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theskywaslookingback · 3 years

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[AO3] - [read the rest of the series here]

Martin has the TV set to a low murmur, letting Bake Off reruns play in the background as he combs his fingers through Gerry’s hair. It’s warm in the flat, the summer worming its way in through the cracks of the place and turning everything hot and tight. The fan is louder than the TV, oscillating back and forth between the two bodies slumped on the sofa and the one on the chair.

Jon grumbles as the movement rustles his papers, his glasses low on his nose and gaze intent on the paper he’s reading.

“You know,” Gerry says from his comfortable position on Martin’s lap, “if you didn’t assign so much work, you wouldn’t have so much to grade.”

Martin pinches Gerry’s ear in admonishment as Jon makes a noise of protest from his comfortable perch on the arm chair. Gerry yelps and then laughs, swatting at Martin’s hand.

“I’m just saying, you do this to yourself.”

“Hush,” Martin says, tugging gently on a lock of black hair, “It’s too hot to deal with you.”

Gerry hums, picking his head up enough to wink at Jon who just sighs in reply. Gerry settles back in and Martin resumes his petting. It’s nice, despite the heat, one of the very few days they have to spend together. Jon had offered to help out with a summer class at the university that had been overbooked and Gerry had recently been promoted to manager at the bar he’d been working for, which was all phenomenal and Martin was so proud of them both, but it left them all with shockingly little time together.

Martin’s thumb strokes down Gerry’s neck, rubbing over an old tattoo of an eye, pressing down slightly at the pupil. Gerry huffs a breath into his lap and turns just enough to look at him. “Hi,” Martin says.

“Hey.” Comes the soft reply, warm and fond.

Martin would very much like to kiss him, but that would require a level of flexibility he’s never possessed, so he settles for bringing his own hand up to his palm and kissing the center of it before setting it back down lightly over Gerry’s mouth. He can feel the smile tugging at Gerry’s lips before his palm is being kissed in return and Martin brings it back up to his mouth. “Tea?” He asks after finishing the ritual.

“Christ,” Jon says, letting his papers and pen fall onto the small table at his side. The pen jumps at the small shock and rolls off onto the floor. “Please? If I don’t take a break I may actually start pulling my hair out.”

“Well we wouldn’t want that.” Martin says.

“Mmm, I don’t know.” Gerry says, tapping his finger to his chin as if in indecision, “Bald can be sexy. I seem to recall a time when you shaved your head and it didn’t look that bad.”

“Oh?” Delight suffuses through Martin like honeyed sunshine, “Now that’s something I would have loved to have seen.”

Gerry’s face lights up and he sits bolt upright. “Wait here a second,” he says before hopping off the couch and bounding toward the bedroom. There’s a loud crack, like the door has banged off a wall, and then the sound of things hitting the floor in a hurry.

Martin looks over at Jon, bewildered, but Jon just gives a helpless shrug, looking just as lost as he feels. He’s about to get up and go see just what the hell Gerry is doing when he comes tearing back into the room, clutching something in his hands.

“Look!” He crows, clearly pleased with himself, and hands out a book to Martin.

It’s not very large, about the size of a standard journal, and bound in worn, brown leather. The front of it is scuffed, the top corner bent inward like it’d been stepped on or stuffed somewhere and left like that for a long time, forgotten. “What is-“

From the chair he hears Jon say, “Is that-“

But Gerry drowns them both out with his plea of, “Open it!”

So Martin does.

Inside the front cover is a mess of pen drawings and doodles. A stylized eye, a moth, an anarchy symbol, a middle finger, half of them overlapping and the lines blurring. There’s a burst of black in the top right, a dark blot like a burst pen. In the center of the mess are big blocky letters, all caps.

PROPERTY OF GERRY KEAY

Below that, in a much smaller font that Martin can only decipher from years of recognition and practice.

and Jon Sims.

Martin looks up at Gerry who just grins and flops back down on the couch next to him, pressing hard up against his side like he’s eager to watch. Martin flips to the next page.

There’s a polaroid taped to the center, two young boys staring up at him with twin grins of mischief and joy. The boy on the left has chestnut brown hair cropped short. His mouth and hands look sticky and stained a bright red, the likely cause of which being the ice lolly stick still clutched in his right hand. The boy on the right is much smaller, with unruly black hair and red stains on his button down shirt and a matching red mouth. At the bottom someone had written in a tight, cursive script ‘Gerard and Jonathan, August 1999.’ Someone had drawn an ice cream van on the bottom of the page. At the top, in Gerry’s capital letter font, were the words PARTNERS IN CRIME.

The following pages are similar, photos taped onto the pages, sometimes overlapping each other. Some were clearly taken by Jon’s grandmother - the two of them dressed in suits for some function, the two of them sitting at a table and studying, the two of them asleep in the backyard. Others were clearly taken by the two themselves - Gerry smoking a cigarette and flipping off the camera, Jon holding a bottle of beer, Jon reaching for the camera and looking angry, Gerry riding a skateboard, Gerry on the ground with his skateboard upside down next to him. Some of them held commentary - WE LOOKED LIKE TWATS we were eleven!, Gerry has never once landed a kick flip HEY!!!!, we stayed up waiting for the meteor shower, BEST MATES FOR LIFE. Even more held doodles - ocean waves crashing against a rock, a pair of doves, zig zag mazes and tic tac toe, a lit cigarette and a bottle of beer.

“Ah-ha!” Gerry exclaims when Martin is more than halfway through the book, jamming his finger down at the picture taped there.

Martin jumps and looks at him.

“I knew it was in here,” Gerry says smugly.

By this point it looked as if Gerry had already started dying his hair black and growing it long, almost past his shoulders. His eyes were rimmed in black eyeliner and he had at least two piercings that Martin knew hadn’t come with parental permission. Next to him was Jon, hair buzzed down to his scalp and scowling impressively at the camera, wearing a too large leather jacket and a t-shirt for a band Martin had never heard of.

“Oh!” Martin says, grinning, “It looks so good!” He looks up to gauge Jon’s reaction, maybe even tease him a bit, but the words die quickly in his throat.

Jon’s looking right at Gerry, his face a mass of emotions that Martin is at a loss to try and describe. His eyes look wet.

“Jon?” Martin asks, concern tugging away his amusement and leaving it raw.

Gerry’s head snaps up, his own smile rapidly disappearing in the weight of Jon’s gaze.

There’s a long moment where none of them say anything and the room is stifling from the heat and tension. Martin looks between the two of them, trying to piece together what on earth could possibly be wrong, but he’s coming up short on pieces to work with.

It seems like forever before Jon finally says, “You kept it?” The tone of his voice is raw and brittle.

Martin very gently closes the book and sets in down on the coffee table.

Gerry’s mouth opens and closes a couple of times, confused noises eeking out like the squeaking of a rusted hinge. He seems almost as lost as Martin is. Finally his words take shape and land on, “Yes? Yeah, of course I did. Why wouldn’t I have?”

Jon’s eyes flicker away, to the oscillating fan and then to the TV kindly asking if they were still watching. He picks at a loose thread on the chair, fingers working anxiously. “I thought…after your mother- after you left- I thought that…”

Gerry’s eyebrows pull together, his lips tipping down into a frown. “What? Did you think I’d thrown it away?”

Jon shrugs, first one shoulder and then the other, like the collapse of a building. “Just kind of...assumed.” His hands were wringing together now, picking at the skin gently and scratching at his wrist. “After the...after the funeral we weren’t really talking, and then you were just...gone. Thought maybe…” Jon shrugs again, this time lower, hunching himself down smaller, “maybe you didn’t want to remember.”

Oh, Martin thought distantly. Gerry’s mother, Mary, had died when he was only 16, apparently by suicide. It had been a sudden, violent thing that had sent Gerry’s childhood spiraling in a direction he couldn’t control. Less than a week from the time his mother had died, Gerry had been uprooted from the home in Bournemouth he’d always lived in and made to move in with a distant relative named Gertrude up in London. He’d barely had time to process any of it, let alone let Jon know what was happening. It was over ten years before they’d seen each other again, and the gap had always been a sore spot for both Jon and Gerry.

Gerry makes a choked noise and crosses the room in quick strides to kneel in front of the chair. He gathers Jon’s hands in his own, cradling them together. “No,” he says, so softly Martin can barely hear him, “Not you.” He brings their hands up so he can kiss the backs of Jon’s hands, brush his lips over the knuckles. “I never wanted to forget you.”

Jon’s breath hitches.

Martin watches Gerry hold Jon’s hands to his face and mumble something that he can’t make out. Jon’s fingers twitch in response and he huffs out a breath. After a moment he gets up and goes into the kitchen to make them all some tea, flicking the switch on the electric kettle and rummaging through the pantry to find the container of lemongrass tea that he knows Jon likes and the mint tea that Gerry prefers. It doesn’t take long, but he likes the ritual of it anyway. He gathers their two mugs in one hand, and his own mug of a spicy black tea in the other and heads back into the sitting room.

Jon has moved over to the couch, tucked under Gerry’s arm with the book in his lap.

Martin smiles and sets their tea down.

When Jon looks up, Martin bends down and kisses his forehead and then grins wider when Jon’s nose and forehead scrunch up.

“Okay?” Martin asks.

Jon waves at him dismissively but makes a grab for his shirt when Martin turns like he’s going to take the chair. “Yes,” he says, exasperated, “come here, please.”

Gerry squishes himself into the corner and pulls Jon closer to make room, so Martin sighs and fits himself in next to them on the sofa. It’s a cramped fit, but ultimately worth it for the way Jon relaxes against him, flipping absently through the book of memories on his lap.

“Gerry had a point, at least.” Martin says.

“Hm?”

“You looked good with a shaved head,” Martin says too lightly, “might be a good summer to try it again.”

Jon’s protests are drowned out by Gerry’s instant and joyous peal of laughter.

Jon says something about ‘nothing being sacred’, the tips of his ears burning, while Martin tries to hide his grin in his cup of tea. He almost succeeds.

#fic #my fic #visible world #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerard keay #jongerrymartin #((here I’ve been writing for like three hours))#((you can have it))#((edit: just realized this was missing a whole ass paragraph??))#((also added a keep reading since apparently no one will reblog anything anymore))

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quicksilver-rain · 2 years

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All my energy might be going toward survival right now, but I'll be damned if I'm not gonna post an art vs artist for 2021 >:0

ID:

Top Row Left to Right:

Gerry from The Magnus Archives looking over his dhoilder, his hair is clipped back and he's wearing a trenchcoat

Helen Malloye, a woman with orange hair pinned back in victory curls, wearing a green vest and peach shirt (commission for @willowriverspiritwriter)

Vampire Lesbians, they do not have names currently. The one on the left had short, dark hair and is wearing regency era clothing, the one in the right has short light hair and is wearing a gown from the early 1900s (light haired vampire belongs to @spiceeh)

Middle Row Left to Right:

Vija (another commission), she wears a black cloak with red lining, her facial expression is intense (commission for @wooferdill)

Me! I've got curly hair, am wearing rectangle rimmed glasses and have a mask on. I am flashing a peace sign and squinting into the sun.

Arthur from @peaceheather on Ao3's Merlin fic From Shadows into the Light, having a migraine. All that is visible is his cape and right hand, which is pressed to his forehead. There is a black scribble covering his face.

Bottom Row Left to Right:

Todoroki from My Hero Academia wearing two party hats as horns and a mask which resemble's Midoryia's hero mask.

Hypnos from Hades Game lifting hid eye mask to look at the viewer.

Typha, Mallow & Kal, three goblins that are siblings. Typha is pink and burgundy piebald with short fur and is wearing a vest, shirt and pants, Mallow is just pink, with medium length fir and is wearing a hat, and Kal is just burgundy, with long, tufty fur, and is wearing a skirt and shirt. Mallow is holding a bouquet of Cattails, Mallow Blossoms, and Calendula, which obscures the rest of his outfit. (Mallow and Typha belong to @mallowthegoblin & @spiceeh respectively, Kal belongs to me) /EndID

#quicksilver draws #boku no hero academia #d&d #the magnus archives #merlin #hades game #commission accomplished #art vs artist #art vs artist 2021

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

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agony quiets to pain

Words: 2.1k Relationship: Jonathan Sims/Gerry Keay Tags: AU - Pre-Canon, AU - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Tenderness, Burns Warnings: burns, aftermath of hospitalization, implied abuse/neglect, self-depreciation

Ao3 link in source!

Gerry aches. Which is a step up from total agony at least, but still, not pleasant. And then of course there’s the bandages, still covering nearly every inch of his body and hiding the mess that lies beneath.

(Permanent scarring, the doctor had said with a plastered-on expression of sympathy. We’re very sorry. There’s nothing we can do.)

It’s fine. He’ll be fine. He always is, isn’t he?

And to top it all off, he’s lost the book—the Leitner he’d been sent to fetch. He fully expects to step out of the hospital doors to see cool blue eyes staring back at him, hard with disappointment despite the benign expression on her face and accompanied by a casual, “Let’s go home now, Gerard,” that he would recognize for the threat it is.

Instead, he sees a man, thin and tired-looking, sat atop the short wall outside the hospital doors with a lit cigarette held between two fingers and a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck to chase away the late December chill. And Gerry realizes that the nurse never said exactly who he was being released to. The relief that overcomes him is dizzying, and he barely registers the nurse handing him his discharge papers before disappearing back into the hospital.

“Jon?” Gerry says, his voice cracking a bit around the words (though he tells himself it’s just from the lingering effects of the book, filling his lungs with smoke).

Jon looks up. When his eyes land on Gerry, he quickly snubs his cigarette out on the wall next to him, stands, and takes quick steps toward Gerry. He looks, for a moment, like he’s going to wrap Gerry in a hug before thinking better of it and simply fluttering his hands aimlessly in the air for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. Gerry’s disappointed and grateful in equal measure; given that his skin is still raw and sensitive, he doesn’t think a hug would feel pleasant. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t ache for one anyway.

“Are you okay?” Jon says, then shakes his head before the words have even finished leaving his mouth. “Right, no, of- of course you’re not. What I mean is.” Jon pauses, as if considering, before saying softly, “Are you all right?”

It’s the same question, technically. But Gerry knows it’s not. And so he decides to answer honestly.

“Not really.” Gerry rubs his left thumb over one of the tattoos on his right knuckles, the motion a habit born of nerves and anxieties. The skin there is smooth and unblemished. Funny, that. “All this, and I didn’t even get the book.”

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. There’s a sadness there that Gerry doesn’t want to look too closely at. Mostly because it’ll look too much like pity, and he doesn’t think he can handle that right now.

A sharp wind cuts through Gerry’s clothes, making him shiver and then wince as the sensation sends pain skittering across his skin. The unhappy expression on Jon’s face is erased in an instant, replaced by concern and determination. “Here, let’s- let’s go home, and we can figure everything else out after that. Okay?”

Figure it out. As if Mary Keay could be placated so easily. Still, Gerry nods, and he follows Jon to his car, twinges of agony pulsing up his legs with each step that he tries to hide. Given Jon’s grim expression as he helps Gerry into the car the best he can without touching Gerry’s skin too much, he doesn’t quite succeed.

The car used to be Jon’s grandmother’s, out of style by a decade or so with roll-up windows and a lingering cigarette smell that no amount of air fresheners seem to eliminate. Gerry leans his head back against the seat and breathes it in. It’s not something you’d bottle up and sell as perfume, but compared to the sterile antiseptic smell of A&E, it’s heavenly. Jon starts the car, looks over at Gerry once like he’s making sure he’s still there, and begins to drive. His hands shake ever so slightly on the steering wheel. Gerry pretends not to notice.

Gerry isn’t surprised when Jon takes them to his flat. Of course he isn’t, Jon’s the one who picked him up, so logically they’d go back to his place. Still, Gerry can’t help the rush of dizzying relief that sweeps through him when they arrive, like he’d still expected to be faced with rusty red brick and a weathered wooden sign that seemed to laugh at him with every creak of its hinges.

“Thank you,” Gerry says. He doesn’t bother to hide the way the tightness in his throat chokes off the words.

Jon’s quiet for a moment. Gerry can almost hear it—echoes of a conversation oft-repeated, useless and fantastical and irritating only because Gerry knows that Jon is right. I wish you wouldn’t go back, Jon would say. And Gerry would say, I know. And sometimes it would continue, if Jon were feeling particularly incensed at the moment. Sometimes it wouldn’t. Gerry almost hates that more, if only because of the expression that would come across Jon’s face, something profoundly sad and weary and, underneath it all, hurt.

It’s almost enough to convince him.

Almost.

“Yeah,” Jon says, his hands tightening on the wheel for a moment before going slack. He removes the key and fiddles with it absently. “You know I…” Jon trails off, worries his bottom lip between his teeth, then says abruptly, “Well. No use just sitting here, I suppose.”

It’s clipped, a bit brusque. Rude, if Gerry didn’t know better. But he does, and so his mouth settles into a small smile as he follows Jon into his flat, despite the burning, chafing sensation on his skin as his bandages shift as he walks.

God, he feels like shit.

As soon as they’re inside, Jon insists that Gerry sits on the couch, and Gerry goes without complaint, his aching body screaming in relief as he sinks down onto the cushions and finally takes weight off the soles of his feet, which did not come out of the experience unscathed. There’s clattering from the kitchen, a few muttered curses, and before too long Jon’s in front of him with a glass of water with a straw in it and a bowl of what looks like hastily reheated curry. He hesitates a moment before saying, “Can you… hold things?”

Gerry flexes his fingers experimentally. His hands got the best of it, given the myriad of tattoos across the joints of his fingers. Still, the entirety of his palm and the pads of his fingers are red and inflamed, and though they’re no longer bandaged, the needles of pain that shoot through him at the motion draw a small gasp from his lips despite his best efforts to keep it contained. Jon’s forehead sets into a firm line at that, like he’s considering something, before nodding once. “Right.”

He sets the dishes on the floor, disappears back into the kitchen for a moment, and reemerges carrying one of the wooden chairs from his kitchen table. He looks a bit winded when he sets it down in front of Gerry, which might be amusing in any other circumstance, but Gerry’s too busy wondering what the hell he’s doing.

Then, Jon retrieves the dishes, sits in the chair, and holds the glass of water in front of him stiffly. And Gerry realizes, all at once, what’s happening.

“Is this where I’m supposed to say ‘ah’?” Gerry says, because joking about it is preferable to protesting or staring at Jon in shock or—god forbid—getting flustered.

Jon seems to appreciate it because the tension in his arms dissipates ever so slightly, and he says primly, “If you’d prefer. Though I really don’t see how that will aid in the process.”

“Prick,” Gerry says, not without fondness. And it’s only a little awkward when he leans forward and, while Jon holds the glass, drinks. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until that moment, and he should probably be a bit embarrassed by how quickly he empties the glass, but he can’t quite bring himself to care when he sees the little pleased expression on Jon’s face. The affection that accompanies it, however slight, is enough to squeeze at Gerry’s chest until he finds it hard to breathe, and he clears his throat slightly to relieve the pressure.

The curry comes next, and it’s significantly more awkward to have Jon spoon-feeding him chicken and red bell peppers with careful precision so as to avoid any spillage. But Jon talks during it, which helps. It’s mundane things, like the case Jon’s currently working on at the Institute and what he had for lunch that day and the grocery list he’s compiling for the weekend. He transitions after a bit into a discussion of a documentary he watched recently about the origins of humanity, and Gerry gets to sit back and listen to Jon grow increasingly more passionate about bonobos and homo erectus and the unique structure of Neanderthal bones.

It’s nice, to learn about things like this. To learn from Jon. He spent his childhood chasing after cursed books, his mother giving him half-hearted studies in between that she deemed sufficient enough to be considered homeschooling. He’s just lucky he knows basic maths, honestly. But he knows a lot about books. Even if they’re mostly just the spooky kind.

So Jon talks, and Gerry listens. And he tries so very hard not to label the warm feeling in his chest as love, but, well. It’s hard not to fall in love with Jonathan Sims. And he doesn’t particularly want to try to stop it.

Soon the bowl is empty, and Jon holds it awkwardly against his chest for a moment before setting it aside on the floor. He’d stopped in the middle of a discussion about Stone Age tools, and Gerry wants so badly to ask him to continue. But there’s a weariness in him now, the food and water having chased away the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the dryness of his throat and leaving behind only bone-deep exhaustion.

So he doesn’t say anything. Eventually, Jon breaks the silence between them, his words stuttering and jagged, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to smooth them into shape. “I. I don’t really know. Uh. What else can I- can I do? To help. To make things easier.” He pauses, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh, before looking at Gerry with a fragile expression and saying, “I’m sorry, Gerry. I- I should have been there. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“No,” Gerry says firmly. The thought of Jon being like him—wrapped up like a mummy, all agony and raw skin and cracked lines across his body that promise to leave him blotchy and scarred forever—makes him nauseous. Better that it’s him. He can handle it. He always has before. “It’s not your fault. And I don’t want you to blame yourself, okay? I know how you get, so don’t. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Gerry can see the protest written all over Jon’s face, in the way he purses his lips and fixes his eyes firmly at a spot over Gerry’s shoulder. But all Jon says is, “That doesn’t make it better. So please—tell me what I can do.”

There’s a kind of desperation in Jon’s eyes at that, a need to categorize a problem and find the best course of action in order to resolve it. His hands are curled into fists on his lap; Gerry wants so badly to take them in his own, to uncurl Jon’s fingers and thread them with his and squeeze until all the tension’s bled out of Jon’s body. Instead, he says, voice heavy with exhaustion, “I think I’d just like to go to bed. It’s been a long few days.”

Jon lets out a small, humorless laugh at that. “I suppose it has.”

Gerry doesn’t protest when Jon offers him his bed, just offers quiet thanks before making his way relatively painlessly to the bedroom. He considers trying to remove his clothes, then thinks better of it and gingerly climbs onto the bed with them still on.

It’s uncomfortable in every way possible. Gerry falls asleep all the same, the soft sleep well Jon had given him before disappearing back into the living room lingering in his mind until he drifts off into a restless slumber, his dreams filled with burning flesh and a fear he doesn’t think he’ll ever quite shake.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tmagerryweek2021 #jongerry #jonathan sims #gerry keay #my fic #my writing #prompt 2: burn #now that i've done two of these my brain is like 'do the rest! do the rest!' that's the devil talking lol

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iceeckos12 · 3 years

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what if... for the prompts... “you’re cold, come here” for gerrymartin... as a treat... (thank you please drink some water)

sorry i know it’s been a few days ;_; however i have been UNABLE to get pre s1 gerrymartin out of my head since you sent this ask

putting this beneath a read more since it got kind of long alskdjfskf;

Martin stood at the bus stop, wearing his beat-up old headphones, staring into the middle distance, still coming to terms with the fact that he’d had to drop out of school a few weeks ago. He felt as though he’d be digesting that one for a while, like missing a step on his way down the stairs and tripping over his own feet, over and over again.

He’d asked for more shifts at Tesco’s, but it didn’t matter whether or not they were approved. The bills kept coming in, the sums adding up higher and higher, to numbers that may as well have been astronomical for all he had in his bank account.

This wasn’t sustainable. But what could he do? He was only seventeen, he had no degree, no -

“Need a cigarette?”

Martin almost leapt out of his skin at the sudden interruption, too surprised to do anything other than look mutely over. If he hadn’t already been stunned into silence, the sight that greeted him would’ve done the job.

The teen was tall, a little disheveled; there was a mean looking scrape across one side of his face, like his head had been shoved into pavement. His hair was dyed pitch black, dirty blond roots peeking out around the roots. Eyes the color of the cold, grey ocean stared back at Martin, stealing his breath right out of his chest.

The silence stretched on, but the teen didn’t speak, or take back the proffered cigarette. He just waited, expectant, endlessly patient, the same way a lighthouse waits, lonely but resolute.

“I - “ The words choked and stuttered on their way out. “I...I don’t smoke.”

“Hm.” The teen shrugged and took the cigarette back, setting it loosely between his teeth. Martin watched the movement, mesmerized by the shine of his black lipstick. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “You looked like you needed one.”

Martin let out a high, embarrassed laugh. “That obvious?”

He hummed in agreement, the sound coming out through a thick cloud of smoke. Suddenly Martin wished he’d accepted the cigarette, if only to see if he could capture the same feeling this teen seemed to exude in waves. The poet in him wanted to smooth that midnight black hair behind one ear and ask what’d happened to make him look so tiredly sad.

“That’s your bus,” the teen said, jerking his chin toward the incoming bus. “Wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Martin turned, then realized that yes, that was his bus. He paused, realizing that he’d never told the teen - but when he turned around, the stranger was gone, almost as though he’d never been there in the first place.

-0-

For years after, Martin wondered if he’d imagined the whole incident. A mysterious, handsome stranger offering him a cigarette at a bus stop before disappearing into the ether? That sort of thing didn’t happen outside of the movies.

Until he saw the man at the Magnus Institute.

The first time he saw him, he had to do a double take, sure he’d imagined it. But no, there was a familiar person with poorly dyed black hair sitting on the front steps of the Institute, blowing cigarette smoke into the sky. He was in all black, from his combat boots to the shiny obsidian of his lips.

Martin wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at the man’s lips. Too long obviously, because when he looked up, he met cool, ocean grey.

The man quirked a dirty-blond eyebrow, a small, almost experimental smile twitching at the corner of his lips. Martin, mortified at having been caught looking, ducked his head and almost ran the rest of the way up the steps.

They ran into each other on and off after that. Martin sometimes saw him wandering around the Archives, coming in and out of Gertrude’s office regardless of the time. He always seemed to be able to tell when Martin was watching him; after a few seconds, he would perk up and turn around, smiling that small, experimental smile.

Martin started to accept that he had a massive crush on this gorgeous, unattainable stranger. He decided to get the fuck over himself and wave instead of running away like a coward, which made that experimental smile turn into a true, genuinely pleased one.

And it was....safe. Good. Martin admired from afar, enamored of the man’s tattoos, his grey eyes, the quiet tragedy he carried with him like a shroud.

Ironically, the first real conversation they ever had was at the bus stop in front of the Magnus Institute.

It was late, later than Martin usually went home. It was cold too, unusually so for the time of year, enough so that Martin was wearing his warmer jacket. He was lost in thought, staring far into the middle distance, composing a poem about Indian summers and unusual chills and the way weather balanced finely between them -

There was a click from somewhere behind him, a muttered curse. Another click, and then a low, relieved sigh. Martin frowned and turned around, because no, it couldn’t be -

But it was.

The man looked up as soon as he felt Martin’s eyes on him, his cigarette hanging loosely out of the side of his lips. He’d gotten a new set of piercings since the last time Martin’d seen him, two shiny studs in his bottom lip that made Martin’s mouth go dry.

“Hey,” the man said. He sounded exactly the way Martin remembered.

“Hi!” Martin squeaked, clutching his bag closer to him nervously. Oh god, oh god, the inspiration for half his poetry from the past few months was standing right in front of him. “Um - hi. Hello.”

The man’s grin widened, like he found Martin’s frantic stuttering endearing. “Hey.”

Fuck. He was doing this all wrong.

“I’m Martin,” Martin blurted. Almost went to shake the man’s hand but decided against it last second.

“Gerard,” Gerard said, the glowing tip of his cigarette dancing in the dark. “But you can call me Gerry.”

“Oh,” Martin said faintly, his heart fluttering too-fast in his chest. Then, just because he could, said, “Gerry.” Rolled the word around in his mouth, tasting how it felt against the back of his teeth. Decided he liked it. “Nice to meet you, Gerry.”

Gerry’s grin widened, his teeth very white under the curve of his painted black smile. There was a gap between his front teeth, and Martin felt almost dizzy with the knowledge of it. “And you.”

Then unexpectedly, he shivered so hard that his teeth clenched around his cigarette. It was only then that Martin realized that the man was only wearing a thin black jacket over his graphic t-shirt, and that he must be absolutely freezing.

Martin was acting before he could think it all the way through, rummaging through his bag and removing his scarf from its depths. It was a heavy, woolen thing that he’d knitted for his mother’s birthday but - she hadn’t wanted it, muttered something about it being too itchy.

“You’re cold,” Martin said absently, brandishing the scarf in front of him like a weapon. “Come here.”

Gerry stared at the scarf, his grey eyes stretched wide, then looked to Martin, then back to the scarf. Surprise didn’t sit quite right on his face, like it was an emotion he wasn’t used to wearing. “Um. I’m...that’s okay. You don’t have to...”

“Nonsense,” Martin said, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that was gibbering mindlessly at his boldness. “You’re hardly dressed for the weather, and it’s not like I’m using it.”

Gerry opened his mouth - paused, a strange light entering his eyes. He looked at the scarf, and his surprise faded into a blank, neutral frown. Then, “That was cruel of her.”

Martin frowned. “What?”

“Okay,” Gerry said, and took the scarf from Martin. He stared at it for a moment, studying the simple pattern, before wrapping it around his neck. He looked warmer at least, and that made something in Martin’s stomach settle, relaxed the part of him that wanted nothing more than to nurture. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Martin responded, still feeling a bit off-kilter by the strange comment, like Gerry had known what his mother had said to him and disapproved. “Anytime.”

They stood in silence for a couple more seconds, the atmosphere strangely charged with anticipation. There was something Martin was supposed to say here, something important, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

And then the bus came.

Martin stared at it for a second, disappointment a sour taste in his mouth. His window of opportunity was steadily closing, he could feel it, but he was lost, grasping at the tail end of something strange and unknowable.

“That’s your bus,” Gerry told him gently, and when Martin looked over, he was holding the scarf close to his neck.

“Will I see you again?” Martin asked in a sudden burst of confidence.

Gerry froze almost imperceptibly for a moment, but Martin had been learning to read body language ever since his father had left home. He looked away, that clear grey gaze focusing on the sidewalk in front of him, studying the cracks in the concrete. “If you like.”

“I’d like to,” Martin responded firmly, then deflated as his confidence faded and his uncertainty returned. “If you would.”

That small, experimental smile twitched the edges of Gerry’s lips again. Martin was suddenly struck by the fact that it didn’t sit quite right, as though it wasn’t an expression he was used to making. The thought was as endearing as the rest of him. His voice was unexpectedly low, unexpectedly shy, as he said, “I would.”

#gerrymartin #tma #my writing #iceeckos12 writes #local-eldritch-abomination #ask

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cuttlefishkitch · 4 years

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WOOO BOY did this piece take forever!! Say hello to an illustration I did for @gerrydelano‘s INCREDIBLE fic, Two Ships Passing!! It was so much fun to work on and the process was so wild I might end up doing a Making Of post about it. Anyway, enjoy and GO READ TSP!!!

image ID under the cut cause it’s LONG

[Image Description: A one-point perspective shot of a bookshelf, cluttered with memorabilia. There are three shelves visible, with a focus on the center. The image is composed of mostly de saturated blues and greys, with brighter instances of pink and purple scattered throughout.

Each item in the image is a direct reference to elements of two ships passing, some symbolic and some literal.

From left to right, there is a small, pink conch shell sitting on the shelf. Beside it is a blue mechanical pencil. Behind them is a mason jar, half-filled with seashells and with two pink carnations stuck inside, and a half-open box of glow-in-the-dark stars with a faded label written on a piece of tape. There are twelve of the stars stuck to the back of the center shelf.

Next is a beige hourglass. Inside the bottom half is a green triceratops, slowly being buried by sand. Leaning against the hourglass is a black, spiral-bound notebook. Balanced against that is a bottle cap with a duck carved into the top, and a safety pin hot-glued into the back. In front of that, there is another pink carnation, lying down on the shelf.

Next to the flower is a ship in a bottle, with pink and purple sails. Wound around the cork is a silver dragon claw necklace, clutching a purple stone.

Behind this, a paper book is propped up against the back of the shelf. The title reads TIME and PLACE, written above a drawing of Jon and Gerry as children, sitting behind the frill of a green triceratops. Taped to the wall next to the book, visible above the top of the ship in the bottle, is flash art of a traditional swallow tattoo, with a blue body and red wings.

Partially underneath the ship in a bottle, there is an indistinct Polaroid lying down on the shelf. In front of it is a diya, which is helping to keep another Polaroid balanced. This one is specifically a photo of Gerry as a child, lying on his back in the sand at the beach. One leg of his pants is wet from being splashed by the ocean, and he's holding a kite string, grinning with his eyes closed.

Taped to the bottom of the shelf are four photographs.

The first is of Tim, sitting on the ground with his hand on Ophelia's back. He's wearing a purple tank top that shows his arm band tattoos and worm scars. Batman sits behind him on the couch. Gerry's hand is visible in the bottom corner of the frame, his nails painted black and Absynthe wrapped around his wrist.

The second is of Gerry and Jon posing for a selfie. Portia stands behind Gerry doing bunny ears over his head, while Bridget is causing problems in the background. Gerry is wearing fishnet over a purple bralette, and Jon is wearing a pink collared shirt.

The third is a closer shot of Gerry and Jon, clearly a second try at taking that same selfie. Gerry's eyes are closed as he kisses Jon's temple, and Jon looks a little bashful.

The fourth is a photo of Gerry and Jon peering over the back of a laptop, which is set up to be on video call with Kira and Basil, Gerry's roommates from America. Kira has short, curly hair and has their eyes crossed, tongue sticking out. Basil has longer, green hair, compression gloves, and is voguing.

The bottom shelf is full of books in various colors, a few in the middle fallen over to lean against others. The top shelf more uniform, the books held in place by a purple agate bookend.

In the far left corner beside the bookend, a cobweb can be seen.

End ID]

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franzis-frantic-thoughts · 2 years

Photo

Read Chapter 18 - Horse Trading on AO3 now!

Plans are made to refit the waterwheel, Jon is sent out to the horse market in Greymeadow with Gerry.

Written for the @tmabigbang.

[ID: A mood board for this fic. It is made up out of six rows of three squares in black and white. The top three rows are lighter in colour, the bottom three rows are darker in colour. They feature in order (top left to bottom right): 1) a jack knife, 2) star-shaped white flowers, 3) a snowy forest, 4) flour being filled into a flour sack, 5) a frozen mill race, 6) a bowl of flour, 7) a foggy forest, 8) a flour sieve, 9) a straw mattress, 10) a water wheel, 11) a dark forest, 12) a skull and candle, 13) a magic book, 14) a raven, 15) the Grim Reaper, 16) a black horse, 17) a noose, 18) a sluice gate. The text "The Magnus Archives" and "Franzis Frantic Thoughts" are superimposed over the top and bottom row of squares respectively. The title of the fic "White Flour and Black Magic" is superimposed over the middle squares of the third and fourth row. /End ID]

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mxrstar · 4 years

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hey do you ever love a fic so much you want to draw fanart for it? but you are not very good at drawing so you decide to try out collage for the first time in your life? well, let’s just say that i quite liked the last published chapter of @gerrydelano‘s fic

[ID: the image is a collage. the background paper is pastel blue, and towards the top right corner there is a group of birds, drawn in white. they are eating and the lines of the drawing are smudged, so that the white drags out from them in vague shades. on the top left corner, there is a single window frame; the frame is green and the glass is black. there are a series of eyes taken from various paintings glued on top of the glass. from behind the frame, comes a single butterfly’s wing, which is red yellow and white. on the bottom right corner, there is a tiny, white drawing of a person helping another on a small boat. the drawing is framed into the corner by an arch. the colors of the arch are graded from dark green to dark red. a red and yellow leaf is glued on top of the arch, and there is a tiny piece of paper glued onto the leaf. the paper says: “-G”. right in the middle of the drawing, we first can see (looking at it from the bottom to the top) a picture of some kind of body of water, upon which two boats are sailing. upon that first picture, acting as shore for the water, there is a picture of outer space. it is red, green, violet and white, and it is a bit shiny. there is an old stairway glued right in the middle of outer space. at the bottom of a stairway we can see a yellow figure (maybe a kid, with long hair and a backpack) and the top of the stairs connects to a door. the door belongs to a blue room. there is a big clock glued upon the door, and there is a drawing of a man, looking tired and facing the other way, right in the middle of the room. the top and bottom right corners of the room are framed by two colored vortex, which are incidentally two of the stars from Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”. from behind the left side of the room, comes out another butterfly wing, which perfectly mirrors the one that comes out of the window. on the right side of the paper, we can see the sentence “I’d say you have at least somewhat of a chance” spelled out in different letters. at the bottom of the paper, a white piece of paper says “two ships passing”. /end ID]

under the cut I have written an explanation of the meaning behind the,, symbols? I am not going to pretend I had super strict idea to begin with, but as I started to find things I liked on random high-school books I (un)consciously assigned them a meaning. feel free to indulge my pretentiousness and read my ramble I guess + (also under the cut) close-up pictures

okay so let me just run down a list: — the window okay, so. that’s meant to represent the background world, the things Gerry and Jon are going to have to live with whenever they step outside of their refuge. the glass is dark, because they try to protect themselves for as long as possible, but there are still various Eyes peeking in, mostly looking aggressive or extremely focused (fun fact: all of these come from paintings; i perhaps should have written down which belongs to what but i forgot) — the birds this is a reference to the ongoing “birds in jon’s stomach” metaphor. they are eating because that’s what they were drawn doing on the paper i miraculously found dsgfghk but if you want to push it you could say that they are all going “finally, some good fucking food” at Jon’s joy in meeting Gerry?? + they lines are smudged because,,,,,,, (god i am so sappy) because it gives an impression of movement? like, they are at ease but part of them is free to fly — the butterfly’s wings so, take “one dropped stone can change the way the whole ocean moves” but make it boring, and suddenly it’s the butterfly’s effect. the wings connect both to the outside world, to the window and the Eyes /and/ to the room (which I will get to later) because their meeting changes everything. it changes how they interact with the world and (at least partially) it saves them from it + it changes them as people, and gives them a space to be happy, to be with each other — the sea + outer space the sea with the two boats is quite an obvious one so i am not going to say anything about it. outer space is,,,,,,,,,, Miriam? I know she is more ocean vast that she is space vast, but I guess the contrast is nicer this way. she has been the shore to their sea, the vast, contextless freedom through which Jon and Gerry have connected, and Gerry has healed — the yellow figure in my head, that’s Gerry. i don’t know about the yellow, it came with that so i didn’t choose it and i don’t really have a meaning for it (unless you want to be really emo and decide that “Gerard just looks at him like he’s seeing the sun for the first time, and then looks away like he’s surprised by how much it hurts” is suddenly reversed in this last chapter, and Gerry is, in a way, Jon’s sudden source of light). the figure is that of a kid (I think, at least?) with a backpack. it’s Gerry as a kid, meeting Jon in that chance Miriam has made possible and relatively durable — the stairs those are a reference to the stairs in Portia’s house, but they also mark the passage of time (that’s sort of represented by the big clock on top of the door). by the time Gerry gets to the top, Miriam has left and suddenly he is in another room — the blue room + the man the blue room is where Jon is stuck now. he is facing the other way, he is adrift. the man doesn’t look like Jon but we’ll forgive that because in the original full drawing he is sitting onto a rock which is connected with some ropes to a boat. the blue room is framed by those vortexes (which are actually two starts from Van Gogh’s Starry Night) because i had made a mess with glue and i needed to cover up the corners sfgsdfg but if we want to think well and hard about this, perhaps they are the lights Jon still has but cannot, won’t see. he is not looking at either of them. wow now im sad — the door Gerry and Jon don’t meet in the universe, nor in the blue room. they meet beyond the door, in their sacred, private space. they both need to get in in order for this to work — the bottom right corner okay, in my head that’s sort of a page number. something that marks our position in the story. there’s this drawing of a man helping another on a boat (which comes from the same drawing I found the man in the blue room in!) cause, you know. it’s reunion time. the arch was originally part of a circle which was rainbow-coloured. it reminded me of that idea which I think is in the Official™ gtcmu™ lore- that thing about Jon having no specific colour, but colouring everyone else, sort of being the rainbow. it’s not obvious cause the arch isn’t a full rainbow, but I was indeed thinking about it. i guess i also wanted to somehow convey that it’s not just Gerry that is giving something to Jon. they are both sharing something meaningful with each other. Jon is still making him bright. then, there is the leaf, because this happens in Autumn, and the small “-G” which is a reference to the note Gerry leaves to Tim — “I’d say you have at least somewhat of a chance” the quote is obviously very cute and the moments in which both Gerry and Jon say it (though this is Gerry’s phrasing) are CUTE. but i chose this one because it’s superficially warm + as a standalone could mean something more. it’s simple and it’s complex. it’s “yeah im totally bi” “yeah i would indeed like to kiss you” and it’s “sometimes it feels like the entire world is against you and your life has been so so hard, but I’d say you have at least somewhat of a chance”. and this is their chance. so they take it

OKAY i made myself emotional thank you for get quite as far as you are reading this!

pictures next:

#tma #tma fic #sometimes i talk #collage #my collages #art tag

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raysofcrosby · 4 years

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LITTLE DO YOU KNOW PT. 9

"𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘺 𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦." ━ 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫

gif credit (x)

series masterlist

requested: yes | no

warnings: cussing and angst, but nothing else tbh.

word count: 5,294 [of un-proofread material lol sorry]

authors note: HI EVERYONE!!! First off, I just want to wish you all a Happy Holiday season! I honestly didn’t think i was going to get anything out, but work has been extremely stressful and i needed to write and voila, part 9 lmfao. there’s only three more parts of the series left and i can’t believe it’s almost over! thank you to anyone who’s reblogged, liked, sent in a message, written in their tags or even took the time to read any part of this series– i love you all. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you all! I hope you all have an amazing day and enjoy part 9!

Avoiding Jamie and Tyler after the shitshow that took place in Tyler's house Friday night, was your number one priority. Thankfully, the Stars were out of town in Nashville and weren't due to come back to Dallas until early Sunday morning. You weren't sure if Tyler still wanted you to watch the dogs, so the next morning after everything happened, you took an uber to his place. When you walked inside to feed the dogs and take them on their walk, they were nowhere to be found. You walked around the house, whistling and even going as far as to squeaking Gerry's favorite toy– but no sound of paws against the floor or the jingling of their collars. When you went to leave, the front door opened and John walked in, holding onto the three dogs' leashes. He looked surprised to see you and the moment the two of you made eye contact, you realized that he knew.

And it was obvious that your dog sitting services were no longer needed, so you rushed back to campus and practically locked yourself in a library study room, throwing yourself into studying for your last final.

If you thought back on it hard enough, you weren't sure if that was the final straw that jutted the metaphorical knife deeper into your stomach or what happened Sunday night when Big Rig came over. You had once again, spent the entire day throwing yourself into studying for your finals and by the time you returned back to your dorm room, Kennedy was ordering dinner in for her and Big Rig.

You hadn't meant to completely shut her out, but you honestly felt a little embarrassed at how everything came crumbling down. Tyler had yet to reach out, he pretty much fired you from taking care of the dogs, you're pretty sure that your brother pretty much disowned you...and Kennedy, though not as straight-forward, had warned you of it all. The last thing you wanted to do was feel worse than you did now...though that logic isn't working, because well, you were feeling pretty shitty.

Kennedy was your best friend for a reason and she knew better than anyone that when you were ready to talk about it all, you would. So, unfortunately for her, but lucky for you, she was dealing with your sadness with grace– aka by not complaining when you had your playlist blasting through your headphones or not commenting on how you were watching the notebook one too many a time.

By the time Big Rig had arrived at your dorm, you had shut off your computer for the night, buried yourself beneath the covers, rolled yourself towards the wall and had been trying to fall asleep for almost an hour. You thought that you'd be able to eventually fall asleep, maybe while they were just going to watch Criminal Minds and eat some dinner, but the moment that their hushed whispers grew a little louder, there was no hope.

"How is she doing?" He asked, talking softly as he kicked his shoes off onto the floor and hopped onto her bed, his tall and heavy frame causing it to buckle beneath him.

"Honestly? Not so good. " Kennedy sighed and you could feel her gaze lingering on your back. "Neither Jamie or Tyler have talked to her. She's been either spending all her time studying, blasting sad breakup songs, skimming through The Notebook or sleeping."

"Oh shit...The Notebook?"

Kennedy was silent but climbed onto her bed as Big Rig shifted and unloaded the delivery bag. "I even called her mom earlier, just to give her a heads up before she came home for Christmas in case she notices that two of her kids aren't talking. And then right after, Jordie reached out to me because Y/N wasn't answering him and neither was Jamie. So, I filled him in too."

You couldn't even be angry at her for the fact that she told both your mom and Jordie about what had happened. Firstly, the two of them already had some sort of clue as to what was going on between you and Tyler. Secondly, once again, she was just being your best friend and looking out for your best interest– plus now you didn't have to have that awkward conversation once you went home.

"Yeah, Jamie's uh..." Big Rig cleared his throat and you could tell that he was either trying to avoid talking about something or just trying to figure out how to say it.

"Was it bad yesterday?"

"Horrible," he sighed and shifted on the bed again, probably lying back. "Everyone knows."

"Everyone knows?" She asked, the confusion in her voice evident. "As in...they know about Y/N and Tyler?"

"They know everything."

"Jesus Christ! Is Jamie that fucking petty and pissed that he went and blabbered about it to the whole team?" She caught her voice elevating and stopped, placing their food off to the side. "I'm going to kill him. What an asshole and to do that to his own–"

"It wasn't Jamie."

"Then who–"

"Well, I mean, Bish was with Jamie when he...walked in on the two of them, so Jamie told Bish– but he already kind of had a feeling because Jamie said something about it." Big Rig cleared his throat again. "But no, it was some fan account on Instagram for wags, I guess?"

"Explain, now."

You heard him sigh and you contemplated making it known that you were wide awake, but you had to admit to yourself that you were a little bit interested.

"So it some small fan account for wags of the team, I guess. Anyway, so they make a post and they have pictures of Y/N and Tyler from nights we all went to the bar, to pictures of him picking her up from A.B.C. and even his Halloween party. It was like... spam of almost 10 pictures and you can see how close they are and it's not hard to guess that they have something going on."

"Okay, and how does this tie into the whole team finding out?"

"Everyone got tagged in it. Players, girlfriends, wives, I think even Tyler's family and Y/N too. By the time the plane took off, it was kind of common knowledge."

Your heart was racing against your chest and it felt like it could explode at any minute. Everyone on the team and their significant others knew, which meant the coaches and training staff probably knew. How the hell were you supposed to show your face in the locker room tomorrow without wanting to just disappear into thin air?

"Shit, this is pretty much Worst-case scenario. How is she supposed to walk into a room and treat them all for their weak bones when they all know about her and Tyler?" Kennedy sighed her gaze on you.

"I mean...I don't think anyone judges her for it, because she's still Y/N to them, you know?"

"It doesn't matter, J. Even if she's still just Y/N, they'll still probably look at her and think– 'oh wow, she's been boning our teammate. there's another notch on the belt.' And I know they're your friends, but with Tyler's reputation and all males sharing the same brain– you can't tell me that it's not true."

Big Rig was silent for a few moments before deciding to speak again. "The game was even worse. He and Tyler are barely speaking, the tension between them on the ice was obvious as hell. Add in the confusion with Montgomery being fired and the Instagram was the cherry on top of a Sunday that nobody wants."

"Was it that bad? The two of them?"

"A few of the guys and I were talking on the plane ride back and we're all afraid that something is going to happen at practice or in the middle of a game or something and the tension between them with just make the two of them implode."

"And that would be another worst-case scenario come true," Kennedy sighed again. "God, this is such a mess."

That was all you were able to stand before you sat yourself up and turned towards the two of them. You took in their shocked appearances and you knew that they had thought you were asleep and that if you weren't they wouldn't have had this entire conversation with you in the room.

"I'm sorry," you said, your bottom lip starting to tremble no matter how hard you tried to fight it. "It's all my fault that everything is so messed up because I'm just some stupid little girl with a stupid crush and I ruined a friendship and your team chemistry."

Kennedy looked at Big Rig and got up off of her bed and walked over to your bed. "This is in no way, shape or form your fault, Y/N. I want you to get that through your head right now. " She grabbed one of your hands and tugged on it, causing you to look at her. "Tyler is a big boy, he knew what he was doing and he knew the consequences of his actions. So you are not going to put the full blame on yourself."

"She's right," Big Rig spoke up, sitting up in her bed. "Besides, I don't think that they hate each other. I just think that Jamie is probably a little bit embarrassed because he feels like everyone knew what was going on and he didn't. Especially since Jordie and Bish both had their suspicions about it."

"See?" Kennedy smiled, squeezing your hand again. "Your big brother is just letting his itty bitty man pride get in the way of his common sense."

"He probably also thinks that Tyler was taking advantage of you," he cleared his throat, and his cheeks turned a hint of pink at his insinuation of yours and Tyler's relationship. "Especially since he's older and that Jamie trusted him to be like a brother to you whenever he wasn't around."

As comforting as they tried to make their words, they did nothing but only make you feel worse and that you were responsible for everything that had happened. You sniffled and shook your head, looking at the two of them. "I don't think I can finish the internship, not when everybody knows."

Kennedy was about to say something, only to be cut off by the sound of Big Rig's feet thumping against the floor. He had hopped off of the bed and nudged Kennedy to the side, standing in front of you. He tilted your chin up and made you look at him, seriousness written all over his face. "Absolutely fucking not. You are not going to let some tatted doofus make you quit, okay? This is your dream and as your second best friend, I'll be damned if I let you quit, got it?"

"Got it." You smiled and nodded as Kennedy reached in and wiped a tear from your cheek.

Big Rig smiled and patted the side of your cheek. "Good, now come eat some of this food with us."

❒❒❒❒

It turns out that your little bonding night with Big Rig and Kennedy was exactly what you needed. It wasn't a magical cure to fix everything, but it made you fall asleep a little easier that night. And when you woke up the next morning, you were ready to take on your last final just before you'd head off to the arena for the game. When you sat down to take your final, you felt confident in yourself and slightly more relaxed and at ease than you had been the last two days. However, that all changed the moment your Physiology and Anatomy final was placed in front of you and the time to take your test began. It was smooth sailing up until halfway through when you came upon a question that brought out a memory from your many study sessions with Tyler.

For this particular question, you had to identify and label abdominopelvic quadrants, then their divisions, as well as the planes of the body. And the moment you stared at the outlined body and the lines waiting to be filled and identified, your eyes brimmed with tears at the memory of Tyler.

How when you walked into his house that afternoon and ready to study, he was already making the two of you lunch– 'brain food for my brainiac!' And when it came time to label the quadrants and planes, you realized you had forgotten the sheet your professor had given you, at your dorm. Tyler, being as brazen as he was, stood up off of the couch, took off his shirt, held out his arms to his sides, looked at you with a crooked, goofy grin and said, 'go ahead, paint on me like one of your french boys.' And when you corrected him on what the actual movie quote was supposed to be, he just stuck his tongue out at you and said, 'turn me into a masterpiece.' And it took every bit of self-restraint that you had in your body to refrain from telling him that he already was.

When you wrapped up your final and started to make your way to your dorm room to meet Big Rig so the two of you could head to the arena, your next big dilemma crossed your mind: all of the dorms were closing in two days and you had nowhere to stay. You were originally supposed to stay with Jamie and Katie at his place until the two of you were going to fly home together, but you doubt that's an option anymore. But that was another problem for another day and you weren't going to worry about it until later because your only important issue today, would be how you would carry on in the training room today.

When it came time to enter the training room, Big Rig offered to walk in with you, but you told him that if you were going to do this, you would do it yourself and then you ushered him off towards the locker room. You expected your feet to move towards the door and open it before walking inside, but the longer you stared at it, the more frozen you were. You could hear the muffled voices mingling together on the other side of the door, which only made your heart race and the knot in your stomach tangle and tightens. The locker room door opened behind you and you froze, hoping that it wasn't Jamie or Tyler.

"You're still standing here?"

You turned to look at Big Rig, who was now dressed down from his suit and wearing some shorts and a shirt. "You act like I've been standing here for ten minutes."

"Try five, Y/N." He sighed and walked ahead of you, pushing the door halfway open and turning to you, nodding his head towards the door. "Come on, if there's one person who's one-hundred percent on your side, it's me."

You wanted to run into him and hug him tight, but you settled with thanking the Universe for sending Jamie Oleksiak your way before you followed him into the training room. As expected, the immediate conversation stalls, but only for a short second before it picks back up again. And if you weren't so focused on noticing any kind of difference, you might not have noticed that it paused at all. One thing that was extremely obvious though, was the way that all of the boys were looking at you. Sure, they were friendly, that's their character– but you could still see it in every pair of eyes, the fact that they knew about you and Tyler.

And you couldn't help but feel like they were judging you for it.

Klinger was the first one to come up to you while you were preparing Big Rig for his stretches, and you just had an overwhelming urge to hug the swede, but you resisted. "How did your final go, Y/N?" He asked, stopping by and leaning against the table Big Rig was sitting on.

It felt like things might ease back into normality, just based on his normal question and the conversations going on around you– it was like a weight off of your shoulders. "I bet that you aced it," Big Rig said, poking at you with his foot. "You're the genius Benn after all. You and Jenny must have the brains because I don't know what Jordie and Jamie got."

Right, when you went to reply, the door opened and on instinct, you turned to see who walked in. When you saw it was Jamie, it was as if every eye in the room was focused on the two of you. Jamie didn't bother to look your way, making his way over to the cabinet to grab some ibuprofen. "How did your final go?" He asked, his back turned to you and his voice void of any emotion.

"I think I did pretty good," you replied, feeling awkward as he kept his back to you before turning away and walking over towards another table, not even bothering to reply. You turned your attention to Klinger and gave him a small smile. "Thank you for asking, Klinger." You spoke softly.

He gave you a nod and patted your shoulder before going off back into the locker room. Everything felt fine and the awkward tension eased slightly as you went on helping Big Rig with his stretches. Sure, because of Jamie's presence, there was still a slight stir on tension as if everyone was expecting the two of you to implode right then and there– but it wasn't anything that couldn't be easily ignored. However, when the door opened again, this time Tyler walked through and it was like the air was sucked out of the room.

You felt yourself freeze as you went to adjust the band around Big Rig's foot and he tapped his foot against your hand, causing you to look at him. He took a deep breath and then breathed out slowly before nodding his head. You nodded back, still feeling everyone's eyes switching between focusing on you and focusing on Tyler. After you adjusted the band, you went over to your desk, instinctively picking up athletic tape before sitting down in your chair, waiting for someone else to ask for help.

"Hey, John, how long do you think you'll be?" Tyler asked, barely brushing by Jamie to grab a heating pad before pacing it onto his shoulder.

"What do you want done?" John replied, looking up from a separate cabinet.

"My ankles?"

"Give me two and I can help."

Tyler nodded, adjusting the heating pad before walking right back out of the locker room, not even bothering to look in your direction. You were crushed and fighting like hell not to have it show on your face as you sat in your chair, gripping the athletic tape tightly. Soon, tapping your foot against the floor became another way to prevent yourself from giving in to your emotions and before you knew it, Bishop was calling for your attention at Big Rig's table as he hopped off. "Yeah?"

"Can you come over for a second? I need you to help me tape my thumb for me real quick." You walked over, your supplies already in hand and stood in front of the goalie. "How are you doing?"

"Good, especially now that classes are done," you smiled, exhaling lightly. "Now I get to relax...sort of."

"No, Y/N," he said, looking around the room before leaning in closer. "How are you really doing?" The way he raised an eyebrow slightly, gave you a hint as to what he was asking.

You were slightly embarrassed that he was asking you, but at least he wasn't being so blunt and loud about it. "Embarrassed, sad," your eyes lingered away from taping his thumb and over to your brother, who had a focused and zoned in look on his face. "Is disowned too dramatic?"

He laughs lightly, but his lack of answer lets you know that your feelings are completely valid. "I'm sorry by the way," you apologized, cutting the athletic tape. "For making things awkward around here."

"They're grown men, they'll figure it out," he shrugged, watching as you finished taping his thumb. "Don't worry about that, worry about you."

"Do you think I made a mistake?" You asked as he hopped off of the table.

He looks like he wants to say yes, or maybe you're just overthinking it. He shrugs his shoulders and gives you a half-smile. "Is it a mistake if it makes you happy?"

His reply lingered in your mind as you watched him leave the room before returning to your chair. You placed your supplies onto the desk and spun yourself around to face the wall, thinking about what he said and for once, not feeling all too guilty about your decision.

❒❒❒❒

You've never been happier at the fact that you had to stay in the training room during a game. You took solace in the quiet as the muffled music, announcements and cheers were on the other side of the door. Normally, you'd spend this time studying, but since you were done with all of your finals...you had nothing to do but play on your phone, make sure that the training room was clean and of course help any player who came in with something John sent them back to you for.

The game wasn't going so well the second period was almost over and Dallas was down 2-0. Kennedy was sitting with Katie and sending you updates on how Big Rig was doing, but other than that, you were too busy watching random videos on youtube. You're watching one of those astrological card reading videos when you hear the announcers muffled voices yelling about a hit, a fight and then bickering. By the time you were fully able to focus and take out the one headphone, they were done announcing it and the crowd was roaring– a mix of boos and cheers, you couldn't tell. Right when you went to go back to your video, a text message from Kennedy popped up.

"j took a high stick to the face, ty went to go fight the guy who kept trying to go back after j."

"j and ty arguing...it looks ugly."

You clicked on the message, ready to reply and ask for a more specific update when the locker room door swings open violently and Tyler walks in with a pissed look all over his face and blood on his jersey. You weren't sure if it was trainer mode, friend mode or that your feelings were coming into play, but you left your phone on your desk and ran over to him. "Holy shit, Tyler are you okay?"

He looked as if he was mumbling to himself, the anger still evident on his face as he ignored your question. "I'm just going to take your helmet off for you," you said, reaching up to grab his helmet. "Just to make sure the blood isn't coming from–"

As if he snapped back into focus, he stumbled back, looking at you. "Don't touch me!"

You were startled at how loud and angry he sounded. You've never seen him this angry outside of a hockey game, so seeing it first hand right now, was terrifying. But you needed to do your job, so you weren't backing down. "No, I need to check to make sure that your head isn’t bleeding, Tyler. So just let me–"

"Just– don't!" He said, this time glaring at you, the anger on his face still there, but the look in his eyes softening the moment they took in the slight fear on your face. "God, you're acting like...like," he waved his hand in the air as if the words he was looking for were there to catch. "Like some obsessed hook up!"

Your jaw dropped and as if he just understood the words that left his mouth, the anger started to fade off of his face and for a moment, he looked like he might apologize.

The door swung open again, this time Jamie walking in and stopping just a little into the room. His eyes took in just how close the two of you were standing together and he scoffed. "Of fucking course."

Tyler spun around and pointed at Jamie. "Oh shut the fuck up, Jamie. I stood up for your ass just now."

"You think fighting Draisaitl is sticking up for me when you're the reason why he made that fucking comment?" Jamie yelled, his voice getting deeper, something that always happened whenever he got angry. "You wouldn't have to 'stand up for me' if you were focused and knew where to pass the damn puck instead of daydreaming about getting laid!"

"Guys, stop!" You said, trying to move past Tyler to get in between the two grown men, a huge sense of deja vu washing over you. "Jamie, are you okay?"

"Oh, now you seem to care what I think? Where was this before you started sleeping with my best friend?" And there it was, the aggression pointing towards you– the real reason why he was probably upset anyway.

"I asked if you were okay, not for your fucking opinion column, Jamie." You sniped, reaching up and taking off his helmet before tossing it onto a table and going towards where the suture kit was kept so you could pull it out for whoever was coming in to stitch him up. "You have a cut on your forehead.”

"I am focused on this game, so fuck you, Jamie!"

"Really?" Jamie scoffed, shaking his head. "So you're not focused on the fact that you're gonna go home with Maisy and probably get laid tonight?"

You froze, just as you turned back with the suture kit and glue in hand– that one name sending you into a small panic. You looked to Tyler before looking at Jamie, who was just shaking his head. "Oh Y/N, you didn't know? Maisy's here. You know who Maisy is, you remember?"

Tyler shook his head. "What are you–"

"Don't even play coy, Seguin. Katie texted me before the game and said she bumped into Maisy, who coincidentally is sitting in the same seats that you got her last year."

At this point, you felt like you were going to be sick. You had asked Tyler about Maisy and he told you everything. How yeah, she was one of his main hook-ups last season, that he cut it off completely in the summer, it was never super serious and that they haven't talked since.

But Maisy was here in the same seats Tyler gave her last season and Tyler wasn't arguing back...so maybe he didn't tell you everything.

"Why is that, Tyler?" Jamie asked, raising his eyebrows. "Why is Maisy here? Did you get what you wanted from my little sister so you went back to–"

Tyler lunged at Jamie just as Craig walked into the room. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell is going on?" He asked, looking at you as the two fuming hockey players stood apart from one another.

Jamie and Tyler say nothing, only moving onto opposite tables as Craig points Jamie to sit down. "Y/N, can you help Tyler with gluing that cut? It shouldn't be too much."

It felt like your entire body was throbbing as you stood there, still trying to take in the information that Jamie just shared. You looked at Jamie who was fuming and glaring at Tyler. And when you looked at Tyler, his anger was written all over his face, but there was something else mixed in that you couldn't quite pinpoint. When you finally looked at Craig, you shook your head. "I think I'm going to be sick."

You pushed the kit into his chest before running out of the training room and down the hallway, finding the nearest restroom. When you locked yourself inside of a stall, you hunched over the toilet, the tears falling from your eyes and into the toilet bowl as the sobs wrecked you. Everything seemed like it would be okay, but what had just happened in the game tonight and in the training room– proved otherwise. There's no way you'd be able to complete this internship in one piece. You went to reach for your phone to text Kennedy, but only then did you realize that it was sitting on your desk.

There's no way you'd be able to go back into that room with Jamie and Tyler being there together– you wouldn't survive. And it turns out, bathrooms make pretty good hiding spots.

By the time you had deemed the coast to be clear, you made your way back into the training room once the third period started and you knew no one would be in it. When you walked into the empty room, you sent Kennedy a text, asking her to meet you in the hall after the game and then you spent the rest of your time wishing that the game would just end.

The Stars lost 2-1 and Tyler scored a goal in the third. Once upon a time, not too long ago, Tyler would've joked that he scored that goal for you– 'his number one fan beside his mom'– but now you couldn't help but let your mind wander over into if he ever told Maisy the same.

As promised, Kennedy met you in the hallway with Katie by her side. Katie was explaining all of last season of the Maisy and Tyler saga to you and Kennedy, but you wanted no part of it, so you zoned yourself out, staring at the end of the tunnel, wondering if you'd see her walk down this way. By the time both Jamie and Big Rig came out of the locker room, there was still no sign of Maisy and you couldn't help but wonder if she was waiting out there for Tyler or even if at all.

"Y/N, are you coming home with us?" Katie asked, giving you a friendly smile and ignoring the glare in her direction that was coming from your brother.

You weren't ignoring it though and though it was there, you knew how to read your brother and beneath that glare were hints of sadness. But you didn't care, you were still angry at him for the stunt he pulled in the training room and sad at the fact that up until today, he hadn't bothered to talk to you– and even then, it was aggressive. You looked at Big Rig and nodded your head in his direction. "No, they're just going to drop me off before they go to his place."

Your walk from the hallway and through security and parking to Big Rig's car felt like a blur as Kennedy and Big Rig were focused on their conversation. As you got into the back of the car, you leaned forward between the passenger and driver's seats. "I sent my mentor an email during the game tonight and I have a meeting with her on Thursday to talk about the required hours of my internship and see if I've met them yet."

Kennedy turned back to face you so fast, you were sure she was going to have whiplash. Big Rig, as clueless as ever, looked between you and Kennedy. "What does that mean?"

Kennedy kept looking at you, raising an eyebrow and you just nodded. She sighed and turned to Big Rig. "It means she's done being your trainer."

#tyler seguin imagine #tyler seguin oneshot #tyler seguin writing #nhl imagine #nhl writing #nhl oneshot #hockey imagine #hockey oneshot #hockey writing #tyler seguin one shot #hockey one shot #nhl one shot #ldyk fic #my writing

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 3/?

Part 2

“We’ll get it out,” he says. Jon doesn’t doubt him, but he also doesn’t know exactly what to expect, and he definitely doesn’t want Melanie dead or- or worse.

“I need to get Basira,” is all Jon says before climbing to his feet and hurrying out the door.

III

Jon Knows the door to his office will open about a second before it does, but he still flinches a little when Gerry barges in and slams it closed behind him.

“I thought you’d left for the day,” Jon smiles a little as Gerry drops heavily on one of the chairs before his desk. “You’re in a mood huh?”

“I don’t like your Martin,” Gerry says, crossing his arms over his chest. The eyes on his elbows look at Jon as his face grows hot.

“Please don’t call him that,” Jon mumbles. Gerry’s real eyes are also fixed to his face, and Jon only grows more flustered at that.

“Met him just now at the break room. He’s got a good bite- are you sure this is the guy that spent two weeks hiding from Prentiss?"

"Very,” Jon says dryly. It’s still a sore spot for him; he should have known that wasn’t Martin, he should have-

“You could do better.” Gerry’s still frowning something awful, and Jon can’t help the tired chuckle that escapes his lips. “What?”

“I really couldn’t.”

“Oh come on!” Gerry shakes his head. “Of course you’d think that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon frowns, but Gerry only rolls his eyes and looks to the side, the chair’s front legs lifting off the floor as he leans back on it. After a few more minutes of silence, Jon resigns himself to spending an undetermined amount of time with a grown man sulking, and goes back to finishing his emails.

Jon’s not too used to being quiet around Gerry, probably because when Gerry seeks him up it’s because he needs Jon to feed. The silence feels odd, and Jon finds himself stealing glances across the desk from time to time.

Gerry looks like a statue, completely still except for the ring around his lower lip that periodically shifts against the flesh, glinting almost hypnotically under the cold lights of the office.

“He used to- he was always looking after me, you know?” Jon doesn’t really know why he’s telling Gerry this, other than he needs him to understand that Martin is so much more than what the Lonely is making of him. Gerry’s teeth flash into view as they bite and pull the silver ring. “He went through the trouble of getting some of Prentiss’ ashes, so I’d feel… safe.”

“Hm.” The ring flips a little more aggressively, Gerry’s lip pushed pursed and pressed under a slightly chipped -from a mosh pit when Gerry was sixteen, the Eye informs helpfully- front tooth.

“And he was always making sure I had something to eat and that I took breaks even when-” his voice falters a little, and licks his bottom lip in a thoughtless mimicking of Gerry’s movements, “-even when I was acting like a tool and stalking them all because I was sure they were trying to kill- Gerry!” Jon stops abruptly, when an index and middle finger each lay on the sides of Gerry’s bottom lip and his tongue flicks between them in a very suggestive way.

Gerry’s only response is a loud bark of laughter, and if Jon’s face was warm before when talking about Martin, now it’s positively boiling.

“W- are you twelve years old?” Jon stutters out, feeling the keen burn of embarrassment in his stomach. Gerry, mouth is curled in a devilish smirk he remembers from when Tim used to joke around and tease him, and the corners of his eyes are crinkled in amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You were just so focused,” Gerry cackles, and the chair’s front legs land again with a heavy thud. “It’s ok. I still don’t like him, but I’m not going to try to convince you. I’ll just keep an eye on him.”

“…I’ve come to learn stalking people doesn’t bring great results, but suit yourself,” Jon grunts, focusing on his computer screen again with a dark frown.

The chair creaks, and Gerry’s eyes peek over the edge of the laptop’s screen. Jon scowls, and Gerry pushes the laptop closed with a hand, his chin resting comfortably on the other.

“It’s rude to ignore your presents, Jon. The Eye might start to think you didn’t even want me back.” Gerry’s still sporting that infuriating smirk, and Jon narrows his eyes.

“Personally, I’m starting to think you’re more of a punishment, Gerard.” It’s too hot in the office; it wasn’t so hot before. Jon stands up to make sure the radiator is turned on, and grabs the box of real statements from the shelf on his way back. “Now, I have work to do, unless you want to keep distracting me.”

Gerry lifts his hands in surrender, and Jon rolls his eyes. It’s still too hot in the office, but a statement should make him feel better. A tape recorder clicks on in one of his desk drawers.

“Alright then. Statement of Sergeant Terrence Simpson, regarding an outbreak of violence in the crofting community of Lancraig, Ross-shire…”

He does in fact feel better after reading it, at least in a physical sense. In all others thought, it's… an absolute downer.

“Slaughter is nasty,” Gerry offers, and Jon almost jumps on his seat. He was so focused on the statement he completely forgot Gerry was there. He’s made himself at home with his legs on the second chair and his arms behind his head. “Normally the Fears go one on one, but you get a single wielder into the mix and suddenly you have tens of dead or injured.”

“Yes… honestly I’m very surprised Melanie has kept it under control this time,” Jon nods. Gerry’s head whips towards him, and he gets his feet off the chair. Jon pays him no mind, following his train of thought instead, “with that bullet still in her leg, pumping her up with violence and- w- did I read that somewhere?"

Gerry leans across the desk. Jon can hear the static now, but he keeps his eyes fixed on Gerry’s as the man gives him an encouraging nod.

"Ride it,” Gerry whispers, “let me hear it.”

“W- well yes. The- the bullet. From her trip to India.” It’s much easier to let the Knowledge out when he’s telling it to someone else. “It didn’t show in the scans, in any of them, but it’s still there. Just above the tibia and getting infected-”

Gerry nods. His entire demeanor has changed, Jon notices. His brow is furrowed, his shoulders tense. This is most definitely not the man that teased Jon into a flustering mess just an hour ago.

“We’ll get it out,” he says. Jon doesn’t doubt him, but he also doesn’t know exactly what to expect, and he definitely doesn’t want Melanie dead or- or worse.

“I need to get Basira,” is all Jon says before climbing to his feet and hurrying out the door.

—-

Melanie’s sleeping. Basira knows the cocktail she has every night is enough that she won’t hear them unless they’re deliberately loud, but she still worries. Melanie’s dangerous under the best circumstances, and Basira can’t tell she’s too keen on her waking up and finding Basira looming over her with Jon and Gerard Keay of all people.

“The guy said you’d need to hit the right nerve or it won’t work,” Basira hands over the syringe and takes a step back. “You know much about-”

“Here,” and he points to a spot on her leg that looks perfectly unremarkable to Basira.

She arches an eyebrow. “You sure?” she asks, then when he nods, “ok, go for it then.”

“Right,” Jon takes a deep breath, and leans over Melanie’s limp form. Basira cringes a little; Melanie’s her friend, but-

“Pray the injection doesn’t wake her-”

“Yes thank you, Basira-” Jon’s increasingly annoyed voice is cut off when Keay slaps a hand down over his mouth.

“If the injection doesn’t wake her up, you will. Just poke her,” the man says in a hoarse, tense whisper. Basira blinks in surprise when Jon lifts a hand to pull Keay’s hand from his mouth but doesn’t actually push it away.

“… Okay,” is all Jon says before he pushes the needle into Melanie’s leg in a single move that seems almost practiced in its certainty. Keay waits only as long as it takes for him to slip the needle out again to pull Jon back. “Now… now we wait.”

“You better be right about this,” Basira says as she sits down with her back against the wall.

Jon looks at her with a pained grimace, like he wants to smile but knows she doesn’t want to see it. “I am.”

He and his shadow sit against the wall across Basira, and she takes the opportunity to watch them. Jon’s sitting partly turned towards Melanie, which leaves his back half exposed to Gerard Keay, and he doesn’t seem too worried about that.

Basira somehow doubts Jon had an easy time being touched even before the multiple kidnappings and attempted murder, so this has probably got something to do with the Eye, making him feel like he’s safe in Keay’s presence so he grows even more distant from other humans.

She’s been… trying. She greets him back when he comes into the Archives, waves goodbye while trying to ignore the boiling jealousy that he gets to go home still. She wasn’t lying to Melanie; once upon a time, she liked Jon.

But Basira still can’t forgive him for surviving when Daisy didn’t.

Every time she sees him it feels like he’s stealing a breath Daisy should’ve had. Like some cosmic power placed them both on a balance and decided Jon was more important before it took Daisy away without leaving even a body for Basira to mourn over.

She knows she’s being unfair, and she doesn’t like it. She’s better than this, more objective. So she tries harder.

“I should’ve noticed before,” Basira offers tentatively, an olive branch that Jon jumps on much too quickly. Once upon a time it would have been endearing.

“No, of course not. You didn’t know Melanie before…” he makes a vague gesture pointing at his leg, “a- and she’s very uh- assertive. Even without the Slaughter, I think it would’ve translated into violence once you all started being in danger and there was no one else to… protect you.” He seems to catch on to what he’s saying, because he looks away almost immediately.

“Hm,” is all Basira says. She should’ve known this would bring her back to Daisy. Everything does. She can feel Keay’s eyes on her, and she focuses on not fidgeting. He doesn’t scare her.

“You… you’re living here too?” Jon asks after a moment, his voice dubious like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to continue the conversation after he ruined it once.

“It’s not safe out there. I got a camp bed by the tunnels,” Basira shrugs. “I like to keep an eye on them.”

“I… see. And- and Martin?” Jon asks. Keay makes a sound like a groan behind him, and Basira arches an eyebrow. Jon however, seems much more interested in a loose thread in his sock.

“I think he’s still got his own place. Whatever he’s doing for Lukas seems to be enough to keep him safe.”

“That’s… not ideal,” Jon tells the floor in a voice so low Basira can barely register it.

“No. I guess it isn’t.”

Neither one of them is too interested in conversation after that, and when Jon finally looks up and says it’s time Basira hops up to her feet immediately. It’s been a long thirty minutes.

“The scissors, please,” Jon extends a hand to her.

“I thought you had the scalpel?” Basira scowls. Surely he’s not planning on cutting her leg op-

“For the trouser leg!” Jon snaps in an exasperated whisper.

“Oh- right,” she hands them over.

Jon snips at the fabric until the trouser leg falls away, and he takes a deep breath.

“God… look at that,” he mutters. Basira feels every hair on her body stand on end, as a familiar static begins crackling around them. Jon’s eyes are giving off a faint green glow as he looks down at Mel, before he turns to face Keay. “Can- do you see it?”

“I see the mark,” Keay shrugs. He looks normal enough, no eerie glow or sharp teeth or anything, but by now Basira knows not all the monsters are that obvious.

“It’s a leg,” she says dryly.

Jon shakes his head. “It’s all rotten inside.”

“See the bullet?” she asks. Jon nods, and she tilts her chin towards Mel. “Get it out then.”

“Easy to say… she’s probably not going to swing at you,” Jon tightens his grip on the scalpel.

Basira doesn’t try to contradict him because while she’s sure none of them will be safe if Melanie wakes up, she’s even more certain Jon is going to be the first target.

“Here we go…"

And then Jon is sinking the knife into Melanie’s leg, and then his fingers, and Basira heaves a little when he pulls out a bright gold bullet dripping something black and slimy.

That’s when Melanie wakes up.

"GET OFF ME!” Melanie’s first lunge sends their makeshift operation tray crashing to the ground.

“Oh Jes- get her, she’s- she’s not supposed to be-!” Jon yells out, taking a hurried step back and crashing into Keay.

“Melanie, it’s alright!” Basira tries to reach her from the back- a chokehold won’t calm her down, but it’ll keep her still.

“Jon, get back-”

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” It must be the Slaughter’s residual effects, because there is no way Melanie’s slight frame has enough strength to shake Basira off this easily- “I’LL KILL YOU!”

Basira sees something silver glint in her hand as she lunges at Jon, and she screams. “She’s got the scalpel!”

Jon screams when Melanie stabs the knife into his shoulder. Then she’s pulling back, and Basira knows she’ll go for the throat this tim-

The dry slap of a punch against flesh cracks over them and Melanie backs down, dizzy enough that Basira can wrap her arms tightly around her torso and arms.

“Run!” Basira yells, but Keay’s already half carrying, half dragging Jon away towards the exit.

The bullet sizzles as it burns a hole straight into the floor of the Institute.

——-

If whatever Jon and his friends did at the Unknowing didn’t destroy it outright, the Anglerfish could take some notes from the Archivists, Gerry thinks. For a couple of avatars that gain absolutely nothing from having people devoted to them, they’re both especially adept at luring them in.

Gertrude knew perfectly well what to give people in order to ensnare them. Gerry never did fall for the dainty old lady image that she so carefully cultivated to make both avatars and assistants drop their guard, so she never tried it with him.

It kept him from ending up like Michael Shelley, but of course that only made her come at him from another angle.

He knows now she never cared for him. Not as a person; not enough to not mutilate his body and tie his soul to the book and then not even take it back with her. But at the time it was easy to let himself believe this woman could give him at least some of the things his mother refused.

Sometimes during their trips, when they were just having supper at a small roadside restaurant or another, Gerry found himself stopping and marvelling at how normal it felt.

“Decaf for my grandma please, she’s very delicate,” he’d tell the server of the day and smirk at the way Gertrude’s eyes gleamed dangerously from the other side of the table.

“My grandson’s paying,” she’d say at the end of the meal when the bill landed on the table, giving the server a sweet little smile like she hadn’t just poured a couple hundred pounds of concrete onto a woman with as many arms as she had fingers. “He’s always treating me, a real sweetheart,” and Gerry would have to burn some more of his emergency cash on a meal.

At some point he started believing ‘normal’ was 'real’, and when Gerry tasted acid on his tongue and smelt burnt hair before his body started seizing, the most reassuring thought in his mind was that Gertrude was there with him as he reached a hand to her.

He doesn’t know if she took it.

Jon is a different story. It’s difficult not to notice when one spends every other night at his flat, but Jon is so alone that Gerry’s a little surprised to find none of the ten marks he bears belong to the Forsaken.

Jon flinches when Gerry touches him, and Gerry knows he should stop, that not everyone is ok with it, but Jon never really seems uncomfortable, just… surprised.

Jon smiles very rarely, but when he does he almost always looks down, like he doesn’t want you to see it. His smile is a bit lopsided, his teeth a little crooked and there’s a worm scar right at the edge of his lip. It’s a good smile, in Gerry’s opinion.

Jon takes up an eternity to dress up every morning because his right hand only barely works, and Gerry can’t bring himself to offer to help because Jon always mutters little apologies for the delay and he thinks it would only make him feel worse.

Jon greets Melanie and Basira every morning and says goodbye every evening, even when Basira’s the only one that responds and even then only sometimes. Gerry can pinpoint the days she doesn’t because he comes out looking a little more deflated.

Getrude had her assistants, Decker, Leitner, Gerry himself and half of the avatars moving across a chess board only she could see. Jon has a man willingly feeding himself to the Lonely -allegedly- out of love, and a poor imbecile who apparently can’t resist people who are as broken as him.

“How’s your shoulder?” Gerry asks as though he can’t see the bright pink new skin through the loose neckhole of one of the oversized shirts Jon wears to 'sleep’. “Wounds from the Slaughter take a while to heal.”

“I’m- I think it’s doing fine,” Jon fidgets with his sleeve a little, before going to sit at the opposite end of the sofa. “Martin’s still avoiding me.”

Jon’s voice is perfectly calm and unaffected, and Gerry knows it’s full of bullshit. He reaches to lay a hand atop Jon’s head consolingly.

“Still not your Martin?” he asks, only the slightest bit teasing. It still manages to bring a pained little smile out of Jon.

“Not anymore, in any case.” Jon sinks back against the sofa’s plush backrest, his head heavy against Gerry’s hand. “Basira told me his mother died while I was in the hospital. I didn’t even know.”

“If Lukas is keeping him isolated for some reason,” Gerry doesn’t say 'asides from sacrificing him to his patron’ because he’s not insensitive, thank you very much, “it makes sense he can’t just come into your office to talk feelings over a cup of tea.”

Jon sighs. “It’s not his fault. I- it’s selfish.”

“How is caring for him selfish?” Gerry arches an eyebrow. His hand in Jon’s hair moves the slightest bit, only enough to ruffle through it softly.

“Because I’m not caring for him. I’m caring about what he thinks of me. If I- I should respect his decision,” Jon finishes lamely, pulling his feet up onto the sofa to circle his knees with his arms.

“You are. It’s not a crime to miss someone you like.” Gerry never had a cat, but he imagines this is how it feels to pet one. Careful not to move too much or too abruptly lest he shatters the fragile trust he’s managed to build. “They- if they don’t want to save themselves, you can’t do it for them, Jon.”

Jon’s head tilts sideways so that he can aim his big dark eyes at Gerry. “We saved Melanie.”

“And look what it got you.”

“It doesn’t matter what happened to me. Melanie is… recovering. That’s all there is to it,” he says, and Gerry has no doubt Jon actually believes it. “Are you going out tonight?”

Gerry’s not stupid by any means, and he knows a diversion tactic -and a request for space- when he hears one.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Gerry says before climbing to his feet. Jon’s muttered 'be careful’ follows him through the door and prompts a small smile out of him.

Jon is easy to grow fond of, or maybe Gerry just doesn’t learn from his mistakes.

—-

It’s almost midnight when Melanie wakes up from a fitful sleep. It was probably the nagging hunger, so she sets to digging around the fridge for something she can put together with minimal effort.

“That’s a good bruise right there,” says a familiar, amused voice. Melanie smiles. Helen doesn’t usually manifest her door outside the lower levels of the institute, but Melanie hasn’t gone back down yet, choosing instead to sleep on a sofa at the makeshift infirmary Basira set up for her in the break room. She must be worried.

“I think he almost dislocated my jaw,” she says as she turns on the sofa to face Helen’s distorted, ever-changing form. “Jon’s new boyfriend has a good hook.”

“In my defense, I was only trying to knock you out. Is that the Distortion?”

Both of them turn at that, and Helen’s long fingered hand wraps itself protectively around Melanie’s shoulder. Melanie’s pleasantly surprised to notice the touch doesn’t trigger the mix of irritation and rage it did just a few days before. Now she’s only grateful to have Helen by her side as she looks up at Gerard Keay.

“Michael knew you,” says Helen, tilting her head to the side a few degrees further than a human could reasonably go.

“Only a little,” Gerard shrugs. “Before he became you. Who are you now?”

“I am me. But Helen is also me.”

Gerard nods. “Sans Getrude in the mix, I’m guessing a sacrifice that outsmarted you somehow?”

Helen’s smile curls at the corners, her eyes swirling with delight when Melanie looks up to check on her.

“Michael was getting distracted. Archivists have that effect, I’ve found.”

“And Helen doesn’t get distracted?” Gerard asks.

Helen’s smile keeps growing and curling into itself, but she doesn’t respond. Her hand tightens around Melanie’s shoulder.

“What do you want?” Melanie knows there’s a knife behind her. A blunt one, only good for spreading mayonnaise or butter, but it’s still a knife and she’s still aware of it. Her feeling for these things has diminished over the past two days, but she figures it’ll be a long time before it’s gone. If it ever is.

“To check on you, mostly. You didn’t go full avatar, but that bullet still did a number on you.”

Melanie’s fist clenches by her side. “Well, no need to worry now. I’m back to being inoffensive little old me.” The truth of it aches at her like a bad tooth. Logically, Melanie knows the bullet was bad, and that it made her terrible and feral. But she’d been… powerful. She’d driven out the Flesh’s creatures by herself, she’d saved everyone. And now the power is gone, and she can lie to Basira, but not herself.

She misses it.

“Yeah, right. I doubt that.” Gerard gives her a wary smile. “The Slaughter goes for tigers, not kittens. But without that thing inside you you should at least be thinking more clearly.”

“…I am,” Melanie responds after a moment’s hesitation. She’s not quite sure she buys that the Slaughter only powered up what was already inside her, but… this guy would know, wouldn’t he? “How- how is he?”

“Healing. A statement or two and he should be right as rain,” Gerard frowns a little when Helen chuckles behind Melanie. “Do you know something we don’t, Helen?”

“You know the answer to that question.” Helen’s smile looks angular now, like they’re looking at it in a fractured mirror.

Gerard rolls his eyes and shakes his head, before turning to Melanie again.

“He’ll be happy to know you’re feeling more like yourself.”

“I still don’t like him,” Melanie crosses her arms over her chest, “don’t give him any ideas.”

“As if Jon would ever willingly believe anyone likes him,” he smirks, but it’s a soft, amused smirk Melanie’s seen before on people talking about Jon- seriously, what do people see in him?!

Do Georgie and Martin and this guy just have some sort of… disaster human fetish? And that’s another problem because if Georgie does have it, that doesn’t say anything good about Melanie herself, one way or the other.

“How do you not… hate him?” Melanie asks. Whatever Gerard thinks about Jon, there ought to be some resentment in there.

“Jon?”

“No, the bloke that keeps leaving used spoons next to the sink, of course I’m talking about Jon!” Melanie snaps. He’s got to be making fun of her, it’s the only explanation. “You died, you were dead and you wanted to be dead and now you’re back in this fucking mess!”

The man lifts a pierced eyebrow. “It wasn’t Jon who brought me back.”

“But it was because of him! We’re all trapped here because-”

“Because Elias is an asshole?”

“Elias isn’t here!” Melanie snarls. Helen’s hand tightens around her torso again, from shoulderblade to clavicle, and Melanie thinks if the bullet were still in her she’d be at Gerard’s throat already.

“If you’re going to blame Jon for all that’s happened to you, you might as well blame yourself for knowing Jon.” The absolute bastard has the gall to shrug at her. “That’s how much choice he had in the matter, or how much you did.”

“So what, you’re saying this was going to happen one way or another?” Her teeth grind as she tensed her jaw. “That we had no choice?”

“Oh no. There were definitely choices involved,” Gerard seems to sense she’s about to jump at him, because he readjusts his stance a little. “Jon chose to take on the promotion at work. You chose to come and give your statement. Your friend here chose to open the door-”

“Leave her out of this. She couldn’t have known what would happen if she opened it, I couldn’t have known coming here to tell a story would end with me being- being turned into some kind of monster!” By the time she’s finished, Melanie’s panting for breath. Hot, angry tears burn at her eyes that she won’t let spill.

“There you have it,” Gerard says simply. “I was born into this mess. You pushed a domino and ended up here. Not everyone is Martin Blackwood.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” At some other point she’d find this hilarious. Two men pining over an absolute mess of a monster. As it stands, the only thing she feels is the slightest wave of protectiveness towards Martin; because she’s known him the longest out of the two of them.

Gerard shrugs.

“Jon may trust him… but Martin knows what he’s doing. And I don’t trust anyone who chooses this willingly,” he says, averting his gaze. “I knew a woman who did.”

—

Martin doesn’t like to think of Elias at all, much less in positive terms. He has to admit though, that unlike Peter, he at least knew something about running an institution. Peter disappears for days, sometimes weeks at a time, and when he does show up all he cares about is how Martin’s self isolation is going.

He caught him talking to a tape recorder a few days ago, and Martin had to sit through another lecture on how this is for everyone’s good, including Jon, and he’s been doing a wonderful job but needs to work harder and… Martin had lost interest after that, the gist of it is the same every time.

As long as Peter believes it’s working, he’ll leave Jon and the others alone.

Martin sits down before the two steaming mugs -he keeps brewing an extra one on reflex-, and pushes his glasses up to his forehead to rest his face on his hand. At least the Archives’ break room is free again, after Melanie recovered from whatever it was that happened to her leg.

There’s a very familiar click below the table, and Martin’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Hello there,” he greets the tape recorder when he bends down to retrieve it. He places it behind Jon’s cup of tea, and it does make him feel a little bit better. “Not doing anything really interesting right now, but you can stay if you want.”

The tape whirs away, and Martin nods at it.

“Yep. Just taking a break, Peter can get really exhausting, but you’ve heard him before, I’m sure you know.” It’s a fun little exercise, pretending the tapes talk back to him. It still makes him feel very lonely, but in a different way. One way or another, this is Jon here with him. “Not really, I mean if what he’s been saying about the Extinction is true then we do have a bigger problem in our hands but God, sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. He doesn’t even know his email password, you know? Has to change it every time he logs in, I think by now we’re up to Tundra22. One would think the head avatar for a supernatural entity would be a bit less incompetent.”

The tape recording gives two little clicks, and Martin chuckles.

“Yes I know, but Jon could at least log in to his email, even if Sasha was always guessing his passwords. But you’re right, maybe it’s an avatar thing.” He takes a sip of his tea; this is the most at ease he’s felt in days. “How is he doing by the way? I guess it’s good he’s not alone, he makes… really poor decisions when he is. Or when he thinks he is- remember when he dug my Mum’s letter from the trash? What was he thinking? I wasn’t going to confess to a murder over a letter, much less throw it in the bin!”

Click.

“Yes, fear makes us do stupid things, I know.” He rolls his eyes, feeling a wave of fondness for the man. “I just… I wish I could talk to him. But thinking about it, I don’t even know what I’d say. 'Hey Jon, did you hear me when I read to you at the hospital? I missed you at the Institute, but at least it was very reassuring to know where you were instead of wondering if you’d been kidnapped again’? Not great conversation starters.”

Click. Whirr. Click.

“I mean… I want to think so, of course. But I don’t know if you can really think when in a coma, much less miss someone. I- if he wanted to miss me of course!” Martin is such a mess, getting flustered at his own imagined conversations with an inanimate object. “I’m just- I’m going to get back to work, I’ve already spent too much time talking to you.”

A series of accusing clicks.

“Don’t give me that. I know you can just pop into my office whenever you want anyways,” he gives the tape recorder his best stern look. “Go back to him, come on. Before he decides to… I don’t know, go find another ritual to stop and almost gets himself killed again.”

The click this time sounds amused to Martin’s ears, and he chuckles as he climbs to his feet.

“Yeah, alright. You can- you can keep his tea. It’s not like I’m going to drink it anyways.”

He walks out of the room before he can convince himself to stay. He really does have things to do, and the last thing he wants is for Peter to come find him.

Inside the break room, a door opens that hadn’t been there before, and a long fingered hand snatches the tape recorder from the table.

#jongerrymartin #jonathan sims #gerry keay #martin blackwood #j/g/m #vit writes

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