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purrincess-chat · 3 years

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Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Remix CH7

Happy Valentine’s weekend, my dears! To make up for missing last week, I’m sharing two chapters today. Maybe if you’re all really good, and I have time I’ll share chapter 8 on Sunday. That’s where the fun begins ;) Are you ready for it?

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Chapter 7: Shake It Out

My dear sweet Marinette,

How are you, my fairy? I hope that this letter finds you well. When you backpack over Russian mountains, you take whatever mail service you can get. I have so much to tell you about my latest trip, but first I have some exciting news for you!

During my last stay in Africa volunteering to build homes in a humble little village, I ran into a sweet little fairy by the name of Clara Nightingale. She says she met you! Did you know she’s a famous pop star? Anyway, she and I spent a lot of quality time together teaching young children how to read, and I showed her the scarf you knitted me for Christmas. She loved it! She says she will be in Paris again on the 18th and wanted to meet with you about designing for her, so I gave her the address to the bakery. She said she would stop by and see you.

“No way, no way, no way!” Marinette shrieked, kicking her feet. “Clara Nightingale wants me to design for her! I’m gonna faint.”

“This is an amazing opportunity for you, Marinette,” Tikki said as Marinette paced the floor, hugging the letter. “Tomorrow could change your life!”

“I know, Tikki! I’m so excited to- wait.” She stopped abruptly. “Tomorrow?”

“The letter said the 18th,” Tikki said, and Marinette raced over to pull down her calendar. “Isn’t that-”

“Tomorrow! Clara Nightingale is coming to my house. Tomorrow. To look at my designs!” Marinette clutched her cheeks as rapid breaths shook her shoulders. Tikki covered her ears as another scream emitted from Marinette’s throat. “This is a dream come true, Tikki!”

“It’s not that surprising. Gabriel Agreste liked your designs, and Clara attended the show, so it’s not like she’s unfamiliar with your work.” Tikki pointed out. “Plus, you’ve designed for Jagged before too.”

“I know, but getting commissioned by celebrities at 14 isn’t something you just get used to.” Marinette fell onto her chaise with a sigh. “I can’t wait to tell Macy, Eliott, and Martin! They’re gonna freak out.”

“What are you going to do about Chloe?”

Marinette waved it away, reading over the letter again. “I’m going to ignore her. She has no power over me.”

“True…” Tikki said. “But she did have a point. You always look out for your friends.”

“Yeah, but how many of those ‘friends’ came to visit me when I left?” Marinette said pointedly.

“Is that why you left? To see who would come?”

Marinette set the letter down and pursed her lips. “That’s one reason. I wanted to get away, but I also wanted to see who my real friends are,” she said. “I wanted to see who cared enough to chase after me, and I guess Adrien is the only real friend I had after all. Funny how I spent all that time hoping he would notice me when in reality, he’s always been on my side.”

“He thinks really highly of you.” Tikki flitted over to rest beside her.

“I know. My heart was beating so fast when he said those things earlier. Do you think it means he likes me?” Marinette smiled up at her ceiling, biting her lip.

“It definitely means he knows how amazing you are, and I’m sure you can catch his attention romantically too. Especially now that you two are hanging out so much,” Tikki said.

“I feel like all of my dreams are coming true.” Marinette buried her face in the throw pillow with a squeak.

“With everything you give to the city, I think you deserve it,” Tikki said.

“Well, one thing is for sure, I need to defeat Hawkmoth before I become a famous fashion designer and go to New York. That’s priority number one. Chat Noir, Rena- oh-” Marinette sat up abruptly.

“What’s the matter?”

“Well, Alya and Nino are Rena Rouge and Carapace, but after everything… I don’t know if I still trust them,” she said. “I don’t doubt that they would help Ladybug, but if I know who they are, then it might affect me. Do you think I made a mistake picking people close to me?”

“I think that’s a question for someone with more experience picking.” Tikki advised.

Marinette drummed her fingers on her thigh. “You’re right, Tikki. Let’s go.”

Master Fu was playing cards with Wayzz when Marinette knocked on the door and poked her head in. “Master?”

“Marinette, what brings you here?” He lowered his hand calmly.

“I could use some advice. Do you have a minute?”

Wayzz peeked over his cards with a huff. “We are in the middle of a game,” he said matter-of-factly, but Master Fu cast him a sly smile.

“It’s okay.” He splayed his royal flush for Wayzz to see. “I was just winning. What is on your mind?”

Marinette sat on the mat, hugging her knees to her chest as Wayzz zipped off grumpily. Taking a deep breath, she dove in, sparing no details—Volpina, Lila, her friends, changing schools, leaving Alya. Everything. Master Fu listened patiently while she talked, sipping his tea thoughtfully every now and then.

“I’m sorry, Master, but I think I made a mistake picking my friends to be Rena Rouge and Carapace.” She finished, head hanging low. “I don’t think I’m fit to choose our partners anymore.”

“Marinette,” Master Fu said with one of his kind, grandfatherly smiles. “We cannot blame ourselves for the actions of others. Your friends have made choices outside of your control. That does not mean that your judgment was lacking when you picked them. People change, and that is no one’s fault, just the natural order of things.”

“So, you won’t be mad if I pick someone else next time I need help?” Marinette glanced up at him like a small child waiting to be scolded.

“You must pick allies you can trust—whoever that happens to be in the moment,” he said.

“Thank you, Master.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Sorry to interrupt your game.”

“It’s okay. I have a large lead on Wayzz.” He chuckled. “Come back anytime.”

“I will. And next time, I’ll choose people I know I can count on.”

♪♫♪ StopRewind ♪♫♪

“You’re in an awfully good mood,” Macy remarked as Marinette took her seat in home room.

“Did something good happen? Spill!” Eliott leaned in.

Marinette glanced around the room to ensure their classmates couldn’t hear them. “Can you two keep a secret?”

“Oh, if there’s anything we aristocrats know how to do, it’s keep secrets.” Eliott assured her.

“Yeah, you’re our friend now. You can count on us.” Macy echoed with an encouraging nod.

Marinette bit her lip, leaning in close to whisper, “Clara Nightingale wants me to design for her.”

“No way!” Eliott gasped.

“Marinette, that’s huge.” Macy squealed before regaining her composure. “Don’t worry. We will totally keep it on the down-low, but I can’t wait to see the look on Gabrielle’s face when it goes public.”

“Pretty soon you’ll be buying your own yacht, Marinette,” Eliott said with a laugh. “Speaking of, you still need to see mine.”

“Oh, and we should totally have tea at my house! We just had the theater redone,” Macy added.

“I’d love to,” Marinette said. “Clara is supposed to come over today, so I’ll tell you how it goes.”

“We want all of the details tomorrow,” Macy said as Mr. Mercier entered the room and called for everyone to settle down. “We can rendezvous at my place this weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

When school ended, Marinette rushed home, a giddy smile tugging at her cheeks. What type of design would Clara want? A dress? Or maybe a tasteful pantsuit? Her mind was already buzzing with ideas. Hopefully, she didn’t mess everything up. What if she designed something, and Clara hated it? Or worse what if Audrey Bourgeois slammed her design in the next issue of her magazine because she refused to help Chloe? Then it could ruin Clara’s career, and it would be all Marinette’s fault!

“Hi, sweetie. How was school?” her mom greeted when she entered the bakery.

“Fine, except I have no talent, and I’m going to ruin Clara Nightingale,” she said.

“That’s not true. My daughter has all the talent in the world. She can do anything!” Her dad scooped her into a tight hug. “After all, she comes by it naturally.” He gestured to a large wedding cake resting in the back.

“You’re just nervous, sweetie. You’re going to be great,” her mom said.

The bell above the door chimed, and a woman wearing a hat and sunglasses entered. Marinette’s father put her down and resumed his post in the back while her mother returned to the cash register.

“Welcome! What can we get for you today?” her mom asked politely.

“What I’m after isn’t a sweet treat; there’s someone here I want to meet.” She lowered her sunglasses to peek over at Marinette. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen one another, but your designs are truly like no other.”

“Clara Nightingale! You’re here!” Marinette gasped.

“I want to ask you a request of mine. I’ll run it by you if you’ve got time.”

“Yes, I have so much time!” Marinette said, then composing herself, gestured to the back door. “Why don’t we chat upstairs?”

“Fine by me. This request is top secret, you see,” Clara said. She followed Marinette up to the apartment, and once they were safely away from the public eye, she removed her disguise with a sigh of relief. “Thank you for meeting with me. I assume you read your grandmother’s letter.”

“I did. It arrived yesterday.” Marinette nodded, putting on a pot of tea.

“Excellent! Then you know why I’m here.”

Marinette turned and found herself face-to-face with Clara, nearly dropping the teabags in surprise.

“Ever since I met you, I felt a connection between us like our destinies were entwined. I loved the hat you designed for Adrien, and Jagged has only ever told me great things about you. Then of course, Gina’s scarf was to die for, so, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, would you be willing to design for me?” Clara dropped onto one knee.

“Doesn’t Gabriel Agreste usually design your clothes? Wouldn’t you rather see a professional?” Marinette asked.

“Gabriel’s designs are wonderful, but I think you can capture my essence for this. I’ve been nominated for a music award, and I want you to design my dress for the ceremony.” Clara took her hands with a confident smile. “You and I are both passionate about our crafts, and I think you can bring something that Gabriel can’t, so what do you say?”

Clara’s gaze bore into hers hopefully, and Marinette shifted her weight. “I’ll do my best.” Marinette gulped, and Clara bounced in delight.

“Thank you, Marinette! This favor is one I won’t forget!” Clara pulled her in for a tight hug. “Your willingness means so much, and very soon I’ll be in touch.”

Clara trotted out the door happily, hat and sunglasses in hand, leaving Marinette standing in the kitchen, stunned. She blinked out of her trance when the teapot on the stove screeched and set it aside, barely capable of containing her smile.

She couldn’t wait to tell her friends this.

♪♫♪ I’d Love to Break It to You ♪♫♪

Adrien removed his fencing gloves with a sigh. Another long day of watching Lila manipulate everyone. Even he had to admit it was getting old, especially since Nino spent most of his free time helping Alya with her deputy duties, which were really Lila’s class representative duties that she came up with excuses to get out of.

He ripped open his locker and tossed the gloves into his bag, thinking back to Marinette’s anguished sobs the previous evening. Seeing her so upset was nauseating in a way Adrien had never felt before. Maybe it was because Marinette was always positive and upbeat, doing her best to help others even when she had problems of her own. Someone like her being so broken and hurt was painful to watch. He wanted to help her in some way, but how could he? He could barely stand up to Chloe, let alone Lila.

“Why the long face?” Kagami’s voice startled him.

He turned to face her as she leaned against the locker next to his.

“Just tired.” He slung his bag over one shoulder with a shrug.

“You’ve been like this for the past week,” she remarked as he paced up the aisle toward the door. “Ever since Marinette left.”

“It’s been a long week. I’ve had a lot going on,” he said flatly.

“You miss her.”

Adrien stopped short at the end of the row and glanced back at Kagami over one shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I? She’s my friend.”

Kagami shoved away from the locker, approaching him slowly—lithe like a cat stalking her prey. “I wonder why she left so suddenly. Rumor has it that she had a jealousy spat with that Italian girl in your class,” Kagami said. “What was her name again? Lie-la?”

“Yeah,” Adrien said curtly, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“She sure has everyone enamored.” Kagami paused beside him and cocked a hip. “Well, almost everyone.”

“Why do you care?” Adrien’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t.” She shrugged.

“So why bring it up?”

“Because you and I both know the truth, and I suspect Marinette does too.” She tilted her chin to meet his gaze. “She’s a liar.”

Adrien let out a breath, the stiffness in his shoulders fading. “How’d you find out?”

“She claimed that her great grandfather was a world-champion fencer who invented a secret technique, but my family has held the championship title for the last six generations,” Kagami said. “Plus, her stories are so obviously farfetched and self-congratulating.”

“Tell that to everyone else,” he grumbled.

“It’s not really my place. I don’t even go here.” Kagami shrugged again. “Besides, to everyone here, I’m just the ice queen.”

“So, you’re stuck with this knowledge too.” Adrien deflated with a sigh.

“After what happened with Marinette, I have no interest in confronting her. If your classmates want to be sheep, I say let them,” she said. “No sense in letting it upset you. They could easily figure it out if they applied an ounce of brain power.”

“Well, yeah, but she’s using all of them. I thought her lies were harmless, but she has everyone bending over backwards to help her. Now Marinette left the school hurt… I’m starting to get a little fed up.” Adrien averted his gaze, the wave of nausea returning to his stomach.

“So, call her out then,” Kagami said as if it were obvious. “People trust your word, and you have enough celebrity pull to prove it.”

“Yeah, but…” He winced.

“Adrien, your friends will only continue to suffer if you stay silent. Action is the only way to help them.” When he lowered his head, she rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “I hope your friends see the light eventually. For your sake. See you tomorrow.”

Adrien’s hands clenched into fists as she sauntered from the locker room, biting his tongue as anger swelled in his chest. Letting out a heated breath, he stalked toward the door, blinking in surprise when it opened.

Lila stepped in front of him and wasted no time latching onto his neck. “Adrien, you’ve been avoiding me,” she said with her sugary-sweet lilt. “You promised to help me catch up on my school work.”

“Sorry. I don’t think I can. Why don’t you ask Max?” He unhooked her arms and pushed her away gently.

“But you promised!” She pouted.

Her whiny tone sent a shiver down his spine, and he tried unsuccessfully to mask his grimace. “I’ve got a lot going on, Lila. Photoshoots, private lessons, that sort of stuff.” He took a purposeful step away from her.

“You seem to have enough time to go visit Marinette,” she said pointedly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Lila-”

“She’s the one who’s lying, ya know. I’m sure she has told you all kinds of nasty things about me, but they’re false,” Lila said. “She’s just trying to turn you against me because she’s jealous.”

“That’s not true, Lila.” Adrien’s anger boiled hotter. “Marinette just wants to move on.”

“Is that why she went to Jagged Stone’s concert just to try to make me look bad?”

“No, that’s not-”

“Alya is still upset over their fight. Marinette ripped her heart out and stomped on it.”

“There’s more to it than tha-”

“Honestly, Marinette is the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Something in Adrien’s chest snapped—a rubber band stretched too far.

“How do I know when I should stand up for myself?”

“I get a feeling in my gut that it’s the right thing to do.”

“Enough, Lila!” he shouted.

She flinched, cupping her hands over her mouth. “Adrien, I-”

“Your lies won’t work on me, and sooner or later everyone else is going to see through you too, and you’ll be left all alone. Is that what you want?” He barely gave her a moment to respond before continuing. “Marinette poured her heart and soul into her friends. She made sacrifices for them and never once asked for anything in return, and now you’ve gone and turned her best friend against her and convinced everyone that she just wanted attention. If anyone here is a terrible person, it’s you.”

Lila’s face hardened, her whole countenance darkening. “I see how it is, Adrien.” Her jaw clenched. “If you choose to side with her over me, then I can’t help what happens to you. I own this school now, and there’s nothing you or Marinette can do about it.”

Turning over her shoulder, she slapped Adrien with her hair on her way out, and he balled his hands into tight fists. A feeling he’d never felt before bubbled in his core that made him restless. Adrien always thought Lila just wanted attention, but purposefully targeting one of his friends was not okay.

A new resolve came over him, and he instructed Gorilla to make a pitstop at the Grand Paris on the way home. His fist pounded against the suite door, breaths short and hot.

Chloe was lounging in a yellow bathrobe, feet soaking in a tub of water when her butler let him in. She raised an eyebrow as he entered. “You know I’m always happy to see you, Adrikins, but I’m in the middle of an herbal soak-”

“I want to help you take down Lila.” He cut her off.

A sinister smirk spread across Chloe’s lips, her shock fading to triumphant glee.

“Excellent.”

#mdcsp #mdcspr #marinette dupain-cheng's spite playlist #marinette dupain-cheng's spite playlist remix #my writing #there's a hint hidden in my comments up top #can you find it?

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ashes-in-a-jar · 4 years

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A Double Date at the End of the World

Melanie, Georgie, Jon and Martin have an interesting conversation in their journey through the tunnels.

Cw: second hand embarrassment and lots of teasing (I guess)

Melanie took the lead. Because of course she did. Martin made sure not to get in her way, still feeling awkward after offering help.

She was right. He didn't fare any better than her and most likely worse. The tunnels were darker and damper than he remembered, smelling faintly of earth and... Gas? He didn't dwell on it too much. He found it was better to file those bits of ominous details away until they inevitably come back up on their own.

On his fourth or fifth stumble around a corner Jon caught his arm to steady him. He was walking behind him and Martin was pretty sure he was clutching his backpack for support himself.

"You alright Martin?" He asked softly, his voice just below the level of echo.

"Y-yeah. Thanks Jon. How are you feeling?" Martin asked, his tone changing to worry. He noticed how Jon was during the conversation as they entered the tunnels. All of his worries from the last days in Salesa's home came back, along with the despair at finally having reprieve and knowing Jon won't remember it. Maybe this time it's different, he thought desperately. Maybe the effects will not be the same. God, he hoped so.

"I'm fine, I think. No different than before. It's not getting worse this time... Yet." Jon answered with a hopeful squeeze at Martin's bicept. It was a bit awkward, given they were practically going single file but Martin raised his hand backwards and gently stroked the hand that clutched him. It was dry and cold and all he wanted to do was turn around and warm it properly in his palms.

"Good. I'm glad to hear. Let me know if you start to feel any different."

"Okay. Thank you Martin." He murmured, and Martin could hear the fondness seeping into his name.

He recalled the frustrated argument they had right before Martin stormed away to cool off only to be found by the girls in the tunnels.

He recalled the quiet and uncertain way Jon said his name then before telling him he might be more focused after getting out a statement. It was a tone that made Martin stop his venting to really listen and look at Jon. God he looked so scared. It was the first time in a while he saw Jon like that. He instantly regreted his tirade and felt that same fear that he himself tried to suppress begin to make its way to the forefront of his mind. He realized that tampering it down by fantasizing of the violent ways they'd exact revenge on Jonah was doing exactly what he warned himself against while in his own domain. Sinking into his expectations instead of facing reality. So he went to cool off, get his head in order again and think realistically how to solve their problem instead of kicking walls and squishing sentient cameras (he shuddered at that memory).

He should apologize to Jon for his behavior. He knew Jon understood but still. Once they get a bit of privacy again he should make sure they talk it out. Clear the air so the bad feelings won't hang over them when they need to make a difficult decisions again together. Because that will come eventually and they cannot afford to falter because they weren't on the same page.

Having made that decision, Martin's reveries were interrupted by a noise of someone clearing their throat behind him.

He noticed that Georgie, who was bringing up the rear behind Jon, was trying to get their attention. He also noticed he had slowed down and had reached to fully grasp Jon's chilled hand in his.

"So," Georgie began and immediately Martin became worried. "You too, huh?"

Jon chuckled and as Martin started, reflexively pulling his hand back to quicken his pace. But Jon just held onto to him tighter.

"Yes Georgie, we are together now." He said and Martins heart soared the same way it did when Jon affirmed it in front of the Boneturner. It felt good that Jon wanted others to know. It felt so good to validate their relationship with an outside perspective when they have been alone for so long now.

"How long?" Georgie asked, a little too eagerly.

"Um, a couple of weeks before... all of this?" Jon said vaguely. Their time in the safehouse was interesting in regards to the buildup of officiating their relationship. The actual conversation about it took a while to happen even though they were already very much attached to each other from the moment they left the Lonely.

"Wait, what?" Melanie called out from the front, her voice echoing around them.

"Hah! I told you!" Georgie cheered.

"No way! I was so sure Jon would never have the guts. Surely not before the world ended."

"Wait. What's going on?" Martin was confused.

Georgie, still amused, explained. "Melanie and I had a... Wager when exactly you too would get together. She thought you both were too gutless to take the first step. I thought your unbelievably daft pining, at least from Jon's side of things would eventually become too much for him to handle."

"Georgie," Jon admonished, clearly flustered.

The explanation caught Martin off guard. He knew Jon had some semblance of feelings towards him after the coma. Some bits of chased conversation, vague massages in recordings, his offer to literally run off and become blind together. It wasn't blatantly obvious though it was far from subtle. But Martin never learned how much Jon actually wanted it during those months. Jon spoke about it more generally and didn't seem to want to go into specifics.

"What? You were so obvious about it even before your coma. And then you came over to try to pull us back in to help him... Well, I mean, come on!" Georgie said defensively. "It was pretty hard to miss."

"you should have seen him in the institute." Melanie jeered. "He brooded all day every day. You couldn't even say Martin's name without making him look like a kicked kitten. It was brutal."

Jon let go to cover his face while Martin started chuckling in hidden glee. "Melanie please. I wasn't brooding, I did not mope! Besides, we were all having a bad time."

"Yes but you were so melodramatic about it, like a heartbroken teenager. You should have seen the faces he made whenever Peter's name came up. Oh boy that was something."

"How do you mean?" Martin was struggling to keep his voice straight, every new morsel of information giving him more joy.

"It was the type of face you make when talking to a Tory. The type you want to strangle or punch and are debating which you should do first." Melanie was thoroughly enjoying herself.

"Jon was always good at faces." Georgie giggled.

Martin couldn't help but laugh at that out loud. I was true, Jon did not know how to school his expressions.

Jon groaned "Martin don't encourage them please."

Martin half turned around to grin at Jon "They're not wrong though, are they? It is pretty funny."

Jon grimaced at him "Shut up."

Martin let the Eye contact linger a moment and in the dark he mouthed 'I love you' to Jon, hoping he could see. Judging by the affectionate huff he heard, the message was received. He turned back smiling and quickened the pace to catch up to Melanie's confident strides.

"God you guys are sappy" Georgie sighed. "At least it's an improvement to the mess you two were before."

"Truer words have never been said" Melanie seconded. "I'm glad I was wrong about how assertive you two are. It seems I need to reevaluate my impression of Beholding's baby and his lover boy."

Martin and Jon sighed simultaneously. "Please stop" Jon muttered, mostly to himself.

"Um, how about we change subject, hm? Yes, we're finally together and so are you and this is basically a double date at the end of the world so let's just... Conclude it at that." Martin said, hoping this assertion will work.

"Alright, yeah let's change the subject, shall we?" Georgie said in a dangerously mischievous tone again. "Jon, is that my What the Ghost merch you're wearing? Have you been wearing that the entire time now? You know I'll be needing that back. Our wardrobe is wearing pretty thin."

The tunnels were filled with Jon's groans and Melanie's roaring laughter as they continued onwards towards the survivors' camp to meet the others, finally take a breather and regroup to plan for their fateful future.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma spoilers #Melanie king #Georgie barker #Wtgfs #tma fic #Listen. I couldn't not have write this conversation #It was inevitable #Hope you enjoy #Tma 189 #Mag 189 #My tma fic

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mimosaeyes · 3 years

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This is a dream, then. A fantasy conjured by the last firing of his synapses in the moment before death. Martin silently thanks his subconscious for it. He’s never had faith the way his mother did, but if there is a heaven for him, he’s quite sure it would have Jon in it.

Post-200. Jon and Martin wake up somewhere else. 2.2k, fix-it but not really.

In case this turns out to be the last fic I finish in this fandom, I want to especially thank my beta @emberidzae for introducing me to TMA. Or, at least, for talking about it enough in my general proximity that eventually I got curious.

Someone is cradling Martin’s head on their lap, and running their fingers through his hair. Jon, he thinks absently. He’d know him anywhere, even by such tiny details as the shape of his calluses where he grips a pen, and the texture of his burn-scarred skin.

But that can’t be right. Jon is dead. He’d killed him in the Panopticon, hands shaking until the instant before the knife had plunged in. The only way he could force himself to do it was to make it as quick and painless as possible. He couldn’t falter and draw out Jon’s suffering, not when it was already such a torment to hear him groan and scream as the building began to crumble around them. Or to see the look in his eyes, the utter trust and love warring against the Beholding’s hold on him.

He breathes, even and steady like he’s trying to fall more deeply asleep. If these are his last seconds of awareness, he wants to spend them just like this.

Then he hears Jon quietly ask, “Are you awake?”

Martin opens his eyes. Jon is peering down at him, his expression tender and tentative. In the weak sunlight, he looks washed out, his features rendered nearly in greyscale. There’s no trace of the bright red from when Martin had lifted a bloody hand to cup his face. The only indication of everything that’s happened is a faint mistiness about Jon’s eyes.

Furrowing his brow, Martin reaches up and touches his cheek. It’s wet; he leaves behind a fine dusting of black sand that has stuck to his fingers. “Are you crying?” he murmurs, almost confused. Surely, if this is all in his imagination, he’d have made Jon happy.

Jon surprises him with a soft laugh. “Tears of relief, Martin. Look around.”

Reluctantly, still half-convinced none of this is really happening, Martin rolls to one side and sits up. Jon scoots over a little for him, even though there’s plenty of space. The shore is completely deserted apart from them, and silent but for the gently lapping water.

“Is this...?”

At Martin’s questioning look, a smile slowly spreads across Jon’s face. It’s a complicated one, balanced between joy and disbelief, sadness and resignation. “Somewhere else,” he affirms.

“But I—” Martin stares at Jon. There’s no blood on him, no wound; only a tell-tale rip in his shirt where the knife had gone in. “I killed you.”

“I told you to,” Jon objects. His hands come up as if to touch Martin, who rocks back on his haunches.

“I killed you,” he repeats, this time in a whisper.

Jon watches him for a moment. His shoulders lift in a helpless sort of shrug. “Or maybe,” he says, “you killed everything that wasn’t me. Everything tethering them there.”

Martin can feel tears welling up in his eyes. He’s shaking his head slowly, but he doesn’t know why. It’s not like he can deny the physical fact of Jon, here with him, miraculously unharmed and apparently, entirely human. It’s not like he wants to, either. He just hadn’t been expecting to wake up again — in a world he may have helped to doom, next to a boyfriend he was supposed to have died with.

It’s a lot to process.

A single sob escapes Martin, and at once Jon is hushing him, almost vaulting forward in his rush to pull him into a hug. They meet awkwardly halfway, in a tangle of clumsy limbs and warmth.

With Jon’s arms around him, Martin lets himself just cry for a while.

It feels long overdue. The back of Martin’s throat has felt tight and strained since the moment he woke up to find Jon gone. He’d rushed to find Georgie, Melanie, and Basira, and then he’d rushed up the countless flights of stairs in the Panopticon, not daring to stop and catch his breath for fear he’d be too late. He was, anyway, and the moment Jon had turned around to face him, voice crackling with static and eyes illuminated as if from within, it had all come crashing over Martin: Jon had left him behind after all. He’d broken his promise, been so willing to die in some perverse kind of atonement that he hadn’t even waited to say goodbye.

Martin hardly dares to believe he’s here now, rubbing soothing circles over his back and murmuring, “It’s okay. Shh. I’ve got you.”

It takes some time, but eventually Martin subsides. The trembling stops and his breathing slows. Mildly embarrassed, he pulls back from the embrace. “Don’t ever,” he says wetly, poking Jon in the chest, “do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” Jon says softly. He waits until Martin has settled back on the sand, then takes his hand and interlaces their fingers.

For a while, they both stare out at the water, the way the seafoam stands out against the dark beach.

“Any idea where this is?” Martin asks.

Jon shakes his head. “I think Iceland has black sand beaches, but... you know. That’s back in our reality.”

Martin lets out a long breath. “It worked, then.” His voice is muted with weariness. “We saved the world.”

“And doomed every other one.” Without letting go of Martin’s hand, Jon pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them.

“Not everything is your fault, Jon. We all agreed on the plan.”

He waits, but Jon gives no sign of having even heard the words. He watches him for a long moment, biting his lip. Then he clambers to his feet and pulls on their linked hands. “Come on.”

Jon blinks up at him. “Where are we going?”

“On a walk,” Martin tells him.

The beach looks the same in either direction, and a steep wall of volcanic rock prevents them from going farther inland. Undaunted, Martin starts off towards the left. Jon follows, possibly from force of habit. They’d gone on many such walks together, in the halcyon days at the safehouse before the world ended.

Normally, Martin would point things out as they passed them by — good cows being a bonus, of course — but this place seems eerily devoid of life. There aren’t even any seashells or bits of driftwood. The air is still. The fog sits in heavy reams.

He’s just wondering if he should bring it up when Jon abruptly starts talking. He’d given one last statement, he admits, up in the Panopticon before Martin arrived. Becoming the pupil of the Eye had given him answers, at long last, about how the entities came to be.

Jon’s train of thought is uncertain, and he frowns a lot as he rambles. Sometimes he stops and gazes out across the water, the look in his eyes vacant. It’s probably just a side effect of his being ripped away from the Ceaseless Watcher, Martin tells himself. Probably.

“We created monsters,” Jon says at last, “and then I set them loose on the whole universe.” He stops walking and hunches his shoulders. “What does that make me?”

Martin closes his eyes for a moment. “Jonathan Sims, you are not a monster.”

Beside him, Jon’s breathing goes shaky. “But I told you—”

“That I wouldn’t want to see what was left of you?” Martin interrupts. He hasn’t forgotten the desperate look on Jon’s face in that moment, when he’d first refused to leave him. “I’m looking at you right now, Jon, and you know what I see?”

Illogically, he’s almost angry at him; that’s how frustrated he is that the man he loves cannot seem to stop blaming himself for everything. “I see someone who has given everything to make things right. Who chose kindness, even though he’d been marked and manipulated. Even though he kept getting kidnapped and hunted and hurt and — and used.”

Jon is staring at him now, wide-eyed. Martin thinks about the way he’d looked in what he thought were their last moments together. Beautiful and beatific. He touches two fingers to Jon’s chin, tilting it up. “It’s not monstrous to protect the people you love,” he says. “It’s human.”

With his free hand, Jon swipes at a tear that’s running down his cheek.

“Okay?” Martin presses, but gently.

Jon sniffs. “Has anyone ever told you,” he says, “that your pep talks can be rather aggressive?”

He’s deflecting, but Martin decides to let him get away with it. He’s pushed hard enough for now. In any case, he thinks his words have hit home, at least to some extent. There’s still guilt in Jon’s eyes, but although it runs deep, Martin thinks it looks a little less sharp.

Pulling back and turning to resume their walk, he says, “They have to be, to get through your thick head.”

A corner of Jon’s lips quirks up. “That sounds like something Basira would say.”

“Is she alright, do you think? And Georgie and Melanie?”

Jon waves a hand. “I’m sure they’re fine. They’re probably putting the world back together already.”

“Probably make it better,” Martin muses. He sighs. “They’ll have their work cut out for them.”

A beat. “And what about us?” Jon asks quietly. “What do we do now?”

They fall silent, each contemplating the question.

If they’ve ended up in the same world as the entities, Martin figures, at some point they’ll probably have to start seeking out organisations like the Magnus Institute, working out who the next Archivist is. And if they somehow stop the apocalypse from happening, it’ll only be for a while. There will always be another attempt to foil.

By some miracle, they’ve made it here. Maybe they’ll be able to build a life together, and enjoy it for a while. But mostly, the future Martin sees stretching ahead of them is just full of more danger and guilt and sacrifice.

Jon must be thinking along the same lines, because he sighs and says, “Do you know what this reminds me of? It’s like I thought the play was over, but it turns out it’s only the intermission.”

“What did you want it to be?”

For the space of several breaths, Jon is silent. “A good epilogue,” he says at last. “I’d like to think we deserve that much.”

Martin swallows past a sudden lump in his throat. There isn’t really anything he can say to that, so instead he gives Jon a little nudge, and keeps walking.

When he next looks up, his eye snags on a shape on the shoreline ahead of them. It’s the first thing they’ve come across since they woke up here and started walking. In tacit agreement, they both wander over to get a closer look.

It’s a small boat, complete with a set of oars. The wood has only the faintest suggestion of brown. It’s been bleached to a light grey, though how long that would have taken, Martin can’t guess.

He clears his throat. “Is anything about all this just a little bit on the nose to you?”

“What?” Jon asks, still peering at the boat. Then: “Oh.”

This looks more like an ocean than a river, Styx or otherwise, but Martin can’t deny that there’s something ethereal about this place. Interstitial. Plus, there’s the otherwise inexplicable fact that Jon’s wound is gone. Honestly, he should have put it together sooner.

He notices Jon watching him then, his head canted and his expression fond. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Jon says. “You’re just... taking the possibility that you’re dead very well.”

“So are you,” Martin points out.

Jon shrugs. “I’ve had time to get used to the idea. Besides, you’re here.”

His smile, at that moment, is a brittle thing. Martin finds he has to look away from it.

They never seem to get enough time, do they? The cottage in Scotland. That week at Upton House. And now this. Part of Martin is tempted to try and stay here, in this final pocket of respite. He knows that’s irrational, though.

Maybe this is just a very dramatic-looking beach, and they’ll feel very silly when they wash ashore. Or maybe they’re right. Maybe they’ll get in that boat and... pass on, head towards the light — any one of the phrases people have invented to give shape to the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller returns.

Either way, Martin realises, they have to find out. And at least they’ll find out together. Subconsciously, he tightens his grip on Jon’s hand.

“What are you thinking?” Jon asks softly.

Martin looks at him for a long moment. “I did want to take you rowing.” Such light words for the weight of what they imply.

“Where you go,” Jon says, “I go.”

Martin smiles. “That’s the deal.”

It takes them a while to get a rhythm going after they push off from the shore. Martin rows, and after a while, to his mild delight, Jon starts singing a sea shanty under his breath, keeping time to the beat of the oars.

And as the shore disappears behind the fog, Martin is surprised to find that colours start to filter back into the world. Pinks and yellows, the likes of which the sky above his head hasn’t contained in so long.

He looks at Jon, who looks back at him and nods.

They meet the sunrise. They leave the world behind.

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #mimofic

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 3 years

Text

Illicio 22/?

Part 21

CW: apocalypse terribleness, JGM under duress, etc

He's free now, he knows.

In this new world ruled by the Watcher, his ultimate 'prize' is to not be tied to Jon anymore. There's a place with his name on it, just like Martin said. There, he could thrive, an eternal existence as a reward for- for pushing Jon towards this.

Gertrude's eyes blink accusingly at him from where he remembers planting the carrots, and Gerry scoffs.

"Of course I'm not going to. Don't be an idiot." Gerry rolls his eyes. There just. There has to be a way to reverse it, no matter-

'No. I don’t think so. Once an Entity fully manifested, I doubt it would be keen to fully relinquish its grip on reality. And as for those unlucky enough to survive its rule… I don’t think they’d be in a state to do anything about it.'

Gerry sighs. Ever the optimist, the old hag.

He feels the cabin creaking and shifting, feasting on the sorrow that thinking of Gertrude brings him, even after years and deceptions.

XXII

Click.

"It can't be as bad as it looks. Nothing could be this bad." There's humour in the man's voice, a sort of fond amusement as he enunciates the words, the beginning of a joke.

"I think we might be looking at different Archives, Tim." The answering voice is dry and unenthusiastic, but the first man chuckles like it's the punchline to his setup.

"There's three of us, we'll figure it out." Some fabric rustles, a disgruntled huff, another chuckle. "Let's go, Sasha should be done already, we said we'd go get drinks."

A long-suffering sigh. "If you insist."

"I do! It's the last time we're going out as coworkers, Boss."

"I'd say this is your last chance to get in my hair, if I didn't know better." Steps growing fainter, as the speakers walk away.

"But you do know better."

Another sigh, a lot less long-suffering, and a lot more amused. "I do."

Click.

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

"We need to get going," Martin says. It feels like the thousandth time he's said it, and maybe it is. Time feels... weird, lately, and memory much more so.

"I'm..." Gerry sighs, also for what feels like thousandth time. "You're not wrong."

"Of course I'm not." Martin crosses his arms over his chest. Gerry's eyes -they look dangerously bright lately, but Martin doesn't fear them as much as he fears the sad, unspoken truth they carry- are searching for his, and for all that Martin tries to stand strong, he gives in eventually, and goes to sit by his side with a tired sigh of his own. "I know, I know."

"You do?" Gerry comes to rest heavily against his side, and after a couple moments, Martin drapes an arm around his shoulders. It's- it's not Gerry's fault, he thinks. It's not anyone's fault. "It's someone's fault."

"Well, yes. Elias', but still-" Martin lets out a low exhale. "I should have done it."

"If you're going to blame yourelf-" Gerry nudges his leg with his knee, "-you'd be good blaming me as well. Blaming Jon."

"Why would I blame you?" Martin asks dryly. "You were going to kill him when I couldn't. You would've done it."

"Yes, to keep you safe." Gerry shrugs. "Not wanting to kill a man doesn't make you a coward, Martin."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Martin purses his lips. "If I had-"

"It wasn't Elias that put that statement there," Gerry interrupts him before he can even form the thought. "You know that."

"No, I don't!" Martin snaps. "You keep saying that, Jon said that, but I don't! A- and even if I did, am I not supposed to feel guilty that I was under- that they used me to push Jon into starting the apocalypse?!"

"Welcome to the club," Gerry says dryly, and Martin stops so abruptly in his tirade that he very nearly bites his tongue off.

Especially with how well he served his purpose.

Elias' words, written in Martin's own unwitting hand, are burned in his mind.

"I- uh-"

"It's okay." Gerry runs a hand over his hair, his lips pressed in a tight line.

"...It's really not." Martin says after a while. "I- it's not- how can you be so calm?"

"I'm not, I just-" Gerry's eyes are far-off, lost in the depths of the cottage, a door that doesn't open anymore, unless one of them opens it first. "I'm focusing on the two of you right now. Otherwise it's too much."

"How- how does it feel for you?" Martin asks quietly.

"It feels... good, I suppose. Like this is where I'm meant to be, which I suppose is true, being a- a monster of the Eye or whatever. I don't like it."

Martin pulls him a bit tighter against his side, though it makes the part of him that is not quite human roar in discomfort. "You're not a monster of the Eye."

"Agree to disagree, won't we?" Gerry smiles. It's the same gesture he normally uses to rile him up, playful and amused and now tinged with a hint of sadness, and it makes Martin so mad, the unfairness of it all. "Is it different for you?"

"I just- there's a place I 'should' go to. A place where I'd be alone."

"Is that why you want to leave?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"Of course not. I'm- I want to fix this but Gerry, I don't know if we can fix it. I don't know how any of this works."

Gerry nods once, a slow tilt of his head like the weight of it all is too much, before he springs back up. It's a gesture so inherently him that Martin feels a fierce rush of protectiveness surge up in him.

They deserved better. They still do.

"I- if we-" Gerry starts, then stops to sigh again. "Jon would be safe if we left. I think we both would be too, but I'm not sure, and-"

"And we aren't leaving him." Martin completes the thought. Gerry nods again, even more exhausted this time. "What are we supposed to do, then? Just wait until he's done torturing himself with those tapes?"

A few notes of a discordant birthday song seep from under the door to reach his ears faintly, the ghost of a memory that he shouldn't be able to hear from this far away, but Martin guesses it's one of those things he's meant to experience precisely because it will hurt him.

"I'm- I don't know, Martin. I really don't."

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

Click.

"Are you on?" A few static-laden taps. "Test, test, testing prehistoric equipment? Okay, yes. How should I... oh, I know. Recording by Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute... Hah"

A small chuckle, before the woman speaks again. "Well, the payrise isn't that great anyways, and at least I don't have to pretend I'm a prick all the time, like Jon does." A sigh. "Tim's starting to get tired of it, but I think Jon just- it's tough starting as a boss. I think he's mostly posturing for Martin? When it's just the three of us, it feels just like when we were back at research. He'll get over it, I'm sure."

Another chuckle, a bit embarrassed this time. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. I guess it just feels nice to say it aloud knowing no one will hear it."

Silence. Papers shuffling, the clicking of a stapler, and a sound like someone sliding something heavy across a flat surface.

Thoughtful tapping against wood.

"I'm- it's not like I'm angry at him, I know he thinks that too. I just... I guess it's disappointing to be passed over. I've been thinking of looking for something el-"

"Hey there!" A new voice. Deeper and amused, warm. "Are you done?"

"Almost. I forgot it was Friday. You and Jon ready?"

"I'm... I was actually thinking it could be just us tonight."

"Oh."

"If you want, I mean. If not, there's still time to tell him, or we don't have to go at all." The man's voice hasn't come closer, and a door creaks like someone is shifting against it.

A long moment of silence, before the woman speaks again.

"Mr. Stoker, are you suggesting an office affair?" The woman's smile is audible in her tone, and there's a far off sound like a sigh of an exhale.

"Well, I think these archives have been far too peaceful for far too long, don't you?"

An amused huff.

"It's not a very wise thing to do."

"We don't have to."

Laughter, this time. "No, we're gonna. Let me get my coat."

Click.

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

"She never liked you," Jon says. His voice sounds hoarse with disuse as he glares resentfully at the whirring tape recorder in his hand. "I wonder how it would've manifested for her."

The device doesn't respond, of course. Just sits there, recording, watching. Its intentions, good or bad, have no effect on what it can and cannot do. It was made for a purpose, and that is that.

"I guess it's moot, though." If he's to believe Elias, and there's really no reason why he'd keep lying after achieving his goal, Jon was ripe for the picking decades before even considering setting foot on the Institute.

He can see them now, the hair-thin threads of silver wrapped around him, innocuous in appearance even though he can feel their pull.

Jon knows what the Mother wants of him now, hears it all around him in the creaking of the cottage, the screaming in the wind, in Martin and Gerry's insistence.

He won't give it to her.

Like the Spiral or the Stranger, the Web doesn't enjoy being Seen, and Jon feels it pushing him to not think too much about it or its motives.

He lets it, for the time being. He has other things to focus on, things he hasn't allowed himself to dwell on yet, with Sasha and Tim's voices still swimming in his mind.

"...I did think she resented me," he says after a pause. He closes his eyes, and he sees what would've been. Sees her covered in scars, terrified, hurt. Making the wrong choice time and time again, no matter how hard she tries. "I never- I'm glad it wasn't her."

The fate that befell Sasha wasn't gentle, but at least it was swift. At least she didn't live to see herself turn the world into this cesspool of suffering. To enjoy it.

"They think... They want to leave. Both of them." Sasha was right, it is easier to talk to the tapes, even if Jon is not under any false notion regarding whether or not he's being listened. "They- Martin thinks we can undo this. That there's a way to turn things back."

Jon doesn't know if there is, but- if there's a chance, what right does he have to attempt it, after what he did? Gerry just- he tries to keep things light, but Jon knows he's growing tired of mediating between appeasing Martin's urgencies, and giving Jon the time he thinks he needs.

"I'm- I just-" Jon sighs, clears his throat. "Recording ends."

But it doesn't. It never does anymore.

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

"Still nothing," Georgie sighs as she drops on the couch next to her.

"I expected as much." Melanie lifts the hand not sunk in the Admiral's fur, and Georgie tangles their fingers together. "What were you trying now? Calling again?"

"No, I... I used the recorder app. I thought it might reach him, but no luck."

"It was a good idea." Melanie shrugs. "But these things and technology just don't mix too well. I'm surprised your phone is even working at all."

"I mean, it's not. It's just working enough to get me frustrated, which I guess is the point."

Melanie chuckles. "The point is actually to make you scared, but that's not going to fly with you, and it makes them angry." The entities are nothing if not petty.

"What about you?" Georgie's hand tightens in her. "You can be scared."

"I'm not," Melanie says. It's- she's worried, but as long as she and Georgie are together... "The Eye can't see me."

Gerry once told her words carried power, and these ones hold truth. The Eye no longer has a claim on her, as much as it resents it.

"But the others can?" Georgie asks. Melanie can picture her expression perfectly, a thick eyebrow raised in question.

"They should be able to." She shrugs "I'm guessing the reason none of them have snatched me up is because I'm in your… aura? Blind spot? Anyways, I don't think I'll try going out on my own anytime soon."

"Probably not a good idea, no… What are we going to do, then? If we can't contact them-"

"I think- I think they'll be coming this way. Or I hope so, at least." They have to. They wouldn't just... If there's a way to turn it back, it will be here at London, at Magnus' tower. They'll come, and then they can take him on together. "I think we wait."

It feels odd, to actively choose inaction. Melanie has spent her whole life on the move, for new stories, for more adventure, for something that makes her clench her hands into fists.

"...we wait, then."

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

Click.

"Hi, Jon. I- I hope you don't mind that I'm recording. I thought-" a long, tired sigh "-I don't know what I thought. They just... they remind me of you. It felt right."

A sound of fabric shifting, something soft being patted. "There, that ought to be more comfortable. You're starting to look a bit pale, I'm- I'll ask the nurse if we can move your bed closer to the window so you get some sun. You'd probably hate that, but you need it, Jon," the man chuckles a little.

A long beat.

"I miss you."

Silence. Heavy, tense. A slow, deep inhale. The man clears his throat, and resumes speaking, as casually as before.

"Peter Lukas offered me a new position at the Institute. He- Elias left him in charge, don't ask me how that works legally, but... he wants me to be his assistant." A pause, a scoff, a little chuckle. "Yes, yes I know it is a trap, alright? I'm not stupid, Jon!"

Another chuckle, though this one takes a hint of fondness at the end.

"I know. But... we got attacked, just last month. The Flesh. Melanie managed to drive them back, but we- we lost three people. Emily from Research, Duke from the Library, and Len from Accounting. They didn't even care that they were normal employees, they just-"

The man's voice cracks, and he gives himself a moment, another slow intake of breath. "Lukas says he can protect the Institute. With- with what we know about the Lonely, I don't doubt it. There's... There's something else he isn't telling me. I- I'm not sure what it is, but I can guess it won't end well for me."

The silence that follows stretches for far longer than its predecessors, until the man sighs again.

"Not like I care much, anyways." A chair creaking, as the man atop it shifts. "I'm... I'm starting to understand you're not going to wake up. Wh- who would've thought I'd be the last one, huh?"

A flat, humourless chuckle.

"Guess... guess it's what I deserve, for staying behind every. Single. Time."

Minutes tick by after his words, in a seemingly endless silence, almost like the tape ran out of battery or somehow stopped recording without announcing it.

The chair creaks again.

"Goodbye, Jon."

Click

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

"I just- why do you keep listening to them?" Martin is asking as Gerry enters the bedroom, his voice not quite snappy, but coated with the same deep weariness that's permeated his every interaction with Jon for a while now.

"Because there has to be a reason why they're here. Why-"

"Jon, they're here because Elias wants to rub it in your face. He wants to hurt you even more, and- and you're going along with it! What could there possibly be in them that you don't already know?"

Gerry sighs, shoulders heavy with his own exhaustion as he looks out the window. The eyeballs growing out of the carefully tilled earth turn to stare back at him.

He's free now, he knows.

Gertrude's eyes blink accusingly at him from where he remembers planting the carrots, and Gerry scoffs.

"Of course I'm not going to. Don't be an idiot." Gerry rolls his eyes. There just. There has to be a way to reverse it, no matter-

Gerry sighs. Ever the optimist, the old hag.

He feels the cabin creaking and shifting, feasting on the sorrow that thinking of Gertrude brings him, even after years and deceptions.

It can't consume them, he Knows. None of them are human anymore, not completely. The cabin is just... a memory granted teeth, a place that haunts its occupants instead of the other way around. What hurts them -or him, at least- is the fact that what was supposed to be a sanctuary became a prison, and the only fear to be found here is, Gerry thinks, the fear that this will be the thing to break them apart, with Jon locked in the bedroom listening to his ghosts, with Martin pushing and pulling at him and Jon snapping back like a wounded dog.

It's decent fear. The fact that Gerry doesn't know which one of them to side with only makes it worse.

He understands Jon's reticence, the feeling that if he tries again, it will only make things even worse. He understands he's hurt, and scared, that now more than ever, he doesn't want the power Elias forced on him.

He also understands Martin, the- the need to fight back, to keep moving. To not be a fucking piece on a chessboard again.

Melanie's eyes, scarred and blind, turn to look at him.

"...I know. We're- I know."

Slowly, reluctantly, Gerry pushes away from the window.

This is not a conversation he wants to have, but...

Well, at least Martin will be happy that Gerry's siding with him, and Jon... Jon will understand.

Hopefully.

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

Click.

Statement of Jonathan Sims, the Archive, regarding the current state of affairs.

It is time you take a look at the world you have created, you have put it off for long enough.

You can feel it with awful clarity, even when you pretend the opposite, for their sake. Or is it for yours, desperate to hide the kind of being you are from the ones whose opinion you value the most? All around you, here in this space that is made safe only by your presence, suffering is the course du jour, tailor-made for each and every innocent you have condemned to this life that is not a life as much as it is the bare shadow of an existence.

You do not hear the screaming as much as you Know it -what don't you Know now?-, resonating in your mind every second of every day, if those things existed anymore.

Despite yourself, you sometimes wish that the screamers would choke on their own blood, that their lungs would collapse with the force of their anguished crying, that they could reach into their own ribcage and pull out their heart to squeeze the life out of it, out of themselves.

You want to think that way at least they would be free.

You know better of course. The rules of this new reality you have imposed on everyone are clearly outlined before you, like a neat bullet point list you've learned by heart. The first of these points is the worst, and it's the one that keeps you up at night when you're unable to wake the ones you love from their frantic nightmares, when they toss and trash on the bed, calling out for people who aren't there.

'You made this. This is for you.'

And when you wish fervently for the deaths of innocents, when you pray for each breath to be their last, you try, but can't quite keep out the satisfaction, the delight that comes from Knowing all this fear.

The world is in agony, but it will never die.

You hide here in this cottage that was home because it held the ones you love, clinging desperately to the idea that it can still be a shelter, if you only wish hard enough. You know the thought is as futile as the feeling, love did not make you holy, and it won't consecrate this place.

The cottage feeds on your fear and your doubt, on their tired eyes and strained smiles, and it whispers into your ear that it is only here that you will find peace. Wasn't this your happy ending, wasn't this all that you wanted? A cozy place to end your story with the ones you call your heart?

They hate it here almost as much as you wish they would hate you, but they stay for your sake. Have any of you ever done things for yourselves? All the three of you know is self-sacrifice, and how little it pays. You feel that this place that is not a home is feeding on you, and you relish on it, because it's the only penance you will find in this world that has made you untouchable.

The ones you love want to leave, want to fight; you wish you had an ounce of the hope they still nurse at their core, because you are as afraid to leave as you are of the cottage consuming you if you don't. Every day your interactions are more stilted, more tense, and you wonder which one will crack first.

And that's what it all boils down to, doesn't it? Fear. You're scared of seizing what's yours. Of facing this world of your making.

You're terrified of what awaits you out there, of what awaits you in here. The Pupil wasn't mistaken when he called you an Archive of fear, and it is time that you come back.

You can feel the call at your chest, like a bestial instinct that wills your bones to move, to go back to your place of power. You've been feeling it for a few days now (there are no days anymore, not in the world you've created), but it grows stronger every moment, more recognizable. You followed it once already, traversing a labyrinth like the map to it was burned on the inside of your eyelids.

You've tried futilely to ignore the call, just like you've tried to ignore the silk wrapped choking tight around your throat, pulling at you like it has done all your life. Was there ever a chance for things to work out, or were they just the delusions of a monster that thought -hoped- that maybe if he loved enough, he'd become a man again?

You know the answer to that, of course. You Know everything. What was it that she called it? Ineluctability. Swimming frantically upstream only to be pushed back in the end, because your limbs will get tired a lot sooner than the tide.

You are exhausted, and you have been for a while.

Statement ends.

Steps, slow and unsteady, and the creaking of a door. Some heavy breathing, like the breather has just run a marathon, or had the air choked out of him. A broken, slightly hysterical laugh, no longer the Archivist, but merely a broken man.

I don't want to go.

Click

A moment of silence that seems to stretch for an eternity, as the two of them look at the lone recorder.

"Martin, go get your backpack."

"I'm on it. Meet you outside."

#illicio #jongerrymartin #vit writes #jongerry #gerrymartin #jonmartin

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stereksecretsanta · 3 years

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Merry Christmas, everchanginginks

For @everchanginginks. I hope you enjoy this gift!

Read On AO3

*****

Just down the hall from the quiet studying of history students in Room 17-B lies classroom 17-A which, contrasting its quieter neighbor, is filled with sugar-fueled enthusiasm as adolescent students gleefully tear into their candy atom diagrams. Only after getting the go ahead from their awesome chemistry teacher wearing a colorful periodic table tie over a blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves, of course.

Said awesome teacher places the end of a blue raspberry sour punch straw in the corner of his mouth and chews with an unabashed grin. As he’s halfway through the straw the bell rings and he breaks into his parting spiel for his students, the straw sticking from the corner of his mouth like a cowboy.

“Okay class, please make sure to turn your worksheets into the tray on your way out and please take your candy diagrams with you. You’re not gonna break my heart if you don’t eat them, I just don’t want next period to deal with this period’s mess. Tonight’s homework is on the board and on the syllabus, and don’t forget to submit your vote for Teacher of the Year during lunch if you have not already. Have a good rest of your day everyone, and as always come to me with any questions...and that means any ."

Scattered responses of “Okay” and “Thanks Mr. Stilinski” and “Bye” fill the room as the students start to file out the classroom.

“You’re about as subtle as a brick to the teeth.” Says a mildly amused female voice from over his shoulder.

Stiles finishes the candy and turns around to look exasperatedly at the strawberry blonde speaker sitting behind his desk, "And you’re underestimating how important this is. My reclaiming of the throne is in danger!"

"Uh huh..." MIT grad and certified genius Lydia Martin nods in mock understanding as she sips from her floral patterned ceramic travel coffee cup.

"Thanks again for agreeing to come in and lecture for my AP Chem students on such short notice by the way.” Stiles scratches at the tousled mess on his head and offers the open package of sour punch straws from his desk, “You are a literal God send."

She grimaces and waves the proffered sugary confection away, "For someone in the sciences, your improper use of the word 'literal' is rather concerning. Perhaps your throne is in more danger than previously thought."

“Don’t say that, you’re gonna jinx it!” He reaches over and raps his knuckles against his wooden desk three times while speaking a mile a minute, “I need to win, I can’t have mister ‘look at me bringing my history and polisci students on the coolest field trips in the history of this school because I can somehow pull strings to make these trips a reality despite there being like no funding--seriously how does he do it--and my students adore me even though I constantly look like I probably lure people into the woods with my beautiful eyes and murder them in my free time’ beat me at my own game, again !”

He huffs at the end of his tirade and looks to Lydia for understanding, but she avoids his gaze and poorly suppresses snickers under her breath.

“C’mon it’s not that funny. I know he can ‘smolder’ his way into the heart of even the most introverted student,” Stiles gesticulates with each emphasis, “but I have charm , I’m approachable , I understand these students. I love my job and I do everything in my ability to give these students every opportunity they deserve . If that’s not ‘Teacher of the Year’ material, then I don’t know what is.”

Stiles stops, taps his chin thoughtfully and sighs, “Though I totally understand that the title is purely for bragging rights, and it ultimately comes down to just continuing to be the best teacher I can be. Derek is a great teacher that also deserves the title and I can respect that, but gosh darn does he get my competitive side riled up.”

“Uh huh…” Lydia hums and taps her fingers against her cup as she pointedly looks past Stiles, “Mr. Stilinski, I do believe there’s someone that needs your help?”

“Oh!” Stiles quickly straightens himself and his tie, and turns around with a wide grin, “What can I do for--YOU!” Stiles quickly twists his expression into a frown and throws a finger up accusingly after registering who was darkening his doorway.

Standing in the doorway with a glare that could send a lesser man running for the hills is the previously mentioned competitor and last year’s winner for ‘Teacher of the Year’, mister ‘coolest history teacher’ Derek Hale in all his annoyingly gorgeous, stubbly, glory. He side-eyes Stiles’ organized chaos in the chemistry lab from behind thick framed hipster looking glasses and grimaces, “Am I interrupting something?”

Stiles grits his teeth, he can practically feel the judgement over his classroom’s state radiating off of the (not even tenured!) history teacher and no amount of soft looking cable knit sweaters could lessen that blow. “As a matter of fact--”

“No, you’re not interrupting anything at all Derek.” Lydia places a hand on Stiles’ shoulder as she walks past him, “I was just about to go say hi to Kira.”

Derek moves aside to let Lydia pass, she turns to smile at Stiles from the doorway, “I’ll come back by 6th period for your second AP Chem class. I think I’ll also grab some lunch from Whole Foods.”

“Uh...Bye?” Stiles weakly waves at Lydia’s parting back. He refocuses his attention on the offending history teacher and crosses his arms across his chest petulantly, “Alrighty, what d’ya need Mr. Hale?”

With a roll of his eyes, Derek holds up a handful of papers, steps forward, and emphatically places them in Stiles' inbox, “Your mail. I know your TA usually grabs it for you, but he’s out sick today. And I was already in the mailroom.”

“Whoa, wait wait, how do you know that my TA is out sick today, have you been stalking my classes? Are you trying to find a way to one up me? Steal some of my stellar teaching techniques because you know that you’ll lose otherwise?” Stiles narrows his eyes as his lowers voice into a conspiratorial tone while leaning forward to scrutinize Derek’s expression, “What’s your game here Mr. Hale ?”

Derek hazel eyes widen incredulously as he scoffs, “I don't need to stalk your classes, Liam's one of my students too. And please remind me, what did I do to make you so hostile again?”

“Playing dumb isn’t cute. You know full well what you did.” Stiles pokes at Derek’s chest and--oh that’s a soft sweater--puffs his own out, “But no matter what, I’m going to take what’s rightfully mine .”

His competitor’s face reddens in anger and Stiles feels a thrum of excitement at his ability to break Derek’s usual expression of ‘sourpuss lumberjack murderer’. A sly grin works its way across Stiles’ face as he shrugs coyly, “What can I say, I’m a man who knows what he wants.”

Stiles’ wrist is suddenly grabbed by a warm, slightly calloused palm--there may be something to that murderer in the woods theory--and wrenched away from the soft sweater. “And what would that be, Stiles?” Derek growls--who the hell growls --while leaning in way too close for comfort.

“What would that be? Um...I want to win? Obviously?” Stiles splutters as his face reddens, offended that Derek would suggest that there would be anything else . “I’m gonna own you, Derek. I’m gonna own you so hard, you won’t know what hit you.”

“How about you take me to dinner first, before you ‘own’ me?” Derek says matter-of-factly.

“Uh no, how about you take me to dinner to celebrate my overwhelming victory over your grumpy ass? Doesn’t that make a little more sense than going to dinner before either of us win?” Stiles rolls his eyes, laughing at Derek’s lack of logic. But his laughter sputters out and he stills once his brain processes what just happened. “Wait… wait wait… was that some sort of sad attempt at asking me out in the most backwards, reverse engineered manner possible?”

Stiles looks Derek in the eyes, who nods patiently, as if Stiles was one of their students that needs tutoring.

“Oh my God. Oh my GOD !” Stiles backs away and into his desk, voice rising in panic, “What even? What’s happening here? Are you trying to throw me off my game? Cause that’s a dirty tactic, even for you. Because there’s no way someone like you would legitimately ask out someone like me . That just doesn’t make sense. You’re like a sexy lumberjack murderer historian, and I’m like a young Bill Nye. I'm in the sciences , and you're in the humanities . And you don’t even like me. You haven’t liked me since your first day!”

“Hold on.” Derek holds his palms up defensively, “What are you talking about? You were the one glaring at me like there was no tomorrow.”

Stiles inspects Derek’s expression for any sign of deception, seeing none he sighs. “Fine, I guess it was just so unimportant to mister bigshot Hale to remember measly Mr. Stilinski. Do you remember moving into your classroom?”

He nods, urging Stiles to continue.

“So I didn’t know that the new teacher was moving in that day , so when I saw a big package outside of your soon to be classroom, I assumed that it was my delivery of graduated cylinders that was dropped off to the wrong room since it was early in the morning and people make mistakes sometimes, y’know?” Stiles gives Derek no opportunity to say anything and continues at full speed. “I went over and got ready to take the package, only to have you open the door and give me the scariest look in my entire life . Do you remember what you said to me, Derek?”

“You said,” Stiles changes his voice to imitate Derek’s, “‘That is my private property. If you value your time at this school, you will leave it alone. If I see this behavior again I will bring it up with Principal Yukimura’. So, yeah! Something about that kinda exchange can make a guy think you hate them!”

Derek groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Oh my God...You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, so you do remember? Or did you conveniently forget threatening me?” Stiles grabs another sour punch straw and chews it angrily, “Because I sure as hell didn’t!”

“Stiles…” Derek laughs breathily, “I thought you were a student . I wasn’t wearing my glasses and it was dark . Oh my god . I thought the first time we met was in the teachers' lounge, and by that point I already unknowingly made a terrible first impression on you. No wonder you looked at me with such hatred. Oh my goodness.”

“...oh.”

“Yeah, oh…”

Stiles chews the straw thoughtfully and rocks on the balls of his feet. “So… about that backwards dinner invitation…”

“Yeah?” Derek perks up slightly, looking almost adorable , though Stiles would never say that outloud.

“How about whoever wins ‘Teacher of the Year’ gets treated to dinner, hm?” Stiles holds out a hand for a handshake.

With a goofy grin revealing adorable (there’s that word again!) bunny teeth that brighten up Derek’s entire face, much better than the usual murderous look, he enthusiastically takes Stiles hand and shakes it.

“Deal.”

Epilogue

“I still can’t believe it!”

“I know.” Derek hums as he reaches over to refill Stiles’ glass.

“Honestly, who saw this coming?”

“Certainly not me,” Derek swirls some pasta around his fork and fondly watches Stiles throw back the wine as if it was jungle juice rather than a nice glass of Chardonnay.

Stiles’ honey-brown eyes glimmer with the same kind of mischievous enthusiasm that Derek remembered seeing for the first time at the first assembly of the school year. He gave some sort of spiel about the importance of working together and not being afraid to ask for help, which ended with a demonstration of elephant toothpaste. Derek is embarrassed to say how much he grew to admire the gawky chemistry teacher after that assembly.

“I absolutely kicked your ass dude.” Stiles leans across the table to grab the dessert menu. “Since it’s your treat, I think I’ll indulge in some dessert.” He worries his bottom lip, which makes Derek have to cough and turn his attention away.

“Don’t call me dude.” Derek weakly responds.

“Ooh, this one is topped with bourbon vanilla bean chantilly cream, which is basically bougie whipped cream. How do you feel about bread pudding by the way?” Stiles looks up from the menu through his eyelashes--and there is no way he doesn’t know how he looks--and flutters them exaggeratedly. “Or are you too sour over losing to wittle ol’ me?”

Derek snorts and reaches over to clasp Stiles’ free hand, “On the contrary, I’d be happy to lose to you again.”

Stiles returns the gesture and leans forward, eyes glimmering, his face mere inches away from Derek’s, “Promise?”

Derek is suddenly very glad that they are sitting because he can feel himself go weak in the knees. He nods thoughtfully, “Yeah, I promise.” And leans forward to close the gap.

Their first kiss tastes like garlic bread, which is a little unconventional, but Derek wouldn’t have it any other way.

#everchanginginks #stereksanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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scrivenerofmossflower · 4 years

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I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghost

Word Count: ~2.8k Summary: Four new friends decide to celebrate their recent meeting by doing some light breaking-and-entering at the local cemetery. They're looking for a ghost. They accidentally come out with the seeds for a YouTube channel. In which Gonff has done research, Rose brought the video camera, Martin's a little too comfortable with this, and Columbine wonders how a pre-med like her wound up stuck with two theater geeks and an enigma. read on ao3 Notes: Human AU, College AU. Un-beta’ed, all mistakes are my own. I’ve been sitting on this for like, over two years and the fact that the ‘verse is still bothering me and I still remember all the details to the set up means that I’m just going to have to exorcise it. Have a Halloween fic the day after Halloween.

The cemetery was on the western edge of town and looked not as a cemetery usually does, with neatly kept graves and graveled paths and mown lawns, but as a cemetery should. With the sun just below the horizon and night falling quickly, the overgrown graveyard with it’s off-kilter, lichen covered headstones and crumbling mausoleums looked like something right out of a horror movie.

“Hollywood called, they want their set back,” Rose said. All four friends were leaning against the iron gates at the entrance, nerving themselves up to go in.

“Oh, come on, this is B-list horror fodder at best,” Gonff countered. “More like Haunted Mansion or Hocus Pocus than—are you recording this?”

“Yep,” Rose said. She turned her phone towards him, zoomed in and out on his face, and stuck out her tongue. “You know how big a wimp my brother is about the spooky stuff, so I was going to send it to him. Congratulations, he just found out you’re a massive Disney geek.”

“Everyone likes Hocus Pocus—”

“Are you seriously going to do this?” Columbine interrupted, and rolled her eyes when Rose turned the camera on her.

“Scared?”

She sighed. “Of getting arrested for trespassing? Yes.” She reached out and made a swipe for the camera, but Rose avoided the grab. “Especially if you’re going to be recording us breaking the law—Martin!”

While they’d been talking, Martin had swung himself onto the top of the chest-high wall and sat straddling it with one leg to either side. “What?” he asked. “It’s not that high.”

“That’s not really her point, mate,” Gonff said. What was chest high on Martin was shoulder high on Gonff, and between that and a bit of extra pudge, it was a bit more of an undignified scramble up. Martin snagged the back of his shirt and heaved when it looked like he wouldn’t quite make it. “Thanks. C’mon, Columbine, you’re up next.”

She sighed again, but took both their hands and let them haul her up between them, with a neat little twist that left her sitting on the wall, feet on the outside.

“Here, catch,” Rose said. She tossed her phone up to Martin and waved off their assistance, bracing her hands on the top of the wall and hopping up, accepting her phone back with a grin. The group paused again on the top of the wall. “So,” Rose said, dragging out the vowel and turning the camera on each of them. “What do you think we’re going to find?”

“I was poking around in the library this afternoon,” Gonff volunteered, drumming his heels against the wall, “and turned up a couple of specifics. Apparently there was this chemist—and I use the term loosely, he wasn’t trained and it was the 1700s, I think—but when he died he said he’d be back.”

“And was he?”

“Well, he was exhumed at some point, and the body was unsettlingly preserved. Though I suppose saying the tomb was broken into would be more accurate; a curious medical student tried to cut off his head.”

“And you say it’s the theater geeks who’re weird,” Rose said. “When has a theater geek ever tried to cut off someone’s head in the name of science?”

Columbine just raised both eyebrows in Rose’s direction. “Really? We’re really going there?”

“Okay, but when has a medical student willed their skull to a theater so it can be used in a production of Hamlet?” Martin asked, and ignored how all three just looked at him in bewilderment. “Go on, Gonff. The body was unusually preserved, the student tried to take its head.”

“Which I contest, honestly,” Columbine interrupted. “You could get as good a sample without desecrating the corpse like that.”

“Anyway,” Gonff said. “As he was putting the head in the sack he’d brought with him, he heard whispers coming from the corners of the tomb.” He gestured, describing the scene with relish. “Whispers at the edges of reality, seeping through the cracks. When he turned around, there were shadows writhing and twining in the corners, reaching out as if they would pull him into the void itself.”

There was a beat of silence.

“And this tomb is in this graveyard?” Rose said, scanning the layout of the ground below them.

“Yep. The student ran, of course, and left the head behind. It’s probably still there, kicked into a corner by a panicked foot.”

Martin and Columbine exchanged skeptical looks. “Guilty conscience, obviously, and probably wind through the leaves,” Columbine said. “Look, there’s trees all along the wall, and there’s grass and stuff, too. When was this?”

Gonff blew out an exasperated breath. “I don’t really remember, a few years after the guy died?”

“So call it the 1810s at the latest,” Columbine said, crossing her arms. “Way before electricity was harnessed for things like flashlights. If he had a lantern or an oil lamp, those shadows were probably caused by the unsteady light source, and obviously an overactive imagination.”

“Speaking of which, anyone else have a flashlight?” Martin asked. “First quarter moon won’t be up for another few hours.”

There was another, longer silence.

“We are really bad at this,” Gonff said finally. “Martin’s the only person who brought a flashlight? Seriously?”

“I was just going to use my phone,” Rose said. “But that’s going to eat my battery, especially if I’m recording at the same time.”

“Lesson learned. When poking around old graveyards after dark, everyone in the crew brings a flashlight,” Columbine said, shaking her head.

“We’ll keep it mind for next time,” Rose decided, and hopped down into the graveyard without further commentary. “Come on, let’s go find this tomb. You remember which one it was, right, Gonff?”

“Yeah, it’s in the north corner. I’ll lead the way.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Martin said as he helped Columbine down off the wall, “I swung by earlier today to talk to the groundskeeper. Ghost hunters aren’t new to him, and we’ve got permission. As long as we don’t break anything, leave trash around, make too much noise, etcetera, he’s fine with it, if a little resigned.”

“I’m beginning to think you’ve done this before,” Columbine said, half joking, half accusing.

Martin shook his head. “No, I just don’t see any reason to take unnecessary risks.”

Gonff laughed from in front of them, and turned around to walk backwards and still face them. “Matey, I’ve known you for a week and I can already say with full confidence that that’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

“I did say unnecessary risks,” Martin said with complete calm. “Besides, I haven’t been that reckless around any of you.”

“Yes, because jumping two flights of concrete steps is perfectly reasonable,” Rose said, giving him a very disappointed look.

“I was running late and took the landing on my shoulder like you’re supposed to.”

The deeper the four friends passed into the graveyard, the older the headstones became. What names and dates had survived the years were obscured by green-gray or orange lichen. At the very back were a row of small marble buildings, some with long fractures in their walls, some with craggy domes, some in eerily perfect repair but with the iron grate hanging askew. The casual back and forth banter grew quieter as they approached, until at last the muffled sound of shoes upon gravel swallowed it up entirely.

“That’s it,” Gonff whispered, nodding towards a mausoleum built into a low hill, the dark space where its door should have been framed by ivy and brambles.

Rose took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Break my phone and I’ll curse you,” she said, and thrust it into Gonff’s hands.

“Wait, what are you doing?”He fumbled it, checking the camera and keeping it trained on Rose. The image was becoming grainier as the light faded, but it was still enough to film, for now.

“I’m going inside,” Rose said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, not without me you’re not,” Gonff said, shoving the phone at Martin. “Here, you hold this.”

“I’m pretty sure this violates the 'don’t break anything' request we got from the groundskeeper,” Columbine said, rubbing at her forehead.

“Do you want to go in to explain every ‘experience’ they have, or shall I?” Martin asked. The video wouldn’t show the fond grin he wore, but it was clear enough in his voice as he trained the camera on Columbine, equally fond for all her exasperation.

“You’ve got the flashlight,” Columbine pointed out, waving him on. “I’ll stand guard on the off chance someone comes to run us out.”

“We can jump the wall and make for downtown if that happens,” Martin said. “Always have an exit strategy.”

“You’ve definitely done this before.”

“No, that’s just general life advice.”

They were interrupted by a low call from Gonff from inside the mausoleum. “Martin! Flashlight?!”

Martin fished the penlight out of one pocket with one hand, keeping the camera steady on the door as he approached. He knocked on the jamb with it. “Hello? Sorry for the disturbance, but we were just hoping to look around for a little bit, if you don’t mind the company. We’ll leave you in peace again soon.”

He flicked the light on, and startled back when it illuminated Rose, who was far closer than he’d expected. She also backed off with a pained protest. “Warn a girl before you do that, will you?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin said, angling the light a bit lower.

She rubbed at her eyes. “Were you talking to the ghost just now?”

“Look, if there is someone in here, just because he’s dead doesn’t mean we have to be rude,” Martin pointed out, following Rose into the crypt. “How’d you feel if someone came poking around your room without even apologizing for it?”

“You don’t even believe in ghosts,” Gonff pointed out, squinting around. The three of them drew closer together—ghost or no, they were in a small space with a dead body after dark, circumstances creepy enough to raise the hair on the back of anyone’s neck.

“I prefer to hedge my bets,” Martin said, sweeping the penlight slowly around. It was mostly empty, but for a few dead leaves in the corner and a low, rectangular construction in the middle of the room—the tomb itself. “I don’t see anything in here. Should we go a bit deeper?” They were huddled near the door, the blue-bright LED penlight aided by the distant starlight and the sickly yellow glow of a nearby streetlight.

“Yeah, why not,” Gonff said. His voice was a bit higher than normal, but he slid one foot forward, then another. Rose trailed behind him, looking closely around the room.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t go in front?” Martin asked.

“You’ve got the camera,” Rose said.

“Right,” Martin muttered, not sounding too pleased with that. “Of course.”

“I’ll curse you, too, if you break my phone—” Rose started, only to cut herself off with a gasp. “Did you hear that?”

“No?”

Another long moment of tense silence, before all three heard a rustling sound from beyond the tomb.

“I heard that,” Gonff said, this time with an almost manic sounding giggle. “It sounds like he doesn’t like curses. Maybe don’t talk about that right now?”

“Right,” Rose said. She swallowed. “Sorry.”

“There’re a lot of dead leaves in here,” Martin said, directing the penlight towards the corners. “It was probably the wind, or an animal. Something like—huh.”

The light illuminated a misshapen lump closer to the entrance, a bundle of something that looked like it might be cloth. The trio stared at it for a moment.

“Do you think that’s the head?” Rose whispered.

“It’s definitely something,” Gonff said. All three drew closer together until their shoulders were touching.

“You know, I sort of thought the head would’ve been moved, or missing, or eaten by now,” Martin said.

Gonff blanched. “Eaten?”

“Well, yeah. Animals, scavengers, that sort of thing. What, did you think I meant cannibalism?”

“No…”

“Well, only one way to find out,” Rose said. She squared her shoulders. Each step forward echoed hollowly in the empty mausoleum, and when she spoke, both Gonff and Martin couldn’t quite suppress a jump. “Martin, will you stop moving the light around? I’m nervous enough as it is.”

“I’m not moving the light, Rose. And my hands are steady, before you ask,” Martin protested, eyes on the video to make sure this was the case.

Rose halted without turning around. When she spoke, her voice was forcibly calm. “If it’s not the light, what’s making the shadows move?”

“Martin, are you getting that?”

“I’m recording the shadows acting like shadows, yes,” Martin said patiently. “They’re moving because you’re moving, Rose, and you’re between the light and the—oh,” he said, as the shadows trembled again and moved up the wall.

There was a crash of stone on stone from behind them, loud in the sudden stillness. All three screamed, Gonff and Rose both latching onto Martin’s arms. Martin had dropped the penlight to free one hand, and the light swung wildly about the mausoleum, chasing spiky shadows and weird shapes up the walls.

“I think we should get out of here,” Gonff said, already backing out and dragging Martin along with him.

“Good idea,” Rose agreed, matching Gonff pace for pace. “Great time and all, really interesting, but we ought to, you know, go analyze the footage, see if we got an EVP—”

“Not find out what that was?”

“A ghost angry about a joke about curses.”

“Don’t joke about curses, I was cursed once and it offends me,” Gonff agreed with another high pitched giggle.

“This is just for practice anyway, next time we’ll go investigate,” Rose said.

There was another rustling, and the penlight caught the reflective gleam of eyes at the other end of the room.

They broke and ran, bursting out of the mausoleum and almost bowling over Columbine.

“What, what did you—”

“Eyes, dark, something—”

“Just run!” Rose said, pushing the both of them ahead of her.

“Over the wall?” Martin asked the group.

“Yes, fine, just away!”

This wall was conquered far more easily than the first, the fear adding extra speed to all four friends’s flight.

“You really saw a ghost?” Columbine panted.

“No,” Martin said, at the same time Gonff said “Yes!”

“There were eyes, mate, actual, glowing eyes!” Gonff continued. “And the shadows, you saw the shadows!”

“I saw shadows move that weren’t caused by Rose,” Martin said.

“And the crash? And the rustling?”

“Coincidence. Dead leaves. There wasn’t a ghost in there.”

They stopped a dozen blocks away, Rose clutching a stitch in her side, Gonff with his hands braced on his knees, gasping for breath.

“Then what was it?” Rose asked, leaning her head against the wall of the closed coffee shop.

“I don’t know,” Martin said. He was breathing deeply, deliberately slowing his breathing back to normal. “But it wasn’t a ghost.”

“That’s… because… it was a fox,” Columbine said, also bent double and panting for breath. She waved her phone, which the other three only just noticed in her hand. “I saw it come out about two seconds before you did,” she said, straightening as her breath came back. “Snapped a few pictures. He’s a cutie, you probably scared him.”

“We scared him?” Rose repeated, scandalized.

“Oh, let me see,” Gonff said, leaning over her shoulder as she swiped through the handful of pictures.

“Wait, let me get a shot of this,” Martin said, a grin beginning to steal over his face. He raised Rose’s phone again, getting a good angle on Columbine’s. “Aw, he is cute.”

“What about the eyes—?”

“Probably a family,” Columbine said. “I mean, that’d be a great place for a den, wouldn’t it? Sensible people don’t go in.”

“Did I ever claim I was sensible?” Gonff asked her, turning to look at her indignantly with his chin still propped on her shoulder. “Did Rose? Did Martin?”

Rose shook her head, beginning to laugh. “So our first ghost… was actually a family of foxes,” she said.

“Apparently,” Gonff said.

“Stepping through leaves, knocking something over, moving around so that there were shadows,” Martin listed. “And our imaginations did the rest.”

Columbine shot them all a grin. “Good thing I didn’t come in with you guys, then, or I wouldn’t have evidence,” she said, waving her phone in Gonff’s face.

“Well, you’ll have to figure out a way to get evidence from the inside next time,” Rose decided. She put out a hand and wiggled her fingers. Martin passed her the phone.

“Next time?” Columbine repeated.

“Absolutely,” Rose said, and panned the camera around the group. “After tonight, we’ve got to find a real ghost. This is too embarrassing a note to leave on, don’t you think?”

#my fic #redwall #Late LateRose Channel AU #one-shot #Martin the Warrior #Gonff #Columbine #Rose #look I don't remember where this came from #but I love it #please love it too

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eldritchteaparty · 3 years

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Chapters: 8/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter Summary: Following their misadventure at Hill Top Road, Jon finally takes some time off; Martin remembers something disturbing about the archives’ collection of books.

Chapter 8 of my post-canon fix-it is up! Read at AO3 above or here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

“Jon, take the pills.”

Jon, wrapped in a blanket and staring out over the railing of the flat’s small balcony, stayed silent.

“Fine, I’ll just wait.” Martin set the vitamin bottles and the glass of water on the sturdiest-looking part of the railing, and shifted the second chair enough so he could sit down.

“You’re going to get cold,” Jon said.

“Yeah, probably.” Martin was dressed in a light jumper with only a t-shirt beneath it. It had been warm enough earlier in the day—the weather was getting nicer—but as the sun started to go down it was cooling off.

“Your choice.” Jon picked up his lighter from the small table between them and lit another cigarette, and they sat together as the sun continued its journey below the horizon. It really was beautiful, Martin thought. He hadn’t taken the opportunity to observe any part of nature in a long time. It hadn’t ever been much of a priority to him, but there was something nice about taking in the colors that spilled across the sky—deep yellows and oranges that gave way to pinks and purples, and eventually a dark glowing blue that was only barely distinguishable from black.

Martin wrapped his arms around himself.

“At least get a coat,” Jon said.

“At least take those pills.”

“God, you’re stubborn.” Jon readjusted in his seat to pull his legs up under the blanket a little more.

“Pot and kettle, Jon.”

“Why should I take them? You heard the doctors, there isn’t anything actually wrong with me. They’re just grasping at straws.”

After an hour or so on the porch at Hill Top Road, Martin had calmed enough to make the decision to go to A&E. Although Jon had protested, the fact was that he had been too weak to do anything about it, and Martin only felt a little bad taking advantage of that. As he’d said then, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t insisted on doing it before; he’d become so used to not being able to get help, that he hadn’t really considered it until then. He wasn’t going to mess around anymore, though, especially now that he realized he might not always be able to help on his own.

After hearing about Jon’s recent fatigue and his fainting episode, the healthcare staff had run a lot of tests. They’d hooked him up to monitors, measured things, done blood draws. Martin had to admit Jon’s description of their conclusions wasn’t far off—they didn’t find anything explicitly wrong with him. There was no diagnosis they felt comfortable giving, although they had pointed out a few possibilities that they should monitor. And they’d recommended the vitamins, of course.

“They did say you have nutritional deficiency—”

“—minor nutritional deficiency—”

“—and your vitamin D levels were actually quite low.” Martin shivered involuntarily in the cool night air.

“God damn it, Martin.” Jon fidgeted with the lighter on the table, but didn’t actually reach for another cigarette. “Will you take the blanket, anyway?”

“Will you take those pills?”

“They won’t help with anything,” Jon protested. “We both know that. This is ridiculous.”

“Speak for yourself,” Martin countered. “I’m not assuming anything about what will help. Beyond that, given how you’ve been eating, they can’t hurt. And finally, yes, I am being ridiculous, and I don’t care.”

“I didn’t say you were being ridiculous.”

“No, I said it. I’ll own it. I am being ridiculous, because I don’t want to lose you, and I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you now any more than I did when we were walking through an apocalypse together, or when you were being kidnapped by actual monsters every week, or when you were taking unannounced holidays in coffins or whatever.” Martin shivered again. “Look, it’s just not that hard to take them, Jon.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I’m behaving like an ass,” Jon sighed.

“Now I didn’t say that,” Martin replied. “I’m not trying to ignore what you’re feeling Jon, and I know there’s not a quick fix for any of it. It’s just that it’s—it’s such a small thing, and if it helps, at least it’s something.”

Jon grumbled.

“And not to bring this up again, but—I mean, it might help if you would just talk to me?”

Jon shook his head. “I can’t. When I try to put it into words, I—it never comes out right. I sound like a—well, a monster.” Jon seemed to shrink back into the blanket even more. “Or maybe I am one, and I can’t face you knowing it.”

“Jon…” Martin hesitated, but decided to finish the thought. “I’ll be honest with you. I’ve asked myself if—if you are.”

Jon turned to him. “And?”

“And I don’t think so,” Martin said simply.

“Why not?”

“To be completely clear, it’s not the most rational reason. I just don’t think I could love you like this if you were. You’re just not bad. You’ve only ever wanted to do the right thing. You’ve only ever wanted to protect people, to protect me, even if—” Martin cleared his throat. “Even if we haven’t always agreed on what that looks like.”

“I see,” Jon said softly, turning to look over the railing again.

“So, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.” Martin leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, blowing warm air into his hands. “But in that case, it’s vitamins and freezing myself.”

“May I ask a favor first?” Jon said, eyeing the glass of water warily.

“Depends on the favor.”

“Will you make me some tea?”

“Of course.” Martin was relieved; that was one thing he imagined he’d always be happy to do. “But you’ll take those pills if I do?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “You’ve made your case.”

He reached down to kiss Jon’s head before he walked back into the kitchen, and noted with comfort that Jon leaned into him as he did.

***

That was Sunday evening. Since they’d returned from A&E, Jon had spent most of the time before that afternoon sleeping. He’d been restless, and Martin had slept on the couch for a few nights to try to let Jon get as much sleep as he could. Of course, he had woken anxiously every few hours needing to check on Jon, so he was more than ready to go to bed after their discussion on the balcony. He ended up turning in before Jon, so he was a little surprised to find him already awake and sitting back against his pillows when he opened his eyes on Monday.

“Hey,” Martin said, moving closer to rest his face against Jon’s hip, throwing an arm over his legs.

“Hey.”

“Did I keep you up?” Martin asked.

“No.”

“What time did you get in bed?”

“I don’t know exactly. Not that long after you. I’m just not that tired. Maybe I finally slept enough.”

“That makes one of us.” One night of sleep hadn’t done Martin as much good as he had hoped.

“I’m sorry.” With his eyes still closed, Martin felt Jon’s hand come to rest on his head, gently rubbing his scalp just above his ear.

“I’m going to have to cut my hair soon.”

“I like it,” Jon said, gently tugging at a few strands. “I mean, I like it shorter, too. I guess I just like your hair.”

“Flatterer.” Martin yawned, then pressed his face into Jon even harder for a moment before rolling back to his side of the bed. “Just so long as you know it’s not getting you out of those pills. Do you want to shower first?”

“Actually, I was thinking I might not go in today.”

“Really?” Martin sat up to look at Jon. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He picked at an invisible spot on the quilt. “It’s more that I’d just—I’d like some time to think. If you’re ok with it.”

“Yes, of course I’m ok with it. I’ve been trying to get you to take it easy ever since we got here. We can—” He stopped when he saw the look on Jon’s face and realized what he was actually asking. “Oh, you meant—just you. Yeah, no, of course that’s fine. That’s great.”

“Are you sure? I mean—if you want to stay too—”

“No,” Martin interrupted. “No, it’s really fine. It’s not a problem. I mean, I know I’ve been really irritating with the—”

“That’s not it,” Jon said reassuringly. “It’s really not. I’m—I’m glad you’ve been here for me. It’s just my mind’s been so cluttered, and it finally—I feel like I can gather my thoughts.”

Martin nodded. “I get it. I do.” He did, mostly. “Would it be ok if I called to check on you?”

Jon smiled. “I’m sure I’d worry if you didn’t.”

So Martin went in by himself. He told Tim and Sasha the truth, mostly; Jon had blacked out after therapy, of course, not in an abandoned house in Oxford where there existed a possible gap between dimensions and realities, but the part about going to A&E and Jon staying home to recover was straightforward enough.

“Glad something slowed him down,” Tim said, and Sasha gave him a look. “Well, something was bound to happen, and at least Martin was there. It could have been worse. He was pushing himself too hard.”

“You’re not wrong,” Martin agreed, and Sasha patted him soothingly on the shoulder.

He went in by himself the next day, too. Jon seemed to be doing well enough. They didn’t talk much; Martin was tired and Jon seemed lost in his thoughts. Martin wasn’t sure what Jon was doing most of the day, though it didn’t seem to be much of anything. He was eating—well, drinking the nutrition shakes Martin had picked up for him—and Martin suspected he was sleeping a little, based on how the bed looked when he came home. Jon managed to eat solid food at supper again that second night, and reached protectively for his half-empty plate when Martin assumed he was done.

“Sorry,” Martin said with his hands up in apology, leaning back into the couch. “Does that mean—maybe you’re feeling better?”

“I think so. Starting to.” Jon stretched out his feet to rest them on the bottom ledge of the coffee table. For an instant, Martin already missed the feeling of Jon falling asleep against him—but this was better, he knew. He pushed the mournfulness away.

He went in by himself again on Wednesday. A little after noon, Sasha joined him and Tim in the assistants’ office.

“Want to come to lunch?”

Martin assumed she was asking Tim, but when he didn’t hear an answer, he glanced up to find both of them looking at him.

“Oh—me?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” Tim replied, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Might be nice to take up some old habits again.”

Martin didn’t have to think for too long to figure out what Tim was referring to; memories from this world came easy now. Not long after his mother had died, they’d started going out for lunch together once a week. It had almost certainly been for his benefit, but no one had ever admitted that to him; instead, they’d all acted like it was a spontaneous idea that for some reason had never occurred to any of them before. Martin had been so grateful for the company that he’d simply accepted it without thinking about it too hard.

“We’ll miss Jon, of course,” Sasha added, “but he can come with us next week.”

“Oh, whatever,” Tim said, elbowing Martin good-naturedly as they left the office together. “This just makes up for those times Jon couldn’t wait and stole Martin out from under us.”

Martin remembered that, too; there had been a few times when, despite their best intentions, he’d been overwhelmed by the thought of lunch with the whole group. Jon had somehow understood and anticipated those days, and had come up with some reason he had to go early, asking Martin if he’d wanted to join. They hadn’t said much when it had been just the two of them, nothing important, but that had sort of been the point, hadn’t it? It was a nice memory, anyway, and Martin was glad he had it now. He wondered if Jon had remembered it yet.

***

Lunch was pleasant enough, if a little bit awkward. Martin hadn’t spent much time with Sasha, at least not compared to how much time he’d spent with Tim, and he could tell she was being careful with him. She was polite, keeping the conversation easy, deliberately avoiding topics that held anything other than surface interest. After he finished eating, he decided to ask her some things he’d been wondering about, and hoped she’d chalk up anything strange about it to him being a little thrown off from last week.

“Sasha,” he asked, setting his fork down, “do you—like being the head archivist?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning toward him slightly over their table.

“Do you like it? Is it a good job? Is it—is it how you thought it would be?”

Sasha crossed her arms in thought. “Well, I’m not really sure how to answer that. I mean, the Magnus Institute has its issues, I suppose. It’s an academic joke, of course, but it’s not like the respect of my peers was ever that important to me.” She laughed at herself. “And some of our benefactors are… well, a bit full of themselves? But I suppose that’s true anywhere. I am quite happy with the job security, and it pays well enough for what it is. Plus I’m actually using my degree, which is more than I can say for most of my classmates.”

“Have you ever—wanted to leave?”

Sasha frowned slightly. “No—no, not really. Why?”

“No reason,” Martin said as casually as he could. He couldn’t exactly say just wondering if you’re trapped here. “Just been doing some thinking, I guess.”

“Well,” Sasha said, “I’ll admit the job’s felt a little bit different lately. Hard to say exactly how… I guess I’ve been struggling a bit with—well, I’m still not sure how to handle the—incidents, I suppose? It doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like I’m responsible for the people who come here to talk to us. Like I should be keeping track of their stories, somehow. I just don’t know what to do with them. Honestly, I’ve just started asking them to write everything down. I feel bad, but I just can’t listen to some of them. I’ll have nightmares.”

“Oh. They’re still coming in, then?”

“Sometimes. Not every day, but enough.”

“I—I didn’t know. Does Jon know?”

“He’s been there for a few, yes.”

Martin took a few sips of water. Jon hadn’t mentioned that specifically, but it probably wasn’t anything.

“What about—what about Elias? He doesn’t seem too fond of the Institute. Why does he stay?”

“You’ll have to ask Tim,” Sasha said, poking at what was left of her salad with her fork again. “They’re best friends.”

Tim laughed. “We are not best friends. However, I do think you should spend a little more time with him outside of work. You’re missing out.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come on.” Tim poked her arm playfully with the tines of his fork, and she batted him away. “He and Allan are a trip.”

“Exactly,” she replied.

“What I meant was, they’re funny. Especially Elias.” He turned to Martin. “Now the key to understanding him is to recognize that he has money—and also that he hates money, even though he has no idea how to function without it. And people with money, he especially hates. But at some point, I suppose, his father wore him down, and he has now accepted his position in life with as little grace and composure as he can.”

Martin thought back to what little he knew about Elias Bouchard, the actual Elias Bouchard, from his own world. “That… makes sense, actually.”

“And it makes him a pain in the ass when I need something,” Sasha added. “But on the positive side—he does leave me alone to do my job, for the most part.”

Martin remembered Allan’s name too; Martin remembered he had died after finding an old book. “So Allan is—his roommate?”

Tim raised his eyebrows. “That, Martin, is none of our business.”

“What?” Martin was genuinely confused before he realized what Tim was getting at. “Oh—oh god, no, I didn’t—”

“However,” Tim interrupted him, “if you find out let me know, because I believe Sasha will owe me 10 quid on that day.”

“Doubtful,” Sasha said, grinning over the phone she was now scrolling through. “Very doubtful.”

Martin could feel his face turning red, so he was grateful for the distraction when Sasha leaned forward with her phone.

“Speaking of working at the Magnus Institute—look at this,” she said, attempting to angle the phone so both Martin and Tim could see at once. “I cannot get over how much she’s enjoying her retirement. I never thought she’d leave, but then it was like she was just up and done one day, and she never looked back.”

It took Martin a moment to understand what she was showing them, but it was a picture of Gertrude Robinson—a Facebook picture. He might not have known it was her, if it wasn’t for the name posted above it. The biggest difference was that in every picture he’d ever seen of her, she’d been wearing her hair in the same tightly-pulled grey bun; here, she was wearing her hair down, and it flowed softly past her shoulders. The next most obvious difference was he didn’t think he’d ever seen her smiling in a picture before, and she looked quite happy in this one, drink in hand, next to an equally-cheerful looking older man who had been holding up the phone to snap the photo. The caption read catching up with an old friend.

Sasha pointed at Martin to emphasize his surprised reaction. “See, that’s what I’m saying. I guess you just never know.”

“Who—who’s in the picture with her?” Martin asked.

“Oh right, I forget you never met him in person. That’s Jurgen Leitner.” She shook her head. “I didn’t think she was that fond of him, really. Must be another retirement thing.”

Jurgen Leitner—what was his connection to the Institute here? It’s not like he would have been living in the tunnels, there was just no—

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The Leitner Room. In this world, the Magnus Institute was home to every book Jurgen Leitner had ever collected. He had collected them, of course, only his library had never been destroyed because there was nothing to make that happen. When he’d decided to downsize in his later life—when he didn’t feel quite the same sense of pride in them—the archives had been the perfect home for his books. Of course, up until now, it meant nothing except a new collection and a nice endowment for the Institute.

What did it mean now?

“Are you ok?” Sasha asked. “You look—”

“You look like you just got run over,” Tim finished.

“Sorry.” Martin pulled his hand away from his mouth; he hadn’t even realized he had put it there. “I just—I just remembered something. It’s, um…”

“Do you need to get back?” Sasha asked after a moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Martin answered, apologizing with his voice. “Yeah, if you don’t mind. You can stay, if you want—”

“No, I’m done.” Tim took one more drink to empty his glass. “Sasha?”

She shrugged. “I’m ready.”

“Thanks,” Martin said. “I—there’s something I need to take care of for Jon.”

***

After they got back, Martin tried to look busy at his desk, hoping they’d think that he was taking care of whatever it was online. He took the opportunity to review the records in the system, and was comforted to note that nothing in the Leitner group currently had any special notations connected to it. All of the books were, at least in principle, on the shelves, and no one had requested access to any of them. He’d been hoping that was why his attention hadn’t been drawn to any of them previously, and it seemed like he’d lucked out. It was an obscure collection, and there were a lot of restrictions on them at Jurgen Leitner’s request; not just anyone could come in and browse them, and only a very specific set of research purposes qualified for special permission to remove them from the library.

He relaxed a little, and then waited for an opportunity to leave the office without attracting attention. He had to wait a while, but eventually Rosie came in with something for Sasha to review. A moment later Sasha called Tim in to her office, and Martin took the opportunity to leave. He just didn’t see a reason to risk drawing anyone else’s attention to the Leitners, especially since it seemed they were all but forgotten as they were.

He walked out past Rosie’s desk and back into the stacks; the room really was quite out of the way, buried deep in a corner of the shelving units. It wasn’t a large room, and if you weren’t looking for it, it would have been easy to miss. Even the sign above the door, emblazoned with the word Leitner, was barely distinguishable from the metal door frame behind it. The room was kept locked, but as an archival assistant Martin had a copy of the key. He held his breath and turned it.

Walking into the room was anticlimactic; it didn’t feel like much. There was no threatening aura; there was no sense of danger. It felt like nothing more than a small room full of musty old books, like many other small rooms of musty old books Martin had been in before.

He took a quick look at some of the titles on the shelves. At first glance, he didn’t see any he had heard of before, but of course he hadn’t heard of most Leitners. He continued to look, straining his eyes at words written on faded spines, occasionally pulling one gingerly off the shelves to check the front cover; he just needed something to prove to himself he wasn’t overreacting. Finally he found one he knew: a thick, black paperback labeled The Boneturner’s Tale. Martin felt a shiver run down his back as he involuntarily jerked his hand away from it.

He closed the door to the room, locking it behind him, and pulled out his phone. Thankfully, he had service, and he immediately dialed Jon’s number.

“I ate,” Jon said when he picked up.

“No,” Martin said. “Well, yes, I’m glad, but—”

“Martin, are you—what’s going on?”

“I—I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m…” Getting Jon to remember for himself was going to be much easier than explaining it.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, I—well, all right. At lunch, Sasha showed us a picture of Gertrude Robinson. On Facebook.”

“Oh,” Jon sounded puzzled. “I knew she had retired, but I hadn’t thought to—”

“Well, that’s not it. She was with someone in the picture.”

“Who?”

Martin took a deep breath. “Jurgen Leitner.”

There was a prolonged silence before Jon spoke again. “Oh. God.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re there, aren’t you? Right now.”

“Yes. I’m—I’m not sure what I should do.”

“First, don’t touch anything.”

Martin didn’t respond.

“Ok—don’t touch anything else, then.”

“All right,” Martin said.

“Damn it. I should be there. I should be there with you.”

“No—no, it’s fine. I just—what should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can I—ok, can I destroy them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like—” Martin swallowed. “Ok, I’m sure this isn’t the best idea, but—what if a fire were to start in here? Or—something?”

“Do not,” Jon commanded. “Martin Blackwood, I have never been more serious in my life, do not do anything of the sort.”

“Ok, ok,” Martin said. “I said it probably wasn’t a great idea—"

“Some of those books would—let’s just say burning them would not have the desired effect. Or wetting them down, or chopping them up, or—”

“All right, all right. I get it. I mean—that’s not surprising, I guess. So what do I do?”

“Did you check the system? Are any checked out, or reserved, or—?”

“No,” Martin answered. “I mean, yes, I checked the system, and they’re all—they’re all here, in theory. No one’s asked for any of them.”

“Ok.” Martin heard the relief he’d felt earlier echoed in Jon’s voice. “That—that’s good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, before Jon spoke again.

“You’re—you’re not going to like this, but—I think you should go. For now.”

“And just leave them all here?”

“Yes. Believe me, I’m just as frustrated as you, but I don’t think there’s another option just yet. They’re relatively protected there, and hopefully they’ll continue to not draw attention.” He paused, and then added softly, “Right now, I just want you out of there.”

Martin sighed. “Right. Ok. Um… I guess… I can at least set up an alert so I get notified if anyone puts in a request?”

“That’s a good idea. And I’ll—I’ll keep thinking. Are you leaving yet?”

“Right after we get off the phone. Just in case. I don’t want to attract attention if someone else is down here.”

“All right. Message me when you’re back at your desk.”

“Sure.” Martin hung up, disappointed there wasn’t more to be done, but Jon was almost certainly right—it would be much too easy to do damage instead of prevent it, if he acted rashly.

Before he left though, he had one more thing he wanted to do.

***

That night, when Martin got home, he found Jon on the small balcony in back again; that was what he’d been hoping for. He grabbed the small metal trash bin out of the toilet in the hallway and stepped outside, closing the door behind him.

“Martin,” Jon said, stamping out a cigarette in the ash tray on the small table as he stood up. “You startled me. You’re a bit early—we can go in.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to—I should have said something. Actually, I wanted to catch you out here. I brought you something.” He set the bin he’d brought out with him on the balcony, between the two of them.

“It’s a trash bin,” Jon observed.

“Well, that’s only part of it.” He picked up the lighter Jon had left on the table and handed it to him.

“If this is commentary on my smoking habit, I think the ash tray is big enough. Besides, I don’t plan to keep—”

“No—no, that’s not it. I don’t care about the smoking. Well, I don’t love it, but that’s really not it.” Martin sighed. “Look, I know you said not to touch anything in the Leitner Room, but—well, here.”

From behind his back, he brought out a small, square book; he could see Jon didn’t need to read the title to recognize it in the dim evening light.

“Martin,” he whispered. “I—”

“Don’t say anything. Don’t think, don’t open it. Just—take it. Burn it. This one should be fine. I can do it if you don’t want to.”

Jon reached a hand toward the book, running his fingers hesitantly over the scribbled black spider webs illustrating the otherwise plain white cover. He spoke as if he were in a dream. “Yes. I imagine this one would be ok.”

“Light it,” Martin encouraged him, reaching for the hand that held the lighter to pull it closer. “Now.”

It seemed too easy; he was afraid it wouldn’t catch, or that Jon would change his mind, or any number of other things would go wrong—but nothing did. The cardboard cover caught beautifully, the yellow-orange flame spreading elegantly out from the corner in less than a minute, swallowing the book front and back.

“Now let go,” Martin said, as the flame began to spread, and Jon nodded. They dropped it together into the trash bin, and Martin watched as the title words A Guest for Mr. Spider were consumed, slowly, letter by letter. They watched together, transfixed, until the fire burned itself out and all that was left was a smoking pile of ash.

“You shouldn’t have done that for me,” Jon said quietly. “Going through the shelves—taking it out—it could have been dangerous.”

“Yeah, well, you said the web was probably still weak, and—” Martin reached for Jon’s arm. “Anyway, it’s done now.”

“Thank you,” Jon stepped carefully around the trash bin, and then his arms were around Martin’s waist and his face was in his chest. “Thank you.”

#the magnus archives #tma #mag pod #tma spoilers #jonmartin #tma fanfic #my writing

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banashee · 3 years

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i"I have way too many stories already planned" I said. “I can’t write in multiple fandoms at once, it will throw me off” I said. “OK so I’ll just get this out of my system real quick” I said. “Well shit, I’ve gotten more ideas now that I’ve started…” I said, determinded to face it - I have a problem. Just a small one… Who am I kidding. Send help.

Also, this is the first time I’ve written for this fandom. I’ve loved and enjoyed TMA for a while now, not just the pod but also fanworks. And now I’m joining in on the fun and you folks will have to deal with it :D ♥

This story got inspired by a conversation on Reddit with Swiftysmoon. Thank you very much for the inspo! This one is for you :)

edit. sorry about the missing ReadMore cut, Tumblr is programmed like a pile of garbage and removed it after I edited a typo...I’ve added it back in now.

please mind the tags and warnings

Into the Void

Truth be told, Jon never planned on this to happen. Of course not - it is ridiculous and more than a little embarrassing, but he can’t help himself.

See, the thing is, Jon is a restless, anxious person in general. He’ll hide away in his office for hours, typing away or recording statements in solitude, only interrupted when someone actually wants something from him. That, or when Martin brings him yet another cup of tea, checking if he’s still alive or starved to death on his desk.

No kidding - Martin had told him this, once, and although he’d been half-joking at the time, the underlying message had been very clear.

‘Please take care of yourself, you worry me.’ - it had been oddly sweet, and Jon still has no idea how to even react to this kindness.

But the thing is - Jon has nervous habits. While his mind is wandering and he is buried neck-deep in his work, he tends to fiddle. Mostly with pens, or anything else he can reach on his desk. That would be fine - no one notices it, unless they stand right next to him. But Jon had almost choked on the pen he’d been chewing on, lost in thoughts while reading his notes, omn more than one occasion. Mostly thanks to Tim bursting into the room like the whirlwind he is.

For one, Tim Stoker just doesn’t knock. Ever. He enters a room as loud and cheerful as he does anything else, and it can be a bit unnerving. Still, he somehow manages to be a professional and be really good at his job. That and the fact that there is ‘Chaos’ written all over him makes for an odd combination sometimes, but they’re all somewhat used to this.

So, when Tim suddenly sticks his head into the room with a cheerfully casual

“Hey, Boss!”

Jon startles and nearly stabs himself in the throat with a pen while he scrambles to make it look like he didn’t chew on it the entire time. He needs to preserve some sort of professionalism around here, even though he feels a little bit lost sometimes.

He glares halfheartedly, trying to keep whatever is left of his composure in place. Tim shoots him a bright smile with finger guns, then he rattles off the information that Jon had asked him for not long ago.

Thankful that he doesn’t have to explain himself, Jon launches onto it.

As time goes on, things around the institute get more and more weird. One thing adds to the other, and suddenly, they’re at war against worms all over the place. They spend their days at the institute armed with fire extinguishers and in Martin’s case, a corkscrew. Martin even lives there now, which adds a whole different level to it all.

Really, it is not surprising that they rarely ever get any outside visitors down in the archives. They have a bit of a reputation for being weird, and truth be told, Jon can’t find any fault in the people who assume that. If he wasn’t involved - if he didn’t know what lurks out there, in the shadows, he’d have thought the same.

Pushing his own dismissive, sceptic act is getting harder and harder these days, but it doesn’t stop Jon from trying.

Even after Jane Prentiss’ attack, Jon tries to keep up that act. It’s clearly faltering now, though, which may or may not be partially due to the fact that he confessed to Martin that yes, he does believe and he is terrified. It’s been an awkward conversation, to say the least, and not just because Jon pretty much asked if Martin was a ghost and despite Martin stabbing him with the corkscrew. To be fair, he’d apologized profusely for that, and while Jon is not happy about it, he is thankful for his attempt to get the damn worms out of him. Just thinking about it still makes him shudder, makes him lay awake at night.

On the plus side, their team in the archives has grown much closer to one another - it eases the anxiety and paranoia, just a bit.

Jon finds himself busy, not to say, utterly distracted. Time flies, and he takes even less care of himself than he did before. He practically lives off tea, and whatever food is offered where Martin, Tim and Sasha drag him along to.

Jon acts prickly and annoyed as always, but in reality, he appreciates their efforts. Lord knows, he isn’t sure he deserves this kindness, but he still makes an effort. These three people are all he’s got, after all. They’re the only group of allies who have any sort of idea what is really going on in the archives, and that alone is enough to have him lower his walls just a bit.

One day, Jon keeps blowing an annoying, grey-streaked strand of his otherwise dark hair out of his face. He didn’t have the time or energy to get a haircut lately - there are much more pressing matters to take care of. But his hair is currently at the awkward in-between length that he hated years ago, when he decided to grow it out. He’d kept it long, up until shortly before his promotion to head archivist. Only then he parted with the shoulder length ponytail in an attempt to be perceived as more professional.

It doesn’t feel right - never did. And as much as he hates the annoying strands falling in his face, it makes him feel like he is back on the way to himself. Or at least as much as he can these days.

Especially in the face of, well, everything else, it is a small comfort. Right now though, Jon is annoyed - he takes a pen from his desk, and sticks it behind his ear to hold back the constantly falling piece of hair - it works.

Jon only notices the pen again when he is about to go to bed that night - he huffs, places it onto the small desk in his bedroom and then crawls under the covers. Once he is in bed, Jon is waiting for the insomnia and the nightmares to keep him awake, despite his best attempts to fall asleep.

He is long used to both, but the last few months have been significantly more stressful.

The next day, Jon is exhausted. He barely makes it into the kitchen for some coffee, then he drives to the institute, the pen forgotten back home. Oh well - he’ll bring it back in another day - no big deal.

Except, it becomes a Thing, with a capital T.

Jon is chewing on and fumbling with his pens as usual, recording statement after statement and doesn’t exactly realize what he is doing. He hides away, until one of the others drags him away from the desk for inconvenient human needs like food and company, but really, he goes willingly now. All he needs is a small reminder.

The bit of human warmth and company means a lot to Jon, and he soaks it up as much as he allows himself to. Trusting people is a struggle for him. His relationship with each and every coworker is definitely a work in progress, but he is willing to try, anyway.

One night, Martin points to the side of Jon’s neck in quiet amusement.

“Oh, you’ve got ink on you - yes, right there.” he touches the spot behind his own ear. Jon blinks, and when he tries to wipe it away, his hand comes away with yet another goddamn pen.

It joins a small pile of accidentally stolen pens on Jon’s desk back home - he’s been meaning to bring them back ages ago, but he keeps forgetting. At this point, he refuses to drop them all off at once, because that would definitely catch someone’s attention - and attention is the last thing he wants right now. Add in the fact that this is, well, ridiculous and embarrassing… No. Just no.

Jon looks around the room, heat creeping up his face even though there is no one around to look at and judge him - then he opens an empty drawer in his desk. The pens disappear with one swift movement of his arm before Jon slams the drawer shut. There - done.

And this is how, what Jon secretly calls his “Desk Drawer of Shame”, comes into existence.

Occasionally, a small handful of pens will make its way back into the archives. But at this point, they’re way, way too many to bring back at once, at least not without pissing off Elias. That is, if he isn’t chuckling at the ridiculous and mysteriously high cost of office supplies in the last few months.

At the very least, Jon would be at the receiving end of some good natured ribbing from his coworkers in the foreseeable future.

Jon is reading the last few lines of a statement, when the door to his office opens up after a quick knock. He looks up with a frown, which is more habit than anything at this point, and quickly drops his feet back on the ground. At least, he isn’t chewing on a pen this time.

Standing in the doorway, shooting him a small smile, is Martin and he is waiting for Jon to finish recording the last few lines. Only when the familiar

“Statement ends.” marks the end of the recording session, he starts talking.

“Hi! Uh, did you have lunch yet?”

Jon didn’t, and Martin knows it, but he is trying to go the polite route before his motherhen-mode is activated and he physically drags the man away from the desk in an attempt to make him take a break.

So, Jon smiles back, which still feels a bit foreign in a work context, but he secretly enjoys the spark of happiness on Martin’s face when he does. Not like he focuses on that or anything…

“No, I- I didn’t. Did you have something in mind?” he asks as he gets up and pulls his jacket from the back of his chair. It’s a welcome distraction from his work.

Jon didn’t sleep, again, and he can tell that he is getting sloppy and way more irritable than usual. Chances are, getting a bite to eat and spending some time out of the institute with a friend will do him some good.

On the way out, Jon falls comfortably into step with Martin. Plenty of thoughts cross his mind, and he chooses to ignore all of them. In fact, he’d been so busy staring up at a cluster of freckles on Martin’s cheek that he doesn’t even notice what he tells him about the little café that he was planning to visit. Only when he stops talking, obviously waiting for an answer, Jon nods, hoping that Martin actually asked him a yes-or-no question.

For now, it seems to be enough, and they enjoy their lunch break. Jon is still lost in thoughts though.

That night, he is unable to sleep once again, as his mind keeps him wide awake and Jon is shaking apart under the blanket. There are two new pens on his desk, and it feels like they’re glaring at him. It’s ridiculous - they really are the least of his worries. Jon is just distracted, that’s all.

There is ink on his neck. Again. Jon swipes at it in mild annoyance, inwardly cursing himself for being so careless. His movement catches Tim’s attention, and then his eyes wander to the pen that is stuck halfway to Jon’s ponytail - it’s for convenience, really - but it’s clearly the cause for the ink scribbles on his skin.

Tim puts the pieces together and grins. He is way too easily amused about this, but to be fair, they get their laughs whenever they can these days. And this is still much better than the silent, angry version of Tim that tends to come out more and more and the last few months. At least, when he’s laughing, he isn’t that.

Small favors.

The more distracted Jon grows, and the longer his hair gets, the more pens he keeps losing - or more like, forgetting - in it.

He doesn’t realize that he is doing it, really, until someone - mostly Martin or Tim these days, because Sasha is (gone) (different ) absent - walks up and plucks one of the pens right out of his hair in order to use it. Jon should be annoyed, but he can’t bring himself to be. It’s oddly comforting that the two of them are still willing to seek him out. Because that’s what this is - there are plenty of pens around, of course.

There is no need to come into his office, to come close to him just to get office supplies. They’re here because they want to, and that honestly means the world to Jon.

As much as he’d tried to keep them at arm’s length, he’s failed miserably. Thankfully so - things would be much, much worse if they had to deal with everything on their own.

“Hang on - how many bloody pens are in there?” Martin asks one day, calling over from the other room. He looks up in utter confusion while already cracking up with laughter.

“Wait, are those-?”

Oh goddammit.

Apparently, that’s what happens when Jon answers absentmindedly when asked for the location of a pen in his apartment.

He needs to renovate his kitchen, because the landlord just won’t do it in any reasonable amount of time, so Jon is in old jeans and an even older T-shirt, packing dishes and kitchenware into boxes with Martin and Tim. The two of them had been kind enough to offer help, so that’s why they’re all piled in Jon’s small apartment on a Saturday morning.

Partway through, they realize that they should probably label the boxes, and soon after, Martin stands in the bedroom, opening not the stationary drawer, but The Secret Drawer of Shame With Accidentally Stolen Pens From The Institute.

“Oh, good lord.” With an audible ‘thump’, Jons forehead collides with the kitchen table. His glasses sit crooked now, and he doesn’t lift his head up while he tries to explain, and despite being flustered, he manages to keep that certain tone of voice that’s usually reserved for work hours.

“I, yes. I may have accidentally taken a pen or two with me and only realized it here. Coming back into work with all of them at once seemed… well. Not ideal at the time.”

“No wonder when you keep storing them in your hair.” Martin comes back, with a handful of pens and a bright smile.

While walking past, he pulls another pen out of Jon’s bun, just to prove his point. A long strand of hair slips forward and falls back into Jon’s face. Meanwhile, Tim has snuck off to peek into the other room out of pure curiosity, then he proceeds to laugh his arse off for the next few minutes.

“You know, we should make it a sport at this point. How much stationary supplies can we steal until Elias catches wind of it?” Tim offers, because of course he does.

It is ridiculous and childish, so naturally, it quickly becomes A Thing.

Anything to get a tiny bit of satisfaction is a valid option at this point, and besides, it’s not like Jon is trying to be sneaky or anything. It just happens , like so many things these days.

As it turns out, Elias doesn’t care. None of them is stupid enough to assume he doesn’t know - the bastard knows everything, that’s part of their problem. He just never calls any of them out on it - if it is because it’s too unimportant or if he is getting a chuckle out of it as well, they never find out.

At some point, late at night when all three of them had a few drinks, they’re brave enough to joke about what fear entity would be responsible for a never ending void filled with pens (“A.K.A you desk drawer of shame, Jon. Have another drink, you’re annoyingly sober for this conversation.”)

It’s a half-serious debate, and one which they continue every once in a while. Most notably so at the institute’s christmas party, huddled in a corner where they’re mostly being left alone. And if that is mostly due to Jon glaring holes through anyone daring to come close, just a hair away from actually hissing and snarling, well. He didn’t get his reputation of being rude and prickly for nothing.

All of this turns into fond memories, once everything has gone to hell.

Jon is freshly awake from six months of coma, and the world around him has changed. Martin is barely around and Tim is dead . So is Sasha, even though they never knew, for the longest time.

All of this hurts badly enough to stop him from breathing every once in a while, and after a series of even more tangled and unfortunate events, Jon finds himself huddled close to Martin on a train.

They’re on their way to Scotland and neither of them talks much, but they’re unwilling to let go of the other’s hand. The air is chilly, even inside the wagon, and Martin is still shivering under layers of jumpers and jackets.

The Lonely has settled deep into his bones, and sometimes, it’s like he is fading away again. Every time this happens, the steady warmth of Jon keeps pulling him back.

Jons hand is smaller and bonier in Martin’s own large, soft hand, but it’s grip is steady and warm. His thumb keeps stroking gently over the back of his hand while he is holding it, and it is the most loved Martin has felt in a long time.

Eventually, he manages to relax enough to doze off for a bit. While his head find’s it’s way down and onto Jon’s shoulder, he can feel the slight poke of a plastic pen that is sticking out of his hair.

Martin almost smiles, and squeezes back when Jon tightens the grip around his hand and settles against him.

They keep finding the damn things around the safehouse, because frankly, they’re everywhere. And that’s just whatever Jon had on his person out of sheer habit. Lord knows, his hair has grown way past his shoulders by now, and more often than not, he keeps it up and out of the way with whatever is around him at the time.

Mostly, it’s pens.

At first, they’re just there , and both Jon and Martin have about a million other things to think of and to deal with than a few too many office supplies laying around.

The exhaustion, both physically and emotionally, leaves them absolutely drained and dead to the world.

It is bad enough so that they crawl into bed almost as soon as they have arrived and inspected the small cabin. The question of whether or not they’re going to share the bed isn’t even raised - neither of them is willing to let go of the other. All the way from London to up here, they’d held hands to reassure themselves that they wouldn’t lose each other, and they’re not about to stop now.

It is a lot easier to remind each other that they’re not alone when all they need to do is focus on the breath and heartbeat of one another. Focusing on the heat radiating under the blankets, where they are embracing throughout the night to keep the nightmares and the ever growing anxiety at bay.

They have plenty of bad days when everything just creeps up at them and even talking is too much. Those days, they spend curled up in front of the fire or in bed, holding on tight for as long as they need to in order to feel more alive again.

After a while, they’re able to relax more. Martin is much warmer and solid now, doesn’t fade away into the fog without noticing. It’s happening less and less now - whether or not he will be able to shake off The Lonely entirely, neither of them knows, but he is happy about every step in the other direction.

Jon is just as happy to see him doing better, and he tells him as much over breakfast, smiling as he tangles their legs under the table.

There are two pens already stuck in his hair, holding it up in two buns. It’s probably from when he read a statement from the stack of files and tapes that Basira sent over the other day.

The statement has definitely taken the edge off of things for Jon. Now he can sit at the kitchen table with his boyfriend and enjoy a cup of tea instead of growing weaker and weaker with hunger for statements. As ironic as it is, it makes him feel more human, even though he is no longer fully human. He’s pretty sure of it.

“I love you.” Martin tells him, because it is true and he likes saying it as often as possible, now that he can. It sends a spark of warm happiness through his chest, and it is bright enough to chase away the cold fog that’s still lingering sometimes - just for a bit.

“I love you, too.”

He’ll never get tired of hearing this.

“I love you” they say, as they drink tea in the morning and eat freshly baked bread, still warm from the oven.

“I love you” they say, as they walk hand in hand through the cobblestone streets down in the village, on their way to buy groceries and look at the little local shops.

“I love you” they say, as they step around each other in the tiny kitchen while cooking dinner, distracting one another with kisses until one of them remembers the food or notices the charred smell of something burning. It’s only then that they break apart, cursing and laughing all at once.

“I love you” they say, as they spend nights wide awake, holding on tightly through their grief and fear. They say it out loud or whisper it into the darkness, comforting one another as best as they can.

“I love you”, they whisper through silence and tears, but they say it just as much through smiles and laughter.

“I love you” they say, after every single argument. Their love for each other is strong, so much so that they’re certain they will be able to figure out the rest. Whether that’s the end of the world as they know it or anything else doesn’t matter.

“I love you” Martin says, after he walks up behind Jon and plucks one of the pens out of his hair. There are at least two more, and besides, Martin woke up this morning with a few lines of poetry in the back of his mind. He wants to write them down before he forgets - maybe, just maybe, he can turn them into something beautiful.

“I love you.” Jon says, and he pulls Martin closer by the front of his pyjama shirt, turning around just enough to be able to press a quick kiss to his lips. The movement leaves them both in an awkward position, hanging over the back of the sofa with their glasses askew.

Martin has one of his arms wrapped around Jon, who is holding on tight, happily leaning into him with a quiet, happy satisfaction on his face. Clearly, he is enjoying this an awful lot.

No doubt, if it wasn’t for the hold onto the sofa Martin has with his other, he’d have toppled over and fallen right into the smaller man’s lap. And maybe that’s exactly what Jon is trying to do - who knows. He is way more affectionate than either of them would have thought possible, really.

They remain wrapped up in the tight hug, and neither of them wants to let go yet.

Notes:

Warnings: - Off-screen canon character death mentioned - insecurity - Loneliness - Trust issues - if you want me to add anything please let me know

#banashee writes #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fanfic #JonMartin #mentioned character death

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smallmediumproblems · 5 years

Text

The Last Question

Martin wished that he had something clever to say as he and Jon stepped out of the Lonely. His head was filled with a hundred little mundane observations that suddenly seemed to matter so much more than they had a moment ago. If he opened his mouth, they would all come spilling out. Surely there was no need to point out how warm Jon’s hands were, and Jon must already have known how tightly he was holding Martin. Martin settled on one that was, if not very indicative of where his focus was, perhaps the most relevant to their situation.

“You’re still here,” he said to Elias. He made no effort not to sound disappointed.

“And so is my Archivist,” Elias replied.

Martin made a skeptical noise. “I’m pretty sure he’s my Archivist, at this point.”

“Is he?” said Elias.

Jon shuddered against him. Martin pulled back to look him over. His eyes were glassy, and his face was startlingly, deathly slack.

“Hey, stay with me,” Martin prompted him. His voice seemed to bring Jon back to his senses. Jon blinked hard, trying to reclaim his eyes.

“I can’t... “ he muttered, “It won’t stop. I can’t make it stop.”

“Jon, slow down,” said Martin, “You’re going to be alright. I’m here.” Martin said it because he wanted to, not because he thought it was true.

Jon was trying to smile, but his expression kept slipping in and out of focus, like he was struggling to stay awake. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t,” Martin pleaded, “No, don’t be, you did so well, you- you saved me. I- I can save you, too, just give me some time to figure this out.”

“I love you,” said Jon. It was very nearly enough. Martin hoped impossibly that it would be. Instead, he felt all of the tension slip away from Jon’s body piece by piece. He watched him drift out of focus one last time.

“Jon?” asked Martin, although he knew it was not.

“Oh,” the Archivist sighed, “That’s better.”

It very gently disentangled itself from Martin’s arms and fixed him with a stare that would have been apologetic if Martin thought that it actually cared. “I’m sorry for your loss, Martin Blackwood. I’m afraid I don’t need him.”

“Finally,” said Elias, “After all this time.”

“What did you do?” Martin demanded. Elias smiled nastily.

“Very little,” he said, “In the grand scheme of things. Jon did the vast majority of the work to make this happen, though you can rest assured that this wouldn’t have been possible without you.”

Looking back, Martin assumed that there must have been something in between that exchange and the moment when he had his hands around Elias’ throat, but he didn’t know or care what it could have been. Just as quickly, the Archivist had one hand on his chest and the other on Elias’ shoulder. Both of them knew better than to fight back as it pushed them apart.

“That’s not necessary,” it stated. “I’d like to get this over with. I’ve been waiting for quite some time, as well.”

“For what?” Martin asked desperately.

“My ritual, of course,” said Elias. “The Watcher’s Crown. Decades of preparation, and we are only just ready to begin.” He held out his hand to the Archivist, which studied it with such blank disinterest that Martin almost had to laugh.

It looked up at Martin.

“Do you want to come with me?” it asked.

There was no question as to whether Martin would answer, or how. “I don’t want you to go,” he said.

It nodded. “I wouldn’t either.”

Martin’s mind raced as it turned and headed towards the tunnels with Elias in tow. Towards the outside world. There had to be something left, something he could change. If he really wasn’t meant to fix this situation, it was cosmically unfair that he was left alive to witness it.

"Wait-" Martin called out, "Wait, I have questions."

The Archivist came to a dead halt. When it turned back to him, Martin saw a look of greedy joy on its face - Jon's face - that made his stomach turn.

Elias frowned. "We really don't have time for-"

"There is always time for questions," said the Archivist. "You will know everything, Martin Blackwood. Perhaps when you do, whatever you become will change its mind."

Martin knew that whatever was going to happen next would be very simple no matter what he did. If he found the right question to ask, something that only Jon could answer, he could save both of them. If he didn’t, he would doom the entire world to an apocalypse built on the corpse of the man he loved. Worse than that, he would probably be made to stick around and watch.

So he asked the Archivist if it loved him.

It smiled, and Martin knew that it did. It loved his curiosity, and his secrets. It loved him because he was a creature of delicate lies to be unraveled. He was both a challenge and an immensely beautiful prize. The Archivist's gaze clawed out from behind Martin's eyes, carving a space inside of him that longed to be filled with terrible power. It loved each hidden piece of him, and it would love him until it tore open the very last one and made him a part of itself.

It was not how Jon loved him.

"I can show you that, too," said the Archivist. Its voice was eager, insistent. It knew how close Martin was to breaking. He couldn't afford another question, not one that had an answer like that. "Do you want to know how he loves you?"

Hearing it said out loud like that brought Martin back to some semblance of reality. The Archivist's answer had washed away all sense of where and when and who he was, and it was a struggle to center himself in the basement again. This was something to focus on in the endless noise. He loves you, he thought, He loves you, he could not stop thinking. Not ‘loved.’ ‘Loves.’ Jon was alive, and he needed him. He focused on those words, drawing them away from the Archivist, making them his own. He memorized the lines of Jon's face across from his. He watched Elias grow clearly and substantially worried as he opened his mouth to respond.

"I trust him."

The Archivist looked confused. "But... I can show you, you don't have to-"

"Do you trust me?" Martin interrupted.

The Archivist thought. It really did try to come up with an answer, and it did not seem to like what it found.

"That isn’t something I can do," it started to explain. Its voice was halting, empty of the power that had reverberated around the halls of the panopticon until this moment.

"That's not what I asked," Martin said sharply. It flinched, and it looked so much like Jon that Martin almost wanted to apologize. He tried to make himself angry rather than sad for it.

"Do you," he repeated, "Trust me?"

The Archivist hadn't been lying; it couldn't trust him. And yet, it did. It trusted Martin, and the only thing it had to show him for it was Jon. Martin was drowned again in a flood of answers, a barrage of memories and terrible secrets. For one brief, terrifying moment, he held everything that was Jonathan Sims in his hands. Take it, the Archivist's voice appeared to him, He will be yours, and you will be mine, and we will be forever.

"No," Martin insisted, "I want you to say it."

The Archivist could not. It found something inside itself that could.

"I trust you," said Jon.

#please excuse this #it was written on my phone over the course of a few lunch breaks #but I could not get it out of my head #and it's going to be moot on Wednesday anyway #tma #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #fanfiction

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smileyoongle · 5 years

Text

Deception (A Kim Namjoon Mafia AU)

Summary: A damsel in distress and a lonely mafia leader. Different but not too different. The two worlds collide on a rainy night when Kim Namjoon, a renowned Mafia leader is called for an emergency and Y/N Y/L/N is on the run from her abusive father. Feelings stir and he rescues her. But one of them is a liar. And the other's life is on the line. It's only a matter of time until all secrets are out in the open.

Will love be born? Or will death conquer?

chαptєr ηïηε: Betrayal and Longing

Character Count: 12,084

Pairing: Namjoon×Reader (Appearances by the whole of BTS)

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Wrap me in the softest love I have ever known, show me that I'm not alone.

- Christy Ann Martine

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"She's heading to Club Delirium tonight. I eavesdropped on a conversation she was secretly having so don't ask me how I know." Rex announced, entering the conference room with a shit-eating grin on his face. Even after not having gotten enough sleep the previous night, he felt energetic and excited. All the credit belonged to Hana and her secret, of course.

Who knew a mafia leader's best friend was gonna be an undercover cop?

Namjoon sat with his head buried in his hands, his brain still trying to process everything. It wasn't just him though, every single person in the room was just as shocked as him. How did they not know? All the questions they had regarding Hana's disappearance had just been answered and no one was happy about it. Namjoon was affected, yes, but so was Jungkook.

The latter's eyes were bloodshot, his lips pale and his hands clenched as if he would knock out the next person who spoke. He felt so betrayed and lost. At first, when Rex had told him that the guy Hana met was Nelson Shaw, he had no idea who that was. But later on, as he was fed all the information, he began to connect the dots. The guy who had broken into Namjoon's house was Nelson Shaw, the same guy who Hana met and worked with. His so called sister like friend, was a police officer, trying her best to bring them down.

Jungkook slammed his fist on the table, making Rex flinch while the others didn't react at all. Rex's eyes were wide, wondering why no one else moved a muscle because Jungkook was definitely scary when angry. They were probably used to it.

"We'll get her red handed then. Alert the bouncers at the club." Yoongi voiced, earning a nod from Taehyung who quickly walked out of the room to carry out the task.

Namjoon couldn't even begin to express how mad he was. There were still questions that he wanted answers to, but he didn't even wanna look at her anymore. It was early in the morning when he had gotten a call from Hoseok, asking him to come over for an emergency. The dull tone of hoseok's voice was definitely concerning but Namjoon wasn't expecting this. That's why Shaw broke into his house. To find dirt on him and turn him in. Well, too bad. Hana was out of the game now.

Jimin chuckled bitterly, all eyes turning to him questioningly. Namjoon slowly looked up, glaring at Jimin as if to ask what was so funny. Rex raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering over to Namjoon. He could smell drama already and he wished he had popcorn. Even though he knew you-

"Tell us, Namjoon. Did you know about this?"

Jimin asked, a bitter smile planted on his lips. Namjoon frowned, tilting his head to convey that he had no idea what Jimin was trying to say. Jin sighed, closing his eyes momentarily to keep himself in check. "Jimin, just because Hana was his best friend-"

"Forget it. Let's just get over with this Hana bullshit first." Jimin interrupted, standing up abruptly and rushing out of the room. Namjoon made a mental note to talk to Jimin about this later, standing up and proceeding to go home for a while. He placed a hand on Jungkook's shoulder, squeezing it tightly to let him know that he understood what it felt like. Jungkook glanced up at his elder, nodding absentmindedly. Jungkook still wanted to ask Namjoon about you but he figured this wasn't the right time, no matter how angry he was about being left in the dark.

"Delirium at 9. I'll see you all then." Namjoon said, glancing at everyone before leaving to go back to you.

_____________________________________________

You eyed the man in the kitchen, watching his every move as he cleaned the counters passionately. You had woken up in the morning to find Namjoon gone and this new butler in the house. It was quite amusing how there was a new butler already, Walter having left just the previous night. Namjoon must be really superior, you concluded, sipping on your cup of coffee.

Your fingers grazed the bandage on your forehead, memories from last night still burning in your mind. You missed Namjoon and the way he had held you. It was as if he was trying to shield you from everything bad in the world. You couldn't understand what was going on but you certainly liked him. And now that you thought about it, it seemed inevitable. A man like him surely had many admirers. You were just another one in the crowd.

You heard the front door slam shut, your body flinching in surprise as you turned around in your seat. Namjoon entered the living room, his eyes glaring at everything that came in his way. Work must have been hard on him.

"You came back early, today." You said, smiling at him softly when he looked at you with slightly wide eyes. His expression changed within a second, the frown on his eyebrows now smoothed out completely and his lips flashing you a small smile. His legs dragged him towards you and he sat beside you, glancing at the new butler.

Sangmin was here on Rex's recommendation. According to the boy, Sangmin was as skilled as a man his age could be. Due to the urgency, Namjoon decided to take him in. Hopefully, you'd be in better hands whenever Namjoon wasn't at home.

Namjoon sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head on the backrest. He was stressed and anxious, the upcoming events wearing him out completely. He wasn't ready to know why Hana was doing what she was doing. Did 16 years of friendship suddenly mean nothing to her? Did she forget everything that she had promised him?

"Namjoon, have you ever danced?" Your voice ran in his ears, making him immediately look at you as if you were an alien. He slowly registered your words in his brain, wondering why you would ask something like that out of the blue?

"Danced? Does head banging when I was home alone at the age of 9 count?"

You ended up throwing your head back and laughing, almost imagining what it would look like. Namjoon grinned, satisfied with the response he got from you, his heart melting at the way your eyes closed shut and crinkled. For sometime, he completely forgot the situation he was currently in. He didn't care that Hana betrayed him. He didn't care that he had lost a best friend. He just didn't care.

You stood up and proceeded to place your empty coffee cup in the kitchen, running back out and stretching your hand out to Namjoon. Namjoon frowned, eyes flickering between your face and your hand. He hesitantly placed his hand on yours, only to have you push it away.

"As much as I like your hands, I actually want your phone." You stated, shaking your hand to make him hurry up. Namjoon pulled out his phone and handed it to you after unlocking it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and watching you as you stuck your tongue out and connected his phone to the music player at the corner of the room.

You were only trying to distract Namjoon from whatever was bothering him. Namjoon wasn't very good at hiding his despair and you understood that. His shoulders would always sulk and his smile would never quite reach his eyes. It felt bad to see him sad, knowing that you were of no help at all. So here you were, searching up a song and pressing the play button before leaving it on top of the music player. With a deep inhale, you turned around and slowly walked towards Namjoon, stretching your hand out again.

"May I have this dance, Mr Kim?" Namjoon chuckled, standing up and shaking his head. From what he had seen in movies, he knew he was supposed to be the one asking. So he bowed in front of you and placed his palm forward, glancing up at you with all the affection he could gather. Your heart fluttered, a shy smile dancing on your lips as you gently placed your hand in his. If you thought that was the best thing Namjoon could have done, then you were wrong because the next thing you knew, his lips were pressed against the back of your hand.

Keep your cool, Y/N.

You told yourself, ignoring the way Namjoon's eyes gazed at you. So much attention was surely gonna be the death of you. You bit your lip harshly to stop the grin from showing itself, Namjoon's hands finding their way to your waist. You were definitely shocked at how much Namjoon already knew.

The silence of the room had been replaced by the soft chords of a guitar, your eyes lighting up when a male voice filled your ears. This was one song that you used to listen to whenever you felt lonely and lost, pretending that you did have someone who loved you. That was far from reality when your life was all about being used like a rag but it was different now. Perhaps you could find someone who really loved you.

Maybe that person was right in front of you.

You swayed with your arms around Namjoon's neck, his feet moving in sync with yours.

Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in.

Lie down with me and hold me, in your arms.

Namjoon swore his heart was being too fuzzy now. He hadn't felt this way before. Not even when he had a crush on Hana. It was so intense that Namjoon had to convince himself that he wasn't in love. At least not yet. But was he even being honest with himself?

And your heart's against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck.

I'm falling for your eyes, but they don't know me yet.

Your body was pressed against Namjoon's, your heart pounding in your chest. Your cheeks were too warm now and you felt dizzy. The air was thick, but not in an uncomfortable way. You could feel Namjoon's breath on your face, your eyes stuck on his. Life hated you, yes, but you weren't so sure anymore. After surviving your entire childhood, you were finally living. With a man who had a kind heart and was willing to do a lot for you. There was no way you would ever be able to repay him for everything he had done for you so far. At least not in this life.

And with a feeling I'll forget, I'm in love now.

Namjoon leaned closer, every ounce of self control having been lost. All he could think about now was how perfect you were. His eyes were now fixed on your lips, already thinking how good they would feel against his. He promised himself that he wasn't gonna let you go, no matter how many more lies he was gonna have to spew. No matter how many secrets he was gonna have to hide. Because you belonged with him. You were saving him and you didn't know that.

Kiss me like you wanna be loved

You wanna be loved. You wanna be loved.

You took in a shaky breath when Namjoon's hand cupped your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. Your hands tightly held on to each other behind his neck, your chest heaving in nervousness. You wanted this. You wanted him to kiss you. You wanted him to show you that you weren't broken. You moved your hands to the back of his head, your fingers tangling in his hair as you hesitantly pulled him towards you. You closed your eyes, his lips barely an inch away from yours. Just as Namjoon was about to close the little distance that remained, a loud clang echoed through the room, making you both flinch and pull away.

Your head whipped towards the kitchen, your eyes falling on the utensil that lay on the ground. Namjoon cursed under his breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. So damn close.

He clenched his jaw and walked towards the kitchen, glaring at Sangmin as you followed behind. "Sorry, Mr Kim. It slipped from my fingers." The man bowed, your head shaking in response to his apology. It was a mistake and nothing had been damaged anyway.

"That's okay. Don't worry about it. It's time for me to leave for work so I'll go get ready." You stated, turning on your heels and rushing towards your room. Your cheeks were hot and your breathing was uneven. You tapped your cheeks to pull yourself back to reality, scowling at your heart which was uncontrollably fluttering in your chest.

You closed the door to your room, leaning your back against it and sighing in relief. You weren't gonna deny the fact that you were disappointed, your work uniform mocking you from your bed. Things could have happened but here you were, dragging yourself to work without letting Namjoon know anything about your job. You pursed your lips and pulled your hair up, getting ready to go and cover your shift at Club Delirium.

Taglist: @uwunamjoon @shadowstark @all-fandoms-rise @tzuyyyuuu @stressedinmedschool247 @ifellinluvwithdorks @min-t-posts @floofwrites @pretty-in-pink-just-because @bts-d-onut @fangirllbookworm @mystical-writer @it-is-dana @ximaginx @kpopgirlbtssvt @pearylove @anothermisspark @annoyingpessimist @motivation-idontknowher @atwoodscott @soundofwonderland @btsarmysvtcarat @i-am-supermerwholoked221b @bunnymaknaereacts @iamcrazyforkdramas @ddaeing @basicallyanothernotebook @btsxdoll @spike-meowsters

Tell me what you think and if you wanna be tagged! Interesting stuff coming soon!

-XX

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ohmyprodigalson · 5 years

Note

Malcolm's s/o is really smart, their intellect could rival Martin's. The reader sees through his whole scheme, and they confront him and chew him tf out. I just need more of the reader standing up to Martin.

This story takes place in a reality where Martin’s plan with Tevin wasn’t discovered and he wasn’t placed in solitary confinement. I hope you like it!

Trigger Warning: Mentions of flashbacks and murders.

Word Count: 1,680

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Malcolm was severely depressed when he came home. He had just come from Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, where Dr. Whitly had manipulated Ainsley's entire interview through Tevin, another patient at the hospital. During her interview, Malcolm asked his father about the camping trip and the knife he found in the car. And later in the interview, when he tried to save Jin, he had a flashback of that trip in which it looked like he was being guided by Dr. Whitly to cut into another person.

He plopped down on his couch with a deep sigh. Malcolm was thinking about his flashback. It was painful, because it implies that he may have killed someone, but he needed to know about that past; to learn about the girl in the box.

(Y/N) entered the apartment, and as she was setting her things down, she called out for Malcolm. He didn't answer her because he was too absorbed by his thoughts. She walked around until she found him sitting on the couch, staring off into space.

She had only seen this look once before, and it was when he remembered his mother yelling at him as a child for going into Dr. Whitly's 'work space.' (Y/N) quietly walked over to the end table she kept in his apartment to store her candles and essential oils. She pulled out a lavender and chamomile candle, one of Malcolm's favorites for when he needed to calm down.

(Y/N) set the candle on top of the end table and lit it before sitting down next to Malcolm on the couch. His right hand was trembling, and (Y/N) grabbed it to hold in hers. Her voice was soft and gentle. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Malcolm sat in silence for a moment. He couldn't even find the words to describe what he saw in his flashback, let alone how it made him feel. But (Y/N) waited patiently, rubbing his hand soothingly. His voice was low and quiet when he spoke, barely audible. "I asked my dad about the camping trip today."

When Malcolm paused, (Y/N) didn't say anything. She didn't want to interrupt his thought process because she knew this was painful for him. He started to speak again, this time allowing the words to gush out of him. "I found a knife in the center console, and I asked him about it. Of course, he implied that I had killed someone with it. And then there was a prisoner escape, and he got to Jin and stabbed him, and the only way we could save him was to let my dad operate, which would require a knife, and then..."

Malcolm was speaking in one continuous sentence as he started hyperventilating to keep up with his racing thoughts. "...and then I said, 'No, you're not getting a knife, you can tell me how to save him.' So then I had the scalpel and I was ready to cut into Jin's chest when I had this flashback of holding the knife I found in the station wagon during the camping trip, and my dad was guiding my hand as I held the knife up against a person and I almost cut them but I can't remember what happened. All I remember after that is running through the woods with the bloody knife, and I just..."

Malcolm finally took an exasperated breath. He looked at (Y/N) and she saw fear and sadness in his eyes. The tears started to form and threatened to fall from the edges of his eyes as he spoke, his voice cracking. "I don't know what to do. Did I kill someone?"

(Y/N) wiped away the single tear that had fallen from and then cupped his cheek in her hand. Her voice was authoritative. "You did not kill anyone, Malcolm. I know you, and under your father's influence or not, you would never choose to kill. Think back to when you used to carry a gun as an FBI agent. Did you ever shoot to kill when you could just talk them down instead?"

He let out a quiet, "No."

She continued. "See? Even when no one would question you, you still wouldn't kill. And you certainly would never have killed someone while you were a child."

Malcolm pulled away from her hand as he looked at the ground and gave a small nod. She spoke quietly now. "These memories are becoming more and more painful, but I understand how important they are for you. I am always here for you, Malcolm. You can tell me anything." He still wasn't looking at her, so she lifted his chin to make eye contact. "I love you." She looked into his eyes as confirmation before kissing him on the cheek.

(Y/N) always knew what to say to make him feel better and bring him back down to earth. For the first time since leaving the hospital, he could breathe. Malcolm smiled a little and squeezed (Y/N)'s hand. "I love you, too."

The next day (Y/N) took an extended lunch break at work. She decided to visit Dr. Whitly, and she knew she would need extra time after the visit to cool off.

(Y/N) listened to the buzz and click of the only door separating her from Dr. Whitly. It was a familiar sound. She had been there before to provide support for Malcolm, but she had never visited Dr. Whitly without him. As she waited for the door to open, she contemplated how angry Malcolm would be if he found out she was here.

The door opened, and she walked across the room until the tips of her shoes barely touched the red line painted on the floor. Dr. Whitly had been sitting at his desk when he turned around to look at her. A wicked, evil grin spread across his face. What fun could he have with her today?

"Well, if it isn't Malcolm's girlfriend! What brings you here today... alone?" He stood up out of his chair and walked across the room to stand in front of her.

(Y/N) had to contain her anger. It would only entertain him. She kept her voice cold. "I am here to discuss Malcolm, or rather, his memories."

"Oh, not you, too." Dr. Whitly looked to the side as he rolled his eyes before looking back at her.

(Y/N) spoke before Dr. Whitly could continue. "Let's discuss the camping trip. The one you took with Malcolm a week before your arrest."

Dr. Whitly's smile lessened but remained. "Go on."

(Y/N) was getting closer to her point, and her body vibrated with anger. "You knew that you could trigger more memories. That's why you were so... vague, shall we say, when answering his questions." She so desperately wanted to point out that he also forced a new, tragic memory when Malcolm held the scalpel, but that would be confirming something he did not yet know.

Dr. Whitly nodded his head to the side, nonverbally saying, 'Perhaps.' (Y/N) continued.

"And I heard everything Ainsley told you yesterday about Malcolm. I'm sure you're quite pleased with yourself."

"Now why would a father be pleased to hear about his son's troubles?" Dr. Whitly tilted his head to the side, as if he was studying her.

"Because..." (Y/N) glared directly into his eyes now. "How will you ever truly have him if you aren't the only thing he has left?"

Dr. Whitly's smile barely faltered. A normal person wouldn't have been able to catch it, but it was there. There was suddenly a stillness in the air around them, and they became hyper-focused on each other. Dr. Whitly spoke calmly. "But I already have him."

(Y/N) finally let her anger burst forth. "No, you don’t. Every time he sees you, he leaves and never intends to return. But you've made sure he does. You plant little seeds in his brain, and he finds himself coming back to you to discuss his cases. The cases aren't what's important though."

Her voice was escalating and getting louder. "No, what's important is that Malcolm continues discovering new memories. But not too much, because then he might remember that he's not a killer. He'll remember that he's a good person, despite all of your best efforts."

She was shouting now. "If Malcolm remembers just enough of the bad parts of his memories, he'll break. He will think he's a murderer, and he will talk himself into believing he isn't good enough for his friends and family. No one will accept him ever again, except for the one person that can understand - you."

Her voice echoed slightly with her last words because she had been shouting so loudly. Dr. Whitly stood there, motionless. How could she possibly have known about his plan? It was such a slow-moving operation, how could she have pieced everything together?

(Y/N) took a deep breath and composed herself. When she spoke again, it was low and filled with fire. "You will not have him."

It was Dr. Whitly's turn to feel anger. He shouted right back at her. "He is MY son, not yours. We are the same, and there's nothing you can do to change that."

She interrupted him, voice still low. "You're right, because there is nothing for me to change. You two are not the same, and I will make sure he always sees that." (Y/N) paused, but continued to speak before Dr. Whitly could. "Malcolm can tell me anything. No matter what he thinks he has done, or what he remembers, I will always love him. He will never be alone, and so he will never come crawling back to you for acceptance. You will not have him."

(Y/N) blocked Dr. Whitly's voice from her mind as she turned on her heels and left. His shouts couldn't reach her, and the fight was over. Seeing his anger proved she had won, and that's all the conformation she needed. She was right about his master plan, and now she knew how to save Malcolm from his father's toxic grasp.

#this was fun #prodigal son #malcolm bright #malcolm x reader #martin whitly #prodigal son imagine #prodigal son fanfic #fanfic #imagine

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maevefiction · 5 years

Text

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 53: Epilogue

Sunday June 29th, 2036 - Talk Story Bookstore, Kauai, Hawaii.

Stepping inside Talk Story after two decades had passed was surreal. It remained essentially the same, right down to the red painted walls. I, too, remained essentially the same, if you ignored the wrinkles that had begun to etch themselves into the flesh of my fifty-eight-year-old face…laugh lines, frown lines, and a downright furrow between my eyebrows from a lifetime of what-the-fuckery. The grey hair that had first appeared when I found myself wrangling three children all under the age of five was now expertly masked with copious amounts of dye applied by the talented folks at Zig-Zag Hair & Body. I still did yoga on a regular basis, more now that the kids were…well, grown, I guess. For the most part. Which was really a mind-blower, as is everything else associated with the passage of time in regard the human condition. Aging, kids, is not for the weak. No one tells you that if you sleep too long, your body parts will hurt. Your tits will sag, you’ll pee your pants when you cough, sneeze, or laugh too hard, your hands will ache if you, you know, use them to do stuff…like hold books. Your knees will creak to the point where you aren’t sure if it’s you making sounds or the stairs you’re descending. After you’ve finished a round of particularly vigorous doggy-style, you’ll find yourself uncertain as to which will be more detrimental…remaining in place or attempting to get off the bed. It’s an unimaginable brutality, standing powerless against the effects of time on your physical being while the inner you, the corporeal you, does not follow suit. This Maude was the same Maude who had married the love of her life in this very place, right down to her limitless desire for Lindor truffles and continued disgust at the idea of pineapples on pizza. I can, however, confirm that time does aid in the healing process, which is how we ended up back on Kauai. Each year that passed put more distance between us and the horror we’d endured, and little by little we were able to work through it, first by being able to actually view our wedding photos and videos, then feel small bits of joy while doing so, until finally, sixteen years out, the fear and anxiety was almost fully overridden by that joy. And here we were, on the day of our 20th wedding anniversary, right where it had all begun.

Some unpleasant memories, though faded and dim, still lingered, and as a result neither Tom nor I could bring ourselves to return to the Coconut Beach Marriott. The kids were all aware of the circumstances surrounding our wedding and the days that followed, as we’d vowed to be open and honest about it if the subject ever came up, because we preferred that they learned the truth from us rather than believing what they might have seen on the internet. Two years ago the need for the ‘the talk’ had arisen, and Henry’s reaction had utterly floored me…he’d leapt up off the couch, pulled me into his arms and whispered that he’d hoped his presence had brought me some comfort and that he wished he’d been able to do more. He’d turned nineteen in February, my firstborn, and even though as a parent you’re not supposed to, like, have a favorite…he was, in fact, my favorite, at least in the sense that there was a depth and level of understanding between us that was akin to psychic connection. Perhaps it was due to our shared trauma, or perhaps it was the trauma that caused me to relate to him differently…though in the end, it didn’t matter because I’d never expressed such a sentiment out loud, nor would I. Besides, I’d always known that he already knew anyway.

Henry…also known as Our Son the Writer, as well as Indy Gallagher, his chosen pen name. He’d taught himself to read at age four, having grown frustrated with Tom and I not being able to drop whatever we were in the middle of, which was usually dealing with one of his siblings, in order to do it on his behalf. From that point forward, books and the stories they contained were his passion…he was never without reading material, absorbing any and all information he encountered and losing himself completely in imagined realities, always longing for more. It was that longing which set him upon the path to becoming an author when he was thirteen, having found himself unwilling and unable to accept that George R. R. Martin’s ‘A Song of Fire and Ice’ series had gone unfinished and deciding he’d tackle the task on his own. A year and many kudos on AO3 later he’d started to build his own fictional universe, and when he self-published the first book of the series, ‘Times Prior’, in August of 2034 it sold a half-a-million copies inside of sixty days without any marketing whatsoever. The main characters were inter-dimensional entities left stranded on Earth, their memories thought to have been wiped clean, and the story followed their journey as they sought to combine the snippets of their past that remained into a single coherent whole that revealed their history while attempting to covertly integrate with humanity. Book two, ‘Presented Puzzles’ had been released in early December of last year, hitting the million mark within two weeks. Though I already had first edition tucked away at home, I hoped to find one here to purchase so I could secure the receipt to the flyleaf with a notation that this copy had been purchased from the location where Indy Gallagher’s own story had begun.

When I felt Tom’s hand on my back as he stopped to stand on my left, I turned my head his way, peering upward. Though he had his share of wrinkles and his hair, which he’d taken to wearing long enough to brush his chin, had gone completely grey at the temples with salt and pepper throughout the rest, the fucker did NOT look fifty-five. Not to me, anyway…when you’re young and you imagine being fifty-five it seems so damn old, but when it’s staring you in the face, or especially once you’ve passed it by yourself, not so much. There were still bricks in his stomach, his ass remained quarter-bounce ready, and, now that the Hiddlespawn had matured, I took advantage of the Silver Fox Hotness Level One Billion as often as humanly possible. As you do. He grinned at me, then leaned in to nuzzle my cheek with his own.

“Well, here we are, my love, at long last. How the ever-loving fuck has it been twenty years? Speaking of…perhaps I can interest you in a waltz down memory lane via a certain out-of-the way restroom?”

My jaw dropped open. “Oh my god, how dare you? Since when am I the kind of woman who has sex in public places?”

He laughed, tongue poking out between his teeth. “To the best of my recollection, since…forever.”

I crossed my arms, eyes rolling skyward. “Your recollection has clearly become unreliable, old man.”

“Mmm hmm. Meet me there in twenty?”

"Absofuckingloutely." I uncrossed my arms with the intention of pinching his nipple through the fabric of his white V-neck T-shirt, but was interrupted by the arrival of our entourage as they filed through the door and filtered into the space around us.

Simon settled in to my right, with Luke at his side, as per usual. Simon’s approach to aging was best described as rage, rage against the dying of the light…his hair remained blonde, though these days, much like Tom, he’d been wearing it longer, so much so that he occasionally sported a ponytail. Just a ponytail, never, ever a man bun. Never. I was, and I quote, to ‘dispatch him quickly and without prejudice’ if I ever witnessed him committing such an unforgivable offense. Fillers and chemical peels were a regular occurrence, as were weekly spa visits and a thorough daily skin cleansing and hydrating regimen. He made use of our gym more than Tom or I did and had taken up running more than a decade ago, which he’d deemed necessary in order to have enough physical stamina to open his own restaurant. It was a joint venture with his son Roland, aptly named Ka-Tet…with permission from Uncle Steve, of course, who was still cranking out wordy goodness at eighty-nine. It was located close to home, near Regent’s Park in the space formerly occupied by Odette’s, with a décor that was best described as dystopian spaghetti western. There was no set menu…Simon decided he’d be preparing whatever the fuck he felt like making on any given day, take it or leave it…and they were only open Friday and Saturday nights, which created an air of exclusivity that resulted in the place being booked almost a year in advance. It was perfect work-life balance for him, and whenever anyone mentioned how youthful he appeared he’d nod and reply that all credit belonged to his favorite preservation method…daily alcohol infusions.

Luke remained at the helm of Prosper, though he’d pulled back significantly since Ka-Tet had opened and essentially served only in an advisory capacity. He’d begun to lose his hair just prior to turning forty, and he’d opted to just shave it all off and embrace baldness as opposed to undergoing transplants or wearing a toupee. It suited him, honestly, and his penchant for quirky glasses and three-day stubble seemed to transform him into the way he was always meant to look. Scholarly, like a college professor. Which he and Simon had role-played, as I’d been forced to discover even though my hands were covering my ears, because Simon wouldn’t take no for an answer and spoke louder instead when I requested that he keep that shit to himself. I watched as he reached for Simon’s hand without even a glance downward, their fingers twining together in a gesture so often repeated it was automatic, built into the fabric of their muscle memory. They turned to smile at each other, then shifted their gazes in unison to focus on their daughters as they passed by to their right.

Seph’s light brown hair was wound up in a bun that rested at the base of her neck, dressed in a light blue linen tank dress that matched the frames of her glasses. She resembled Luke a great deal, other than her lips and nose, the former much fuller, the latter more rounded at the tip. Her frame was lithe, almost lanky, and she stood an inch or two taller than me sans heels. In the fall she’d be returning to Cambridge for her second year in pursuit of her BA Tripos Degree in Law, after which she intended to obtain a Masters in Law, then finally a Doctorate in Law. Ez, who was essentially a carbon copy of Simon as far as physicality was concerned, was currently a student at the New York School of Design and would be heading back to the city after our vacation. She’d just finished the Fashion Design certificate program and was scheduled to intern at Manhattan Fashion in the Garment District from July 15th through September 1st, at which point she’d return to NYSD to complete their Couture and Menswear programs back to back. She’d designed the dress Seph was wearing, as well as her own, a white cotton sleeveless wrap-around that hugged her curves and accentuated her impossibly tiny waist. Which I supposed was made possible, along with exceptional genetics, by running six days a week, an activity she’d often participated in with the other masochists in my life…Simon, Tom and Henry. Now that she was based in New York it was solely Henry, their ability to pair up simplified by the fact that both of them resided in the same building, Henry in my old apartment, Ez in hers two floors below. He was standing next to her, dwarfing her five-foot-six frame with his own, his height topping out at six-foot-one, just an inch shy of Tom’s. His hair, worn shoulder-length, was black like my mother’s but curly like mine, eyes identical to Tom’s in shape and color. He had Tom’s nose as well, but my lips and jaw. Like his father, he was lean but muscular, blessed with a gracefulness that I had never possessed. He’d relocated to New York the previous summer to focus on writing, opting to forgo college in the wake of the success of his debut novel. I agreed that college would be a waste, being a firm believer in the fact that one could either write, or couldn’t, but I’d called bullshit on the ‘going away to focus’ aspect, at least privately when Tom and I discussed it. He and Ez had always been very good friends, nearly inseparable, and I felt it in my bones that the real reason he’d decided to leave London was so they could remain in close proximity to one another. Her desire to live in the same building had been presented as great way for both of them to adjust to new surroundings without feeling isolated, which was true, but again, my bones had whispered that there was something bubbling beneath the surface. There had been no confirmation as yet, and I’d stopped mentioning it when Tom, the most hopeless romantic amongst all hopeless romantics, told me I was turning into an even more hopeless romantic than he’d ever been. But it hadn’t stopped me from, you know, looking for signs.

A flash of flaming red glimpsed out of the corner of my eye caused me to turn and look to my left, basking in the breathtaking sight of the whirling dervish that was our daughter, Mona Diane Hiddleston, born at sunset on Wednesday, June 17th, 2018. Her hair was the color of my father’s and Tom’s paternal grandmother’s, wavy like Tom’s, worn long and loose and hanging halfway down her back. Her eyes were brown like mine, and shaped like them as well, but the rest of her face was all Tom. She was five-foot-nine, and often described as a force of nature, at which point I’d smile and say that I had not the slightest idea who she’d gotten that sort of personality from. She’d be relocating to New York in mid-August to begin her dual-enrollment program at Julliard, studying both Instruments and Composition with the goal of a Doctorate in Musical Arts and a career as a conductor in mind. Unlike me, she could read and write music, and play any instrument she was handed with little to no training. Her singing voice was exceptional, her range higher than mine though not quite as broad, but she’d never expressed any interest in developing it other than participating in the school chorus because she needed an elective to flesh out her schedule. Mona had been our ‘difficult’ child…as a baby she’d been fussy, easily irritated with a sleep schedule that was measured in fifteen-minute increments, and as a toddler we’d dealt with outbursts and tantrums over what we considered to be thoroughly minor issues, such as the lights being too bright, her clothes being too tight, or the seams of her socks being ‘wrong’. Throughout it all, the only consistent way to soothe her had been with music, be it listening to it or creating her own using our piano, pots and pans, or anything else that provided rhythmic sounds. Shortly after she turned five, she was diagnosed with sensory processing disorder, which we learned later on went hand-in-hand with her being highly gifted. All three kids were, which wasn’t exactly a surprise given Tom’s and my placement on the IQ scale, but giftedness manifests differently in each individual with a variety of traits, some more challenging to cope with than others. Once we’d established a methodology for managing her SPD, she was like a different human being…strong, steadfast, boisterous, fully confident in her sense of self and intent on extracting each and every thing she expected from this world without apology. And my god, I was so very, very fucking proud to be her mother. And honored. She’d noticed I was staring at her and had just opened her mouth to ask me why when our youngest bounded out from behind her, paused briefly at her left, then pivoted to park himself directly in front of her.

Sean James Hiddleston, born Friday, October 23rd, 2020 five minutes before midnight, named as such due to the fact that the blue hue of the eyes that peered up at me when he opened them for the first time was identical to my father’s. He’d been a complete surprise, so much so that I hadn’t even realized I was pregnant until I was three months in…at 42, I’d figured missed periods meant I was embarking on the journey into menopause, and when Tom suggested that perhaps I should take a pregnancy test I’d laughed and laughed. Henry had just turned three and Mona wasn’t quite two, and when I saw the giant plus sign in the test window the laughter faded damn fucking quick when I realized Tom and I would shortly be outnumbered by a trio of ankle biters all under the age of four. After the initial shock dissipated, we were overjoyed, in awe of how the universe continued to be so generous to us, providing yet another miracle. By the time I’d begun to show Henry was cognizant enough to ask questions, and when I informed him he’d soon have a new brother or sister his face had paled and he’d whispered ‘Mamma, will it be like Mona?’, causing Tom to run out of the room, unable to keep his shit together, while I comforted Henry by explaining that every baby is different, the entire time asking myself the same question he had internally. As it happened any worries about his temperament were for naught, because Sean had been a jovial soul right from the get go. He was the child, however, that we had to keep the closest eye on because if left to his own devices even for a second he’d be into something he shouldn’t have been, and when confronted he’d just grin and simply say ‘But I’m learning things.’ Even still, at fifteen-going-on-thirty, he uttered that same phrase at least once a day. Sometimes more. Like when I’d caught him trying to remotely hack into my brand new Alienware laptop two weeks prior…you know, just to see if he could. And, of course, he could. Of all three children he resembled Tom the most, blond wavy hair, same blue eyes, nose and jaw…the only bit of me in his face were his lips. He’d begun his adolescent growth spurt just after Christmas and had shot up from five-nine to six-two in what seemed like no time whatsoever, and if I did a side-by-side of him and Tom from his Eton days it wasn’t easy to tell who was who. Despite their physical similarities, Sean had been cursed with my lack of grace and had already broken almost every toe and sprained various extremities on the regular. He had been blessed, however, with my engineering and mathematical skills, and his abilities made an accelerated program via online courses the best option for him after he’d finished year six. Once he turned sixteen he’d be permitted entry into Cambridge’s School of Technology, where he planned to focus on Computer Science, but the next round of required classes wouldn’t be available until fall of 2037. Starting in September of this year he’d be officially interning at CodeHex, working both with me and other high-level employees across our departments. I say ‘officially’ because he’d been interning in an unofficial capacity for nearly four years, popping in every weekday as soon as he’d finished his online courses back at our flat. When he was a preschooler he’d spent a good bit of time there as well, at my side or on my lap, as I worked to establish the CodeHex company and brand during my ‘free’ hours while Henry and Mona were at school. On the first day of his own year one he’d frowned as Tom and I hugged and kissed him goodbye outside the school’s entrance, stating that while he was very excited to make all sorts of new friends and learn new things, he’d very much miss his old job and old friends. Then he’d spotted a girl with a Captain Marvel backpack and promptly ditched us in order to run over and introduce himself, turning back to wave and smile at us before returning his attention to her and walking into the building while Tom and I stood on the sidewalk crying our eyes out like a couple of schumucks.

He’d moved closer to me, though still blocking his sister, arms raised and hands extended, palms toward Tom and I as he spoke.

“This is it, then, is it Mum? Where you and Dad met? All those years ago? Right here? In this bookshop?”

I nodded. “Yeppir. Also where we got engaged, and where we got married.”

Tom elbowed me, and Simon twisted his torso sideways to gawk at me, his head cocked to the right.

“Woman, have you finally lost your mind? You were married at the Marriot. I was there, looking resplendent in my purple tux while you puked in the bushes, remember?”

Opting to attempt to make a royal fuck-up appear as if it were a conscious choice, I turned my head towards him, index finger of my right hand raised and pointing toward his chest. “Well, you’re not totally wrong…we were married at the Marriot, but that was actually our second ceremony. The first one happened here, right after midnight so it was officially on the twenty-ninth.”

Simon gasped, placing his right hand over his heart, finders splayed wide. “Are you telling me right now, twenty fucking years later, that the two of you snuck off and got married without your best friends and spent the entire next day pretending your entirely invalid not at all legally binding apparently just for show wedding ceremony was one-hundred-percent genuine?”

I bit my lip and glanced skyward briefly, then back at Simon. “Yes. Yes I am.”

He reached out and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Maude Hiddleston, I have never been prouder of you than I am at this moment, you sneaky little MINX. How did you keep it a secret this whole time?”

I shrugged. “Only four people on the planet knew…me, Tom, the judge and Roger Marshal.” While researching our trip we’d learned that Roger had passed away in 2033, but his daughter Denise had taken over the business. Tom and I planned on seeking her out during our visit, but hadn’t provided any advance notice as we felt that expressing our condolences in person would be most appropriate since Talk Story, and her father, had played such an important role in our lives. I poked Simon’s left pec with my right index finger. “Shouldn’t you be all ragey because you weren’t there or something?”

He released my shoulders and crossed his arms in front of him, rested his right elbow in his left hand as he tapped his lips with his left index finger, then pointed it at me. “You know what? I fucking should be. But I’m not. Because I’m sure it was all mushy-mushy gushy-gushy and there was probably sniffling and crying and Shakespearean sonnet level verbal exchanges and therefore I’m dropping it in the ‘glad to have missed it’ bucket.” He mock-gagged, and as I swatted at him he pulled back and away, flipping me double birds.

Mona stepped out from behind Sean, her head tilted to the left. “Well that diminishes both the impact and validity of all those lectures on the critical importance of honesty a bit, doesn’t it?”

Tom roared with laughter, and I smirked. “I look forward to opening the box that contains my ‘HYPOCRITE’ T-shirt this coming Christmas morning. Men’s 2 XL, please. Black with white lettering. Maybe a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ on the back written in a script font?”

Henry raised his hand as he joined in. “Oh! Oh! There must be some photographic evidence of the clandestine ceremony hidden away somewhere, I’d imagine? That absolutely needs to be on the T-shirt’s front-side. And Dad’s complicit, so we’ll have to have one made for him as well.”

Sean grinned. “If such evidence exists, you can count on me to track it down.”

I glanced over at Tom, who was still chuckling. “This whole kid thing…your idea, wasn’t it? I can’t fathom having done this to myself without being coerced by an insanely hot dude via repeated seductions until I…”

All three of them screeched in unison. “MUM!”

Tom pointed at them in turn. “The lesson here, progeny of mine, in case you needed a refresher course…your mother is a master of diversionary tactics and especially enjoys their implementation when the outcome is likely her having…hmm…how shall I phrase this delicately?”

I snorted. “What your voluble father is attempting to convey without incurring my wrath is…the last word. I like having the last word. He neglected to mention that no topic is off limits in the pursuit of achieving that particular goal. So, shall we move on or would you prefer that I begin my dissertation on our wedding night activities?”

Again, in unison, with Simon, Luke, Seph and Ez joining in this time around. “MOVE ON.”

We all split off then, singly for some, in pairs for others, and wandered around the shop. Tom and I paused in the precise spot I’d been standing two decades earlier, narrowing down my reading options for what I’d thought would be hours of alone time on the beach. His arm slipped around my waist, and I circled his in turn, each of us leaning into the other, silent in our contemplation of the Before and the After, which is how we both viewed the stages of our lives prior to and since crossing paths. I could hear Sean exclaiming to Mona that he’d located the music section and that she just had to come see it immediately, Seph and Luke laughing as Simon assured them that yes, he did in fact still enjoy reading the Twilight Series novels and that there was nothing wrong with having a little vampy wolfie sad girl angsty fluff in your life thank you very much, and then, footsteps behind us…a strange echo of the past, and this time I didn’t hesitate to spin around to see who they belonged to. Tom did the same seconds afterward, and before us was a woman wearing a tea-length bright green tank dress, her jet-black hair worn in two braids that hung nearly to her waist. She smiled, and my mouth dropped open when I took note of her name tag. She smiled, realizing I’d recognized her.

“Aloha, Hiddlestons. Welcome back to Talk Story.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Alani. Oh my god. Well, this is a mind fuck of epic proportions. And I’m spewing profanity. Whoops. Sorry.”

Tom somehow managed to speak like an actual human being. “Alani! What a marvelous thing, seeing you again in this very special place…you’ve been well, I hope?”

She laughed, then stepped forward to embrace both Tom and I, then pulled back. “I have. I teach at the Waimea High School during the year…9th grade English Literature. Weekends and summers inevitably find me here. This place seems to have a gravitational pull I’m unable…and unwilling…to escape.” Sighing, she glanced around the room, then fixed her gaze back on us. “Have you heard?”

Nodding, I reached for Tom’s hand and took hold. “About Roger? Yes, but not until we started researching our trip. We wanted to wait to meet Denise to express our condolences. Is she available?”

Alani shook her head, frowning slightly. “She’s not, I’m afraid. Honestly, we’ve not seen very much of her at all, and she hasn’t been back since she told us she was putting the place up for sale. Of course, I understand that it reminds her of her father and…”

My grip on Tom’s hand tightened, as did his on mine, so much so that we both let go as if we’d received an electric shock. I took a deep breath, telling myself to be cool, Maude, be fucking cool before giving nonchalance a go.

“So. Talk Story’s for sale? Huh. Well, we most definitely hadn’t heard that. I don’t recall seeing a sign…”

Tom cleared his throat. “Neither do I. Does that mean a sale is pending, or is the property still available?”

She nodded, which was not at all helpful, but the words she spoke afterward were. “It’s still available. The sign’s off to the right of the building, attached to the potted tree so it faces oncoming traffic. The realtor’s been in a few times since it went up in January, but never with any clients. Our revenue isn’t even a quarter of what it was a decade ago, and Denise isn’t very involved so things have gotten worse since Roger passed. At this point, I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be able to remain open, but I’m going to keep hoping that someone sees the value here, the history this place contains…” She cleared her throat, then shook her head back and forth slowly. “Goodness, I’m so terribly sorry. I honestly only meant to say hello…everything else just sort of…happened. I don’t know what came over me.”

I reached out and patted her upper arm. “Please, no worries. This place seems to foster that sort of thing. Books aplenty with the occasional divine intervention. That’s so going on the marketing materials. You on board with that, Tom?”

“Oh yes. Yes I am. Alani, do you happen to have the realtor’s number handy?”

One walk-through, two hours, and countless document signatures later we were officially in contract to purchase Talk Story, with a closing date set for Tuesday, July 1st at 1 PM at the Kauai Coldwell Banker Realty office. Much like I had twenty-one years earlier, we all had to haul ass back to Kapaʻa in order to make our dinner reservation at Kauai Pasta, though this time we were a party of nine instead of three. We’d requested the same booth area, spilling over into the two additional sections in the same row that backed the wall. Tom and I, in an effort to be appropriately extra, ordered the exact same meal we’d ordered the day we met, but sat side-by-side instead of across from each other. Midway through the main course we turned to each other, smiling as our eyes met, and all the noise of friends and family faded into the background as we paused to remember, lost in our thoughts of days gone by, and I felt this monstrous rush of emotions…love, joy, peace, and so many more…and I was so…so…grateful. Granted, I was grateful every day, but this was an all-encompassing gratefulness, and I looked away for a moment to survey our friends, their children, and each of our own children in turn. Life is incredibly strange and unusual, even downright cruel at times, but like the weed-dealing kid in American Beauty said, “sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it, and my heart is just going to cave in”, and that’s where I was at in that moment, in the very same space that had fanned the flames of the spark that had emerged at Talk Story. Which we’d just bought. For nine-hundred and fifty thousand dollars, all contents included. I turned my gaze back to Tom, my head tilting to the right.

“Did we, like, just actually buy a bookstore? As in, the bookstore we’ve always considered ‘our’ bookstore is now…our bookstore?”

He nodded, and I felt his hand first on my knee, then creeping up under my shorts. “We did. And while I’m thoroughly delighted with that particular development, I’m also a tad disappointed because we missed out on our restroom rendezvous this go-round. Care to christen this one instead?”

“Oh, that’s a bold move right there, Thomas. The ladies’ room is literally separated from this table by a single wall. I’ll go first, you get up five minutes later and lurk outside the door…I’ll leave it open a crack so I can keep watch. When the coast is clear I’ll pull you inside.” I lowered my voice, whispering in his ear. “And then I’ll, you know, pull you inside again. And again.”

He groaned quietly. “Woman. Cease. And go. Go now.”

I excused myself, and that five minutes seemed to take a thousand years. There was fire in his eyes when he shut and locked the door behind him, and without a word he turned me around, bent me over the sink, pulled off my shorts and underwear and fucked me so hard I couldn’t help but cry out his name as I came, which he muffled quickly by covering my mouth with his left hand, which made me come again. And again. He soon followed, leaning down and biting my clothed shoulder gently to stifle his own cries. After he pulled out I stood upright, and he leaned in to kiss me, sucking my tongue into his mouth as he zipped himself up, peeked out the door, then exited and darted into the men’s restroom next door. I used the facilities, washed up, and waited for three minutes after I heard him finish up and walk by. A sly grin spread wide across his face awaited me as I returned to the table, and as I sat down Sean asked if we’d be ordering desert. Simon, ever the obnoxious asshat, smirked and commented that he was reasonably sure that some of us had already had their desert, which left Sean puzzled, Mona and Seph disgusted, and Henry and Ez blushing like mad, which really got my Spidey Senses all a-tingle. Luke simply smiled at me, shrugging helplessly, and I sighed, nodding, both of us silently accepting yet again that yes, this was indeed the life we’d chosen.

As it happened, no desert was ordered…instead, we headed back to the beach house we’d rented on the Coconut Coast, in Anahola Beach Park, which was seven miles or so up from the Coconut Beach Marriott. With only four bedrooms, it meant the kids had to share, so Sean and Henry were in one room and Mona, Seph and Ez in another, but it was literally steps from the beach, totally private, and had a pool and a hot tub. All of that was lovely, but lovelier still was the item tucked away in the fridge…a two-tiered chocolate cake with layers of cheesecake filling, iced with white buttercream and decorated with green and purple fondant orchids. As Tom and I fed each other a slice, Simon smeared icing on the back of my neck. I retaliated by flinging a banana from a bowl on the counter in his direction because bananas are disgusting and there was no way I was wasting cake, and suddenly we were in the middle of an all-out food war that ended with all of us jumping into the pool fully clothed. Fun was had, at least until we clambered out of the water and got a gander at the current state of the formerly pristine kitchen. It was almost midnight by the time we finished cleaning up the mess we’d made, but we’d powered through by taking turns listening to our favorite playlists. Just as we’d begun to discuss our shower schedules, the first few notes of Adventure Of A Lifetime began to play. Without pausing to determine who was responsible for choosing it, Tom and I gravitated toward each other and began to dance, then sang, and as the song progressed we were joined by Simon, Sean, Henry, Ez, Mona, Seph and Luke. By the end we were essentially screaming the lyrics, a troupe of dancing fools bound by love and blood still sharing the same adventure, celebrating where we’d already been, exited for what we’d discover down the road. Everything you want’s a dream away…we are legends, every day.

Later on, after all the good-nights were said and Tom had passed out after our engaging in some seriously spectacular anniversary shenanigans, I found myself wide awake. I walked to the glass sliders and stared past the pool at the reflection of the moonlight on the waves, the ebb and flow of the ocean that had always, to me, seemed representative of the back and forth, the ups and downs…all the moments of our lives as we pass through them. And then, there they were…Henry and Ez, walking toward the pool, holding hands. They too stood gazing out at the waves, and released each other’s hands to slip their arms around each other’s waists. Without warning, since I wasn’t privy to their conversation, Henry leaned backward, face to the sky, laughing the laugh that I knew sounded so very much like his father’s. I could see them both shaking with mirth, and they quieted slowly, her hand rubbing his back. As I continued to watch, transfixed, she rested her head against him, and he turned to pull her into his arms, then leaned down to kiss her.

At that point what migh happen next was absofuckinglutely none of my business, so I turned around and headed back toward yet another temporary bed that contained the sleeping form of my personal, perfect, permanence, awash in moonlight. I was now more awake than ever, so I remained in a seated position next to him, my back resting against the headboard. He mumbled in his sleep, rolling over to drape his left arm across my lap. The desire to wake him up and share what I’d seen so I could have a ‘HA, I told you so’ moment was strong, but it was cast aside by a vivid memory from when Henry had been an infant. Tom had just returned from promoting Kong, and I, in my incredibly sleep deprived state, experienced an instance of déjà vu that evolved into a vision of me, at some point in the future, passing the sleeper Henry had been wearing that night to a young man. Back then, the voices I’d heard weren’t familiar, nor recognizable, but now…now they were, because I’d been listening to them all day long. I recalled that when I was still carrying him inside me, each time I’d held Ez, Henry had thrashed about wildly, something that had never occurred in such a fashion with anyone else. The entanglement particle theory came to mind, one that Tom had referenced in Only Lovers Left Alive, which Einstein had dubbed ‘spooky action at a distance’. If entwined particles become separated, even if they wind up at opposite ends of the universe, if one is altered or affected, the other will be identically altered or affected.

I started down at the ring on Tom’s left hand, and the two on my own, one which had been inscribed with two lines of text at the bequest of the man who’d become my husband twenty years ago. On the first was ‘Talk Story - 6/29/15 - Our Story’, and on the second, ‘My Light in the Mist’. I was, briefly, unable to breathe, feeling that I suddenly, and for certain, temporarily, understood life, the universe and everything.

Even in the darkest hour of our journey through this life, there’s light. You won’t see it in that moment, you might not see it for a long time afterward…but it’s there, hidden by darkness, and as the darkness begins to fade there will be tiny specks of it in the distance. Chase after them, because those specks – they’re hope. The fading darkness transitions to a thick fog, then a translucent mist…you may find yourself lingering there, in the in-between, reasonably content. Living, but with a sense of incompleteness that you can’t seem to define, are able to suppress, but can’t quite shake. That’s the light, reaching out for you. And one day, it will finally make contact. And if you’ll allow it, the light will take you by the hand and lead you out into the open where the sun can fully shine upon you again…or perhaps for the very first time. And I’m here to say…allow it. Grab that hand. Grab it with everything you have, and never let it go. No matter what, never, ever let it go.

- Maeve Curry, June 2015- July 2019

#chapter 53 #epilogue

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fortheheavenssake · 5 years

Text

MM Anon 4

Nov. 1

MM ANON … She Telegraphed it !!…… mechanically damaged 🤣🤣🤣……… rugby widow😭😭😭……alone on the Balcolonial …… “ Turn around re-play”…… wading through the Slush…… an American Psycho…… PR-int error ………🎼”God only knows “🎼…… 🧣🐓👯‍♀️🤔😭🤥……🎼”Wake up ,little ……… wake up“🎼…… “ I may wear purple Philip “…… “epic old thing ‘ that’ll p!$$ her orf “…… “hair of the DOG Harry”🤣🤣🤣”lets PARTY”……… 15-9 ……… “OK , give me £500”. …… $h!t, I’ve lost my phone!!……” OMG’ all those photos on it!!”

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Nov. 1

MM ANON …… NUTMEG not sanctioned by the BRF on visit to the bakery,all a SS stunt to get an interview with the Tele- laugh. Her woke ramblings ‘ a tossed salad of word salad … me ,me ,me me look at me , “because we’re all women right!! and I’m going to empower you all to become inspired by your own emotional strength,we’re cool sisters of the oppressed forces that the monarchy controls …… yeahhh ‘ right on and solid.”

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Nov. 1

MM ANON, Why is Trampmeg trapped in a bakery with the sisters of Perpetual retribution spreading her bacteria all over the sweeties…… simple!!! She’s $h!t scared of being Booooooood !! If she had a public outing with the great unwashed there’d be booing and a knashing of teeth. That’s why the the colonial carpetbagger stays hidden from the public. If its appearance on the balcony at RD. is anything, I bet someone gives her the old verbal finger

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Nov. 2

MM ANON , DEAR SWEET JESUS, The Sus-sex saga is really,REALLY dragging on , the anticipation of a drama at RD, the escape to LA, the archificial debacle, the suspect charity slush funds, it just piles on day after day of PR lies and nutmeg hand wringing, whinging and virtuous lectures to the great unwashed. Hiding in Bakery’s and WC kitchens isn’t facing the public ( boooooooo!!! ) this colonial carpetbagger is on the run from the Brits who see through her bull$h!t and mendacity. 🤥🤥🤥

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Nov. 2

MM ANON … “ You are part of this monarchy, you WILL adhere to its traditions”…… “ her past, so embarrassing!!”…… Rogue PR…… “we’ve “cleaned” her phone ma’am”…… “ I fear it’s still out there”…… promoting the impossible …… “ give this one to William” “ thank goodness we have one classic beauty,old thing “ …… “ is Charles thinking of leap-frogging to William ,Philip?”……” my teams made arrangements “…… “shut up!! It’s my Duty!!”…… 🎼” to dream the impossible dream “🎼……”total meltdown sweetie”

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Nov 3

MM ANON … ‘ and in the morning, we shall Booo!!!……… Mall-content. …… camera click ‘ I’m OK!!…… “ sit Harry with Melania??”………… a reduced detachment …… “ it’s in the Fine print M’lud”…… “ what!! a night of fruity duty” …… “6 of the 13 are solid!! “…… “ leapfrogging, not a chance old thing” …… “ the right order of things Philip” ……… “ my apologies for the interruption Ma’am”…… “ One should act post-haste”…… “ and keep Harry out of this”. ……… O’ Kate, I hear she got quite scwiffy Philip”.

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Nov 3

MM ANON … occasionally one exposes an anomaly within the mainstream collective , I’m not talking about the proud hard working women of America, I’m describing the grifting harsluts who screw their way up the social dung heap that is the domain of institutions of suspect provenance. This specific specimen grift, escort , yacht, sexually ingratiate blow , and manipulate their way into positions of kept high maintenance. Who the hell could that be?… O’her!!!

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Nov 4

MM ANON,…… THE ACTUAL REALITY!! The evidence appertaining to nutmegs missing years, The exodus to Madrid for a “ procedure” after leaving the American embassy in BA “ she apparently had an affair with a junior attaché. Then it vanished into the very private and murky world of yachting escorting, often mentioned in her SM posts as auditions for film appearances. 🤣🤣🤣 a clandestine history of sordid consequences that led to an embarrassing entrapment of himself, an archificial birth and lies.

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Nov 4

MM ANON …… RD,will she ‘won’t she?…… a Congressional offer…… The foundations support …… 🎼” don’t stop thinking about tomorrow”🎼………a bit LAX of her…… W&Ks PR assault …“ the popularity of the children your Highness”……” Popular!! we call it “Charlottes Web 🤣🤣”……” it’s the future direction ma’am”…… “she imploded ma’am ,end of!! “…… “ Christmas!! A family portrait ma’am , only the family “…… “ it’s exciting Philip ‘ a new chapter “…… “any cream caramel left old thing”. … tut tut,dyspepsia Philip”

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Nov 5

MM ANON …… A prospective congressional candidate ……caLiforniA voting …… bankrolled by Bubba…… 🎼” ain’t nobody Straight in LA”🎼…… Nov.14th , liftoff !! …… “ don’t come back, general consensus ma’am”. //… “ William’ you’ll love the break darling “…… “ 🦄can I come daddy, pleeeeeez!!”…… “bring me back a 🦎”…… “ Well, rather you than me squidgy” …… “ I’m reading these balcony jokes old thing” ……” 🤣🤣 Philip, look at this one ‘ wicked!!”… “make it there problem, it’s her decision “ … “Ad Nauseam.

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Nov 5

#FREECAMILLA……… the hashtag is emblematic of the impossible situation that the DOC has to endure on the 7th. Camilla is scheduled to pay her respects at the field of remembrance at Westminster Abbey following the D&DOS. nutmeg is an appendage regarding TBRF , she turns up all PR and no knickers, poster 42 year old for middle age yachters. How long is it going to soil the institutions of dignity. If you’re not OK and WOUNDED, go back into hiding. #FREECAMILLA. allegedly, speculation of course.

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Nov 6

MM ANON, KATES TAGLIATELLE NAPOLITANA. … cook tagliatelle till al dente, Toss in a little truffle olive oil. Napolitana sauce, … cook ground beef( 300grams) in pan with finely sliced garlic and shallots. Season. Add superior tomato sauce ( Italian). Cook for 10 minutes. Pour over tagliatelle that’s in a oval oven dish. Cover with parmigiana reggiano , medium heat for 12 minutes in oven,Serve hot with a glass of good Chianti. Happy Harry guaranteed. NB. This is Kate’s own recipe.

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Nov 6

MM ANON, As soon as the last notes of the RD parade fade nutmeg will hot foot it to Northolt to catch her private jet to LA. She’s all packed and ready to flee the country she hates , the “Wounded” snowflake who’s not “OK” won’t stay a second longer in soho house. Harry can start his re-hab from the insidious co-dependency he’s fallen into, and W&K can visit him and coach his return to royal normality, having eaten to many chicken dinners he can relish Kate’s Tagliatelle Napolitana, GSTQAOBC.

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Nov 6

MM ANON ………” the pest is fleeing the rented nest” SO-HO HO HO !!!………”🎼” don’t give me that do goody good bullshit”🎼…… I’ll catch him , you talk him round” …… “ don’t be naive, it’ll be longer than 6weeks.”……… “I’ve got a cunning plan”………… Mmmm’ money but NOT title!!…… “ the Privy Purse won’t finance that”. …… “ I’ll have a chat with the LCJ, ol’ Netty will fix it.”…… “ done and dusted darling”. …… 🎼” we’ve already said “ so long”🎼………🎼” With a Little help from my friends”🎼. Amen!!

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Nov 7

MM ANON, THE D&DOC , met family’s and school children today at St. Martin in the Fields. The epitome of royal class. Kate stunning in royal blue dress. Equate this with the sloppy belted afterthought nutmeg wore? A poodle weave, ill fitting navy blue ( not a respectable black) couch throw. Harry dignified in regimental frock coat. Once again she denigrates a solemn occasion with her smug indifference to protocol and traditions. People were laughing contemptuously at her. GET RID !!!

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Nov 7

MM ANON …… Royal blue class…… navy blue @ss……… royal winning ……… smug grinning …… “ a quiet word in your shell-like Harry, she embarrassed you”…… “Sunday night ma’am, alone!!”…… Royal Trinity …… 🎼” leaving on a jet plane , don’t know “🎼……… “Exeter airport, not far from Babington ma’am”……”What!! a brotherly tour LG?”…… SANDRINGHAM sand pit…”one disaster at a time,old thing”……” Melania has royal discretion Philip”…… “ God knows Philip, money?”…… “whatever’ but not in bloody black and white “

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Nov 7

MM ANON , WELL WHAT’I,TELL YA, congressional representative for a district of L.A. , if my little birdies are chirping the same song ,the appointed one is going to run , and it won’t be South Central, some nice residential upmarket suburb , 60% coloured. The Gang of Four will offer their endorsement and Nancy with the laughing face will put the cherry on top. 2020 cometh. She won’t come back. And Harry will become mr. Megan Markle, unless of course’…………………

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Nov 9

MM ANON … beyond the bathrobe… hit the spot(not)…… never on a Sunday …… 🎼Sun-day my Prince will come🎼…LA Confidential …… morning TV. …… The Late shows …… “And now a surprise guest ‘Princess Megan and Prince Archie”…… “And now a word from her sponsor”…… A Meg-a endorsement … “you can have my jet”…… please!! a little decorum”…… Who’me!!

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Nov 9

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Nov 10

MM ANON, SO …… “ Don’t stand with us, Don’t sit with us , we don’t require your company or conversation , just f***off back to California and re-connect with your vacuous valley girls who can only talk of their therapists,and being f**** by their personal trainers”. “ What say you Camilla”… “ I totally agree ma’am”. Alleged royal drawing room conversation between HMTQ,DOC,D&DOS. 🤭🤭🤭🤭🤣🤣🤣🤣

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Nov 10

MM ANON, So , megherp wears an inverted piss-pot on her head , another FU protocol, while outcasted to the Siberian balcony, I wonder what the conversation was inside the rooms of the foreign Office while she was waiting with Harry. M.” Look at that stuck up bitch Kate,talking to the Queen” K. “ well’ Megan looks very average again, naked legs I see, Mmm,ever-ready Rachel suits her”. H. “What time is your plane leaving “. M. “ as soon as I can f*** off from you lot”. Allegedly, speculation only.

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Nov 10

MM ANON …… game,set and lies…… “ that royal DR conversation actually took place “……… game, set And Siberia …… William isn’t enamoured …… “Bare legs, ever ready Rachel “🤣🤣🤣🤣………”So-Ho hook-up?? really”……… “the RPO HAS to keep quiet!!! …… “ a scandal to far old thing “…… “ pray it stays!!”…… “extra protection , NO , let her pay!!”……… “ her little friends ‘ it’s a called a sleepover William “ …… “Yes,Edward and Sophie “…… “wheels up ma’am ,… thank god LG”

Thank you MM Anon…😊❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

This is not written by Skippy!😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂

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Nov 10

MM ANON ……… “ for the attention of the intellectually challenged trolls, I write my own riddles and submit them to skippy. “ but then again, that’s the reason you’re all intellectually challenged. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣 one thing trolls have in spades, contempt prior to investigation ……… many thanks skippy.

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Nov 11

MM ANON …… “H’ phone Oprah , NOW!!…… “ we’ll stay with SW for a while”…… “ my mother’s already here”. ……… “ Lottie’ tell your little friends to stop jumping on the bed.” …… BREAKFAST!!…… “ OK’ who’s for sticky maple syrup and waffles?”…… Charlotte!!!! behave. …… “ We’re outnumbered George!!”……”NANNY HELP!, …… “Wait and see,ma’am, wait and see!!”…… “yes, my friends in the service!!”… The banquet would be a good time. ……Embroil him in duties to his regiment ……’seven for a secret never to be told.

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Nov 11: MM anon?

Dear skippy, I do believe I’m being logged and monitoring by TPTB. Also my dear friend ALLEGEDLY ANON. every word I write, they’ll be watching me. ……… MM ANON. They’ve already got to me very surreptitiously. Please post this ,the more anons know the better. Kind regards.

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Nov 11

MM ANON… … Delayed flight 14th Nov.

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Nov 13

MM ANON ……… 🎼” let the Sunshine”🎼…… who pulled the short straw?……… palm trees at Sandringham …… “ pass the Dorito’s darling “……… Sophie’s surprise ……“ I love the belt sweetie”. … Preg-nont…… “ I love the belt sweetie” ……… “yes , smile and serve them gru-el”…… Christmas?” Musical chairs old thing” ……… more of a 12 by 6 ……… small expectations …… Kate’s red carpet …… “ bet she goes for the lovers knot.” …… Hobson choice.

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Nov 14

MM ANON …… MAD-ISON AV. Re-Sunshine Sucks…… a tabloid too far…… LA thanksgiving? …… homeless shelter thanksgiving?……Royal Family thanksgiving?…… professional lie juggler …… $h!t scared of loosing tax millions …… HMTQ drops in 🤣🤣🤣🤣…… MM drops out…… “ it’s not rocket science Harry dear boy, she’s a s****!!…… “ but I love her” … “Really!!, sit down and watch this” …… “ now!! convinced!!”…… “ ones judgment is sometimes compromised Harry” …… “ But, But ,But …… “No ifs, no Butts. … just act royal

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Nov 14

MM ANON ………… surreptitiously, “lift off”. …… who dares,bins…… 🎄it’s a wonderful strife🎄…… failure is not a-doption……Interstellar McCartney………me invito tactiost…… an act of con-passion…… “ therapy, the humanitarian solution Harry”. …… “serious emotional and mental disorders” …… it’s not her fault, she seems to have been born that way” ……… “ yes!! Section 8. … “ it’s your call!! “

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Nov 15

MM ANON, WTF !!! there’s a record of conversations and confidences A DIARY!! really,REALLY !! This is a potential IED … regarding a tome of disastrous consequences for HMTQ and the Royal Family. Whispers about said Tome have been fluttering around royal circles for over a year. If ‘ IF , someone had a resentment or grievance against the RF and one had recorded all in a “Diary” the publication would be of universal interest. ( $20 million advance) at least. Her future secured!! just sayin !!

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Nov 15

MM ANON, coercion is a crime. Blackmail is a crime, so why is nutmeg bleeting on about empowerment and mindfulness 🤮🤮🤮 while the biggest criminal manipulation against a monarch and her family was undertaken with her at the Center. This grifter used and abused a naive recipient into a marriage and turned him into a co-dependent with emotional and character changing traits. BLACKMAIL IS A CRIME!! Tick TOCK.

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Nov 15

MM ANON, EXPLOITATION!!! Stella(money) McCartney pays East Hungarian women £2.6 an hour ……… and say it takes a worker 5 hours to complete a coat / say materials cost £50.00 + labour £15.00 … so £65.00 for a coat retailing at £1.545.00……… quite a mark up a Stella’ old woke , humanitarian nutmeg buys your extortionate rag without any bleeting of exploitation of Hungarian women ……… Mmmm not to Woke nutmeg. HYPOCRISY!!

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Nov 15

MM anon .......... “wash spin repeat”......... no hole barred🤣🤣🤣......... reflect,deflect,infect...... DM is armed and dangerous...... court jester 🎭......... the light is Fading...... nice hypocrisy you’re wearing...... hunger-Ian...... GCHQ on the QT......... I’m not a row boat...... “they will unleash the dossier from hell”...... complete disclosure......... in case of emergency, pull handle. ...... sorry you’re out of time......... 🎼 …”rescue me”…🎼.

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Nov 15

MM ANON ……Ventura Highway …… “ yes, let’s go!!”…… GCHQ, on the QT…… W knows EVERYTHING!!…… PR pops in”🤣🤣……… “ one pops in , Philip”…… archificial pops out, when?……… “ bit of a soft interview “…… tighten security, NOW!!…… “ this ones out the bag , old thing”…… “ I’m looking forward to it Philip, all the little ones”…… “yes , one is a tad hurt”…… A good appointment.…… “ right up Her street”. …… 🎼give yourself a very🎄merry Christmas🎼…… “ Little ones?the service is too long,Philip”.

This is the one I thought I deleted….I deleted the copy not the original…..forward we go….😊❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Nov 16

MM ANON/ ALLEGEDLY ANON/NANNY ANON/0 YEA,O YEA ANON/ HOLD UP, HOLD UP ANON/ LIFT OFF ANON ……………………………BYE BYE.

Because I won’t post tirades against PA….they have chosen to leave. I thought keeping PA separate from riddles was the right thing to do. It seems that was not what they expected from me. I am on the side of truth, I’m not burying PA stuff, I just don’t believe there is enough info for me to support their thoughts. I’m not here to expose PA…I am here to expose MM…and PA is a distraction. Sorry.

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Nov 18

MM ANON ……”too many eyes, it has to be privejet “…… SS , travel agent ……” NO more interviews “ ……” I’ll, give her away!!” …… 🎼”they had style,and well read,MM gave good head,vogue “🎼……… Aotearoa…… DM litigate big guns…… Subpoena demeanour ……… “ocean view,or the hills princess?”…… “ ones posterior is sore” …… “ I warned you old thing”…… “ Bugger them, tomorrow’s chip paper!!”……… “ I want a monkeeeeey!!🦄🐒

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Big 18

MM ANON , MANY BLESSINGS AND SALUTATIONS FOR THE SKIPPY GANG ……… (my bad!! ) …… ONWARDS TOWARDS THE JUDICIAL INCARCERATION OF MADAM. Please dear sweet Jesus let the righteous triumph over the darkness that she’s bestowed on TBRF.

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Nov 19

MM ANON … Sharon concern about Forth Bridge …… operation updates …… charitable uncoupling …… LG takes a grip?…… GM on the QT with Harley St. ……

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Nov 19

MM ANON ………GM consults Chobanian…… Sharon,concerns about Forth Bridge. …… Charitable uncoupling ……… a worried sausage …… LG ‘quite confidence …… cogs oiled and ready …… Dark clouds over ninety mile beach …… “it’s a runaway train old boy”…… “PRUNING , autumn or Spring?”……” I’m only the messenger!!”……… W&K ,royalty personified …… “weathering the shower, it’s not a storm old boy”……

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Nov 19

MM ANON , Re-lesser anon, There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance … that principle is contempt prior to investigation. Just sayin’ 🤣🤣🤣

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Nov 20

MM ANON ……… LVH, she’s vanished” ……… BC , Arkan-SIDED……… 🎼” another one bites the dust “ 🎼………”the notebooks are no longer available”……”ones concerned and caring”…… Sandringham sanctuary …… Amazingly stoic “bloody fuss, piss off”……… W&Ks Support is continuous ……… C&C on recall?……” He had a multitude of secrets” …… warden patsy’s……All the ex-Presidents woM.E.N.…… “OMG,not another lift off?”

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Nov 20

VERY HAPPY 72nd WEDDING ANNIVERSARY 🍸🍸👑👑🍮🍮🎊🎉💞💞

Yes…A Very Happy Anniversary!🙏🏻❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Nov 20

MM ANON, ……… NOW EVERYONE CAN RETURN TO WHAT REALLY MATTERS ………… THE INCARNATION AND JUDICIAL CONCLUSION TO THE HIGH CRIMES AND MISDEMEANOURS OF THE COLONIAL CARPETBAGGER. 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

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Nov 20

MM ANON … THIS BLOG IS NOT PRO-PEDOPHILIA. PERIOD.

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Nov 21

MM ANON …… Hey’ RF!! I’m still not OK…… Daughters dilemma …… FBI delivers legal documents …… canary’s calling …… wittiness projection …… Max-well-on-Her-way-farer…… southern district documents verified …… Kuwaiti waity …… Lottie lustre camera caper…… DOC photo exhibition imminent …… “ I have a request”…… request denied !!…… USA demands archificial …… Northern flights.

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Nov 21

MM ANON ……💜💜💜💜💜. To all anons. I appreciate all submissions on the riddles, all are brilliant interpretations of words and meanings. BRAVA TO ALL !! …… PG is one of our much loved deciphering anons , so on a spiritual level we pray for dear PG. prayers and positive energy for our dear much loved friend. 💜💜💜💜💜💜 prayers for Mr skippy and PG. 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜❤️❤️❤️❤️💜💜💜💜

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Nov 22

For PG

MM ANON 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜WELCOME BACK PG💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜it’s good to have you back. 💜💜

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Nov 22

MM ANON, O’SKIPPY, the angel who opened a dog hospice, ……… I CRIED , I REALLY CRIED 😢😢 how wonderful, what thoughtfulness and humility a real HUMANITARIAN!!! Hey nutmeg, how about donating a dress price to this canine saint. GOD BLESS YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

It really is something…earth angels are with us to restore faith in humanity, we are seeing more earth angels now as the world is dark we are learning. Thank you God for giving us these amazing stories and anons who bring them.🙏🏻❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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Nov 22

MM ANON, Dear skippy i posted riddle earlier today 🤣💜💜💜. 🎼🎼🎼🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🎼🎼🎼

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Nov 22

MM ANON …a cuppa and a trot…… “ no damage darling”…… “W&K will pick up the slack”…… “ let’s go visit the old bugger”…… A Christmas PR push…… “ she has to show archificial “……… Harry and Sandringham??……… “ for goodness sake,nanny had the night off” ……… “it’s a wonderful Christmas card darling”………… will boss baby go viral??………Mmm , Little punk Prince!

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Nov 23

MM ANON …… “ it’s not Andrew it’s Meeeee!!”…… “suits is a positive act”🤣🤣……… “ life is like a box of chocolates”…… “Doritos here”……… “I’ll cook a turkey dinner”…… Charles Champion……… “ we’ll have to, in the speech??”…… media vita in Monte sumus…… “something borrowed ,someone’s blue”…… “Christmas’Blue Water,Lottie,”…… “Unicorrrrrns”🦄🦄……… “strictly Party Nanny 🥳”……… “ bit of week old thing, hugs!!”…… “ and a large sherry”……… “ a large malt”

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Nov 24

ALLEGEDLY/ MM / NANNY/…… ALL THE GANG. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️🎼🎼🎼🎼❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️💜💜🙏🏻HAPPY BIRTHDAY SKIPPY HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY.

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Nov 24

MM ANON …… a homecoming hiatus …… Top of the Pops👑👑…… “ And when they were only half way up”……… “ it’s going to be a PA tabloid tsunami”…… 🎼”potato,patarto, lets call the whole thing off”🎼……… “just take the bloody photo”……… “a horrified positive Pratt”…… 🎼” iiiiim’putin on my top hat”🎼……… Kate’ “I do everything he dose, only backwards and in six inch heels, and with three children”…… “ I trust in William old thing”…… “Sir!! focus,a century is demanded!”…………… 🎼”pictures of Lily”🎼

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Nov 25

MM ANON ………lay a place for Vlad?…… lovers knot hiding …… Kate ,Melania & Ivanka shine …… nutmeg crashes posh-nosh?…… “ it’s just impeachy’Donald” ……… “ no chance Ma’am”……… “Hows the Dook?”…… “a special Yuletide for a million reasons ,ma’am”…… legalities,Banalities,Calamities …… “2020, I’m an optimist Christopher”…… “less is more, ma’am”

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Nov 26

MM ANON … “ it’s a Mozzi bite …… wed-ding-a-ling …… “my advice ‘ have it in Italy”’…… “ She’s crippled with shame”……… “I saw her with archificial yesterday in Waitrose,“ …… “from Windsor to Winnipeg”. ……… Andy, Charles and Clarence ,……”thanksgiving ‘ darling she went back to LA”…… “ but ,but, but the SOOOOOOPKITCHEN!!! “…… spin ,grin and a bottle of gin…… 🎼”I’m dreaming of a ( WOC) Christmas “🎼……… “Sandringham old thing, fuck the election”. …… “ ones duty first Philip”……… “ don’t mention him”

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*** Nov 27. Answer

MM ANON, DEAR ANONS, TO BE HONEST, I didn’t even know where Winnipeg was!! I was speculating where nutmeg was going to end up at Christmas? I now know that I’ve upset the whole pop. of Winnipeg……… SO SORRY ! Sorry PG. 💜💜💜💜💜

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Nov 27

MM ANON … Archificial carves the Turkey …… Megan BURNS the gravy……Frogmore or LESS… ” Harry PULLS a CRACKER”… Dorito’ where is Dorito??…… An-drew the short straw… Con-sort it out Charles … swimmingly!!🦄🦎 …… “ the general public would lap it up your Highness” …… “ little stars”……… 🎼four and twenty Black-Birds🎼…… “Frozen film party at KP”…… “Darling I’ll cook, how many?”…… “14, no problem!!”…… “a ten pounder”…… “Kate’s cooking old thing”…… “another drink Philip?”… “wait till Christmas Eve !!”

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Nov 28

MM ANON ……… pencil thin 👀…… 👧👦🏼👶🎡🎢🎠……… maple, leaf it alone ……… 🛩who knows?……… “one has responsibilities Charles”……… “ six weeks’ and they can’t show the bloody baby.”…… “flown out , bloody good job!!”……… send up the menu!! …… very secure ma’am!! ……… all those SS chappies…… “ I hear she’s quiet the English Rose” ……… “ if only!!”……… “good stock, don’t cha’ know”…… DEEP and CRISP and IVAN…… He’ll stop their extravagant travel. ……… “ charades ,old thing”. …” pass the parcel,Philip!!”

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Nov 29

MM ANON …… 🎼 build it up with wood and clay🎼 ……… a crown script …… Harry’s rapid response …… the wrong side of the tunnel ……… “give time,time old boy”……… “ if it was Good enough for HM”……… tagged ,bad, and dangerous to know ……… look ,listen and learn ……… black fry-day……”nowhere as secluded as Sandringham”……… “she’s a beauty mate, breath of fresh air”

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Nov 30

MM ANON ……… “Darling’ please pass the Wrinkle cream” ………”she’s on this blog I read”💜……… “ we’ve been invited to the Boxing Day shoot” …… WoW ‘ that’s a beautiful photo Kate …… “he’s to young ‘ good grief William!!”…… ‘This cobra has no fangs ……… “The service, maybe bring C&G.” ……… “ The spring diary ma’am’ was thinking they could do The America’s and Canada” ……… “ the Children too”…… “what say you Philip?” …… “indubitable , old thing” …… “ Settled!!”……” Sidney’ more refreshments”

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Dec 1

MM ANON, I’m watching series 1 of the crown, BRILLIANTLY WRITTEN AND EDITED. The filming is so accurate and attention to detail. I remember Norman Hartnell designing the Queens wardrobe for the commonwealth tour. My mother was a dress-maker so I watched everything she watched. Methinks the Queen had something to do with this because it’s so accurate. Reason, she’s 92 ‘ what a visual legacy. I can imagine her throwing a ashtray at Philip, and HIS secret dalliances. EPIC!!

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4 notes · View notes

tarithenurse · 5 years

Text

On my mind, in my Soul - 3

Prompt: Three items to intergrate: Purple, Art Installation, and Crazy by Gnarles Barkley (passages shown as blockquotes). Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Angst x a lot, references to violence, criminal activities, dislike of modern art, abduction, swearing...maybe other stuff too... A/N: It’s the Loki we know, but he’s made himself a home on Earth, curating an impressive collection of valuables from across the universe – all for himself and the fame he finds despite the New York incident.

Crazy

The next day, you’d been sore. Cold into the bones in a way that no hot showers or mugs of tea could purge because it wasn’t just physical. The “visit” and events at Loki’s manor had been bad enough. You hadn’t needed him showing up in your room, your home, only for you to want him so shamelessly as you had to the point where you’d begged for him without a care of what might happen. But in the harsh light of day, it scared you shitless how easily you’d given in.

I remember, I remember when I lost my mind There was something so pleasant about that place

That’s when you made the decision.

Taking the pendant, you’d placed it in a box with a note telling him you didn’t want to play his games. It had smarted when you slid the lid on, hiding the gleaming eye from view to be wrapped up in brown paper, tape, and a hastily scribbled address. The same day you sent it, you sold the little apartment and took refuge in the safehouse where you hopefully could plot your next steps in safety.

Hopefully.

It was tempting to keep running until you’d reached the other side of the earth where no one would know you and you could start over, pretending to be someone else. But each time you considered the idea, the chill would stir in your bones, reminding you just how quickly he’d found you. No. It wouldn’t help to run, because how could you hide from a magic-wielding extra-terrestrial? Even across the ocean, it’d just be a matter of time before he’d find you if that’s what he wanted…and you’d have no way to stand your ground. Whenever you got to this point in your internal ramblings, you’d hear his voice seething with anger at the idea that he might take you against your will. Oddly…you believed that, at least. Maybe it was the memory of the blow sending you skidding across the gleaming floor in his home?

That hadn’t been his magic. Watching yourself in the mirror, the decision made itself for you, and over the next days you snuck out to pick up the equipment you needed, making sure to stay away from your usual haunts.

You spend months staying indoors as much as possible, the time used on online studies and all the training you could accomplish within the safety of the walls of your home. And why not? The last few jobs had lined the coffers plenty and you had no interest in drawing attention to yourself or your hiding hole.

So the instructional videos kept rolling as you mimicked the movements and stances, soon discarding the padding on the dummies and the gloves because you knew none of the pretence would steel you for the real deal. Hands and wrists bruised after the thousands of impacts with the hard material, your ankles had twisted on more than one occasion, adding a limp to your normally cat-like movements.

…

A person can only stay cooped up due to external influences for so long before they begin to feel a prisoner in their own home. Pacing the concrete floors, there’s no joy to find in the sheltered place because you need to breathe freely again, need to navigate the bustle of the city and be a part of it rather than simply watching from the outside. And you need a challenge. Money’s not run out yet, but it’s getting closer which tempts you to pick your old contacts for a connection. A job that entails more than just making a plan based on information other people have provided that they too will be the ones to pull off. And of course the perfect temptation’s waiting for you…there’s just one hiccup…

And I hope that you are having the time of your life But think twice That’s my only advice

…

Gliding through the crowd like liquid purple, it takes little effort to make it to the place in the gallery where the object’s hanging. Art, fart. The artist is more than famous throughout the world, but most of his works contain less meaning than the concrete of the building…although you find the huge legume-seed childishly entertaining with the warped reflections. These installations? Huge discs with various colours, sculptures any Freudian psychologists would celebrate, and splashes of bloodred on shredded and pulled canvasses that makes you think of hospitals and pain. You can’t help the scoff that escapes you.

“Not to your liking?” The smooth voice curls around you like a snake.

There’s no reason to look for the speaker because only one person is capable of scaring and arousing you with a simple sentence. Not this time. Without an answer, you leave Loki standing before the black void of a concave, the rustle of the silk dress soothing your nerves only slightly.

You’ve seen what you need to formulate a plan, shocked at the lax in security at the private gallery where works regularly are auctioned off to the rich crowd, the ones who always are eager to seem like they live the perfect life when in reality theirs suck just as badly as anyone else’s…it’s just nicer to cry in an Aston Martin. With a notoriety like that, it isn’t a surprise that Loki’s around even though you’d hoped to be lucky because modern art isn’t anywhere to be seen in his collection.

He corners you at the wardrobe, of course. Why had you decided to check in your coat? Right, you weren’t allowed to carry it with you…maybe they thought people would sneak out a one and-a-half meter in diameter art installation under the trench coat. Either way, you just have time to consider leaving the piece of clothing behind when the cool of his presence envelops you, sweetly familiar yet frighteningly so.

“[Y/N]…”

There’s a pained edge to his voice that makes the air stick in your throat and your hands shake when you accept the coat from the attendant who’s blissfully unaware of the severity of the situation. Just a few words, a plea for help, and you’d be safe from the Asgardian. For a while. The admission carries dread, drenching you in silent resignation from its wake. Not giving in, though, and you pull the coat on before turning, striding past the tall man who’s dressed in his signature black and green.

Cold air fills your lungs and shimmies up your bare legs. Already, a cab’s waiting by the curb hoping for a fare and maybe a fat tip considering the visitors to the gallery behind you. Voicelessly, you slip in, collecting the purple fabric before closing the door. Only then do you urge him to drive, the destiny’s a fancy hotel.

As the engine rumbles, propelling the car onto the road and through the checkered pattern of the city while you see absolutely nothing of the scenery, too engulfed in your thoughts. You’re supposed to be plotting now, conjuring up the elegant plans ensuring you not just access to, but also an exit route with, the prize that will land you a fat paycheck…still, the task is jarring as every thought is disrupted by the echo of Loki’s voice and the haunting glimpse you’d seen of his face.

Not my bloody problem! Groaning silently, your head lolls onto the headrest beside yours. So what, if the man’s looking haggard? An obsession burning in his eyes that’s nearly drowned out by a pain you don’t want to recognize because if you do, you’ll know how badly off you are too. Fuck. Everything would’ve been simpler if you’d never decided to rob the God of Mischief, but here you are and it was only your logic telling you to run.

Here we are.

Here we are?

Sitting up straight, you study the world outside the cab with big eyes, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists in your lap. You aren’t on the way to the hotel, you’re not even anywhere near the neighbourhood you’d planned for but rather in an area with rich brick houses spread wide enough to hide on lawns surrounded by bushes and trees, the only official access points being the gated driveways. Just as you reach for the door handle, the car bumps over the softened curb and pushes a puff of stale air past your trembling lips, but the door’s locked and the driver ignores your frantic pleas when you urge him to let you out, to let you go. Anything but bringing you to Loki’s manor looming ahead in the dark.

Your struggle continues when the car door finally opens to allow a couple of burly private guards to reach for you. Fuck, are you happy you’ve spent all that time training martial arts and self defense…but in the end, there’s nothing you can do against these bundles of muscle and you’re dragged through the house up to the top floor where you’re deposited in a bedroom.

Ever since I was little it looked like fun And it's no coincidence I've come And I can die when I'm done

Dishevelled and afraid, you scream yourself hoarse while pounding at the door, only interrupted when you try to unlock windows with the few tools you’d snug along in the purse, but nothing helps, and you sink onto the blackness on the giant bed. No tears. Fighting back the desperation, you take in the surroundings, noting the wall-to-wall wardrobe covered in mirrors which makes the room seem grander than it is. Not that it needs extra square meters added to the endless moss-green carpet that’s the resting place for furniture of honeyed wood and leather. Pillows of the signature green silk are tastefully tossed onto a low, soft bench by the window and next to you on the bed, echoing the shade across the floor. There’s another door, nearly invisibly carved into the wall, which brings a shimmer of hope back into your heart only to be smothered when all it turns out to be is a private bathroom.

…

You’ve gone through every nook and cranny the two rooms in search of a way to get out. After that, you’ve spent some time simply nosing about to learn more about the god before eventually taking care of your appearance. The way you see it, you might as well appear on top on the situation if you’re going to have to talk yourself out of this mess…if Loki can be reasoned with, that is.

Regardless, your heart lodges itself in your throat at the sound of a key in the lock. Refusing to turn, there’s only the warped reflection in the window to prove that it really is him, your captor, that enters and relocks the door, adding a golden shimmer to the mechanism with a wave of his hand. Not a word’s uttered as he discards the suit jacket and then the tie onto a chair by the wardrobe.

The heavy sigh rattles you to your core. “I’m sorry for this, [Y/N].” Glancing briefly, you see how he runs a hand over his face, rubbing the tired eyes momentarily. “I can only imagine what you must think of me, truly…but I need you to hear me out, alright?”

It’s not like you have a choice, really, and this conversation has started nothing like you’d expected. “Then talk.”

#loki fanfic #loki x reader #loki marvel #loki x you #On my Mind in my Soul #Loki Laufeyson #loki odinson #Loki odinson x reader #Loki Laufeyson x reader #loki angst #Loki au #Loki on earth #Loki in midgard #Loki lemon series #Loki x burglar #reader insert #mcu fanfiction

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reblogggay · 6 years

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Black and Yellow (A Bumblebee Fanfic.) - Chapter 1

This is my Bumblebee Fanfic and would appreciate if it received some love! I’m only gonna post half of this because its way too long.

Summary:

"You've got some nerve, Yang."

"And you've got some nerve showing your face at a place like this."

Yang, popular All-star Basketball player, is the reputation of the school. With her outstanding grades, loving family and friends, she was what everyone aspired to be. Stakes are higher than ever before and with only a year until she graduates. It only takes one person to ruin her reputation, and one person to ruin the peace. That's where Blake comes in, and it's up to Yang to clean up the mess.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16290134/chapters/38098526

The door to Beacon Highschool opened with the wind; cold and dry. It rushed through the hallway, with a spirit of a lion banging on every locker in its midst. A bounce, and the sound of rubber skidding onto the reflective floor, stood a senior with thick yellow hair cascading at the back of her muscled shoulders, and purple eyes that looked like the rare colour of sunset shifting into the night. Catching the ball one-handedly, she removed her aviator glasses, placing it inside her adidas bag. Her eyes snapped up, and the students who clung to the walls, were now merging into one big stampede rushing after the girl. Arms raised, with papers flying behind them, the girl couldn't help but feel like Simba from the 'Lion King.'

"BEACON! BEACON! BEACON! BEACON!" The students shouted, swallowing up the poor girl. She felt like a celebrity, waving and smiling at everyone who saw her, or maybe it felt closer to a god, because she had the ability to divide the students as she walked forward.

"Start with a Yang, and end with a Bang!" They chanted, she waved.

"Yang, Yang for the win!" Yang couldn't help but chuckle, and raise her hands to the beat. She was soaking up her win with a smug look on her face. "Yang always wins!"

This has become an occasional 'event', since the first year of high-school. It all started out with one game, with her winning a game by 28- 12, then another game 56 - 32, then another 61 - 22. Beacon was a well renown top prestigious school, for their academics, music, and sports in their early years. However Beacon's status for sport was tarnished by none-other than the 'Grimfang Valley College', who called out one of the coaches, Coach Lionheart; for the use of steroids.

Due to this accusation, police investigations took over everything that revolved around sporting activities for the school. By questioning and interrupting most of the student's routines, and calling practice off by drug testing members of the team. It took a hit on the school, and took a bigger chunk when Coach Lionheart was caught with the possession of steroids. The school didn't want to believe it, but the media did, and made it worse by individually calling out members of the faculty. Beacon became a walking target for everyone who attended it or even got involved with it. Other events fuelled the fire causing the spirit of Beacon to die.

A few years later, Yang awed the crowd by the skip in her step, and the magic flick of her wrist, the moment she stepped onto the basketball court. With her little hops, each shot she flung, was with impressive precession landing inside the hoop almost soundlessly. From then on Yang was the star and leverage of the school. The leverage being the metaphor of the reputation of the school. She could feel the weight she needed to pull for them, literally and figuratively. The constant pats on her shoulders were a a sign of that.

The crowd and the chants had finally dispersed, knowing that Yang had found her way to her locker. She twisted the black knob, opening the locker, to find herself staring back at her. She took a deep breath, before getting the books which she needed to start the class. Yang closed it, and only meters from her, a door opened, revealing Principal Ozpin.

"Miss Xiao Long, may I speak to you please." Ozpin called over, before disappearing behind the door. She followed after him inside, then passed by happy coffee drinking staff members who had completely stopped talking to stare at her.

"Morning Everyone." Yang smiled.

"Hello Miss Xiao Long, pulled off a great win last night!" A man at the computer cheered.

"Oh, by my word! You don't credit her enough. What a fantastic win, you pulled off last night Miss Xiao Long! Very very impressive!" Another man gruffed into his moustache.

"Thank you, Mr Verne and Mr Pascito."

"It's good we're not on the chopping block anymore." Mr Verne remarked turning towards Mr Pascito.

"God knows how much Miss Xiao Long, is making an image for the school!"

Yang rolled her eyes at them. Their bickering was nothing new. It use to make her blood boil when they did because Mr Verne would always turn to Mr Pascito and talk about her, in front of her. However as long they were happy, then it was fine with her. She waved off to them out of instinct knowing that they were too distracted in their conversation. She entered Ozpin's office, which unsurprisingly had two chairs in front of his desk and laminated quotes of motivation on the wall.

"Love the new decorations Ozpin." She joked sarcastically, looking at her favourite quote on the wall of a rock-climber, with the words 'Don't give up, Live up. "I think the next time, I'll come in here I'll bring a plant to bring out the colour of your office."

Ozpin came around the desk and sat down humming to her "Hmm, I do believe that's what this office is missing. Thanks for the thought," Yang sat up proudly, then vibrated her lips. "So how was your win against Sanus? I heard lots of praise from the students this morning, and much more from the teachers."

The moment Ozpin said this, Yang bursted into a boisterous rant about the basketball game. Occasionally she got up from the chair and mimicked the movements she did on the court, since the win was still fresh in her head.

"...The horn goes off, and the ball lands swish into the hoop," She gushed slumping onto her chair, exhausted from telling her story. "It was amazing."

Ozpin applauses at her, with a grin plastered on his face "What an interesting story."

"Hopefully that wasn't sarcastic." Yang chuckled while rubbing at the back of her neck.

"I can assure you it's not," He said smiling at her. "But that's not what I'm here to talk about."

"Oh, right. Awkward." She said awkwardly rubbing at the back of her neck.

Ozpin chuckled, "No, the issue I'm talking about, revolves around your win against Sanus. I got an email this morning, from a Basketball judge watching the game and they said they're quite pleased with the skills you had to offer. They wanted to ask you, if they could judge you for your next game, to decide if you're worth the scholarship at their University; Huntress Academy."

"Huntress Academy?!" Yang stood up in disbelief.

"Yes 'the' Huntress Academy.'" Ozpin clarified, emphasising the 'the.'

"But that's hardest school to get into. They accept the unacceptable!"

"I'm not sure what you mean by that."

" What I mean is that, they only accept the best of the best. Only Atlas people get scholarships." Yang stated pacing around the room, and Ozpin hummed stroking his chin in comprehension.

"It must be, that you're standards meet they're standards." Ozpin explained, comforting Yang who had finally stopped pacing. "They want an answer by next week and if you don't accept it, then I'm afrai-"

"No!" Yang halted, as Ozpin looked at her curiously through his spectacles. "I want to go to Huntress Academy."

"That's the spirit." Ozpin smiled at her proudly. The conversation continued about what the judge had expected from Yang, and that's to meet the perquisites of the Academy. They demanded good grades, good behaviour and most of all a good performance for each game which was unsurprising to Yang. They urged Yang to maintain a good diet and to meet the required fitness that they expected from her, which meant longer training times for her and less time working on her team. She had a long ways to go and judging from the email, Yang needed to work on the criteria which was all new to her, and fast before the next game which was in 3 weeks.

Yang was at the door when Ozpin asked if she was okay with it, to which she replied.

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

Yang had taken her seat in the far corner of the room, closest to the window. Her class being a few stories high, it was hard not to admire the little figures running from one side of the field across to the other. She reached for the window, and opened it, letting the fresh air circulate inside the room. It wasn't as chilly as it was, since the sun was now high in the sky. While staring out onto the field, she imagined herself wearing the Blue Huntress jersey, with the number '1' at the back of it. It was still a long way to go, but it scared her to think that this could be her reality.

The trill of the bell, called for the whispers to die, and before she knew it, Professor Oobleck was motioning for a someone to come into the room. Doc Martins heels appeared from the door, which clicked at the touch of the floor. Yang's eyes trailed up from their shoes, to the person's endless legs, only to snap her eyes at the girl's face who had looked calm and collected. The girl wore a wore a V-neck zipped up blouse, where the sleeves came 3/4 up her arms. With black high-waist jeans held together by a belt and heeled doc martins. Her black hair fell behind her shoulders shimmering in the sunlight, tying her outfit together with a simple black bow at the top of her head. It was simple yet elegant.

Yang blinked twice at her before tuning into the Professor who sipped at his coffee mug. She now realised that the students were speaking in hushed whispers. A few boys, were ogling their eyes at her, especially a blonde haired boy whose expression was painted all over his face. Yang chuckled at Sun for his admiariabilty.

"Before I introduce you to the class, I will introduce myself! Yes precisely!" Oobleck said, before taking another sip of coffee. The girl gave him a soft smile, before turning her attention back to the class. "I am Dr Oobleck, your teacher for English Literature. And you are?"

"Blake," she said, her voice sounding crisp and soft. It was the softest voice Yang had ever heard. She couldn't stop staring at her, and so did the entire class. Oobleck was swishing his coffee cup around and continued to look at Blake, which was a cruel habit of his, to pressure the answer out of a student. Blake's eyes had flicked back and fourth between the cup, and his spectacles, "Belladonna."

"Well Miss Belladonna," He sipped cheerfully, leaning back to his formal uptight posture "I hope you have a nice stay here at Beacon. I must ask, has anyone showed you around the school yet? Showed you where your classes were?"

"I think I can manage."

Oobleck does not take no for an answer. "You're too brave Miss Belladonna, which is what our world needs, but! Our school has more mazes than the newspaper has to offer. How about a buddy to help you out?"

Blake just shrugged and smiled. She turned back to the class, and her warm ember sun-lit eyes fell on Yang, causing Yang's heart to shrink. She was scared that the thumping of her heart would be loud enough to hear, but Blake's gaze only lasted a second before looking somewhere else.

"Miss Xiao Long," Oobleck sipped motioning his coffee cup towards her, bringing Blake's attention back to Yang. Yang's breath hitched. "You know English literature at the back of your hand, why don't you show Miss Belladonna around the school for a quick minute?"

"But sir," Oobleck's spectacles fell down to the tip of his nose, his green eyes staring back at her. She shook her head before standing up. She had met his green eyes a few times, and whenever it happened, everyone knew that all hell would break lose if he wasn't obeyed. Blake eyes never left her, she could feel it at the back of her neck as she walked past her. When Yang walked past, Blake had smelt like a mix of sweet vanilla and coconut. It was intoxicating, that she wished she walked a bit slower.

"Make sure you show her our music facilities!" Oobleck mentioned, as Blake and Yang we're walking out the door. Yang signed with her thumbs up then closed the door after.

"That's professor Oobleck for you."

"Is he always like this?" She asked, her voice resembling much like a purring kitten up close.

"Like a time-ticking bomb ready to go off? Yes." Yang said before turning towards her, finding a smile plastered on Blake's face. Yang puffed her cheeks out, feeling the heat emit from it. "So where to Miss Belladonna?"

They started walking around the school, passing by all the classes that Blake had which were: Calculus Maths, English Literature, Chemistry, Physics, World History, and Government Studies.

"So you're smart?" Yang asked, when they passed by Calculus Maths.

"You could say that."

"Why Chemistry?" Yang asked, when they passed by Chemistry.

"Why not?"

"Why Physics?" Yang asked, when they passed Physics.

"Cause, Cars."

"Why World History?" Yang asked when they passed World History.

"To learn about World History."

"Why Government studies?" Yang finally asked when they passed government studies.

"To become President."

Yang either chuckled or shook her head at the surprisingly snarky remarks the girl had to offer. It added to modest demeanour, making Blake as charming as her. Ironically, Yang had asked more questions then Blake did, but the more she did, the more she got comfortable with the girl beside her. The only classes that Yang and Blake had in common was Chemistry and English Literature, Yang sighed a part of her hoping that she had more classes with her, to befriend her. Call Yang selfish for planning out the longest possible route to each class, for wanting to spend more time with the black haired girl. Luckily Oobleck, had given them an end location which was on the other-side of the school before they would go back to class.

"So, as you know the school is funded by the Schnee family.That's how we get all the nice computers, newly renovated classrooms, and of course the second best stage Vale has to offer, the first being at Atlas." Yang acknowledged while walking backwards in front of her.

"But this is a highschool." Blake stated.

"Yes, glad you noticed that." Yang joked, causing Blake to roll her eyes.

"Knowing them, we would probably be indebted to them." Blake huffed.

Oh feisty.

"But, the thing is Weiss Schnee attends this school, and they think they owe it to us to by accepting her."

"Why's that?"

"Family issues i'm guessing?" Yang questioned, which was replied back by a soft hum from Blake.

They reached the door of the auditorium, and Yang entered it leaving the door open for Blake to walk through. The lights were dimmed, and a white spotlight focused on centre stage. From what Blake could see, the auditorium had been more like a theatre. There were stage boxes built in the walls and a balcony just above them. Yang pulled on Blake's sleeve, lowering her down on the seat next to her. Even in the dark, she could feel how grand their auditorium was, based on the soft cushioned seat she was sitting on. The curtains opened, revealing a silver haired girl, with a grey elegant dress, and white bolero with red underneath its collar. Her high side pony tail, was recognisably tied by a crown like tie, and not a single baby hair was out of place. Her figure screamed loyalty and Blake finally recognised who she was.

"That's Weiss." Yang pointed out, and Blake nodded at her even though she knew.

Tale as old as time.

True as it can be

Weiss eyes was closed as she sung the song, her head tilted towards the side revealing a scar on her eye. Blake wondered to herself how she had gotten it.

"Some say she's related to Harry potter." Yang smirked.

"Of course you would think that."

Barely even friends

Then somebody bends

Unexpectedly

Weiss opened her eyes, and looked into the spotlight daringly, as if it looked down on her.

Just a little change.

Small to sa-

She was cut off, by a heavy thud on the balcony, and the spotlight flicked up to the roof of the building. Then another heavy thud landed, with a groan echoing through the space.

"Oh no." Yang mumbled, before running to the back of theatre to where the stairs lead to the balcony, leaving Blake in her seat. It was still dark, and Blake had no idea where to go.

"Lights please," Weiss huffed, shaking her head towards the ground. The lights snapped open, revealing all the fancy colours of maroon and gold on every seat, carpet and wall. The boxes had a maroon banisters hanging from its balcony, with a lion in the middle. The stage was much wider than she had expected. It was wide enough to have fit a 50m pool. This was child-play compared to the other school she went to. Another groan echoed, and Weiss was mumbling to herself still shaking her head side to side. "This is the 4th time you've done this."

"Sorryyyyyy." The voice wheezed from the balcony. Blake followed where Yang had left at the stairs, she turned and then saw Yang lifting the stage spotlight which was crushing a red-haired girl. Yang placed it beside and away from both of them, then surveyed the red haired girl's face.

"Do it properly, or I'm getting Jaune!" Weiss shouted from the stage, catching Blake's attention from the balcony. Weiss slid of the stage to meet the person with the clipboard below.

The person with the clipboard shouted at the corner of the stage, which echoed up into the roof then to them. "It's okay Ruby! Doing a good job!"

"Make sure you're taking care of yourself okay? These things are heavier than they look." Yang sat up, looking at the girl who had her thumbs up. Yang looked back to Blake who was watching them intently.

"I know, I know." The little girl slumped. "But what am I suppose to do if Weiss looks so pretty, and she's looking at me an-" She stops mid-sentence, her eyes landing on Blake. "Oh no." She cursed. Her hands buried her face and the girl started mumbling things into her hands.

"Oh," Yang realised. "Ruby, this is Blake Belladonna. Blake this is Ruby Rose, my sister."

Blake raised her hand out of instinct, and Ruby detached her hands from her face to shake Blake's hand.

"Nice to meet you." Ruby frowned.

"And you." Blake replied, and saw that she was still miserable about the situation. "I won't tell. I promise."

"Thank you." Ruby nodded smiling at Blake who smiled back at her.

"So what are you working on?" Blake asked the silence becoming dangerously awkward. She was curious about Yang and Ruby being sisters. Their appearances being nothing but similar. Blonde Hair had contrasted with her Black and Red Hair, Silver Eyes to Purple, but what stood at the most was their personalities. She didn't want to overstep her boundaries, and instead played it safe.

"Beauty and the Beast, the Disney version" Ruby said animatedly.

"Oh, is that the one where the Uncle gets incarcerated because he steals a flower from the castle?" Yang questioned.

"That's a funny way of putting it," Ruby chuckled, while Blake smirked. "but yeah that's what happened."

"Serves him right. Stealing is a crime."

"He had his reasons." Blake added.

"And so does every murderer." Yang shot back.

"True, but depending on the reasons, it can sometimes outweigh the crime."

"That's not how it works," Yang furrowed her eyebrows at her, and Blake was staring back at her with the same fury. It was overwhelming to say the least, and so Yang folded her arms at her. She was not going down without a fight. "Name one person who got away with their crime?"

Yang smirked at her cockily, and Blake still staring at her said "Jean Valjean."

Yang unfolded her arms surprised at how fast she had come up with it. She looked at her wide eyed, overwhelmed at the way Blake was staring back at her waiting for a response. "But he's not even a real person."

"Neither is the Uncle."

"Ooohhhhh." Ruby whispered yelled.

"Well I mean, he didn't technically get away with his crime." Yang excused, feeling the argument slipping from her side. "He escaped which is different."

Blake's lips curled smugly, knowing that Yang already knew that she lost. "We both know that doesn't happen." As much as Yang wanted to rebut back, Blake was right. The policemen who had arrested him had decided to free Jean Valjean due to his reasons of committing his crime. He became a better person, and helped people even though he was an escaped prisoner. After all, the crime he committed was stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving nephew.

"Whatever." Yang huffed, looking anywhere but at her. She could hear a small laugh from Blake, who was failing to cover it up, with her hands over her mouth. Butterflies in her stomach erupted, the sound of it forever echoing in her mind. It was sweet, and soft that she wondered what it would sound like if she made her laugh longer.

"Ruby!" Weiss yelled from the stage. "What are you doing up there?"

Ruby made her way towards the balcony, and pointed at the spotlight which had fallen on her. "Nothing! Just fixing up some technical difficulties."

"I guess we should stop yanging around now." Yang whispered to Blake over Ruby's voice. Ruby turned to Yang while Weiss was still yelling at her, and gave her a thumbs up, as Yang and Blake slipped away unnoticed. As soon as the door closed behind them, the bell rung ending first period.

"Did you get my joke? Yanging around?" Yang asked nudging her arm.

"Yea, it was funny." Blake nodded.

"Well why aren't you laughing?"

And Blake simply shrugged her shoulders.

"Cause it Weissn't good enough."

Yang bursted out laughing obnoxiously.

The rest is on Archive of Our Own

#bumblebee #Blake and Yang #rwby #bumbleby #fanfic #sun wukong #blake belladonna #yang xiao long #ruby rose #weiss schnee #pyrrha nikos #jaune arc #highschool

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