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canmom · 2 years

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Animation Night 104: Two Years!

Hey friends! Today we have a very special birthday... that’s right, it’s the two year anniversary of Animation Night - the weekly film night where I try and imbue my love of animated films into a 1800kbps data stream for you to enjoy!

A year ago I wrote a recap post in which I wrote the story of the first year of Animation Night, and gave proper writeups to Aeon Flux and Tekkonkinkreet. And now, crazily, we’ve managed to pull off another year without getting banned from Twitch for weekly copyright violation. Here’s to many more!

Here’s a fun fact: the first episode of Aeon Flux aired less than a month before I was born. Many, many years later I would watch a gifset on Tumblr - the one with the tooth - and get fascinated enough to watch the series. And who knows, perhaps that reawakened something... certainly it planted the seed that eventually grew into this thing.

Now then! the Animation Night Archive is gradually shaping up into its definitive version, so you should have a much easier time finding out what I’ve had to say. Features to come: a comment system (thanks to Staticman) and a detailed writeup of the Japan Animator Expo to act as an introduction to the series. Hopefully this week. But schedules do like to slip...

So, what’s another year of Animation Night brought us? Many, many things! Here’s a few lot of my favourite Animation Nights from the last year, in mostly chronological order...

In Animation Night 53, we got to see two different renowned directors of anime tackle very similar material at the start of the new millenium. Otomo, more so than ever, created a world of sterile precision in Steamboy, a vision fascinated with the intricacies of perspective drawing and machinery yet thin on character; Rintaro took things much more experimental in Metropolis, drawing loosely on both Tezuka and Fritz Lang but very much in its own territory, to absolutely mesmerising effect...

Animation Nights 56 and 57 introduced me to Violet Evergarden, the first attempt to cram a cour of anime of anime into one night... a concept that has frequently proven, perhaps, overly ambitious. As a work of animation, Violet Evergarden is a painfully beautiful statement of KyoAni’s care and attention to detail... but as a story it’s a very odd little thing, as me n mogs ended up discussing...

For Animation Night 58, we took a virtual visit to the Annecy International Animated Film Festival. Much later, I wrote up my impressions of all the short films we watched - an incredibly striking and varied selection. I’m desperate to go to Annecy in person this year, and I just hope being on benefits now will make it affordable.

This is the year we got big into robots! Animation Night 64, fittingly, started the ball rolling with Ichiro Itano’s missile circuses and yak de culture; later we would go and explore the origins of Gundam’s very odd approach to addressing war in Animation Night 88 and 94.

This year I learned a ton more about the theory and techniques of animation! As I approach the great mountain of becoming an animator, more and more foothills come into sight, and the journey just seems to get longer.

Yet all the same, I’m proud of my writeup for Animation Night 65 recounting, as thoroughly as I could manage, the history of rotoscopy! But of all the works we watched that night, the one that stuck with me longest is of course the most controversial: Aku no Hana (The Flowers of Evil), in which the rotoscoped style, unsettling or not, draws out all sorts of subtle tensions and uncertainties appropriate to its characters. A tragedy that it was not able to continue...

On Animation Night 66 (or if you prefer, 6.6 You Can (Not) Watch Eva), we celebrated the end of the long, long wait for the last Rebuild of Evangelion. Astonishingly, Anno and the team at Khara (and surrounding cloud of freelancers and subcontracting studios) pulled it off. At last, we have his answer to the despair expressed so powerfully in The End of Evangelion as a tight, visually striking and incredibly animated film - one that also quietly marked another step towards the successful integration of traditional and 3D animation. There is much to analyse there, but for now all I can say is, I still get a fuzzy feeling thinking back to the time we all got together to geek out about eva haha

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Animation Night 68, on Brazil, turned out to be one of my absolute favourite in the entire year. We saw the early days of Brazilian animation, we saw Disney’s beautiful but superficial expression of appreciation for the country in Saludos Amigos, made against a background of union-busting and geopolitical overtures in the midst of WWII; and then we got to see the two incredible Brazilian films that dropped in 2013 acting as if an answer!

Rio 2096: A Story of Love and Fury and Boy and the World both take very different visual approaches to the same subject: the history of resistance and struggle that cuts through Brazilian history. Rio 2096 is concrete, full of historical horror and violence; Boy and the World is more abstract, packed with beautiful musical sequences, but all the more impactful as its picture becomes clear. And together they all came together into a complementary synthesis that you rarely get running a movie night like this!

I feel incredibly lucky to have seen both films lol. Animation rules.

On Animation Night 69, @mogsk and I made good on the joke and wrote the most thorough history of sexuality in animation I possibly could, with a particular focus on (what else?) the development of ‘hentai’. And we watched Belladonna of Sadness, a truly incredible movie from the very end of MushiPro, and a selection of other works which deal with eroticism in ways that are touching, funny, and all the other facets of human emotion. It paid off; we had a fantastic time.

On Animation Night 70, I finally broke my ‘no big Ghibli’ rule... but of course, I started at the beginning, and wrote about Hayao Miyazaki’s career. It was fascinating to see how the elements come together: the seeds of Totoro in Panda Kopanda, the complex feelings towards militarism and nature in the episode that got Moomin cancelled... My writing seemed to strike a chord! And we would return to Miyazaki once again on Animation Night 100 when I finally showed the legendary Princess Mononoke.

Animation Night 76 we go see what the Americans were up to in the 80s while all this was going on... and the answer seems to be singing a whole lot of ballads, if the work of outsourcing experts Rankin-Bass is any guide. Return of the King landed a little awkwardly, but the gorgeous and melancholy The Last Unicorn more than made up for it.

Halloween is always great, and Animation Night 77 was no exception. The Chilean stop-motion film about a Nazi cult, The Wolf House, was inventively unsettling, but the real highlight for me was the remarkable one man ero-guro film Shōjo Tsubaki, which takes the intricate manga drawings of Suehiro Maruo into limited animation to tell a strangely moving story of a circus freakshow troupe full of paraphilias. It is hard to find words to describe the mood it creates beyond ‘thoroughly fascinating’. It also, I suppose, marked the general trend towards ‘no content boundaries whatsoever’ that quickly spread to Toku Tuesday lmao.

For Animation Night 79, I was in Northern Ireland, and there I had a chance to find out about someone who seems almost unknown anywhere else: the incredibly talented John McCloskey. As impressed as I was with his command of warping and perspective in pencil, the real high point turned out to be his most recent film, An Béal Bocht (2012), a kind of darkly comic sorta-parable about the long suffering of the ‘Gaels’ and their mischievous responses that really I can only think to compare to Jewish jokes. Really incredible, and I would love for McCloskey to be wider known!

Horny old Osamu Tezuka’s place in history is well known, but going back to see the various adaptations of his Phoenix series on Animation Night 80 was another treat. Each director put their own stamp on the tragedies they were given; Tezuka’s own approach in the crazily ambitious Phoenix 2772 had that sort of delightful odd pacing and brain-bending narrative logic you can expect from his works, while Rintaro, Kawajiri and Hirata all brought the power of Madhouse to bear to tell moving stories in their own very particular ways. Fascinating excursion into anime history...

We returned to Tezuka once again on Animation Night 83, to look at his short films, which are incredibly varied in tone and endlessly experimenting in style. So we saw Hitler get killed by forest animals, a charming street corner full of anthropomorphic animals and posters destroyed by bombing, and a delightfully imaginative series of leaps across the world...

Meanwhile, on Animation Night 81, we dropped in on screenwriter and now director Mari Okada, who managed to channel an isolated childhood and tough relationship to her mother into a great deal of effective character writing. This meant seeing Maquia: When The Promised Flower Blooms, a beautiful film showing the amazing animation of veteran Toshiyuki Inoue to create a powerful novella-like story of the life of a mother and child fleeing genocide.

Animation Night 85, in which I looked into the (surprisingly long!) history of motion capture, was fun in a very different way, because as stupid as it may be, watching Final Fantasy: Spirits Within again in this day and age is actually a blast. The spirit of an era, indeed. Alas, the more recent works to apply the technology like Polar Express and Tintin just end up feeling overproduced and strangely empty. It turns out capturing a lifelike human performance goes much less far than you’d imagine.

On Animation Night 86, I took us to my own home country. As dreadful a blight it may be on world history, now and again Britain has found something powerful to say in animated film. I adored the terribly sad The Plague Dogs, in which two dogs escape from an animal testing lab and find themselves pursued across the country for fear they may carry disease... but alas British audiences didn’t, and it spelled the end for Martin Rosen’s brief career in realist animation. And The Wall proved everything people said it was: a blistering, incisive attack on nationalism and the machinery of social reproduction as they exist here (all the worse under Thatcher).

If I don’t manage to leave this country, I hope I can pick up the torch in attacking it.

On Animation Night 89, we took on Don Hertzfeldt, and I was not prepared! I expected the sardonic humour of Rejected; I did not realise just how impactful I’d find the far-far-future science fiction existentialism of his later films. The World of Tomorrow is incredible; what else to say?

We continued the independent US animator streak on Animation Night 90, with the wide release of Jonni Phillips’s fantastic film Barber Westchester. For films about cults and social control and lack of direction in the capitalist nowhere-scape of south california, with an animation style that’s very deliberately rough, her films end are actually for the most part very wistful and beautiful (as well as frequently very funny!); Barber Westchester opened more questions than it closed in the Secrets and Lies arc, and it didn’t matter at all. Very worth the wait.

Animation Night 91 opened up what I might call the Buddhism-core segment, when we took on the ambitious plan of watching the whole of Naoko Yamada’s adaptation of the Heike Monogatari - at not KyoAni but Science Saru. The result is, honestly, one of the best anime series I’ve ever seen: at once incredibly empathetic, and insightful about the scope and impossibility of telling history; gorgeously composed with Yamada’s photographer’s eye; full of tragic inevitability and also all the stuff of life. Never have I felt more connected to people more than eight hundred years dead!

In Animation Night 92, I indulged my sword lesbian ways, and did my best to hook you all on Revue Starlight - Tomohiro Furukawa’s first statement as an heir to his mentor Ikuhara. As fun as the series is, the film really elevated it further, an exhilarating series of emotionally dense musical duels that evolve the characters and arcs of all these dramatic lesbians. A really great time.

Animation Night 93, we took on the incredible René Laloux, companion to Felix Guatarri (no really!) and later, the Humanoides Association of Moebius et al. Fantastic Planet was indeed fantastic, a brilliant fusion of vivid scifi imagery with masterful Czech cutout animation, and Gandahar was captivating, but it was also a great chance to put those films in context with his earlier more experimental work with patients at La Borde Psychiatric Clinic. Really seriously fascinating guy.

In Animation Night 95, I got to fill in one of the major missing bricks in my understanding of anime history, with the wildly influential Osamu Dezaki. But more than just a history lesson, Dezaki’s work is just plain fun in every genre he tackled, shōnen to shōjo. And honestly, seeing works like Ashita no Joe really explained a lot about how anime storytelling works lol. But then of course was Space Adventure Cobra - an absolutely glorious piece of 80s gender-y scifi that felt just as Humanoides as Laloux’s films.

Animation Night 97 continued the Buddhism-core; I got to do a really thorough writeup on Studio Orange’s great demonstration that CG animation and traditional can compliment each other perfectly, while splendidly adapting what quickly became one of my favourite manga about the tragedy of Buddhist cosmology as experienced by nonbinary rock people.

Rounding up the Buddhism, Animation Night 98 took us to Kyōsōgiga; while the actual night hit scheduling problems, the anime itself was a delightful love letter to Kyoto and its history through some very odd family drama in an immensely inventive setting.

For Animation Night 99 we went back to the Animation Night roots, and watched a short film compilation: Blur Studio and friends’s Netflix compilation Love Death and Robots. All in all, it remained a very mixed bag that very much reflected its origins in the videogame industry: lots of technical showcases of photorealistic animation with strangely unambitious (yet hyper-gory) stories. Which is to say: perfect to watch with friends! And the incontrovertibly standout entries, primarily the work of the fantastic Robert Valley, showed us that someone has indeed taken to heart the lessons of Aeon Flux.

Then, two weeks ago, we returned to China for Animation Night 102, and once again found three remarkably accomplished films! New Gods: Nezha Reborn was a cyberpunk FF7-ish take on mythology as a meeting of wuxia and gangster film, with a relentless pace and fantastic choreography. The Legend of Hei took a popular cute flash series and turned it into a compelling character story about spirits at a fascinating midpoint between Miyazaki film and powers anime. Jiang Ziya followed Ne Zha with a completely different tone - less of a comedy and more a grand adventure film which really pulled out all the stops creating a visual language for a story about rejection of Heavenly authority.

And to take another recurring strand... Looking up the story of particular studios, be it Colorido (AN#72), Wit (AN#101) or even finally giving a proper account to our old friend 4C (AN#76) proved a great way to get a little cross-section of the anime industry and see particular artists evolve. And the Blender open movies (AN#78), in that vein, were a real nostalgia trip for me! I grew up using this program and over the course of my life it flourished... and those movies provide a record of that story.

...why yes, that’s almost every Animation Night we ran this year. I really like this movie night, guys!! Can you imagine there was a time where I wasn’t even that into animation? Wild.

So what’s the plan for tonight? Well, simply put, I want to go back into the archives and show some of the films from early Animation Nights that my current audience might not have had a chance to see! So that means Da Hu Fa, for one, and then perhaps a selection of short films from the first few weeks - but if you have requests for something you missed, I’ll be all ears (time permitting!)

We’ll be starting shortly, so please, if you will, come join me at the same place as ever - https://twitch.tv/canmom!

And, humbly, if you enjoyed this series and would like to help it continue and evolve, please consider supporting me on Patreon.

My baby is two years old...

#animation night

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lab-trash · 1 year

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Villian Arcane

This is the last chapter for a little bit, since it's the last one that I have completed. I have a really rough time writing on the weekends, so hopefully I'll be able to write more tomorrow.

Chapter List

Oliver didn’t share the fact that he knew where Marcus had been hiding out.

Why should he? Marcus would’ve moved by now. Chase wouldn’t be there. It was fine. Oliver had no reason to turn over Marcus’s base.

Oliver had a feeling the others were keeping something from him. That they knew something that he didn’t know.

Normally he wouldn’t care that much, maybe he’d be a little bitter about it, but it felt more important this time.

Maybe it was because of Marcus. He wanted to know as much as possible.

And in all honesty, when he overheard Kaz and Skylar talking, he didn’t know if it was on purpose or not.

“Do you think Oliver might be easier on Chase if he knew?” Skylar asked.

“Honestly, probably not. He’d probably be even worse on him, knowing how bad he’s been lately.”

Oh, fun, overhearing your supposed best friends talking about you like you’re a piece of trash. Lovely.

“I hate to agree, but you’re probably right.”

“Plus, it’s not like there’s anything actually going on.”

“I disagree,” Skylar said, “I mean, you heard that radio transmission. There’s not nothing going on.”

Oliver fucking knew it. That was a bit upsetting, that they were just keeping this a secret from him.

Sure, he did like Skylar, and he would be upset if they started dating, but he’d still want to know.

“I just don’t think anyone should say anything about it unless we get him back.”

“Until we get him back, Kaz,” Skylar corrected sentimentally. Oliver couldn’t fight the urge to roll his eyes. “We’re getting him back. No matter how long it takes.”

“I know. I’m just afraid of losing him forever.”

“That won’t happen. Not right now at least.” Oliver heard two thuds that was probably Kaz punching Skylar in the arm, and Skylar punching back. “I’m serious though. You know Chase is coming back. I don’t think he’d let himself go without… y’know, saying it in person.”

“That’s sweet. And the annoying part is that you’re probably right. He’s such a sap.”

“It’s hard for him to get close with people. It makes sense that he’s so… sentimental about it.”

“I know,” Kaz said. He sounded happy about it.

Oliver had enough. He wasn’t going to barge in on their conversation, so he just walked off.

Fun fact about their entire apartment: It had a PA system. It was the same speaker system that set off their mission alert.

Bree’s voice rang out over it as Oliver was walking down the stairs.

“Guys, new note, get down to Mission Command.”

He heard Kaz and Skylar’s footsteps shuffle quickly, which made Oliver feel a bit annoyed since he wasn’t in too much of a rush. He supposed he should be, but it’s not like hearing from Marcus was very odd for him.

They all went down in the hyperlift together, where the rest of their affiliates were; Bree, Davenport, Douglas and AJ.

“What’s the new note say?” Kaz asked urgently, standing close to Bree.

“‘I hear you’re missing your precious (former) leader. I don’t know why you keep looking for him, have I not been saying that you’ll get him back? (Seriously, have I not?) “And it’s not like you’ll find us anyway. Trust me, it’s impossible. I’m smarter than all of you combined. I could take another one of you away and you still wouldn’t be able to find us. “I don’t understand why you’re still trying. Just be patient.’”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Oliver exclaimed.

“Yeah, agree with our current enemy,” Davenport muttered bitterly.

“Like I’m known for being patient,” Kaz droned sarcastically. “Has Marcus never had friends? Does he just not understand… being attached to a person?” He asked, only half joking.

“I mean, he liked his mom,” Douglas said with a shrug. “And he was pretty clingy at first. But I don’t think he ever had actual friends.”

“He hung out with Nico Alverez at school sometimes, but I don’t know if they were like… actually friends,” Bree added.

“Where was this note?” Skylar asked.

“We found another place that he could be and had Bree go there.”

“Where was it?” Oliver asked as if he didn’t know.

“A base that Douglas used to share with Krane,” Bree said.

“The last place they were was an old base of mine too,” Douglas commented.

“Maybe that’s just where he’s staying,” AJ said with a shrug. “Going to different ones, maybe every day. How many bases did you have?” Douglas chuckled lightly.

“Several.”

“Do you remember where all of them are?” Bree asked. Douglas hesitated.

“Yes,” He said, but it sounded a lot like a question.

“So no,” Donald spoke up, earning a quick punch in the arm from his brother.

“Well, get the coordinates for the ones you know the location of, and I’ll check them all,” Bree said.

“I could probably get all of them, but it’ll take me a little longer,” Douglas said.

“Start with the ones you know first,” Bree said. Douglas nodded as he began working again on the cyberdesk.

“I wish we could get his location faster,” Kaz said with a sad look on his face. Skylar put her hand on Kaz’s shoulder and Oliver fought the need to grimace.

“We all do,” Davenport said. “We’ll get him back.”

“That’s what he’s been saying,” Oliver muttered.

In all honesty, Oliver definitely preferred life without Chase. He absolutely did not understand where everyone else was coming from when they talked about how they missed him.

He really wasn’t looking forward to when he came back.

He couldn’t just say that though. Everyone would hate him.

That wouldn’t bode well for him.

Oliver had mixed feelings about that, honestly. It’s not like they liked him anyway, and he was starting to not like them. But he still didn’t want to be on their bad side.

Not yet.

“Why can’t we track them actively?” Kaz asked, a bit uneasy seeming.

“We can only track where a transmission came from, we can’t track the device itself,” Donald said.

“Why not?” Kaz asked, “Didn’t you guys make the radio things?"

“Chase did,” Douglas said, “He’d know how, but we don’t.” Kaz sighed.

“Of course,” He muttered. “I guess we just wait until the next transmission.” Skylar shook her head.

“Have we had any luck finding Marcus directly? That was something you guys were working on, right?” She asked. Douglas sighed.

“I mean, I’ve been working on it, yeah, but no luck. Any identifying things I put in there must be long gone by now,” He said. “Giselle must’ve changed something, or maybe Marcus himself.”

“Marcus can change his own code and shit?” bree asked.

“Yeah,” Douglas said, “If he automates it and then hooks himself up, then yeah. But he might’ve even found a way to do it wirelessly, since he’s got those supersmarts.”

Oliver thought back to the base. There were wires everywhere, but that didn’t mean they connected to Marcus.

“So that’s a dead end…” Skylar groaned.

“Mostly, yeah,” Douglas said. Skylar scrubbed her hands over her face.

Kaz sat down in a chair at the cyberdesk. He let his face squish against his fist.

“What’s wrong?” Oliver asked, seeing the sadness in his eyes. Kaz moved his eyes to look at Oliver, filled now with anger instead of woe.

He let out a hefty sigh before standing up and leaving through the hyprerlift. Bree followed.

“Oliver, I know you don’t like Chase,” Skylar said, “But the rest of us do. You need to be more mindful of what you’re saying.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” Skylar said. “Kaz is in a bad place right now. It’s not every day someone just disappears,” She said.

Douglas and Donald left the room, probably to avoid the drama.

“Kaz is unmedicated right now. Did you know that?” She asked. “His parents haven’t gotten him his medical information to give to a psychiatrist. Chase was his coping mechanism. Chase kept him happy, and kept him productive, and helped him relax. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped. Two years, Chase helped him so much. And now, he’s not eating. “He keeps forgetting to drink water, and he forgets to do anything that isn’t looking for Chase. It is the weirdest hyperfixation in the world, but it makes sense. And you saying stuff like that is basically the same as someone… I don’t know, lighting your comic books on fire. “That’s the closest I can think of,” She said. She paused. “Okay, no. It’s like if someone kidnapped me and kept taunting you about it. That is exactly what this is. Gain some sympathy, Oliver. We all know you hate Chase. But Chase tries for you, and we all try for you. It’s your turn now.”

And with that, she left.

“She has a point,” AJ said, startling Oliver. He forgot he was there. He was sitting in a chair with his legs up on a cyberdesk like he usually did.

“Damnit, man— why are you still here!”

“Chase is my best friend,” AJ said, “The closest thing I’ve ever had to family. Your parents both left, you should know what it feels like to be alone.” He put his legs down, leaning forward, a fist on the table. “How did it feel when your dad went to England? That’s what I’d compare it to.”

AJ got up, opening one of the passage doors with his tablet, and walked through.

Oliver’s sensitive to stuff like this. People he cared about talking to him like that. In that way that was like yelling, but wasn’t. That stern tone of voice.

He’d start crying. He wouldn’t be able to stop.

But he felt nothing right now. He didn’t care.

Maybe it was because he knew Chase was okay. The yelling was empty.

Not that his mom’s yelling matches had reason behind it. No valid reason, at least.

Maybe Oliver’d matured, gotten over that trauma.

Or maybe he stopped caring.

He pushed that thought away, taking a hefty breath before heading upstairs.

He attempted to enter the boys’ room, but it was locked. He didn’t even know the door could lock. He knocked quietly.

The door opened quickly, Skylar behind it.

“Skylar?” Oliver asked.

“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight,” Skylar said. “Kaz wants to be alone.”

“But you’re in there.”

“I don’t count,” Skylar bit. “I’m not human.” Oliver huffed a breath.

“Fine,” He said.

“Your blanket is on the couch,” Skylar said before shutting the door. The lock clicked.

Oliver slept surprisingly well that night.

#lab rats #lab rats elite force #mighty med #aj lref #oliver mm #oliver lref #skylar storm #kaz mm #kaz lref #chase davenport #villain arcane

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smol-and-grumpy · 2 years

Note

To counteract the discouraging messaging you’ve been seeing lately here’s an encouraging one to hopefully help you breathe a little easier!

I only found you about a year ago when you were posting Home To You, an amazing heart wrenching series that perfectly filled my angsty wants.

It’s a little insane that I’ve only recently found you, I’ve been in this fandom since 2012 (oh my god it’s been a decade) and I thought I knew of all of the professional level fic writers (yes you fit that category). So you can imagine my surprise when I happened upon one of your fantastically written fics, a very happy surprise.

This app especially allows us to stay in our own little echo chambers, with the ever slowing number of reblogs and likes it’s even harder to break out of it to find fresh blood but I really REALLY hope that doesn’t disparage your truly natural talent as a story teller.

Take all the breaks you need, go on hiatus if you must, though I do hope you tell us beforehand so we don’t think you’ve died. We are here to support you as a writer, NOT just to support your writing.

I truly understand why you have a patreon, if I had your abilities, I’d try to market them as well. It sucks that being a creative in this world does not sustain a healthy life. And in the future, when the checks are a little more stable, I hope to help you, as well as other writers, continue to create beautiful pieces that keep this fandom going.

Lastly, you’re a fucking work horse. The amount of content you pump out, from gifs and pictures of our beautiful men, to the ever amazing fictitious world you build that I choose to hide away in, is insane. I recently had to write a 6k word assignment and it gave me a WHOLE new appreciation for you all who literally do that like every week, like actually WHAT THE FUCK. I wish I had the stamina, the imagination, the drive to put my thoughts into tangible words on paper and you do it for fun? WTF.

I don’t really know if you’ve ever realized this, but people, literally all their lives strive to do something to be remembered by, to have someone think of them and the things they created fondly. You’ve done something like that to at least one of your followers (me) and I’m sure many others. No matter where life takes you in the future, if tumblr will survive then, if our existence on the internet is actually archived somewhere, there will always be this group of people who will think back to the works you’ve created and smile. Because you have written literal novels, FOR FREE, that other people have consumed, and thoroughly enjoyed. I for one still think about some of the fan fiction I read in my youth that I’ve tried finding again but have had no luck, but either way, I remember the feelings those stories brought out in me.

The world is always going to be chaotic, it’s the nature of our being, but your stories along with other writers, published, unpublished, or self published, have created billions of worlds that we have been able to use as an escape from the chaos. And it’s a beautiful thing.

I hope you continue to use your talent, I hope you continue to share that talent with us; but most of all, I hope you’re happy or on the path to finding it ❤️.

😭😭 I wish I could hug you right now.

Professional fic writer level got me. I am humbled you think that of me, and it left me a bit speechless and misty eyed 🥺

And theeeeeen I went into gross sobbing the further I read on. You have a way with words and I’m really not great at taking compliments, but just know that my day has been significantly better after reading your ask.

To tell you the truth, I’ve been having so much going on in my personal life that it doesn’t leave me a lot of time to write, so when someone said that I wasn’t enough, it really got me. If I would be in a better shape, it probably wouldn’t have bothered me that much.

Honestly, to know that I made a little impact on your life, and that you’ll remember me for my little story, is really what gets me going. It makes all the sweat, the family time I sacrificed and the tears I spilled all worthwhile.

I adore you. Thank you for sending me this, anon

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

#nat answers #long post

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iriel3000 · 3 years

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I Won’t Leave Your Side

Summary: Clint Barton is having nightmares after Loki's attack and it is physically affecting Natasha. What will Agent Romanov have to endure to help her partner?

Trigger warnings: discussion of physical harm, swearing, happy ending

Part 3 of 3

Just before dawn, Clint started to stir. Natasha cautiously snuggled down next to him, pretending to be asleep. He rolled her toward him and stroked her hair. She gave her best sleepy morning impression when he kissed her on the nose.

“Thank you for staying with me last night. I’m going to the range for a while. Stay here and sleep okay?”

She nodded and pulled the blanket over her, hearing the door click as he left.

Natasha blissfully slept for a couple of hours but then woke with a start.

“Jarvis, where is Agent Barton?” She asked to the air.

“Agent Barton is at the firing range with Mr. Stark.” Natasha sighed with relief knowing he was with others.

“Thank you, Jarvis.” The soothing computer voice oddly made her feel better.

Groaning as she stood from the bed, Natasha hopped in the shower to let the hot water soothe her aching muscles. She closed her eyes, losing track of time. When she opened them, the room was filled with steam.

Cursing, she quickly ran through her normal routine, wanting to be out and dressed before Clint came back.

As she stepped out and wrapped the towel around her, he walked in. The look on his face made her stomach sink.

“Nat?” His voice was strangled as he slowly approached her.

Natasha winced for being so lax. She said nothing as Clint took in the purple and blue marks he could see on her arms and shoulders. Her long red hair was covering most of her neck, thankfully.

His eyes held so many questions.

“Remaining bruises from New York. They’re nothing.” She said nonchalantly, reaching for her clothes.

“Don’t lie to me.” His tone was harsh, but not his touch. Clint stopped her and slowly untucked the towel. His breath hitched when it dropped, revealing the rest of her contusions.

Tasha watched, in the reflection of the mirror, as Clint brought his hand to her waist, trying to figure out how her injuries happened. He gently ran his hand over her hips and thighs, as if to erase the bruises.

There was nothing sexual in his touch. It would have been easier if there was. She would prefer to distract him with sex. Not this, not this kind of tenderness for her, when he was the one suffering.

As Hawkeye brought his hand round, he stopped and frowned.

He placed his fingertips where the small bruises were on her hip. They aligned with the spans of his hand. Natasha's heart pounded in her chest, he wasn’t supposed to see this.

Clint looked at his shaking hands, then at Natasha's neck. He moved her hair aside, placing a hand delicately on her throat. Once again, the pattern of bruises matched the width of his fingers and thumb. Natasha didn't flinch or make a move. She wanted to show she was not afraid of him, that she never could be.

“Oh Christ, it wasn't a dream was it? I did this to you.” He voice broke in revelation.

“No, I’m fine.”

“”Please, Nat! Look at you! I can't trust myself around you.” He tried to back away but she wouldn’t let him. “Why didn't you tell me what happened?”

“It's nothing.”

“I choked you in my sleep?!”

“No, you could never hurt me.”

“I have! I did...God, your neck. Look at you!”

“Don't.” She ordered, keeping a tight hold on him.

“He made me try to kill you and now this….”

“Not the first time someone has ordered you to kill me.” She reminded him with an arched brow, relaxing her grip on him.

Clint calmed down a little, shutting his eyes and putting his forehead to hers, sucking in deep breaths.

“But I had the choice that time.”

Natasha put her arms around his neck.

“You had the opportunity in the detention level, but didn’t take it. It gave me hope that you were fighting him on the inside.”

His head snapped up. She continued explaining.

“In level 3. When you got hold of my knife. I switched my stance to see if you would strike.”

Clint’s face drained of color.

”Damn you, Romanov.”

“You could have knifed me in the heart but instead you make an amateur move and pull my hair? I knew, at that moment, I had a chance. You were still in there, and that maybe, I could bring you back....to me.”

He sighed, cupping her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

“You did bring me back. But you still have to fight me off at night? No. No, you have to leave, Nat. You can’t stay here anymore.”

Natasha would never admit how much those words hurt.

“What if it had been me?” She asked. “What if I had been the one Loki took control of? What if I was the one that attacked Fury, and you?”

She knew the answer but still asked, needing to hear him say it.

“If I was compromised by Loki, would you leave me?”

He stiffened.

“Never. You know I wouldn’t.”

“Then don’t you dare ask me to leave you.”

Clint continued to stare at the bruises on her neck.

“They’ll fade. No one needs to know about this.” She said, stepping aside to throw on her clothes.

“I’ll tell them.”

Natasha knew he meant the evaluators.

“You need to focus on what happened to you with Loki.”

“I need to leave,” he said pointing to her neck, “this happened because I couldn’t control myself.”

Finally showing her frustration, Natasha raised her voice. She could feel herself staring to lose control.

“No! This happened because I couldn’t stay up. It’s my fault, I let things get too far. I'm sorry. I should have been awake for you. None of this would have happened if I kept watch like I was supposed to.”

Her voice cracked at the end. The thought of him leaving was going to send her over the edge. She was failing, and the consequences would be worse than any physical torture she's ever been through.

Clint took her gently by the arms.

“Hey. It is not your fault and you can’t stay awake with me every night.” He pointed out, pushing the wet hair from her face, cupping her cheek.

“I can and I will.” She retorted, rather childlike.

Knowing it was a losing fight, Clint pulled Nat into his arms, leaning against the sink.

“Always my protector.”

“I failed you.” She said, her voice muffled against his chest.

“You saved me.” He said in awe, kissing the top of her head. “But what do I do, Nat? This has to stop. I can't sleep knowing it could be worse the next time.”

Natasha looked up at the man that meant more to her than her own life.

“I don’t know. But whatever it is, we will do together. I will go in the evaluations with you or wait until you’re done. I won’t leave your side.”

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you again.”

“You won’t. I won’t let you,” she took his face in her hands, “I will do whatever it takes. Loki can’t come between us. He separated us once, I won’t let it happen again.”

The look in his eyes, Clint so desperately wanted to believe her.

“How can you trust me, when I can't trust myself?”

She sighed, knowing what he meant all too well. The mindfuck of being unmade.

“Because, you are the only one I do trust. And if I lose you, I lose everything.”

Clint leaned down, kissing her gently on the lips then burying his face in the crook of her neck.

“You’ll talk to Fury?”

“I’ll arrange everything.”

“What if they don’t let you in with me?”

“Well," she said as he raised up, "I guess you’ll get a good show of watching me disagree with them.”

That made him smile. Clint liked watching Natasha get her way, especially with the higher ups.

“Food, first?” He asked hopefully, taking her hand as she started for the door. Natasha heard his stomach growl and half laughed.

“Guess I can’t let them pick you apart on an empty stomach, come on.” She pulled him along on the hunt for food.

He engulfed her from behind, planting a wet kiss on her cheek before taking the lead.

“You do love me.”

Thank you for reading!! please find the full story below

#clintasha #clint x natasha #clintasha fanfiction #clint barton #natasha romanov #hawkeye #black widow #marvel #avengers

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eryiss · 3 years

Text

Chapter Six - The Carnival

Summary: Freed and Laxus live incredibly different lives. Freed is a corporate lawyer in the capital city, and Laxus works as a handyman in a countryside hotel. Despite their differences, their lives collide when Freed inherits a house in Laxus’ village, and hires him to make the derelict building liveable. But the closer they get, the more they seem to offer each other. [Fraxus Multi-Chapter]

This was written as my admission for Fraxus Day 2020, hosted by @fuckyeahfraxus. Hope you enjoy it.

You can read this under the cut, on Fanfiction, or on Archive of Our Own. You can find the chapter masterpost here.

Chapter six - The Carnival

Every year in Magnolia, there was an autumn festival. Laxus had never understood why they chose late-October to have an open-air fair, or why they had it on one of the large fields atop a hill, where there was absolutely no protection from the wind and cold weather. Most towns and villages would have their annual carnivals in summer, when it wasn't as cold as balls, but Magnolia wasn't most towns.

Laxus had always been a part of the fair. All stalls and attractions were run by members of the town, other than the fairground rides. As such, the wooden huts and games often needed some refurbishment or fixing, so Laxus was always kept busy. He would get calls from the stall owners if something needed to be done throughout the day, and he would do it for a small fee. In previous years, the autumn fair had been how he financed his Christmas presents. But, by working with Freed, he had a lot more money than he knew what to do with.

He still went to the fair though, just as a visitor this year.

Lisanna had been the one to suggest it, saying that this was the first time in years that Laxus could attend purely as a guest. Laxus had tried to say he wasn't a kid anymore, but Makarov had heard Lisanna's suggestion and quickly went on to reminisce, loudly, about how much Laxus had enjoyed the carnival when he was a child. Laxus had agreed to shut the old bastard up.

It wasn't just the two of the, of course. Mirajane and Elfman had been dragged along with them, along with Cana. Laxus had wondered if the hotel would be understaffed, but apparently Makarov could handle things, and that Laxus should focus on having fun.

There was an odd inflection in his words, as if he was not saying something. Laxus didn't question what.

They had been at the fair for over an hour, and had broken off into two unofficial groups. One was made up of Cana and Mirajane, who were playing games, visiting stalls, and enjoying themselves. The other was Laxus, Lisanna and Elfman, who followed behind Mirajane and Cana while trying to figure out if the two of them were actually dating or not. A question that should be a lot easier to answer than it actually was.

"I mean, that has to be flirting, right?" Lisanna whispered, looking at her sister. "Why would they be touching each other so much otherwise?"

"Your sister's a pretty physical person," Laxus shrugged. "And Cana has boundary issues, maybe they're just like that."

"Physical affection between friends is manly!" Elfman proclaimed, getting shushed at by Lisanna and glared at by Laxus.

He wished he wasn't as invested in Cana's potential relationship as he was. But, she and Mirajane had been spending more time together now that Mirajane was working the front desk regularly, and it was entirely possible that Cana's hopelessly pathetic crush – he might have been kinder about it, but her jabs about him and Freed were getting annoying – might actually have a chance of developing. That, and the carnival wasn't aimed at men in their early thirties, so there wasn't all that much to do.

In retrospect, he wondered how he'd enjoyed the fair so much when he was a kid. Even a child could only find limited joy from placing a fake rat in the end of one pipe and hitting it with a paddle at the other end; or throwing a basketball into a hoop that was less than four feet away.

"I still think they're full of shit," Laxus commented. "They both clearly like each other, but don't have the guts to say it out loud. If they ever actually talk about it, it'll probably be too late."

Elfman and Lisanna shared a look, and Laxus decided to believe it was in agreement at his statement.

"I know you keep telling me that it's impossible," Lisanna said, watching as the two women walked to a hook-the-duck stall; the games at the fair was a yearly reminder of how middle-class Magnolia was. "But what if they've been dating since high school, and just won't tell anyone because they think it's funny?"

"You think Cana could keep a secret for that long? She'd tell me just to piss me off about being single," Laxus countered. "The second they finished in bed she'd be texting me about how good Mira is at licking her-" Laxus stopped himself, remembering who he was talking to. Mirajane's younger brother and sister looked at him with equal parts annoyance and disgust. "Sorry, my bad."

"Laxus is right," Elfman began, and Laxus spoke before he could stop himself.

"About your sister being good at licki-" Elfman pushed him away, making him stumble and laugh.

"About them not being able to keep secrets," Elfman corrected, glaring at Laxus, who grinned in response.

It was always more fun pissing people off who could fight back, and Elfman was one of the few people larger than Laxus. And he kind of saw the other man as something of a little brother, not that he'd admit it of course. What kind of non-biological older brother would Laxus be if he didn't annoy and anger the man at every available opportunity? A crappy one, and Laxus couldn't have that on his conscious.

Although, he'd gone easy on Elfman as of late. Most of that was because Elfman was busy, working at the hotel and the tearooms. But also, because Laxus and Freed had been spending a lot of time together, and pissing Freed off was fun. Mainly because Freed shot back, giving just as bad as he got.

It was a shame he wasn't here, actually.

Freed seemed to be hesitant with meeting Laxus outside of work. After he decided to refurbish and modernise Albion House fully, they had continued with their weekends of working together, while Laxus made progress through the week. And that was good, better than not seeing the other man at all, but Laxus had almost hoped that maybe they would see each other in a less professional, more… fun environment. Not that they didn't have fun in the house. It was just that Laxus wanted a little bit more. Perhaps that was selfish.

But Laxus felt that Freed might want that too. The other man could be obtuse at times, but Laxus had gotten good at reading him; at least he thought he had. He couldn't be sure if it was wishful thinking or not, but he felt like Freed wanted more.

So, he had made a decision. He would try to make it clear that he was interested in Freed without saying it, with some lingering looks or too-long touches. Freed was hopefully astute enough to pick up on things, and realise what they meant. And when he did, which he would, Freed could do what he wanted to.

The ball was in his court.

It was cowardly, Laxus knew that.

It wasn't as if he hadn't tried to expand their relationship, bring their friendship out of Albion House. The day before, he had mentioned that he would be going to the carnival with the Strauss' and Cana, saying Freed might enjoy it; heavily implying an invitation. Freed had wished Laxus a nice day, saying that he needed to get in contact with the historical preservation society to see if he could get planning permission for a kitchen extension around the back of the house.

Had it been anyone else, Laxus might have been crestfallen or annoyed. But, as it was Freed, he was more amused. The lawyer probably hadn't noticed the suggestion he come with him.

Still, it would have been nice to have him come.

Maybe he could help find out if Cana and Mirajane were dating. Hell, he couldn't probably walk up to them and ask, unlike the rest of them. Because, in the unlikely but very possible situation where Cana and Mirajane were dating and were keeping it secret for some weird joke, then the gloating from them finally breaking the trio would be unbearable.

"I think they've forgotten about us," Lisanna laughed. "Maybe we should have some fun instead of just following them around. Play some games."

"Which ones?" Laxus asked. "Only interesting one is the shooting range, and you said we ain't allowed to do it."

"Shooting animals in barbaric."

"It's a paintball gun, and the animals are cartoons printed onto paper," Laxus muttered. "It ain't gonna hurt anyone."

"It's a slippery slope," Lisanna crossed her arms.

"You sound like PETA."

"How dare you, PETA is-"

"What about a strength tester?" Elfman interrupted, cutting through the two of them and pointing towards a flashing arcade machine with a punching bag hanging from it. "You and me, Laxus, finally show you how a real man's muscles work, not just those vanity things you have."

"Vanity?" Laxus grinned. "These vanity muscles could kick your ass."

"Let's take it to the machine then," Elfman grinned back, flexing his arm.

The three of them walked to the machine. Lisanna was shaking her head but smiling as she complained about idiot boys. Elfman was rolling up his sleeve, complaining about Laxus' 'fake Hollywood phony' muscles. Laxus was biting back with his own retorts, though lacking a level of bite they normally would.

He was distracted, wondering how cocky Freed might have been in this situation. Even though Laxus was pretty sure he and Elfman would kick his ass at the game, Freed wouldn't entertain the possibility for a second; he'd probably make a bet out of it to prove himself. Smug, over confident asshole.

God Laxus wished he was there. And that was a dangerous thought.

"So the house is going well then?" Mirajane asked, biting into a doughnut.

It was just the two of them now, still at the fair. Elfman and Cana needed to return to the town for their respective jobs, and Lisanna had eaten too many doughnuts and was undergoing a sugar crash, meaning she was told by her sister to go home and rest rather than being tired for the rest of the day. Laxus felt slightly smug at the yawned complaints from the younger woman, given he had been forced to pay for the doughnuts.

He'd lost the game to Elfman, and paid for food because of a stupid bet. They'd taken advantage.

It was getting to the middle of the afternoon, and some of the stalls were starting to close down. The only reason the two of them remained was because, although he didn't need the money, Laxus wanted to stick around to help fix any of the games that might break. Nobody else could do it, and Laxus felt weirdly loyal to the fairground.

"Yeah, it is," He nodded. "It's still looks like it belongs in the eighties, but it's a lot better than it used to be."

"Do you think Freed would let us take a tour of it before he sells it," Mirajane asked, moving to the side to avoid a running child. "I'm sure the second it goes on the market half the town will be looking through it because they're curious"

"I could ask him," Laxus offered. "He's a perfectionist, though. Might be done before Christmas if we're fast, but it ain't certain."

"Well, I drove past it a few days and it looks great outside. The garden looks lovely," Mirajane praised.

"Thanks," Laxus grinned.

"You did that?" She asked with a warm smile on her face. "I didn't take you as a floral arranger?"

"Well, me and Freed did it together, but I guess I was kind of in charge of what it looked like," The blonde blushed a little, though was angry at himself for doing so. Part of his therapy was coming to terms with parts of himself that weren't, as Elfman would say, manly. "It probably means some weird crap. Did you know flowers were a language? The guy selling them tried to explain it to me, but I just wanted the ones that looked good."

"Well, it does look very nice," Mirajane smiled, but it twisted up a little too far. "You and Freed planted a flowerbed together, did you? That sounds very sweet."

"We ain't doin' this, Mira," Laxus sighed. "I'm getting this from everyone, you can't do it too."

"He's very handsome," She seemed to ignore his complaint, and Laxus sighed in resignation. If he couldn't get fucking Lisanna to stop teasing him, her sister was an impossible task. "He's not the kind of man I thought you'd like, but I suppose I haven't spent much time with- oh, speak of the devil."

Laxus looked up, following Mirajane's gaze, eyes settling on Freed. The man seemed to notice Laxus, and lifted a hand in greeting as he walked towards them. As he got closer, Laxus frowned a little as he noticed Freed's posture and the speed with which he was walking. His shoulders were hunched, pace fast, and his expression forced to be pleasant. It was an expression that he'd seen on Freed a few times, and most of the time it was when he was stressed. Laxus walked forward to meet him, looking him up and down with concern.

"What's up?" He asked in place of a greeting.

"I asked them if building work was possible, they kept me on hold for two hours and twenty-six minutes, with possibly the most annoying music I have ever heard, only to tell me that, according to the basic guidelines, that it isn't possible," Freed almost grunted.

"They couldn't have told you that right away?" Laxus frowned.

"That's exactly what I asked them," Freed laughed bitterly. "Apparently I did so in a 'hostile tone' and that it was bad enough to terminate the phone call."

Laxus really wanted to laugh because that sounded pretty fucking funny. But he didn't.

"What can I do?" Laxus requested.

"You don't need to- that's not why I'm here," Freed shook his head slightly, looking around. "I just wanted to see if this was still happening. You seemed to speak quite highly of the place, and I thought that it would be as good a place as any to distract myself and calm down. Though, if the person who hung up on me is to be believed, it's impossible for me to be calm."

With a grin, Laxus laughed. If Freed was making jokes about his annoyance then pretty soon Laxus would be able to do it as well.

"Well, as the fair's resident handyman, I'll be the best tour guide that you'll get," Laxus grinned, stepping back. "Normally, I'd recommend you go to the strength testing machine so you can punch something, but it's rigged and bullshit."

"It said someone's stronger than you, then?" Freed teased, and Laxus grinned back.

"You feeling cocky? Wanna see who's stronger out of both of us?"

"Well, I already know that I'd win, but if you want your ego to be damaged further then by all means," Freed grinned.

Laxus felt something like glee at the fact he had known exactly how Freed would react when challenged to prove himself in any competition. He wondered how hard it would be to lure the man into a bet, just as he himself had been lured into one earlier. By Mirajane. Who was still there, watching the two of them with a smile that Laxus knew not to trust.

"You don't mind if I show Freed around, right?" He asked her, looking at her in warning.

"Of course not, I was only staying so you wouldn't be wandering around here on your own," She patted Laxus on the shoulder. "I'll go and look after Lisanna. Hopefully, she's not vomiting on the side of the road."

"Is she alright?" Freed asked, voice concerned.

"Oh she's fine, she just doesn't know how to turn down a doughnut when they're freshly made," Mirajane laughed. "I'll see you both soon, I'm sure. And we should have a meal at some point, Freed. You're obviously important to Laxus, it'd be nice to get to know you better," She actually winked. Fucker. "Bye."

Both men wished her a goodbye, and Laxus glared at her as she left.

"So," Freed said, grinning at Laxus. "Strength tester?"

"Strength tester," Laxus nodded.

The two men, for the rest of the afternoon, made their way through almost every game that had any hint of competition to it. The only stalls that they avoided were the ones that had no chance of losing or ending without a prise. They were both openly competitive, and it had made for a fun afternoon. Playful insults were exchanged, and intolerably smug gloating followed every victory. Laxus was loving every moment of it.

He was right. He and Freed got along well outside of the house. Perhaps even better than when they worked together.

And part way through their shared afternoon together, something had struck Laxus. Freed had been stressed and had come to the fair, based off of Laxus' recommendation and perhaps knowing that Laxus would be there. A children's fairground didn't seem to be an obvious place for Freed to visit, so it was likely that he'd only gone there because of Laxus. Sure, it wasn't like Freed had any other friends in Magnolia, but he could have called Evergreen or Bickslow. But he hadn't. He'd come to Laxus to have fun.

It was nice, being Freed's first choice.

"So, you feeling less pissed off now?" Laxus asked, looking to Freed as they walked from a game.

"I believe so," Freed nodded. "I'm still angry that they couldn't be up front, though."

"Anything I can do to help?" Laxus asked, cringing slightly at the neediness he felt his question showed. But Freed didn't seem to notice, as he spoke again.

"Well," Freed said vaguely, and there was something in his voice that most concerned Laxus. "I suppose there is one thing that would definitely cheer me up."

"And that is?" Laxus asked cautiously. Freed didn't respond, instead looking past Laxus with a grin. Laxus followed his gaze and froze. "No."

"But I'm sad, Laxus," Freed said, not sounding sad at all. "And it would make me happy."

"I ain't doing it," Laxus said firmly.

And he wasn't going to do it. He wasn't. Because Freed was looking directly at a dunk tank.

A fucking dunk tank!

"Then I suppose you don't care about me," Freed was grinning, not even trying to sound upset. "I thought we were closer than that, Laxus. I suppose I was wrong."

"Guess you were," Laxus agreed. "Because there's no way I'm getting dropping into cold water in the middle of fucking autumn."

"I remember I used to come to a carnival just like this with my parents," Freed began, feigning sadness, and Laxus didn't think for a second that the topic was dropped. "You know, my parents. Who are both dead. Something that I am very sad about. In fact, I find myself sad all the time. And if there was some way to make me laugh, or bring me joy, it would be incredibly cruel to not do it. As I'm ever so sad."

It took Laxus a second to recover, because wow. Freed was doing this.

"Your mother," Laxus said slowly. "You're actually using your mother's death as a way to get me to play a carnival game. D'you think she'd be happy to know you're doing that?"

"I imagine she'd be delighted I'm being so productive with the situation," Freed grinned, and Laxus laughed. "Okay, guilting you isn't working. What will?"

"I might consider it if you do it first," Laxus smirked, crossing his arms. "I wanna see how serious you are, and if you wanna risk ruining that Armani suit of yours."

"Well, first of all, it's not Armani. It's Burberry, because I have some taste," Freed corrected, and Laxus grinned. "And as I was the one to first come up with the idea, I believe it's only fair that you get in first. That, as well as the fact that I'm so very sad."

"Nah," Laxus shook his head.

Freed sighed, and then pulled an expression that he normally only showed when he was thinking about how to approach a problem with either the house or his work. The fact he was putting this amount of thought into forcing Laxus into a damn dunk tank was both ridiculous and so fucking typical of Freed that Laxus couldn't stop himself from smiling. Only Freed could take something so stupid as this and treat it with the same level of importance as an actual legal trial for a multi-million-dollar company.

"The game is throwing balls at a target, and hitting the middle dunks the victim," Freed clarified, and Laxus raised an eyebrow. This was the first time Freed had gone lawyer mode on him. "I propose a game. I buy three balls. If I dunk you on the first, I win the game and don't have to get in the tank myself. If I dunk you on the second or third throw, you get the same three attempts as I did. If I miss altogether, then I'll pay for as many balls as you need to dunk me."

"And why is there a way for you to avoid getting on the chair altogether, but not me?" Laxus quirked an eyebrow. "And if you say your sad, I'll toss you into the water myself."

Freed thought for a moment. "Because I'm your boss and I'll fire you if you don't."

Obviously that was a joke, and Laxus laughed and shook his head. He could probably keep arguing with Freed, most likely to a point where the idea was either forgotten or presented in a way that wasn't clearly stacked against Laxus, but he wouldn't. Because Freed was clearly enjoying himself, and he had been stressed out for a while with working on the house, and his job.

A bit of cold water couldn't hurt. And he might not get wet, if Freed's aim was bad.

And if he did, well. At least Freed would be happy.

"Fine," Laxus agreed, and Freed smirked. "But if you miss your first throw, I'm gonna make sure I record it as you get dunked and I'm gonna bring it up so much more often than I bring up Elfman's weird monster costume."

"I'm sure you will," Freed grinned.

They two walked towards the dunk tank, spoke with the vendor, and Freed paid for three balls. Laxus removed any valuables that could be damaged by water and sighed as he looked up at the chair suspended over a deep tub of cold water. He climbed the small ladder and sat on the chair, shaking his head when he caught Freed's clear delight at the situation.

"You ain't gonna get me," He informed the lawyer. "If you can't use a saw without cutting yourself, you can't throw a ball."

"Keep thinking that," Freed retorted. "You'll learn otherwise."

Laxus watched as Freed positioned himself on the red circle on the grass. He took one of the baseballs in hand, narrowed his eyes slightly, changed his posture, and threw the ball with a worrying amount of speed. Laxus winced.

He didn't fall.

A muttered cuss and the sound of a ball hitting tarp rather than the wooden target made Laxus grin. So according to their game, Freed was definitely getting in the chair now. And, unlike Freed, Laxus had no intention of missing his first shot. Although he hadn't enjoyed it, Laxus had been in his high-schools baseball team as a pitcher. And hitting the target would be damn easy.

He was about to tell Freed this, when another ball flew through the air and towards the target.

Laxus still didn't fall.

Getting cocky now, Laxus puffed out his chest and laughed. Freed obviously heard this and looked towards him with a glare, which only made Laxus more amused. He was even absently swinging his legs over the water.

"You know that, if you miss this, I'm never gonna let it go, right?" Laxus boasted. "You will never fucking live it down."

"I won't miss," Freed said plainly.

"I hope not," Laxus grinned. "Because you'll look real stupid dripping wet all on yer own."

Freed didn't respond to that. He turned towards the wooden target, took his final ball, readied his position, and threw it through the air.

Laxus felt the chair disappear.

The blonde hit the ice-cold water, letting out a loud and undignified yelp. He shuddered all over, as if pelted by ice, and it took him a second to resurface. He shivered and the autumnal air hit him, feeling a hell of a lot colder now that he was covered in water. He breathed heavily and shivered as he pushed his fringe out of his hair, only to be met with the sight of Freed grinning. Holding his phone, which was clearly recording him.

"Fuck!" Laxus exclaimed, pulling at his sodden clothing that now clung to him. "Fucking hell."

"Is it cold?" Freed asked, and Laxus made his way to the inside ladder to climb out.

"Eat shit," Laxus tried to snap, but his voice quivered slightly as he left the cold water. Droplets hit the ground, and he shook off some of the water. It didn't help, as his clothes were drenched, and his skin covered with the cold water. "Get yer ass up there now, Justine."

"This attraction is closed, sir," A voice said

Laxus paused, then slowly looked towards the dunk tank's vendor.

"Your joking, right?" Laxus said, voice only slightly affected by his shivering now. "You are joking."

"It seems more profitable for me to close it down now, than to keep it open," The vendor shrugged.

For a moment, Laxus had to think about what he had said to understand it. When he finally understood the implication behind the man's words, Laxus' gaze fell onto Freed again, who didn't even have the manners to look ashamed of himself. Instead, he looked incredibly smug about what he had done.

"You bribed him to close it?" Laxus demanded, and Freed smirked wider.

"If you just let me guilt you, you wouldn't feel so betrayed right now," Freed responded. Asshole.

"You know I'm gonna throw you in there, right," Laxus took a step forward, water filled shoes squelching as he did so. "Don't think I won't, or that I can't, because we both saw how much stronger I am than you from that fucking tester."

"I believe you said that the test was rigged," Freed questioned, unmoving

"Doesn't matter," Laxus shrugged. "Because it's pretty fucking obvious that, out of the two of us, I'm bigger."

Laxus hadn't planned it. He hadn't even been aware that he'd done it. But, at one point during their exchange, he had grabbed Freed by the tie. It was meant to be an accompaniment to his threat. A way to let Freed know that, although he wasn't actually angry with him, he was going to throw him into the water to even things out. And it might have worked, had he not been dragging Freed towards him. But now they were close.

They were very close.

So close that Laxus' shivering breath was now hitting Freed's lips. So close that Laxus noticed a small mark below Freed's eye that he's never seen before. So close that he suddenly felt incredibly aware of how his clothes were hugging him now, a feeling that made him seem incredibly vulnerable.

If he leant forward, their lips would touch.

They seemed to realise what had happened at the same time. And for a moment, neither spoke.

"I-I should get home," Laxus eventually said, voice weaker as he let Freed's tie go. "Probably should shower and change."

"Of course," Freed's voice was also distant. "Should I drive you-"

"I can walk, it ain't far," Laxus lied. "See ya."

"Bye," Freed replied, stepping back.

Perhaps stupidly, Laxus turned, stalked away, and refused to look back.

#Fraux Day 2020 #Fraxus Day #Fraxus #Freed Justine #Laxus Dreyar #Fairy Tail #Fanfic #Writing #Event #Multichapter #Word Count 4.7k #Fuckyeahfraxus

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onthevirgeofdestruction · 4 years

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Dreaming While I Wake

Sanders Sides Foster Care AU - Roman-centric Angst & Hurt/Comfort & Abuse Recovery

Roman tries to be upbeat and hopeful despite all the shit that’s happened to him. And a lot of shit has. Luckily, his new foster home is with two literal rays of sunshine (and a sarcastic asshole).

Words: 4,014 Warnings: Depression, Dissociation, Abuse reference, Drug Trafficking Reference, Food, Horrible Internet Recipes Characters: Roman, Thomas, Virgil, Patton Universe: Dreaming While I Wake Genre: Angst/Family

Chapter 19

chapter 1 for new readers - ffn mirror

Roman woke up to canned laughter on TV. Virgil was watching the old black-and-white Addams Family show. It surprised Roman it wasn’t too campy for Virgil even if it was clearly his style. Virgil perched on the couch arm on the other end of the couch on his phone, but he was looking up to the show more than his phone. Roman didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep. Probably because he’s still sleeping like shit. Maybe it caught up to him. Maybe he was just sick enough of everything that his brain finally gave up. If only that power could be utilized at night. He was mad he had to wake up, though. He wanted to stay asleep forever. But he may as well be here to suffer just the same. Just staying asleep was probably too good for him, anyway. Roman rubbed his face, forgetting about the gloves. They pulled at his skin a bit. Whatever.

Roman exhaled and stared ahead. He was feeling kind of numb. Out of energy? Out of fucks to give? His brain’s finally given up on him? Why didn’t really matter. It didn’t feel like much mattered. Stuff probably did. He had to remember there were things that did. It was something that is caseworker told him to do; he remembered that. When it felt like nothing mattered, he had to make things matter again. It was hard, though. Lita was curled up at his feet. Lita mattered. He couldn’t run with her anymore, but that didn’t matter. The Sanders mattered. They were nice. He felt like a burden on the Sanders, but maybe he could make that thing not matter. Nope, it mattered that he was an awful burden still. Remus mattered. That was always something Roman could hold on to.

Oh, oh! It was Friday. Friday meant that maybe Mr. Hartley might have a way to contact Remus. That mattered. That mattered so much. Roman shifted as much as he could without twisting his torso to check the clock. There was still a while to go. Roman sighed and settled back down on to the couch. Why can’t he just go back to sleep?

“Ah, nice to you, bright eyes. You’re looking slightly less pale,” Thomas said, leaning over the top of the couch.

“Hey,” Roman said weakly and waved, barely glancing at Thomas.

“Still not feeling great?” Thomas asked. Roman shrugged, he wasn’t feeling much of anything. “It’d be really helpful if you told me how you were doing,” Thomas said patiently.

“I don’t feel anything,” Roman supplied. “So, y’know,” Roman shrugged again. Thomas looked concerned at him for a moment.

“How are your ribs?” Thomas asked. Roman still didn’t know, so just tilted his head and made a dismissive motion with his hands. “How about I help you in to the backyard? You can play fetch with Lita and get a little sun. You’ve been cooped up too long,” Thomas offered. Roman blinked a few times, processing that.

“Whatever,” Roman conceded. He supposed he didn’t really care where he was.

“Virgil, could you reach around and knock on the window when Patton comes in?” Thomas looked over to Virgil, who nodded after a pause. “Thanks,” Thomas came around the couch and helped Roman up. His body really didn’t want to move, it seemed, since he felt stiff and creaky, but the more he moved the easier it was.

Thomas helped Roman on to a chaise lounge in the backyard. Roman stared ahead to the fence and the garden in the back. He heard Lita’s dog tags jingle, and she excitedly shoved her nose into Roman’s dangling palm. Roman pet her head idly for a moment until she started running around the yard. Roman’s eyes followed her around the backyard until she ran up with a tennis ball. He took it and threw it kind of weakly, but she barked and chased after it all the same.

“It’s nice outside, isn’t it?” Thomas commented.

“Hm?” Roman made a noise, not really following what Thomas said for a moment. Then he processed it and noticed the temperature. It was nice and warm with a little breeze. “Yeah,” Roman agreed. Lita ran back up with the ball and Roman threw it a little better this time.

“If you could do anything, what would you pick to do right now?” Thomas asked, leaning against the house.

“See Remus,” Roman shrugged.

“We’ll see what your social worker says. What would you do with Remus if you had all the time and resources in the world?” Thomas leaned against the top of the chaise lounge.

“Roller coasters. Maybe a water park,” Roman responded after a pause.

“Do you like theme parks?” Thomas asked. What was this, 20 questions? Lita made a lap around the yard again.

“They sound fun,” Roman said dismissively.

“Have you ever been to a theme park?” Thomas watched Lita run in circles and trip over her own leg with a chuckle.

“No, I’ve just heard about them in school,” Roman shook his head. “I’ve been to a pool that had a giant slide and that was fun, so I bet roller coasters are, too. Remus likes heights and jumping off of stuff. Liked, I guess. I guess I don’t know what he likes anymore,” Roman said a little dourly.

“Did you jump off things a lot when you were younger?” Thomas asked lightly.

“All the time. Mom always got so mad at us,” Roman laughed weakly.

“When did you last seem him?” Thomas asked, leaning against the chaise lounge.

“The first family we were with was the only one willing to take two kids. They split us up after they kicked us back for being too much,” Roman explained.

“You haven’t even gotten to visit him since they separated you?” Thomas sounded concerned.

“Yeah,” Roman muttered and wrung his fingers a bit. “It was never a priority. Or they broke their promises. Or it was too far. Or it was too much effort. Blood relations aren’t important. I didn’t earn it. I’m not worth it. I’ve heard a lot of reasons. I stopped asking. We used to talk on the phone before I wasn’t allowed to use phones anymore,” Roman watched the breeze ruffle the leaves. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. What’s a hobby that sounds awesome to try?” Thomas changed subjects. Maybe it was 20 questions.

“Um. I don’t know,” Roman said honestly. Open-ended questions were always hard for him.

“What stuff do you like?” Thomas leaned down and picked up the tennis ball Lita dropped too far away for Roman to reach and handed it off to Roman to throw again. Roman chucked it farther this time and Lita went wild chasing it, nearly ramming into the fence.

“Art… and doing stuff with my hands or things that are active, I guess,” Roman said after a lengthy pause of strained consideration.

“What stuff are you good at?” Thomas asked. Roman froze. There was a knock on the window. Saved by Virgil. Thank god, he nearly said ‘fucking up’. Roman blinked and shook his head for a moment in sheer relief.

“Patton’s here,” Roman provided, pointing to the door.

“Keep your gloves on, please,” Thomas said and went back inside. Lita came happily trotting up again and hopped up and panted happily on his lap. Roman smiled slightly and pet her. He tried to scratch behind her ears, but with the gloves, it was more like weird rubbing, so he stuck to petting. Patton came out on to a patio munching on a muffin a few minutes later.

“Hey kiddo!” Patton smiled brightly.

“Hey,” Roman waved slightly and kept petting Lita.

“Feeling kind of out of it, huh?” Patton asked, walking up to Roman.

“Kinda,” Roman stared at the sky. He was a little more here than earlier, but still kinda… eh.

“You want to come sit in the grass with me?” Patton asked, holding out his hand. Roman looked to Patton and took his hand. Lita jumped off his lap, and they walked off the patio into the yard. “You can take off those snazzy gloves,” Roman slipped them off and Patton helped Roman down into the grass. They both sat there quietly for a moment. Feeling the grass was actually pretty nice after wearing those gloves all day. “What did you do this afternoon?”

“Um, I read in Thomas’s office and played games. Sorry,” Roman muttered and trailed off.

“You don’t have to apologize for that, you were doing what we asked you to do. Thomas said you wanted to do some homework. Did you want to work on it together after dinner?” Patton said sympathetically.

“I’ve, uh, got it,” Roman muttered.

“We asked you to take a break so we should help you catch up, it’s only fair. I swung by the school to pick up the rest of your homework for this week,” Patton said.

“Oh, goody,” Roman deadpanned and Patton chuckled.

“What kind of food do you like? You don’t normally say you want anything specific,” Patton asked, leaning forward on his hands in the grass.

“I’m really not picky,” Roman shrugged and worried a blade of grass between his fingers.

“I’m just wondering if you have a favourite food,” Patton said, tilting his head and looking over hopefully to Roman.

“Not really,” Roman shook his head.

“So, what would be your last meal if you got to pick one?” Patton asked, holding up a finger.

“Something fancy, probably. Lobster is fancy, right?” Roman picked at a grass blade that came off between his fingers.

“So there're no foods that make you excited?” Patton asked curiously. Roman shook his head. Not anymore, anyway. “Maybe we need to find your new favourite food, then! We can try out fun recipes online,” Patton offered.

“You don’t have to do an effort for me, I’ll eat whatever,” Roman held up the grass blade he was picking at and released it to the breeze.

“I know you’ll eat ‘whatever’, but it’s fun to try new foods! I was trying to pick what to make for dinner tonight,” Patton explained.

“Virgil usually has a preference, you could ask him,” Roman motioned with his thumb towards the house.

“He normally does,” Patton chuckled in agreement. Roman considered what he thought Virgil might like for a moment and got an idea.

“I saw this recipe for enchilada lasagna he might like. Us mortals should be able to eat it with sour cream,” Roman offered. Plus, he was curious if any of those foods in the videos he’d been watching lately were any good or if they were just for show.

“Oh, it’s a spicy one?” Patton snickered curiously.

“Not inedible. He’ll probably still want to put hot sauce on it,” Roman mimed using a hot sauce bottle, with a slight grin.

“Let’s go see if we have ingredients for it. I’m not sure about enchilada sauce,” Patton said, sounding like he was thinking hard.

“My grandmother would yell at me from beyond the grave if I used canned enchilada sauce when it’s cheaper to buy tomato sauce,” Roman laughed, moving to get up.

“Oh, did you used to cook with her?” Patton scrambled up quickly to help Roman take the pressure off his feet.

“She watched us often,” Roman said dismissively.

“Was your grandmother the one who taught you how to cook?” Patton held open the door for Roman to head back inside.

“My mom and grandmother both learned quickly it was better to keep us busy, so we helped them cook often. We were too young for lots of it, though, I finished learning at the library,” Roman said, the pair of them heading into the kitchen.

“That’s very proactive of you! So, what do we need for this?” Patton asked as they entered the kitchen.

“Enchilada stuff. Meat, black beans, cheese, tortillas, onion, peppers, bell peppers, tomato sauce,” Roman supplied.

“Oh, sorry kiddo, we don’t have tortillas,” Patton frowned.

“They’re flour and water. Do you not have flour and water?” Roman smirked, leaning into the vegetable drawer in the fridge.

“Oh, really?” Patton said curiously, digging in the pantry.

“What meat do you want to use?” Roman asked as he procured the needed vegetables.

“What do you think is best?” Patton asked.

“Chicken thighs, probably,” Roman pulled that out from the meat drawer as well. “Do you have canned peppers? There’s none in here,” Roman stuck his head out of the fridge to ask Patton.

“We do, I’ll get them,” Patton said and withdrew a few cans and brought them to the counter. “Grandma won’t be mad about canned peppers?”

“My grandmother grew her own peppers, but she supports the use of canned,” Roman smiled fondly. “Whatever was cheapest was the best option. She was on a fixed income. She planted seeds from the ones she got from a friend. She was always proud of her ‘stolen garden’,” Roman put the things from the fridge on the counter.

“Wow, your grandma was awesome,” Patton smiled.

“She was determined,” Roman dug around on the spice shelf for the spices they’d need.

“So are you! Let's get you a chair so you can get off your feet,” Patton said, grabbing a chair from the kitchen table and putting it next to Roman.

“What’s first?” Patton asked brightly.

“Seasoning the chicken,” Roman provided. He kneeled on the chair so he could still reach the counter but get off his feet. They were already hurting. Patton let Roman do most of the cooking. It was understandable, he didn’t know the seasonings and only Roman knew how to make tortillas. But he ran around the kitchen getting Roman things and chopped up the vegetables to he could make them. He even let Roman cook the filling, which he could have taken over for. But Roman really liked being able to do something after doing nothing for days, so he said nothing, even when his knees got kind of sore.

Roman sat down on a kitchen chair in with an exhausted exhale after Patton slid it in the oven to finish cooking. Roman leaned forward on the table tiredly, hoping the monstrosity would taste good. Patton sat down with him with an odd-looking smile.

“It smells amazing in here. I’m sure you did your grandma proud,” Patton said brightly.

“I’m pretty certain she would say this is an abomination, actually, but she’d laugh while she said it before ranting about how deeply and horrifically wrong it is,” Roman smiled and shook his head. He was acutely aware of how wrong this ‘meal’ was, too. But the morbid curiosity about Virgil’s capacity to eat garbage was louder than his good sense. The ingredients were all good, so it was relatively low risk, dinner wise. Unless they got mad at him for making garbage food, maybe. God, did his knees hurt after all that kneeling. He stretched them carefully under the kitchen table. “She always liked what we did, even if it was terrible. She had crayon drawings from when I was 3 framed on the wall.”

“She sounds very sweet,” Patton smiled softly.

“You would have probably gotten along with her,” Roman leaned on the table. “Are your grandparents still alive?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m afraid they wouldn’t get along with your grandma, though,” Patton said pensively.

“How do you mean?” Roman furrowed his eyebrows.

“They’re just very old fashioned,” Patton said dismissively. “Would you like some orange juice? You’ve got to be a little hot from all the cooking,” Patton said, getting back up.

“Um, yeah, that sounds good,” Roman mumbled as he continued to stretch his legs under the table. Patton grabbed Roman a glass of orange juice before pulling out dishes to set the table. “Sorry for having you do all this stuff for me,” Roman apologized quietly.

“I offered, and I’m doing it because I want to,” Patton smiled and started setting out dishes. Roman sipped his orange juice and watched Patton as he set out the dishes. “Are you feeling less out of it?” He eyed Roman with interest.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Roman said, not realizing it until now. “Thanks, I think?”

“You came back yourself, there, champ. I just helped show you how,” Patton winked.

“Is hanging out in the grass and making dinner really how to do it?” Roman asked, leaning on his hands and tilting his head.

“You just needed some grounding. You’ve probably been thinking lots about the past and getting stuck there. Grass, sunshine, chatting, and making dinner just helped pull you back to the present,” Patton smiled softly.

“How do you know so much about this stuff? Aren’t you an animal doctor and not a people doctor?” Roman asked curiously, stroking the perspiration on the glass.

“I was in therapy for a long time, kiddo. It really helped me out when I was in a bad place. My therapist gave me lots of tools to help focus on the present and being a good person,” Patton said, leaning forward.

“Does it have something to do with why my grandmother wouldn’t like your grandparents?” Roman asked carefully.

“You’re a sharp kid. But you’ve got plenty on your plate right now. I think it’s better for you to focus on good things at the moment since you’ve been struggling lately. Like the enchilada abomination in the oven!” Patton chuckled, motioning to the oven.

“A-, uh, my grandmother-” Roman caught himself. “-would really like you. Maybe she’ll come to make fun of this freak feast on November first,” Roman smirked at the folly of man in the oven.

“Do you celebrate the day of the dead?” Patton perked up.

“She did. Mom kind of did. I’ve never really done it without her. Dad didn’t like it. I just think if anyone would visit, it would be her, I guess. I know it’s kind of dumb. Really dumb. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Roman mumbled and nervously fidgeted with his hands.

“Stop right there, kiddo. It’s not dumb. It’s okay to miss your grandma and hope she visits. Nobody else has the right to tell you your dumb for your beliefs, okay? If you want to set up something on November first, I’m happy to support you. Maybe Virgil wants to join. If I remember correctly his dad was from Mexico. Even if he doesn’t, there’s no harm in trying, just because it reminds you of her,” Patton reassured him. Roman nodded silently.

“Patton, will you be honest with me?” Roman asked after a pause, nervously picking at his nails.

“Of course I will,” Patton nodded and looked a little nervous, but smiled nonetheless.

“Would you rather have gotten someone else less fucked up? Are you just settling on me because it’s the nice thing to do?” Roman asked quietly.

“Roman, please don’t use the F word. I don’t like that language,” Patton frowned.

“Sorry,” Roman muttered, dropping his head.

“I’m not settling on you, Roman. Thomas and I went going into this ready to love and support anyone who came to us. I think you’re a great kid and I think we get along just fine. I’m sorry if my emotional reactions scared you or made you think I didn’t think you were worth it. Sometimes it’s hard to deal with stuff that hits so close to home for me,” Patton admitted.

“You didn’t also sell drugs, did you?” Roman asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow at Patton.

“No! No, I just didn’t have a great time with my grandparents and there wasn’t anybody to stand up for me,” Patton explained, shaking his hands. “I was upset about it not seeming like anybody ever stood up for you, because you keep blaming yourself for things that objectively don’t need blame taken for. I freaked out because in a million years I never expected to hear about a teenager making drug deliveries because his guardians refused to take care of him. Especially about such a sensitive kid like you who always tries to put other people’s feelings first,” He motioned to Roman.

“I, uh… sorry. But I started running for Jet at 12,” Roman muttered. Patton’s eyes widened and he kind of looked like he wanted to scream, but he didn’t move or make a sound. Roman still leaned away nervously. “Sorry. I was 13 when the Halls… uh,” Roman paused. Patton took a deep breath.

“If you want to say it, you can,” Patton said, taking a deep breath.

“This, um, maybe ‘hits close to home’,” Roman rubbed his arm. “Um, it was about wanting more money from us and it got so bad my caseworker was fired. Jet’s might have, too. I never called him to find out. I kinda took the excuse to cut ties. After things got bad he got bad, too. I don’t blame him or anything, but still…” Roman trailed off.

“Do you still have his number?” Patton asked curiously, looking less like he would scream, but now and much more sad.

“Um… yeah. Just in case I needed to make some fast money. It was a burner, so the number is probably long since disconnected from him. It’s more of a reminder now. I can’t bring myself to throw it away,” Roman admitted, not able to meet Patton’s eyes.

“As long as you’re not using it to hurt yourself, I suppose,” Patton muttered, not sounding like he actually believed what he said.

“Sure, I won’t give myself a paper cut with it or whatever,” Roman said, kind of baffled by the implications.

“No, I mean looking at it to remind yourself that in a time of desperation you did something you didn’t want to do and judge yourself harshly for your choices,” Patton explained.

“Uh, yeah,” Roman said meekly. Patton’s lips tightened, and he hummed suspiciously.

“When you’re a kid and you make bad choices, it’s important that you learn from them but you can’t hate yourself for them. When you’re young, you don’t have a lot of resources and you don’t have all the information. Parents are supposed to protect you from all that stuff. I wouldn’t be surprised Jet made it seem like it was harmless at first. He was older than you and offering help, so wanting to trust him was natural. Nobody was there to take you, or even Jet, out of that situation, and that wasn’t your fault. That was your guardian’s fault, full stop. You should never have been in that situation in the first place and you can’t blame yourself for what you did while trying to survive if you really were trying not to hurt people. And I can’t imagine you did, kiddo. I just don’t see it in you,” Patton said firmly, and Roman could barely take hearing it.

“Pat, dude, it’s not going to look good for you if I’m crying when Mr. Hartley gets here,” Roman joked while sniffling. He rubbed his eyes and put his head down on the table.

“I’m sorry, kiddo, but I think you needed to hear it,” Patton said. “Do you want…” Patton paused and Roman nodded into his arms on the table. Patton got up from the table and put his arm around Roman while he tried to pull himself together. The oven timer went off and Patton let go with after lightly rubbing his back to go pull the monstrosity out of the oven. Roman sipped his OJ and wiped the tears threatening to escape again. Virgil walked into the kitchen and looked oddly at Roman for a moment.

‘Smells awesome. But what the fuck?’ Virgil signed.

‘Patton was being an asshole,’ Roman signed back with a weak smirk.

‘I always knew it,’ Virgil side-eyed Patton facetiously. ‘Seriously, you okay?’

‘No,’ Roman signed and shrugged.

‘Valid,’ Virgil fingerspelled. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘An abomination unto god,’ Roman fingerspelled slowly. Virgil’s smirk widened into a mischievous grin.

‘I always wanted to eat an unholy abomination,’ Virgil signed back and sat at the table next to Roman.

Personal Taglist: @bunny222 @elizabutgayer @prinxietyforever @kanene-yaaay-o-retorno @the-sympathetic-villain @croftersjam15 @ollyollyoxinfree

the taglist repository:

High school: @dragonwithproblems @starlight-era @averykedavra @potatsanderssides

Roman Angst: @k1ngtok1

Hurt/Comfort: @callboxkat @nonasficcollection @supernovainthenightsky @evoodo123

Roman-Centric: @smileyzs @robinwritesshitposts @thatgaydemigodnerd

Fostering AU: @i-am-not-a-dinner-roll

literally everything sanders sides: @katelynn-a-fan @dwbh888 @grouptalekindnesssoul @the-hoely-bleach @anvil527up @fanficloverinthesun @brain-deadx0 @the-grounded-raven @ananonsplace

#tsss #sanders sides #tsss fanfiction #sanders sides fanfiction #tsss fanfic #ayri writes #dreaming while i wake #roman angst #ts roman #ts patton #ts virgil #ts character thomas #depression #disassociation #food #dog #chapter fic #fanfiction

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emptynarration · 3 years

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The angels accuse the god Author of being useless, and not caring about them. He's their creator, and he loves them all. He created them with the right to make their own judgements. If they decide to disgrace him, let him fall, he will let them.

They come to realize what a mistake they made.

chapter 4 oooooooooooooooooo

they be trying to want to help the baby (not much happens)

Edward had never witnessed a disgracing before. Even Bing, the oldest of the gods after Author, had only ever witnessed one god being disgraced before. Illinois had actually witnessed the same disgracing. Bill, however, had only ever witnessed an angel being disgraced. Ever since Edward, there never had been a disgracing happening. And if one happened before Bing, only Dark would know about it. From what the gods could tell, though, was, that Author's disgracing had definitely gone wrong. A disgraced angel normally fell completely out of The Creator's Realm, their halo breaking and losing their wings completely. Bing, as well as Illinois, recalled that a disgraced god kept one pair of wings, thus only losing two of their original three pairs. But there hadn't been... they had always completely fallen out of the realm, god or angel. No one had ever collapsed forward. And there had definitely never been an instant of something or someone falling, while the god or angel didn't.

That Author's halo was only half of a broken ring, was wrong. That Author's six wings were ripped off to half their size was wrong. That Author was still in the realm was wrong. That something or someone had fallen instead of him was wrong. They figured it must've been him, but also not. Whoever or whatever had fallen, had had wings to shed feathers from, and must have the other half of Author's broken halo. There simply was no other explanation for it. Adore, being the only Angel of Order who liked Author, was the one who suggested they should look for whoever had fallen. They were certain it must be a someone, and that they would be connected to Author in some way. The gods agreed, if only because they had no better lead than Adore's. But, none of the gods, and Adore neither, had the time to go look personally. With Author out of commission, they had a lot more work to do, a lot of problems on their hands they had to handle.

Plus, Bing, Illinois, and Bill, couldn't just go and look for their supposed fallen themselves. They rarely -if not never- left The Creator's Realm, opting to do their job from here instead of risking going to The Realm of Humans. And Adore was merely too busy, always had been. And Edward, he got the most load. With humanity's lifes and deaths becoming unbalanced, there were a lot of problems and troubles he had to deal with now, many many more prayers than before -many things he shouldn't be responsible for, but now had to be, due to Author being unable to. So they had to send angels to go and search The Realm of Humans. They had to rely on them, and even they couldn't just drop everything and do that. Everyone had their own responsibilities, even if some had more than others.

Edward had known Dark's decision had been wrong. While he may never had known what all Author did, he had known something different: Author had always been tired. He always had dark rings beneath his eyes, and he rested a lot only because he did a lot, a lot that left him very, very, tired. He could see it in Dark now too. The most problems had arrived with the dead, and Dark was the one in charge of them -right after Author. And so Edward could see how tired Dark was getting, how he had to rest for longer but less often. It wasn't good, and Edward could tell what a toll it had on the angel. But it had been his own fault. He had been the one who had the idea of disgracing Author, and he was the one who had decided not to accept Author's apology when it was given, and disgrace him anyway.

But Edward was a compassionate person. While he felt it right that Dark suffer a little for what he brought upon Author, he also knew he didn't deserve all of this. Neither had Author -neither of the two deserved any of this. When Edward went to briefly check up on Author -as he tended to do, every once in a while, especially to give Author some company when he was conscious- and he didn't find the god in his own room, where he should have been, he immediately hurried to Dark's room. It was the only place Edward could think of, without any of the other angels noticing the weak god walking around. He knocked gently when he arrived, waiting a silent moment, before carefully pushing open the door. He quietly stepped inside, relaxing when he spotted the two figures on the bed. Author was asleep, as he mostly was, though seemed more at peace than usually. Dark laid with him, curled protectively around the god, resting for once himself.

Edward knew they had been close. He knew how bad Author felt, for not making Dark feel as loved as he was. He had listened to the god ramble often enough during his conscious moments to know. It had been logical, that Author would eventually attempt to get to Dark, and apologize in person, like he had wanted to. Edward was glad he had managed, and that all seemed well. He was certain Dark was regretting his actions, and he was certain that, if -no, when- they managed to help Author, the two of them would grow closer together again. He just hoped that Author didn't have to suffer through this for too much longer. He left the two of them to rest then, knowing Dark would bring Author back to his own room once awake again, before he'd have to deal with reality again. Hopefully some rest, and having had talked with Author (presumably), would help Dark a little bit.

“We don't even know who we're searching for! It's impossible to find someone you've never seen or heard of.”, Adore sighed, their arms crossed as they sat on their plush armchair. They had gathered in their room, if only because they had enough comfortable furniture to sit on for them all. “Well, duh. It's gotta be someone looking like Author!”, Bing said, looking pointedly at Adore. “It only makes sense, dude!”. “At the very least it must be someone with half of a broken halo.”, Illinois agreed, leaning against a wall, with his arms lightly crossed. “That's a pretty telling thing. And disgraced gods can't hide those, far as I know.”. “And either they'll have one pair of wings, or they'll be like Author. Six wings, but ripped in half.”, Edward pointed out. “And- I'm guessing they'd look like Author?”, Bill suggested, fiddling with his fingers slightly. “If it's just some... part? Of Author, then that's likely. Maybe like a twin.”, Illinois hummed, nodding in agreement.

“I suppose it's better than nothing...”, Adore sighed. They didn't really have much to go on -barely anything, really- but at the very least they had some ideas. “How are we going to find them though?”, Edward questioned, sighing heavily. He had his head buried in his hands, clearly tired. They would all need to get back to work soon -especially him. They could only meet for so long. “The couple angels we already have searching may have it easier with this?”, Bill said, though he sounded as unsure about it as he looked. “There's nothing else we could do. We're stuck working man!”, Bing replied, huffing in exasperation. There really wasn't anything they could do, since they all had to stay in this realm. Every one of them wanted to go look for themselves, but it merely wasn't feasible. “Maybe Dark has an idea.”, Edward muttered, making everyone look at him. “You can't be serious!”, Adore exclaimed, looking shocked at Edward. “He was the one who did this in the first place!”. “And? He's the oldest from all of us. And he regrets what he's done. You know how Author felt.”, Edward looked up at them, glaring at them slightly.

“I'll ask him. I need to get back to work anyways.”, he huffed, pushing himself up to stand. He ignored the others' protests, and simply left. Hopefully he'd see Dark before he arrived at the portal. It was unlikely, he was aware, but still. He'd go look for Dark first before going to work anyways, if only so they could maybe figure something out. Luckily enough, he found Dark while he was on the way to the portal to the Realm of the Dead, looking just as tired as Edward. He did notice the god walking towards him though, so he paused in his walk to wait for Edward. “Edward.”, he greeted, shifting to clasp his hands behind his back. As tired as he was, he still managed to look proper. “Damien.”, Edward replied, managing a slight smile for the other. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”. “We're stuck on what to do for Aiden. I thought maybe you'd have an idea, how to find whoever fell for him.”.

Dark hummed, nodding lightly. He was glad Edward considered asking him -he could tell the others didn't share the sentiment, considering it was Edward himself who came here, and he said that he had thought Dark may have an idea. “They'll be in the Realm of Humans. It's likely that either the humans have found them, or that maybe demons have.”, Dark said, as the two of them walked together. Edward didn't look too thrilled about it, but nodded lightly. “You suppose demons have found them. Since I would've noticed if humans had.”, he said, sighing heavily. None of them were in charge of demons. They were in charge of themselves. “It's rather likely. I don't think they'd hurt them though. Aiden is their creator just like he's our. If we could find one, they might be able to help.”. Edward sighed again, listening to Dark. It made sense, he recognized that, but... he didn't think it'd be easy to find one. Most angels -nearly all, really- thought badly of demons. There weren't many who'd even consider speaking to one, yet alone ask one for help.

“I'll be trying to help too.”, Dark said softly, after a moment of silent walking. Edward smiled lightly at him, patting his shoulder gently. “Thank you, Dark. I know you're just as busy, if not more, than us.”, he said, making Dark chuckle lightly. “And I care just as much as you do.”, he replied quietly. Edward smiled gently, nodding, though staying quiet. Hopefully, they would find something or someone who could help them find whoever they were looking for.

#markiplier #markiplierGAME #dr iplier #Darkiplier #admin writing #god host au

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andersunmenschlich · 4 years

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Episode 13: Alone

All right! Finally I've managed to make time for another episode.

The title is promising. But... uh. We're getting another person talking now. Yeah, I'm not entirely comfortable with this. Bad enough there were all those background characters hanging around the archive, now we're hearing other people direct? And on an episode with a title like this, too!

I'm annoyed. This isn't what I was looking forward to. And Naomi Herne doesn't strike me as particularly polite, either. What, may I ask, is wrong with tape recorders? I quite liked recording things on tape when I was growing up.

...Ooh, interesting.

Looks like they started off trying to do the recording on something a bit more up to date than a tape recorder, and it didn't work.

I like that. I like that very much.

And it's fascinating that the head archivist is taking her statement himself! "I can have it transcribed later"? How very odd. Why not just have her write it down? Isn't that what they've been doing for decades? And even now: the statement-givers write things down, the assistants research and verify, the archivist makes an audio recording and files everything neatly. At least, I got the impression that that's how it's supposed to be done. So what is this? Surely nothing could possibly have been confirmed yet—the statement hasn't even been given!

It's untidy. I don't like it. Naomi Herne shouldn't be talking to Jonathan Sims, it doesn't make sense. Shouldn't she be talking to the receptionist, what's the name... Rosie? Isn't Rosie the one who takes the statements in usually?

I feel like we're missing a buffer, and it's both unsettling and extremely interesting.

So.

Naomi Herne is here to tell the Magnus Institute about something that happened after her husband's funeral. And aha! Finally!

It's about time we learned when this podcast is happening. That's been niggling at me for twelve whole episodes now. "The date is the thirteenth of January, 2016." Awesome. So the first statement was transferred to tape at the end of 2015 or the beginning of 2016. I wonder how many they do a day, and whether they work weekends. It'd be pleasantly tidy if they recorded one statement to tape a day, every day. I'd like that.

Naomi Herne says the thing that happened was weird and inexplicable given her current knowledge of the world she lives in, and that she probably imagined the whole thing. Somehow I suspect she doesn't believe that at all, but would like to make herself believe it if she can.

...And Mr. Sims interrupts.

You know, I really don't like having more than one person here. It's an innovation I’m not particularly enjoying.

In any case, Jonathan Sims tries to leave, Naomi Herne wants him to stay... I don't understand either person here. Is there really a point to giving someone privacy while they make a statement that's going to be listened to and copied down and researched and so on by a whole team of people? What's the reasoning behind that thought? And, on the other hand, why would you not want to be alone?

Maybe it's growing up in a house with thirteen other people (nine siblings, two parents, two grandparents), but it seems to me that being alone is a rare and wonderful thing. You know I didn't even have my own bedroom until my late teens?

If someone is willing to leave you alone, in my opinion, you should be delighted.

Jonathan agrees to stay while Naomi gives her statement. Hopefully this won't lead to more conversation. I suppose we'll see.

Apparently Naomi Herne, like me, works at being a bit of a blender. Average, unnoticeable, overlooked—like the paint on a wall, something nobody really looks at or thinks about. A good choice if you want to get things done without being constantly interrupted by people wanting to chat or hang out or party or know what you're doing in a restricted area or who knows what all else.

Unlike me, however, she says she "did get a bit lonely sometimes," which I can't say I ever have. While it might seem useful to have friends as a sort of social camouflage, they're such a demanding form of camouflage that in practice it isn't actually worth it.

She says a Pastor David seemed worried about her comfort with her own company. Well, at least he was the only one.

Honestly, who worries about a thing like that?

[sarcastically] Ooh, it's not natural for people to live in isolation, humans are creatures of community by nature. Next I'll be hearing how I'm not human and don't really count as a person (again). Perhaps the definition of "human" ought to be expanded, hmm? Include some of those sentient, human-shaped beings who aren't, by nature, what people like Pastor David insist all humans are.

Well. Pastor David, according to Naomi Herne, was worried she might "get lost," whatever that means. Naomi says she thinks she knows what he meant by it—but for some reason she doesn't tell us! Inconsiderate. Eh, perhaps she'll do it later.

Naomi graduated from Leeds in 2013 with the highest possible honors degree in Chemistry.

I like chemistry. Seems like the closest you can get to alchemy in real life.

Anyway, she got a job as a science technician in Woking, near London, which is where she was applying for a better job—lab assistant in a biochemistry department at University College London—when she met someone named Evan, who was also applying for that job. Apparently she clicked with him. Got along with him so well, in fact, that she was happy to see him waiting for her outside the building after their interviews.

Of course, it couldn't stay this good. No. They had to start dating, and then living together, and then they got married, because everyone knows that's the natural progression when you actually get along with someone. No other flavors of relationship are valid (maybe not even possible).

Annoyance aside, Naomi Herne doesn't usually do relationships of this type. She says her past boyfriends left when they realized she wasn't all that thrilled about having them around, which seems like the polite thing to do, really.

This Evan, though, is basically her soulmate.

Despite the fact that he has a battalion of friends, and this ends up pulling her into having "what could perhaps be called a social life."

Doesn't sound particularly pleasant, but she says she didn't hate it, which I suppose I can almost see; it is easier to be around people when you have a trusted human buffer. And after Evan dies from a congenital heart problem, she stops hanging out with his friends and goes back to comfortably familiar solitude, which makes sense to me.

She did attend the funeral, though. It seems Evans had a very rich family, with their own personal mausoleum out at their mansion, Moorland House.

It was a very quiet funeral, and not a particularly friendly one.

Naomi says everyone there was wearing the same expression. Even the corpse. She doesn't say what expression specifically, though—just that it's hard and possibly angry. Oh, and finally we get a last name for her husband: he's Evan Lucas.

Huh.

They send her away to do the burial. That doesn't seem usual.

So she drives off in the pouring rain in the middle of a storm, which doesn't seem safe, and naturally enough she crashes.

It's not a melodramatic crash, though. She just plows off the road into a field and then sits there with her engine smoking and definitely not running, and realizes it's been five hours since she arrived at the Lucas place... oh, and she has no cell service (or GPS functionality) out there.

This means she has to walk. In the storm.

She gets so wet it wrecks her phone, which she finds infuriating, so she throws the useless thing onto the ground, where it breaks further, then bounces off the road and buries itself completely in the mud. She walks and walks and walks, crying and soaked through and very cold, until finally she collapses, at which point she notices that the rain has stopped and now she's surrounded by fog.

...Fog that seems to be following her. And gives her the feeling that it's malicious. And wants something from her. Well, now. That's interesting.

Uh.

And then she makes a point of saying there's no presence to it. Yeah, that makes no sense at all. Malice and desire aren't properties of nothingness! There has to be something present in order for it to want something from you.

"It made me feel utterly forsaken," she says, and in my experience it's always people who do that.

In any case, she gets up and starts to run down the road, hoping to reach the end. Instead she loses the path. It takes her a little while to notice that she's running on dirt and grass instead of tarmac. Once she does, she tries to backtrack, but can't find the road at all. So for some reason she decides to kneel down and check out the dirt, which is mist-damp but not rain-wet.

Ahaha, she went sideways, didn't she? This is delightful.

Whatever new dimension she's found herself in, it sounds most agreeable to me. No stars, no moon, no artificial lights, a night so dark you shouldn't be able to see—but you can. A shifting, slate-grey fog, skeletal trees, grass, dirt, old, abandoned gravestones....

If there were a sign saying "Stay, Wander Awhile," it couldn't be more welcoming than this.

In the center of the graveyard is a small chapel. According to Naomi Herne's description, "The top of its steeple was lost in the gloom and the windows were dark. There was stained glass in the windows, but without any light from inside I couldn't make out the design. Wrapped around the handles of the entrance was a sturdy iron chain."

At this point, for some reason, she starts shouting and screaming for help. I was prepared to be annoyed by this, but (wonder of wonders!) it's a sound-muffling fog. Oh, I like this place so much.

Naomi Herne, on the other hand....

This obnoxious individual continues yelling even after it's clear no one can hear her but herself, just to hear the noise. And then she goes looking for something to break a church window with because, inexplicably, she's decided being inside the church will keep the fog away from her. "Anything to get out of the fog"? Pardon me, Ms. Herne, but you're breaking a window, correct? It's just going to follow you in!

She also says "I was sure that eventually someone would find me," which isn't at all the impression I'm receiving from this dimension a step or two sideways from our own. Surely a place like this would keep you safe from everyone forever?

Whatever the case, she goes for a piece of stone that's fallen from one of the grave markers.

As she bends over to pick it up, though, she notices that the grave is empty.

"The hole was neat, square and deep, as though ready for a burial. At the bottom was a coffin. It was open, and there was nothing inside. I backed away and almost fell into another open grave behind me. I started to look around the cemetery with increasing panic. Every grave was open, and they were all empty."

Ha. Well, it looks like someone missed the Rapture.

You know, if it weren't for the danger of being buried by sliding earth, I'd be tempted to climb into one of those empty coffins and take a bit of a nap.

—Oh. How prescient of me.

The fog starts pulling Naomi Herne, our statement giver, into that first grave. She says it began to weigh her down: "It coiled about me, its formless damp clung to me and began to drag me gently, slowly, towards the waiting pit."

Backing away, she slips on the damp ground and falls. Sliding towards the grave, she uses that heavy piece of stone as an anchor to keep herself out.

Hey, and she gets away! Well done, Naomi Herne.

Struggling to her feet, she suddenly notices that the chapel's doors are open now. The chain's just lying on the steps. Huh. Well, who or what did that? Hmm. Whatever the case, this looks like an invitation to me. But how inviting is the inside of this church? I practically grew up in churches, so they're as familiar to me as libraries (oh, all right: even more so). In my opinion, the least inviting church tends to be the one with the most worshipers in it.

Oh, but this church is very welcoming! It looks as though she's being invited to go deeper, further sideways, farther away from the world we know.

"Through that door, where the inside of the chapel should be, was a field. It was bathed in sickly moonlight, and the fog rolled close to the ground. It seemed to stretch for miles, and I knew that I could wander there for years, and never meet another."

Ahh, that's beautiful.

This is the kind of thing I take my midnight walks for. Hours alone in the mountains under the moon, while the wolves howl in the distance and the lights of the city fade....

Naomi Herne, however, doesn't seem drawn to it.

She turns away from the door—and nearly cries when she sees that beyond the graveyard's edge is that same field. You know, some people have all the luck and just don't appreciate it at all. Of course, I could be mistaken about this place. But I have the feeling a person wouldn't need to eat or sleep here; that physical needs would be optional. I could use that. I'm always acting as though I think they are, and then my body stops working properly. It's annoying.

Anyway, our statement-giver runs away from the field beyond the door and into the field beyond the cemetery.

It beats me why she's running.

Apparently this place doesn't see why she should run, either. "The fog seemed to be getting thicker, and moving through it was getting harder. It was like I was running against the wind, except the air was completely still. I could hardly breathe as I inhaled it."

Yes; that's because you're running. Slow down and everything should be perfectly fine.

Oh. How unexpected.

As Naomi Herne is running through this endless field in a world two steps to the side of our own, her dead husband's voice calls to her. "Turn left," he says. And she does.

Turning sharply to the left, she keeps on running. She runs out into the middle of a road in our world, and wham! gets hit by a car. "I remember a second of headlights, and then nothing until I woke up in the hospital."

...Wait. "I would suggest you leave the stone with us so we can study it"?

What stone?

Don't tell me she was running around carrying that heavy piece of headstone? Surely not. And then, what, whoever hit her decided to take the rock to the hospital as well? That doesn't make a great deal of sense. But I'm pretty sure that's the only stone that's been mentioned this entire statement which she could possibly have brought to the institute, so....

Mr. Sims suggests that Ms. Herne see a psychologist. Ms. Herne is offended. The tape recorder gets turned off.

See? There's a definite click when that happens. We'd know if Mr. Sims took a break to do research. ...Not that I've ever heard him recite any incantations either, though. Maybe it's his research assistants who can do the beholding spell.

They certainly seem uncannily good at getting their hands on information.

Whatever the case, Mr. Sims says research was done while the tape recorder was stopped. Evan Lucas died from heart failure 3-22-15 and his family handled the burial.

"All requests to the Lucas family for information or interviews have been very firmly rebuffed," which is impressive given how much data these archival assistants have been able to dig out of everybody else in the past twelve episodes. It's rare for people to refuse to talk to them, which I could put down to the use of some sort of magic—but won't, because I'm fairly certain I'm not magical and yet people are always telling me things about themselves even when I didn't ask.

Not that I'm not interested!

I'm always interested when a stranger comes up to me and strikes up a somewhat one-sided conversation which evolves into them telling me about their childhood, or fear of Alzheimer's so desperate they'd rather die than have their mind slip away from them, or why they decided to become whatever they are, or some such thing.

If I have to interact with people, well—I think listening to their deeply personal information is one of the best flavors of human interaction.

...Though I will admit that having people talk to me like this all the time has kind of confused my understanding of what things are supposed to be private.

In any case.

Naomi Herne got hit by a car at about one am March 31. The funeral was a week after the death, so that means Ms. Herne slipped sideways on the 29th, which means she was in that otherworld for a full day and change?

The person who hit her was named Michael Getty, and the place was "Wormshill in the Kent Downs," wherever that is. Her car was in a field five miles away.

She was concussed and dehydrated, but there's no mention of her having not eaten for a full day and then some, so either they're ignoring that or food really isn't necessary in fairyland. Though apparently liquids are, which is strange since she was surrounded by fog the whole time! Hmm. You don't think the moisture was coming from her own body, do you? Amplified, yes, enhanced somehow, but... the non-presence in the fog... it could have been her.

That would make a kind of sense.

You can't have things like malice or desire without something present to be malicious or desirous, yet she said "it wasn't as though there was another person there...." Yes, yes, that makes sense!

I hypothesize that, somehow, the part of Naomi Herne that likes being alone manifested semi-separately from the rest of her, sucking moisture from her body to surround her as a thick fog and guide her off at an other-dimensional angle into a world where she could be alone forever. The part of her that doesn't want to be alone was terrified by this, and that's why she ran.

That doesn't explain her dead husband's voice, though. What kind of solitary fairyland has the ghosts of other people in it?

Also, her husband had plenty of friends and was apparently just fine with people—I somehow doubt his heaven would look like that. So what the hey. I can't make sense of that at all.

Well. Back to Jonathan Sims.

Mr. Sims would like to dismiss the whole thing as a hallucination, but unfortunately for him, Naomi Herne was clutching a chunk of carved granite when Michael Getty hit her, and the unfortunate near-perpetrator of vehicular manslaughter apparently decided the woman and the rock were a set, so she was able to bring it to the Magnus Institute and show it to him.

It's got an engraved cross design, looks like it came off a headstone, and has one word on it that's probably from the marker: "Forgotten."

Jonathan Sims says it's going to artifact storage. You know, the Magnus Institute's artifact storage must be an interesting place full of some very weird things. I wouldn't half mind taking a look.

And the recording ends.

This is probably the last episode I'll be listening to for a while, since once I've got this piece of commentary saved in my Tumblr queue I'll need to box my laptop up and ship it across the country to myself. I've never moved my entire life quite this far before. It's proving to be a bit of an undertaking. Once I'm settled in, though, I want to come back to this.

The Magnus Archives is an excellent podcast. I very much want to hear more.

#The Magnus Archives #episode 13 #commentary #late to the party #5-28-20

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bubonickitten · 4 years

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

Chapter 4 is up!

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 4: description of a panic attack; blood & injury (within a dream); canon-typical worms; canon-typical horror/nightmare imagery (think MAG 121: Far Away). Also, some canon-typical scopophobia in the form of the continued presence of some unwanted and very rude eldritch tagalongs.

Chapter 4: Interlude

Calm down, Jon tells himself, quaking with panic. Breathe. Four seconds in, hold seven seconds, eight seconds out. Just –

Wait. He has no body. He has no lungs. How – how is he supposed to breathe with no lungs? He can’t – he can’t –

Stop, stop, stop – shut up and think about it, he reprimands himself.

No lungs means he’s not hyperventilating. No heart means there are no palpitations. He still has a body, he’s just – disconnected from it right now. And even if he wasn’t, during his first coma he had no pulse or respiration, so – so there’s no way he’s experiencing the physical symptoms of a panic attack right now. He’s imagining it.

Forget about breathing for now. Think about – think about the positives –

His plan worked. Sort of. Yes, he’d hoped the rift would take him back to the very beginning – before he started reading statements to that damn tape recorder, before he’d started compelling answers without even realizing he was doing it, before Prentiss and paranoia and burned bridges and the Circus and Sasha and Tim –

Oh, God. If he could have showed up just a few months earlier, he could have stopped –

Stop, he thinks, imagining Martin talking him through his racing thoughts, like he used to do whenever Jon got like this. Think about what you can change.

This is still an improvement on the future he left behind. The world hasn’t ended yet, and now he has an advantage that he didn’t have last time. He knows who Elias really is, what his plans are, and all the little traps that he set along the path.

Jon can still stop the Grand Ritual.

Okay. What else?

He might not have been able to prevent Daisy from ending up in the Buried, but he can still save her, just like he did before.

And he knows more about Peter’s intentions this time, knows about the Extinction and the extent to which Peter might be exaggerating its imminent threat. He… he can keep Martin from succumbing to the Lonely.

…can’t he?

Yes. Yes, he can. He won’t entertain any alternative. He knows Martin much more intimately now, knows himself more intimately. The first time around, it took Jon far too long to identify how he felt about Martin, to find the right word for it, to admit it to himself – and then, it took him even longer to confess it out loud. He was almost too late.

There is the pressing question of how to approach Martin now. It depends on how soon Jon can wake up and how much of a stranglehold the Lonely has on Martin by then. Lonely or not, though, he probably won't be receptive to a love confession at this point in their timeline. From Martin's perspective, it would seem to come from nowhere. He wouldn't believe it. As difficult as it is to accept, Jon knows that he can't corner Martin with a declaration of love and expect to pick up where they left off.

But Jon also knows what words used to comfort Martin and how he liked to be held and where his boundaries lay. Jon had painstakingly learned the best gestures to convey his affection – how best to help Martin believe that he is loved, that he deserves to be cared for, that he doesn’t have to be lonely. Hopefully it will be enough. Hopefully those things are still true, present tense. And if they aren’t, Jon will unlearn it all and relearn how best to be there for Martin here in the past – present, now.

Jon is feeling calmer already. Okay, good. Go on.

This is before he started to actively hunt for statements. It’s too late for him to save the ones who came before – and even though they came to the Institute willingly, and even though he didn’t know at the time he took their statements that the nightmares were real, he still feels guilty about the nightmares – but now he knows better, and he knows he can stop.

He will not take live statements this time. He won’t. It doesn’t matter what it does to him, he just – he won’t do it.

Keep going. What about the others?

Jon isn’t sure exactly what the date is, but based on Martin’s visit just now - his last visit, Jon thinks with a pang - Jon is definitely too late to warn them about the Flesh attack. That means the Slaughter likely has a strong hold on Melanie by now - but if Jon can wake up earlier than he did before, maybe he can save her before she gets any worse. Maybe this time he can find a better way to approach the bullet situation. Maybe. She probably still hates him, but it’s worth a try.

He can warn Basira about the true motives behind Elias' false leads. Last time, Basira felt like she had to carry everything on her shoulders, but maybe this time, he can give her the support she needs - if she lets him. Maybe this time he can earn her trust again. Maybe this time he’ll even deserve to be trusted.

And maybe… maybe he can even salvage his relationship with Georgie – if she’s amenable, that is.

All of that is bound to be easier said than done, but at least it’s a starting point.

Now if only he can figure out how to wake up.

Time has even less meaning here than it did in the apocalypse. Jon can’t Know or even guess at the passing of time as he drifts aimless in the void. He splits his time evenly between panicking, talking himself down from the panic, planning, and sleeping. Or – something like sleep, anyway. It’s more like his mind just goes blank, and it’s – rather nice, actually. It’s the first dreamless rest he’s gotten in years, even if it is under such grim circumstances.

It doesn’t last, though. One moment he is nothing and nowhere at all, and the next he’s in a very familiar graveyard surrounded by very, very familiar fog.

So much for dreamless sleep, he thinks. A moment later, the muffled sound of crying reaches him through the mist.

He waits, then, to be overtaken by the nauseating sensation of being puppeted. It was a familiar routine. The dream would string him along, stopping him before each victim in turn. He would be compelled to behold their torment, unable to flee or speak or even close his eyes. It never got any easier, but at some point it had become his new normal, and during his previous coma, after six months of the same endlessly looping nightmares, he did start to feel numb to it all.

During the apocalypse, though, he didn’t sleep. He didn’t dream. There was no need, not when the nightmare was all around him and he could See all of it at every moment. A creeping sense of dread washes over him at the prospect of returning to this again every time he tries to sleep, and he realizes that the old numbness has worn off. He isn’t looking forward to cultivating it all over again – and he doesn’t know if he can take months of this nonstop a second time.

As he stands there lost in his own head, time ticks by second by second until finally he notices that he’s waiting for a compulsion that… doesn’t seem to come. It never takes this long for the dream to commandeer his body.

Jon decides to take a step forward, and his legs surprise him by obeying. That’s new. He stares blankly at his feet until another choked sob, louder this time, cuts through the fog. He cautiously takes a step toward the sound, and then another, and another, expecting the entire time for the dream to rip his agency away from him again. It doesn’t. He finds himself at the lip of the grave, as usual – but for the first time, he came here of his own volition.

When he looks down, he sees her sprawled at the bottom of her lonely plot, one hand scrabbling weakly against the earthen wall. The skin on her arms is pallid and covered in gooseflesh; her face is covered in dirt, but where her tears have eroded watery tracks down her cheeks, the skin underneath is ashen. She looks… grey, colorless, as washed out as the mist clinging to her. The moment she sees him, a soft, broken wail clambers up her throat.

Naomi Herne.

“Why are you doing this?” Naomi croaks weakly. It’s a refrain that Jon has heard time and time again, and he feels his heart clench painfully in his chest – or at least, a convincing psychosomatic simulation of it. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

“I’m so sorry, Naomi,” Jon whispers.

They both flinch simultaneously. Naomi flings herself bodily against the wall and Jon jolts backward into thin air so abruptly that he loses his balance and ends up in a heap on the muddy ground.

He’s never, ever been allowed to speak in this place. Years of apologies have sat heavily on his tongue, piling up and crowding his throat with every live statement he consumed, and never once has he been able to let them out. And more than that, it’s – it’s his voice. It’s not the Archive, it’s just… it’s just Jon. Staring ahead in stunned silence, he brings one hand to his throat and lets it rest there.

“I… I…” Naomi’s hoarse voice drifts up into the fog, confused and frightened.

Limbs still trembling, Jon crawls over to the edge of the grave and looks down again. Naomi watches him, her eyes wide and pale and wet.

“You… you spoke to me.”

“I…” Jon clears his throat uncertainly. “I – yes, I – I suppose I did.”

“You’ve never spoken to me.”

“Yes,” Jon murmurs, massaging his throat again.

“Why?” When Jon doesn’t reply, Naomi smacks her palm against the muddy wall of her plot and raises her voice. “Why?”

“I –” Jon shakes his head and tries to corral his thoughts into some semblance of order. The fog in his brain just might be as thick as the haze choking the cemetery. “This is the first time I’ve been allowed to speak.”

“That’s not good enough!” Naomi shouts, rising to her knees now. “Do you realize – do you know how long it’s been, how many times I’ve been forced to sit here, watching you just stare down at me with… and – and how many times have I asked, how many times have I begged for you to just – just say something, or look away, or do anything else other than – than watch me?”

“I…” Jon clears his throat again. “You gave me your statement on 13 January, 2016. I’m not sure what the exact date is right now, but – I think it’s December? 2017.”

“Almost two years!” Naomi’s voice cracks. “I can count in double digits the number of decent nights’ sleep I’ve gotten in two years.”

“I know,” Jon says quietly. “I know, and I’m – I’m so, so sorry.”

Naomi looks like she wants to rail against him some more, but she seems speechless.

The apologies are throwing her off. She wants to scream at a monster, and you’re robbing her of the opportunity –

Jon had forgotten how strong the Knowing is in this place. He swats at the nearest group of eyes hovering around him, and the influx of information is interrupted as they scatter and fade out. Whether he successfully distracted the Eye or simply redirected his own attention, he doesn’t know, but either way, he finds the quiet – at least for the moment.

Naomi watches the movement with utter bemusement, then schools her expression back into defiance and suspicion. “So what changed?”

“I’m… not sure, exactly. This is the first time this has happened, and…” Jon pauses, suddenly feeling self-conscious staring down at Naomi from six feet above. “Do you want –” He cuts himself off. He’s going to have to get used to dancing around questions again. “I can help you out of there. If – if you’d like.”

“Why?” She sounds less incensed now, but fire still simmers just below the surface of the word.

“I’ve – I’ve wanted to this entire time,” Jon says haltingly. “I did try, at first, when all of this started. I tried to reach down to you, but I – the dream has never let me move or talk or – or blink before.”

Naomi stares at him with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over her chest defensively. “I don’t trust you.”

“I… yes, I suppose that’s fair.”

Naomi falls silent. Jon watches her gaze flit nervously from eye to eye to eye as they blink open in the open air out of nothing and then pop out of existence again like soap bubbles, an endless shuffle of Watchers of varying sizes. The light they emit bounces off the water molecules in the air around them, illuminating the fog and bathing the entire area in a sickening greenish glow.

“Here, let me try…” Jon trails off, closes his human eyes and focuses on shutting the others, hoping to make himself appear just a little less monstrous. At one point he manages to pare their numbers down to just a couple dozen before all at once several dozen more blink open again, every one of them immediately swiveling to fix him with a reproachful stare.

He’s so preoccupied with glaring back at each of them in turn that he jerks when a hysterical giggle bubbles up out of Naomi’s throat. Now it’s Jon’s turn to look bemused. When his human eyes meet Naomi’s, she laughs harder. She still sounds tear-choked, but Jon can feel the fright draining away from her.

“Naomi…?” Jon tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing in consternation.

Naomi wipes tears from the corners of her eyes as she tries to catch her breath. “It’s – nothing, nothing. You just… you looked so put out, and it’s just – it’s hard to feel intimidated by a monster when it’s pouting like a toddler chasing peas around a plate with a fork.”

Jon feels his face heat, and then suddenly a quiet, involuntary chuckle is clawing its way up and out of his throat as well. It’s just – the tenor of her teasing is so, so reminiscent of Martin.

“Sure,” he says, his voice taking on the same teary-and-tickled tinge, “bully the penitent monster.”

Naomi stifles another giggle and doubles over, shivering with the surreal hilarity of it all. Both of them stay like that for a long moment, fighting back the bizarre combination of tears and laughter. Jon can’t remember the last time he’s laughed like this, and the realization brings another swell of tears to his eyes.

Eventually, Naomi stands on wobbly legs and rubs her eyes, carelessly smearing the moisture and dirt on her cheeks into a thin paste.

“Well?” She stands on tiptoe and stretches one hand up toward him. “Are you going to help me out of here?”

With a surge of gratitude – he’s being allowed to help someone for once – Jon stretches out flat against the ground and reaches down. A single eye sprouts uninvited on his palm and he scowls at it until it melts into his skin and out of existence. He looks back at Naomi, expecting fear and disgust, but she just looks fascinated and more than a little amused. When he extends his hand again, she reaches back. Their fingertips just barely brush and he scoots closer, head and shoulders leaning over the edge until Naomi’s clammy hand is clutched firmly in his.

“Are you actually going to be able to pull me out? You don’t look like you have any upper body strength.”

“Every day with the schoolyard bullying,” Jon sighs, reaching out a second hand to grip her wrist more firmly. She takes his cue and does the same, clasping his wrist with her other hand until it aches. “It’s a dream, Naomi. I don’t think physical laws matter much.”

She begins to pull herself up, her bare toes digging into the wall as she clambers up. She slips a few times, and Jon grimaces as he takes more of her weight.

“Seems like the dream’s decided your noodle arms are just as useless here as they are in the real world,” Naomi says with a strained grunt.

“Watch it, I might just drop you.” Jon panics as the retort leaves his mouth and he hastens to add, “I’m – I’m kidding, I wouldn’t – that was in poor taste, I’m sorry –”

“I know,” Naomi says with a breathless laugh. “Are you always this awkward?”

With one final burst of energy, she heaves herself upward and Jon shuffles back, pulling her over the edge until she has enough leverage to drag herself up the rest of the way. They both lay there for a few minutes, waiting for the adrenaline to fade.

“Thank you,” Naomi murmurs shakily.

“The least I can do, right?”

“The absolute least.”

Jon lets out a tired chuckle. When he realizes that one hand is still linked with one of Naomi’s, he starts to pull away, but she tightens her grasp and the look in her eyes turns panicked.

“Please,” she blurts out and then looks away, embarrassed. “I’m – I’m not trying to make it weird, I just –”

“It’s okay,” Jon says quietly, and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I understand. We can stay like this for now.”

Naomi nods gratefully. She still looks a bit mortified – the color is returning to her cheeks, Jon notes – but more than anything else, she seems relieved. They spend the next few minutes in a slightly awkward but mostly companionable silence.

“I really am sorry, Naomi –”

“You said.”

“– but I don’t know how to stop this from happening.” When Naomi doesn’t reply, Jon continues: “I – I promise that if I find out, I’ll do whatever I can to stop it. I just – I wanted to say that, if this is a fluke – if next time we find ourselves here, I’m back to…” Jon hesitates for a moment. “Remember your anchor.”

“My… anchor?”

“The first time you got lost in the fog – think about how you found your way out.”

“Evan,” Naomi whispers, and Jon nods.

“Next time you find yourself here, if you’re alone, or – or if I’m… unresponsive, remember your anchor. And - and it doesn't have to be Evan, it can be anyone or anything that tethers you to the world you came from. I don’t know if it will lead you out of the fog in a dream – it might not even allow you to leave the grave – but it should… it should help you remember that you're not lost. That this is a dream, and you will wake up from it.” He swallows and closes his human eyes. “That the fog doesn’t actually go on forever, even if… even if sometimes it might seem like it.”

Naomi is silent for a long moment before she speaks again.

“Will you stay with me until I wake up?”

“I – I – yes?” Jon stammers, taken aback by the idea that she’d want to willingly pass the time in his company. “Yes, if you – if that’s what you want.”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Naomi says. She rolls her eyes, but it comes off more as indulgent than annoyed. “Keep talking?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it again. He’s never been a great conversationalist, especially with people he doesn’t know well, and it’s not like he’s had much chance to practice for… a long time. Not since he lost Martin. There was Helen, of course, but their chats were seldom rewarding, even before Jon was reduced to speaking in statements.

Apparently Naomi senses his struggle, because she fills the silence for him. “Do you have an anchor?”

Jon is glad of the assistance. Answering questions – that’s something he can handle.

“Yes,” he responds, just a bit dreamily, fighting back a smitten half-smile. “Yes, I do.”

Naomi raises an eyebrow.

“I… can tell you about him, if you’d like?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Alright then.” Jon fidgets nervously; being open about this sort of thing doesn't come naturally to him. “Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding his anchor, and all the intricacies of being Seen.”

“Wow,” Naomi says flatly. “I take it he’s the one responsible for changing you from an arrogant prick to a besotted puppy?”

“He… may have had something to do with it,” Jon says, simultaneously fond and abashed. “He’s a poet and a hopeless romantic, and it may or may not have rubbed off on me. Now, do you want to hear this story or not?”

“Definitely, but I reserve the right to make fun of you when you’re done.”

“That seems like a fair deal, considering the past couple years.”

“I think so.” Naomi gives him an expectant look. “Well? Go on.”

“His name is Martin K. Blackwood.” Jon doesn’t bother holding back his smile this time. “The ‘K’ doesn’t actually stand for anything – he just, and I quote, ‘liked the way it looked’…”

It doesn't take much prompting for Jon to start rambling about Martin, and it takes him a few minutes to remember that Jonah might be listening in. He hadn’t been planning on mentioning the apocalypse to Naomi, but he reminds himself to be careful not to mention any major events that haven’t happened yet, anything that might hint at his foreknowledge of Jonah’s plans.

There is a risk of raising suspicion just by talking about Martin in such affectionate terms. At this point in his timeline the first time around, Jon was fully occupied with regularly having his life threatened – and then routinely, studiously refusing to process that ongoing complex trauma in any remotely healthy way. He didn’t exactly have the time or breathing room or emotional capacity to examine his developing feelings for Martin, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to tolerate the vulnerability of admitting it to himself, let alone to Martin.

But Jonah can’t always be watching them; he has to assume that he misses out on things from time to time. He probably won’t think too hard on mundane slice-of-life moments involving tea and poetry and debates about what criteria should be used to identify a good cow, as long Jon is vague about the time frame and contextual details of each story. He avoids explicitly putting a label on the nature of their relationship and tones down any particularly romantic interactions. In the end, he succeeds in sounding like he has a not-so-subtle crush on a coworker and is both too emotionally repressed to acknowledge it and too unobservant to realize that it’s reciprocated. (It’s… not a difficult act to pull off.)

Jon manages to get through several non-incriminating anecdotes like that before Naomi wakes up. He hopes he’ll still have his voice the next time he sees her. It’s… nice, to talk to another person after so long with only the Distortion to keep him company.

He stands and brushes himself off as well as he can, which isn’t much. Resigning himself to the drying mud clinging to him, he steels himself and prepares to continue his well-traveled tour of the dreamscape.

Jon’s first stop is Dr. Lionel Elliott’s anatomy lab. Jon manages to snatch the apple away from him before either of them have to catch a glimpse of the molars hidden inside it, but it doesn’t stave off the bone-crunching contortions that always dominate this part of the dream. It takes Jon some very long, very painful minutes to talk Elliott down from his fear long enough to redirect the dream’s trajectory, and even longer to convince the man that he means him no harm.

Jon does eventually manage to coax him out of the dissection lab and into the hall – (“I think sitting on the floor out there is preferable to staying in here with all the…” – and here, Jon gestures at the nearest blood-spurting heart) – but they don’t get very far into their conversation before Elliott wakes up.

They’ll have to see each other again the next time Elliott sleeps, though. Jon can try again.

Next up is Tessa Winters, sat at her computer. She nearly has the keyboard to her lips before Jon manages to reach her. In his haste to stop the dream sequence, he overturns the table and sends the entire setup crashing to the floor, yanking the keyboard away from her for good measure. Tessa promptly drops to the ground and makes a grab for the nearest shard of glass from the broken monitor.

Unable to control her own body, she shoves the glass between her lips and crunches down on it before Jon can wrest it from her. When it slices into the roof of her mouth, an identical gash opens up in Jon’s, and soon both of them have blood running down their throats. As Tessa reaches out a shaky hand to snatch up another piece, Jon catches her wrist.

“Tessa, listen to me – you don’t have to do this anymore.”

The look she gives him is a perfect mix of enraged and terrified, and she tries desperately to pull away.

“Tessa – Tessa!”

Shaking her head frantically, she shuts her eyes tight, sending tears streaming down her cheeks. Jon chokes a bit on the blood still pouring freely out of the cut in his mouth. He can only imagine what a sight he must be right now: covered in mud, teeth stained red, all those hungry eyes looking on. He’s loathe to use compulsion, but…

“Tessa, look at me.”

She abruptly stops struggling and a glimmer of cognizance flares in her eyes. A moment later, she rips her hand away from his grip and backhands him across the face.

I probably deserved that, Jon thinks. He puts both of his hands up in a nonthreatening gesture and leans away from her, giving her space.

“What is wrong with you?” Tessa seethes. She spits blood onto the ground through her teeth, never once breaking eye contact with Jon. With his human eyes, he notes. “I’ve been having this dream for nearly a year and – and…”

“You… know that this isn’t just a dream.” It isn’t a question; Jon already Knows the answer.

“It’s a very lucid dream.” She’s clearly aiming for decisive, but Jon can detect the waver of uncertainty concealed underneath. Tessa looks away and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, leaving a crimson streak painted across her skin.

“You don’t really think that, though,” Jon says gently. He could tell from the first time he met Tessa in her nightmares that she knew there was an element of the supernatural at play.

“Then what? You’re – you’re secretly a monster in disguise, siphoning off people’s ghost stories? Feeding on nightmares like some kind of – what, dream vampire?”

“I…” Jon frowns. “I’ve never heard it phrased that way, but I suppose? Sort of? I mean I was – I was human once. When you first gave your statement, I hadn’t realized what I was becoming just yet. I was having nightmares like this, but back then I still thought they were just… bad dreams.”

“So why are you suddenly talking to me now?”

“The dream has never let me talk before. Usually I don’t have control of my body, I just get piloted around and made to… well, Watch.”

“And what, I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“No, I – not at all, I just –” Jon sighs. “I’m answering your question. The reason I’m just now speaking to you is because this is the first chance I’ve gotten to do so. I don’t intentionally bring you here and I wish it would all just stop. But…” He falters, struggling to get the words out. “But it is because of me that you’re brought here, and so I – I owe you an apology.”

“Why?” Jon looks at her questioningly. “You’re saying you don’t bring me here, and that you didn’t know what would happen when you took my statement. So, what are you actually apologizing for? Because you feel guilty, and you think saying sorry will make you feel better? That’s not an apology, that’s a cop-out.”

Jon’s first impulse is to deny it, but he stops himself, because that is the impression he’s giving, isn’t it?

“I do feel guilty,” he admits, “but apologizing isn’t going to make me feel better, trust me. I’m sorry because… like I said, even if I didn’t expect or intend this specific outcome, it’s still because of me that you’re here. I need to take responsibility for that.”

Jon gnaws on the inside of his cheek nervously, trying to organize his thoughts. Taking Tessa Winters’ statement was, in retrospect, a watershed moment for him. He had taken several live statements by that point, but all the earlier statement givers had made their way to the Institute independently. (Well, except Helen – Jonah had confessed that he was the one to lead her to the Institute – but Jon didn’t know that at the time.) Tessa was the first time Jon actively and knowingly brought someone to him – and he did it under false pretenses.

It’s been eating away at him ever since that first nightmare they shared.

“The forum post that drew you to me,” he says in a rush, “asking for statements.”

“What about it?”

“I’d never solicited statements before then. People would just come to the Institute on their own.”

“And?” Tessa fixes him with an intense look. “What changed?”

“Well, I… I had an ulterior motive in posting on tech savvy message boards specifically.” Jon picks at his cuticles, human eyes carefully averted from Tessa’s. “The laptop you helped me with, it belonged to my predecessor. I didn’t learn until after I was selected to replace her that she was murdered. It was an unsolved case, and I… I needed to know why. I thought, if I could get access to her computer, maybe there would be a clue somewhere.”

“And if it wasn’t for that post…”

“You would never have come to the Institute. You wouldn’t be here now.”

A full minute passes before Tessa speaks.

“Did it even help?”

“Not as much as I would have liked, no,” Jon says with a short, humorless laugh.

Tessa’s lips move wordlessly for a few seconds before she eventually snaps, “Why the hell did you feel like it was your job to solve a murder, anyway?”

“It seemed unlikely that it would ever be solved – the police certainly didn’t seem invested in it – and I was worried that I would be next.” Jon rubs the back of his neck for a few seconds before twirling a lock of hair around his finger, tugging gently. What does it say about his life that he misses when things were as simple as a workplace murder? “There’s more to the story, but – suffice it to say, I was paranoid and stubborn and - and unstable, and people got hurt because of it.”

The silence stretches between them for several minutes this time before Tessa speaks again.

“I don’t forgive you.” Jon winces before he can think better of it, and Tessa continues: “But your apology is accepted.”

Jon gives her a baffled look. “I… I don’t understand.”

“I can appreciate a genuine apology, and you seem sincere enough.” Tessa shrugs. “Sounds like you acted out of disregard for others, rather than out of malicious intent. Still not great, but I don’t think one action defines a person.” Her expression hardens and her voice turns firm. “But that doesn’t mean I have to forgive the action. And I’m not ready to forgive, not when I’m still living through the consequences. Maybe not ever.”

“That’s fair,” Jon says, and he means it. “Especially since – well, I don’t know how to stop the dreams. If I find a way, I’ll do it, absolutely, but for now… I can’t promise an end to this.”

Tessa makes a noncommittal noise.

“I am hoping that I’ll maintain basic bodily autonomy going forward. That way, I can – I can try to intervene again, the next time you get trapped in the loop. I’ve done this a couple times now, with other dreams. So far, it seems that if the script gets interrupted, we can ride out the rest of the dream without the nightmare component.”

“And if you go back to how you were before?”

“Then I’m forced back into the role of Watcher, I suppose.” The thought of it fills him with dread, but he isn’t about to make Tessa process that with him, so he quickly moves on. “But – but I think maybe you don’t need me to break the script? It might be enough to just… memorize how you feel right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is the first time you’ve been here and still had control of your own actions. The moment you’re sat in front of that computer, you become a passenger in your own body.” Jon gives his hair another gentle tug as he hunts for the right phrasing. “Find something – a word, a gesture, a memory, anything – that you can associate with how you feel right here, right now. Something sensory, or at least simple enough that you can remember even when – when your thoughts start to disintegrate.”

“'The angles cut me when I try to think,'” Tessa recites quietly. It sends a shiver up Jon’s spine, and he Knows it does the same for her.

“It’s an accurate description, isn’t it?”

Tessa gives him a suspicious look. “You can feel it?”

“Yes.” Jon shifts uncomfortably at the memory of it. “Like having your consciousness shredded until everything is sharp edges and… and noise.”

Jon can feel Tessa’s anger soften a bit, and he Knows that it’s not out of forgiveness. It’s because she feels vindicated, knowing that the one responsible for her suffering is at least facing the same torture as she is. She feels a twinge of shame over that feeling, he Knows, but even if she didn’t, he wouldn’t hold it against her. Honestly, he isn’t ready to be forgiven any more than Tessa is ready to forgive him.

“Anyway,” he says, unceremoniously shoving the Knowing away, “breaking the association between the computer and the loss of control might be enough to snap you out of the usual dream sequence.”

“Trick my brain with a bit of classical conditioning?” Tessa snorts. “That’s your advice?”

“Just a suggestion.” Jon shrugs. “I’ve found it helpful from time to time.”

“Alright then, Pavlov’s monster.”

Jon gives an awkward little laugh. “Never heard that one before, either.”

“I’m sure I can come up with more,” she says, and graces him with a very small, very tentative smirk. It feels remarkably like an olive branch – or maybe just the ghost of one. He doesn’t feel like he deserves even that.

Tessa refuses Jon’s offer to stay with her until she wakes up, so he stands and takes his leave.

Jon isn’t walking for long when the dreamscape shifts around him again. Rain patters down on the asphalt of a lonely road, stretching onward and outward with no end in sight. The harsh police lights refract off of the rain and the mist, the incessant bright flash sending a stabbing pain right to his temples.

He drifts towards the coffin on autopilot, never once breaking his stride, and he throws the chains aside. Before he can think twice about it, he walks down those familiar steps, taking two at a time in his haste to get through this segment of the dream as quickly as possible.

The instant the soil closes in around him, he reflexively calls Daisy’s name. It takes him three desperate shouts before he remembers with a sinking feeling that he won’t find her here. The coffin doesn’t allow for sleeping or dreaming, and it will be another few months before Jon can go in after her.

As soon as he resigns himself to that realization, the earth falls away and he’s standing in a coffin of a different sort, watching Karolina Górka from across a sweltering, buckling train car. All around them, the twisted metal groans and strains under unimaginable pressure. Karolina does not respond to his explanations, his apologies, his offers to help, his questions. She simply watches him, as he used to watch her, and smiles, until the train car collapses in on her and the scenery fades.

Next time, he tells himself, fighting back nausea and guilt. There has to be some way to reach her, and he has plenty of time to figure it out. Next time.

When Jon finds himself in front of Helen’s door, standing solitary in open air, he’s half-tempted to fling it open, finally see where it leads in this place. He has to force himself to turn away –

Which, as expected, gives him a full view of the undulating carpet of ants. He scans the swarm diligently, watching it writhe and twist until he catches sight of a hand reaching out to him, and he lunges to grab hold of it. As soon as Jordan is free of the horde, he shrinks away in terror, and Jon can feel the way his emotions vacillate: gratitude, confusion, fear, suspicion.

“This way,” Jon says urgently, trying to keep his mounting fear out of his tone and waving Jordan forward. Jordan looks hesitant until the incinerator door materializes beside them, heralding the appearance of Jane Prentiss. “Keep walking.” Jon's voice is definitely taking on a panicked edge now, despite his best efforts. “Don’t look at her.”

Much to Jon’s relief, Jordan listens and hastens after him. In this part of the dream, Jordan has always stood there frozen, eyes darting between the Archivist and the hive, unable to decide which was the lesser of two evils. This time – for now, at least – Jordan seems willing to take his chances with Jon.

Jon, of course, can’t fully avert his gaze. Even as he walks away, a few mutinous eyes watch behind him, captivated by Jane and the simmering worms wriggling and tunneling through her flesh. Jane’s burning stare burrows into him like larvae, and he fights the urge to scratch.

“Cover your ears.” Jon is careful to keep the compulsion out of his voice. Luckily, Jordan complies of his own volition – and not a moment too soon, as the hive begins to screech out its death knell only seconds after the words leave Jon’s mouth. He watches as Jane’s eyes liquefy and run down her cheeks. All the while, she screams and screams and screams until finally her throat crumbles to ash along with the rest of her.

Jon stops then, bending over with his hands on his knees, trying to quell his trembling. Jordan nearly runs right into him, throwing himself backward at the last moment and hitting the ground with a grunt. He takes one look at Jon and begins to scramble away. Now that Jane Prentiss is gone, all of his terror can be directed at the sole remaining monster.

“W-wait,” Jon says, voice raspy. “I – I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jordan stops moving, but continues to stare with wide, terrified eyes.

“I know what I look like, and I’m – I’m sorry about that, I don’t have control over them.” Jon gestures half-heartedly at the eyes phasing in and out in the air around him. Their focus darts about in all directions, greedy and possessive and eager to See everything there is to See. Even just a momentary glance of their restless movements elicits a burst of annoyance, and he can’t resist once again striking out at the nearest grouping of them. They instantly dissipate and Jon turns his human eyes back to Jordan. “But I want to help.”

“You’ve never helped before.”

“I know. The dream wouldn’t let me.”

“But now suddenly it will?”

“Yes, and I’m hoping it stays that way. But – but if it doesn’t –”

Before he can finish, Jordan flickers out of sight as his real body wakes. Jon groans in frustration. He would have liked to outline a contingency plan in the same way that he did with Naomi and Tessa, but… hopefully the next time Jordan sleeps, Jon can continue the discussion.

The eyes that he had previously banished pop back into existence one by one to his left.

“I really, really hate you, you know that?”

In unison, they all blink and reopen, slow and purposeful. He tries not to assign personality to them, but he can't help thinking that they look amused.

Jon swears, turns away from them, and kicks the ground uselessly. Hopefully Jonah isn’t watching this impotent little outburst, but just in case, Jon takes the time to glower up at the Eye looking down on him before he stalks off. It definitely makes him look even more like a petulant child, but at the moment, he can’t bring himself to care.

Jon paces feverishly in front of the door to the dissection lab, scratching absently at the back of his burned hand as he tries to calm his nerves. In one fluid motion, he reaches out to grab the door handle, then shrinks back again and runs his fingers through his hair with an agitated sigh. At this rate, she’ll wake up before he works up the courage to go in there.

He reaches toward the handle again, but stops at the last moment and raps his knuckles lightly against the door instead. Knock-knock, his mind supplies, sending a chill down his spine.

Even though he’s expecting it, he still starts at the answering, “Hello?”

Jon steels himself and opens the door, and suddenly he’s eyes-to-eyes with –

“Georgie…”

The customary sadness and pity in her expression fade away, replaced by faint surprise.

“Jon?”

End Notes:

- JON GETS TO USE HIS WORDS AGAIN! Finally. (There will still be some more Archive-speak peppered in throughout later chapters, though.)

- I took some liberties with Naomi's and Tessa's characterization, since we only got an episode each of them + some glimpses of their nightmares in MAG 121, and Naomi was in the middle of grieving during her episode. Hopefully they don't come off as too OOC, but either way, I was having fun writing their dialogue like this, so I just kinda ran with it.

- The scene with Georgie was running long, so I decided to end it there and pick it up in the next chapter. (Chapter 5 should be ready by this weekend, hopefully.)

- Btw, it was very tempting to title this chapter “How Am I Gonna Be an Optimist About This?” because Bastille’s “Pompeii” has been stuck in my head for days now and honestly?? It's probably not a bad song choice for these first four chapters.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jonathan sims #tma spoilers #long post

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takenbyemrys · 4 years

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Merry Christmas Peachy!!! For @peachy-keener for Parkner Secret Santa event

---

Peter laid his head down on his books. He let out a muffled groan as Ned patted his back. MJ rolled her eyes from across the table. They were trying their best to get a last minute study session in before classes started.

“Come on, loser, it’s english,” MJ said. Peter huffed and sent her a mild glare.

“Says you.” Peter said. “All you ever do is read.”

Ned chuckled. “He’s not wrong MJ. English is so much easier for you than us.”

“Help us Michelle Jones, you’re our only hope.” Peter snickered as he said it, earning an eye roll.

“You’re both massive losers. It’s not that hard. But fine.” She leaned forward and began explaining just where they were wrong. MJ was halfway through her explanation when she was interrupted by Principal Morita walking up to their table. A tall girl followed closely behind him, her arms crossed and a scowl on her face.

“Oh you three will do,” Morita said. “Peter, MJ, Ned, this is our new student, Abbie Keener. Abbie is a junior, but she’s going to be taking a lot of senior classes, so I want you three to show her around.”

With that, he nodded to the four of them and walked out of the library.

MJ snorted. “Okay then.”

Peter, however, jumped up and grinned. He held out his hand to Abbie. “Hi, I’m Peter!”

Abbie raised an eyebrow at his outstretched hand but reluctantly reached out to shake it.

“Nice ta meet ya.” Her southern twang was rich.

“You too, Abbie.” Peter waved to the empty seat next to MJ. “This is MJ, who was oh so graciously helping us not fail English. And this is Ned.”

Abbie nodded to them, but otherwise said nothing.

“It was gracious of me, wasn’t it?” MJ smirked. “Why was I doing it again?”

“Because if you didn’t, we wouldn’t be going to NYU together next year,” Ned said. MJ huffed. “And what would you do without your soulmates?”

“Y’all are soul mates?” Abbie asked, clearly trying to assess the relationship with her eyes.

“Yeah, we’re all platonic soulmates,” Peter explained. He held out his left arm that had two phrases tattooed on it. MJ and Ned held out their wrists as well. “For me, the top one is Ned, because I first met him. Ned and MJ’s first was me too, even though MJ met us at the same time.”

Abbie studied his wrist, where the first phrase said ‘Do you like star wars?’ and the second said ‘Sup Losers.’

“Cool. My Brother’s my platonic.” She held out her left wrist. Peter saw that it said, ‘Hello, little sister.’

“Oh that’s adorable.” Peter grinned. Abbie grinned. Most people thought it was weird that her brother was her soulmate. “So, where are you and your brother from?”

“Tennessee,” Abbie answered easily. “My brother and I moved up here because he started at NYU this semester.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “Oh cool! Are you planning on going there too?”

“Probably,” Abby explained with a grin. “I think i want to travel first.”

MJ nodded. “Same. Hard debating ditching these losers.”

Ned grabbed his chest, giving her an exaggerated gasp and the ultimate eyes of betrayal before crying out, “You would never!”

“Yeah, sorry MJ.” Peter shrugged. “After the whole ‘soulmate’ thing, you can’t really pretend not to like us.”

“I don’t know,” Abbie teased. “I’ll ditch my brother and you ditch them, and we can hit Europe.”

“The three of them can look after each other.” MJ agreed. She paused, looking between the boys. “Well, maybe.”

“Oh my god,” Peter gasped. “Ned, it finally happened. MJ found someone else who’ll be just as mean to us.”

He then wailed, burying his head in Ned’s shoulder. Ned, for his part, hugged Peter close and pretended to weep as well.

MJ stood up, both annoyed and affectionate. “Alright losers. Come on. We have class.”

“Ugh, I don’t want to go to class,” Peter groaned. Despite his dramatics, he looked to their new friend. “Abbie what classes do you have?”

Abbie pulled a schedule out of her backpack and handed it to them. It took only a few seconds for all three to look back up at her eagerly.

“Sweet!” Peter said. “You have most of your classes with us.” After he finished, he grabbed Ned and led the way out of the library. MJ snorted and pulled Abbie after her.

“Alright, Keener,” she said. “Looks like we’re adopting you.” --------

After that, Abbie easily merges into their friend group. She shares almost every class with at least one of them. This gives them all plenty of time together (especially she and Peter) and allows her to open up more. Her and MJ get on like a house on fire, making Peter and Ned sometimes wonder how they aren’t platonic soulmates, or maybe even romantic soulmates. Regardless, there’s nothing between them like that and they just all click. Abbie ends up invited to movie nights, lunch, and the occasional Aunt May sponsored thai food. She raises an amused eyebrow everytime Peter has to go to his ‘internship’ and everytime he has sprint out right after school.

It happened one day when Peter offered to walk Abbie home. He was rambling on and on about nanotechnology when it hit her. It hit her so hard she stopped walking, gaping at Peter.

“Abs?” He asked, eyebrows drawing in concern. He reached out and grabbed her shoulder. Abbie jolted out of her trance at his touch.

“Sorry. Just contemplating the inescapable chasm of loss in regards to abandonment.” Abbie pressed her lips together, trying to stop the onslaught of invasive and horrific thoughts. It was only natural. Harley and Peter were soulmates. There was no doubt in her mind that these two idiots would fucking love each other. The only problem was Abbie. They would run away together, and do science, and completely forget about her.

“Fucking mood. Literally my entire existence.” Peter snorted. Abbie raised an eyebrow.

“Who abandoned you?” She pried.

“Besides everyone? My parents dumped me on May and my Uncle Ben’s doorstop when I was like nine. Then, Ben died in my arms last year after a robbery. So, i get it. Whatever you got goin on, you’re not alone, and I’m not gonna abandon you. Never will.” Peter gave her a sad, lopsided smile, and Abbie melted. She launched herself at Peter, wrapping her arms around him. Peter gasped as Abbie knocked the wind out of him, but instinctively reciprocated.

“You’re great, ya know that Parker?” Peter shook his head and slung his arm around her. He led her down the street.

“I’m something. So, I shared. Who abandoned you?” Peter squeezed her shoulder. “Besides everyone?” Abbie smirked. “Dad left when I was a baby, but mom did the emotional abandonment thing. All I ever had was Harley.” Abbie shrugged. “Hopefully I’ll always have Harley.”

“Well, I’ve never met the mysterious brother whose never at your apartment, but based on everything I know about you and him, he wouldn’t leave you either. I mean he drug you all the way to New York because he refused to leave you at home didn’t he?” Abbie looked up.

“How in all seven hells did you know that?” She asked. Peter shrugged.

“Best guess.” He gave her his best dimples and a wink.

“You’re too smart for your own good Parker. But, I still appreciate it.” Peter stops at the door of her apartment building. “And for the record. I won’t abandon you either.” Peter lit up like a christmas tree. “Now get outta here. I know you have stuff to do.” Abbie winked and sauntered through the door. Peter shook his head, but slipped into the alley next to the building.

---------

“Does he really believe he’s bein’ subtle about the whole Spiderman thing?” Abbie asked one day, watching Peter sprint across the courtyard. MJ rolled her eyes and Ned gaped at her, already trying to find excuses to explain Peter’s behavior.

“Unfortunately.” MJ despaired.

“Ya know. I think it’s time y’all met Harley.” She was still staring after Peter.

“Because?” Ned asked.

“Because I just have a feelin’.” Abbie said as explanation. “We can go meet him now, if you’d like. Then y’all’ll definitely know what I'm talkin’ about.”

MJ shrugged and closed her book. “Might as well. Ned?”

“Why not?” Ned nodded.

Abbie led the duo through New York, stopping at the entrance to a run down garage. “You’re sure he’s here?” Ned asked. Abbie held up her wrist, staring at the invisible string she knew was there.

“Yep. I’m sure. Come on.” Abbie pushed opened the door and led them through the waiting area. Music boomed the minute she opened the door. ACDC almost burst their eardrums. When they reached the garage portion, MJ raised an eyebrow at the sports cars, while Ned was too preoccupied with the state of the art parts strewn around the room. “Yo, Harls!” Abbie yelled over the music, pointing to a car with it’s hood up. They noted the shirtless man leaning over it. He stood up and yelled at the ceiling, turning off the music. He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped his hands.

When he turned around MJ snorted. Ned grinned.

“Ya’ll must be Abbie’s friends. I’m Harley.” The southern dripped off his lips, sweeter than tea.

“Well, fuck Keener. You had a feeling, huh?” MJ asked. Ned shook his head.

“Just a feelin’.” Abbie answered.

“I’m missing something.” Harley said, his lips twisting into a scowl.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Ned grinned at him. “I’m Ned, this is MJ.” MJ jerked her head, smirk still dancing on her lips.

“Peter couldn’t make it. But, i’ll bring him by tomorrow, if thats cool?” Abbie asked.

“Yeah, you know that’s cool. So, y’all go to nerd school?” Harley asked.

“The nerdiest.” MJ confirmed.

“Is that the beginnings of a sublight engine?” Ned asked, pointing to a massive pile of parts on a nearby cart.

“Hell yes!” Harley grinned. He began to explain how he was making it. MJ leaned toward Abbie.

“This is the best feelin’ you’ve ever had. And i’m personally upset you didn’t tell me sooner.

“It just hit me a couple weeks ago. There’s no way they aren’t soulmates.” MJ grinned at Abbie, who hip checked her.

“When are you bringing him? I so want to see it.” MJ stared at Ned, a rare soft smile on her face.

“Tomorrow for sure. I wanted to make sure y’all agreed with me. We can do the exact same thing.”

“Do you know what Harley’s soulmark says?” MJ aked. Abbie grinned evily.

“Oh yes. And you won’t want to miss it.” Abbie collapsed on a couch near the wall and watched Ned and Harley nerd out over Star Wars and mechanics.

“Fucking losers.” MJ said fondly, sitting next to Abbie. They stayed for another hour, plotting the lovely demise of Peter Parker into the abyss that was Harley Keener. Ned and Harley kept getting more excited as the moved from engine to engine. MJ pulled Ned away after a while, offering to walk him home. As soon as the door closed, Ned turned to her with a grin.

“MJ. He’s fucking perfect.” Ned vibrated with excitement.

“Intelligence?” MJ asked.

“Off the charts. No way they won’t be on the same level. Also, did you see the abs?” Ned asked.

“You mean the ones literally showing through his shirt? I saw. The honeyed accent is no slouch either. I’m thrilled to see what happens tomorrow.” MJ hugged Ned when they reached his apartment and practically skipped to hers.

-----

“I can’t believe I missed meeting Harley!” Peter groaned.

“We’ll go back today so we can meet him,” Abbie rolled her eyes. Peter lit up, a grin gracing his lips, and his dimples gracing Abbie. After class MJ and Ned led the way to the garage, having a heated debate on MJ’s latest book. Abbie was studiously ignoring Peter as he tried to pry information out of her.

“Come on, you never tell us about him. I’ve been so curious. I mean he’s your platonic soulmate and that’s adorable.” Abbie rolled her eyes at him.

“You’ll meet him in just a minute, Parker. Calm the fuck down.” Abbie bumped his hip against Peter’s. The boy huffed and crossed his arms. MJ opened the door to the shop, and they were once again blasted with ACDC. Peter’s eyebrows jumped in surprise.

Harley was working on the same car when they walked in, but this time, he was under it. Abbie walked up and hit the hood of the car. Harley’s legs jerked as he jumped in surprise.

“Ow! Fuck! Abbie!” Harley rolled out from under the car and jumped up, glaring at his sister. She gave him a sweet smile.

“Sorry Harls. Just letting you know we’re here. Also, you didn’t meet him yesterday. This is Peter.” Abbie flung her arm out, pulling Peter out from behind MJ and Ned. Peter’s eyes widened, following the line of grease smudged on Harley’s neck.

“Oh you. Fuck me.” Peter muttered. Harley grinned and leaned back onto the car. Harley held up his wrist that said ‘Oh you. Fuck me’ in Peter’s notorious chicken scratch.

“Maybe not now, but hopefully soon, darlin’.” Harley smirked as Peter’s eyes widened. MJ and Ned were trying their hardest not to laugh. Peter held up his matching wrist and grinned.

“Well, who'd've thought.” Abbie smirked, grinning between the two who she now thought of as her brothers.

#parkner #parkner secret santa 2019 #parkner secret santa #christmas fic #gift fic

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raendown · 4 years

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The next chapter of my Amends to the Dead series, commissioned by the wonderful @birkastan2018 who has been amazingly supporting of my works and provided so much inspiration.

Pairing: None Word count: 4239 Chapter: 1/4 Rated: T+ Summary: Months after the village is built Izuna is near his breaking point. Peace is nice, don't get him wrong, but he could do without the pale shadow that follows behind him everywhere he goes. All he wants is to understand. What the hell is Tobirama's obsession with watching him?

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Chapter 1

Grey clouds and a dreary sky greet him when Izuna leaves the administration tower this afternoon, a dour forecast for the evening’s weather. Determined to keep a positive attitude, he tells himself that at least it is holding off for now, will hopefully keep itself in check until after he finishes his inspection. That massive dream-headed idiot of a Senju wants a wall around their settlement but as much as Izuna freely agrees with the tactical benefits of such a barrier he is glad Madara has managed to talk the man in to waiting rather than just springing something up out of the ground willy-nilly. Although several clans and minor villages have already emigrated to join them there are still others they hope to bring in to the fold as well. If Hashirama grows a wall around them at their current size it will ostracize any new districts built in the future – not to mention that such a short-sighted buffoon will almost definitely forget to leave room for population growth as the years go on.

Hence why Izuna has saddled himself with the boring task of trudging his way around the outskirts to scope out where they can expand, how far, whether some portions of the surrounding terrain should be left available to grow crops, that sort of thing. Trying to keep his thoughts grand scale, the first thing he does is make the long climb up the mountain face overlooking them all. From there he is granted a wonderful view of all they have built so far and all the space they have to build upon in the future. Izuna does his best to sketch what he sees on several different pieces of paper and includes the surrounding terrain as little symbols. Later he can use these sketches to create different proposals for wall construction.

Considering how often he changes his mind he intends to make at least five copies. He only gets halfway through the fourth before his hand freezes in place and his eyes slowly roll to one side, looking around without actually turning his head. It’s a useless endeavor anyway. Even if he turns all the way around and carefully inspects every inch of the space behind him Izuna knows he will see absolutely nothing.

Tobirama is better than that.

Weirder than the fact that his counterpart has been following him around like a lagging shadow for weeks now is the fact that there doesn’t seem to be a reason for it. The man hasn’t even gone to the trouble of suppressing his chakra. Izuna might not be a sensor type like his brother is but he isn’t so chakra-blind that he can’t tell when someone he’s spent years on the other side of a war from is nearby. He might be tempted to think the other man is mocking him somehow if not for the fact that Tobirama never once alludes to his little stalker habit when they are forced to interact in the tower. If anything his habit worsens during work hours. Very few days go by when Izuna does not turn around to find Tobirama hovering over him or staring intently from across the room.

Knowing that his old rival has been up to the same idiocies all day – just as every other day – is not very comforting but it makes his movements a little less awkward as he decides that he’s taken up enough time loitering here at the top of the cliff. It’s odd, the things one can get used to after being exposed for long enough. Having someone follow him around isn’t exactly comfortable but it’s something he learned to live with as soon as he concluded that it isn’t a statement of the Senju’s lack of trust. Not the clan as a whole, at least.

If there were anyone they don’t trust it would be Madara and no one follows him around. Izuna cannot imagine them wasting their best on him while assigning someone lesser to tailing his more dangerous older brother. The Senju have never been a stupid enemy.

Almost worse than the strangeness of knowing that he is being followed is trying to decide how to act. Izuna packs his sketches away and does everything he can to resist the urge to turn around and search for the face he knows is watching, reflecting that he isn’t actually sure what Tobirama will do if he confronts the man. When this first started Izuna hadn’t really known what to think of it, held off on reacting in any way in case he was misinterpreting something, and now that he knows for sure that the other is following him he realizes he’s let it go on for so long that bringing it up now will only be more awkward. They need to talk about it at some point, obviously. Just maybe not right this second.

Using that excuse only gets less and less valid with every day.

With a grand overview of the village fresh in his mind Izuna refocuses himself on the task at hand and begins drafting a few tentative blueprints in his mind while he scales his way back down the cliff. Halfway down he makes a mental note to suggest they install an easier way to get up here somehow. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that any tourists or visitors will be very interested in the view of a village so important to the history of the five great nations, the first of its kind. Then he pushes the thought away in to the corner of his mind for ‘things to deal with later’; he has much more important business at hand. Before they can welcome any tourism they need to be more solid in their defense of the people already here.

Senju Touka stands in the center of the road leading in to their settlement from the north when he arrives. Izuna is quick to hide the grimace that appears as soon as he catches sight of her. Enemies they might not be any longer but Touka is not likely to ever be his favorite person. Too brash, too hard, and too focused on being a warrior without ever allowing herself to still be a woman. Izuna enjoys a tough skin as much as the next shinobi but he needs friends and lovers who allow themselves to unclench at least once in a while. The woman before him carries a look on her face even when making no expression which tells him she probably hasn’t unclenched since the first time she learned to wield her body as a weapon.

“Nothing to report,” Touka’s voice rings out sharp even when she speaks quietly. He nods once to show that he understands.

“Border inspection,” he grunts back.

“Already? With all the paperwork that goes through the Tower I had guessed it would take at least another week for anyone to even think about doing something useful about their own ideas.” She snorts and this time Izuna allows the grimace that slides back over his face.

With a rueful sigh he shakes his head. “I gave myself the job for just that reason. This needs to get done.”

“Lots of things need to get done,” Touka mumbles dryly. Her eyes flick back down the path and her chin dips to signal someone else. “The others can walk the road; if I’m going to guard the wall when it goes up I’d like to hear your thoughts on where it’s to be built.”

Since there is really no polite way to refuse her Izuna shrugs and turns away without waiting to see if she follows. If she can’t keep up that’s her own problem. He isn’t the one who invited her along. Just as he finishes the thought her footsteps come from behind and her severe face returns to his peripherals with the blank expression of someone waiting to form an opinion.

That gives him an idea, actually, speaking of opinions. As the two of them travel in silence he lets his eyes roam around the terrain on all sides, mentally comparing it to the visual he remembers from above even as another part of his mind races trying to find the wording for how to broach a subject that many still consider sensitive.

“If I may, I’d like to ask about the climate in your clan,” he says eventually. Touka gives no physical reaction, betrayed only by the caution in her tone as she replies.

“You may ask your questions.” He notices that she has promised him no answers.

“Tensions were high for a while after we first merged our territories. Obviously it’s going to take a number of years before our people can coexist with true ease but – for my own clan at least – I’ve noticed massive improvements. What I mean to ask is: what of your own clan?”

“What of them?” Touka grunts.

Careful not to show his temper, Izuna keeps his voice low so it will not carry to other ears following along behind them. “Have the tensions eased in your people? Or do they still fear mine like enemies?”

“Fear isn’t exactly how I would describe it,” his unwanted companion muses. “Caution would be more accurate.”

“Do they distrust us so much?” he presses.

To his utter lack of surprise Touka turns to give him a sharp warning look. “Don’t go looking for trouble where there is none, Uchiha. Our people distrust yours no less than yours return in kind. Like you said yourself, it’s going to take years to erase the effects leftover from generations of war. Those of us who lived through it may never recover entirely. But”-from the corner of one eye he watches her move both hands away from her weapons in a deliberate motion-“we recognize and accept that the Uchiha want this peace to work. “

“Ah. Thank you for your input, Touka-san. I had thought that was how things stand but at this stage assumptions aren’t safe to be relied upon. Let’s change the subject. We’re thinking of building out from the current settlement to allow for growth but I don’t think this particular area would be good for that. Doesn’t the ground here turn in to swamp a few miles out?”

While she does allow him to change topics without comment Izuna notes the lingering gaze from the corner of her eyes to the corners of his own. He lets her stare. If they truly are allies then he has nothing to fear from a couple of eyes that don’t even have the advantage of a Sharingan. Rumor says this woman is nearly as good with genjutsu as any Uchiha but it would need to be some kind of skill indeed to trap him in an illusion he can’t escape – and besides that there is really no reason for her to do any such thing unless she wants to start another war.

Instead the two of them trade mild opinions on the surrounding land and discuss construction plans all while pretending they don’t notice the acid undertones or the barbs hidden in their words. Much as he is loathe to admit it, by the time they make a half circuit around the village and Touka declares it time for her to turn back he almost finds himself reluctant to see her go. Almost. Sometimes it’s nice to find someone who can withstand the worst of his vitriol. He is still firm on his belief that Touka will never be one of his favorite people but perhaps they can stand each other a little better than he first imagined.

The rest of his patrol around the perimeter is done in silence with no one to talk to but the thoughts inside his own mind, probably the most intelligent conversation he is likely to have all day. Rather than give that Senju woman any reason to look at him funny again Izuna ends his inspection by ducking in between some of the housing built on the fringes like afterthoughts.

He could have done without some of the man’s habits and opinions but if there is one thing Izuna wishes their brothers had actually listened to Tobirama about it’s the road planning. Caught up in their dream as they had been, Madara hadn’t so much held Hashirama back as he had egged the man on to raise frames and rooves without a single thought for the carefully drawn street maps Tobirama had been trying to present them with. Now everyone else pays the price for it as they wind their way through crisscrossing streets that often follow no logical direction whatsoever, haring off towards wherever Hashirama had raised the next home. Surely it can only be the mercy of the kami that made him finally stop and listen to his sibling before he made a similar mess of the village center.

Finding his way through the busy foot traffic is infinitely easier once he reaching the districts where the streets are wider than his own wingspan, leaving plenty of room for Izuna to duck and weave around the gaggle of children chasing each other, wild laughter ringing over the crowds with no regard for the different clans they each belong to.

This, he has come to understand, is the peace that Madara has been dreaming of since they were young boys clinging to each other with all their strength, the last of their siblings and so desperate not to lose any more. In some ways he wishes he had understood earlier. He also hopes that the idiot following along behind him on a nearby rooftop understands the same.

When he reaches the tower Izuna heads straight for his office and rather pointedly shuts the door behind him, relieved to note Tobirama’s distinctive chakra moving off to hopefully be productive somewhere else. How the man gets anything done when he’s following other people around all day is a mystery but Izuna is just as glad to finally be alone. It’s much easier to concentrate on drawing up a few difference proposals for wall construction when he doesn’t have some part of his concentration occupied with the ever-watching eyes over his shoulder.

Unfortunately for all that he’s always been fast at coming up with plans he is also, given the time, a perfectionist. What should only take him a mere twenty minutes to sketch some rough blueprints turns in to nearly two hours of meticulous lines and painstaking notes along the edges of every paper to list the benefits of each different proposal. Izuna is already rolling his eyes at himself by the time he finally drags his body up out of the chair with a firm mental declaration that any further additions will be a waste of time. Only one of these proposals can be chosen as the final plan and the entire council will be looking over it to add their suggestions. No one expects him to think of everything himself.

Seeing Madara roll his eyes as well when he lets himself in to his brother’s office makes him stick out his tongue, a gesture the man returns without pause. Dignity isn’t exactly a concern when they are alone.

“Took you long enough,” is his greeting. “Didn’t you leave to do that just after noon? It shouldn’t have taken you that long just to walk in a big circle and doodle a couple outlines. What did you do, take a nap in a tree somewhere?” Madara tuts and shakes the handle of a brush at him, then he frowns and looks down at the parchment he’s just splattered with ink.

“Pardon me for doing my job well,” Izuna grumbles.

“Well give them here then. Looks like you have several ideas. That’s good, actually. I know it sounds counterintuitive but the bloody elders actually decide faster if we give them more options.”

The two of them share a tired look and Izuna nods understandingly as he tosses his papers on the desk. “Fewer options always means one person picks a favorite right away and another person takes exception to that. Best to let them talk it all out first, I get it.”

Madara spreads the sketches out and fiddles with the end of one, lifting it only to turn his eyes to another.

“Do you have any you’re particularly attached to before I look them over?” he asks.

“No.”

He should know to watch his tone. It’s only a single word but the moment it leaves his mouth Izuna winces, pinned in place under the sudden scrutiny of dark eyes that know him just a little too well.

“You sound upset by something,” Madara notes. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t say wrong, precisely. I’m being followed around again and I still don’t like it.” It’s gratifying to see the other man scrunch his face up with distaste. At least he isn’t the only one who finds this situation endlessly odd.

“Still not talking to you about it, I suppose?”

“Not a damn word. Any time I bring it up he just stares at me with these…empty eyes. Honestly sometimes I’m tempted to worry that he’s been possessed by some demon with a grudge against me. Somehow that would make more sense!” Izuna shakes his head, stepping around to slump his body in to the single visitor chair available. Then he squirms uncomfortably as a floral scent wafts up his nose. It’s easy to tell who usually sits in this chair.

Fingers twiddling absently at the edges of the papers spread out on his desk, Madara rolls his eyes at such dramatics but makes no comment on them, which Izuna takes to mean that his sibling agrees in his own way. He wishes he could say he is only being silly and dramatic but deep down he truly believes that Tobirama being possessed by a vengeful spirit would make more sense than for the man to follow him around as though suspicious of his intentions. Still ridiculous, of course, but somehow more plausible.

He hadn’t been stupid enough to believe Hashirama's vague words about recovery during the first few meetings of peace between their people. The longer time went on without the Senju second heir appearing the less anyone had been willing to believe such nonsense but it was the look in Hashirama's eyes which stilled their tongues as the months stretched out in to a full year. Not anger or exasperation, no nervousness that they might be taking offense. What earned their silence both then and now had been the worry in his eyes, the fear for another which he tried so desperately not to let them see, the flash of uncertain terror that shadowed his eyes with every mention of his brother. Izuna has seen that look in the eyes of those who worry for their loved ones even when there is no wound to worry over.

“And he’s not…aggressive?” Madara asks.

“No!” Izuna throws his hands in the air and slumps further in his seat. “At least if he was angry or something I would understand that but this silence and following me around, it’s just weird! I don’t know how I’m supposed to react to it.”

“You could, oh I don’t know, ask him to stop?”

With the bitchiest look he can summon Izuna nods exaggeratedly. “Oh of course, why didn’t I think of that? Ah right. Because I did. And all that accomplished was a big fat load of nothing.”

“There’s no need to be so sarcastic,” his brother grumbles. When Madara turns away to pout Izuna rubs at the space between his brows.

“Do you have any idea what his problem is? Serious question, any idea at all? Has your best friend for life not said anything or dropped any hints? I’m at my wits end here.” What small hope he has is dashed by the shaking of the other man’s head.

Madara shrugs as he says, “Not a clue. It’s weird but Hashirama doesn’t actually talk about his brother very much.”

“You mean they don’t like each other?”

“No, not like that. But every time Tobirama comes up in conversation, if it’s not work related Hashirama will get this really weird look on his face and change the subject. Usually in such a way that I don’t think about it till later. You know how he is, all loud and distracting.”

“He’s certainly not as dumb as he pretends to be,” Izuna agrees.

The two of them sit in silence for a minute or two, thinking of the all the unexpected similarities between the Senju siblings and all the ways they’re still so different. For all that they are both unexpectedly intelligent it seems to be only in their own respective fields. Where Tobirama’s intelligence is nearly unparalleled when it comes to science and political machinations he seems to be quite useless when it comes to human interactions and yet that is where Hashirama shines – earnest Hashirama who can only stare with a blank smile whenever his beloved sibling goes off on some in-depth explanation of a new tax code proposal.

Shaking his head to clear it, Izuna takes a deep breath and decides that sitting around moaning about his own confusion isn’t getting much done. There are still other things he needs to do that day and he can’t do anything of them while staring across the desk at Madara.

Leaving the man to his work is as easy as reminding him that he has a lot of it and suddenly Izuna finds there is no more attention on him, the perfect time to slip out the door and wander slowly back to his own office. It is only his perfectionist nature which leads him to hearing what he does then. Were he anyone else he might shrug it off when he notices the wrappings around his left ankle coming loose, something that can certainly wait until he sits down to be fixed, but he stops instead and leans against the wall just before a turn in the corridor to bend down and fiddle with his ankle. Not until he is already busy unwrapping and retucking does he realize he is in the perfect spot to overhear two people just around the corner.

“Tetsuo thinks maybe they’re having an affair of some kind,” the first voice says, full of scorn for their own words.

“Ridiculous. That icicle and Izuna-sama? Not a chance. They were rivals for years, they’re not going to fall in to bed only a few months after peace was made!” The second voice sounds vaguely familiar, probably a member of his own clan though he can’t quite identify them.

“I never said I believed it!” the first objects. “But it’s weird, right? The way Tobirama-sama just…hovers around him. If they weren’t enemies for years I would say he’s acting like a nervous parent or something with how he watches Izuna-sama’s every move and how he glares at anyone who says something bad about the man.”

To Izuna’s annoyance his possible clan member feels the need to waste time defending his honor with a sharp, “Who’s saying bad things about him?”

“Oh for kami’s sake, that’s not the point.”

“Hmph.”

“But you get what I’m saying, yeah? I know Tetsuo think they’re rolling around together but my theory is a blood oath or something. Maybe Hashirama-sama set him this duty as penance. I heard one of them almost died in the final battle between your clans and everyone knows Tobirama-sama is too fast to go down easy.”

Much as it hurts Izuna’s pride a little to have someone believe him the weaker in any battle, he forces himself to remain still and continue listening. It takes a moment for his prideful clansman to get past the spluttering and rage over the same issue but eventually it fades in to senseless grumbling and a solid declaration that Tobirama was in fact been the one injured during their final clash. Clearly this person hadn’t been present or else they might not so casually reference that moment.

Very few had known how to process the sight of an elder version of his rival appearing only to turn and slaughter his own younger self.

As the two strangers continue to speculate Izuna swallows thickly and turns away to take another route back to his office, finding suddenly that listening in on a conversation he isn’t supposed to hear has lost its appeal. More than ever his curiosity has been peaked, however. He needs to figure this situation out.

Why does Tobirama follow him?

That will have to be dealt with on his own time, however. Later he will pass on what he heard to his brother and they can speculate to their hearts’ content over dinner. For now he has work to do. Work that, so long as he remains shut away within his own office, he can trust that he will be able to do in the silence of solitary.

Only when the work is done will he turn his mind to the problems that he has already let go too far. Surely one more day of ignoring it all cannot hurt anything. He’ll deal with it eventually, of course, but until then Izuna supposes he can hope that ignoring his problems might, by some miracle, simply make them go away.

#rae writes #commission #izuna #tobirama #madara #touka #fanfiction

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a-bit-too-much-of-a-zelda-fan · 5 years

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LinkedUniverse Fanfiction Ch. 15: Painting the Town

Stop! You’ve Violated the Law!

So, you’ve stumbled upon this original post for my Linked Universe fanfiction. That’s okay, it happens to everyone. As of March 2021, I’ve uploaded the entirety of this fanfic to my Archive of Our Own page. Along with finally giving the story a name–Oops! All Links: A Linked Universe Story–I made substantial edits to some of the chapters. These range from minor stylistic revisions to fixing a gaping plot hole that kinda completely broke the character conflict in the earlier chapters. I also renamed and renumbered (but not reordered) the chapters. Specifically, this is now Chapter 17: To Sell a Butterfly (Pendant).

The AO3 iterations of these chapters are the definitive versions. So, if you would like to read this fanfiction, please do so on AO3, right here. With this embedded link. Hehe. Geddit? Link?

Note: My screen name on AO3 is FrancisDuFresne. Yes, that is me. I am not plagiarizing myself.

Anyway, for posterity’s sake, the rest of the original post is below the cut.

It’s finally here! Wow! ... If you thought the long wait would end with a chapter the scale of “Fire,” you’ll be sorely disappointed. Sorry, folks. Still, now we finally get to see more of Selggog and the Links’ quest. When we’re talking my fan narrative, what can beat the hijinx of the Heroes of Wind and Twilight? Word Count: 1576

“So why’d you come with me, instead?” Wind asked.

Twilight looked down to his friend and shrugged. “I didn’t want to sit around waiting for Wild to find weapons he liked. Potion shopping beats that, at least.”

Wind glanced upward at passing shop signs as they walked down one of Selggog’s many busy streets. The others sent them to resupply on potions. Hyrule had finished the last of their stock following their skirmish with the Hinox. The two of them had been searching for an apothecary for the past half hour.

The elder of them sighed. “We should ask someone.”

“Where’s the fun in that, though?” Wind countered. He was jovially bouncing about on the balls of his feet with each step. “Having absolutely no idea where you’re going makes it a little adventure!”

“Aren’t we already on an adventure?”

Wind frowned. He clasped his hands behind his head and looked up. White, fluffy clouds dotted the otherwise clear sky. “Yeah, I guess,” he said somewhat dejectedly. Then, more chipper than before, “Well, it can be a side quest. How about that?”

“’Side quest?’ Kind of a silly name for it.”

“Yeah? Well… I like it.”

Twilight let out a bark of laughter. “Maybe it’ll stick.”

Some passersby knocked shoulders with the Links as the streets became busier. “Ack!” Wind grunted. “You know,” he called out to someone ahead who had rammed into him, “wouldn’t kill you to say sorry!”

“Shhh,” Twilight hushed sharply. “We don’t want—“ he was cut off by someone bashing his shoulder—"unneeded attention.”

Wind rubbed his shoulder and looked up to his friend. “You think they’re always this in a rush?”

“Dunno. I’m not used to city life.”

“Yeah,” Wind said. He thought back to Windfall Island, which he used to think of as a metropolis. “Gotta say this place is a bit bigger than I’m used to.”

Twilight patted his pockets. Satisfied everything was where it should be, he glanced at his partner. “Just make sure no one filches anything. You have your wallet, right?”

With a pffft, Wind checked his own pockets over. “Of course I d—”

A pause. “Wind?” Twilight asked. He stopped walking.

The youngest hero looked up at his friend with a sheepish smile. He raised his arms in a guilty sort of half-shrug. “Wind,” Twilight said slowly, “Don’t tell me you—”

“Yep.”

“By Ordona…” he cursed, smacking his forehead. He thought that over. Why did I just hurt myself? I didn’t do anything wrong. He promptly smacked Wind on the back of the head.

“Ow! What the heck?”

“What did we tell you?!”

“To watch out for pickpockets…” Wind admitted with his head hung, kicking at a pebble on the road.

“And did you?!”

Wind looked up. His wide eyes seemed to burn with anger Twilight had never seen. “No, Twi!” he shouted back. “I didn’t! So can you stop yelling at me and making me feel like crap so we can go find it?!”

Twilight was about to fire back, then paused. For all Wind had been through, he was still just a kid. He sighed and looked around. Some people had stopped and were staring at them. “Well?” he called out to them.

They shrugged and went back to bustling down the street on their errands. When Twilight turned back to his friend, he found him breathing deeply with his eyes closed. “Hey,” he began, “I didn’t mean t—”

“Stop,” Wind interrupted. He opened his eyes and met Twilight’s gaze. “Just because I’m cheery most of the time,” he whispered. Twilight could barely hear him. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings like everybody else.”

“I—”

“Just remember that.”

Twilight had never seen the youngest Link upset enough to yell. He really had struck a nerve. “Okay,” he said. “I will.”

Wind’s expression softened. “Thank you. Now let’s find my wallet. What’re we gonna do?”

“I would suggest we ask Sky to borrow the Master Sword for its dowsing ability.” He considered this. “But even if it was willing to help, there are so many wallets in this town that it probably couldn’t pick yours out of the crowd.”

A thought struck Wind. “What about your wolf sense?”

Twilight looked around. The streets were packed with people going about their business. He remembered how the residents of Castle Town reacted to seeing his beastly form. “No. I don’t want to scare all these people.”

“Fair,” Wind replied. “But what else can we do?”

“Uh…” he muttered, wracking his brains. “I… I don’t know.”

Wind’s jolted to attention as if shocked by a yellow ChuChu. The sudden movement made his partner flinch. “What if I just earn back all the money that was stolen?” Wind suggested, thrusting his arms down, palms up, as if pointing out something totally obvious.

Twilight’s brow furrowed. “That might actually work…” he admitted pensively. “How much was in there?”

Silence. Well, at least between the two heroes. The townspeople were loud and rowdy as ever. “Um…” Wind said, clearly stalling. “Not too much.”

“Don’t dick around with me. How much?”

“About two-fifty?”

“That’s a lot of smashed pots,” Twilight joked, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms. “How do you plan on earning that much?”

The young seafarer dug in his pouch and pulled out a necklace. “I’ve got some treasures I can sell. How many people here would buy a chintzy necklace with a butterfly pendant?”

“With this many people, hopefully at least a couple.”

“How much should we charge?”

“How many do you have?”

“Seven.”

Twilight nodded. “Anything else?”

Wind shook his head. “Some trinkets, feathers, a lot of junk.”

“Right. Well, let’s get started.”

“Hoi!” Wind called out to the crowd. “Beautiful butterfly necklaces here! Twenty-five rupees apiece!”

No one walked over to them. The crowds just kept moving by. Undeterred, Wind repeated his sales call even louder. This turned some heads, but nobody came. He tried once more. The second-floor shutters of a nearby building slammed open. A disheveled old man in a sleeping cap poked his head out. “Quit yer yapping!” he shouted down to the Links. “People are trying to sleep!”

The two heroes glanced at each other, paused a moment, then shrugged in unison. Wind hooked his thumbs on his belt and shifted his weight to one leg. “Guess that’s out the window,” he said.

Twilight let out a frustrated sigh. If he had just been more careful, we’d have potions by now, he thought bitterly. No, stay focused. We need to figure this o—

“Oh!” Wind exclaimed, again startling his friend. “Let’s find a shop that will buy some of my stuff!”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure most shops won’t buy off strangers. They’re trying to sell their junk, not buy yours. Think how fast they’d go bankrupt.”

Wind shook his head. “No no no, I mean a treasure teller! Someone who deals in treasures. There was one on one of the islands I sailed to. I’m sure there’s one around here.”

“Alright,” Twilight said, “how are we gonna find one? Search every street? That didn’t quite work for the apothecary.”

“Look for a sign with a rupee on it,” Wind replied, scanning the street for such a sign. “There’s gotta be one aro—OH! Look!”

Wind pointed out to the building directly across the street from them. Sure enough, the storefront had a multitude of rupees painted all over it. Twilight sighed in relief. “That was easier than expected.”

“I wouldn’t get too excited. We have no idea what they’ll offer for my stuff. These guys can be fickle.”

“Right.”

The two heroes crossed the street and entered the store. The walls were covered in a bizarre wallpaper filled with celestial bodies and distorted floral patterns. The shelves immediately drew their eyes. Treasures and spoils lined the perimeter of the store. Everything from golden statuettes to fine china to jewelry to precious stones rested upon the shelves. A beaded curtain hung in the doorway between the store and some back room.

While Wind marveled over the treasures, Twilight strode to the ornately-decorated counter. It was adorned with an equally beautiful silver bell. He gently tapped its button. A soft, pleasing ding rang out. No one came after a few seconds, so he rang it again, a little harder this time. He strained to hear any movement in the back room but was left wanting.

By now, Wind had refocused and walked up beside his friend. They glanced at each other. A look of confusion and mild annoyance passed between their eyes. Wind shrugged. “Hello?” he called slightly louder than the second bell ring. Nothing.

“Oh, come on,” he grumbled with a huff. He hooked his thumbs in his belt again. “Maybe no one is here?”

Twilight shook his head. “With this kind of merchandise, the door would have been locked tight.”

“So why the heck is no one coming?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Alright, here goes,” Wind said with resignation lacing his voice. He cupped his hands over his mouth. “Hoi!” he yelled. “Is anybody here?!”

Nothing. The hairs on the back of Twilight’s neck stood on end. His eyes narrowed. Honing his wolf senses had carried over somewhat to his Hylian form. Something didn’t sit right with him. “Quiet down. This doesn’t feel right.”

Just then, a drawling whisper came from directly behind the young heroes. “No need to be afraid, dearies…”

#linkeduniverse fanfiction #linkeduniverse #my own #my writing #painting the town #I'm back bitches

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littleladymab · 4 years

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tiny cracks of light - chapter twenty-two (end)

(master post)

Prelude- "What's he like?" Sasha asks, trying to decide how she's feeling about meeting the new Head Archivist.

"He's not worth shit," Tim grumbles. He's still in bed, showing no sign of even getting up and getting dressed any time soon. "I don't know why you're bothering."

"He's the new boss."

"He's not you."

Sasha meets his eyes in the mirror, and it helps, a little — to see her own buried frustrations reflected in his expression. "No," she agrees softly. "He's not."

She gets up from her vanity chair and sits on the edge of the bed to put on her boots. "Just as well, too," she says as Tim pushes her hair aside so he can leave a kiss on her neck. "I'd have to share you if he was another me."

He laughs into her skin. "There's barely enough of me for one of you."

"Well there you go."

"Hmm." Tim's arm curls around her waist and he nuzzles her jaw. "Five more minutes?"

Sasha laughs as she easily separates herself from his arms. "I'm going to go introduce myself to my new boss," she says in between kisses. "You might have had the fortune of his company on the ride over from the main Institute, but I have yet to meet the man." She gives him one final kiss on the bridge of his nose before stepping out of his reach. "Don't be late."

"Doubt he'll notice," Tim says, flopping back into her pillows.

"I'll notice."

He groans at the ceiling as she closes the door behind her.

In the hall, she fixes her shirt from where Tim rumpled it and makes her way towards the Head Archivist's office.

At the door, she breathes in, breathes out, and knocks.

"Come in."

She opens the door and steps inside.

The man behind the desk is, charitably, scrawny. He has a face where it's hard to tell his age, but there's a dour air that hangs around him that could rival Gertrude when she was in one of her moods. He looks up at her entrance, and she's surprised to see how young his eyes look. "Yes?"

"My name is Sasha. I will be one of your Archival assistants." She hesitates, then steps forward to offer her hand.

Recognition dawns on his face, and some of the weight seems to lift from his frame. He rises to his feet in order to accept her handshake. "Oh. The Watcher mentioned you. You are the assistant from the previous Archivist, correct?"

"That's me!" She smiles as pleasantly as she can. "I know pretty much everything about this place, so please don't hesitate to ask me for anything.

There's hesitation before he returns the smile — a shy and shaky expression, like he's not used to the motion. "I... Thank you. I will."

Sasha gestures to the open door behind her. "Would you like a tour?"

"Oh..." The Archivist pauses, considering the hall beyond. "Actually, yes. That would be nice." He rounds the desk to join her, and she's surprised to find that they're close to the same height. Everything about him looks so frail, and she wonders if he's even aware of the dangers that can come with this job.

"You can call me Jon," he tells her as he pulls on his coat.

The smile comes easier this time. "I look forward to working with you, Jon."

He nods, as if satisfied with something. "And you, Sasha."

He has tremendously large shoes to fill, Sasha knows, but she hopes that she will be strong enough to give him the support he needs.

Jon finds her early in the morning, standing in the center of the Archives with her face tilted up towards the domed skylight. "Shouldn't you be resting?"

Sasha lets out a huff of laughter. "I've already slept an entire day. Besides, Tim is too warm," she says. "It's going to be brutal in the summer."

There's a look on Jon's face, something between surprise and embarrassment. He coughs to clear his throat and looks away, as if by doing that he wouldn't accidentally learn too much.

Eventually, softly, he says, "I wanted to apologize."

She glances at him curiously. "For what?"

Jon gives her a look, and she laughs. "Is it too presumptuous to say 'everything'?"

"No, I suppose not. It's not really your fault, though."

"In a way it is."

She hums but doesn't answer.

"Sasha, you... You didn't have freedom, exactly, but you had something close to it." Jon ruffles his hair in frustration. "You've given that up."

She shrugs and shakes her head. "If you didn't take the Head Archivist position, I wonder if I would have been strong enough to reject the future that the Watcher wanted."

"Don't say that—"

"Jon," she laughs and turns to face him. "I had half the power that he needed and I wanted more. It's easy to lose yourself to that, especially when all of my connections to the rest of you had been cut off." Sasha can't help the shiver, and she hugs herself to fight off the memories.

He studies the marble beneath their feet, allowing her that moment of privacy.

Basira's marks had been smudged by their passing, a faint reminder of what happened the day before. Sasha can still feel the ones that were missed in their rush to bind the Watcher. The blind spots throughout the building, waiting patiently until the Head Archivist can go and clean them.

That will be Jon's job, not hers, as much as she longs for the ritual of it.

"We no longer have a Watcher," Jon says into the silence between them.

There is the buzz of the Eye in her ears, whispering to her to look for the solution he's offering. She wonders over the 'we'. Does he include her in that? What does it mean if he does?

She doesn't comment.

"The position is yours, if you want it."

That isn't what she expects.

"What?" she splutters, dropping her arms to her side despite the chill seizing her spine. "The Watcher's seat?"

"No—" Jon hurries to clarify. "No, heavens. I meant the Head Archivist position."

Sasha stares at him wide-eyed. "You mean to become the Watcher?"

He tries to shrug it off casually, but she doesn't need a mark from the Eye to know how nervous he is with the prospect. "I have a full command of the Eye, don't I? We stood in that space together. He wanted someone with a connection to the other entities, so that he could control all of their tethers together."

She continues to study him, to really look. She can see the marks without even trying now, and the way that they tie him to those he calls friends.

The line between the two of them is soft and gold, and hums with the surety of their bond.

"You can think about it," he says, finally turning to face her. "I... well, Basira and I will have to write a report to the Institute, I suppose. If we do a decent job of it, they won't shut us down."

There's a thrum of motion from her tether with Tim, and soon she can feel the heat of him approaching.

Jon looks away when Tim arrives. "Just think about it, alright?"

She nods wordlessly.

He gives Tim a cursory if awkward nod in greeting before excusing himself from the conversation.

"What was that about?" Tim asks as he takes Jon’s place at her side.

"A new job offer," she says.

"What? What kind of job?" He thinks about this for a second, then says, "So you'll be staying?"

Sasha hesitates before shrugging. "I don't think I'd be able to leave again, even if I wanted to."

Tim moves to stand in front of her, and she focuses her gaze on his face. "But you don't want to?" he asks, hopefully.

She takes his hands in her own. "This is where I belong."

"And hey! You're alive! That has to count for something, right?" There is a nervous and hopeful expression on his face, and something unspoken that she understands anyway.

"Yeah," she says with a smile. She steps in flush against him, rising up on her toes so she can kiss him. "It does."

He grins into the kiss, giving her a second and a third even as she drops back onto the flats of her feet — twining their fingers together and swinging their arms. "You know, don't think I didn't notice you wearing my shirt."

"You didn't say anything, so I was beginning to wonder."

He snorts before stepping back to regard her at arm's length. "Oh, I noticed. Wearing one of my shirts, a skirt that had clearly seen some mud in the last week, feet bare and hair unbound." He whistles and gives her a once-over. "That was quite a look for saving the world."

She laughs as he spins her around. "I didn't save the world."

"Sasha," he says in that tone of his that means he's about to say something ridiculous.

"Tim," she says in the same tone.

"You are my world."

She laughs again because she can't help it. He pulls her in against him, and her arms curl around his neck with practiced ease. "I love you," she tells him, overflowing with delight.

This, she thinks as he leans in to kiss her beneath the early morning sun filtering in through the domed skylight, this is my world.

Epilogue- Sasha stands in the center of the compass rose and looks around her in awe. The building is new, erected within the last few years to coincide with the new Watcher, but already she can feel the history held within the space.

Behind her, the front doors of the building are thrown open to the spring morning. The warm, buttery sunlight highlights the striations in the marble and catches the motes of dust that dance in a breeze. Ahead, north on the compass, are the doors to the Watcher's office. Those remain closed.

She can hear the call of birdsong twining together with the whispers of stories, the scent of wildflowers and overflowing ink filling her nose.

She thinks she might be in love with this place. She thinks she might not ever want to leave.

"You must be Sasha James," a woman says, and she turns to find the Head Archivist approaching from between the stacks. "You arrived earlier than expected."

"I'm sorry," Sasha says. "I couldn't sleep."

The older woman lifts an eyebrow, but it does little to hide the trace of amusement in her eyes. "I see. So you set out from the Institute on horseback in the middle of the night?"

Sasha blushes, because yes. She did.

The Head Archivist waves her hand to brush it aside. "My name is Gertrude. You will be working as one of my assistants for the foreseeable future."

She wonders if she should curtsy or something, but Gertrude is already heading back towards the far side of the Archives, where — now that she's listening — several more voices rise in conversation.

Gertrude pauses at the first row of shelves and turns back to look at Sasha. "Well, come along then," she says when she realizes she's not being followed. "I will introduce you to the rest of the team."

"Coming!" Sasha says needlessly, and hurries to catch up — earning another amused little look from Gertrude.

And as she enters the stacks, Sasha thinks, I cannot wait to learn every piece of this world.

#the magnus archives #verse: every open eye #fic: lifeline #a lil miss fic

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erintoknow · 5 years

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Snipe Hunt

@hotlineaisui very kindly let me borrow logan for some extracanonical shenanigans. this was a lot of fun to write.

fallen hero: rebirth fanfic, about 3.4k words, no spoilers, i think?

------

You stand in the dark, just outside the circle of light from the streetlamp, propped up against the brick wall of the now closed bakery, a brown paper bag between your hands. Reckon it had been over an hour now, drum your fingers against the contents of the bag. Under your shawl, you’re dressed in your old black skinsuit. Well, old with a few improvements. Being Adrestia outside of your armor feels unnatural, you’ve tried to keep things compartmentalized that way since you started your career. This case will have to be an exception however. Subterfuge is the name of the game and you’ll need every advantage you can get. Thinking of which…

There’s the rising roar of a motorcycle before you pick up the probing presence of her mind. It’s a quick pull to bring your mask back down over your face as Anima comes to a stop in front of you.

“I didn’t know you owned a motorcycle?” You ask through the buzz of your voice modulator.

Anima leans the bike to the side as she brings the kickstand down. “I don’t.” She answers, her voice similarly distorted.

She offers no further explanation.

“…We good to go, Anima?”

She nods. “They boys are ready to jump when I give the order.” She taps the radio clipped to her belt. Anima’s track record is hard to argue with, though it was the network that she brought into play that had convinced you to consider working with her. Like, you tonight, Anima is forgoing her proper villain attire in favor of a black skinsuit and mask.

…You have to admit she wears it a lot better than you do.

She stretches her arms and leans back, as if to prove the point. It’s been a long time since you’ve worked with another telepath, you’re going to have to watch your thinking around her.

You cough and pull a cape out the paper bag you’ve been holding. Like your shawl it’s a long rectangular cut of fabric with a strange silky texture. You toss it to her, and she catches it in one hand. “Thermal reflective,” you offer as an explanation.

She drapes it around her shoulders, fastening it in place.“You saying I’m too hot, Elvis?”

“F-for infiltration!” You sputter. “And it’s Adrestia.”

“Right. You’re the boss, Adriana.”

You grit your teeth, take a breath. Stay focused. It’s time to be Adrestia now.

It’s not a long walk, from here to your target, and sticking to the shadows is old hat by now. Even so, ’dark of night’ doesn’t mean much when the perimeter of the Los Diablos City Archive is a moat of light. It’s hardly the Ark of the Covenant in there. Who would want to steal a bunch of musty old government records?

Well... who beside you and Anima anyway.

A quick scan of the area for prying minds and then the two of you dash across open space to the side door. Anima hunches down to pick the lock while you keep watch.

“Hey,” Anima doesn’t look up from the door as she works. “Can you tone down the concert, Adele?”

You glance down at her, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

Anima taps the side of her head. “Hard to focus when you’re blasting the 80s up here.”

“You have your own mental shield, right? That’s mine.” Still, you try to scale back a little, let more of the world in. You should have already been doing that, be ready to pick up any errant presence on it’s way.

“Yeah… That sounds fake as shit, but whatever.”

You frown under your mask at that. You’re Adrestia. You’re supposed to be assertive, confident, you shouldn't’t have to just take this, this is your operation. “Maybe try actually using yours for a change, Anima.”

Anima tsks only half listening as she stands back up and kicks the door right on the lock causing it to swing in with slam. "Door’s open.”

“A master locksmith.” You mutter as you follow her in.

The lights are low, but visibility is still fine. The building just has that spooky after hours feeling, like there might be ghosts hiding around a corner. Good, spooky atmosphere should make your jobs easier.

You feel the question coming from Anima before she vocalizes it, “So who’s taking what?”

You close your eyes, run over the mental map in your head. Imagine the path as a thread, split in two, running through the building. “Take that third door.” You point down the left of the hallway. “Follow the signs to the backup generator and the switchboard. Then meet back up with me…” You drag your arm through the air, pointing through a wall to where you know the stairwell down is located on the other end of the building, “there. I’ll be waiting there as soon as I clear out the security office.”

Anima nods, “Race you there.”

“It’s not a–“ she’s already half way down the hallway, “–race.”

Welp.

You’re not about to let her beat you.

Turning right you follow the path you’ve already plotted, pausing only to let a tired security guard pass through an intersection. Check in on his thoughts, only to find nothing out of the ordinary. That’s reassuring. You were worried that Anima’s ‘lockpicking’ might have scrubbed the mission before it could even start. Turns out it’s hard to go broke betting against the city government.

When you reach the security office you detect only one person inside, a woman, more focused on their book than the array of TV screens. It doesn’t take much to reach out, encourage her to feel the weight pulling on her eyelids. The assurance that everything’s going to be fine, nothing ever happens here anyway. It’s an easy job. Who can blame her? She deserves a rest.

When you actually step inside, she’s already deep asleep. You gently wheel her chair back away from the desk and scan the control panel. The passwords are listed on a sticky note hanging from the side of the monitor.

Only the best for this city.

You set the tapes to wipe and reset every half hour instead of every forty-eight, then move on to the security system, disabling the motion sensors and alarms. Job finished you step back and clap your hands together. That went far more smoothly than you had expected. You wheel the guard woman back to her spot at the desk to complete the picture. Finally, you reset the passwords to random gibberish. Hope guard-lady enjoys the nap, it’s likely to be her last on the job.

You’re stepping back into the hallway when the lights flicker and go out. Anima’s finished with the power then. With only the emergency batteries most, if not all, of the doors in your way will have automatically unlocked for safety purposes. And if your enemy is going to just ‘leave’ the door open, it’d be downright rude not to walk in and take a look around, wouldn’t it?

Now the timer starts. How long before someone puts things together and raises an alarm? Long enough you hope. You turn on the night vision in your mask, tinging the black around you into a green haze. Someone’s bound to come running to the security room when what’s-her-name doesn’t check in.

Time to get going and make your way through the building to the rendezvous point.

Anima’s already waiting for you when you reach the stairwell. Mercifully there’s no comments about winning the ‘race.’ You have to admit, part of you is surprised she actually waited.

“Don’t be so shocked, Ariana,” Anima holds a door open for you, gesturing you in with an elaborate flourish. “I need you in order to get the archive after all.”

Right. That made more sense. She wanted those files as badly as you did. It’s the main reason you’re taking the risk of trusting her. What is the official report on the Heartbreak incident? The one that even the Rangers can’t access? Hopefully tonight you’ll get some answers.

You push open the other door instead of the one Anima’s holding. The huff of frustration behind your back earning a small smirk under your mask. “Com’on, sweet tea, we’re against the clock now.”

She falls in alongside you as you double-time down the stairs. “’Sweet tea?’ What are you, a southern belle now?”

“Bless your heart.” You reply with the appropriate level of mock sincerity as the two of you reach the bottom of the stairwell.

You take position to one side of the double doors to the basement floor and Anima follows suit across from you. Try to relax, spread out the song in your head and feel for what other tones get caught in the mesh. You can get a sense of Anima doing something similar; a smooth, silvery sensation that splits into fractals before rejoining itself. It’s a little unnerving. Sensation of bad memories.

But the past can’t hurt you, and there’s no one else on this floor who could try either. “Detect anything?” You ask.

“Nope, they’re all running around upstairs.” Anima confirms.

“Works for me,” you push the door open and power walk down the hallway. The server room is at the far end of the basement. No need to drag this out. You can follow the path you already memorized straight there. The two of you manage to pass a whole minute in blessed, if anxious, silence when Anima starts trailing behind you.

“Hey… hey, Adele!”

You keep moving. You may need her support to pull this off, but you’re not going to let her get under your skin the whole time.

“Hey, Avril Lavigne, hold up.”

You’re not falling for it.

“Fucking… Amy Winehouse girl, hey!”

You turn the corner and walk face first into someone’s chest. “Fuck!” You jump back, falling into a defensive stance. The man you’ve just run into similarly steps back, tensing up. Why didn’t you pick up on him? You strain for the man in front of you. Now that you know he’s here you can pick up the faint hum of static. An epileptic? “Fuck.”

“What the hell?” The man is dressed in a crisp white skinsuit and grips a black baton in one hand.

“I was fucking trying to warn you.” Anima hisses as she catches up.

The man glances from you to her and takes a step backward, one hand reaching for his radio. You move forward, aiming for his arm, only to crash into Anima as she goes for his leg. The two of you topple to the ground in a furiously cursing mess of limbs.

The man in the white skinsuit yells into his radio. “We’ve got two intruders on the basement floor! I need back up!”

You scramble to your feet, elbow stinging from where you hit the ground. “Goddamnit.”

“Maybe listen to me next time.” Anima cracks her knuckles as she gets up.

You’re still closer, so the man goes for you first, aiming to bring the baton down on your head. You jump backwards, and fake losing your balance to get him to press his advantage. Like a sap, he takes the bait and Anima uses the opening to kick out the back of his knee.

The man cries out as he collapses forward and you greet him with a punch in the face, reversing his momentum, this time with a broken nose. Anima neatly sidesteps, letting him crash onto the cement floor with a meaty thud. “I call dibs on the next guy.”

You hiss as you shake your hand, it’s been awhile since you’ve punched someone outside of your suit. “So much for stealth.” You frown, and peer down at the prone form. “He had a skinsuit. Was that a boosted guard? I wonder what his power was?”

“Don’t care. Do we still have time?” Anima asks, stepping around the unconscious man.

You pull yourself away, run over the plan in your head again. “I have no idea. If they’re all that easy, maybe?”

“Good enough for me.”

“Here’s hoping.”��

It’s not a long run at this point, and just as hoped, the electronic lock offers no trouble as you swing the door open. “Keep watch?”

Anima shrugs, “Fine. Don’t get lost in there Adelaide.”

You spit another curse as you enter the server room.

“What? What’s the problem now?” Anima stands in the doorframe, watching the hallway. You can pick up that silvery fractal sensation now and again, like a pulse.

You gesture at the racks of hardware, stomping your foot. “There’s no power!”

“Uh… yeah, that was the point, wasn’t it?”

“There’s supposed to be a tertiary power supply just to keep the servers running. It’s on every damn schematic and report I could find.”

“Wow.” Anima’s voice is flat. “Someone lied. That’s never happened before.”

“Oh…” You try to think of a curse word strong enough, fail. “Shush up.”

Anima laughs, a hand over her mouth. “'Shush up?’”

“I need to think.” You pace the room. It’s more a narrow hallway with rows of servers on racks. Run your gloved hand across the dusty plastic cases. Which server hard drive has the file? Could you just… take the whole thing?

“Why can’t you just take the whole computer?” Anima asks, still leaning in the doorframe, arms crossed.

You jump. Has she been listening to you think the whole time?

“No, just now.”

You glare at her. Not that she can see it under the mask or the gloom, but you make sure she knows you’re thinking it. “It’s not like a physical file, there’s no… ‘H for Heartbreak’ server.” You grab at a random server, pulling it against the attached cables. “It’s not going to be that easy.”

“What’s it say on the side of that one?”

You sigh. “You know what, I’m not even going to look.” You hold up a hand at her. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction.” You pop the server free of its cabling. “Sense anyone coming yet?”

“There’s some action upstairs, they’re waiting for backup.”

“Can you still reach your people from down here?”

Anima raps the radio hanging from her waist. “Yeah.” You sense a flicker of doubt cross her mind. “Probably? Maybe.”

“Give them the signal. If we ever needed a distraction, now is the time.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on… uh… fuck I’m running out of names… Adana? Was that a singer?”

You close your eyes, take a deep breath. “Just… send the signal, Anima.”

While she talks into her radio you shift your focus to prying the case of the server open. Taking the whole thing isn’t practical, all you really need is the shiny hard drive core. It pains you, to bust a perfectly decent computer like this but there’s no point in being gentle. You brace the case on the rack and pry at the seam with your fingers until it pops open in your hands like a cracked clam, little bits of broken plastic flying into space. Just another deed to add to your list of crimes.

“Hey, uh… Avril?”

The nervous energy Anima’s putting out makes you tense up. “What?”

“I’m not reaching anyone down here.”

“Come again?” It only takes a good tug to pop the hard drive free of the bay. No screws, thank god.

“I don’t think the radio can reach from down here.”

“Of course it can’t on it’s own, you need a relay to bounce the signal outside… You just said you could do it.” You keep your hands steady as gently place the hard disk into a reinforced container clipped to your belt.

“I said, I thought I could.” She waves the radio around in her hands. “I’m not the techie here, that’s your job!”

“I assumed you would knew your own equipment!”

She crosses her arms, points the hand holding the radio at you. “Well, that’s hardly my fault, now is it?”

“Yes it is!” You press your hands to your head. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” Deep breaths. Stay focused. Stay in control. “Well, we have a hard drive. Who knows what’s on it. At least that’s… something. Let’s just get out of he– What are you doing?”

While you were having your moment Anima had clipped her radio back to her belt and walked over to the nearest tray of servers and with a grunt she, tips the shelving unit, sending them all toppling to the floor. “Covering our tracks.” She moves to the next row and tips that over too. “Now, you got an escape plan?”

You close your eyes, reach out and get a sense of all the little minds scurrying around, plot them to your mental map. “How do you feel about service elevator shafts? They aren’t as guarded.”

“What about these?” You open your eyes to find Anima pointing to a grate in the ceiling.

“The air vent?” You try to remember where those were on the map. “I didn’t consider– It’s a little cramped in those, isn’t it?”

“See,” Anima is already shifting a tray of servers to bring her in jumping distance of the vent. “This is why I’m here. We can just use this and bypass the party at the stairwell.” You pick up an image of the building schematics, from her. Slightly different from your own, higher resolution.

“…I hate tiny spaces.”

Anima jumps and her fingers catch the edge of the metal, and for a split second the grate holds her hanging from the ceiling before it gives out and Anima falls down, a brief moment of panic leaking out before she hits the ground. “Shit!”

You jog over to her as she kicks the metal grate away from her.“You alright?” You ask, offering a hand up.

“Fucking– yeah, I’m fine. Fucking fine.” She pushes herself up, doesn’t take your hand. Fair enough. “You can climb, right?”

A brief memory of scaling bridge struts flashes through your mind and you suppress a shudder. “It’s been known to happen.”

“Well, it’s happening today, come on.”

Crawling through the vents is every bit as terrible as you imagined it would be. Still, you have to admit, Anima was right, it lets you get out without a fight. That’s a -begrudging- plus in your book. Once outside again, the two of you put some distance between you and the sound of the incoming police cars. Stopping to take catch your breath after a couple of blocks.

Anima takes the chance to climb the stone wall fencing off an old church and perching on top. She swings her legs against the edge of the stone, suit scuffed and dirtied. “That was a fucking disaster.” In the far distance the two of you can see the red and blue flashing lights of police cars bouncing off windows.

“If you hadn’t spent the whole time trying to mess with me, then maybe, maybe we could have gotten the correct files.” You clench your hands into fists as you look up at her. “I’ll let you know what I find on the disk we did steal, but don’t hold your breath.”

She waves a hand at you dismissively. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so easily messible, Themis Themyscira of whatever. We’re supposed to be villains. You’re like, fucking Radio-Free Casper over there.”

“Anima, not once in this whole night have you even bothered to call me by my proper name.”

“Yeah well,” Anima turns her head, looking away from you. “Same goes for you too.”

What?

“I’ve called you Anima the whole time.”

“Not my name.”

You frown at that, pull up your mask so she can properly see you, you Ariadne, not Adrestia, glaring at her. “What are– what are you talking about?”

“Anima isn’t my name.”

Where’s she going with this? Is she just fucking with you again? “That– that’s the name my contact used to, uh, get me in touch with you.”

“Yeah, well, they must have been an amazing and incredibly attractive liar.”

You sigh, rub the bridge of your nose. Don’t even try to puzzle that one out. “Fine. I– I apologize?” As you say it you realize you actually mean it. You, more than anyone, ought to know how important a proper name is. “What’s your– your actual name then?”

“I’m not telling you now.”

You stand there and wait her out, hands on your hips.

She huffs and pulls up her mask, and now it’s just Logan who looks down at you. But only for a beat before she focuses on some building in the distance. Logan takes out a pack of cigarettes and lighter from a pocket. It’s a whole process she deliberately drags out; fishing up a single cigarette, lighting it and putting it to her lips.

As Logan puts the pack and lighter back, she takes a long drag and then exhales a curling wisp of smoke.

“Sidestep.” She says.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘Oh’.”

You have to think about this one, slide the new information into place. Finally, you say: “You– you miss it too, huh.” It’s not a question.

#fallen hero: rebirth #fallen hero #fallen hero fanfic #fhr #fanfiction #fhr/Ariadne #*logan #everything goes great guys

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erisgregory · 5 years

Text

The Reason Is You Chapter 19/21

cross posted to AO3

or start with chapter 1

Authors: Crysty09, erisgregory

Crysty09′s tumblr

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M/M, Multi Fandom: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019) Relationship: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes/Kyle Valenti, Alex Manes/Kyle Valenti Characters: Michael Guerin, Alex Manes, Kyle Valenti Additional Tags: background Isobel Evans/Maria DeLuca, background Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome - M/M/M, Angst and Fluff and Smut Summary: Michael has been gone five years and when he finally returns to Earth it’s to find that Alex is married to Kyle. Isobel is about to be married to Maria and Max and Liz have a son. The world isn’t as he left it, which he should have expected, but now how will he find a place for himself? Will he ever get used to the new normal?

Michael woke early before either of the other two. He slipped out of bed and dressed in the dark. Then he quietly left so he wouldn’t wake them. Max probably didn’t want to see him at six in the morning but Michael wanted to catch him before work. He stopped for coffee so at least he wouldn’t be empty handed then hurried off to Max and Liz’s and knocked on the door. The sun was just beginning to rise. Hopefully Max was still a light sleeper and Michael wouldn’t wake anyone else.

Max woke to the sound of knocking, the house was still mostly dark and he frowned glancing at Liz who was still fast asleep and then over at Arty, her tiny doppelganger. They could both sleep through the apocalypse, he thought to himself as he rolled out of bed and slipped on a pair of pajama pants before moving to the door. When he opened it, he frowned, "what the hell Michael? Are you okay?" He asked, his voice still raspy from sleep.

“Yeah. I’m sorry it’s so early but I need your help. And advice.” He added. Then Michael held out a coffee as a peace offering. “Can we sit out here and talk?” He asked gesturing to the chairs on the front porch. He was a little nervous to lay it all out for Max but he felt certain this was the right call.

His frown deepened but he accepted the coffee with a nod and stepped outside, closing the door behind him before moving to sit down. He took a few sips from his coffee, his eyes on Michael and then sat forward, "ok what's going on?" He asked. He had a feeling he already knew but needed to see what all Michael wanted to share.

Michael sat on the other side of the little table and sipped his coffee. “Has Liz told you about Alex and Kyle?” Michael started. It would be easier if Max has even a small idea of what was going on.

Max nodded, "yeah, she said you guys are trying this whole polyamory thing?" He said with a small smile "and that until last night things seemed to be going pretty good."

“Yes. Things are— were going great. Last night we went to dinner together and Alex’s brother Flint showed up. I don’t know exactly what was said but they traded blows and apparently Flint threatened me and Kyle. Alex was completely shaken.” Michael explained. “My first thought was to take myself out of the situation to keep them safe, but then I thought maybe you could help. Help me figure out what’s best. I don’t want to mess things up.” He admitted.

Max nodded along as Michael talked, "well first of all, the fact that you are here talking to me instead of in a jail cell or off on some vigilante mission tells me that you really care about them and making this work." He took a sip of his coffee, "I will say, you can't try to take on the Manes' brothers by yourself, so please promise me you aren't going to go after them," he pleaded with his eyes.

Michael didn’t want to promise that, even if he knew it was best to leave it to the law, but he nodded all the same. “I won’t. That’s why I’m here, I didn’t want to do anything rash.” He knew himself well enough to know how easily he might go off the rails.

"I'm glad you came here first," Max said, "I would say that if Flint made threats, the three of you need to come to the station and file for a restraining order." He paused, thinking back to something else Michael had said, "and for the love of God, do not run from this."

Michael thought about that. “How did you do it? How did you settle down with Liz?” He asked. Clearly things were working out for them, but Michael still felt, in a very small corner of his heart, that maybe he didn’t deserve to be this happy.

Max looked at Michael and down into his coffee cup with a raised eyebrow, it was really early for this kind of chat, "um well, I have loved Liz since we were kids and I honestly have never really loved anyone else so settling down with her was the most simple thing I have ever done," he shrugged. He spent a minute studying his brother, "if you love Alex the way I think you do and if you feel like there is a chance for this thing with the three of you to work, then you just have to learn to trust it. Trust them, trust yourself."

Michael closed his eyes for a moment. He did love Alex, deeply. He had for so long. And now Kyle, Kyle was becoming someone equally important. He opened his eyes with a sigh and looked over at Max. “It’s that easy, huh?” He gave him a small smile. “Trusting isn’t exactly my strong suit, Max.” Michael pointed out.

He watched Michael process his words, "it's not always easy, it's scary sometimes," he bit his lip, "and I know trust isn't easy for you but if they make you happy like Liz and Maria say they do, then maybe you should consider letting them into your bubble with me and Iz," he gave Michael a small shrug, "for what it's worth, Alex and Kyle have always had your back, even when you were gone."

“What do you mean?” He asked. He couldn’t imagine what Max was talking about. Of course for him, it was his love for Alex that kept him going all that time. That eventually brought him home. But he was curious to know whatever it was that Max was talking about.

"Once Alex got over the initial pain, they went over and cleaned the airstream up and they kept it and your truck clean and in working order while you were gone," he smiled, "and a lot of the reason Alex was so on top of shutting his father down was to make sure you were safe and Kyle was there with him and Liz on all of those late nights."

Michael had one time suspected as much but it just as easily could have been Isobel and Max. Knowing now that Alex and Kyle were the ones keeping the home fires burning so to speak, Michael was more determined than ever to keep them. To stay with them. To grow this relationship into one of mutual love and trust. But first they needed to handle Flint. “It must have been hard, on both of them.” He said softly. “Doing that without knowing if I was ever coming back.” He ran a hand through his hair and took a sip of coffee. “Thank you, Max.”

Max nodded and stood up, he could hear Liz moving around inside and Arty babbling and he smiled, clapping Michael on the shoulder, "you have a lot more family than you realize," he said, turning to step inside, "see you all in a bit."

Michael drove slowly back out to the cabin. He knew it hadn't been fair of him to leave without a word, but he hoped they hadn't missed him for long, if at all. If there was an errant tear here or there on the drive back, well, no one needed to know. Max had given him a lot to think about and now Michael was sure it was the right thing to stay and try to find other ways of keeping them safe. However, when he got back he could hear raised voices inside and he immediately felt like a shit. He quietly opened the door and slipped inside, shutting the door behind him.

"Would you please sit down," Kyle was staring at a borderline hysterical Alex, a look between worried and irritated on his face, his eyes still sleepy and his hair a mess.

Alex was fluttering around the kitchen, sponge in hand, mumbling about his family ruining everything.

Kyle paused when Michael slipped through the door and for a moment the annoyance won over, "Alex," he said, a bit louder, causing the airman to stop and frown at him as he nodded towards the door, "see I told you he would be back."

With some trepidation, Michael stepped toward the other men. Alex looked a mess and Michael hated himself a little bit for causing such distress. "I went to see Max." He said softly, by way of greeting.

Kyle came out of the kitchen, his lips pursed. "You can't just leave with no word. Especially after last night." He said. His tone was calm, but he looked completely exasperated.

"Oh," was all Alex could say for a moment, glancing sheepishly at Kyle, "he went to see Max." He ran a hand through his hair, as he turned back to Michael,"I'm not sure what I expected but it wasn't that."

"I can tell you what you expected," Kyle chuckled, "you woke me up spouting pretty much every possible," he glanced at Michael with a raised eyebrow, "and some not so possible, theory about where he went." He shook his head glancing at Alex who was now blushing and looking at his hands.

Michael glanced between Alex and Kyle before stepping all the rest of the way in and going to Alex. He took Alex's hands in his own and squeezed. "I shouldn't have left you like that. I'm sorry I made you worry." He was sorry, Alex looked terrible and Michael had done that to him. "I needed some advice, but next time I need to talk to someone I'll leave a note at the very least."

Alex looked up at him, "I kind of freaked out a little," he admitted shyly, his cheeks tinged bright pink.

Kyle snorted, "that a bit of an understatement babe," he teased, walking over to them and touching Alex's shoulder lovingly.

Alex bit his lip and looked at Michael, "so did going to see Max change anything?" He asked, suddenly nervous again about the answer.

“It just made me certain that I’m not willing to let Flint ruin what we’re building.” He explained. “In fact I’m hoping we can all drop by the Sheriff’s station and file a report. And a restraining order.” He added. He didn’t know Kyle’s schedule, but maybe there was time.

With a sigh of relief, Alex closed his eyes for a moment, thankful for whatever Max had said, "good I'm glad," he breathed, smiling at Michael before glancing over at Kyle, "what do you work today? If you have a bit, we can have some breakfast before we go?"

Kyle smiled at Michael's words before glancing at Alex, "I have a couple of hours unless they call," he said.

Alex grinned, "you go get ready and I'll start food," he said, kissing Kyle's cheek before turning to Michael, "wanna help?"

Michael gently let go of Alex, but leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Put me to work.” He said, knowing full well he’d not be much use. “Maybe I can do the coffee again?” Michael asked.

Kyle looked at them both with a smile. “And now that this is under control, I’m going to shower and get dressed.”

He couldn't help but chuckle and shake his head at Michael, "just like Kyle," he nodded towards the coffee pot, "if it wasn't for me, he would life off of TV dinners and frozen burritos." Alex moved to start mixing up pancake mix, glancing over at Michael every so often.

Michael laughed. He knew he was hopeless but it was also kind of nice to know he wasn’t the only one. He went about getting the coffee going and once it was, he hopped up on the counter to watch Alex as he worked. “Maybe at some point you could teach me. Something. Easy.” He grinned.

Alex glanced up, he loved the sound of Michael's laugh and he couldn't help but join in. He poured the batter into a nearby skillet and glanced up with a grin, "if you want WE can make dinner for Kyle tonight?" Alex raised an eyebrow, "unless you have to work?"

“I’ll probably work.” He said. “No one’s called in yet, but it’s early. I’m down for helping with dinner if I’m done by then.” Michael’s schedule still hadn’t fully picked up yet so he expected to be back in time. “Word hasn’t completely gotten around that I’m back.” He admitted.

"Sounds good to me," he grinned, stepping over between Michael's legs to kiss him gently before moving back to the stove. Alex felt completely at ease for the moment, flipping the pancakes before moving to scramble a few eggs as he worked.

A few minutes later Kyle rejoined then as Michael was setting the table. He was dressed in his scrubs and Michael took a moment to just appreciate the picture he made. He was a good looking guy to begin with but the uniform definitely did something for him. He poured himself a cup of coffee and Michael did the same.

Alex glanced at his husband, smiling softly when he saw Michael watching too. He finished the pancakes and handed them both a plate, "he looks hot huh?" He asked Michael with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

Kyle blushed slightly at the comment, looking between them as he sat down.

Michael laughed at being called out. “Definitely.” He said giving Kyle a wink. He dug into his pancakes as a sense of ease stole over him. Maybe they were going to be okay after all. “Thanks for breakfast.” He said to Alex. The pancakes were delicious which was no surprise at this point. Still he was thankful to have a hot breakfast and a cup of coffee before they had to face Max again and give their report.

Alex sat down with them, relaxing as he ate a few bites. He was sure this wasn't completely over with his brothers but for today, going to see Max seemed like a victory. Once he finished he glanced at the other two, "think you guys can manage clean up while I get dressed?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Sure.” Kyle said, standing up.

“Yeah.” Michael echoed. He also stood up and began helping clear the table. Kyle did the washing and Michael dried. There might have even been a few flirtatious glances, but the dishes eventually got done before Alex came back out.

Then they took separate cars to the Sheriff’s station. Max helped them file all the necessary paperwork and took down Alex’s statement. Hearing exactly what Flint had said made Kyle and Michael both mad, but all three of them felt safer when they parted ways after to go about their day.

#mylex #mylex fic #mylex fics #roswell new mexico fic #eris writes fics #the reason is you fic

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