#i can sort of appreciate why elias is Like That now
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Watching my dear friend @marspumpkin experience tma for the first time does kinda make me feel like Elias. She's like SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH SASHA and I just sit there. hands clasped in my lap. smug bastard mode. going Huh. How interesting. Sasha you say? Why don't you go listen to some more statements? See what you can figure out?
#i should feel bad but#the magnus archives#tma#elias bouchard#sasha james my beloved#i can sort of appreciate why elias is Like That now#it's valid. this is very entertaining.
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Hi, I'm Elias, I'm a 26yo trans guy from Denmark. I write shit, I draw shit, and I get into unneccesarily tedious arguments with anons about torture apologia in fiction. I think that sums up my vibe
I've made a few posts about this already, but tl;dr: the Danish NHS has been refusing to treat me for gender dysphoria for the better part of a year now because they've deemed me "unstable." Unstable how, you ask?
I have depression.
No, that is quite literally it. Full context under the readmore.
Fighting to be heard and having the door repeatedly slammed in your face sucks peak ass, and I'm done now. The NHS is so lackluster when it comes to trans people, all of a sudden, it makes perfect sense to me why 31% of transgender Danes get HRT outside of the NHS.
And I'd rather not have to turn to the black market, so rn I'm hoping to get a prescription with GenderGP. The issue is, I'm poor as fuck and can't afford the start-up fees for the forseeable future - unless I do something like this. I hate asking others for money, and I hate it even more if I'm not in a place where I can give anything in return. But I also recognize I'm in over my head with this, so. If you've got a cent or two to spare, I'd be grateful as hell.
I've mathed it out, and my best estimate is that I need around 3500,- DKK / $500 USD. Again, this is just to cover the initial subscription as well as mandatory consultations/blood tests. I should be able to cover the prescriptions on my own, as well as further tests/consultations down the line, so I'm hoping this is a one-and-done sort of thing.
paypal: [email protected]
Also, important note. We're in a global cost of living/housing crisis and this isn't a strict life-or-death situation. If you're in a tough spot right now, don't send me anything, that'd just make me feel worse about asking. I appreciate the thought but you gotta take care of your own needs first. Peace and take care ✌️
So I've been dealing with major depressive disorder since I was 11. It runs in my family, and as you might imagine, after 15 years of living with this thing, I've learned how to manage it pretty well by now. I know what it's like to genuinely be unstable - and if I were in a place like that, no problem, I'd be open about that. I wouldn't be making decisions like this. I know myself. You kind of have to when you're dealing with a chronic mental illness.
Here's where I am right now: I've got no suicidal ideation, been clean from self harm for four years, no psychosis, no inpatient admissions for the last five years. I live on my own, take my meds, and I'm keeping my life in order. Depressed, yes, but about as stable as someone with my history can get, and ask anyone who knows me, me wanting to get on HRT isn't some spur of the moment decision. I've done a fucking decade of soul searching, and a few years ago, I finally (duh) reached the conclusion that living as a woman isn't something I can even fake being content with - believe me, I've tried. I'm well aware of the scope of medical transition, but I'm settled in who I am. And I just want to live like me now. That's the only thing I want.
If it counts for anything, my partner and family have supported me through this, which has been priceless obviously, but it also goes to show that me saying "I'm capable of making medical decisions" isn't purely a personal assessment. I'm pretty sure they'd speak up if they thought I was being unstable about it or whatever
But the CPH clinic for sexology, who have consistently refused to listen to me telling them all this, have somehow magically aquired divine knowledge on my capacity to make adult decisions about my own body, and on the basis that I have MDD, they're refusing to even set me up for a preliminary interview - one that would preceed a 6 month full-team psych evaluation before the prospect of HRT would even come up. They said in their latest refusal that they wont accept another referral from me until a year after my last in-clinic conversation with them, which happened on October 24th, 2023 - meaning that with the NHS, if they accepted my referral come October (which I don't have much faith they will), the earliest I could possibly get on HRT is April 2025. Arguing for my own sanity would've sucked enough as is, but it's made harder by the fact that they won't even talk to me. You're a trans guy who would like healthcare, but you have a mental illness? Good luck, you're on your own. Long live the Danish bureaucracy.
Dysphoria makes me fucking miserable. I'd rather not have to write a sob story here, and tumblr is like 80% trans people so I guess a good portion of you can imagine why waiting another year for the possibility of maybe-perhaps-if-all-goes-well getting on HRT would not actually make me less miserable about it.
So. I'm sitting down next week along with my mom to file a formal complaint with the patient's rights committee. I don't know what to call this other than some form of discrimination on the basis of mental illness, because nothing in my current situation would prohibit me from making medical decisions for myself. And I honestly don't think that a complaint is going to do much, but I intend to make it obnoxiously long, because by law, a specialized doctor and an attorney have to read through the whole thing. If you can't beat 'em, make 'em read 50 pages of you going into detail about why you think they suck, right
And yeah, like I said, in the meantime, I'm trying to go via GenderGP. It'd be nice if my poor ass could get HRT via the NHS instead of having to pay out of pocket, but apparently the bar for entry requires that you 1) have gender dysphoria to the point where it impedes normal function and 2) somehow aren't mentally ill. Who wrote these rules? Some 60yo cis guy in a suit in Christiansborg, I imagine.
Feel free ask about anything relating to this whole situation, I'll be as open as I can about it, cause I understand that if you're going to give money to someone, you want to know what it's going to. Though I hope you understand I'm not going to doxx myself more than I already have now, or give you my entire medical history - only what's relevant to my current situation.
I know Denmark is a welfare state and on a global scale we're doing alright, but I hope you don't mind if I say this: This shouldn't be happening as often as it does. Fuck the Danish NHS.
#other#slight self doxx ig#idec ill post my bare ass for testosterone#do rb if u want but also no pressure. i want this whole thing to be on a want-to only basis alright
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TYRION APPRECIATION MONTH
Day 19: A Storm of Swords
Favorite Quotes from Tyrion’s POV
Whilst Tyrion lay drugged and dreaming, his own blood had pulled his claws out, one by one.
“They tied her to a post in the yard and scourged her, then shoved her out the gate naked and bloody.” She was learning to read, Tyrion thought, absurdly. Across his face the scar stretched tight, and for a moment it felt as though his head would burst with rage. Alayaya was a whore, true enough, but a sweeter, braver, more innocent girl he had seldom met.
My hirelings betray me, my friends are scourged and shamed, and I lie here rotting, Tyrion thought. thought I won the bloody battle. Is this what triumph tastes like?
Pain gnawed at him like a toothless dog. Tyrion hated weakness, especially his own. It shamed him, and shame made him angry.
“What I want …” His throat felt raw and tight. What did he want? More than you can ever give me, Father.
“You ask that? You, who killed your mother to come into the world? You are an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature full of envy, lust, and low cunning. Men’s laws give you the right to bear my name and display my colors, since I cannot prove that you are not mine. To teach me humility, the gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about wearing that proud lion that was my father’s sigil and his father’s before him."
“To save a whore’s virtue, you threatened your own House, your own kin? Is that the way of it?”
“A coin is as dangerous as a sword in the wrong hands.” (Tyrion about Little Finger.)
You are the queen, Tyrion wanted to tell her. He ought to be begging leave of you.
I should say something, but what? Pardon me, Father, but it’s our brother she wants to marry?
“Then open your eyes. The Stark girl is young, nubile, tractable, of the highest birth, and still a maid. She is not uncomely. Why would you hesitate?” Why indeed? “A quirk of mine. Strange to say, I would prefer a wife who wants me in her bed.”
Every once in a very long while, Lord Tywin Lannister would actually threaten to smile; he never did, but the threat alone was terrible to behold. “The greatest fools are ofttimes more clever than the men who laugh at them,” he said, and then, “You will marry Sansa Stark, Tyrion. And soon.”
Well, I burned most of this, I suppose it’s only just that I rebuild it.
Sansa’s misery was deepening every day. Tyrion would gladly have broken through her courtesy to give her what solace he might, but it was no good. No words would ever make him fair in her eyes. Or any less a Lannister. This was the wife they had given him, for all the rest of his life, and she hated him.
Tyrion laughed. “Nine, and well done. I could not have named them all myself.” That was a lie, but it would give the boy some pride, and that he badly needed. (about Pod)
Lord Tywin seldom spoke of his wife, but Tyrion had heard his uncles talk of the love between them. In those days, his father had been Aerys’s Hand, and many people said that Lord Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but Lady Joanna ruled Lord Tywin. “He was not the same man after she died, Imp,” his Uncle Gery told him once. “The best part of him died with her.” Gerion had been the youngest of Lord Tytos Lannister’s four sons, and the uncle Tyrion liked best. But he was gone now, lost beyond the seas, and Tyrion himself had put Lady Joanna in her grave.
“You did have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your head was larger than most … but there was no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers, Lord Tywin’s Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make at the sight of infants, I’m sure you’ve heard it. The same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, ‘He killed my mother,’ and twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, ‘Leave him be, you’re hurting him,’ that Cersei let go of you. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told us. ‘Everyone says he’s like to die soon. He shouldn’t even have lived this long.’ ” (Oberyn Martell)
The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was pleasantly warm for autumn, but Tyrion Lannister went cold all over when he heard that. My sweet sister. He scratched at the scar of his nose and gave the Dornishman a taste of his “evil eye.” Now why would he tell such a tale? Is he testing me, or simply twisting my cock as Cersei did, so he can hear me scream? “Be sure and tell that story to my father. It will delight him as much as it did me. The part about my tail, especially. I did have one, but he had it lopped off.”
“No.” Tyrion’s voice was hoarse. “Sansa is no longer yours to torment. Understand that, monster.”
He could feel their eyes on him, picking at the fresh new scar that had left him even uglier than he had been before. Let them look, he thought as he hopped up onto his seat. Let them stare and whisper until they’ve had their fill, I will not hide myself for their sake.
One done, seventy-six to come. Seventy-seven dishes, while there are still starving children in this city, and men who would kill for a radish. They might not love the Tyrells half so well if they could see us now.
She was not eating, either. “Sansa, is aught amiss?” He spoke without thinking, and instantly felt the fool. All her kin are slaughtered and she’s wed to me, and I wonder what’s amiss.
“If I am ever Hand again, the first thing I’ll do is hang all the singers,” said Tyrion, too loudly. Lady Leonette laughed lightly beside him, and Ser Garlan leaned over to say, “A valiant deed unsung is no less valiant.”
“No, my lady,” Ser Garlan said. “My lord of Lannister was made to do great deeds, not to sing of them. But for his chain and his wildfire, the foe would have been across the river. And if Tyrion’s wildlings had not slain most of Lord Stannis’s scouts, we would never have been able to take him unawares.” His words made Tyrion feel absurdly grateful, and helped to mollify him as Galyeon sang endless verses about the valor of the boy king and his mother, the golden queen. “She never did that,” Sansa blurted out suddenly. “Never believe anything you hear in a song, my lady.” Tyrion summoned a serving man to refill their wine cups.
The dwarfs are not to blame, Tyrion decided. When they are done, I shall compliment them and give them a fat purse of silver. And come the morrow, I will find whoever planned this little diversion and arrange for a different sort of thanks.
He is going to die, Tyrion realized. He felt curiously calm, though pandemonium raged all about him.
It occurred to Tyrion belatedly that it might be wise to leave himself. When he heard Cersei’s scream, he knew that it was over. I should leave. Now. Instead he waddled toward her.
Yet wherever Sansa was and whatever her part in this might have been, she remained his wife. He had wrapped the cloak of his protection about her shoulders, though he’d had to stand on a fool’s back to do it.
Tyrion began to grasp his sister’s plan. She began with a man known to be honest, and milked him for all he would give. Every witness to follow will tell a worse tale, until I seem as bad as Maegor the Cruel and Aerys the Mad together, with a pinch of Aegon the Unworthy for spice.
“Of Joffrey’s death I am innocent. I am guilty of a more monstrous crime.” He took a step toward his father. “I was born. I lived. I am guilty of being a dwarf, I confess it. And no matter how many times my good father forgave me, I have persisted in my infamy.”
“That is where you err, my lord. I have been on trial for being a dwarf my entire life.”
“I did not do it. Yet now I wish I had.” He turned to face the hall, that sea of pale faces. “I wish I had enough poison for you all. You make me sorry that I am not the monster you would have me be, yet there it is. I am innocent, but I will get no justice here. You leave me no choice but to appeal to the gods. I demand trial by battle.”
A bark of hysterical laughter burst from his lips. “Oh, gods,” he said. “Jaime, I am so sorry, but … gods be good, look at the two of us. Handless and Noseless, the Lannister boys.”
“You won’t need last words. I’m rescuing you.” Jaime’s voice was strangely solemn.
“She was no whore. I never bought her for you. That was a lie that Father commanded me to tell. Tysha was … she was what she seemed to be. A crofter’s daughter, chance met on the road.” Tyrion could hear the faint sound of his own breath whistling hollowly through the scar of his nose. Jaime could not meet his eyes. Tysha. He tried to remember what she had looked like. A girl, she was only a girl, no older than Sansa. “My wife,” he croaked. “She wed me.”
Tyrion watched him go, striding on his long strong legs, and part of him wanted to call out, to tell him that it wasn’t true, to beg for his forgiveness. But then he thought of Tysha, and he held his silence.
Jaime would not be afraid, he thought, before he remembered what Jaime had done to him.
“Wherever whores go.” Tyrion’s finger clenched. The crossbow whanged just as Lord Tywin started to rise. The bolt slammed into him above the groin and he sat back down with a grunt. The quarrel had sunk deep, right to the fletching.
“Now that’s where you’re wrong, Father. Why, I believe I’m you writ small. Do me a kindness now, and die quickly. I have a ship to catch.”
Favorite quotes about Tyrion from Sansa’s POV:
“My lady, this is no way to bring you to your wedding. I am sorry for that. And for making this so sudden, and so secret. My lord father felt it necessary, for reasons of state. Else I would have come to you sooner, as I wished.” He waddled closer. “You did not ask for this marriage, I know. No more than I did. If I had refused you, however, they would have wed you to my cousin Lancel. Perhaps you would prefer that. He is nearer your age, and fairer to look upon. If that is your wish, say so, and I will end this farce.”
As they whirled to the music, Joff gave her a moist kiss. “My uncle will bring you to my bed whenever I command it.” Sansa shook her head. “He won’t.”
Her dwarf husband lifted his eyes slowly from his wine cup. “I’ll have no bedding.” Joffrey seized Sansa’s arm. “You will if I command it.” The Imp slammed his dagger down in the table, where it stood quivering. “Then you’ll service your own bride with a wooden prick. I’ll geld you, I swear it.” A shocked silence fell. Sansa pulled away from Joffrey, but he had a grip on her, and her sleeve ripped. No one even seemed to hear. Queen Cersei turned to her father. “Did you hear him?” Lord Tywin rose from his seat. “I believe we can dispense with the bedding. Tyrion, I am certain you did not mean to threaten the king’s royal person.” Sansa saw a spasm of rage pass across her husband’s face. “I misspoke,” he said. “It was a bad jape, sire.” “You threatened to geld me!” Joffrey said shrilly. “I did, Your Grace,” said Tyrion, “but only because I envied your royal manhood. Mine own is so small and stunted.” His face twisted into a leer. “And if you take my tongue, you will leave me no way at all to pleasure this sweet wife you gave me.”
“Lady Tysha.” His mouth twisted. “Of House Silverfist. Their arms have one gold coin and a hundred silver, upon a bloody sheet. Ours was a very short marriage … as befits a very short man, I suppose.”
“… abed, when the candles are blown out, I am made no worse than other men. In the dark, I am the Knight of Flowers.” He took a draught of wine. “I am generous. Loyal to those who are loyal to me. I’ve proven I’m no craven. And I am cleverer than most, surely wits count for something. I can even be kind. Kindness is not a habit with us Lannisters, I fear, but I know I have some somewhere. I could be … I could be good to you.” He is as frightened as I am, Sansa realized.
“My lady,” Tyrion said, “you are lovely, make no mistake, but … I cannot do this. My father be damned. We will wait. The turn of a moon, a year, a season, however long it takes. Until you have come to know me better, and perhaps to trust me a little.”
“On my honor as a Lannister,” the Imp said, “I will not touch you until you want me to.” It took all the courage that was in her to look in those mismatched eyes and say, “And if I never want you to, my lord?” His mouth jerked as if she had slapped him. “Never?” Her neck was so tight she could scarcely nod. “Why,” he said, “that is why the gods made whores for imps like me.” He closed his short blunt fingers into a fist, and climbed down off the bed.
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TMA MAG 48
"Elias just moved to the top of my suspect list"
Didn't think you'd get there within the next 20 episodes, Jon, but I'm glad you did.
But way more importantly -
He's been stalking Tim and Martin? Followed them home? Jon, if I weren't already convinced you're on to something by the nature of you being in a story, I would call you out for acting like that! Which is incredibly hypocritical of me considering I would watch the heck out of a show that's just Sascha and Tim breaking into places they shouldn't be in.
"Sascha has been the least suspicious" Do you see how that is a little suspicious, Jon. Can you not hear her voice. Does it not strike you as odd that your coworker seems unaffected by the flesh eating worms that hunted you down. Look me in the eye, JOn-
Now I'm torn on who my biggest suspect is, to be honest. I think Martin remains a red herring for Jon, but I am torn between Elias and Sascha, since Elias wasn't initially mentioned much he could be either completely irrelevant here or a secret 'surprise' villain. Now that he's officially entered the list of suspects, he might not be my prime suspect after all, if Jon is more willing to investigate him than Sascha right now? Again leaves Not-Sascha plenty of opportunity to do... whatever her evil secret plan is - is she working with one of the other avatars, which is why Michael warned Jon about her, so she doesn't get a leg up in the fight for the archives? Is what Elias said about making Jon leave the murder mystery alone totally the sort of sentence people will go insane over if it turns out he said that to get Jon off the whole murder investigation because he's the culprit and not because he was actually worried about anyone's mental health? Am I missing about 74 pieces to this puzzle? Mayhaps.
Also can we just appreciate that Jon receives so many complaints about people who come in to leave statements with him he is casually sassy to his boss about it? I feel like they can count the statement givers on one hand in the first place, so somehow (not hard to guess how, but still), Jon managed to make every single one of these people pissed enough at him that they go complain to his manager. This isn't retail, this is ghost...observing. This happens often. The real horror of the archives is Jon, a guy so unpleasant he'll make victims of real spooky shit so angry they forget their plight and turn into regular ol' customers instead. Instant cure.
Stay iconic Jon, but for the love of god confide into someone that isn't a piece of plastic you got in the 80s. This episode was all about keeping our loved ones close when we're about to lose ourselves! You are in a story, Jon, those things are important!
#tma#the magnus archives#jonathan sims#the gertrude murder mystery#tma season 2#elias bouchard#sasha james#my continued inability to spell character's names causes great revelations in the tags#if anyone's wondering
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Sicktember 2022: Day 10
Prompt: Excessive us of tissues/"blow your nose"
Fandom: The M.agnus Ar.chives
Wordcount: 872
Summary: E.lias and P.eter find themselves assaulted on an otherwise ordinary summer afternoon. It's not a problem, more like an annoyance made all the worse by the sudden onset of a runny nose.
Comments: Agh, another one that fell sort of my 1k goal 😫 I am once again pushing my smol!E.lias lorge!Pe.ter agenda
CW: This one isn't messy, per se, but messier than what a ideally write. So. Snot warning.
Elias Bouchard was a small man. Slender shoulders, narrow hips. And he'd been carrying on just fine, thank you very much, he had no need for brute strength when he was always three steps ahead of his adversaries. Only now did he regret taking on this body, when he'd been grabbed and blindfolded before he could so much as gasp.
Beside him, Peter had struggled and there had been a great deal of muffled noises that seemed to indicate some sort of physical altercation, then the gentle lap of waves against a distant shore.
Peter's body (presumably) hit the ground with a thud. Elias sneezed and bent his knees to sit. His sinuses burned. Ah, yes. Up until five minutes ago, this burgeoning head cold had been the height of his concerns. "Peter?" he asked the rough-hewn darkness pinning his eyelids down. "Are you dead?"
A moment of silence. Elias sniffled, but couldn't bring himself to wipe his dripping nose on his sleeve. He might be able to feel for his handkerchief if he could stomach the idea of running his hands all over his body like an idiot.
Big, rough hands found his lapels, the familiar sea salt and tobacco smell of Peter washing over him. The hands moved a layer deeper, running over his waistcoat and shirt, pulling at his tie.
"Really not the time," Elias said.
"Don't flatter yourself." Peter found Elias' inner blazer pocket and yanked out his handkerchief with a swift motion.
Elias sighed and reached up to untie the blindfold. Peter had obviously committed himself to being useless. The knot was rough, pulled tight. Elias worked at it with his fingers, but they slipped over the material. A sneeze bent him forward and he dropped his hands, sniffling madly. "Are you quite finished with my handkerchief?"
"No," said Peter in that maddeningly serene tone, "but I appreciate your asking."
Elias sniffled again, having no other option, and scrabbled at the blindfold knot. "I suppose you can see just fine, then?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well, then," Elias hissed, "why don't you make yourself useful?" Another sneeze bent him double and, horrifyingly, sent a gush of warmth over his top lip. He wiped it away with his fingers, lip curling.
"For pity's sake, Elias." A scrambling sound, then something thin and papery touched his face. "Blow your nose."
Well. What choice did he have? He was blindfolded, bereft of his handkerchief, lightly bruised, and altogether exhausted. He blew.
"Good boy."
"That's nauseating." Elias sniffed.
"That's nauseating." Peter wiped his nose, surprisingly tender with his movements.
"Did you really take my handkerchief for the sake of this sick little power play?" Elias asked, giving up on the blindfold once more. Like it or not, he needed Peter's help. He'd have to work up to asking.
"No, not all."
"Then give it back."
"I'm using it."
Elias sighed through his mouth, being unable to breathe through his dripping nose, and tried to cast his vision out. A blindfold alone would not usually have hindered him to this degree. Their assailants had been clever, though evidently not clever enough to see their plan through. But the blindfold must have been touched by another entity, strongly enough to obscure the Eye's focusing power. Whatever Peter was doing with his handkerchief, Elias couldn't sense it. He was, in every aspect of the word, blind. "What on Earth for?" he demanded, clawing furiously at the knot again. A good angle necessitated tipping his head forward and his nose immediately began to run again. He sniffled in violent sequence. Of course this had to happen when he was coming down with a cold.
"I've got a head wound," Peter said. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Well, I've got a cold," Elias said, "so if you'd kindly—" Another wad of paper met his nose, soaking up the droplets he'd been sniffling against. "You're an idiot." He reached up and grabbed Peter's wrist (striking it by sheer luck), using the other to pry the tissues out of Peter's grasp. "If you're so eager to help, why don't you work on this blindfold?"
Peter's genial voice carried not even a note of sarcasm, but Elias smelled it on him regardless. "Of course. All you had to do was ask." Something cold slipped against Elias's temple and the cloth tightened on the other side of his head before falling away. Well. Good thing Peter carried a knife on him.
Elias sneezed into the wad of tissues and kept them pinned to his face, though they were starting to get soggy. The knowledge came in a flood; he barely had to reach for it: a spur-of-the-moment assault from two servants of the Stranger, both of whom had met their end at the hands of the Lonely.
Peter ruffled his hair with a paternalistic grin that made Elias want to find out how much of his hands would fit around Peter's neck. "Now, Elias, I know the idea of revenge can be a tempting one, but you mustn't rush into things."
"Yes," Elias answered bitterly, through the tissues, "the Eye, famously known for rushing it to take action."
"You wouldn't want to make that cold any worse."
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Weyoun for headcanons? Any or all of the iterations
Thank you for this one! I finally got around to it so here we go. I did all the Weyouns we got to see in the show. I'll put this under a cut because it's a little long.
Weyoun 4:
Sexuality hc: I'm not sure he's ever thought about the concept of sexuality?
Gender hc: Vorta
A ship I have with said character: none. We only got to see him for one episode :/
A BROTP: based on vibes only I want to say Weyoun 4 & Data. They'd be the kind of friends whose friendship is impossible to comprehend for outsiders - but they'd appreciate each other very much. They would seldom meet in person: instead they'd write each other lengthy letters on a very regular basis.
A NOTP: Weyoun 4/Damar. I don't think they'd work together.
A random hc: he's a heavy smoker. Next time you watch "To the death" keep in mind the fact that he's got a pack of Dominion-brand filter cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket at all times.
General opinion about him: he strikes me as French - as in, a cliché French character written by American writers. Also that scene he has with Sisko where he tries to convince him to help kill the rebels? Great persuasion skills. All in all I think he was a great introduction to the Weyouns.
Weyoun 5:
Sexuality hc: he is gay.
Gender hc: Vorta
A ship I have with said character: Dr. Elias Giger. They bonked and there is absolutely no doubt about that.
A BROTP: weyoun 5 & keevan. they'd get along in a horny sort of way. Friendly rivals who are also very attracted to each other.
A NOTP: Weyoun 5/Dukat. But that might just be because I have an issue with any ship involving Dukat. And that is probably because I loathe Dukat on a personal level.
A random hc: he uses those Labello lipsticks all. The. Time. Not so much to moisturise (though he does like to do something for his chapped lips) as to have a tasty snack at the ready whenever he feels like it. On a darker note, his obsession with trying to grasp music comes from the time he heard a prisoner hum a tune and didn't understand what it was.
General opinion about him: he's so different than Weyoun 4 and jeffrey combs did such a great job at making all the Weyouns different from each other. From his introduction on it's so clear that he's not Weyoun 4 and that's great. I like that Weyoun a lot - though he's not my favourite.
Weyoun 6:
Sexuality hc: he is gay also.
Gender hc: Vorta
A ship I have with said character: none, for the same reason I don't have any for Weyoun 4.
A BROTP: Weyoun 6 & B'elanna Torres. They both have a melancholic, poetic streak that they'd indulge in together. They'd sit by a brazier, look at the stars and write together.
A NOTP: Weyoun 6/Odo. Please no.
A random hc: if that guy was alive on Earth now he'd be a therapist.
General opinion about him: he's a very, very interesting character and I think along with Weyoun 4 he might be my favourite Weyoun. "Treachery, Faith and the Great River" is heartbreaking. "All you have to do is ask", Weyoun says - and then Odo doesn't, because he understands what Weyoun is telling him. The nightmare he tells Odo about… His death…
Weyoun 7:
Sexuality hc: he too is gay.
Gender hc: Vorta
A ship I have with said character: Weyoun/Damar, I suppose. This is the only Weyoun I can see being with Damar - whatever that means. I'd rather not think about it too much.
A BROTP: this Weyoun comes across as very isolated - I'm not sure he'd have any relationships you could qualify as BROTPs. Probably because the war is at its height and he is very focused on not messing up he doesn't spend any energy on that, and so I have no BROTP for him.
A NOTP: Weyoun 7/Thot Gor.
A random hc: he's a smoker too, but he smokes way more than Weyoun 4 and he smokes filter-less cigarettes that smell AWFUL. That man is a walking smoke cloud. That's why the Breen wear those helmets, by the way.
General opinion about him: again, he is very different from the other Weyouns - and having watched several episodes back to back now it's even more striking to me. This Weyoun is interesting because of how clearly the turning of the war is weighing on him: he knows they're losing and he's desperately trying to find a way to still win, and he's riddled with fear. Again, a great performance by Jeffrey Combs.
Weyoun 8:
Sexuality hc: gay. I keep saying gay and now I wonder what sexuality looks like in Vorta - we know so little about both them and the Jem'Hadar. Of course they're cloned for a specific purpose but… I'd have to think about it more.
Gender hc: Vorta
A ship I have with said character: I might be convinced to consider Weyoun 8/Thot Gor. I might be. *takes notes*
A BROTP: just like Weyoun 7, he is very isolated, perhaps even more so. I can't think of anything.
A NOTP: Weyoun 8/Damar. After what happened to Weyoun 7 it makes no sense to me - Damar wouldn't consider it and neither would Weyoun.
A random hc: he never sleeps. Or at least he tries not to - but he regularly falls asleep at his console. Even when every Cardassian in the room has been relieved by the night guard he stays up, fueled by terror. (Sorry, dark.)
General opinion about him: he makes sense. He knows he's probably the last Weyoun; he's in the process of losing the war and he knows he'll pay for it if he does; the Founder is breathing down his neck; and the Founder is dying, which he's bound to feel responsible for. He makes sense as the successor of Weyoun 7 and I wonder what he thinks of Weyoun 7's handling of the war and of the Founder's sickness. In any case, a very compelling character - like all Weyouns are.
Thank you so much for this ask! It got me to rewatch quite a few episodes and it got me thinking about Vorta in a way I hadn't before.
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For the second day of @jonmartinweek, mostly for the prompt "injury", though also a little bit "love confession" (by omission).
Set directly after episode 92. Content warnings for mild descriptions of Jon’s canonical injuries (blood, burns).
*
Things are...tense, when they go back down to the Archives. Actually, “tense” is probably an understatement, after finding out that Elias murdered not only Gertrude Robinson, but also the unknown man in Document Storage—who as it turned out was none other than Juergen bloody Leitner.
A lot to take on board, all in all.
Basira seems to have accepted her new employment status with eerie calm, and starts setting up at Sasha’s old desk (oh god, Sasha’s dead, has been for months), fetching notebooks and folders from the stationery cupboard and arranging pens and highlighters in a desk tidy. Daisy is nowhere to be seen—thankfully, Martin thinks, because she was even scarier than usual in Elias’ office. Melanie storms off into the stacks and there are sounds of shouting and things hitting the floor, which Martin is in no hurry to investigate. Tim sits at his desk with his feet propped up for about five minutes, then stands up and says: “Fuck this, I’m off to the pub.” He doesn’t invite anyone else to go with him, and Martin thinks their presence probably wouldn’t be welcome.
Jon arrives in about half an hour later, smelling of fresh cigarette smoke. Normally Martin would disapprove, but the way things are right now he’s tempted to take up a few bad habits himself. Jon looks...exhausted, defeated, his shoulders slumped wearily. His clothes are smudged with dirt, and there’s drying blood crusted around the injury on his neck; the bandages on his hand are starting to slip, revealing the angry, raw burns beneath.
Martin’s not sure he’s ever been so happy to see someone in his life.
Jon gives him a small, tired smile as he passes, then heads into his office and shuts the door. Martin knows that no sane person would try to go straight back to work looking like they’d just been through a war zone and still with an open wound; he is also aware that Jonathan Sims is the sort of person to do precisely that. He hesitates for a few moments, then makes a decision.
He fetches the first aid kit from the break room, and goes and knocks on Jon’s door. It’s a firm knock, a knock that he hopes says “I’m coming in whether you like it or not”, because it’s not beyond Jon to try to avoid them all for an extended period.
“Come in,” Jon calls, and even his voice sounds exhausted. When he sees Martin enter the room, his expression softens in a way that’s difficult to parse. Is he just relieved that it isn’t one of the others? Or is he actually pleased that it’s Martin?
It’s been two months since Jon went into hiding while suspected of murder, and the last time Martin saw him he had been quite sure Jon was planning to—to hurt himself, somehow. Before that, though, there had been a time when they were...well, close, in a way. Jon had let his guard down around Martin, in the midst of being so suspicious and afraid. He had trusted Martin, when he didn’t trust anyone else, had eaten lunch with him and talked about boring, ordinary things, the tight set of his shoulders relaxing just a little. He had even laughed, sometimes. It had been, despite everything, one of the happier times in Martin’s life, and if that’s not pathetic he doesn’t know what is.
“Hi, Jon,” he says.
“Martin,” says Jon, his tone soft. “It’s so—ahh, how are you?”
“How am I? You’re the one with a bloody great gash in your neck and looking like you put your hand in a fire.” Martin brandishes the first aid kit. “You really should go to the hospital, but I know it would be a waste of my time suggesting it.”
“Thank you for bringing that,” Jon says. “I appreciate it. You can just leave it on the desk.”
“Nope,” Martin tells him cheerily, setting the kit down and opening it. “I know you, Jon. If I leave it with you it’ll still be sitting here untouched tomorrow. Plus, I got my first aid certification when I was working in the library. It’s probably expired now, but I think it still counts.”
Jon looks as if he’s about to protest, but then he huffs a breath that might be a laugh, and nods in concession.
“All right then,” he says.
Martin snaps on a pair of disposable gloves and directs Jon to sit on the desk and undo the top two buttons on his shirt, so Martin can examine the wound on his neck. It’s shallow, fortunately, and the bleeding seems to have already stopped. Martin cleans away the crusted blood as gently as he can, though Jon still winces a few times.
“What happened?” Martin asks, as he smears on antibiotic cream.
“Daisy. She, ah, she decided that I was dangerous. Needed to be dealt with. Fortunately Basira was able to convince her otherwise.”
“Bloody hell,” Martin mutters. He’s not sure why he’s surprised; he’s always felt afraid around Daisy, like a rabbit being in the same room with a fox. But he just sort of assumed it was typical Martin fear of, well, everything. He never thought Daisy would actually hurt any of them. He applies a bandage carefully over the wound, and then turns his attention to Jon’s hand. Unwrapping the bandages reveals the red, blistered mess beneath, and Martin hisses in sympathy.
“Please tell me you went to the hospital for this.”
“I went to a walk-in clinic,” Jon says. “They cleaned it up, gave me some antibiotics and painkillers. They, uh, they did recommend I see my GP for follow up monitoring, and that I should get a referral to a physiotherapist, but, well, it’s been a busy few days.”
“Jon,” Martin sighs, exasperated, and Jon smiles a bit shakily.
“I know,” he says. “I will go to a GP, I promise. It’s just a bit tricky when you’re wanted for murder. Anyway, it seems to be healing rather well, all things considered.”
Martin considers whether to apply antibiotic cream, but the skin doesn’t seem to be broken, and he knows it’s best not to touch the area more than needed. Instead, he rewraps it with clean, dry bandages, being sure to keep them loose.
“How did this happen?” he asks, to distract himself from the fact that he is, technically, holding Jon’s hand. Jon gives a self-deprecating laugh.
“I, uh, I was trying to get information from a devotee of the Lightless Flame. This was her price.”
“The Lightless Flame? That cult—from the statements?”
“The same. As it turns out, a—a lot of things from the statements are real. Unpleasantly so.”
“I—yeah, I sort of figured that out when Tim and I got trapped in these weird corridors for days by that Michael...thing.”
Jon’s face blanches, his brows furrowing.
“You—god, Martin, I didn’t know. Are you—I mean, you’re okay, obviously, but— Have you seen Michael since?”
“No, and I hope I don’t.” Martin feels faintly nauseous at the memory. He doesn’t realize his hands are trembling slightly until the fingers of Jon’s hand, the unburned one, touch his wrist.
“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he says. “When I realized a-about Sasha, about that thing, I hoped I could take care of it myself, spare you and Tim. I never wanted to drag you into all this.”
“I don’t think there’s much avoiding it,” Martin mutters miserably. “And you didn’t seem to mind dragging Melanie into it, while you were on the lam.”
“I shouldn’t have asked her for help either. It wasn’t fair to put any of you in the position of aiding a suspected murderer.”
“I never believed you did it,” Martin tells him fiercely. “It just would have been nice to know you were okay, you know?”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I—I wanted to contact you, but it seemed too risky. I knew the police would be watching you, since we’re friends. Or—or at least friendly.”
Everyone I’ve talked to says you and him were close. Martin had been ridiculously pleased by the accusation at the time, and he feels the same now, with Jon’s injured hand cradled in both of his. Jon trusts Martin with his wounds, his vulnerability. Jon wanted to contact him; Jon thinks they’re friends.
“I—” Martin starts to say, and he doesn’t know if his next words will be I missed you or I worry about you or some humiliating romantic confession blurted out and impossible to take back. He draws a deep breath, and instead says: “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re okay. I don’t have that many friends, I can’t afford to lose one.”
He says it like a joke, and mercifully, Jon takes it as one, and gives a relieved laugh. Martin realizes he’s long since finished bandaging the burn and is now just sort of...holding Jon’s hand; he releases it, reluctantly, and Jon smiles, lifting his other hand to touch the bandage on his throat.
“Thank you, Martin,” he says, hopping down from the desk. “I appreciate it, really.”
“As a token of your appreciation, you can go ahead and make a doctor’s appointment for that hand,” says Martin firmly, closing up the first aid kit.
“I will,” Jon says solemnly, and Martin believes him, but he’s also going to check in and remind him at the end of the day because Jon has a tendency to forget about trivial things like his own wellbeing. It’s just who he is, and Martin’s made his peace with it, like he’s made his peace with being utterly, hopelessly gone for Jonathan Sims.
“I was going to make some tea, if you fancy,” he says as he opens the door. “You look like you could use a cup.”
“Oh, yes, that would be lovely, thank you. Oh, and Martin?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad I’m back as well. I—” Jon hesitates a moment, then says: “I missed your tea.”
It’s not much of a declaration, but Martin understands what Jon means by it; for the two of them, it means a lot.
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What would your TW ocs reactions be if y/n gave them a kiss???🫣🥺
I’m going to presume this is sort of a “first kiss” scenario, and answer accordingly. The idea being the Prefect (or whoever he’s in a relationship with) just giving them a kiss kind of out of the blue and confessing they love them and want to be in a relationship. Also, I won't be covering Theodore or any other Student OCs I've yet to introduce (such as Maelstrom or Grit Gravelle), just the ones I've handled in writing so far. With that in mind…
Nakoda is a sensual beast, but he’s not used to open affection of a more innocent nature. If you’re not in a relationship with Nakoda, and just kiss him out of nowhere, the chances are high he’ll react in surprise at first. You’ll have actually caught the serpent off guard, he won’t really know how to react: should he panic? Should he be upset? Should he even believe what’s happening? Once he realizes you want a relationship, and that you care about him…internally, he’ll be blushing, but externally, he won’t show it. Cue him smirking that sultry, sly, RAVENOUS smirk as he chuckles and pulls you close. Fangs glisten as he licks your cheek and holds you tight. He doesn’t need his coils to make sure you won’t escape…and you will find one kiss won’t cut it. He is INSATIABLE, in every sense of the word.
Billy is an innocent, sweet boi (most of the time), and chances are you’ve actually kissed him more than once now. Usually on the cheeks or on his nose. He thinks it is cute, and he always blushes and giggles, seeing you as just being playfully affectionate. You’re his little friend, friends are allowed to do that, aren’t they? Once you give him a kiss full on the mouth, though, he’s left…deeply confused. That didn’t feel like all the other kisses. Are you still playing? What is this? Why is he feeling redder than ever? Once Billy realizes what you want…expect a very flustered but VERY happy giant boi. One who is gonna hug you and squeeze you and cover you in smooches and maybe even licks, because his little friend and he are going to be so much more than normal friends, and that is AMAZING to him. Billy may have a LITTLE trepidation under the surface, given his past and how he’s been messed up by people he trusted before…but by now, he’s learned to trust you, so he’ll hope for the best and act accordingly.
Elias will feel his heartbeat quicken and go ramrod straight. He has never been kissed by anyone before, aside from his departed parents. He has no idea how to respond. Eli’s usual theatrics and such will COMPLETELY fail him; he will be an absolutely flustered, embarrassed, but joyful mess, not sure what to do or what to say or…ANYTHING really. You’ll probably have to drag him to a proper place and calm him down before you can proceed any further. Once you HAVE calmed him down…hope you like Sonnets. He will be quoting them all freaking night.
Reno would be momentarily surprised…then laugh at you. “HA HA HA! Ya call THAT a kiss? PAH-HA-HA-HA-HA! C’mere, you…I’ll show you a REAL kiss.” And he will, too. Case closed.
James would have a similar response to Eli, but he’d recover much more quickly. After all, why WOULDN’T you want a relationship with such a cunning, daring, grand fellow as himself? Clearly, it was inevitable! He will immediately return the kiss, and run his hands through your hair as he gloats about capturing a treasure more precious than any pirate could ever have. After inviting you to dinner in his dorm room, he will bow to you elegantly, kiss the back of your hand, and wink as he reminds you not to be late. Captain’s Orders.
Smitty…will curl up into a ball, covers his face with his hat, and blush bright red while making squeaky little noises like a mouse. Poor little guy does NOT do well with affection, but he VERY highly appreciates it, as the loopy, lovestruck look on his face indicates once you pull that cap away.
#oc ask#romance#kiss#disney#twisted wonderland#nako#nakoda#nakoda spivak#billy#billy geant#eli#elias#elias inque#reno#reno rovar#james#james killian#smitty#smitty mccarthy
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Sasha stuck her head around the corner of the office door, knocking on the wood long after her reindeer antlers had already entered the room, grin on her face and Jon’s coat in her hand.
“Sup boss?” It was clear from the way she was grinning that the institute Christmas lunch had gone well. there was nothing at all in the way she was advancing on him now, a spring in her step and a bushel of tinsel wrapped around her waist like a belt, remnants of party poppers and party hats tangled both in her hair and in her earrings, that didn’t indicate that her and Tim had not finished an entire bottle of wine between them.
“How can I help Sasha?”
She threw his coat at him, it landed on the desk sending the files he had been sorting to the floor with a depressing thunk.
This was why he hated Christmas lunch. Elias filled the staff up on mediocre outside catering while the department heads put on a panto for the rest of the staff. By the time it got to the ‘he’s behind you’ part of the production the entire accounts team would be five sheets to the wind and research would have enough video blackmail to see them up till halloween.
It had been just about bearable when Jon was one of the ones getting slowly drunk on the bosses wine choices, but now? If he had ignored the email from Elias about his participation even if it did come with five exclamation marks and a big red warning triangle, that was between him and his sanity. Though he had a feeling a bottle of cheap wine would have at least prepared him for whatever mischief Sasha came herolding.
As if she had read his mind she pulled out two miniature whiskeys and an individual peel top glass of wine.
“Pick your poison.” she said thrusting her pilfered gains in his direction, eyebrow raised in a passive threat that this wasn’t up for discussion. “You might have escaped widow twankey through sheer stubbornness, but you are not getting out of the archives tradition, get up and get that on.” she pointed at his coat. “You’re at least two rounds, maybe three behind the rest of us and you won’t appreciate the sight of Tim on his arse if you don’t catch up.”
Tim had almost certainly had rum in his hot chocolate this morning, so he was surprised he hadn’t already retreated to the darkest corner of the archives to sleep it off. Jon took the tiny bottle of whiskey from Sasha’s outstretched hand, twisting the cap and downing it in one.
“Happy?”
“Getting there.” she grinned as she reached over and turned off his desktop. “Come on old man, for one day you can log off at 4pm like the rest of us.”
*******
It didn’t snow in central London, or rather it did, but it didn’t ‘stay snow’ for very long. Yet it was giving it a gallant effort as Sasha jumped the slush puddles and dragged them towards the river, flurries of the white stuff sticking to the not very waterproof jacket that Jon huddled around him.
It was cold, the kind of cold that left small children and several adults rosy cheeked and flustered as tiny puffs of breath fell from their mouths with each exhale.
Jon could tell you that the sight of Martin this morning red cheeked and clutching a takeaway cup and breakfast for him hadn’t left him feeling a little short of breath, but he would have been lying.
Something about Martin in his miss matched gloves, a beanie pulled down tightly over his dark pink hair, the hand knitted scarf that left only his eyes and steamed up glasses visible, seemed to flaw Jon slightly when he had wandered into his office first thing. Martin looked cosy, Martin looked warm. Martin looked at him like he had gone slightly mad when he hadn’t spoken in a few moments.
He was in danger of doing the exact same thing again as he neared the edge of the ice rink and caught sight of Martin and Tim clinging to the edge of the barrier, novelty santa hats perched on both heads, bowed in laughter as Tim tried to keep Martin on his feet. All six foot something of him wobbling like a newborn lamb on the ice.
“You said you would wait!” Sasha scalded as she neared the barriers.
“We thought it would take you longer to get Scrooge away from his desk, though you were going to have to go full muppet on him, pull up the ghosts of Marley and Marley, set fire to a rat, bother a goose. You know the whole kit and caboodle.” Tim said, thrusting out his arm to steddy Martin again as his ice skates went one way and him the other.
“It's in the singing of a street corner choir .It's going home and getting warm by the fire
It's true, wherever you find love It feels like Christmas.” He sang as he got Martin to his feet giving Jon, what Tim probably considered a subtle look.
It was as far from subtle as he could get. Martin however seemed to be oblivious, concentrating more on keeping upright than on the outing of Jon’s crush from his traitorous college.
“Come on Mr Humbug. Skates on.” Sasha said, dragging Jon towards the hut where the skates were stored, “You’re here now, time to see what you’re made of.”
“We have this every year, I’m good at Skating, I like Christmas, just because you all think we work in some dickensian poor house doesn’t mean that I have to be Scrooge, I could be-”
“Whatever you say next is null and void, the christmas laws exist for a reason, for us poor urchins to feel good about getting the proverbial stick out of your arse. Now do you want a penguin?”
*******
Jon wasn’t sure why he agreed to these things, the other people on the ice rink were avoiding their party and to be fair Jon didn’t blame them, Sasha had indeed paid for the use of a penguin, insisting that Tim was a child, he needed it for balance. She wasn’t wrong, but the fact that Tim was almost bowled over himself trying to grip onto the penguin stabiliser was not doing much for his coordination or his balance.
Tim being Tim though styled it out.
“Hey look, I'm Pingu! Meep meep mother fuckers….”
“Tim! There are kids.”
“And? WE all know that Pingu swears like a sailor, just cause it’s in penguin…speaking of ...why is Pingu’s dad always ironing pants, they don’t wear pants Sasha… So why?”
This had left Martin under Jon’s capable care, hoping that none of them had their work badges hanging around their necks; he could already imagine the grumpy looks that Elias would give them if he got another complaint about the archive staff.
It would be a lot easier to make sure Martin stayed on his feet if he didn’t look so red cheeked and flustered. Every few pushes forward he would wobble before crashing back into the barrier with a resounding thud, the sheer determination on his face was just as distracting.
Jon’s hands were ready to catch him should he need it, but in all honesty it was more likely that if Martin went arse over tit, Jon would be of little use. Martin towered over him, and there was a lot more of him than there was of Jon. Still, he was ready, hand extended …just in case.
The snow was starting to come down heavier now. Martin watched it in between the short bursts of courage that had now gotten them almost halfway around the rink. The diluted light filtering through the trees and the fairy lights wrapped around every available surface reflected in his glasses. With a resolute sigh Martin gently pushed himself away from the barrier.
“Right, come on, I have to get around this rink at least once.” he said, reaching out and grabbing Jon’s hand.
Jon almost fell with the shock.
He stared at where Martin’s cold fingers wrapped around his wrist. He blinked a few times then looked up at Martin. His face looked flushed with more than just the cold, Jon was probably just as bad he could almost imagine the snowflakes forming into steam as they landed on his reddening cheeks.
"Well, let's see what we can do then." Jon said tentatively offering up his other hand for Martin to realise his grip from the wooded fence. Martin looked at Jon, then across the ice. Presumably at Tim and Sasha but Jon didn't want to turn and look. He was on the verge of throwing up with nerves as it was. Suddenly wishing that he had taken the second whisky that Sasha had liberated for him from lunch. Looking at Tim would no doubt make him double guess everything and Sasha was so far gone that the likelihood she would shout out something incredibly inappropriate was considerably high. And to think people thought Tim was the one he would have trouble with.
Finally after what felt like eternity, Martin removed his hand from his safety net.
He took Jon's hand properly. Grip sure tentatively pushing himself towards Jon.
"If I land on my arse I'm taking you with me." Martin warned his attention fully on where he was putting his feet.
"I fully intend to keep hold of you." Jon said the smile visible in the words.
"That would be nice." Jon wasn't sure if that had been intended for him to hear. So he didn't comment. It was just his own hope putting ideas in his head. Martin didn't think of him like that. Jon adjusted his grip slightly so his palms lay flat against Martin’s. He tried not to focus too much on how nicely they wrapped his own.
"Right push forward one foot at a time. Slowly" Jon said, sliding backwards and pulling the other man in his wake.
"Says the man skating backwards, anything else you want to be stupidly good at?" Martin said, wobbling slightly but edging along under his own steam for the first time. "I should have had more to drink at lunch."
"I don't think anyone should be let loose on the ice drunk… they become a penguin apparently."
Martin snorted a laugh, wobbling and almost falling but Jon managed to right him. Unfortunately that had involved pulling Martin towards him flailing arms now pulled tight against Jon's chest.
Somewhere on the ice Tim's barking laugh cut through the night air.
"You're OK, I got you." Jon said and this time Jon knew the red in Martin's face had nothing to do with the cold. They were incredibly close.
"Are you going to do a full lap backwards or are you two just going to stand there making heart eyes at each other for the rest of the session?" Sasha asked as her and Tim and the plastic penguin wobbled past them on another lap.
"Jon does everything backwards, there was this one time in research when-" whatever Tim's anecdotal whimsy had been it was lost as a bunch of school children skated between them and Jon and Martin.
Martin had straightened up as they passed but he still held both of Jon's hands in his own. Sasha's comments had flustered him and he seemed to look everywhere but at Jon. He hadn't let go though. There was that.
"Come on. Once around the rink . You can do this." Martin nodded in agreement, setting his shoulders in determination.
"Lead the way"
*****
They were lapped a few more times by Sasha and Tim.
Each time they tried to ignore the comments coming from the pair of them, each lap Jon gained another item of clothing. He had gained Sasha’s scalf and Tim's santa hat by the time they circled a fourth time. But by now Martin was around the rink and back to the entrance of the ice.
"You did it!"
"I did it !" Martin agreed, but he seemed reluctant to drop his grip on Jon " I mean you pulled me most of the way but-"
"No buts. It counts."
That was the moment Tim and his penguin chose to pass " No it doesn't " He shouted as he zoomed off under his own steam.
"His opinion doesn't count" Jon rolled his eyes. " You did a full lap"
" he's kind of right though isn't he." Martin said glancing down at where their hands were still linked "not like I did much."
" Then we go around again" Jon reluctantly dropped one of Martin’s hands and skated to his side. He twisted his hand and interlocked their fingers. Not entirely sure where the burst of courage had come from but thankful it had turned up for the party.
" I won't pull you . This is all on you." He said indicating should lead the way.
"OK " Martin gripped his hand a little tighter and faced his fear. Jon wasn’t sure he would last another lap. His entire being was focused on their interlocking hands.
Slowly they made their way back around the ice.
****
They pulled back to the entrance just as the buzzer sounded for the end of the session. Apart from a few wobbles, brought on by Sasha’s drunken emergency stops spraying ice on them, Martin had barely faltered.
He also hadn't let go of Jon’s hand once.
As they sat lacing up their shoes. Jon couldn't help but notice how close Martin sat to him. Almost as if he weren't quite ready to give up the safety net that Jon had extended on the ice. Jon didn't mind, he was too much of a coward to admit it, at least out loud, but he enjoyed having Martin this close.
When Martin got to his feet he extended a hand to Jon to help him get up. When Jon was standing Martin didn't let go. Instead tugging them towards Tim and Sasha who were taking selfies outside with an inflatable snowman. Jon didn't comment. After all they had just spent the best part of an hour holding hands maybe Martin hadn't noticed, too busy wanting to get to the next part of the night.
Tim's face lit up as they approached. Thankfully he didn't mention the hand holding, Jon was enjoying it and didn't want it to end too soon.
"Come on, we're going back to Tim's for hot chocolate and hallmark channel drinking games." Sasha said, pulling Tim towards the tube by the scalf. "You two keep up …"
"Go on, we will catch up." Martin said, waving them off with his free hand. It caught Jon unaware. He stalled looking at Martin with a question in his eyes.
"Alright not too long you too if I have to sit through people being excited about Norfolk without a drinking buddy I'm blaming you Marto." Tim yelled as he disappeared out of the park.
"He's right, you know, nobody should be excited about going to Norfolk." Jon supposed as he waited for Martin to turn his attention back to him. It seemed Martin was waiting to make sure they were alone. He didn't turn his attention back to Jon for almost a full minute .
Finally Martin turned to him.
"Jon...I…" Martin reached down and straightened up the santa hat that still sat upon Jon's head. "Listen…I…just…"
"Just what?" It would be incredibly easy to reach up now and pull Martin towards him. He moved his hand to Martin's elbow not sure if he was reading too much into this if this was just his own longing clouding his vision.
"Merry Christmas?" Martin said voice hitching. "I hope I'm not reading this wrong…" with that Martin moved his hand to cup Jon's face, Jon raised to his tiptoes following Martin's lead.
Martin's lips were warm against his own, the world shrunk down to just the two of them. He hoped the fact he hadn't pulled away was proof that Martin hadn't been wrong.
" Alright you two, get a room." Sasha’s voice came from behind the bushes. Martin and Jon broke apart, but Martin pulled him into his chest.
"For fuck sake Sash!" Martin shouted towards the giggling bushes, before turning his attention back to Jon. "Alright?"
Jon grinned. "Extremely so."
#jmart#fanfiction#jon/Martin#tma fanart#tma#the magnus archives#martin blackwood#merry fucking christmas#jon sims#christmas fan fiction
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Recognition
@aspecarchivesweek Day Five: Something New
Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Season One
In which Jon and Martin are more alike than they thought.
Jon, in spite of himself, was starting to get used to Martin living in the Archives.
Offering him shelter had been almost instinctual- after listening to his story, who wouldn’t? Terrorized for almost two weeks and no one, no one noticed. There was also the matter of Jon’s guilt; Martin thought he needed to put himself in danger to be thorough, to please Jon, and now he was homeless. Jon owed him this at the very least. No matter how much Elias disapproved of the situation.
And despite the occasional trouser-less wanderings, his presence was...appreciated. Late nights in the Archives were wearing him down: the statements were getting to him, and the unshakeable feeling of being watched when he knew he was alone was putting him on edge. Now he can blame that feeling on Martin, who he’d caught staring on more than one occasion. Jon was not surprised; he hadn’t been looking or feeling his best, highly unprofessional with his three-day stubble and rumpled clothes. Not a good look.
He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t enjoy the cup of tea when Martin joined him in his worst bouts of insomnia. He would sit on the tiny couch in his office, nursing his own mug and chattering away in a low tone that Jon was starting to find soothing instead of irritating. At first Jon clammed up, uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion on his late night routine, but he soon found Martin didn’t expect him to respond or contribute, save the occasional grunt of acknowledgement. Sometimes Jon even craved the company, the familiar rhythms of Martin’s voice had become an unconscious comfort.
Tonight he was looking particularly exhausted, slumped in his seat with deep purple bags under his eyes. It sent an unwelcome pang through Jon’s chest; Martin should be sleeping, not entertaining him because he chose to stay late. He said as much.
“You don’t have to stay up on my part.”
“Hm?” Martin looked up from his lap, eyes finding Jon’s. “Oh, no. It’s fine. I like the company, to be honest. Unless…?”
“I don’t mind,” Jon assured him. Shockingly, he found he meant it. Still, it didn’t ease his guilt. Martin was always here, never leaving the Archives for more than an hour to get food or other necessities. He considered his next words. “That being said, I hope you know you’re allowed to have a life outside of the institute. I won’t judge if you want to have a...late night, or go out. It’s not my business what you do in your free time.”
Martin squinted his eyes as if he didn’t understand the words Jon spoke. Christ, do I really seem that out of touch? He knew he could be severe and well, a bit of an ass at times. The stress of the job got to him more than he cared to admit. But he didn’t want his assistants to think they should follow his example. He was Head Archivist, it fell on his shoulders to get this place in some semblance of order.
“I’m not really one for nights out, Jon,” Martin gave that familiar, self-deprecating laugh as he leaned back in his chair, an almost defeated-like set to his shoulders. “Well, besides the occasional drink with Tim and Sasha. And even those are sort of...I don’t know. They have their own thing going, and I feel like-”
“A bit of an outsider,” Jon provided before he could activate his ‘word to mouth’ filter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-”
“No,” Martin cut him off. “You’re right. Feels like I’m intruding.”
“Their banter can be overwhelming for the, ah, uninitiated.” On the few times he’d gone out with them in research, he’d felt more lonely than included. His awkward attempts at interjecting could make a conversation fall flat and he felt the need to accept every drink they handed in him the hopes of ‘loosening up.’ It never worked. They were never mean about it, no- or at least had the decency not to do it in his presence.
“Tell me about it.” Martin gave Jon a tiny little smirk that sent his heart stuttering in his chest for no particular reason. “I’m used to it, is all. This isn’t much of a change in routine, worms notwithstanding.”
“You, er, don’t have friends you can meet up with? Or maybe a partner?” Christ, why am I prying? What’s gotten into me? Jon felt curious, the man practically lived with him and yet he barely knew him.
The bark of laughter he got in reply was sudden and more than self-deprecating. “A partner? Are you kidding me?” Martin’s tone threw him off-balance; it was jaded, bitter, not like him at all.
“I didn’t mean to pry-”
“No, it’s- to be frank, I don’t think I’m cut out for all that.” Martin toyed with the mug in his hands, gazing into it like it held the answers he needed. “I’ve uh, tried to go on a few dates, meet people, that sort of thing. But they all expect something at the end and it just never feels right, I can’t explain it. Like there’s something missing. ”
Jon paused; the words and their sentiment were not unfamiliar to him. In fact, they resonated quite deeply, if Martin meant what Jon thought he did.
“It’s always been that way- I get a crush, I get to know them, they want to, y’know, and I-I don’t know what's wrong with me, but I can’t-” He cut himself off, sitting up straighter as if suddenly remembering where he was and who he was talking to. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this-”
“It’s fine.” And it was. Martin looked at his hands and Jon recognized the sadness in the set of his shoulders, the lines etched in his face. He never thought the two of them would have much in common but that- that was a feeling Jon knew all too well. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.”
Martin somehow managed to deflate even further, curling up as if trying to disappear. “Yeah, well- I think it’s time to admit that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.”
The words hit Jon harder than expected. His fists tightened in his lap; he was sixteen again, wondering why the kiss he stole in a backroom felt more invasive than intimate. He was reading romance novels, understanding the words but not the feelings they were supposed to invoke. He was in college, being called a ‘tease’ or a ‘prude’ when he pulled away at the end of the night. And it was all accompanied by that deep, crushing fear that he’d never be enough.
No, you’re not that kid anymore.
And Martin shouldn’t have to be either.
“What’s that look for?”
He was drawn from his thoughts at Martin’s words, looking up from the scratched wood of his desk. “Sorry?”
“You’ve- you’ve got that look on your face, like you’re const- like you’re thinking really hard.”
Jon tried to think of a way to word his query delicately, but ‘delicacy’ had never been his strong suit, according to Georgie. Come to think of it, it was never hers either. “Have you ever considered that maybe- that you’re- you’re of the persuasion, that is-”
Martin shot him a deadpan look, unimpressed. “Yeah, I know I’m gay, Jon.”
“That’s not-” He sighed in frustration, fuming at his inability to communicate. “It’s okay to not feel that way. I never have. It’s normal.”
Martin blinked. “Sorry?”
“Asexuality, that is,” he said, finally managing to get out the words. “I was...in a similar position, I guess you could say. I didn’t feel the way you were ‘supposed’ to feel, like how all the books and TV shows describe it. Zero interest in anything sexual, and I thought...well, I thought something was wrong with me.” Jon felt a lump building in his throat, much to his horror. “But being able to put a name to it, an identity, it just felt right.” Martin’s face was unreadable- had he spoken out of turn? Did he have this all wrong?
He tried to clarify. “What I’m trying to say is that I know what it’s like, that...feeling you described. But it doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for love. You...you shouldn’t have to feel that way about yourself. You’ll find people who accept you. You’re not doomed to be lonely.” Now you’re just getting sentimental. Jon wasn’t one to dole out advice. He attempted to reign it in, get himself back on solid, familiar ground. “Maybe don’t take me for an example, though. I assure you, my isolation is very much self-imposed.”
Martin didn’t laugh. For a brief, panicky moment Jon thought he might have offended him, assumed the wrong thing, taken him out of context. But Martin met his eyes and Jon saw it- a look of dawning understanding, of comprehension and knowing and as much as Jon wanted to look away he couldn’t, because for the first time in a while he thought he might have said the right thing.
_____
He watched as Martin puttered about in the break room and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. Martin hadn’t said much after their conversation, just thanked him in a choked voice and mumbled some excuse about going off to bed. Jon felt a bit conflicted- he now had time to ruminate on the conversation, pick it apart and wonder if he said anything wrong. He didn’t think he had, but his instincts had been proven wrong before.
Still, the thought of helping one person, sparing them from that crippling self-doubt and inadequacy, made any embarrassment or awkwardness well worth it. So here he was, shuffling his feet and holding a stack of paper, stapled and neat and in some cases, annotated. He cleared his throat and Martin turned away from the sink to face him.
“Oh, g-good morning, Jon.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel, throwing it lightly on the counter. “Did you sleep well?”
He’d gotten two hours tops on the lumpy couch in his office. I need to invest in another cot. But he nodded anyway, walking forward and thrusting the pile out for Martin to take. Martin looked down at it quizzically but took it all the same, his face softening as he flipped through the pages.
“I, um- I printed out some articles that I thought might be of interest,” Jon rambled, feeling more awkward by the second. Was this too forward of me? “I’ve always found it easier to read on paper instead of the screen. For ah, concentration purposes. This- this isn’t required reading, or anything. Just might be helpful for, uh, figuring things out.”
Martin didn’t look up from the pages in his hand, instead zeroing in on them with a more intense stare. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with sincerity. “Thanks. It uh, it means a lot.”
“Yes,” Jon replied nonsensically, having no response to the emotion in Martin’s words. “You- you don’t need to talk to me about this, if you’d rather not. But I’m available if you’d like to.” He paused. Best to keep this somewhat professional- it was almost nine. “Outside of normal working hours, of course.”
“Of course,” Martin echoed, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he finally met Jon’s eyes. He fought down the urge to smile back, instead muttering an excuse and turning to flee the room. I think I’ve filled my emotional quota for the week.
They don’t talk about it again, but a few days later a sticky note appears on his desk. Thanks- MB. Underneath the clear script he’d doodled a small flag- black, grey, white, and purple.
Jon puts it in his right-hand drawer next to an old polaroid of the Admiral, where it stays.
ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782318
#my writing#aspecarchives#tma#the magnus archives#jonmartin#cw aphobia and internalized aphobia#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#asexual jonathan sims#asexual martin blackwood#jon helps martin figure out he's ace
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TMA Fanwork Appreciation Challenge: Time Travel
What a lovely way to pay homage to my favorite type of fic when I first joined the fandom! I read so many time travel fics near the beginning, and while I haven't picked up any new ones lately, I still have a list of favorites!
(For @themagnuswriters fanwork appreciation challenge, round two!)
Below the cut since this one is a bit long:
the garden of forking paths | jonmartin, rated T | Ao3: bibliocratic | tumblr: @bibliocratic
Whatever he had predicted might happen, Jon wasn't expecting to survive upon demolishing the Panopticon. He certainly wasn't expecting to be rescued.
Instead, he wakes up in an alternative universe where he's never been the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood doesn't exist.
Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.
I consumed this fic all in one sitting and adored it! An unconventional take on time travel (mixed with reality hopping) that was really captivating and heart-wrenching.
The Path of Least Resistance | jonmartin, rated T | Ao3: chermit
Sasha fixed Tim and Martin with a glare that was deathly serious. “But why should that stop us? It is— or was, I suppose, given... everything— our literal job to investigate supernatural events. If the police won’t figure out what happened to the Institute, we’ll do it. Doesn’t everyone deserve that? Doesn’t Jon deserve that?”
In the face of an unyielding apocalypse, the being that was once Jonathan Sims has a final, desperate idea. The archival assistants pick up the pieces.
I am obsessed with the concept of this fic! Jon goes back in time and kills his season one self, then kills Elias, so Sasha, Tim, and Martin are the only ones who survive from the Institute. They then embark on a quest to figure out what happened. It hasn't updated in a while, but I'm including it because I think it's still fascinating as-is and it truly is my favorite time travel fic in the fandom.
tapes winding forward | jonmartin, rated T | Ao3: skuls | tumblr: @ghostbustermelanieking
Martin gets a closer look at the calendar, and his breath catches in his throat. He's gotten a look at the year, and it's wrong, it's all wrong. 2018. October, 2018. Right there, in Martin's own handwriting, on a Saturday, he's written things on little dates that Martin can't read, because he can't take his eyes off the year. 2018. 2018. They look differently. They have scars they don't recognize. Their hair is longer. 2018.
Martin seizes the calendar off the fridge and goes back into the living room. Jon's still at the coffee table, poking through the tapes piled there, but he looks up when Martin comes back in and says, "Martin, where…" with a familiar bite in his voice.
Martin ignores him, stops him mid-sentence to say, "Jon, what have you heard about time travel?"
---
Martin and Jon wake up two years in the future. It goes about as well as can be expected.
I loved the sort-of-flipping of the typical time travel trope in that s5 jmart goes back in time but s1 jmart also goes forward in time! Another fic that I read all in one sitting and adored immensely. The season one Jon/Martin dynamics in this are fantastic!
The Future's Calling, and It's not Pretty | jonmartin, rated T | Ao3: StormStuff | tumblr: @storm-does-stuff
"Oh, shut up," the doppelganger said, crying and laughing. He looked like Martin, but that couldn't be right because Martin was watching this all unfold. "Now, I'm sorry to just pop in, but I have no clue how long I was in the halls - yes, I know you know - so I'm probably about to pass out. Sorry."
True to his word, he slumped down against the wall. Somewhere, a tape recorder clicked off.
"Alright," Tim said when the silence got uncomfortable, "We're not going to try and pretend that wasn't supernatural, right?"
(or, a time travel au, but this time with monster!Jon)
Time travel but with Jon's consciousness confined to the tapes! Martin carries him around, and typical time-travel-esque shenanigans ensue. The 'Jon is tapes' is a very interesting twist on typical time travel fics, and I had a lot of fun reading this!
Unravel | gen, rated T | Ao3: falling_forever | tumblr: @falling-forever-upwards
Jon has a freaky monster doppelganger locked in document storage and is trying very hard not to have a breakdown about it.
He's not succeeding very well.
(Or; trust, and identity, and becoming.)
A time travel fic that focuses on season five and season one Jon's relationship! I really enjoy the exploration of the nuances of Jon's relationship with himself and just in general the mixture of character study and time travel fic. It also has a nice bit about gender exploration, with season five Jon using they/them pronouns.
#tma#the magnus archives#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#tma fwac#me scrolling through the ao3 time travel tag: ah so many familiar faces!#(i never hopped on the time travel bandwagon [a lucrative bandwagon apparently] and likely never will)
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all gone, all gone, all gone
part 3: it will not be at all or any better
CW: kidnapping, suicidal thoughts, manipulation, descriptions of bullying, child abuse, and toxic relationship
as a disclaimer (and acknowledgement), some of the dialogue is from what I remember of the book, and some of it is based on takes i've seen on tumblr that I agreed with!
Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3 | Masterlist
Thomas never made it to the Devil Tavern that night. His throat burned when he woke, a mixture of dehydration and whatever drug had been used to incapacitate him.
“There you are,” a familiar voice drawled. “Finally. I was worried I’d perhaps gotten the dosage incorrect and killed you.”
Alastair. “You were worried about me?”
“Ha, I suppose not. Would have been a lot more work if you’d died, though. Belial surely wouldn’t’ve been happy if I killed you before he got his hands on you.” He approached Thomas with a glass of water. “Drink,” he ordered.
Thomas wanted to refuse, but he was so thirsty that he could not stop to worry about whatever Alastair may have snuck into the drink. When Alastair finally took the glass away, he attempted to regain his composure. “What do you want from me?”
Alastair shrugged. “I’m sure Belial has his uses for you. Until then… I am to get as much information from you as I can.” He picked up a knife from a table and spun it around with a flourish. “Whilst leaving you in one piece.”
“Why are you doing this?” He hadn’t entirely intended to ask the question out loud, but it hung in the air anyways.
Alastair rolled his eyes. “What, you expect me to hold some sort of loyalty to you? What’ve you ever done to earn it? You truly expect the world to be handed to you, still? You despise me, Thomas. You send me rude letters and threaten me at large gatherings. Give me one reason why I should ever choose your side instead of Belial’s.”
A wave of guilt crashed over Thomas. He knew he’d made mistakes. He was simply angry. He was never trying to hurt Alastair. Thomas wondered whether he would have treated him differently if he’d known what he was hiding. “Cordelia. What about your sister?”
He shook his head. “Before, I had all of these ideas about what I owed her and the world and what I deserved myself. I felt it sensible to give all of myself to others, to give endless compassion and protection and patience to the people I cared about and accept when they gave me nothing in return. Belial helped me to see clearly.”
“What did he do to you?”
Alastair flung the knife, it soaring right past Thomas’ head. He braced himself but never felt an impact. The blade splinted the wood behind him. “Belial made me strong,” Alastair said coolly. Thomas could tell his outburst was not out of anger; he was making a play at intimidation. Thomas would not show him just how terrified he truly was.
“You were already strong.” Thomas’ heart ached for the boy beneath this creature that Belial had created. Though that wasn’t entirely true, was it? It had not just been Belial, it had been Elias, it had been every cut and lash that had led Alastair to the bridge that night. Perhaps some inflicted by Thomas himself.
“I was weak. Love is weakness. Perhaps it is not for everyone, but in my family? In my family, the cost of love is hopelessness. All of us are destined to love those who will never truly care for us.” Thomas thought of Cordelia. Did he know the marriage had been false?
“What did you think I couldn’t see how deeply my sister felt for James? How he disregarded her over and over again for Grace Blackthorn? I understand now that the situation was more complex, but my sister did not marry him thinking that he did not love her back because of a bracelet, she believed he did not love her at all. Such seems to be our curse. So when Belial came to me, when he offered me our deal, I thought, wouldn’t it be nice to not care, too?”
“Love makes us human, Alastair.”
“Good thing, then, that you and your friends already thought me a heartless monster.”
Thomas bit at the inside of his cheek. It was true. He’d spent months, years convincing himself that Alastair was cruel and uncaring. He wanted desperately to know how he could have confused hurting for heartlessness. A thought creeped into his mind, one that had been pestering him ever since he learned of Cordelia’s letter. Had Thomas been one of those people? One of the ones Alastair gave himself to and received nothing in return? He studied his expression, but could read nothing. “It was you, wasn’t it? The person who was following me when I went out at night? You- You were protecting me.”
Alastair didn’t waver. “Perhaps I was.”
“But… why?” He was correct, Thomas had treated him more than poorly the past few months. Why would he risk his life to protect him? Why would he do it all in secret, not even leaving behind a trace of his true intentions in his letter to his sister? In fact, he was fairly certain that if Alastair had been killed, if it were not immediately apparent that he had been following Thomas, he would have assumed that Alastair had some completely separate business that he was taking care of, and they merely happened to be in similar places at the same time. Why would he do that? Perhaps he did not want to risk exposing what Thomas was doing? Or… perhaps he wanted to save him from the guilt?
Alastair approached him non-threateningly, but he could not forget the dagger in his hand. “Because you have shown me kindness in the past, and there are not many people in this world who have done so. I thought it would be most unfortunate for you to die alone, recklessly trying to repair your guilt over not saving your sister.”
“I- I wasn’t- I was just trying to find the killer. So that no one else would get hurt. I had to go alone; going in pairs or groups… it’s too obvious. He would hear you coming.”
“Is that what you told your friends?”
Admittedly, his friends hadn’t asked very many questions about his whereabouts and his actions, so he hadn’t explained it to them. He didn’t answer.
“There may be an element of truth to that, but you and I both know that’s not the whole of it. You couldn’t save your sister. The killer may not have been responsible for her death, but it didn’t matter. Evil is evil, whatever form it takes. You went alone because you knew the risk you were taking, you knew the danger you were putting yourself in, and you didn’t want anyone going down with you.”
“How- How do you know that?”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re not the only one who can be observant, Thomas.”
“I- I don’t understand.”
“Just another piece of evidence, proving human weakness. You were never going to save Barbara. You’re guilty over nothing. You risked your life for nothing.”
Thomas felt his anger rising again. “That’s not- If we had-”
“Did you think it was a coincidence that her and Oliver both got so much sicker so much faster than the others? That they were simply unlucky? There was nothing unintentional about her death. Oliver was unlucky, certainly. Unlucky to have loved her, perhaps. But your sister was dead the moment Belial marked her.”
“The welcome ball,” Thomas realized. “But why?”
“Tatiana,” Alastair answered without hesitation. “She has quite the grudge against your father. You’re the icing on the cake, of course. When your family learns of your death, when your father finally realizes why… The guilt will consume him. He will never forgive himself. Tatiana will finally have her revenge.”
“You- you said you weren’t going to kill me.”
“I’m not going to kill you, no, but only time will tell what Belial plans on doing with you.”
Thomas could find no words, only stare at him in fear and shock. That was what he wanted wasn’t it? Alastair placed his fingers against his cheek, and he flinched away. After a long pause, Alastair sighed. “Do you want to know what my favorite memory from Paris was?”
“No.”
“It was you.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Why is that? I would never tell you lies, Thomas.”
Thomas swallowed hard. Alastair’s voice was soft, filled with longing. It’s not real, he told himself. “All you have done is tell me lies! From the very beginning. I know you were in Paris with Charles Fairchild, anyways. I’ve seen the ways you look at each other. When we were together, your eyes lit up every time you mentioned him.”
Alastair hesitated for the briefest moment at the mention of Charles. Thomas cursed himself for still feeling the slightest pang of jealousy. “Pathetic, isn’t it? But no. My favorite memory,” his voice softened again, a sickly sweet melody in Thomas’ ears, “was taking you to see that film. I’d fallen in love with moving pictures during my stay in Paris. I’d fretted all night over it, worried that you would find it silly, or worse, you would mock me for it. But I wanted so desperately for someone to share it with. Charles never had an appreciation for art, not that he would have ever dared to go somewhere that public with me anyways. Afterwards, looking into your eyes, I thought… in another life... in another life, I could have been here with him.”
Thomas hated how his heart ached in his chest. He hated Alastair, even before this whole deal with Belial. That’s what he told himself, anyways. In another life… These are lies. He’s using you. “No chance we could go now then? I hear it’s beautiful during the holidays.”
Alastair smirked. He ran the cool blade lightly against the skin of Thomas’ throat. “Don’t you feel guilty, Thomas? You couldn’t have saved your sister, but you could have saved me.”
He hoped Alastair could not feel how hard his heart was beating. “No- no, that’s not true. There’s no saving someone like you.” He knew they were lies.
“No, not someone like me. Someone like him.” Alastair leaned forward so that Thomas could feel the breath on his neck as Alastair hissed, “He loved you. He would have died for you, in secret, even knowing how openly you disdained him. You gave him hope last summer. You helped him realize he deserved more than a lover who lied every time he claimed to love him, who never cared for him more than a Clave meeting and always left before the sun rose.” He frowned. “You could have saved him, if you wanted to. But you didn’t think he was worth it.”
“I- That’s not- I-” Thomas tugged at his bindings, suddenly filled with rage. “Shut up! I hate you! You now and you before! You’re cruel and callous! You never cared for anyone but yourself! Why were you even so mean to us at school? We never gave you any reason for it! Your family is friends with the Herondales; you could have at least been kinder to James.”
Alastair looked away wistfully. Thomas loathed it, how easily he replicated emotions. He felt none of them. “If you wanted an apology, Thomas, you should have asked for it two weeks ago.”
“Just explain it to me. You wish for me to feel something for the person you once were? Explain it.”
“When I arrived at school, talk about my family preceded me. The rumors about my father’s drinking, the speculation about why we moved so much. The fact that my family couldn’t afford tutors for us. I looked different than them; talked different than them. Shadowhunters like to pretend that such prejudices don’t touch them, but it’s only to make themselves feel better. I had no friends; I knew no one when I arrived. Who better to beat up than the Persian boy whose father would never show up when he was injured?”
“So you were jealous, that day after the prank. I thought you might-”
“No. I wasn’t jealous. I was angry. I was put in the infirmary for two weeks, I nearly died, would have were I a mundane, and all my father did was lecture me when I came home for the holidays about how I needed to be more careful and how much of a burden I was to him. You, James, your friends, you had everything. You had pretty homes with nice parents, parents who loved you, who cared for you. You arrived at the Academy expecting the world to embrace you, as it never had me.”
“So, what? You needed to even the scores?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There are no scores, and if there were, I would never be able to even them. It had to be someone. It was the only way to keep them from hurting me. I had nothing, no one, but I had my tongue, and when I cut some poor student down to size, the other boys were so amused that they forgot about ever hurting me. I never hit anyone, never got my hands dirty, but it didn’t matter, did it? I was one of them. It had to be someone, so I chose you. I chose James.” He paused. “So, what about now?”
“What?” Thomas’ throat ached from holding back tears.
“Do you think I could have been saved?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was just above a whisper, more of an echo. It was the truth. He understood what Alastair was telling him. The decision he’d come to was not a rash, impulsive decision. It was one that was built up over many, many years. And with that was the knowledge that time after time, year after year, someone, anyone, could have helped, could have saved him, like Thomas’ own father had been saved when breaking free of his father, but no one did. No one noticed, and the ones that did didn’t care. “You deserved better.” A still silence fell on them. “You’re stalling.”
“How do you figure?”
“You’re meant to torture me, but you can’t do it. You never physically hurt anyone at school, and you can’t now. Maybe it’s morals, maybe your mind is still caught in your past, maybe some part of you still cares for me. It doesn’t matter; you can’t do it.”
“That’s quite the gamble.”
It was. There was no telling whether his speculation was correct or whether Alastair was about to place him on a skewer. He was simply trusting his intuition. “Prove me wrong. Hurt me or let me go.”
Alastair moved closer to him, essentially on top of him, but Thomas kept his eyes locked with his, not showing a flicker of fear. When Alastair’s arms dug in, however, he felt no stab of pain. His wrists came free. He watched as he slashed the binds at his ankles. Alastair kept his eyes on him as he left, his expression never swaying. I’ll free you next, Thomas thought.
* * *
"You let the Lightwood go?"
"He esc-"
"Don't lie to me! What, do you think you're special now? Do you fancy yourself human? Redeemable? You think yourself better, more moral, than I? You would betray me for them? You are exactly what I make you. If you wish to be sentimental so badly, you need only ask." With that Belial disappeared. The doors to the room slammed shut and Alastair nearly stumbled to ground. It felt like he couldn't breathe. It felt like- It felt like heartache.
He ran first to the doors, but he knew they wouldn't budge. There were no windows to this room and only one vent that would not move no matter how hard he tried to pry it open.
He gasped for breath, knowing there was no escape. Belial would not let him go free. Not after Thomas. He’d had a lapse in judgement, and he would not make the same one again. Alastair was trapped here, alone. Alone with nothing but the feeling of the world crumbling around him, of his guilt crushing his chest. Finally, he was all the things other people believed him to be: evil and heartless and cruel. Finally, he was all the things his father and Charles had called him: pathetic and weak and useless. Finally, he was the monster he’d always feared becoming.
There was no redemption for him, not anymore. Not after Belial. Not after betraying Cordelia. Not after kidnapping Thomas.
He looked to his blades laid out on the table. He could not leave the warehouse physically, but… He lifted one, and it felt oddly heavy in his hands. His grasp shook and he sunk to his knees. He gripped it tighter and he realized that Belial would never let him.
He had not let him die the first time, and he would not now. Belial wanted this, he wanted him to give up. It made him much easier to control. Belial wanted him to have no motivations, no loyalties, no reason to betray him. If he wanted him dead, he would be dead. Belial still had uses for him, and the only thing Alastair knew was that he could not let him win.
thanks for reading! we're almost done actually! taglist (lmk to be +/-): @jem-nasium @littlx-songbxrd @fortheloveofthecarstairs @cant-think-of-anything @vampireeugenia-deactivated20210
Part 4
#alastair carstairs#thomas lightwood#thomastair#tlh#the last hours#fanfic#fanfiction#all gone fic#cw suicide#cw kidnapping#cw manipulation
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Forsaken Scholar and Beholding Sailor
Written for @lonelyeyesweek
Day 6 - Entity Swap
One of them spends most of the year travelling all around the world seeing all its wonders. The other one stays locked in the Institute. It is not that hard to guess which one of them serves to the Eye and which one serves the Lonely…
Read on AO3
…
Peter Lukas loves traveling around the world with his ship. What could be better and more fitting for a servant of the Eye than to sail through the seas as he pleases, discovering all the hidden secrets of the most forgotten places on the Earth, gaining forgotten Knowledge and Seeing all the wonders the world has to offer with his own Eyes. And the most importantly of course – also feeding his patron with different flavours of the worries, fears and traumas people are experiencing in the different countries.
As amazing as it is to cross over the ocean all the way there and back, one of his favourite places is still the city of London. It is not because the sight of the city would be that amazing or wonderful – far from it. However it is one of the most monitored cities in the world and how could the soul of a Beholder not appreciate that? Knowledge that he cannot even cross a street without dozens of cameras – from ATM, from nearby stores, the traffic ones– turning its Eye on him, it's truly delightful!
It is strange though how he chose from all the places to build his Institute here as well. True, in two hundred years London certainly changed a lot but it was hardly quiet, peaceful or abandoned back then. As always Peter is curious about his intention and as always he sees it as one more reason to not to tell him anything.
Whistling he approaches the Magnus Institute – quite a big building in the middle of the city – which you could somehow still easily miss if you did not know exactly where to look for it. He opens the door with an elbow as both his hands are preoccupied carrying a big box containing few things he picked up on his travels.
Peter never felt the particular need to hoard the artefacts. He is the servant of the Eye. The point is therefore to See to witness everything with his own Eyes. There is no need for that. Though lately he always makes sure to grab a few interesting or possibly cursed objects. It would be rude to show up after such a long time without appropriate gifts.
“Hello, I am here to see my husband!” he announces loudly to the receptionist. She winces and looks around in fear that someone will blame her for such a loud visitor. As always there is still no one around.
“I… uhm… who?” she hesitantly turns back at Peter who is cheerfully smiling.
“You know, James-… no, I think it is Elias now… Elias Butcher? Boucher? Budget? I don’t know why he always has to pick the worst names.”
“Uh… do you mean… Elias Bouchard?”
“Yes! That sounds about right… even though… are you sure it is not Butcher?” Peter grins while the woman on the reception desk continues staring at him in disbelief.
“I didn’t know Mr Bouchard is married.”
“Oh, you didn’t? That is very unfortunate for you then. He hates when people know too much about him.”
“What you mean by it… uh… I- I will announce to you…”
“It is alright! I will find my way. See you around.”
Peter winks at her since his hands are still full and whistling again he turns around leaving a mildly confused, mildly terrified woman behind.
The Institute is a maze. Full of corridors leading in the same direction and full of others leading to dead ends. Full of offices which seemed way too big for just one person but too small to fit there two. Full of empty rooms or doors with no room behind them. One could easily get lost there. Even a basic task might take hours considering how far away all seems all the basic utilities form each other.
What luck that Peter Knows the way very well and in a couple of minutes through a few shortcuts he stands in front of the door leading to the office of the Head of the institute. Or at least he thinks these are the doors… They all look exactly the same and of course that there is no sign, no plate with name trying to give any guest any sense of space.
He kicks in the door a few times and when he hears nothing he tries to open it again with his elbows. To his surprise the door is not even locked!
“Hello Jonah!” Peter cheerfully greets the man who is frowning at some documents on his desk. On the first look he seemed to be the least remarkable person that ever lived – he is of rather small posture, dressed in a boring grey suit matching the colour of his eyes and hair that lost the bright ginger colour quite some time ago. But one cannot always trust the first impression as he also appears to be in his forties and claims to be named Elias Bouchard.
From all the people Peter ever met, Jonah Magnus is the most fascinating and charming one. It has taken Peter a while to get through his dull and cold demeanour but once he has he could no longer unsee his sharp wits and occasionally even a bit nicer and sweeter side.
“You are here already? Haven’t you left like yesterday?” Jonah does not even look up and Peter cannot help himself but smile over the familiarity of his act.
“It has been three whole months! Have you not missed me, oh fog around my lighthouse, cliffs around my port, barnacle-”
“No for a fact I was very happy without you and your ridiculous names of endorsement,” he sighs dramatically but corners of his mouth twitch a bit upwards.
“I did miss you. I was writing you that on the postcards.”
“Yes I know. I could not miss the overflowing mailbox. Once again I beg you not to send me anymore of them. I don’t even know where to put them…”
“Have you not say the last time you are throwing them all away?” It is always cute to see Jonah’s pale skin to colour with blush.
“Yes! Yes I am. That is what I meant. My bin is overflowing with them.”
“Feel free to throw them away, I will send you new ones!”
“That is exactly what I beg you not to do!”
Peter decides not to tease Jonah any longer; he is starting to look a bit exasperated and he knows better than to push his buttons too much. One time when Peter crossed the limit of Jonah’s tolerance, the servant of the Lonely filled the office with fog. It took the servant of the Eye a few minutes to get out and when he did he found himself in front of the Institute with doors locked. He would rather not repeat that. And so to offer peace Peter finally puts the box down on the desk. By the sound it makes it is clear that it is much heavier that one might guess by the ease with which the sailor has carried it.
“I am bringing you gifts!”
Jonah looks unimpressed. “I am not interested. Please could you find some other place to throw all your useless crap in than my institute?”
“I thought your institute is supposed to research the supernatural? I am bringing you cursed and priceless artefacts to study and all I ask in return is your love. Should you not be more grateful?”
“First of all your price is too high. Plus I have plenty of things to study for decades since you must bring me something every time…”
Saying that the institute’s approach to supernatural research is specific or interesting would be an understatement. As far as Peter knows Jonah Magnus started the Institute way back in 1818 shortly after learning about the Fears. Jonah pretended he was only interested in studying the supernatural even though he already had a scheme in mind regarding how to serve his chosen patron. He decided to lure in scholars with the promise of achieving great discoveries. Then he made sure to make their life just a lonely misery with them sacrificing their life in pointless study isolated from society.
Peter also knows Jonah was somehow acquainted with his ancestor Mordechai Lukas, who decided to sponsor his project in exchange of sharing all the knowledge and discoveries the institute will create as a byproduct of making scholars lonely. The deal lasts till now and that is how he and Jonah met at first… But that is all Peter knows about his past as Jonah is not usually very talkative concerning his past.
Forsaken has granted him a long and lonely life to serve its cause. Though lately Peter is doing his best to sometimes interrupt the lonely part of it… He changes name from time to time for legal reasons. Not that it is even necessary as no one ever looks into the institute and its matters way too closely. And if someone really even notices its existence and starts asking way too many questions it usually only leads to their mysterious disappearance.
“You can always hire more people to sort it out? I sometimes doubt you really have any employees at all. I rarely run into anyone…”
“That is exactly the point. I do not really want to risk they could meet. Now regarding your gift…”
“Ah well as much as it pains me if you do not truly want it…” Peter put on a theatrical look of tragedy and grabs the box again. Jonah raises his hand to stop him. Their fingers brush and he is as cold as ever.
“It is fine… since you have already brought it here. Just put it in the artefact storage on your way out. Someone will get to it eventually.”
Peter lets go of the box again rather grabbing Jonah’s hands into his leaning closer over the desk. Jonah is still doing his best to look unbothered but when Peter kisses his hands he cannot help himself but smile over the silly behaviour of his partner.
“We can always get a divorce if you despise my affection so much, my beloved husband.” Peter gently strokes the golden ring on Jonah’s finger.
“No need. Time spent together with you is so short when you live as long as I do that it hardly matters anyway.”
“It hardly matters to you. It still matters to me, my dear Jonah.”
“I could not care less, Peter,” Jonah grabs his collar and finally pulls him into a kiss.
#Their alligment might have changed but their relantionship is very similiar#Fear Entity Alignment Swap#tma#magnus archives fan#magnus archives fanfic#peter lukas#elias bouchard#jonah magnus#lonelyeyes#lonely eyes#lonelyeyesweek#lonelyeyesweek2021#mEye fanfic#mEye post
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The Last Night Part XXXII
(A/N at the end)
The Parabatai rune on the center of Lucie’s back sent a course of happiness through her as Cordelia and James kissed for the first time as husband and wife underneath the cherry wood harbor adorned with delicate white daisies.
It’d been six months since the battle on the bridge. Six months since everyone she loved found out about the power that lurked within her. Six months to help rebuild a demolished part of London that the mundanes claimed to be a terrorist attack and were still investigating which country it might have been. They’d soon forget all about it though, as soon as the roads were repaved and the debris washed from the streets by the rains. Mundanes were so easily distracted.
The looks from other families hadn’t stopped in those six months, however. When Lucie would be out walking with Cordelia or her mother when she’d catch a glance from some busybody that would end in them scuffling away whispering underneath their breath. Tessa would go on as if she hadn’t noticed anything, but there had been a few times when Lucie had to distract Cordelia from shoving the notorious gossips into the park fountain.
It didn’t bother her as much as she'd expected it to. She heeded her brother’s wise advice and “just ignored them” on most days. When someone was brave enough to whisper an insult behind her back, she may or may not have asked a wandering ghost to tie their shoelaces together or perhaps undo their suspenders so their trousers slipped to the ground. Even though she was under she’d strict orders never to conjuring the dead.
“The dead have fought and earned their peace,” said Charles as soon as he was well enough to hold a Consul meeting. He'd suffered a grave injuring during the battle on the bridge-- though not grave enough. “I’m sure they don’t appreciate you disrupting them.”
During the entire meeting not once did he meet Lucie’s eyes or even glance at her. He spoke to her parents as if they held more control over her power than she did. She knew there would be those that feared her, but she’d decided not to bother with them or their opinions.
Not when the ones that mattered the most had welcomed her with open arms.
Not once did her parents hesitate to hug her, hold her, or speak openly about what she’d been able to do since she was a child.
“I knew it,” said Will, kissing her forehead. “I told your mother when you were still in her womb that you were going to be special.”
“You said she’d be able to recite Tennyson by the time she was three,” said Tessa, her arm wrapped tightly around Lucie’s shoulders.
“I could speak to Tennyson if you’d like,” grinned Lucie.
They all grinned with her and for the first time, she wondered why she never told them to begin with.
And they never asked. Perhaps there was an understanding amongst them or perhaps they were all just happy to have escaped Belial without a member missing that they didn’t bother with such trivial things as what was or was not said in the past. It didn’t matter why she never told them— they knew now and they loved her still.
Both James and Cordelia wanted a short engagement and nothing too grand or spectacular, to the chagrin of Sona. Tessa tried not to share her opinion on the matter, but Lucie could tell her mother secretly wanted an elaborate wedding and made Lucie promise that when her time came that she’d at least have some sort of grand party.
Lucie assured her that she would. There wouldn’t be a family in this realm or the next that didn’t know about the elaborate event.
Helping Cordelia with her plans and watching her quiet, secretive interactions with her brother often made her think of Jesse. He left for Alicante with Grace to settle a few familial affairs and similar to their acceptance of Lucie’s abilities, the Consul wasn’t so sure about how to feel about Jesse being resurrected and thought it best to reintroduce him into their society, slowly.
She hadn’t had even a moment alone with him, to see if whatever existed between the two of them still existed now. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on her talks with him until she could no longer communicate with him whenever she pleased. She’d written several letters to him. Seventy-two to be exact, and they were all tucked into a hidden compartment in her desk.
Letters that spilled her unaltered, unreserved, erratic thoughts; confessions she could never and possibly would never say aloud.
The last letter she wrote was a week ago and after careful contemplation and exhausting her feeling in the other letters, she found herself brave enough to put it in with the post to be sent to where Jesse was staying.
She knew there was a fraction of a chance that he would write her back, but at least there wouldn’t be any more wondering afterward. She’d finally be able to close that chapter— his chapter and move on.
From the entrance steps to the Institute, she watched the guests find their seats. Her eyes shifting amongst their familiar faces, secretly hoping that he would appear amongst them. When he never did, she refused to let herself be disappointed and distracted herself by organizing the bouquet of long-stemmed white daisies, weaving in sprigs of evergreen and silver heart-shaped eucalyptus.
The hustle of servants and groomsmen went past her in a blur. She’d had to help Thomas and Christopher with their ties earning her a kiss on the cheek by both men. They both smelt of whiskey and the gleam in their eyes told her all she needed to know about what went on in their dressing room earlier this afternoon.
When Cordelia emerged from where she was being primed and prepped, Lucie was waiting by the stairs— the only bridesmaid that Cordelia chose-- and beamed at her best friend and Parabatai’s beauty. Beside Lucie at the end of the stairs, stood Alastair. Silver already rimming his eyes at the sight of his sister.
Her vibrant red hair was elegantly pinned back in a braid that crowned her head with daisies interwoven throughout. Around her face hung only loose curls. Her makeup was subtle: just a hint of blush on her cheeks, a swipe of mascara on each eye, and a soft red on her full, heart-shaped lips. The gold of her dress shimmered as she walked down the stairs, the sun bursting through the round window behind her had her glistening in a way that would put the stars to shame. The silk fabric clung to every inch of her curves. The swooped neckline showed off a respectable amount of her chest that swelled with each swollen breath she took.
While she was an absolute vision, it was her smile that had tears springing to Lucie’s eyes. Never, in all of her short life, had she ever seen someone so happy.
“It’s not too late,” she heard Alastair whisper in Cordelia’s ear as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “I can have a carriage meet us in the back in two seconds.”
Cordelia took his hand in hers. “That would be an awful waste of a perfectly good cake.”
“Well take it with us,” he shrugged.
“It’s four feet tall,” whispered Lucie. “And at least that wide. Bridget has no control when it comes to weddings, I’m afraid. Perhaps only take the top part.”
Alastair nodded at that.
Cordelia nudged Lucie. “Do not encourage him.”
The three of them walked to the closed doors they were to exit out of, walk down the stairs to the aisle, and land at the alter where James waited beside Matthew, Christopher, Thomas, and Will. Charlotte was asked to officiate the service and happily agreed.
When the music started playing, Lucie turned to Cordelia to speak, but she was leaning her head against her brother’s shoulder and she decided not to speak. Alastair’s eyes shimmered again as he looked forward.
Lucie had waited in the other room while Cordelia asked him to be the one to walk her down the aisle instead of their father. While Alastair’s opinion of James had only improved slightly, he agreed. The words exchanged between the two of them, Lucie didn’t know, but when they emerged from the room both of their eyes were rimmed with red and she knew that it was not for her to know or understand.
When she faced forward again, the music began to build and the wooden doors opened to a cool breeze. Lucie, in her periwinkle blue dress, smiled at the crowd that turned to watch her. At the back sat longtime friends. Bridget looked as if she’d started crying hours ago. The Townsend’s, Penhallow’s, Rosewain’s, Ashdown’s, Wentworths, and others all filled the back rows. Including some that Lucie didn’t recognize that might have fallen under Cordelia’s kin. Towards the front rows, Lucie found Henry in his chair beside an arrogant-looking Charles. In front of them sat Anna and Ariadne with her Aunt Cecily and her Uncle Gabriel who looked to be holding back tears. In the same row sat Sophie and Gideon, while she watched Lucie, Gideon watched his wife. When the rumors came out about Gideon and Charlotte, Lucie dismissed it as absolute rubbish because for as long as she could remember, the only person Gideon’s eyes ever softened for was Sophie. He looked at her the way her father often looked at her mother when Tessa wasn’t paying attention. They’d be reading on opposite ends of the couch, but her father’s eyes would wander off the page and watch Tessa.
Lucie often found herself hoping one day someone might look at her the same way.
Her Uncle Jem sat beside Tessa in the front row with Sona and Elias beside her, a bundle wrapped in a gold cloth covered the child nestled against Sona’s chest. Alastair’s and Cordelia’s little brother, the tufts of red hair could just barely be seen. Lucie had only met Elias once when she was young before he disappeared, she remembered him being stern but handsome. Through those years he’d been gone, the stern side seemed to overtake the handsome. His eyes were circled in darkness and he lacked color and shape in his face. Lucie wondered if that was perhaps why Cordelia chose Alastair to walk her instead.
When she reached the alter, James was the picture of a modern gentleman, but he also wore the expression of someone preparing for battle.
She brushed his shoulder with her own as she passed and whispered, “Relax.”
He released a breath he’d been holding and gave her a curt nod.
As she found her place across from James and his groomsmen, she turned to smile out to the crowd. Her heart sank just a little at the face that she did not find there.
The Blackthorns were invited, she knew. Both Jesse and Grace, but never received a card announcing their attendance. Lucie made sure that two spots were reserved for them just in case, but even now as she looked into the crowd those spots remained empty and the last flickering embers of hope that she kept alive for Jesse, evaporated in a puff of smoke.
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The reception was held as such in the ballroom of the Institute. Persian rugs of all manner of color and design covered the floors and the spices and essence of Cordelia’s home and culture filled the room with life. Cordelia danced merrily with James for the fourth time, neither of them willing to let the other go. Only Alastair managed to sneak a dance in with her while Tessa stole James away, but as soon as their dance was over like two ships in the night, Cordelia and James found each other again.
Matthew danced reluctantly with his mother.
Tessa danced with Will.
Alastair danced with his mother while Elias held the babe.
Anna danced with Ariadne, challenging anyone who might dare interject or judge the pairing with the harshest of looks.
Christopher danced with a timid Carolina Belltower, both looked completely out of place and uncomfortable. Lucie was sure Christopher had managed to step on her toes not once but four times in the two minutes of the song.
Thomas was the only other one not dancing and didn’t seem inclined to do so. He stood beside Lucie his eyes locked on Alastair.
In her six months as a social pariah, when she wasn’t helping with wedding plans or writing in her room, she took to observing those around her. Thomas and Alastair had become a favorite of hers, especially when they didn’t think anyone was paying them any mind. The friendship was timid and slow. At first, Lucie thought that they hated each other, but then she began to notice that whenever they all found themselves in a situation together, Thomas and Alastair seemed to gravitate towards each other. She observed with curiosity the subtle change in their relationship from a timid want to something she could only describe as a yearning.
It was there in Thomas's eyes now as he stared at Alastair across the room.
“You should ask him to dance,” said Lucie, nudging him with her elbow.
Thomas raised an eyebrow when he looked down at her. “Here?”
“Why not?”
“A whole manner of reasons why not,” said Thomas and looked down at the glass cup in his hands.
“Are you afraid someone will disapprove?” Lucie sipped from the refreshment in her hands. His silence gave her the answer she already knew. “I do not want to rush you into a decision, but take note from someone who hid a secret about herself from those she loved the most in the world— if they truly love you, and they do— it won’t matter to them. They will love you all the same. Their approval is not worth a lifetime of your unhappiness.”
Thomas slid a hand around her waist and pressed a quick kiss to her head. “Not all of us are as brave as you are.”
Lucie smiled to herself. “I shall lend you some of my bravery then. If you won’t dance with him, then at least go talk to him. You best hurry for the song is ending and if you don’t I might have the good sense to ask him myself.”
“Who will keep you company?”
Lucie looked to her left where Oscar, Matthew’s dog, was lying in wait by her feet for someone to pet him. “I have Oscar. He’s the perfect company. He doesn’t step on my toes, he doesn’t prattle on about dull things. He could stand for a breath mint, but otherwise, he’s the perfect companion.”
Thomas chuckled, then as the song came to a close, he stalked across the room to where Alastair was guiding his mother back to her seat.
Lucie watched as the two talked for a moment, both of them leaning towards each other slightly before they both turned towards the doors leading to the gardens.
Lucie felt a swell of pride at the momentary act of bravery and found herself wishing that the world would change just a bit faster to make room for the amount of love those two would share. And if the world wasn’t willing to change, well then she’d just make sure they had a safe place around her to be themselves— to figure it out.
The next song started a slow, sweet melody that had the partners in the room drawing just a bit closer to one another. Cordelia’s red hair stood out like a beacon in the center of the floor, James pressing his temple against her own as they talked quietly to one another.
Lucie had become so enamored with watching the way her brother’s face light up when Cordelia said something particularly funny that she didn’t notice or feel the presence come beside her.
“Not dancing?”
The smile slipped from her face as she turned to see the familiar dark-haired gentlemen standing beside her. His blue-green eyes shifted to hers for a moment as he leaned down, close enough that his shoulder brushed her own. “I used to enjoy watching you dance. You weren’t as serious as the other girls. You would abandon yourself to the music instead of focusing on the proper steps.”
A warmth rose in her cheeks. “I hadn’t known I had an audience.”
He ignored her jib and continued. “I stood and wondered what it would be like to be one of the gentlemen that had the pleasure of being your partner. I would have filled your card with my name if I could.”
Lucie swallowed the lump climbing up her throat. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming.”
“We weren’t.”
“And yet here you are,” she huffed.
“It was a last-minute decision elicited by a rather threatening letter.”
“My letter was hardly threatening.”
“Not your letter.” Jesse’s eyes went to Cordelia who was glaring at him from over James’s shoulder. “Your letter was lovely. Hers gave me nightmares.”
Lucie glared right back at her conniving friend. “I’m so pleased you felt pressured enough to come. If you’ll excuse me, my drink has gotten warm and I no longer want to be here.”
A lie, and also not. She didn’t know how to be there. How to talk to him without there being some physical limitation. She’d let him go. She’d written those letters and let him go. She wasn’t entirely sure she could do it again.
“Lucie—“
She’d already moved into the crowd and was walking towards the refreshment table.
She brushed past Christopher who had switched his brunette partner with a delicate blonde one. It took her a moment to realize it was Grace.
Lucie shouldered past them, set her cup down on the refreshment table, and gathered her skirts to rush out into the hall.
Some tried to stop her along the way to tell her how beautiful she looked and congratulate her on her ceremony with Cordelia.
She grinned and mumbled her ‘thank you’ before the servants opened the doors for her to exit through. Once out in the hall, cut off from the music, noise, and smell of the party, she was able to breathe. She was almost to the end of the hall when the noise filled the space again.
“Lucie!” Jesse’s footsteps came after her. “Please wait. I didn’t mean—“
She’d turned the corner and hurried towards the staircase.
“Stubborn child,” she heard him mumble behind her. She was near to the ground floor when he said. “Damn this physical form, if I were still a ghost—“
“But you are not anymore,” said Lucie, turning to face him as he slowed on the last few steps. A dark strand of hair had come loose and fell in his face. He’d let it grow since she last saw him, the tips grazed his shoulders, pieces curled around his cheekbones. He was beautiful, heartbreaking, ache in her gut, tongue numbingly beautiful. “You’re alive and can go and do as you please. I am not longer the only company that you can have and it was clear that you never wanted. If you have anything more to say, write me a letter.”
She turned to walk away again but a hand closed around her arm. “You’re the only company that I want.” He loosed a breath and drew his hand away, running it back through his hair. “Damn it, Lucie, even now in life, I have no control when I’m around you. Can’t you see, you’re the only person I want to talk to. Still the only person that sees me.”
“I thought that—“ she swallowed and stared at the crookedness of his tie. “You said that—“
“I didn’t mean what I said,” said Jesse before she could finish. “I said those things because I was trying to keep you from going to the Lightwood house where Belial was lying in wait. I was trying to protect you.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” His dark eyebrows drew together in a pain-stricken expression. “I knew you’d think I was lying to keep you from trying to resurrect me and that’d you go anyway. I had to tell you something that you would believe… even if it broke your heart. Even if it broke my long-dead heart. I thought when you sent me away, locked me away that it’d worked, but then you bloody went anyway.”
“I went to tell Grace that I wanted to end our arrangement,” she said quietly. “As desperately as I wanted to bring you back, I wouldn’t have done it unless you wanted me to.”
“I’m an idiot,” he gasped. “I should have explicitly told you that Belial was there.”
“I wouldn’t have believed you,” said Lucie, with a small smile. “And if I had, I would have gone anyway if only to try to stop him. What happened was inevitable. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Regardless, I’ll punish myself for the rest of my life for it.” Jesse dared a step towards her. “Lucie, I have missed you.”
Tears prickled her eyes at the gentle way he spoke the words, yet she couldn’t holster the doubt that crept into her mind. “Why did you leave?”
“Guilt, shame, fear, of what the Clave would do to me, to Grace, because of our mother.” His hands tightened into fists at his sides. “Charles came to me after I’d been examined by the Silent Brothers and told me that I was to return to Alicante, immediately. He said I couldn’t be trusted and that I was to be placed under observation until further notice and when I inquired about you, he just gave me a grave look and would tell me nothing more.
“Everyone I spoke to gave me the same response. I thought you were dead. I thought Belial won. When I learned that he was defeated, I waited to hear from you, but when nothing came I thought maybe you were done. I thought maybe I'd lost you. I didn’t know what else to do so I left. I lost myself a little bit or rather I struggled with finding myself in this living world again. I think that I didn’t want it… not without you. It wasn’t until your letter arrived that I realized even if you had moved on, I hadn't. It took me weeks to gain clearance to come back here. The laws I had to break to be here.”
“You broke laws?”
He shrugged. “They’re bad laws anyway.”
A smile tugged on Lucie’s lips.
He braved another step. Inching just a bit closer.
Lucie took a shuttered breath. “I missed you too, Jesse Blackthorn. So much.”
It was the last bit of reassurance he needed as he moved forward, bending at the knees to wrap his arms around her waist and lift her against him. She wound her own around his shoulders, pressing her forehead against his own. He was real. Every inch of him, real. She ripped off her gloves and tossed them aside so she could feel him underneath her palms. The hardened plains of his back, his shoulders, his arms, his chest, until her fingertips grazed his jaw.
His breath hitched as if he were as starved for touch as she was.
He seemed to be content to do the same. As he slowly lowered her back onto her feet, his hands brushed the bare skin where her dress dipped just below her shoulder blades and continued to roam down her waist.
“Lucie,” his breath brushed against her lips.
Her mouth had gone dry. “Yes.”
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to feel you, touch you, hold you in my own hands,” he swallowed and his fingers brushed along her arms. “I’m half out of my mind right now with want of kissing you.”
“Why aren’t you then?”
He chuckled. “A nice girl like you found kissing a once dead man like me. The scandal.”
Lucie rose onto her toes. “I guess it’s a very good thing then that I’m already ruined.”
She tilted her head and met his lips with her own.
For the first time in Lucie’s life, she didn’t care about what people thought or the going on’s of the world around her. She let the intoxication of happiness overcome her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Her friend, the boy in the woods, the ghost who’d given up everything to save her brother, who’d given up everything to save her, was all that mattered in the moment. She couldn’t believe, hated the thought, that she was moments away from losing him.
But like that day in the wood so long ago, he found her… somehow he always did.
A/N: Wow, we DID it! I cannot believe it’s almost been a year since I started this project and what a year it has been. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much if you read one part, six parts, fifteen parts, the whole thing, or if you’re just joining us. Thank you for your comments, your reblog, your likes, for your collaboration and encouragement. I have LOVED this challenge. I never had the bravery to do it before and while The Last Night was supposed to be a one-shot, I had so much fun expanding on it and playing around with some predictions. I hope you guys are satisfied with this ending. I know it ended with some Jucie* (I’m not even sorry) but I hope the Jordelia storyline was satisfying. I’ve learn so much from you guys and while there are about a million things I would like to change, mistakes I’d like to fix, or moments I want to expand on, I’m quite happy with the way this story turned out. Thank you again!
#The Last Night#the last hours#the last night fanfiction#chain of gold#Chain of Iron#cassandra clare#jordelia fanfiction#james x cordelia#james herondale#Cordelia Carstairs#Lucie x Jesse#lucie herondale#jesse blackthorn#thomas x alastair#alastair carstairs#thomas lightwood#thomastair#shadowhunters#the shadowhunter chronicles
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This would not leave my head after the Tmastuck talk and the catboyJonah sprite. It's not long enough to put on ao3 sooo enjoy the sort of? soft lonelyeyes.
FALLINGTITAN started pestering FORSAKENTUNDRA
FALLINGTITAN: Soo?
FORSAKENTUNDRA: ….
FALLINGTITAN: Oh come on Peter is not so bad! Look on the bright side!
FORSAKENTUNDRA: I'm sorry what bright side should i be looking into? The fact that my sprite is now a weird fusion or that you got my cat killed? What bright side should i be looking into Simon??!!
FALLINGTITAN: Well now you should be able to get things done, no offense but the cat only ever tried to cuddle you and say how much he loved you.
FORSAKENTUNDRA: >:(
FALLINGTITAN: Well isn't it lonelier like this?
FORSAKENTUNDRA: You don't seem to understand what you did, you threw Jonah’s original body into my sprite. Which was my cat, who loved me very much.
FALLINGTITAN: So?
Peter turns to look down to his lap where a very angry looking JonahSprite was currently kneading at the skin of his arms while also purring uncontrollably. He seemed to be contemplating his own existence. Meaning that Peter was being used as a stress reliever while the man was having an existential crisis.
FORSAKENTUNDRA: ….Elias will be very mad about this and you know it.
FALLINGTITAN: Good thing i'm exploring my land and im very far away from his range then, shame you decided to go to his place instead of sticking around. Anyways i have some imps to throw away ill be seeing you later ;)
He regrets letting Simon be in charge of helping him get into the game, but since Elias said he wanted his help, he had no other choice than to ask the other man. Maybe he should have asked Martin instead, but well…. it did not pan out as he wanted.
Peter looks around trying to figure out what to do next.
“So… hello?” Jonah squints at him and he can see the ears at the top of his head move.
“You are a Lukas” Oh god he doesn't even know him does he? His face must have gone through a journey because he huffs.
“You are Peter correct? I met you briefly as James” That actually baffles him.
“You… remember me from when you were James? How is that- Wait do you recall being Elias at all?” He shakes his head, the ears twitch again and he wants to touch them.
No, stop that.
“I recall up until i switched bodies, i assume i succeed-”
“That you did!”
“But since i don't recall being Elias i did not switch before starting up the game” Peter nods and the other sighs going limp on his lap. For saying he does not know him, he is being very forward right now.
He also appreciates that he is even shorter than Elias by a few inches.
“No, he should be in the next land, I was just passing by when Simon decided to be funny and throw his body- your body?” This was giving him a headache “Into my sprite to make it more helpful apparently” He has patches of fur and his pupils were now slithed, along with sharper teeth for what little he could see. Plus there is the whole ghostly figure going on that completes the look. Peter caves and touches his ears., making him hiss, but also lean into it.
“Stop that you heathen i- Love you Peter!!” He covers his mouth and now he knows that there is some leftover captain there huh? Scratching his head makes him push himself up and Peter caves kissing his forehead, its hard not to when he knows its still his husband, with less memories, but still the same man. Plus he looks adorable doing the scrunched up nose that even 200 years later he can't drop while looking grumpy about it.
“You are the biggest menace i have ever met by far, but once we find Elias i will dump you with him, its bad enough to have one of you, what am i supposed to be doing with two?”
“Wha- what is your relationship wiiiith- do that agaaaain” His pupils go round at the way he scratches behind the ears. Oh he will have to break it to him then huh? Smirking a little and trying to get him off his lap he replies.
“Why, of course he is my loving husband. Congratulations are in order”
“Oh no, no im-” He pushes him off and snickers getting up quickly, while the other curses him and floats up to his height.
“Times up, lets keep moving otherwise the imps will get here and i know you both will hate if they wreck the place”
Jonah grumbles and keeps throwing insults at him, but floats towards his direction at the very least, he looks still mildly disturbed while checking himself out, particularly his hands, which he opens and closes while looking… stressed? Upset? So in the spirit of not wanting to be yelled out later he holds one.
Elias will be even more furious at him, if he lets.... himself?? Be more traumatized, he will claim that Peter is not being a good husband, so Its for that and not any other reason that he interlaces their fingers. Jonah's hand is limp, but after a while it closes around his and tugs him around.
“You don't know your way around do you?” Peter shrugs and lies.
“Not at all! Can you guide me?” He gives him a long suffering look, the one he gets every time he is being difficult according to his husband. Still he looks marginally more happy anyways.
So he calls it a success.
#tmastuck#magnusstuck#lonelyeyes#peter lukas#Honestly i just wanted to do a small short#plus it was sort of hilarious to think#its late and im tired plus this is just pure self indulgeance#meaning soft Peter cause why not#im sure only like 5 people are going to get this#but screw it#i like it#Simon is having the time of his life
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Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 19
AO3
Beta reader is @thesnadger!
Social interaction has its pros and cons.
Martin considers a way to pass the time.
Technically, there was no call that night.
Martin had had months to familiarize himself with the strange predawn that added a little color to the sky each morning. His home was on the western coast, so of course he didn’t see much of it until he’d made the trek uphill. With some cloud cover and dense fog, though, the light would scatter and cast a cold blanket of grey light over his corner of the world.
Early on he found it sort of nice, seeing the world ‘wake up’. He’d even started to get up earlier than necessary, just to make himself some tea and look out the window for signs of birds or other creatures who made their lives at dawn and dusk. There were some lines of poetry about it somewhere in his notebook, something about the magic of a quiet morning in solitude.
He’d lasted about a week with that. Turned out his life was already quiet and full enough of contemplative solitude, and warm blankets were much better than cold kitchen tile against his feet.
It was during this little sliver of morning when his mobile, vibrating against the wood of his bedside table, dragged him back to consciousness.
“No…” he groaned, nuzzling into his pillow. It could only be one person. “Don’t make me come in early. Don’t make me come in early, you prick-”
He reached over (god it was cold) and grabbed the offending object, keeping as much of himself under the blankets as possible and slipping the mobile back under with him. The screen was bright and painful in his cozy darkness. His eyes adjusted, and on his lockscreen the time read 4:06 a.m.
Before he could convince himself to let the damned thing ring itself out, he glanced at the caller ID. If anything it should’ve given him even more reason to let the call go, but Martin’s finger was already pressing the answer button.
Attempting to whisper, his voice came out rough and croaky. “Jon?”
“Martin. Glad you’re still up,” Jon said in that distant way of someone paying attention to another task entirely. Keyboard clicks could be heard in the background. “How are you doing?”
Still up? Bleary and confused, Martin replied as if he’d just run into Jon at the store, “Fine, I guess? How are you?”
“I’ve successfully whittled down my assignments enough to have personal research opportunities.” There was a weary but nevertheless triumphant edge to his words. “If this is some sort of test of my abilities, I’d say I deserve a raise.”
“Impressive,” Martin yawned. “Does that mean anything for me, or…”
“No, not yet.” He could feel Jon deflate on the other end. “I’ve only just started looking, and Elias is still acting rather blasé about what we found. I hadn’t pegged him as the type to put business relations over the mission statement, but if that’s the case then-”
“Why send you out here?”
“Precisely.” Jon clicked his tongue. “So I’m going to pry in that direction while digging through old reports. I assume the others will do the same once they’re caught up.”
Well, progress was as good as anything to wake up to. He reluctantly pulled the blankets from over his head and peeked out at his window. The frost was just visible at the edges, its frigid hands creeping across the glass. Perhaps a little while longer under the covers.
“Anyway, I’m glad I caught you,” Jon continued, filling the space Martin had left empty. The keyboard taps had ceased. “I’d decided to give you some breathing room, but you were quiet during the call with everyone and I thought- well, I wanted to make sure you were okay. As much as can be expected.”
A small, halfhearted smile found its way onto Martin’s face. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“So… are you okay? I know you said you were, but it sounded like you were being polite.”
Martin looked up at his ceiling. “I mean I was being polite, but… Yeah, I’m okay. As much as can be expected, like you said, but okay.”
“Hm.”
“Hm?”
“What? Nothing, it’s good. I’m gl- I’m happy that you’re… doing okay.” Midway between this thought, Jon seemed to switch the mobile from one ear to the other. “If you aren’t, I just hope you know that you can tell me if something is going on. Sometimes there are emotional aspects that contribute to an event-”
As Jon spoke at length, Martin noticed a distinct tumbling feel in the way Jon spoke, like his thoughts were coming faster than his mouth could follow. Not alcohol, surely? No, a different idea had been bothering Martin since Jon had first called.
“-can’t speak for Tim or Sasha about hours, and if you’d rather just talk one-on-one, I’m sure-”
“Right, hours. Jon, I don’t mean to pry, but have you slept at all?”
The stream of consciousness halted in its tracks. “What?”
“You seem a bit… out of it? Have you checked the time recently?”
A moment passed. Then another. Then- “That can’t be right.”
Weakly, Martin replied, “Good morning to you, too.”
“I-” Jon began. He then made a small, irritated noise. “I woke you up.”
Martin ran a hand over his face and pressed it to his upturned mouth. Into it he mumbled, “You really need to sleep.”
As if the hours had finally come crashing down upon him, Jon’s voice dropped low and soft and properly tired. “I could’ve sworn it was earlier.”
“I mean, in a sense-”
“You know what I mean.” A yawn finally broke through, but he fought it back down. “I hope it wasn’t too much earlier than your normal wake-up time?”
“Nah. You’ve seen how early my day starts. Besides, my alarm isn’t the most pleasant thing to wake up to, and you could’ve been Peter calling me in early.” It was like getting up to enjoy the morning, but he was still in bed and someone else was there (sort of). As far as he was concerned, the pros outweighed the cons.
“Then I’ll hold my apology for a later date, if you don’t mind.” He spoke bluntly, but possibly in a way that was meant to be funny. Martin was still working out when Jon was being blunt in a rude way or in a friendly way, and his gut pushed him toward the latter. “I also won’t apologize for my work ethic. I work better at night, without distractions or other people.”
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Martin asked, “Okay, I can play along with that, but when do you sleep?”
“We have a cot.”
Martin scoffed. “What, at work?” An image of the three researchers finding different corners in some dark back room to snooze on company time was almost too much.
“Working after-hours is implied in the description of any academic job. If we didn’t steal some of the day back to sleep, we’d all have dropped dead by now.” For a moment his voice strained as if he was stretching, dipping into the background before returning to normal. “Though this past week has been a bit more extreme due to circumstances. I’m not always up until dawn, calling people in a stupor.”
“First time for everything?” Martin said helpfully, pushing down weakly against the rising guilt. “I know it’s a bad situation, but I’m sorry you all have to work so hard.”
“No need for that. I can choose to sacrifice a few nights for something important.”
Slowly, very slowly, Martin pressed his burning face into his pillow. Maybe it was too early for him after all, to handle anything approaching concern. The heat was surely enough to melt the ice right off the window. Ignoring the ridiculous reaction happening in his cheeks, he turned his face back upwards and mumbled, “Thanks.”
There was a small rustling of papers. With the same damned softness, Jon continued, “I’m sure Tim and Sasha would say the same.”
A quiet thing clung deep in Martin’s throat, and in his nose, and he imagined a version of himself from the night before, scared and powerless and ready to dump any and all his feelings on the first person who would speak with him. Would that have been something Jon was prepared for, if he’d called at a sensible hour? Or if Martin had called first? But it was nearly morning, and he was well rested, and eventually the thought fell away in his wakefulness.
Without a response to go on, Jon said, "I’m not going to be as… outwardly optimistic as before, but…”
“You’re making progress,” Martin finished, coughing lightly. “I know. I’ll be patient, and careful. It’s hard after the weird stuff we did last week, though.”
“I’d like to say it was all due to extreme circumstances, but we are just like this.”
“There go my hopes of you all getting proper rest when this is over.”
“S’not impossible, but terribly unlikely.”
Martin sighed, checking his screen clock again. Still some time left. “Is it safe to assume you won’t be sleeping at this point?”
“Won’t be long until I can go to the archives. I’ll wait until then and avoid being groggy on public transit.” A pause. “Also my last energy drink is still working.”
“Mm.” Letting his forearm fall across his eyes, Martin gave up that particular battle. “Anything new set off your ‘fake’ alarms recently?”
“You’re in luck. Just yesterday a man came in to tell me about his experience with ‘spy birds’ that even you can’t devil’s-advocate your way through.”
“I’ll be the judge.”
It was a tough sell, even for Martin whose own situation made a lot of things seem possible. Midway through he even began to resent the person for wasting time better spent solving Martin’s problems, but that was an emotional rabbit hole for another time. By the end he had to concede that it was more of a conspiracy than a supernatural encounter, if they were going to get into the semantics of it. Still, Jon made it easy to be contrarian.
“When we’re not busy with all this,” Jon said, accepting that Martin wasn’t yet ready to forgo the benefit of the doubt, “I’ll be happy to sit outside and film birds all day for the sake of science, but the man finds perfectly normal birds unsettling.”
With a silly kind of bullheadedness, Martin replied, “Plenty of seabirds around here. Maybe that’s what I’ll do while I wait for something to happen.”
Jon snorted. “I expect a full report by Monday.”
Before Martin could respond, his phone made an all too familiar and dreadful noise. He really should’ve picked a song or something, he thought as he dismissed his alarm. “Well, it’s that time.”
“Yes, I should be getting along with my morning as well. Good luck with your birdwatching,” he said with joking scorn.
“Have fun sleeping on the bus.”
“Ha ha. Goodbye, Martin.”
“Bye.”
Dropping his arm onto the bed, mobile in hand, Martin ignored the numbness in his fingers and considered how invested he was in writing a fake report about birds just to see the reaction it would get. Maybe he would text Tim about it.
The idea sat in the back of his mind as he got dressed, as he made breakfast, as he put on his shoes and coat and hat. When he opened the door to meet the cold that had settled in overnight, he couldn’t help but wince at the extra bit of sting the wind delivered, but he clung to his fanciful little idea all the way up the hills and through town.
Creative writing had never been his strong suit. It was debatable if poetry was, but he’d reached a point where it was more of a comforting activity than a skill. Still, as he got to work in the blessedly empty lighthouse, he thought of the little notebook he’d stashed into his bag. If it all came to nothing, he could end up with scraps of text to rearrange into poetry someday.
It was a mess of a book. Technically bound, it was still cheap with some pages starting to come loose from his handling. He’d long ago given up on the idea of a nice looking notebook, especially as it had become personal enough to count as horribly embarrassing. It was inevitable for any poetry notebook of his to become more akin to a scattered, flowery journal of sorts, and this one was no different.
It was also a step up from previous ones in that it wasn’t some spiral-bound school notebook he’d found in the discount section of the general store. No, he had found it in a bookstore discount section. The stiff cover even had sort of a nice texture before he’d beaten it up by shoving it into a drawer a million times.
The day crawled by with no interruptions, leaving Martin on edge. Peter hadn’t come by once. Perhaps he’d assumed Martin had had any boldness scared out of him, an aggravating thought. He had the will to act. He also had some amount of self preservation left in him, that was all.
By lunchtime he was itching to talk to anyone, but texting the others was off limits and it was so dreary outside that going out to eat was a non-starter. He supposed he could stop by the grocery store. He knew some of the people from when he’d worked there. Most of the ones he’d worked with had also left, but maybe…
No, that was a stupid idea. He wasn’t seeing anyone unless they came to him.
No one did.
So in his time off the clock, he stared at his little notebook and hoped his brain would think of anything to say.
--
The weather had taken a more miserable turn by the time he’d left work in the evening. He only saw a few birds struggling in the gales, none of them particularly watchful. If he had to guess, they didn’t care much about what anyone was doing. Not great material for a report, but maybe for a poem when the feeling hit.
The streets were largely empty as people avoided the high winds and mist that sprayed against Martin’s glasses, making it a challenge to see anything around him. He had half a mind to just stow them away, but there was going to be water in his eyes no matter what he chose to do. Just another little thing to make his day worse that he couldn’t change.
Part of him considered that the weather often matched his mood, but it wasn’t hard for bad weather to pair with sour thoughts. Nearly all weather was bad and nearly all moods were sour. Correlation, etcetera.
As much as he’d wanted to check his phone as soon as work was over, the others could wait until he’d stopped feeling so damned sorry for himself.
And he did feel awful, though there was no inciting incident. It had been a long, tedious day where the words wouldn’t flow, the world was grey, and any residual happiness from his conversation with Jon had been slowly eaten away by the loneliness of the present. Why was it so hard to hold onto those good things? A good start was supposed to make the day better, not make the rest of the day look worse.
It had to be everything at the lighthouse. He’d always been moody as a person, but the stress had to be getting to him. His head shouldn’t have been hurting from holding back tears when nothing had happened.
God, the squinting wasn’t helping, either. He knew where he was going, of course, but the streetlights were barely helping. The sky had decided to paint itself over everything, a dark, grey blob of water and concrete and fog. The walk down the hill was going to be a slippery pain, even in his grippy boots.
Had he passed by the florist? He probably should have by now, but the main road hadn’t ended yet.
And even when he got home, oh joy, it would be to sit at a table and eat with his mother, and based on her tastes she would love to stand outside in the misery of it all even though it would be terrible for her health. What was the point of trying when another person wouldn’t even listen-
He’d been walking for too long.
The road continued on, no longer heading into the surrounding trees but stretching itself past the point of impossibility. And at the end, in a place where it should not have been visible through the colorless mist, was a large, familiar house.
Ah, Martin thought. Someone had decided to talk to him today.
Looking behind him, the lighthouse was just barely visible. Looking to either side was a fool’s errand, as everything had been consumed by the grey.
He slipped the mobile phone out of his pocket and bent over to shield it from the rain. The screen lit up at his touch, but as expected any and all communication was blocked. Nevertheless, he opened the group chat and began to type.
Martin: i think simon wants to talk. everything is fog and i cant go anywhere else. hoping my phone makes it out so this makes it
He pressed send, then mustered up whatever hope he had and added:
Martin: talk to you soon
#tma#the magnus archives#breathe in the salt#martin blackwood#jonathan sims#sasha james#tim stoker#peter lukas#jonmartin#fanfic#au fanfic#selkie au
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