#yes martin queue are my reason

[bare1ythere]

YAHOO!

I'm a little late to the trend, I'm blaming the start of Uni for that. Alberta/Calgary!Miku- Summer and Winter variants!

[esther-dot]

Hi Esther, I sent you an ask about Byronic hero Jon, and I'm soooo lucky you interpreted the ask the way I sent it, because I know anons can come off the wrong way and I realise it sounds like I'm ranting at you when I'm nodding along with you!!! 😭 Yes I sent you that ask because it's what you were already saying first, and you're completely right grounding it in Mr. Rochester terms and also of course you do have the famous Heathcliff. But I do think GRRM is doing his own thing with it, and to be honest the more I think about it, the more I wonder how it influences Jon's ending (or not). If anything Mr. Rochester's secret wife is more of a Rhaegar thing which Jon has to wrestle with, so I definitely think there's a mix of influences going on.

Although like you say, I think when you don't introduce this literary background you lose a lot about what is being said about Jon and Sansa (and Daenerys). I agree with people who say you need to understand fantasy of that era to really understand the tone of what he's going for, which is why I think GRRM is sometimes mean and sometimes writing one-handed, but I still think that background for Romantic characters is necessary.

It's no indictment on Jon if he has a long, moody face, and that's what I kind of love honestly. I think Rhaegar may have been handsome because he was both the crown prince and a Targaryen, and like Arianne expresses aversions to Targaryen features, it may have been divisive in its own way too, beautiful on the terms of conqueror-conquered. I especially enjoy the idea that Lyanna herself had that unusual wolf beauty to her, but beauty in women isn't a portent of safety after all; beauty is just another way girls and women are controlled, even if it superficially seems beneficial when attractive. So that there's some danger to beauty, and danger in Jon's face (Lyanna's, but maybe a hint of Rhaegar too?) hinting his ancestry but also disguising it through something that can be a comfort (Ned) for Sansa is really interesting to me.

(Continuation of this convo)

No worries, anon! For some reason, tumblr wouldn’t let me save, post, schedule for later, or add that post to my queue when I was writing it! I finally just exited the tab and when I got back on tumblr it would let me post an earlier, automatically saved version, as long as I didn’t try to edit it at all, otherwise I would have chatted more with you, because I had, in the version that wouldn’t post. 😅

I share your frustration with the fandom deciding that Sansa is shallow for being moved by beauty and then turning around and obsessing over poll results about whether or not their fav is pretty. I genuinely don’t care, but they clearly care a lot. 😂 I don’t like talking about the kids that way, I don’t think their appearance has anything to do with why we like them, but it just so happens that Jon and Sansa being very Stark and very Tully (look-wise) matters so here we are. And you’re absolutely right, Sansa has suffered a lot of unwanted attention because she is beautiful, so this isn’t exactly something Sansa fans take delight in.

We do get the different takes on Targ looks! For Rhaegar, I thought the emphasis was on his music as the thing that made people swoon? Martin has a thing with singers / someone singing a song seducing people that repeatedly pops up and that is the one thing we know about Lyanna’s feelings—his singing moved her. That’s a connection to Jon who reacts in a similar way to Ygritte’s singing.

I wasn’t even thinking about the secret wife thing being a connection between Rochester and Rhaegar, but bigamy was a popular trope in gothic lit and the sensationalist victorian lit that followed, so I definitely think that’s worth noting. As is the whole, family estate being destroyed in a fire, and of course, “madness.” That all would make me think the references are more about Rhaegar and Targaryen ancestry, less about projecting into Jon’s future, but depending on which spec you buy into, Jon could be in love with Sansa and forced into a relationship with Dany or potentially married to Sansa and still facing pressure from Dany to enter into a sexual relationship. If Martin wants to go dark, it’s possible the gothic “two wives” trope and the Targaryen two wives idea manifest in Jon’s own life with a twist. I still don’t see how the space for Jon and Dany to have much interaction so I’m not too fussed about it, but I certainly think it’s possible Dany sees Jon as an answer to her desire for someone to trust. 😬 Generally though, I don’t look at literary references as being a sure fire way of dictating how the story will go, but I think it’s fun to see how writers are knowingly or unknowingly influenced by certain things. I don’t know that Martin said “gothic lit has family estates burning -> I’m gonna send Summerhall up in flames” but nonetheless, there’s a reason why that would pop into his mind.

Thanks for the followup message, I enjoyed reading your thoughts on this!

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 43: December 2001

“Keep up, Martin.” Aunt Lily’s voice is sharp and brisk. “No lagging behind.”

“Yes, Mum,” Martin says obediently.

Gerard tries not to roll his eyes. Aunt Lily has an even better sense for when they’re being impertinent (her word) than his mother does (her word is insubordinate) and he knows she’ll take it out on Martin if she catches him. The truth is that Martin is probably the only person in the family not having trouble keeping up with Gerard’s mother. Melanie has brought along a wooden trunk for some reason, and Gerard doesn’t know if it’s full or just that the trunk itself is heavy, but she mostly seems to be progressing along by heaving the trunk forward and using its momentum to propel herself and she won’t let anyone else help her. Aunt Lily is having one of her bad days and won’t admit it, so her cane is discreetly packed away—if she even brought it—and she’s leaning heavily on Uncle Roger, who’s obviously struggling with both her and their large suitcase.

Martin, on the other hand, has only his backpack, his clothes rolled tightly and neatly slotted in place; that, his current knitting project, and a couple of (carefully vetted) books are the only things he has with him. Even Gerard has packed more than that, and Gerard is used to going on long trips, so this is nothing particularly new.

Except that it is. Because the “trips” Gerard and his mother usually take are work-related, hunting down books and talking to people and…things bound up in the Fourteen. This, though, is an honest-to-goodness vacation.

And it’s one he’s taking with his whole family.

He can’t quite believe that his mother actually agreed to this. He’s not sure what’s going on, what the impetus was, but he’s also not going to ask too many questions lest he not enjoy the answers. Because they’re not just going on vacation, they’re going on vacation to another country, and they’re going to be gone for two whole weeks. She’s even promised she’s not “working”—no meetings, no dealings, no encounters. Just a vacation. She won’t even monitor Gerard’s activities, and he’s welcome to spend as much time with Melanie and Martin as he likes.

There’s got to be a catch somewhere, but for right now he’s going to take it and run.

Right now, the concern is that they might not have left themselves enough time to get through security. Gerard hasn’t flown in a while—his mother usually takes trains whenever possible, and he honestly prefers that—but he guesses wherever they’re going, it’s somehow cheaper for all of them to fly than to take the train. Or maybe she thinks it’ll be better for Aunt Lily. Whatever the case, security is a lot more intense than the last time he flew, and even having left themselves the usual amount of time, Gerard eyes the long lines to get through security and wonders if they’re going to make it. Why the United States has to mess everything up for everybody is beyond him.

Aunt Lily gets to go through a special line once they’ve checked their bags (which takes forever, especially with Melanie’s trunk), and Uncle Roger gets to go with her, but Gerard’s mother hands Gerard and his siblings their tickets, points them at the regular line, and tells them to meet them at the gate. He can’t help but be a little relieved. It’s at least a few minutes away from her, anyway.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Melanie asks as they join the slow-moving queue. She’s still clutching the bag Gerard got her two Christmases ago, which makes him happy in ways he can’t really explain.

“Dunno. Mum didn’t tell me.” Gerard pats down his pockets, trying to remember which one he shoved his passport in.

Martin, who’s already holding his shoes in one hand despite the fact that it’s going to be at least ten minutes before they’re at the point where that’s necessary, studies the ticket held in the other. His face lights up. “Oh, we’re flying into Katowice!”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s in the southern part of Poland, kind of near the Carpathian Mountains. It’s the largest city in Upper Silesia.” Martin’s eyes shine. “Granddad’s parents came from pretty near there.”

“We’ll have to poke around some, see if you’ve still got family there,” Gerard tells him. Martin’s    never exactly been big on genealogy or anything like that, but still, he must be interested in knowing if he has family. Especially if it’s related to his grandfather. Actually, Gerard would be interested in meeting anyone related to the old man, too. A family that produced someone as kind as Martin has to be worth knowing.

Of course, they also produced Aunt Lily, so who knows.

They have a momentary delay at the security checkpoint, where they have to convince the guard on duty that they aren’t unaccompanied minors and that they really are meeting their parents at the gate; Gerard still isn’t sure she really believes them, but she lets them through with a dire warning about running on the premises and not losing their tickets or passports. There’s another delay while Melanie and Gerard painstakingly re-lace their boots, and then Martin hands him the various things he’s stuffed in his pockets in lieu of a carry-on bag and they’re off again. The corridors are crowded and confusing; the numbers make little sense, and Gerard isn’t entirely certain which way they’re even supposed to go to catch their plane.

“I think this place was designed by the Spiral,” he grumbles, dodging out of the way of a small child dragging a rolling backpack and clutching a teddy bear almost as big as she is. “Maximum confusion for minimum effort.”

Martin stops a man wearing a blazer and badge decreeing him to be a member of the airport staff and holds out his ticket. “Excuse me, can you tell us if we’re heading the right way, please?”

The employee asks them, again, if they’re traveling unaccompanied, and they again assure him that they aren’t. Gerard assumes there’s just some kind of policy regarding children and teenagers walking around without adults until they get to the right stretch of concourse and the tannoy crackles to life with the final call for their flight, at which point it occurs to him that if they’d been unaccompanied minors, they likely would have been able to ride in some kind of conveyance to get here faster.

They make it to the gate just in time, and although Melanie and Martin spend the entirety of their dash debating—bickering might be the better word—over which of them will take the responsibility for them being late, in the end, they don’t even need an excuse. The woman simply scans their tickets and waves them through, then shuts the door behind them.

The flight is nearly full, and even if it wasn’t, Gerard’s mother and Uncle Roger and Aunt Lily are sitting close enough to the front that they can’t miss the three of them squeezing past, mumbling apologies. There’s another embarrassing moment where the stewardess checks their tickets and discovers they’ve been booked into the exit row—Gerard is old enough to sit there, but Melanie and Martin aren’t—and then holds up the flight even further while she walks up and down the aisle trying to find someone willing and able to switch with them. There’s also a moment of worry when it looks like only Martin and Melanie will be allowed to move, but Melanie refuses to sit without both of her brothers. She’s very emphatic about that.

In the end, a couple in the very back row agrees to take the exit row and let them sit together. There’s not room to stow Martin’s backpack under the seat in front of him, so he quickly pulls out a thick blue book and hands the rest of the bag to the stewardess, who takes it to find somewhere to stow it while the three of them sit down. Gerard figures Melanie will want the window, but to his surprise, she insists on taking the middle. Martin silently gestures for Gerard to take the window, so, slightly bewildered, he does and buckles in for the safety briefing.

Truthfully, he more than half tunes it out. Most of it is intuitive, the rest of it is worst-case scenarios, and he’s flown before, after all, even if he doesn’t much like it. Short of one of the Fourteen attacking the plane, he doesn’t think there’s much he needs to worry about. Martin and Melanie, though, seem totally engrossed in the briefing.

The plane begins taxiing backwards. Gerard glances out the window, watching as the concourse rolls away, then feels the lightest of touches on the back of his hand. He turns his hand over automatically, and Melanie’s fingers wrap around his hand immediately and squeeze.

Surprised, Gerard turns to fully face her. She’s pressed as far back against the seat as possible, feet tucked back under her seat, clutching both Gerard’s and Martin’s hand. Beyond her, Martin sits absolutely still, shoulders and spine perfectly straight, his free hand curled around the other armrest. Both of them are staring directly at the backs of the seats in front of them. With a jolt, Gerard realizes they’re both scared.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, keeping his voice as low as he can. “All that stuff, it’s just a precaution. It’s probably not going to happen.”

Martin shakes his head minutely but doesn’t speak, his lips pressed tightly together. Melanie shrinks back further into her seat, somehow. Gerard decides to forgo comforting words and just be there for them as best he can.

He tries to remember his first flight. Was he scared? Or was he just excited? Or was he even thinking about the flight? He was young—it was long before he met Martin even—and he can’t even remember where they were going. He also remembers falling asleep not long after the plane took off.

For the first time, he wonders if his mother drugged him to keep him from making a fuss.

They don’t exactly relax when the plane gets off the ground and seems to level out a bit, but they aren’t quite as rigid. Melanie lets go of their hands and slumps down in her seat, somehow picking up her feet and resting them on the cushion. Martin, for his part, tugs the book out of the seat pocket in front of him and cracks it open. Gerard cranes his head to see the title.

“Death On Board?” he hazards.

“It’s a collection of Agatha Christie mysteries,” Martin says without looking up.

The plane banks a turn, and Gerard can see the sprawl of a city, close enough he can see individual buildings but distant enough that he can’t make out details. It’s almost certainly not London, not with the direction they’re heading, but he can’t resist quipping, “I can see my house from here, look.”

“Urgh.” Melanie scrunches down further. Martin glances up from his book, seemingly involuntarily, and his face goes white. He quickly buries it back in his book.

At that, Gerard realizes what’s going on, and he feels absolutely horrible. “Sorry. As soon as we hit cruising altitude, I’ll shut the blind.”

“Thank you,” Martin mumbles.

Melanie fidgets with the ruffled skirt hem she’s wearing over her leggings. “Gerry? Can you get me my book so I don’t have to…”

“Look?” Gerard supplies. “No problem.” He bends over and snags her bag from where she’s tucked it under the seat in front of her, fishes out the Hans Christian Anderson book she’s had as long as he’s known her, and hands it to her. Taking a hint from them, he finds the Basil Copper novel he’s been reading in the pocket he stowed it in and settles back to read as well.

The stewardess makes Melanie get her feet off the seat and sit up properly, but for the most part, they’re left alone. At last, the overhead crackles to life as the captain announces they’ve reached cruising altitude and turns off the seatbelt sign. Immediately, Gerard closes his book, using a finger to mark his place, and tugs the shade down. Martin takes the first easy breath he’s taken since they boarded.

Melanie slides the bookmark into her own book and rests it on her lap, then looks up at Gerard. She’s scowling, but he can still see the worry in her eyes. “They’re not going to try that again on the way home, are they?”

Gerard frowns, trying to figure out what she means. “What, making us not sit together?”

“Making us sit in an exit row.”

“Oh. I dunno. We can double-check at the gate when we pick up our tickets home, I guess.” Gerard shrugs. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll let us get away with it if we say we’re triplets and you’re just small for your age.”

“No!” Melanie’s voice is sharp and slightly panicked. Martin nearly drops his book and quickly tucks the flap of the dust jacket in between the pages.

Gerard stares at her. “Why not? What’s wrong? We won’t—Neens, it’s really not very likely we’d need to be able to open it or anything. Planes are pretty safe these days.”

“I—I know, but—” Melanie bites her lip and looks from Gerard to Martin and back. “It’s just—you don’t normally fly places, and I heard Aunt Mary telling Mum that it’s all been arranged and it won’t touch anyone else, and then we were in the exit row and I just—I was, I was worried she was trying to sacrifice us to the Vast.”

Okay…that hadn’t occurred to him, but now that it has, Gerard has to admit it makes sense. His mother isn’t really interested in tying herself to a single entity, but if she found something that she was interested in trying—or worse, if she found something that was going to come after her and needed to placate it—she’s not above throwing all three of them to it if she can get away with it. And since Uncle Roger isn’t really…attuned to the Fourteen, it’s highly likely he’d never know precisely what happened to them. Depending on what his mother has—had—planned, he might not even remember them.

“They were talking about when we get there,” Martin says gently. “It’s why Aunt Mary and Mum said we can go off on our own—because they don’t want us hanging about when they’re doing…whatever they’re doing. I think it’s something to help Mum get better, maybe.” He pauses, then adds, “Which isn’t necessarily comforting, but at least it doesn’t involve chucking us off an airplane.”

Gerard blinks at Martin. “Wait, that wasn’t what you were worried about?”

“No. I just don’t like heights,” Martin confesses. “At least not—I don’t mind being in a building so much, but things like—like planes and roller coasters and—I don’t like knowing there’s not really anything much between me and the ground.”

“Oh.” Gerard leans over Melanie and squeezes Martin’s arm comfortingly. “Well, I’ll keep the shade down as long as I can, and when we’re on the descent you can close your eyes again. It’ll be okay.”

Martin gives Gerard a shy smile. “Thanks, Gerry.”

“Of course.” Gerard sits back. “Meanwhile. Now that we know where we’re going, what do we want to do when we get there?”

“We know where we’re landing,” Melanie corrects him. “We might be going anywhere from there.”

“We can run,” Gerard says. “Slip away from them the minute we get off the concourse, disappear into the countryside. Martin speaks Polish, he can translate for us. I can make us a pretty good living selling books. We’ll open up our own used book shop, sell nothing to do with the Fourteen. Few years down the line we’ll be able to buy a sheep farm and sell sweaters and socks made from wool spun off our very own ewes. We can change our names. They’ll never find us.”

Martin and Melanie are giggling so hard they can’t breathe by the time he gets to the end of this, which is kind of his goal. He chooses not to admit out loud how much he’d like for it to be true. Unfortunately, he’ll have to settle for it just being a vacation and then back to London.

Still. At least they can have this much.

[eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes]

yes martin queue are my reason

[kiratheperson]

I posted 24,119 times in 2022

That's 21,589 more posts than 2021!

8 posts created (0%)

24,111 posts reblogged (100%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@bobo-the-part-time-clown

@elytrians

@edelgard-enjoyer

@fardf150

@ziseviolet

I tagged 2,185 of my posts in 2022

#goncharov - 549 posts

#unreality - 324 posts

#aesthetic - 250 posts

#save - 243 posts

#overgrown aesthetic - 43 posts

#dracula - 41 posts

#dracula daily - 38 posts

#<- prev tags - 18 posts

#this is beautiful - 16 posts

#me - 15 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#i could have gotten ‘total loser of a guy who will never amount to anything’ as a result and it would have been less devastating then this

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

changed my theme >:)

0 notes - Posted May 10, 2022

#4

I think u may be stuck on the dashboard of 4 days ago but u should know that martin scorsese himself reacted to goncharov 😳

Yes I do know!!!! It’s amazing this is peak goncharov

The reason Im reblogging posts from 4 days ago is cuz I hit the post limit in like 4 hours on the first day of goncharov and then I filled up my queue with at least 400 goncharov posts. In addition to the normal posts. So now I have 500 posts in my queue. I regret nothing.

2 notes - Posted November 26, 2022

#3

omg that’s adorable I love it

how has your day been btw?

2 notes - Posted October 26, 2022

#2

hey feel free to answer this privately or just . ignore it + I'm not sure how to phrase this well but ... are u Asian ? (LMAO) I don't see a lot of queer Asian ppl in my specific tumblr circle so I'm always happy and surprised when I see other asian ppl on here . sorry if this is a weird question ✋🥲

Yeah I'm Chinese!!! Dw, I'm cool with this kinda question, you know since it's in good faith and all. And I get it cuz it's always awesome to see other queer Asians :D

2 notes - Posted September 11, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Hello, I'm once again asking you about your OCs because I'm curious! I hope that's okay? Who are Iphi and Jack? I love the first one's name. And if I remember right Jack is aro? That's neat, I haven't really seen a lot of aro characters before! /pos

Thank you for the ask!!! Sorry this is pretty late btw, I haven’t had time to answer it lol

(That’s Iphi on the left, Jack on the right. First is a picrew, second isn’t my art but like. I haven’t drawn Jack yet so that’s kinda their ref for now)

But it is rant time!! Imma start with Iphi! Because I kinda need to explain her to give context for Jack’s lore. 

So Iphi is the god of sacrifice in this little fantasy world I made, Kunyang! She’s a pretty old god, a couple of thousand years old, but she’s still the second youngest one lol.

In Kunyang, gods are born when they sprout from the seeds of the god tree. The god tree is in the divine realm, which is a different realm entirely from the physical realm, but very rarely, a god seed can arrive in the physical realm.

Anyways, this seed fell into the hands of a very magically powerful person. They had magic potential that could honestly rival a god- and yeah, they believed they were destined for great things because of it. So, they were determined to be the person who caused the god seed to sprout.

So in Kunyang, there was once this library called the Archives, run by the god of knowledge himself, Ephius. This person went to Ephius, and they were told that the seed was for the god of sacrifice. Ephius told the person that to sprout a god seed, they’d need sacrifices from thousands of people. This person wanted to do it, all by themself.

And so, they sacrificed everything. Family, friends, fortune, and fame. All gone, in the hopes of making a legacy. The seed did not sprout, because it wasn’t enough. So this person decided that they would need to make a very big sacrifice, one big enough to make the seed sprout.

They decided to banish the Archives from the physical realm into the divine realm, sacrificing humanity’s access to the library of all knowledge. And that was indeed a big enough sacrifice to give birth to a new god!

And that’s how Iphi was created. But the thing is- that’s really not how you’re supposed to create a god. So she was kind of corrupted from birth. This corruption prevented her from having a lot of character traits that one might consider important to being human.

Iphi does not feel happiness, or satisfaction. No sorrow or regret. Nothing of that sort. But she is working towards a goal: and that is creating a legacy. Having an effect on the world. (Her only contributor to her creation imprinted heavily on her.)

And because of that, she is very active in all manners of sacrifice. Every day, she’s constantly getting people to make sacrifices to her, amassing followers in many different lands. This also increases her powers heavily.

The way her powers work, they’re kinda like payment based. She gets someone to sacrifice something for her, and she can create something else of equal value to that something. (The more important that something was to the person who sacrificed it, the more she can create and do.) Like, she could make a giant wall of fire, or acid rain, or bury a country in gold if she had enough magic. Which she absolutely does. But she mostly saves the magic potential she receives for later.

And also, Iphi doesn’t truly care about anything other than making a mark on the world. She doesn’t mind if people die or suffer because her sacrifices took something too important- if anything, she wants to do that, because it’s quite a way of making your mark on the world.

Oh, and I gotta add- she can’t do this all without a little help! And that’s where Jack comes in.

They’re also a couple thousand years old, but quite younger than Iphi. So they used to be a court jester. Mortal and everything. They should have had a life of a normal length, be just another person in the world, but then they fell in love with Iphi.

And yeah they’re aromantic! It’s not romantic love, it’s alterous love. But yeah they felt a deep emotional attraction, and they wanted to be in a relationship (not a romantic or platonic one though). Anyways, Iphi doesn’t feel the same way. She doesn’t love Jack. But she thought it was convenient to have someone in love with her, and to keep them around, so she offered Jack a sacrifice.

She’d give them eternity, and they would be her servant.

Jack honestly didn’t want to do that at first, but then they had a near-death experience, and agreed to her terms.

So Iphi took their physical body, and also their independence.

Because it would be inconvenient if her servant got bored or wanted to take back the sacrifice. So Jack quite literally cannot think unless she wills it. They’re barely conscious until Iphi needs them, and only then can they think again.

Jack isn’t even aware this happens. To them, it feels like they just woke up, or they just simply forgot what happened during that time

Iphi also messed with Jack’s mind a bit, to amplify their devotion. And yeah, Jack is completely, utterly devoted to her. They would die for her, they’d be tortured for her, they would kill for her too. Nothing is off the table. They’d do anything she says. And they truly love her.

Jack mostly stays in the divine realm, usually, until Iphi sends them to the physical realm to do something for her. That something is usually extorting people to get more sacrifices. Jack pretty much curses people, and then offers to remove that curse in exchange for a sacrifice. (That’s how Janessa got cursed, actually [have I talked about her?] but Jack forgot they cursed her lmao.)

Anywayssss there is some more lore, but this is pretty fucking long already lmao so Imma just end this here. Unless you’d like to hear more!!

3 notes - Posted September 24, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[bare1yart]

Long time no art, my music taste peaked in middle school

[rosy-cheekx]

for the kiss prompts... 16 with jonmartin?

Combined this New Years Kiss prompt with @ombreblossom‘s prompt for “a giggly kiss" and an anon prompt: “I wish you would write a fic where martin scoops Jon into his arms and Jon realizes how strong he is” damn if i dont deliver

Just a good vibes fic while I’m dying over the pre-finals stress. Check on your friendly neighborhood psychology students, especially juniors. They’re a-struggling. 

Enjoy!!

Resolutions, 2.2k

CW: alcohol

--

“Happy New Year’s Eve!”

Jon wasn’t sure what he expected of Tim’s house. Maybe something haphazardly designed, with takeaway menus pinned to the fridge? Maybe the epitome of the bachelor pad?

He definitely hadn’t expected the open floorplan, spotlessly cleaned and well-organized, with furniture complementary to the walls and each other. Warm light spilled from every lamp, with purple and silver decorations inscribed with “2015” and “Happy New Years” dangling from almost every surface.

“You can close your mouth now, buddy,” Tim elbowed him lightly. “I keep my spaces clean, what can I say?”

Jon clamped his teeth back together and held out a bottle of white wine mechanically. “I brought this. Er, sorry I’m late.”

Tim shook his head jovially, taking Jon’s coat and scarf along with the wine, before handing the bottle back to him. “Party’s just getting started. We’ve been drinking a bit, playing some games.” He winked before nudging him toward the couches, where Sasha’s dark curls were just visible. “Go on, I’ll be right behind. They’ll be happy to see you!”

“Jon!” The man in question jumped and craned his neck to see Martin—or, more rightly, his hand—from over the edge of the couch cushions. “Good, you’re here! Sash and Tim are kicking my ass in Scrabble.”

Jon approached the living room, spying Martin, sitting on the floor in front of a coffee table, another bottle of white wine between him and Sasha, along with the aforementioned Scrabble board. “Scrabble isn’t a team sport?”

“Hey, Jon. Ooh, more wine, thank god, this one’s just gone.” Sasha scrunched her nose with her greeting, reaching for the bottle in his hands. “And no, it’s not,” she continued as she spun a corkscrew between her fingers. “But Tim is missing like half the tiles so we can’t play four.”

“Tim’n’Sash ganged up on me,” Martin mumbled, the edges of his words softened, Jon assumed, by wine. “I didn’t even—I’m new to research, issnot fair.”

Sasha pulled the cork from the wine as Tim leapt over the cushion of the suede couch, landing neatly next to her. “I told you, you would get Jon when he showed up, which evens it out anyways. Stop pouting.”

“Am not.”

Jon folded his legs beneath his hips as he sat, examining the board and taking a proffered glass from Sasha’s hands. “Don’t worry, Martin,” he offered, smiling gently at the man, taking in the flush of his face and the rolled sleeves of his dress shirt—maroon, he filed away. Looks good with his hair. “We’ve just got to last long enough before Tim gets drunk or bored and starts to throw letters at us. Did he tell you that’s why they’re missing?”

Martin laughed aloud and the noise caught Jon off guard. It was a low, warm sound, loud in a way that suited the man. Jon smiled to himself, proud.

“I do-I do not,” spluttered Tim, pointedly ignoring Sasha’s raised eyebrow. “…I stopped that when we were down to one W.”

Jon nudged Martin, gesturing for the block of letters in front of him. “You’ll see. Our turn?”

--

Eight rounds, three glasses of wine, and a dodge from the letter E later, Jon was feeling properly comfortable. They were all properly buzzed, if not a little tipsy, and the clock ticked steadily closer to midnight. Martin and Jon had continued to be partners for all the other games they played: Charades, Pictionary, and a silly game Sasha had made up where they had to describe concepts like colors or sounds, without using words directly related to them. Martin had carried their team for that game, explaining through an embarrassed blush that he liked to read a lot of poetry. Jon elected to ignore that statement, though he was grateful for the edge it gave them; his competitive streak was willing to ignore a multitude of sins.

At 11:15, Tim flipped through the television programs, searching for one doing a proper countdown. One of the BBC Music channels was playing a Countdown playlist, with an eclectic variety of music on the playlist if the presented queue was any indication. Remote in hand, Tim spun on his heel, lip-syncing voraciously to the song, some dreadfully cheesy rock ballad. In turn, he focused on Sasha, then Jon, then Martin, hand outstretched to each of them in a mockery of longing. When he turned his attention back to Sasha, the chorus swelled and she took his hand, swinging herself under his arm with a grin on her face. Jon settled into the couch cushions, a warmth running through his chest as he watched the two spin with each other in a pseudo-dance. Martin sipped his glass of water on the other end of the couch, seemingly as happy as Jon to just watch.

As the song ended, the rock ballad was replaced by a pop song, one Jon didn’t know but it was apparent everyone else did. Tim sang along in a horrendous shout-sing, and Sasha grabbed Martin’s hand, tugging on it lightly. Martin rolled his eyes, resisting briefly as Sasha wordlessly argued with him, but her will was stronger and he laughed softly as she pulled him to his feet and jumped around to the beat, air-guitaring in circles around him. Eventually, Martin closed his eyes and leant into the dance, reminding Jon vaguely of his club days with Georgie, the dozens of hot, sweaty young adults without a care in the world of who saw them dance. And, most importantly, dance badly. Martin was truly terrible, but Jon was unable to tear his gaze away. He wasn’t matching the tempo and he knew about half the words as he joined Tim in singing the chorus, but there was something about him that was absolutely intoxicating, more than the wine Jon had consumed.

The Beatles played next, and of course Jon knew them. They had been his grandmother’s favorite, and for good reason. He hadn’t even realized he was singing under his breath to Come Together until Tim’s TV remote was shoved under his lips unceremoniously. Without thinking, he accepted the faux-microphone and joined the trio, standing from the couch to the coffee table in socked feet. As he sang, voice growing in intensity, he swung his arms wide, the images of clubs and dancers and stages at the forefront of his mind.

When the song ended, Jon was breathless, and the smattered applause from his friends brought him out of his reverie. He blushed, suddenly acutely aware of the blood rushing through his body and the heart that was pumping it. he handed the remote to Tim and moved to step off the table, chewing on his lip as he did so. Before he could make the awkward step to the floor below, he yelped as he was suddenly swept off balance. The spinning of his mind, thanks to the alcohol, confused him briefly before he realized he hadn’t fallen and was actually being clutched in a pair of strong arms, bridal-style. Martin’s arms, to be precise. His brow was furrowed in concentration, though he held Jon like he weighed almost nothing.

“Ah, you said you didn’t want to fall.” Martin shrugged and bounced Jon in his arms slightly as if that explained everything.

He had? “Mmm-thank you Mar’n,” Jon murmured, eyes unsure where to land and deciding on a loose curl that hung over Martin’s forehead. He wanted to pull it, Jon realized, and he did so, gently, giving the coil a tug, and giggled to himself as it sprang back in place. Martin was a lot stronger than Jon gave him credit for, and warmer too, though that may have been the alcohol. It was nice, being held like that, and Jon felt himself nestle towards the heat of Martin’s barreled chest without thinking about it.

Tim and Sasha, to Jon’s relief, hadn’t seemed to notice, deep in conversation. Martin deposited Jon safely on the couch and slumped next to him, unbuttoning his collar a little more and turning his attention quite intently to his phone.

The music carried on, and Jon was pulled into a few more dances with Sasha and Tim but felt himself gravitating towards Martin as the hour pursued, making excuses to scoot closer on the couch. A few videos of kittens later, he was properly next to him, watching Tim and Sasha tango to Britney Spears and the clock that ticked steadily towards midnight.

As 11:50 hit, Tim lowered the volume and flopped next to Jon, sweat beading on his forehead. “Alright, mates, resolutions for 2015, go.” He popped a grape from the platter that rested on the chair nearby. “Mine’s to get outside more, I haven’t been able to get out of London much. Maybe go backpacking, see the world.”

Sasha shrugged and perched on the armrest of the couch, feet resting on the cushion next to Tim. “Patience, I think. Listening to people better.”

Jon surprised himself by speaking. “Work-life balance,” he mumbled, dragging his eyes from the coffee table to meet Tim’s curious expression. “It’s not like Elias cares much what the researchers do.”

“Hell yeah, mate!” Tim clapped him on the back. “Maybe you’ll finally come dancing with me. You’ve clearly got the skills.” He turned his attention to the final member of their party. “Marto? What about you?”

Martin shrugged, lips pursed in thought. “Mm, be more honest with people, I think.”

Tim nodded excitedly. “Oh yes, I would love to see Martin Blackwood, The Director’s Cut.”

The ginger shrugged. “I don’t think you’re missing much, honestly, just maybe a little more negativity, a little more feeling.”

“Regardless,” Tim waved the thought away. “Can’t wait to see it.” He cast his eyes to the ceiling and crossed his arms under his chest. “What do you think the illustrious Elias Bouchard does on holiday? I swear that man lives and breathes Magnus Institute.”

Sasha grinned. “Bet he wears nothing but a silk robe, with the Magnus owl embroidered on the chest, skulking around the house and drinking scotch, grumbling about budgets and paranormal stories.”

“Bet he has a cat he strokes menacingly while watching the stock market,” Martin added, sighing. “We can agree he’s a total Tory, right?”

“Oh, for sure,” came a chorus of affirmation.

The group sat in comfortable silence as an upbeat love song played on the television. Jon’s eyes were starting to feel heavy, like how they felt when he got them dilated at the optometrist. Midnight couldn’t come soon enough.

“Hey, guys?” The voice from his right was quiet, hesitant. Martin’s eyes were glassy, phone abandoned on his lap. “I’m really happy to be here, with you all.”

“Martin!” Sasha and Tim cooed happily, rushing to coat his words in affirmations and gentle kindness, sweet gifts with which to end the year. Jon opted for a quieter approach, not the verbally affectionate kind of man, placing a hand over Martin’s gently, squeezing his wrist once. He wasn’t even sure if Martin noticed it—he didn’t move his hand before Tim was shouting, hauling them up as 11:59 flashed on the screen and a countdown began to shout its way from 59 on the screen.

“Come on!” Tim crowed. “My mum always said you can’t stand still when midnight hits, or it’s bad luck. Something about starting the year moving.” Tim led them all in a sort of march, stomping forward and back, spinning in circles, and swinging each of his friends under his arms, though Martin had to duck rather considerably. All four of the research staff members were laughing through their words as they tried to add their discordant shouting to the last few numbers on the TV.

“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!” Tim grabbed Sasha around her waist and dipped her low as he kissed her, both grinning into the kiss. Jon chuckled and shook his head at the pair, before feeling the hand that was still on his tug gently.

“I-I said I wanted to be more honest,” Martin murmured, voice low in his throat. Jon nodded wordlessly, indicating for him to go on. His words seemed caught somehow.

“If I’m honest,” Martin continued, eyes flitting over Jon’s face before landing back on his eyes. “I really want to kiss you.”

Jon giggled, actually giggled at Martin’s words, the boldness of the wine piloting his voice for a moment. “What are you waiting for?”

So Martin did, one hand on Jon’s waist and one tangled in the hair behind his ears, pressing Jon close and up towards his lips. It was a warm kiss, soft and gentle, and Jon’s head was spinning, not from the buzz or the dancing but from the four points of contact he had with MartinMartinMartin Blackwood is kissing me and Martin’s hand is on my waist and my hand is on Martin’s cheek and his skin is so soft I think I could kiss him forever. Screw 2015; I’ll come back for 2016 and just kiss Martin for a year—

Martin pulled away, smiling down at Jon with a look of utter adoration. “Happy New Year,” he breathed. “Here’s to 2015.”

“H-Happy New Year,” Jon returned, ducking his head shyly at the gaze Martin was casting on him. “Let’s hope it’s a good one.”

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)  

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

[nanoland]

new chapter (supernatural fic)

(Also on AO3.) 

Clean Hands, part 4 

Crowley/Dean Winchester/Castiel 

Warning: Demon deals, violence, mention of abuse and torture. Also: Crowley is an abuse + addiction survivor and also a cold-hearted arsehole with very little respect or empathy for abuse + addiction survivors, and this story is written from his POV. 

0 

What was there to be done when you were enamoured of a man who hit you?

Leave him! the whole world cried back in one voice.

Which was a bit like telling someone trapped in a burning car to get out of the car. Yes. Quite. Thank you. Fully agree. But what if, for a moment, you assumed I wasn’t as stupid as a fucking dog?

That, incidentally, was one of a handful of ways the world had worsened since Crowley last drew breath.

Back in the fourteenth century, the women in the marketplace had noted his black eye and torn dress with immediate understanding. Instead of insisting he pack his bags and walk out of the house belonging to his wealthy shoemaker husband, the father of his child, the man on whom his safety and good reputation and continued ability to eat depended, the man he, for some fucking reason, still loved, they’d actually tried to help.

Sybil had given him willow bark for the pain. Rose had engaged him in long, rambling conversations, stretching the minutes until he had to return home. Jane had walked across the village and rapped on his door every evening she could, always armed with solid excuses, just when the bastard was well and truly in his cups and looking for something to damage.

If ever analytical minds were to try to account for Crowley’s misanthropy and sadism, they couldn’t honestly conclude that either was due to his never experiencing true, heartfelt human kindness.

Yes, Sybil and Rose and Jane had all thought he was a woman and addressed him accordingly, and it had hurt. But that wasn’t their fault. He’d not had the courage to tell them otherwise.

Crowley didn’t regret much. Regret, in this game, was a slow-killing poison.

Still, he did occasionally wonder how things might have turned out if he’d accepted Jane’s invitation and fled with her to London that one warm night, rather than hanging in for years until he finally snapped and beat his husband’s skull into tooth-sized pieces with an iron kettle.

Returning to the present:

As Crowley watched Dean’s fist barrel towards his face, and not for the first time, he reviewed the pros and cons of incinerating him with hellfire.

When fist and nose were one millionth of an inch apart, he teleported across the room.

“Squirrel,” he sighed, “this has nothing to do with you.”

Dean charged and took another swing at him. “Fuck you! He worked so hard! Clean for four years, you piece of shit!”

This time, Crowley reappeared sitting on top of the dead man’s wardrobe, where Dean couldn’t reach him. “Good for him. His family and friends won’t remember him as the thieving, lying wretch he was ten years ago when he sold his soul for a pound of meth. They’ll probably give him a nice funeral.”

“Why couldn’t you make an exception? Just once?”

“That’s not how this works, Dean! It wasn’t even my deal! The contract is in the hands of a relatively inexperienced subordinate and honestly, I’m glad that she pulled it off. She’s got potential. This is her first real win. It’ll increase her standing in Hell and make her more powerful, which will be useful because some older demons have taken to bullying h-…”

“I don’t give a damn about your minions,” he snarled, picking up a lamp sprinkled with blood and throwing it at him. Crowley ducked. “Every last one of you can take an angel blade to the face, for all I care. You’re fucking parasites.”

Evenly, Crowley replied, “Yes. We are. You know that. You’ve always known that. Why are you having a fit about it now? Good people get dragged to Hell all the time.”

Dean stared down at what remained of Martin Booke, now that the hellhounds had left. “He worked so hard. Christ. You could have made an exception. He came to us and I swore I’d help him out.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have cocking well done that, should you?” Crowley cried, throwing up his hands.

Eyes wet, Dean sneered at him. “Parasite. Get out of my sight before I wring your evil neck.”

Crowley left.

Upon arriving back in Hell, he went to the Admissions Department.

The soul of Martin Booke was sitting in one of the cheap blue plastic chairs, knees drawn up to his chest. Probably still reeling from the trauma of the hounds ripping his throat out, though no damage was evident on his form now.

“Mr Booke,” Crowley said, sauntering up with his hands in his pockets. “Could you come with me, please?”

A door appeared in the nearest wall and swung open silently.

Once they were both standing inside Crowley’s office, it swung shut and dissolved into nothingness.

Moving to his liquor cabinet, Crowley said, “I hear you’re a Harvard man.”

“Um… y-yeah. Yes. I was.” Thin voice. Midwestern accent.

“Promising career ahead of you before things – ah – went awry.”

Booke swallowed. “Tom. First boyfriend. Got me into meth. Got me into a lot of stuff. I figured it was okay because we were gonna be together forever and as long as I had him, I’d be fine. Then he went and died and I had to pick up the pieces on my own.”

Smiling thinly, Crowley said, “Isn’t romance grand? As it happens, you may still get your happily ever after. Thomas Abbott is currently waiting in the eternal queue – which, ordinarily, is where you’d be headed.”

“Yeah. Dean told me. Although… um…”

“You have a question? Spit it out. Cowards bore me.”

“Dean said that when you sell your soul, you go to Hell and demons torture you until you become a demon. But he also told me about the queue thing. So that’s confusing. I mean, queuing sucks but it’s not torture.”

Crowley poured himself a glass of bourbon and sat down behind his desk. “Clever boy. Yes; when I became King of Hell, I restructured things. Most of you end up in the queue. The hot knives and whips are a speciality service and, as such, are reserved for our elite clientele. The pedos and Nazis and so forth – and, of course, anyone who pisses me off too much. As for the process of becoming a demon; that doesn’t actually require torture. I know! Surprised me too! We always thought it did, back when Lilith was in charge. Then I started running some tests and it turns out that becoming a demon is a bit like catching a virus; it’ll happen to anyone who hangs around other demons long enough. Everyone in the queue will have black eyes by the end of their first century.”

Booke took off his glasses and nervously rubbed them on his sleeve. “You said that ‘ordinarily’ I’d go to the queue. So am I an – uh – ‘elite client’?”

“Hah! No. Your little life was staggeringly boring and barely impacted anyone in ways either negative or positive. No, the reason you’re here is Harvard. See, I had a snoop and it seems that before you dropped out, you were getting bloody good grades.”

A wistful smile. “I guess. Had big dreams, once.”

Sipping his bourbon, Crowley said, “On track for a Master’s in aeronautical engineering, I believe.”

“Yep. I wanted to work for NASA.”

“Cards on the table, Booke: I might have a job for you. There is, at present, space in one or two of our departments for a man with your talents. But first I need to ask a question.”

He cocked his head. “Um. Sure? Anything’s better than what I was expecting. Shoot.”

“Do you know how to crash a spaceship?”

[bare1ythere]

Guys I don’t think we can time travel fix-it au our way out of this one 

[ellana-ravenwood]

Batfam and friends after dentist

I just remembered this video : clickclickclick, and this happened. Please, don’t take it too seriously it’s just a fun little joke post haha. I hope you’ll still enjoy it a little nonetheless ^^. Here we are, the Batfam and friends, after dentist :

DICK

Dick : “Turns out my dentist is not giving me a plaque for great teeth after all. He really hurt my fillings.” Makes all the WORST pun you can think about, to calm his nerve, as he’s about to go to surgery to take his wisdom teeth out. Bruce is there, for support. Of course, he’d be there for his son. Dick wakes up, the surgery went GREAT. He looks around, a little groggy, looks at his dad, and...Starts to rap absolute nonsense, as if his life depended on it : 

“I'm feeling the rainbow like skittles

dropping reptars like my name was tommy pickles

for rizzle, thats drizzle?

nah my nizzle, thats the shizzle”

Asks Bruce to buy him a “big ass gold chain” and if the dentist could transplant silver teeth on him now, “while we’re at it”. Bruce is able to reason with him and convinces him that sure, he’ll buy him the gold chain he wants, but he should wait for the teeth because his mouth is still too numb and such. Dick agrees that it sounds sensible, but does not drop the subject of him becoming a successful rapper. On the way back to the Manor, they stop to buy a gold chain, because Bruce cannot resists when his kids give him the “puppy eyes”. Dick choses the ugliest biggest thing in the entire shop. It says “bling bling” on it, has a few shiny diamonds, and is about twice the size of his head. He looks at it as if it was the best thing on earth while on the ride home. The drugs start to wear off but as a result he’s super tired again, he goes to sleep...Wakes up with that ugly chain, wondering what the hell happened. 

JASON

Woke up after wisdom teeth removal. Got pissed because he really wanted Coca Cola but there was only Pepsi. Proceeded to tell Bruce that him bringing Pepsi back instead of Coke was worst than when he didn’t kill the Joker to avenge his death (queue Bruce nervously looking at the nurses, and really insisting on how funny people who just got their wisdom teeth removed could be). After the Pepsi/Coke debacle claimed he has 9 children (Bruce’s influence for sure hahaha). Apollo and Jean-Claude being his favorite two. Proceeded to cry because he admitted he had favorite children, and thought it was horrible to choose a favorite. Apologized to “his” kids that were definitely not there and talked about how his dad (pointing at Bruce), never had favorites. Bruce is touched. Until Jason remembers the Pepsi incident and tries to escape the room by jumping out of the window to go pouting alone somewhere. Queue a ridiculous struggle between Bruce and his son, as Jason, still quite limped and out of it because of the sleeping drugs, resists as best as he can while his dad drags him to the car to go home, trying to be as gentle as possible because he doesn’t want to hurt Jason’s mouth. Just to be sure, Bruce stops on the way to buy a bunch of coke bottles... 

TIM

After waking up from getting his wisdom teeth removed, sitting in a wheelchair because he can’t stand yet (Tim is very resistant to anesthetic, and they had to give him more than usual for it to work), telling to Bruce who’s wheeling him back to the car, in a very dramatic way : “Lady, I thank you for your help. You have to release me back to the ocean now. My time on land, is over.”

Bruce, not sure he quite understood : “...What was that, chum ?” 

Tim : “I said please m’am, get me back to my people. They need me.” 

Then the boy proceeds to stick both his legs up, and move them as if he was a mermaid, making “woosh” sounds with his mouth as if he was splashing water around. Bruce doesn’t even try to reason with him (he remembers how it was impossible to do so with Jason and his Coke, or with Dick who really thought he was a rapper), so he goes along with it, talking about Tim’s “people” and why he can’t stay on land. Queue a dramatic full of adventure stories where he was taken away from his land and...and Bruce realizes the boy is kinda telling Aquaman’s story (that he probably learned by hacking into Batman’s secret files he has on everyone). He seems to really believe it...When they get back home, Tim is suspicious because there is no ocean, but his dad convinces him that the pool is said ocean, and Tim solemnly say “good bye” to Bruce, before dipping into the water. Of course, Bruce keeps an eye on him, because in the state he is there might be accidents, but Tim just lays there, on his back, floating around and mumbling about fish species he knows. Eventually, the cold water gets to him and he finally comes back to his senses. Bruce helps him out of the pool, and Tim goes to sleep, wrapped in blankets, holding his dad’s hand. 

CASSANDRA

She had to have a rather heavy mouth surgery after an accident, and woke up ,slowly, in a hospital bed. Bruce was there of course, waiting patiently, worried, and hoping she’d wake up soon. It was nerve wracking to wait for your child to be better ! When she does wake up, she doesn’t even look lost or anything, although the surgeon told Bruce that she was probably gonna be feeling a little hazy and such. So the fact she seems totally fine reassures her dad. And then suddenly she throws her blanket off of her, stands up so fast that Bruce’s brain doesn’t have time to react, and walks to the nearest fire alarm. She looks at Bruce straight in the eyes, pull the alarm, and just says : 

“Shit’s fire.” 

DAMIAN

He had to have a minor surgery on his jaw, but was still put under anesthetic. Bruce, having witnessed his other kids under it, is ready to have a good laugh...But his boy is just sitting there, waiting for his father to fill in some paperwork and pay for the surgery. Yeah sure, it’s a little weird that he keeps petting his tongue but, ya know, maybe he’s feeling weird because his entire mouth is numb. Then Bruce is done with paperworks and such, and goes to Damian, who proceeds to tell him he got “a ‘ew ‘at” (a new cat)...

“Um. Really, champ ? Uuuh...Where is it ?” ----> Bruce playing along. And then Damian looks at him and breaks into a huge goofy smile and says : “’Ight ‘ere.” (Right here) Showing the tongue he has been petting for the past twenty minutes. Damian then tells to whoever goes by that he has a new cat and asks them if they want to pet him. Bruce takes him home, laughing to himself all the way, and promises a Damian who came back to his senses that this little story will indeed stay between them. 

BRUCE 

Not actually him after dentist, but something I thought about a lot :

Dentist : “Mister Wayne, do you grind your teeth ?” 

Bruce : “Yes. Have you seen how many children I have ?” 

Also, he waits the last minute before having to urgently remove his wisdom teeth, because the big bad bat is...afraid of the dentist. Alfred has to go with him. Bruce makes sure all the kids are busy this day, to their great disappointment...Alfred takes a lot of video for them (because it’s unfair he got to see them all floozy and they didn’t). The kids make a montage of it and post it on YouTube, as well as on instagram stories, calling it : “Is Bruce Wayne ok ?”, and it’s like a bunch of short images of what Bruce did after his surgery, still under the anesthetic’s influence. Him crying, him laughing like a mad man the second after, him hugging a pillow shaped like a tooth and refusing to let go because he thinks it’s the one they took out of his mouth, blabbering nonsense, asking for a “taco milkshake” etc etc...Of course, video went viral. 

ALFRED 

Has apparently nothing wrong with him, which is infuriating to the family who was really expecting him to have something that they could eventually use against him. Since he “raised” most of the them, he has way too much leverage against them, and they have way too little. But he’s just normal, and it’s so annoying. 

Up until they come home, and he goes in the kitchen, ignores Bruce telling him that he needs to get some rest, and proceeds to whip a five course meal, making the weirdest combination ever...Porridge and Turkey ? Saurkraut in an Enchilada ? Salt and Vinegar chips in a smoothie ?

STEPHANIE

Bruce picks her up after her wisdom teeth removal (it’sjusttheeasythinghaha), along with Tim, and she has that dreamy look in her eyes. Tim asks her if she’s alright, and she’s like : 

“The dentist said I need a crown.” 

Tim and Bruce are a little perplex, like, this doesn’t sound nice ? But then Steph looks at them and just says : 

“I said, I KNOW RIGHT ?! Guys. I’m going to be a queen.” 

Queue Bruce and Tim smiling, and Steph mumbling something about how one day, she’ll be the boss of them haha. 

DUKE

Of course, Bruce went with Duke because...Well, he unfortunately has no one else :/. And when you have any sort of surgery, it’s nice to have someone you trust with you. So. Anyway. Surgery goes on, and Duke wakes up after a few hours, a little out of it. He looks at Bruce, smiles and is like : “Hiii Brush !” while laughing a little to himself. Which makes B smile too, but then he gets worried because all of a sudden, Duke freezes, and stares at the nurse. Then after a few seconds he’s whispering to Bruce : 

“Hey, hey, why didn’t you tell me that Céline Dion was my nurse ?” 

Evidently, Bruce is confused. Duke then proceeds to admit his biggest guilty pleasure is to blast Céline Dion’s songs when he’s alone. Gushes over that nurse that looks NOTHING like Céline Dion, but he’s SURE it’s her. He blushes and is embarassed because he’s such a fan ! But then finally asks for an autograph, sings her songs badly (even worst with all the gauze in his mouth), and leaves the room, holding onto Bruce, with tears in his eyes because man...he just met Céline Dion ! 

BARBARA

Wakes up from having her wisdom teeth removed, crying, admitting that she killed the president...Which one ? Martin Van Buren of course. Spends the next few minutes crying about how she’s a disgrace to her family because she killed someone and HER DAD IS A COP !! Starts to sing : “Mammmaaaaaaaa, I killed a maaaaaaan” while still crying. But then suddenly is sure that she actually got framed, and becomes super suspicious of everyone, everything culminating when Dick comes to pick her up to bring her home and she thinks he’s the one that is “blackmailing” her, so she takes a run for it...Dick gets Barbara back to her place with a black eye, saying “I don’t want to talk about it” to Commissioner Gordon. Haha. 

LUCAS FOX :

As the dentists says : “I need to put some bitewings in your mouth for the X-rays ok ?”

Luke Fox : “Bat...wing ? Oh. OH ! BATWING !” Hahahaha (could also work with David of course). 

************

Ok done. Again, nothing to take too seriously, it’s obviously just a few little jokes :). Wanted to share nonetheless, I like writing “domestic” lighthearted Batfam stuffs...haha ^^' .

Ah and yeah I know some members of the Batfam extended family (it’s pretty big now) are missing, but I guess it just means I’ll make another post about it hehe. So please, don’t give me too much grief about those I “forgot”, it was getting too long ^^. 

[letterboxd]

How I Letterboxd #10: Chad Hartigan.

Filmmaker Chad Hartigan talks to Jack Moulton about his prescient new sci-fi romance, Little Fish, why radio silence is worse than a bad review, and his secret system of Letterboxd lists.

Chad Hartigan has won prizes at the Sundance Film Festival and the Film Independent Spirit Awards for his acclaimed films This is Martin Donner and Morris From America. He’s also been a Letterboxd member since way back, joining what he proclaims as “my favorite website” in 2013. Hartigan has always been an obsessive logger: he has transcribed all of his viewing data since 1998 and continues to work on filling in the gaps in his downtime.

Like many ardent Letterboxd members, Hartigan is a diligent list-maker, keeping tabs on his best first viewings of each year and assembling an all-time top 1,000 films over the summer (with an accompanying 26-minute supercut). Perhaps unusually for a member of the film industry on Letterboxd, he’s unafraid to hold back his opinions and regularly voices his critiques on even the most acclaimed films.

Hartigan’s newest film, Little Fish, is a sci-fi love story starring Olivia Cooke (Sound of Metal) and Jack O’Connell (Unbroken). Written by Mattson Tomlin, it’s set during an imagined pandemic—shot long before our own actual pandemic—wherein a disease causes people to lose their memories. It was set to premiere at the 2020 Tribeca Film Festival, and then postponed due to Covid-19. It’s now out in limited theaters and on demand, and we were delighted with the excuse to put Hartigan in the How I Letterboxd spotlight.

Olivia Cooke as Emma and Jack O’Connell as Jude in ‘Little Fish’.

You made a pandemic movie before the pandemic. How do you feel about accidentally hitting that unfortunate zeitgeist and now consequently being asked questions like this one? Yeah, strange. The questions are fine. If it wasn’t this one, it would be another that you would have to answer over and over again. One of the things that drew me to the project was that it felt like a fantasy that wasn’t necessarily rooted in reality in a way that my other [films] were. I liked that it’s old-fashioned in its attempts to purely take you somewhere and wasn’t intended to hold up a mirror to our times—but then in the end that’s exactly what it’s doing. I’m curious myself, and I’m checking Letterboxd to see the reactions from people because I really couldn’t guess what it would have been like [now].

Are there any prescient details you’re proud of getting right? I’m so grateful and happy that Jack [O’Connell] is wearing his mask correctly. That’s the number one thing that I’m glad we got right. I think it was very smart of Mattson to focus the movie on [the relationship] rather than the details of this global pandemic. I feel the reason it’s not in bad taste is because it dealt with those things as a backdrop and instead focused on people just trying to remember what’s important and clinging onto those that they love.

Onto our own favorite memory aid, Letterboxd. How did you discover us and how did you manage without us? I’ve been on since 2013, so I’m probably one of the earliest people to jump on it. I love the interface and the diary, just aesthetically it was really fun. I’ve been keeping track of what I see with analog [methods] for as long as I can remember. I have diaries and planners so I logged all that old information. If I was running for president, my platform would be that everybody is required to use Letterboxd comprehensively, because I just love to know what everybody is watching all the time.

Do you talk about Letterboxd in the real world with the other filmmaking people? Yes, and I’m often trying to convince them to join. Other filmmakers are more concerned about having their opinions on peers be public knowledge than I am, I guess. I’ve made four films now and each one’s been bigger and more widely seen than the last. The very first one was a total no-budget affair that couldn’t get into any festivals and I was very excited when I finally got it into the Hamptons Film Festival. It was about half-full and one or two people came up to me afterwards and said they liked it. This was pre-Twitter so I spent the whole next day Googling to see if anybody had written anything. I was so curious to see what people thought and there was nothing—not a review, not a blog—just total emptiness.

When the next film got into Sundance, there were people tweeting their reactions and actual reviews and I read everything. People were asking if the bad reviews hurt me. Absolutely not—nothing can be worse than the radio silence of nobody caring about the first film. The fact that people care enough to sit and write about this movie—good or bad—is a win, and I’ve carried that onward. I like to see what people think, it can be helpful in how you view the film as a success or failure. You learn and move on.

Jack O’Connell at least remembers how to wear a mask in ‘Little Fish’.

Some filmmakers have told us they’re kinder to films after making their own, but you’re not shy at all about being critical. How did making your own films change your perspective as a critic? I don’t consider myself a critic so that’s why I’d be less concerned with someone reading what I thought. Why should they put any stock into what I think? If they get hung up on it then that’s their own stuff because I’m not a critic. Like everyone else on Letterboxd, I just love watching movies. Obviously I can appreciate and understand some of the technical aspects maybe moreso than people who don’t make films, but at the end of the day, rarely that’s the thing that makes you love a movie or not. There’s a great bit in Francis Ford Coppola’s commentary track for Finian’s Rainbow where Fred Astaire’s doing a dance number and [Coppola admits] he totally messed it up because Astaire’s feet aren’t fully in frame. He’s very honest about his mistakes because it’s one of his earliest movies. Then he goes on to say that he thinks there’s the same number of mistakes in Finian’s Rainbow as there are in The Godfather, it’s just that he made mistakes on the things that don’t matter for The Godfather. No film is perfect, but if it can latch onto this one magical aspect that connects you to it, that’s what makes you love it or not.

You had a project where you chart the best films made by directors at certain ages as you reached that age. Tell us more about it. That was a great project. I got the idea when I was 26. This was back when I had a Netflix DVD subscription and it was just hard for me to randomly choose DVDs to throw in the queue. I needed a system. I decided to watch movies from directors when they were my age and see if there’s some common denominator, something I can learn. At that point, there weren’t many, there were films like Boogie Nights and Fassbinder films. Not many people had made stuff when they were 26 or 27, so it was very feasible. Every year there were more movies and more directors to add to the list and it became time-consuming. I did it all the way up until I was 34 and the reason I stopped was because I had a son and there was no way I could continue this level of viewing output.

My favorite part of your account is the fact that you log every viewing of your own films. You know for a fact that you’ve watched Morris From America 26 times and Little Fish fifteen times. Why do you log them? What counts as a viewing? I’ve clearly watched those movies many more times in little chunks but I’ll only log it if we’re sitting down and watching it from beginning to end. I have a ticket to see Little Fish in the drive-in on Saturday, so it’s going to be logged again. Why do I do it? Like I said, I wish everyone was required to use Letterboxd comprehensively. That’s what it’s there for for me, an accurate log of what I watch. This is psychotic behavior but I’m tempted to have a Letterboxd account for my son. I’ll do his views for him once he starts watching movies until he’s old enough to take over. It’ll just be, like, Frozen a thousand times but he’s not old enough to watch anything yet, so we’ll see.

Have you discovered any films thanks to Letterboxd discourse that influenced your approach to filmmaking? For sure, I can’t maybe say specifically, but once I dropped the directors my own age system I didn’t replace it with nothing. I’m a Virgo and I have a little bit of OCD, so I have to have some system. I’ve replaced it with a new complicated system where I pull from different lists and that’s now my main source of how I choose a movie to watch. I have like ten or twelve different lists, each about a thousand movies with a lot of overlap. One of them is my own list of every movie I’ve seen in a theater and I’ll go and look through that and if it’s something I want to revisit. Recently I rewatched Twister, which I hadn’t seen in a long time and is an old favorite from when I was in high school.

I have a bunch of private lists I cycle through; every movie nominated for a Spirit Award, every movie that’s won an Oscar, every movie that’s played in competition at Cannes, the top 1,000 films at the box office. There’s another great website that I use as a biblical resource which is They Shoot Pictures, Don’t They? and their lists of acclaimed films for all-time and the 21st century. I hit those up often. Something that I watched purely because of the very high Letterboxd rating and really loved is Funeral Parade of Roses. I try to see as many movies as I can that have a 4.0 rating or higher.

You respect the Letterboxd consensus. I do, but I don’t always agree with it.

‘Little Fish’ director Chad Hartigan.

Which is your most underrated or overlooked movie according to Letterboxd? I can say I was the very first person to log a movie called Witness in the City, which is an Italian noir movie I watched when I was doing my ‘directors my own age’ series. Literally nobody had logged it, so my review was like “whoa, I can’t believe I’m the first person to log this!”. It was very exciting for me because it’s great, but I’m the OG logger of that movie.

From your list of every film you’ve seen in a theater since you were twelve, which was your most memorable experience? The cheap answer is that it’s hard to top my own movies. The Sundance premiere of Morris From America at the Eccles Theater is maybe the best, but if I’m disqualifying my own films, seeing Scream 3 in a very packed theater in Virginia Beach was really fun, really rowdy. There was a trailer for a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie and I remember the climax was Van Damme going “you lied to me!!!” and everyone laughed. Someone did a George Costanza move later during Scream 3 and yelled out “you lied to me!!!” and everybody laughed again—so that’s a high. That’s the thing I miss the most about movie theaters, and the worry I have if theaters go away, is that so much of how we feel about a movie can be tied to the experience; who we saw it with, what we did before or after, what the crowd was like, or if anything strange happened. There are a lot of movies I have strong memories and affection for because of the experience of seeing them and I probably wouldn’t feel the same way about if I just watched it at home on my laptop.

I typically like to cap interviews off with what filmmakers thought was the best film of the past year, but we have your data to hand. For you, it’s Garrett Bradley’s documentary Time. Can you talk a bit about what makes the film stand out for you? One thing I learned about myself from the pandemic is that the motivation and desire to see new things is very closely tied to the theater-going experience for me. Once that was taken away and you could watch a new movie at home, it joins the pile of all the other movies. The fact that it’s new doesn’t really do anything for me. Why would I press play on Da 5 Bloods when I still haven’t seen Malcolm X? I gotta see Malcolm X! There wasn’t an urgency, so I saw far fewer films than in an ordinary year. But Time I found incredibly moving and important. Similar to what I liked about the Little Fish script, it’s so hyper-focused on one relationship and within that one story it has so much to say about larger issues and the world at large. It was an emotional and rich viewing experience.

‘Little Fish’ is on demand and playing in select theaters now. Images courtesy of IFC Films.

[kiratheperson]

I think u may be stuck on the dashboard of 4 days ago but u should know that martin scorsese himself reacted to goncharov 😳

Yes I do know!!!! It’s amazing this is peak goncharov

The reason Im reblogging posts from 4 days ago is cuz I hit the post limit in like 4 hours on the first day of goncharov and then I filled up my queue with at least 400 goncharov posts. In addition to the normal posts. So now I have 500 posts in my queue. I regret nothing.

[churchkey]

Our Daily Winnix

@easy-company-tradition asked for some canon-era Winnix fluff, and here’s what I came up with. 

1,400 words. Teen with some sexy and period-typical language. And unbuttoned trousers. Many thanks and loves to @anthrobrat for the beta and hc-ing help <3

“Are you listening?”

They were crammed shoulder to shoulder in a bed too small for two mostly-dressed full-grown men. The cigarette bobbing between Nix’s lips kept dropping ashes down the front of his open shirt and Dick craned his neck trying to avoid the curling trail of smoke rising from its tip.

“Yes,” Dick said petulantly. “Stop asking me that.”

“Then pay attention.” Nix flicked the edge of the paper with the middle finger of his right hand. “This is important.”  

“So read it.”

Nix took a drag off his cigarette, arching one indignant eyebrow as he blew the smoke up toward the ceiling. He cleared his throat.

“Where the hell was I?” he mumbled. “Ah. Here we are. ‘After the patrol, led by Sgt. Martin, completed another successful crossing of the Rhine, they again advanced on the suspected OP, only to discover that it was not an OP at all, but rather a brothel’ -”

Dick huffed and turned his head to look at the disheveled man lying next to him. “Nix.”

“What’d I say about interrupting?” He knocked his boot against Dick’s at the foot of the bed.

“Sorry,” Dick said, chuckling as he turned onto his side and propped his cheek in his hand. “Tell me all about the German prostitutes.”

Nix dragged on his cigarette again and went back to the report.

“‘The whores had been expecting them and had deployed themselves in the most erotic formation possible. The men found themselves at a considerable disadvantage, having lost both the element of surprise and any resistance they may have otherwise been able to mount, their ranks being comprised of grunts who’ve not gotten laid in many months and at least three virgins.’”

Dick laughed again and shifted his body to align it more comfortably next to Nix. He began idly rubbing the pad of his thumb over the raised bumps of Lew’s dog tags. Lew dropped his cigarette into the chipped coffee cup on the nightstand and stretched his arm around Dick’s shoulders.

“‘Naturally concerned about the possibility of contracting a venereal disease or being turned to swine, Sgt. Martin decided that the safest course of action would be to abort the mission. The team radioed their CO, Capt. Speirs, to inform him of the failure to secure any prisoners, but as he was busy executing phase 2 of his crafty and incredibly subtle seduction of the company’s newest commissioned lieutenant, the patrol did not receive orders to return.’”

Nix paused to glance over at Dick. He wet his lips, the corners of which began to rise in a sly grin.

“‘They then attempted to contact the senior staff assholes who’d sent them on this pointless mission in the first place, but, taking advantage of the fact that they’d both recently showered, Capts. Nixon and Winters were otherwise occupied in sucking each other off for the first time in -”

“Stop.” Dick slapped the paper against Nix’s chest. “Jesus. You’re shameless, you know that?”

“What?” Nix asked innocently. “Is it too vague? Should I add something about what the whores were wearing?”

Dick just shook his head faintly and looked back up at the ceiling. He felt Lew’s fingers at the back of his head, coiling tufts of his hair into unkempt swirls.

“Is that true, about Speirs?” he asked after a quiet moment. “Is he really a queer?”

Nix shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He looked down at his open fly and tried to draw the flaps together with one hand. “Yeah, I kinda think so. Or maybe just for the time being. Hey, there’s a good Army acronym - QUA. Queer Until Armistice.”

Dick didn’t want to think about that. He knew that whatever he and Nix had together might not survive the translation into civilian life, but he hated to think of the feelings as temporary, just a phase that would fade into the distance like the receding coastline as the ship carried them home. If it had to end, he wanted them to be the ones to end it.

Instead, he indulged the unchristian impulse to gossip, telling himself that, as Battalion XO, he had a professional need to know. And anyway, they’d been evaluating the character traits of the rank and file since the day they’d been entrusted to their care. It wasn’t like they were going to spread it around, them, of all people.

“How do you know?”

Nix hummed evasively.

“Lew?” Dick elbowed him. “I’m serious, what makes you think he’s a queer?”

“He… one time - ” Nix shifted away from Dick and turned to lie on his side. “One time he asked me if - you know.”

Dick shook his head. “No. Asked you what?”

“If he could - you know.” Nix revolved his hand at his wrist in a gesture that Dick knew he was supposed to interpret as being obvious.

“Just tell me.”

Nix looked into his eyes for a moment and then spit it out, matter-of-factly. “If he could suck my cock.”

Dick blinked a few times, his mouth falling open in shock. “Are you serious?”

Nix nodded.

“When was this?”

“Shit, when the hell was that?” Nix mumbled to himself, looking down at the unbuttoned front of Dick’s shirt. “Nijmegen? Or were we still in Aldbourne?” He looked back up at Dick. “It was raining outside, I do remember that.”

Dick nodded thoughtfully, becoming fascinated by the vortex of feelings swirling around inside of him. He didn’t know if he had a good reason to feel any of them, so he just observed, tried to name them. Oh, that’s jealousy. There goes curiosity. Insecurity? Where did you come from?

“What did you say?”

“I told him to get in line!” Nix nodded over his shoulder, pointing his thumb at an imaginary queue of eager would-be oral sex partners.

Dick shook his head faintly, waiting for Lew to say more, but he was quiet.

“So you didn’t?”

Nix blinked a few times, his brow scrunched in some charming combination of confused and affronted. “Of course I didn’t.”

Dick paused a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet and sweet around the edges. “Why not?”

Nix dropped his head and gaped at him. “What the hell do you mean ‘why not’?”

Dick turned back on his side so they were facing each other. He shrugged, one coy shoulder lifting and falling in a pretense that Nix had surely learned to see through by now.

“Oh I get it,” Nix said softly. He began looping his fingers through the buttonholes of Dick’s shorts. “You’re gonna make me say it, huh?”

“Well.” Dick slid a little closer to him. “I’ve just never known you to turn down sex. So why not?”

“Why not,” Nix murmured, echoing him. His eyes fell to Dick’s mouth for a moment and he caught his bottom lip between his teeth. “Maybe ‘cause I’m your guy.”

“Maybe?” Dick murmured back. “You sure about that?”

Nix hummed and tugged at Dick’s shorts, as though doing so would bring the rest of this body closer too. “I don’t know. Are you still my guy?”

Dick let himself really smile then, unguarded, his face lighting up with all the affection and tenderness and passion and devotion he was alway so careful to keep hidden, even from Nix. Even from himself. But they both knew it was always there, and these moments when they could show it were worth all the blood and dirt and cold and death, all the hell they’d had to endure. Loving him was worth everything.

“Yeah. I suppose I am.”

Dick tucked his chin and tilted his head to the side. He kissed Lew slowly, gently, like they were just two lovers saying goodnight, like they hadn’t just hastily gotten each other off in a bombed out house with the occasional mortar falling a few yards away.

He knew that in a few minutes they’d have to button up their pants and do something about their hair, that Lew would have to leave to write a real fake report, and that he’d have to pin on those bars and become Captain Winters again. But for a little while longer he could just be here. He could lay back against the mattress, and kiss the rumpled, handsome man in his bed, and just be Nix’s guy.

[bare1yart]

[ID: Jon and Martin from TMA. Martin is a fat white man with freckles and glasses wearing an orange sweater. Jon is a skinny south Asian man wearing a green open shirt over a lighter green tshirt. They’re leaning on one another and smiling, their hands lightly over each other’s with visible wedding rings. End ID.]

I really meant to post this a little after the finale anniversary but my iPad broke ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ so here it is over a month late!

[pentanguine]

16) Name some media you connect with queerly

*Looks at the spate of Hannibal posts coming up in the queue* um

I mean, Peter Pan is the obvious answer, because I’m obsessed with it and I wrote my damn thesis on it and it’s got queer interpretation going on all over the place: the suspended queer time of Neverland; the homosociality of the Lost Boys; Peter’s perverse refusal of sexuality; the fact that Peter is played by a female actress in the stage adaptation; there are freakin nonbinary fairies!!! Sometimes I think the only reason I feel the way I do about gender is because I watched the 1960 Mary Martin version at an impressionable age. There’s just nothing quite like watching an adult woman tell people that she’s a boy and seeing everyone else go “yes, obviously.”

Man, what else? The entirety of MCR had a massive impact on my conceptualization of (gender)queerness, with their goth fem-masc rockstar vibes, and Gerard Way’s whole long-haired Freddie Mercury-esque thing, and I’m also one of those people who think The Great Gatsby is inherently queer because come on, Nick is pining after Gatsby and hooking up with Mr. McKee and Jordan Baker is absolutely queer-coded.

And ah, Hannibal…While the show itself is brimming with queerness, what goes on in my head while I watch the show is some deeply layered, viscerally felt combination of gender envy, gender identification, and profligate bisexuality directed varyingly at Will Graham, Hannibal’s wardrobe, Hannibal stabbing Will with a knife, Will dripping blood, Will Graham, and Will Graham.