#wonder if i should use the rest of my time coffee archive reading……

[cr0ws-cha0t1c-c0llect10n]

doing an all nighter causbjust can’t sleep and i need to set sleep schedule straight but i just remembered i have seewing tomororww…….. 😰

[whatiwishfanfiction]

Chapter Nine is Up (Everybody Needs a Thneed)

Summary:

Once-ler's dreams finally start to come true and his family joins him in the valley. Something bad happens at the end.

EXCERPT:

A short response to his letter came to the post office later that week. It read:

Dear Oncie,

It’s so wonderful to hear from you. We’ve all been doing just fine. Gizette just got an eye exam and discovered she needs glasses, but we don’t have enough money. Would it be possible for you to loan us a few hundred since we’re behind on bills? I’ll probably be able to pay it back this fall or the next. I don't think we can come to visit, the journey is too far. Thanks, love you.

-Ma.

All at once, he remembered why his family was so hard to miss.

Once-ler felt a familiar guilt that rose in his stomach whenever his family asked for help. He could hear his dad’s voice echoing in his ears, saying “We could really use the help, Once-ler, otherwise I’ll have to spend my whole night in the forest again.”

He could hear the insults of his siblings, calling him a failure who didn’t work hard enough. After all, it shouldn’t be difficult for someone who was actually successful to do small favors for their struggling family here and there. "You should have yer life figured out by now. Stop being a loser!"

Once-ler went to his bed to get out the money he hid with his old books under his mattress, and counted out three hundreds. Wait. That was all he had left? He’d been in this valley without selling anything for longer than he’d planned. He paused, running a hand through his hair, and stared at the cover of his battered copy of The Virtue of Selfishness.

Slowly he put the money back between its covers, then went back to his desk. He stared at the letter with a frown. Finally he ripped it in half, and tossed it out the window.

It was high time he started being more selfish. After all, if you didn't take care of yourself first, you'd never be able to take care of anyone else. Right?

"Self care and coffee," was a slogan Aunt Grizelda had embroidered and hung above her door, and Uncle Ubb always got away with saying he had too many health problems from smoking and had to stand up for himself. Why could the rest of his family always get away with this attitude but not him?

READ THE FULL CHAPTER AND STORY ON A03!

So far 9 out of 16 chapters are posted, but there might be a few more by the time it's done.

(Comments and kudos on ao3 are really appreciated)!

[thomas-life]

I wrote and @drksanctuary drew the chapter image for my Fluffy Coffee Shop AU Oneshot. its just short and cute. i hope you enjoy!

 A Nicobaster Coffee Shop AU with notes of ReyRae.

Hazel opens up a coffee shop and Nico is helping her out by working at it while she is still hiring staff. He meets the local union rep Alabaster Torrington...

Hidden Gem Cafe

“Well don’t you look chipper.”

Nico huffs and glares in the direction of one Rachel Elizabeth Dare.  She looks entirely too well put together with her red curls in a pony tail and black apron around her waist. The coffee shop door clinks closed behind him and he locks it. They don’t open for another 30 minutes.

“Some of us,” Nico replies, “aren’t born to be Baristas.”

Rachel snorts at his attempt at insulting her. “You’re just grumpy because you’re used to waking up at noon, and we both know it.” She pats his shoulder sympathetically as he passes. “You really will do anything for your sisters.”

Nico grunts. The clock on the break room wall reads 4:30 a.m.

Who in their right mind would ever willingly be up this early in the morning for coffee?  He emerges with his apron tied around his hips and eyeliner applied in hopes that the bags under his eyes don’t show too starkly. Rachel is preparing the drip coffee canisters and Nico starts on the pastry display case.  He’s a little surprised that Hazel hasn’t show up, but according to his text string she had barely managed to get to bed around 2 am, anxious as she was for the Hidden Gem Café’s Grand Opening. 

Nico opens the doors right on time, Rachel humming behind the counter. He can’t help but yawn. “Why are you like this.” He deadpans. He has no energy in his entire body and she laughs at him.

“The trick,” she side whispers like it’s some big secret, “ –is that I never went to sleep in the first place!” She sing songs the rest, and Nico can’t help but realize…Rachel is delusional.

He groans and makes a cup of coffee with creamer and four sugars. He might as well take advantage, and coffee really is mostly a way he uses to get sugar into his system. He takes a large swig as the door chimes and Hazel’s first ever customer enters.

The man that enters is tall and looks a little frantic. Nico tries to smile but it doesn’t come naturally, so he settles on a bemused expression as the man approaches the counter, his dress shoes clicking along the vinyl flooring. “Hey,” Nico wonders if that was too casual of a greeting but proceeds, as it’s too early to be self-conscious. “What can I get you?” The man’s squinting at the menu on the wall behind the counter, freckles scrunching on his nose; He seems almost startled to be addressed at all.

“Oh- ah,” He clears his throat looking vaguely apologetic and he ruffles his light brown hair. “Do you sell large travel containers of coffee?”

Nico nods, “We’re not busy, so we can make you one, but it will take some time. It’s $30 plus tax.”

The man brightens, “Perfect. I’ll also get a small coffee and…” he looks at the pastry display case, “One of those lemon poppy seed muffins.” A smile flashes across his face and Nico can’t help but think the man is handsome.

“You got it.” Nico winks at him, and blames it on how sleep deprived he is; he can feel the sugar and caffeine starting to work through his blood stream,  “Name for the order?”

“Alabaster.”

Alabaster sounds a little strained…Maybe I shouldn’t have winked at him. Nico thinks as he writes the name on a small cup. He looks up to see Alabaster blushing and holding his hand against the bottom half of his face. Or maybe I should do it again… Nico reconsiders, his mood sufficiently boosted. He fills the small cup himself since Rachel is working on the traveler and grabs the muffin as Alabaster inserts his credit card to pay. He looks at the other pastries in the case and grabs a cookie.

He hands both over to Alabaster. “Here’s something sweet... For being our first customer at our Grand Opening.”

Alabaster flushes again and takes them. “Thank you. I do appreciate you accommodating me.”

“Anytime.” Nico responds; This time the smile comes easily. “Enjoy your coffee. You’re traveler will be ready in a couple minutes.”

Alabaster nods and settles down at a table, taking his traveler when it’s finished, waving at Nico as he leaves.

Nico hopes he comes again.

-------

“You’re telling me you fell in love at first sight with a barista, and now you go two cities over every Monday morning just to see him?” Reyna sounds incredulous and when she says it like that, Alabaster can’t help but agree. It does sound ridiculous.

“-And the Coffee!” he rushes to justify. “Not just the Barista, Reyna. The coffee too. There’s a reason it’s called Hidden Gem- And it wasn’t at first sight!” he defends himself.

Reyna scoffs at him as they get out of the car. It’s a rare Friday off and he had insisted they come to this location for coffee. Reyna won’t deny she’s intrigued, and she’s not actually all that bothered. It’s not every day she gets to tease Alabaster C. Torrington about having a crush.

It didn't hurt that and he’d brought her some of their coffee a couple weeks ago. It really was much better than any of the popular chains they had around the office. She can’t help but tease a little more. “So when are you going to actually ask him on a date?”

Alabaster looks at her, a scandalized expression on his face. “Ask him out? While he’s at work??” His tone drips with derision, “ oh yes, that what everyone wants. For some random customer to ask them out on a date while their just working their shift.”

Reyna laughs and elbows him. “I thought you said he was flirting with you .”

Alabaster puffs out one cheek, “I believe I said I wasn’t sure if he was flirting with me. And I don’t want to be a creep. Or make him feel uncomfortable. Or ruin everything. What if I can never come back to his place because I fucked it all up?! That would be the absolute worst…” He looks regretful, “I’d have to go back to regular coffee and we both know that would be awful. I’m too pampered now.”

Reyna opens the door to Hidden Gem Café. The place is nice; plenty of space seating with personal touches that make the space welcoming and homey. There’s a mural on the wall next to the seating area she can’t help but admire. It really would be a terrible loss if Alabaster could never come here again.

A man’s voice greets them as they approach the counter, and Reyna can see why Alabaster, their number one union organizer, who has nerves of steel when negotiating with greedy executives, has been acting like a teenager: Dark hair and eyes, muscled forearms, eyeliner and earrings…just Alabaster’s type.  He keeps glancing at her with a subtly perturbed expression, and it takes her a moment to realize- she smirks. That is crestfallen expression someone that thinks we are dating.

She nudges Alabaster, hoping he will take her hint, but he’s too engrossed in chatting with Nico to notice to subtle signs of distress. She’s almost worried Nico will get the wrong idea.

Nico gestures to her, looking at Alabaster with intensity. “Is she you’re girlfriend?”

Alabaster almost chokes on his own saliva as he’s in such a rush to say ‘No’.  “Absolutely. Not.” Alabaster confirms.

Reyna likes straightforward people, and she likes Nico even more for his blunt attitude. That will save them a lot of drama down the road.  “We’re just friends.” She seconds, “And besides, you’re co-worker is more my type anyway.” She smiles winningly at the red-head behind the counter who grins back at her and gestures to Nico and Alabaster with a shrug that communicated “what can you do?”

Reyna moves to the side, waiting at the pickup counter for their coffee order. Rachel approaches with two drinks and hands them to her. “Were you serious about me being your type?” she asks, looking honestly curious, “-because I’m available.”

Alabaster chuckles nervously as Reyna walks away and looks back at Nico who appears relieved. He hopes he isn’t reading too much into that. “Honestly. She’s just a good friend.”

Nico nods, and rings up their order, debating if he should ask… more. It’s been a while since they first met, and Nico always gets butterflies on the days when Alabaster comes in. “You know,” he starts, and decides to barrel on with it, “I get off shift today in an hour … are you free after that? I know a good Italian place that serves a really good lunch menu.” He hears Alabaster audibly take a breath. “Yes!” Alabaster’s voice can be heard very clearly over the background noise of people and music. “ah- I mean. Yes.” He returns to a normal volume, “I would love…that.” He can’t stop grinning from ear to ear. “I would really really like that.”

The End

@them-awesome-rarepairs

[thewarriorspecial]

Drive Me Crazy

*Archive Edition* Previously only linked to AO3, full work now available under the cut.

Rating: Explicit

Guy Gardner/Kyle Rayner

Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Sex on a Car, car talk, Blow Jobs, Masturbation

Guy is supposed to be resting and recovering, but he'd rather pass the time working on his car than laying about. Kyle's not much help for letting him rest.

Read on AO3

Drive Me Crazy

Guy was a really unfortunate combination of hard-working and short sighted. If he would ever just use the damn ring or ask for some help it wouldn’t take so long for his latest combat wounds to heal. The closest he managed to come to something resembling resting his body was when he dropped face-down onto the mattress after several rounds of sex or entirely too many beers.

“Alcohol is a blood thinner, you know,” Kyle said, pushing sweaty hair out of his face.

“Mruh,” Guy responded, neither acknowledging nor denying the information.

Instead of icing his battered knee or kicking back in bed to let his ribs knit themselves back together, Guy decided to distract himself with some neglected work around the garage. He pushed the gold Trans-Am into the open bay door instead of driving it because, “The clutch is too soft. Don’t wanna plow through the wall.” Whatever that meant.

So Kyle watched his partner grunt and drip sweat in the morning sun. An excellent way to start the day, Kyle thought to himself as he raised his mug to his lips. The heat of the fresh coffee pooled in his belly along with other things. Kyle’s fingers wandered under his waistband as he thought about Guy’s big, powerful body. He knew he should be better about insisting that Guy rest and maybe not enable his bad behavior. But Guy had needs. And he had needs, too.

The cheery sunlight put the dips and curves of Guy’s muscles in sharp contrast. His huge basketball shorts rode up as he planted his feet and pushed the obnoxiously painted vehicle forward. The backs of Guy’s black and white hi-tops were crushed flat from sliding them on without untying them a hundred times. Kyle’s eyes traveled the taught line from Guy’s Achilles tendon along the rippling calf to the middle of his bulging thigh. Big thighs, shapely ass, back like a mountain range—everything tensed, everything heated and sweaty.

Kyle bit his lip and imagined how good that damp, sun-warm t-shirt smelled. He would definitely abscond with that later. Guy’s grunts and curses made it easy for Kyle to imagine those sounds coming from above, Guy panting, sweat dripping. Kyle could feel the soft brush of chest hair against his throat, the rasp of stubble against his temple.

“Big fuckin’ bitch,” Guy coughed out, as he patted the trunk affectionately. He lifted the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face. Kyle needed to put his own face in the molten center of Guy’s hot, sweaty chest immediately. Still in his pajamas, which is to say Guy’s clothes from yesterday, Kyle shuffled his feet into some sneakers and headed out the front door.

The big, gold Pontiac gently rocked against the parking brake as Guy lovingly worked the drain plugs out of the differential. He checked the plugs for any metal debris and ducked the arc of brown, draining fluid with practiced ease. He lifted the wet plug to his nose and smelled it. No sign of contamination or overuse. He loved that smell—real 75 weight mineral oil. It smelled like hot summers on the drag strip and cavitating pumps at the amusement park.

“I’m not the mechanic here,” Kyle said, leaning on the garage door-frame, “but I’m pretty sure that’s not how you change oil.”

“You’re right. I’m juicing the pumpkin,” Guy’s voice came from under the rear end of the car. He began the quick work of refilling the gear oil and returning the plug to its proper position and torque.

Kyle scrunched his lips to the side, wondering how a pumpkin had gotten stuck under the car. He pursued his seduction head-on without questions. “Thank goodness I have a big strong man to take care of my car for me.”

Guy’s upper body came into view as he rolled the creeper out from under the car. He raised a suspicious eyebrow in Kyle’s direction, “My car.”

Kyle sighed and pushed himself off of the door-frame, “I just wish there was some way I could repay you for all of this.” He walked towards the front of the car and leaned his hip on the front quarter panel.

“Never paid me before.” Guy’s eyes roamed slowly over Kyle’s body. He was more than happy to have a booth bunny posing on his ride.

“Isn’t there something I can do for you? Something you’d like?”

“I…you’re fine?” Guy pulled the shredded remains of an old towel out of his overalls and wiped some of the grease off of his fingers. “I was gonna do this anyways?”

Kyle’s chuckle is devilish. He changes tactics, “I want you to show me how your machine works.”

“Oh? Oh! Well in that case,” Guy began, excitedly pushing himself off of the creeper and onto his feet. He pulled the fallen strap of his overalls onto his right shoulder once he was on his feet. If any of the movement caused him pain, he didn’t show it.

Guy walked to the open hood and rested his hands at the front of the engine bay. His eyes swept over Kyle’s long legs and then the the fruits of his labor. “I wanted to keep as much of it as OG as possible, ya know? But she needed some work, that’s for sure. I was running her way too hard—cracked the rings, gouged the cylinders so I had to bore ‘em out.”

“Bore them out. Sure,” said Kyle, expression wide-eyed and lips pressed together.

“The cylinders. They gotta be smooth so I had to drill em out. Widen the holes.”

“Oh.” Kyle moved to lean next to Guy, under the hood. He liked the sound of that.

“Ended up doing a forty overbore—whole new stroke kit, torque plate, the works.”

“Stroke?” Another one of Kyle’s favorite words.

“Yup, more stoke means bigger parts to fill the bigger displacement.”

“Bigger’s always better.”

Guy squinted at Kyle’s enthusiastic nodding, “And then ya gotta balance the rest of the car out to handle that kinda power. But I could only go so far because I ain’t got another transmission and I don’t want to give up my four speed. Wally came by with a custom cam and main caps, too. Really brought the whole thing together.”

“Ah,” Kyle’s face pinched in a frown at the mention of one of his least favorite people. That explained where two bags of Doritos and an entire cheesecake had gone.

“And since I was already doin’ a whole teardown I figure well, gonna need a bigger crank so might as well do a new timing set which let me replace the fuel pump drive so I don’t have to stay carbureted. Lotta guys really like that sound, ya know? Got a certain smell too but long term, you know?”

“Classic, of course,” Kyle knew better than to try and speak man-car to Guy. He’d tried to keep up with the guy-talk once to horrific results. He enjoyed Guy’s gruff voice and his excitement. He just couldn’t understand how anyone actually enjoyed that amount of tedium and suffering to only drive around under very specific conditions. The subway was right there.

“I want her to last. I ain’t no racer. I wanna drive her as long as I can. Springs were rustin’ to hell so I went ahead and put coil-overs on. She sits a little lower but most people wouldn’t see the difference. New control arms, tie rods, you know, the little things. Got her aligned and shined. Upgraded the exhaust so you can still hear that loping rumble. She’s still got it,” Guy said, voice soft as he started to walk around the driver’s side. He let the tips of his fingers trail gently along the aggressive angle of the A-pillar. “Solar Gold Y88, special edition with the T-top. Only the ’78 Trans Ams. She really is…gorgeous. One of a kind.”

“Gorgeous,” Kyle echoed.

“Men like pretty things,” Guy said over his shoulder as he continued his appreciative walk around the vehicle. His piercing blue eyes stayed on Kyle as his fingers follow the curves of the car, “whether they say so or not.”

“We show it in different ways, I guess.” Kyle stands, crossing his arms and cocking his head as he watches Guy prowl.

“You’re an artist. You get it, don’cha?” Guy’s hands worked their way up the passenger side of the car.

“Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder and whatnot.”

“Lucky for me,” Guy grins. He presses himself into Kyle’s space, steps in until they’re nose to nose. His hands flex with the urge to touch more.

“You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

Guy scoffs. He turned away suddenly, reaching for the hood strut. He lifted the enormous gold rectangle and tucked the hood strut into the engine bay. “Kid. I know I’m not,” he says as he drops the hood with a bang.

“Do you?” Undeterred, Kyle stepped behind Guy, crowding him against the front bumper of the car. Feather light, he ran his hands down Guy’s back, gentle with his tender ribs. He let his arms drape around Guy’s waist. He pressed his face between Guy’s shoulder blades and breathed, “You smell good.”

“Psh. B.O. and diff fluid. That’s the manly stuff right there.”

“It is. I like it. I like you sweaty and dirty.”

“You like my dirty hands?” Guy asked, as he laid his greasy hands over Kyle’s paint stained fingers.

“I like what you do with them.”

“Do ya?” Guy smirked as he turned in Kyle’s arms. His hands balled up in the hem of Kyle’s—his—shirt as he roughly tore it over Kyle’s head. He tossed it aside with one hand and grabbed Kyle around the back of his head with the other. He didn't give Kyle a chance to think, much less speak, as he sealed his mouth over Kyle’s. He was done talking.

Kyle let Guy’s grease spattered hands roam as they pleased.

“So? How much a’this little visit is about what I want, and how much of it is about what you want? Hm?”

“Depends how much you’re up for, old man.”

“Oh I’m up for it. I’m always good for it. How ‘bout you, kid? Are you down?” Guy asks, as he shoved Kyle roughly backwards, forcing him to fall onto the hood. Kyle startled; he half expected Guy to freak out about scratches or dents. “Let’s take ya for a little test ride. See what’s gotcha so hot and bothered.”

“You,” Kyle smiled.

“Let’s test that theory. Do a little diagnostic work.” Guy unsnapped one of the straps of his overalls, the look in his eyes heated and predatory.

“Since when are you a mechanic?”

“Since I got tools and shit, how bout that?” Guy’s brow furrowed.

“Tools?”

“Yeah! Lemme go get my new sniffer n’sniff you out.”

“Your what?” Kyle sat up on his elbows, alarmed.

Guy had already stalked away, steel-toed boots thumping a path over to the toolbox. He pulled a few drawers open, metallic clanging and clattering punctuated his search until he found what he wanted. It looked a bit like one of those book-reading lights—a long flexible new protruded from a plastic, oval body and a little rubber tip was affixed to the end.

“What’re you doing with that?”

“C’mere,” Guy surged forward, pinning Kyle to the car and poking him relentlessly with the tool.

“What the fuck! Knock it off!” Kyle laughed, eyes bright as he tried to wrestle the thing out of Guy’s eagle talon grip.

Guy clicked the switch on the side. A little red light flashed and the tool beeped twice. “Oh! Looks like we got a read here, Spock.” Guy held the tool up with exaggerated thoughtfulness, still keeping Kyle pinned down effortlessly with one arm.

“Well, what is it?” Kyle demanded in mock anger.

Guy clicked his tongue and sighed, “Chronic horny, I’m afraid.”

“Is there any cure, doc?” Kyle asked, honey-sweet with a rock of his hips.

“I fuckin’ hope not!”

“You think you’re the guy for the job? You gonna fix me?” Kyle asked as Guy was already popping the button on his jeans and yanking them down.

“I’m gonna fix you real good, you’ll see.” Guy ran his tongue over the big, red ‘W’ tattoo on Kyle’s hip.

The metal hood was cool against Kyle’s heated skin. He let Guy press him down, folded an arm behind his head to keep the hood scoop from digging into his skull. It felt special, being allowed to touch such a valuable car and to be the center of Guy’s focus despite the sun-gold paint and man-sized decal.

Guy’s big hands squeezed Kyle’s thighs as he lavished Kyle’s hipbones with teeth and tongue. He mouthed the bulge in Kyle’s underwear, blue eyes blazing as he stared up and into Kyle’s panting face.

“Yeah,” Kyle growled, taking a rough handful of Guy’s short, copper hair and pressing him down.

“Like that?” Came Guy’s muffled retort. “Yeah I fuckin’ do. And so do you.” Kyle’s rucked-down jeans rustled in the quiet garage as he wrapped his thighs around Guy’s head. He yanked Guy’s hair again, harder. The sound that came out of Guy was as much a growl as it was a raspy chuckle.

It was a lot of power for Kyle to push around—two hundred and twenty pounds of sex and fury, and both with a hair trigger. Like feathering the gas in a tight turn, Guy’s responses were forceful and immediate. And Kyle loved being the one behind the wheel.

Impatient, Kyle hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his underwear and kicked the last of his clothes off. Guy leaned back to give Kyle some room and divested himself of his shirt and dropped the overalls to the floor. Sharp blue eyes drank in all of Kyle’s tanned, tattooed skin one slow inch at a time.

Against the gold paint, the warm undertones of Kyle’s skin shone beautifully. His body was framed by the wings of the firebird decal, giving him the look of a Greek deity on an ancient mural.

“Gorgeous,” Guy said softly, reverently. He thought of how many times his phoenix had been reborn. “One of a kind.” Guy leaned down and his big, warm hands clamped around Kyle’s naked hips.

Kyle felt suddenly unnerved so he shoved Guy’s head down again, “Now take care of me, so I can take care of you.”

“You gonna take care of me?” Guy half-whispered, dragging his stubble along Kyle’s thigh and flattening his tongue against the base of Kyle’s cock, “Gonna go to work, and pay for dinner, and take real good care of me?” Guy flicked those dangerous blue eyes up at Kyle again, “Daddy?”

Talk about shifting into a higher gear, Kyle thought as he yanked Guy’s mouth open with his thumb and shoved his cock in. Maybe their interests weren’t so different. “Yeah, baby,” Kyle hissed. His fingers dug into Guy’s skull as he started to move his hips, “My good boy.”

With a groan, Guy dropped to his knees. His body ignited and relaxed all at once at the praise. He couldn’t stop the soft little sounds that worked their way out of his mouth every time Kyle’s dick hit the back of his throat. He hollowed his cheeks. He dug his fingers into Kyle’s squirming hips.

“Fuck,” Kyle pushed against Guy’s shoulders, “Guy, fuck, I’m gonna…”

Guy grabbed Kyle’s thighs and closed them tight around his head.

“So fuckin' good, you’re so fuckin' good for me, baby,” Kyle’s head tipped back and he stilled.

Guy greedily drank down everything he was given.

Kyle tried to sit up but he kept sliding in his own sweat. He reached his hand up and laughed, “Here, help me up. Switch me.”

Guy was biting his lip, pondering the lovely sight before him.

“What?” Kyle asked. “What’s that look for?”

“Can I just, you know, look at’cha?”

“You sure?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Okay,” Kyle shrugged. He leaned back into his comfortable position with his arms over his head again.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Guy sighed, taking himself in hand.

Kyle found himself unable to look away from the motion and felt his cheeks heat up. Watching Guy work himself was powerfully masculine and erotic. Kyle could feel his entire body coiling with desire again at the sight. He raised his legs up, running the arches of his feet along Guy’s calves.

Guy ran his fingertips over the tattoo on Kyle’s thigh—a row of the solar system’s planets. “When’d ya get this one?”

“Long time ago. It’s kinda like those bumper stickers people get every time they visit a land mark. I did each planet. The first time I went there. When I was a new Lantern.”

“Nine of em?” Guy panted out.

“Yup. Pluto counts.”

“Good, “ Guy smiled. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, “N’at one?” He asked, gesturing to the cartoon skull and crossbones on Kyle’s bicep. “Hm. You wanna talk about another man touching me right now?” Kyle teased.

“I dunno,” Guy replied, surprisingly unfazed. His eyes were dark with desire, “Is he hot?”

Kyle couldn’t hold in his laugh. He was not discussing Roy on a scale of 1-10 right now. No way. He started to laugh in earnest and covered his face.

“Don’t do that,” Guy panted, “Tell me later. Come back.”

Kyle dropped his hands to his waist, where he twisted his fingers together awkwardly. “Is this one your favorite?” He asked, trailing his fingers along the ‘W’ on his hip. Guy’s hand started pumping faster.

“Yeah.”

Kyle let his hands trail slowly over his body. He watched the way Guy’s eyes followed the motion. He played with his nipples, pinched them, and smiled at the way it made them both hiss.

“Look at me,” Kyle said, “Keep your eyes open for me.”

Guy grunted in response, but did as he was asked. When he came he nearly lost his balance. Kyle sat up, reaching his hands out. Not thinking, he gripped Guy around the ribs. When Guy twisted away, he jerked back immediately.

“Shit! I’m so sorry! You okay?”

“I’m good,” Guy said with a dopey smile. “All good.”

“You haven’t taken any of your medicine today, have you?” Kyle frowned.

“Psh, what do I need Oxycontin for when I got all this oxytocin, huh?” Guy smiled. He reached out and pinched Kyle’s cheek, “My little drug dealer.” He chuckled and stretched—gingerly as he had forgotten about his ribs again already.

“You sure you’re good?”

“Everything’s good when I got you, baby.”

[the-witty-pen-name]

The Nanny Pt. 3

Lee Bodecker x Nanny!F!Reader

18+

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: alcohol/drinking, food, corrupt cop, mentions of prostitution/smut, implied age gap (reader is in her 20s), cursing, mentions of serial killers/murder, mutual pining, 

Summary:

Based on this Request: The reader moves to Meade/Knockemstiff while answering an advertisement for a nanny in the paper. We learn that the ad was posted by Sandy, who has the reader watch her child whenever she and Carl leave to do their secret thing. After one of these trips, Sandy and her husband never return, so the reader is left caring for their baby. With the new investigation into these events, she meets Sandy’s brother Lee, the older, out of shape, alcoholic bachelor, and they are suddenly thrown into each others lives as he begins looking into his sister’s disappearance. Through it all, Lee starts to fall for her, and they slowly become a family.

A/N: I got inspired re-watching one of my favorite shows and I want to know if anyone else gets the reference I’m using! If I missed anything I should include as a warning that I missed please let me know! This is also unedited!

Taglist Form is in my bio!

Series Masterlist

Your shoulders tensed listening to the radio in the morning. Sitting on your ottoman, you were painting your nails, using the coffee table as your nail station. It was a really bright morning, and you had the curtains pulled open to draw in light. Julie frantically rushed between her room and the bathroom getting ready for her shift at the diner. The newest single from The Beach Boys was playing through the little counter top radio, but at the top of the hour, the melodies playing through the speaker changed to the news. The top story of the morning was chilling.

“Jules,” you said, calling her over hesitantly, putting the cap back on the bottle of polish. “Come listen to this.”

She scurried out of her room while working to tie her apron in the back, and then she stood next to where you sat to listen to the story on the news. The color drained from her face as you both listened to the reporter describe the horrific scene that was under investigation early this morning.

Roy Laferty was an evangelical preacher whose body washed up by the lake very early that same morning. The news report talked about the police investigation, and also disclosed his wife Helen, is also reported missing. They are looking into the disappearance of Helen, as well as opening a full investigation on Laferty’s murder. They also urge individuals with any information regarding the two to call the Sheriff’s department and to provide a statement.

“That’s horrifying,” you mumble, shocked as you try to process the news. Julie nods in agreement but strangely doesn’t seem nearly as affected by the news as you.

“It’s happening again,” she mutters, obviously concerned but her lack of surprise worries you.

“What do you mean again?” you ask.

“There was a string of unexplained murders, all men, like this newest one,” Julie explained, “This was all over the news like two years ago- can’t believe you hadn’t heard about it.” All you could do was shrug; this was all new to you. “Obviously, there was nothing linking their deaths, but there were these five killings a couple of years ago that are still unsolved. There’s no evidence, but the town rumors it was like a serial killer or something. Nothing is confirmed, of course, just a story.”

“What makes people think it was all the same person?” you ask, hesitantly.

“All the people were always the same type,” she shrugs, “Men all in their 20s and 30s. Again, there’s nothing linking them all together. It’s just talk.”

You clicked off the radio, and didn’t know what to do with yourself. Julie patted your shoulder, comfortingly but she had to go on with her day. So did you, and you almost her ability to move about the apartment almost unfazed by the news. You suppose it makes sense, her growing up here she’s probably used to it. You didn’t have the experience or the thick skin she had.

You had decided to go to the library, still preoccupied by the news segment as well as the things Julie had told you about the Sheriff. You spent the better half of the morning looking at the library’s archives of old newspapers. You wanted to read more about the unsolved cases Julie had told you about, so there you sat for several hours looking through the microfilm reader. You even stumbled upon articles that featured the Sheriff.

There he was plain as day on the front page when it was announced he had won the election the first time he ran several years back. You couldn’t help but notice the changes in his appearance and demeanor compared to the man you keep running into. He was a little slimmer, and he looked a lot happier, a little fuller of life, you decided was a good way to explain it. His smile was wider, and you could see the difference in his eyes as well. It was seeing how he was before the stress of the job began to take its heavy toll. He had on the same leather jacket as well, you were fairly certain, even though the one in the photograph hung a little looser.

You continued to skim through articles, piecing your way through the history of Knockemstiff. Little articles in black and white that persevered the history of this dark little town. You were beginning to realize this backwater town was a lot more tangled and complex than you originally believed. It was a tangled history, riddled with crime and unclosed cases, that people seem to have either forgotten or choose to ignore for their own sake. Your mind wandered back to the things Julie had told you about the Sheriff and him being corrupt. You wonder how much of what you read about linked back to him. Though you imagine if he has any sort of political connection, which a man like him must have, the things he was involved in probably didn’t even make it into the paper. The thought made you physically shiver.

You put the large leather portfolios of archives you took and put them back into their proper place on the self chronologically. You grabbed your sweater from the back of your chair, and pushed the chair back into place. Looking up at the clock on the wall, it was only just one in the afternoon. You decided to head down to the diner and grab a bite, and also visit Julie during her second shift. It was a short walk from the library to the diner. Everywhere felt like a short walk here, probably because everything in downtown was not much bigger than a few blocks. The majority of people lived far from the center of town, on their own land and farms.

The little bell on the door rang when you stepped in and Julie waved at you from behind the counter and pointed for you to grab an empty table in her section. You put your bag on the table and took a seat. It was a fairly busy time, most people who worked at the surrounding businesses coming in for their lunch break. Julie brought you over a coffee and then said she’d be back to chat when she got to take her five.

Lee hadn’t been able to go home since the phone call. The symptoms of his hangover were worsening and he was growing more irritable. His five o’clock shadow was still evident on his tired face and his head was pounding. He tried his best to just power through it but the sound of anyone trying to talk to him just made his ears ring.

After leaving the scene, he had to stop by his office and then he was on the phone for the better part of an hour fielding calls from frantic citizens not only of Knockemstiff but also Meade, where Laferty was from. Despite how horribly he felt, he tried his best to keep his temper level and just reassure people he had things under control. He was losing his patience.

He opened up his desk drawer and grabbed his bottle of asprin. Empty. He threw it into the small waste bin and got up abruptly grabbing his jacket off the hook and storming out. He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving and he didn’t care. It was a short walk to the drugstore from the station and he wouldn’t be five minutes. He just needed to do something to stop his head from hurting.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” the pharmacist greeted when he walked in. He nodded his head upwards briefly to reply without having to talk. He just needed to get in and out. She went back to whatever she was working on when he came in, and he browsed the aisles for what he needed. After paying and walking out, he glanced in the direction of the diner when he was crossing the street. There you were, again. Sitting alone and chatting with the waitress that was refilling your coffee.

He let out a heavy sigh, and then continued walking. He didn’t want you to see him like this, hungover, unshaved, wrinkled uniform and heavy undereye bags from his lack of sleep. You looked- well, Lee thought you were the prettiest thing he’s seen in a while, maybe ever. There was something about you he couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe it was just because you weren’t from here. You were a fresh face, and not ruined by this town. There was a sweetness and an innocence in how you talked to him, because you didn’t know him like the rest of people here did. He liked that.

Even when he left the station for the day, he couldn’t even go home yet. He had a meeting at the bar with one of Brown’s lackeys. He was just supposed to collect his cut so he couldn’t imagine it would take long, but he was still annoyed. Stepping into the bar he looked around as he took off his hat. It was a little more crowded tonight then when he was here last. The red curtain was closed and his eyes lingered there for a moment before directing his attention to the man he recognized who was waving him over.

“Sheriff,” the man greets and Lee slides into the booth across from him.

“Hayward,” he replies. Without even needing to order, the bartender comes over bringing them a bottle of scotch and two glasses.

“You ever go back there?” Hayward asks, watching as a girl came out and brought a man behind the curtain who had been waiting at the bar.

“No,” Lee scoffs.

“They are amazing,” Hayward says, almost giddy. Lee feels sympathy towards the poor woman who had to take care of him. Lee doesn’t acknowledge the statement and just empties his glass and begins to pour himself a second.

“So, my cut?” Lee asks. Hayward frowns and goes into the breast pocket of his sports coat and pulls out an envelope of cash.

“You aren’t getting full,” the man says when Lee cocks a brow at the thinness of the envelope.

“Still?” Lee asks, pissed. Hayward nods. Lee’s jaw clenches.

“You didn’t keep things tidy on your end,” Hayward reminds him, “You got one job. Keep the cops out of our territory. We had two cruisers drive through last week. The only reason you’re getting anything at all is cause you managed to keep your people off us when we did the exchange with Deckard’s crew.”

The man finishes his drink, and then slaps the empty glass on the table. He pulls out his own envelope, which is much thicker than Lee’s and drops down more than enough for the drinks. He chuckles condescendingly and tells the Sheriff to get a dance. Fuck that. Lee takes the extra money and plans to just put it right in his pocket and go home. He finishes his third scotch and suddenly his headache was back. He felt worse than he did earlier today.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” a feminine voice asks, making him break his line of thought. He looks to his side and he recognizes her as one of the girls he sees bringing men to the back room, behind the velvet curtain. He shakes his head, and instead of leaving him alone, she slides into the booth next to him. Her hand grazes over his thigh. “You seem awful tense, Sheriff,” she says and then bites her lip.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted. He knows she doesn’t actually want him, and it’s just an attempt to get him to spend money in the backroom. If he doesn’t focus his already hazing vision, maybe she could vaguely remind him of you. He can’t do it, but he wants to. Her hand moves up his leg and he pulls away. He adjusts his pants and she shrugs.

“Maybe next time then,” she winks before walking away. He rests his head back on the vinyl seat and sighs. He grabs his hat and jacket, leaving before he changes his mind. “Ask for Cherry when you come in, yeah?” she calls when he walks out.

You are just everywhere. You’re in his head and he doesn’t even know you. He needs to sleep, desperately, and part of him in the back of his mind hopes you’ll be there. When he wakes up, he doesn’t remember.

“Have you heard about the Church fundraiser coming up?” Julie asks. You shake your head. “It’s a pretty big deal here. Everyone participates.”

“What is it?” you ask, kicking off your slippers so you can sit crisscross on the couch.

“Bid-On-A-Basket,” she says casually, like it’s the most obvious thing.

“Never heard of it,” you reply, “It sounds fun. What is it?”

“All us single gals put together a picnic basket with everything for a lunch,” she explains, “and then all the eligible bachelors bid on the basket and a date with the girl who made it. Last year, the dreamiest guy, Bill Whittier, bought mine- it’s so fun. Me and Bill didn’t work out but it was a good time.”

“I don’t know anyone here,” you say hesitantly.

“Perfect way to get a date then,” she teases. You bite your lip. You aren’t sure about this.

“And what if some creep is the highest bidder?” you counter.

“You get a bad date story for your next date?” she poses. “Please,” she begs, “It’s for a good cause, all the money this year is going to help the Sunday school.”

“What if no one bids on it?” You rebut.

“Look at yourself,” she scoffs, “you’ll get bids. Trust me.” You roll your eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally. She smirks, completely planning to wear you down.

“Remember it’s for the kids,” she reasons, “It wouldn’t hurt to go and participate.”

“I said I’ll think about it,” you laugh.

Time passes and soon enough you get another call from Sandy, and you are suddenly back to taking care of Valerie. You had missed her, a lot actually. You definitely have gotten attached to her, and you think you’ve grown on her too. Sandy was vague this time for how long they’d be gone, but since the previous time went so smoothly, you didn’t worry about it.

About a week after Sandy and Carl left this time, there was another disturbing news report. You were sitting on the floor, changing Valerie and you had the television playing softly in the background. The news told the story of another body, this time found in the woods off of the highway. You finish changing the baby and hold her close, her little chin resting on your shoulder as you watch the news story. It was just like Julie had talked about. Another man, thirty years old. He was shot and his body abandoned. You jump at the knock at the front door.

You peep through the curtains, and you see the Sheriff waiting on the front porch. You wonder if he knows you’re there. Part of you almost wishes he knows it you here and he wanted to see you. It’s incredibly stupid on your part and you know better, but nonetheless, part of you hoped he came here for you. Very stupid. With Valerie on your hip, you open the door.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he says walking into the house. He stops in front of you and presses a kiss to Valerie’s forehead and she squeals happily seeing Lee. You close the door with your foot. “May I?” he asks, and opens his arms. You agree, based on Valerie’s reactions to him whenever she sees him. He takes her in his arms, and she starts playing with his tie. He loosens it so she can play with it and not choke him.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?” you ask. He reacts in a way in a way you can’t really read, but you don’t press.

His mind just goes back to the woman a couple weeks back in the brothel who asked him the same thing, and that his mind immediately had gone to you. He just clears his throat and snaps himself out of that thought process.

“Um, I just came by to see Sandy,” he says, “But I can fathom a guess that she’s not here?”

“Excellent deduction,” you joke, and he smirks. Valerie has his tie in her mouth and is covering it in drool. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you nod. “You looked a little scared when you answered.”

“Just watching the news before you showed up is all,” you explain, “They were talking about how there was another man found dead.”

“Ain’t got nothing to worry about,” he says, “We’re on top of it. I’m on my way over there now.”

“Can I ask you something?” you ask hesitantly.

“Of course, darling.”

“My friend, you probably know her- Julie Grady.”

“Yeah, nice kid,” he says, listening but gently pulling his tie from Valerie’s grasp. She starts playing with the flap of the pocket of his jacket.

Kid. You almost grimace. That’s right. Of course, Lee would view someone your age that way. You weren’t. You chastise yourself for even caring, but you decide to continue. You shouldn’t care how he sees you.

“Yeah- well, she told me there have been others,” you continue, “I also read up about it, just the newspapers at the library- but she said people thought it was some kind of serial killer… I just, I want to know what you think.”

“I don’t think know,” he answers honestly, a little taken aback, not expecting you to approach him with something this serious. “I doubt it,” he explains, “Serial killers stay close to home. Now those cases you read about, and these two we are looking at- they sound close together but logistically, they aren’t really. Two of those unsolved were in completely different states- just like this new one.”

“So, no traveling serial killer?” you chuckle, trying to sound lighthearted. He chuckles and shakes his head.

“Most people like that stay in one area,” Lee explains, “They work jobs, they have a home, you know? They tend to stay near where they live.”

“That makes me feel much better,” you answer honestly.

“You got nothing to worry about, and that’s a promise,” he grins, although he supposes coming from him that probably doesn’t mean much. Regardless, it makes you smile.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” you offer again. He bites his lip, taking a moment to think.

“Sandy keeps a bag of candy in her cabinet,” he says, walking into the kitchen with you following close behind. He passes Valerie off to you and he chuckles under his breath at the state of his tie. He reaches up in the cabinet and pulls down a brown paper bag, filled with taffies and chocolates.

Something about this man who has a whole time scared of him playing with his niece and then stealing sweets from the cupboard is something you find so strangely endearing. He unwraps one of the brightly colored taffies and then puts the bag in his pocket.

“I gotta go,” he announces, “let me know if you hear from Sandy, yeah?”

“Of course,” you reply.

“Gonna head out to that scene, and do my report,” he discloses, not really sure why he’s telling you. “Then I have a meeting at the rectory about that fundraiser thing. Figure out security.”

“They need security at Bid-On-A-Basket?” you ask, with an eyebrow raised. He smiles.

“You going?” he asks, flirtatiously.

“Just seems weird to have police at a Church thing.”

“There’s been stupid fights,” he shrugs, “some guy will get outbid and cause a fuss. Nothing serious. Probably just gonna be me and a deputy in case. You going?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” you say sheepishly. “Why?”

He walks towards the front door, and you follow seeing him out.

“Cause I gotta know if I’ll be bidding on a basket,” he winks.

“You gonna start a fight if you don’t win it?” you joke.

“If it’s yours? Absolutely, darling.”

Taglist:

@adelaide-walker @thedepressolit @samanthadegaro @pyronack @greeneyedblondie44  @acciosiriusblack  @weenersoldierr @teenagemutant @witchybarb @iraot @my-love-darling @hold-me-like-a-heart-beat @swiftieandthewintersoldier @letsfly-andbe-free @rebekahdawkins @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan @hersilencedscreams @unsaltedalmonds @dangerdolns @vintagepigeon @bluebouquetcupcake29 @goslytherin @captainofallfandoms @buckistan @aynanasstuff @everything-is-all-clear @rosalynshields @tinynshykitten​ 

[mortalfaerie]

Stimulants (S.R)

spencer reid x bau (adhd) reader

word count: 1441

synopsis: reader has inattentive adhd but hasn't brought it up with the team before. after a few on-site assignments that drag into the night, spencer notices the signs of adderall wearing off and asks reader about it.

TW FOR DRUG MENTION AND DISCUSSION

these away assignments could prove to be hellish. it couldn't be helped- the nature of your work meant that you didn't exactly work at normal 9-to-5, and sometimes your team was wracking their mind in a small police station conference room at 2 am on a tuesday, knowing fully well that a killer was still on the loose. generally, you could be relied upon to focused and engaged during cases, providing useful insight or simply making witty banter with your teammates- but inside, you hoped that the case would wrap up timely enough that you wouldn't be blankly staring down into you 4th post-sunset cup of coffee, not taking in a word around you.

however, that's what you were doing at the moment.

"Y/L/N?" you heard Hotch say pointedly.

“Huh?” you snapped out of your haze, embarrassed, and Hotch gave you a sympathetic nod. “I understand, we’re all feeling a little burned out, but we have to focus. The unsub is out there.”

You gave a nod to the table and pursed your lips, then taking a long gulp of coffee.

work, work, work! you chided yourself.

you took your usual dose of adderall around 7 in the morning each day, and you could trust that you’d have a safe 11-12 hours of focus and level-headedness. However, its half-life ran out roughly 7 hours ago, and you were painfully aware of it. you had gotten the short end of the stick mentally, having gotten inattentive adhd as supposed to hyperactive adhd, which most people were familiar with. so, instead of having boundless energy that would have been useful right now, you couldn't stay engaged in the case for longer than 10 minutes at a time, and now your teammates were noticing.

you volunteered to go fetch some back records from the local legal archive next door, needing to clear your head- but with an unsub preying on women alone at night, Spencer was quick to volunteer himself to go with you. you walked mostly in silence to the elevator, but he spoke when the doors closed in front of you.

“Caffeine’s a stimulant.” he stated plainly.

“Uh. Yeah, it is.” you responded, not knowing where he was going with this.

“You know that you probably shouldn't be mixing stimulants.” he added, meeting your gaze in the reflective elevator doors.

you gaped at him for a moment, before loosing a dry laugh. “Are you diagnosing me with addiction, Dr. Reid?”

“Well, no, not precisely. You're evidently dependent on stimulants- I’ll wager that you take them around 7 or 8 each morning before work?”

you just gave a measured nod in response, not in the mood to deny it.

“Ritalin?” he asked, this time meeting your gaze directly.

“Adderall. Prescription, just so we're clear.”

“I figured as much- a normal person on adderall wouldn't have the same decline in ability after the half-life.”

you sighed. “Is it that obvious?” you ask. in the two months since you joined the bau, you had hoped you'd be able to stay on top of late night cases, or that they would be few and far between. as you were learning, the homicidal maniacs of the world didn't obey normal work hours.

he offered you a sympathetic smile. “I don't think anybody else thinks it's anything more than fatigue. I'm just a little more aware of it.” after a pause in which you studied the floor of the elevator, he added “You might consider getting a “bump” pill.”

you looked up and raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting I do drugs?” you asked, only half sarcastic.

he flushed and backtracked. “Oh, no! I-” and you laughed openly, a good laugh, as the elevator doors opened. You proceeded through the lobby and put into the street with a flustered Dr. Spencer Reid on your heels. catching up to you, he explained, “A “bump” pill is a small amount of a stimulant that diffuses faster than your normal extended release medication, so you get a measured amount of focus for an hour or two after your primary stimulant wears off.”

you nodded, and pulled out your phone to put it on your calendar for your next doctor’s appointment. “Well, thank you, Reid.” you said, tucking your phone back in your pocket. “That would actually be pretty useful.”

clearly satisfied with himself, he gave a quick nod as you continued on to the legal archive. about two minutes had passed in silence before he abruptly said, “Call me Spencer.”

“Hm?” you responded, again forcing your brain to focus.

“Call me Spencer. You keep calling me Dr. Reid or Reid, but you don't have to.” on a more measured breath he added, “My friends call me Spencer.”

at this, you smiled. you had been fond of him since your first day, but were rarely alone to get to know him personally. you could tell the most obvious aspects of his personality and interests that he shared with the team, but all the while, he had apparently deduced that you had adhd and took medication for it by your behavior after hours alone.

“Alright then, Spencer. Then you call me Y/N.” you agreed.

“Y/N.” he said, as though trying out the sound of it.

As you thumbed through files in the archive looking for a specific box of court records, you and Spencer talked more, as he hinted that he knew what it was to be neurodivergent. you had wondered, of course- you were keenly aware of your ability to fixate on things and favor specific sensations over others- you couldn't stand the texture of chalk, and all your blouses were cotton since polyester felt like nails on a chalkboard for you to touch. you had noticed Spencer had similar reservations about things, but they were easily dismissible as him being eccentric.

walking back to the police station, each holding a box of files, he addressed your speculations. “If you wanted to talk about this again, I’d be glad to. I know what it is to have a mind that doesn't run like others do.”

you snorted, and gave you a confused glance. “No, I believe you, Spencer,” you explained. “But it seems to mostly work in your favor.”

he scoffed. “Not always. I have an eidetic memory, but I'd love to be able to read social cues. I'm well aware I can't do that, trust me.”

you smiled. “Well then, I'll trade you social graces for memory. I'd love to actually have a sense of object permanence.”

re-entering the elevator, he laughed. “Then it's a deal, we’ll swap.”

“Fantastic! I've always wanted to know what it's like to be a genius.” you exclaimed on a laugh.

“You don't think you are one?” he asked, more pointedly than you expected.

“I- no? Why would I?” you asked, a little shocked.

“Why wouldn't you?”

“Because I'm impulsive? I can be oblivious to the things right in front of me? Oh, and I have an executive function disorder? That doesn't really sound like Einstein to me.” you listed off, as though it were obvious.

“Impulsive, sure, but you're knowledgeable beyond what anyone would expect. You should see the expressions of the others when you told them the history of the ferris wheel on the last case- you even beat me to it. You see patterns that others don't, and you understand emotions on a level that the others can't imagine, because they've never been in your shoes as a kid with a learning disability.” he countered as the elevator ticked up and up the floors.

“You flatter me.” you said flatly, clearly skeptical.

“No, I'm being honest. You're incredibly intelligent. But if you only ever measure yourself by your perceived shortcomings, you'll never see that for yourself.” he said, matter-of-factly.

As the elevator doors opened again, the two of you were surprised to see the team suiting up in kevlars with Hotch on the phone with the local sheriff.

“Finally!” Prentiss exclaimed. “We’ve got a hit on the unsub, Morgan and I are heading over now- Hotch and local law enforcement are meeting us on-scene. Go put the boxes in the conference room and get back here.”

“Uh- of course!” you said, and you and Spencer exchanged a bewildered look as you rushed to go put the files away.

The clock back in the conference room told you it was closing in on 3 am. You huffed an exasperated sigh. “Does evil ever consider a good night’s rest might be pretty fulfilling?” you asked rhetorically.

“No.” Spencer said, setting down his box. “No, it never seems to do.”

[cryinginthebackseat]

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part iii

part i  part ii  AO3

Fandom: Call Of Duty

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 6.572

Warnings: here’s where the smut tag comes into play, boy with a copious amount of power play and yeah, it’s messy af

Author’s note: after three months, a couple of brainstorming in the bathtub, delays, revisions and self-doubt, chapter 3 is finally done. i hope you'll enjoy it. also, i don't think i have to warn you what will go down in this chapter.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Fast forward to twenty-four hours since he discovers that Bell is fucking someone, Lazar drops about half a dozen of dusty manilas on his desk. Adler’s eyes sweep over them. He recognizes Bell’s handwriting etched across the memo attached to one of the folders right away.

He picks it up. It’s becoming second nature to him lately; drawing himself to her, an ineradicable magnetic force pulling his end of the pole.

A muscle on his jaw twitches.

For a moment, Adler despises her. He allows himself to really despise her. She’s started something in his head- a war; an intangible, unmanageable riot and if he lets her, she’ll rearrange him until he’s insane.

And he can’t let that happen. He’s the one holding the leash here, not vice versa.

“This is what we have on Dragovich’s activities in Yamantau,” Lazar informs him, pulling him back down to earth.

Adler stands, keeping his face easy, neutral. “Is this everything?”

“So far, yeah. Bell says she’ll let us know if she digs up something more from the archives though.”

Bell- the Bell in question- can be heard sighing, like she turns the corner and finds herself at a cul-de-sac; hunching over her desk, reading, her fingers keep buttoning and unbuttoning the top of her shirt, madly distracting (him).

She remains in her seat, for pretty much the remainder of the day. Eyes glued to the pages before her, factory-like dedication. She hardly looks up when Sims borrows her pen or when Park stands over her, sipping her coffee, inquiring about her progress behind a plume of smoke.

The only- truly time Bell ever lifts her head from her work is when Mason approaches her desk. She gazes up at him, notes forgotten, a kittenish smile etched across her face, come-hither eyes that could have time hung in motion, or held at ransom, perhaps. Mason’s own smile is full-blown, too wide, too genial, as he stalks closer and closer to her table, her whirlpool.

Adler does a double-take, like his eyeballs only functioning for the first time. He might as well be hallucinating it because no... this can’t be right, can it?

But then Mason is touching her hand, a blink-and-you-miss-it movement that was not lost on Adler and oh, she’s looking at him hopefully now.

The knots in Adler's stomach are vertiginous. Realization rings in his head like a gunshot, nearly leaving him in a daze. There’s no denying it. Not when the exchange unfurls before his eyes like a broken, warped film reel and there’s nothing to stop him from seeing it.

The thought of her and him haunts the rest of his waking hours, until there’s absolutely no telling how far he’s fallen into his own pit. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ( Alex Mason fucked her that night.

Mason was in her bed; beside her, above her, under her. Inside her. He imagines her fingers digging into the mattress as Mason rolled her onto her stomach, mouth trailing down the ladder of her spine. Their breaths intermingled in the seraphic glow of her hotel room.

Alex Mason fucked her. It shouldn't leave an acrid taste in his mouth, but it does.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ She haphazardly reaches for the mug and takes a hearty gulp of its content. It’s not hers.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Bell says, mortified and places the mug down noisily on the desk. “I’m sorry, I thought it was mine.”

The rim of his mug is now stained with her lipstick. Adler bites down on a careful retort.

He thinks he knows now. Why he lets it happen, why he thinks of her in metaphors, why she gives him that vertigo. The answer is at the tip of his tongue- he can almost taste it, like spoiled milk or rancid gardenia. But it’s much easier to ignore it until the words grow diminuendo and disappear, that he thinks he imagined it all along.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You can’t obsess without turning around and getting lost in the middle.

Or losing a part of yourself in the process.

The idea of obsession, to obsess, perhaps is a far riskier thing for a person to have than playing the knife game, blindfolded with absolutely no telling where to start.

Yet we all do it, despite knowing the very dark flipside it possesses.

Perhaps it’s the very nature of humans, tucked deep within the pigeonhole of our minds, suffused by the very promise of bogus achievements that usually leads most of us insane, thinking that obsession is essential to living. But without it, artists are corporate slaves, slack-jawed know-it-alls moving stiffly in the middle of the hullabaloo that is our world; Paris would be just as unrecognizable today without Napoleon’s artistic legacy.

Obsession is good.

Obsession is dangerous.

The very dichotomy should have us all warded off of it.

Yet, again, we all do it. Again, and again, and again until it taints our veins. And it’s always far too late until you realize, that yes, now all you see is her, the air has been poisoned by her perfume, that her name is now forevermore engraved in your skin, like an overgild tattoo.

That you end up in downtown Berlin, out of sight, out of mind.

He finds them there, in a shoebox-sized cafe. Ill-lit, low-ceiling, coffee-stained floor that shows the wear of three decades worth of boots, pantoffels and high heels and Adler is sitting in his car, nursing a beer with but one all-consuming, perplexing thought:

Bell and Mason.

Someone told him they arrived together, about an hour ago. The cafe has become their usual haunts, his source said, ever since they’ve returned from Ukraine and Adler just can’t wrap his head around this- them. In his head, they’re wholly different entities. Two proper nouns separated by a conjunction, or a comma if mentioned in a list.

They’re the kind of opposites that he thought don’t attract, yet here they are.

Perhaps it's inevitable, both are products of brainwashing. Maybe they sensed one another, speaking in code, like detecting an RF signal from a nuclear bunker.

Then the doors to the cafe swing open. They step outside, cheeks flushed, his arm wrapped around her waist, her lips glueing on the slope of his neck. Shaded eyes watch them from the opposite street, his disgust obvious.

Now, Adler wonders how this all began. Someone must have made the first move.

He wonders if it was her. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"You wanted to see me?"

Adler looks up from his desk and nods. "Lock the door behind you."

And Alex Mason, the root of all this trouble, obeys. Looking somewhat uncertain under the scrutiny of the harsh lights, and shuts the blinds. Unlike Woods, he takes a seat at the chair Adler sets up before the desk.

"What is it?" Mason asks, after a long, almost unending silence. His curiosity seeps through the room.

There is very little control when the first domino falls. Oftentimes, once it starts, it’s like crossing the Rubico n and the next thing you know, you are lying flat on the ground in some theater, 23 fresh stab wounds decorating your body and the beat of your pulse seems dim and distant, everything feels cold except your blood; warm, bright and thick like gasoline, crawling into every space until it goes into your throat and strangles you, kills you. Fini, kaput.

But then again, he's not Caesar and this isn't Rome.

Adler pushes the first tile.

"How long has this been going on?" he asks without fanfare, tight and composed as ever. Never mind the way his eyes ignite like cold blue fire behind his glasses.

"How long has what been going on?"

“You and Bell." And Mason blinks at him in surprise. Bingo. "I saw the two of you leaving for her hotel from a cafe in Downtown Berlin last night. So don't bother skirting your way around this.” Adler leans forward across his desk. He’s a man on a mission- there’s no stopping him now.

“Now, let me rephrase the question, how long have you been fucking her?"

"Hold on, hold on, you were stalking us?" Mason asks, waspish.

Adler winces inwardly. "I was keeping an eye out for my asset.”

“Asset?” Mason hisses, like Adler just blasphemed. “Jesus Christ, Russ, is that all she ever is to you? An asset? She’s your protégé, for god’s sake- a person! What is wrong with you?"

"Plenty. Or apparently, so I've been told.”

"I don't find you amusing.”

“I'm hardly ever,” Adler parries. Mason remains silent, yet the tilt of his lips translate exactly what words can't. "And you haven't answered my question."

“Bullshit. I don’t owe you anything."

"Listen, Al-"

"No, you listen to me. You may be calling the shots around here, but this has absolutely nothing to do with you. Whatever- or whoever - we're doing in our spare time is none of your business, do you understand? So you can just drop it," Mason seethes, bitter, and, much to Adler’s surprise, rises to leave. “We’re done here.”

"That's where you're wrong."

Mason has only managed to put a few paces between them before he turns around, once again stepping inside this metaphorical boxing ring.

"What?"

"This has everything to do with me," Adler says coolly. "You said it yourself, I'm the one who calls the shots here. Meaning, anything that could potentially fuck up my operation is my concern and I have the right to intervene should it needed. This, being a case in point."

Mason looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the hell does fucking her have to do with this whole operation?”

“Everything.” He says it like quiet resignation. It’s time to acknowledge the truth, he thinks, to that unusual idea that has been swirling in the deep recesses of his mind, that everyone’s weakness is varied.

Achilles had his heel, and Adler has her.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to, Al. You don't even know her."

Mason gives him a level stare. "And you do?"

Adler is so hard-pressed to say 'I made her' but even he wouldn't stoop that low.

"That is beside the point,” Adler tells him instead as he turns to his vice- one of them, at least- and lights it.

“There is literally no point to this conversation.”

“The point is, stay the hell away from Bell. I'm saying this for your own good."

"My own good or yours?"

Adler does not flinch, but his hand does ball into a fist under the table, how the fingers curl and then flex.

"Don't be ridiculous. I gain nothing from this except assurance." It's a lie, it's the truth. There's no in between. He doesn’t know which is which anymore. "You, on the other hand, I'm sure the old ball and chain wouldn't be near as thrilled about hearing this if word ever gets out."

Mason is quiet for a beat.

"Is that a threat?"

"Only once I pulled the pin," Adler replies, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

But the thing with Mason, he'll come to realize later, is how much, like with Bell, weaving through his mind is like trying to grasp for purchase in the dark as he, once again, does the unpredicted and smile- a venomous grin warps his face, like he’s mocking him, challenging him to move his piece on the board and make this mistake.

Adler stares back, surprised despite himself.

He shocks him further by saying, "Go ahead, then. Pull the pin, throw the grenade, tell her. See if she cares."

Adler’s eyes narrow at his askance. He then drags his attention to Mason’s left hand, and something grave and familiar rises in his chest.

The absence of the metal band around his ring finger tells him why.

“You know where to reach her. If anything, I’m sure she’d trust your words better than anyone else’s. So please, do it.” And Mason’s so goddamn sanctimonious about it. He’s clearly expecting this particular reaction out of Adler. It only leaves Adler angrier.

Another long pause stretches, heavy and unkind.

"Fine. Maybe she won't mind, but I'm sure the Agency wouldn’t be as tolerant.” Adler takes one last drag of his cigarette. He has that ‘Having nothing, nothing can he lose’ look on his face that makes Mason frowns. “Not when you’ve been fraternizing with the enemy.”

"What?”

"Bell. She’s not who you think she is, Al. Tell me, who do you think is the sorry bastard we saved in Trabzon?”

Mason blinks. His face is blank with shock, then he shakes his head. And he keeps shaking it, almost manic. If he laughs, which one would come first, he wonders, the gun or his fist pummeling the side of his face?

“You’re lying.”

“And why would I lie to you about this?”

"No, no, no, Woods- he told me the guy’s dead,” Mason says, his words are shaky.

“He’s not. And he wasn’t a he."

A crease forms between Mason's eyebrows, the starting of another frown.

“Hold on, if she’s helping us get Perseus then why is she the enemy?”

"Because she doesn't know that."

"Doesn't know what?"

"That she's the enemy."

Mason holds his gaze for a moment, his expression tense, like a slingshot.

And that cold elastic band finally snaps.

“What did you do to her?” He’s openly glaring at him now, mouth tight, an icy fury that is no longer dormant and for the first time since Adler has known him, he finds the man dangerous.

Adler takes a steadying breath. “We did what had to be done.”

"You sick son of a bitch. You brainwa- You-” Mason clamps his mouth shut, trembling hands finding his head. “Shit. How could you?"

Adler ignores his colorful outburst.

“She resisted every form of interrogations we threw at her, Al. We had no choice but to implement MK-Ultra as a last resort. We needed what’s in her head.” Mason is silent in reply. Adler continues, “Look, it’s nasty business, I know, but some of us have to cross a line just to make sure that line's still there in the morning. And as much as I hate agreeing with Hudson, he’s right. We need to preserve our way of life.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to play God,” his voice is resentful and crisp. “Do you have any idea what you are doing? You could jeopardize everything, and for what? You’ve seen what this- this experiment did to me, this won’t end the way you think!”

“Lightning never strikes the same place twice.”

"You’re really willing to gamble on that?”

Adler scowls. “I don’t gamble, Mason. I calculate. And if by some chance I was given a second chance, I’d do it all over again. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mason doesn’t say anything at first, his loaded gun stare never falters. Then, “The flag may be different, but the methods are the same.”

"What was that?”

“Someone warned me, a long time ago, about how people like you will use people like me or Bell as pawns in your own game. You’d do whatever it takes to get what you want- and my, how you get results, don’t you? But you’re actually no different than the rest of the assholes you're fighting against,” Mason tells him, like he’s spitting out acid in Adler’s face.

“Bell may be the enemy- heck, she could be the architect behind all the chaos Perseus has done, but what you’re doing to her is vile and unethical. There are many ways to make her spill the beans, yet you chose the most immoral method there is out there. I sincerely hope you rot in hell for this."

Before Adler could formulate a response to his tirade, Mason stands to his feet.

“You want me to stay away from her? Fine. Consider this as my formal resignation. After Yamatau, I’m done. I’m out of the team. And if you know what’s good for you, you stay the fuck away from me because I don't ever want to see your face again, do you hear me?” he snarls. “If you think Woods is dangerous, Adler, just remember I nearly could have killed my own president."

Then Mason turns on his heel and walks out of the room, once and for all. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The fist is very much expected, and so does the pain that follows.

"You're out of your fucking depth, shithead," Woods spits, venom lacing his words.

Adler doesn't even bother to retaliate.

He doesn’t see the point. He didn’t think it would get this far. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The garage grows quiet and stodgy with now Mason and Woods are out of the picture. Everyone settles back into their own normal rhythm, the same routine before both men set their feet here almost a week ago.

Hudson doesn’t take the news of their departure kindly, naturally. He stands in Adler’s office, pacing, fuming. Adler ignores him, trying to nurse the skull-splitting migraine he's having at his desk instead. The nasty black eye hidden underneath his glasses. A secret locked, the key thrown away.

His headache, thankfully, has subsided when Sims takes a seat on the other side of the desk, hours later after Hudson left.

"I'm not trying to cause an alarm here, but you'd better watch your back."

Adler's brows furrow but doesn’t look up from the papers before him. "And why's that?"

"'Cause I think you just pissed off the wrong beast," Sims tells him. Adler pauses, then lifts his head to look at his cohort. There's genuine worry flashing over his face.

“Are you talking about Bell?”

“Who else?”

If she's a beast, then what am I? What he wants to ask, but there's a knock at the door and he swallows the words down his throat.

"Come in," Adler says, pretending to be reading again.

The door opens and Bell, fucking Bell, enters his office. It's like watching a tiger pass by your hiding spot in near dark. Neither he nor Sims breathes a word.

Bell's gaze immediately swings to him, like a cosmic pull. She's watching him as she wanders over to the desk and the weight of her stare burns him like Greek fire.

He pushes the documents close, all the while returning her stare. He is never the one who backs out of a challenge, and at this point, he knows that she probably knows that. Maybe that’s why she initiated it in the first place.

"Bell, what is it?" Adler asks firmly, in possession of his full power in this place.

Bell produces three diskettes from her pocket. Something odd definitely shining in her eyes.

"These have been lying on Lazar's desk for hours, but he's busy, so I thought I'd deliver them to you myself," Bell says. And he's trying to work out on her angle but she is unreadable. As always.

Adler nods, frustrated and indignant. "You can leave them here. Thank you."

It is only once the woman leaves that the two agents share a dark, significant look. That was too close.

And it goes without saying, something needs to be done about this. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

March 7th. A's insistence on raising the dosage is illogical. Recent behavioural analysis indicates depression. Will monitor for the next few days. Considering lowering the dosage instead. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The elevator reeks of smoke, cheap Soviet air freshener and something far more poisonous than the devil’s spider, silky hands.

It embodies the woman standing next to him right now- this special animal, emotionless, a constant mystery wrapped with a warning sign.

Adler is tempted to shut his eyes.

Or get out of here. He doesn’t dwell well in this atmosphere, this limited space shared with her alone. He probably should have listened to Hudson about taking Bell for this mission, but she’s the only one he trusts who won’t fuck this up. Not to mention her spotless Russian has proven to help them blend in with the crowd seamlessly.

He needs her, whether he would admit it aloud or not.

But she puts his head in such a spin.

She’s been near-mute since they departed from Germany. She barely acknowledges his questions and orders, barely looks at him. She’s been treating him as if he’s another shadow on the wall.

He rubs the side of his jaw. Something does need to be done about this.

“Are you going to stay quiet forever?” Adler asks. He’s bad at this, but he can’t stand her silence for much longer. Not to mention, they’re at the Lubysnka- the fucking lion's den. If she wants to wallow over Mason’s absence or sinks into whatever melancholic feeling she’s in, she can do it later.

Bell hums, her mouth curls up like serpentine. Adler sketches a confused frown.  And she says, “I don’t know. Should I?”

And then, sudden and swift, Bell undoes the cuffs of her uniform. Beady eyes never leave his.

The sight catches him off guard. Somewhere in his mind, he curses something like ‘you’re a beast’ and ‘what the hell are you?’ at her, all in negative connotations. The effects she inflicts on him is maddening.

“What are you doing?” Adler doesn’t bother to hide his surprise.

Bell shrugs and gestures to the duffle bag at their feet. “Gearing up.”

Oh. Embarrassment wells up in him. Fucking hell, this woman will be the death of him.

Her fingers quickly move on to the buttons, still indifferent, nearly tearing them from the seams. The first glimpse of her skin and Adler can’t help but give in, openly stares at her in a way he has never imagined before. Her clavicles like daggers glinting in the lamplight.

Curiosity is a dangerous and heavy load.

He should have closed his eyes.

“Enjoying the show?” Her voice pulls him back from his musings. Her eyes still zero in on him, cutting him to pieces.

Her cleavage comes into view.

The lines on Adler’s face grow taut.

“What do you want, Bell?” He asks, intending for a bark but it ends somewhere like a plea.

“I want many things. As of right now, I want Alex’s cock inside me.” And Adler nearly chokes on his own breath. Bell, eagle-eyed as ever, caught the movement. “But it seems someone insists on being in control of everything, isn’t he?” she snaps.

Adler’s back goes rigid. Trepidation bubbles up in his chest.

Of course, she knows.

“It's not about control.” Adler turns around. He doesn’t quite know what he’s avoiding at this point, her flesh or the truth. “It’s about what’s right.”

He hears her uniform touches her floor as she laughs, mirthless, like broken chandeliers. “I didn’t know whose cock I’m riding is any concern of yours.”

“It is when he’s a member of the team,” he seethes. “What you’re doing with Alex will only lead to complications. And I can’t have tha-”

“Because this is all about you, isn’t it? It’s about upholding your precious reputation in the Agency, controlling the narrative the way you want it no matter how many characters you kill off in the process. It’s always about what you want.” Bell interrupts, not missing a beat. “You selfish motherfucker.”

"This has nothing to do with my reputation in the CIA."

She scoffs. "Spare me the crap, Adler."

Adler turns to fully face her again and holds his arms open, the way someone is facing the firing squad. “Fine. Fine, yes, I’m a selfish motherfucker. I did it because I thought it could ruin the operation. Is that what you wanted to hear? Now, what are you going to do about it?”

She says nothing at first. He silently catalogues her movements as she steps towards him now, half-naked and furious. He feels pinned.

Then, “What do you want me to do about it?”

His mouth dries at the implication. She is temptation, benediction, the coarse ice block before the carver.

How terrible it is to lose control, even just once.

A knowing, vicious smirk flashes over her face. Adler feels like he’s just shown his hand.

“You are one selfish bastard and a coward to boot, aren’t you?” Bell sneers before he has a chance to respond. “At least, Alex was brave enough to make the first move, but you…” her gaze raking up and down his figure coldly, a jeweller presented with second-grade imitations. Wind her up and this honey bee stings.

“You’ll always be the man who hides behind his shades,” she says, dry as dust, and steps back and snatches her clothes from the bag.

This is, without a single doubt, the longest elevator ride he’s ever experienced in his life. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler arrived back in Berlin breathing a little harder. Worry wrapped around his neck like a noose, placed by Bell herself; the judge, jury and executioner.

The knot tightens every time his mind refers to her.

The agency trained him, specifically, to keep calm under pressure. He didn’t coin the title “America’s Monster” from his colleagues for nothing. They don’t fear him because he’s hot-headed or thinks in large-scale violence— guns blazing, napalm-induced flames over the hill in the morning, bloodied knuckles and fractured jaw, blood-soaked soles tarnishing the white marble floor. Someone can point a fucking shotgun to his face and he’ll barely flinch. Only monsters remain impassive to direct threats of violence.

But there’s something about Bell that elicits this visceral, primal reaction out of him. Something strange and new; lightning about to be uncapped from its chains.

It chokes him, frightens him to the core.

How gauche is it, don’t you think, that his own mind is conspiring against him?

Now, in the garage, where it dawns on Adler that she’s probably the only person who can make him walk around the city, feeling like a fool, he decides he’s had enough. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I’ll drive you back.”

Adler apprehends Bell outside the garage. He kind of assumed she’d have a pistol aimed at his head right now, but she spins around, hands shoved deep inside her pockets and clayey mouth curls in distaste.

“Get in the car, Bell,” Adler says tightly, almost adding please.

But he would not beg.

The brunette remains rooted in her place. For a moment, a calculating look crossed her face. Always, always that sharp mind of hers turning and he wonders where it would take her this time.

“Try asking nicely,” she demands.

Adler’s eyes flash. She really is testing him. But fine, he'll play her game.

“Bell, would you kindly get in the car?” He is all but snarls, teeth gritting. Bell hardly wavers- he wishes she would waver for a change.

She does what he asked of her, finally, the shadow of a smirk on her face mocking him. Adler follows suit, teeth still clenched together, and starts the car and drives away.

It's sort of like a deja-vu, he supposes; him and her in this very same car, except that stupid krautrock music is absent this time. Neither says anything for the first twenty minutes. Everything feels heavily still.

Until he realizes she’s probably waiting for his move.

This might gloriously blow up in his face, yes, he knows this. Especially remembering the last time he was alone in a tight space with her, it had cost him his pride.

And his mind.

But he’s been here before, in the eye of the storm. He was at his calmest here. He has his cards prepared now.

Adler inhales deeply.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he utters resolutely. He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t want to. “I was out of line, I admit it. Your affair with Mason should be no concern of mine but I really am just trying to look out for you.”

It’s weak, he knows. The words feel more like an anchor than an actual apology in his tongue anyway, but Adler didn’t expect that Bell would give him nothing. Not even an acknowledging hum, a scathing retort, a scoff. Nothing.

A twinge of irritation brews in his stomach. Why does she insist on playing games?

The car comes to a stop. They’ve arrived. Adler wrests his hands from the steering wheel to say something harsh to her, but Bell is already stepping out of the car.

She stands on the sidewalk; an enigma in royal red, and her lethal, all-seeing eyes gravitate to him in the night.

There is a long paralyzing beat where they just stare at each other- which seems to be a running theme between them lately. Adler is fuming, as he is confused.

It feels like hours, centuries, eons, but, like all magic, the spell is broken. Courtesy of a stranger hailing a cab behind his car.

Bell turns and walks inside the building. She doesn’t bother sparing him the final glance or extend her appreciation for the ride back and Adler thinks to himself, this universe, god fucking damnit, nothing makes sense here.

But it is also in moments like this that the world spins, when he notices a singular, significant detail that makes his stomach roll, nearly throwing him off balance:

Bell left the passenger door open.

And he’s insane- he has to be, right? He’s looking too much into this. It doesn’t mean anything. His mind conjures an image, like a graphic guideline or something, step one: get out of the car, two: make your way around and close the passenger door, and third: zoom out of the neighborhood while your sanity is still intact, all in that order. Easy to comprehend, to follow.

Adler only does the first two steps. He’s ass-backwards doesn’t even bother to digest the third step.

He enters the hotel instead and takes in the surroundings. The lobby is pointedly bare, but warm and smoky. The concierge is reading behind the counter- a young, wiry boy with shocking bleached hair- with headphones on. It’s late, he probably doesn’t expect anyone to check in at this hour.

A movement by the staircase catches his interest. He sees Bell climbing up the steps slowly, leisurely. Adler makes his way there.

Halfway reaching her floor, Adler has the inkling that she knows that he’s following her. Also, because the next she does is glancing back at him over her shoulder. He waits for her to push him down the stairs or wrap those delicate hands around his neck. She does neither. She doesn’t want him gone.

Yet, his mind betrays him. Only because she doesn’t know what other atrocities he’s committed to her.

She stops by her door, opens it and goes in first. Adler, without waiting for a formal fucking invitation, slips in behind her.

Her room is much smaller than his. The TV is still on- a German dubbed of All the President’s Men is playing- a stack of books and meds lying haphazardly on the desk table.

The door clicks shut behind him. Bell wanders over to the table and turns off the TV. Her back to him.

She doesn’t bother turning the light switch on. The green neon of the hotel sign outside illuminates the room, bathes her in it, making her look even stranger and faraway.

He doesn’t take off his sunglasses.

“What do you want, Bell?” Adler is all but snarling. His anger comes in a bottle with a twist-off cap. “I’m fucking sick of playing your games. I apologized, I admitted I was wrong- I fucked up, but what more could you want?”

Jesus, and now he’s losing his temper over a brainwashed Russian who rarely talks. How did it come to this?

She tugs off her gloves. Once again, barely acknowledging him. Apparently, if ignoring him is an art form, she is the fucking Monet.

Until:

“Take them off.”

Adler blinks hard behind his glasses. Like he’s just stepped into a whole different earth.

His mouth moves.

“What?”

“Your sunglasses. Take them off.”

He stares at her back. Trying really, really hard to make sure he’s not hallucinating this, but then Bell turns around, a finger tapping against her arm, waiting.

Realization hits him like an uppercut in the face and nearly leaves him in a daze. He’s walked into a trap. That much is clear as day. She wants him to suffer as she does. An eye for an eye.

Adler holds no modicum of control in her domain, not unless she gives the reins. Once again, she plays the judge, jury and executioner at her own court.

But, like before, he’ll play her game.

There, the glasses are off. His eyes, bare, blue like fractured ice, meeting hers. In the dark, he feels her eyes shift to assess his bruise.  

His heart booms against his ribs.

"Kneel,” she says glibly.

He obeys, again. His legs and hands don’t shake, but his mind is much less governable than his limbs. No, the CIA didn’t prepare a manual for situations like this and he doesn’t trust his instincts to help him dance his way around this.

Nor does he want to.

The thought fucks him up to a degree.

Adler should have known that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees, no, no. That would have been too easy, anyway. Although history has dictated and taught him that women are never to be underestimated, Adler hasn’t expected that one woman would be able to do the deed and succeed.

But then again, when that woman is Bell, he supposes anything is possible.

When Bell approaches him, he’s unable to take his gaze from her. Her eyes spangle with determination, an avenging soul in the neon lights. Her fingers work on the sash of her coat. The line of her mouth is flat and inscrutable. The air crackles with electricity and a promise of the unsayable, the unattainable.

She stands over him now, gloveless and coatless. She’s powerful like this and he can only crane his head up at her, ceding his fate in her hands, against his better judgement. She catches that.

Suddenly, something unpleasant breaks on her face, like when one’s smelling something foul or pungent.

Bell reaches down and grips his jaw painfully in one hand, her nails digging into his skin, and tilts his head sideways. Strange that his stomach leaps at that.

“Say you’re sorry,” she spits furiously. “And say it like you fucking mean it.”

He feels, suddenly, triumphant and chuckles darkly. Eight fucking long weeks and the beast finally shows her claws.

“Try asking nicely,” Adler parrots her words from before, not a beat missed. Two can play that game, he thinks. "Or are you above niceness, Bell?”

Her grip tightens.

"You’re one to talk,” Bell says. Then, rubs the pad of her thumb over his scarred cheek and it feels like forgiveness, or the beginning of it, at least.

His confusion spikes.

Her nose skims down his jawline.

A better, sensible man would apologize. He'd squander it until his tongue burns acid, he'd beg for her forgiveness like a man asking for repentance before his god.

“Why did you do it, Russell?” Bell whispers against his skin now, baleful and raspy. Her chest rising and falling too rapidly.

But he’s a sick bastard, a selfish motherfucker, a heartless monster. All he does is hurt the people around him. He doesn’t get to take from her, not after what he's done.

Still, Adler catches her wrist. Relishing the way her wrist bone grinds under his hold. He pulls his face back to look at her.

“You know why.”  

Her eyes flick dangerously to his lips.

Desperation really can make the most vulgar things tolerable.

“Then prove it.”

So he does. As his hand reaches up to her neck, past the delicious column of her throat and with a precise swift, Adler grabs a fistful of her hair, the feminine gasp escaping her mouth is like a jolt to his groin, and kisses her.

Bell responds in kind. That little beast. She grasps his collar and drags him up to his feet, impatient with want. She laps at him, bites and sucks. His free hand snakes around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer.

She pulls away, catching her breath, and his teeth skim down her jaw, her neck. He bites her there in retaliation, on the delicious junction of her neck and shoulder, into the fabric of her shirt, making his intentions clear. Bell chokes in surprise and scrapes her nails over his scalp.

It hurts. But with pain, along comes pleasure and it’s good. It’s so good, Adler melts with a shaky breath.

His gloves come off first. Next, she pulls him free off his jacket, his sweater and snakes a hand between his legs, stroking him. He bites off a strangled ‘fuck’ into her throat. He’s worked up real fast already. Adler manages to make a short work of her shirt, unclasping her bra before he’s all but pushes her onto the bed.

Adler settles above her, capturing her lips in another feverish, hot-blooded kiss. He tugs her zipper down and slips his hand inside her pants. Her cunt’s everything he’s come to expect: wet, warm and oh-so wrong. She sucks in a breath. Her hips move against his hand. His blood sings. She throws her head back against the pillow, while his finds her earlobe.

“Has this proven my point, Bell?” he asks. His answer starts on a moan and ends with a breathless ‘yes’.

He doesn’t let her come that easily. No, he wants to drag this out for as long as he can until it drives her mad. So, Adler peels the rest of her clothes away, pulls her shoulder and turns her onto her stomach. He pins her down, hard. She gasps loudly against the white pillowcase, her hand fists into the sheets.

Adler slots himself behind her. His hand tracing along her spine, followed by his mouth, just how he fantasized once upon a time. His other hand quickly undoes the snap of his pants. Everything has been poisoned by her and her only; she is in his tongue, his veins, his mind, his lungs. She takes the centrefold of his mind and it's ridiculous.

He presses himself against her ass. His mouth falls open. Her body trembles. She’s all sin and racing hearts and sweaty flesh. She’s perfect. His now free hand slides up to the nape of Bell’s neck, reaching her throat, pressing down. She makes this high-pitched, demanding noise as she moves her hips back against him, leaving him wanting, helpless at the thought of having her right here, right now, in the warm neon glow of her hotel room.

“Please,” Bell begs. He groans in response and he gives it to her. Fuck, he’d give her anything if she begs just exactly like that.

When Adler is finally inside her, he thinks his world drops dead. He sets a merciless pace. He is not a gentle man and there is nothing gentle in the supple arch of her back, a rose bent backwards in the wind, as he pants along her neck before he pulls out, twists her onto her back again and pushes deeper into her until she comes apart underneath him (he’s made sure she begs for it- please, Russell. Oh god, Russell)

(He didn’t have to. Russell Adler is never the kind of man to fall for his dark side, but Christ knows he is only one man)

[one-small-nightmare]

One Small Nightmare

Based on One Small Dream by @calcium-cat and my imagination. ( basically swapped except with different stuff or well interactions also I hope it’s fine to write this and also if ur reading this calcium cat I love ur one small Dream story!! Also I decided to write it here since I don’t know how to get a archive account thing )

Chapter 1

Nightmare teleported to his office, exhausted from the long day and after the battle with the star sanses. His brother tried many times to stop him from hurting AU’s and everything else that he’s done, of course, it didn’t really work. Eventually his brother gave up on that, the next battle with them though, he’ll probably be at it again. Nightmare grabbed a granola bar and ate it as he looked down at his work. Tapping his pencil on the desk, trying to think of what to write. Nothing came to mind. He let out a sigh and put down his pencil. He could continue this tomorrow, he was exhausted anyways and should probably get some sleep. He teleported to his bedroom and got into his bed, pulling up the sheets with his tentacles.

The next morning dust,killer, and cross were playing some cards while horror was in the kitchen preparing some breakfast. As nightmare passed by the three noticed him. “Good morning Nightmare!” Killer said. “Good morning..” nightmare sleepily replied, he yawned and went into the kitchen to get some coffee. That’ll probably help with getting him energized. “G’morning” Horror said as he waved to the goopy skeleton. “Good morning, Horror. What’s for breakfast?” Nightmare said as he started to brew his coffee. “I’m making some pancakes topped with fruits and eggs n bacon for breakfast. It’s almost ready.” Horror looked to the side and then looked slightly back at nightmare. “Did you sleep well? You look pretty tired.” He asked. “I slept fine, I just stayed up late with my work is all.” Nightmare said. The coffee finished brewing and he poured some into his cup, adding some sugar and milk. He then walked out of the kitchen and headed to his office. He still had some time to work before breakfast, he thought while sipping some of his coffee. He entered his office to see his paperwork all over the floor scattered around. He sighed and thought that he must’ve accidentally let it fall while getting up and didn’t notice since he was so tired. He let out a long sigh and began picking up all the papers. He finally finished picking them all up and put them on the desk, he sat down, taking another sip of his coffee. He began writing. A few minutes passed and he could smell the breakfast, horror must almost be done he thought. He took a sip of his coffee, but there was no coffee left. He also noticed that he was still pretty tired, which was a bit weird since he did just drink a whole cup of coffee. Horror then shouted “breakfast is ready!”. Nightmare teleported to the dining room and sat down. The others also arrived, sitting down and they began to eat....except they didn’t. They all were looking at nightmare with slightly worried expressions. “Why are you guys all looking at me..?” He said. “Are you sure you slept fine last night? You look even more tired.” Horror responded. “I’m fine. I think....” nightmare mumbled the last part so that it was barely heard. “Your sure..?” Cross replied. All of a sudden nightmare became extremely light headed and couldn’t think straight, he tried to respond but wasn’t able to. He could feel himself wobbling from side to side and he tried to keep himself stable. “N-nightmare?!” Killer worriedly said. Oh no, Nightmare knew that he might- Nightmare suddenly fell onto the floor his eyes starting to narrow. “NIGHTMARE!” the four shouted while rushing towards him. That was all nightmare heard and saw before he closed his eyes and passed out.

Nightmare opened his eyes to find a skeleton with yellow or golden eye lights looking down at him. “Night? Are you ok?” The skeleton said....wait that skeleton was....dream?! Nightmare quickly jolted up and looked at what seemed to be his brother. “D-Dream?” The skeleton smiled and said “yeah! Who else would it be.”

Nightmare couldn’t believe what he was seeing, he thought Dream hated him after everything happened and- nightmare looked down. He was back to...his normal self?!? “HOW AM I BACK TO NORMAL, I THOUGHT YOU HATED ME. WAIT THIS IS JUST A DREAM ISNT IT-“ “calm down night! This isn’t a dream, your not sleeping anymore. Also what do you mean by back to normal? You’ve always been like this. Also I’ve never hated you brother! I’ve always loved you and that won’t ever change!” “Dream” replied. “No no no no, this has to be a dream, it can’t be real it can’t be....this is just ALL FAKE” the last word echoed loudly and then a rumble was heard. All of a sudden a black goopy Tsunami was heading towards the tree that nightmare and “dream” were at. A goopy wave submerged “dream” and nightmare quickly attempted to climb the tree. He wasn’t as good of a climber as his brother but he should be fin- he slipped. Nightmares eyes widened as he held his breath and fell into the goopy ocean. He tried to swim up but couldn’t, he was too far down and couldn’t move for some reason. The goop was cold and dark, he could only see some light shining through until it was completely dark. He let out his breath and gasped for air but couldn’t. He was drowning in the goopy ocean that had taken his brother when all of a sudden nightmare opened his eyes and jolted up from his bed. He was breathing heavily. “Nightmare are you okay!?!?” Yelled a familiar voice. Wait, that wasn’t his brothers voice. He looked where he had heard the voice and saw horror and the other skeletons standing there, all looking at nightmare. Nightmare calmed down and sighed. “....yes...I’m fine....” he replied. “It doesn’t look fine to us. You literally passed out in the dining room and then you wake up breathing heavily out of nowhere!!” Cross shouted. Nightmare thought of what to say, he probably shouldn’t say that he had a dream or well Nightmare about his brother. “I just had a bad dream is all....” he finally replied. “Well that doesn’t explain you passing out, are you sure you actually slept well last night?!” Cross shouted again. “I’m sure!” Nightmare shouted back. Nightmare had actually slept fine last night, he wasn’t sure why he was feeling so tired. “Sigh I just don’t know why I’m so tired...” Nightmare added. “Guys maybe he needs some more negative energy.” Killer said. “We could destroy some AU’s! Come on guys let’s go!” Before nightmare could say anything they had all left. Nightmare sighed again and laid on his bed. He wondered why of all times he had a dream about, well, dream. It was more of a nightmare which he wasn’t used to since most dreams about his brother were usually happy memories except for..... when he fought the village. This was the first time he had a nightmare about his brother that wasn’t about the incident. He had a short nap and was feeling better. It must’ve been the work of the guys. He decided to get up and atleast eat something. He decided to walk since using magic might make whatever he had worsen even if he had a flow of negative energy currently which was boosting him. He went to the fridge and pulled out his plate of breakfast and boiled some water to make some chamomile and lavender tea. It usually helped him with sleeping and he did plan on taking a nap after having something to eat.

After eating his breakfast nightmare was heading back to his room when he heard a portal open. The guys were back, nightmare walked over to the living room were he saw the guys but....they were injured. “What happened?!?!” Nightmare exclaimed. “We met the star sanses while we were destroying some AU’s to help you” Killer responded. “Let me try to heal you guys-“ nightmare tried to say. “It’s fine you need to get some rest, we’ll heal our selves...” cross said. “No way, I’m going to heal you guys.” Cross and killer sighed and them and the rest of the guys let nightmare heal them. “How did the star sanses do this?!?” Nightmare asked. Dust replied “we don’t really know, they attacked us and somehow seemed stronger. Horror told us that we should go and-.....wait.....where’s horror...” everyone’s eyes widened as they looked at where the portal used to be. Horror had been left behind. “I’m going back for him” nightmare said. “You can’t, you have to rest! It’s too dangerous, we’ll handle it.” “No one leaves the castle while I’m gone, I don’t want you guys getting hurt again. It’ll be quick.” Nightmare said. Nightmare opened a portal and went through it. It closed behind him. “Good luck....” the three said.

I also don’t know why it keeps on spacing out really big like that, also go check out calcium-cat’s One Small Dream Story! It’s really good

[the-starryknight]

Aftermath of an Accidental Bond

Rated: T | No Archive Warnings | 1k

For the 2021 Summer Writin’ Challenge: Week 4 (still time to join us!) Prompt: His hands, Trope: Accidental Bonding, Craft: 2nd POV, Characters/Objects: A shapeshifter poet Summary: When you took the Mungo's third shift, you knew there would be weird shit. You just didn't expect to find the most recognizable face in the Wizarding world shoved into a hospital cot beside Draco Malfoy. Thanks to @softlystarstruck for the fantastic beta on this, and to @onbeinganangel for holding my hand as an alpha. minor warning for mention of a character being ill -- nothing graphic!

“If they can’t break this, I’m going to have to kill you, Potter,” comes the posh voice in bay three. “Can’t spend my whole life tied to an idiot saviour.”

“—like to see you try.”

You ought to go see what caused that awful crashing noise, but you’ve been in their room three times already and you really don’t want to have to walk out in the middle of your shift.

“Would you shove over?”

You’ve got three problems. First: their collective chart claims that the marriage bond was broken three hours ago, but second: neither patient seems to be aware that they are both free to leave. The third problem is named Sylvan, the willowy werewolf on a bad wolfsbane dose from bay six. He wouldn’t be an issue if it he hadn't also taken an interest in the bickering pair in bay three.

It’s obvious from the start that the second shift didn’t tell them the bond was broken. If it weren’t half three in the morning, and if you weren’t dead bored with the rest of the caseload, you probably would have gone in and done your Healerly duty.

Instead, you murmur, “Just taking a new set of vitals,” as you conduct the familiar charms. Harry Potter’s pulse is jumpy, too high to be his resting, and he’s got a flush to his cheeks even though he’s not sick.

“Thank you so much,” Potter says to you, like he’s trying to ingratiate himself. It works less well when he’s shoved into a single hospital bed in a gown he doesn’t need to be wearing, touching Draco Malfoy from shoulder to calf. “I was wondering,” Potter continues, “what your opinion is on the proper ratio of coffee to cream and sugar.”

You stare at him.

“Don’t listen to him,” Malfoy snaps, rolling his eyes.

Malfoy hesitates as you move to cast the spell to record his blood pressure. In your years on the ward, you’ve seen more Dark Marks than you can count, and even though it doesn’t bother you anymore, you try to make the charms quick for him.

Harry's fingers flick against the back of his other hand. It's barely a reassurance, but it sends Malfoy's heart rate spiking anyway.

"Fucking bond," Malfoy mutters under his breath, turning somehow even pinker.

“Is it coffee you’re fighting about now?” you ask innocently. You’re well aware they’ve fought through every imaginable subject over the past three hours.

“No,” Potter answers, as Malfoy snaps, “Yes.”

“I summoned a cuppa for Potter and he was displeased with the amount of cream I added to it — a perfectly reasonable amount if I might add, which he claims is scanty. Scanty!” Malfoy rolls his eyes at Potter.

“If the coffee still looks like coffee, there’s not enough cream." The cup in question is sitting on Potter’s side table, horribly pale and still steaming away under a warming charm.

Can’t Potter see the affection in Malfoy’s gaze? It’s so obvious to you. They move like a matched pair of wands, like the bond between them is still true even though you’re certain it’s gone. Potter’s hand twitches when Malfoy’s moves; his eyes slip to Malfoy’s lips when he talks, like he wants to take everything but can't or won't.

“You know,” Malfoy says, and you’re starting to understand why nobody else wants to deal with them. “Potter here thought it was a good idea to start reading the spellbooks in my library out loud. Do you know better than to do that?”

“Sure,” you mutter, wondering if now’s a good time for a speedy exit.

“I wasn’t just reading it willy-nilly,” Potter snaps, and he looks genuinely hurt. “I was investigating Malfoy. He’s under watch for Possession of Dark Artifacts.”

Malfoy points at you. “Even our Healer knows what’s what. This is all your fault.”

You’re about to respond, but both their eyes slide past you and you know, you know that problem number three is at the door. Sylvan is willowy, with a melodic accent and sparkling brown eyes and it’s no wonder Potter’s noticed him.

And that means you’ve got a new problem, because Malfoy’s glaring at Potter staring at Sylvan, and Sylvan’s got his stupid notebook out and he’s going to start quoting his erotic poetry at them, isn’t he?

“Excuse me,” Malfoy complains loudly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

You shove past Sylvan to grab a bucket, barely restraining a hip check on the way as he murmurs something about forbidden caresses and watchful moons.

Malfoy takes the offered pan from you, but sets it aside without looking; Potter's got his full attention.

“Watching you like that makes me sick,” Malfoy snaps. “The bond is making me sick.”

The nausea symptoms should have ended with the bond. Have they even bothered trying to stop touching?  Maybe it's easier to pretend their obvious connection is only magic.

“You shouldn’t watch, then,” Potter says.

If Sylvan had any tact he’d leave them be, but — and you catch the glint in his smile — maybe he’s as onto them as you are.

“Like a lover’s waltz, I’ll hold you through your quaking,” he’s going on in his lilting, stupidly attractive voice.

Potter’s hand brushes against Malfoy’s knuckles, so quick you almost miss it, but Malfoy snags his wrist and puts two fingers on Potter’s pulse point.

Sylvan finishes the poem with a flourish and a bow and leaves, nodding to you as he goes. The smolder between Malfoy and Potter is three times worse, so you follow Sylvan out. It's cooler even in the doorway, like there's more oxygen, like the force of their false bond is actually consuming the air in the room.

Malfoy mutters, “I hated that.”

“I know,” says Potter. “You're not really jealous, I get it.”

“Right.” Malfoy’s voice is horribly resigned. Can’t Harry tell he’s lying? “I’m tired.”

“Roll over then, we can both fit. I'll hold you.”

“Because of the bond?”

“Because of the bond.”

Read Aftermath of an Accidental Bond on Ao3!

Past weeks: I. Let it Come to Them (Fluff) | II. By Merlin’s Hand, Save Him (Action) | III. The Pleiades Were Watching Too (Angst/MCD)

[5lazarus]

Jane Austen Book Club

Dukat reads Pride and Prejudice to help him understand human relations (and fuck the Sisko). He thinks he’s being Darcy but really, he’s just Mr. Collins…and evil. Garak lends him a copy of Jane Austen and a horrific cravat, and really, it's all downhill from there. The sorta-Regency AU that no one wanted but that @the-venereal-bede asked for, so here we go!

For your formatting sanity, read on Archive of Our Own here!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Commander Sisko is in need of a good fuck. Skrain Dukat believes he is just the man for the job. Absolutely everyone else disagrees.

“You see, my dear Julian,” Garak says, eyes widening over his Tarkalean tea, “a certain someone sent him a copy of that lovely novel you lent me, and he does believe it is meant as a model of, ah—“

“Human mating practices,” Julian says, horrified.

Garak closes his eyes, inclines his head, and smiles. “Yes. Now, how he arrived at that misconception is neither here nor there.”

“You told him,” Julian says.

Garak widens his eyes and inclines his head. “Now, your Jane Austen writes a society that is…familiar to certain Cardassian cultural practices.”

“The bickering as a lead up to sex, yes,” Julian says. Garak pauses. Julian says, “What? I read about it.”

Garak does not even attempt to suppress a smirk. “What book?” he asks, faux-suspicious.

Julian colors, and continues, “So, a certain someone, who is certainly not a spy masquerading as a tailor, slipped Jane Austen’s seminal text Pride & Prejudice into Gul Dukat’s PADD when he showed up at the station after we accidentally set off the emergency self-destruct system. As an insider look into human mating culture. And now he’s convinced this is going to get Commander Sisko to fuck him.”

Garak says, “Yes, isn’t it delightful?”

Julian picks up his tea and smiles over the rim. “Oh yes,” he says. “Commander Sisko is going to kill us both!”

At Quark’s, during lunch, Major Kira comes to their table. She interrupts a truly riveting debate about the old Earth movie Lawrence of Arabia and the sublimation of trauma into BDSM, where Garak is cool and amused the entire time, and Julian more and more gesticulating.

“It’s not just sex, Garak,” Julian is saying hotly.

Kira steps back, but Garak, smirking to himself, says loudly, “Oh Major, do you need something? You’re just in time to settle a question.”

Kira says uncertainly, “I’m not sure I’m the best one to ask.”

“Nonsense!” Julian says. “Who else would we go to?” He puts down his fork. Garak leans forward and grins at Julian.

Kira says, “Dax? Quark? Even Sisko—actually, scratch that.” She puts her hands on her hips, trying to convey authority. It works on Julian. Garak merely widens his eyes at her. “So, I got the most interesting call in Ops today.” Julian glances up at Garak, and Kira folds her arms. “I get the sense you know what I’m talking about.”

Garak says, “I haven’t the slightest idea, Major. Please,” he gestures at a seat. “Enlighten us.” Julian picks up his fork again and smiles at him. He’s amused. So is Kira, despite herself. She pulls up a chair and sits on it backwards.

She leans forward and whispers, “Gul Dukat was wearing—Dax called it a cravat?”

Julian snorts into his tea.

“Ah,” Kira says. “I get the sense you know what I’m talking about. He called Dax, asking if she could—grant him an introduction? To Sisko?” She is baffled by the words she’s saying. “He says he needs a chaperone. Now, that’s never stopped him from diplomatic negotiations before—“

Garak says knowingly, “Oh, Major, he should never have been left without a chaperone to begin with. His father—“

Kira says, “I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know! What you did to his father. I don’t need to know. Anyway. I just had a sense. Do you two have anything to do with that?”

Julian sets his fork back down and puts his napkin on his plate. “We don’t mean any harm,” he says. “Just—streamlining communication. Did Dax agree?”

Kira says, “Yeah, that’s the part I don’t get. She said yes! I’ve never seen her agree to anything that fast—willingly spending time with Gul Dukat!”

Garak inquires innocently, “Did he happen to mention a book, Major?”

“Something about a Darcy?”

Julian puts his head in his hands. Garak’s eyes widen. “Oh, then—there’s nothing to worry about. He’s just indulged in an Earth book of manners I sent him. Nothing to worry about,” he repeats. Slowly, he smiles. “But do give Lieutenant Dax my thanks.”

Dax says, “I think the funniest thing about this is that he thinks he’s Mr. Darcy, when he’s clearly a Mr. Collins.”

Kira says, “I still don’t get—why do you need to drop off a card and get it signed to talk to someone you want to fuck?”

Dax rolls her eyes. “It’s not quite that, Kira,” she says. “It’s more that you’re open to—talking.” She rolls her hands out as they exit the turbolift and enter Ops.

“Right.” Kira waggles her eyebrows. “Talking.” They separate to their stations, hiding their smiles, and shift to their Starfleet selves. Dax pulls up the latest readings on geothermic activity from the closest M-class planets in the Gamma Quadrant; the Jem’Hadar are not near, but close enough that their sensors register their presence. Kira frowns over the latest dispatch from the provisional government. Everything is new, nothing is particularly going well, but they have a rhythm, and that means they can get through the day. Routine is good: Kira is still unsettled by her real-life nightmare with the Cardassians, and Dax still catches herself whistling Joran’s melodies.

Then Sisko comes out of his office, bearing raktajino and whistling to himself. Dax involuntarily starts: Joran? Kira looks up sharply, but Sisko is calm and that calms her. Dax goes back to work.

Sisko walks over to Kira and says, “I just had the most informative call with Kai Winn and Vedek Bareil.”

Kira straights up. “Oh?” she says warily.

Sisko takes a sip from his Klingon coffee, preparing to launch into the story, but an ensign says, “What the fuck? Sorry, sir. We have an incoming call from…Gul Dukat.”

Dax giggles. Sisko looks askance and says, “Again?”

Dax says innocently, “Oh, I wonder what he could want.”

Kira coughs a laugh into her hands. Sisko rolls his eyes at her.

“Let’s see what he’s wearing this time,” he sighs. He looks at Dax. “I don’t know who gave him a book of manners from eighteenth century England, of all places. It’s infuriating. On screen, ensign.” He braces himself, and Dax and Kira do too.

Gul Dukat takes up the whole screen, not because he is a particularly big man or charismatic. It is because he programmed it to fixate on his face. He sits there primly, neck covered by a huge, puffy piece of cloth. It is lurid, bright orange, and its pattern seethes.

That is one horrific necktie, the entirety of Ops thinks in unison. Not even Quark would touch that; this makes the Ferengi’s ugly-chic look positively haut-couture.

Sisko clears his throat. “What do you want, Dukat?” he says.

Dukat smiles winsomely. It is the same smile he wore when he told a Bajoran worker he was stealing her wife and sending her children to the mines. Kira’s face fixes into a snarl. Sisko glances back at her, to check if she needs anything, but she makes a subtle gesture with her hand.

“Well?” Sisko says. “I do have a station to run.”

Gul Dukat drawls, “Certainly you have time for a chat between partners—“

“Partners?” Sisko stares askance. “You got trapped in Ops during a self-destruct program you made, and you think you can—is there anything you need, Dukat?” He restrains his anger. Behind him, Kira is now less disgusted and more horrified. She tries to catch Dax’s eye: is this really happening?

Dax grins.

“No, I just wanted to offer my assistance,” Dukat says. “To remind you that I am still here, assiduously waiting, to swoop in whenever I hear the call. As I did during the auto-destruct sequence just one week ago, if you remember.”

“Swoops like a vulture,” Kira mutters behind Sisko. “Like carrion.”

Dax says, “Well, with that necktie, he’s certainly hard to forget.”

Dukat preens. “Do you like? I was advised by—I wish our people to become better friends, Commander Sisko. Truly, I do. And I think the best way for us to proceed is for you to remember that I am always here. Waiting. For when you will need me, because you will need me.”

“Chief O’Brien has this station well in hand,” Sisko says repressively, “and Bajor takes care of the rest. Is there anything else you need?” Gul Dukat opens his mouth, but Sisko gestures at the ensign. “Close the channel. Sisko out.” He turns to Dax. “What the fuck was that about?”

Dax shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says.

Sisko says, “I know you do, Old Man. What’s he playing at?”

Dax begins walking towards the turbolift. “Dunno! But I just remembered—I need to drop these PADDs off with Julian.” She grins at him. “What? You didn’t like the cravat?” Sisko sighs.

“Cheer up, Benjamin,” she says as the doors begin to close. “At least he’s using his words.”

Sisko winces. Turning around, he barks at the frozen Ops personnel. “What? Don’t you have work to do? Get to work!”

“Bet you he was jerking off under the table,” Dax says. “Acquire.”

Quark makes a face. “Evade. Well, he fucks himself every time he talks.” Busily he looks at his cards. Any hand can be a winning hand, if you play your cards right. He spins the tongo wheel. Dax smiles.

“What’s your bet, Quark?” she asks, stretching her legs like a lazy cat underneath the table. Quark rolls his eyes at her. “Do you think Benjamin will bite?”

“Not in the way Dukat wants,” Quark says. He looks at her suddenly, then glances back down at his cards. She is trying to distract him with gossip and he will not let it work, however entertaining Starfleet drama is. She’s bluffing. He says, “Unless?” Unfortunately Dax shakes her head. Damn, Quark thinks. That could have been profitable. Strange, but profitable.

Dax, thinking about it, says, mirth in her voice, “Well, that’d be a new record in interstellar relations. The Emissary of the Prophets and Starfleet commander accepts the courtship of one Gul Dukat—“

“Courtship?” Quark looks up sharply. “You didn’t tell me he was courting him.” This will definitely be profitable!

Dax is nonplussed. “Well, I mean, it’s not really a courtship when one party is utterly repulsed by the other and totally ignorant of his affections.”

“Jadzia,” Quark puts down his cards. “You’re breaking my heart. Don’t you know there’s money to be made, when love is in the air?” He mines sniffing the intoxicating aroma of phemerones, alien and Ferengi alike. He bares his sharp little teeth in a winsome grin. “I can help with this, you know. Help everyone. We can’t have our commander distracted in times such as these, you know. I can arrange a little meeting, semipublic, you understand—“

Dax says, “I don’t, but…retreat.” A bit embarrassed now, she spins the tongo wheel. She loves to gossip and she loves controlling the funnel of information through Quark. Perhaps this was a misstep.

Quark’s eyes light up. “Gul Dukat would pay good money on a spread of the commander’s favorite, under a candlelit dinner. In a semi-retreated place so, you know, fondling can happen if it happens—“

“You don’t think Benjamin’s going to fondle anything, do you?” Dax is amused. “Play your hand, Quark. And on your head if this backfires!”

Quark makes a face and says, “Confront.” He grins up at Dax. “Rule of Acquisition Twenty-Two: a wise man can hear profit in the wind.”

Dax cocks an eyebrow. “Rule of Acquisition One Hundred And Ninety,” she retorts. “Hear all, trust nothing. Tongo!”

“I don’t know why we have to have this here, Quark,” Sisko says. “We have a board room in Ops.”

“Don’t you hew-mons know anything about preventing a war?” Quark scowls. “Wine and dine, commander! Wine and dine!”

Sisko rolls his eyes. Dukat has demanded a meeting to discuss Jem’Hadar build-up on the Gamma side of the wormhole; Starfleet Command indicated their desire that he speak to it, citing his strange ability to keep Dukat talking. There’s nothing strange about it. The man’s an egotist. Normally Sisko would convene the meeting in his office, and have Kira or Dax around to keep him from getting too weird, but both of them have pleaded busy. Captain Bodahn is in town; Vedek Bareil has a rare break from monastic duties. Thus Sisko is left alone, with Quark, in a private nook at the upper level of the bar, where few can see them but, of course, the bartender himself. Nothing goes unseen at Quark’s.

Odo has arranged Bajoran security throughout the place, enough to make it clear they aren’t happy Dukat is here. Sisko catches the gaze of one particularly stoic woman. Stony, she does not even nod back. They’re good, Odo’s hand-picked forces. While they’re loyal to Odo first and Starfleet maybe seventh, Sisko likes having them around. It makes Dukat very, very uncomfortable.

Quark says, right in his ear, “What do you think of crayfish?” Sisko starts violently and pushes him away.

“Crawfish?” Sisko stares at him. “What?”

“I asked your dad,” Quark says.

“What?” That’s insane. “How did you—nevermind, Quark.” Joseph can handle anyone, and the idea of his wily old dad running circles around Quark is oddly comforting. Then he hears the murmurs, Bajorans looking askance, and knows Dukat is coming.

Quark says, “Damn. Must’ve stopped by at Garak’s, then.” Sisko’s mouth drops. Dukat is wearing skintight pants, illuminating every unfortunate bulge and ridge in his knobby legs. He wears that horrific cravat, stroking it as he weaves like a snake through the shocked crowd. The necktie is orange. The waistcoat is an electric blue of the likes never seen amongst the terracottas popular on Deep Space Nine. The jacket, though, is out of this world—slashed to give him the appearance of a tiny waist and shoulders so ridiculously wide he looks like a capital-T.

Quark says, “Hm. Cardassian fashions must’ve changed since the Occupation. Well! Don’t you feel underdressed.”

Sisko says, “He looks like a sea slug.”

“Where I’m from, that’s a complement!” Quark grins. “A bottle of kanar and whiskey for yourself, coming right up.”

“No—“ Sisko does not want to give Dukat any excuse to be more verbose than usual, but it is too late. Quark disappears, and Dukat approaches.

“Ah, Commander,” Gul Dukat preens. “How good of you to consent to dinner with me.”

Sisko says, “I follow my orders. Where’s Quark?”

Dukat says, “Surely we’re beyond the point of needing chaperones.” He sits down at the table, which is uncomfortably small. Sisko pulls his own chair back and settles down, four inches away. Dukat scooches in. A muscle twitches in Sisko’s jaw, but otherwise, he does not move.

Quark comes by holding candlesticks. Sisko, perturbed, says, “Is this really necessary? It’s just business.”

Quark says, “Sh. Now, gentleman!” He claps his hand. “For our first course, I’ll be serving you a Ferengi special—desiccated laka leaves with freshly-filleted tube grubs, in a fermented garlic wine sauce. I know how you liked my tube grubs, Dukat.”

Dukat smiles winsomely. It makes him look even more like an inbred greyhound than usual. Sisko is beginning to think he might want that whiskey after all.

Quark continues, “And then, for our main course—a simple crawfish boil, as you hew-mons say, with candied makati berries to keep it to our Cardassian tastes.” Quark winks, very obviously, to Dukat. Dukat’s smile grows wider.

Sisko, a bit disturbed, says, “Uh—why don’t we just leave it at the tube grubs, Quark.” It is not question. It is an order. “I have pressing business to attend to, and cannot stay for a whole three-course meal.” Pressing business like making sure Jake and Nog have done their homework and going over security reports with Odo, which he had planned to do tomorrow morning, but the less time spent with Dukat, the better.

Dukat says, “I agree. We want to get to the point of this meeting, don’t we?” He begins loosening his cravat.

Quark holds his clasped hands to his chest gleefully. “I quite agree!” He leans forward and lights the candles quickly. “I’ll just leave you two gentlemen to it.” He scampers away, leaving Sisko with a horrible feeling. This is going to be weird. With Dukat, it’s always weird.

As soon as Quark leaves, Dukat leans forward and attempts to pull his hand forward, upsetting the candle.

“Woah, man,” Sisko says, grabbing it as it spills wax onto Dukat’s hand. Dukat hisses, releasing him grip.

“Benjamin, if I may call you Benjamin,” Dukat begins.

“Commander is fine,” Sisko says. “Dukat, what—“

“In our long acquaintance, you have found me a constant and unfailing presence,” he says, stroking his horrific necktie. “Indeed, my interventions have been necessary, saving the life of you, your son, and this whole station on multiple occasion. Your barbs have been sharp, your repartee cunning, but as for me, I have shown mastery in every situation that you have needed me. Clearly it is time for us to admit all along that this dance is reaching its final, fated steps. The Emissary of the Prophets needs the Prefect of Major, and together—“

Sisko says, “Since when have you saved my life? You were an active inconvenience when the station was under lockdown, you have consistently attempted to take the station by force—“

Dukat smiles again. “Again, we dance, and the music plays on.” He waves a hand idly through the air. “O-Oh, Quaaark!” he trills. Quark comes running over. “Where are our drinks? Where is the music? Why isn’t there dancing?”

Sisko stares at Quark. “Because I said so,” Sisko says.

Quark points at Sisko. “Because he said so. Drinks coming right up!” He scurries away and comes back with a single bottle of kanar and two traditional hourglass glasses. He pours them both a glass, maintaining eye contact with Sisko the entire time.

Dukat says, “A toast.”

Sisko says, “Our sensors have not picked up any new activity from the Jem’Hadar. Do you have something to report, or are you just wasting my time?”

Dukat laughs lightly. “Oh, commander, save some of that for later.” A bit more threatening this time, he says, “A toast—to our partnership.”

Sisko says, “I don’t drink kanar. And I don’t drink with you, Dukat. Now, will you tell me what you’re blathering about or will you f—“

“Gentlemen!” Quark says, bearing tube grubs. “I hope I’m interrupting.”

Sisko says, “Don’t you mean…not interrupting, Quark?”

A beat passes. Quark inclines his head. “Sure.” He places a plate of freshly-filleted tube grubs before both of them, and then proffers what Sisko assumes is a pepper grinder. “Paprika?” Dukat, pained, nods. Vigorously Quark massages the grinder. It is a little obscene. He grunts as he begins to twist. Slowly, achingly, the flakes begin to drop.

Sisko says, “Please stop.”

Quark says, “Just setting the mood.” Sisko makes a face. “You want, too?” He makes for Sisko, who puts his hands up.

“I don’t like tube grubs,” he says sourly, eying Dukat. “I think our business is done here.”

“No!” Quark pounces. “You haven’t even gotten to your second course!”

Sisko turns to him. “Who’s paying you?” he demands. “What’s going on?” Quietly the Bajoran security officers in their wall-colored clothes each take a step forward, to make themselves known.

Dukat growls, “Quark, you’re ruining the moment.” He smiles unpleasantly. “Benjamin, please.” He takes his arm, but Sisko slaps his hand away.

“What’s gotten into you?” Sisko says. “What’s with the—necktie?”

Dukat preens. “What, this old thing? A mutual friend told me it was just the thing to attract the notice I desire. He gave me a book, you see, and really I must admit after reading it you humans are somewhat less unenlightened than I first imagined. More civilized than the Bajorans, at least.”

Sisko closes his eyes. “What book is that?” he says. “The Prince? Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? Vanity Fair?”

Dukat says, “Better. And it would make me the happiest of men, beyond the proudest of men, the most prejudiced of men—“

“That,” Sisko interrupts, voice rising, “is not a good thing.”

Dukat ignores him. “The most sensible of men, the most full of sense of men, of all persuasions to finally enjoin you, Benjamin, finally to end this charade.” He grabs Sisko’s hand. “Benjamin! You are not a Darcy!”

“The fuck are you saying,” Sisko says.

Dukat stops. “Surely you know—“

Sisko says with finality, “No. I don’t.”

Dukat says, “But—“

“No,” Sisko says.

“You said—the necktie—he said—“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Sisko says. “Eat your tube grubs.”

Gul Dukat tightens his cravat, and in silence they finish their meal. Catching Sisko in the replimat the next day, lunching with Julian as always, Garak asks Sisko what he thought of Dukat’s new passion for Jane Austen. Sisko shoots him a look so deadly he stops, eyes wide, and suddenly understands Dukat’s unrelenting lust.

“Well,” Garak says, shaking himself as Sisko stalks away. He pulls at his collar and them remembers himself. “That was…something, wasn’t it? Seeing our commander in a fury, in one look.” He leans forward, over the table. “You know, I don’t think Sisko like Jane Austen. Not nearly as much as Gul Dukat.”

Julian smiles wryly. He says, “Well, yes. Don’t you remember the situation with the ghost? He much prefers Wuthering Heights.” He looks at Garak, suddenly worried. “You’re not going to tell Dukat, are you?”

Garak smiles to himself. “I believe my one attempt at teaching him to be a man of culture is enough, my dear Julian.”

Julian frowns. “Shame. I thought we could have a book club.” He grins at the look on Garak’s face. “Get the boys all together. Act scenes out in the holosuites. Could be fun.”

Garak says, “No. Not with Gul Dukat. That cravat was enough.”

[phoebenavarro]

rest assured, the night will come

realized I haven’t posted this here! a continuation of my “Jon trusts Tim” s2 AU, but this is first chronologically so reading the other parts isn’t necessary

After the Prentiss attack, Jon finds himself exhausted, in pain, and dreading having to be alone, so that’s how he finds himself outside of Tim’s flat propping himself up on the cane the doctors gave him with two containers of curry takeaway in his free hand. Together, Jon and Tim grapple with the events of the day, and Jon makes a decision on who he can trust.

the magnus archives, jontim, 2500 words

on ao3 here

When Jon finally leaves the Institute, statements taken and pain meds all but worn off, exhausted and bone-weary, the last thing he wants to do is to be alone in his flat. He wants nothing more than to sleep, but even as tired as he is, the nightmares that are sure to come turn him off the concept. His stomach clenches, and he realizes that it’s from hunger, not fear or anxiety or disgust like he’d been assuming since he woke up. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to keep any food down, but he figures he’s got to  at least try. And he really doesn’t want to be alone, so that’s how he finds himself outside of Tim’s flat propping himself up on the cane the doctors gave him with two containers of curry takeaway in his free hand.

I should have texted, he thinks, rather belatedly, after he’s knocked on the door.

Tim answers the door after a few moments, and he looks slightly better than he did the last time Jon saw him. Maybe he took a nap. He looks surprised to see Jon.

“Sorry, I should’ve let you know I was coming,” Jon says before Tim gets a chance to say anything, “But I really didn’t want to be alone, so.” He holds up the food. “Curry?”

Tim smiles the first genuine smile Jon’s seen from him since they both woke up in the ECDC tent.

“God, yeah, you read my mind,” Tim says, “Come in.”

Jon’s been to Tim’s flat a few times, so he makes a bee line for the coffee table and sets the food down. A nature documentary of some sort is playing on the TV, volume low. He smiles a bit; Tim always needs his background noise. Jon carefully sits down on the sofa, wincing as the movement pulls on his wounds, and leans the cane against the armrest.  

Tim looks at him with concern. “Boss, did you just now leave the Institute?”

“Yes,” Jon sighs. The pain medication has now worn off entirely, he thinks, and his entire body aches. The worst is in his hip, where the worms dug particularly deep. The doctors gave him a prescription for more, but he didn’t think to go pick it up before the pharmacies closed, something he is now seriously regretting.

“Jon,” Tim says, exasperated.

“I know, I know…”

Tim turns on his heel and rummages around in the kitchen, returning with some napkins and a pill bottle, which he holds out to Jon.

“I’m assuming you didn’t get a chance to get these then,” he says, giving the bottle a shake, “Good thing I did, huh?” Jon wordlessly takes the bottle. “Food first, though.”

“Oh! Right,” Jon says, “Thank you, Tim. You’re a life saver.” Tim hums. “Quite literally.”

“Yeah. Guess there are some perks of getting eaten by worms together, huh? Sharing food and drugs.” He stands up. “Want something to drink? Alcohol is a big no no on the medication, otherwise I would be getting wasted.”

“Water’s fine,” Jon says. Tim goes back to the kitchen, and Jon starts unpacking the containers of food. Tim returns with two glasses of water, and they eat mostly in silence, too exhausted for the animated banter they usually share. Jon doesn’t mind, the quiet companionship is comforting, so they just sit and watch the documentary. Jon doesn’t really absorb any of it, but the soothing voice of the narrator is also comforting.

After they finish eating, Tim starts cleaning up, taking the empty containers to the kitchen. Jon takes a moment to read the directions on the pill bottle before taking one, very much looking forward to the pain easing up. Tim returns, settling next to Jon on the couch, sitting close enough that Jon can lean against him. They finish up the documentary, and Jon finally lets himself relax as the pain medication kicks in.

“What now?” Tim asks. Jon shrugs.

“I don’t care. Put on whatever you want.” “Alright,” Tim says, “A comfort movie then.” Jon nods, letting himself zone out while Tim scrolls through menus on the TV. Tim selects something, and Jon rouses himself from his thoughts.

“What are we watching?” Jon asks.

“Stand By Me.”

“Oh, I’ve never seen it.”

“Boss,” Tim sighs, shaking his head in disappointment, but he’s still grinning, “You’ve got to watch more movies. It’s a classic!”

Tim talks throughout the movie, but Jon doesn’t mind, because he has the subtitles on and everything he mentions is related to the movie, little tidbits and trivia. (“It’s based on a short story by Stephen King called The Body, and Stephen King actually saw a friend of his get killed by a train, but he doesn’t remember it because he repressed it so thoroughly,” Tim says. Jon admits he hasn’t read much Stephen King, and he is treated to a mini lecture about how “Stephen King is one of the most prolific authors of our time and you can’t discount him just because he is known for horror.”)

Tim is… remarkably normal, considering the day they had. Jon knows he copes with humor, so it’s not all that surprising, but Jon can’t muster up the energy to pretend to be annoyed by Tim’s quips. His mind keeps wandering back to Gertrude, murdered and then left in the tunnels for months, no one caring enough to truly look for her, not even the police.

That could happen to you, a horrible part of his mind whispers, and he shivers.

“Jon, what’s wrong?” Tim asks, gently, very sincerely, and he pauses the movie, turning to face Jon, “I mean, other than the obvious. I can practically hear you thinking.” Jon hesitates. It’s never been his nature to share his feelings with anyone, not even the people he’s closest with, but as he looks at Tim, at the bandages covering his skin that Jon can’t help but feel responsible for, he finds himself wanting to tell Tim. Tim suffered the worst right along him, he can trust Tim, especially when he’s looking at Jon like he is.

“You heard about Gertrude?” Jon asks quietly.

“Yeah, Martin told me, after I finally got him to stop apologizing for losing us in the tunnels.”

“Did he…” Jon swallows, “Did he tell you how she died?”

“No, but I’m guessing it wasn’t natural causes.”

“She ah, she was shot.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Tim breathes, “Seriously?” Jon nods. “Christ, who would want to kill Gertrude?”

“I don’t know, but it scares me,” Jon admits, “Even more than if she was killed by some… Monster. Because…”

“Because this was a person,” Tim finishes, “And they could do it again.” Jon nods again. “Yeah, I get it.” Tim cocks his head, makes the face he always makes when he’s about to make a joke to try to lighten the mood, “Although, it could have been a monster with a gun. We don’t know that they can’t use guns.” And Jon can’t help it, he does grin a little.

“Yes, well, somehow I don’t think that’s likely,” he says.

“No,” Tim sighs mournfully, “But that would be pretty cool. I mean, bad for us, Jane Prentiss managed to fuck us up pretty badly with just the worms, I’m glad we didn’t have to worry about being shot—“

“Tim,” Jon says, stopping him, because this topic of conversation is not good for his anxiety.

“Sorry,” Tim says, picking up on Jon’s discomfort, “Uh, do the police have any leads?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Jon says, “I’d imagine the trail is pretty cold by now. I mean, it was probably someone at the Institute, to be able to get into the tunnels, but we have no idea if there are other entrances outside the Institute… So it really could’ve been anyone.”

“But why would someone kill Gertrude?” Tim wonders, “I mean, other than for gross incompetence at actual archiving. Unless she was a secret badass or something.”

“At this point, I wouldn’t even be all that surprised,” Jon mutters, “I don’t want to believe that there’s a murderer at the Institute, but that’s what makes the most sense.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, “Probably.”

“I— It feels like I’m being watched, when I’m in the Archives. And with the tunnels— there’s more to the Institute than I thought. There’s something off. And I think Gertrude’s death has something to do with that. And…” Jon bites his lip.

“And?” Tim prompts.

“And what if whoever killed her comes after me as well?”

“Jon…”

“I know, I know, it’s stupid, but I can’t shake the feeling.”

“After the day we’ve had, I don’t think that’s stupid. A bit paranoid, maybe, but not stupid.”

“Oh,” Jon says. He hadn’t expected Tim to take him seriously.

“Considering the way Prentiss seemed to single you out, I mean, it kind of makes sense that people— or monsters might have it out for the archivist.” And that’s something Jon’s been trying not to think about, but he definitely agrees.

“And that is a whole other terrifying question,” Jon sighs, “What exactly I’ve gotten us into. But my more immediate concern is whether or not there is a murderer in our midst.”

“Bit more pressing,” Tim agrees, “You think the cops can handle it?”

Jon shrugs, “They weren’t particularly interested in finding her the first time, I don’t think finding her killer is going to be a priority.”

Tim snorts. “No, of course not.”

“It could have been anyone, even Martin, even Sasha. I really hope it wasn’t them, but I’m starting to think that we can’t afford to trust anyone. I know how paranoid that sounds, but—“

“But it makes sense,” Tim says. They lapse into silence for a moment. “What about me?

“What?”

“How can you be sure I didn’t kill Gertrude?”

Jon considers it. He probably shouldn’t trust Tim, if he’s being purely logical. But he does. He knows Tim; he saw Tim, when he first came to the Institute, deeply traumatized and clearly in a bad place (and he’d been curious about what happened, of course he was, but he’s known for a very long time that there are things you don’t ask about.) Jon helped coax him into a better place, watched as Tim found himself again. All that, and what they’d been through today was a hell of a bonding experience, and well, they were alone a lot during the attack. If Tim wanted him dead, he’d had plenty of opportunities.

But really, it all comes down to: Jon is scared, and he doesn’t want to do this alone, and Tim is the safest option. No, not just that, he wants to trust Tim.

“Because you’re my friend and I’m choosing to trust you,” Jon says.

Tim has a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look to him, like he wasn’t expecting Jon to be sincere.

“Yeah,” Tim says, and he looks away from Jon, and he sounds a bit strained, “Yeah boss, I trust you too.” Jon grins.

“I appreciate it,” Jon says, “Considering you’re allergic to sincerity.” He nudges Tim with his elbow, and Tim laughs, pulling Jon into a loose embrace, careful not to put too much pressure on their wounds. Tim sighs, and he starts gently brushing his fingers through Jon’s hair. Jon melts into the touch, and they settle back against the couch cushions in each other’s arms. It feels right.

“If you want to do your own investigation into Gertrude’s killer, I will help you,” Tim says, “One hundred percent. But right now we can’t really do anything. The Institute’s closed, we’re out on sick leave. The trail’s not gonna get any colder. First we need to focus on healing, okay?” Jon nods. “We can figure out all the suspects and make a murder board later, but I don’t think either of us are up to it right now.” As much as Jon’s skin is buzzing with the need to do something, or else he’s leaving himself open to attack, his more rational side knows that Tim is right. They’re safer together, anyway.

“Yeah,” Jon says, “Right. Let’s finish the movie.” They resume the movie, and Tim is a bit more subdued, content to watch the screen and idly run his fingers through Jon’s hair. As the film draws to a close, Tim starts to doze, breathing softly. Jon looks down at Tim’s peaceful face, covered in bandages, and his heart twists. This is his fault. If Tim hadn’t been helping Jon walk, he probably would’ve kept up with Martin, or if he’d left Jon to his fate, maybe he would have been able to outrun Prentiss and the worms.

This isn’t helpful, Jon chastises himself, but he can’t stop. If he can’t protect his employees, his friends, then what is the point? He tries not to spiral, and he directs his attention to the end of the movie. It’s not the kind of movie he would normally pick for himself, but he can see why Tim likes it. There are few things Tim values more than family, whether that be blood family or found family. Tim doesn’t talk much about his parents, but there are pictures of them and a brother around the place. Tim will talk more about his brother, but it’s always tinged with sadness, like he isn’t around anymore. Jon doesn’t ask; he feels like he hasn’t earned the right.

“I guess I should head back to my flat.” Jon says while the credits are rolling,  because he can feel himself starting to nod off next to Tim. That wakes Tim up, though.

“Jon,” he groans, “It’s midnight. You’re staying here.” He says it with finality, like it’s obvious. “I’m not letting you take the tube in the middle of the night when you can barely walk.” He gestures at Jon’s cane. Jon feels like he needs to object out of politeness, to make sure that it’s really alright, but he is, quite frankly, too tired, and he knows Tim wouldn’t offer if he didn’t mean it. But still, that part within him that won’t allow him to be a burden on anybody squirms. He pushes the feeling down.

Jon nods. “Thank you, Tim.”

“Come on,” Tim says, slowly getting to his feet, “The guest bed is made up, and we’re really gonna regret it in the morning if we sleep on the couch.” He offers a hand to help Jon up, but Jon waves him off, not wanting to hurt him. He uses his cane to help him get to his feet, and Tim leads him to the guest bedroom.

“Bathroom’s across the hall,” Tim says, “Let me know if you need anything.” And then Tim pulls him into a hug, resting his chin on Jon’s shoulder. “I’m really glad we’re alive,” he says into Jon’s hair, “We’ll figure it out, I promise.”

“Okay,” Jon replies, “Thanks Tim.”

That night, at least, they both sleep soundly, too exhausted for nightmares.

[eldritchqueerture]

Chapter 7: Threads

Hello! Long time no see! The delay was unplanned and I'm sorry about that. I had an idea in the meantime to add more fluff chapters before shit starts to go down but then I couldn't get to writing them while telling myself that I will write them eventually, and then I had other ideas, and I was writing for Summer in the Archives, and so we are where we are. I decided to just keep posting what I have and if I do feel like adding fluff that would be happening in the meantime then I will just make a separate work in the series. I'm aiming to go back to my weekly schedule (haha), so I hope I can get the next chapter out next Friday. As always, please leave me a comment or come yell at me here on tumblr, it always brightens my day and keeps my motivation up! Enjoy <3

Martin looks at Jon’s sleeping face and thoughts swirl inside his head like tendrils of the mist that has been following him, tendrils that meet in one specific place – his feelings for him. He’s not proud of the fact that this is where his thoughts end up turning every time he thinks about Jon, considering the severity of the situation Sasha explained to him, but he cannot help wondering – despite his better judgement – if Jon doesn’t share them. He replays the worry in his brown eyes, the tight hugs, always ensuring he’s there, safe, and whole… He might be adding meaning to otherwise ordinary actions, of course, but he can allow himself to hope, for when that hope sparks inside him, the fog withdraws.

Jon is wrapped in a blanket on the cot in the storage room, where Martin has laid him. They found him sleeping on the desk in his office, his eyes all red-rimmed and puffed up; they didn’t comment on it. Martin carried him to the storage room and placed his glasses nearby. Tim went to take Sasha home, so she can get some rest, too, and was supposed to come back with lunch; the events of the morning are laying heavy on all of them and have left them quite hungry.

Martin closes the door to the storage room and comes back to his desk. Working seems a bit pointless when you know that your boss is scheming an apocalypse somewhere behind your back and you can’t quit the job, but he finds himself needing a distraction, so he opens up his computer to do some follow up research on Jason North and the alleged ritual site he found in the middle of a Scottish forest. Martin’s never been good with research, not like Sasha, so he soon stumbles upon a dead end. He ends up researching pictures for Scottish forests and cottages, and he daydreams, with his poem notebook by his side. How nice would it be to just move to Scotland, to a cottage like that and forget everything. Grow your own vegetables and herbs, welcome the sun every morning with a cup of tea; go down to the town for some groceries, meet some good cows; and maybe Jon is there with him, and he finally gets through to his head that he shouldn’t make tea in the microwave, and they cuddle on the couch while reading—

“’scuse us,” comes a deep voice and Martin looks up, startled, to find two delivery men standing there, in the Archives, with a big package next to them.

“Looking for the Archivist,” the other man says, but Martin figures that just because the voice is coming from a slightly different direction. They sound exactly the same; he finds they look similar, too. Their clothes are identical; they’re different makes and all but somehow, he can’t tell these two men apart. There’s… something off to them.

“Sorry, are you two meant—” Martin blinks, but one of them interrupts him.

“Won’t take up your time.”

“Just got a delivery.”

Martin opens his mouth, trying to process the fact that they seem to be two parts of the same whole. He wouldn’t be able to explain this thought if asked, but this is what runs through his head.

“Look, you really can’t actually—”

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

He looks and yes, there, on the package, says ‘Jonathan Sims’ in a very ordinary, unassuming writing. He glances over at the door to the storage room and back at the two men.

“Well, he’s not—”

“We’ll just leave it with you.”

“Be sure he gets it.”

Martin struggles for words.

“Okay, I will, but you really have to actually—”

“’course. Much obliged.”

“Stay safe.”

“I’ll… try?” He responds with the first thing that goes into his head.

“Your recorder’s on, by the way.”

“Might wanna change that.”

Martin looks at his desk and he notices a tape whirring steadily in the recorder.

“Oh… so it is. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“At all.”

They both turn as one and leave Martin, the recorder, and the package alone. He hums, looking from one to the other and back.

“Well, I know for a fact that I did not turn you on,” Martin speaks to the recorder. “Maybe Tim felt in a mood for a prank. It is April Fool’s after all,” he huffs out a laugh. “Would be his style to do something, even with… all this happening.”

He stops the recording and turns to the package; before he can do anything else, though, the recorder clicks itself back on. Martin gives it a sideways look and his heart picks up the pace. He frowns and clicks stop again. One second. Two. There; it clicks the red button on its own.

Martin stands up and takes a step back.

“What the hell,” he breathes out.

Suddenly he hears a familiar laugh from the top of the stairs and energetic steps running down. Tim emerges from the doorway and gives him a surprised look.

“You okay, Marto?” He asks and places a paper bag on his desk, then points his chin at the package. “What’s that?”

“Uh…” Martin collects himself in a second. “Two delivery men just came by. It’s for Jon, apparently.”

Tim places a second paper bag and his coffee cup on his desk and walks around the package.

“No sender. Interesting.” He strokes his chin and looks at Martin with a grin. “We should open it.”

“Tim!”

“Look, boss is asleep, the package came to the Archives and not to his house, how private can it be?” Tim throws his arms up but seems to be watching Martin’s reaction more carefully. He doesn’t look very bothered, Tim assesses; he seems to be equally interested in the contents. He sighs and tosses him a letter opener.

“Fine, but you’re taking the blame,” Martin rolls his eyes with mock exasperation, and Tim’s grin gets wider.

“That’s the spirit!” He cuts the tape at the corners and opens the packaging to reveal an old wooden table; there’s a hole in the centre, Tim reckons about six inches square, and its surface is covered in intricate patterns resembling optical illusions. He frowns at it. “Huh. A table. Why would Jon…” He trails off as his eyes follow the hypnotizing patterns. “Interesting…”

Martin watches as Tim drops the letter knife to the floor, enraptured by the table. He wants to say something, to call out his name, but the fog from the edges of his vision spills out at the sight of the table and it blocks out the world; Martin stops feeling the chair underneath him and finds himself stranded in a sea of grey, thick fog.

“Tim? Tim!” He calls out but there’s no answer. There would be no answer, ever; he’s all alone here.

—

Jon wakes up to a nagging feeling that something is wrong. He blinks, trying to get rid of the sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids and gathers his bearings. He realizes he’s on the cot in the storage room, a blanket thrown to the floor next to him. He still feels too hot, and he takes off his sweater vest. What’s this feeling, gently pricking at the back of his mind?

He gets up, wobbly as he feels, and makes his way to the door. As he opens it, a voice makes its way to his ears.

“…friend mentioned poetry?” Jon squints his eyes, as light reaches him, yet he immediately recognizes the voice.

“…Gerry?” He asks and blinks – yes, he can make out the thin and long figure dressed in black, sitting on top of Tim’s desk. Tim is there too, leaning against Martin’s desk in front of Gerry, and Martin sits in the chair, his cheeks coloured just a little with faint pink. They all turn to him with surprise when he emerges. He can feel tension in the room, and he acknowledges the presence of something that looks like a table covered with a blanket in the middle of the room; the nagging in his mind grows into anxiety. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin jumps up to him with genuine worry and Jon smiles slightly, as he shakes his head.

“No.” He blinks again, to chase away the sleep and looks at Gerry and his inscrutable expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry gets down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

Jon frowns with worry.

“Gerry, I’m serious.”

Something in Gerry’s demeanour changes as he sighs, and his expression clears.

“Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m in,” he says. “Whatever your crazy plan is, if you even have one, I want to hear it or help you make it; you weren’t picking up your phone, so I decided to come, pay you a visit.” He glances towards the table and his eyes cloud with a shadow. “And it turns out it’s good that I did.”

“What is this?” Jon walks over to the table and three pairs of hands shoot out to stop him. Gerry’s touch lingers comfortably, because apparently that’s what he does, and Jon isn’t so sure he minds it.

“An old table, with weird, hypnotizing patterns,” Tim says, and Jon detects a tinge of guilt in his voice.

“Did it have a hole in the middle?” He asks urgently and Tim nods.

“We need to get rid of it,” Jon looks in the direction of the stairs. “Put it in the Artifact Storage and make sure it’s covered.”

“Are you familiar with it?” Martin asks and Jon nods.

“Amy Patel case; the one where a person got replaced. Why would they—” Jon’s face falls and he turns to Martin and Tim. “Who delivered it?”

“It was two delivery men, really big, quite intimidating, but—uh, now that I think about it I can’t remember what they looked like…”

“Shit,” Jon sighs and rubs his face. “Okay, we really do need a plan.” He looks over their faces and his eyes stop at Martin’s disgruntled expression. “What is it?”

“What you need is rest,” he crosses his arms. “You pulled an all-nighter with Sasha, and you haven’t even slept for two hours now.”

“You do look like shit,” Gerry offers his insight and Jon fixes him with a glare.

“I can’t protect you when I’m asleep,” he says and looks pointedly at the table. “Clearly. Tell me wha—” He stops when Gerry squeezes his arm sharply. He takes note of the static in the air and clears his throat. “I want to know what happened.”

Tim sighs.

“Alright, it is kinda my fault,” he admits looking away. “I insisted on opening your package to see what’s inside. But in my defence, I thought it would be something funny; at least a bit humiliating for you, and we could laugh it off. The mood’s been horrible lately,” he grimaces. “The lines kind of… hypnotized me. I couldn’t look away and I started getting lost in them. It… It felt like being trapped in a web; the more I struggled to look away, the harder it was. I don’t know how much time had passed before your resident goth intervened. Then I came back to myself and Martin… he was grey again.”

Jon glances worriedly at Martin, who starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“I didn’t think you guys could see that,” he confesses. “It’s… it’s that fog you mentioned,” he says to Jon who nods, his lips pressed together. “It was… stronger this time.”

“He was a step from disappearing,” Gerry says, looking at Jon curiously. “I thought you guys were new here.”

“We are,” Tim says, looking at Jon pointedly. “You said you know why that happens.”

“I did,” Jon sighs and leans against the desk, next to Gerry. “I’m—Martin, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Martin looks away and he mutters something along the lines of “don’t worry about it”.

“The fog is… another one of the fears; called The Lonely or The Forsaken,” Jon says, looking somewhere into space. “It’s the fear that you’re all alone, that you can’t connect with anyone. Martin…” He exhales. “I have reasons to believe that your connection to the Lonely might have appeared in this… reality, along with my memories.” He finally looks up at Martin; there are no emotions on his face. “When did the fog first appear?”

“S-Sometime when I got transferred into the Archives,” he nods. “I thought it was just anxiety, but… y-yeah, it makes sense, I suppose.”

“You still don’t remember what you did to end up here?” Gerry asks and Jon shakes his head; Gerry clicks his tongue.

“So, what do we do now?” Tim looks at Jon. “What is Elias’ plan?”

“I…” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t remember exactly. I…” He trails off looking at them. They are waiting for him to tell them what to do. Martin, with colour in his eyes and something else there, something Jon doesn’t let himself think about; Tim, whom he hasn’t hurt yet, who still has hope and who isn’t filled with bitter anger and sorrow; and Gerry who’s alive, here with him, offering his help. Jon thinks about Sasha, the real Sasha who’s still there. He can’t protect them all from other Entities and Elias. Even with all of his knowledge, Elias still has more power here than him, and Jon sees that his threats weren’t a bluff. Jon deflates with a sigh. “We need to know if there’s a way to fill the tunnels with CO2 before the Hive attacks; and I need the table sealed shut - it’s not getting anyone this time. Other than that, I think we need to work the statements, like before.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Elias is serving an Eye power and not letting us leave, and I’m supposed to still work for him?”

Jon swallows.

“Elias… He’s dangerous. Even with everything I know, he can still hurt us. I’m not risking an open war with him.”

“What is he gonna do, kill us?” Tim scoffs but he goes quiet when Jon gives him a hard stare. “Fuck off.”

“Murder isn’t usually his style of dealing with things, he generally prefers threats and blackmail, but he can definitely do that, too,” Jon says. “Let’s just say we don’t want to piss him off more than is necessary.”

“You literally punched him in the face today.”

“Yes, I know.” Jon grits his teeth and looks away. Tim narrows his eyes.

“He threatened you, didn’t he?” He asks and takes a step towards Jon. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon says coldly. “We need to get back to work.”

“Oh, no, you’re going back home and getting some sleep,” Martin shakes his head. “Or we refuse to work.”

Jon groans but Gerry places a hand on his shoulder.

“Go, Jon, I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promises and after a second of searching his face, Jon gives in.

“Fine. Be careful.”

“You, too,” Martin says and hands him the paper bag from his desk. “Eat this.”

Jon gives him a grateful smile and, with a last look at them, walks to the stairs and climbs up.

—

Gerry Delano sits comfortably on a park bench with a cup of coffee in his hand and sips on it slowly; he thinks about the things the new Archivist – Jon – said to him this morning. He looked tired; the bags under his eyes, the messy hair, the absolutely horrendous smoking habit (at that Gerry just chuckles to himself) and the clean but messy clothes speak for themselves, and Gerry didn’t want to say it, obviously, but it was this entire image of an absolute mess of a confused man that made him believe him. The marks are curious, yes, but Gerry has seen many things which he doesn’t understand, and he’s okay with that. No, this man is clearly in need of support and if he’s really taken over for Gertrude (and, judging by the sheer amount of his energy just screamingBeholding, that was very probable), he is in for one hell of a ride.

If Gerry would have to describe his perfect life, with his mother and Gertrude gone, he’d probably say he wants to find a normal job and get some peace and quiet; that being said, he did try that as a teenager, running away from his mother and her life. He told himself then that he didn’t belong in the normal world and would always find his way back to his mother. He abandoned that dream for a while, until Gertrude offered to help him get rid of his mother’s ghost. He thought that maybe if he helped Gertrude for a while, burned some Leitners in the meantime, maybe he’d have enough and manage to build a life that didn’t always border on getting killed by something supernatural; and so his life went on and he never really grew to feel at home in the “normal” world. He’d about accepted the fact that he’ll probably die on the job with the old Archivist, and he wasn’t very surprised to find how quickly he accepted it. It seemed fitting; much more so than getting a job at a coffee shop or other, and just living among people who had no idea what’s really out there. Then he got shot in Pittsburgh – a Slaughter case he’d tried to prevent – and he was forced to stay behind in the hospital. In some fleeting moments of consciousness he saw Gertrude holding the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead and he prepared himself to wake up as a ghost any time; instead, he woke up to an empty hospital room and a note in her handwriting – “Build your life here. Stay safe.” He thought if this weren’t his chance to build the life he’d imagined for himself then it would never come; and he was right. He soon discovered that making friends is way too difficult when you’re able to tell which Fear Entity marked them in that supernatural encounter they’re too scared to talk about, and he returned to London, searching for Jurgen Leitner himself. He thought he found him, but he ended up beating up someone who turned out to just be some pathetic old man. And here he is, back in the world his mother dragged him into without his consent. Gerry sighs and takes another sip of his coffee. Maybe the universe simply needs a pyromaniacal, angry goth who did in fact end up in the business of helping strays.

He directs his thoughts back to Jonathan Sims and the Institute. They need to form a plan and Jon said he would fill his assistants in on at least the basics. He takes out his phone and checks the time – 1 PM. He rules that’s enough time to explain the basics of the metaphysical functioning of the Fear Powers in the world.

He finds his last messages and opens the one Jon sent at his request for contact saving purposes – “Here. – Jon Sims”. He’s a creative one, isn’t he? Gerry saves the number as Jon Archivist, then changes it to Jarchivist, and grins; then swipes to call.

No answer. He tries again and it still goes to voicemail.

Gerry shrugs and finishes his coffee. He burned his last Leitner in the alley just before he met Jon, so he doesn’t exactly have any new leads. He thinks he might as well pay the Archives a visit; it’s been a while since he was there last time, with Gertrude.

The street is quiet when he walks up to the building. The aura of Beholding is quite strong here already and he looks at the Latin words above the entrance. “I watch, I listen, I wait.” Tacky.

He comes inside and turns towards the stairs leading down. He’s not surprised when the lady at the reception calls out to him.

“I’m sorry, sir! Can I help you?”

Gerry turns to her. She’s a small Chinese woman with a bob cut and huge glasses; she smiles but Gerry can recognize a customer service smile when he sees one.

“Oh, actually, I’m a friend of Jonathan Sims, the, uh, Head Archivist. Saw him this morning, I promised I’d drop a few notes.”

“Notes?” She glances over at the papers at her desk. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Gerry Delano,” he tries to smile as she checks something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you anywhere as a potential source—”

“Oh, that’s weird. I worked with the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson? Jon had a couple questions about her management style, you know how it is,” he waves his hand. “New job can be stressful.”

She looks over his clothes and tattoos with a frown for a second and then sighs.

“Alright, Jon’s office is right downstairs, through the Archives, Mr. Delano.”

“Thank you very much,” he nods his head and runs down the stairs.

Gerry doesn’t know what he expected to find down in the Archives, to be honest. Probably Jon being interrogated by his assistants, or maybe no one at all; he definitely did not expect to find one tall man staring into swirling patterns of a table that gave him very mixed signals of the Web, and another man in his desk chair, staring into space with a very unnaturally grey stare and his form dissipating into mist.

“Oh, I swear to God,” Gerry curses under his nose and looks around. “Can’t I meet people normally once in a blue moon?”

He picks up a blanket that lays stranded on the ground and covers the table. He then snaps his fingers in front of the tall man’s face and waves his hand.

“Hey, you still there?” He asks and the man draws in a breath, rapidly, and blinks, then looks around in confusion.

“Wh-Wha…” His eyes land on Gerry and he frowns. “Who are you?”

“Someone who just saved your ass from something nasty,” Gerry says, turns to the other man and touches his shoulder. Still there.

“Oh, God, his eyes are grey again.” The tall man grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Martin? Martin!”

“How did he manage to go so deep into the Lonely with you there?” Gerry asks and moves to look inside the Head Archivist’s office. Empty.

“Into the what? Martin!” He shakes him again and Martin blinks and exhales but does not acknowledge him at all. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”

“Where’s Jon?” Gerry looks at the man sternly.

“Jo—who the hell are you?” The man exclaims. “We need to snap him out of it!”

“It’s not that easy.” Gerry rolls his eyes and looks through Martin’s desk. “What does he love?”

“What?” The man looks at him confused and Gerry stifles a groan of frustration.

“Martin. He needs an anchor, something that he loves that will bring him back here.”

The man’s eyes search the desk frantically.

“Come on!” Gerry rushes him and the man groans.

“Can he hear me?”

“Allegedly.”

“What does that mean?!” He looks at him pressingly.

“It means I don’t know!” Gerry grabs one of Martin’s hands. “He might, if he’s not too far gone.”

“Martin,” the man grabs Martin’s other hand. “Martin, think about tea. Poetry. Um, about—” He’s cut off by Gerry’s groan of frustration. “What?!”

“That won’t work,” he shakes his head. “He’s in the fogs of The Lonely; he thinks he’s alone and that it’s never gonna change; that he can’t ever make meaningful connections with other people.”

The man’s eyes move frantically as he puts something together in his brain.

“Martin,” he squeezes his hand again. “I’m here with you, you hear me? You’re not alone and Jon is here too, and Sasha will be here soon, and we will all be with you here because we are your friends, okay? We’re—” His voice catches when Martin’s grey gaze lands on his face. Gerry unknowingly nods for him to continue. “Look, I know you’re convinced that you’re no help here because of that fake resume that everyone pretends not to know about, but you’ve been such an amazing friend through these couple of months and—” he searches for words before continuing. “And I know you have feelings for Jon, and you need to think about him because if you ask me, he’s head over heels for you too, and you’re just too oblivious to realize, both of you,” he laughs and a tear streams down his face. “So you need to think about him because he needs you to be here and stay here, and we need you too, okay, Marto, we—we really do…” He inhales, as Martin squeezes his hand back and blinks. The man sighs deeply with relief and leans his forehead on their joined hands.

“Tim…?” Martin speaks up with a very gentle, detached voice and then his gaze lands on Gerry who has now let go of his hand and stands back up. “Who’s that?”

Tim looks up and wipes away another stray tear, then stands up to face him.

“Yeah,” he frowns. “That’s a good question.”

Gerry smirks and climbs up to sit at one of the desks.

“Seeing how I just might have saved your lives; I’d rather think some thanks are in order.”

“I’m not kidding, who the fuck are you?” Tim crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Gerry notices he stares at his tattoos like he’s trying to remember something.

“Eh, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Name’s Gerry Delano, but you may know me as Gerard Keay.”

Recognition flashes in Tim’s eyes.

“We had a statement about you!” He says and immediately frowns. “You killed a man.”

Gerry chuckles.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Martin asks and Gerry crosses his legs.

“Waiting for Jon, actually. I thought I may find him here, but it appears I must have found his assistants, am I correct?”

“And you know Jon how?” Martin follows up; his voice gains a bit of depth to it, and he tilts his head, much more present than a second before.

“We met in an alley outside the Institute this morning,” Gerry shrugs. “Or, late night. Morning might be pushing it. He didn’t mention it?”

Tim sighs and rubs his face and Martin shakes his head.

“Eh, that’s fine. You two look like you have enough information to process for the next two months.”

“Something like that,” Tim nods and leans against Martin’s desk. “Jon’s getting some sleep and we’d rather have no one disturb him. It’s been a… hard morning.”

“He did look like he hasn’t slept in a week, I’ll give you that.” Gerry shoots a glance at Martin; his skin is regaining color, but his eyes are still unnaturally grey, and the edges of his form are blurry; the fog still lingers. “Hey, um… Martin?” He asks and Martin looks at him with surprise.

“Yeah…?”

“Just getting your names since you haven’t introduced yourselves. But that’s okay, I’m good at picking up from context.” He smiles and continues before Tim can speak. “So, Martin, what is it that you do here?”

“Uh… excuse me?” He blinks.

“I’m just interested, tell me what your usual day consists of. What do you do for fun? Your friend mentioned poetry?”

He notes the blush on Martin’s face with some satisfaction; the dark green colour returns to his eyes, though, still, his edges remain blurry. Martin can’t answer however; as he takes a breath, he’s interrupted by the door to the storage room opening.

Jon looks, frankly, even worse than he did before; in addition to everything aforementioned, his eyes are now puffed up from sleeping and he has apparently ditched his sweater vest, leaving only a creased, light blue shirt.

“…Gerry?” He frowns at him and takes in the room. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin shoots upright and the edges of his form become solid for a second. Just a second.

“No,” he shakes his head and blinks at Gerry. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry jumps down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

“Gerry, I’m serious.” Jon gives him a look and Gerry sighs, but it’s a sigh of mock exasperation which hides only fondness. From the moment he learned Jon is the Head Archivist, he knew he would be a lot different than Gertrude; even if at first it was “this kid is a proper mess” contrasted with Gertrude’s calculated craft. He can see that what actually makes him different, better, is that he cares. Even though Beholding has him in its grasp far stronger than it ever had Gertrude, he has that spark of human empathy that she deemed an obstacle. He wouldn’t be the kind to sacrifice his own assistants to stop the Apocalypse, which maybe doesn’t give them big chances of success, but makes Gerry trust him. It makes him feel safer and it makes him stand stronger, and maybe that is exactly what is needed. And that one detail, that seriousness in his voice when he asks what happened to his assistants – to his friends – and the worry in his eyes when he checks if they’re okay, that’s what fully convinces Gerry that this man is worth his effort. If they can’t save the world with a strength like that then maybe no one really can.

—

Martin opens the door to Jon’s office to see the man reading something in a book. He looks up at Martin and his lips twitch towards a smile.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon says and immediately yawns. “God, sorry.”

“I was about to ask you if you’re still working.” Martin takes a look at his desk; there’s two empty mugs pushed to the side, a tape recorder (not recording), and some books and papers. Martin notices Jon’s glasses are still where he left them after he found them near the cot in the storage room. “You’re wearing contacts now?” He asks and Jon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Well, I- I noticed you didn’t wear glasses today,” Martin shrugs and points his chin at them. “You forgot them yesterday.”

Jon’s eyes stop at the pair of glasses, and he frowns.

“Huh.” He rubs his chin. “Checks out, I guess.”

“What?” Now Martin frowns and Jon looks up at him, breathing in.

“The, uh—The Eye powers,” he grimaces. “This happened before too. I don’t—I don’t need them anymore.”

“Oh.” Martin shifts. “Well, I just wanted to tell you, you should get some rest. It’s—It’s late.”

Jon smiles fondly, staring into the air. Martin wonders what he's thinking about. Is he going back to memories he doesn't have?

“I really should, shouldn't I?” Jon asks no one in particular and sighs. “Thank you, Martin.”

“F-For what?” Martin laughs a little bit confused, and Jon looks at him for a moment before he shrugs.

“For caring. For being there.”

Martin looks away and shifts awkwardly again. Jon's stare, though gentle, is piercing; overbearing. Martin can't yet decide if it's good or bad, but it is certainly a lot.

“I should—”

“Could you—”

They start at the same time and look at each other. Jon shakes his head and gestures with his hand.

“Please, go first.”

Martin takes a deep breath.

“Could you tell me what—what it is that you want me to remember?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it. His forehead ripples.

“I...” he begins and sighs, looking at his desk. “I don't think it was you. I mean—I think that... that it was a different version of you. In my past.” He looks up and his brown eyes are sad. “So it makes sense you can't remember because it never actually happened for you.”

Martin deflates with a little “oh” and looks down. The hole in his mind is settling nicely in the fog and he doesn't question it. Why would he? It was always there. He’s only lived this life, not anything else – if anybody would know it would be Jon. And obviously, it was a different Martin that Jon fell— That Jon cared for.

“Were we…” Martin stops, the word “together" left hanging in the air, and Jon looks at him for a second before something flashes in his eyes.

“We don't—I mean, I can't really— It's, it wasn't you so...”

‘I can’t really expect you to have the same feelings now’ is what Jon does not say, but Martin, of course, has no way of knowing that.

“Right,” Martin nods, and he can see Jon's cheeks blush, much the same as his own must right now. Martin swallows the awkwardness and nods again. “Alright, I'll, uh... I'll leave you to it. Then. Get—uh, get some rest.”

He closes the door and exhales deeply. Well, that was disastrous; he thinks, as he walks towards the document storage. There’s something heavy weighing down on his chest but he chooses not to dwell on it; it wouldn’t provide him with any insights he didn’t already know.

[radiosandrecordings]

So @pitviperofdoom wrote a beautiful piece I have not stopped thinking about a while ago with QPPs Jon and Gerry that you should go and read here. They kindly allowed to let me go off on a tangent inspired by it, so here’s a conversation from the night before that fic where I just get emotional over these two and let myself indulge in their dynamic. 

Background GerryOliver and JonMartin. Warnings for alcohol consumption and general drunkenness. 

“Who’re you gonna bring, eh?” 

It was rounding on eleven o’clock, and they were both sprawled about the room, letting the dull buzz of alcohol set in. Jon was slumped on the couch, and Gerry had, at some point, collapsed into the IKEA chair with the weird curved bar holding it up that Jon had never quite trusted the stability of. He’d kicked off his boots after they’d finished eating, his socked feet now resting on the coffee table, nestled between discarded takeaway boxes and bottles of drink. The scotch still stood there uncapped, and minus three glasses. Jon had taken one when Gerry had poured it for him, and Gerry a second after that, while Jon switched to some dark, fruity cider Gerry had found for him at the back of the fridge.

Jon jolted slightly. “What?” He was on his second bottle and the only thing stopping him from nodding off then and there was the fact that suddenly, the fridge was humming incredibly loudly and it was a great distraction. That’s what he gets for getting hammered on a friday straight from work. Was he hammered? A bottle and a half of cider and one glass of scotch didn’t seem like enough to do that but the way that persistent buzzing was pounding at his skull suggested maybe that was enough for the evening. 

“Well you get a plus one. Two, if you want, best man privileges and all that.” 

Jon’s mouth was dry. He should really get some water. But also, he didn’t really like the thought of having to stand up. “I… Don’t know. I usually bring you.” He pulled a face. “I’m not sure I know anyone that you wouldn’t be inviting anyway.” 

“No one from team spooky you’d want to bring to cry on after you walk me down the isle?” 

Gerry let out an overdramatic ‘Oof’ as Jon half heartedly attempted to reach over and slap him on the leg. “Stop! Calling us! That!” 

“I’ll stop calling you it when the shoe stops fitting. You’re a spooky little team that investigates spooky spooky things. You’re gonna have to accept that one day.” 

“Says the man in the process of opening an exclusively horror-based bookshop with his- Well I suppose he’s going to be your husband now. Huh. God, I feel old.” 

“I will not hear the good name of ‘Spine Chilling’ slandered in my household Jonathan! And- Well fuck, yeah, you’ve got a point there don’t you. Shit, when did I become ‘Bookshop Husband #2’. We used to be cool. Now we pay taxes and shit. Ripe old age of thirty.” 

Jon laughed, and it only hurt his head a little bit. Small mercies. “I would argue you’re still rather cool. In my books at least.” He paused for a moment, letting the air settle into a more sombre tone. “Do you… Do you regret any of it?”

“Not for a second,” Gerry said, running his fingers along the ring that rested on his left hand. He shifted in his seat, and began to tug his hair out of the plait that had been draped over one shoulder. “You never answered the question though. What’ll it be, are we going to have to drunk find you a date? I’m sure there’s an app for fake wedding dates now. Bloody app for everything.” 

“Do I need one?” Jon replied, and it came out dangerously close to a whine. 

“Well no, but I can’t pay attention to you all day because apparently I’ll have a husband to stare in wonder at or some shit, and Georgie might snap if you spend more than an hour crying on her. And don’t give me that look, you’ll cry! You always say you won’t but you teared up earlier when I told you so I am doing my duty and trying to get you a cuddle buddy.” 

“That’s-” Jon started, sounding almost tetchy, before deflating slightly. With Gerry, at least, he knew when to admit defeat. “Okay, so you might have a point… Has Oliver picked anyone out already?” 

“You won’t like it.” 

“Oh, christ.” 

“Yup. Well what did you expect? Jane is his best friend, I’m sorry I know you don’t get on but I can’t exactly tell him no, you can tolerate each other for a day!”

“Worms! All over my archive! How she got them past Rosie still boggles the mind, and really-” 

Gerry waved a hand as he tried to cut him off, “Okay, okay, yes I’ve heard the story more than once, I get it, I won’t even put you at the same table. If it makes it better I’ll see what whatever venue we choose’s policy on animals is. Admiral seems like he’d make a good emotional support cat. Get him a little tux or something.” 

“As much as I like the idea, I’m not quite sure he’d appreciate it. Unless you’re getting wed in somewhere with copious amounts of radiators, I think he’d be better off at home.” 

“You don’t know!” Gerry said, pointing wildly, some of his energy seeming to kick back in after managing to maintain a conscious conversation, “Could be getting hitched in a radiator factory. That’d be something.” 

And Jon was glad Gerry was starting to feel more lively, but by the way laughter made his head pound he certainly was not. He smiled through the grimace. “Maybe so.” He had apparently, in a stroke of genius earlier, left himself a glass of water on the table. He’d take that about now, thanks. 

“What about Martin?” 

And now there was water spilled down his front. Great. “I’m sorry?” He sputtered. 

“Don’t apologise, it’ll dry.” 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Jon growled, setting the water back down. 

Gerry gave him a faux sweet smile. There was a lapse in the conversation while Jon tugged his jumper off and tossed it onto the sofa next to him. Once he was done wrestling with the wool, Gerry spoke up again. “Seriously though, what about him? I haven’t seen you act like that with anyone since Georgie.” 

“I act like that with you!” Jon cried.

“Yes, but I’m special,” Gerry said, pressing his fingers to his lips and blowing a kiss across the room. “And also, you did just admit you act a specific way with him, so. Check and mate.” 

“I hate drunk Jon,” he muttered. “Okay, so, we go out for lunch sometimes, and that means I have more anecdotes to tell about him than Tim or Sasha, so I end up talking about him more. And I notice more things about him, like how he has more freckles in the summer than the rest of the year, but that’s just because he spends more time in my office because he seems determined to win the record for most tea made in a workplace environment in a year. So what?” 

Gerry looked intolerably smug. “Oh, no, you keep going with your list there, really proving your point.” 

Jon groaned. “Shut up.” 

“Okay, I will, I will, I just.. You do clearly like him Jon. And I won’t pressure you into anything, obviously, but just give yourself a chance, huh? You’re discarding the thought out of hand.”

Jon made a ‘humph’ of petulance. “Right. Fine. Okay. When’s the wedding?” 

“Will you refuse to come if I say Halloween?” 

“I will get around to mocking it later, but no. That’s what…” And admittedly, the alcohol was enough that he had to count on his fingers for this one, “Nine? Nine months away?” 

“You got it in the end.” 

“Once again, Mr Delano-Banks, shut your mouth-”

“Hey-”

“I will update you in eight months time. Until then you are not to bring it up. Deal?” 

Gerry stuck out a bottom lip, “Not sure I was expecting that to be how I heard that name for the first time, but wow, okay. And yes, that’s a deal.” 

“Good. Now if you excuse me, I am promptly about to pass out on your sofa.” 

Gerry got up and stretched, the sound of his knuckles popping making Jon cringe. He glanced up at the clock, before moving the offending jumper away and letting himself drop down on the sofa next to Jon. “Not even midnight yet. What’d I say. Old men, the both of us.” 

“Shush. Pillows can’t talk,” Jon muttered, gently manoeuvring his partner so they were both lying horizontal on the sofa, before burying his face in Gerry’s shoulder. 

“G’night” he muttered into the sofa fabric of his t-shirt. “I’m really happy for you.” 

“Thanks,” Gerry said, pressing a quick kiss to Jon’s hair. “I am too.”

[ieattaperecorders]

Notes on Causality - Chapter 2: Georgie and Elias

An addendum to Something's Different About You Lately. Small scenes of Jon attempting to change the future that I didn't want to put in the larger fanfic.

The events of this chapter take place around the end of Chapter 8, Stranger.

(Incidentally, the main fic will be updated very soon. I'm mainly just holding off till the finale drops, in case whatever happens makes me want to tweak anything mood-wise in what I have planned.)

Read on Ao3

- - -

One ring. Another. Then another. Maybe she wouldn't pick up, Jon thought, drumming his fingers on the desk. Maybe it would go to voicemail . . . he could hang up, try again later. Take a little time to mentally rehearse what he would say.

A click, and her voice asked, "hello?"

"Georgie . . . it's Jon Sims, from Oxford?"

"Jon? Hey, been a while! How've you been?"

"Ah – good? I've been good," he lied. "Yourself?"

"Oh, not bad. Got a new roommate since you last saw me . . . he lays around the apartment all day and won't share the rent, but he's cute so I let it slide."

"Good to hear that your landlord is cat-friendly."

"You should hear him, he has the loudest little meow. Hang on, I'll if he'll say hello . . . ."

For a moment and he heard some vague coaxing noises, distant as if she was holding her phone away from herself. They were followed by a close-up, disinterested sniff, then Georgie's voice returned.

"Ah, never mind. Not in the mood, I guess."

"I've heard the Admiral's color commentary before," he smiled. "He's in all your mailbag episodes."

"Didn't know you were a listener."

"Well, I need something for the commute . . . it might as well be the UK's most onomatopoeic source of paranormal research."

"Ha. Knew you'd hate the sound effects."

"I don't hate them. Anyway, they're . . . distinctive," he leaned back in his office chair, the nerves he'd built up slowly dissipating as they fell into the rhythm of conversation. "They're very you."

"Classic Barker." There was movement in the background, and a few soft thuds. Likely the Admiral jumping to the floor. "Well from what I hear, we're in the same field. Aren't you working for the Magnus Institute now? You must hear plenty of ghost stories there."

"That's actually sort of why I called. I think we might have a mutual colleague . . . Melanie King?"

"Yeah, she's the one who told me you were there," she said knowingly. "Sounded like you left a hell of an impression on her."

". . . Not a good one, I imagine."

Georgie made a non-committal sound, being decent enough not to rub it in by overtly agreeing with him.

"I was trying to be helpful, but I think I just came off as dismissive. Ended up arguing with her over nothing," he sighed. ". . . Classic Sims."

"Accept no substitutes," Georgie said fondly. "So, what's the call about? If you want me to try smoothing things over with her –"

"It isn't that. Did she tell you about her experience?"

"Not really. Asked a lot about Sarah – she's a sound tech I recommended to her? Got the impression she'd been unreliable. She was nice about it, Melanie that is, but really evasive. I just assumed she's caught onto something interesting and wants to be the first to report on it. The risks of being friends with competition, I suppose."

"Ah. . . ."

"Not that she has anything to worry about. Climbing fences and squatting in abandoned churches is her thing. I'm all about doing research from my computer desk with a cup of tea, personally," she paused, and he heard a distant clink of ceramic. "Hey, are we even allowed to talk about this? Isn't there some sort of confidentially thing?"

"As it turns out, privacy isn't really something this place values," he muttered, "I don't suppose she's talked to you recently?"

"No . . . not for a couple of months."

"I'm concerned. Her experience left a powerful impact on her. Now she's chasing after anything that might bring her closer to what she encountered, and I'm afraid she doesn't care about the cost. She's going into some dangerous territory. And, well . . . it's not my place to judge her emotional state. But I am worried."

"Yeah . . . I saw the memes," he heard a frown enter Georgie's voice.

"I've tried to talk to her about it, a bit. But she and I always seem to push each other's buttons somehow. I'd be grateful if you looked in on her. I think that she could use a friend right now, and –" he smirked. "I happen to know you're good with obsessive types too stubborn for their own well-being."

"Ha. You trying to set me up or something?"

"Wh–" he started, taken aback. "I mean, well, that's really your business, not mine."

". . . Wait. I was joking, but are you really?" There was utter incredulity in her voice. "Jonathan Sims, did you call me out of the blue to set me up with someone I knew before you did?"

"Of – Georgie I don't even know if you're single, don't be ridiculous," he sputtered, feeling blood rise to his face. She laughed, and the uncomfortable heat spread.

"Okay, okay," she said. "I'm just giving you a hard time."

"I just . . . " he spoke slowly, trying to be precise. "I think that Melanie needs someone else around her right now. Someone grounding. If you're not looking to take that on, I understand, of course. But for whatever it might be worth, I would be grateful if you checked in."

"I'll give her a ring," something in Georgie's voice was familiar, and profoundly comforting. "See if she wants to get coffee and talk spooky-shop."

"I think that might do her a world of good," he said with relief

"Also? We should get coffee sometime too, catch up! I want to hear all the creepy stories you're apparently so free to talk about."

"Really, it's mostly drug experiences and conspiracy theories . . . ."

"Even better, I'll get to hear you complain. Then I'll be entitled gripe to you about all the weird emails I get. It'll be perfect."

Jon wanted to say yes. He really, really did. The thought of sitting down for a few hours with Georgie and talking about nothing particularly dire was a nice one. But he could only bring trouble to her door.

"I'd . . . like that," he said, "But I don't have much time to myself right now . . . maybe after everything calms down."

". . . Sure," she sounded a little disappointed. Georgie could always tell when he was brushing her off. "Some other time. Hope you can get some rest, then."

"I'll do my best."

"And thanks for the heads-up about Melanie. Really," the smile in her voice was back. "Don't be a stranger, huh?"

"Right," he smiled back, hoping she could hear it. "Ah. Goodbye, then."

"Bye."

He stared at the screen of his phone, not sure what to name the feeling in his chest. In his mind's eye, he saw her form vanishing down a long white corridor, and he knew she would have made this choice herself, eventually. He was just respecting that. Speeding things along.

"Trying to set her up . . . honestly," he muttered.

What he'd said about Melanie needing someone to talk to had been true. He was hoping Georgie's influence could nudge her away from the path she was on, one that had its natural end in blood and pain and the drumming of war. It was hardly his fault if he knew that particular matchmaking arrangement had already worked out once.

The call had barely ended for a minute before his phone vibrated with an email notification. He opened it, frowning when he saw who it was from.

Jon,

See me in my office at your earliest convenience.

Also, in the future please remember not to make personal calls during work hours.

- Elias

It was the most direct contact he'd had with Elias in months. Aside from a few institute-wide emails, there had been nothing since their conversation about the recordings. Jon hadn't even run into him in the hall. At least on the surface, he'd stuck to his promise to involve himself less directly. Not that Jon imagined Elias was truly keeping his distance, but he had begun to get comfortable with not having to see or talk to him. He dreaded the idea of going up there and actually breaking the silence.

That comment about personal calls irked him, too. He was taunting him. Going right up to the edge of admitting he'd been watching while giving himself just a little deniability.

He could ignore it, of course. Why should he do anything Elias asked him to, however small? Why should he make any part of his life easier? But that wasn't a smart attitude, he knew. Elias was keeping his distance for now, but if he saw Jon as too troublesome things would escalate. It would be foolish to bring that moment any closer by antagonizing him over nothing.

Jon still remembered the comment he'd made when they last spoke – I'm sure one of your assistants would be up to the task. If it came down to it, Elias knew exactly whose throats to hold the knife against.

With a distinct lack of pleasure, he climbed the stairs out of the archive.

Despite his mood he smiled at Rosie, tried to seem friendly as he greeted her. The words insecure and aggressive had a tendency to turn over in his mind when he saw her lately. He was earnestly hoping to be easier to talk to, but fairly sure he just came off as awkward. At least she was friendly with him. But then, she'd always been.

She said he was expected and should go right inside.

Elias was at his desk, writing on something hidden inside a folder. He glanced up and nodded as he entered.

"Ah, Jon. Sit down, I'll just be a moment."

As he took a seat and waited, Jon couldn't quite banish the idea that the folder was just a prop. A way to make whoever he'd called in wait, to make it absolutely clear how much more valuable his time was than theirs. Or perhaps to give them time to stew, to sit in anxiety and worry. Then again, maybe Elias really did have paperwork that needed doing, and the fact that it was absolutely, positively maddening to sit there in silence and watch him was only a bonus to it all. Eventually, he finished.

"It's been a while since we've checked in, hasn't it?" he paused just long enough for Jon to wonder if he was supposed to respond, then continued. "I'd like to hear your version of how the last few months have gone. What sort of progress you feel you've made, etcetera."

Oh, God. Was he actually expecting Jon to keep up the pretense of doing actual archival work? He hadn't been prepared for that at all, and felt preemptively exhausted at the thought of coming up with some nonsense progress report.

"Well. . . as you know, Gertrude left the archives in a state of serious disorganization, so progress has been hindered by that," he tried to remember what projects he'd put the others on to keep them all going with a token show of work. "I've set aside a section for discredited statements, which has been steadily growing. I imagine . . . it will make things more efficient for researchers in the future? And, uh . . . ."

"Let me stop you there," Elias said, holding up a hand.

Please do, Jon thought, relieved he wouldn't be subjecting them both to several minutes of this. Elias leaned forward and looked at him seriously.

"Have I done something to offend you, Jon?"

The question took him by surprise, to the point where he had to bite back a sarcastic laugh. What hadn't he done? "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Really. Because it seems to me that I've be extremely generous to you," that familiar tone of disapproval, of bland impatience. "I've given you a unique opportunity, allowed you free reign in setting your own priorities, and you still seem determined to resent me."

Fleetingly, Jon wondered if the elaborately decorated letter opener on the desk between them was sturdy enough to sink into Elias's chest without snapping. Not worth it, either way. Not with what it would cost.

"I . . . apologize if I've created that impression," he said evenly. "I've been told that I can be standoffish in my manner."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Elias smirked. "Though ‘standoffish' is a great deal more polite than the words people actually favor. Isn't it?"

Jon tried not to look away, tried and failed to meet Elias's eyes. Perhaps his inability to maintain eye contact with a conduit of the Beholding spoke well for his remaining humanity, but it still twisted in him. Made him feel weak.

"Are we done here?" he asked, voice tight.

Elias sighed, as if all of this was such a burden to him, as if he wasn't basking in the anxiety that Jon knew must be radiating off of him like heat.

"What was it you said to Martin . . . about discarding the facade once it stopped being useful?" That startled Jon enough to look back, to see the condescending smile on Elias's face as he continued. "Maybe you ought to do the same."

He stared, suddenly voiceless, heart pounding. This was it . . . should he be relieved or terrified?

"I've been where you are now, Jon." Elias continued. His voice was stern, with only the barest concession to false sympathy. "Trapped in a world that no longer makes sense, surrounded by malevolent forces, seeing enemies everywhere. And I can tell you that the only way to survive in this world is to recognize what resources you have."

". . . Resources."

"Yes, if you could just get past this irrational distrust you seem to have of me. I can't hold your hand through everything. But if you have questions . . . I might be able to give you some answers."

Answers? That would make a change from before, Jon thought bitterly. The Elias he remembered used misdirection, contempt and sometimes flat refusal to avoid giving Jon any information he could hope to use. Unfortunately there was only one question Jon really had for him anymore, and it was one he couldn't ask: how much do you know?

. . . Did Elias have that same question for him? It would explain why he was directly inviting him to ask about his situation.

Jon paused. He had to be smart about this. If Elias had sat him down like this before, he'd have wanted to know everything. If he didn't seem curious, it might point to how much he already knew, and that would be disastrous. But he also couldn't look too naive . . . he'd made his suspicion clear, already warned the others, he couldn't pretend to know nothing about the Institute's nature.

He tried to think back to when he was only just getting a sense of the way things truly were. What would he have most wanted to understand then?

". . . What happens to me," he asked quietly. "When I read statements? The real ones. You know what I mean. I can feel something happening, I know it's not just reading."

"The answer to that is rather complicated . . . ."

"Are you going to give it to me?"

"It would help if I understood what you already knew. How much did Gertrude tell you about the nature of this place? The Institute?"

"Enough to know I can't trust it," he glared across the desk. "And maybe the reason I don't trust you is because you're constantly peering over my shoulder."

"You must have some sense by now of the dangers the Institute attracts," Elias raised his eyebrows. "Can you really blame me for wanting to keep tabs on everything?"

"Because you ‘keeping tabs' was so helpful when I was pulled into those hallways for weeks."

"You opened the door of your own free will. I do what I can but I can hardly be expected to protect you from yourself."

"You're the reason I'm here in the first place! You've been--"

Jon cut himself off, he could feel himself beginning to shout, losing control of himself and it was stupid, so stupid. What was the point in arguing with him? Jonah Magnus knew exactly what he was doing, he wasn't going to be shamed about it.

"It doesn't matter," he said, trying to gather himself back to a neutral tone. "Can't change the past."

". . . For what it's worth, Jon, I do sympathize," Elias said, folding his hands. "Someone has to be the Archivist. You were just the best option available."

Why had he thought he could play along with this? As if he'd really be able to sit there, feign ignorance and draw information out of a man who'd been doing that exact thing to others for centuries. He wasn't going to beat him at his own game . . . far more likely he'd let something slip out of anger that would get somebody killed.

He pushed his chair back and stood, turning towards the door.

"I'll find my own answers," he said.

* * *

The door slammed shut, loud enough to echo. Jonah supposed he was going to have to get used to outbursts like these.

"I expect that you will," he muttered to the closed door.

Blind spots. He didn't like blind spots. Sometimes they were unavoidable, but having one so near to him was profoundly irritating. It was like knowing he'd forgotten something important, but being unable to dredge up any details.

He could watch Jon as easily as anyone else. Though there were moments his gaze would unfocus, and he suspected Gertrude might have taught him a few of her tricks, overall it wasn't hard to keep an eye on him. But lately, that was all he could do. No matter how he tried, he couldn't Know anything deeper than what appeared on the surface. He might as well have been following the Archivist around with a camera crew rather than channeling the overwhelming power of an Eternal and Unblinking Gaze From Which No Secrets Can Be Kept, for all the good it was doing him.

It was as if the knowledge was all there, but had been shifted somehow. Nudged just outside his field of vision.

A part of him was tempted to start over with another Archivist, one he could See more clearly. But the Web mark was hard to find, and he couldn't even be sure this anomaly was unique to Jon – that it would go away with his death instead of attaching itself to his successor. Despite its frustrating obscurity, something about it that felt like an aspect of the Beholding, though he couldn't say why.

So he'd tolerate the blind spot for now. At least Jon was easy enough to read without the Eye's assistance – the man wore his heart on his sleeve, was helpless in that way. Jonah liked that about him.

What he needed was encouragement. Something to get him out of his comfort zone – four marks was progress, but not fast enough, not with the Unknowing looming closer every day. Jonah wrote a quick note on a post-it and stuck it to the folder in front of him, then pressed a button on his intercom.

"Rosie?" he said, "I need you to run something down to the archive for me. Just drop it on Tim's desk, he'll know what it's for."

[noirewrites]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Summary:

“Wait, when was the last time you slept, Marinette?” “A few days. Haven’t slept... for a few days... Work to do… Black coffee… Monster drinks... Caffeine in blood…” “I am totally sure the last thing was other way round."

@miraculousfanworks​  Fulfilled for a prompt in @mlwritersguild​!

Read the story under the cut!

“Marinette, it’s 4.30 A.M. in the morning! You need to sleep!” 

“Just one more stitch, Tikki,” the girl mumbled to her kwami as she focused on the dress she was trying, trying to get the golden embroidery completed. Kagami’s birthday was in two days and Marinette wanted to give something to her new friend. Hence, she had decided to make the fencer a nice red jacket with black accents, and with a beautiful golden dragon embroidered on it. And she really wasn’t in a mood to mess her hard work up.

  “But Marine--”

“Just a second, Tikki…” the girl gritted out before letting out a whoop of joy. “There! It’s done! How does it look like?”

  The designer turned the mannequin to show her little friend the final result. The red jacket with its black trims and buttons looked pretty simple. However, it was the majestic dragon that gave the jacket its signature look. It started from the left breast pocket, occupied most of the jacket’s behind and ended with its tail curling near the right hip. 

“Wow Marinette, it looks just as if the dragon is embracing and protecting the wearer of the jacket!” Tikki commented, running her hand along the jacket’s embroidery. The golden thread glimmered under the kwami of creation’s touch.

  “Thanks Tikki, and now,” the girl let out a long yawn as her eyes drooped. “I guess it’s finally time for a good nap.”

“Yes Marinette!” The kwami chirped, flitting around her chosen’s head in concern. “You haven’t had a proper sleep for a few days. That’s not good for you!”

  “I know, I know Tikki, but…” the girl paused as she tried to get her bearings, her hand on the railing to hold herself steady. “There have been just so many commissions for Jagged and Kitty Section, and then the class presidential duties, and let’s not forget Hawk Moth--”

“Along with which you also took it upon yourself to make Kagami a birthday present and babysat Manon for a day, I know!” Tikki completed her statement for her. “That’s why I’m saying, you need to sleep.”

  “Yeah yeah, I’m just going to do that,” Marinette sleepily chuckled “Gonna climb the stairs and just flop down on my bed and--”

The moment she lay her head on her pillow, she immediately shot up, eyes bugged out in horror.

  “What happened, Marinette?”

  The frantic girl yanked at her pigtails as a crazed look appeared in her eyes. “Tikki, I forgot to complete the Literature homework due today!”

 *************************************

“Cesaire, Alya?”

“Present!”

  “Dupain-Cheng, Marinette?”

There was a silence in the room.

  “Dupain-Cheng, Marinette?” Ms. Bustier called the name out again, looking up from her register.

Alya raised her hand. “Um, Ms. Bustier, Marinette’s still not here and--”

  “Present!”

  Immediately the classroom door slammed open as someone dropped on the classroom floor with a yelp. Papers went flying by and the students in the classroom got up to find Marinette sprawled out on the ground, grumbling something incoherent.

She quickly sat up and started to assemble her papers. Adrien and Nino got down to help her as the others went back to what they were doing. Thanking the two guys quietly, Marinette marched up to Ms.Bustier’s desk and slammed the papers down on her table.

  “The homework that was due for today, Ms. Bustier. Complete with detailed analysis of the scene that we studied yesterday.”

The teacher took in Marinette’s appearance and tentatively nodded in response, immediately to cringe a bit at the maniac smile that the girl gave her. With a skip in her step, Marinette walked over to her desk and plopped down in her seat beside Alya.

  As Ms. Bustier continued taking the attendance in the background, Alya leant into Marinette’s space, holding her hand up in a whispering notion. “M, what the heck? Your hair’s a bird’s nest, your eyes bloodshot and the dark circles make you look like a ghost. What the hell have you been doing?”

Marinette hummed distractedly as she dug into her backpack, before pulling out a big can of Monster energy drink, causing her best friend’s eyes to bug out. “Oh nothing much, just homework,” she nonchalantly spoke, waving her hand as she took in a big gulp of the drink.

  “Just…. Homework, you say?” Alya eyed her friend as she continued to drink. Clearly Marinette needed some help, for no normal teenager should be drinking that .

“Yeah, and a bit of designing. Woke up a bit late but thankfully managed to get a croissant and two cups of black coffee.” Marinette put the drink down and wiped at her lips. Alya peered into the can. It was half-finished.

  “Girl, are you sure you don’t want to have a heart attack?”

“Mhmm,” Marinette grinned at her manically and Alya decided then and there that her best friend did not need just some help. 

  She needed some serious help.

 ***********************************************

“Okay class,” Ms. Bustier clapped her hands, gaining the students’ attention. “Since today’s lecture was based on stress management and relaxation, I want you all to write something about your life. It doesn’t have to be long: a short paragraph or poem also works!”

The children scrambled to get their supplies out and started working on the task assigned to them. Satisfied with having kept the students busy, Ms.Bustier sat down at her desk and started going through her paperwork.

  Five minutes later, a paper was put on her desk. 

The teacher looked up to find a weary Marinette looking at her expectantly. Smiling at the student, Ms. Bustier took the paper and turned it, letting out a gasp.

  “Marinette, what is the meaning of this?” She asked the girl, pointing at the random squiggles and scribblings that filled the paper.

Marinette shrugged as she swayed a bit. “You asked us to write something about our life. Well, that’s me, a total sleep-deprived mess.”

  “You haven’t been having proper sleep, dear?” The girl responded with a small shake of her head.

“Okay.” The teacher immediately signed a note and handed it to Marinette. “Take this to the nurse and she will give you the permission to rest for the day. Grab a proper sleep, it is important for your health.”

  Marinette gave her teacher a small smile of gratitude and a thumbs up before grabbing the note and moving out of the room. Sighing in relief at having helped a student, Ms. Bustier started to get back to grading the homework.

  The thudding sound of someone falling down the stairs made her run outside the class, to find Marinette staggering quickly (and wearily) in the direction of the nurse’s office.

****************************************

Being in bed was a wonderful feeling, Marinette decided that day.

  After having completed the homework, she had gotten to sleep at 6.00 A.M., only to be rudely woken up by her alarm at 7. The dark coffee and the Monster drink had got her through the first half of the day, but by the time Ms. Bustier had suggested them all to write something about their life, Marinette had been done with.

Her brain had come to an abrupt stop and she couldn’t think of anything except squiggled and wiggled and incomprehensible stuff. So when Ms.Bustier had granted her the permission to actually gain some rest for the day, Marinette had been very excited.

  A bit too excited to not look where she had been going and end up tripping down the last set of stairs.

But having a bruised ankle only solidified the reasons for her rest, so she wasn’t sorry.

  She closed her eyes and curled into herself, waiting for sleep to kick in. Given her state, sleep could ambush her any time. And she was very much willing to invest this time in her favorite pastime.

  Dreaming of emerald eyes that twinkle in mirth. Cologne that made adrenaline rush through her bld. And blond hair that shone like the sun.

Right now she hated the sun. 

  Sadly, she ditched the dream in a dark corner of her mind and started to focus on her breathing, waiting for sleep to grab her in her embrace.

  Just in a moment. 

  Just a moment more. 

  ...

  Maybe one more moment?

  Marinette tossed in her bed with a groan. Why was she not sleepy?

  The can of Monster energy drink winked at her from her backpack.

  Stupid energy drinks, kicking in at the wrong time.

  Marinette wanted to sob and cry and wail at her fate. Why did the universe hate her?

  As if answering her pleas, the nurse turned on some soft music in the room. Music that was soft and sweet and serene and calming and relaxing. 

  Relaxing and soothing like the music that accompanied the smell of the ocean. Ocean… that reminded her of deep blue eyes. Framed by a mop of dark hair.

  Darkness was welcomed, for it made her totally drowsy .

  Marinette sighed in relief. Yeah, she could dream about soft music and ocean and deep eyes and mysterious smiles and--

  The alarm on her phone blared suddenly, causing her to shoot up in bed as she spoke in a language so colourful, it would have made a real sailor blush.

  The akuma news feed flashed on her phone in a deep red.

  Marinette vowed to herself to not rest till she kicked some moth butt that day.

 ********************************************

“Watch out Ladybug!”

  The warning came a bit too late. The pink beam hit the red and black spotted heroine square in the chest, and immediately she felt a wave of drowsiness crash over her.

  The akuma, Sleeping Beauty, stole people’s sleep or made them drowsy, depending on the rested state of their mind.

  Ladybug was totally done. 

  Done with the stupid akuma, done with the old looney toon of a butterfly supervillain, done with the ever-conspiring universe.

  She just wanted a wink of a peaceful sleep. One that was not akuma-induced. Could she not even get that?

  She simply wanted to get over with this quickly.

  “Lucky Charm!”

  A big carton of Monster Energy Drinks dropped into her hands.

Sadly, the cans were sealed tight and not meant for drinking purposes, as the notice on the top of it said.

  She looked at the carton and at the rampaging akuma. The carton shone first, then the akuma’s head.

  Such a nice plan.

  Simple.

Easy.

Executable.

  She hauled the carton over her head. 

  “Take that, you mangy akuma!”

  And summoning all her strength, she yeeted the heavy box at its target.

  The carton flew. Chat followed its line of motion with his eyes.

  A resounding thud.

  The akuma dropped. Ladybug fell to her knees.

  “You okay, Ladybug?” Chat was by her side immediately as she panted in exhaustion.

“I am f-fine,” she managed to grit out.

  A Cataclysm later, Ladybug tossed the carton once again, this time weakly, into the air with a cry of “Miraculous Ladybug!”. 

  The magical ladybugs fixed everything. Everything except Ladybug’s exhaustion.

  She really wanted to drop dead from exhaustion right now.

  “Milady, are you really sure you are okay?” Chat asked once more, looking at his ring worriedly as it beeped.

“As okay as a sleepwalking zombie,” she said with a thumbs up.

  Chat stayed a little longer by her side, before vaulting away.

  Ladybug gathered all of her strength and pushed herself up on her feet. She trudged forward and finally broke into a sprint. 

  She had to scale that gap in the buildings in front of her. She crouched. She leaped.

  Her Miraculous beeped the final time before the magical suit faded away.

  Oh darn.

 **********************************************

Luka came up from behind the dumpster, brushing dust off his jacket. He made a way for his bike, when a yelp from above caught his attention.

  The next thing he knew, Marinette was in his arms. And he was breathing as heavily as her.

  “Marinette? What were you -- wait, how did you end up THERE?!”

  “I-I-” she looked around with wide eyes, before letting out a breathless chuckle. “I was parkouring!”

  “In the midst of an akuma attack? From that height? What were you thinking?!” He asked worriedly, his tone going an octave higher.

  Marinette gripped his denim jacket and looked up at him with teary eyes. “I just...I--I am sorry!”

“Hey hey, don’t cry, oof calm down Melody,” Luka awkwardly shifted her a bit in his arms, patting her back slowly. He started walking towards where he had parked his cycle.

  She curled into him, gripping his jacket as she snuggled.in deep. ‘I wanna sleep,” came her muffled voice.

  That was when he took in her bedraggled state, her messed up hair and the dark circles that had been visible in her eyes. “Wait, when was the last time you slept, Marinette?”

“This morning?” Her answer was immediately followed by a yawn.

  He got his cycle of the stand with one hand, balancing the vehicle and the girl in his arms awkwardly. “I meant a proper, nice sleep, Mari.”

There was silence from her side and Luka looked down to find her eyes screwed shut. 

  Oh well, she had fallen asleep.

  Carefully, he mounted himself on the cycle, all the while trying his best not to disturb the girl in his arms. He adjusted his grip, and after making sure everything was secure, pedalled off in the direction of his home.

  A few moments in the ride, and he felt Marinette fist his jacket as she mumbled something.

  “What was that, Mari? I didn’t catch you,” he asked softly.

“A few days. Haven’t slept... for a few days.”

  Luka was totally concerned. “But why? And how did you even function?” 

“Work to do… Black coffee… Monster drinks... Caffeine in blood…”

  “I am totally sure the last thing was other way round,” Luka grumbled as he continued to cycle.

  Marinette didn’t speak anymore, just drifted off to sleep.

  Once he reached home, he gingerly picked the girl in his arms and got aboard the boat. He walked quickly towards his cabin, all the while praying his mom would not see him (for heaven knows her boisterous congratulations would freak the sleeping Marinette out).

  Luka gingerly put Marinette down on his bed and pulled the sheets over her. He picked up his guitar and moved to go to the deck, but found himself stuck in place.

For Marinette had fisted his shirt tight in her little hands.

  Sighing partly in realisation and partly at the sight of her cute, sleeping face, Luka bent down to get his shirt free of her hold.

However, as soon as he made a move to loosen her hold, Marinette’s face scrunched up. 

  “Stay?” came her soft mumble, and Luka’s heart melted.

  With no other alternative visible, the boy sighed before pulling his phone out of his pocket. Shooting a quick text to Juleka about Marinette resting at the Liberty, he gingerly sat down on his bed, leaning on the wall.

Marinette immediately shifted herself a bit, giving him room to adjust as she put her head in his lap and dozed off again. 

  Smiling down at the girl in his lap, Luka gently threaded his fingers through her hair, before pulling the hair ties out. He didn’t want her to get up with heavily knotted hair, after all. Plus, it just provided him more of an excuse to play with her soft locks.

  Marinette snuggled herself to him, and Luka shifted his legs a bit to make her more comfortable. He hummed a lullaby, letting himself relax as the love of his life slept near him in pure bliss.

  Sleep came to him discreetly, and he found happiness in dreams of pink cherry blossoms, the scent of chocolate and bread and the beautiful smile of the music of his heart.

 ************************************ 

Anarka entered the small cabin, looking for her son to get some groceries. However, the sight that met her caught her off guard.

  Luka was leaning by the wall, his head tilted to the side as he dozed off, a content smile spread on his face. On his lap lay the sleeping form of the girl who designed for Kitty Section. Luka’s one hand was in the girl’s hair while the other was draped over her back protectively. The girl herself had a peaceful smile on her face as she used the boy’s legs for her pillow, while her one arm fisted his jacket and the other was near her waist, interlocked with Luka’s.

  Smiling, the Captain of the Liberty simply pulled out her phone and discreetly clicked a picture of the two sleeping kids, before smiling and walking out of the room. 

[pizzaboat]

After a particular bad storm, Luz and king decide to have a movie night..

It should be fun, but Luz just hopes the two adults joining them don't kill each other in the next 2 hours...

"No way, I'd rather clean Hooty than watch some goofy kids movie"

"But Edaaa!" The teen whined, "There's nothing else to watch, and the storm nocked out all the power!"

Sure the power was out. Courtesy of the terrible weather. The magical grid through out the building had been temporarily shut off for hooty's safety, and so most things in the house had stopped working. But that wasn't a good enough reason for Eda to sacrifice napping time.

Eda watched as the human brought the box containing some human *VHS tape* titled "The Lion king" up to display. 

"Come on Its a classic," Luz pleaded, " and you agreed, after some persuasion-"

- Manipulation." 

"-that you'd do something with me and King," Luz pointed, "And you said I could pick. I pick movie night."

"Hey, I say alot of things. Doesn't make 'em true." Eda said with a shrug, "And don't even try to give me any puppy dog eyes kid, I'm immune now."

Luz pouted, and Eda watched as an idea formed on the girls face. Never a good sign..

"Well," Luz said, "You think your tough, but it'd be a shame if anyone in town found out you secretly like hugs!"

"You wouldn't dare," Eda gasped, "They'd never believe you!"

"Oh really? Try me." Luz challenged.

Damn it. Blackmail. She really was her kid. Eda knew teaching her would come back to bite her in the ass.

"Fine," She sighed, "But if anyone starts singing, I'm out."

"That might be a problem.. since it's a musical,"

Titan damn it.

***

And that's how thirty minutes later everyone was gathered in the living room as Luz stuffed human candies into some contraption and King dragged an assortment of snacks to the sofa, throwing them on the coffee table.

Even Lilith had been dragged out of her cave for the night.

"I didn't know you were interested in this stuff," King said to her sister as she settled in the furthest side of the couch, away from everyone else.

"Of course I'm not," She told him, "This is the only room in the house with sufficient enough lighting to read my book."

"If you say so," He muttered.

Eda plopped down onto the couch, opposite to her;

"Yeah, Lily's a nerd," She yawned, pulling a blanket over her self and settling in, "She doesn't do fun. So don't expect her to thrive in social situations."

"I'm not a nerd!" The other woman glared, " I'm trying to research a cure. For our curses."

"Save it," Eda snorted, "I'm fine the way I am, no thanks to you."

"I split the curse, what more do you want?"

"for you to take some damn accountability." 

"How can I do that if you don't let me!?"

"I don't care, figure it out!"

"OK!" Luz cut in with fake enthusiasm, "The movies starting! Who's excited!?"

Eda snapped her gaze to the teen. The two adults had missed the worried looks both Luz and King had been giving them as things had escalated.

Eda felt a wave of guilt, as Luz wormed her way into her side, deviding the two sisters in the hopes of preventing some all out fist fight, she guessed. Eda wrapped an arm around the girl hugging her back as the movie started and music played.

"Hey king, pass some snacks up," Luz whispered.

 

"Get your own, peasant," He whispered back.

***

Lilith had tried her best to focuse on words of the book infront of her in the flickering candle light, but her gaze always wandered back to the small box set on the coffee table infront of them.

The demon had been scolded multiple times by the other two, as he always managed to sit himself directly infront of the screen every five minutes, completely engrossed in its contents.

Lilith didn't do musicals. She hated them. Always had.

Edalyns loud complaints and groans of annoyance when the characters had broke into song, were more obnoxious than the movie its self.

That was new.. wasn't Edalyn big into musicals back when they both were in school?

The human had sung along to every word, boasting that she knew the lyrics to all the "Disney songs," What ever the hell a Disney was, Lilith didn't know. And she didn't want to find out.

Lilith had also noticed the wary glances the human sent her every now and then, as if she thought Lilith would pounce on them all. Lilith couldn't blame them for that one, so she did her best to keep her gaze anywhere else but the rest of the room, and focused back in on her book.

***

King could sympathise with the young creatures desire to become king and rule over all those bellow him. The young lion was the most relatable main character he'd ever seen. Much better than those characters from Luz's books. 

Someone hungry for status much like himself. Though King was already a king. Feared by all.

He clapped when Simba scratched the hyenas face. These animals names were weird he decided though. Lions. Hyenas. Elephants. The movie had even featured those freaks, the giraffes.

He understood the feeling of helplessness when both Simba and his companions had been trapped In the elephants grave yard, only to be saved by Simba's father Mufasa.

He gasped when he discovered Scar's plan to usurp his brother. Maybe Luz had chosen a good movie after all...

***

The human whiped tears from her eyes, then continued to blubber. King wailed clutching his stuffed animal. Even Edalyn seemed somewhat moved, though she didn't show it much.

The father had died apparently. Betrayed by his brother. Lured into a trap by his trusted sibling. His son used against him as bait.

OK maybe that one hit close to home. Hadn't she lured her sister to a witches duel using their apprentice against them? Seeing the broken form of the betrayed, forced images of what could have happened into Lilith's mind, and she suppressed a shudder.

Edalyn petrified. Luz skewered.

It hit her just how close she had come to getting both her sister and her sister's apprentice killed.

Damn it. She'd lost her page.

***

These guys had the right idea, "Hakuna matata", no worries. If society decides your not worth it, why not atleast relax and try to have a good time with your friends. Screw it. Y'know?

Maybe that's what she would've thought even a month ago. But she wasn't so sure that was such a great message to send kids. Abandon responsibly. She knew predictably that the movie would correct this. She was proved right of course.

***

Luz's excitement bubbled towards the end. She'd seen the movie a thousand times when she was younger. But big confrontations were always exhilarating to watch.

Though less fun when your the one confronting things in real life, that's where the beauty of fiction comes in; She was in the mood to enjoy some nice old fashioned living through fictional characters. No danger. Just movies and her family. And Lilith. She wasn't sure why Lilith was In the owl house. Not because of the storm. Just in general.

Luz would have figured Lilith would have found somewhere to stay by now. But it might be difficult for her, what with the Emperors Coven declaring her a wanted criminal, while the rest of them had been pardoned. A selfish part of Luz wished she'd just leave anyway. Her skin always crawled when the woman was around. 

Luz felt bad about this. But it didn't stop her from occasionally thinking it.

She caught a glimpse of the woman In question, when Scar had been left to be killed by the hyenas. Lilith look paler than what seemed possible with her already ivory complexion. Her gaze fixed on the old mini TV. Was she rooting for Scar or something?

Luz wouldn't be surprised.

***

The villian had recieved what he deserved. To be vanquished by his enimies. 

Lilith felt sick thinking of the similarities between her and the character.

Jealousy. Ambition. Cunning. The will to do what ever it takes. 

She knew they were different. But she couldn't help but wonder what could've happend if she were more like this "Scar" character. 

Titan. She thought this was just a kid's movie.

***

The movie finished. Eda had fallen asleep towards the end only to be gently shaken awake by Luz after. The movie hadn't been bad. She'd even enjoyed it, Eda wouldn't admit that to anyone though. Not in a million years.

Luz said goodnight with a tight, crushing hug, then carried King to bed. The little guy must have conked out at some point into the film. 

Movie night accomplished and no one had even died. A win if ever there was one.

They would clean up in the morning but for now sleep, she made her way to leave as well but was stopped by her sister.

"Edalyn, I think we should talk.."