

Martin must have collapsed onto the sleeping bag first before anything else because he wakes up with his shirt still starchy with blood what must be hours later. He blinks, turns over, groaning at his protesting muscles. Jon's eyes immediately swivel to him from the other side of the tent.

“You fell asleep,” he says quietly. He's clearly been sitting nearby, waiting for Martin to open his eyes. “I didn't want to – There's a stream, not too far, and I, um got water, if you want to wash... I've used some, so it's er, it's safe, and I've, er boiled it in case of, er bacteria and things. I'll – I'll get it and then give you some privacy....”

He's stumbling up. Martin reaches out a scratch-marked hand, and murmurs 'Jon'.

He doesn't know what he wants. He feels gross and sluggish and wrung-out empty, and the ashes of his anger are still embers he could stoke into expression.

Jon lingers. Looks from Martin's eyes to Martin's outstretched hand. He still has bruises the shape of fingertips near the side of his mouth, and he strikes an ill, frail figure in this light.

Martin's had enough of Jon looking scared of him these past few days.

Martin repeats his name.

Jon comes over. Kneels down where Martin has sat up so they're almost the same height.

Martin's hand settles on Jon's wrist, and he exhales shakily.

“Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?” Martin asks. This is not the question he wants to ask. The question sat poisonous behind his teeth is why didn't you trust me enough to tell me the truth? Neither of them can stomach that sort of question right now.

“I thought it would go away on its own,” Jon replies, shame coating his words. “I thought I could handle it. I didn't want you worrying.”

I worry anyway, Martin does not say. Does not need to.

“You were so sick,” Martin whispers instead. “You were so sick and you weren't getting better for such a long time, a-and there was nothing I could do but watch.”

“I'm sorry,” Jon says. “God, Martin, I – I'm sorry.”

“I know you are,” Martin replies quietly. “I know.”

Martin might offer up forgiveness if he wasn't so tired. His head so thick with all the things he is powerless against in this world.

“Let me,” Jon says, at Martin's side. His fingers hover over Martin's shoulder. “Let me, please.”

Martin nods.

Jon helps him strip out of the disgusting, blood-ruined armour he's been stewing in. His movements are faltering but methodical, light-fingered and exploratory. He soaks a cloth in water that's cooling down from boiling, dabs at every small mark scattered like anvil sparks across Martin's chest, his arms, the deeper wound at his shoulder that's begun to blossom with bruising. His eyes keep flicking to Martin's face, like he's double-checking something.

Martin, for his part, turns dozy and biddable, straining to keep conscious while Jon apparently tries to put plasters over every single mark on his body.

“What did this?” Jon finally asks as he presses gauze to the slash over his shoulder.

Martin blinks slowly, rouses.

“The usual,” he says. “Bunch'a monster things, wantin' to take a bite out of you.”

Jon hums.

“I saw what was left of the cricket bat,” he says. “Very gallant of you.”

Martin huffs a laugh. Jon continues wiping the grime and dirt down from Martin's arms, stopping every once in a while to soak and wring out his cloth.

“What did this?” he asks again, peering at the imprints where fingers wrapped around the meat of Martin's arm and tightened, the crescent curve dig of nails.

Martin thinks about lying, but he doesn't have the strength. He can't shoulder it, and neither of them should have to. Secrets have never served either of them very well.

“You,” he replies, lowly. “You were, you were feverish, you didn't know what was happening.”

“I didn't...?” Jon starts, but then he reaches up, touches his own bruise-marked jaw with a dawning realisation.

“I hurt you,” he says, slow and horrified.

Martin remembers every horror and honesty the Eye dragged from his unwilling throat to bolster the crumbling body of its Avatar, and murmurs: “You didn't mean to.”

He doesn't say that he thinks it helped. He doesn't say that if anything like this happens again, it'll be an option. He doesn't think Jon wants to hear that right now.

Jon pulls away as his mouth shapes another sorry, but Martin cuts him off, enfolds his arms around his scarecrow limbs and buries his face in Jon's throat. After a moment, Jon's trembling arms complete the circuit.

“You can't do this again,” Martin says, throat thick. “I can't – I can't do this on my own. I can't do this if you don't trust me.”

“I do,” Jon breathes in, damp and hitching. “I do trust you, I'm – I'm sorry. Martin, I'm sorry. You're not on your own. It won't happen again, I-I promise, it won't.”

They spend a long time holding each other up in that small, cramped tent, murmuring promises this life might not let them keep.

Martin crushes down the cynicism this world has tried to teach him, and chooses to believe in every single one.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #hurt/comfort #fic #cw depictions of fever #cw nonconsensual compulsion #martin blackwood #jonathan sims

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suttttton · 4 years

Text

Kindred Spirit//Crumbling World

Written for @bookish-bi-christian as part of @tma-valentines-exchange!

Happy Valentines Day, Ray! Enjoy your nostalgic timsasha angst!

~*~*~*~*~

In a windowless basement I look across my desk And your smile And your stupid hair And the golden rays of your eyes Become my sun

Tim stares at the poem for a long time. He’d found it on top of a little box he’d always known was in his desk, but hadn’t looked at for over a year now. It was full of cards with little notes from Sasha, printed-out photos of the two of them together. And this love poem.

He remembers when Sasha gave him the poem. He’d just gotten back from a follow-up adventure that had taken him out of the Archives for a couple of days. It had been on his desk when he came back, and he’d read it, grinning the whole way as Sasha determinedly avoided eye contact.

“Not a word!” she’d said when he’d opened his mouth to thank her for it. “I know it’s stupid and cheesy, I just—” her face had been fully red by this point. “I don’t know. I missed you.”

He didn’t think it was cheesy. He’d been touched. Even as he teased Sasha about ‘the golden rays of his eyes’ for a week straight.

He remembers that.

But it doesn’t—

He doesn’t—

When the thing that wasn’t Sasha had mentioned her new boyfriend, it hadn’t seemed odd to Tim. He hadn’t felt jealous, or, or hurt. Why would he? He and Sasha weren’t that close. They were work friends, and that was all.

But before that, Sasha had written him a love poem. She’d written him a love poem because he was gone for two days and she missed him. That evening, he remembers, they’d gone back to his place together and gotten wine drunk while watching The Princess Bride. That was Sasha’s favorite movie, which Tim knows because he’d gone through a whole phase of saying, “As you wish,” whenever Sasha made any request of him. Because what he really meant was—

But—

Tim starts taking everything else out of the box, spreading it across his desk. He starts with the cards, both of them written in Sasha’s messy cursive.

First is the card Sasha had given him for his last birthday. The printed message says, “With Sympathy, to let you know that thoughts and prayers are with you in your time of sorrow.” The inside is crammed with her tiny script, paragraph after paragraph, hundreds of words. It was titled, “A Eulogy for 33.” On the other page, written much larger, “Long live 34! Love, Sasha.”

She’d taken him out to dinner, and when she’d given him the card, he’d insisted on reading the whole thing out loud, even as she’d complained. She was laughing, even as she said, “Tim, I will leave if you don’t stop it.”

Tim stares at that “Love,” for a long time, trying to suss out any deeper meaning from it. Not such a strange thing to write on your friend’s birthday card. She’d cared about him, but he already knew that, didn’t he? The poem said as much.

He moves on to the other card, a Valentine’s day card. There’s a picture of three chickens on the front, and inside it says, “Hope you have a happy Val-HEN-tine’s day!” It was a tradition, between them, bad cards presented with exaggerated flourishes, signed with sickeningly pet names. Tim would sign his, “Your sweetest sugar,” and Sasha would write, “Love, your honeybee <3”

On the inside of this one, Sasha had simply written, “I love you Tim”. Serious and sincere. Tim tries to remember how he felt, reading it. He doesn’t remember finding it strange at all. It had just felt nice. Warm.

He turns his attention to the photos. None of them are polaroids, because of course they aren’t. But they are something. Memories. Evidence.

The first photo is from the yearly holiday party. Tim is wearing antlers. His arm is around Sasha, and she’s smiling. They’d gone to the party together. But they always went to the party together, and the photo isn’t especially recent. They hadn’t moved to the Archives yet.

Next is a photo of the two of them at a wedding. Tim can’t remember whose. Some distant cousin of Sasha’s. There had been a kitschy photo booth at the reception, and the two of them had taken far too long playing with the props before finally settling down for the photo. They’re wearing oversized sunglasses, a feather boa is looped around their shoulders. Tim had been Sasha’s date then, too. It had been normal for them, going together to parties and events.

The third photo shows them on their first day in the Archives. They’d taken lots of pictures that day, with Jon and Martin and the infamous dog, but this one is just the two of them. Sasha is hugging him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. Close, because they were close. Best friends. And—

The final is from a research mission they’d gone on together. Tim isn’t in it. It’s just Sasha, sitting on a bench at a bus stop. The sun is just beginning to set in the background, the sky turning from blue to white. He’d taken it because she looked beautiful, and he’d gotten it printed because—

Because he loved her.

He had loved her. Every moment he’d spent with her, he had loved her. How could he have forgotten? He had loved her, and she’d been dead for more than a year now, and in all that time he hadn’t thought about it even once.

He looks at the poem again. Sasha had loved him, too.

He wonders what else he’s forgotten, what else that thing had turned his mind away from. Had there been something, between him and Sasha? That would make sense, wouldn’t it, if they’d loved each other? He doesn’t remember anything like that, but… he isn’t sure he trusts his memories, anymore.

The last thing in the box is a friendship bracelet, made from colorful embroidery thread. Sasha made it, during that first week in the Archives, when they were annoyed with Jon and took whatever chances they could to slack off. “Pink for you,” she’d said. “Green for me. And brown for both of us.” The colors clashed horribly, but Tim still liked the way they looked together. At the time, Tim’s hair had been pink (”your stupid hair,” Sasha’s poem had said). Sasha wore a green cardigan nearly every day. And both of their eyes were brown.

The thing that killed Sasha had blue eyes. How had Tim not noticed that?

He picks up the bracelet, ties it around his wrist. Looking at it makes his heart seize up with grief for Sasha, for something he still doesn’t know how to name.

Good.

***

Tim has one tape of Sasha’s voice, and he listens to it, over and over, rewinding and rewinding. He listens to the cadence of their interactions, the closeness that had existed between them.

On the tape, Tim jokes about them being love interests, and Sasha rebuffs him. Tim remembers this, remembers feeling—frustrated? Sad? No. This happened at the beginning of their time in the Archives, before the cards, before the poem, but after countless nights out and nights in, parties spent paying attention to no one but each other, countless jokes and secrets and traumas shared between them.

He’d loved her.

And even as he listens to her laughing him off, he knows that she loved him.

There was more to it than this tape. Something existed between them, something precious, something wonderful, and he can’t—

He can’t remember what it was.

***

“Martin,” Tim says, cornering him in the break room one morning. It’s early, but Martin gets to work early, these days. Jon is gone, but what else is new?

“Christ,” Martin swears as he spins around, spilling a few drops of tea on the floor as he swerves. “You scared me. I didn’t think anyone else was here yet.”

Tim shrugs. “I have a question. About Sasha.”

“I—Okay,” Martin says, sobering.

“Do you—” Tim doesn’t know how to ask. It seems like such a trivial thing to be asking about. Sasha is dead, and none of them can remember her face or her voice, and Tim wants to know—what? If she had a crush on him? He twists the friendship bracelet on his wrist, steadies himself. “You were with us every day. Did you ever notice anything—romantic, between Sasha and me?”

“Not really,” Martin says.

“Do you know that, or do you just think it?” Tim asks.

Martin blinks. “What? I—” and then he pauses, as he starts thinking about it. “Oh, that’s weird,” he says, after a moment.

What?” Tim says, and his voice is too much, too desperate.

“It—She—” Martin pauses, takes a deep breath. “It’s hard, thinking of specific events. My mind keeps kind of… sliding away. But I think we used to talk about you?”

“Office gossip?” Tim asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, not—Sorry. That came out wrong,” Martin says. “Did—She wrote you a poem, didn’t she?”

“Yes! You remember that? Hold on—” Tim turns and returns to his desk, grabbing the poem from where it still rests on top of the box. He hands it to Martin, who smiles softly as he reads it.

“Yeah, I—I helped with this,” Martin says. “She—she wanted advice to make it worse. Which—ouch, but… I knew she wasn’t trying to be mean, you know?”

“Yeah,” Tim says softly. That was Sasha. Harsh without meaning to be, never quite thinking through the implications of her words. “Wait—she wanted it to be bad?”

Martin nods. “She wanted you to laugh, and to tease her about it. I mean, that was basically your love language, wasn’t it?”

“Was it?” Tim asks.

Martin hesitates. “I think so?”

Tim is silent for a long moment, staring at the poem. He twists the bracelet on his wrist again. “Were we a couple?”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe,” Tim repeats. “Jesus.” He sits down at the little table, frowning down at the plastic tabletop. How many times did he eat lunch here with her? “It took her face and her voice, and it can’t—I can’t let it take this. If there was something between us, I have to remember, but—” There’s nothing else he can do, is there? If these memories ever existed, they’re gone now. Stolen by the thing that killed her. He slams his hand against the table. “Damn it!” he says, blinking back tears in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Tim,” Martin says, softly. Tim just shakes his head, and after a moment Martin leaves.

***

Two days later, Tim sneaks into the Archive early in the morning, and there’s a new tape sitting on his desk. For a long moment, he just stares at it, anger rising in his chest. Was it from Jon? Was Jon trying to contact him, trying to send him on some mission?

No, thanks.

He picks up the tape, planning to drop it in the trash. And then he sees the note underneath it. “Tim—Listen to this!” Martin’s name at the bottom.

Not creepy or foreboding at all, thanks Martin. Nevertheless, Tim relaxes a little. There’s a recorder on Martin’s desk, and Tim picks it up and pops the tape inside, leaning back in his chair.

The first few minutes are nothing but Martin, reading his poetry. Martin’s poems are fine, but Tim somehow doubts that’s all Martin wanted to show him. He keeps listening. And then—

The creak of a door opening. “Goodnight, Martin!” It’s Sasha’s voice. Her real voice. Sasha.

“How hard is it to knock?” Martin says, sounding pissed. “You always knock when Jon is recording.”

“That’s because Jon is my boss, recording actual work in his office. You’re in a storage closet.”

“… Fair enough,” Martin sighs.

“Speaking of Jon, are you going to make your move any time soon?”

“Wha—no!”

“Boo, why not?”

“Putting aside the fact that he hates me, he’s also my boss.”

“It’s Jon. He doesn’t have any real authority down here and he knows it.”

“Still doesn’t fix the problem where he hates me, does it? What about Tim? Are you going to make your move soon?”

Sasha hums. “I think I’m just going to leave it, actually.”

“Oh come on!”

“I just… I kind of like what we have now? We’re best friends, we share everything with each other, and we go out and get drinks, and—and there’s no expectation involved. Or—no, that’s not the right word. It’s like—you know how friendship can’t really survive romance? There’s too much passion, too much give-and-take, too much change.”

Sasha laughs then. “It sounds so unromantic, put like that,” she says. “Who wants a relationship without passion? But—It feels special. Like we’ve found a way to love each other, gently. Does that—that probably makes no sense, does it?”

“No, I—I think I understand,” Martin says.

“It’s like we’re teetering between being in a relationship and being best friends, and I feel like if either of us acknowledge it, we’ll be forced to choose, one way or another. And this wonderful thing between us will be destroyed.”

Martin hums. “I kind of think you should talk to Tim about it anyway?”

Sasha lets out a sigh. “Maybe I will,” she says, after a long moment.

And then the tape clicks off. Tim sniffs, wiping at freshly formed tears, and remembers.

***

There was this one night, the two of them laying in bed together, fingers intertwined between them.

They were talking, softly because they were both on the verge of sleep. But Sasha kept making him laugh, and he was so happy. So happy that it didn’t quite fit inside him, so happy that he felt nearly weightless with it.

He brought her fingers up to his mouth, and she sighed softly next to him. And the unspoken thing between them felt so huge, so real, so all-encompassing.

“Sasha James,” he whispered, his voice slurring slightly with sleepiness. “You are going to be the death of me.”

“All according to plan,” she mumbled, rolling over to face him with a sly smile. “I have to earn my membership to the assassin’s guild somehow.”

He returned her smile. And then he leaned in to kiss her, still holding her hand.

“Are you happy?” she whispered against his lips. And that was a ridiculous question, because he couldn’t stop smiling. He could nearly cry with how happy he was.

“Yes,” he said, and he felt her smile in return.

“Me too.”

#tma valentine's exchange 2021 #tma #tma fic #timsasha #stranger danger #my fic

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 30: Tim

Tim still feels guilty a week later.

Not, it has to be said, that anyone is making him feel guilty. Quite the opposite. The group hug in the Primes’ unofficial bedroom seems to have cleared the air. They don’t exactly say anything about forgiveness or accepting one another’s apologies, but Sasha comes with them when they leave work and ends up spending the night; they build a massive fort in the living room using every pillow and blanket in the house, have popcorn and hot chocolate for dinner, and swap stories about their childhoods until way too late in the evening considering they have work the next day. When Martin hesitantly admits the next evening that he’s been having trouble sleeping, Jon reminds him of his promise that Martin doesn’t have to be alone anymore, and the three of them curl up together in Tim’s bed for the first time since Jon’s stabbing, this time with Martin in the middle. They agree after that to assume they’ll keep doing that unless one of them has a genuine need to sleep alone.

But Tim still finds himself occasionally waking up in the middle of the night and studying the peaceful look on Martin’s face as he sleeps, or watching Jon mumble and shift restlessly as he watches whatever horror the Eye is forcing someone to relive, and feeling like the world’s biggest heel. While he knows he doesn’t have anything to do with Jon’s nightmares, he still feels like they’re not so bad when Jon isn’t isolating himself, and God knows Martin’s sleep is probably better when he doesn’t feel like he’s being shut out. And while, again, Jon was the one to insist at first that it would be better for him to sleep alone while he had the stitches in and Martin had quietly gone to his own room as well, Tim still feels like he pushed them away, even if it was unconsciously. He hurt both of them and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

He knows he should say something. That’s the whole point of all this; they’re trying to communicate. If something is bothering him, he ought to tell the others. But what he doesn’t want is for Martin—or Jon, for that matter—to spout platitudes and reassurances that he won’t believe. Even though he can tell from their actions that they’re genuine.

At the root of it, that’s the issue. Jon and Martin have forgiven Tim for the way he treated them when he was angry. Tim can’t forgive himself.

Tim taps his pen against his jaw absently as he studies the file in front of him. He’s quizzed Martin Prime on the “feeling” he once mentioned getting about which statements were real or not, and in the last few days he’s been trying his hand at it. It’s slow going, and he knows it’s probably at least partly because he’s resisted the Eye harder than the others, but ever since Sasha’s intervention, he’s decided, screw it. He’s trapped here, for better or for worse, and if it means he maybe gets freaky psychic powers, maybe he can at least use them to help keep his family safe.

This one feels real. It feels bad. Tim hates it on sight, which probably means it’s a Stranger statement; he tends to react badly to those for obvious reasons. And this one deals with taxidermy, which definitely doesn’t help matters. Still, he grits his teeth and digs into it, and what he finds…isn’t comforting. The name Daniel Rawlings is one he remembers—that was one of the people who went missing near Old Fishmarket Close, the very first statement they ever researched that had to go on the tape recorders. And the description of the thing in the basement sounds a hell of a lot like the thing Nathan Watts saw—holding bodies, luring people down with creepy, repetitive phrases. The guy’s lucky to be alive. The fact that the Trophy Room apparently still exists, and is still under Daniel Rawlings’ ownership, is…not great. From a research standpoint, it’s a boon they don’t usually get, but from a practical, this-is-probably-something-set-to-destroy-the-world standpoint, it’s fucking terrifying.

Tim stares at the statement for a long moment. Whether they need to follow up on it or not is almost academic at this point; they will follow up on it, because it’s what they do. They’ll do what they can from the office, but Tim doesn’t need any kind of special powers to know that eventually, someone will go out there to investigate in person. And it’s dangerous. Someone could get seriously hurt.

Which means there’s only one choice, really.

Sasha comes back from her lunch break and smiles at Tim; he smiles reflexively back and goes through the usual routine of how was your lunch, what’s the weather like, anything interesting come up while I was out. He assures Sasha that everything is fine on their end, shuffles the folder under some of the others on his desk under the guise of neatening things up, grabs his jacket, feels to make sure his phone is in the inner pocket, and heads out of the Archives.

It’s the warmest it’s been all month, but there’s just enough of a breeze to keep his jacket on as he walks to the Tube station. Sloane Square is the nearest stop to the Institute, but it’s not on the right line, so he’ll have to change trains at Monumental, and God, this is stupid. Jon hasn’t told him to look into this statement like this, hasn’t sent him to investigate. He doesn’t have to do this, job-wise.

It also occurs to him, belatedly, that he hasn’t told anyone he’s doing this. Well, there’s a reason for that, really; Jon would either try to forbid him from heading out there or insist he bring someone along, neither of which are happening. Tim’s not exposing anyone else on the team to this, even if he’s right there with them. Better that it just be him risking…whatever he’s risking by heading up to Woodside Park. But he should at least warn someone he might be a bit late getting back from lunch. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going exactly, he rationalizes, just say he’s investigating a statement. There are four or five on his desk, and even if Sasha goes snooping through them to see what he’s working on, there’s no way they can be sure this is the one he’s poking into. They’ll probably think it’s any statement but this one. They all know how Tim feels about the Stranger.

When he sits down on the second train just before it pulls out of the station, he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. What he pulls out…is not his phone. It’s a small handheld tape recorder, the sort of thing you’d find in an amateur spy kit, looking like it’s brand new out of the package. Tim stares at it in stupefaction for a moment, then quickly pats himself down. His phone is not in his pocket, and he suddenly has a clear and vivid picture in his mind of it sitting on the corner of his desk, charging, because he forgot to plug it in last night.

Great.

For a moment, he’s tempted to go back. Turn around, head back to the Institute, grab his phone, come back another time. Maybe give Jon a heads-up that he’ll be a bit late getting back, if Jon’s back from lunch by the time he gets there. He doesn’t have to say where he’s going, just that he’s following up on a statement or something like that. No need to specify, right?

He doesn’t, though. For one thing, he’s pretty sure if he goes back, he’ll lose his nerve and either not go back or bring someone back with him…or worse, let one of the others go instead. He’ll never be able to live with himself if he puts anyone else in danger like that. And for another, he knows Jon won’t accept a half-explanation. Tim will either have to tell him nothing or everything. And if Tim tells Jon everything, Jon will forbid Tim to come out here.

“I can hear him now,” he mutters, still staring at the recorder in his hand. “‘There’s no need for you to put yourself in that kind of danger, Tim, and certainly no need to expose yourself to that. We can do this over the phone if we have to.’”

Except they can’t; the Stranger is at its best when it’s hidden, so if they’re not looking it in the—well, looking it in the eye, Tim guesses—it’s going to lie to them. It might lie to his face, too, but at least he’ll have the evidence of his senses. And at least he can put it on alert, maybe. The Eye sees you. The Institute is aware of you. Timothy Stoker knows where to find you.

Yeah, right. This is the stupidest thing Tim’s done since he tried to jump off the roof using his grandmother’s umbrella with the bird handle as a parachute.

He turns the recorder over a couple of times in his hands. The Primes mentioned once that their Tim hated these things—the way they kept turning up without warning, the way they would turn themselves on at random times, what they might mean. Tim’s not exactly thrilled about this one just turning up in his pocket either, if it comes down to it, especially in place of his phone. A tape recorder won’t enable him to get in touch with anyone if things go tits-up, or if he’s running late or something. On the other hand…well, it’s better than nothing. And he has to admit it’s a little bit of a comfort to know he’s not technically alone. The Primes both swear they aren’t a tool of the Eye, and he has to admit their logic is sound as to why not, but still, someone or something is listening to him, which means he won’t disappear into nothing. If, God forbid, something goes wrong, at least there will be a record. Some kind of witness.

Tim pats down his pockets and locates a pen, then pops open the recorder. Nestled inside is a microcassette tape, ready and waiting. He considers for a moment, then writes RETURN TO ARCHIVES, THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE, LONDON on the label as neatly as he can. There isn’t anywhere on the recorder’s surface to write, and he doesn’t have any tape or anything, but he hopes that will be sufficient, should someone find it and need to send it back. He considers writing his name and the address of the Institute on his arm or something, the way his parents used to do with him and Danny whenever they went out someplace they might get separated, but decides against it. Based on where he’s going and what he knows about what’s there, the balance of probability is that if he dies, they won’t leave any skin to identify him. He’ll have to settle for tucking his wallet in the same pocket as the recorder and hoping they dispose of his jacket without going through it.

Tim is beginning to wish he put a little more forethought into this. Or, you know, any forethought at all.

Woodside Park is almost at the end of the Northern line, which gives Tim way too much time to think about turning back and consider that there’s no turning back now. He’s the only one who gets off at that stop, which is certainly not eerie at all. Nope, nothing to be concerned about here, perfectly normal. (Logically, it probably is perfectly normal, but Tim is so addled right now that everything looks spooky.) He fishes out the recorder and turns it on.

“Right,” he says. “Uh, this is Timothy Stoker, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, and…if you’re listening to this and don’t know what that is, well, uh, stop listening and get this back to Jonathan Sims, the Head Archivist. You, uh, you should be able to look it up. Stop listening now.” He pauses a second or two, then continues, “Okay, should be Archival staff listening now…Jon, Martin, if it’s you, I’m sorry, but I had to do this. I’m, uh, I’m at Woodside Park right now, I just got off the Tube, and…well, I’m about to go into the Trophy Room. This statement is just…it’s too freaky to leave alone. I can’t risk any of you if it’s something serious and…I’m sorry. Anyway, I’m…going to leave this thing going in my pocket, kind of try to get a recording, so that if I can’t explain for whatever reason, you’ll know what happens. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Hopefully nothing too bad, but…well, we’ll see.”

He pauses for a moment, then tucks the recorder back in his pocket and says under his breath, “Fuck.” Then he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and heads down the block.

The Trophy Room isn’t hard to find. It’s exactly as the taxman described it in his statement—an aged, grimy building with faded gold lettering and a dirt-streaked olive green awning. There’s even a stuffed big cat in the window, and the only reason Tim knows it’s a tiger and not a lion, apart from the statement, is because big cats were something of an obsession of his when he was nine or ten, back when he’d considered a career as a wild animal tamer for a circus, and he made a study of the physiology of them. This is unmistakably a tiger, long-faded stripes notwithstanding. That seems to him a somewhat irresponsible way to care for something you ought to put pride in, but what does Tim know?

The bell over the door clangs raucously when Tim pushes the door open, and he is suddenly confronted by hundreds of staring, glassy eyes. Tim quite likes animals and he’s seen many of the ones in the shop live and in person, including an up-close-and-personal encounter with a moose (this one must be a juvenile, he thinks, a full-grown bull wouldn’t fit in the space it’s crammed into), but the concentration of them looking at him, all at once, is disconcerting, to say the least. But it’s not nearly so disorientating as the smell. Danny once declared he was going to buy their mother something “unique” and purchased a titan arum for her before learning that it was more commonly called a “corpse flower” for a very good reason. This place smells like they’ve got an entire greenhouse of them under the floor.

Which is better than the alternative, really.

A man comes out of the back. True to the description in the statement, he’s a “fresh-faced twenty-something”; if he’s even Jon’s age, Tim will eat the entire taxidermied moose. He raises his eyebrows in Tim’s direction. “Can I help you?”

A nagging, persistent voice in the back of Tim’s head that sounds an awful lot like Martin suggests that declaring himself to be from the Magnus Institute would be the worst decision he’s made all day, which is saying a lot. Time to fake it. Luckily, Tim’s good at that. He switches on his most charming smile. “Hi! I sure hope so. I’m looking for a Christmas present for my sister.”

Is it Tim’s imagination, or does the man he presumes to be Daniel Rawlings relax, just a fraction? “Bit early for that, aren’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know if you’d have something on hand or if I’d have to wait for you to get something in or bring something in,” Tim says, waving at the assorted animals. “I mean, she’s kinda picky sometimes. I don’t know how this works.”

“Ah. Well, let’s see what I can do to help you.” The man extends a hand and grins. “I’m Daniel Rawlings. And you are…?”

“Nick DiAngelo.” Tim Anglicizes his grandfather’s name; it feels safer than giving his real one. He accepts Rawlings’ hand; it’s cool, hard, and very dry.

“Mm.” Tim can’t tell if Rawlings believes him or not, but he shakes his hand and lowers it. “Well, all of these pieces are for sale, unless you brought something in. You’re not a…hunter yourself, are you?”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis Rawlings puts on hunter, but he keeps up his smile. “Nah, not my thing. Never been one for guns or the like. I like my nature alive.”

“But your sister doesn’t?”

“She’s an animal lover, but she can’t have pets at this new place she’s moving to. So, stuffed it is.” Tim waves a hand at the room. “Don’t think there’s room in her flat for a whole moose, of course, but…”

“Of course, of course. Well, feel free to look around and see if anything catches your…eye.”

Tim manages not to react to that word. Instead, he, smiles again and ambles towards a shelf full of squirrels. The animals’ eyes seem to follow him as he walks, and he knows Rawlings’ eyes follow him, too.

“So how long have you been doing this, anyway?” he blurts after a moment, turning back to face Rawlings. “It must have taken ages to do all this.”

“Oh, I inherited it,” Rawlings tells him. “An old friend of my father’s left it to me. Apparently he didn’t have any other family.”

Mentally, Tim ticks off the first item on the list—the stories tally. Which, well, of course they would. “Do you like all this?”

Rawlings shrugs. Tim tries again. “You’re lucky, you know. Falling into a business like this. I’ve been having to work my way up from the bottom. Is it hard?”

“Not so hard as it could be, I suppose.” Rawlings looks around him. “At least it’s a good, steady business. No heavy lifting.” He smiles. “I’ve got people for that.”

“Hey, are you hiring?”

“Hmm.” Rawlings tips his head to one side, studying Tim. A prickle of unease crawls up Tim’s spine. The man won’t make eye contact, but something about that regard unsettles him. “I think we might be able to find a…fitting position for you. If you’re interested.”

Tim pretends to consider it. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know after the new year? Got a big project I’m in the middle of now.”

“Of course. There’s plenty of time.” Rawlings smiles. “It’s not like the animals are going anywhere.”

Tim laughs, despite the creeping feeling of dread. “That would be…strange.”

The word slips out before Tim can stop it, but Rawlings laughs, too. He seems genuinely delighted, and even comes closer. “Here, let me help you find something that would suit your sister.”

He lights a cigarette. Tim raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you worried about these old things going up if you drop that?”

“I’d be desolate if they did.” There’s no doubt about it; Rawlings is dropping those words deliberately, but this time he sounds amused more than taunting. He either realizes Tim knows something, or he’s just showing off his own knowledge. Neither of which is good. “But no, they’re remarkably well-preserved.”

“That’s what they said about our uncle,” Tim quips. He does get another laugh out of Rawlings for that one. “How old are they, anyway? I know you said your dad’s friend did them…”

“He owned the shop. Many hands have worked these creatures.” Rawlings strokes the moose’s nose almost reverently. “Tell me, Mr. DiAngelo, what is your field?”

“History,” Tim lies easily. “Eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with a focus on arts and industry.”

“Ah.” Rawlings still doesn’t meet his eyes, but there’s a glitter in them. “Then I think I have something worth showing you.” He gestures towards the back.

Tim’s not stupid, despite all current evidence to the contrary. He knows from the statement that the workroom is back there, behind the office. There’s a distinct possibility that he’s letting himself be lured into a deadly trap. But in keeping with his persona, and also in the interest of getting the information he needs, he says brightly, “Great! Lead on, then.”

If he survives this, Jon’s going to kill him.

The office is small, largely dominated by an old oak desk. Seated behind it is a petite woman with close-cropped brown hair, wearing a grey t-shirt and a light jacket, bent over what look like account books. Tim has a nasty feeling he knows who this woman is.

“Sarah,” Rawlings says, confirming Tim’s suspicions-slash-fears, “this is Nick DiAngelo. I brought him back to show him the skins…Mr. DiAngelo, this is Sarah Baldwin, one of my fellow employees.”

“Pleasure,” Tim says cheerfully. This is officially too much, but he’s got to see it through now. The smell of Death By Flowers is stronger here, and he remembers suddenly Melanie King mentioning in her statement that the Sarah Baldwin who did sound work for her Ghost Hunt UK episode had a sharp, faintly floral perfume, or something like that. He wonders if she’s been living here—so to speak—all this time, if the smell of the building has soaked into her skin or if it’s something that comes from her and Rawlings and whatever else might be part of all this.

“Hi,” Sarah says succinctly. Tim also remembers Melanie saying she was a woman of few words.

“Come look at these. She won’t mind,” Rawlings assures Tim. Sure enough, Sarah seems scarcely aware of their presence as Rawlings begins showing Tim the skins hanging on the wall. And if they’re genuine, if he’s telling the truth about their origins—and Tim has no reason to doubt him—they are impressive.

One skin seems to be missing, though. The man from Internal Revenue described a gorilla skin, alleged to be from the fifth century B.C., the oldest bit of taxidermy in the world. There’s nothing like that in this room. Tim’s not sure why that bothers him so much, but reluctantly, he has to admit that he probably shouldn’t ignore it.

“…And this,” Rawlings concludes, indicating a stuffed figure on the desk—a white hare in a waistcoat, “was part of the Great Exhibition of 1851. It helped drive Victorian England mad for the craft.”

Tim doesn’t like the emphasis he puts on mad, but since this is supposed to be his specialty, he says, “I am impressed. There was a lot of fantastic craftwork at the Great Exhibition. I saw a stereoscope card once while I was doing my graduate research, but I never dreamed I would ever see something that was actually displayed there.”

“Would you like to touch it?” Rawlings asks. “You can, you know. It’s quite safe.”

Tim tries very much to look like he’s hesitating out of reverence for the age of the piece and not because he wonders if he’s going to end up poisoned, sucked into an alternate dimension, or triggering a trapdoor to the mouth of a hungry monster, but he can’t actually think of a good reason why a historian would refuse to touch, well, actual history. So he reaches out, slowly, and runs his hand over the hare’s fur. It’s stiff and wiry, the effects of almost two centuries of existence, but still feels mostly soft under his palm. The body is solid and firm. If he didn’t know better, he would swear it has a heartbeat.

“That’s brilliant,” he breathes. Hopefully he still sounds awed and not terrified. He takes a risk. “Is this the oldest piece you have?”

“Wolf,” Sarah grunts, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the wolf pelt hanging on the wall.

“It dates back to the Middle Ages,” Rawlings explains. “We had one even older, but, well, it was stolen some years ago.”

“Stolen?” Tim is genuinely taken aback by this. “Did they ever find it?”

“No, sadly. It was never sold, at least not publicly, so who knows?” Rawlings sighs. “It was a gorilla skin, from Carthage. Brought over by Hammo in the fifth century B.C.”

“It must have been worth a pretty penny,” Tim whistles.

“Its value is immeasurable,” Rawlings says earnestly. “It means the world.”

Something about that phrase makes Tim’s blood run cold. Not it means the world to me, or to my dad’s friend, even though he guesses that’s a fiction. Just it means the world. Whatever that means, it can’t be good for humanity.

“Well,” he says, as sympathetically as he can. “I hope it comes back to you in the fullness of time.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will. If it hasn’t been destroyed…I’m sure there’s someone out there who knows where to look.”

Tim would like to go now, he decides. He’s pretty sure he has all the information he needs, and surely the Primes can fill in anything he’s missing. “I’m glad you showed me these. They’re really impressive. But I’m sure they’re well out of my price range.”

“Maybe,” Rawlings says. “But that could change. We’ll discuss that later, if you’re still interested in that job.”

Tim definitely does not like the sound of that. “I’ll be in touch about that. And I’ll be back for sure about something for my sister, once I’ve had time to…reassess things a little. You know, get an idea about her flat layout and what sort of thing would work best for her.”

Rawlings smiles. It sends chills down Tim’s spine. “Don’t be a stranger.”

He holds out his hand. As they shake again, for the first time, Rawlings looks Tim dead in the eye, and Tim realizes two things. First of all, the taxman wasn’t kidding; Rawlings’ eyes are as dead and lifeless as the animals’, and like theirs are made of glass, fixed in place where his real eyes should be. They should stare without seeing, but unlike Martin Prime’s eyes, which are still warm and expressive but stare right past or through you, these bore into Tim’s and he is one hundred percent aware that Rawlings can see him perfectly clearly.

Second…his eyes are glowing faintly, a deep and vibrant indigo, like they’re lit from within. Which is frankly beyond disturbing.

“I won’t,” Tim assures him, and means it.

He comes out of the office ahead of Rawlings and is about halfway to the door when it happens. The bell jangles again, and two men come in—two men Tim would prefer never to see again, dressed like deliverymen and crossing into the shop.

It’s Breekon and Hope.

One of them notices Tim and stiffens. “Hey, you.”

“What are you doing here?” asks the other, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Come to spy on us?”

“See what we’re doing?”

“What?” Rawlings asks sharply.

Tim bolts. He has surprise on his side and manages to get out the door before anyone can grab him, but unlike the man who gave the statement, he knows they’re not just going to let him get away. He considered a lot of possible fates for himself should he visit the Trophy Room, but somehow, Breekon and Hope turning up while he was there, and recognizing him, never occurred to him. Stupid. Stupid.

It’s a good stretch to the Tube station, and Tim expects every step to feel them on his heels, but either they can’t move as quickly as him or they’re not chasing him for their own reasons. Still, he hears a rumble behind him and doesn’t stop to check if it’s them or not. Instead, he sprints for the entrance to the station and leaps down the steps three at a time. He lands wrong at the bottom and his ankle buckles, but he shakes off the pain and manages to just make it to the train before it pulls out, which at least has the advantage of giving anyone who saw him come flying in a possible explanation for his hurry beyond “being chased by something out of a horror film”.

He collapses into his seat and catches his breath as the train pulls away, heading back towards central London. Once he’s breathing normally, he takes stock. His ankle throbs, but the pain is relatively mild. He’ll live and, most crucially, he’s not in the back of an ersatz delivery van…or worse. Tim honestly can’t say what he would have done if they’d caught him, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to think about it.

After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and checks for the recorder. It’s stopped, which might mean it cut itself off when the danger had passed, or might mean he hit the end of the spool, or might mean he screwed up and turned it off and it didn’t catch what happened in there at all. He’s going to have to hope he got everything, though, because no way is he risking playing this on the train. There are other people here, after all, although not many. He does rewind it, though, and he’s comforted to hear the length of its backwards spool. There’s something on it at least.

He makes the connection with seconds to spare; the Central line is a bit more crowded, so he ends up standing near the door, which does at least mean he’s the first one off at Sloane Square. He tries to hurry without running—the last thing he wants is to draw attention—but even now, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder periodically to see if anyone is following him. Luckily, it appears he’s managed to give them the slip. For now, anyway.

As he gets closer to the Institute, he slows up and tries to straighten up his appearance. The last thing he wants is to make it look like he had to run for his life, or might still be running. He’s got the tape if Jon doesn’t believe what he says, but maybe he’ll get lucky and he can avoid having to play it, so Jon—and Martin, for that matter—don’t have to know how close a shave he just had.

Yeah, right. And maybe he’ll finally get that phone call about his audition for Jersey Boys.

He’s still limping as he reaches the Institute and lets himself in the door to the Archives. For just a minute, he pauses when he comes in, wondering why they swapped out the light bulbs for novelty green ones…but no, he blinks hard and the lighting goes back to normal. Just the regular old Archives, rows of shelves littered with files, pod of desks in the work area, three people grouped around it. Tim’s not sure what’s going on, but from the looks of it, Sasha and Jon are sitting down and Martin is fussing.

Martin looks up as Tim comes closer, and his face goes slack with relief. “Tim!”

Sasha’s head whips around. “Are you all right?” she asks.

Tim tries for a grin. “I’m not dead.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly comforting. You get why that’s not comforting, right?” Martin tugs at his hair in evident frustration. “Wh—” He stops and presses his lips together tightly for a second.

“You’re late.” Jon’s voice is soft but accusing. He gets to his feet and wobbles for a second before steadying himself against the back of the chair.

Suddenly worried, Tim takes a step towards him. His ankle chooses that moment to remind him that he’s already fucked it up and buckles under him, nearly sending him to the floor. He doesn’t fall far before Martin is there, catching him and half-dragging, half-carrying him over to his chair. “You’re hurt.”

“Master of the obvious,” Tim tries to joke, and then he sees the look on Martin’s face and realizes what’s going on. They’ve all realized that Martin has acquired the ability to compel people to tell him things, especially about how they got hurt or why they’re scared; he’s trying to learn how to control it, just like Jon and Sasha are trying to learn to control their new powers, but Jon Prime warned them already that it will be harder for them to not let it slip in involuntarily when they’re upset or stressed. Martin is trying very hard not to force Tim to tell him anything. It’s a courtesy Tim doesn’t think he deserves, but he swallows down on the guilt. “Just twisted, I think. No big deal.” He eases away from Martin and stands; it hurts a bit, but he’s at least able to do it on his own.

Martin lets him, but he’s still hovering, around both him and Jon. Jon stands facing Tim, looking grim. “You didn’t have your phone with you, Tim. We couldn’t contact you. It’s been two hours.”

Tim winces. “I didn’t realize I’d left it behind until it was too late to come back, and then I just…I thought I’d be back sooner. Sorry, boss. I’ll make up the time.”

“I’m not worried about the time, Tim!” Jon throws his hands up in frustration. “I’m worried about you. You were gone longer than you should have been, and we had no way of getting in touch with you, nor any idea where you were.”

“I—I was going to text you, but—”

“No, Tim, we didn’t know where you were,” Martin emphasizes. “Sasha tried to Know where you’d gone and gave herself a nosebleed. Jon tried and passed out! I-I finally asked downstairs, and all he’d say was that you were safe and on the way back, but that’s really not as comforting as he made it sound.”

“I know how you feel about…all of that,” Jon says, his voice sounding strained, “but we were worried. We were scared. Especially since…” He gestures at the files on Tim’s desk. “I wasn’t sure which one you were investigating.”

And Jon’s avoiding actually asking questions, too, out of fear of forcing Tim to answer against his will. They’re all better than he deserves, he thinks distantly, and it would serve him right if—no. He’s hurt them enough.

“The Trophy Room,” he says quietly. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out the tape recorder, which he hands to Jon. “Pretty sure I got the whole thing on there, but I haven’t had a chance to check.”

“The Trophy Room? The taxidermy shop in Barnet? The one we’re pretty sure is a stronghold for the Stranger?” Martin’s voice rises in pitch. “Are you out of your mind?”

“What were you thinking?” Jon says, clearly upset. “You’ve read that statement, you know how dangerous it is. If I had wanted someone to go there to investigate, I would have sent someone, and you would have been the last person I would choose—”

“I wasn’t going to let any of you go out there,” Tim argues.

“Tim, you’re already marked by the Stranger,” Jon says sharply. “Remember what they said? The marks make you a bigger target. It means they’re more likely to try something on you. That—whatever it was in the basement, the anglerfish thing—if Rawlings had opened the door, it might have lured you down. My God, Tim, you could have been killed and we would have had no idea where you were.”

If Tim did this to make himself feel less guilty, he failed spectacularly. He inhales sharply and tries to meet Jon’s eyes. For just a second, they seem to glow a vivid and vibrant green; Tim blinks and they go back to their normal brown. “I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about that, I just—all I could think about was that I needed to protect you all. I knew someone was going to end up investigating all this, we couldn’t get the truth over the phone, and I—I didn’t want to risk one of you going over there. I knew it was dangerous, but…I haven’t done enough, so I thought it had to be me.”

“Tim.” Jon’s jaw works for a moment, and then he just surges forward and hugs Tim tightly.

Tim hugs him back, feeling the tears pricking at his eyes. A moment later he feels the comforting weight and warmth of Martin’s arms around them both, but instead of making him relax, it just makes the tears flow harder. He doesn’t deserve this.

He must say that aloud, because Jon releases him and steps back to frown at him. “Don’t deserve what? What are you talking about?”

“This.” Tim gestures to Jon and Martin hovering around him, then to Sasha, who evidently was part of the hug, too, at least peripherally. “I didn’t—I fucked up, Jon. I shoved you all away and I made you feel—I was hurting, so I hurt you without any reason, and I—”

“We were all hurting,” Martin interrupts him, his face tight with sympathy. “And we all did things to hurt each other—”

“You didn’t,” Sasha points out.

“I could’ve stepped in any time, or spoken up about what was bothering me, instead of acting like I thought you’d hurt me if I tried,” Martin says. “I didn’t. I let myself class you all in the same category as my mother, and that isn’t fair to any of you. I know better. What happened this month between us is as much my fault as anyone else’s and I’m not going to sit by and act like I’m the victim in all this, because that isn’t fair to anyone. Including me.” He takes a deep breath. “We’re a team. We’re a family. We’re supposed to work together, right?”

“Right.” Tim swallows hard and wipes his eyes. “No more unauthorized field trips. Promise.”

Jon nods. “Thank you.” He glances at the tape recorder. “I’ll listen to this later, if you need me to, but meanwhile, why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Tim sighs. “Might want to sit down. This could take a while.”

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #canon typical stranger content #guilt tw #implied past emotional abuse #tim stoker stop being a dumbass challenge

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 17/?

Part 16

CW for: -self harm -mentions (implications) of police brutality -whatever the hell kind of self hatred Tim has going on

"Daisy, you're dying."

"I know. I've known for a while." Daisy's too-bony hand comes to rest against Basira's cheek, and she almost flinches at how cold it feels. "I thought you knew too."

"I'm- I was looking for a way to stop it. I thought you wanted to stop it!" It takes everything in her to not shake Daisy up, because this sounds like- "I didn't know you'd just given up."

"I haven't. I win, like this. I die as myself." Daisy gives her a weak smile. -everything in her looks weak, and Basira wants to scream.

Getting Daisy back was already not a part of the plan, but losing her again is- "Dying is not winning, Daisy."

XVII

"That was a nasty one," Gerry says, running a hand through his hair a couple times. An understandable reaction, given that the floorboards of the attic they were trying to bust open to reach the Corruption book ended up collapsing on him in a shower of termites.

Still, Melanie rolls her eyes, and her lips curl into a smirk as she comes to bump his arm with her shoulder. "No creepy crawlies, you're still pretty."

"Well, obviously." Gerry flips his hair back into place, and Melanie tugs on it, when a couple locks whip -on purpose, she's sure- against her face. "Whose turn is it to pick dinner?"

"You don't even need to eat!" Melanie groans, which is a pretty solid response to his question.

"It's about the bonding, firecracker." Gerry's voice is a slow, conciliatory tone carefully designed to rile her up, she knows from his teasing grin. "The human experience."

Melanie blinks. He blinks back.

"You're not hum-"

"What's that food your girlfriend loves and you hate?" He speaks over her, and she laughs. Definitely not her standard response to men interrupting her, but she'll let this one slip, she decides. "Hungarian? Yes. That's what I'm craving."

"You're an asshole, did you know that?"

They don't get Hungarian, in the end.

Instead, they stop by an ice-cream shop, which Melanie thinks is oddly fitting. It's what they got the first time they went out together; it only makes sense it's what they get on their last.

"You're quiet." Gerry sits next to her as she digs into her pint of caramel. She barely even gives him a glance, scrolling through pictures of herself and Georgie in her phone. "Are you okay?"

"I talked to Georgie," Melanie blurts out, because tact has never been her strong suit.

"...Oh." Gerry's heavy hand comes to rest at her shoulder, and Melanie reflects for a second on how casually he touches her, and how comfortable she is with it. "Uh- everything alright?"

She scoops another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. It's- as alright as it's ever going to get, she supposes. Georgie didn't like it, but she understood. She even offered to do it, but Melanie didn't want that to be something she associated with her.

Gerry's hand squeezes her shoulder, and she turns to look at him. He looks... incredibly dumb, looking at her with concern in his eyes and his mouth stained red, his cheek still stained with soot from the book they just burned.

This is- it's the face of a friend. One she made herself, all her own.

"You look like an extra in a cheap vampire movie." She smiles. It feels a bit weaker than she meant it, but... but she's maybe feeling a bit smaller than she planned. And maybe that's not a bad thing, to ask for help. To let herself be helped. "It'll be alright."

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

Basira's not blind to how Hunt-like her connection to the Eye is. She doesn't like it, but it's fitting, she thinks grimly as the trail before her lights up in a warm yellow hue that reminds her of her favorite hijab, of the smell of freshly baked bread, of the soft sandy hue of Daisy's hair.

Daisy's been hiding a lot lately, but it's of no use; Basira could find her at the end of the world if needed, even without- she hesitates calling them 'powers', because that feels like giving in, like accepting this metamorphosis that has been thrust upon her without so much as a by your leave. Still, they are there and they are hers, and she can follow the trail down into the tunnels, and around a couple bends.

It leads straight into a dead end, where Daisy sits balled up against a corner, like a sickly dog that crawled down here to die. She looks... small. Emaciated even, Basira's old t-shirt hanging loosely off of shoulders that used to be tight with well-marked muscle.

Basira stiffens when the Knowledge slams into her, clenching her fists by her sides. She won't be scared, she won't give it the satisfaction.

"You're dying." The truth slips easily past her lips, and Basira hates it, hates it like the world that gave her Daisy only to tear them apart again and again.

It takes a moment, but Daisy stirs and sits up to look at her with bloodshot eyes. "I have been for a while already. It's alright."

"It's not." Basira steps forward, coming to crouch before her. "I thought signing the contract had helped?"

"It slowed it down." Daisy leans back on the wall, her head dropping against her shoulder like her neck isn't strong enough to hold it. "But it would never have stopped it, I'm- I'm not you, or Jon. Beholding was never for me."

Basira crouches before her, and her shoulders feel even thinner than they looked, when she lays her hands on them. "Then you have to hunt."

Daisy's warm brown eyes fix on her, and Basira can read her next words in the slight furrow of her brow.

"I don't want to."

"Daisy, you're dying."

"I know. I've known for a while." Daisy's too-bony hand comes to rest against Basira's cheek, and she almost flinches at how cold it feels. "I thought you knew too."

"I'm- I was looking for a way to stop it. I thought you wanted to stop it!" It takes everything in her to not shake Daisy up, because this sounds like- "I didn't know you'd just given up."

"I haven't. I win, like this. I die as myself." Daisy gives her a weak smile. -everything in her looks weak, and Basira wants to scream.

Getting Daisy back was already not a part of the plan, but losing her again is- "Dying is not winning, Daisy."

"Isn't it what I deserve, though?"

"What?"

"You know," Daisy says, and Basira isn't sure whether or not she means it as Capital 'K' know, but she knows perfectly well what she's referring to.

"That wasn't yo-"

"Don't say that. Don't- don't try to make me a victim, Basira I- I hurt people. I wanted to. The Hunt only gave me the tools, but-"

"Well, I knew." Basira snaps. "I knew all that time, and I didn't do anything. Doesn't that mean I'm just as bad?!"

Daisy's warm, brown eyes pin her in place, full of love and resignation in equal measure. "Well... yes."

And maybe she's right, Basira thinks. Maybe this is penance, for all the bad they've done. Maybe they're just lucky it took so long to catch up to them.

"I'm- no. Fuck that." She grits her teeth. "You- you can spend the rest of your life paying for it, but you can't die. How is this justice? How-"

"It's not meant to be fair, I think." Daisy grunts a little as she sits up straighter. "But I get to die as myself. Not- not the thing I chose to be, the thing I let hurt so many people. I get to die choosing not to hurt anyon-"

"Well- hunt monsters then! Pay it back stopping them, don't-" Basira stops abruptly, when she feels her throat tighten. If she keeps talking, her voice will break, and she doesn't want-

She'd been so angry at Jon for feeding, but here she is begging Daisy to do the same like a hypocrite. Isn't that what has always boiled down to? Her morals unshakeable, until they come to this woman?

"Basira." Daisy pulls her down delicately, and Basira comes. "I want it this way."

"Don't hide from me," Basira whispers into her hair, holding her close to her chest.

"I didn't want you to see me like this."

"I will find you. Always."

"I know." Daisy chuckles. Basira is aware this is the slightest bit selfish. Daisy won't die in her arms, so maybe as long as she never lets go... "I'm sorry."

"Don't." Basira squeezes her harder. "I'm- I get it. But I don't have to like it."

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

"Are you sure you want this?" Gerry asks for what feels like the umpteenth time, and he's more than aware that he's doing it only to buy himself more time.

The entire scene is almost too relaxed; the two of them sitting on the floor next to Melanie's cot -a monstrosity of pillows and quilt that Gerry's willing to bet hosts at least one or two knives-, a tub of half-demolished caramel ice cream between them. Just two friends having a chat.

Gerry's life has never been that simple, sadly. The awl sits deceptively light on his hand, belying the weight of the request.

"I do. It's- I want out. Of the Institute, at least." Melanie's knuckles whiten as her fists clench over the dark fabric of her jeans. "If I'm going to keep helping, then I want it to be my choice."

"If you do this, I'd much rather you stay out of this for good." Gerry's voice is dry, because if he lets any emotion in it, it will probably be despair.

"That's nice, but you don't tell me what to do." Melanie shakes her head with a roll of her eyes. "Besides, you're going to need someone who's free of all this, if the Eye won't let us look into your boyfriend's marks."

"Melanie-"

Her grim smile is determined, and Gerry feels a fierce rush of protectiveness burn in his chest. For a moment he misses the dull pain of his existence in the skin book, because at least back then that was all he could feel.

It was a stupid oversight on his part, to think he would ever get to have something normal. Something for him, untainted by the world he was born in.

"Well... alright, then."

There's disbelief and gratefulness in Melanie's eyes, like she recognizes the hesitation was for himself, and not a way to try and change her mind.

"You'll do it?"

"What are friends for?" Gerry's smile feels stiff and foreign in his face. "Gouge your eyes out, call you an ambulance right after."

"Your typical sleepover." The edges of Melanie's grin are strained. For the briefest of moments, he thinks she might hug him. She doesn't, and he's both relieved and disappointed. Is their friendship even theirs, if it was born out of hatred for these things that took their will away? "Should I lay down?"

"...I guess so, yes." He sighs. "Don't you want to finish the ice cream?"

"Not really." Determination or not, Melanie's starting to look a bit green. "I'm... okay, let's do it."

She turns around so her back is facing him, before laying down so her head rests on his crossed calves. It's... Gerry had never considered her eyes, but now it's all he can pay attention to. Almond-shaped and perfectly contoured with eyeliner, her irises a darker brown than Jon's, so deep it's almost black.

They're good eyes; they've kept watch for him during their hunts, caught sight of monsters just on the nick of time. They watched over him while Jon was in the Buried. The eyes of a friend.

She deserves this, the choice, the freedom; he won't keep them from her, not even for his own peace of mind.

How does one go about destroying someone's eyes permanently? Just jam it in and swirl it around, try to cause as much damage as possible? The Beholding is of course not volunteering any tips; instead showing him in excruciating clarity the agony it will provoke.

He sees it like a movie, like a nightmare; Melanie screaming, her blood dripping down his hands. Is this how his father felt, did he try to fight the Watcher with thoughts of his infant son?

'No,' the Eye whispers in his mind. 'This is what your mother saw, when your father laid to sleep for the last time. Trusting, loving. Like her.'

The awl drops from his shaky hands, missing her face by mere inches as Gerry throws himself back.

"Melanie, I can't."

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

"Been a while since I've been here" Tim mumbles, giving a look around the office.

It becomes clear to Jon then that he's not the only one that's nervous, although he can't for the life of him figure out why Tim would be.

Why is he nervous, even? Does he fear Tim's barbed jabs or the dull ache of guilt? Or is it just that Tim is a loose cannon, an open flame in the Archives that- oh. Of course.

"The Eye doesn't want you here." Jon smiles tiredly as he says it, and to both his surprise and relief, Tim mirrors the gesture.

"That's just mean. It was so adamant on not letting me go before..." Tim taps his fingers in the desk, leaving little scorched marks on the wood after every touch. "Well, it's going to have to suck it up."

Jon nods. "A pity. I suppose there is a reason you're here, though."

"You know? It used to make me mad, when you did that." Tim shrugs. "Well, everything you did made me mad, but that most of all."

"The..." Jon lets the word hang in the air, arching an eyebrow.

Tim scoffs. A puff of white vapor erupts from his lips and dissipates towards the ceiling.

"The whole 'not asking questions' thing." He doesn't look at Jon as he says it, and Jon tries to focus on something that is not him, because if Tim wants to tell him this, he deserves not having it revealed beforehand. He ends up Knowing the names of every single carpenter that worked on making his desk, but at least it takes long enough for Tim to gather his thoughts. "It felt- it was a reminder of what you had become. What we were all becoming."

Jon frowns, confused. "You weren't an avatar of the Desolation back-"

"Are we sure of that? I'm- I had been- I wanted destruction since long before the Unknowing. Elias', the Archives'-" Tim's eyes meet his, and it's only then that Jon realizes how long it's been since that has happened. They're their usual dark brown, no dangerous orange glow, thankfully. Jon has- he's missed them. "Yours."

"Ah." Jon sighs. This is how it is now, isn't it? How it's always going to be.

"Yeah."

Silence falls over them again, heavy like a wet towel. Jon doesn't ask why Tim is here again; he's aware enough to recognize the diverting from before, and where it brought them.

"I'm- thank you for-" Jon starts, stops, clears his throat. "You know. Gerry. The hunters. Watching out for him when Melanie's not around."

Tim looks about as uncomfortable as Jon feels, so at least they're on equal -if uneven- footing.

"It's- Martin wanted me to." Tim crosses his arms over his chest, averting his gaze. "What- is that a thing? Those two?"

Jon sighs. "Martin is this close to becoming a Lonely avatar, Tim." Who said Tim was the only one who knew how to divert from uncomfortable lines of questioning?

Tim's face whips back to him at that, scowling fiercely. "He is, isn't he? Why is that? Why the fuck didn't you stop that when it started happening, Jon?"

"I tried my best, but I was in a comma," Jon says dryly, his words followed by a tense, thick silence.

The snort that escapes Tim's lips surprises Jon as much as it does Tim himself, apparently. "Nice to know I did fuck you up."

"For a while, yes." Jon shakes his head a little, the corner of his lips curling up in a resigned smile. "I'm- I suppose Martin hasn't told you, then."

"I suppose not," Tim repeats in an affected mockery of his voice. It's something he used to do before, Jon realizes with a start. "About what?"

And really, it feels like a pity to weigh down the first civil conversation they've had in two years by bringing it up, but it's- Tim has a right to know. He deserves it.

"About the Extinction."

"Hm. Was that meant to sound as ominous as it did?" Tim arches an eyebrow, and Jon shrugs.

"I mean, it is called the Extinction; I doubt there's any way to give that title any levity." Jon sighs. This too feels like before, and it hurts just as much as the hostility. Maybe more. "Peter Lukas believes it's a fifteenth entity in the process of forming. The fear of humanity towards eradication at our own hands, towards dying out as a species, rather than individuals. The realization that we have brought on our own demise, and it's too late to change it now."

"And is it?"

"...Excuse me?" Jon frowns.

"Well, yes. If anyone could know, wouldn't that be you?" Tim asks again.

Oh. Right, of course.

Jon sighs. "It has been brought to my attention recently that there are some things the Beholder won't tell me about."

"Like your marks?"

"I'm- how do you know about that?" Jon frowns. Just how many people know about this thing the Eye is so adamant on not letting him see?

"I asked Martin about your safeword when he asked me to stick with your boyfriend." Tim shrugs. "Then I just did a quick head count. You're just missing one, aren't you?"

"The Lonely, yes."

"How convenient isn't it? Martin's sudden promotion." Tim mutters to himself, and Jon purses his lips.

"I'm well aware it's my fault, Tim, thank you."

Tim neither confirms nor denies it. He fidgets with his hands a little, squeezing his pinky finger flat between the pointer and thumb of his free hand, then rolling it back into shape.

"So he's trying to get information?" He asks quietly after a couple minutes.

"I- at first." Jon sighs. Isn't this the truth he's been trying to ignore for the past months, even though he Knows it's irrefutable? "It has him now, though. He- he just needs to choose."

"I hope you're right."

"Hm?" Jon looks up, but Tim's still not looking at him, instead focused on the scorch marks on the desk.

"If he can choose, he will choose you." When Tim's eyes raise to him, there's the slightest spark of orange in their depths.

"I'm- Tim, I don't know if that's an option anymore." The thought has been on his mind for weeks now, since Martin turned him away.

"He always finds a way to choose you, anyways."

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

"That's- that's something." Melanie exhales softly through her parted lips. They're back to leaning on her cot, and she's pressed tight to Gerry's side; not holding him by any means, but close enough that she can feel it when his breathing finally starts slowing down. "I didn't know."

It rains on her then just how painfully little she knows about him. They know each other like penitent ghosts, no past and no future, just a present, and a sum of festering wounds far too painful to look at.

Gerry's startled cackle is dry and pained, and it draws Melanie out of her contemplations. "I think that's the point."

"I-"

"I'm sorry I couldn't do it." He lets his head fall back against the cot, groaning. "I'm not being very useful lately."

It's a very stupid thought, but it does sound like something Gerry would believe of himself. Lives his entire life trying to save people from the entities, gets right back into it as soon as he's raised from the dead. Melanie sort of knew already that he measured his value on how much he could help others, but this is a very clear indicator.

Melanie sighs. "Don't. It's- I just wanted it to be you because- I trust you, I guess." She turns her head, even though Gerry's not looking at her.

"I- thank you, firecracker." It's such a dumb nickname, but it feels so different from stupid, stupid Mel. "Should- I can call Helen, if you want?"

"It's alright. I don't think she liked that I'm quitting; she seemed a bit sad when I told her. I'll- I'll do it myself." The awl feels foreign in her shaky hand, but she grips it firmly. "You should get out, probably."

He lets out a long exhale, almost sagging against her side. "I'm- I'll stay," he says in the end.

"Are you sure? I'll- you can just go outside and call the ambulance after."

"No." Gerry brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "No, I- I prefer to stay. In case you need help."

"Yeah, that's- I might." Melanie takes a deep, wet breath to calm her speeding heart. He doesn't respond. When she looks at him out the corner of her eye, he's staring straight ahead, his lips pressed white in a thin line and a muscle twitching at his jaw. "Thank you."

A large, warm hand comes to wrap itself around her free one, and Melanie squeezes back as hard as she can. She's as afraid of the pain as she is of the prospect of freedom, but this at least is her choice, not Elias' trickery, not something feeding on her to turn her into something else. She won't be anyone's pawn anymore.

She thinks of the Admiral's orange fur. The bright yellow of Helen's door. Gerry's stupid lovesick faces. The curve of Georgie's lips when she smiles, and the dimple on her right cheek.

Melanie strikes.

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

Truth is, Tim should've left a while ago, after he got the confirmation he was looking for. That Martin isn't just another victim, that his efforts to bring him back haven't worked not because Tim himself isn't enough, but because Martin has a reason and a purpose to stay Lonely.

That said purpose isn't just the undeserving idiot before him.

It's- the familiarity's the worst part, in his opinion. Tim's stomach still burns whenever he looks at Jon and he's able to tell what he's thinking of just by the furrowing of his brow.

It reminds him of stolen glances and hugs that lingered for just a second too long. Of dragging his new boss out of the Archives for a drink, just like he dragged him out of Research every Friday. Of reluctant smiles and bitten off chuckles after Tim's jokes. Of being asked to check on a statement and knowing immediately that Jon was nervous, and that he would do whatever it took to assuage it.

"Jon?" He asks, and the way the name rolls out of his mouth leaves behind an aftertastes of bitter ashes. "Could I have found Oliver Banks?"

The green glow starts slowly, just a spark of neon in the depths of Jon's dark eyes, burning brighter and brighter until it's taken over his gaze completely.

"I- no. There- there were a lot of threads pulling you away from any real information about him." Jon sighs. He closes his eyes and rests his elbows on the desk, rubbing at his temples. "It makes sense, I suppose."

It does. Tim doesn't hold any love in his heart for the Desolation, but the fact that it has loosened the Spider's grip on him is most definitely something to be thankful for. It's ridiculous, that they live the kind of lives in which they have to be thankful for an entity at least being upfront about consuming their very being.

He... he often wonders if it might have been different, had he managed to find him. If they would've at least had a chance with some more information before everything went to shit. If maybe he's not as much to blame as-

"You aren't." Jon's voice pours over him like cold water over a fire, so abrupt that Tim flinches before looking back at him, and finding the green eyes fixed to his face with almost eerie focus.

It takes him a moment to figure out just what the hell he's walking about, and when he finally does Tim knows he should be enraged at the violation, but all he can bring himself to feel is exhaustion.

"I didn't know you could do that," he says, and every word bears the weight of the past four years.

"I'm sorry," Jon responds. Tim believes him. It doesn't matter. It hasn't mattered for a while.

The Desolation feeds on sorrow and loss as much as it does on rage, and there's plenty of both to go around in this office.

"I- Jon?" Tim frowns. Jon's warm brown skin has gone ashen, the scars in stark contrast to it. His eyes are still green and focused on something Tim can't see, and his entire frame shakes, his knuckles white around the edge of the desk. "Jon what-"

"Melanie, it's- she's-" Jon flinches and curls into himself, his face contorted into a rictus of pain that has Tim's stomach churning. "You have to go-" Jon's voice is strained now, like every word is being ripped out of him.

"Jon-" Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The lights in the office are flickering and Tim feels watched by a hundred thousand eyes, here in this place that despises him for coming back after he served his purpose. Static sings in the air around them, and Tim may not have the Sight for these things, but he can recognize an avatar about to lose control. What's- what's that shit he and Daisy tell each other? What- "Jon, the- listen to the quiet, listen to-"

A lightning-sharp pain pierces into his brain-

Danny's on the armchair- no, not him- was there ever really a Danny? And if so, isn't this him? Why are you so scared, Tim? It's just your little brother, aren't you just thrilled to see him?! Look at how well his skin fits him!

Look at how wide he's smiling -don't try to count his teeth-, he's just so happy to have you back! Why didn't you go see his performance at the theater? He was so excited to introduce you to all of his new friends, to show you just how it felt when his skin burst open at the seams-

Jon's eyes are lit up like searchlights now, no pupil and no sclera, just green fire at their depths, and the depths of all the other eyes boiling open like blisters along his arms, his neck, his cheeks.

"What are you doing? Cut it out!"

Jon opens his mouth, but it's the Archivist's voice that comes out.

"Isn't she beautiful? You've thought so from the time you first laid eyes on her. Her smiling lips, her knowing eyes, her face that fits just well on her skull. Her long, long, long fingers on your scalp as you tell her of all that makes you afraid, all that makes you Tim.

You love her in any and all ways she'll let you, what does she look like? What does she sound like? It surely doesn't matter as much as the fact that she loves you back, doesn't it? She lets you stay by her side, she listens to your woes, your suspicions. You mention the circus and she nods in understanding, but in her mind she's laughing, laughing, laughing. Do you hear it? Do you feel the caress of too long fingers as you lay your head on her chest? She was thinking of taking your skin nex-"

The door flies open, and Tim throws himself over the desk to keep Jon's eyes -all of them- on him when Basira appears at the threshold.

"What the hell is going on?! I- he's in my hea-"

"Get out!" Tim shouts "Find Melanie! Make sure she's done!" Basira whips around immediately, disappearing down the corridor. "Jon, calm down!"

He orders you to look- you're so angry, you hate him with the same fierce devotion you had for him. His face is an anchor amongst the chaos around you, you recognize those eyes, that nose, those furrowed brows and that mouth twisting around a plea.

This is his fault. He brought you here, he pushed you away when you needed him, when your fear burned like a furnace in your chest and you didn't know what you were becoming. Now he's here, and he has the gall to demand even more from you. What else could he take? Is there anything left of you? The worst part, you think, is that his face is his in a way hers and Danny's weren't. This is him -you can count the teeth if you want- and you were doomed to die here surrounded in boiling wax, from the moment you first laid eyes on this calamity of a man.

"Stop it!" he screams. His whole skin hurts, every inch alight in a flare of pain As it's torn from his body, and he can't- he can't remember his name, he- what does he look like? It hurts, everything- there's fire licking at his skin -his skin is not there- and he knows that shouldn't hurt anymore but it does and he can't remember his name. "Jon, snap out of it!"

Manuela Dominguez burns, and you were the one to set her aflame. You feel her pain, you revel on it, the taste of her terror finer than a five course meal. This is what you are now. You're destruction, you're pain, you're nothing but the fear you can cause. She would be disgusted at what you have become, and Danny would too. How could you ever think you could save Martin, when all you can do is hurt? Look at yourself -whoever that is, without your skin, without your name-, what have you got to offer? What-

"Jon!" he clings tightly to the monster -the man- thrashing so wildly in his grip that they both topple to the floor. The Beholding still spears at his mind, and he doesn't- what should he do?! Will they be able to get him back, if Jon loses control?

You do not care about that. All you are is pain, all you are is hatred, all-

"Come back, you idiot!" Tim shakes him. His hands are smoking, and so is the wooden floor around them, and Jon's skin boils with eyes and blisters in equal measure. "I will burn the place down! I will kill us both again!"

He can't- he can't let him go, he- Sasha's gone, and Martin's leaving, and- Tim can't be the last one standing, he just can't.

"Don't-" Tim From Before could've reached Jon, he has no doubt. The Tim that wasn't just pain, that loved, that laughed, that wanted to comfort rather than hurt; but that Tim is gone forever, and he can't reach him. "Jon please-"

"...Tim?" The quiet voice is barely audible over the roaring of the flames, and Tim flinches back like his name had been a blow. Jon's irises are dark again, and the dozens of eyes that opened along every inch of exposed skin are slowly, reluctantly closing. "Tim, what-"

He doesn't hear much more, as he rushes out if the office and slams the door shut behind him.

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

Melanie looks almost impossibly tiny as the paramedics wheel her away from Gerry and Basira, and up into the ambulance. Even from this far up, watching from the safety of his- of Peter's- of Elias' office, Martin can see two things.

The first is the carnage that's all that's left of her eyes, the blood strikingly bright where it's splashed across her face like a mask.

The second is the pained smile in her face, and Martin feels a stir of envy at his chest. She's free. There was still enough human left in her to walk away from this nightmare, from all of them.

Martin feels the Lonely before he hears the static of Peter stepping out of it. The fog curls around his ankles like a cat looking for attention, and isn't that funny, the Lonely wanting to be noticed?

It probably isn't.

"Looking a bit grim there, aren't you?" Peter asks. Martin merely inclines his head in acknowledgement, because he knows the man will only become more insistent if he doesn't answer. "Did you feel any of that?"

"Her leaving?" Martin asks

"And the Archivist losing control. He was trying to reign her back in, to heal her eyes before she could destroy them enough." Peter's gaze is heavy on his face, and he seems pleased that he can't find what he's looking for. "Your friend Timothy got quite reckless at the Archives, but in the end he managed to calm him down."

"Hm." What else is he supposed to say? Of course Tim was able to anchor Jon. They've always been close, even when they don't trust each other. Tim can pretend to despise Jon all he wants, but Martin knows him far too well. Both of them, actually. "Did you need anything?"

He feels Peter's smile more than he sees it, the man's smugness coming off of him in waves. "I was only curious as to whether or not you'd been affected, I suppose."

Martin shrugs. "I wasn't. I was recording a statement, the one with the mirror house." The tape recorder is still on his desk, the tape whirring softly inside.

"That's wonderful news, actually. It means we're ready."

He does turn to Peter at that. "Already?"

"Correct. We just need- I'm getting a map made for us right as we speak." Again, Peter's smug smile is palpable in his voice. "The tunnels are a bit of a mess, aren't they?"

"There's nothing in the tunnels. Jon searched them all." Martin arches an eyebrow, but Peter merely smiles wider.

"He didn't know much back then, did he?" He asks. "The device we need is at the center of the maze. You can't reach it unless you know where you're going."

"And you do?"

"I will. And you will too."

"...Will I be coming back?" Martin asks, almost as an afterthought. Down at the street Gerry has taken a seat on the Institute's front steps, and he too looks almost tiny in his exhaustion, his head hanging low and his shoulders hunched.

"Does it matter?"

Basira hesitates by his side for a moment, before she too sits down, and Gerry's head tilts a little towards her.

"I guess it doesn't."

"Excellent."

Martin waits until Peter has stepped back into the Lonely, until he can no longer feel his presence even when he reaches in with a tendril of fog.

The last statement of Adelard Dekker -a part of him aches in sympathy at the fact that Gertrude never got to say goodbye properly- looks almost innocuous when he pulls it out of the locked drawer and folds it carefully under the tape recorder.

He stares at the device for a couple seconds, trying to figure out what would be a good end to a story. To his story.

"Goodbye."

Click.

#illicio #vit writes #jgm #jongerrymartin

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Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn: Chapter 29: Leaving Whiterun - Magic and Bandits

Elder Scrolls DC - A Reluctant Dragonborn: Chapter 29: Leaving Whiterun - Magic and Bandits (38503 words) by C_R_Scott Chapters: 28/? Fandom: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Red Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics), Batman (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Characters: Tim Drake, Lucien Flavius Additional Tags: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Skyrim/DCU crossover, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Not Beta Read, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Modded Skyrim, Skyrim Spoilers, Tim Drake is Dragonborn | Dovahkiin, Tim Drake-centric, Trope: It sucks to be the chosen one, Trope: Trapped in another world, Trope: Kidnapped by the Call

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Summary:

Tim and Lucien finally set out from Whiterun towards the town of Ivarstead, on their way to visit the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Along they way that morning, there is learning about magic and dealing with bandits.

The sun was just cresting over the horizon as Tim and Lucien made their way past the outer walls of Whiterun. Despite himself, Tim paused as they reached the stables to look back at the city, trying to commit what he saw to memory. Who knew when, if ever, he'd return to this place? He may not be very fond of the leadership of this place, but the citizens he'd interacted with seemed to be good, generous, hardworking people. If it wasn't for them, especially Irileth and Danica, he'd probably be dead.

"What do you mean, you can't take us to Iverstead?"

Tim turned his attention to the conversation taking place between Lucien and the carriage driver.

"Is something wrong?" he asked as he walked up to the pair.

Lucien sighed. "Apparently this carriage has already been commandeered by Honningbrew Meadery to take a large shipment of mead up to Windhelm, so we can't hire him to take us to Ivarstead."

"I'm sorry," the Nordic man said regretfully. "If I were to take you Ivarstead, it would delay my shipment to Windhelm by a couple of days, and transporting this quantity of mead is riskier the longer I'm on the road due to the bandits."

"Hmmm," Tim murmured as he pulled out his map and studied the space between Whiterun, Ivarstead, and Windhelm. "Well, could you at least take us halfway?" he asked as he showed the map to the carriage man and Lucien. "Just take us to where the road forks off here." He shrugged at Lucien. "We'll have to make the rest of the trip to Ivarstead on foot, but at least we're not walking the entire way."

"That shouldn't be a problem," the Nord said with an agreeable nod. "and I'll only charge you half the usual fee since I'm only taking you halfway."

Lucien sighed again. "I suppose it can't be helped. At least we can follow the river to the town from there and don't have to worry about getting lost in the wilderness." He regarded the map critically. "We may have to camp for a couple of nights though. Do we have the supplies for that?"

Tim nodded. "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst," he replied. "I got enough supplies I think we'll be ok for a straight week of camping. Especially if we follow the river, we won't have to worry about water, and we can hunt or fish for food if rations get low."

"Salmon are starting to make their migration runs to their spawning grounds this time of year," the carriage man offered. He inclined his head toward Tim's bow. "If you've got decent aim with that, catching fish with it won't be a problem along the Darkwater River. You will have to be careful of bears, though. Also, make sure you have a strong line tied to the arrow shaft when fishing. Because of the spring melt off from the mountains, the rivers are running deeper and faster and will send your catch downriver before you can blink."

"Alright," Tim said with as he folded his map back up. "We've got a plan. How soon can we leave?"

"As soon as you fellas hop into the cart, we can be off."

The carriage driver's name is Bjorlam, and for the first part of the morning the ride is pleasant enough. Riding on the cart is definitely faster than walking the path on foot, but still slower than Tim is used to back on Earth, which is frustrating. He wished they could afford to purchase horses so they could travel at a faster pace. However, the stables back at Whiterun wouldn't sell for anything less than one thousand Septims apiece. So for the first hour that morning, Tim sat brooding as he watched the landscape pass by.

At least until Lucien pulls out a book and taps Tim's knee with it.

"What's this?" Tim asks as he takes the thin book and examines the cover. The leather is dyed yellow and has what appears to a bird symbol stitched on the front.

"It's a book on novice Restoration spells," Lucien explained.

Tim looked at Lucien with surprise. "You want to start teaching me magic now?"

"Why not? Didn't I say back in Whiterun that I was going to teach you? Besides, we've got scads of time to kill."

Tim's heartbeat quickened a bit and any boredom and frustration he had been entertaining was immediately forgotten. He listened intently as Lucien started to explain basic spell theory and Magicka.

It was a few hours past sunrise and while Tim had no problem absorbing the more technical explanations of spellcasting that came from the book and Lucien's own clarifications, actually tapping into Tim's own pool of Magicka in order to bring the basic healing spell into existence had been a far greater challenge. Lucien was starting to be concerned that perhaps Tim just didn't have access to Magicka, being from another world and all. It had been frustrating for the both of them. For Lucien, accessing Magicka was something innate and natural, like breathing or blinking. He never had to try and explain "how" to tap into it to someone who was completely unaware of its existence until recently. Mentally, the scholar likened it to trying to teach a fish how to drink water while they were swimming in a pond.

Then, the young man had suggested something that Lucien had never heard of before.

"What is 'meditation'?"

Tim had shifted to sit on the floor of the cart, so he could adjust his posture into a cross-legged seated position that Lucien found curious. "It's a little hard to explain," he said with a slight frown. "It's a kind of mental training... Limiting distractions... Focusing inward... Maybe... If I can just clear my mind and adjust my awareness I can find this Magicka pool you say I should have?"

So Lucien watched as Tim adjusted his hands into very specific poses before resting them on his knees, closed his eyes, and breathed in and out with slow measured breaths. He watched as Tim's face relaxed into an expression of quiet concentration. After a bit, Lucien wondered if perhaps Tim had fallen asleep, but the fact that the young man kept his posture intact, even to the precise position of the tips of his thumbs resting against the tips of his ring and pinky fingers while his other two fingers were extended reassured the scholar that more than just slumber was taking place.

For about an hour, it was quiet and peaceful in the cart. While Tim meditated, Lucien had pulled out a different Restoration spellbook to study, this one containing Apprentice level healing spells. Healing Hands was a slightly more complex spell since it was used to heal other people, not just the caster, but it was not beyond Lucien's grasp as a mage. However, out of the corner of his eyes, a movement broke his own concentration.

Timothy's posture had changed. While his left hand was still resting on his knee, his right hand was slowly rising upward and towards his chest, fingers still held in the same position though his first two fingers were now pointing upward. His eyes were still closed, though his brows were furrowed slightly. Then his right hand shifted. His ring and pinky fingers stretched to join their brothers, and then his hand went through a motion as if scooping something gently from the air in front of him, curling his fingers around something intangible. Lucien's eyes widened as slender tendrils of light began to swirl around Tim's hand. Then, when Tim opened his hand, those tendrils coalesced into a small glowing sphere of golden light.

"Oh my..." Lucien whispered as a smile formed on his lips. "You did it!"

Slowly, Tim's eyes opened. His gaze seemed distant at first, but soon he focused wide-eyed at the golden spell cradled in his right hand.

"Wow," Tim breathed out in awe. "It's like holding a star." He brought his other hand up and brushed his fingertips along the outer edges of the spell, watching as small embers of light broke off from the main sphere to chase after them.

"So, you can access your Magicka now?"

Tim nodded. "I think so. It's... different. Definitely not intuitive like you describe it. It's kinda like flexing a muscle I never knew I had. I have to make a conscious effort to tap this... energy."

He furrowed his brow in concentration again and actively channeled energy into the spell. Larger golden tendrils of light swirled around him for a few seconds, and he could feel a comforting warmth coursing through his veins. But before too long those tendrils disappeared and the light of the spell in Tim's hand winked out suddenly. He winced as a slight headache twinged behind his eyes.

"Ow..."

Lucien watched this with great curiosity, wincing along with him in sympathy as he immediately recognized the sign of Tim expending all the Magicka at his disposal. "Interesting... It appears your Magicka pool might be quite small at this point even compared to novice mages just starting out." He fidgeted thoughtfully with his beard. "I wonder if the reason your pool is smaller than normal is because you aren't from this world to begin with?"

"That might make sense," Tim said as he tried to massage away the remains of the headache. "Theoretically, if Magicka is something heavily present in the environment here, like in the air you breathe or the food and water you eat, native people would be passively absorbing Magicka since the day they were born. Since I'm not from here, I've only been taking in Magicka for a few weeks at most, so I'm starting at a disadvantage." Tim couldn't help the edge of disappointment to his voice.

Lucien smiled reassuringly at him, though. "Well, fortunately with time and practice, that shouldn't be the case for long. It's a known phenomenon that the more spells a mage learns and practices the larger their natural pool of Magicka grows. There are also potions and enchantments that can be used to artificially boost a mage's mana pool as well."

Tim smiled a little. "So it is like exercising a muscle. That's good to know."

"Indeed," Lucien agreed with a nod. "Let's have you rest for a bit, and then you can check your Magicka pool to see if there's enough to practice with later."

The sun was halfway across the sky when unexpectedly their carriage came to a halt.

"Damn it," the carriage driver cursed.

"What's going on, Bjorlam?" Lucien asked.

The Nord shook his head. "The damned bandits are still occupying the Valtheim Towers," he spat out in frustration as he pointed to the two stone towers coming up ahead with a bridge that spanned the river. "Last time I came by here, the bandits demanded a one hundred Septim 'toll' for me to pass without getting mugged. I'd hoped by now Whiterun's guards would've run these bastards off, but I guess they haven't made it this far east yet. The moment those thieves see all the mead I have, they'll demand that along with the Septims." Bjorlam sighed. "I'm sorry fellas, but I think I might not have a choice but to turn back to Whiterun to fetch the guards or hire one or two of the Companions."

"What?" Lucien squawked. "No! We can't go back now! It took half a day just to get this far!"

As Lucien argued with Bjorlam, Tim was peering at the towers and bridge between them. "One... Four... Six..." He squinted "Maybe seven?"

At that, Lucien and Bjorlam had stopped arguing and had turned their attention onto him, the carriage driver with confusion and the scholar with a frown.

"Seven what?" Lucien asked Tim suspiciously.

"Bandits, of course," Tim replied as he checked to make sure he had some potions in his belt pouches and added a few metal throwing stars he'd had the blacksmith in Whiterun make for him before they left the city to a simple leather holster that was strapped to his right thigh.

"Wait... You're not going to--"

Tim had grabbed his new metal quarterstaff and hopped off the back of the cart. "I needed to stretch my legs anyways. Might as well clear out the garbage while I'm at it." He looked to other two men. "Why don't you both stay here? I'll wave you over once I've cleared them out."

Bjorlam looked at him like he was crazy, and Lucien's expression was laced with concern. "Are you sure, Tim? I can come along to help."

Tim shook his head. "I feel better than I have in months and honestly I need to figure out where my baseline is now that I'm healthy. This is the perfect chance."

"Your baseline?"

Tim's smiled in a coy way before he started making his way to the Towers on foot.

Ten minutes later, Lucien and Bjorlam were watching with amazement as commotion erupted at the Tower. Tim had quickly taken out the three bandits that had been guarding the first tower and was now making his way across the bridge towards the second. Though some of the bandits in the other tower tried to snipe him with arrows from the other side, Tim managed to either deflect those arrows with spins from his quarterstaff or dodged them with effortless grace even as he attacked the two bandits that were in the middle of the bridge. The bandits on the bridge seemed utterly outclassed, and frankly Tim seemed to be toying with them before he sent them flying down to the waters of the river below with a few well placed blows and kicks. The moment he was close enough to the second tower, the young man sent two of his new throwing stars flying at the remaining bandits. One bandit got tagged by the sharp metal star on the back of his hand and howled in pain before he could send another arrow flying. The other had the string to his bow sliced through, rendering it absolutely useless. They both stared at Tim warily.

"Okay fellas! This is going to end one of two ways!" Tim yelled at them warningly. "Either you two take a dive--" he pointed to the river with his staff. "--Or I am coming over there to beat you down and throw you in! Either way, you're both going for swims. Which is it going to be?!"

One of the bandits decided to take his chances. They pulled a sword out and tried to rush Tim while he was still on the bridge. Unfortunately for then, Tim could see the attack coming a mile away and the smile that lit up his face was practically feral. "The fun way it is then," he muttered as he held his staff in a ready position.

He let the bandit get close enough to try and get a swing on him. Unfortunately for the bandit, Tim's reach and momentum with the metal staff was far greater than the sword. Tim met the bandit's sword with a downward swing of his staff. The sword was immediately parried with enough force to disarm the attacker completely and the unfortunate bandit found the end of Tim's staff was aimed squarely at his face. A quick thrust forward was all it took for Tim to knock the man off balance, and a flashy flying tornado kick sent the bandit completely off the bridge before he even realized what was going on.

Once that bandit was in the river, Tim looked pointedly at the last one standing. Wisely, the final bandit decided to take the dive himself.

As soon as Tim was certain the towers were cleared, he stood there on the bridge in a bit of a daze. That fight was child's play compared to what he used to deal with back in Gotham. The bandits were clearly not skilled fighters, firearms were not a threat he had to worry about in this place, and bad luck for them he was completely healthy to boot. All in all it was a pretty fun exercise for him.

But still... something about that fight and its aftermath felt odd to him, like something more was out of place or forgotten. He didn't realize it until he lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. Then the thought struck him out of the blue, and he froze.

He wasn't wearing a mask.

Here he was in this strange world. He was fighting with all the skills and strengths he had developed as a child soldier of Gotham, first as Robin, then Red Robin.

However, Timothy Drake-Wayne wasn't supposed to be a fighter. He name and face was that of a teenager from a wealthy set of families. A child of privilege and influence. Tapped to lead the family business, even ahead of his older adopted siblings and the younger biological son of his father. His civilian identity was supposed to be a separate person from his vigilante one. Never were the two supposed to intersect.

And yet, at an intersection is where he found himself. Tim's civilian name and face had collided with his vigilante identity, strengths and skills. Even if he had a mask to wear, there was no real reason to do so here. But he still had to fight, both to survive and to safeguard those under his protection in the moment, he realized as he watched the carriage with Lucien approach the towers.

And on top of that he was now learning magic as well as trying to find answers to this whole Dragonborn mystery that was swirling around him.

Who was he now?

"That was amazing to behold!" the carriage man said as Tim emerged from the first tower, a satchel full of recovered valuables from the bandits stash slung over his shoulder. "The way you took out all those bandits, just on your own! I've never seen anyone fight like that before!"

The Nord's smile grew even wider as Tim handed him a bag of Septims. "There's probably a bit more than a hundred Septims here, but you don't mind, right?" Tim smiled and graciously accepted Bjorlam's profuse thanks.

"Are you alright?" Lucien asked Tim made his way to the back of the cart.

Tim nodded. "Yeah. I think so." He hopped in and settled in before Bjorlam set the cart in motion again.

"While it was amazing to see you fighting in peak condition, I couldn't help but notice you seem a little troubled after it was all said and done," Lucien observed. "Did something happen at the towers we weren't able to see?"

"No," Tim said with a dismissive shrug. "Just thought of a question I don't have any answers to yet."

"Anything I can help with?"

Tim smiled and deflected. "Actually, I think I banged up my knuckles a bit on those bandits. Might be the perfect chance to practice that healing spell. Can you show me again how to cast it?"

Lucien shook his head with a sigh. "Sure. Let's take it from top."

NOTE: Though Tim has a lot of hand-to-hand combat experience, the longer he stays in Skyrim the more I see him taking up magic as his primary go-to for offense and defense. While growing up in Gotham he wasn't the best student and even dropped out of high school due to his vigilante lifestyle, here in Skyrim the study of magic is something he can dive into whole-heartedly. The subject matter is fascinating and the practical applications both in combat and even daily life are nearly endless. I don't see him ever going full blow magic-only. Sometimes, you just need to hit something with a blunt/sharp weapon or a clenched fist, and I don't see Tim ever really giving up the protection of at least a suit or several of light armor for cloth robes, no matter how enchanted they are.

I'm also using the mod "Carriage and Ferry Travel Overhaul" (https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/8379) that allows my characters to hire a carriage that actually transports them overland from one destination to another, and allows for stopping and starting inbetween those locations. I'm trying not to use the Fast Travel function unless absolutely necessary so that I can include more opportunities for role-play as my characters are journeying.

Finally, I am also using a pair of mods in conjunction that allow for the use of throwing weapons (specifically in this case throwing stars - because Red Robin): Throwing Weapons Skills & Perks Tree (https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrimspecialedition/mods/39499) and True Spear Combat (https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrim/mods/78347?) which adds the throwing starts among other weapons you can throw. This same mod author also made the Spears Skills and Perks Tree I'm using for Tim's quarterstaff fighting (https://www.nexusmods.com/skyrim/mods/99303?).

#elder scrolls dc#fanfiction#tim drake#skyrim fanfiction#red robin#batfam#crossover#lucien flavius#wip#afewnovelideas

#elder scrolls dc #fanfiction #tim drake #skyrim fanfiction #red robin #batfam #crossover #lucien flavius #wip #afewnovelideas

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gooddadstan · 4 years

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Maybe not the way we thought we planned

Chapter 1: Our world’s ending at noon (could we all just move to the moon)

(https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201749/chapters/55542625)

Tim Drake had one purpose here. The machine only had enough energy for a one-way trip, too, so he guesses that it all works out in the end. It should all work out in the end, anyway, so long as he can get the job done. He’s got the flash drive prepared, the machine hooked up to the generator, and the Batcave spanning around him. This is the end. This is the last time he’s going to see the Batcave like it is now. Which, admittedly, isn’t the worst thing in the world, considering the smattering of blood that covers the display cases, and the mess of the medbay that nobody would want to clean up, and the bodies in the corner and maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. If there’s any possibility that the time he goes back to could end up as bad as this one, any possibility at all that he would have to live through this again, he doesn’t want to do it. But he has no choice in the matter, now does he. The plan had remained the same from the very beginning, and here he was trying to disobey Batman’s wishes. He never had been a good Robin, now had he.

But he was, wasn’t he? He went through all the steps necessary to get where he is now, he did the research, he studied the epidemiology needed to prevent any disease known to man up until this point, and he could only hope to whatever god existed that it would be enough. Because there was nothing in the blood of anyone who had contracted this to indicate what done this. Because all he had was guesses and speculation and for some unknown reason he had the chance to go back with this knowledge and hope beyond hope that he could make it better. That anyone could make it better. That he could find the Batman of the past and convince him this was a threat and Tim was not, and create the necessary support systems to keep Earth afloat.

So Tim has the time machine. And the blueprints. And the notes and blood samples and written account of what happened from any possible source and anything he could conceivably need from this version of reality. All so he can go to another one. Because that wasn’t terrifying in the slightest, nope. He had it all under control.

With all of this in mind, Tim places the flashdrives into the time machine, and steps in himself. It’s now or never, he tells himself. Or rather, then or never.

~~~

The first thing Tim Drake noticed when he was forcefully ejected from the time machine was that it put him in the wrong time. Well, it was actually that they always should’ve made the Batcave floor just a little less of a pain to land on, but the timeframe was an incredibly close second, and exponentially more important. The way the machine had ejected him meant that he was facing the wall of cases, where Jason’s Robin was front and center. Except there was no case of Jason’s Robin costume. Meaning Jason never died. Meaning someone is currently alive, as Robin, maybe even in this cave, and the time machine didn’t do its job right. And Tim was in his Robin costume. What, and he thinks this with every ounce of respect for Alfred he has, the fuck.

About seven seconds too late, Tim notices that the Batcave is empty. Frantically, he whips his head around to make sure that he’s not back in his time, but no, there’s still no extra Robin case, and there’s no blood on the wall, and there’s no bodies in the corner. The bodies of the people he loved. The bodies of people who would never be able to do good again. The bodies of-

There’s a voice coming from the stairs. It’s Bruce, voice not so grating as the Batman Tim knows, not so lighthearted as the Brucie that’s the darling of the public. And Tim should move, should face the stairs and explain himself the second he can, but he can’t. He’s just staring at the corner where he can still see them, just barely through the haze of his vision.

The hand on his shoulder sets muscle memory into motion. Get the hand off, turn, attack. He’s done it hundreds of times before, and the height is so familiar that the punch to the trachea is one that might even get him a satisfied grunt.

Instead, he gets silence and two hands landing harder to secure his shoulders. Tim tries to push them up, tries to curl in on himself until he can get out of the grip and move, hands moving in unaimed punches and feet attempting badly angled kicks, but once the hands pass his ears he’s being turned again and his arms are jerked into a safety hold.

The world freezes. Bruce is mumbling something in his ear, almost reassurances, but that’s not right, Bruce never reassured him on anything other than saying his form was correct. Everything in his body is too tense, he’s a cable about to snap in Bruce’s hands, because somehow they are Bruce’s hands, the same calluses in the same places, the lines he can feel fold against his skin the same as the ones he’d traced on sleepless nights throughout the past week.

And he’s crying, he realizes, far too late. The tears are running down his cheeks unbidden, and the second he tries to go back to breathing through his nose he realizes he can’t, because the snot that built up with those tears somehow managed to escape his notice. So he’s crying, in the safety hold of a Batman that doesn’t know him, a Batman that hasn’t had to relearn grief, a Batman that probably thinks he’s a threat because Tim hasn’t managed to give any explanation.

But this Batman is still whispering reassurances in his ear. This Batman isn’t holding the safety hold too tight, or putting him in handcuffs or a prison cell, this Batman is letting him cry without judgement or reprimand.

Tim might not know how to deal with this Batman. This manages to be an oversight in the plan.

~~~

Bruce Wayne is incredibly confused. He’s the same level of concerned, but how a very small child in a blood-smattered Robin suit (with pants, which at this point is a little bit weird to see) managed to get into the Batcave with a bin full of papers and flashdrives only to mentally check out while staring at a corner, he doesn’t know. The large machine in the middle of the room with an open hatch might have something to do with it.

The child is currently crying in his arms, the bin forgotten on the floor. He keeps whispering in the child’s ear, but there’s no response to either the hold or the words. As softly as he can, he turns to face Alfred, not quite sure what response he’s looking for. Alfred motions towards the now open medbay, and moves to put on gloves.

Maneuvering the kid is easier than it should be, and the second he hits the bed in the bay Alfred is checking visible skin for injury. The kid doesn’t even seem to notice it, his eyes still trained on the same corner of the cave.

Alfred moves the kid’s arms and legs with a practiced eye, searching for any hint of injury outside of the crusted blood on the uniform. After a couple of minutes, he takes off the gloves and faces Bruce. “Nothing but some scratches. But I must say, Master Bruce, you will still be expected at dinner when the time arrives. The young sir will stay here without issue.”

Sure enough, when Bruce redirects his attention to the kid, he’s asleep.

#tim drake #bruce wayne #batman #robin #tim drake deserves a hug #mntwwtwp

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straightupstrangetimes · 4 years

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13 Not-So-Scary Movies to Get You in the Halloween Spirit!

Contributed by Kris Rustic, host of Obscure Anomalies podcast

Halloween is around the corner. Everywhere you look a horror movie is playing. For me, I love it. There is just something about being scared while knowing full well you are safe. But not everyone is into that sort of thing. My wife is one, so I tried to find lists of not-so-scary movies but was having trouble coming up with one, so I decided to write my own.

Please keep in mind, I did try to keep the list more kid and family friendly.

13. HOCUS POCUS

300 years have passed since the Sanderson sisters were executed for practicing dark witchcraft. Returning to life, thanks to a combination of a spell spoken before their demise and the accidental actions of Max, the new-kid-in-town, the sisters have but one night to secure their continuing existence. With the help of his younger sister Dani, his high school crush Allison, and a magical cat, it is up to Max to save the children of Salem.

A must see on any Halloween movie list. Full of light-hearted humour, this film is loved by people of all ages.

Watch it: Amazon Rent or Buy

12. CASPER (1995)

Furious that her late father only willed her his gloomy-looking mansion rather than his millions, Carrigan Crittenden makes a plan to burn the place to the ground. That is, until she finds a map leading to a treasure hidden under the house. But when she enters the rickety mansion to seek her claim, she is frightened away by the mansions ghostly inhabitants. Determined to get her hands on this hidden fortune, Crittenden hires afterlife therapist Dr. James Harvey to exorcise the ghosts from the mansion. Harvey and his daughter Kat move in and soon Kat befriends Casper, the ghost of a young boy, who is “the friendly ghost.” But not so friendly are Casper’s uncles--Stretch, Fatso and Stinkie--who are determined to drive all “fleshies” away. It is up to Harvey and Kat to help the ghosts cross over to the other side.

I may get some flack putting Casper this high up on the list, but hey, to each their own. Casper is a fun little film filled with the right amount of supernatural scares placed inside a package that every age can enjoy.

Watch it: Starz; Amazon Rent or Buy

11. THE WITCHES

While staying at a hotel in England with his grandmother, Helga, young Luke inadvertently spies on a convention of witches. The Grand High Witch reveals a plan to turn all children into mice through a magical formula. When they find that Luke has overheard, the witches test the formula on him. Now, with the help of his grandmother and new friend Bruno Jenkins, Luke the mouse must fight back against the evil witches.

Based on the book of the same name, The Witches is a classic. This may be one of the more frightening films on the list but is still children-friendly. Besides, who doesn’t want to save the world as a mouse.

Watch it: Amazon Rent or Buy

10. THE MONSTER SQUAD

The Monster Squad is a club of friends who idolize the classic monster-movies, especially their non-human stars. One day, Dracula, the Mummy, Frankenstein’s Monster, and other classic horror icons, all of which the club idolize, arrive in town in search of a magic amulet to destroy all the good in the world. It is up to the five friends to save the amulet from destruction and use it to cast the monsters into limbo.

One part The Goonies, one part Ghostbusters, and one part Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, the Monster Squad is a true cult classic that was way ahead of its time.

Watch for yourself and find out if the “Wolfman has nards.”

Watch it: Amazon Rent or Buy

9. BEETLEJUICE

Adam and Barbara are like every other happily married couple -- who just happen to also be dead! Before they died, Adam and Barbara had spent their vacation to decorate and make the house their own, that is, until the fatal car crash. Unfortunately, a new family is moving in, and not quietly as they make plans to redecorate the house with the help of an interior designer. Adam and Barbara try to scare them out, but end up becoming the main attraction to the money making family. They call upon Beetlejuice to help, but Beetlejuice has more in mind than just helping.

While having a special place in my heart for taking place in Connecticut, Beetlejuice is an all around classic starting Michael Keaton and a young Winona Ryder.

Watch it:: Amazon Rent or Buy

8. PARANORMAN

Norman Babcock has the ability to speak with the dead -- and he often prefers their company to that of the living. Norman learns from his estranged uncle that a centuries-old witch’s curse on their town is real and about to come true -- and only Norman can stop it. When zombies rise from their graves, Norman and his ragtag team must summon all their courage and compassion to the limit to save his fellow townspeople. Taking place in the fictional town of Blithe Hollow, this stop-motion film is a beautiful take on the Salem Witch Trials.

I have to admit, I slept on this movie when it first came out. I had no interest in it at all, but then I watched it and became an instant favourite. The humour is a little more blue for a “children’s” movie, but the lesson learned in the end is valuable for all involved. Did I mention it is also well known for being the first mainstream animated film with an openly gay character?

Watch it: Sadly it is not available for streaming on Amazon, Netflix, or Hulu at this time, due to licensing agreements

7. FRANKENWEENIE

Young Victor Frankenstein is a science nerd and an outsider at school, but he does have one friend, his dog Sparky. Sadly, tragedy strikes, taking Sparky away from Victor. Heartbroken, Victor is given an idea of how to bring Sparky back to life. The experiment is a success and everything goes fine, that is, until his fellow students learn of his secret and use it to resurrect their beloved lost pets. Frankenweenie is a heartwarming tale of a boy and his dog, and the lengths we would go to keep our beloved friend.

I consider Frankenweenie to be the sister movie to ParaNorman. Both are stop motion and came out in the same year. The difference is Frankenweenie takes you back to the classic universal horror icons in a brand-new way. Did I mention it is in black and white and has that classic monster movie feel?

watch it: Rent on Youtube

6. NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS

What happens to the Pumpkin King when he tires of being just that, the King of Halloween. Jack Skellington is bored of the same annual routine of scaring the people of the real world. One day, he stumbles upon Christmastown, full of bright colours and warm spirits, bringing a new lease to Jack’s life. He plots to bring Christmas under his control, only to find that the best-laid plans of mice and skeleton can go awry.

Originally I intended only one movie per director, but I don’t think you can begin to discuss family friendly Halloween without Tim Burton, especially because you cannot have a Halloween list without Nightmare Before Christmas. In all fairness, this is the perfect movie to finish out the year with.

Watch it: Amazon Rent or Buy

5. COCO

Miguel dream of becoming a musician, just like his idol, Ernesto de la Cruz. The problem, his family has a generations-old ban on music. Desperate to prove his talent, Miguel steals Ernesto’s guitar and finds himself in the colourful Land of the Dead. With the help of a charming trickster named Héctor and Miguel’s dog Dante, Miguel must find his way back home, meanwhile learning the truth about his family’s past.

All bite. Coco is a Dia de los Muertos movie. I know some of you will complain that it is not a Halloween movie. Truth is, the spirit of Dia de los Muertos and Halloween are close enough for me to warrant inclusion into the list. The scenery and background is gorgeous, the story will tug at the heartstrings, and you will get to learn a little about the culture behind Dia de los Muertos, even if a bit Disneytized.

Watch it: Netflix

4. HALLOWEENTOWN

On Halloween, while Marnie is arguing with her mother Gwen, the kids’ grandmother Aggie comes to visit. Aggie wants to start Marnie’s witch training before her 13th birthday or Marnie will lose her powers forever. But there is another reason for Aggie’s visit. Something dark and evil is growing in Halloweentown, and Aggie wants help to defeat it. While Aggie and Gwen are arguing, Aggie uses magic, which Marnie observes. After Aggie leaves to return to Halloweentown, Marnie, Dylan and, unknown to Marnie and Dylan, Sophie follow her onto the return bus. Soon afterwards, Gwen follows the children to Halloweentown. While there, Aggie and Gwen are attacked by the dark force. Marnie, Dylan and Sophie have to race to get the ingredients to activate Merlin’s Wand to stop the evil and save Halloweentown.

A classic made for TV Disney movie, this film (and all sequels) are a perfect Halloween movie for all ages, and albeit a little cheesy at times. But who doesn’t love the occasional cheesy movie?

3. SCOOBY DOO AND THE WITCH’S GHOST

When the Master Gang Scooby meet a famous horror writer Ben Ravencroft (who may or may not be based off of Stephen King) during their last mystery, he invites them to his small hometown of Oakhaven, Massachusetts to join in the annual Autumn Fest. Ravencroft tells the Mystery Gang about the history of his ancestor, Sarah Ravencroft, who happened to be an evil witch and is supposedly haunting the town of Oakhaven. The gang decides to help the town and solve the mystery of the Witch’s Ghost.

This was tough to pick. We have Scooby Doo and the Ghoul School, Scooby Doo and Zombie Island, I mean honestly any Scooby Doo movie could fit. But I picked Witch’s Ghost for three simple reasons: takes place during the fall, witches, and the Hex Girls, a fictional all-female Goth Rock Band.

Watch it: Amazon Prime, Boomerang Channel on Amazon

2. MONSTER HOUSE

13-year-old DJ is obsessed with his creepy neighbour, Nebbercracker, and his eerie house. After all, rumours of his past have run rampant in the town. But one day, DJ and his friends witness the house come to life. Unable to find an adult that will believe him, and with Halloween vastly approaching, it is up to DJ and his friends to find a way to destroy the house before innocent trick-or-treaters meet their end.

At times, this film is a little on the frightening side, at least for the younger ones. The characters are well thought out and put together. While the animation is not ground breaking, it looks great and fits the movie perfectly. A perfect film for those looking for a fun, clean movie this Halloween.

Watch it: Amazon Rent or Buy

1. GOOSEBUMPS 2: HAUNTED HALLOWEEN

While collecting junk from an abandoned house, best friends Sonny and Sam come across an unpublished “Goosebumps” book. Opening it, they release Slappy, a mischievous talking dummy. Hoping to start a family, Slappy kidnaps Sonny’s mother and brings fourth all of his ghoulish friends (creatures and monsters from the Goosebumps novels) to life, just in time for Halloween. The sleepy town becomes overrun with monsters, witches, and other mysterious creatures. It is up to Sonny, his sister Sarah, and Sam to save their town, his mother, and foil Slappy’s plans.

Goosebumps (2015) is a pure nostalgia ride with a brand new feel and Goosebumps 2: Haunted Halloween is no different. Trading in some of the humor for a little more horror feel, the movie has a little bit to offer for everyone.

Watch it: Netflix

The truth of the matter is, this list is not perfect and may never be complete, but it is a great starting point to the ever growing list of the Not-So-Scary Halloween movies. I feel in writing this, I have left so many great films off, so I have a list of some runner up films that just barely missed being on my top 13.

RUNNER UPS

HOTEL TRANSYLVANIA

Dracula and the classic horror monsters are afraid of humans. In an attempt to take a vacation away from humanity, Dracula operates a hotel way off in the woods. One day, a brave human makes his way to the castle, where the human and Dracula’s daughter “Zing”.

ADDAMS FAMILY (1991)

A man claiming to be Uncle Fester, the missing brother of Gomez Addams shows up at the Addam’s household. The family is thrilled, however Morticia begins to suspect the man is a fraud as he cannot recall details of Fester’s life. With the help of a lawyer, Fester manages to get the Addams evicted from the home. Can the Addam’s family save Uncle Fester? Can they get their home back?

DOUBLE DOUBLE TOIL AND TROUBLE

The Farmer family is in debt and might lose their house. The Farmer Twins discover the somebody mean and shrewd is responsible for all the family problems. The determined twins try to trick at their evil aunt out of her magic moonstone to save their family home.

THE ADVENTURES OF ICHABOD AND MR. TOAD

Two animated adaptations of classic literature adapted by Disney make up this film, which is the only reason it made the runner up list as Mr. Toad, while good, has nothing to do with Halloween. However, in the “Legend of Sleepy Hollow” the gangly schoolmaster, Ichabod Crane, falls for the beautiful Katrina Van Tassel. Caught in a love triangle with Katrina and Brom Bones, Ichabod fears the local legend of the Headless Horseman. Is the legend more truth than lore?

ALVIN AND THE CHIPMUNKS MEET THE WOLFMAN

Alvin loves monsters and monster movies, though he is terrified of them. Stuck with Werewolves on the mind, he believes his next door neighbour is one. Reluctantly, Simon helps Alvin investigate the neighbour. Meanwhile Theodore is bitten by a strange dog, and finds his inner “inner monster” and starts behaving like a werewolf himself.

Did I miss your favourite Not-So-Scary Halloween movie? Let me know what it is in the comments below.

_________________________________

Enjoyed this piece of high strangeness? Share it with your world!

#halloween movies #family movies #not scary movies #halloween #halloween spirit #movie list #top 13 halloween movies #top halloween picks #halloween for everyone

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tessatechaitea · 5 years

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The New Titans #60

First time in my comic book reading history that I noticed how much Nightwing's symbol looks like the torso of a woman in a skimpy top.

It's difficult beginning a new New Titans comic book when I'd let myself believe I was finished reading them all. It's especially difficult to keep reading this comic book when the first page includes this warning:

You don't have to tell me twice!

Apparently my brain disagreed with its first assessment that the comic book didn't need to tell me twice because it reread the warning and idiotically read it correctly this time.

Dammit! Why did I already read Batman #440?! Now I'm practically locked into reading this!

Looking on the bright side for the second time in my life (the first time was when I realized that when I die, it'll most likely be in some horrible accident in which I won't have time to register that my life is ending and therefore I'll never actually know I've died, easing swiftly into the loving embrace of non-existence!), I thought, "Well, Batman #440 was written by Wolfman and it was a decent read. How terrible can this comic book be?!" But that pleasant thought was completely undone when the first panel reminded me of something I had yet to consider:

Fuck. Cyborg was still alive at this time. I'm fucking bored already!

Well, looking on the bright side who loves seeing a character yell "Booyah!" constantly, this comic book should be a real treat! I do feel a little bit of white guilt creeping in around the corners when I voice my indifference of the most boring character in the DC Universe because he's black. Especially with Donald Trump's recent explicitly racist tweets and the GOP's rush to hide behind other members of the GOP in the hopes that they won't have to shrug apathetically on camera when asked about the tweets. But it's not my fault that DC Comics chose to make their most boring character an American black man! Would it help if I said some of my favorite DC characters were black? Nope. Just heard how that sounds. Not better! Paragraph breaks don't do as much heavy lifting as I need them to. Sometimes after I've written some commentary, I'll wander off to another part of the Internet to take in some sights. Then when I come back, I sometimes want to discuss what I've just experienced. But going from one paragraph to another, readers just think they're reading it in real time as I wrote it. What I need are paragraph breaks that represent the amount of time I was away (but not what I was doing while I was away or they'd all be variations on "Gone five minutes. Jerked off to Sailor Moon porn where Rei surprises Usagi in the shower and teaches her how to masturbate" or "Gone ten minutes. Watched an erotic massage video and spent most of the time fiddling with the sound so the downstairs neighbors couldn't hear it. Turns out 3 out of 100 is still to loud for some women's orgasms" or "Gone three days. Couldn't take reading another Wolfman New Titans comic book and wound up just playing thirty games of Apex"). Between the last paragraph and this one, I went on Twitter where Andy Richter posted Fats Domino's version of The Beatles' "Lady Madonna." My only response after hearing it was, "Holy fuck." Seriously, I never want to hear The Beatles' shit version ever again! I also just noticed in the above panel, Cyborg accidentally stuck his penis plug-in to the side of his face! Whoops! Back in 1989, Cyborg wasn't capable of contacting anybody in the DC Universe immediately. So he's having trouble finding Dick Grayson. He tried his pager and...well, that's about it! It was 1989! If somebody wasn't sitting by their phone, you didn't have many other options when trying to contact them! This is probably one of the moments where much later DC editors looked back at Cyborg and realized he needed to be more powerful. I'm not arguing that he definitely needed to be more than a white noise gun that said "Booyah!" but they could have realized he needed to be interesting as well. Hell, it's not long after this issue that Marv Wolfman completely gives up on him and smashes him into bits. Having no other options but to risk exposing Batman's secret identity by putting calls to Wayne Manor on the Titans phone records, Cyborg gives Bruce a call. I'd understand interrupting Batman's hectic life if the world were on fire but the big emergency right now is that some weird kid looking for Dick visited Kory while she was practically naked (no wait. She had a towel on after showering so her body was more covered than usual). Batman is busy dealing with Two-Face even though it's the middle of the day. I think maybe Alfred lied to Cyborg. I bet Batman's taking a shit. Dick has gone back to Haly's Circus to find himself.

I bet these two clowns are actually old white land developers responsible for the circus failing! Their next trick will be to dress up like ghosts and zombies to scare everyone away!

A third clown named Harry comes out of a tent and passes out in Dick's arms. Can you imagine blacking out as a clown? You'd probably wake up in an unknown tent with no make-up covered in lion spit and shame. Dick meets with Haly and is all, "I read about the circus closing down and I couldn't figure out why. But now that I'm here, I totally get it!" And Haly is all, "Fuck you, Dick! You try running a circus in 2019! I mean 1989! Oh, yeah, I guess I should probably still have been able to trick idiots into thinking freak sideshows and abusing animals was still cool." Haly actually blames the failing of his circus on too much TV and too many video games. Obviously Super Mario, Tecmo Bowl, and Duck Hunt (hee hee! You thought, "Cunt!") were way more fun and interesting than sitting in a smelly tent being terrorized by people in greasy face paint but Haly really should take a little responsibility for his own business failings. Dick arrives and in ten minutes, he's already washed an elephant and kept a drunk clown from breaking his neck. Maybe get off your ass, Harry Haly, and fix up your shit. Haly also mentions that there's been a rash of accidents that have kept the selling price of the circus down. I bet it was those fucking clowns!

He's talking about his penis so yes, Dick, he has to ask.

While at Haly's Circus, Dick Grayson witnesses the origin of Clown Batman!

Later, after Bozo Wayne grew to an adult and was wondering what direction to take, a clown crashed through his window.

Tensions are running high at the Haly Circus as some performers want to circus to be sold so they can move on and others just want things to remain unchanged.

Finally, a clown that makes me laugh!

During the show later, Wilhelm the lion tamer gets his throat ripped out before Dick can save him. Dick was disguised as a clown so Wilhelm probably bled out as Dick was struggling to take off the stupid shoes. Tim Drake is in the audience watching because he's smarter than the entire Titans team put together. Later, Tim and Dick team up to find out who's been sabotaging Haly's Circus. It turns out it was the little person and the strong man. So typical! It's totally who I thought it was and not those two clowns from earlier. That was just a red herring I was throwing out to confuse you. The team-up doesn't make me like Tim Drake any better. But then Tim makes an admission that warms my heart and I can't help but love the kid.

Wolfman knew what he was doing.

At the end of the day, Dick Grayson buys half of Haly's Circus to help keep it afloat (with Bruce's money). Then Tim shows him the pictures of Batman battling Ravager that he took in Batman #440. He pleads with Dick to go back to help Batman cope with the death of Jason Todd. "Batman needs Robin!" he argues like a nerd doing his thesis on Batman's inexplicable need to endanger minors. Dick takes the kid seriously because who else has ever figured out that Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson are Batman and Robin?! Only the smartest man on Earth and he won't do that for another twenty five years! The New Titans #60 Rating: B+. Apparently it's the Titans that make the Titans comic book suck. Concentrating on Dick Grayson and his relationship with Batman and the circus (and even this new upstart kid that loves Dick) causes Marv Wolfman to be at his best! My guess is that it's the lack of Cyborg that really makes the book shine.

#The New Titans #Teen Titans #DC Comics #DC #A Lonely Place of Dying #Batman #Tim Drake #Comic Book Reviews

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writeyourownlifestory · 6 years

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{Love Of My Life} You’ve Hurt Me

Being in the world’s greatest rock band was easy for Roger Taylor. Loving his best friend’s girl....that was hard.

Based on the picture from above. I had this idea that Roger always had feelings about Mary but kept them to himself because of his love/friendship for Freddie.

Wrote it as a joke for my best friends @thatspunkydwarf and @omgellenlouise who I love to torment endlessly. Ladies, enjoy!

Can also be read here on archive!

He used to see her around from time to time; another gorgeous face lost in the sea of people. Even pushed back behind his drum set, Roger could always spot a pretty lady in the crowd. While to some, there would be nothing overly special about her. Long blonde hair and killer style, nothing new for the times. College girls were a dime a dozen, but Roger would be damned if he didn’t find something spectacular in every girl he brought home.

He never brought her home though. Not that he didn’t try. He would wonder over after a set, making his presence known to whatever group of friends she would be talking to. Sometimes he recognized the girls, other times they were new. He would thank them for coming out, introduce himself and even sometimes Brian and Tim. She would smile along but never fall for any of his lines.

And he had plenty of lines. The very thought of having a love song written about them would make any girl weak at the knees. Not her, however. She didn’t seem impressed by his talent, both on and off stage. Countless times he had tried to flirt with her, mentioning how he had seen her around only for her to respond him a mere ‘i go to school here.’ He had tried to fight that, insisting that yeah school was school, but constantly seeing her at his shows had to mean something.

Apparently, it meant she like music and nothing more.

Roger would never pester a girl. No was no, that much he understood. The very idea of forcing anything on a girl, even his company, would be enough for his mum to come and thump him. Still. She intrigued him. It wasn’t every day a girl would come along, give him one look, and then just keep walking. Roger didn’t like a brag (that's a lie, he loved it, he lived for it) but he happened to be quite popular with the ladies around campus, so it has someone shut him down so easily…well, it had him coming back for more.

Not that he believed she was playing hard to get. Roger could tell when a woman was trying to make him work for her. It didn’t happen often, but it was the little things she did here and there as if it would enchant him into wanting to be with her.

She wasn’t like that. She liked the music and maybe in an odd way, she even liked him, but Roger quickly found he was nothing but a game to her. Someone nice to look at, but never someone to truly play with. There were plenty of other things he could do on a Saturday night, why spend it sitting around thinking about some shop girl? Roger never let it bother him.

At least not until Freddie showed up.

Freddie was so much like Roger. He was bold and brass. He knew the talent he possessed and wasn’t scared to show it. Once Tim was out, Freddie was in and John came along shortly after. They went from this little group that played pubs and uni gigs to working on a real bloody album.

And with Freddie came Mary.

They never talked about it. Sometimes Roger wondered if Mary even remembered him. It wasn’t like Smile was very forgettable but they also weren’t the only band that the school had to offer.

Maybe it just wasn’t worth bringing up. The last thing Roger needed was for Freddie to know he had to hots for Mary. He probably wouldn’t even take it seriously. Nobody ever took Roger or his relationships serious. Not even Roger.

Sometimes, in the darkness, Roger found himself wondering why. Why him? What was it about Freddie that caught Mary’s attention. Roger was, rather bluntly, everything a woman in their era could want. He was gorgeous and talented. Clever and bright. Someone to bring home to mum and dad.

Alright, maybe the last part was a stretch, but it was true in some sense.

They were a good looking group of lads, everyone could agree on that. There were some differences though. Roger and Brian were conventionally handsome. They had the hair and the style. Jawlines and perfect teeth. They had their college degrees (mostly). They had household names. They were boyish yet sexy. Every woman’s dream.

Freddie and John weren’t exactly ugly but sometimes it just made sense why some women would throw themselves at the drummer and lead guitarist. They had their fans, of course. There were always women out there so sought off the less than perfect looking person.

It wasn’t a judgment call, not in the least, just facts. Who would they be without their talents, of course? A dentist? A designer? An astrophysicist? And whatever John wanted to do.

Electrical engineering.

Mary loved the way Freddie looked. She was partially his inspiration for some of his chosen outfits. She would help him with his makeup and his flair.

Mary came with them nearly everywhere, not that any of the members minded. For a while, it seemed as though she and Freddie were tied at the hip. Roger wasn’t lying when he said she had the face worth writing a song about.

Love of My Life was a hit. How could it not be?

A beautiful song was written about a beautiful woman.

Mary was more than beautiful, however. And Roger, well he learned that the hard way. There would be nights when they would be talking. Wasn’t like they ignored each other or anything like that. They were friends, so to speak. Roger had never been friends with a woman before. He had lady friends he would bring on tour with him or other women he’d pick up while on tour, but never an actual female friend that he talked to about things that didn’t regard the music.

Mary was smart. Incredibly so. She also had her own special touch for design. Roger wondered if that was one of the things Mary and Freddie were in one another. Their eye for fashion.

Roger liked to believe he was a snappy dresser. Sometimes Deacy would call him out for something he’d wear, or Brian or even Freddie. Mary was always there to comment on it. Make sense of his choice and show the others that Freddie wasn’t the only icon in the group.

Sometimes she’d even join in on the teasing. Ever since he wrote I’m In Love With My Car, he had been utter shit on by the band. He wasn’t proud of how he reacted when it first went down, but he liked to believe they grew up since then. He accepted the teasing as it came, but when Mary did it, it felt different. There was no cruelty in her tone. No common reminder that he locked himself in a bloody cupboard over which side it was on. Just fun teasing.

Mary was also funny, and clever and kind. She was an amazing person and sometimes Roger wondered if Freddie forgot all about that.

Sometimes he would stop by her shop just to chat. He would make up a line about having to come up with an outfit for something. Queen was getting so big that a thing wasn’t even really a lie. He’d wear the outfit she chose to a party or interview or even on stage. She would make him laugh and they’d tell jokes. It was fun. He liked it.

He liked her, but that was a different story.

There would be times when they were alone. Gone were the quips and the comments. Flirting with Mary would be a sin now as she belonged with Freddie. Every single time she’d enter a room, the ring would flash as a blinding reminder who she chose.

As if he was ever really a choice.

Mary would corner him and question him about their tour. If Freddie was having fun. Like a child on holiday. Or if he was happy. Could he be faking the smiles and cheers? It seemed Mary believed so. Sometimes, when it was dark and no one was around, she would ask him if he ever met someone on tour.

Roger wasn’t perfect. He had cheated on girls before. Even Brian wasn’t blameless when it came to courting multiple women. They were romantics in a romantic sense, but at the end of the day, they were still men with needs.

Not everybody could be Deacy, stick with one person and be happy with it.

Roger didn’t have an answer for her. Never had he seen Freddie out and about with a fan. He didn’t have the time for such things. He was always business. Sometimes he’d be a real shit, but at the end of the day, this was his life and he wasn’t going to mess it up for something stupid like an affair. At least not publicly.

Paul, the little prick, existed, but even Roger couldn’t say for sure if the two were doing anything behind closed doors.

So Roger did what any best friend and family member would do and reassured Mary what Freddie loved her. It wasn’t a lie and never would be.

There was a glimmer in Mary’s eyes when he said it. A shimmer of truth that she knew was real even if it didn’t answer her question.

Seeing her in pain utterly destroyed the drummer and for a short moment, Roger Taylor hated his best friend and cursed the name, Freddie Mercury. The man who thought he was a legend and was untouchable. The man who was so careless about everybody else feelings but his own.

They were bitter thoughts and Roger felt terrible for feeling them, but it was all the same in the end.

Eventually, the truth had to come out, however. Freddie, well he couldn’t stay hiding forever. He had to be true to himself, and to the band, and to his fans, and to Mary. His life and his career depended on it.

The engagement was off and while Mary still wore the ring, she stopped coming around. Roger still saw her from time to time. She lived next door to Freddie after all.

Sometimes Roger would pop over to see how she was doing. Freddie was having one of his moments and while Brian and Deacy always knew how to handle it, Roger learned sometimes it was better to bow out and let him have his way.

They would talk about life and how they were each doing. She was going on dates and Roger was happy for her. He was married by this point and honest and true, he did love Dominique. Was he loyal to her? No, but Roger wasn’t loyal to himself. Only to the band.

His one true love, apparently.

She took interest in his son, his pride and joy. To Rufus, she was Aunt Mary. Maybe someday when he gets older, Roger would tell him how in the darkness of nights, he would think about her and how there could have been the slimmest of chances that she would have been his mum.

It was ridiculous and he knew that, but it was still thought all the same. She found a new guy named David. He was a bit boring and he didn’t dress well at all. Freddie hated talking about it and so did Roger. They both thought she deserved better.

Roger and Freddie thought Mary deserved the whole fucking world twice over but neither of them was any good at giving it to her.

Eventually, life caught up with them and it wasn’t very pretty. Fights were had and for a short while, friendships were lost. When Freddie went out on his own and Paul refused to let him answer the bloody phone, Mary got desperate.

She called Roger, begging him to seek Freddie out, but he refused.

Maybe he was bitter over losing the only family he truly loved?

Maybe he was bitter over Freddie winning the only women he could never have?

Part of Roger begged for him to snap. To snap and tell Mary everything he has always longed to tell her. How beautiful she was to him when she would sit on the edge of the stage and watch them perform. How funny she was, making him laugh so effortlessly. How her voice was one of the most beautiful sounds and no song would ever be worthy of her.

No amount of words in the English language could ever fully capture how much his heart truly felt for her.

And how Freddie fucking Mercury never deserved her and never would.

But he didn’t snap. Instead, Roger said Freddie could fuck off with the wind and she took care of things on his own.

They forgave each other, as expected.

Freddie came back and the band got back together. Roger understood over time why Freddie did what he did. Why he had to get away.

When Freddie told them what he was dealing with, Roger did cry. Alone in his room, angry tears slipped down his face. He was angry and ashamed for feeling the way he did, though it made no difference that the feelings were true.

When they performed at Live Aid together, they did it as a family. As a unit.

And when Mary was off to the side. Blushing and bashful and happy, with her slowly swelling belly and her lover by her side, Roger was happy.

Not for him, but for her.

Mary Austin was the women Roger would never have, the women who always had men make excuses for her. And here she was, with her love and her growing babe, watching the man who would always be the love of her life.

Maybe it was a sad sight, but Roger didn’t want to think so.

And when their eyes locked on the stage and Mary was smiling at him, for a small moment, Roger believed that the love Mary shared wasn’t just for Freddie and wasn’t just for friendship, but for him as well.

It was a passing thought, but it made him happy none the less.

Regardless, they’d always have their music. They’d always have their fans.

And Roger Taylor would always have Queen.

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pixl-king · 6 years

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Angels and Demons || Jaytim

Plot: Jason Todd is a demon who loves to pick on, and tease, certain celestial beings. Especially one named Timothy Drake. Tim being assigned to keep an eye on the demon, who’s assigned to wreak havoc in Gotham.

Words: 2393

Jason Todd was the devil. Well, no. He wasn’t actually the devil, but he worked for the man. And he was devilishly handsome and naughty - in all the right ways. He was the best of the best, and he loved his job.

Not long ago he was offered a promotion, which he’d gladly accepted. It meant that he was now not only allowed to visit the human world, he was also allowed to play in it - or work, as it was called. No longer at the sidelines, like some vegetable, he was out walking the streets of his favorite city.

Gotham.

Yes, Gotham was truly a city of mad chaos and it was so much fun riling it up. Its inhabitants so easily affected by his whispers, smothering wicked touch. The entire area so pliable, so eager to follow his every will. And who was he to deny them what they truly wanted.

There was also another reason for his current obsession of Gotham. Not just for the many, oh so many, crooks and criminals. Gotham was not only under the wicked eye of the devil himself, it was also seemingly a place of interest to the ones upstairs.

The ones upstairs meaning Mr. Divinity and his little peace preaching minions. They were almost twice as fun to mess with. So stuck up, chins in the air and were always a bit too good to get into real fights.

He had managed to rial one of them up once, and damn they actually could throw a neat right hook. But Jason hadn’t seen that one since, perhaps he’d been grounded by those little goody two shoes prisses. Sentenced to stand in a corner for a decade or two.

Jason slithered up next to a young man, stepping into his walk and sneered, leaning closer. “She won’t mind, you deserve some fun. After all, you provide for this family.” He walked along side of the human for the rest of the block till he spotted a redhead and jumped over into her lane. “Use a gun, less messy.” He whispered as if they could be overheard.

And with each whisper, with every idea he put into their precious little minds, he was given a glimmer - like a shooting star across their irises, showing just how weak they truly were. It made him laugh, almost giggle as he stepped back looking around for more.

“Next one to rob Walmart wins a lollipop!” With ease, he jumped up, balancing on a fire hydrant. His army boots squeaking against the red metal beneath him even though he was quite weightless. Pros of not living.

“Hey Bob, looking good today!” Jason called out with a thumbs up to a man walking down the streets in suit and tie, hurrying his steps.

“Thanks Jason!” The round and bald man smiled as he walked passed, apparently a donut in hand.

“I like what I see! Don’t listen to Susan, donut day is everyday! You own that cardiac arrest!” He called out and waved the man off as he turned corner.

Some demons had once been human, and Jason found himself spending most of his free time among those. Sure angels were stuck up, but damn, pure demons were depressing as hell sometimes.

His ‘precinct’ consists of Bob - a heavily overweight demon who died from cardiac arrest a few years back. Susan - a young, way to stuck up, demon who needs to take a lesson in how to actually be a demon. Roy - like Jason, demon… born? Or existing, at least. Never was born. One day they’d not existed and then another they just had. And Jason was the squad leader. His troupe of vicious trouble makers that he’d chosen to station in Gotham.

Most dressed as lawyers, the true demons of the human world. But Jason had found a preference in leather jackets and army boots.

“Now, where was I…” He spun around on the metal lump and looked around. “Ohh yes…” He grinned and hurried, catching up to a couple of teens. Satan, he loved patrol days.

“Russell's kind of cute, isn’t he Mark?” He wrapped his arm over one teens shoulders, knowing that they wouldn’t see him, but sense the slightest addition of weight. “And Ross is a total slut, really, why won’t Joanne break up with him?” He leaned over towards another pimpled covered highschooler.

Falling behind the squad of now arguing kids, he brushed off the thick layer of Axe body spray and cologne that had been left covering him.

“Picking on teenagers today, are we?” A familiar voice made its way into Jason’s ears and the demon turned around with an even wider grin than the one he hosted during his lone working hours.

“Timmers! You made it! I have to be honest, I did think you’d sleep in today, maybe no even show up, but then I remembered you were an angel and that you’d most likely receive the death sentence - if you allowed it - just from that. So I wasn’t too worried.”

Just as expected, the celestial being was perched up on a fire escape, dangling his leg over the railing as the other was raised up, bent and resting on top of it. With one arm draped over his knee, the angel moved back some of that jet black hair that made Jason’s chest jump.

“I’m assigned to monitor you Jason, we have this talk every morning.” He sighed and leaned against the brick wall. Wings sloping down towards the ground just like his leg.

“Yes, but you still haven’t agreed on monitoring me during nights, so I’ll just keep bring that one up till you do.” He winked and the angle sighed once again with an eye roll added to it.

“I don’t fucking care Greg! I swear, one more word and..” Jason grinned and stroke his fingers over a passing woman’s back. Gently grazing her shoulder blades before pulling back his ghoulish hand. “You know what... IT’S OVER.” She yelled into the phone with a suddenly renewed furious expression over her face.

Jason turned back to his babysitter just in time to see the boy flick his finger, sending a droplet of light that, sure enough, hit the woman. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I think we should talk. I’ll be home in a few hours…” And she was without reach of the ear, even for the two supernatural creatures.

“Always such a party pooper.” Jason shook his head disapprovingly and started walking down the street once again. Not long after, there was a low huff of heavy wings and Tim was walking beside him, hands folded behind his back as he walked.

“You shouldn’t complain so much, I can tell you that your college, Roy, has it way worse.” Tim said with a low smile and Jason glanced back at him.

“Yeah, how’s that? Who could possibly be worse than you?” He teased the boy and was obnoxiously stretching himself out over the streat to graze as many as possible. Tim’s wings fluttering behind them, sending low winds of air that erased all of his hard work.

“You haven’t met my brother Dick.” The angel let out a light laughter and instead of sneering at the disgustingly purity of it, Jason smiled as well.

----

“Yet another day ruined by you angels.” Jason sighed and pouted, shoving Tim in the side as they looked down at the city below. Standing on top of the highest building of Gotham, Tim shoved the other back.

He wasn’t like the other angels. Wasn’t afraid to talk back, or shove back for that matter. Jason liked it, just as much as he liked the idea of an angel at his mercy.

No matter the feud that had been constant and still ongoing between their kinds, Tim’s heavy and strong wings were gorgeous. His strong torso keeping them steady and with such pride. He didn’t wear those ridiculously white suits like so many other angels did. Thank god for that.

Yes. Jason was ready to thank GOD for that.

Whilst the rest of the celestials walked around looking like a mix between an eighties boy band and funeral home workers, Tim wore black jeans and a loose cotton shirt tucked into them. Sleeves rolled up and sneakers accompanying it; he looked like a dream.

Jason looked back at the other. “Ever considered going rogue, joining the dark side. Think you’d enjoy it.” He smirked and folded his hands, leaning his forearms against the railing and almost bending over the metal pipe. “Demons can’t rise, but angels can always fall.”

“I’m good for now.” Tim said and looked out below them. Somehow, this had become routine.

“I just don’t get the whole angel deal.” Jason leaned even further over the railing, threatening a fall that’d cause him no harm. But he liked the slightly worried look that spread across the angels face.

“What part? I’ve already explained the wings and anatomy.” Tim asked shooting glances at Jason's feet that were lifting to lean over the metal fence, standing on his toes.

He heaved himself back and was now leaning back towards the roof instead, like a bored child. “Yes, and that was a great talk.” A smile like the devil spreading across his face. “But like, the whole doing good thing. I’m just letting them carry out their true desires.” He pointed out and actually pointed at Tim. “You guys are taking that away.”

Tim raised an eyebrow and leaned against the railing, but to his side so he was facing Jason. “Really?” He said in disbelief. “So what about the regret they experience after it all? After the lying, cheating and murdering.”

“Well that’s a part of life babe.” Jason dismissed his argument and leaned forwards once again. “You just have to learn to live with it.” And he fell. The gusting air capturing him as the streets grew closer. But never really hit. Before he’d passed even halfway down the side of the building, he felt two arms around him, and his closed, peaceful eyes slid open satisfactory.

“See, action - consequence - regret.” The angle was looking at him as if he was a headache waiting to happen but shook his head with a low smile.

“You don’t look too remorseful.” He said as he placed Jason back down on the rooftop.

“Well that’s just a part of my charm.” Jason shrugged and felt gravity take its share of him as his feet touched the ground. “But I do what I want. Can you say the same?”

“I do what I’m supposed to.” The angel said simply and took a step back, only to be followed by Jason.

“Why not more?” He teased, leaning into the other’s space, without touching.

“Can’t piss off the big guy too much.” Tim said, but Jason could’ve sworn he saw the luminous skin grow slightly red, which was just enough.

“How ‘bout just a little then?” His arm folded around the shorter man, yanking him close and capturing those devine lips in a kiss.

Tim’s arms were on his chest in a heartbeat, but not pushing him away. They were holding the fabric of his leather jacket and joining in. Jason let a low growl escape his lips at the feeling of Tim’s fingers reaching over his neck, burying themself in his hair, whilst his own enjoyed scoping out the lean build of an angel. Sliding down, stroking over the dimples far down his back and down to the pockets of Tim’s jean, he pushed their pelvises together, rolling his hips against Tim’s. The angel groaned, biting Jason’s lip and Jason felt dizzy for it.

His tongue rolled against divinity and it was amazing. Saliva mixing and teeth crashing together, but nonetheless amazing.

All of the sudden the angel stopped and pulled back. His hands had found their way to Jason’s head, where they were now wrapping around two short spikes. “You have horns?” He asked with a confused and surprised expression, fighting to regain the breath that’d been lost in the kiss.

“What? Didn’t teach you that in Sunday school, did they?” Jason grinned, also taking heavy breaths and squeezing the other’s ass in content.

“Oh, shut up.”

“HE SWORE” Jason gasped and laughed.

“Jesus Christ, Jason.” The angel rolled his eyes but then pulled the demon down with a grin, meeting his lips and giving in to what he’d so sinfully longed for, for so long.

---

“Hey boss!” Bob was sitting at his desk as Jason walked into what honestly looked like a messy police department. Bob was having breakfast; an egg mcmuffin, a danish and a starbucks drink. Hell yeah Bob.

“Mornin’ big guy.” Jason saluted the demon and walked past his desk that was the closest to the entrance.

“Susan.” He gave a short nod to the woman who had her nose deep in paperwork, only looking up for a split second to acknowledge Jason’s arrival.

He fell down into his office chair, spinning a few laps before settling at his desk, dumping his heavy boots on top of it. He grabbed a couple of files marked coerced and skimmed through them to later have Bob send them down to the archives.

“Any new interesting cases?” Jason asked, throwing the pile back on the already messy desk.

“Got requests for some politicians and scientists.” Bob informed and held up a bunt of paper folders marked targets.

“Hit me.” Jason said and soon there was a case flying towards him. Caught in one swift movement, he started reading. Soon to be interrupted though, as a loud redhead walked in.

“Hey, jackass!”

Jason looked up at the so endearing nickname and his eyebrows reached for his forehead. “What’s up Roy?” He asked and let the case rest over his lap.

“I waited all night at the bar yesterday! Where the hell were you?” Roy almost spat, shoving Jason’s paperwork down from his desk to sit.

Jason eyes lazily followed the ruckus and then refocused on Roy.

“You better have a great fucking excuse.” He threatened. “There were military officers there Jason. Military. Officers.”

“I do have an excuse though.” Jason said and picked up the file again, in disinterest of his friends own story.

“Yeah, right. What?”

“Fucked an angel.”

“Knew you wouldn’t ha- Wait, WHAT!?”

#jaytim #jaytim fan fiction #jason todd #tim drake #angels and demons au #dcu

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

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Illicio 15/?

Part 14

I suppose it was clever of you, to send this one specifically. I have never been too fond of his kind. Too... volatile, if you'll excuse the little joke.

But I'll move on. I'm a grown woman, and I know perfectly well when I've lost a battle. It isn't even that big of a tangle in the grand scheme of things, now that I think about it.

And see, that's exactly what I wanted to talk about, Jon. How would you say it?

Statement of Anabelle Cane, regarding inevitability.

"So... where did you find her?" Tim asks, as he walks around a corner. It opens to a long corridor, with tasteful hardwood floors and sensible faded ochre walls. There's a little table by the wall anywhere between five and a hundred steps in, right below a mirror that's usually round, but sometimes is triangular or square. Right now it's eight-sided, and Tim looks into it to fix his hair- and his face. The latter melts a little if he's not paying attention, but is easy enough to mold back into shape.

"Roaming the tunnels. She was a bit lost. Everyone is, down there." Helen's voice echoes all around him, and his headache gets the slightest bit worse. There's no telling how long he's been here for, but at least in her corridors he can pretend the confusion is only a side effect of Helen around him.

"So you thought it would be a good idea to make her into dinner." There's a single cobweb stretched between the little table's legs, and Tim presses a finger to it like he's done to the others, watching it curl and shrivel as it chars to nothing. "Or were you actually trying to get her out and throw her at us?"

"Burn a couple more of those, and I might be able to tell you." Helen's voice is clearer now. Bitter. Tim nods grimly.

"I'm going to need you to let me out somewhere else."

"Better if you don't say the name, I think." Helen sighs. "Keep walking."

So Tim does. There's still plenty to be confused about. The Desolation rages inside him, feeding from the raw loss burning a hole through his chest

Sasha's dead.

No, he corrects himself. She's been dead for a while now, years. The thing Jon killed was just that; a monster, no matter how many times Tim called it Sasha's name. No matter how many times Tim found himself loving it.

The fire at his core burns a bit hotter.

He keeps trying to tell himself he was loving the memory of Sasha and not the beast, but is there really any memory left of her? Logically speaking -ugh, he sounds like Jon-, he knows there have to be. He knew Sasha -loved Sasha- long before the table came, but when he tries to conjure them, all he sees is the long-limbed thing, the ghost of its touch on Tim's skin sending shocks of nausea through his stomach.

"If you're going to puke, please wait until I let you out."

"Feeling vindictive, aren't we?" Tim composes a smirk even as he takes a deep breath to fend the nausea off, leaning heavily against the little table. His reflection on the half moon-shaped mirror looks decrepit with exhaustion.

"Aren't you?" Helen asks, and Tim's knuckles whiten around the table's edges.

There was a spiderweb on that table, and there's another on Jon's lighter.

"You have no idea."

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

Calling the fog is easier now.

Tim hasn't been home in a while, and Gerry hasn't sought him out either after he lashed out at him. Which is... what he wanted, he supposes.

It's much better to work like this, now that even Peter has opted for leaving him alone. Without interruptions, without the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Lately, he has started to suspect even the Eye's gaze slips off of him at times.

It makes him wonder if Jon can still See him. If he even tries anymore.

There's probably no answer to that question that could make him feel... something, not anymore. Martin shakes his head, hoping to dislodge the thought and go back to his work. There's things to do, including a new statement to record that Peter must've slipped in before he arrived. He's getting close to being done with this, at least.

Will there be anything left of him once he doesn't need to be lonely?

Will there be anyone left who cares?

All he can see when he tries to look into his future is the comforting, cool embrace of the fog. It's not a surprise, not really. Fear has ever been a constant in Martin's life.

A tape recorder clicks to life by his elbow, and Martin sighs. "Yes, alright. I'll just... Martin Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute. Recording statement... what is it? 0131305..."

The feeling is... odd, he decides after he goes through Judith O'Neill's statement barely giving the words a thought, as fast as he can without mangling it, because the sound of his own voice is grating to his ears.

"It's... I know I should feel guilty, you know?" he asks the tape recorder, resting his chin on his hand. "I mean, this is this person's worst moment, that she trusted us with, to preserve and protect. And- and I'm just trying to get it over with."

Click. Martin feels his lips curl into a small smile. Who knew he could still do that?

"Yes, I guess so. But it still doesn't feel like I'm doing enough. Not that it ever has, but still..." He sighs.

It doesn't really matter, does it? All Jon and Gerry need is the information, not his thoughts on it, not his- just the facts. That's what they want, and- and since he finished this quickly enough, he should be able to sneak down into the Archives and drop the tape at his old desk before Gerry can try to come get it.

He doesn't have to see the hurt on his face when he sends him away again.

The door to the office closes silently behind him as he steps into the corridor to start the way down to the Archives, and he's immediately assaulted with the pressing sensation of other people's existence. Martin doesn't quite Know about every person in the Institute, but he can feel their presence like one would feel the heat from standing too close to a fire; a warning to get away, before you end up burned. Luckily for everyone, life in the Institute seems to be contained at the upper levels, the building completely silent once he reaches the bottom floor.

The old break room calls to him like a siren at sea, but Martin ignores it. There's nothing for him there anymore, other than a brightly painted mug pushed to the back of the cupboard to be forgotten, like the painful memory of the times when there were no fears of monsters, and the biggest worry in Martin's mind was a fake resume.

This is why he hates coming down here, he thinks with a sigh. It's just... logically, he knows they were never going to stay that way, planning birthday parties and getting to know each other, the little Archive team. He knows they were doomed the moment they signed their transfer to their new department. But still... Better times, less complicated, and- there's a woman there.

More importantly, a woman he doesn't recognize. She's tall and dark skinned, with tightly curled hair pulled into a bun at the top of her head, her sharp, deep brown eyes examining what Martin recognizes with a muted sense of alarm as a scorch mark shaped like footsteps on the polished hardwood floor.

"Excuse me? You can't be here." Martin says after a deep breath. The tape recorder in his hand clicks on again; great, now Jon is going to hear him chasing away his meal. "Did you come to give a statement? I'm afraid we're not taking new ones at the moment."

There's a pang of nausea at the lie, but Martin ignores it. If he can keep one more person from tangling in with this-

"I gave it a while ago. Haven't been too afraid ever since." The woman shrugs after turning to face him. She's wearing a black tank top with a stylized ghost on it, that Martin would once have smiled at. "I'm only waiting for Melanie. You're Martin?"

He blinks. "You... know me?"

The woman's lips twitch. "Jon talked a lot about you while he was staying at my house."

Martin frowns in confusion, until it all clicks in his mind. The ghost, the statement, Melanie, Jon. The fact that he couldn't feel her at all before practically running into her.

"Huh. I- I didn't know Melanie-Georgie and Jon-Georgie were the same person." Martin feels the air around him cool a little more when he gives her a second, evaluating look. She's beautiful, and she looks confident and calm even in this place of terror. Jon... Jon really has a type, Martin thinks as his mind conjures the image of a pair of blue-green eyes glaring up at Peter in defiance.

"Small world and all that." Georgie shrugs. She frowns then, after she gives him a once-over of her own and apparently finds him lacking. Which is... not ideal, probably, but Martin can't bring himself to care. "Are you alright?"

"I am. Thank you." Martin looks away, because her eyes are nothing like Jon's asides from being a similar dark brown in color, but Martin finds himself thinking of them anyways. "Could I ask you to let Jon know I left this here? Or- or Gerry. He'll do too."

He can feel Georgie's eyes on him for another, unbearably long minute, before she speaks again. "Why don't you tell them yourself?"

"I'm- we're not really... talking. Not anymore." He's aware he doesn't owe her an explanation, but it's... why lie to a stranger, specially one that doesn't care?

"Ah." Georgie's gaze falls for a moment, before she lifts it back to Martin's face. "Could I ask why? Jon speaks very well of you. And from what Melanie tells me-"

"Actually, I'd rather you didn't." Martin cuts in. There's a pang of irritation at his stomach, and he feels the Lonely receding just the slightest bit. Not good, not- "With all due respect, it's none of your business, or Melanie's. Or anyone's, really."

Georgie's eyebrows climb up her forehead. "Wow. Okay. I'm sorry, I suppose. I just thought-"

"You don't know me." Martin says it more for himself than for her. She doesn't know him, and she'll forget him the moment he walks away. The so-called "concern" in her voice is just that, a misguided attempt motivated by-

"Well no, but Jon cares for you." She shrugs.

"Jon cares too much, that's the problem." Didn't he hear Tim complain about that years ago, angry and drunk against Jon's desk with Melanie slumped on his side in a similar state? Jon doesn't care until he does, and then you can't tell which one is worse.

Georgie's eyes are still digging into him, so intense Martin has to remind himself she has nothing to do with the Watcher.

"I think it usually ends worse for the ones that care for Jon, actually." And she arches an eyebrow in a gesture Martin has seen Jon made countless times. It's funny, how people pick up traits from the ones they love. He wonders which one of them had the gesture originally, and which one took it in and made it their own.

Has he picked up anything from Jon? The way he pushes his glasses up his nose, or holds his cup of tea? It's... that would be nice, he thinks. That even when he goes into the Lonely, when he's no longer capable of loving Jon -if he still is-, there will be a part of him that remains.

He also wonders if Jon has picked up anything from him, but the thought is cold and faded. Martin has always been on the sidelines, easy enough to forget once you get him out of your way. What would Jon even take?

"-tin?" Georgie's voice reaches him faintly, distorted.

"Maybe." There's a strange echo to his own words, and he can see the wisps of fog curling around him. "But it's good that people care for him anyways."

"What-"

"It's nice to know he won't be alone."

Georgie takes a step towards him, but stops short a second after, as her eyes glaze over for a beat. Her brow furrows in confusion, and she looks around the bullpen, her gaze sliding off of Martin.

"Okay, I'm ready, sorry I- Georgie?" Melanie asks as she comes into the room, frowning when Georgie continues to look around the office. "What's wrong?"

"I... nothing, I guess." Georgie's eyes are still confused. "I just- I could swear I was talking to someone."

Melanie gives the room a once-over of her own and Martin holds his breath, but she doesn't notice him either. Good.

"Huh." Melanie hums in thought for a moment, before her eyes turn mischievous and her lips curl into a grin. "Maybe it was a g-g-g-ghost? I know a pretty girl that does a podcast about that, you should tell her the story."

Georgie huffs a chuckle then, her encounter with Martin already forgotten. "I think I know the one. With the cute girlfriend, right?"

"That's her. Bad taste in food and men, amazing taste in women." Melanie hooks her arm through Georgie's, a pleased, slightly flushed smile on her face as she pulls Georgie towards the door. "Let's go?"

"I- hm. I think I was supposed to tell Jon something." Georgie hesitates a little at the threshold, and Martin's heart skips a bit.

"Ugh, just text him. You'll make his day."

"Don't be mean." Georgie smiles.

"I can live with you on his side or with Gerry on his side, please don't ask me to do both, I'm not strong enough."

Georgie laughs, the sound growing fainter as the door closes and they walk away, leaving Martin behind.

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

Tim stumbles out the door, his head protesting as his body tries to adjust to the change in perspective, which is most definitely not aided by him immediately rolling down half a flight of stairs.

"Would it have killed you to find a something at floor level instead?" Tim grumbles, rubbing at his bruised shin.

"If you find one that's not sealed, feel free to let me know." Helen says dryly, pulling her door closed as Tim glares up at her. "Good luck, dear!"

Tim rolls his eyes, and when he's focused them on the door again it's back to being an old, dusty window through which he can just barely see the street below.

Fine. This is amazing.

A single thread of spider silk pulls at his elbow, and Tim huffs a dry, humorless cackle.

"Done with subtlety, aren't you?" The thread is trying to tug him upstairs, so Tim burns it off before starting in the opposite way.

He can feel the Web trying to wrap itself around him, to obscure his mind and concern him with matters that will take him out of here. Where is Martin? Is he alright? What if he was in Helen's corridors for so long that everyone's gone?

Tim chuckles at the thought as he comes to a stop before a door sealed shut with cobwebs.

Who else could he lose? Sasha's dead, and so is the thing that tricked him into loving it. Danny's gone, his death successfully -but so unsatisfactorily- avenged. Martin continues to slip through his fingers no matter how much he tries, and-

"Just spit it out." Tim freezes when he recognizes his voice, static-y and grainy with the whirr of a tape recorder as background.

"You're not planning on coming back." Jon's voice has the finality of a goodbye, and Tim realizes abruptly that he remembers this conversation. He didn't realize it was being recorded at the time, or he wouldn't sound nearly as put together.

Tim-on-tape laughs, so ugly, so angry that Tim-in-the-flesh flinches.

"That's rich. Do you care now? That's called guilt, Boss"

"Tim-"

"Don't. Stew on it, for all I care. You deserve it."

A sigh, long and tired, before a weak, broken voice.

"I'm so sorry, Tim..."

Tim lets out a sigh of his own, mouthing his next word.

"Good."

Steps crunching on gravel, as Tim walks back into the cheap motel and leaves Jon alone with his thoughts.

It's no wonder the Desolation chose him, all that burning anger boiling just under his skin, the taste of ash on his tongue, the finger pressed down on the trigger to call on destruction like a well-trained dog. So convinced that Jon, who he'd loved so much and who cast him aside without so much as an explanation, was the cause of all his anger. So eager to make him suffer just the same.

"Is that really all you got?!" he shouts out, and his breath comes out in puffs of steam that leave Tim's nostrils burning with the scent of guilt. "Mistress of manipulation, and all you have for me is 'you were angry and a douche'? Because guess what? I still am!"

His hand burns its imprint all the way down to the wood, as the cobwebs shrivel away.

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

I suppose it was clever of you, to send this one specifically. I have never been too fond of his kind. Too... volatile, if you'll excuse the little joke.

But I'll move on. I'm a grown woman, and I know perfectly well when I've lost a battle. It isn't even that big of a tangle in the grand scheme of things, now that I think about it.

And see, that's exactly what I wanted to talk about, Jon. How would you say it?

Statement of Anabelle Cane, regarding inevitability.

Was that good? Did it do something for you?

See, I'm ever so good to you, dear. I know you're on a little 'diet', but one fresh statement can't be too much, can it? Just a single taste, you've been behaving so properly for your team...

But I've strayed from my point again. I do that sometimes, you know? It's a bit hard to focus on a single thing, when everything is so intricately connected! Try following a thread in the weave of a tapestry, see how long it takes you to lose track of it in the big, beautiful picture.

No, what I wanted to talk about, how did I put it? Inevitability?

You're familiar with that, aren't you, Jon? How running and running away only ever brings you back to where you're supposed to be.

I learned of it the first time I ran away from my family home. I had all these grandiose dreams, coming back artfully smeared in dirt, perhaps with a nasty-looking, but perfectly applied gash to my arm or leg, and I would never have to ask for anything again. I would be Anabelle, lost and returned, the greatest treasure my family could ask for.

The house already danced to the beat I drummed, but I wanted more. I wanted things to go my way before I even had to orchestrate them. I wanted things to land on my web, and strangle themselves to death trying to pull themselves out.

It was a good plan, for a nine years old.

I could tell you about the woman, I suppose. Young, and emaciated and lost, weaving herself into a tapestry she could not see, so desperate to feel something that she didn't notice when the syringes began overflowing with many-legged things that scurried and ran through her veins much more effective in soothing her pain and fear than the heroin ever was.

I could tell you how I ran. How I climbed back up my window before my older sister even noticed I was ever missing. How I shook that sleepless night, seeing crawling shadows everywhere, feeling the pinprick of their legs on my skin. I thought the woman was a demon that was sent to scare me into being a nice little girl, to correct me from the nasty schemes I orchestrated to get others in trouble.

You would know, wouldn't you, Jon? The incredible lengths to which a child's mind can go to try and rationalize an encounter like ours.

And it worked, I suppose. For years, I stopped manipulating, I stopped weaving. The urge was still there, and the ability of course. It was almost as though I could see the threads connecting every occurrence with the outcome I wanted, just waiting for me to pull on it the right way. But I didn't. I had seen my punishment, and I would be good, I told myself.

Didn't you do something similar, when you found my little book? You were adorable.

But you see, even though we both tried to run, to break free of the path we were meant to take, we both ended up exactly where we were needed. Don't hate me too much for pulling your strings, dear, just remember there's a bigger puppeteer out there.

And please, don't take this as some sort of grim reminder -everything is always grim with you, isn't it Jon?- that free will is a lie, and we are all just chess pieces moving across a board. That is not what I mean at all!

Free will is a beautiful thing, and so satisfying to have. You specifically have a will of iron, Jon, and that is a high compliment, coming from me. The twists and turns I've had to send you in just make sure you had what you needed to survive! And all just because you were too stubborn to take the path the Eye set for you.

But that is exactly what the beauty of an ineluctable plan is, just to come back to the original subject of my statement. Knowing that your every movement, your every choice is already factored in the grand scheme of things. I find it soothing, don't you? Knowing that no matter how far you stray from the path, you cannot truly ruin anything.

Look at your dear friend. An unwanted variable in my plan for sure, but apparently not to the Mother's one, since I ended up talking to you after all. Perhaps a little earlier or later than I originally should have, but things worked out in the end. They always do.

Perhaps all the players must, at some point, take a look around, and see if they're not standing on a checkered board themselves. I can think of some people specifically, but it wouldn't do to ruin the surprise.

Now, how do you close these things? Your charming little catchphrase… ah, of course.

Statement ends.

"I- you found this?" Jon's voice is a bit shaky as he finally looks up from the paper, and the tape recorder clicks to a stop on its own. "Were you looking for it?"

Tim shrugs. "Not really."

"But then- Tim, why were you at Hill-"

"It's none of your business, alright?" Tim rolls his eyes. "Maybe I just decided I really fucking hate spiders."

After listening to that, he definitely does.

Jon's arachnophobia has never been a secret, but he guesses it makes a lot more sense now. A lot of things do.

He doesn't like any of them.

"Tim-"

"I'm going to leave now."

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

"Tim said you were full of spiderwebs." Jon's voice is calm, quiet.

Helen tilts her head. "Aren't we all?" She asks. It's not in her nature to give straight answers.

"I'm starting to think so." Jon gives a sigh.

It's a fun little tableau they make, each on one side of the desk, between them a tape recorder with a bit of tape still left, a sheet of paper next to it.

"This is how we met," Helen hums thoughtfully. There is no map on the paper, and the statement in the recorder is not hers -about her-, but it still feels painfully, exquisitely familiar. "Back when we were both human."

Jon lets out a little huff of air, like her words are somehow a surprise for him, who could Know it all. "Do you remember how that felt like?"

Helen smiles, feeling her lips curl in on themselves dozens of times. "Do you?"

"A little, at times." Jon lays a hand on the desk, and Helen sees the recorder practically click on and vibrate with the need to go to him. Funny little things. "More, lately. I... having everyone helps."

"That doesn't bode too well for Martin."

"I- it doesn't. But I'm- I wonder if you'd be this far gone, if I hadn't turned you away when you first came to me."

Helen tilts her head, when Jon's eyes fix on her. They don't have the lovely green glow they take when he uses his powers, and they look... sad.

It's not an emotion the Distortion knows how to deal with, because the Distortion shouldn't be dealing with feelings anyways. It's even more puzzling to have it aimed at her.

The part of her that is still Helen -is that all of her? Is that any of her?- feels a pang of grim satisfaction. "Is that what this is, then? Making amends?"

Jon shakes his head slowly, sadly. How can a man exude so much melancholy? Is that what happens, when you care so much?

"Not really. I- we were always going to change, I think. Our only choice is how we do it." He pushes the tape recorder towards her, with a tired smile. "I hear you collect them?"

"Only until it's time." Still, Helen cradles the recorder in her hands. Such a curious thing.

"Time for what?"

"I don't know." Helen shrugs at an angle that should not be quite possible for shoulder joints to give. "Doesn't it frustrate you, Jon?"

He gives a little, choked up laugh. "You'll have to be a bit more specific."

"All these rules about what should and shouldn't be done. We are power. Why should we be contained?"

Why should they?

Why should they strive to stay human, when that's the very thing that was ripped from them? Why-

"I think... Because I want to be contained." Jon gives his desk a little thoughtful frown, before looking up at her again. "If I'm going to be a monster, I'm going to be one in my own terms."

"How noble of you." Helen arches an eyebrow, and Jon's lips twitch into the ghost of a smile.

"Selfish, really. It's the only thing I have left."

"Didn't she say it wouldn't matter, in the end?" Helen lifts the tape recorder to tuck it in the pocket of her blazer. "The grand scheme of things, and all that?"

"It matters to me."

"So you'll spend the entire journey there being miserable, just for the sake of some moral high ground?"

Jon shakes his head, his lips moving around words he can't quite put together. It's almost a bad joke, the Archivist, tongue-tied.

"If I weren't miserable in this situation, I wouldn't be Jon." He says in the end. "I- maybe the Spider dropped me gift-wrapped at the Eye's front door, yes. But it can't take that from me. It can't take who I am."

"Bit boring, isn't it? Not changing at all, ever?"

"...Yes, I suppose you of all people might find it so."

"Can I still keep the tape?" she asks, clicking the stop button to make the funny little thing sleep again.

Jon sighs. "It's yours."

Helen smiles. "Just until it's time. Cheers, Jon, good luck on your moral crusade."

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

Corruption statements always leave behind a stale, sickly aftertaste. It's not too surprising really, but lately Jon has started to dislike them even more.

It's the way this entity tries to disguise itself as love, as the natural progression of devotion into indiscriminate consumption, parasitism, destruction.

Everything that love isn't supposed to be, everything that-

The Eye pulls urgently at his mind, and Jon is dragged out of his reverie by the sudden Knowledge of sharp blades and singing blood.

Jon sighs, before diving into his desk drawer to pull out his mobile.

"Yeah, I think, um-" the door to his office opens and closes behind him, and Jon's heart races as he tries to force the next words out. "I think you should probably get down h-"

The phone is yanked from his hand, and Jon vaguely registers the sound of the call clicking to an end, far more focused on the edge of the knife that comes to rest against his throat. Right over Daisy's scar, like it's one of those 'cut here' lines, and the thought is much funnier than it should be.

"Hello, lad." Trevor Herbert's breath is musty and bitter, and Jon sighs. This is fine, this is- all he needs is for one of them to get distracted. He broke Breekon before, and Not Sasha too. This is his home terrain, he can-

"Miss us?" Julia's long-nailed, almost clawed hand grips his shoulder tightly and forces him back on his chair. "We have some things to discuss, it looks like," she says, and though her voice is pleasant enough, Jon can hear the underlying growl under it.

"If you give us the right answers, maybe we won't have to check if you're still human enough to bleed." Trevor smirks. Jon looks up at the old man, but everything in him is telling him to keep quiet, to wait for an opening. Hunters are not to be taken lightly, much less as a pack.

"You've got something of ours." Julia stabs a knife of her own right through Barbara Mullen-Jones' statement. "Took it right from under our noses."

"After we saved you from that Stranger puppet and gave you all the information you needed. Very rude to steal our biggest resource." Trevor presses the blade a bit tighter to his neck, but Jon couldn't care less about it anymore.

How could he have been so stupid? He'd thought they were here for him, why come to the Archives if not to kill the Archivist? Something hot and dark and angry starts brewing in his stomach.

"Gerry wasn't yours," he snarls. "You had no right to-" the knife presses deeper, and Jon's mouth snaps shut more out of the Eye's self preservation sense than his own, his mind still reeling with the memory of the pained ghost that asked him for a smoke, just a shadow of the man he-

"You heard that, Julia?" Trevor cackles." 'Gerry'!"

"Seems like you've gotten pretty chummy." Julia leans over, her mouth curled in a sardonic smile. "Pull dear Gerry out every now and then for a tasty statement, don't you?"

Jon's eyes narrow as he tries to ignore the pang of guilt in his stomach. Of course he feeds from Gerry, but it's- he's not like them.

"Where is it?" Trevor snaps at his silence, giving him a shake. The knife breaks skin, not enough to bleed but enough so that Jon feels the sting.

"I set him free." And Gerry came back to him, he's Jon's now, and they are not taking him again.

"You what?" Julia grabs him by the shirt, pulling him up to his feet. Jon comes gladly, his chin held high and holding Julia's gaze. He can see the Hunt in her eyes, but Jon finds that he's not too intimidated, not after Daisy, and definitely not when Gerry's life is on the line.

"You wasted your time coming here." Jon says simply.

"Aren't you feeling ballsy today?" Julia gives him a hard shove, and Jon topples back on his chair. "But we didn't. We can at least get rid of another mouthy monster before we go. You want the honors, old man?"

Trevor shifts his grip on the handle of the knife, a wide, lupine grin spreading over his face. "Don't mind if I do." Jon's lips twitch into a smile, and the two hunters scowl.

"Get away from him." Daisy snarls from the open door to Jon's office, and Trevor and Julia snap around to face her.

"Who- ah. Got yourself a guard dog, didn't you?" Trevor laughs. "Smart bastard."

"More of a lapdog. She's scrawny, isn't she?" Julia goes for a mocking, dismissive tone, but Jon sees the stiffness in her limbs, and the nervous twitch of a muscle on her jaw.

Jon looks at Daisy, and he realizes for the first time just how sickly she looks. The lean frame that wrapped around him in the Buried now appears emaciated, and though Jon can See the boiling presence with too many teeth trying to burst out of her skin, there's no denying what abstaining from the Hunt has done to her.

"Malnourished, more like. Haven't tasted blood in a while, have you?" Trevor asks. "This one will die nicely; you could come with your kind instead."

"Or I could hunt you instead." Daisy takes a step forward, and Jon Sees the hunter boiling even closer to the surface.

"Don't." Julia say simply, when Daisy makes to take another step. Her hand digs into Jon's hair, pulling back to expose his neck. "Or I'll kill your library rat."

"You can try. You better hope you're faster than me, though." Daisy's voice devolves into a low growl, and Julia responds in kind. Trevor says nothing, merely watching the two women face off.

"Do you really think you can take us both?" She asks, tightening her grip in Jon's hair. "You're weak."

"Are you willing to bet your daddy's life on it?" Daisy bares her teeth.

"I'm not her father," Trevor says sullenly, and Jon snorts.

"Are you sure?" Jon asks, and Julia yanks roughly on his head.

"Shut up, I'll-"

"Let's go." Trevor interrupts. Jon gives him a quick glance, an old wolf that has learned to pick his battles.

"Old man-"

"There's no rush. Plenty of monsters to go around, too." Trevor gives Daisy a grin that she responds to with another growl. "Good luck guarding them all."

Julia gives another snarl, letting go of Jon's hair with a harsh shove that has Daisy flinching forward, before she and Trevor make for the door. Daisy stands there like a statue, and Jon feels the tension in the air rising with every passing second, until Trevor and Julia seem to decide to just go around her.

Their stomping footsteps grow fainter and fainter in the distance, Daisy crouches to the floor, her entire frame shaking.

Jon shoots from his chair. "Daisy? Are you-"

"Don't touch me," Daisy snarls, startling Jon. He pulls back the hand he was about to lay on her shoulder.

"Daisy. Listen to me." Jon kneels before her. "Just-"

"They're not gone yet. They're- I could find them. I could take them down." Daisy's shoulders shake even harder, and Jon forces himself to not flinch back.

"The- remember what you said, Daisy. Don't listen to the blood..."

"...Listen to the quiet," Daisy responds after what feels like an eternity. Jon carefully lays his hand on her arm, right above the spot where her nails are digging into her skin. She leans into it, and Jon wraps his other arm around her.

"It's- you're wasting away." Jon squeezes her shoulders, muttering into her hair. "You need to-"

"I'm not going back to that." Very slowly, one of Daisy's arms comes to return the hug.

"Daisy-"

"I hurt people, Jon. You know I did. I almost killed you-"

Jon squeezes harder, as the Eye drops flash after flash into his mind. The last moment of all the people -all beings- whose last view was the Hunt-distorted face of Daisy Tonner. "That was not you. That was the Hunt."

"We're the same."

"No, you're not!" Jon snaps. "You're- it's different, Daisy. You are different. What you were before-"

"I was a monster." Daisy's voice holds a special sort of fragility, and Jon tightens his grip as much as he can.

"There are worse things to be."

They stay there for what feels like hours, until both their breathings slow down, until Daisy's shoulders stop shaking with the urge to chase, and her nails are no longer digging into Jon's shoulder.

"So... did something happen here, or is this just something you two do for fun?" Tim's voice comes from the still open door, and Daisy whips up so abruptly that Jon is just thrown back in a tangle of limbs. "Whoa, tense."

"Tim-" Jon clears his throat as he climbs to his feet. "This is not a good time."

"When is it anymore?" Tim arches an eyebrow. "So?"

"It's noth-" Jon stops himself, sighing at Tim's unimpressed, guarded look. He chooses to trust. It doesn't matter that Tim doesn't trust him back, he- there's a reason for that, and Jon has to live with it. Maybe forever, now. "The hunters came by. Daisy scared them off."

"Top dog, I like it." Tim smirks at Daisy's answering scoff, before turning to face Jon again. "Did they come for you?"

"No, they-" Jon freezes, Trevor's last sardonic remark ringing in his head like a bell.

They're gone. They're gone, and they- Daisy was able to track him down to Michael Crew's house before she even knew the Hunt was in her. Trevor and Julia are both experienced hunters, and they came here for-

Jon shoots out the door, shoving his way past Tim and ignoring Daisy's concerned call, and hers and Tim's footsteps behind him as he rushes up the stairs and out of the institute.

He knows the way to follow like a bird flying South for Winter, a thread of steel pulling at his very core as buildings and street signs rush past the edge of his vision. He doesn't know how long he's ran for, his lungs burn and his legs are tired, -Jon has never been an athlete- but he's getting closer and-

Jon turns a corner and slams against something solid and soft and warm, bouncing back with a huff before his mind registers the concerned blue-green eyes looking down at him, and the shouting in his head comes to a halt.

"You're alright," are the first words Jon can form coherently.

"I- am?" Gerry arches an eyebrow, and Jon laughs with relief before throwing his arms around him. "Jon?" Gerry asks, an arm coming to rest over his shoulders, a hand behind his head.

"Huh, you were right. I owe you a drink I guess." Melanie says, her voice both dry and unimpressed, and Jon flinches back from Gerry's embrace like he's been burned. She rolls her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Of course they were together, they're hunting, how could he have forgotten?

"I- the- at the Institute-" Jon sputters. Melanie's not with the Slaughter anymore, but she wouldn't have let Gerry face the hunters alone. His face starts heating up as the uselessness of his mad dash through the city rains down on him.

"Jon, what happened?" Gerry asks, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Is anyone- shit!" Gerry yanks him and Melanie out of the way, throwing the three of them against the wall just as Tim and Daisy turn the corner at full speed.

"We're here!" Melanie calls out calmly, and the two of them skid a few feet before turning back to face them.

"What the fuck, Jon?!" Tim exclaims, steam shooting from his lips as he pants. Daisy eyes him in a way that makes it fairly clear she's thinking something along the same lines, and Jon wishes for nothing more than the earth to open up and swallow him whole. Again.

"Uh- yes, I can-"

"Explain why you made us run all the way to Chelsea?!" Tim shouts again.

"Stop yelling at him!" Daisy snarls. She looks considerably better than she did at the Institute, and Jon wonders if chasing after him did something for her. "Jon?"

Jon darts a look around, trying to gauge the general mood. Tim is, of course, furious. Both Gerry and Daisy are giving him mixed looks of worry and confusion, and Melanie seems to be enjoying his predicament.

"I- they were looking for him," Jon mutters, growing more and more embarrassed as Daisy and Tim start to connect the dots.

Daisy sighs. "You though of calling me on the phone, but not him?"

Oh. That's- Gerry does have a phone that he usually has with him.

"I... wasn't really thinking."

"You're kidding me." Tim groans, and immediately turns to the street to start hailing a cab down. "You're paying for my ride back, you asshole."

"Uh... can I ask what this is about?" Gerry leans down to whisper in his ear. Jon exhales, the relief at finding Gerry alive and well still swelling in his chest.

"At home. Please?"

Gerry's brow furrows, but he eventually nods. "At home, then." And he presses a kiss to Jon's temple.

Jon, who is most definitely not used to public displays of affection, freezes on his spot. His face burns even more when he hears Melanie groan as well, before she begins to walk away.

"Tim, can I ride with you? I don't want to stay any more."

"Be my guest. Maybe we can convince the driver to charge him by the passenger. Daisy, you coming?"

Jon sighs and steps away from Gerry, pulling his wallet out when a cab rolls to a stop before Melanie and Tim. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The idea of four walls and a door as a sanctuary is laughable in the world they move in, but home is home, and it's more about a feeling than it is about a space.

"Please don't go after them." Jon's voice is almost too quiet in the thick darkness of the room, but Gerry can taste the desperate intensity in the words just as clearly as if they'd been pressed to his lips.

"Why would I?" he asks, like the thought wasn't the first thing on his mind as soon as Jon ended his tale. It's not like he can pay them back for what they did to him, keeping him from his rest just to use him, but fuck it would be satisfying.

"Gerry."

It's the emotions poured in it rather than the name, what makes Gerry feel like the breath has been punched out of him.

It's heavy with a sort of devotion Gerry's never been on the receiving end of, but that he's tasted in Jon's words before, sweetening Martin's name like a breathless prayer.

It's new.

It's terrifying.

It's intoxicating.

"Say my name again."

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

"Won't you look at that." The voice that reaches Gerry's ears when he climbs the last step out of the Archives makes Gerry freeze on his spot.

He's heard it a thousand times before, reading his last, most intimate moments like they were a particularly boring instruction manual, tearing him from the painful, burning dormancy of the book for another round of questioning.

"That sneaky bastard." Julia shakes her head with a disbelieving cackle. "Dear Gerard, long time no see. Sorry, it's 'Gerry' now, isn't it?" She was always the one asking the questions, impatient and snappy whenever Gerry took too long to answer.

Gerry snorts, his mouth twitching into a smile. These two are opportunistic hunters if he's ever seen any, a pair of hyenas looking for lonely prey.

"This is very convenient, you know?" Gerry cracks his neck. He's never killed hunters before; Gertrude always thought they were better left alone, since they usually went after other avatars. It's just fitting that Gerry's always been good at learning on the fly. "I promised Jon I wouldn't go looking for you. Didn't say anything about what would happen if you found me."

"Oh, you promised him? How sweet." Julia smirks as she moves, her eyes glued to him as she flanks him. "How did he get you like this, huh? You were much more useful when you were pocket-sized, let's go back to that."

"I hate to disappoint." Gerry focuses on her. She's younger, faster than Trevor. Her neck is also very thin, and he Knows she favors her right side, and forgets to watch her legs. It's just a matter of getting a good kick in-

"Let's just kill him. He's no good to us like this, and who knows what he is now." Trevor is at his other side, no doubt giving him the same evaluation he just gave Julia. "One less monster."

"Oh yes, that's your whole thing, isn't it?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. "Pretending you're doing this to save people, and not because you're just another pair of hungry dogs."

"Better than just playing house with the monsters, if you ask me. How's dear sweet Jon?"

"Doesn't it worry you?" Gerry ignores Julia's taunts, looking at Trevor instead. That always did irk her when she interrogated him. "She doesn't have the best track record with parents, if I were you, I'd be concerned about ending like Robert Montauk."

That does it.

Julia launches at him with a roar, and Gerry has barely enough time to plant his feet to catch her- before a burst of fog shoots out of nowhere between them and Julia skids to a stop inches from touching it.

"I'm going to have to ask you two to leave the premises, please." The three of them freeze as the fog dissipates, leaving behind only Martin's grey, cold-eyed form. Gerry feels his mind kicking into overdrive because this is bad in so many levels. First and foremost, Martin and the hunters are in the same place at the same time, and that's less than ideal. Then there is the fact that Martin just came out of the Lonely, and-

"Who the hell are you?" Julia goes to push Martin aside, pulling her hand back as if burned when it goes right through him. "What-"

"Out." Martin says, his eyes hard behind his glasses. "Unless you want to wait for the others, in which case feel free to stay, they should be here soon."

Gerry smirks at the nervous look that passes between the two. Of course they wouldn't like to be the outnumbered ones.

"Remember how you used to ask me about the monsters? I'll give you a freebie, for old time's sake," he says, stepping forward to stand next to Martin. "You don't want to wait."

"Real cute." Julia bares her teeth at him, and Trevor narrows his eyes. She then whips around on her heel and walks towards the door, only stopping for long enough for Trevor to reach her, and Gerry watches them go with a bitter smile.

The doors closing after them is almost deafening in the silence left behind. Out the corner of his eye Gerry can see Martin start fidgeting, and he takes a deep, calming breath before turning to face him. It's alright. Martin is- he's here, he just has to pull him back.

"Did you really call anyone else?" Gerry asks.

Martin rolls his eyes, and Gerry notices with a pang of guilt that they're a cool, muted gray, despite the interaction. "Of course not. But I had to get them out, and I heard Tim say that Daisy alone was enough to send them running. Figured the idea of more people would only be more effective."

"I could've taken them," Gerry shrugs. Then, and his voice has grown a bit weaker, "I didn't know you could go into the Lonely now."

Martin looks down at the fog rolling around him like he's seeing it for the first time. "Hm. I didn't notice I was in, actually."

"That's- Martin, that's worse." Gerry grimaces. Martin is still human -as far as he can See- but only barely so.

"Is it?" Martin asks, and his contour is starting to blur and fade again, like a mirror fogging up. "Stay here today, will you? I'm sure Jon will be happy to have you."

"Martin, please-"

But he's gone.

Gerry stares for a moment at the spot he disappeared on, but eventually he gives a long, defeated sigh as he starts the way back down the stairs to the Archives.

Sending the hunters running no longer feels like a victory.

#jongerrymartin #jongerry #gerrymartin #illicio #vit writes

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