#uncomfortable for sasha when he put his hands on hers. didn’t actually harm her. even though they definitely couldve

[neriumdelusion]

Michael distortion was described as having hands that feel like “a wet leather bag full of heavy stones. Sharp stones” and later, one of michael’s victims describes his hands as “Its hands were swollen, and bits of them jutted out at annoying angles.” He also uses his hands as a tool to remove a wasp larvae that has burrowed into someone’s body. So they’re sharp and weird. Helen would also have hands like this when she became the distortion. You’re welcome <3

getting fingerfucked by the distortion would fix me i think

anon you have no respect for your own intestines but go off. you do you

anyways i’m not tumblr user magpod-confessions why are you telling me this

[candycityy]

RIVETRA AND 51.

Note: Hey anon! I already did 51, you can check it out here <3 But in the similar spirit of husband!levi, I did 63 instead ("Can you just man up and change his diaper?"). I hope you enjoy it still!

(You can also read this on AO3!)

Petra Ral, without a doubt, is the person he trusts most on the planet. From subordinate, to comrade, to lover, and finally, wife, she has always demonstrated nothing more or less than an unerring sense of judgment.

This trait, of course, is what made her the most reliable person on his squad back in the day, and what allows him to entrust his life—and the life of his daughter—to her.

But. Still.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Levi asks, for the fourth time that night. His wife doesn't even bother with an exasperated glare this time, just idly turns the page of her book. "And why won't you tell me who you got to babysit? I swear, Petra, if it's Hanji—"

"It's not Hanji, relax," she says lightly, tucking a neatly curled lock of hair behind her ear. "And yes, I'm sure. We haven't had a date night in ages. I think I've forgotten what it's like to actually do an activity that doesn't involve crayons or nursery rhymes."

"But if you'd just tell me—"

"No, Levi." She stands up and smooths down the fabric of her dress—a silky, knee-length sheath the colour of honey. He's seen her in it before, but it still makes his breath catch in his throat; although, to be fair, it's been a while since he'd seen her in something other than a t-shirt and sweatpants.

She glances at the clock, and then at the cot, where Ava is still dozing peacefully—for now, anyway. "They should be here any second."

"They?" he's about to say, when two hesitant knocks come at the door. He starts to get up, but Petra shoots him a warning look and sweeps towards the door. He sits back down.

"Boys, thank you so much for agreeing to babysit today." Petra beams down at their guests, her voice like melted sugar. "Come in." Levi glances up just in time to see...of all people, Eren Jaeger and Jean Kirschtein, wearing twin expressions of wariness.

Oh fuck no.

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. "Petra, you're not serious. Jaeger and Kirschtein? You might at least have tried for one of the girls."

"Mikasa wouldn't come," Eren says helpfully, and then blushes, looking a bit awkward. "She has...uh, a bit of a grudge against the captain still, I think."

"Historia was busy, and I don't think you'd want Sasha anyway, sir." Jean, who's crisply attired in his military wear for whatever reason, looks mildly offended at Levi's brusque comment.

Levi tries to be polite.

"It's nothing personal. It's just that the pair of you don't have any experience with infants," he says, attempting to rearrange his features into that calm, reassuring expression Erwin makes whenever he's faced with agitated civilians.

Judging by their faces, he's still pretty far off the mark.

"Actually," Petra intervenes, "they do. Well, Eren does." She shoots him another warm, cinnamon-sweet smile, and he blushes again. "He said he used to babysit the neighbour's toddler with Mikasa. And Jean...well, it was between him and Connie." When the teenager chafes at the comparison, she adds hastily, "and he's always been perfectly responsible and conscientious, hasn't he?"

"We can handle one infant, sir," Eren pipes up. His face is a picture of anxious enthusiasm, reminding Levi sharply and uncomfortably of a particularly eager-to-please puppy.

"I mean, we kill Titans with no problem, and they're a heck lot more troublesome than a baby, I would think," Jean adds, casting a skeptical look over at the still-silent cot.

"You would think," Levi mutters darkly, and is about to put his foot down, no, absolutely, not, when Petra firmly loops her arm through his and begins to steer him towards the exit.

"See? Everything's fine. We'll see you in a couple of hours, boys! Thanks for doing this again!" she chirps, and frog-marches him out of the door.

"Bye, captain! Bye, Ms. Petra!" Eren calls cheerfully, waving. Levi turns (with some difficulty, considering his wife's very firm grip) to glare at him.

"She's a Mrs. now, you brat," he manages to snarl before the door slams shuts in his face.

==

Despite everything, they have a nice date.

It takes about four glasses of wine and a threat of bodily harm from Petra before he finally stops fretting about Ava—but, truth be told, the rest of the night goes as well as it possibly could have, considering.

"See, didn't you have fun?" Petra teases. There's a blush high in her cheeks from the cold and the wine, and with his thick coat wrapped around her slight figure, Levi figures she looks pretty damn adorable.

He grunts in reluctant assent, feeling unusually relaxed. It's been a long time since it was just the two of them, after all, and he's almost forgotten what it feels like without the constant stress of being responsible for a very small, very fragile human being who he loves with such fierceness that sometimes he feels as though his chest will burst.

He's still revelling in the niceness of it all—the cool night air, Petra's small hand in his—as they walk up to the door of their house. He's seriously contemplating if he should actually get Jaeger and Kirschtein something nice for their trouble—maybe a day off or something, he doesn't know—when he hears a sound that makes him freeze in his tracks.

Next to him, Petra stiffens. The sound fades momentarily, only to re-emerge with a vengeance, and there's no mistaking it: it's a scream.

Levi doesn't remember sprinting to the door and wrenching it open, his heart pumping so fast he can barely breath and Petra hot in his wake, but he supposes he does at some point because in a matter of seconds he's in the house, staring straight into the face of absolute chaos.

The living room is littered with toys and scattered pillows and, for some reason, a lone shoe. The stove is smouldering in a vaguely menacing manner, heavy smoke rising from the burnt remains of something completely unrecognisable. Meanwhile, their beloved daughter crawls quite cheerfully across the floor, beelining for Jean, who's slowly inching away on the ground, his face screwed up with equal parts terror and disgust. A familiar stink wafts through the room, and Levi instinctively wrinkles his nose.

And the perpetrator of the scream: Eren Jaeger, who's hunched over the basin, scrabbling blindly at the trickle of water from the tap, feverishly attempting to wash what appears to be spit-up out of his eyes.

Clearly, none of them have yet noticed their arrival.

"HORSE FACE, CAN YOU JUST MAN UP AND CHANGE HER DIAPER?" he shrieks across the room, his voice coming out noticeably higher than usual.

"WHY CAN'T YOU DO IT?" his comrade yells back, his eyes not moving from the effervescent infant, who giggles at the sound of all the shouting.

Behind him, Petra stifles a laugh.

"BECAUSE THANKS TO YOUR SHITTY BURP TECHNIQUE, I'M NOW BLIND, YOU—" The teenager proceeds to cuss him out quite colourfully, and Levi chooses that moment to intervene.

"What," he goes, lowly, "in the living fuck do you think you're doing?"

The effect is instantaneous, like the firing of a gun. Both boys instantly scramble to their feet and thump their fists to their chests in salute (Eren still blinking furiously).

Petra just giggles and strides across the hall to Ava, who's now babbling happily at the arrival of her parents. "Thanks for babysitting, boys," she goes, taking a cautious whiff of the baby's diapers and reeling at the smell. "Whew. I'll take care of this. Levi, be nice," she warns, before hoisting their daughter onto her hip and strolling away.

He can't help but notice there's a little amused bounce in her step, and his glower darkens.

"Captain—" Eren begins, but Levi lifts up a hand.

"I don't even wanna hear it," he barks. "You—for fuck's sake, go wash your face in the bathroom, the water flow is better there. And you..." he rounds on Jean, who gulps nervously. "You're dismissed. Just...go. Bye."

The boys slump over, looking at him with the big sad puppy eyes (although the effect of Eren's is somewhat diminished by his pained squint). And maybe it's the wine, maybe age or marriage or parenthood has made him soft, but he adds, with utmost reluctance, "Wait. Uh...thanks." He clears his throat. "Take a day off next week. If you want."

It takes a while for them to realise that it isn't a trap of some sorts (seriously, he doesn't get it; why do cadets always think the worst of him?), but eventually, he manages to shoo them off with wide eyes and thank-yous and maybe some mild trauma on Jean's part, but hey, this is the Survey Corps, after all. When he goes back to their bedroom, he finds Petra waiting for him, Ava sleeping peacefully in her arms, a mischievous, smug grin on her face.

"Don't even say it," he snaps.

Drabble challenge!

[vesuvian-american-fics]

better with time. Ch 13

annie leonhart.

You learn about Annie Leonhart, some questions are answered, while more form in their place. (AO3)

Words: 2,143 Two more days passed before Hange finally submitted to Levi’s pestering and protesting to put you back to work. You were thankful for it though, sitting alone with your thoughts and wracking your brain for your lost memories quickly grew boring. You were weary, and looking forward to getting out of bed and doing someone around other people, be it cleaning or eating. Something, some sort of human interaction. You were dressing for the day, just buttoning up your oversized blouse when the door was forcefully kicked open. It was later in the afternoon so; you suppose Levi assumed you’d be dressed and was uncomfortably surprised to find you only half way done. He quickly turned his back to you and you did the same gasping at his intrusion. If he was nervous you couldn’t tell, his demeanor didn’t change. His voice was steady as ever, his body language showed he was unfazed for the most part. “Sleeping in i guess. You got cleaning duty today, made sure the kitchen was nice and filthy for you.” He said as he quickly shut the door behind him. You could tell he hadn’t left just yet as you saw his shadow linger on the other side. He heaved a long-suffering sigh before you heard him bark at some other innocent victim and stalked off. Your shoulders finally relaxed as he left, a warm heat rushing to your cheeks momentarily. You groaned as you quickly finished dressing, wearing an oversized pair of slacks to match your shirt and some heavy-duty boots. You tied your hair back to keep it out of your face while you worked for the day. Awkwardly, you poked your head out into the hallway to check if the coast was clear of Levi. You’d hate to run back into him after that run in earlier. You knew he couldn’t care less, but still you weren’t looking to address that just yet. You looked left, right, and then left one last time. No one was around, you released a puff a breath before stepping into the hall.

“Who are you avoiding!” Hange shouted right behind you. They must have just materialized out of thin air, because truly you were sure no one was in the hallway just a moment ago. You felt as if you jumped about four feet into the air, your heart hammering hard in your chest. “N-no one Hange! Where did you come from?” You asked, stupefied at Hange’s apparent speed. “Never mind that, where you headed then?” Hange always had a talent for ignoring your questions, whether intentional or not. You sighed before responding, telling Hange that you’re headed to the kitchen to clean. “Ohh, sounds fun!” They playfully mused before telling you about what they had planned for the day. Training, research, more training, a meeting with Levi and Erwin, dinner, and then more research. “Commander Erwin? I thought he wasn’t coming for a few more weeks?” You inquired, cutting into your friend's dialogue. Hange explained that after Erwin heard about how your test went that he put all of his affairs on hold to come down and discuss next steps. “What do you think will happen...?” Instantly, Hange could sense your unease. Fear of the unknown, anxiety must be eating away at you. They wrapped an arm around your body before giving you’re a comforting squeeze. “Don’t worry. This is all just to understand your situation better. The quicker we figure you out, the quicker things can settle for you.” Hange gave you a small smile, their eyes crinkling along with it. You could tell by the darkening bags under their eyes that they were sleepy, working through the night to meet deadlines. Writing up reports and filling out their notes... their notes about you. You couldn’t help but fear you were causing them trouble but, its not like it’s something Hange, Levi, and Erwin could ignore. And not just them, Moblit and Mike were picking up more slack to help the others. Taking more shifts to train the young scouts in their absence. All while still going out on expeditions and scouting the perimeters once a week. Your arrival changed a lot of things for these people. You smiled back to Hange, in hopes to take some of the edge off of them. Hange always had fun talking to you, and you were a great listener. Thus, it always cheers them up to see you happy and more comfortable with each passing day. That’s what friends are for. You were eternally grateful to Hange Zoe, your first friend since becoming human again. Understanding, patient, kind, funny, a great distraction from all of the noise in your mind. As the two of you reached the kitchen you both parted ways, waving good bye as you both went to handle your duties for the days. At the end of the hall, you caught a glimpse of Levi’s shiny black hair slipping into a room and following behind him was Hange, while Commander Erwin held the door for the both of them. He gave you a curt nod and professional smile before closing the door. He was out of sight now but still you felt compelled to nod back to the man, and so you did just that before turning on your hell and walking into the canteen to clean. Inside you were immediately introduced to two sets of large eyes boring into your own. One set an impressive golden hue, and the other a lovely mahogany brown. A third pair farther away looked you over once before they averted their gaze to the broom in their hand. Clumsily you stumbled off to the side to put some space between you and them. They were young, at least ten years your junior. A boy with a shaved head, large owlish eyes, one curious brow cocked hard as he studied you. A girl with her hair pulled back into a high pony tail, a loaf of bread stuck into her mouth and crumbs dusting her cheeks. “Um, hello...” You said sheepishly, you stuttered feeling awkward as they stared intently at you unblinkingly. “Are you really a titan?” The girl asked, her voice muffled as it was still filled with food. The boy next to her frowned before turning to her and snatching the loaf from her mouth. “Oi Sasha, you can’t just ask things like that!” She ignored his scolding in favor of fighting for her food back

while the third off into the corner scoffed at the comment. “Why not? She’s another one just like Jaeger... and Annie.’’ He said, he seemed to be sulking but you weren’t sure why. However, you were interested in what he had to say, and he seemed to pick up on that. “Jean...” The one with the golden eyes warned. “She clearly wants to know Connie. And I doubt there's any harm in telling her about Annie, it’s been months.” Connie, Sasha, and Jean. Weeks ago, you remember Levi telling you about these three, they seemed close, always eating together at every meal. Just as Connie opened his mouth to protest you interjected. “If you don’t mind! Please, I keep hearing about her but I don’t know anything about it. What happened?” You asked, eyes darting between Connie and Jean. During the momentary silence Sasha finally managed to get her bread back from Connie and she scurried off to a table to eat in peace and listen to the story. Connie shrugged his shoulders before going to plop down in his seat next to Sasha, he laid his head onto his folded arms while he listened to Jean retell the events that took places months ago, not too long before you were found and taken into custody. “Months ago, just before you got here there was an abnormal titan chasing us through the woods during an expedition trying to take Eren. Well, long story short that titan was actually a girl named Annie and she was a part of the Military Police in the capital.” You gawked at the news, trying to understand the implications. “But how?” “Exactly! No one knew, we found out on accident about Eren, he didn’t even know he was a titan but that was back at our first mission. Annie seemed to know what she was doing, she’s a spy for someone. Any who-––” Jean continued recalling the story, how so many people died including all but one of Levi’s old squad. How Annie escaped but at this moment, they still weren’t aware that she was the titan. Erwin had growing suspicions, but his quick thinking helped them to realize that titan was lurking about in scout gear. He told you about how Armin created a plan to capture Annie but that it ended up costing a lot of civilian lives, but they learned a lot in the end despite it all. Your expression fell, and heavy weight landing on your shoulders. “I’m... I’m sorry for the loss. That’s terrible.” The room fell silent for a moment, you had long abandoned your chores in favor of giving the story your full attention but it left you disturbed and with plenty of questions running amuck in your mind. “Where is she now?” You asked innocently, looking between the three kids. Sasha opened her mouth getting ready to answer but just before she spoke Levi was stepping through the door. Sasha, Connie, and Jean simultaneously snapped to their feet and stood straight with their lips pursed shut for their Captain. “I don’t know that you lot were ever given permission to talk about that with her.” He said, his voice icy. Your heart dropped; you hadn’t meant to get them in trouble. You didn’t know it was anything classified. “I’m sorry, it was my fault for asking–-” “ Quiet .” He snapped. You stepped to the side so he could address his scouts without you in the way. Your heart was stuttering in your chest. You felt like you really messed up now. Not only were they getting scolding by Captain Levi, but with Annie’s story being classified now you look extremely suspect to him. Of course, luck would have it that he walked in just as you were asking where she was. His hands planted themselves on his hips, he sighed before she addressed the three brats. “Don’t let me catch any of you talking about that again. Got it?” The three scouts quickly nodded their heads in unison before chanting a ‘sir yes sir’ and placing their fist over their heart. Without another word they picked up their mops and brooms and got back to work. Levi’s eyes scanned towards yours, he didn’t have to say a word. You understood exactly what he was saying. “Don’t ask the scouts any questions.” “I’m sorry.” You whispered. With the tense relationship you had

with Levi, you never imagined you’d apologize to him about anything, but this, this was in regards to his trust in you. You did not want to tarnish the progress you made for anything. You feared, if Levi couldn’t trust you, nothing in your life would progress the way you wanted. He didn’t respond, instead he just walked out the room and after hesitating a moment you rushed after the man. “Wait, Levi.” You called after him, he stopped in his tracks before looking back over his shoulder to you waiting on you to continue. “I’m sorry about your loss. Your last squad...” You chose your words wisely, afraid to overstep, but you didn’t want him to leave without you giving your condolences. His eyes softened a moment before he turned himself forward. He took a moment to respond, taking time to remember his fallen comrades. “It comes with the job. Get back in there and finish cleaning. Silently .” He spoke, his voice was softer than usual, almost hushed to a whisper. You stayed staring at the back of his head a moment before doing as told, you turned back towards the doors to the canteen and stepped inside. Hearing the doors shut quietly behind you, Levi let a puff of air slip passed his parted lips. He rolled his head back to glance at the ceiling, or rather, toward the sky obscured by the ceiling. He thought of many people he lost over the years, in all this time only people who were like him gave a damn about their deaths. Only the scout regimen cared and even then, not everyone would console him, not that he was needing consolation in that moment. But... it was a pleasant surprise. In that moment, Levi was thankful to you. You gave him a moment of peace to remember his long-lost friends, he made a mental note to go a little softer on you for a few days. Just a few days.

[wolftraps]

For the reverb inspiration thing honestly I'd kinda like more Ethan stuff? Mostly because it'd be fun to see someone adjusting to the future institute and that sort of flavor of outsider POV intrigues me. Plus I also just... Love Naomi a lot...

As happens with literally everything I write, this ended up longer than intended. So here’s Ethan’s first week at the Blackwood Institute. Poor guy. His boss is a creepy moron. Warning for a brief mention of self-harm and eye trauma right at the start here, but pretty much everything is canon-typical. This is also on AO3.

--

Being an Assistant Archivist at the Blackwood Institute is… well, it’s nerve-wracking honestly. There’s no formal training, and this seems to be largely because there’s been only one other person to have held the position in… ever, as far as Ethan can tell. And that had been over fifteen years ago and lasted a grand total of nine months before Chloe Halloway, age 29, had a “crisis of faith” and tendered her resignation by pouring bleach directly into her eyes.

“If you’re going to reconsider your position here,” Jon said matter-of-factly, after telling Ethan this, “I highly suggest you do so prior to signing a permanent contract.”

Which was really unnecessarily creepy, sure, but creepy is sort of why Ethan is here in the first place, so not that surprising. The least Miss Halloway could have done, in his opinion, was leave some kind of manual or something behind. A guide. Notes. Ethan would probably be willing to kill a man for a “To-Do list” at this point.

Technically Ethan has his own office, but the room is dusty and cluttered and doesn’t actually have a desk or chair yet, so he set up in the main Archive area, where there are three ancient desks, three slightly less ancient desk chairs, a small table, and inexplicably, a wardrobe and a worn armchair. Finding the least uncomfortable configuration of furniture made him feel a bit like Goldilocks, despite the desks and corresponding chairs being virtually identical. He figured that was what had been meant by “make yourself comfortable.” Jon didn’t say any different.

Between orientation (signing papers, sitting through general training, another tour, getting his picture taken with an actual polaroid camera, etc) and “settling in,” it hadn’t mattered the first day that Jon didn’t give him any direction. And when Ethan got in on the second day, Jon had already been in the middle of taking a statement, so Ethan had busied himself going through the desk he’d taken. And then another desk. And then the other desk.

At the end of that task, he had various office supplies, a good dozen unfiled statements, five tape recorders, sixteen unlabeled tapes, five labeled tapes that didn’t match any of the unfiled statements, a small notebook with a few unfinished poems, a bag of what might have once been gummy worms, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, two very faded polaroids of a younger Jon and Martin with a woman identified on the back as Sasha, and a large, large stack of poorly drawn and seemingly conflicting maps. Also a lingering feeling that he would never be able to fully get the cobwebs off his arms.

He wasn’t sure what to do with any of it.

Well, except for the gummy worms and vodka, which he promptly disposed of.

Most of the rest ended up on top of one of the unused desks. And by the time that was done, it was nearly time to leave. As far as Ethan could tell, Jon hadn’t come out of his office once. Though, apparently the statement-giver had left at some point without Ethan noticing, so he couldn’t actually be sure. He does have a tendency to block everything else out when he’s focused on a task.

When he came in on the third day, the desk he’d placed everything on was clear and Jon wasn’t in his office. In absence of anything else to do, Ethan started looking through the database. From reading (and supposing any of what he heard on The Observer Chronicles was accurate), he thought he understood a couple of the categories. Others seemed a bit too… arbitrary. Most entries appeared to have corresponding files regarding any follow-up done, but very few had actual digital copies of the statements themselves. And only the discredited statements had audio files.

Jon didn’t return until well after lunch time, and when he did he seemed almost surprised to see Ethan there.

“You should take an early day,” Jon told him, before Ethan managed to formulate any of his questions. “Daisy’s brought me a statement. Probably best it doesn’t see you in case we decide to let it go.”

And then he went into his office. Ethan had no idea who Daisy was or how a statement was supposed to see him— or what it would do to him if it did— but it didn’t look like he was going to get any answers now, and it probably wasn’t a good idea to risk it. So he was left with nothing but to do as Jon suggested.

—

“You’re home early,” Naomi says when he walks in to find his mum sitting on the couch.

“So are you,” Ethan replies, and he didn’t even do all that much today, but he feels exhausted none-the-less.

“I had an appointment,” she reminds him. Right. He knew that. He’d just… forgotten. But he knows she hadn’t really expected him to remember. “Nothing to report. So? What has you home already?”

“Jon told me to go home. Someone named Daisy brought him a statement, and he thought it was better I wasn’t there. Why? I have no idea.”

“Well, it’s early yet, and they deal with some pretty dangerous things there,” she reasons. “The Jon I knew tried to look out for people. Can’t say I’m not glad if it’s still the same.”

“Sure, but…” Ethan stands there, fiddling with the strap of his bag, staring at the coffee table as he tries to find the words. Naomi waits, but he’s not sure what to say.

“Why don’t you go put your bag down,” she says eventually. “Think it over a bit, then come sit with me. I’ll get you some tea and wake up Beaker.”

True to her word, when Ethan gets back in more comfortable clothes, there’s a cup of tea waiting on the table, just barely steaming, and a squirming, growling ball of orange fluff in his mum’s lap. The moment he sits and Naomi lets go, the cat is in his lap, squeaking her indignation. Her brush is already set on the couch beside him.

“Thanks,” he says, and his mum just nods.

“So?” she prompts.

Ethan sighs. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Ethan, you’ve only been there three days. Not even three days. Everyone feels lost when they start a new job. It happened literally every time you started a new year in school, if you’ll recall.” He keeps brushing Beaker, but he can see his mum smiling in his peripheral vision and he rolls his eyes.

“No, yeah, I know that. I mean I literally have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing. There’s been no training. No instructions. I don’t- I cleaned out desks and I looked through the database and I read some old statements, and I keep waiting for Jon to say something. Tell me what I’m supposed to do. Explain anything.” Beaker squeaks again, nipping at his arm as he absently tugs a bit too hard at a knot of fur. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“I’m going to be honest,” Naomi says, huffing slightly the same way she does every time the tube runs late, even though she expects it. “That’s far, far more common than you’d think.”

“That makes no sense, though! How are people supposed to do their jobs if no one explains how to do the job?”

“Well… I think a lot of people try to pretend and copy the people around them. It’s usually better to just ask, though. People can get so used to doing something that they honestly forget that other people don’t know how, and Jon’s been doing this for a very long time. What did he say when you asked?”

On the table, Ethan’s tea is going cold. If he leans over to get it, though, Beaker will probably yell at him and run away, and brushing her really is helping him relax. But his mouth feels so dry, and it might be worth it.

“Ethan,” his mum says in that tone. That one she always got right before Caleb tried to lie to her. “You did ask Jon, right?”

There’s another knot in Beaker’s fur, but he takes more care with this one and she just keeps purring. He rocks. His mouth is still so dry.

Naomi sighs, setting her own cup down and passing Ethan his, handle out. It’d be alright today, he thinks, if their hands touched when he took it from her, but she’s always careful anyway. He takes a sip. The tea is good, as always, though he can’t help thinking of his interview with Martin. There’d been a cup waiting for him in Martin’s office. His favorite kind, perfectly made. He’d meant to ask Martin how he knew, but then he just… hadn’t.

“You didn’t. Ethan, you… Okay. Okay. Why not?” his mum asks.

“I don’t know! He’s always… in his office and- and busy or— I don’t know. He makes me a little… nervous or something.”

“Intimidated.”

“Maybe?”

“I can understand that,” she says. “The first time I technically met Jon, I was terrified of him. The first… many times. Even after I actually met him and got to talk to him, I kept having to remind myself that he didn’t want to hurt me. If he’s still like I remember him, and I’m willing to bet he is, then I don’t think leaving you to figure things out yourself or not talking to you is intentional. He’s really a very… very awkward man.” She’s staring at the wall, but doesn’t seem to be looking at anything, and after a moment she laughs a little. “Promise me you’ll at least try to talk to him Monday?”

Ethan promises, of course.

—

Jon doesn’t even seem to understand the words at first, when Ethan asks him what an assistant here does. For a few seconds, there’s no expression, and then Jon’s brow furrows and he looks down at the papers on his desk like he might read the answer there.

“I— Hmm,” he says. “F-file? Organize? I— What did they— I never actually was one, so… It occurs to me that I am very lucky I chose to include Sasha after all. You might ask her? Or- or Martin. They actually did the assisting once upon a time, so…” Jon shrugs, or Ethan thinks he does. There’s a cat draped across his shoulders, so they don’t actually move much. And then Ethan stands there, and Jon sits, and neither of them say anything, and if Ethan’s mum is right, it’s because neither of them is quite sure what to say.

Ethan leaves.

Martin was nice during his interview. Encouraging and friendly and patient when it took some time for Ethan to decide what to say. It was a far, far easier interview than he’d feared. And Martin had said Ethan could come to him if he had any questions. Despite that, Martin makes Ethan even more nervous than Jon. It’s always worse disappointing friendly people.

So instead, Ethan makes his way to the Library, because that’s where Sasha works, if he’s remembering right. Once he’s there, though, he has no idea where to look, and it occurs to him that there may be more than one Sasha. The one he’d seen when he interviewed was young; maybe a couple years older than him. But the one in the pictures he found in the Archives would surely be Jon’s age at least. There’s no one who looks like either of them that he can see.

“Excuse me,” he says to someone who is probably a librarian, since he’s sitting at a desk with a plaque that says the date and ‘You’d have been out of here days ago if you’d just asked for help.’ The man doesn’t look up from his book. “I’m looking for Sasha?”

“Upstairs,” the guy says. The library is only one floor, though. It’s the first time he’s been in it, but Ethan made note of all Mara’s warnings.

“I’d like to speak to Sasha,” he says, firmer. The guy doesn’t look up and doesn’t look up and doesn’t… and then something changes and he stiffens and slowly looks up at Ethan, and he seems almost… nervous.

The man coughs. “O-oh. You’re- you’re from the Archives.”

“Yes,” Ethan agrees. “I need to talk to Sasha?”

“Right. Sure. Um, I’ll get— uh, Kelly- Kelly will help you.” The man nods toward something over Ethan’s shoulder. When he turns there’s someone already there, a bit too close, and Ethan didn’t know teeth could be that white.

“Hi!” They smile and smile. “I’m Michael. You can call me Kelly. I’m here to help. This way please!” Literally turning on their heel, they walk away with a gait more like a bounce than a walk, and Ethan follows. Right up until they hop onto the first step.

“I—” he says. Even before they turn their head, he can somehow see their smile. Human necks almost definitely aren’t supposed to turn that far. He almost forgets what he meant to say.

“Yes?”

“I— I was told the library is only one storey.”

They smile and smile. “That’s right.”

“But… the stairs?” he asks.

“What stairs?” Their head tilts, like a curious dog, still looking over their shoulder. And human necks definitely aren’t supposed to turn like that.

Ethan looks down at the stair Kelly is perched on, and they look down as well. There is no acknowledgement of the stairs.

“Come on!” They smile. “Best to take the first step at a bit of a jump!”

And they keep going up the stairs, so Ethan takes a breath and hops onto the first step.

Except it isn’t a step. It’s… a rug maybe? It doesn’t stop looking like stairs, but the whole thing is level, and he nearly trips more than a couple times expecting his foot to hit the floor before it does. When they reach the end, he looks back. Back and down. Down at the library, one storey below.

At the end of a short hallway, there is a yellow door; one that Ethan is sure he’s seen before, except somewhere else. Kelly bounces up to it and knocks, and looks back at him and smiles and smiles, and then the door creaks open.

The person who emerges is definitely the young woman he saw when he came for his interview, but she’s also almost definitely the woman in the photograph from decades ago.

“Hi, Sasha!” Kelly smiles. “This one wants to talk to you!”

“Oh? Oh!” Sasha also smiles, and there’s a ringing in Ethan’s ear when she talks, but it seems like a fairly normal smile. At least, comparatively. “You’re the new Archival Assistant!”

“Uh, A- Assistant Archivist, actually.” It probably doesn’t matter. People are always telling him things like this don’t matter, and he shouldn’t bother correcting them. For some reason, though, it really feels like this does.

Sasha, at least, looks a bit surprised. “Really? Huh. That’s fascinating.”

Ethan is at least 75% sure she isn’t being sarcastic. “Is it?”

The hallway couldn’t have been more than five meters, but her laugh echoes down it. “It is! Thank you, Kelly. I’ll be sure Ethan makes his way back alright.”

It’s a clear dismissal, but Kelly doesn’t move. They keep looking at Sasha and they smile and smile and smile until eventually Sasha rolls her eyes and scoffs.

“Please,” she says. “I couldn’t lose one of Jon’s if I wanted to. He’ll be back in the Archives as soon as we’re done talking.”

Kelly smiles. “Okay!” they say cheerily, as if there’d never been any tension at all. “Nice to meet you, Ethan!” and then they’re gone.

“They’re a good kid,” Sasha says. “Well, then. Please, step into my office.” She closes the yellow door behind her and opens a different one beside it, that Ethan is also sure hadn’t been there a moment before. It’s a normal enough door, though. Looks a lot like Jon’s, actually. Sasha waves him through, and if he didn’t know better, Ethan would be sure he was back in the Archives.

In fact, he’s pretty sure that’s the same couch that’s currently sitting in Jon’s office and the same armchair he’d moved into his own “office” the other day; though both look in significantly better shape here.

“Have a seat,” Sasha says, dropping onto the couch— or draping herself across it rather— and eliciting a grumbling meow from an almost opalescent white cat that flicks its tail when she goes to pet it and jumps into Ethan’s lap the moment he settles into the chair. At first touch its fur feels like marble, but then he pets it and it feels like plush. He can’t hear the purr, but the rumble makes his fingers tingle.

“So, Ethan. What can I help you with?” Sasha asks.

“Well. My job… I hope.”

She sits up and sounds delighted when she says, “Oh, did you find a statement about me already? You’ve only been here a couple weeks, haven’t you?”

“Four… days?” It’s not a question. Ethan knows this is his fourth day. Knows. Yet for some reason he starts second guessing himself. It has only been four days… right? Yes. Yes, four days.

After the “stairs,” he doesn’t bother asking why there would be statements about her.

Sasha thinks for a moment and then waves his comment away. “Close enough. Time is fake. So… which one is it?”

“I didn’t— find a statement. I’m just trying to figure out what I’m supposed to be doing. Jon told me to ask you because you’ve actually done the job before.”

If she keeps laughing like that, he’s going to end up with a headache. The ringing is terrible.

“I’m sorry,” she laughs. “I wish I could think you were joking, but I know you’re not. I love Jon. He’s such a disaster. You know he knows basically everything?” Ethan does not know that. A lot, definitely. More than anyone logically should or could, sure. But everything?

“That… sounds improbable.” Buried in the cat’s equally improbable fur, Ethan’s fingers start going numb.

“He does. He knows almost everything and then always forgets that he knows anything. It’s hilarious,” Sasha says with a grin. “Alright. We used to do a lot of research, but that was back when we were cleaning up Gertrude’s mess and all the work the actual Research department did somehow got lost on its way down the stairs. The real ones. And Jon only knew most things rather than basically everything…”

She tells him she did research and reorganized possibly the worst archiving system in the world. She tells him she took statement-givers’ information and caught flies to feed the spiders in the corners. She tells him she killed worms and mapped underground tunnels and scanned in old letters and typed up written statements and managed “monster relations” and blew up mannequins and recorded false statements and hacked government networks and provided alibis and stole old books from museums and sang to the recorders so they wouldn’t start eating people’s fingers and updated the database and appeased disgruntled “youtubers” and collected obituaries and plotted her boss’s death.

Ethan is sure some of these things aren’t true, but he just walked up a flight of not-stairs, so he honestly couldn’t begin to guess which. He’s also not sure how many of them are relevant.

“Mostly, though,” Sasha concludes, “you take care of Jon.”

He does try to ask about the categories, and a couple of the titles she gives them make some kind of sense, but she also says category 06 is “me”, 09 is poker, 10 is geese, and 15 is millennials, so he decides to take those with a grain of salt as well.

When they finally leave her office, the door opens into the front lobby.

“There we are! Back safe and sane, just like I promised. I know I said I’d get you back to the Archives, but I’m not actually allowed to open doors down there anymore. And it’s only… Oops.” The lobby is quiet and the windows are dark. It’s definitely well into evening, though Ethan suspects midnight has come and gone. His watch starts buzzing with missed messages. “Well, I’m sure it’s at least the same day or Jon would’ve yelled at me by now. I could give you a shortcut home?”

The yellow door is back, and beyond it is a long hallway.

“I think I’d better take the long way,” he says.

Sasha nods. “That’s fair.”

—

If Ethan could actually figure out how to message HR, he would just message them. Even if it took them a day to get back to him, he’d still be better off than he has been so far. Unfortunately, he can’t find any sort of contact information for them at all. So the morning of his fifth day, he goes to the front desk and meets Priya No-Last-Name-As-Is-Tradition, who handles “reception, admin, and whatever Martin needs.”

He doesn’t ask, but she informs him Martin will be in a meeting all morning anyway. That’s fine. She’s more than happy to walk him up to HR and introduce him to a woman named Hope.

Hope startles when she sees them, and her fingers freeze on her keyboard, but there is definitely some kind of movement in her lap, barely visible over the edge of the desk. Then she smiles and turns to face them and Ethan does not comment on the fact that he can see two long, black limbs trying to shove some sort of yarn project into the drawer of a filing cabinet behind her. Priya nods at a job well done and leaves him there.

“How can I help you?” Hope asks. There’s something not quite right about her smile, but Ethan doesn’t comment on that either.

Instead, he says, “Do you have any sort of job description or scope of duties for the Assistant Archivist position?”

Hope blinks.

“The what?” she asks.

“The Assistant Archivist position.”

She blinks again. Her smile is gone, and he’s honestly glad for it. “Assistant… Archivist.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a thing?”

“I would hope so? I was just hired as one, so…”

She blinks again, then shakes her head. “Right. Sorry. Of course. I just… Honestly, I was sort of under the impression no one could work down there but the Archivist.”

Given that apparently only one other person has in longer than Ethan’s been alive, he doesn’t exactly blame her. Still, he’s pretty sure it’s her job to know these things, and he’d really like an answer.

“I understand,” he says, “but I do work down there. So…”

“Right. Yes. Assistant Archivist, you said? Just a moment.” She turns back to her display, taps a few keys, and then starts scrolling. And scrolling. And scrolling. All the while singing “Assistant Archivist Archivist Assistant Assist Assist the Archivist” under her breath.

Three minutes later, Ethan is still waiting.

“Are you… sure that’s your position title?” she asks finally, and Ethan turns around and heads back to the Archives.

—

While he hopes he never has to do most of the things Sasha listed as her duties, there are a couple Ethan thinks he can probably manage. He has no idea what, if anything, might need to be done with the statements that already have case numbers, but there’s a shelf of boxes near the Archive entrance labeled “Me Next!” that Jon had said were unprocessed. Maybe he won’t be able to fit them all into the proper categories, but there have to be some that are obviously false, and it seems as good a way as any to get more familiar with the database.

Halfway through the day, he switches to listening to some of the old audio files to figure out the format. It doesn’t seem too complicated. Probably he can record a couple test statements, get a feel for it.

Twenty minutes later, he gives up searching and asks Jon where to find their recording software. Jon frowns and tells him he’s better off finding a free one online, so Ethan reaches out to IT instead.

Ten minutes after that, he gets a message from Cass Walters telling him to check his apps again and that he’ll “know it when [he] see[s] it.” So he does.

Halfway through the list there’s an icon with a stylized cassette tape. It’s labeled “IM TELLING YOU IT FUCKING WORKS JON”, and Ethan figures that’s probably it. Thankfully it’s fairly intuitive, and it might end up being a total waste of his time, but by the end of the day he has three halfway decent recordings and feels like he accomplished something, at least.

-

On his sixth day, one week after starting, Ethan comes in just in time to hear someone say, “Are you kidding me?!” really quite loudly in Jon’s office.

It doesn’t sound like the sort of conversation he wants to disturb, so he goes to his desk and gets set up as quietly as he can and meets the cat’s judging stare head-on while eavesdropping. She blinks and rubs up against his leg, and he can’t help but think it was some kind of test. Apparently he passed.

“You know everything, Jon,” the same person says, and Ethan is at least 80% sure it’s Martin.

“Not ev—”

“Everything,” Martin repeats. “How can you possibly not know what your own assistant is supposed to be doing?”

“I can’t know things that don’t exist, Martin. Chloe always wanted to figure everything out herself and made things up as she went along. It may as well be a new position. So, I don’t know.” There’s a moment of silence.

“Jon,” Martin says.

“… Yes, Martin.”

“Love,” Martin says.

Jon sighs. “Yes, Martin. I realize—”

“That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Yes, Martin. I get it.”

“He’s an Assistant Archivist! Tell him what you need assistance archiving!”

“I’ll take care of it,” Jon says. If either of them say anything in the few minutes after that, though, it’s too quiet for Ethan to hear.

“Alright,” Martin says, like they’ve come to some kind of agreement despite the silence. “I love you.”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon says, the same tired way he’d said it before, though there’s a slight laugh at the end now. “I know.”

Martin is smiling when he comes out of Jon’s office. Instead of leaving the Archives, he walks up to Ethan’s desk and sets a mug of barely steaming tea down upon it.

“It should be just right now,” Martin says, like he’d known exactly when Ethan was going to arrive— despite him being half an hour early— and purposely made the tea so it would have cooled to the perfect temperature the moment he walked in. It is, of course, made perfectly as well. “I should have warned you a bit more about Jon. He’s a bit of a moron sometimes, but he means well. The next time you ask a question and he says he doesn’t know or tries to send you to someone else, just ask again, a bit slower. Usually the critical thinking capabilities will catch on then. Come see me whenever you’re free on Friday. I’d like to hear how you’re doing, once you actually get into the work.” And then he’s gone before Ethan can say a word.

In the doorway of his office, Jon clears his throat.

“I’ve been— reliably informed that I owe you an apology,” he says, and Ethan really would rather he didn’t. Apologies are almost always terrible, no matter which side you’re on. They’re awkward and often pointless. It’s not like he’s hurt or anything. Jon feeling bad isn’t going to do anything but make Ethan uncomfortable. “I sho—”

“Okay,” Ethan says. “Can we just skip to you training me?”

“… Yes. Yes, we can,” Jon says, possibly as relieved as Ethan to move on. He looks less tense, at least. “We usually wait until the end of probation to explain the fears, but that won’t exactly work here, so we’ll get to that in a moment. You’ve already started recording, so I suppose the first thing to know is that true statements won’t record digitally. The audio always ends up corrupted. I don’t think I’ll have you start recording any real statements quite yet, but once you do, you’ll have to use the— the tape…” He trails off, staring down at the small stack of statements Ethan recorded yesterday.

When Jon shows no sign of continuing, Ethan tentatively prompts, “The— tape recorders?”

“You’ve already started recording,” Jon says again.

“Yes?”

He pulls out the statement at the bottom of the stack and holds it out to Ethan, shaking it slightly. “You recorded this statement.”

“Yes? It was the last one I did before I went home last night.”

“Play it for me.” So Ethan does. Three minutes in, staring at the paper in his hand, Jon tells him to stop. “That’s not… Set up a new recording. I’m going to start reading this, and after two minutes, I want you to take this from me and stop the recording.” So Ethan does that too.

It had felt a bit… odd, when Ethan read the statement yesterday. Like the air got thicker, almost. But he’d also been very tired, and while a lot of things are weird at the Institute, that doesn’t mean everything is. It’s different when Jon starts reading. Not so much the air getting thicker as pressing down on them, and Ethan feels very uncomfortably like someone is making direct eye contact with him. It’s creepy. He almost misses the two minute mark.

The second he pulls the paper from Jon’s hands, the feeling lifts. Somehow, he isn’t surprised that playback of Jon’s reading comes out with a terrible screech and a whole lot of broken, garbled nonsense.

Jon looks between Ethan, the paper, and the display again and again.

“Jon?” Ethan asks.

“That’s not fair,” Jon replies. Then, with a sigh, “I guess I have more work for you than I thought.”

[ieattaperecorders]

Something’s Different About You Lately - Chapter 9: A Disappearance

Several employees become preoccupied with personal projects. The archive has a minor infestation.

Read on Ao3

Martin leaned against the break room counter, phone to his ear. As before, the call went directly to voice mail.

"Don't know what I expected," he muttered to himself. He'd called twice already that morning, third time wasn't going to be the charm.

The sound of the kettle came nearby, and he paused to pour water into two mugs. As the tea steeped, he brought his phone up to stare at the familiar number. Pushed down a tiny, anxious compulsion to just call again, as if that would accomplish anything. The phone was either on silent or powered down, either way he wasn't getting through.

Sasha always had her phone on her. She always had it charged. Martin had never known her to go more than a few hours without responding to texts or missed calls. Really, he had no idea how she kept on top of it.

Maybe she'd caught the flu and was sleeping all day, too tired to call in or charge her phone? Or maybe she'd lost her phone. It happens. You couldn't assume someone was missing just because they'd skipped a couple days of work, could you? One and a half days, really, since it was barely past noon. And the weekend, of course, no one had seen her then. But that was the weekend.

Reassurances like these might have sat easier with him if it weren't for the time Jon had vanished into a set of supernatural corridors. As was, things were beginning to feel uncomfortably familiar.

He opened his text history with Tim, knowing as he did there'd be nothing to see.

Martin: are you at the institute ?

Tim: nah nowhere near

Tim: doing some field work

Martin: oh :/ are you coming in at all today?

Tim: probably not. dw i texted jon, he knows

Tim: tell him not to worry, just doing some recon

Martin: maybe you should call and tell him yourself? he seems pretty upset

Tim: it's cool. i 'm gonna have my phone off so i won't see texts for a while :) ttyl

Martin: I really, really think you should call Jon and talk to him

Martin: seriously. Things are getting weird here

That exchange had happened that morning, and there'd been no word from Tim since then. Martin didn't like this feeling. Half of him thought he was worrying over nothing, while the other half suspected that he wasn't worrying enough. And the only other person in the archive wasn't likely to provide a model of stability anytime soon.

He remembered what it had been like during the two weeks Jon had disappeared. The first days had been marked by a passive confusion, with the three of them going about things normally, occasionally looking up and asking has he still not come in? Did you see him at all? Should somebody call him? Idle concern that grew into anxiety as more time passed.

After four days of it, Martin went to Elias to ask whether Jon had called in, if he knew where he was. Elias had said something vague about field research. Said that it was open ended, and no he didn't know when Jon would be back. Added with a smirk that he was taking a "hands off" approach with him. When Martin pressed for more, expressed worry that he wasn't answering his phone, Elias had given him a knowing smile that made him feel like he was naked in public. He'd suggested Martin might be letting his own "personal preoccupations" color things, and reminded him that repeated phone calls can make one look rather desperate for someone's attention. Martin had shuffled off, face burning, and not brought it up again.

Elias's explanation and lack of concern had kept them all complacent for too long. But Martin shouldn't have been complacent. He should have known better. No, that wasn't even it – he did know better. Deep down he'd known something was wrong, because he'd spent so much of those weeks worrying.

Worrying, and thinking about those days he'd spent trapped in his flat, slowly accepting that no help was coming, that the outside world had shrugged at his absence and moved on. He remembered worrying what would happen to his mother when the payments for her care stopped coming. And thinking that the others at work might not even learn he was dead unless his landlord gave a statement about the rotting, buzzing, hole-shot thing he'd find when he finally came to evict him.

Sitting with his back to the wall, cold, tired and halfway to delirium, Martin had hoped that they'd feel guilty when he did.

It had been some consolation to learn Jane had been using his phone, that there was a reason nobody had looked. Nursing resentment, he'd thought to himself that ‘stomach problems' had been a weak excuse. But then, an even weaker excuse alongside a snide comment about how obvious Martin was had been all it took to stop him asking questions, so how much worse was he? He'd known something was wrong, but instead of doing anything he'd kept his head down, and worried, and hoped it would work out.

Tea finished, he brought the mugs out to the bullpen. Jon was already there, bent over Sasha's desk -- he'd emptied the contents of her drawers all around him and was sifting through them, brow furrowed. He looked up as Martin entered.

"Anything?" he asked, expectantly.

"Still no answer . . . should you really be going through her things like that?"

"Yes, it's fine." Jon waved a hand and turned back to the papers he'd been looking at.

The question had been rhetorical, not an opportunity for Jon to give himself permission to keep rifling. Martin decided to let it go.

"She didn't tell you what she was working on, did she?" Jon asked. "Anything that could give you a clue where she'd be headed?"

"Not really," a twinge somewhere, because since when did anyone tell him anything? "I mean, she's been looking up statements for some research she's doing, but she's secretive about what it is. I think has something to do with Gertrude? She's been talking about her a lot, anyway."

"That isn't much help . . . there's too many directions it could lead. And that's just the ones that I know about . . . ."

"Sorry . . . I wish I knew more." Maybe it was the anxiety already swirling in Martin's stomach that made Jon's tone cut through him the way it did. It was hard to say.

"It's something. A starting point, at least." Jon sighed, shoving some papers haphazardly into a drawer. Assuming Sasha wasn't eaten alive by some nightmare creature, she was definitely going to notice when she got back. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and began scribbling in it. "I'll try making a list of relevant statements, maybe we can check whether she accessed them recently."

Martin stepped a little closer to peek at what he was writing: 0081912, 9522002 (would she recognize the voice?) 0141010, 0063011, 0090202 (anything involving A. or L.F.) The moment he realized Martin was watching, Jon frowned, flipped the notebook closed and stuck it back into his pocket.

"What about Tim? Have you been able to reach him at all? I think he's flat-out ignoring me at this point."

"No. His phone rings, but he doesn't answer. Last we talked he just – well, see for yourself."

He displayed the last text conversation. Jon's eyes scattered over the words, then he grabbed the phone from Martin's hand and began typing a reply. Martin barely had time to sputter a hey! before it was handed back to him: Sasha is missing. Call immediately. -J

Terse, but he supposed it might get Tim's attention. Martin looked up to see Jon pacing back towards Sasha's desk, shaking his head.

" ‘Recon . . .' there are only a few places that could mean, and all of them are bad," he muttered. "I'm going to have to go after him, aren't I? I'm going to have to – but there's only one way that can end for me and I can't – not yet, not while Sasha's still gone. . . "

Martin frowned. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night." There was a note of triumph in Jon's voice, an unspoken so there. "The same as you, presumably."

"Okay. How much sleep did you actually get, though?"

"I don't know. Not much. Doesn't matter . . . can't sleep anyway." His voice dropped in register and he muttered, "spiders" like it was the name of his mortal enemy. Martin considered mentioning something about how they'd at least keep more harmful pests out of his home, but thought better of it.

"Okay, then. . . suppose I'll file that away with all the other weird, cryptic things you keep saying." At that, Jon gave him an aching look that made him instantly regret saying anything.

"I'm sorry, Martin. I am trying to be more forthcoming. I t's just – well, it's difficult . A nd I'm afraid it's already making things worse . . . ."

"Look . . . you don't have to tell me everything, okay?" Martin said. "Just let me help. If you think you know where Tim's vanished off to, tell me. I can check in on him if you can't. Really, I'd rather be doing that than sitting here doing nothing--"

The rest was cut off by Martin's yelp of surprise, as Jon closed the distance between them, grabbing him tightly by the shoulders.

"No! Don't you dare. Not you too," Jon's voice began to crack. "Please . . . if I can't even keep you safe . . . ."

His eyes were wide, and he was holding Martin very, very closely. As Martin tried to think of what to say to that, tried even to remember how words worked, his phone rang and startled them both. Jon's grip on him loosened and he pulled away to check it – it was Tim.

"Put it on speaker," Jon said. He did, and Tim's voice came out before Martin had the chance to say hello.

"Martin. What's going on?"

"I see now you're suddenly available," Jon's voice dripped with disdain.

"Don't. Not now," Tim said warningly. "Just tell me what's happening with Sasha."

Martin held a hand up before Jon could interrupt him again. "We don't know exactly. She didn't come in today, or yesterday. We'd actually been wondering if she was with you."

"I take it from your call she isn't," Jon said. "Did she tell you anything about where she was going?"

"No. I didn't even know she was going anywhere. Have you called her?"

"Of course--"

"--We tried," Martin cut Jon off, his tone forcefully calm. "We've been trying to reach her for a while, actually, but she isn't answering calls or texts."

There was a pause on the line as Tim quietly cursed. Then Jon's hand was on Martin's wrist, pulling him – no, pulling the phone in his hand – closer.

"Look, just . . . come back to the institute," the argumentative tint to his voice was gone, now he was all but pleading. "We can work this out together. Just – just come back."

There was a pause, then Tim's voice again.

". . . I'll be there in a few hours."

He hung up without ceremony. Jon released his hold on Martin and slumped into a chair.

"Well, that's one crisis dealt with," he exhaled. "Or postponed."

There was nothing like relief in Jon's voice, only a low, tired dread. Martin looked at him, taking in the bruises under his eyes, the unsteady tremor to his hands. He looked . . . harried. Like he'd been running for days and might drop dead from exhaustion before whatever was after him even caught up.

Martin found himself badly wanting to reach for him, to brush away whatever dark thoughts were settling in. He wanted to take a blanket and wrap him up warm, to sit next to him as he'd done for Martin in the storage closet, until he felt safe enough to close his eyes and rest.

"Jon . . ." he said softly. "You're not well."

A hollow, humorless laugh. "Not really, no."

Sasha was missing, monsters were real, and Jon was keeping secrets that were tearing him apart from inside out. Martin didn't know how anything he might say could stand against any of that. But he still wanted to say something. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

"You don't have to take everything on, you know. We're in this together, right? That's what you just told Tim. So let me help you," Martin said, something weak and pleading in his voice. "Tell me what you need."

An indecipherable look passed over Jon's face. Martin wanted to take his hand but had enough sense not to try, instead placing his own hand palm-down on the desk beside them. To his surprise, Jon reached forward to grasp it. For a moment something fluttered in Martin, but he nudged the feeling carefully aside. This wasn't about his embarrassing, childish crush. Jon was scared and exhausted, and he needed a friend. Martin turned his palm and gripped back. If he could give Jon any little bit of comfort, he was going to, and he was not going to be weird about it.

"What I need . . . ." Jon swallowed and shook his head. "What I need is to know where Sasha is, and – I need Tim to not be doing something suicidally dangerous." He looked up at Martin, then back to their joined hands, placing a second palm over them both. "I need you all to be all right. It's all I have . . . ."

"Okay . . . okay. Well." Martin took a breath, in and out. "We'll do what we can to find Sasha. And Tim is on his way back for now," he said softly. "And for what it's worth, you know, I – I'm here."

". . . I know." Jon gave him a weak smile, and shook his head again. "Whatever else happens, I . . ."

He trailed off, looking down at their hands. His thumb moved back and forth, absently brushing little arcs over Martin's knuckles. He was quiet for a long while.

"I don't know," he finally said. "Just be safe. Please. If . . . if I lost you, Martin, I don't even know . . . ."

Jon kept his grip on Martin and yes, he was definitely stroking his hand now. Martin's heart began to pound. He might have kept it together, but then Jon's fingertips trailed up the curve of his wrist and his breath hitched – quiet, but Jon heard it. He looked up abruptly, seeming to realize himself, and dropped Martin's hand as if it was on fire.

"God, I – I'm sorry, I didn't –"

The pained look returned to Jon's face as he pushed away from the desk. Several responses crowded Martin's brain at once. It's okay, you don't have to stop, and please don't look so sad, and I'M GAY IN CASE THAT WAS SOMEHOW UNCLEAR, I MENTION THIS NOW FOR NO REASON. But instead of saying anything he stared, dumbfounded, as Jon got to his feet.

"I have to go," he said, hurrying back towards his office. Martin heard the door slam followed by the click of the lock, and he was left sitting speechless next to two cold cups of tea.

* * *

Back to the door, Jon pressed his face into his crossed arms, swallowing back the noises that refused to stop coming out of him. He wasn't crying, the fact was that he was far too tired for tears, but kept his mouth covered all the same. He'd done enough to confuse Martin already without him hearing Jon sob through the door.

Stupid, stupid. Careless. It was falling apart so quickly. He couldn't imagine what else he'd have managed to destroy if he'd stayed in that room a moment longer.

Every step he took seemed to be a mistake, every option leading to disaster. Keep his secrets to himself and Sasha runs off to die looking for answers. Let out a little truth and Tim throws himself to the Circus. Be the Archivist, let the Beholding in and he would repeat the cycle as Jonah's tool. But stay human, and if he wasn't killed by something lurking in the shadows he'd be spun into the hands of the Spider.

Assuming he wasn't there already. He'd danced his way to the apocalypse once, all the while thinking he was trying to prevent it. How could he be sure every action he took now wasn't part of the Spider's plan?

He'd had a dream some nights ago. Martin had been in his flat, curled up with him on the couch – there had been no confession, no revelation of feelings, they were simply together once more, and it was wonderful. Until Martin tried to get up. Jon felt a tug as he moved – first gentle, then more insistent. Martin's expression went from one of contentment to confusion, to sudden distress. He was trying to pull away, but somehow his arms were still wrapped around Jon. With as much force as he could muster, Martin yanked back hard, and his arm finally moved to reveal thick, white webbing between them, binding their flesh together.

Horror washed over him as Martin began struggling in earnest, and Jon felt every tug and snap, the desperate writhing of hopelessly trapped prey. Jon wanted to say something – to comfort him, to scream with him, to beg for his forgiveness – but a thousand legs were stirring inside him. He felt the press of movement in his throat, and put all his effort into keeping his mouth closed. Not certain how long he'd last, but entirely sure of what would swarm from him the minute he let it open.

He very nearly found himself missing the Watcher's nightmares when he woke. At least he'd never worried that they might be prophetic.

Jon's fingers tangled themselves into in his hair, and he felt something crawl over his hand. He jumped, shaking his arm free, and a palm-sized spider fell onto the floor. Revulsion crawled through him – he grabbed a loose folder, ready to smash it. But the moment he raised his arm he saw something move in the corner of his eye. He looked around and suddenly they were everywhere.

Hundreds, thousands . . . more? He didn't know how many, it didn't matter how many, it was too many. Too many spiders, his brain screamed. Tiny, skittering things crept out from behind boxes and between files, from under the baseboards and over the ceiling. They crawled from every direction in the room – above him, around him, everywhere, EVERYWHERE.

Panic gripped him. He froze. So did the spiders. For a tense moment, they all stayed like that – Jon too terrified to move, eyes darting from one part of the room to another. He was surrounded. There was a clean circle a few feet around him, and beyond that, the swarm. Waiting. Unmoving. Why were they just sitting there?

Experimentally, he lifted the folder in his hand, ready to bring it down. The swarm crept closer. He stilled, and they stopped. They didn't withdraw, but they didn't advance either. It seemed that they weren't going to touch him . . . unless he made a move to kill one of them.

What the hell was this ? Some new way to toy with him? Was he being trained like a dog, now? The Web didn't like his habit of killing spiders, so it was sending a message – quit swatting at us, or – or what? They'd kill him? Not if they intended to use him, they wouldn't . . . but then, they wouldn't need to. He'd seen the sort of things they do to people – victims left hollow but alive, helpless to stop as their bodies are jerked along on invisible strings.

He shuddered, withdrawing his hand, and he swore he could feel the pleasured satisfaction running through them as he did what he was told. It made his stomach twist.

He couldn't just obey them like this, could he? But if he defied them and they swarmed, wouldn't they have him then as well? Was it reverse psychology, did they want him to attack and give them an excuse? Or was that what they wanted him to think, so he'd fall in line? Maybe he was damned either way, maybe it was only a question of how his free will would be stripped from him.

To hell with it, then – if nothing mattered, he could still spit in the puppeteer's face. He raised the folder in his hand.

Then he stopped.

Something dawned on him. Not the sudden rush of Knowing he'd felt from the Beholding, this was more akin to the moment he'd understood what the Distortion was, his own mind putting together the pieces of something he'd been struggling with. He forced himself to ignore the swarm and focus on the lone spider he'd shaken from his hair. The one that had made sure he'd noticed it, that still hadn't scuttled away. It was waiting for him. All of them were. The last pieces fell into place.

"It has to be a choice," he whispered.

The spider regarded him, silent. Slowly, he lowered his hand, wary of any sudden movement that could break the stillness holding it all back. He never took his gaze off the palm-sized spider on the floor.

"It has to be a choice. But it doesn't have to be a fair choice." he continued, face twisting into a hateful grin. "Doesn't have to be a choice you understand the consequences of, or even one you know you're making. It can be made under the threat of death or heat of panic, as long as it's done."

"That's what's been haunting me this whole time, isn't it?" His voice was bitter. "You have to make a choice , Jon. You chose to pursue knowledge, Jon . All of this has been because of your choices Jon. That's where you creep in."

Jon knew the small, eight-legged fear in front of him. It had been with him a long time, its legs tickling the back of his mind whenever he agonized over the all things he might have done differently. And how much more had he been thinking of those things since he came back? Since what he might have done differently had become an immediate reality, no longer hypothetical? How many hours had he spent dwelling over all the possible outcomes, the consequences he could never predict? How many times had he been paralyzed by the thought that each new action would make things worse?

If there was no hope – if there was truly nothing he could do, no way to keep the world from ending . . . well, that would be a nightmare of its own. But if the world could be saved, then Jon could fail to save it, could destroy them all again.

That horror of choice, that fear of responsibility. He'd brought it back with him.

The spider scuttled forward. Decades-deep arachnophobia rose in Jon at the skittering motion, but he resisted the urge to swat at it. Stiffly, he pressed himself into the door as the thing began to crawl up his leg. Every muscle in him wanted to jerk away, to get rid of it, destroy it. He resisted the urge. Carefully, he reached down and scooped it up, cupping it between his hands. Its legs tickled his palms and his skin crawled, but his own fear screaming at him to to crush and kill it solidified the certainty that he shouldn't.

"So you come to me when I'm at my worst," he said, "at my lowest and most self-destructive, and you set up this little tableau. Make me feel powerless, toyed with, so that I lash out. And as I do so, I think – to hell with it, let them have me ."

And they would have him then. They'd swarm, slip in through his eyes, ears, and nostrils, crawl through him as he screamed and wept and writhed. Then they'd tuck themselves away inside him, where they could spin their webs, lay their brood, and turn him to their purposes.

He'd be theirs. Freed from all responsibility, a helpless, innocent puppet.

Not a fair choice, but enough of one.

". . . That part of me that wanted you to be the reason I hurt people, that in my worse moments wished the Eye would overtake me, take the fear and the shame and make me a monster that didn't care. It called to you, didn't it? I'm sure it's calling to you still," he said softly. "But that isn't me. A part of me, maybe, but not all of me. And I've been fighting it too long to give in now."

Bending forward, he opened his palms and shook the little fear onto the floor, glaring at it with every ounce of hatred he had in him.

"I don't know if I can fight you forever, any of you. Maybe it's foolish to think anyone can. But I'm not going to give myself to you that way," he growled. "I'm. Not. Yours."

The lights flickered as he spoke those final words, and for a moment he felt an overwhelming sense of vertigo. When he managed to focus again, the spider was gone. As were all the others – he looked in every direction, but they were nowhere to be seen. Left . . . or crawled back into hiding, he didn't know which.

Jon sat there, wondering what exactly he'd just done. It felt as though a decision had been made. But he didn't have much time to think about it before the sounds of shouting came from down the hall.

"Jon!?" Martin's voice, strained and panicked. "Jon! Sasha's come back, and she's hurt!"

[bubonickitten]

TMA fic: A Resolution

Summary: Jon and Martin leave the Desolation behind and talk about what the hell just happened - and where to go from here.

Cross-posted to AO3 here.

[Spoilers for MAG 169.]

CW: mild self-harm (scratching/hair pulling as a stim); brief dissociation/drdp; discussion of canon-typical trauma.

______________________________________________________

Jon waits until they’re safely beyond the Desolation’s borders, when the cinders no longer fall like snow and the whiff of smoke has faded, before he stops.

 When he does, it’s so abrupt that Martin nearly walks right into him. Jon doesn’t notice. His thoughts feel disjointed and cluttered; his body feels alien to him. Eyes unfocused, he scans the area and gravitates to the first thing that calls out to him – a dead and gnarled tree, its bark charred and charcoal-black. There’s a little hollow, just the perfect size for two people to hide away. He drops his bag unceremoniously to the ground, sending up a little puff of dust and ash, and tucks himself away in the alcove, pulling his knees to his chest and locking his arms around them. The tree is a sturdy presence, tangible and grounding, and he presses himself against it at every point of contact he can manage.

 After a moment, Martin follows. He has the presence of mind to remove his own pack, grab Jon’s bag from the ground, and lean them both neatly against the tree before clambering after Jon. It’s a tight fit for Martin; he has to keep his head ducked, and squeezing in next to Jon has him pressed against the tree on one side and Jon’s body on the other.

 “Sorry,” Martin mumbles, sounding a bit self-conscious. “It’s – I’m a lot bigger than you are.”

 “I like the pressure,” Jon says, leaning into Martin’s side. A full minute passes before he spares a thought for Martin’s comfort and a little pang of shame ripples through him. “Is it uncomfortable for you? We can –”

 “It’s fine,” Martin says. “For the moment, anyway. I’ll let you know when my arm starts falling asleep.”

 Jon nods, but his thoughts are already drifting again. He bites the inside of his cheek, wiggles his toes, and tries to focus on the safe, solid warmth of Martin’s body next to him.

 “Are we going to talk about what just happened, Jon?”

 “I…” Jon shuts his eyes tight and tries to shuffle his thoughts into some semblance of order.

 He isn’t sure how much time passes before he hears Martin’s voice again. It sounds distant and muffled. Unable to process the garbled noise into meaningful words, his attention begins to slide away again, leaving him adrift in his own fuzzy thoughts.  

 Then, Martin makes a grab for his hand and one word comes into focus: “Jon.”

 Jon startles and draws his hands back, hiding them in the folds of his jacket and hugging his sides. It takes a moment for him to register the hurt in Martin’s eyes, but when he does, he feels a twinge of regret.

 “I’m sorry, I don’t know why –” Jon begins, just as Martin says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

 They both stop simultaneously and Jon nods for Martin to speak.

 “I just wanted to – you were scratching? Your hands.”

 Jon pulls his hands out of hiding and looks. The back of his burned hand does seem a bit irritated, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s not surprising that he didn’t notice the scratching – the scar tissue there never registers much sensation at all.

 As soon as Jon notices Martin looking, he flashes back to their discussion just before entering the Desolation.

  I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it just makes me sick; I hate it. Hate it.

 Jon wishes he couldn’t remember it with such clarity, but the Archive in him catalogs everything. These days, he can recall most things verbatim – and even when he doesn’t intend to, the Archive does it for him. 

 He pulls his sleeve down to cover his burn and folds his arms against his chest again. 

 “Jon.” Martin, observant as ever, can apparently see right through him. “Give me your hand.”

 Jon can feel the stinging threat of tears in his eyes. He begrudgingly holds out his burned hand and looks away before Martin can notice him tearing up – and so he doesn’t have to watch Martin’s face as he takes in the shiny, gnarled whorls of scar tissue. 

 Martin’s hand is warm and gentle as he laces their fingers together, and without hesitation, he brings Jon’s hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to each knuckle. Jon can’t help but steal a glance at Martin, and the sheer tenderness written all over his face –

 Jon can’t help it: the dam breaks, the tears overflow, and soon his breath is coming in short, gasping hiccups.

 “You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?” Martin says quietly, his lips brushing against Jon's fingers.

 How did you know what I was thinking? Jon wants to ask, but he can’t form the words. Instead, he just shudders as he tries to stifle his sobs.

 “I love every part of you, and that includes the scars. They’re reminders that you’ve survived.” Martin rubs his thumb over the back of Jon’s hand in a slow, soothing motion. “It’s just – I wish you didn’t have to go through any of it in the first place. I hate what’s been done to you. But you’re more than that, and – and the scars are proof of that. Despite everything, you’re still alive. You’re still you.”

 “Am I, though?” It comes out as a croak, and only then does Jon realize just how raw his throat is. There won’t be any lasting damage from walking through a blazing building, but it’s certainly taking its time fading away.

 He feels another wave of guilt overtake him at the thought of how frightened Martin was. Jon had been so absorbed in recording the fear permeating the Desolation, and then so wrapped up in his own petty revenge fantasy, that he shut Martin out, left him choking on the blistering heat and shrinking away from the flames, stranded with only his abject terror to keep him company – 

 “Jon –”

 “You see what I am, what I can do –”

 “She deserved it, Jon. So did that – that thing that killed Sasha.”

 “Yes, they did. But I used the same power that destroyed the world in order to do it, and I liked it, and – and I dragged you along with me, all for an empty, fleeting moment of vengeance. I promised I wouldn’t let the Eye hurt you, and then I subjected you to –” Jon swallows hard, his sore throat protesting. “And now it’s over, I just feel sick. Jude was right – I’m no better than her.”

 “That’s not –”

 “Did you know, before the change – when I still slept – one of the nightmares I invaded belonged to Jordan Kennedy? The exterminator, the one who was called to deal with Jane Prentiss’ wasp nest?” Once he starts, he can’t stop – the words pour forth in a frenetic rush, and he lets them carry him away. “He would look at me, and look at Prentiss, and he – he never knew who to fear more. Even after years, Prentiss was – she was always the part of the dream that terrified me more than any of the others, and – and in his eyes, we were the same –”

 “Jon –”

 “Prentiss was so frightened in her statement, so human. I thought the hive had hollowed her out against her will, turned her into a monster – but now, I wonder if she chose to let it have her –”

  “Jon –”

 “I talked to Helen about it once, you know. About choice. It seems like the avatars – we all have something about us that draws the powers to us in the first place. The only difference between us and any other victim is that we – we embrace it, to some extent, whether we realize it or not. We have a choice, and we choose to abandon our humanity, and whatever happens after that –”

 “Jon, stop.”

 Jon shuts his mouth so quickly there is an audible click as his teeth collide.  

 “This isn’t healthy –” Martin holds up his free hand as Jon opens his mouth again. “No, let me talk.” He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re equating yourself with the ones who hurt you. You’re… you’re looking back at all the things that traumatized you and putting yourself in the same category.”

 “Jude said –”

 “I don’t care what Jude said!”

 “But she was right!” Jon says viciously, tearing his hand from Martin’s grasp and burying it in his hair, pulling until his scalp starts to ache.

 “What about me, Jon? Am I no better than Peter Lukas?”

 “That’s not the same thing –”

 “Really? The Lonely was drawn to me for a reason. I made a choice to let it in, and then I made a choice to embrace it. I liked it, in my own way.” Martin places one hand under Jon’s chin and guides him to meet his eyes. “What if things had gone just a bit differently? What if you never woke up? I might have actually committed myself to the Lonely. Would that have twisted me, driven me to seek out the isolated and feed them to it in the same way that Peter does?”

 “It’s different –”

 “No, it’s not. You think the Beholding was drawn to you because you’re curious. Fine. You are curious. It’s infuriating and charming all at once, and sometimes you take it to - to careless extremes. That still doesn’t make any of this your fault. It makes you a victim, Jon – you were manipulated, tormented, used, and thrown away. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

 Jon has sunken into a sullen silence, and Martin groans in frustration.

 “Look, let’s – okay,” Martin says, counting on his fingers, “Mike Crew was struck by lightning. Jane Prentiss stumbled upon a wasps’ nest. All Helen did was open a door. Whether they were targeted or just had bad luck, they were coerced into choosing between equally terrible options and twisted into people they probably never expected to be. Even Daisy – all she did was trespass on some childhood dare, right? Look where that led her.”

 Jon chews his lip and says nothing.

 “I’m just saying, from where I’m sitting, the punishment doesn’t seem to fit the transgression. If you can even call half those things transgressions. Helen’s curiosity led her to open a door, but that hardly seems like a crime to me. You’ve never once believed that Helen deserved what happened to her. So why are you holding yourself to different standards?”

 “It’s just… different. I – I had a clear choice, and I chose to be a monster instead of having the decency to –” Jon cuts himself off, but it’s too late.

 “To what? To die?”

 “Well, if I had, it would have freed the rest of you –”

 “And if you died, I would have given in to the Lonely, and Daisy would still be in the coffin, and Melanie would have been taken by the Slaughter, and Elias would have found a new pawn –”

 “I just –”

 “I’m not done,” Martin says forcefully. “It’s still victim blaming even if you’re the victim, Jon. Do you really not see why it’s upsetting for me to hear you compare yourself to people who tortured you? To have you listen to Jude Perry over me?”

 “I…”

 “You know what?” Martin laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, let’s – let’s talk about Jude, shall we? Because as far as I can tell, she’s an example of someone who did choose this. I listened to parts of the tapes while you were in hospital, and she said as much herself. She was always cruel. She enjoyed destroying people long before the Desolation took an interest in her. Who knows, maybe there was something in her life that could explain why she was the way she was, and she just didn’t tell you. But based on what we know? She just liked hurting people. She was never conflicted about it, and she never apologized for it. Hell, she gloated about it. Even at the very end, all she wanted was to scare me and hurt you.”  

 When Martin finishes, he’s slightly out of breath. Jon reaches out tentatively, letting his fingers brush against Martin’s wrist, and Martin grasps his hand and interlocks their fingers again.

 “I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly. “I’m just… I’m sorry.”

 “It’s… well, it’s not fine. But we had to talk about it.” Martin sniffles a bit, then clears his throat. “I guess maybe the Kill Bill thing isn’t working for us, though.”

 “Maybe not. I think… I think it’s not as simple as we want it to be. It would be – nice, to be able to just draw up a hit list, burn through it on our way to Jonah, but… I don’t like what it does to me. I don’t like what it does to you.”

 “Right,” Martin sighs.  

 “And I’m still – I’m still worried about Annabelle. We could be playing right into her hands, and we still don’t even know what she’s after, and…” Jon makes an aggravated noise. “And just like that, I’m back to the free will question.”

 It’s a question that always, always leads him to a dead end. Sometimes he passes hours with Annabelle’s statement playing on a loop in his head until he feels paralyzed with indecision, and nothing good ever comes of it.  

 “Okay, no,” Martin says. “No more self-harm disguised as philosophizing.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “The rumination, Jon – it’s self-destructive. It’s the same as when you’d seek out Helen whenever you were feeling inhuman. You’d let the ‘throat of delusion’ reinforce your fears, and then you’d use that as a justification for risking your life.”

 Jon is struck speechless. He just stares at Martin, mouth opening and closing minutely, trying and failing to compose any coherent response.

 “I was keeping an eye on you, Jon. Even when I was working for Peter.” He pauses, and then, almost under his breath, he adds: “You find such roundabout ways to hurt yourself, sometimes.”

 “I…”

 “You never thought of it that way, did you?” Martin’s smile is half-indulgent, half-sad. “Well, if you’re going to keep getting tripped up by the free will thing, let’s just… address it. Lay it all out, all those little what-ifs and if/thens.”  

 “That seems like… quite an undertaking,” Jon says, uncertain.

 “Yeah, well. Time doesn’t really work anymore.”

 “But people are still suffering with every moment we sit here –”

 “The longer we go without sitting down and talking this out, the more we’ll stumble. We’ll probably reach the Panopticon sooner if we can agree on a strategy, and this… this seems like a good first step. Here, let me –”

 Martin extricates himself from their hiding place with a small grunt of effort. Standing and dusting himself off, he reaches down to help Jon up. “Over here,” he says, leading Jon by the hand to their bags and gesturing for him to sit down.

 Jon complies, Martin settles in beside him, but then – Jon has a sudden thought, and his attention swivels back to Martin.

 “Wait. Before we move on, I… how are you –” He stops himself with an agitated little shake of his head, then restructures the statement. “I would like to know how you’re feeling. If – if you want to say.”

 “Jon,” Martin says, his voice stern, “you are not redirecting this into a conversation about me just because you don’t want to talk about your feelings –”

 “No,” Jon says quickly, “we can come back to this, I just - it’s not fair, me venting to you and expecting you to soak up my – my nonsense –”

 “Not nonsense –” Martin says crossly.

 “Okay, okay, fine – my – my feelings.”

 “The word isn’t going to bite your tongue off if you say it,” Martin says, shaking his head with an exasperated smirk as Jon rolls his eyes.

 “All the same, I…” Jon reaches over and cups one side of Martin’s face. He didn’t realize until now how caked in soot and ash they both are, as he rubs his thumb over Martin’s cheekbone. “I was being self-centered before we went after Jude, and I was being self-centered just now. I’d like to know where you are right now, in all this.”

 Martin closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and leans into Jon’s touch. “I’m… scared. Obviously. I think the Desolation is one of the fears that gets to me the most. Not just the pain aspect, though I – I was being serious when I said that burning is my least favorite pain ever.”

 Jon lets his hand drift to Martin’s hairline and brushes a stray curl away from his forehead, shaking loose a sprinkle of ashes.

 “But it’s also… it’s the loss aspect, I think?” Martin continues. “How easily you can lose everything, how quickly the people you love can – can disappear from your life.”

 Jon reaches out with his free hand – the burned one – and places it on top of one of Martin’s. Martin takes it gratefully, intertwines their fingers, and rests his head on Jon’s shoulder.

 “I’m… I’m not used to people caring about me, but being abandoned still hurts, even when it’s people who never cared for you. And now – now I have someone who does care for me. When you tell me you love me, I believe you, which is… I never thought I’d have that. If I lost you, I don’t know… I don’t know what I would do.”

 As the tears start to trickle down Martin’s cheeks, leaving trails in the soot clinging to his skin, Jon’s breath hitches and his heart clenches in his chest. A sudden, jarring memory returns to him, of Jude describing how she could reach in and burn his heart right out of him, and he pushes the thought away.

 “I’m sorry, Martin. I… I didn’t think about that.” He squeezes Martin’s hand in his, hoping it comes off as reassuring. “Honestly, I think I’m also still getting used to the concept of someone actually… caring what happens to me. It doesn’t always occur to me naturally – the thought of someone missing me, or – or grieving for me.”

 “It’s alright –”

 “No, it’s not,” Jon interrupts. It comes off more sharply than he had intended, and he softens his voice before he continues. “Don’t let me off the hook. I… I knew I wouldn’t lose you, I knew I could keep us both alive, but I also knew it we wouldn’t pass through unscathed, and I dragged you in there anyway. I’m…” He frowns. “It's not an excuse, but I - I think I’m somewhat desensitized to physical pain, at this point?”

 Martin opens his mouth and Jon cuts him off.

 “No, I – I still feel it, it’s just... I've come to expect it? And then I heal so quickly, it - it doesn't feel consequential.” It’s more that his body doesn’t always feel like it belongs to him. There’s a sense of detachment that grew up over time, layer upon layer; he can’t quite pinpoint when exactly he started to think, Well, what’s another scar?

 “That’s worse. You get how that’s worse, right?”

 “Yes, I – I suppose,” Jon admits reluctantly. “But that’s not the point. You told me, explicitly, how you felt, and I subjected you to it anyway. I rationalized it by saying there would be no lasting physical damage, but that - that isn't the only kind of harm there is, and it's no consolation in the moment, when all you can think about is how much it hurts." Jon closes his eyes. "It was wrong of me to take you in there.”

 “Maybe.” Martin bites his lip. “I am the one who wanted to go Kill Bill, though.”

 “But I went along with it, and for the wrong reasons.”

 “I don’t think revenge is a bad reason. You have every right to feel angry –”

 “Probably. But I’m… I’m also the most powerful thing in this wasteland. I could cut a path of destruction from here to the Panopticon, and nothing could stop me. But I’d burn you in the process, and – and probably lose myself, too.” Jon pauses, grappling with how to phrase it. “The Eye already forces me to feel what it feels. To See what it Sees. And I worry that - that I'll reach a point where I'm so numb to it all that I'll forget what it was ever like to be human. To care about people suffering. And using these powers for no reason other than taking revenge, I think it feeds the Beholding, strengthens its hold on me. I can see myself rationalizing it, but when I look at some of the other avatars… making those kinds of justifications led them down a path that I would very much like to avoid. Whether Jude deserved it is a moot point.”

 “I think she did, though,” Martin says. “So did the... the Sasha thing." 

 “Honestly? I think so, too. Forcing them to experience the suffering they’ve caused, it was what they deserved. But Jude was right, when she said I was enjoying it. Using my powers to hurt people, knowing that they can’t hurt me now… it feels good. It feels right in the same way that – that taking live statements used to, and that scares me. And I think… I think it scares you, too.”

 “I’m not afraid of you, Jon.”

 “And I don’t want to reach a point where you are.”

 “That won’t happen.”

 “You don’t know that.” Martin opens his mouth to argue, and Jon holds up a hand to stay him.  “Even if you’re not afraid of me, you’re afraid you might lose me to this. I’m not – I didn’t read your mind,” Jon hastens to add, “I just… I saw how you looked at me, when I was dealing with Jude. When your voice couldn’t reach me. I’m still unsure how much of it is the Beholding and how much of it is just me, but I do know that I don’t like it, and that it isn’t worth the cost. It doesn’t change anything, and it hurts you, and it – it isn’t healthy for me, either.”

 I see you, he thinks, staring into Martin’s eyes, I see you.

 “I meant it when I said that you are my reason. I lost sight of that for a moment, and I don’t want that to happen again.”

 “Okay,” Martin sighs, tightening his grip on Jon’s hand and forcing a tight smile. “No more Kill Bill. At least – at least not recklessly.”

 Jon nods. “From now on… unless something poses an imminent danger, and I have to defend us on the spur of the moment, we talk. We explore all the options, all the potential consequences. I don’t smite unless we both agree on it – for the right reasons. No more feeding the Beholding on a whim.” He looks into Martin’s eyes again. “Does that seem… I would like to know if that feels fair, to you.” Martin nods, and Jon lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “And if one of us starts feeling differently, we revisit this conversation. I don’t want you to feel as if you can’t… renegotiate, or add more conditions.”

 “I’d like that,” Martin says, and plants soft kiss on Jon’s lips.

 They sit in silence for a few minutes, Martin’s head on Jon’s shoulder and his arm wrapped firmly around Jon’s waist. Eventually, Martin clears his throat.

 “So. Back to the free will thing,” he says, lifting his head. When Jon starts to make a noise of protest, Martin shoots him a stern look. “You promised.”

 “Fine,” Jon says through a heavy exhale, sitting up straight as Martin leans away and resenting the loss of the comforting weight of Martin’s body against his. “So, how do you want to do this?”

 “Well, you always liked visuals.”

 “What?”

 “You had a conspiracy corkboard in your office, Jon.”

 Jon flushes in indignation. “Don’t call it that –”

 “I’m joking. Mostly.” Martin laughs and kisses Jon’s cheek, which Jon receives with an only somewhat petulant huff. “Seriously, though, I think a visual will help you keep track of your own thoughts, and it’ll help me follow along.”

 Jon isn’t quite sure where Martin is going with this, but at least it’s a starting point, which is already more than Jon could come up with.

 “Okay,” Jon says quizzically. “How should I…?”

 “Well, I figured you could just…” Martin scribbles in the dust with one finger.

 When Jon leans closer to see what he’s written, he can clearly make out the words:

  GET FUCKED, JONAH.  

 Jon chokes on a laugh. His sore throat twinges again, but when Martin starts laughing, it creates a feedback loop, and soon both of them are left wheezing as they try to catch their breath.

 “He – he can probably See that, you know,” Jon manages to get out.

 “That’s rather the point, love,” Martin replies with a grin, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Jon’s ear.

 “Okay.” Jon takes a few shaky breaths, fighting back a smile and trying to school himself back into seriousness. “Okay. Let’s… let’s give this a try, I suppose," he says, and sets to dragging an index finger through the dirt.   

 It takes Jon a few minutes to acclimate to it, but soon he’s mapping out his tangled, racing thoughts on the ground, funneling his anxiety into flow charts and network diagrams. He’s always had a highly associative mind, prone to tangents and distraction. He finds himself adding parentheticals, footnotes, asterisks, arrows, all of it blurring together as the loose dirt gets pushed around. It doesn’t take long before Martin has to move back to give him more room to work. At some point, he breaks a branch off the charred tree for Jon to use as a pointer, and Jon accepts it absentmindedly without even the slightest pause in his dissertation, barely noticing the shower of ashes that rains down from the jostled tree.

 It’s absurd, taking an intermission during the apocalypse to navel gaze about the nature of free will, but… miraculously, it’s helping. Martin stops Jon frequently to ask questions, redirect his focus, provide feedback, and expand on certain points. Jon is struck by how much effort Martin seems to be putting into following each of Jon’s convoluted trains of thought to their many branching, disparate destinations, and he thinks, not for the first time, What did I do to deserve him?  

 “When I think about it,” Jon says feverishly, pacing and gesturing with his hands the way he does when he’s absorbed in a debate, “the Web may have been pulling strings my whole life. I – I was marked by it when I was eight, and that was partly why Jonah chose me. He said I might have even been a gift from the Web, that I was drawn to the Institute, and that makes me wonder how many of my choices have been… influenced, without me ever noticing.”

 “Okay, let’s take that as a premise,” Martin says patiently, placing one hand on the stick Jon is waving around and guiding the point down until it’s less of an accident waiting to happen. “Not saying it’s true, mind you – we shouldn’t trust anything Jonah says – but let’s just… follow that to its conclusion, see where it leads. What would it mean?”

 “It would mean…” Jon wets his lips, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “It would mean that, like Gertrude, I was always going to end up here. But – but then again… Annabelle’s statement. She suggested that the Web is just the fear of manipulation, and maybe it’s actually hands-off, just feeding on the paranoia we create for ourselves. But she also said that maybe it doesn’t matter, because either way, the Web always gets the results it wants.”

 “And Annabelle also said she might just be telling you all that to make sure you do what the Web wants you to do.”

 “Yes.” Jon groans in frustration. “I wish I knew what the Web wants. Does it even have a goal, or does it just look like it does to our pattern-seeking minds? Like – like some sort of metaphysical pareidolia.”

 “Hmm. I think we need to look at this a different way.”

 “Go on?”

 “If we can identify one instance of free will, that proves its existence.” Martin shrugs. “It doesn’t say anything about the extent or nature of it, but it at least eliminates the possibility that everything is out of our control.”

 “That… sounds reasonable," Jon says, just a little doubtfully. "But the problem is – how can we know whether something was fully our choice?”

 “Well, choices don’t occur in a vacuum anyway – they’re products of our past experiences, right? So there’s always going to be something influencing us. The question we need to focus on now is whether there’s another consciousness pulling the strings.”

 “Okay.” It’s far too tempting for Jon to veer off topic and into this new potential avenue of discussion, but it helps having Martin to guide him back on track. “So, can you think of anything, any time when, looking back, you can say with confidence that you made a choice without being manipulated by something for its own gain?”

 “Yes.”

 “Oh?” Jon feels a little bewildered by how immediate Martin’s response is. “Do tell.”

 “Loving you,” Martin says without hesitation.

 “I – what?” Jon sputters. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He knows Martin loves him, of course – that comes as no surprise – but he’s still taken aback whenever Martin says it so directly. He’s so casual about it, so sincere, so confident, as if there could be no reality in which it isn’t true.

 “It’s true,” Martin says, a faint blush beginning to blossom on his cheeks. “I mean – it’s not that I actively decided to have a crush on you or anything, attraction just kind of happens unconsciously, but – but deciding to pursue it? That was a choice I made. Even if I have a hard time imagining a scenario where I wouldn’t want to take care of you – I still could have decided not to act on it.”

 “I… certainly made it difficult for you, I suppose.”

 “Yeah, you weren’t exactly receptive to…” Martin snorts. “Well, any kindness at all, really.”

 “So then why didn’t you give up? Why did you keep putting the effort in, when all I did was push you away? What if –”

 Martin shakes his head with a fond little smile. “Jon, what possible reason could the Web have to make you happy?”

 “What?”

 “Why would one of the fears choose to manipulate you in a way that didn’t make you miserable, when there are so many options to do it in a way that hurts you? Since when would they care about you feeling safe, or cared for, or – or supported? If anything, you being isolated would make you easier to manipulate.”

 “Not necessarily – you can control someone by threatening someone they love. That’s why you kept working with Peter, isn’t it? You knew he was using you, sure, but – but I listened to the tapes. I know I wasn’t the only reason you went along with him, but it did factor in. You were distracting him, keeping him occupied so he didn’t come after me.”

 “True,” Martin concedes. “But can the fears even comprehend love?”

 “I’m still not convinced the fears are conscious at all, or if they just... exist." Jon frowns in concentration as he tries to find the right words. “Like – like gravity. Forces with no sentience, no minds of their own, except for what we project onto them.”

 “That only bolsters my argument.”

 “I suppose.”

 “Either way, I don’t think the fears could force me to love you, and even if they could, I don’t think they’d bother – not when there are more straightforward ways to terrorize us. I don’t think they particularly care about our feelings.”

 “Helen said something similar once,” Jon recalls. “I wanted to know when the Eye would make me monstrous. When I would stop feeling guilty. She said that the Eye wouldn’t have a reason to do that, when I was already doing what it wanted regardless of my own feelings on the matter. She said… she said that Helen made a choice to just stop feeling guilty, because she was going to feed whether or not she felt guilty about it, and it was pointless to agonize over it when the outcome would be the same either way. And now… well, you see what she’s like.”

 “See? I doubt any of the fears would take an interest in our slow burn love life," Martin says with a wry smile, "and if they did, it would only be to sabotage it.”

 Thinking about it, recalling all the moments leading up to this…

 “I think you might be onto something.”

 “Oh?” Martin perks up, clearly delighted. “You’re saying I was right?”  

 “Yes, Martin, you were right,” Jon sighs, amusement creeping into his voice despite himself. “I don’t think my feelings for you were being controlled. Even if the situations we were thrown into were orchestrated, I… I can’t think of a single moment when loving you felt coerced. Even following you into the Lonely – it may have been part of Jonah’s plan, maybe even part of the Web’s machinations, but looking back at all the choices I’ve made, I think… no, I know that one was all me. You ending up in there was a result of manipulation, but my choice to go after you – I didn’t hesitate. That – that isn’t like me, I second-guess everything, but… I didn’t, then. In my mind, there was no other option – and that wasn’t because someone removed all the other options, it was because I decided that no other option was worth considering.”

 “Oh.” Martin's voice sounds very, very small. Then: “I do think sometimes, though, about how… if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have been marked by the Lonely. It was the last mark Jonah needed to use you for the Ritual, and I –”

 “He would have found another way.” Jon shrugs. “The outcome – being marked by the Lonely – that may have been inevitable. But the way it happened – that was me. I didn’t follow you because I felt guilty, or because I had no one else, or because the Eye wanted me to experience the Lonely. It was because I care about you, and because you deserve better than to be Forsaken.”  

 When Jon looks up, he sees that Martin is crying, and draws him into a tight embrace.

 “I’ve never once regretted coming after you,” he promises, wiping Martin’s tears away with his thumb, “and I would do it again. It might be the only decision I’ve made where I've never doubted whether I made the right choice.”  

 “Thank you,” Martin whispers after a few minutes, as his sniffling subsides. 

 “I love you,” Jon replies, voice rough from his own unshed tears.  

 “That was… quite eloquent.” Martin lets out a tearful chuckle, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “So – did this help at all? Did you have any – any epiphanies?”

 “I think I did, yes.” Jon releases Martin and picks up the stick again, drawing a rough illustration of a set of scales in the dirt. “One side is 'being controlled.' The other side is 'having free will.' I’ll never know how the scale is balanced, and that’s… I’ll just have to accept that. As long as there’s some free will in the equation, that’s... that's going to have to be enough to move forward.”

 “Are you okay with that?”

 “I think I have to be. I feel it’s a question that will never be answered to my satisfaction, and no amount of obsessing is going to change that. Even if I could seek an answer, I don’t think it would be worth –”

 A sharp, electric pain courses through Jon’s head just then, leaving him gasping in its wake. The vertigo that floods him brings him back to his encounter with Mike Crew, and when he comes back to himself, he finds himself on his knees, trembling in Martin’s arms.

 “Jon! Jon, are you alright?” Martin’s concerned face comes into view as Jon’s blurry vision clears, and he nods wordlessly. “What was – what was that about?”

 “I – I don’t think the Ceaseless Watcher liked that very much,” Jon says, wincing at the lingering ache. “The prospect of – of letting a question go unanswered.”

 Martin holds him, rocking gently, stroking his hair, until the throbbing begins to wane. Jon clenches his fist in Martin’s jumper and breathes deeply.

 “I’m alright,” he says eventually, sitting up again.

 “So… where do we go from here?”

 “What I was going to say, before – before the Eye threw a tantrum,” he hisses, glowering up at the sky.

 “Don’t provoke it, Jon –”

 “What I was going to say is that I think the best way to tolerate the ambiguity is through action.” Jon holds his breath and steels himself before he continues, half expecting another bout of disapproval from the Beholding. “Any amount of free will means that change is possible. That means it’s worth trying, even if the outcome is uncertain, or – or hopeless. If that means taking it on faith that I can make my own choices, then… it’s a fair tradeoff, I think. The only way to determine how much control we really have is to experiment.”

 “Some practical research, then?”

 “I suppose so. Discovery through praxis. At least real-world evidence of cause and effect gives me something tangible to observe. It’s better than… what did you call it –”

 “Rumination as a roundabout method of self-harm,” Martin supplies helpfully.  

 “Yes,” Jon says sheepishly, “that.”

 “Well, at least we have a way forward now.”

 Martin stands and pulls Jon to his feet and right into a strong embrace before picking up a bag in each hand.

 “So, where to next?”

 “Something horrifying, I’m sure.” Jon takes a moment to glare at the Panopticon, still so far off in the distance, before taking his pack from Martin and sliding the straps over his shoulders.

 “Well, come on, then,” Martin sighs, linking their hands together. “Onward.”

 “Onward,” Jon says with a resolute nod, gripping Martin’s hand tightly as they resume their journey.  

[ohstardust]

Rose Coloured Boy - [5/11]

Summary: Sebastian Stan & Eleanor Egan spent the better part of six years being the European outcasts of Rockland Country Day School. Despite growing through their teens as best friends, college soon broke down their friendship until nothing remained. Ten years later, a turn of events in a city as large as New York City, finds them running in the same social circles once again with nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. Pairing: Sebastian Stan x OFC Word Count: 3.8k Masterlist / Story Background / Playlist / AO3  A/N: Sebastian & Eleanor are finally having the reconciliation talk and I’m so here for the angst. Also, I need a Chace-esque friend in my life.  Part 4 // Part 6 

AUGUST 2011 Everything about this situation should have felt far stranger than it did, and considering it did indeed feel rather bizarre, that was really saying something. A mere two weeks had passed since Damon’s birthday, just two weeks since Sebastian had sauntered back into Eleanor’s life, yet here she was, downing Sambuca shots at his birthday function, wondering why on earth she was here at all. As far as she was concerned, she shouldn’t be. Sebastian had been rather insistent though, acting relatively nonchalant about it to his friends, not taking into account how they’d known him far too long, and knew him too well, to let the shrug of his shoulders throw them off the true force of him extending their invites to Eleanor. It was evident it meant a great deal to him for her to be there. But Eleanor wasn’t exactly sure why.

if she was to be honest with herself, seeing him again after all of these years, had sent her head spinning, and she felt more guilty, and terrible, than she had throughout the time following her disappearance. All she wanted to do was have a sit down conversation with him, explain what had happened and try to make him see her teenage motivations, she owed that to the both of them. But she was ashamed, and too tremendously nervous to even approach him, let alone invite him to lunch for a perhaps involuntary walk down memory lane. So, instead of confronting her fears head on, she downed as many shots as possible and took whatever hard spirit she could get her hands on. Eleanor had spent the better part of half an hour trying to casually glance in his direction, aiming to be as discreet as possible which was an utter shit show considering the amount of alcohol she’d knocked back. Her body was loose and her eyes were wandering despite the conversation she was in the middle of with Lisa and Sasha. He looked really well; his face, and body, had slimmed down, his smile was as bright as she’d known it to be, and his confidence had grown a considerable amount since college. But she could still see through the facade he put up as he commandeered a room full of people. She didn’t remember him looking quite as stunning as he did now and that thought haunted her. This was dangerous territory, all things considered. “Earth to Eleanor.” “Shit sorry, Lis, what were you saying?” “I don’t think it matters, it seems you’re far more interested in the birthday boy.” She shrugged her shoulders and grimaced at her friends, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure sure honey,” Lisa smirked over at Sebastian and back to Eleanor, “whatever you say.” “How are you doing after the whole- y’know - situation.” Sasha nervously glanced at her friend, stomach sinking a little when she watched the older woman shift uncomfortably, throwing back another shot and wincing. “If you’re referring to Rhys then I’m feeling pretty dire actually,” she coughed and cleared her throat, her eyes downcast as she fiddled with a charm on her bracelet, the sharp edges pressed into the pads of her fingers for a moment, “I get it, I really do, but it doesn’t hurt any less. Still feel like I’ve been winded.” The thing with Rhys was, he’d been the longest standing boyfriend she’d had to date. It had only been nine months, one month longer than than her last relationship had been, but she connected with him, really connected with him, far more than she had with the others and she felt more heartbroken and cut up than the combination of all her past, failed relationships. I’m twenty-nine years old, she’d cried to Damon last week, is this how it’s always going to be? A short in-between relationship? “When does he leave?” “Tomorrow, he’s catching the four thirty-five pm flight from JFK.” “Are you going to say goodbye?” “We thought it was best not to, everything we had to say has already been said. I’d only say something stupid to stop him leaving anyway, and there’s no use. He needs a new life, not me. I’ve made my peace with that.” “What’s the next step?” “Pay more attention to the relationships I still have, work on the ones that need mending,” she caught Sebastian’s gaze and they raised their glasses in celebration as they exchanged small smiles, “Or I could just get utterly trashed and pass out in the bathroom. I’m good either way.” *-*-*-*-*-* Chace dragged her to brunch a few days after the party. His concern with her break-up was increasing tenfold and, although he didn’t want to push the situation that was surrounding them, regarding their mutual Romanian friend, he figured the older man could pull her out of her sour mood if they were given the chance to hang-out. Besides, he’d missed the other man, months having passed by since they’d been able to catch up properly, without loud thumping music, too many people or a quick phone call. He told himself he wasn’t there just to be the buffer between the two - he wanted to spend time with his friends - he definitely wasn’t using himself as an excuse. Eleanor wasn’t so easily convinced. “You don’t have to hash all this shit out today, okay? I just thought it would be cool for us to hang out together, and maybe you two can talk,” she raised her head to glare at him, a sour expression overtaking her face and took interest in the magazine between her fingers, again, “fine, make small talk then.” “Better bring a knife, ‘cause there’ll be plenty of tension to cut,” she sassed as he plucked the offending article from her hands and flung it on the coffee table. Chace was all too familiar with the stubborn nature of his friend, had been on the receiving end of her foul moods more times than he cares to remember, but he matched her in his persistence and wasn’t likely to take no for an answer from her when he had her best interests at heart. They both loved their friends equally; would bail them out of jail, pay an extortionate ransom  to save their lives, would lie in the gutter with them at four am after a ridiculous night out, would risk themselves for the sake of the others to keep them out of harms way, but beneath it all that, Eleanor & Chace had a special bond, a connection that had them both migrating together and the Brit likes to think he’s the sibling she never had. “Fine, fine. I’m going,” she locked the apartment door behind them and dragged her light denim jacket over her arms, grimacing at the man and pulled her hair loose from her collar. “Stop being a Bitter Betty for two minutes and deal with this, you’ll thank me later.” Small talk with your former best friend is as horrible as it sounds. Fifteen minutes into the relatively stilted conversation, Eleanor debated excusing herself to head to the bathroom to make a hasty escape through the window, but this wasn’t some ridiculous rom-com that would resolve itself after a tongue-in-cheek failed escape and a mildly angsty shouted explanation and apology, this was her life and she knew full well she had to be a woman about this and suck it up, guilt and awkwardness be damned. She was the picture of small smiles and politeness, interjecting in the conversation where necessary, enough to not be considered rude, and hoped it would suffice for the men in her company. Chace wasn’t stupid though, and he wouldn’t allow her to sit there with little engagement, that hadn’t been his plan or what he’d wanted to happen. He began telling silly tales from the past year, all hilarious and mildly embarrassing (mostly on Eleanor’s part) until she began to whine and pout like a child and correct him when his storytelling went intentionally awry. She flung her arm out and smacked his chest, grinning as he barked out a slight winded laugh, “Don’t listen to a word he says, Seb. He doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.” “So I’ve noticed, he’s all talk, isn’t he?” The older of the two men laughed behind his hand, comically whispering loudly to her, glancing over at the Texan who did his best to not appear bemused. And just like that she felt the tension slipping away, almost like he’d been waiting for her to be the one to break the resolve, to slice through the top hardened layers of awkwardness until it hit common ground and lightness. Eleanor snickered and nodded, one elbow bent on the table to prop up her chin and the other hand patting the younger’s bicep, “That’s our Chace.” “He’s a character, that’s for sure.” “Thanks man, knew I could count on you.” “Idiot.” Eleanor stated fondly. *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* SEPTEMBER 2011 ‘Hi Sebastian, it’s Eleanor. I hope you don’t mind Chace giving me your number, I just wanted to see if you’d maybe like to meet me for lunch? We have a lot to talk about and I want to try and clear the air between us. I understand if you don’t want to, but please let me know either way.’ The tone of her text message to Sebastian felt so foreign and wrong, it was too formal and uncomfortable to be sending to someone who spent too many years being her best friend, who knew too much of her early life to deal with formalities, but she constantly reminded herself that they weren’t those people anymore, and she had no right to keep a jovial and light tone with him these days. She’d have to earn that again - if he allowed her to that is. She’d busied herself for a few hours, following her sent message, and, for the most part, her apartment was gleaming. Her head was buried in the oven as she worked the scrubbing brush over the appliance, the scratching and scraping of the bristles was almost loud enough to distract her from the ping of her phone, but she’d faintly heard it, the sound echoing louder and louder in her head as she began to think of a hundred things Sebastian could have responded with. And then she began to fuss over the idea that it wasn’t him at all, so she stayed scrubbing for a while longer and hummed along to the radio to block out the noise in her head. Eleanor was borderline embarrassed by her behaviour that afternoon, her lack of being able to remain calm and adult-like within this situation had her scowling at herself in the bathroom mirror in annoyance, “You’re an idiot, Egan, pull yourself together woman.” A steaming mug of tea sat on her coffee table begging to be refilled whilst her phone sat mockingly beside it. She spent a moment or two trying to focus on the television set, and some idle programme that was playing, but it was no use, she needed to rip the band-aid off and deal with whatever fate Sebastian had chosen for them. She tried to carefully pull on the cup despite her slightly shaking hands, hissing as the hot liquid sloshed over the rim and settled on her bare legs, and pulled it to her chest, curling into the arm of the sofa with her phone in her other hand. ‘Hey El. No no it’s fine, lunch sounds good, 1pm tomorrow at The Distillery?’ ’Sounds perfect, see you tomorrow’ “Is this as weird for you as it is for me?” She huffed out a laugh and wiped her palms along the thighs of her jeans, fidgety and anxious and wondering what had possessed her to deem this a good idea. They’d been inside the restaurant for five minutes and she already wanted to bolt, she’d felt that the moment she’d walked through the door and found Sebastian sat at a table, thumbing through his phone with an apprehensive expression. He’d slowly placed it on the tabletop the second he noticed her and slipped her a soft smile that lightly pulled on the corner of his eyes. Sebastian had always been that person to ground her, but he was suddenly making her feel flighty and her stomach churned at the shift of his role. “Well it’s not feeling all too normal for me, so I’m going to say yes.” “I didn’t mean for this to be awkward, I’m sorry.” His tongue wet his lips and he folded his arms to rest on the table, his body arching forward, “It’s not awkward, I’m just still trying to process you being here again.” “I really fucked up.” “You’re telling me,” he huffed out a laugh and shook his head, “for years I wanted an explanation, I mean I still do, of course I do, but I don’t know how much it matters now.” “Please don’t say that,” she weakly pleaded, not prepared for his nonchalance, “of course it still matters, isn’t that why you’re here?” “I guess so.” “Look - Seb- Sebastian - I don’t want you to feel obligated to try with me, I understand if you want nothing to do with me at all, but I’m not willing to walk away from our friends just to make it easy for us. It sounds selfish, I get that, and maybe ten years ago I would have walked away just to avoid conflict, but I’m not that person anymore and it’s important that you know that, I need you to know that it’s not because I don’t care, it’s much the opposite.” “Christ, I don’t feel obligated, Eleanor,” his eyes softened and she felt herself sinking when his hand touched the inner of her elbow to reassure her, stop her from running, “sure- I was surprised when I first saw you, I didn’t think I would again, and I felt conflicted for a bit - it was just unexpected, that’s all. It’s been a really long time and I’d adjusted to life without you. But I’m willing to bet that this isn’t just some coincidence that we’ve crossed paths again, you’ve gotta be here for a reason. I have the chance to know you again, and that means something to me.” “It shouldn’t do, you have every right to hate me, I’m not naive to think otherwise.” “I won’t ever hate you, and y’know that really. I just wanna know why you gave up on me. On us. I just - I want to know what I did wrong, El.” Eleanor all but gasped at his words, they felt like a punch to the stomach and she was momentarily winded, of all the scenarios she’d mulled over, his self-blame was not something she’d contemplated, because she hadn’t blamed him. Not much at least. “It wasn’t - ever - it was never your fault, Seb, not at all. And I didn’t give up on you. It was never like that.” His voice became more frustrated as she skirted the conversation, the lack of answers was starting to wear him down. He lowered his head more to take a good look at her, his eyes sought her out and he wanted her to feel the extent of aggravation because he supposed she did somewhat deserve it. “Then what was it like? One minute my best friend was living in the city, the happiest I think I’d ever seen her, we were still as close as we had ever been - or at least I thought we were - and then the next minute she leaves for England, so closed off that she doesn’t speak to me for almost ten years. There wasn’t any real warning, it was all and then nothing,” he sighed and scrubbed his palm over his face, fingers digging into his closed eyes, “one day I had you and the next I didn’t.” There was a medium pause whilst she collected her words, tried to find the right way to tell him, to make him see her reasoning even if she questioned and doubted it herself, “I’ve thought about it so many times since then and nothing makes sense - at least not properly, and it always sounds so stupid - but it all became too much. Life became too much. Conflicting time zones, missed phone calls, unanswered emails - everything felt different and it felt like the end before I’d even decided to call it quits. There were times when our calls were inconvenient, you were busy with your friends, and I didn’t want to begrudge you that happiness, but it made me miss you more and I felt so lonely being away from you. At one point I didn’t know if I was even going to return, I thought about dropping out of NYU and staying with my family.” “I tried so hard to give you as much of my time as you wanted, I didn’t want you to feel that way.” “I know, and that’s why I don’t want you blaming yourself for any of this, because you’re not at fault. My anxiety just grew worse and I allowed it to get the better of me, I thought too much about how well you were doing with school and it felt inevitable that you’d move on without me sooner or later - it’s unfair to think that of you, trust me I know. I know-knew - you better than that, but that felt feasible at the time. You don’t know how much I’ve agonised over the ever since. But the space felt too much, for the first time in our friendship it felt like hard work and it shouldn’t have done. All I thought was it’s never going to get easier, even when we’re in the same city again. We were too dependent on each other, too close for that to not matter. In some ways it felt like a relationship. I felt like all I’d do was hold you back, you didn’t need to be hanging on, waiting for me to come home, at the time it felt like it was the best course of action for us both. I thought it was what we needed.” “But you didn’t give me that choice, El!” He barked out an exasperated whisper to avoid drawing attention. Sebastian had always had the most expressive eyes of all of the people Eleanor had known, his emotions lay right within them and the look he gave her had her understanding the extent of her selfish actions far better than his words ever could. They’d softened and looked awfully sad, she hadn’t expected him to feel this way after a decade, hadn’t realised she’d meant quite that much to him, or to anyone for that matter. “You should never have taken that choice away from me, you took the one constant thing in my life away from me, that anchor, and I felt like I was floating around, not knowing what the fuck was going on or whether you were okay.” Her voice lowered and cracked, “I know, I had no right.” She couldn’t look at Sebastian, all she felt was shame and embarrassment and hurt, realising that she’d not only hurt herself, but she’d really hurt him too. Her eyes watered and she willed them to clear, she didn’t want to be upset over this in a public place, didn’t want to express this in front of Sebastian, it wasn’t fair on either of them. “I didn’t think it would matter to you as much, but now I know I was wrong.“ She rubbed at her eyes furiously and kept her head lowered. “You couldn’t be more wrong if you tried, draguta. You have no idea how much you mean to me.” Sebastian watched the tears as they pooled in Eleanor’s eyes when she raised her head to gauge his expression, “Mean? As in still do?” Sebastian pulled out his wallet and threw a few notes down on the table between them before looping his arm around her and pulling her out back, behind the restaurant, “Of course you still do, you loser.” Her tears dripped off her chin and her body shook, her emotions had burst out of her and Sebastian could do nothing more than wrap her up in his arms and rub her back soothingly. “Please don’t cry, you’re here, I’m here, we’ll get it right this time,” her head stayed buried in his chest as she tried to calm herself down, so Sebastian ran his fingers through her hair and held her tighter, “just don’t go making my decisions for me, don’t shut me out.” “Promise.” *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* DECEMBER 2011 New Year had always left a sour taste in Eleanor’s mouth (the alcohol), an ache in her bones (the loneliness) and a longing to hold onto a year for a little longer (the need for more time). There was nothing quite like the feeling of leaving good, or bad, memories behind in the yester-year, the nostalgia it left in it’s wake was nauseating and she’d always laughed as she told anyone who would listen about how she’d prefer to sleep from the 30th December to the 2nd of January, just bypass the whole shebang. This year was no different, she still wanted to curl up in her apartment, block out the world and pretend it didn’t exist for those few days, but her re-kindled friendship had put a firm stop to that and he’d insisted their group reconvene for a ‘celebratory piss-up’ (Sebastian’s literal words, they’d caught her by surprise too and she’d been unable to stifle a snorting laugh because maybe he really had spent too many years around her). She was still trying to make amends despite his insistence that he’d more than forgiven her, and if he said jump, she’d willingly ask how high? to appease him as much as possible. That was potentially, or rather most likely, the reason she found herself 4 glasses of wine in with an arm thrown around Sebastian’s shoulder and her other glass filled arm in the air singing Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. It was ridiculous, and hilarious, and reminded her of that New Year of 2001, when they were still students singing along to Billy Joel. Her life had come full circle and right then she couldn’t be anymore thankful for the events that had led to them standing there, a decade later, in a similar, yet wholly different, situation. Life had its funny ways of working. As midnight struck, the pair had embraced each other tightly over a defining cheer of a new year and clinking of glasses, light kisses of forgiveness and new starts were shared between them, and Eleanor had a very good feeling about the year to come for the first time in a while. *-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-* Rose Coloured Boy tags: @lovingfionn​, @lowdenglynnstyles, @outofworkactress, @prettyboytgc, @ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes, @kyber-hearts-and-stardust-souls

[thran-duils]

Not Passive

Title: Not Passive (Fly the Coop, Part 4) Pairing: Reader/Negan, Reader/Tara Chambler Summary: Reader escapes with Sherry and decides to go find Rick and his group. Negan is not pleased he has lost two of his wives. Eventual Reader/Tara. Words: 1,358

Part 3 || Part 5 || Masterpost  || Fanfic masterpost

You had been at the Kingdom for a few days before Rick showed back up. And informed you that you and Daryl were going to be moving to the Hilltop to relieve Ezekiel. He didn’t seem like he was under too much stress, always trying to keep the two of you company whenever he was free. He was hospitable and hid his anxiousness, if he had it, well. You had thanked him for his generosity before you had left.

Daryl had still not warmed up to you completely and you didn’t expect him to. He was not the easiest person to get to trust you. It was going to take some work. And you were prepared to put the work in because you knew how strong he was and how loyal he was. If you could prove yourself, you’d have an amazing ally.

The Hilltop was different than the Kingdom. Two of Rick’s own were there permanently, working with the leader, Gregory. One of the women, Maggie, was believed to be dead by Negan, so that had to be kept a secret along with you and Daryl. You didn’t ask why he thought she was dead and why it was a secret. You just were grateful for the shelter.

Rick had decided to bring you two here because Simon and some of the Saviors had already been to Alexandria. Alexandria blatantly looking for Daryl – and you by extension. And then a regular trip to the Hilltop. Where they had peaked a bit more around, which Maggie and Sasha had decided was because of you and Daryl. The Kingdom may be next, regardless if Negan’s men never stepped inside.

He had brought some people you hadn’t seen before and you were eager to learn their names. You wanted to assimilate into this group and being around them often was the quickest way. You made to walk towards Rick but stalled. There was a new woman walking up to the group. She regarded you, hesitantly before tearing her eyes away to look at Rick. Your eyes ran over her face and then quickly over her body. There was an instant attraction. At least on your end.

The woman, on the other hand, was focused on Rick. “How’d it go?”

“Fine. Found some guns,” Rick told her curtly. She didn’t seem insulted by his quick dismissal and you figured it was because whatever they were talking about was supposed to be kept under wraps.

You lingered nearby as everyone greeted each other. You didn’t want to interrupt and be too nosy.

But, your heart leapt when the woman began her way towards you, a determined look in her eyes. Keep yourself together, you told yourself.

Her greeting, “So, you are one of his wives.”

You corrected lightly, “Were.”

“Are,” she corrected you back. “By the way that Rick is talking.”

There was nothing malicious about what she was saying with her tone, just truth. Nodding, you admitted, “Are.”

Tara eyed you curiously and asked, “Why are you running from him?”

Snorting slightly, you asked teasingly, “You met him?”

“Not yet. Fortunately. He’s even that bad to you?”

Shifting uncomfortably, you answered resentfully, “Well… no. I mean, he treats us like… like we’re his, of course.” You didn’t miss the upset look on her face. “And by that I mean he likes us at his beck and call. But he’s never hit any of us… never forced us. He has an abhorrence for rape. Killed a couple of his men for attempting it. He’s got some standards and brings us gifts and keeps us well.”

Tara sensed you weren’t done finishing your thoughts. “But…”

Sighing heavily, you stated, “But… I don’t feel the same as him about the way he tries to run the place.”

“Course he doesn’t listen to you girls, right?” You shook your head and she scoffed. “Sorry… that seems pretty… barbaric and rigged by patriarchy.”

A snort left your mouth and you quickly covered your mouth. “Sorry,” you apologized. “Just haven’t heard someone speak that bluntly about his bullshit.”

“You don’t ever have to worry about passive from me,” Tara responded.

Smiling you told her, “That’s actually reassuring. But also reminds me of Negan.”

“Well, passive without the asshole.”

This drew a laugh from you. She was witty and you appreciated that. It added to your allure of her. She smiled at your laugh and you felt butterflies.

“You have a nice laugh,” she told you, smiling.

This only made you blush and drew another nervous laugh out of you. Something crossed her face, noting your bashfulness. She pulled it back quickly but you had noted it nonetheless.

“Thanks,” you told her, brushing a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“Yeah…” she said, trailing off. There were a few moments of silence before she asked, “So, you’re here to take on Negan?” You nodded and she asked, “He must have talked about Rick a lot then to make you think that Rick was the right place to go.”

“He has some respect for Rick.” Tara cocked an eyebrow and you nodded, “He’s got something for people who put others before themselves. That’s what he is imagining he is doing. He believes he has the burden of taking care of the meek and weak. That’s how you reestablish the world.”

Tara quipped, “He’s doing a shit job.”

“I know.”

Her eyes ran over you slowly before she informed you, “Well, it’s good you came to your senses.”

“Wouldn’t have met you otherwise,” you word vomited and instantly wanted to punch yourself in the face. Why were you not in control of your emotions and what you were saying. You had been praising yourself for the past – god knows how long – for your ability to pass yourself off as weak to Negan, want him to keep you close and under his wing. Make him develop a want for you. And now, here you were making yourself a fool in front of this woman who you just met.

Tara on the other hand, actually looked pleased, maybe even shy. Chuckling, she managed to respond, “Didn’t know if it was that much of a pleasure.”

You’d already gotten yourself in this far. What harm would it do?

“It was,” you responded evenly.

Her eyes met yours and god you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel electricity. Your gaze was locked for a few moments, the other waiting for the other one to break down and admit whatever it took to bring forth what you knew she was feeling as well as what you were feeling. You had gained enough control back over yourself to know that it wouldn’t be you. At least right now. You needed some guard.

Relenting, Tara stated, “Glad to know I’m that interesting.” You smirked at this and she said, “I do have to do some work while I’m here. Not that I’m not enjoying your company. Just…”

“Need to earn your keep,” you stated, repeating words Negan had said to new and old people in his group alike without thinking. But thank god, it seemed to fit the situation. Still, you felt… off repeating his words when he wasn’t here.

Tara nodded in agreement, “Exactly, Y/N.”

Hearing her say your name sent a shiver through your body. And all you wanted was for her to keep saying your name. And keep close. But you knew this moment was ending. Even though you knew that this wouldn’t be the last moment you two would share if you had the say in it.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you,” you stated. “Thank you for coming up to me. It means a lot. Most people have been avoiding me because of… well, you know. Negan.”

Tara acknowledged this before saying, “I don’t like to judge people off of what other people are saying. And if Rick and Michonne trust you well enough at this point, that’s good enough for me.” She ran her eyes over you one more time before stating, “I’ll see you next time.”

She sounded so sure.

“Yeah,” you nodded, feeling happy.

~~~

Tags: @imamotherfuckingstar-lord, @klaineaholic

[fangirlnovel]

“The Proposal”

A/N: I make no promises on how much more I'll write of this.  I don't control my Muse; she is the captain and I am the ship.  What I can say is that reviews help the process, so if you're still here and enjoying (or even if you're not enjoying), drop me a review and let me know :)  I’m writing this in a bubble, pretty much.

Halp!

Simon straightened his shirt with one hand as he clutched the box of goods with the other.  Clearing his throat, he gave two strong raps to Negan's door.

"Yeah,"

Simon heard him call.  Moments later, the door swiftly swung open.  "What do ya got?"

Simon gave a smile as he produced the wooden box to Negan.  "I think you're gonna like this."

Negan returned the smile as he took the box from Simon's hand, walking into his room.  Sitting down in his easy chair, he opened it.  He gave a long whistle.  "Hot damn, that is some fancy shit.  Hmm..."  He carefully looked at each one, then nodded as he pulled one out.  "But this right here...this is the one."  He looked up at Simon.  "What do you think?"

Simon nodded.  "I think you made an excellent choice.  It's a winner."

“The winner.”

. . . . .

Sasha was sitting at the desk, reading a book from off the shelf, seeking to escape in fiction, when a knock at the door brought her back to reality.

When she went to the door, she found that it was Eugene and

not

Negan, holding two bowls.

"I came bearing gifts.  Gelato to be exact.  Figured you could use a bit of a pick me up, such as things are."

Sasha smiled, taking a bowl from him.  "Well, gelato doesn't hurt."  She stepped aside, letting him enter, then closed the door behind him.

They sat down across from each other, she in the comfy chair and he at the desk chair.  Silently, they began to eat.

"It's been three days.  Do you think they'll stop?" he asked her.

Sasha sighed, putting the spoon down.  She looked at him, shrugging. "I don't know.  I hope so."

Eugene looked at her, wounded.  "I can't go back, you know?  They were...they were willing to blow me up to Kingdom come, and I feel like they all have memory recall issues, as it was not my decision to be here."

"I'm sorry, Eugene," she said sincerely.  "They felt trapped.  People do the strangest things when they feel like that."

"I know," Eugene said, continuing to eat his gelato.  "While it was not personal, it does not make it hurt much less."  He looked up at her again, holding her stare.  "I'm glad you're here, Sasha."

Sasha frowned, tense for a moment.  "Do you...do you think he'd--"  She choked back a sob, looking away.

"Hey," Eugene said abruptly.  "I have no doubt in my mind that he would be A-okay with this arrangement. While not ideal, what you did--what you're doing--it's not for you.  You put yourself on the line for everyone else. You're doing this for them--to keep peace in the world.  While you knew Abe intimately, I had known him longer than anyone, and I say this with the utmost sincerity Sasha.  Given our current state of affairs, he would rather have you breathing and everyone else safe than the untimely death alternative."

Sasha took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes.  "Yeah.  That night he uh...  It was like he was silently volunteering, you know?  So that none of us would have to..."  She put the bowl down, and held her head in her hands.  "He told me goodbye," she whispered.

"Sasha...I know he would not want you to join him so soon.  We're still here.  We can make the best of it, in our own way.  Negan is not only quite fond of you, but he respects you.  When I first got here, I cowered and cried at everything for the sake of my own survival.  Tactical move.  I was not harmed or caged, but given the best of things.  I believe he will also give you the best of things--more so, even."

"He's not gonna hurt me.  He doesn't want to.  It's just...I'm not afraid of him, but at the same time, he terrifies me."

"Sasha...do you know the power you have right now?  I thought I was big potatoes when he made me Chief Engineer, but you?  He wants you to be by his side and rule.  Sasha," he said, leaning in, whispering.  "This could change

everything

.  

You

can change everything."

Sasha looked at Eugene, then started at the knock on her door.  Before she could answer, Negan opened it, a broad smile on his face.

"Eugene? Mind giving me and the lady a moment of privacy," he asked. Though they all knew it wasn't a question.

"Absolutely no problem," Eugene said. He gave a quick glance to Sasha before leaving, shutting the door behind him.

"You and Eugene...good friends?"

"He's family."

"Huh. Well then. I'm glad he's here for you."  Keeping his eyes on her, knelt before her, reaching into his back pocket.  "Maybe he can give you away," Negan whispered, producing the biggest, brightest diamond ring Sasha had ever seen, encased in what she was certain was platinum. "I know given the way things are, money has no real value anymore. And yet, I couldn't help but think how nice it'd be for you to have something shiny on your finger."

Sasha sat there, watching him, mute.

Negan shifted uncomfortably.  "Are you just gonna leave me on bended knee, darlin'?"

"Your wives...did you propose to them?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Negan scoffed.  "Hell no.  Not like this.  This is..."  He sighed, exasperated.  "I don't think you understand the significance of my kneeling here."

Sasha cocked her head, observing him.  "Significance would mean someone other than me seeing it."

Negan smiled.  "Clever girl.  Still, you know the truth, and the truth is that while everyone kneels for me...this once, I will kneel for you.  Now, will you accept this ring?"  His voice was calm, his smile lethargic, as if he had all the time in the world.

"What happens next?"

"We'll go over the terms, then plan the event of the century!  I'll finally have a queen by my side, and

that

is something worth celebrating.  I was actually thinking about borrowing that creepy as fuck priest from Alexandria for the proceedings."

"Gabriel?  Um...yeah."

Negan arched a brow at her.  "Sasha."

She mentally jerked herself, reaching out for the ring.  He paused her hand, holding it, then slipped it onto her ring finger.  "It fits," she noted, wriggling her finger as he continued to hold her hand.

"Yeah well, I'm a planner."  He stood, all the while not letting go.  Sasha was torn between pulling away and making herself get used to the sensation of his touch.

"It's heavy."

Gently, he reached up, cupping her face, staring into her eyes.  Sasha felt her mouth go dry.  "You'll get used to it," he whispered.

Just as he leaned in she turned away.  He paused, then gently kissed her cheek.  "And one day, you'll get used to me."  He pulled back, smiling at her.

She closed her eyes, needing to focus, needing to think.

Then she felt his lips lightly press upon hers.  She didn't move, and he didn't go further.  But he did linger there, for just a moment, then finally pulled back again.

"Wow," he said softly.  "You and me, Sasha.  You and me...we're going to do amazing things."  He picked up her ringed hand and kissed the back of it before standing.  He looked down, and noticed her bowl of gelato.  "You gonna finish that."

She looked at him.  "No," she said quietly; evenly.

"You mind?"

She picked it up and handed to him.  He took a scoop, smiling at her as he ate it.  "I'm glad you're not gonna be the type to admonish me about spoiling my dinner.  I'm more certain than ever I've made an excellent choice."  He winked at her.

When Negan closed the door behind him, leaving her on her own again, she wiped at her lips with the back of her hand, then looked down at her engagement ring.  She clasped her hands, then held them to her mouth, taking a deep breath.

'You can do this...you have to.'