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panda-noosh · 4 years

Text

the normal one {Leo Valdez x Reader}

Words: 14k

Summary: Your sister is the demigod. You’re just the unlucky one who got dragged into her mess.

Genre: angst??

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - omg happy first day of nano y’all.

---

You never knew your sister was a demigod.

Of course you didn't; it's not the kind of thought that crosses the mind of a logical individual, though it seems obvious now that you're being greeted with the proof.

Emma has never been particularly normal. She's three years older than you, and yet she carries herself like she's been through years upon years of unforgiven trauma, glaring at anyone who dares even speak to her. You used to just describe her as grumpy, not-a-morning-person, just leave her alone and you'll be fine.

Now, you're beginning to think it might not be as simple as all that.

Your day starts off pretty normal; you wake up, greeted by the sunlight streaming through the curtains you once again forgot to close over the previous night. You look down, not surprised to see you're still dressed in a pair of jogging bottoms and a loose white shirt instead of the pyjamas your sister has been trying so desperately to make you wear at night. You got ready, brushing the knots from your hair before marching downstairs.

Your mum is in the kitchen, whistling to herself, frail hands forever trembling around the pot of boiling oatmeal; you and your mum don't really talk that much. She favours Emma over you, and she's never found much point in wasting breath on the child she doesn't necessarily like. She'll smile, feed you, let you have a roof over your head, but neither of you pretend like your relationship with each other is permanent. One day you're going to move out, and your mum is never going to contact you, never going to step foot in your house, never going to give you a house-warming gift.

You're fine with that.

Emma is sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. It's not even that weird of a sight, considering you've always known Emma to be into the dramatics. You sit across from her, folding your arms over the table before whispering, rather loudly, "Rough night?"

Her head jerks up, revealing her wild, bloodshot eyes. "What?"

You laugh, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl in the centre of the table. "You look like shit, Em. Where have you been all night?"

Her jaw twitches, and she doesn't respond, which is a pretty normal reply for her, especially at this time of day.

"Whatever," you mumble. "Can I borrow that fancy deodorant you bought back from that summer camp you go to?" Emma nods. You grin, banishing the conversation all together as you stand and skip upstairs.

So, yeah. The day was starting off pretty normal. Not a single worry in sight. You would go to school, mope around classes for a few hours, come home and stress eat over a pile of unfinished homework that was probably due multiple days ago.

Instead, you have to deal with the boulders being thrown through Emma's bedroom window.

The first one hits just as your grabbing Emma's fancy deodorant from her bottom drawer. There is no warning, no low whoosh sound that would give you a chance to step away and make a run for it - no. Instead, it goes straight to the shattered glass and bloodied arms. Instead, it goes straight to the boulder smashing against your hand, crushing your fingers against the wall.

You are stuck, legs crumbling beneath you. You should be slipping to the floor right now, probably unconscious, maybe dead, but your hand, trapped between the biggest rock known to man and the wall, keeps you upright. Blood leaks from gashes forming on your fingers, dribbling down your wrist, your arm, dripping onto your knees. You stare at the scene in shock for a moment, unable to register what on earth has actually just happened.

And then Emma is screaming your name, thundering up the stairs, and you're crying out, trying to form words but they get lodged in your throat, replaced by the overwhelming pain and realisation that you're going to die, you're going to fucking die on your sisters bedroom floor because there is so much blood, and there is no way in hell you won't be drained before the end of this day, probably within the next ten minutes, probably within-

The door opens. Emma barrels inside, wielding a golden sword that honestly just makes you think of course she has a golden sword.

"You son of a bitch!" she cries out, darting to her bedroom window. She stands upon the sill and waves her arms at the sky. "You got the wrong L/N, you idiot! Get back here and finish me off if you're so tough!"

"Emma," you croak, tears flooding down your cheeks. "Little help here."

"It's the giants." She leaps off the window sill and swivels round, darting to your side. Something has changed in her, something you've never seen before; she seems stronger, her eyes a little brighter yet still eerily dark at the same time.

She crouches beside you and begins manoeuvring your trapped hand back and forth. You hiss, throwing your head back as blood spurts down your arm, staining your shirt. Emma grits her teeth, keeping her eyes peeled on her work. "They've found me," she continues muttering. "We need to get out of here - all of us. You, me, Mum. They know where the house is. How did they find out where the bloody house is?"

"Can you shut the fuck up talking crazy for one second?"

Emma pays you no mind, taking a tiny knife from her back pocket and wriggling it between the wall and the boulder. "I'll have to get in touch with Chiron, tell him I'm bringing a few mortals with me to camp this summer."

You grunt. "I'm not going to some hippy-Christian summer camp with you."

"It's not a hippy-Christian summer camp." Emma swats your head, forcing you to look away from the blood dribbling down your arm. "It's a place that will keep you safe, alright? So don't argue."

"Don't tell me what to - AH!" The boulder falls, crashing to the floor. Tables rattle, things tumble off shelves, and your hand is freed. You pull it to your chest, but Emma doesn't let it go unaided for long - she grabs your wrist and tugs it back, examining the damage; your nerves have clearly been ripped, fingers cold from lack of feeling. Gashes have been made into the back of your hand, fingers torn to shreds.

She shakes her head. "I'll get Will to have a look at this."

"No, you idiot, you'll call 999 before-"

"We have to go now. That giant will be back soon enough, especially once he realises I'm taking you guys with me." Emma doesn't even give you a chance to respond before she's grabbing your good hand and dragging you from her bedroom. You hiss in pain, stumbling behind her, but there's really no point in arguing. When Emma has her mind set on something, she goes for it no matter what objections people put in place. Mum always said she gets that from her dad, but you've never met the man, so you wouldn't know.

Speaking of your dear old mother, the woman doesn't even give you a second glance when Emma drags you into the living room and shoves you onto the sofa next to her; she's frozen in fear, fingers pulled to her lips as she bites on the nails, a habit she's had for as long as you can remember.

She shakes her head, dazed. "He's coming back to me. He's sending signs."

Emma groans. Looking over, you see her with a phone pressed to her ear, big and bulky with an oversized antennae peeking from the top of it. "Mum, that wasn't Dad sending signs. That was a giant trying to kill me."

You blink, certain your blood loss is contributing to this wild conversation somehow. "A giant? Your dad?"

Emma raises a finger, telling you to be quiet. Mum whimpers at the movement and goes back to chewing her nails, gazing steadily out the window. She looks terrified, but her knee is bouncing in that way it always does when she's excited. You've given up trying to understand her. In fact, you've given up trying to understand your entire family.

So you just sit there, trying to fight off the black spots dotting your vision and the blood dribbling through your fingers; you don't know why Emma hasn't called 999 yet, considering you're basically on the verge of unconsciousness, but your throat is too dry to ask. Instead you listen as she says, "Leo! Where are you? Are you close?" and then she sighs in relief, and within three minutes, there's a knock on the door and she's barrelling out of the living room to grab it.

You look up, dazed, when she returns with a small curly haired boy in tow. He's a bit scruffy, you have to admit, but in a cute way, like a bunny with a bit of dirt on its nose.

"Not really the time for guests, is it, Em?" you grumble, before falling face first into the floor.

---

You wake up, and immediately wish you hadn't.

Emma always messes things up - always.

Her life has to be so damn dramatic all the damn time, and you're getting pretty damn sick of being dragged into it. All you want to do is sit in bed with a nice blanket and a cup of tea, maybe practice a bit of witchcraft, maybe sink into the dirt and become one with nature.

You don't want to be hunted down by rabid, murderous giants, that's for sure.

You also don't want to be trapped in a hospital bed at some hippy-Christian camp you don't even know the name of. But that's exactly what has happened.

When you open your eyes, you're greeted by the sight of white, cloth walls and multiple eager faces gazing down at you. Most of them have blonde hair and the brightest eyes you have ever seen, and then there's that curly haired boy, and Emma herself, and there's a guy who is half horse-

"Oh god, this is death. I've died."

"She's awake!" the curly haired boy - Leo, you remember - cries, throwing his hands in the air. "Good job, Apollo kids! Another point for you!"

"Shut up, Leo." One of the many blonde haired kids steps forward and places the back of his hand against your forehead; in any other situation, you might have pulled away and told him to step back, but the feel of his skin against your own is surprisingly soothing. It's almost against your will when you melt into it, eyes gliding shut. Your hit with images of you and Emma as children, running through fields, her punching that guy in the nose because he called you short that one time, and-

He snatches his hand back, startling you back to reality. "The fevers definitely going down," he says, turning to Emma.

"Uh, excuse me," you chirp, raising a timid hand. "She's not my legal guardian, I'll have you know." You glance at Emma. "Where is my legal guardian, by the way?"

Emma rolls her eyes, and that's answer enough.

"Ah. Frollicking in the leaves again?"

Emma hums. "I left her to it; we have bigger things to worry about than her love life."

"That's a bit morbid, Emma," says Leo. "Love is a magnificent thing."

"So is me not dying," you say, before turning back to the blonde haired boy. "Can I leave?"

The boy blinks, staring at you like you have two heads. It almost makes you uncomfortable, but his eyes are so pretty, and the way his palm felt against your forehead-

Leo shoves to the front. "Will here is gay, Y/N. Stop staring."

You look away, flustered. "I wasn't even staring."

"Yeah, you were. I see that look of lust on people all the time - I get it a lot, to tell you the truth."

You look at his curls, the oil on his tattered overalls, the dirt smothering both his cheeks, nose and hands.

"I'm sure you do, big guy. I'm sure you do."

Will sighs, shoving Leo out the way again. "I'm gonna do a final check up before I let you leave; I can't give mortals any nectar or ambrosia, so the healing process might take-"

Awkwardly, Emma coughs. The entire tent goes silent, turning to her with raised brows and narrowed eyes, but all you can focus on is Will's strange choice of vocabulary. Nectar. Ambrosia. Those don't sound like common prescription pain meds.

"Emma..." Will drawls. "What have you-"

"I'll talk to them," Emma mumbles. "Can you guys just give us a minute?"

You grab Will's hand. "Please don't leave me alone with her."

Will gives you a timid smile, squeezing your hand gently before he, Leo and all the other blonde haired strangers exit the tent, leaving just you and Emma to your own devices.

And honestly, Emma's your best friend. She means the world to you. She's the one person in that god forsaken house that actually pays you any attention, and it doesn't even matter that she's the favourite, that Mum basically licks the ground she walks on for a reason you have yet to pinpoint. You love Emma with all your heart, but right now, you would rather be anywhere but in her presence.

You pull the quilt up to your chin and say, "I'm very confused."

Emma pulls a stool over and takes a seat. "I know. I should have explained. I need to explain."

"Yes, you do."

She hollows out her cheeks, which only makes your fear spike - you've never seen Emma act like this. She's usually so brave, bold, confident. She doesn't do a single thing without planning it out perfectly beforehand, and yet here she is, looking completely stumped. You almost feel bad for her until you remember the way she completely ignored your pleas for her to call 999 when you were fairly certain you were bleeding out.

"Well?" you push. "Go on, Em. I'm listening."

Emma sighs, scrubbing a hand down her face. "Do you have any idea where we are right now?"

"Absolutely none. There was a guy with a horse body-"

"That's Chiron. He's a centaur."

You blink. "Okay."

"This place is called Camp Half-Blood; it's where I go to every summer."

"Well, I assumed."

"It's a camp for Half-Bloods. Demigods. People who are half-god, like. . . like me. Like Leo, and Will, and probably loads of other kids, too."

It's starting to get jumbled now, a string of words that don't form to make a coherent, sensible sentence.

You don't even respond, simply staring at Emma until she is forced to continue.

"It sounds insane, I know, but I'm not lying. I'm a demigod, Y/N, daughter of Ares."

It goes silent, because of course it does. What are you even meant to say to that? The logical part of you says to just call her out on her lies, ask her where the hell you actually are and where Mum is and why she brought you here in the first place. But the other half recognises that Emma being the daughter of a war god kind of makes perfect sense.

In your conflicted state of disbelief, you say neither of those things. Instead, you look at Emma and say, "Mum hooked up with a god?"

Emma breathes a laugh, closing her eyes. "Yes, little one, she did."

"And she couldn't have done the same thing when she was conceiving me?"

Emma winces. "I don't want to talk about Mum conceiving either of us, thank you very much."

You shake your head. "So that's why she's always hated me."

"Mum doesn't hate you-"

"I'm the repair kid. I'm the one who-"

Leo pops his head in the door. "Did someone say repair kid?"

Emma looks up, giving Leo a tired little wave. "You can come back in now. Y/N's all caught up."

"Oh, happy days!" Leo marches in and reaches for your good hand, giving it a vigorous shake. "Leo Valdez, son of Hephaestus. Nice to properly meet you."

"Y/N L/N, child of - uh - that guy from McDonalds.

Emma stands up quickly, grabbing Leo's shoulders as his eyes narrow. "Alright! Now that we've got the niceties out of the way, I think it's time we let Will back in here so he can do his final check up. Sound good?"

"Sounds fantastic," you mumble, sinking down into the pillows. "Bring the nice looking blonde boy to me now, please."

----

Camp Half-Blood kind of looks like a dream scape. But a really bad one.

A nightmare-scape.

There's sword fighting, and teeny tiny girls in green dresses that get wildly offended when you call them Tinkerbell. There's people riding around on winged horses like it's no big deal, and you're almost certain it was raining when you left the house earlier, so why is it sunny and warm right now?

Leo is the one who greets you when you're finally allowed to step out of the tent - the infirmary, apparently, run by the kids of Apollo. All of them were really nice. They all had really nice hands.

"You're looking fresh," Leo says, tucking his hands in his pockets as the two of you stroll across camp together. "Will and his siblings really know what they're doing, huh? I had my doubts, with you being a mortal and all. I don't know how often they work on people like you."

You shrug. "It was just a bit of nerve damage in my hand."

"You passed out."

"I blanked. It happens to the best of us."

Leo's lips twitch. It shows you just the briefest hint of dimples, and you hate that it immediately turns your tough-guy demeanour to mush. It seems like you have a soft spot for demigods. You look away quickly, tucking your hands - bandage and all - into your pockets. It's this movement that seems to tilt Leo's attention to the clothes you're wearing, all of which are smothered in your own blood.

Pleasant.

He grimaces, stopping dead in his tracks. You would continue walking, being an independent mortal and all that, but you don't know your way around this place, and you'd rather not accidentally walk into a fighting arena. So, you stop and look back at him. "What's wrong?"

"You need a change of clothes, my friend."

You blink. "No, I don't think-"

"They might be a bit big on you, but I have the perfect pair of overalls you could borrow. Come on. To Bunker 9 we go."

He starts walking away before you even have a chance to protest. It really puts the fear of god - gods? - in you, because at that very moment, a winged horse slams into the floor at your side. You squeal, immediately sprinting after him, and the bastard doesn't even turn back to look at what has just startled you. He merely grins, cocky and annoying, and says, "Yeah, stick with me and that won't happen."

You grunt, knowing he's right.

The two of you arrive at Bunker 9 in no time. It's like an old bomb shelter, with tin walls and a door that looks like it's about to fall off it's hinges. You make a joke about why Leo can't just fix the hinges, considering he's a machine expert and all that, and Leo rolls his eyes and says, "I'm busy enough as it is."

The room lights up without a switch needing to be flipped, which you think is pretty cool.

"My school used to have lights like that," you point out, gazing up at the ceiling. "They were motion censored."

"Mm. They're handy little things until you haven't moved in fifteen minutes and they switch off whilst you're still standing there. The amount of times I've nearly put a screw through my finger." He shakes his head, tossing aside discarded tools in his search for the overalls he promised you. "Mental."

You pluck at a random copper wire hanging out of a drawer. "So, is this like. . . your dorm room?"

"Hm?" Leo looks at you. "Oh, no. I don't sleep in here - I sleep in the Hephaestus cabin. I'm the head counsellor, so I have to keep an eye on things, you know."

You raise a brow. "Is your bed more comfy in the Hephaestus cabin?"

"That, too." He blushes, lowering his eyes back to his search. "But honestly, my job is pretty important. I've got to keep that place running, keep all my siblings in check."

"I'm not being funny, if Emma tried telling me what to do, I would tell her to piss off."

Leo scoffs. "Yeah, I got that vibe off you."

"So how do you do it?"

Leo pauses, glancing over his shoulder."How do I do what?"

You push yourself up onto the counter, ignoring the saw dust that now litters your hands and the back of your already ruined jeans. "How do you get them to listen to you? You don't look to be much older than I am - surely you have older siblings in that cabin of yours. It can't be easy getting them to fall into line, too."

Slowly, Leo turns. He leans against the chest of drawers he has been digging through, regarding you with a single raised brow. His gaze is hard, but you keep the eye contact, smiling just the tiniest bit.

He doesn't respond with words. Instead, he stretches his hand out, palm towards the ceiling, and uncurls his fingers, revealing a bright orange flame dancing in the centre. It doesn't make you jump as it probably should have; instead, you are mesmerised, caught in the slick movements of the tiny ball of fire.

You slowly reach out. Leo slams his hand closed and pulls back. "You can't touch it."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were fully going to touch it."

You scowl, folding your arms over your chest. "What was the point in showing me that?"

He turns on his heel, going back to digging through the chest of drawers. "That's why I'm head counsellor - no other child of Hephaestus can do that." He glances at you. "You don't think it's weird?"

"Well, yeah - very weird." You shrug. "But who am I to judge? I can do this thing where I dislocate my shoulder, and that's pretty weird, too."

Leo blinks, mouth opening like you've caught him off guard. He swipes his tongue along his lower lip before he turns away and mumbles, "Yeah. That is pretty weird."

Bunker 9 is doused in silence after that. Leo rummages through his drawers as you inspect every nook and cranny of the place, running your fingers along the tin walls, picking up tools you have never seen before; you can feel Leo watching you from the corner of his eye, probably making sure you're not stealing anything. Honestly, the golden screwdriver set is pretty tempting, but you wouldn't want to risk getting on a demigod's bad side.

Finally, after what feels like far too long, Leo pops his head up, grinning broadly with a set of overalls in his hands. "Found them!" He tosses them at you with no warning; you just barely manage to catch them. "They got shrunk in the wash, so I was gonna rip them up for hand towels in here, but I'm sure they'll be more useful for you."

You pull them into your chest. "They smell like oil."

Leo spreads his oil stained hands. "Yeah, well, that's how life is, love. I'll let you get changed - I promise I won't peak!"

Laughing, he leaves Bunker 9; his footsteps stop there, though, and there's a glimmer of relief when you realise he isn't just walking away and leaving you to your own devices.

You get changed quickly, bundling your blood stained clothes into a ball and shoving them beneath your arm - you don't know where you can possibly wash them, but you refuse to leave this camp in Leo's old overalls. First of all, they're much too big on you, pooling over your feet despite Leo's own small stature. The striped shirt he gave you to put underneath it has oil spots embedded in it, too, which just makes you look like even more of a slump. Nonetheless, you throw open the door to Bunker 9 with your arms outstretched and call out, "How do I look?"

Leo peaks his head around and freezes.

You drop your arms, rolling your eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. This isn't a romance movie."

His nose erupts into flames. He yelps, swatting the fire away before he awkwardly coughs and says, "Good. You look good."

You grin. "Thank you. Do you have any idea where I can put these?" You offer up your pile of clothes. Leo takes them from your hands and tosses them over your shoulder, back into Bunker 9. You frown. "Do you have a washing machine in there?"

"It won't take me long to rig one up. I'll have them washed before you leave, don't worry." He offers his arm, grinning yet again. "Now, how about we go up to the dining pavilion and get some food? I'm starving!"

----

Leo did not know one of his best friends was related to such an attractive individual.

It wasn't really that big of a shock when he walked in and saw you sitting there in the living room, looking dazed and out of it with blood dribbling from some pretty severe cuts in your hand. Emma had rang him and filled him on all the details, so there was no surprise at the scene. And plus, Emma's not exactly ugly. She has that rough look to her, sure, but Leo would probably date her if she asked him. Again, it wasn't much of a surprise when he walked in and saw you there, all pretty with the innocence only a mortal could have.

But then he got a glimpse of your personality.

No. Scratch that. He got an entire bucketload of your personality, and he was still craving more by the end of it.

He tried his hardest to fight off these feelings, because he's felt them before - with almost every person he finds attractive, in fact. He gets it lodged in his head that he can impress them, that this is the one and he can make it work if he just tries hard enough. It's kind of hard not to think that way - hopeful, desperate, almost - when all his friends are hooking up and getting boyfriends and girlfriends, generally just having the time of their damn lives. And Leo is just. . . making machines.

But then the two of you went and had dinner together, and he found himself asking if you wanted to go for a walk along the lake before you would have to go to bed. You had agreed, and the conversation had continued, and Leo has never laughed so much in his entire life.

You tell stories of these little memories you have with Emma, enjoying the embarrassing little details you add in whenever you can. Leo struggles to imagine the daughter of Ares being anything close to the Emma you're describing, but he can tell in the passion of your words you're not telling lies.

"What about you, though?" he asks.

Your hands drop to your side, smile curving. "What about me?"

"Well, you're going on about Emma and all the cool stuff she used to do - what about you, though? What have you been up to?"

It's a pretty simple question in Leo's mind; with his ADHD brain, he is able to come up with a million different answers on the spot.

You, however, look at him with a raised brow. He stares right back.

Finally, you crack and say, "Uh. . . I've been doing some school work, I guess."

Leo blinks. "You go to school?"

"I do indeed. I'm studying psychology, but it's really difficult, so I might drop it."

Leo nods like he understands, even though he doesn't. All he really remembers of his school days is him sitting in the back of the classroom plotting his next escape. "Interesting," he says. "Does Emma go to school?"

"She's doing an apprenticeship at some mechanics place. She dropped out when she turned sixteen."

"Naughty."

You shrug. "She does what she wants. I would love to drop out, but Mum would flip." Leo glances at you; the mention of your Mum seems to be something a little heavy, as your smile immediately dips, your shoulders slumping. Leo knows he probably shouldn't pry, but he's Leo, so he does anyway.

"Is your mum tough on you?"

"No. She's not tough at all. She's not light, either. She just. . . lives with me, I guess."

"She just lives with you?"

You inhale, looking out over the lake. For a moment, Leo thinks you might start crying, but then he shakes that thought out of his mind, because you don't seem like the type to cry in front of a stranger, and that's really all Leo is, which is why he shouldn't expect you to open up to him right now, not if this is something you don't want to-

"Mum only had me because she wanted to see if she could get over Emma's dad." You wince. "Ares, I guess."

Leo pauses. His fingertips start glowing, a sign of his anger, but he shoves them in his pockets and dispels the flames before you see them. "That's horrible."

You shrug halfheartedly. "It's fine. She was crazy about the guy from what I've heard - it's why Emma's her favourite. She's the only piece of him she has left, really."

"But that doesn't mean-"

"You don't have to tell me she's a bad mother, Leo. I know. I've known from day one; I've just gotten used to it." You pick up a rock and toss it into the lake. "Honestly, we're better off out of each other's hair anyway; put us in a room together and make us talk, we'll probably burn the house down."

Leo doesn't know how to respond; he's never felt like that. Ever. Even with his dad, there's always been some level of affection there, even though his dad is a Greek god who only pops in when he wants something; Hephaestus has never straight-up ignored him, never made his favouritism clear.

Leo finds he wants to punch something, and not even the steady whisper of the lake can calm him down. He walks a little bit behind you as the silence settles, you picking up random rocks and tossing them into the water, apologising profusely when the eighteen tentacled octopus pokes its head up and yells at you.

Your calmness makes it even worse, though, because that lets Leo know that this treatment is something you've grown used to. You've never known any different.

----

Three days in, and Emma still insists on keeping you at Camp Half-Blood.

"You're not leaving until that giant is dead, and that might take a while."

You drape your arm over your forehead, still sprawled across her bed in the Ares cabin. It's a pretty musty cabin, to be fair, but you won't mention that when all of Emma's siblings are glaring daggers at you. "Do you have any idea how many assessments I'm missing? Mr Wrightchuck is gonna be furious with me, and I do not have the mental energy to deal with his shit right now."

Emma throws a pair of shorts at you. "Shut up and fold those for me."

You grunt, sitting up and getting to work; you've decided to make yourself at least a little bit useful around here. These people were nice enough to offer you accommodation, even though it's clear being around mortals isn't exactly their everyday routine. The amount of times you've hissed in pain because of your hand and been offered a chunk of ambrosia is uncountable.

"So," Emma starts suddenly, taking you by surprise; she hardly ever initiates conversations, preferring to brood in her own head when she can get away with it.

You look at her, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the bright pink laundry hamper she stole off your Aunt Grace. She's not even looking up, lips pursed, eyebrows raised as if expecting you to fill in the blanks from that single word.

"So, what?" you push. "What did I just say, Emma? I don't have the mental energy-"

"You and Leo have been hanging out an awful lot these past few days."

You pause. That certainly wasn't what you had been expecting to hear.

"Uh. . . I suppose. He's a cool guy. Cool fire, and stuff." You wriggle your fingers, imitating flames, though Emma's sideways glare makes you mumble an apology and drop your hand to your side. "Is there something wrong with Leo and I being pals?"

"Leo's a very. . . hopeful boy," Emma replies. "He tends to get lost in his own fantasies sometimes."

You blink. "What, like kinks?"

Emma groans, throwing some socks at you. "No, you idiot! When he likes someone, he tends to get a little carried away. It's quite sad to see, actually."

"What does that have to do with me and him being friends?"

Emma glances at you; you recognise that look. It makes your stomach curl, heat rising to your cheeks. You look away, coughing awkwardly into her shirt before you mumble, "No. No, absolutely not. Leo doesn't like me that way."

Emma shrugs, grin spreading across her face. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm just saying, if you don't like him that way, try and break the illusion as soon as possible. It's easier to just rip the bandaid off."

"You're heartless."

"I'm a daughter of Ares, Y/N. We don't bullshit people. We say it how it is."

You scowl, snatching another set of trousers from her wash pile and getting to work, trying to ignore the thump of your heartbeat, which suddenly seems to have sped up a fair bit.

----

You lose track of how long it has been since you last saw your mother.

This happens sometimes, these long stretches of time when neither of you will acknowledge the other person; it's easier that way, just pretending she doesn't exist, just pretending the house is empty besides you.

You've been caught up in camp activities these past few weeks. Your hand is starting to heal, the nerves tingling, which Will says is a good sign. You've been talking to other campers, learning more and more about the world Emma has kept hidden from you for so long, a world that fascinates you, a world you will never want to be properly part of.

Now, however, you see her. Sitting on her own by the lake, knobbly knees pulled into her chest, dazed eyes locked on the swirling water in front of her. The little sea creatures have long since hidden, probably put-off by the presence of a stranger, but your mother doesn't seem to care. She just sits all on her own, long hair billowing out behind her as the moon begins to rise in the distance.

You lean against a tree just a little bit behind her and say, "Are you not cold?"

She doesn't even flinch, like the voice of her child has no effect on her whatsoever. Instead, she digs her fingernails into the dirt and grabs a handful of stones, lobbing them into the lake.

You sigh and crouch down next to her; she smells of sweat and dirt, a sure sign that she hasn't been taking much care of herself these past few weeks. "Let's go back to the Big House, Mum. You're gonna get hypothermia out here."

"He will protect me," she replies. "He's always protecting me."

"You mean Ares? Emma's Dad?"

"He's protected me from day one; he loves Emma and I. He's just busy."

You swallow, staring at the side of her face. "I'm sure he does, Mum. But he's clearly running a little late right now, so he's asked me to come make sure you get wrapped up before the wind eats you alive." You gaze at the trees. "Which I'm pretty sure is a thing that actually happens here."

Finally, your mum gazes at you, lower lip trembling. "I just want him to talk to me."

You freeze; it's most unlike your mother to talk like this, especially to you. She rants and raves about Ares to Emma, but she barely pays you any attention when it comes to things like this. You don't really know how to handle it, whether you should comfort her and tell her Ares loves her - this Greek god, surviving somewhere on Mount Olympus, overlooking the entire world. Yes, of course he still loves her. Of course he does.

But the other half of you just doesn't want to lie. You don't want to get her hopes up any more than they already are, because anyone with a brain will be able to see that Ares has long since forgotten about the mortal woman he apparently fell in love with, and the daughter they created together.

So, you grab your mum's hand and drag her to her feet. She slumps against you like a child having a tantrum, and you have to basically lift her off the floor to get anywhere. Nonetheless, you eventually have her standing, and together, you walk up the hill, back to the main camp.

It's dark, probably past curfew, but campers are still walking about. Mostly the Apollo cabin, never off their feet with the casualties they have to tend to in a day, though there are other campers enjoying a late night cup of hot chocolate by the fire, laughing merrily. They don't notice you walking up the hill, don't notice your mum mumbling to herself, words you can't even grasp being right beside her.

"The Ares cabin," your mum suddenly blurts.

You pause, nearly stumbling over your own two feet as your head whips around to the direction she is now staring, eyes wide.

"Yes, Mum," you grumble. "That is the Ares cabin - now, can we keep moving before my fingers fall off?"

"Is that where you've been sleeping these past few weeks?"

You narrow your eyes. "What? Yes, Mum, it is; Emma lets me sleep with her, now can we please-"

"He isn't your father."

You stop dead in your tracks; oh no. You've heard this line of speech before, and it's never pleasant. Mum gets angry, enraged, when she thinks you're trying to take on the same status as her beloved Emma, daughter of the war god. She likes to keep you in your place, which is a good few tiers below everybody else, apparently.

"I know that," you say quickly. "Emma was just nice enough to lend me her bed so I didn't have to sleep in the Hermes cabin - you know I don't know my way around here, so-"

"He wouldn't like you sleeping amongst his children. He told me."

"He what now?"

She shakes out of your grip, gritting her teeth. Her eyes are wild, dilated beyond anything you've ever seen, and when she next speaks, the words are a cry. "He told me!" She shakes her head, gripping the strands of hair between trembling fingers. "He's so mad at me, Y/N; he told me it was disrespectful to have a child with another man. He said he would burn you to the ground if you stepped out of line. He said he would kill you, just to teach me a lesson for going behind his back!"

You blink. You're used to this. You're meant to be used to this, but holy mother of god - gods? - you don't know what she's on about. You've never heard her talk like this. You've never heard her speak of your death before, and the words coming from her mouth are so eerie, so fucking terrifying that you stumble back, hands trembling, tears rushing to the surface.

"You crazy bitch."

She laughs, loud and clear so the entire camp's attention turns directly to her. "That's what he said! He called me insane, and then he said he loved me and gave me a child - and that child certainly wasn't you."

"Mum, what are you-"

"He talks to me sometimes, you know." She nods, hands still buried in her hair, tugging her eyes back so she looks demented. "In my head, he talks. We have little conversations, but he's been so much more talkative since we arrived here, like this place really is my home." She releases her hair, eyes dimming. "But you're not meant to be here; he told me that, too. He said Emma and I were welcome amongst his kind, but not you - not a bastard like you."

You look around; all the demigods are on their feet now, staring at the scene in confusion. It's embarrassing, absolutely mortifying to suddenly be the centre of their attention, especially under such circumstances.

"Okay," you croak out. "Okay, that's fine - I'll go, then. Leave you and Emma here. I don't mind, Mum. You don't have to get angry."

Mum's nostrils flare. "It's not me who's angry - it's him-"

"Well, tell him that he doesn't have to get his godly bollocks in a twist, because I'm leaving." You raise your hands in faux surrender, taking a few tentative steps back. "I'm leaving, and you'll never have to see me again."

The words hurt, but they're the truth - especially now. Mum doesn't respond, merely stares as you take a few more steps backwards, turn on your heel and dart towards the Ares cabin, fighting desperately to push the tears away, because crying is stupid.

This is just your mum being. . . your mum, just as she's always been. Sure, her words tonight were a little harsher than you're used to, but her neglect has given you thick skin, thick enough to take her words on the chin.

You see the Ares cabin, and run right past it towards the lake. You nearly slip in the mud on your way down the hill, catching yourself before finally crumbling to the floor against a tree by the lake side.

You'll take her words on the chin, but you'll cry over them first.

----

When Leo hears the news, he's pretty sure his blood turns to fire.

He's half-asleep, but that doesn't stop his understanding of Will's words, his descriptions of the scene he just witnessed at the camp fire.

And the thing is, after hearing all the things your mum has done to you, Leo isn't even surprised to hear it's finally boiled over.

Doesn't make him any less angry.

He storms out of the Hephaestus cabin wearing nothing but his pyjamas. He feels the heat beneath his skin, threatening to break the surface as he forces it down, gritting his teeth. He's half tempted to turn to the Big House to give your mum a piece of his mind, but his main concern at the moment is you, and where you've gone, and where you plan on going, because according to Will, your last words to her were "I'm leaving, and you'll never have to see me again." That's a horrible thought. Leo doesn't want to think about that.

He heads to the lake, because according to Will, that's the direction you were running, and Leo knows how much you like the lake; it calms you down, you said, and he stored that piece of information in his brain for weeks, as if in preparation for this very moment.

He stops at the top of the hill and gazes down, lighting up the darkness with a ball of fire cupped in the palm of his hand. You don't flinch at the sudden intrusion, instead curling into a tighter ball against the roots of a tree, burying your head in your knees. The sight breaks his heart. He swallows, slowly waddling down the hill, careful not to fall in the dirt.

You don't look up when he finally arrives at your side. "Y/N."

"Who told you?"

Leo crouches. "Will. He said you seemed upset."

"That's literally nobody's business."

Leo sighs, slumping against the tree beside you; his shoulder brushes your own, and for a moment, you stiffen against his side. "You don't have to tell me what happened if you're not cool with that," he says. "I'm not being nosy or anything."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm really not. I just wanted to make sure that witch didn't hurt your feelings too bad." He pauses. "What did she actually say?"

Your head snaps up, eyes blood shot, lips dry. "Ah, see! You are just being nosy!"

He swats your arm, scowling. "Be quiet, no I'm not; but how am I meant to help you if I don't even know what happened?"

"I never said I wanted help, Leo. My mum not caring about me isn't something that can just be helped." And you didn't even realise those were the words you were going to say, because they sound so heartbreaking, so self-pitying, even though they're the truth. You've always just brushed your mothers behaviour off as normal, the only hand you've ever been dealt, but phrasing it in that way, claiming she doesn't care . . . something about that makes your heart break.

Your lower lip trembles before you can stop it, fresh tears springing to the surface. You remember holidays, catching Emma wrapping up gifts of her own to give to you, just so you could wake up to something on Christmas morning. You remember making your own Halloween costume because your mother spent all her money on Emma's. You remember thinking it was okay, because it was all you ever knew.

You're older now, though. You can recognise mistreatment when you see it, but it's still a blow to the chest realising that you were on the other end of it, that you're a victim, whether you want to deny it or not.

Leo notices your sudden change of emotions and immediately lurches forward. His fingers are hot, almost scalding when they make contact with your arm, his brown eyes burning holes into your own. His eyebrows are furrowed when he says your name in a whisper, just your name, like nothing else needs to be said.

You close your eyes. "I'm fine."

"I wish you'd stop saying that. It's starting to grate on my skull, and I can't afford that kind of damage."

You let out a breath of a laugh, just because you think it's appropriate; in truth, you find none of this funny. You want to curl up and cry. You want to leave Camp Half-Blood and everything it stands for, start a life away from demigods and Greek gods alike.

What's stopping you?

Leo's hands heat up on your arm, forcing you to look at him again. He's closer now, head tilted, all amusement flushed from his features, which is a sad enough sight on it's own. It's been two seconds, but you already miss that sparkle in his eyes.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Talk to me."

And you do. You don't know why, but you do. The words pour out like a broken faucet, a complete mess of incoherence's that Leo - and only Leo - would ever be able to understand. He nods along like the words are making sense, like these sentences aren't just complete gibberish.

When you finish explaining everything that happened down at the camp fire, you gasp, starved for air. Leo grabs your hand and tugs you forward, cupping your face in his attempts to calm you down; you didn't realise the tears had started pouring, didn't realise you're breathing heavily, totally lost, unable to catch a breath.

"Calm down," he mumbles. "Y/N, calm down. I'm here. I've got you, pal, I've got you."

You close your eyes, leaning into his palm. He traces his thumbs along your cheeks before slowly, slowly, slowly running his hand over your ear, tucking a strand of hair back. His eyes never leave your face, despite the state you know you are in, how awful you must look.

"I'm sorry," you choke out. "I didn't mean to. . . to get so worked up."

"Don't be stupid," he replies. "Did she really say all that to you?"

"She's not in her right mind out here. She thinks she's one of you guys, that she can be part of the group just because-"

"Because she slept with Ares?"

You laugh, exhausted. "Yes, exactly."

Leo rolls his eyes, finally letting his hands drop back to his sides. "Honestly, everyone and their grandfather has probably slept with Ares. She's nothing special, and she needs to get that through her head." He pauses. The air crackles. "But - uh - you're, you know, special. Very special."

You blink, certain you heard him wrong. The words don't really make sense in this context, so you're trying to disentangle them.

Finally, you crack and say, "What?"

Leo rubs the back of his neck, glancing awkwardly over his shoulder. Over the hill, everything is silent as Half-Bloods sleep, unknowing to the panic attack that has just captured you, unknowing to the magic Leo has just cast to calm you down.

"I said you're special," he mumbles. "In a good way, I mean. Like, a really good way."

Your heart thunders. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome." He looks at you then, chirping up. "But seriously, don't let her get to you. She's just a love sick psycho who doesn't know when to back down. Clingy ex-girlfriend and all that."

He changes the topic so swiftly it nearly gives you whiplash. You stare at him for another moment, and just when you're about to open your mouth to continue the previous, deserted conversation, Leo stands and reaches his hand out. "Shall we go before Hedge thinks there's some funny business going on?"

You nod dumbly, taking his hand only because you don't know what you want to say in response to what he has just said - he called you special, and he said it like it was just. . . normal, like it was something you could slip in without any further questions being asked.

You try and let the subject drop as Leo leads you back into camp. He walks you to the door of the Ares cabin, and it is there that he turns to you and says, voice low, "You can sleep in my cabin if your mum is in there; Chiron won't mind, and I won't either."

"No, it's okay," you reply. "Mum's staying in the Big House; I'll just slip in next to Emma." You glance at him, his eyes meeting yours because he never looked away. He looks so sweet beneath the lantern light, flames dancing across his skin like they were always meant to be there, like Leo has lived his life in fire and came out smiling every time. "Thank you, Leo; you really didn't have to help me tonight."

He scoffs. "Don't be daft. Next time you have any issues, I want you to run to me instead of the river naiads, you hear?"

You smile and nod. "I hear."

And so, Leo and you bid each other goodnight, and you watch as he walks across camp, past the Hephaestus cabin, right in the direction of Bunker 9. Half of you wants to go after him, question him on his use of the word special earlier on, but you don't. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, and so you turn on your heel and head into the Ares cabin, unable to stop the tiny smile that forms on your face.

----

Bunker 9 looks very nice in the morning.

"Oh, the tin is just glistening!"

Leo yelps, dropping a spanner on the ground as he whirls around. His overalls are covered in oil, along with his face, arms, legs, and every other body part that is presented to you on this fine Monday morning. In your hand is a plate of steaming cinnamon buns that Leo's eyes immediately fix upon, his startled expression quickly being replaced by one of pure hunger. You're almost certain you see his mouth salivating.

You tug the plate back, holding one arm out. "Not so fast, Fire Boy."

He frowns. "What did you just call me?"

"No cinnamon buns for you until you tell me how many hours of sleep you got last night."

Leo raises a brow, a tiny smirk making an appearance. "Are you kidding?"

"Nope. I want the details, Valdez, or these cinnamon buns are all mine."

"That's really unfair, and very unnecessary. A body like mine was made to work off two hours sleep."

Your eyes widen. "Two hours? Leo!"

"Can you just hand me my breakfast already?"

You groan, but a promise is a promise. You set the plate down on a nearby toolbox before pushing yourself onto the counter, legs swinging. Leo dives for the plate, nudging your knee with his hip as he grabs the first cinnamon bun he can see and stuffs it in his mouth, nearly swallowing the thing whole.

"Watch you don't choke."

"Why are you so protective this morning?"

"Two hours sleep, Leo? That's awful."

He shrugs, fingers hovering over the plate as he searches for his next victim. "I'm used to it. I'm not even tired! It was a really refreshing two hours."

"You get worse, you know."

Leo rolls his eyes, looking up at you. "And how many hours of sleep did you get, Sleeping Beauty?"

"More than two hours."

He clicks his fingers. "I want the details."

You roll your eyes, swatting his hand away. "I had six hours, if you must know. I'm refreshed and ready for my day!"

"So am I."

"Liar."

"And what?"

You laugh, and Leo smiles, making the noise louder than it really is.

"But no," he continues. "Don't you go worrying about me, dear. Ol' Leo Valdez can handle himself."

"Ol' Leo Valdez needs to take a nap."

"A nap? Sounds cowardly." He grabs the spanner from the floor, spins it in the air, catches it with an ease that makes your breath catch. "How about I show you the new updates I've made to Festus?"

Festus, Leo's pride and joy, the one thing in the world he will talk about for hours upon hours on end; you've sat there and listened to him every single time, absorbing every word, even if you don't understand it. He talks about circuits and updates and tools you have never heard of, but he says it all with such enthusiasm it's almost impossible not to get involved. And even though you know you should be stubborn, insisting on him getting into bed right this instant, you want to see him in that state again. You always want to see him in that state, eyes glittering with passion, hands moving all over the place, smile brighter than anything.

He doesn't need an answer. You simply smile at him, slightly exasperated, and he says, "Alright!" before spinning on his heel, the very beginning of his lecture.

You listen to him talk like how you would listen to lo-fi music. Your legs swing back and forth, back and forth, a tiny smile gracing your features. Leo shows you different parts, illuminating the inside of Festus's new helmet with fire ignited in his calloused palm. It makes his grin impossibly brighter. It makes his curls that little bit darker. It's him.

Finally, he spins and says, "Cool, right?" and even though you were mildly distracted the entire time, you nod and say, "Very cool. As always."

"What are you doing here so early, anyway?" He strolls over, casually plucking another cinnamon roll off the plate and taking a bite.

"I saw you heading to Bunker 9 last night and just assumed this was where you slept. I thought you said you didn't sleep in here?"

He shrugs. "I sleep in here when I'm stressed; gets me away from the ruckus of everyone else, you know."

You raise a brow. "You were stressed?"

"Of course I was stressed." He looks at you, exasperated. "Do you not remember anything we discussed last night?"

You blink; it's not that you had forgotten - there's no way you'll be forgetting that night any time soon - but you thought for sure Leo had. Yes, he'd been there to help you through it, and he was the reason you went to bed smiling, but you were still a mortal, and your problems surely could never be as big as his. You genuinely sat in front of him and cried about feeling neglected by your mother when his own mother is dead, and his Dad doesn't even talk to him, too busy producing other godly children. But here he is, head tilted and eyes slashed with worry. You almost want to look away, but the colour in them has become so noticeably entrancing these past few weeks that you find it nearly impossible to do so.

"I didn't mean to stress you out," is all you can manage. "I was just ranting."

"You were crying."

"I was - I mean - like - yeah, I guess, but you don't have to stress."

Leo narrows his eyes. "You really are dense, aren't you?"

You open your mouth, ready to chastise him for saying such a thing, but your words are swallowed by the loud clang clang clang of the door opening. Leo stares at you for a second longer before glancing over his shoulder, sharing your shock at the sight of Will popping his head in the door. His lower lip is pulled between his teeth, movements slow and timid.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt," he says. "But we kind of need Y/N up at camp."

Those words are terrifying. They jolt you and Leo into action almost immediately; you slip off the counter, stumbling over a few discarded wrenches and old toolboxes. Leo catches you before you can fall, but neither of you comment on your suddenly linked hands before following Will out the door, curiosity getting the better of you.

You hear the commotion before you see it.

The sound of your mothers shrill voice is all-too familiar, and it echoes now. Bouncing off trees, sinking into the dirt, giving you a blistering headache that immediately makes you want to turn around and pretend you never heard it. But there's a crowd, an ocean of demigods, all with weapons and angry expressions trained on the woman who raised you - the woman who tried raising you - and despite the anger you once felt towards her, you pick up your pace, rush into the scene and say, "Ay! Get that spear out of my face!"

The demigod - you don't even know who she is - stumbles back, gaping at you. You don't give her the time of day, instead pivoting on your heel towards your mother.

There she is, stood in the middle of the clearing with her arms above her head, screaming up at the sky. Blood coats her elbows and knees. Chiron and Emma are beside her, but it seems like both of them have given up trying to make her see sense; they simply stare, Emma with tears in her eyes, Chiron looking like he's on the verge of booting her out of camp right this instant.

Leo stumbles to your side and grabs your arm. "What's wrong with her?"

You touch your mum's arm. "Mum, you're being proper embarrassing right now."

She spins. Her hair is matted, the product of having not been washed in weeks. Her eyes are dark, lips chapped and bitten, utterly destroyed. You've seen her when she's having one of her episodes, but this is worse. This is the worst you've ever seen it. It breaks your heart, even though it shouldn't. It was only last night she was basically calling you worthless, a mistake, the reason her little affair with a Greek god didn't work out.

You swallow. "Mum. . . It's me."

"Emma?"

You bite your lip, trying to ignore how much that hurts. "Uh. . . not quite, but nearly. Emma's over there."

"Don't get me involved in this," Emma spits, roughly swiping a hand across her cheek. "I don't want anything to do with her."

Your heart judders. Your mother's eyes narrow, like she's taking a little longer to process her first childs words. You decide to step in before she has a chance to.

"No, Mum, I'm not Emma, I'm Y/N. I'm here to - uh - take you home."

As soon as you say it, you want to curl in on yourself. It's a truth you've been trying to avoid these past few weeks, the idea of finally breaking away from camp and heading back to your shitty apartment with your shitty mother to live a shitty life of online classes and pretending everything is normal and okay. Behind you, Leo mumbles, "Sorry, what was that?" which hurts your heart even more. "Yeah," you continue, taking another timid step towards her. A branch cracks beneath your foot, and your mother flinches, looks up into the sky like the sound of a god appearing will be nothing more than a simple crack.

"Yeah, Mum, we're gonna go home, and you're gonna get some rest, okay? You look exhausted."

"Exhausted," she mumbles. "Home."

"Home, yeah. Remember home? We liked it there. Things were normal there."

Mum's nostrils flare. "Normal-"

"But our house is also where Ares thinks we are right now!" you barrel on. "He's got our address in his little address book - he doesn't actually know we're at Camp Half-Blood right now."

Her shoulders deflate, eyes brightening. "Oh. You're right. He's probably visited so many times and we haven't even been there! He's going to be so angry!"

"So, so angry." You wrap your arm around her shoulder, gently drawing her away from the crowd of angry demigods, of sobbing sisters and confused centaurs. You meet Leo's eyes only once, and it's enough to shatter your being, enough for the burning of tears to erupt through your senses. You want to turn and run to him, tell him you're sorry, promise to never leave him, but the feelings are so extraordinary and so weird, unfamiliar, that you can't.

You turn your gaze to the floor and guide your mother through the crowd towards the Big House, uttering words about home and comfort, and going back to a life you want to abandon for good. You pretend it's all okay, because that's all you've ever known.

----

Leo finds you that same night.

You left your mother in Chiron's care. She fell asleep immediately, and you were free to do what you wanted after that, but the thought of parading through Camp Half-Blood after being in the centre of such a weird scene made your stomach curl, so you stayed by her side until you were positive most of the campers were in bed, sleeping.

Except Leo, of course.

He sits down in the grass, shoulder brushing yours. You don't look over; you know it's him just from the scent of oil, and the way he cracks his knuckles, and the way he awkwardly coughs into the darkness. These are all little things of him you have memorised. Each one makes your heart ache.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he speaks. "You don't have to do all that, you know."

"Do what?"

"Stick up for her. Make her comfortable.

" You shrug. "I know I don't."

"So why do you do it?"

"Because she's my mum."

"She's barely your mum. She doesn't even do the bare minimum for you."

True. Painfully, awkwardly true.

You shrug again. Leo sighs, tilting his head back. When you glance over, you see him gazing up at the stars, jaw clenched in a way that throws off the soft features of his face you have grown so used to seeing. You don't like it.

You reach over and poke his cheek in an attempt to make him loosen up. He closes his eyes. "I don't get it."

"What?"

"Why you have to be the one taking care of her when she's never taken care of you."

You swallow thickly. "I'm not. . . I'm not taking care of her. I'm just-"

"Then what was that back there?"

"That was me trying to make sure my mum didn't get a spear shoved down her throat. It's basic human decency, Leo."

He purses his lips, like this is something he has never heard of.

You sigh, slumping back against a tree. "I don't hate my mum, you know; she's done some fucked up stuff to me, but I don't hate her."

Leo stares at you. His eyes are lazors, flames, beams pouring into the side of your head, and you want to look at him, but you think it would be a very bad idea right now.

Neither of you say anything for what feels like forever, which is a big deal when sitting with someone like Leo Valdez. The only noise filling in the silence is the steady drip of rain drops rolling down the leaves, bouncing against the lakes surface. A few ocean creatures peak their heads up, examine the scene, duck back beneath the water.

And then, "Are you actually leaving?"

You bite back a sob. "You didn't expect me to stay here forever, did you?"

Leo doesn't respond.

"She's not well here," you continue, tilting your head back. The moon waves at you. The stars smile. "She was bad at home, but being here - around this kind of thing - it's going to drive her insane."

"She's a grown woman."

"Ares messed her up." It's the first time you've said it out loud, the truth. Your mother was okay before she met that man. You've heard stories from your grandparents, your aunts and uncles, of the days when your mum was winning medals for her skills in ballet, the days she was getting awards for her academic success, the days where she played mediator in a house full of people who could never see eye-to-eye on anything. You listened to them with only half-interest, because you never fully believed them. You had lived with the crazy side of her for too long by that point.

But it's true. Ares waltzed into her life, promised her the world, gave her this child with skills beyond human comprehension, gave her a taste of real love for the first time in her life - and then he left.

"Why do gods think they can just get away with that?" you find yourself asking before you can stop. "Mess with people's lives like that. Why do they think that's okay?"

Leo sighs. "They run the world. They can do whatever they want."

"That seems really unfair."

"Yeah, well, it's also unfair that you have to give up your own happiness for your mum."

You close your eyes; there it is again, the topic breached. Leo doesn't understand that this is all you've ever known - caring for her, making sure she's okay, being ignored and neglected because you're not the gods child. He doesn't understand that this has been your life from day one. You were never given a chance to mind it. You were never given a chance to know anything else.

"You know, I think this place could really benefit with someone like you."

You look at him. "You're just saying that."

He shrugs, picking up a pebble and lobbing it at the lake. Always keeping his hands moving, never being still. "Maybe. Maybe I'm just a little desperate for you to stay." He looks at you. "Is that weird?"

You swallow, unable to respond, because you want to tell him no, no of course it's not weird, please keep talking and I'll stay, I'll stay here with you, I'll never leave, I never wanted to leave in the first place.

Leo looks down at his hands, fingers fiddling with the threads dangling from his overalls. "Sorry. I - I didn't mean to - like - put you on the spot or anything. I just care about you. A lot. And I hate seeing you upset. It bothers me."

The way it says it, words spoken through gritted teeth, makes your heart stutter. Oddly, it reminds you of those days spent laughing in Bunker 9, calling him stupid as he tried so hard to keep you amused, like he wanted to keep your attention as firm as possible so you wouldn't get up and leave. For once in your life, someone wants you to stay.

And it's sad - heartbreaking, even - that you have been cursed with these circumstances, that the mere notion of staying at Camp Half-Blood is so beyond reality; you're no demigod. Even if your mother were to head home on her own, do you a favour for once, the chances of Chiron being allowed to let you stay are incredibly, incredibly slim. You won't entertain the idea. You won't get your hopes up like that. You won't play to your own feelings, because that has never done anything for you, nothing but leave you in a state of despair.

And so, you keep quiet, staring out over the lake with Leo by your side, his hands working, his mind probably racing, your heart a steady thump in the distance.

---

The next day, you are ready to leave.

You packed all your things the night before. You said all your goodbyes the night before. You and Emma got into a brutal argument the night before, and now you're stood before her, trembling from head to toe as you patiently wait for Chiron to lead your mother to Thalia's pine tree so the both of you can finally be let go.

Emma stares at you. She's been doing that since last night, her hands balled into fists, jaw strong, so she looks a little bit like her father; you can say that now. You hate him. You think you'd punch him in the face if you ever saw him.

"I can't believe you're actually doing this for her."

"I never understood why you hate her so much - you're the one she actually cares about."

Emma grits her teeth, looking to the ground in that way she so often does when she's trying not to punch you square in the face. "That's not the point."

"You don't even deny it any more," you scoff. "You've just come to terms with the fact that she basically worships the ground you walk on. How about you start understanding how lucky you are rather than giving me grief for taking care of her?"

"Taking care of her?" Emma bursts. "She's your mother! She should be taking care of you!"

"Right, but that's not the way things have turned out, so we might as well cut the shit now before-"

"Leo spoke to me, you know." You freeze. Your mouth stays open, eyes widening; Leo is the absolute last thing you want to talk about right now, not after last night, not after hearing the hint of heartbreak in his voice when he realised it was too late, you were too far gone, there was no keeping you.

Emma nods, even though you haven't said anything, even though you can do nothing but stare at her in complete shock and bewilderment. "Yeah, Leo Valdez, the boy you're head over heels in love with."

You splutter. "What?"

"Oh, don't play dumb! I've seen the way you are with each other. I've seen the way you look at him. I've seen the way he looks at you, and for fuck sake Y/N, you shouldn't have to give all that up for someone like her!"

"That person you're on about is our mother!"

"And what? That means you have to put your entire life on hold for her?" Emma drops her sword in a move close to desperation, startling you when she barrels forward and grabs your shoulders. She holds you at arms length, eyes like fire. "You're my only little sibling, Y/N; it's my job more than anything else to look after you, and I'm not going to sit back and let your selflessness ruin your whole life."

You blink, and only then do the tears make an appearance. You think of Leo, even though you hate it, even though you've already said your goodbyes to him and you should just leave it at that. He hugged you, and you hugged him, and you apologised and he told you there was nothing to be sorry for - it was the perfect potential ending, but you don't want it to be over.

Emma is right; you're jeopardising your own happiness for this woman.

Emma stares at you, the tears leaking from your eyes. Her own lower lip trembles, but she's Emma, so she won't start crying. Not properly.

You inhale shakily, ducking your head down. "I can't let her go home on her own, Em. She'll never make it. She'll never agree to go if she doesn't have someone with her."

"So I'll go."

You freeze. "What?"

Emma tilts her head forward, catching your eye. "I said, I'll go. I'll take her home, get her settled, and then I'll get someone to come take care of her - a professional. Someone who should have been there for her a long bloody time ago. You can stay here for a while."

Your heart thunders. You're certain you've heard her wrong, because this isn't right - none of this is right. Emma's the demigod. She should be the one staying here whilst you get shipped off back home with your mother. That's how things have always been, how things were always meant to be. But when you look back at your older sister now, there is no glimmer of amusement in her eyes; she's being serious, more serious than you've ever seen her before.

She squeezes your shoulders, curling her stubby nails into the fabric of your hoodie. "I mean it, Y/N. If you want to stay here-"

"I do," you croak out. "I really, really do."

"For Leo?"

You blink.

Emma grins. "For Leo." She pats your shoulder, nearly knocking you off your feet. "Go, before her and Chiron make an appearance. I think Valdez is-"

But you don't let her finish. You know where Leo is even without her input, and so you throw yourself into her arms, squeal a thank you in her ear before sprinting off down the hill towards Bunker 9.

The gods should be yelling at you right now, casting lightning and rain and every other deadly element down upon you, because this must be so far out of the rule book. This must be going entirely against everything they have ever set up, every rule they have laid out - a mortal in one of their demigod camps? A mortal hanging around their children like their even close to being equal. Complete blasphemy.

But you don't care. Not when you round the corner to see the door to Bunker 9 already wide open, little flashes of Leo Valdez skimming past the entryway.

You pause in the trees, craning your neck to catch a glimpse of what he is doing, and it is only then do you see the spanner smash against one of the windows. The glass doesn't shatter, but it shakes and it makes a loud noise, and it's followed closely by Leo yelling out a curse that would get him blown to smithereens if his father were to hear it.

You sprint towards the door. "Leo?"

He spins around, eyes widening. He grips his hand, blood seeping from one of his fingers, dribbling down his wrist and landing upon his boots. He doesn't seem to care, though, simply staring at you in shock.

And then, "Y/N?"

You throw yourself forward, grabbing his wrist. The blood from his gets caught beneath your fingers, but you don't care. You stare at it, shaking your head, whispering his name over and over, and all he can do is stare at you, dumbfounded, before he exclaims, "Hey, wait!" and stumbles back, yanking his hand from your grip in the process.

"Leo, let me have a look at that-"

"You shouldn't be here right now!"

"Okay, Leo, yes, we'll discuss that later, but please, let me look at your hand. What the hell did you even do?"

You reach for him, but he's like a wild animal, startled and afraid. He stumbles back, nearly tripping over a toolbox discarded on the floor. You notice the mess that wasn't there this morning, the tools laying everywhere, sheets of torn paper thrown left, right and centre, broken glass littering the hard floor.

"Jesus, Leo," you gasp. "What have you been doing in here?"

"Why are you back? Why aren't you away yet?"

You lift your gaze, narrowing your eyes. "If you want me to go, you can just say so." And right now, looking at the scene around you and the state of Leo's hand, and his startled expression, you don't even feel bad that he very well might just ask you to turn and leave. Your mind is preoccupied, wanting nothing more than to grab him and force him to shut up so you can pay some attention to the gaping wound on the tip of his finger. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He's staring at you, unable to move, small of his back pressed against the workbench. The blood welling in his fingertip looks to only be getting worse.

"Leo," you say softly. "Please, can we talk about this later?"

He doesn't respond, but he doesn't run away when you take a step towards him, either. His eyes never leave your own as you reach for his hand and pull him towards a chair in the corner, slowly pushing him into it. You softly ask him to reach into that magic toolbelt of his to pull out some medical supplies, and he does so with trembling hands, never saying a word, never really needing to.

You get to work in silence, trying to ignore the thumping of your own heart, the tremble of your own hands, the desperate need you have to just apologise over and over and over for scaring him so bad, for startling him to the point where he can't even form a full sentence, to the point where he was willing to run away from you.

You clean the wound and bandage it the best way you can, remembering all those times as a child when you would cut yourself by accident and your mum would be too dazed or too neglectful to take you to the hospital or do anything about it herself.

Leo watches your hands working wonders until it's all finally complete and you step back, admiring your handiwork with a pleased grin on your face. "Not too shabby."

Leo swallows. Finally you take the time to look at him, his pale face and startled eyes; he looks like he's on the verge of tears, which really isn't the reaction you were hoping to receive when you walked back into Bunker 9.

You fold your arms over your chest, nibbling your bottom lip as you say, "I'm staying."

Leo exhales shakily. "I don't get it. Last night you were so adamant-"

"I know. I know I was, but I never wanted to go in the first place."

"So why-"

"Emma made me realise some things." You push yourself onto the workbench behind you, the very same spot you always found yourself sitting when Leo is working away on one of his projects. You used to sit with your legs pulled beneath you, watching him work in silence.

He stares at you. "I fully prepared myself to never see you again."

You wince. "I'm sorry."

And then he's scrambling out of his chair, stumbling between your legs, grabbing your hands, tugging them into his chest, all in that order. You gasp at the touch, the rough fabric of his plaster rubbing against your wrist, the forever warm touch of his skin so familiar yet you crave it so badly.

He's shaking his head, mumbling "No," on repeat beneath his breath

. "Leo. . ."

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad," he says. "So don't apologise to me again, alright? I don't want it. I don't need it - all that matters now is that you're here, and you - you said you're staying." He looks up, almost timid. "Did I hear that right?"

You nod, dazed; he's not mad. He's happy. He's smiling, and his eyes are doing that thing again where they glint and they crease into crescents, and he looks so cute, so happy, so like the Leo you've come to know and love so deeply. It makes your heart stutter. It makes this entire thing so, so worth it.

He grins. "Oh gods, Y/N, you scared the shit out of me. I nearly tore this place to the ground-"

"I can see that," you croak.

He winces, glancing awkwardly over his shoulder. "I didn't mean to - It was honestly an accident, but-"

"It's okay, Leo." His head snaps back round.

"It's okay?"

"It's all okay."

You reach forward, winding your arm around his neck, dragging him closer. His curls flood through your fingers, his eyes fluttering closed for a split second before he opens them again and says, "Can I kiss you?"

You nod, because of course he can. He does just that, pressing his lips to yours delicately, so, so delicately, like he's afraid you'll shatter. His hands are tender on your hips, thumbs rubbing gentle, mindless circles into the fabric of your shirt, and it's all so slow, all so gentle, but your heart is exploding into constellations, sprinkling over your being in a way you have never experienced before.

For someone who is never still, never calm, never quiet, his kisses are like a warm summer afternoon spent wading along a beach. They are aquamarine waters and birds chirping around a morning sunrise. They are everything and nothing and more than enough but never enough all in the same breath.

He pulls away first, uncertain, glancing nervously into your eyes as he slowly releases you. He takes a steady step back, rubbing the back of his neck, and it takes everything in you not to pull him back in.

Instead you laugh, swinging your legs back and forth like a giddy child. "Don't look so sheepish or I'll think you've poisoned me."

"I'm not very good at that," he mumbles. "Machines don't usually need kissed, so I don't tend to do it that often."

"I'd hope not." You grab his hand, pulling him back between your knees. "I'm sorry for scaring you earlier."

He opens his mouth, ready to protest your apologies once again, but you cut him off with five fingertips pressed to his lips. His eyes cross over as he glares at them, making you giggle. "I know you said I shouldn't apologise, but I shouldn't have been so. . . hasty. I shouldn't have lost my temper with you. I should have let you speak-"

"I don't say very interesting things."

"You say the most interesting things." You drop your hand, intertwine your fingers with his. "But I'm staying, Leo. I promise." He exhales shakily, like this is what he has been waiting to hear for a while now; it breaks your heart, rejuvenates you at the same time, and you realise suddenly just how awful it would have been to pack up your stuff and head home, to live a life without Leo Valdez in it.

---

Your mother looks a little better. A little healthier. A little happier.

Emma sits beside her, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, a denim jacket over the top. She looks happy, too, a little exhausted, but you never expected anything less. She's still smiling, though, and when her face appears in the Iris message, she lets out a happy sigh of relief.

"I thought you two would fuck it up."

"Go to hell, Emma," says Leo.

You chuckle, leaning back in your seat; it's been two weeks since Mum and Emma went back to the flat together, two weeks since you agreed to spend the rest of your summer at Camp Half-Blood, working on a relationship with Leo Valdez. It's been a grand two weeks, yes, but you still have responsibilities back in the real world.

"So, how's it going?" you ask. "Mum, you're still going to therapy, aren't you?"

"Yes," Mum mumbles, sounding more like an anguished teenager than anything else. "I've told you both already, I don't need it - I got over Ares years ago. I have my own family now - he can go to hell."

"Tartarus," Leo corrects.

"Whatever."

You grin. It's been so long - so long - since you've heard your mum mention you in the same context as Emma, including your name in the same sentence as the word family. Leo must notice your sudden shift in mood, as he chuckles, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back. He does that sometimes, letting you know he's there, like you'd ever forget. You reach behind you and tangle your fingers with his, subtly placing your joined hands in your lap.

"A few more weeks," you tell her. "That's all you have to endure, and then they're putting you on that trial, aren't they?"

"Apparently," Mum replies. "I was thinking of coming to visit you."

You and Emma share a look - the last time your mother was at Camp Half-Blood, things didn't exactly go well. The energy of this place drove her insane, reminded her of days with Ares, reminded her she'd been abandoned by the one man she ever loved.

Leo cuts in. "Oh, no! I was hoping Y/N and I could come out there and visit you guys for the week!"

Your head whips round. "You were?"

"Well, yeah." Leo rolls his eyes, faux exasperation. "I did tell you about it. I haven't been back to your house since the giant threw that boulder through your window." He rubs his finger along your scarred, damaged knuckles, forever torn from the boulder that destroyed all your nerve endings. "I think it would be a grand old time, personally."

"I agree," Emma chimes in. "And it would be less stressful for us - we can just wait here for them to arrive, and you still get to see Y/N!"

Mum hums, thoughtful, and for just a second, you're certain she's going to revert back to her old ways. She's going to call you scum, pretend you don't exist, make you feel like shit all over again; judging by the sudden grip Leo has on your hand, he thinks the exact same thing. You thought this was over with. You thought your Mum had gotten better, that she finally realised you are her child, too, and-

"I guess it would be a lot less hassle."

Leo exhales. "Great! It's a date."

"For you two, maybe," Emma grumbles. "Look, we have to leave in two minutes, so this is goodbye."

"Jeez, Em, tell us how you really feel."

"See you in a few weeks, assholes!" And before you or Leo can respond, the Iris message is flickering to a close, leaving you and Leo alone in Bunker 9.

It's silent for a few seconds. Leo grips your hand, running his thumb along your knuckles, and it suddenly feels so, so hard not to cry.

"She's getting so much better," you choke out.

Leo's head snaps round, eyes widening at the crack in your voice. "Hey, no. Don't you start crying on me, okay? This is a good thing! Good!" He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. He has that goofy look, his eyebrows stitched together, his lips pursed; it makes you laugh every time.

You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists just to keep the feel of him against you for a little longer. "I'm not going to cry. I'm not a bitch."

"It's all good here, Y/N," he says. "I always told you it's all good here."

And with his hands on your face, his eyes gazing into your own, the sweet weather of Camp Half-Blood flourishing outside, you know he's telling the truth. It's all good.

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trentaafcsblog · 3 years

Text

February 14th

Anyone You Like

Warning - this is really shit, I’m so sorry!

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love” he whispers as he snuggles up next to you, pressing a kiss onto the tip of your nose and smiling when you start to stir from your sleep. His heart going all fuzzy as your face scrunches up and you lift your arms above your head to do your classic morning stretch - something so simple but he was literally obsessed with it, having seen you do it pretty much every single morning for the past six years.

“Hi” you’re saying when you finally open your eyes, burying your head into his chest as he brushes your hair away from your face and wipes the sleep from your eyes, mumbling an ‘I love you’ when you lean up to kiss his lips before stopping yourself from going any further.

“What’s that?” you’re asking as you shuffle out of his arms and pull the duvet away from your face, looking up at the ceiling and realising that it’s completely covered in red and white balloons with pieces of gold ribbon dangling off them. Your lips going all pouty as you sit up to get a better look at everything, noticing the rose petals that are sprinkled on the floor and the huge bouquet of red roses that are waiting for you on your bedside table, a little card in the top that reads ‘I love you forever and always’ - a saying that you’d picked up along the course of your relationship and something that had a much deeper meaning than people probably realised.

“Babyyy” you’re cooing as he goes all shy and giggly, hiding his face under the covers because neither of you were ones to make a massive fuss like this, particularly on Valentine’s Day because you don’t see the point in celebrating each other on one specific date when your love for one another grows more and more with each passing day. “I love you so much” you’re saying as you try to pull the duvet away from his face, fighting a losing battle when he rolls over and prevents you from seeing his blushing cheeks, leaving you with no option other than to lean across him and attack him with kisses until he’s forced to look at you.

“Stop” he giggles when he gives in and reappears from under the pillow, looking up at you hanging over him with the same look in his eyes that he had when he first realised that he loved you, one that let you know that he was yours until the end and that he’d go to the ends of the earth to see the little smile that’s now on your face. Just staring at one another for a few seconds, still in shock that you get to call the other person yours after all this time. Wondering what the hell you did to deserve one another and be lucky enough to experience all of life’s journeys with them, and all of the challenges that you thought would break you both - yet here you are now, probably the most content you’ve ever been, with a future ahead of you that you could only have ever dreamed of. But your little romantic moment quickly comes to an end when his tummy starts rumbling, just like it always does when it gets past about 7am, knowing that food probably occupies his mind more than you do as you lay there and roll your eyes at him.

“Just you wait until you see what I’ve done” he winks before springing out of bed, heading downstairs and reappearing a few minutes later with a huge tray piled up with all kinds of plates and bowls. Orange juice sloshing over the side of one of the glasses and making you cringe when it leaves a trail of little splashes all over your white carpet. “It’ll come out, don’t worry” he’s telling you before putting the tray on your lap, clearly not as bothered about the mess that he’s made as you are, dreading to think about the state of the kitchen going by the array of different breakfast items he’s brought you. Waffles, croissants, mini pancakes that he’s cut into the shape of hearts with a cookie cutter that he found at the back of one of the kitchen drawers, a fruit salad, vanilla yoghurt, a random bowl of baked beans and some nutella and syrup to dip things into. “Looks delicious” you grin before scooping some of the chocolate up on a strawberry, getting him to open his mouth before you’re popping it in and he’s teasing that that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for him, which of course earns him a gentle smack on the chest and a threat to flip all of his hard work on the floor, knowing that it’ll make a lovely contribution to the orange splatters that now decorate your lovely white flooring.

“I got you a card as well” he’s telling you with a mouthful of croissant, the flaky bits of pastry flying all over the duvet from where he’s trying to talk. “Just as well I got you one too” you wink before handing him the red envelope with his initial and a little kiss on the front. “Nice to know you’ve made it all cute” you joke as you look down at his to see ‘the missus’ scrawled across the front in a pen that looks like it ran about about five years ago. “Excuse me, I was busy doing all of this” he’s telling you as he points at the ceiling and the tray of half-eaten breakfast, most of which he’s consumed himself despite claiming that it’s for ‘the pretty lady’, replying with ‘I know, I know, I’m just kidding’ as he hums and slides his finger under the flap of the envelope to open it up.

“That’s cute, innit” he’s saying as he nods towards the card that he’s got you. A teddy bear couple on the front, one of them holding a bouquet of flowers and the other one going all shy and blushy in response. “Yeah, I take it you’re this one though” you tease as you point towards the blushing bear, not even bothering to fight back because he can’t argue with that, not after the state he got himself into this morning when you saw what he’d stayed up doing all night.

“Thank you so much” he’s whispering once he’s finished reading your card, leaning across to kiss you whilst trying to disguise the fact that he’s crying at what you’ve written inside. “Thank you so much for mine, who knew you had such a way with words?” you smile as he rolls his eyes at you, propping your card up on his bedside table so that it acts as a little reminder to read it again before he goes to bed. Pulling you into his side and pressing a series of kisses onto your forehead as the two of you lay there in each other’s arms, tracing patterns along each other’s bare skin with your hearts going all fluttery each time the other person looks at you, never wanting this moment to end.

***

“Wow, what’s going on in here, mister?” you’re asking when you come walking into the kitchen to see him leaping around and trying to juggle about six different frying pans. Completely ignoring your question when he sees what you’ve come down to dinner dressed in. The most beautiful red silk dress that hugs your figure perfectly, paired with the pair of Louboutins that he bought you for your birthday a couple of years ago and a little black clutch bag to match - not that you particularly needed it when you were spending the night at home, but he loves how you still go to so much effort to look all pretty for him, even though he’d love you just as much if you turned up to the kitchen in your Minnie Mouse pyjamas that are littered with about twenty different holes.

“I would come and give you a kiss but I’m quite busy if you can’t tell” he’s saying as you giggle at him. “Come and sit here to keep me company though, I poured a glass of your favourite drink so don’t say I don’t look after ya” he winks as you coo and make your way over to the kitchen island, clinging onto the worktop to steady yourself because it’s been ages since you last wore heels and you don’t want a repeat of five minutes ago when you nearly went arse over tit halfway down the stairs.

“Is that my favourite pasta?” you’re asking as he nods his head nervously, now realising why he spent most of today’s movie marathon on fancy restaurant websites trying to find a recipe for something that you couldn’t quite get a glimpse of thanks to the angle of his phone, but it turns out that it was your favourite dish. Immediately feeling guilty for scowling at him and telling him off for being rude when you were meant to be relaxing and watching all of the soppy love films on Netflix, completely oblivious to the fact that he was actually busy trying to memorise about twelve different recipes so that he could pretend that he knew it off by heart, particularly as it’s your favourite.

“I made my own garlic bread too, look” he’s saying proudly as he points towards the oven. “And a salad, and some of that fancy bread that you dip in the oil and vinegar, well actually that’s a lie, I bought the bread but I mixed the oil and vinegar together and cut the bread into little stars” he’s telling you as your heart almost bursts at the seams. Looking over at the plate of little bread stars across the other side of the kitchen and just dying to squish him for being so cute, especially since he’d cut them all freehand without using any sort of template - something that he was incredibly proud of himself for, even if a couple of them had very wonky edges and a few missing points.

“Aaand I made a chocolate cheesecake as well” he says smugly as you raise your eyebrows in slight disbelief. “All whilst I was getting ready?” you’re questioning as he nods his head. “Don't look so shocked! You were getting ready for about three hours so I had plenty of time to do everything, even if I did spend about an hour trying to work out how to use a garlic crusher” he’s smiling as you laugh at him, loving how he was still pretty inept in the kitchen despite managing to conjure up a romantic meal for you.

“Let me take the pretty lady to her table” he’s saying with a posh voice as you slide off the bar stood and link your arm through his, letting him lead you over to the dining table that you didn’t even notice when you came in. “Oh my god” you’re cooing as your eyes scan over the little tea lights that he’s shaped to look like a heart, rose petals scattered across the table and a collection of Polaroids that the two of you have taken across the years dotted around too. Trying to swallow down the lump in your throat as he pulls the chair back and helps you get comfy before disappearing off and coming back to bring you all of the food that he’s prepared.

“This looks amazing” you whisper as you reach across the table to hold his hand, mouthing a little ‘thank you’ at him as he lifts your hand up and presses a kiss onto your skin. “Don’t go all shy and emotional on me now, missy, it’s not our first date” he teases as you giggle at him and wipe away a stray tear. Being cut out of your emotional moment when he forces a little star of bread into your mouth, the oil and vinegar dribbling down your chin as you give him the evils and try to pat it away with one of the paper napkins that’s he’s folded into a square - covered in little Christmas puddings because ‘what’s the point in buying ones for Valentine’s Day when we can use what we’ve already got?’ Tempted to do the same thing back to him but you’re managing to resist the urge to start a food fight on the most romantic day of the year, instead dipping your fork into your bowl of pasta and twiddling several strands of linguine around it before putting it into your mouth. Clinging onto the table when you start to chew, your eyes blowing wide as you stare straight back at him and wag your finger in his direction. Waving your hands above your head and clapping before swallowing and letting out a little cheer. “Is it that good?” he laughs as you start shovelling more of the pasta into your mouth, giving him the all important answer he needs as he breathes a sigh of relief, knowing that all of his not-so-sly google searches and telling offs during your movie day have paid off.

“Thank you so much for all of this” you’re saying as you tuck into your slice of cheesecake, admiring the little hearts that he’d swirled into the top of the chocolate mixture before doing the all important taste test. Nodding your head and smiling at him to reassure him that it tastes incredible before he’s reaching across the table to hold your hand again. “Thank you so much for making me realise what love is” he’s saying as you try your best to fight back the tears. Never really hearing him come out with things like that unless he’s drunk, probably because he gets too shy and embarrassed and worries that you won’t feel the same way, despite spending the past six years of your life with him and reassuring him every single day that he’s the one for you, so hearing him have the confidence to tell you how much you mean to him means the absolute world.

“Thank you for making my life a million times better and holding my hand through all of what life’s thrown at us” he’s telling you as you tilt your head to the side and just admire the man you love with your whole heart going all soppy, clearly having added something to his pasta that evoked this kind of emotion. “And for keeping my feet on the ground and being there when things haven’t gone quite as I’d planned” he’s saying as you sniff away opposite him, your thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand as he carries on. “There’s genuinely nobody else in the entire world that I love as much as you” he’s adding, his voice breaking half way through, making the rest of the sentence all shaky, as he does his best to try and hold himself together, despite just wanting to burst into tears at how much he means each and every one of those words.

“I love you so much” you blub before getting up and making your way around the table to him, sitting down on his lap and burying your head in the crook of his neck as his arms snake around your waist and pull you close to him. His fingers tracing gentle patterns on the sides of your hips as you play with his hair, occasionally pressing the odd kiss to his skin which makes his grip around your body become even tighter. A comfortable silence washing over the two of you as you sit there in a completely love-filled state, neither person knowing quite what to say, but going by each other’s reactions a few minutes ago, it’s clear that this is what love feels like.

“I got you a present” you’re saying as you pull away from him, breaking the silence and climbing off his lap before disappearing off into the hallway. Picking up the little white gift bag that you’d left at the bottom of the stairs when you came down for dinner, your fingers looping through the silk handles as you make your way back to him. “I thought we said no presents?” he’s questioning as you scoff at him. “Says the man who decided to decorate the bedroom and cook me dinner” you’re replying as he gives you a shy smile at the thought. “It’s just a little something but it shows how much I love you and I know you’ve wanted it for ages” you tell him as he pulls one end of the bow, watching it unravel before he’s dipping his hand into the bag and fumbling around amongst the tissue paper. Pulling out several sheets of white tissue paper littered with tiny scarlet red hearts before he’s eventually reaching the box inside. Looking at you with a confused expression as he lifts the rectangular black box out and gives it a little shake, something rattling inside as he pauses for a second to think about what it could be, ruling out the possibility of it being a bracelet or a fancy watch, not that he’d ever want you spending that much money on him, of course.

“Just open it!” you’re giggling as you push him to open the gift, the anticipation getting to you more than it is him as. “I’m scared” he laughs nervously, waiting a few seconds before he’s beginning to lift the lid off. “Don’t be” you’re whispering as he looks at you one final time before fully taking it off.

His jaw dropping as he admires what’s inside, his gaze flicking between you and the inside of the box as he tries to process what you’ve given him.

“We’re having a baby?” he asks as you nod your head, your reaction taking a while to process in his mind, but after what feels like forever he’s letting out a breathy laugh, one that combines happiness and slight disbelief. And then the tears are coming too, his hand covering his face as he sobs into his palm. Making your way back over to him and wrapping your arms around his neck as you rest your head on top of his, letting him come to terms with the fact that you’ve blessed him with the best gift of all.

“Thank you so much” he’s crying as he takes the pregnancy test back out of the box, admiring the two little lines that are showing on the screen - confirming that there’s another life inside of you, made up of both you and him. “No, thank you so much” you’re sniffling as you cup his face and press a little kiss onto his lips. Staring into his teary eyes before they’re fluttering shut when your foreheads touch and the tips of your noses brush over one another. Neither of you knowing quite what to say as you settle back down on his knee again, just holding him close to you until he pulls away every few seconds to look at the pregnancy test again, feeling as though this is all one big dream and someone’s going to wake him up and take it away from him at any given moment. But it’s not. You’re living the dream, and it’s about to become a reality in just a matter of months, a reality that you’ve been craving for the past six years and one that you wouldn’t want to experience with anyone else, and now, it’s one step closer to becoming yours.

February the 14th. The day your lives changed forever.

——————————————————————————

I hope you enjoyed this little imagine 🥰 please let me know who you imagined it with because I’m nosy and I’d love to know hehe, I hope you’ve all had the best Valentine’s Day (regardless of whether you’re in a relationship or not) and remember that I love you all to bits x

#trent alexander arnold #jadon sancho #ruben loftus cheek #marcus rashford #dele #dominic calvert lewin #james maddison #ben chilwell #rhian brewster #reiss nelson #valentine’s day #england nt #liverpool fc

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hermannsthumb · 3 years

Note

I love your writing so so much!! Prompt: middle-aged husbands! Newt gets back from a work trip with some salt and pepper scruff he didn't have time to shave and Hermann goes a little weak in the knees

oh ho ho....also everything im writing this month and next must necessarily be set a snowy setting sry. as always thank u to k-sci-janitor for bouncing ideas w me over discord mild sexy stuff below cut!

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When Newton stumbles through the front door in a flurry of snow and clatter of suitcases two weeks after he left for a research trip, Hermann notices two things; the first, that the cliche about absence making the heart grow fonder really is true, the second, that Newton’s cheeks (when Hermann rushes to meet him in a rather embarrassingly fast fashion and allows himself to be scooped up into Newton’s arms, of all things) are distinctly...rougher than usual. Rougher, and pricklier. “How’s the hottest scientist in the world?” Newton says, after an entirely inappropriate amount of kissing. The neighbors could see, for goodness’ sake. “God, dude, I missed you so fucking much.”

“Close the door,” Hermann laughs. “You’re letting all the heat out, and the bloody snow in.”

But Newton merely kisses him again and again, cornering him against the wall and settling his hands low on Hermann’s hips. His cheeks scratch Hermann’s skin; Hermann shivers, not knowing whether from it or the chill of the air. “How much did you miss me?” Newton murmurs.

“Not enough to put on a show for the neighbors,” Hermann chides, though he shivers again when Newton nuzzles against him. He taps the end of his cane against the sodden laces of Newton’s boots. “Mm, ah, come on, I’ve lit a fire, and, and made us tea, take your—wet things off, and—”

Newton steps back with a grin. “You gonna warm me up, Hermann?”

“With a fire and tea,” Hermann says. He shuts the door before more snow can drift in to melt on the hardwood. “Er. For now, anyway. And do hang your jacket this time.”

Newton stumbles out of his winter things in record time, and then stumbles after Hermann the moment they’re tossed haphazardly onto the coat rack. “It’s so…neat in here,” he says, marveling as they pass through the tidy kitchen to get to the equally tidy sitting room, where the fireplace blazes away. “Did you do anything besides clean while I was gone?”

The truth of the matter is that Hermann (lost to mathematical abstraction, and lacking a partner to snap him out of it) let his clutter—half-finished tea, discarded notebook pages, broken pencils and chalk—pile up on every available surface throughout the two weeks of Newton’s absence, and only remembered the previous evening that this was not the usual state of their flat and he ought to see to it very quickly before Newton arrived home. He hopes Newton doesn’t take a peek inside their study any time soon. “Er, something like that,” Hermann says. “Clean, and miss you horrendously. How was the trip?”

“Long,” Newton says. He sits on the couch and drags Hermann down with him. There’s something different in his face Hermann can’t quite put his finger on—he’s changed somehow, Hermann is sure of it, but the question is how? Has he resorted to his spare pair of glasses? No—these are the ones he usually wears; Hermann can see the miniscule crack at the bottom of the left lens, sustained after a particularly energic round of lovemaking in which Hermann rolled right over on top of them. Not that any of that is at all relevant, of course. “Lonely. Fascinating, though, I wish you’d come with me.”

Newton was excited about his trip for weeks. Even the extinction of his object of study couldn’t make him any less one of the top k-biologists, and he was brought in to oversee the salvaging of some of the very last kaiju remains in existence—preserved all these years since the closure of the Breach by the ice of Alaska. Newton sent picture after picture of it, the snow, him bumbling around in the snow in Hermann’s borrowed winter parka, the team he led bundled up in parkas of their own. Hermann knows he ought to ask about it and ask how the salvage efforts went; he knows he ought to ask about the cold, and the snow, and whether or not the other remaining k-scientists were anyone they’d worked with before. Instead, he can’t seem to stop squinting at Newton. “Have you cut your hair?” Hermann says. “Or styled it differently, perhaps? Only there’s something so different about you, I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Different?” Newton says, frowning. “What do you—?" Then he laughs. “Oh! Yeah, I was wayyyy too busy to shave. You’re looking at, like, about as close as I ever get to a full-on beard.” He drags his hand over his jaw, and it rasps audibly. Of course—how did Hermann not realize that from Newton’s scratchy kisses? His stubble, usually so carefully maintained (even in the midst of the war), is overgrown enough to verge on thick, and for the first time Hermann notices the decent smattering of grey across it. It’s—well—it’s hardly a bad look on him. Rather, Hermann might say it’s the opposite. It makes him look older, a bit more…er, distinguished. “You like it?”

Hermann remembers the marvelous way it scratched across his skin. “Hmm,” he says.

Newton laughs again, and tugs at the front of Hermann’s sweater. “C’mon, take this off already. It’s been two weeks, dude.”

Hermann can’t argue with that logic.

Later, in bed, as Newton—having volunteered selflessly for the duty of big spoon—snores away happily at Hermann’s back, Hermann considers recent developments. He’s never been dissatisfied with Newton’s appearance before; he’s never looked at his husband and thought oh, I wish his hair was a bit different, or I could do without those glasses. Certainly never I want him to have a big, magnificent face of grey stubble that tickles my neck and my chest and my thighs and… Hermann presses his face into his pillow and groans in mortification. Oh, but God, it is an improvement. It’s an improvement Hermann never knew Newton needed. Not that he did need it—it’s just—Oh.

Newton mumbles something in his sleep and rolls away from Hermann. His stubble catches and drags on the back of Hermann’s neck, and Hermann stifles a moan into the pillow this time. Newton intends to shave it off, Hermann knows. Hermann watched him unpack his suitcase in the bedroom, watched him carefully tuck his shaving kit back into the medicine cabinet with a laugh and a reassurance of that very fact (take a picture while you can, it’s coming off tomorrow), all while he felt the tingle of irritated skin between his thighs that Newton had left behind on the couch. He snuck a glimpse at it when he changed into pyjamas—a faded red that matches that on his neck.

To explain to Newton why it is imperative he not proceed with his planned shave would be far too mortifying an experience for Hermann to undergo. And Newton would certainly never let him hear the end of it. No; it would be better to take matters into his own hands. Hermann swings two socked feet to the floor and reaches for his cane as quietly as he can manage.

Newton’s back-up disposable razors are snapped in two and buried in the bottom of the trashcan, beneath two weeks’ worth of dental floss and paper Dixie cups. His nice shaving kit proves a bit more of a challenge, not in the least because Hermann bought it for him as a birthday gift not long ago, and the thought of intentionally damaging it makes him cringe. He settles on simply stealing all the razor attachments and hiding them at the bottom of the spare hand towel basket. Hopefully, by the time they turn up, Newton will have long-since decided to grow out his stubble even further.

Newton stirs very lightly when Hermann tucks himself back beneath the bedspread and Newton’s arm. “’S the matter?” he mumbles.

“Had to use the loo,” Hermann whispers back.

“Mm,” Newton says, and presses his lips Hermann’s shoulder once before his breathing slowly evens out.

Hermann lazes in bed late the next morning. Late for them, anyway; pseudo-retirement hasn’t managed to knock a decade of strict routine out of him and Newton yet, and they still wake and dress before the sunrise like the war never ended. However, a soft, warm, and jetlagged Newton in his arms is hard to pull himself away from, especially with nothing but a foot of snow outside to look forward to, so he lets himself drift happily in and out of dreams for a good hour or so. Until Newton’s cell phone alarm startles them both up, that is. “Ugh,” Newton groans, smacking around on the bedside table for it. “Stupid thing. Where—”

He left it on Hermann’s bedside table. Hermann switches it off.

“Thanks, dude,” Newton says. He yawns. “Got a meeting this afternoon about the, uh, samples. Never get a break.”

Hermann hears him walk to the bathroom. He hears him open the medicine cabinet. He hears the zip of his shaving kit bag. “Uh,” Newton says. He pokes his head into the bedroom. “Hermann, do you know what happened to my razor?”

Hermann sits up and feigns a frown. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Like, all the parts are gone,” Newton says. He rifles through the kit again, as if to be sure, and shakes his head. “Yeah. They’re all gone. Shit, did I leave them at the base?”

“Oh, no,” Hermann says. “Your nice razor? The one I got you?”

Newton ducks back into the bathroom; Hermann hears him rattle around in the medicine cabinet again. “All my razors are missing. What the hell? I have a meeting in a few hours, I can’t show up looking like—” There’s a loud clatter, as if Newton knocked all their medication bottles over into the sink, and he swears. “Oh, well that’s fucking peachy.” He slams the cabinet door shut.

“Newton, come back to bed,” Hermann calls. He and Newton have limited time before they’re meant to start their responsibilities for the day, and he would like very much to enjoy that time to the fullest. “You’re making a mess of things. I’m sure you’ve just misplaced your razor—perhaps it’s in your suitcase.” When Newton doesn’t immediately bend to his command, Hermann rolls his eyes and lowers his voice. “Newton, darling,” he says, though this time in more of a purr. “Come back to bed.”

Newton is back and on Hermann in a flash. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says between kisses. His fingers creep up Hermann’s pajama shirt and graze over Hermann’s ribs before tugging the shirt off entirely. “Hermann, I missed having sex with you so bad. You have no idea. Ugh.” He grinds his prick, already hard, into Hermann’s clothed thigh, and nips at his ear. “I kept thinking about your stupid sexy face, and your stupid sexy dick, and your stupid hair—” He burrows himself into the crook of Hermann’s newly bared neck and shoulder and kisses his collarbone, and Hermann moans at the scratchy sensation of his stubble shadow before he can help himself.

“Newton,” he gasps, “oh, bugger—”

“Ha, yeah, you like when I talk about your sexy dick, babe?” Newton says. “It’s so awesome and sexy, I can’t wait to—"

“Not that,” Hermann says. “Kiss me there again.” Newton obliges; Hermann whimpers and shivers, and (before he can help himself) confesses aloud “Oh, that damn beard of yours… I want it all over me…”

Newton pulls away with a frown. “You do?” he says. “Wait. Hermann—did you do something to my razor?”

“No,” Hermann lies. He wiggles around in a desperate attempt to get Newton’s stubble back on his skin, but Newton only pulls back further. He sighs. “Er. Perhaps. They’re just hidden, is all.”

Newton’s frown flicks up into a grin, and he laughs. “Dude, you could’ve just told me. You’re so dumb. So you like when I do this, then?” He dips back down to kisses a trail along Hermann’s sternum, making sure to graze his cheeks over his skin at every inch. “Or this?” He ducks beneath the covers and nuzzles at Hermann’s abdomen.

“Yes,” Hermann moans to the Newton-shaped lump under the blanket. Newton’s fingers work open his drawstring and slowly inch his pajama trousers down. “Yes, Newton, ah—”

“Or—”

Suffice to say, Newton keeps the beard.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

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yellowocaballero · 4 years

Text

Continuation of Human Relations (Oh My God, They Were Roommates)

This is a 16k story that’s a bit too short for AO3 but a bit too long for Tumblr that acts as a continuation of my Archivist!Sasha and Immortal!Jon fic Human Relations. I recommend that you read that before this. This story takes place between S2 and S3, and is about Sasha and Georgie’s roommate adventures. I’m uncertain if I’ll continue this and post it on AO3, post it on AO3 as it is, or what, but for the time being I’ll at least post it here.

Serious content warnings for discussion of abusive friendships, gaslighting, discussion of 19th century racism, implied transphobia, and discussion of police brutality. Nothing more serious than what we saw in Human Relations, but it does have a much more explicit investigation of Jon and Elias’ relationship. Rest under the cut. Happy Birthday, @magickko.

EDIT: HAHA READMORE DIDN’T WORK, YIKES.

Sasha dreams, every night.

Nightmares, mostly. Statements given and Statements stolen run endlessly through her head in a scrolling loop, crying out for mercy, as its figures cry and scream. Sasha looks at them through a camera, pushing the button and clicking the shutter again and again and again, searching for that perfect shot frozen in time.

A woman, trapped under a thousand pounds of dirt and crumpling metal. Snap. A woman, chewing keycaps, eyes riveted on a flickering screen. Snap. A woman, lost in her fiance’s grave, pleading for someone to find her. Snap.

A man, eating canned peaches, alone. Snap. A man, swinging an axe with a frantic strength born of terror. Snap. A man, and the look in his eyes, betrayed. Snap. A man, gunshot wound leaking blood out of his chest, eyes rolling in the fluorescent lights. Snap.

When Sasha wakes up she is always surprised to find herself in a guest room, always out of place and out of time as she stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Maybe the worst part is those two seconds after waking, where she doesn’t know where she is, adrift in time and space. Then she remembers, and she’s faced with the situation all over again.

Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom.

Sasha dreams, every night.

Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom.

Georgie Barker wasn’t a mystery, and she’d be the first to tell you.

Of course you’re welcome to stay as long as you need, honey! I always love having Jonah owe me a favor. Don’t worry about the cops and the law, nobody will ever find you here. Seriously, the entire department’s in my pocket. It’s no hassle having you here, it’s a big flat! It’s been years since I’ve had a roommate, this’ll be fun!

The one thing she hadn’t understood was Sasha begging her not to let Jon in to see her. He knows exactly where you are, Georgie pointed out. He knows you’re not actually a murderer, Georgie said. He might be able to help explain some of what’s going on, Georgie hinted. Jon would respect my wishes, but if Jonah really wants him to talk to you, he’ll definitely do it...

“Please,” Sasha had croaked, the uncomfortable morning after she had stumbled into Georgie’s flat. The Admiral wove around her legs, purring up a storm, and Georgie was munching on avocado toast and sipping pomegranate juice. “I just - I just need some space.”

“Why?” Georgie asked obliviously. That was something that Sasha was rapidly learning about Georgie - she didn’t hold back with impolite questions, or her opinion. She seemed to be regarding Sasha’s life as her own personal Youtuber Drama, which Sasha really didn’t know how she felt about. Her life wasn’t a spectacle, but she guessed even the warfare and tragedy of ants were of obscure and strange interest to humanity. “He’s feeling, like, totally bad about framing you for murder. I can tell he super wants to apologize to you about everything.”

Martin’s words echoed through her mind, from what felt like a decade ago: Jon had ruined Martin’s life, but to him it was as simple as a momentary inconvenience. “I don’t want his apology,” Sasha croaked. “I want not to be on the run from the police. I want to go back to my flat. Unless he’s going to make me human again I don’t want any stupid apologies. They’re useless.”

“Hm. Well, you’re free to stay here as long as you need to, of course.” Georgie sipped at her tea. They were sitting around the breakfast table, Sasha desolately shoving eggs into her mouth as Georgie drank her tea that Sasha was reasonably sure was spiked with brandy. Rich people were literally never sober. “It’ll be so much fun, like a sleepover. We can do each other’s nails and talk about boys!”

“My boyfriend thought I was a monster for the past month and now thinks I’m a murderer,” Sasha said flatly.

“Oh, I see.” Georgie tapped her lips thoughtfully. “We have to get you laid, huh?”

“I am literally on the run from the cops.”

“That’s very sexy to some people,” Georgie assured her.

After that, Georgie waved goodbye and swanned out of the house, either going to her studio to work on her podcast or doing some work for her real estate empire or writing a best-selling book or schmoozing with celebrities or attending parties at exclusive nightclubs or working part-time as a bartender just for gossip or devouring souls. Just from Sasha’s one day at Georgie’s flat, she knew that she did all of these things and then some. It was a stunning contrast to Jon’s laziness, or Elias (Jonah’s) single-mindedness.

Maybe you lost the energy to be so productive after your two hundredth year. Sasha didn’t fucking know. Hopefully she would never know. Or maybe Jon just appeared to be lazy, and every moment that he was complaining about being bored he was secretly manipulating world leaders. Maybe Jonah’s dedication to spreadsheets and dress code was a front, and he was secretly pulling the puppet strings of her entire life…

In the empty spaces of Georgie’s spacious flat, it was easy to be paranoid. Sasha lay on her luxurious couch, hands folded across her chest like a corpse, trying not to think of anything, thinking of everything. Thinking of Tim: of his smile, of his scowl, of his cold looks given to someone he had thought was a stranger. Thinking of Martin: his warm smile, his sharp looks.

She struggled to think of other friends, other family members who gave her comfort, but drew up a blank. Her parent’s faces were blurred after ten years of no contact, not so much forgotten as repressed, and her baby siblings were likely unrecognizable to her now. Almost as unrecognizable as she was to them, probably. Tim, her boyfriend who hated her, and Martin, her subordinate who she had almost never had a conversation with that wasn’t about work or Jon...that was it. All the friends she had in the world. She was sleeping in the guest room of a podcast host/Grim Reaper whom she had met once, and that was all she had.

Loneliness was Sasha’s constant companion. In a crowd, in her family, in the world - no matter how many people she had been surrounded by, she had always been alone. She had never had anybody in the world to rely on besides herself, and for the first time in a long time she was achingly aware of it. Nobody who loved her was going to help her. She was alone now.

After an hour of lying on the couch and crying, Sasha desolately watched Netflix cooking shows on Georgie’s gigantic flat-screen TV, trying very hard to think of absolutely nothing at all. She only moved to pet Georgie’s silky long-haired cat whose name she had already forgotten, and even he left quickly once she lost the energy to give him attention.

That was how Georgie found Sasha when she came home: lying on the couch, still dressed in borrowed silk pyjamas, watching idiots on television fuck up cakes. Georgie’s arms were laden with shopping bags, with names of exclusive London boutiques sprawled along the side, her deep black pits of eyes hidden by designer sunglasses. She burst through the door happily, her cat running up to her and winding through her laps as he purred, and easily kicked off her red pumps. She stopped in the doorway of the living room, looking strangely excited.

“Sorry I’m back to late! Utterly bogged up at work, there was a plane crash and I was processing corpses for hours. I had to do some serious retail therapy just to deal with the tedium - darling, have you moved?”

Sasha grunted.

“You look like Mikey Crew threw you off the Shard,” Georgie said sympathetically. “Utterly disastrous. Don’t worry, Aunt Georgie’s here to make you feel better.” She lifted her bag triumphantly. “I bought you new outfits!”

Sasha eyed her warily.

“You get no say in this,” Georgie said kindly. “Chop chop, we’re doing face masks too.”

That’s how, somehow, Sasha found herself playing an unwilling dress-up doll for the Grim Reaper. Georgie had taken Sasha’s casual mention that she had no clothing besides her work pantsuit to heart, and had hit up her favorite boutiques for ‘cute outfits that accentuated her figure and made her eyes pop!’. Or something. Sasha wasn’t much one for fashion.

As it turned out, Georgie Barker had a walk-in closet. Because of course she did.

The looks ranged from Sasha’s usual, as Georgie put it, ‘sexy librarian’ look, to ballgowns, to tennis outfits, to moddish, to vintage, to wintery. It was February, the seasons lingering in British chill, and according to Georgie the perfect solution to this was a mink coat that was probably worth a month’s rent on her flat.

Strangely, all of the outfits fit perfectly - and Sasha knew that her measurements were difficult to find. Georgie took it in stride, clapping enthusiastically each time and suggesting accessories and how to mix and match the outfits.

She would have thought that she was too dead inside to actually enjoy it, but so far as distractions went it actually worked pretty well. Georgie chatted about everything but their actual problems, and Sasha had absolutely no input or choice in what Georgie decided to dress her in, and by the time they had transitioned from nail painting to watching Legally Blonde and eating ice cream from the carton Sasha was actually feeling a little relaxed.

“The musical’s better,” Georgie informed Sasha imperiously as Sasha dug around in her carton for chunks of cookie dough. Georgie was clutching a glass of wine in one hand, while Sasha was contenting herself with ice cream. Best not to drink when she was this sad. “Reese is such a doll, though. Allergic to shellfish, poor dear, but I told her not to let Leo pick the restaurant.”

“What I’m wondering,” Sasha said carefully, teeth cracking into the frozen chunk of cookie dough, “is that half the time when I see you, you’re dressed like a 2008 goth in jeans and t-shirts.”

“Oh, honey,” Georgie said pityingly, patting her hand. “I used to spend two hours getting dressed each morning. I’m never doing that to myself again. You, however, clearly have never had nice clothing in your life. It’s written all over your face. People’ll walk all over you if you always look like you’re straight from a charity shop. We gotta buy you some self-confidence.”

“Thanks. I think.” On screen, Elle flourished and achieved her dreams. Sasha tried not to feel jealous. “It’s not really as if I had a lot of girly sleepovers as a kid…”

“Word,” Georgie said sympathetically. She patted Sasha’s hand again. “Jon was the same way, you know. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to renovate that boy’s wardrobe. He has no idea how to dress to impress.”

“Do we have to talk about Jon right now,” Sasha groused. “He’s the last person I want to think about.”

“He means well,” Georgie soothed, as Elle Woods proudly proclaimed on television how she, yes, she, was a strong independent woman - who didn’t need a man! “It’s not his fault he’s stupid. He’s just so helpless on his own, you know, he needs girls like you and me to make sure he’s not wasting a decade fixating on obscure Bolivian religious practices or whatever.”

“Helpless? He’s a two hundred year old man.” Sasha spitefully grabbed the bottle of wine from the coffee table, pouring it into a spare glass and drinking it quickly. It probably cost thousands of pounds, but it just tasted like wine to her. “It’s not my job to make sure his little feelings aren’t hurt.”

“Of course not,” Georgie said, but Sasha had the sense she was being calmed instead of listened to. “But Jon’s...you know.”

“I don’t, actually.”

Georgie made an interpretive hand gesture. Sasha stared at her blankly.

“...I still don’t.”

Georgie sighed. “He’s delicate. Jonah babies him, honestly.” She patted Sasha’s hand for the third time, making her skin crawl. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him see you until you’re ready to forgive him. Every woman has the right to some time to herself after a guy fucks her over. You two’ll patch things up, right as rain.”

There was nothing Sasha wanted to say to that, nothing she wanted to think about, and she kept drinking her wine and watching the movie, out of lack of any other options.

That night, she drunkenly tipped into bed, so blasted that she slid immediately into sleep and did not dream. It was the first relief she’d had in what felt like a very long time.

It wasn’t Sasha’s job to fix Jonathan Sims.

It really, really wasn’t. It wasn’t her job to make him feel better, or forgive him, or save him from himself. If Martin wanted to waste his time and energy doing that, then god fucking speed, but Sasha had other priorities. She had been profoundly fucked over and had her trust abused by three different men lately, and she wasn’t going to be the one to patch things up.

Two of them she had no desire to patch things up with at all. Two of them she’d be perfectly happy if she never saw again. The last one...Sasha didn’t know what she felt. But that was nothing new.

That being said, as Sasha chewed her way through hangover medication and an acai bowl the next morning, Georgie’s inane chattering about tricking some celebrity or another into taking her to Hungary for authentic Hungarian food didn’t register nearly as loudly in Sasha’s mind as her words about Jonah and Jon.

Jonah babies Jon. That was what she had said. It...it was accurate, right? It had to be. Georgie had known Jonah and Jon for a hundred years, and Sasha had barely heard one authentic conversation between them. She’d known them for a year, and known Jonah’s true nature for maybe a few days. There was no way Sasha understood their relationship better than Georgie did. It just didn’t make sense.

Finally, she put her spoon down, cutting Georgie off in the middle of her ramble about the majesty of Hungarian food made by genuine Hungarian grandma hands. “What did you mean, ‘Jonah babies Jon’?”

Georgie blinked at her, clearly barely remembering the conversation, before recognition dawned. Then she shrugged, sipping her protein smoothie. Which may or may not be spiked. It seemed as if her solution to hangovers was to just not stop being drunk. “Oh, you know how those two are. Jon swans around the world doing whatever he wants, Jonah holds the fort down at home. That’s why Jon’s fun, you know.” She sighed nostalgically. “Romantic cruises to the Bahamas for two months, we tear up the Bahaman government and start a minor military coup, then we take a tour of the beaches. You haven’t lived until you’ve dug your toes into Bahaman sand.”

That was something Georgie said frequently: you haven’t lived until you’ve done X, Y, or Z. It seemed as if Georgie was very intent on living, and very intent on defining it in discretionary ways. To Sasha, living was simply the act of not being dead, but Georgie was almost fanatical about experiencing life.

“If he’s so much fun, then why did you break up?” Sasha asked, before she realized what she said. “I mean, it’s really none of my business, feel free not to answer that -”

But Georgie just laughed lightly. “That’s just how Jon and I work. We spend a few weeks together in bliss, and then we go our separate ways for six months or a year or whatever. Work’s always taking us different places, and seeing each other all day would make us hate each other. Some people work best when they’re not in each other’s pocket.” She took a long drag of the smoothie before speaking again. “Besides, he’ll always be second in my life to having fun. And I’ll always be second in his life to Jonah. It’s just how we work. It works for us!”

It seemed to. Last Sasha checked, Georgie and Jon seemed to be very amicable despite being exes. Lackadaisical, on-and-off, passionate yet going years without seeing each other - it was a relationship uniquely in the providence of workaholic immortals.

It wasn’t until Georgie had already waved goodbye, making Sasha promise not to spend all day on the couch again, that she realized that Georgie hadn’t quite answered her question.

An image flashed through Sasha’s mind - Jon’s face, as he dared to disagree with Jonah, and was utterly ground into the dust for it.

There was something more to this. Something that wasn’t obvious on the surface, something that was so well hidden maybe nobody even knew it was going on. Or maybe it was deeper than that, more insidious: maybe whatever was going on was so well-known and pervasive that it simply wasn’t spoken about. Not polite, not the kind of thing you say about your friends, not normal. Not in polite company. Not vocalized. Utterly taken for granted.

Sasha walked into the guest room, pulling out her phone from her bag and staring at its blank screen. Holding her breath, she hesitantly turned it on, staring at it blankly as it slowly booted up.

She shouldn’t be turning it on. She was perfectly aware of how, given a warrant, the police could track cell phone location, texts sent and received, everything. She could do it herself. The crushing weight of surveillance, the fear of being found and seen and rooted out, settled over her shoulders like an old, familiar friend. A comforting blanket to wrap herself up in at night: where, even if the fear was terrible and awful, at least it was familiar.

You could get used to anything, Sasha thought. Any behavior, any fears, any horrors or tragedies - anything could become normal, given enough time. A year. A hundred years. After two hundred years, maybe you wouldn’t even recognize it as happening at all.

Like a flood, the text messages poured in. Notifications chimed in a cacophony, as text after text after text popped up on her phone. Missed calls. Emails popped up, notifications from the doorbell camera, reminders from her fucking Duolingo...

Dizzily, Sasha scrolled through the texts. Lots from Tim, as expected, and a few from Martin, as expected. Some texts from her mother, which - which wasn’t expected. At all. Sasha hadn’t even known that she knew her number.

Sasha’s brain stuttered over the Spanish, having been years since she spoke it. Her brain also stuttered over the gratuitous misgendering, which was also blissfully novel yet just as uncomfortable and upsetting as ever. Translated, it was a slightly accusatory question about why the police had been calling them about her whereabouts. What had she done? Had she gotten in trouble?

No matter what you did, the text read, God will forgive you. Just call them back.

Sasha stared at the texts, brain buzzing. She felt sick. Forgive her? They’d forgive her? They thought she’d done it? They thought she was capable of -

Horribly, awfully, tears pricked at her eyes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe you never really grew accustomed to pain, even if it was felt a thousand times. Maybe some pain you never acclimated to, never scarred over or calloused. Maybe sometimes the more you were hurt, the worse it hurt. The pain her parents gave her - how they cut off contact, the misgendering, the coldness - hurt just as badly at thirty six as it had at twenty six, at twenty, at fifteen, at nine. It had always hurt.

So stupid. Sasha deleted the text messages. She didn’t have time for this. She wasn’t a child. She was thirty six goddamn years old, that was way too old to still care about your parents. To still need them.

She clicked on Martin’s texts next. The first one had a timestamp before the murder, the rest afterwards.

Martin: where are you?? I found Tim (he tried to kill me w/an axe but we’re ok now) and were trying to get out of here. I explained everything to him. We’ll meet you in the archives.

Martin: Police are looking for you. I know you didn’t do it so call me back. Tim’s worried. Jon doesn’t seem that worried...

Martin: Shouldn’t text you anymore. Please be safe & careful.

Jesus. Jesus, she had been terrible to Martin. She was a rotten friend. Sasha hiccuped, rubbing at her eyes. She needed to get him a gift basket. Five. He was a freak, but he was her freak. Maybe.

Finally, almost holding her breath, she pressed on Tim’s messages. There were a lot of them - more than was safe, Sasha distantly registered. The first five were from the same time Martin had sent the second text. She guessed it was right after the police finished talking to them. He had called her slightly before - likely when they found the body - but there were also two texts from two am last night.

Tim: pick up your phone

Tim: pick up your phone are you okay im so sorry

Tim: baby please please pick up

Tim: we need to talk & im sorry & i hope ur safe

Tim: dont text me back

Then two texts from two am:

Tim: to warn you im drunk but im sorry (AND DRUNK) but in my defense im a shitty boyfriend. If you want to break up its fine but id like to make it work but i get if you cant because cops i guess. Bitch tonner wont stop bothering me make her stoppp

Tim: I love you and I wish that was enough.

Sasha rubbed at her eyes, exhausted. She wished it was enough too. She knew it wasn’t. Strongly, like burning, Sasha wished so desperately that she had never met Jonathan Sims. Maybe, in that world, things were okay. She and Tim were happy.

She scrolled through the rest of the notifications. Strangely, she even had two texts from Melanie.

Melanie: Hey, I heard what’s going on. I know you couldn’t have done it. A LOT of cops are bothering me - Hussein and Tonner have called like five times. I think you know them? For legal purposes I’ll say that you should turn yourself in or whatever.

Melanie: oh and Martin said to tell you that Mr. Bouchard’s been asking me a lot of questions about what im doing and my job situation - dunno y tho

That….probably wasn’t good.

No texts from Jon. She wouldn’t know what to do if he had. She doubted he knew her number, or how to work a phone. The last thing she could deal with emotionally right now was an apology. She didn’t know what to do about Tonner or Hussein or Melanie. Those were all problems she couldn’t fix right now.

Really, there was only one problem she could fix right now. She walked over to the door to the balcony, carefully stepping out onto the 20th story balcony. She carefully ejected her SIM card, snapped it in half, looked underneath her to make sure there were no passerby in the exclusive London neighborhood, and forced her fingers to release from the phone so she could watch it fall twenty stories onto the concrete.

She imagined a smash, a crack, but it didn’t make any sound at all. Sasha forced herself to step back inside, leaving the past behind her.

There was a lot Sasha had to force herself to do that day. Georgie owned a few laptops, but she hadn’t given Sasha permission to use any of them yet, and she didn’t want to intrude. Despite Sasha’s own...reservations about her personality, she really was being incredibly kind by letting her stay and trying to cheer her up. She did, however, have a great deal of antique books, and Sasha eagerly cracked open the first edition copies of fiction novels from the 19th century. Was that a first edition Pride & Prejudice? Oh, score!

She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat. Food tasted like ash in her mouth, but that always happened whenever she was upset. She forced herself to take a shower, impossibly intimidated by Georgie’s small army of hair care and hygiene products, and even cautiously let herself take a bubble bath with a bath bomb. It was...weirdly luxurious, but maybe not surprisingly. Georgie’s bathroom was like the Queen’s, and you could practically swim in the bathtub. It was intimidating and weird and uncomfortable, but Sasha forced herself to appreciate it. How many people got to take a shower in a stall with five different showerheads?

Halfway through the day the housekeeper came in, terrifying Sasha deeply, and she retreated to her guest bedroom to let the woman work. She inspected her newly painted toenails glumly, halfway through Pride & Prejudice, forcing herself not to think about how Jon could have been a background character in the novel. Wasn’t he in his twenties in this time period? Wasn’t that when he and Jonah Magnus had -

Sasha drank more wine, and put on another cooking program. She hadn’t watched telly all day, so technically she could tell Georgie that. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anything productive to do. No work, which sucked when she was a workaholic. No computer to waste time on. No friends she could talk to without the police investigating her. She couldn’t go outside, again due to the aforementioned cop situation. Her life was her work, and her bosses had just framed her for murder.

Somewhat buzzed, Sasha stole several pieces of intricate stationary and wrote down everything Leitner had told her before he was murdered. It wasn’t nearly as much as she wanted, yet far more than she knew what to do with. Halfway through her notes deteriorated into a bizarre sort of mind map, lists of cases connected together and obscure monsters and figures pointing to each other. Salasea and his endless array of dangerous trinkets, mysterious yet lonely ship captains, Michael and his gently twisting deceit, Gerry Keay and his bizarre heroism, Leitner and his ruinous imprints, Agnes and her desolate fate, and the oft-mentioned yet barely understood man, whose name was whispered by shadowy figures entrenched in the supernatural world, Jonathan Sims…

Did he know? How often his shadow stained her statements? Did he care? Did he know how thoroughly he had ruined her life?

She scoured her memory for hints, writing down everything she could remember of his cameos in random statements. Of Leitner’s testimony, the immortal figure who so easily attained what Leitner and Mary Keay had spent their entire lives grasping for. Was there a hint to his true nature, his true allegiance?

In the corners of the cute stationary, Sasha doodled a small eye. She stared at it, and couldn’t help but fight the notion that it was staring back.

She scratched it out, feeling paranoid, not feeling paranoid enough.

A few hours later, Georgie came home, and Sasha fought the pathetically hopeful trepidation. When she heard the front door rattle she left her room, intending on welcoming Georgie back and proving that she hadn’t been watching telly all day, but she stopped short in the hallway when she heard the loud sound of voices. Specifically, the loud sound of Georgie’s still slightly unfamiliar voice, and the quieter tones of a voice that was far too familiar to her.

“ - if you’ll just let me talk to her, she’ll understand.”

“And she said that she’s not seeing you,” Georgie said firmly. Sasha held her breath, pressing herself up against the hallway wall. Next to her was a doorway that led to the living room, that led to a foyer. If she craned her head she could just barely see Georgie standing in the foyer, arguing with a figure holding a leather briefcase that made Sasha’s heart leap into her throat. “You really did screw her over, you know.”

“I know,” Jonathan Sims whined. “I want to apologize. It’s not my fault. Jonah got pushy again, you know how he is.”

“Ugh, tell me about it.” Georgie scoffed. “Did something happen between you two? Sasha was asking all sorts of weird questions.”

“Just Jonah being his usual insufferable self,” Jon said, so carelessly and casually that if Sasha hadn’t known better she would have believed him. “It probably alarmed her, seeing how that man really is. I’m sure she’s feeling very overwhelmed right now.”

“She really is, the poor dear,” Georgie said sympathetically. Sasha’s hands clenched into fists. “But you aren’t getting past this foyer, honey. I’m sure she’ll want to be friends again once Jonah gets the cops off her case.”

“Martin’s giving me a hard time,” Jon sulked. “Says this is all my fault that the dreadful little wolf girl is sniffing around. It’s not my fault. If my Archivist just let me explain, she’d see that it’s not my fault.”

“That Blackwood boy’s always giving you a hard time,” Georgie sniffed. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with him. He’s overly moralistic and doesn’t know how to have fun. You spend too much time with him.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Georgina Barker,” Jon teased. He stepped forward a little closer, and although Sasah couldn’t see his face she had the feeling he was smiling. “It’s a bad look on you.”

“Idiot,” Georgie said fondly, “everything’s a good look on me.” She stretched up on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Ditch him and come party with me, darling, I’ll show you a wonderful time. Maybe after all of this nonsense blows over.”

“Judging from what I can make out of Jonah’s monologuing, we ought to get our parties in while we still can,” Jon said glumly. He opened his briefcase, passing a manila folder to Georgie. “Give her these. She’ll be getting hungry. Tell her that the top one is from work, and the second is from me.” He hesitated for a second. “You really think she’ll forgive me?”

“If it’s not your fault, then why do you need to be forgiven?”

Jon was silent for a long minute. Finally, he said, “I’ll talk to you later, Georgie. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie said easily, casually, as if she had said it a thousand times, a million times. “Take care of yourself.”

She stood in the foyer after he left, arms folded, one delicately manicured finger tapping against her arm. She eventually turned around, poking her head into the living room.

“You can come out, darling, I don’t bite.”

Sasha guiltily stepped into the living room, crossing her arms defensively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

But Georgie just rolled her eyes. “Please. My best friends are Jonathan Sims and Jonah Magnus.” She looked thoughtful for a second. “Well. My oldest friends. Anyway, if you’re in the same house as one of those Beholding types you aren’t getting a private conversation. I’m super used to it.” She held out the manila folder, and Sasha cautiously stepped forward and took it from her.

“Beholding types?”

“Oh, you know, you and your lot,” Georgie said dismissively. “Can’t do anything about that annoying little megalomania the Eye gives you. Have fun with lunch, I have to freshen up. It takes ages to get the scent of Jon’s musty old books off me.”

But Sasha was already tuning her out, because in the manilla envelope there were two Statements. They thrummed under her fingers, charged with energy and power and fear, and Sasha could feel herself gripping them. The first one was a classic Magnus Institute Statement, just like she would have read at work, but the second was what looked like a photocopy of a piece of paper. Judging from the ornate script, it was old, and when Sasha’s eyes wandered to the date her eyes widened. July 21st, 1823.

She looked up, already frantically searching for a tape recorder, and immediately saw one sitting on the coffee table. She didn’t think twice about it, already sitting on the plush white couch and setting the papers out. Which one first - oh man, they were both so exciting - her fingers drifted to the one Jon gave her, and she picked it up. That one, then.

Sasha James pressed play on the tape deck, feeling a familiar thrill go through her at the gentle whirring. She cleared her throat.

“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding a letter sent by Barnabas Bennet to Jonah Magnus. Statement begins.”

And, as Sasha’s blood ran cold, she began to read.

My dearest Jonah,

I hope you are well. It was an absolute pleasure to vacation at your estate this summer. I’ve never had such interesting conversations with a like-minded individual, and since returning to my own estate I have been sorely missing your company. You have introduced a great deal of brightness and acute interest to my life, and without you the luminescence of Heaven does not thrill me. How I wish you were around to thrill me again!

Do not concern yourself - I have maintained my studies. The library you loaned me is of great interest, and I have been spending many a quiet night bent over one of your occult tomes. I have never felt so enlightened. A world is opening up before us, Jonah, one of richness and wonder, and for the first time in many years I find myself excited to rise each morning. I thank our Heavenly Father each day that I was so fortunate as to cross your path. You must remind me to discuss with you the report by Smirke in detail - fascinating! Theoretical, of course, all theoretical - but the concept of classifying the devils that so bewitch man into fourteen unique taxonomies fascinates me. We must discuss it.

Jonah, I trust that this letter reaches you in private, and that you shall not betray my confidence by discussing it with anyone. I have a private grievance I wish to address with you. It is regarding your boy, the one kept so close in your confidence and trust.

I would never hasten to question any of your decisions, for I trust they are made with great deliberation and forethought. But I must question why you keep that boy so close to you. His air is strange and fey. While summering at your estate, I would frequently see him awake at late hours, pouring over some tome or report or another (I would swear that he reads better than I!). I know he’s somewhat of a project of yours, bringing him into Christianity and your charity, which will surely be rewarded etc etc, but I cannot shake my strange trepidation.

If I were to be quite honest, my fear of him.

He always asks questions. Disturbing and distressing questions. And when I deign to answer them, he acts as if he truly understands. Moreover, that he understands more than me - that he possesses some secret knowledge that only he has obtained. I catch him listening at doorways and around corners frequently, and no matter how many times I box him about the ears for it he will not cease. You encourage it, allowing this behavior. Even after I reported to you the pagan rituals which I am confident he is performing, you brush me off. You two are strangely close. I’m simply concerned for you, Jonah. Please heed my advice: that boy is trouble. I fear that he will bring you into trouble also. Do not allow this paganism to steer you away from the light of our heavenly Father. I understand that the occult is of great interest to all of us, discovering the secrets of the world and its many mysteries, but it is only an academic interest. I would never go so far as to partake of these devilish rituals myself, and you ought to dissuade yourself of such a notion also. Do not allow that John to lead you astray.

I wish you most well. I am encountering some trouble of my own - debts and such - but do not concern yourself with them. The situation is well-handled. I hope to write to you again soon.

Yours, faithfully,

Barnabas

...supplemental.

Jon. Why did you show me this?

Is this your definition of vulnerability? Of honesty? What, are you trying to justify your decisions to me? I get it, it’s disgusting. These people were disgusting to you. I can’t know how you feel, but I think I - my parents -

What I mean is, I can’t understand. I can’t imagine how hard this must have been. I understand how Jonah was the only one to… ‘get’ you or whatever. How he was the only person to see how brilliant you are, how much you have to give.

But, Jon - I don’t think Jonah thought any better of you than Barnabas did. He was just better at hiding it. I don’t know, I didn’t know him and I still don’t know him - but you get that the way he talked to you back then wasn’t right, right? You get that it was fucked up, right?

I don’t know. I don’t think you get that. I don’t think anybody does. Georgie’s too close to it, too used to you and Jonah’s ‘quirks’ or whatever. I...don’t know anything Martin thinks, but I feel as if you’d be pretty invested in keeping this from him. But I’m close enough to you to see it, and I’m far enough away from this that I understand. Something’s really fucked up about this situation. I’m worried I’m the only person who sees it. I hate being that person, the person who Sees it all, who knows it all, but is powerless to do anything about it. You understand, right? You understand how much this is hurting me?

I’m not sure you do. If you’re showing me this, trying to show me how hard you had it, how misunderstood you were, just so I forgive you...I don’t. And it’s manipulative, so cut it out. I’m not sure if you’re consciously doing that, I really don’t think you’re emotionally intelligent enough.

But you aren’t dumb, Jon. I know it’s a defence mechanism or whatever to pretend that you are, to act childish, but you aren’t.

Ugh, listen to me. I sound like Martin. Disgusting. I don’t give a shit about this, I’m not your therapist. But you keep on making your problems my problems, and I’m not tolerating that. We’ll talk when I’m not fucking wanted for murder for something you were complicit in.

Get your act together. I don’t forgive you. Statement fucking ends.

As if Sasha’s life wasn’t hard enough, Georgie wanted to go dancing.

“I am literally wanted by the police.”

“The nightclub’s so dark, nobody’ll even see your face,” Georgie promised.

“Shouldn’t I be spending my time working on my conspiracy theory board?”

“Honey, no offence, that thing is so tacky.”

“I hate clubbing.”

“You’ll like the way I do it!”

“I really don’t want to -”

“Tough nuts.”

So, of course, that’s how Sasha ended up shoved into a tight dress, heels, and makeup, pushed into a taxi, and quickly deposited in front of a warehouse looking building. There was a long line out the door, of women with straightened hair dressed somehow identically, yet way worse, than Sasha, all looking very cold. Georgie looped her arm through Sasha’s, white teeth flashing as she grinned widely, and escorted them both straight through the doors and past security.

She, it seemed, was a known quantity. Sasha, who had spent the last year working in a mill to feed evil psychic vampires and the ten years before that locked in academia, which was basically the same thing, was not a known quantity to any nightclub. She had not been clubbing since uni, which was approximately five lifetimes ago.

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Sasha said into Georgie’s ear as they transitioned from the furiously cold February air into the swelteringly hot club. It was dim and smoky, the noise overwhelmingly grating at her ears. After so long in a quiet office, in a silent flat, she could barely handle it.

Georgie said something to her.

“What?” Sasha yelled. “Georgie, I don’t want to be here!”

Georgie frowned at her, and unlinked their arms so she could reach up on her tiptoes and clasp Sasha on the shoulders. “You have been accused of murder! You just split with your boyfriend because of clown trauma! You haven’t had fun in years! You deserve this, queen!”

You know...maybe she did.

Georgie pressed a drink into her hands, mysteriously procured from somewhere, and without thinking too hard about it Sasha downed it in one gulp. Georgie whooped, clapping her on the back, and directed her towards the bar. She flashed her platinum credit card at the bartender, and suddenly Sasha was MVP of the night.

You know, Sasha thought dizzily as she was given a toxic blue drink and pushed onto the dance floor, maybe she did deserve this. Didn’t she deserve to have fun? After the way things ended with Tim, couldn’t she just act like a normal girl and go clubbing with her friends to dance away the pain? She was almost forty, way too old for this, but maybe she could forget for a little bit. She had never had the opportunity as a teenager, not even as a young adult. Couldn’t she do this, before she died?

Maybe women closer to forty than thirty dealt with this with - with book clubs, with sisterhood, whatever. Maybe women closer to forty than thirty were married, had kids of their own. But Sasha was just Sasha, stuck in a literal dead-end job, going nowhere good, and this was all she would ever have.

Maybe Georgie was right. Why not live, before she died? Everybody on earth died - everybody, that is, except for a small group of people who were willing to sell their soul for the privilege. At least maybe this way she could have whatever joy she could fit into her life before all opportunity was lost, and she was lost.

A man sidled up to her, asking for a dance, and she evaded him. But then there was another one, and another one, and Sasha found herself fleeing back to the bar and ordering another drink. Too soon. Way too soon. She found herself digging in her borrowed purse, searching for her phone, wanting to call Tim or talk to him or ask him if they really were broken up so she could have rebound sex with random dudes in bars, but the purse was empty of both a phone and a wallet. That’s right - she had destroyed it. Because the cops were after her.

Next to her, out of the corner of her eye, a man sat down at a barstool. He said something to the bartender and leaned towards her, mouth spilling something obscured by the crush and heat and sound of the club. He seemed to be asking if he could buy her a drink. Sasha shook her head dizzily, confused and lost. Then he leaned in closer, and Sasha could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Are you sure? I’d like to dance with you!”

Sasha shook her head no again, frantically.

“Aw, come on -”

Then, as if by magic, Georgie was at her elbow. Unintimidating, not more than one hundred and seventy centimeters, with teased hair and sharp black lipstick and eyeliner, she raised an eyebrow at the guy. But there must have been something in her eyes, or a lack of something, because the guy rapidly slipped off the barstool and melted into the crowd, leaving the drink the bartender slid onto the counter behind.

As if she had planned it, Georgie easily stole the drink and knocked it back. She tugged Sasha down, yelling into her ear. “Come with me, darling, let’s check out where the real party is.”

Without taking no for an answer, Georgie grabbed Sasha’s hand and tugged her through the outskirts of the crowd, ducking and weaving between small clusters of people and women dancing the night away. Sasha’s vision swam, details and faces lost in the endless ripple of flashing lights and sound, until all she felt was Georgie’s cool hand in hers, and it wasn’t until they emerged from the choppy sea of people into a small hallway off the main room that she felt like she could breathe. Sasha’s head swam with movement and smoke, and she was barely cognizant that they were in a hallway for a bathroom or something.

But Georgie walked confidently past the bathrooms, into what appeared to be a storage closet. She confidently opened it, halting at the door frame to glance backwards at Sasha. A smile quirked at her bow lips.

“You coming?”

Sasha, slightly intoxicated though she was, couldn’t fight the skepticism. “This is where the real party is? A supply closet?”

“Oh, my dear Archivist,” Georgie said, smirking slightly. “The world is full of far more delights than you could understand. Follow me, and stay close.”

Then Georgie stepped forward, disappearing into the closet, and as little as Sasha wanted to step inside more dubiously supernatural hallways she wanted to be left alone in this club even less, and she ducked after Georgie into the unknown.

The unknown, as it turned out, was another club.

Or, more accurately, a pub. It was a nice pub too, all smoky yellow lights and burnished wood booths. The booths were upholstered in soft and cushy looking brown leather, and the sound where nowhere above a quiet murmur. It didn’t seem to be abandoned, the shadows at some booths deeper than others, but for the life of her Sasha couldn’t puzzle out the faces or figures of anybody at these shadowy corners. There was a single bartender, wiping a grimy glass over and over. He nodded at Georgie when he walked in, and Sasha was forced to wonder how many dubiously physical supernatural bars and hang-outs existed in random back rooms of mundane stores. Were these things just everywhere? Or were there only a few, and so long as you had the right key any door could be an entrance? It was just Sasha’s intuition, but she felt as if it was the latter.

What would, could Georgie open up for her? What power, what majesty? What world of power and control could Jon give her, that Jon was trying to hard to give her that she kept refusing? Nobody was telling her the cost. Nobody was letting her make a decision. She was being swept up in the wake of giants, and Sasha was just trying to keep her head above water.

Georgie was still walking confidently down the aisles, and Sasha stumbled trying to keep up. Finally, she came to a stop in a back corner, utterly secluded with a booth that stretched the entire corner, large enough for seven or more people. Georgie turned to Sasha, smiling broadly, and Sasha tried not to feel intimidated.

“Honey, these are my friends. Girls, this is my new roommate, Sasha James!”

With a flourish, she made a little tah-dah motion, and the smoky yellow lamp above the table flickered on.

The table was crowded with women, or women appearing people. Absolutely none of them were familiar. No - in the corner, there was one person who was familiar. Michael, blonde hair hurting her eyes in curly ringlets, hands in his coat pockets. He smiled crookedly at her, jarring her adrift.

“Uh,” Sasha said, confused. Who were these people? “Hello?”

A short East Asian woman in a white tank top and black jeans scowled from where she was slouching in her seat. “One of those Beholding patsies? Please, Georgie, they’re so insufferable.”

“I like this one,” Georgie said cheerfully. She slid into an empty seat, and Sasha cautiously sat next to her. “Play nice, everyone.”

“You’re such a grouch, Jude,” a woman said, leaning forward and looking interestedly at Sasha. Her eyes were dark and big, her head cocked, giving her an almost insectoid air. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person finally, Archivist. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re really making waves in our little community.”

“Patsy Archivist,” a tall and burly white woman with cascading brown hair said shortly, taking long gulps of a pint. “What’s impressive about that?”

“I’m impressed with anyone who puts up with Sims and Magnus long enough,” the insectish woman said. “No offence, Georgie.”

“Oh, they’re insufferable,” Georgie said cheerfully. “Have you heard how those two like to socialize? They go to galas. With those awful little Fairchilds and Lukases and whatever. It’s just tragic.”

“Word,” the insect woman said, raising her glass. The rim seemed to be coated in cobwebs, making Sasha feel vaguely ill. “Much rather have a pint at a nice little pub with friends. But we haven’t introduced ourselves, have we? My name’s Annabelle Cane. I’m sure you’ve heard of me in all those little stories you like.”

Anabelle Cane. Sasha swallowed. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“A proxy Archivist she may be,” Michael said serenely, “but perhaps our most successful yet. She’s already coming along so much further than Gertrude ever did.” He winked bizarrely at Sasha. “Michael, but you already know that. They and them, if you please.”

Oh. Sasha blinked at them. “Thanks for...saving my life back there. And Tim’s and Martin’s.”

“My pleasure,” Michael said affably. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in awhile. Always nice to have the Eye owe me a favor.”

“They’re just mad they didn’t get to kill Gertrude,” the brunette said evenly. “Julia Montauk. You should know me too, I think. Is it true you killed someone?”

“I definitely didn’t,” Sasha said heatedly. “It was a set-up.”

“Relax, we’re all killers here,” the woman in a tank top said. She scowled at Sasha. “Jude Perry. What the fuck do those old money ponces think they’re doing, installing another patsy Archivist this late in the game? I would have thought that they learned their lesson after that bitch Gertrude.”

“Archivists are quite slow learners,” a woman piped up. She sat in the corner, strangely oddly. Her skin was shiny and strange in the dim light, almost plasticish, and her dark eyes hadn’t moved from Sasha’s face since she walked in. “Nikola. A pleasure, Archivist.”

“Are you guys all…” Sasha trailed off uncomfortably. “You know?”

“Serial killers?” Julia Mauntauk asked flatly.

“Inhuman monstrosities of plastic and flesh?” Nikola inquired.

“Daughters of fear entities that control our every action?” Annabelle said.

“Embodiments of unknown concepts made sentient, forced into a shape that cannot suit them, locked in flesh and fractal prisons, always screaming in endless turmoil, unable to understand the horrors of the concepts of ourselves, always searching for the sweet release of death that can never quite be obtained, because that which does not live can never die?” Michael said serenely.

“Assholes?” Jude Perry said flatly.

“The sexiest Avatars around?” Georgie asked.

How did Sasha’s life devolve to this point.

“...yeah,” Sasha said. “Hey, where can I get more drinks?”

Unsurprisingly enough, the drinks came very fast. Service was excellent when you hung out with eldritch women, Sasha supposed.

The conversion flew thick and fast after that. In Sasha’s experience, joining a new group of established friends meant being ignored for favor of pre-existing dynamics. It was always uncomfortable, and no small part of why she just didn’t join new groups. Tim had never had that problem - he had a loud and persistent personality, the kind that made you pay attention to him. He dominated any room he entered, by force if necessary. It always seemed exhausting to Sasha, but Tim didn’t really seem to have anymore real friends than she did lately. His personality was like an ocean, overwhelming and everywhere, but when his mood turned sour it was just as intense. Gulfs of pleasure, intense pain - it seemed exhausting, to feel so deeply. God knows Sasha didn’t.

But today, in this group, she seemed to be novel. Maybe new fear avatars were a rare enough thing, or at least ones with Georgie’s seal of approval. They aimed a barrage of questions at her, and Sasha did her best to keep up with each one.

How did Sasha know Georgie? Mostly through a mutual enemy. Oh, fuckin’ Sims, right - you guys friends? No, I hate him. You guys fucking? Ew. Right, right, Sims is a giant prude - actually I heard that he doesn’t really - no, Jon decided a while back he doesn’t do that, and we all respect his decision - ew, though, nobody wants to imagine that. So why are you two friends? We’re roommates, mostly, I’m kinda on the run from the cops. Who’d you kill? Nobody. Who’d that old fucker Bouchard kill? Jurgen Leitner, mostly.

“Cheers to that!” Julia said abruptly, raising her glass. “Hate that fucker.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Annabelle said, downing her own drink and what seemed like an improbable quantity of spiders. She leaned over the table to where Sasha had hastily been stuffed in, beetle-black eyes gleaming. “But really. What are you doing here?”

“As I said,” Sasha said uncomfortably, “I got framed for murder -”

But Annabelle just waved her hand. “No, no, we know that. I’m asking what are you doing here? With people like us, in a place like us? You’re just a sexy librarian. Your highest goal in life was owning your own cottage house one day. How’d you get wrapped up in the tangled web of our world?”

Sasha’s mouth ran dry, her head spinning in a way that didn’t really seem to have anything to do with the alcohol. How had she ended up like this? Who was to blame?”

“Jonathan Sims,” Sasha said dizzily. “He -”

“Didn’t know you Beholding types were in the process of lying to yourselves,” Annabelle said, casually yet brutally. “No, really.”

Sasha opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she said, “I guess I just asked all the wrong questions.”

It was a pretty way of dressing up the real answer: that Sasha didn’t know.

Maybe her thoughts were obvious, because Georgie cooed sympathetically and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Cheer up, honey, it’s not so bad. Not everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it’s just your own rotten luck.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jude called, lifting her glass. “I love my fucking life. It’s hookers, coke, and blow from here to Scotland. The life of a woman with power’s a thousand times better than the life of a woman without, James.”

“What is with you people and hedonism,” Sasha muttered.

“Why not?” Nikola asked, tilting her head strangely. “Life’s so short when it’s this long. It’s just bread and circuses, Archivist. We all need...entertainment.”

“Humans are always trying to make sense of it all,” Michael said arily. They were digging their fingers into the table, scoring long grooves in it. “When you know there’s no meaning, no purpose, then everything else just...falls away.”

Sasha didn’t know if she believed that, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she said, “What about those Avatars like Magnus or Raynor? They seem really...driven.”

Georgie giggled, light and airy, and leaned in. “That’s because they don’t know.”

She shouldn’t even ask. She shouldn’t - “Know what?”

Georgie smiled, sharp and wicked. “That there’s no point.”

And that was all she would say on that for the night: conversation after that devolved into parties, restaurants, drugs, and conquests. Maybe the women were right, in their own clearly demented way: that without death there was no meaning, when when there was no meaning only pleasure held any significance. If there was no afterlife, no reward or punishment - which Sasha didn’t believe, but they seemed to - then there was no reason not to do what you wanted. To have fun. To take revenge.

If all Georgie wanted was to have fun, and if all Jon wanted was revenge, then what did Jonah Magnus want? Sasha didn’t know. She had the feeling that if she didn’t figure it out, she wasn’t going to live much longer.

Why had Jonah Magnus done this to her? What was the point of framing her for murder? She couldn’t do her job like this. What’s the point?

Half-drunk, head spinning, she found herself vocalizing this. Somehow, Annabelle Cane had ended up sitting next to her, letting spiders run along her slightly too long and too jointed fingers. Annabelle Cane just smiled at her, jaw slightly slacking open to expose teeth.

“Maybe it’s just to fuck with you,” Annabelle posited. “Why not? Do you think he has another reason?”

“I don’t know,” Sasha groaned. “I don’t know anything. Everything’s confusing and terrible. I could never understand those psychopaths.”

“You won’t make it very far in this line of work if you never ask why,” Annabelle scolded. She paused a second, spider running thoughtfully across her eyeball. “But too many questions damns you just as effectively, I suppose. Hm. Jonah’s quite good, isn’t he.”

“Why me,” Sasha groaned. “Everyone’s trying to keep shit from me, it fuckin’ - it fuckin’ sucks, man. It sucks. Nobody would tell me what’s going on, but I don’t think anybody knows what’s going on. Not even Jonah, or Jon, or - or anyone. Nobody but me.”

Annabelle blinked at her, somewhat curiously, before leaning in. Her perfume lingered in the air, a heavy rosy scent. “Do you know something that Jonah doesn’t?”

“Yeah,” Sasha slurred, world fading in and out. “Jonah doesn’t know that Jon -”

Then the world faded into black, and Sasha fell asleep.

If she had felt too old for this at the nightclub, she definitely felt too old for this hangover. Sasha spent twenty minutes crouched over a toilet bowl, reluctantly shoved the Eggs Benedict in her mouth that Georgie insisted was a hangover cure, somehow, and refused the Bloody Mary that Georgie also insisted was a hangover cure that her Mum used to feed her. The thought of Georgie’s Mum filled Sasha with a deep fear, incapable of imagining somebody who was both likely born in the 1800s and who had raised a hellion like Georgie.

When Sasha mumbled this to Georgie, she didn’t look offended. She just smiled, strangely fond. “Oh, none of this is my Mum’s fault. She was a darling, her and my Da. My childhood was positively idyllic. All things considered, you know.”

Yes, Sasha thought, struggling to imagine 1910s London in her mind, idyllic. She took another look at Georgie, squinting slightly as her head throbbed. She definitely seemed younger physically than Jon, but Jon had a particular way of carrying age about him that had nothing to do with his appearance. “When did you stop aging?”

“I forget, honestly,” Georgie said airly, sipping her own bloody mary. For some reason, Sasha didn’t believe her. “It always takes a while to notice, you know. I suppose, logically, it would be about when I died the first time.”

That, more than anything, alarmed Sasha. “I thought you couldn’t die.”

“Not permanently,” Georgie said, as if this was somehow obvious. “Eat your eggs, they’ll get cold.” Sasha frantically shoved eggs in her mouth, desperate for the story. But Georgie just sighed and propped her chin on her hand, eyes distant. “You know how it is. Small town girl, grew up in North Birmingham, Alabama - back when it was just a tiny little thing, you know. I wanted to be a star. I always did. Scared of dyin’ in the dirt. If I was gonna die young, I wanted to do it where everybody knew my name. So long as they remember you, it’s no kind of death at all, really.” She sighed, lost in memory. “I could sing so good...so I went to Harlem, ‘cause all my friends and I always had dreams of going to Harlem and making it big singing in the jazz clubs. They didn’t get so far, staying at home with their babies, but I did. Wasn’t really made for babies and such, I think.” Something strange emerged in her words, the last vestiges of a Southern accent. “I was pretty, and I could sing, and I took to the spotlight like a duck to water. It was tough, but man - if it ain’t tough, it ain’t worth it. I worked so hard. Like I was working myself to death, almost.”

She trailed off, birds softly trilling outside, and Sasha was silent.

Quietly, Georgie began speaking again. “Got into some trouble. You know how it is. I spent dozens of years wondering if it was my fault, if there was something I coulda done differently, zig instead of zag...but now, I don’t think so. Just my own rotten luck, you know. Put my trust in the wrong people. Had the wrong sentence whispered into my ear.” She shrugged listlessly. “Couldn’t handle the truth. Just another girl who couldn’t handle the limelight, that was what they said. But I was set up to fail. All those jazz clubs were ganger run, you couldn’t avoid it. Every girl in that golden age fell prey to those men, same as I did. I just wanted to feel again. Tried everything once, just to feel something.” She sighed, taking another drink. “Got shot. Got back up. I remember it, clear as day. Must have been 1923. I scrubbed the blood out of my show dress and went back on stage that night, cuz you can’t get a rep as a flake. They said, that day...that day was my best performance.”

She trailed off, Sasha finally alert. She wanted more details, almost desperately, but she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to risk putting the whammy on her host, even if she wasn’t sure that she could. If Georgie was being purposefully vague...well, Sasha wasn’t entitled to her pain.

Instead, she said, “I bet you were good.”

Georgie smiled at her wanly, eyes far away. “I was the best.”

They sat in silence for a little while, eating their food, Sasha’s head ringing and mind buzzing. What about this picture was she not understanding? What was so important that she was missing?

Finally, Sasha carefully floated, “I bet you must have met Jon soon after.”

Georgie looked up from her bloody mary, surprised. “Oh, yes. Just a few months after. He must have caught the word on the wind, you know, of that singing girl who got back up after getting shot in the lungs.” She sighed, propping her chin on her hand again. “Saw him in the front row of my club. He was so handsome, and so finely dressed. But there had been something strange in his eyes, you know? Like little marbles, reflecting the lamps. He caught up to me afterwards, and I figured he was just another fan to squeeze dry, but he told me in his funny little accent I’d never heard before that he could help me.” She swallowed, looking away. “That he could help me understand what was happening to me. Why I was having those strange dreams, seeing those strange tendrils. I guess he was right. After I met him, I understood it all. Things moved fast after that.” She smiled weakly at Sasha. “I suppose you know the rest.”

She really didn’t, but Sasha understood the dismissal for what it was. “Yeah. Thanks for telling me all of that.”

“It’s no secret,” Georgie said dismissively. She smiled cunningly. “A hundred years later almost exactly, and what I did to those gangsters was still my finest work. They say that if you pass by an old building on St. Nicholas Avenue, you can still hear the screams. Anyway, I have a meeting with my land development company in an hour, must run, ta!”

On that distressing note Georgie swanned out the door, and Sasha was left alone with nothing but a stack of conspiracy theories, an opulent flat, and bad memories.

Time seemed to move quickly, yet sluggishly, after that. After another day of writing down literally every Statement she could remember off the top of her head and trying to fit them into the weird and seemingly kind of arbitrary categories that Leitner had given her, she had hit a roadblock. She couldn’t remember any more Statements, she didn’t have access to them, and the ones she did remember she either already sorted or couldn’t dredge up enough memory of them to sort them in a satisfactory way. Either that, or the Statement itself was just incomprehensible - Sasha still didn’t know what the fuck was going on with Tessa’s problem. She tended to have a better memory of the ones that seemingly mentioned the Avatars in the background, just because it had been so startling to actually meet them - and a few even mentioned Jon, usually in context of Salasea or any Eye Statement.

When Georgie came home that night, they watched another movie and they both studiously avoided mentioning anything supernatural. Best not to take work home with you, even if Sasha had never quite been good at that.

The next day Sasha did what she should have done in the first place, and hacked into the Magnus Institute server.

It was seriously, comically easy. Sasha had installed a backdoor connection to the desktop of her work computer from her laptop ages ago, and all she had to do was borrow one of Georgie’s laptops and redownload the program. With an easy virtual desktop she was already in. It was somehow satisfying to see all of her work programs pop up on the borrowed laptop, and it was almost a relief to access the Archive drive that connected all of their computers. More importantly, where they all put their research follow-ups and the spreadsheet that documented the debunked, uncertain, and verified statements. It had gotten to the point where if the statement refused to record on the computer they automatically put it on verified, but what Sasha really wanted from that spreadsheet was the one sentence description they had all put for each Statement.

From there, it was much easier. Sasha, sick of the disorganized conspiracy theorist aesthetic, made her own spreadsheet and began categorizing the verified Statements that way. Much more reliable than working from memory.

If only she could actually access the Statements...Sasha’s life would be so much easier if everything could be digitized. The debunked ones were typed up, filed, and recorded, but the verified ones only existed on paper. Couldn’t be typed up, couldn’t be recorded. It was so stupid.

Sasha checked the clock. Eleven am on a Wednesday. They were definitely all still working. Maybe…

It was an invasion of privacy. Did she actually care about that? No. Was she worried about apparently being locked into an employment contract with an...entity of some sort that preyed on invasions of privacy? No, although she felt like she should. Was she concerned that Jon and Jonah were trying to turn into her a conduit of this entity’s power into the world, probably gradually turning her, if not evil, at least into a giant dick? Somewhat.

Words echoed through her mind, and Sasha’s fingers halted over the keyboard. Her powers manifesting differently than Jon’s...her unique skill with hacking…

Well, that was just kind of offensive. Sasha had worked hard for her skills. They weren’t given to her by Jon’s weird god. Also - seriously, a god? It was just a malevolent eldritch entity living in a separate dimension that encroached tendrils into Sasha’s life. There was nothing divine about it. That was just offensive. Sasha was a good feminist, transgender Catholic on the run from the law and didn’t worship false idols.

It was only then that Sasha noticed a folder on the drive that she hadn’t created. It was labelled ‘For the Archivist’. Despite herself, she clicked on it.

It held a few pdfs. Sasha clicked on one curiously, and saw that they were photocopies of statements. No - of Statements. She was already recognizing this one as one of those spider ones. She quickly printed them all out, conscientious of how easily supernatural files corrupted, and quickly exited the drive and the virtual desktop.

It wasn’t until Sasha was already in the kitchen and pulling down a bottle of Jack that she realized what she was doing. She sighed, replaced it, and fetched herself some sparkling water instead. She drank it slowly as she returned to her laptop and logged remotely into the police database, which she already had a backdoor into.

It occurred to Sasha, perhaps belatedly, that if the police found her laptop and the incredible variety of highly illegal programs meant explicitly for accessing secure servers she was probably triple going to jail. This time, for something she had actually did.

All of the hacking had never felt illegal. It had just felt...well, fun and necessary. It had never been about whether or not she should, it had been about if she could.

Was that how it had started for Jon? Collecting household secrets because he had to, so secure the money and influence he desperately needed, because he could, because it was fun?

Whatever. Sasha shook herself. She could have her moral crisis after she was no longer on the run from the cops for murder. This wasn’t the time to be squeamish about something that wasn’t hurting anybody. She knew, as Jon probably did, that just because something was illegal didn’t make it wrong.

It was easy to log onto the police database and check out her own open case. She frequently checked out open homicide cases for fun, but it somehow hit a little different when it was her they were talking about. Incident, Senior Citizen, Offence: First Degree Murder, Location of Arrest: N/A, yeah, yeah, yeah…

One victim, a John Doe. Foul play was suspected...yes that’d be the gunshot wound. No witnesses. Reporting officer’s narrative...Elias Bouchard and Jonathan Sims the Fifth had walked into Head Archivist Sasha James’ office to discuss work with her when they found the body. Both were shocked and called the police...gun found at the scene had her fingerprints and the ballistics matched...suspect still at large. Friends and family had been contacted, everyone denied knowledge of where she was. Suspect had a noted history of mental illness...great…

The officers dispatched had been Alice Tonner and Basira Hussein. Sasha found that strange: Basira had history with one of the witnesses and the suspect, wouldn’t it be unprofessional to send her out?

There couldn’t be that many sectioned officers, Sasha reasoned. Even if the incident hadn’t officially been sectioned, because the police report still existed, as a general rule if something happened at the Magnus Institute it was sectioned until proven otherwise. Even if the murder itself was seemingly mundane.

Out of curiosity, she searched up Detective Tonner’s records. Been on the force for a long time, worked her way up the ranks. Very, very few cases and incident reports for a detective who had been on the force as long as she had. Sectioned, obviously, but even Basira had more official cases than she did. When Sasha clicked on the incident reports, they were extremely spotty and strange. Obvious details were omitted or censored.

Something cold began to creep down Sasha’s spine. She found the arrest records of the latest four people with official records of Detective Tonner arresting them.

Almost all of them had entered custody with bruises, cuts, and in one case a broken limb. They all had records down as ‘resisting arrest’. Sasha felt sick.

There was one case that stopped strangely short. A clear perp, a rapist but one with little evidence, who Tonner had quickly caught. That was where the case ended: the report that Tonner had found his hiding spot, but no arrest, no trial, no prison sentence. When Sasha investigated the perp, she found that he had unceremoniously vanished shortly after Tonner had reported that she had found his hiding spot. A month later, a death certificate had been filed.

Sasha stared at the death certificate, nauseated. This was who she was dealing with. A vigilante, some batshit pig who had obviously decided that the law was best taken into her own hands. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, but...if anybody looked at Sasha’s case on paper, they’d say the same thing.

And that was just the cases on record. It was the only obvious instance Sasha could see of Tonner having offed someone just because she felt like it, but cops were good at covering shit like that up. How many other arrest records had fallen in the cracks? How many other dead perps that nobody gave a shit about? How many sectioned cases?

God, Sasha was fucked.

She begged off hanging out with Georgie that night, instead staying in bed with the covers pulled tight over her head as if that could ever protect her. Why was Jonah doing this to her? What did he have to gain? If he wanted her to die a mysterious death in the bottom of a ditch, why wasn’t he man enough to do it himself?

Tonner was going to murder her, Sasha thought hysterically, and she was going to pat herself on the back for keeping another monster off the streets.

And Jon knew. The fucking hypocrite. He wasn’t going to help her. Nobody was. But, god, she was so alone…

The next morning, as if she knew, Georgie slipped Sasha a burner phone over the breakfast table as they both robotically ate quiches.

“It should be untraceable, but just know that anybody you call you’re putting at serious risk,” Georgie warned, before her expression softened. “This’ll all be over soon, honey. I promise.”

“Did Jonah tell you that?” Sasha asked bitterly.

“Nah. I just know those two.” Georgie delicately ate a forkful of quiche. “They get bored of terrorizing humans pretty quickly. Now, Michael’s a different story. They’ll terrorize someone for decades. I’ve seen them do it!”

“Great,” Sasha said.

It seemed to be at this point that Georgie realized she was actually making Sasha feel much worse, because a slightly panicked expression crossed her face and she quickly reached out to pat Sasha on the hand. “But I’m sure they won’t do that to you,” Georgie said quickly. “They love you! Jon especially. Jonah’s just on another of his little power trips right now, he’ll get over it. And Jon, like, feels really bad about this whole thing. He’s been super annoying about it, actually -”

“See,” Sasha said, standing up to clear away her dishes, “I would rather handle an enemy who obviously wants to kill me than a friend whose good side I always have to be careful to stay on, who I can’t afford to ever make mad. I guess that’s the only difference left between me and you people.”

She angrily put her dishes in the sink, where the housekeeper would do them, and stalked to what was rapidly becoming her room, slamming the door.

Flopping down on the bed, she stared at the burner phone. Tim wouldn’t be at work yet. They could talk. They could -

Do what? Get back together? Split up? Could he explain, beg for her forgiveness? Did she have to apologize too? Sasha didn’t understand.

That was rare for her. She understood a lot of things, or at least she thought she did. Maybe she had been lying to herself, about everything: that her and Tim were a good idea, that Martin was sketchy, that Jon was evil, that Jon was kind, that Georgie just wanted to help her, that there was nothing that Jonah Magnus would do to her, that she was safe and human and a good person.

God, her capacity for self-delusion was ridiculous. But maybe people needed a little bit of self-delusion to survive. Nobody could live in complete honesty, in full sight of their flaws and shortcomings. You could burn away, living like that.

No. No time or space for fear. Sasha wasn’t afraid of anything. If she kept telling herself that, maybe it would be true. She desperately punched in a number that she didn’t remember memorizing, holding the phone desperately to her ear, her one connection to humanity.

It rung, and rung, and one, and Sasha’s heart thumped in her chest.

Finally, the ringing stopped, and a slightly sleepy voice punctuated the dead air. “Hello?”

“Tim, it’s me,” Sasha burst out, everything she wanted to say to him rushing through her throat and choking her, and she burst into tears.

Distantly, through the sound of her crying, she could hear Tim on the other side losing his shit, and eventually wrangling himself to calmness.

It was almost funny, how they could work each other up like that. Eventually, by the time Sasha had managed to wrangle her own crying, Tim had calmed himself down enough that he was able to clumsily try to cheer her up.

“We’re all fine. Everyone’s perfectly safe. Martin’s gotten, uh, even more annoying since you left, and we’ve technically hired Melanie, which is - not good but it’s funny? Are you still crying? Please don’t still be crying.”

“I’m fine,” Sasha hiccuped. She rubbed at her red eyes. God, she’d missed him. “Tim, what happened?”

The line was silent for a while. Finally, he said, “Is this line secure?”

“Uh - probably? I mean -” Sasha quickly checked herself. She didn’t want to mention Georgie. The less he knew the better. “ - it’s a burner, if that’s what you’re asking, and I’m not the one who bought it.”

“Where are you living?” Tim asked harshly. “Are you homeless? You have to come stay with me, I can -”

“You mean the first place Tonner will look?” Sasha shot back. “No. I’m safe, I’m dry, things are fine. That’s all you need to know.” She softened her voice. “I promise, if it was safe I’d tell you more. I want to see you again. Tim, I - I’m really sorry.”

Tim laughed hoarsely, without humor. “Shouldn’t it be me saying that? I’m the one who thought you were a monster.”

“...yeah, that one’s on you.” Sasha sighed miserably, lying down on her bed, wishing Tim was next to her. “I am, though. A monster, I mean. Tim, I - I’m definitely not entirely human anymore.”

“God, Sash, that’s the least of our problems right now,” Tim said, laughing slightly again. “Can you just tell me what happened? I know you didn’t fucking do it. That dick Bouchard keeps playing dumb and his shitlead lackey keeps on avoiding the Archives. I bet Sims killed that old man, right? He totally did. Martin keeps on saying that his precious Jon wouldn’t let you take the fall for something he did, but I’m not so sure.”

“I...it’s more complicated than that.”

Sasha explained in short order. For once, Tim was totally silent the entire time, letting Sasha dispassionately recite the entire sad story. She finished it at Michael helping her escape, not detailing where she had been dropped off.

Finally, after a long silence, Tim said, “So this is my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Sasha said harshly. “You were manipulated, same as I was.”

“I’m the idiot who -”

“Yes, you were being an idiot. You should have talked to me, talked to anyone. You should have done anything other than your homicidal partner in crime. You definitely shouldn’t have been buying a fucking black market gun when I know for a fact you have no idea how to shoot. But you tried playing hero and you played straight into Magnus’ hands. You fucked up. Okay? Now let’s try to do better.”

More silence, until Tim sighed. “Can’t believe the Douche’s Jonah Magnus. Explains why Sims is always playing lackey for him. Can’t wait to spill to Martin how his boyfriend framed his boss for murder.”

Sasha chewed her lip, uncertain. She hadn’t shared the details of Jonah and Jon’s conversation too closely - it had seemed private. “See, I’m not sure this is...entirely Jon’s fault.”

Tim groaned. “Not you too! Why is everyone but me and Melanie a fucking Sims apologist?”

“Jon and Jonah are...they’re weird, okay?” Sasha moved to chewing her hair, uncertain of how to describe it. If it should even be described. It seemed so private, so unsuitable to name...but maybe everybody thinking that was how these things stayed perpetuated for so long. “I think Jonah’s kind of, you know, abusive?”

The line went silent again.

“Wow,” Tim said finally, “Martin’s going to be so disappointed his boyfriend’s taken.”

“They’re just friends! I think. I’m like, ninety percent sure. But you didn’t hear them, Tim. They’re really...it’s messed up. Trust me.”

“Jesus, Sash, why are you defending someone who fucked all of us over like this? Sims is a big boy, he’s responsible for his own shitty decisions and the shitty company he keeps.” Tim snorted. “I’ve heard them talk, anyway. If anything, Magnus is the one always giving into Sims and his little tantrums. Jesus, I just want to throttle the both of them.”

“Maybe you need to get over your anger issues and focus on actually solving the problem for once,” Sasha snapped. “Nobody has time for your revenge fantasy, Tim! We need to fix all of this.”

“Which one is it, Sash?” Tim asked coldly. “Was I manipulated, or was it my anger issues and hero complex? Are you going to decide if this is my fault or not?”

Sasha’s heart stuttered in her chest. She didn’t know how to explain to him what she knew - that it was everything, that it was all of the above, that he was manipulated through his anger issues and hero complex, that Tim had been pushed in a direction but he had taken the steps all by himself. But she couldn’t blame him entirely, because Sasha had been manipulated the same way, and so had Jon and Martin and Georgie, and if she started thinking like that then she would have to start hating the whole damn world.

“Tim, are we going to stay together?” Sasha whispered, broken-hearted. “Can we even still be together? I love you. I want you here with me. But there’s so much ugliness that’s growing between us. I don’t know if this can be fixed.”

A long silence again. Sasha wanted to be there with him, to read his face, to see what he was thinking. She had always understood him so well, or at least she thought that he did.

“I love you too,” Tim said finally. “I want to fix this too. I - I don’t know, Sasha. I love you. The thought of you alone, in danger, and not even knowing where you are, is fucking me up. It’s like Danny all over again, Sasha, I can’t handle this. Can we have this conversation again when I know you’re safe?”

“Okay,” Sasha said, and she knew that this was probably the best both of them could do right now. “Are we staying together?”

“...I don’t know.”

“...are we breaking up?”

“...still don’t know.”

“Okay,” Sasha repeated again, and sighed. “I won’t call you from this phone twice. I’m doing the best I can here. I’m safe, I think. Things will be okay, Tim.”

“Sash,” Tim said, “I don’t remember the last time things were okay.”

And neither did she, and they both knew it, and she hung up on him without saying anything further. She lay on the bed, listening faintly to the sound of the housekeeper vacuuming, staring up at the fan as it beat in a steady rhythm on the ceiling.

Was Tim right? Was she reading too much into Jon and Jonah? It wasn’t her job to fix Jon, to puzzle out his weird psychology. Maybe he was just an asshole without a spine,and there wasn’t anything more to that.

No. Sasha didn’t believe that. This was a puzzle that she hadn’t solved yet, and she had the feeling that at the heart of this puzzle was the key to finally keeping herself and Tim safe. She couldn’t abide a mystery, couldn’t trick herself into thinking that the truth wasn’t important. The truth was all Sasha had. She couldn’t close her eyes to it, that awful and ugly reality.

Tim...he had been such a bad idea. But he had always been her favorite one: the way he could always cheer her up, his bright and bold smile, his courage and heart and sensitivity and vulnerability. He had loved her, truly and wholly, for who she was. He knew the ugly corners of her and loved them as much as he loved her best attributes.

Was that still true? Was Sasha turning into a person that Tim just couldn’t love? Was Tim turning into someone that Sasha couldn’t love?

People changed. Sometimes they changed apart. And for some strange reason, Sasha just couldn’t bear the thought of that.

Lying on the bed of a grim reaper, crying like a broken-hearted teenager, Sasha didn’t notice that the housekeeper’s vacuum had stopped running. She didn’t notice the knock on the door, or the creak of the door opening, or the gentle rise and fall of voices. She only heard it when there was a soft knock at her own door, and she was forced to roll off the bed to open her bedroom door.

Standing in front of her, looking nervous, was the housekeeper. Standing behind her was Jonathan Sims.

He looked pretty bad, Sasha noted clinically. Eye bags, even more pronounced than usual, stood starkly under his eyes, and his hair wasn’t as cropped short and styled as it usually was. It had grown out a little, making Jon look more like a tired modern guy walking the streets of London than a centuries old immortal psychic vampire. He was still dressed in a suit, as he always was, but the suit jacket was off and his dress shirt was rolled up to the elbow.

He stared at Sasha, probably registering every minute change in her appearance as she did his, before glancing down at the housekeeper. “You’re excused for the day. Thank you for your time.”

He passed her something - probably neatly folded bills - and nodded at her as she shakily nodded back and escaped the flat as quickly as possible. Jon stepped backwards in the hallway, gesturing for her to come out, and walked back into the living room. Because Sasha was just slightly too prideful to barricade herself in the bedroom, and partly because she wasn’t sure that Jon wouldn’t break into a woman’s bedroom, she stepped out into the grandiose yet cluttered living room with him. He stood in the center, hands in his pockets, looking over the flat with a clinical eye.

“Georgie’s sense of interior decoration is as immaculate as ever,” Jon noted clinically. “She used to spend months getting every house we ever lived in just right. Said it was her job as lady of the household. She had never been a lady of any household, of course, not in the way that Jonah and I had once known - but her fun’s important to her, and it doesn’t hurt anybody important.” He sniffed slightly. “You coming to stay here was for the best after all. She’s been lonely, I think.”

“I’m staying here because I’m homeless,” Sasha said flatly. For the first time, she noticed a small manila envelope under his arm, tucked slightly into his back pocket. “Because of you.”

“I’ve kept your flat for you,” Jon said eagerly, stepping forward, and letting his cold mask fall. In him now was something eager, something almost pleading. Sasha forced herself not to step away. “All of your possessions are intact, and I can get your bank accounts unfrozen easily enough. Once all of this blows over, your life can be right back to normal.”

“Wow,” Sasha drawled, crossing her arms, “how kind. Were you so busy being this nice to me that you forgot that Georgie barred you from this flat because I don’t want to fucking look at you?”

“She’ll get over it,” Jon said dismissively. “She’s been wanting us to make up, anyhow.” He stepped closer again, fluorescent green eyes fixed on her large and warm brown ones, and Sasha fought the tingle crawling up her spine. “Sasha, I really am sorry. Jonah was out of line in what he did. But - but you know, he really does know best. Even if it doesn’t seem so. What we’re doing now, it’s for the best for your development. I promise this will all blow over soon, and things will be better. For all of us.”

“For a subject of a truth god,” Sasha said, voice dripping sarcasm, “you have a unique ability to lie to yourself.”

Jon puffed up, scowling down at her. “That’s ridiculous. I -”

“Does Jonah Magnus respect you?” Sasha pressed.

Jon...hesitated, and they both saw it. Jon frantically tried to cover, quickly saying, “Of course he does. I’m his partner, and we’ve been partners for two hundred years. There’s nobody on earth he respects more than me. There’s nobody he respects but me.”

“Then why does he talk to you like you’re an idiot?”

“He talks to everyone like that.”

“Because he doesn’t respect anyone but you. You just said that. But if he respects you, then wouldn’t he talk to you differently?”

There it is - Jon’s shoulders hunched slightly, unconsciously on the defensive. “Does he give you equal input on decisions?”

“I always give my -”

“Does he listen to them?”

Jon was silent. Finally, slowly, he said, “Jonah was right. He said you’d get like this.”

Fuck. Sasha’s heart sank, even as her jaw dropped in incredulity. She had lost him. “You must be kidding.”

“He said you’d get jealous.” Jon crossed his arms, turning slightly away from her, but what he clearly meant to be a closed-off stance just seemed defensive. “He said that you’d get upset that I’m more loyal to him than to you. What we’re doing now is for your own good, Miss James. You’ll see one day that this - this unpleasantness is helping you grow.”

Unpleasantness? Unpleasantness?! Putting her life at risk was an inconvenience? “I’ll see, huh?” Sasha said bitterly. “Just like you saw? Just like how you changed your mind from this being cruel and traumatic to it being a momentary unpleasantness?” She barked a short laugh, not very humorous at all. “I was there. He called you stupid, he said that you couldn’t trust anybody but him, and he called you an idiot. Are those the words of someone who respects you? Of someone who even likes you?”

Jon stiffened, mouth tightening, and he broke eye contact and looked away. “Don’t concern yourself with the private business between Jonah and I.”

“When you’re having the conversation over a cooling corpse that you framed me for then you’re making it my business, you absolute shitheel!” Sasha yelled, finally losing her temper. “Your bullshit is ruining my life! Your complete inability to stand up to that sack of shit is ruining my life!”

“Shut up!” Jon yelled, seemingly having taken her losing her temper as permission to lose his. Distantly, Sasha was aware of his stupid this must have looked: two fully grown adults, yelling in a living room like children. “You’re a spoiled child who doesn’t know anything! All I’ve ever done is try to help you, and you spit in my face! You’re no better than Martin!”

Abruptly, strangely, Jon stopped short. He seemed almost embarrassed, almost in pain.

And just like that, Sasha knew. “He’s not letting you see Martin, is he.”

For just a split second, Jon’s expression crumpled, but he forced it back into his haughty mask. “I decided that it was best I didn’t waste my time with manipulative traitors.”

“Was that your idea?” Sasha asked flatly, abruptly extremely tired. “Or was it Jonah’s?”

Jon was silent. They both knew the answer.

“If you walked up to Jonah now and told him that you wanted to start dating Martin, do you think that you’d leave that conversation still wanting to do it? Or would you somehow decide, all by yourself, that you’ll end up doing what Jonah wants anyway?”

Jon didn’t say anything.

A strange mix of emotions swirled in Sasha’s stomach. Anger and disgust mixed with pity and sadness. What had Jon been like, before he met Jonah Magnus? Had he been a good person?

But maybe that wasn’t so important. Maybe the question that had to be asked was - what kind of person would Jonathan Sims be without Jonah Magnus in his life?

All at once, the fight seemed to go out of Jon. His shoulders sagged, and he abruptly deflated. He looked down at the ground, ashamed and aware of it. He had always been aware of it. He had just been lying to himself. Maybe it was impossible to live without it.

“I don’t know what to do without him,” Jon said quietly. “I’ve never - I need him.”

“You don’t,” Sasha said, abruptly exhausted. “You want to help me, Jon? You want to protect me and Martin? You can’t do that while staying friends with Jonah Magnus. You have to choose. So long as you stay close to him, you are going to stay within his complete control. That’s what he does. He controls everybody and everything. And you’re letting him. You’re justifying it. You’re doing his work for him. Everybody around him is - even Georgie. There are two people in your life who are trying to get you away from him, and he’s trying to convince you to cut them out of your life. You think that’s a coincidence?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he said, “You’re wrong.”

“I need your help, Jon,” Sasha whispered, and to her shame found her voice cracking. “I need someone on my side. I can do it alone, but - but I’m scared. And I don’t want to. I need help. I’m scared.”

But she knew, even as she said it, that Jon was scared too. He couldn’t reach out a hand to her - not now, not here. Jon had carried around his fear for hundreds of years, pushing it down and pretending it wasn’t there, and it informed everything he’d ever done. Scrambling for power, exerting that power, desperately dominating even as he was dominated - it stemmed from that fear, all of it. And Jonah Magnus kept those flames fanned, because a Jon who was afraid was a Jon who could be controlled.

A Sasha who was afraid, who was isolated, who was trapped, was one who could be controlled.

The realization was dizzying. Somehow, the thought that kept running through her mind was - who’d do that? Who was such a terrible person that they’d go through all that trouble, all of that plotting, just to make someone suffer? Not because they disliked them, not in revenge, not because of any human emotion - but just because it was convenient? Useful?

Because you could?

So this was what power did to a person, Sasha realized. So this was what power and immortality and money and supernatural gifts did to you. It made you someone who Sasha could never hope to understand, whose depths of depravity she could never truly rationalize. To Sasha, who prided herself on knowing people and being able to understand them and their motives - it was almost a relief, almost a blessing, that she couldn’t possibly understand the motives of Jonah Magnus at all.

Jon stared at her, fluorescent green eyes wide, and for just a minute she could see the fear that she knew was there written all over his face. For just a minute, Sasha and Jon were scared together, both trapped in tumultuous waters that they couldn’t control. For the first time Sasha empathized with Jon.

Jonah Magnus was somebody that Sasha could never understand. But Jon was, and for the first time Sasha knew what Martin meant when he said that he felt as if Jon had been a good person, a long time ago.

You can’t understand someone and hate them. Not really. You could be angry, upset, betrayed...but if you really understood someone, backwards and forwards, true hate was difficult to find.

“I have to go,” Jon said, almost dizzily. He shoved the manila folder at her, both of them having forgotten that it was even there in the first place. He glanced at it, frightened and guilty. “Be - be careful when meeting Jude Perry. Don’t take her at her word. I have to go.”

He fled, as if the hounds of hell themselves were snapping at his heels, and Sasha was left standing in an opulent hallway, clutching a manila folder as if it was a time bomb, completely certain that it was meant to hurt her and cause her pain and damage her, completely certain that she was going to read it anyway.

Like Jon - what choice did she have?

But as she stumbled back to her room, as she sat down on the comfortable chair and thumbed on the tape recorder that sat at the desk, the words of Jonathan Sims ran through her mind. His warning. A clumsy attempt at protection. At the very least, a signifier of desire.

Sasha knew, as she sometimes knew things, that Jon had started out somebody who deeply desired to protect others like him. To take revenge, to grab power, yes, but also to spread that precious knowledge and resources around. He had never stopped thinking of himself as one of those vulnerable people, people who society had stepped on and ground into the dirt. Deep down he had just wanted things to be fair, wanted some justice in the world. Jon, at one point, had only wanted to help.

Maybe she wasn’t so alone after all.

“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist…”

#my writing #YES I KNOW THIS IS TOO LONG FOR A TUMBLR POST BUT CONSIDER: ITS NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR AO3 AND MY STANDARDS ARE INSANE #jonathan sims #georgie barker #sasha james #archivist!sasha #human relations #tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #jonmartin #jason's tims age

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banashee · 3 years

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Hi Folks, welcome to my first fic for the Archival Pride 2021 project! Look at their tumblr for more info :) @archivalpride

Archival Pride 2021, Week one (June 1-7) Prompts: friendship, pre-canon, self-expression, affirmation and sharing clothes.

The key words I've used here are mostly sharing clothes, self-expression, affirmation and friendship

Also, I'm late for week one! My Fucking WIFI broke so you'll get two fics for this week...

Content warnings: this is mostly tooth rotting fluff but just to be safe: - mentions of Top Surgery - hints at dead and/or unaccepting families but nothing explicit

"You mean, OUR closet"

It happens like clockwork. Ever since the four of them moved in together, as soon as the weather gets cold and the leaves outside start to turn golden-red, the usually sizable stack of woolen jumpers in Martin's closet seems to magically shrink. One day, they’re there and the next day, there are suddenly only a few left. Every year – it’s gotten to be a routine, and it makes Martin smile and shake his head fondly each and every time again.

Over the warmer months, the jumpers just sit there in the closet, carefully tucked away. Only a few of them are store bought at this point - Martin tends to knit them himself, and he’s spent weeks and months of his life making them. This is probably one of the many reasons why Jon, Tim and Sasha tend to steal them so much - they’re part of him, for one, and apparently they miss each other as soon as someone leaves the room or something. (Codependency issues? Them? Nah) the jumpers are also warm and big and they “feel like a permanent hug”, so what else is there to say? It’s adorable, really.

And Martin will say this as often as he can, if only so he can watch Tim go scarlet red (as smooth as he usually is, cute compliments like this get to him more than he cares to admit), watch Jon splutter and claim “I am not, nor have they ever been adorable!” – Unlucky for them, no one else agrees, and so they’re stuck with three partners who will tell them as much at any given opportunity. Sasha, on the other hand, is having way too much fun with this and will go “Aww, shucks.” Every time, just to see her favourite people blush even more.

The thing is, Martin owns plenty of woolen jumpers; he likes them because they’re warm and comfy, which is always a plus. To a certain degree, they’re pure self-preservation as well. The heating in the Archives breaks constantly, and oftentimes, it stays that way for days. They need to bundle up then, and drink more tea and coffee than any human should. Those days leave all of them freezing their butts off, and having something warm and cozy to wrap around themselves helps a lot. But their own woolen jumpers or even outdoor jackets aren’t nearly as warm and comfortable as Martin’s. His clothes are just the softest, and so, he knows to expect them to migrate to his partners when a certain time of year hits.

On a more personal note for him, the loose fit of the knitted jumpers helps him a lot on days when the body dysmorphia gets bad. Those days have gotten less now – especially since he’s had top surgery – but it’s still nice to have something comforting around. Just in case.

And then, of course there is the simple fact that he likes the aesthetic. “Retro-Aesthetic” as his partners tend to call it, and really, it is kind of accurate.

Right now, Martin is standing in front of the open closet in his underwear and is absolutely not surprised to find some of his jumpers already gone. There is no doubt that, as soon as he gets back downstairs he’ll find everyone else wrapped up in at least one of his jumpers. Sneaky, the whole lot of them.

The weather has turned quite rapidly in the last few days. That morning, they wake up and the cold wind has creeped in through the open window, leaving the entire bedroom freezing. If it wasn’t for the many, many blankets, they would wake up with their limbs frozen off, but by now, there are at least three or four blankets available at any given time. That is, because certain people tend to steal the covers in their sleep, but no one would look at Tim or Jon, oh no, of course not.

These two are frequently playing tug of war at night, which is why they often end up in the middle of their sleeping arrangements. That way, there are at least some chances to steal the blankets back for everyone else.

Martin has started to wrap one of the edges around himself in an attempt to keep the blanket there, while Sasha has threatened to staple the bloody thing to the floor on either side of the bed. There is no doubt that she is dead serious about the threat, even when it’s mostly mumbled at 2 in the morning, disgruntled as her face is smushed into whoever is currently closest to her.

But lucky for them, body heat is the best source of warmth, and there is plenty of it available in their family. Especially Tim and Martin run hot as it is, which is why Sasha and Jon lovingly call the two of them their Human Heaters on a regular basis.

Sasha is always happy for more warmth - she’s not cold very often, but she loves being close to the other three.

There are no romantic or sexual feelings from her side - it’s just not how she works. But her feelings towards those three people in her life are different from Just Friendship, and she loves them all dearly. Just… Not in a romantic kind way, but it is nice to share a life with people who know, understand and love her back just as much and just as she is.

It’s only when she wakes up in the middle of the night with no blanket anywhere to be found that she wants to strangle someone. Temporarily.

Jon, on the other hand, is pretty much always cold. They’re “made of nothing but bones and sharp edges” as Tim so eloquently put it, earning himself a jab from one of said sharp elbows into his ribs. It only makes him laugh, loud and carefree as he is, as he pulls Jon into his arms and smothers them in kisses until they laugh and complain half-heartedly. They don’t mind it at all.

So if they’re not currently stealing blankets, Jon clings. Like an octopus, to whomever they can reach easiest.

So this is how they wake up that morning:

There is a fresh, icy wind coming in through the window while under the small mountain of blankets, the four of them are wrapped up around one another, noses pressed into the warmth of each other's necks or into the chest of soft shirts. Hands that cling or seek warmth on bare skin under ancient T-shirts or pyjamas.

Sasha wakes up first, entirely uninterested in getting out of bed as soon as she realizes how cold the room has gotten over night. Only half awake, she moves closer to Tim and wraps her arms and legs around him. Her warm breath is tickling his neck, but he is long used to being surrounded by warmth and people - he loves it. Loves them, most of all.

Tim can’t move much. He’s got Sasha clinging to his back and he can tell that she is already dozing off again. While he wakes up to that realization, he does so with a face full of long, curly salt and pepper hair and a pair of arms wrapped around his middle.

Jon is still dead to the world, happily wedged in between Tim and Martin. Even if they were awake, it’s highly unlikely they would be able to move a limb at this point. Lucky for everyone else, due to the circumstances, they leave the blankets alone for once. They’re warm and dead asleep and Tim’s hands are busy holding both them and Sasha’s forearm around him. One of Martin's arms is stretched out in his sleep, resting near him as he provides another comfortable weight and source of heat.

Between their shared breaths and heartbeats, flailing limbs and two cats curled up by their feet, waking up is a comfortably lazy thing today. Neither of them needs to be anywhere - it’s a long weekend, and so they’re taking the opportunity to start their day out as slowly as possible.

And this is how Martin finds himself in front of his side of the closet, finding a small stack of his jumpers missing. The one on top is a jumper he knitted early in the year, after receiving several balls of really good wool for Christmas from Tim. Light blue, white and pink - more than enough for a jumper and maybe a scarf or gloves. Martin still has some of it left over, but the majority of this gift is now in his hands, in the form of a thick, woolen jumper in his pride colours. Needless to say, he loves the thing.

On his way down the stairs, Martin is joined by Crumpet. The tiny black void had been dozing in the mess of their unmade bed until recently, but as soon as Martin is on the way down, she magically wakes up with a small “mrrp?”, jumps off of the bed with light feline feet and is glued to his heels just a split second later. Maybe there is hope for some treats - as if there wasn’t a blackboard in the kitchen for this very reason.

“The sneaky bastards have been fed, DO NOT fall for their foul play.” is written on it in big bold letters next to shopping lists and lopsidedly drawn hearts, checked off with a bright green checkmark twice a day. To outsiders, it might seem excessive, but they have developed this system for very good reason. Especially at first, the pitiful meows and empty food bowls had been enough to convince whichever human was closest that it was time for food, the mistake only being discovered after a few days of rapidly shrinking cat food supplies and two fat and lazy cats rolling about in a cozy corner. Hence, the blackboard.

Now, Crumpet is making zig-zag-lines down the stairs, conveniently getting in the way wherever Martin is stepping until he scoops her up into his arms with a small sigh.

“Crumpet, my Love. You’ll make us both fall down the stairs. That is illegal in this household.” He tells her seriously and Crumpet meows, as if in protest.

“Yes, yes, I know. Cat crimes are what you do. The answer is still no.” Crumpet meows at him again, but then she proceeds to bump her tiny head against Martins, purring loudly as he scratches her soft chin.

Halfway down the stairs, Martin can make out the familiar sound of singing from the kitchen. Even after so many years, it makes him smile and wanting to stop in his tracks, just to listen for a bit. Jon has a beautiful voice. It’s one of the, if not the first thing that made Martin fall in love with them, and getting to hear them not only talk but sing on a daily basis is… Truly wonderful.

Martin may or may not be completely besotted, and he knows for a fact that he isn’t alone in that. And really, when he rounds the corner, he finds Tim and Sasha sprawled on the couch, Sasha on her back and with a book in one hand, Tim half-dozing with his head on her chest, but he is still awake enough to listen, judging from the small, content smile on his face.

Of course, two of Martin’s missing jumpers are to be found right here with them. Sasha has claimed one of the plain ones, dark green and with a neat Haskell stitch. It suits her really well, even though it dwarves her – which is one more reason she loves it. Sasha is not short at all - but there is still plenty of space for her to wrap up in, which she happily does whenever she can.

Meanwhile, Tim has put on what Martin calls his “scrap collection”. Frankly, he refuses to even call it a jumper, because what it is, technically, is a bunch of scrap wool in all different colours, shapes and bulk sizes, anything that was a leftover and too little to finish anything with, knitted together into… Something with sleeves. The main reason Martin hasn’t thrown it out years ago is that he spent a long time working on it, and besides, even the scraps were expensive once – wool is about the only thing he likes to splurge on for himself sometimes.

But then, Tim discovered this atrocity in the back of Martin’s closet one winter morning. Of course, he promptly fell in love with the garish colours and it’s kind of charming overall ugliness. Which leads Martin to put it into Tim’s closet after the next wash, but the Scrap Collection Jumper always finds its way back to where it came from, despite the fact that no one else ever wears it.

“Stealing it is half the fun!” Tim had shrugged when asked, and shot him one of his blinding grins.

Now, Sasha and Tim look up when Martin enters the living room, and he sets Crumpet down to the floor. Tiny Void that she is, she scrambles right off to jump onto the couch – or rather, on top of Tim, who has already been claimed by their other cat, Gandalf.

Gandalf is, just like his name suggests, a large, grey Norwegian Forest Cat, sprawled out over the length of Tim’s back. He looks like an old, wise wizard, with a huge beard and knowing eyes and everything. Gandalf is of gentle nature, and despite being impressively large, he is a big old softie. This is one of the reasons for his second, mostly-unofficial name, Professor Floof.

Crumpet wriggles herself into the tiny space between Gandalf’s front paws, turns on the spot until she happily settles down.

“I see you have been claimed.” Martin smiles, and he means both Sasha and Tim.

“Yep! I’m not moving today.” Tim tells him, and pulls on Martin as soon as he is close enough to do so and he bends down for a quick kiss. It is warm and gentle, still tasting a bit of tea.

“We’ve also got another private kitchen concert to listen to.” He points out then, and Sasha adds,

“It’s been Disney songs this whole time. I am so glad that you managed to talk Jon into watching those with us.” She smiles, and it only grows wider when the first lines of “I’ll make a man out of you” travel over from the kitchen. Not that anyone would blame Jon for having this particular song stuck in their head – it’s a great song from a great movie, for one, and besides, it’s not like it’s easy to get rid of once it is stuck in someone’s brain.

Martin settles down on the couch near Sasha and just listens for a bit. A small, happy smile is tugging at his lips. He is happy and content, knowing all of his family near and safe and happy – there really isn’t much more to ask for. Eventually, Sasha’s head finds its way onto his lap, and her book remains forgotten and face down on top of Tim’s head – it doesn’t bother him at all and he doesn’t even comment on it. .

“It was about time, too. Can’t leave someone in this household having such glaring holes in their cultural knowledge.” She continues from where she left off earlier, leaning back into Martin as she puts the book to the side, properly this time, so that her own hands can find their way to Tim’s messy mop of bright purple. In an instant, it is met with a happy, satisfied hum.

“Oh, of course not. Speaking of, any idea what they’re doing in there?” Martin asks eventually, nodding over to the half closed kitchen door. It happens sometimes, that Jon disappears in there for hours, doing their thing and refusing help when it’s offered. It’s nothing negative, the others have learned by now; it’s just something relaxing, some “me-time” so to say.

“Cooking. But they very lovingly kicked us out and didn’t want any help, so here we are.” Tim explains cheerfully, although he is getting slightly groggy from the head scritches and the warmth of two cats dozing on him.

“I’m sure you’re absolutely heartbroken, having to be all lazy and comfy on a day off.”

“Oh, how shall we survive this horrible fate?” he laments ironically, face pressed into Sasha as she just laughs at him.

“Drama Queen.”

Another song starts, and Martin makes his way into the kitchen. As much as he loves listening and hanging out with Tim and Sasha, he is curious as to what Jon is up to, and besides, he wants to spend time with them as well.

When he enters the kitchen, he is met with a mess that is very familiar to him by now. As particular as Jon is about most other things in life, cooking isn’t one of them. Or more precisely, they’re particular about the results – not how the kitchen looks after they’re finished being a whirlwind of chaos. Today, there are small mountains of chopped vegetables on several wooden cutting boards, about half the contents of their spice rack strewn about the counter, right next to bundles of fresh herbs and the giant pot on the stove. There is another, smaller pan on the stove, and this is where the heavenly scent comes from. It already smells like roasted spices, and there is no doubt that the mouthwatering smell will creep out the door as Martin opens it further.

Jon turns around when they notice movement out of the corner of their eye, without missing a beat or stopping their song, but there is a happy sparkle in their eyes that seems to get even brighter when they spot Martin.

Surprising absolutely no one, they are currently wearing a stolen jumper as well. It’s one of the older ones, one of the first jumpers that Martin ever made – it’s far from perfect and nearly falls apart at this point, but it is still warm and comfortable. Well worn – which is the reason Jon loves this one so much. They have to fold over the sleeves to be able to use their hands, and the whole thing – dark purple wool with black, white and grey flecks throughout – hangs off of Jon’s small frame and makes them look even smaller than they actually are. But they love it, and much like when Martin attempted to give the other jumper to Tim, he put this one into Jon’s closet. But much like their other partner, they’d put it back into Martins space with identical reasoning:

“Stealing it is half the fun, Love.”

Martin doesn’t even question it anymore – and really, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind it at all. And if he notices his partners buying sleep shirts and such in sizes they wouldn’t usually wear, well. He recognizes it as his invitation to join in on the fun, and he does.

There really is something exciting about squirreling away something that’s usually worn by a loved one, even when it’s something they’d lend out with no questions asked. Especially then, because as the others have truthfully informed him, stealing the clothes from your partners is half the fun.

Right now, Martin is standing in the kitchen, surrounded by a hot mess that includes one of his favorite people in the world, and they only stop singing for a moment, wrapping themselves around Martin like the affectionate octopus they can be when the mood strikes them. Not like he is about to complain.

He happily hugs back, nose buried in the messy bun that Jon haphazardly piled up on top of their head earlier that day. The long familiar scent of shampoo and conditioner is still lingering, and Martin can’t help but kiss Jon right at this moment. They happily let him, and Martin rubs small, gentle circles on their back, aware of the soft, warm material of the jumper under his hands.

Another reason Jon loves this particular jumper so much, Martin knows, is because its colours resemble the Ace Pride flag. This isn’t even on purpose – it’s just how the wool looks. But there is no one in this household who isn’t happy about the smallest bit of affirmation of their identities, and as soon as Jon gets their hands on the jumper, well, you know how it goes.

Almost as predicted, Jon kicks Martin out of the room just as lovingly as they did Tim and Sasha, but only after more kisses and a brief but passionate duet as Martin makes tea for everyone, now that he’s here.

Back in the living room, Tim and Sasha thoroughly enjoy their private concert, snuggled up on the couch together and with their two fuzzy companions. Happiness can’t even begin to describe the feelings that bloom in both of their chests, as well as their partners back in the kitchen.

Later that day, the four of them are sprawled out on the couch, plates full with the Vegetarian Kadai that Jon prepared earlier. As secretive as they can be about their cooking sometimes, the one guarantee about it is that it’s always good. Today is no different.

Everyone tucks in, knowing that there will be plenty left still. More often than not, they end up freezing the leftovers, so they can have fresh, wonderful food whenever they want without the hassle – some days just are like that, and the energy can be low then. Everyone has bad days every now and then, but the knowledge that they are not alone, that they are loved and have a functioning support system, both at home and at work, helps a lot. Together, they always manage somehow.

They are family, the four of them, in any sense of the word. Neither of them has much of a family left that is related in blood – there are several reasons for this, and it hurts sometimes. Some days more than others, but by now, they have found one another and built their own family. They love and support one another, in so many different ways, but what it boils down to is just this. Family.

One Bisexual Man, one Pansexual Trans Man, one Biromantic Asexual Nonbinary Person and one Aromantic Asexual Woman – they’re a colorful rainbow mix, and they wouldn’t want it any other way.

#Archival Pride 2021 #tma fanfic #banashee writes #the magnus archives #fluffy and very very queer #season 1 polycule

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giorno-plays-piano · 4 years

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The Pretender Next Door Part 2 Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader Warning: Swearing. Summary: Lying is despicable, but nothing beats the humiliation of pretending you have a lovely boyfriend when, in fact, you have none. Could your handsome neighbor help you, though? Words: 2138. Part 1 _____________________________________ It went better you thought it would. Your colleagues were mostly friendly and open, your work environment seemed both interesting and challenging enough, and living in the new apartment was comfortable and pretty peaceful. Well, that man from the 5th floor was singing songs from Bridget Jones Diary on Friday mornings really loudly, but you were an early bird, so you didn’t care, truly. You hadn’t seen Steve much, though it was more an advantage rather than not. He wasn’t bringing any girls into his apartment, and it really bothered you. Worse, he wasn’t bringing any boys either. Your last hope was that Steve belonged to some kind of swingers club or something and had orgies in a different place.

Swingers club? Damn, girl. This man was making you crazy.

You did your best to forget about that perfection of a man living next door. You needed to build your life from scratch in this mad city of New York, and having relationships now was not on your list. In fact, it had never been.

One busy month had already passed when you got a chance to talk to Steve again. You were stepping inside the elevator, tired after work. Next week you were organizing a big holiday party for employees, and things were going more and more stressful with each day. It turned out that way more people had allergies they didn’t state previously, most of them new employees like you, and you had to adjust the menu; then that band your VP of Marketing wanted to have suddenly asked more money than you discussed before, and…

Well, event planning was always like that. Why complaining now when you spend all those years in college and then decided to move to NY? It was predictable. What was unpredictable was you lying to your married colleagues that you had a boyfriend. Why on Earth did you say that? Yes, it was a bit embarrassing to be the only woman who wasn’t in a relationship, but did you ultimately have to lie about it? It was so stupid and childish. Surely, there were more than one single woman in New York.

Anyway, you had a bottle of white wine and Netflix movies waiting for you at home. You would deal with everything else later, including your imaginary boyfriend.

“Wait, please!”

You snapped out of your thoughts and immediately pressed a button to leave the doors open, and the next second Steve almost flew inside the elevator. Oh, was he just in front of you and you hadn’t seen him again? Seriously, you needed to put yourself together.

“Hello.” You smiled a bit shyly and pressed another button to get the elevator moving.

He looked as handsome as always in his dark blue jacket and… oh God, he could wear nothing at all and still looked like a prince. No clothes at all would be far more preferable…

“Hello.” His glowing smile made it hard to keep your eyes off his face.

Nonono, just stop staring and keep your eyes down. You had enough things on your plate already, there was no place left for a giant sun named Steve Rogers who would indeed burn you to ashes the same second you decide to come closer.

“So, are we going the same floor?” He suddenly asked. Wait, did he forget you literally lived next door?

“Um, yes.”

Steve scratched the back of his head; for a few seconds he seemed lost in thought. You decided to drop it. Maybe he had a bad memory or something.

“Oh, I get it, you probably visiting my new neighbor.” He just grinned through those perfectly white teeth.

What? Did he already forget he spent at least half an hour in your hallway repairing your bookshelf? Just how bad was his memory if he didn’t recognize your face, for God’s sake? Well, anyway, if you wanted him to have a flaw, you had to be happy he got one. Better than being a secret swinger, wasn’t it?

“Actually, I am your new neighbor.” You let out an awkward laugh and stared at your pretty kitten heels shoes you bought before leaving Key West. Why were you upset? You just thought about not getting into relationship with anyone. Besides, you doubted you had a chance to date Steve Rogers even if New York’s female population would be five times smaller its actual size.

Lost in your thoughts again, you missed his immediate change of expression, his face completely red with embarrassment and shame.

“God, I’m an idiot with a fish’s memory span.” He groaned and looked somewhere up, shutting his eyes for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry! I mean, of course I remember you, Y/N, it just, ugh, you know… you just look a bit different and… Jesus Christ, I’m gonna say something stupid again, aren’t I?.. Just, ugh, sorry.”

With the guilt all over his pretty face he reminded you of a puppy who ate someone’s shoe, and you chuckled. It wasn’t as bad as you though, he still remembered your name. It was true you were different comparing to the day he met you – you were wearing way more makeup, including bright lipstick, to look older for your colleagues who were in their 40s and 50s. You also had a nice New Look black dress, and your hair were curled. Although you did not expect to look so different to others, maybe Steve simply didn’t take a closer look at your face that time?

And you could still take it as his flaw. Not bad enough, but still something!

“Don’t worry, you only saw me two times in your life.” You laughed it off and stepped out of the elevator once the doors were open. “Now if you see here a grumpy old woman with Ikea bags please remember the way I looked today.”

Steve followed you into a narrow corridor and burst out laughing, his face slowly losing its funny redness. You suspected he still felt kind of guilty, but he tried to keep it cool when you bid him goodbye and entered your apartment.

Thinking of any other possible flaws he might have, you took off your shoes and threw you bag on the comfy grey sofa in the middle of the room. You were finally home. Now you could change into your favorite blue pyjamas and fluffy slippers, take off your makeup and have some good time watching your favorite romcoms. Although you didn’t have anything for dinner, you could easily order something like a nice pizza or lasagna from that family-owned pizzeria around the corner.

The next hour you spent in a tub, washing away your worries. One was still there though: what were you supposed to do with your imaginary boyfriend? Your biggest issue was that your colleagues asked you to bring him to the party. Of course, they thought it was a nice gesture since they often brought their own husbands and boyfriends, but now they just made your life way more difficult. Even if you could say your boyfriend got sick or something at the day of the event, what then? Thankfully, no one demanded to see your photos yet, but they could. And they might ask you to bring him to dinners they had altogether sometimes, and God knows what else.

You were stupid enough to make up some super romantic story about a perfect guy any girl would like to date. It was embarrassing to think of it now, but you definitely got affected by the marriage stories of your colleagues who spent the whole lunch hour talking about their lovely husbands. Your problem was you tried to fit in too much.

Well, you probably had to come up with something about breaking up once you moved to NY. Funny, because your “boyfriend” was living here and waiting for you for a year to come over and transform your long-distance relationships into something bigger. Hell, you even said you might marry him. Why were you so careless? Why did your colleagues’ opinions matter so much?

You sighed, putting on an old black hoodie. You were hopeless.

Then you heard the doorbell rang and frowned. You were not expecting anyone since you didn’t order your pizza yet.

You hurried to the door in your slippers and put your hair into a ponytail on the way. It was around 8 pm. Who could it be? Did someone just mistake your apartment for someone’s else? You knew your aunt wasn’t coming without telling you first, and no one else knew where you moved to.

But you opened the door, and you found glowing Steve there with a plate in his hands. You were so stunned you just kept standing there until you heard him snicker. Wait, what? Steve? Did he need to borrow anything? Why was he here?

“H-hi Steve. Please, come in.” You stepped back awkwardly to let him go inside and saw him smiling even wider once he spotted your fluffy blue slippers. Could it get even more humiliating than that?

“Hi there. I’ve actually come to apologize properly for the… well, you know.” He almost looked like he was blushing a bit. “And I brought you a lemon pie. Although I baked it myself, I swear it’s not poisonous!”

Great, your absolutely perfect blue-eyed neighbor with blond hair and a winning smile was so nice he brought you a homemade pie. Girl, you were losing it. Maybe he was a serial killer instead of a swinger? It would make sense, indeed. Maybe it wasn’t wise touching this pie? Damn, you hoped he tried to kill you instead of just being nice, because Steve was clearly out of this world.

“I mean… not like baked it the way my mother did… more like googling an easy recipe online and putting everything I found into an instant pot…”

You were ready to slap yourself when you saw Steve fidgeting nervously in the hallway. You had to keep your lovely neighbor out of your mind.

“Thank you so much.” Taking the plate from his huge warm hands you felt your body temperature rising. “But you didn’t have to do that. There’s nothing to be sorry about!”

“No, I was being stupid and…”

“Well, whatever. Just come here and share this pie with me so I can check if it’s poisonous or not.” You tried your best to make a joke out of it and laughed, nodding towards the kitchen. “I can make either tea or coffee. What would you prefer? Um, if you’d like to stay, of course.”

“Only if you don’t mind the guy who couldn’t recognise his own neighbor.”

You spent the next hour chatting about anything and everything. Even though you had never been talkative with people you barely knew, Steve had seemed so trustworthy and friendly you were not able to stop. He talked a lot too, telling you more about himself, claiming he was “just a kid from Brooklyn.” He didn’t finish his university degree because of some financial issues and was now working in an auto repair shop. He still wanted to return to engineering, though, but the only jobs he was offered were some unpaid internships and things like that. And he also played guitar. And he had just finished renovating his own apartment.

The only flaw you found was his issue with keeping the rooms clean as he was overly impressed with your place and how tidy it was. Well, it was something.

Then you had somehow told him about your work, new company, colleagues, the event, and… and that imaginary boyfriend of yours. When you realized you complained about your silly lies, it was already late. Steve was biting his lips not to laugh. Oh, great. Now he was thinking how pitiful you were, pretending to have someone in order to gain some respect from your new coworkers. What kind of girl would say these things to a man like him? You were clearly out of your mind. The only good thing about it was that Steve would probably walk out of your apartment and never come back again.

“Please don’t think I’m laughing at you. It’s… a bit funny, I mean, that you think there’s nothing you could do with your issue.” He grinned at you, almost pouting like a little baby. “Think of it, you just need to ask some guy you know to pretend he’s your boyfriend. Ask him to come with you to this holiday event, and then some time later you can say you broke up with him.”

For a minute you fell silent, staring at the guy in front of you with wide eyes.

“Wait, but I don’t know anyone here. I can’t merely go to anyone on the street and ask him to do this for me, right?”

“Well, for starters, you know me.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #steve x reader #romcom au #captain america

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hiddenzebra · 3 years

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Midlife Crisis Part 4

Meanwhile, real life is boring. The daily drudgery of managing school runs, shift work, housework, homework. Husband does not hold my attention as he once did, and I feel unappreciated and unloved. I know this isn't unusual and most couples experience this. I think back to someone I once knew who was older and wiser than I, who said marriage should be 7 year contracts to be renewed or dissolved at the end of that time frame. He said he'd have renewed after the first, dissolved after the second but gone back for the fourth. In my first years of marriage at the time of this conversation, I was horrified. I know what he means now.

Messages are still going to and fro every day, and phonecalls several times a week. Sometimes we arrange a time in the middle of the day and spend our tea breaks together. I stand in a freezing cold social distancing tent to have 10 minutes on the phone with him. He's often in his van moving between jobs. I enjoy these chats, they brighten my day. We are getting to know each other better each time we speak, discovering more and more common ground. He is wise and experienced and, although from a different industry, has a lot of useful knowledge that I can apply. He's bought about positive changes in me; I'm more confident, I walk a little taller and smile a little brighter. I wonder what my life would have looked like had I been with him. I think he would have made me the person I wanted to be, rather than the dowdy bore I am. The people in my 'real life' resent my career, but I think he would have encouraged me. Nourished me. Helped me find my own way rather than doing what was expected of me.

Texting online one night he asks "is Husband at work?"

"Yes, why?"

"I want to phone you"

It's late, I'm already in bed in fluffy pyjamas.

Buzz buzz, my phone vibrates. It's a video call. I hesitate. I wasn't expecting that. I'm not suitably dressed and my house is a mess. Nevertheless, I answer it.

"So we're doing video calls now, are we?".

"Is that OK?" He asks. And in that moment, looking at his shirtless torso lying in his bed, I cannot think of a reason to say no.

"I was surprised, that's all. I'd have dressed more appropriately had I known!" I can feel my cheeks burning.

"If I was there you wouldn't need fleece pyjamas!"

"Stop it, you caught me off guard!"

"I'm in a state of undress and I don't mind"

The man oozes confidence and charisma.

I hear Husband's car pull into the drive. "I have to go, Husband has just got home"

"Goodnight darling, see you in my dreams". He blows me a kiss

#midlife crisis #the one that got away #affair #forbidden romance #forbidden love

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cheri-translates · 3 years

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[CN] 100 Days - Lucien (Day 51 - 100)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for e-mails which have not been released in English servers! 🍒

What’s the 100 Days Companionship Event?

Day 1 - 3: here

Day 4 - 30: here

Day 31 - 50: here

Day 51

I saw the new bracelet you bought, and wonder if I have the fortune to select a matching necklace for you?

Day 52

Since a certain student seems to have high praise for the dried fruits in the research centre, I’ve prepared some. Could I pair them with the white tea from last time?

Day 53

Your record book ended up with me. I accidentally saw quite a number of bold and imaginative questions. Next time, why don’t you ask me directly?

Day 54

It was a little cold last night, but it felt warmer when I saw the light from the house. Looks like temperature is even more subjective than I imagined.

Day 55

I’ve watched that trending video clip you mentioned. It isn’t an alien life form. It’s just a deep sea creature which has a more ‘casual’ appearance.

Day 56

A new dessert has been released by that dessert shop you often visit. Want me to buy some on my way home tonight?

Day 57

The new intern is rash and quick-tempered. I miss the times when you, the “class prefect”, helped out.

Day 58

I’ve hooked the little felt fox you made with my keys. Each time I look at it, my mood becomes better.

Day 59

One small flower along the roadside is still blooming tenaciously. I wonder if I’ll still see it again the next time I walk by.

Day 60

A curious white kitten sneaked into the laboratory, and left an “already read” paw mark on my experiment report.

Day 61

I heard that during this season, there wouldn’t be many people at the amusement park. We can take a non-cursory visit to it once.

Day 62

The weather has become slightly cooler, and it’s suitable for wearing that overcoat you picked with me the last time.

Day 63

Seeing your cotton slipper and fluffy cartoon pyjamas, I sense that this winter wouldn’t be cold.

Day 64

I came across a fairy tale. There’s a black goat in the story, and it has a pair of beautiful horns… Do you still want to hear the rest?

Day 65

I seem to have improved in my origami skills, and it seems I can now fold more vivid little creatures now.

Day 66

Why do you need to perplex yourself over having a low laughing point? It shows that you can produce the dopamine to be happy over any trivial matter.

Day 67

When I passed by the park, I discovered that the Rosa chinensis we once saw together have turned into colourful chrysanthemums. Time seems to go by exceptionally quickly when signing in with you.

Day 68 (Halloween)

Title: Mysterious story exhibition

I heard there’s a mysterious Halloween story exhibition today. I wonder if a certain little friend who’s filled with curiosity is interested in going tonight?

Day 69

I’ve spent this October very happily. A large part of the reason is because you’re sharing it with me.

Day 70

I chanced on the postcard you sent me before. The handwriting is very cute, and the contents on it are even cuter.

Day 71

There’s a picture stuffed in the crack of the door. Is that bespectacled person conducting experiments me? He looks very engrossed.

Day 72

I haven’t thought of the answer to the riddle you came up with yesterday. Looks like I’ll have to learn from you this time.

Day 73

You mentioned wanting to learn how to make dimsum using yam paste, but couldn’t find the chance to do so. Do you have time today? We can give it a try together.

Day 74

The mornings of this season are especially moving. It’s just that little lazy bugs like you are likely too cold to get out of bed.

Day 75

The coffee you gave me the last time has a very nice taste. I tried preparing it once, but it didn’t have the same taste. Could you tell me your secret?

Day 76

I had a strange dream, and it seems to be indicating something. I’ll tell you about it another day.

Day 77

The weather forecasts says that it might rain today. Remember to bring an umbrella when you head out, just in case.

Day 78

If nobody does things that may not reap results, this world would likely lose some degrees of fun. Don’t you agree?

Day 79 (Single’s Day)

Received your final wishlist for 2020. It so happens that fulfilling each one of them will require an entire winter.

Day 80

You’re asking me if I’ve ever thought of travelling through time? I have. Each time we part ways, I want to travel to the time when we’d meet again.

Day 81

I’ve bought the material you wanted. Is our agreement from last week to have autumn afternoon tea still valid?

Day 82

You seem very busy recently, and I haven’t seen you appearing at the last row of the classroom. Is my “Class President” free to sign the attendance tomorrow?

Day 83

I like every birthday present you give me each year. Of course, my favourite gift is the one I can see at first glance - you.

Day 84 (Lucien’s birthday)

Having gone through yesterday’s “unhappiness”, I’ve prepared double the amount of “happiness” today. Could I share it with you?

Day 85

The place I’ve gone to attend the meeting at is the northern city you mentioned in Moments last year. Perhaps I could follow your footsteps and check in.

Day 86

When I woke up this morning, I realised that it has already started snowing in the city. I won’t enjoy the first snow on my own, which is why I’m sharing it with you immediately.

Day 87

I realised that you changed to bluetooth earpieces. In that case, will the distance between us be as close as when we listen to songs together using a wired earpiece?

Day 88

The rainbows seen in winter are even gentler than the ones in summer.

Day 89

Lately, I’ve been having some trouble sleeping too. This time, it might be your turn to be my little sleep assistant.

Day 90

Thank you for the gloves you gave me. They’re very soft and warm.

Day 91

I enjoy this feeling very much - eating a bowl of piping hot noodles in a warm, small store with you during cold weather.

Day 92

When I was tidying the bookshelf, a card fell out of one of the books you once borrowed. Do you still remember what you wrote on it?

Day 93

Without realising it, the agreed-to conclusion of the signing in is about to arrive. For some reason, I don’t really want it to end.

Day 94

Something to be grateful for is every day that I get to keep you company.

Day 95

A few petals from that pot of flowers you’re tending to fell onto my window sill. I’ve made them into two dried flower bookmarks.

Day 96

Saw a pair of earmuffs which suit you. This way, your ears wouldn’t always be red from the cold.

Day 97

Sorry, I’ve been tidying up data in the laboratory today, and just saw your message. I wonder if it’s too late to agree to your dinner invitation?

Day 98

You don’t always have to meet my expectations, because you often surpass my expectations.

Day 99

The movie salon you mentioned sounds really interesting. If I’m participating in it with you, I'm definitely very willing to go.

[Note] The word ‘salon’ here refers to a social gathering!

Day 100

To me, a hundred days is too short. Even without such an event, my company will definitely not stop at just a hundred days.

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worryinglyinnocent · 3 years

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Fic: It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Zoom-mas

Summary: It wouldn’t be Christmas without a visit to the Lab Nights ‘verse and Aunt Elvira!

Things are looking a little different this year, but that doesn’t mean that the little Lab Family can’t still celebrate in style.

Rated: G

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Zoom-Mas

“Is this thing on?”

“Aunt Elvira, you ask that every single time, and every single time we tell you that it’s working fine. Surely you must be used to it by now. We’ve been doing this for months.”

“Well, it’s all right for you bright young things, you’re used to technology and all those whatnots. I can barely make my mobile phone work, and even then Rum had to get me one with super-sized buttons on it so that I could read them.” Aunt Elvira waved her oversized phone at them over the webcam and Bae couldn’t help but grin.

It was a strange Christmas. He and Emma had always intended to spend this year just the two of them; they tended to alternate between seeing family and needing a break from all the madness, and once Emma had entered her final trimester they wanted to avoid any and all contact with the outside world as much as possible. But with everything else that had gone on throughout the year, they had decided that a family Zoom call on Christmas day would be a good idea to help spread the festive cheer. Well, it would be a rather extended family call, since Regina and Mal and Ursula and Ella would also be joining in, but it had long been established that they were as much a part of the family as the core Gold clan were.

Beside Bae, Emma just laughed. “You know, I haven’t known Aunt Elvira for anywhere near as long as the rest of you have, but I think that she’s a lot more shrewd about technology than she lets on.”

“Well, that’s for me to know and you to find out.” Aunt Elvira winked. “Anyway, since we’ve established that we can indeed all see each other, Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas, Aunt Elvira.”

Despite the current state of the world, it had been a very happy Christmas. Without having any of the family coming to stay or having to go out to see any of them, it had taken the pressure off a bit and Bae and Emma had spent the entire day in their pyjamas, including their Christmas dinner.

“Where’s the rest of them?” Bae peered at the screen, trying to see past Elvira into the rest of the house.

“Just finishing doing the dishes, then they’ll be here.” On cue, Rosie raced into the room and took up a seat on the sofa beside her great-aunt, waving excitedly to Bae and Emma.

Another window opened and Regina and Mal waved from their living room.

“Merry Christmas everyone!”

“Merry Christmas… Mal did you just pour an energy drink into your eggnog?”

Mal nodded merrily and took a sip of what must have been the world’s most disgusting concoction. Bae didn’t like eggnog at the best of times but he knew that adding sugar, caffeine and chemicals wouldn’t make it any better.

“I haven’t been to bed yet,” she said. “I’ve been awake for the last twenty-four hours and I am wired!”

Regina shook her head in despair. “I would like to point out that I did tell her to go to bed. It’s getting to the stage where I think I’m going to have to tie her down to the sofa to stop her bouncing off the walls with the amount of sugar she’s consumed. She ate pretty much the whole yule log on her own.”

“I get the munchies when I’m tired!”

Ursula appeared on the screen and waved.

“Hello all, Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Ursula. Where’s Ella?”

“Looking for her Christmas gin. She bought a bottle specially and hid it so that she wouldn’t drink it before Christmas, but now she can’t remember where she put it.”

There was a brief pause whilst Aunt Elvira expounded on the horrors of not being able to find any gin, during which Rosie spent most of the time rolling her eyes. Elvira didn’t even realise that Belle and Gold had joined them in the living room until Bae said hello to his dad and stepmum.

“I found it!” Ella raced into the picture and threw herself down on the sofa beside Ursula, no mean feat since she was also holding a bottle of gin and a glass of tonic. She poured a generous glug of gin into the glass and waved it at the rest of the gathered family before taking a huge sip. Ursula just gave a long-suffering sigh, and Ella rolled her eyes.

“Oh come on, you can’t deny that after the year we’ve had, we all need it.”

Gold raised his wine glass. “Amen to that.”

“I think we should have a toast,” Mal said. “Congratulations to all of us for surviving the year from hell with only mild alcohol poisoning.”

It was certainly an eclectic mix of drinks used in the toast, from wine to gin to orange squash to tea to Mal’s hideous concoction, but the spirit of the message, Bae found, was definitely a celebratory one rather than miserable. There had been many moments of misery over the last year with so many of them working in the public health sector. There had been so much worry on all sides, but the fates had finally come together to allow them all to be together - if not physically together - today, and they could all see that they were healthy, and happy for the moment, if a little worse for wear.

The merriment continued as Mal, Ella and Elvira all got steadily drunker, sharing hilarious tales of Christmas shifts at the hospital gone by. The year that Elvira fell down the stairs was mentioned more than once.

Eventually though, the time came to bring the call to a close after Mal had finally given up the ghost and fallen asleep on Regina’s shoulder, and quiet goodbyes were said, with the hope of being able to all see each other in the same room soon.

Bae closed down the laptop as Emma leaned into his side with a contented sigh.

“It’s been a strange sort of Christmas,” she began.

“It’s been a strange sort of year.”

“Well, yes, that too. Anyway, it’s been a strange sort of Christmas, but it’s good to know that no matter what else is going on, there are some things that never change. Like Aunt Elvira. And Ella and her gin. And Ursula despairing of us all.”

Bae smiled. “Yeah. We can always rely on them for entertainment if nothing else.”

“And you know, hopefully next year Ursula will be despairing of us all whilst Elvira and Ella enthuse over alcoholic beverages in person. Although I’m not quite sure that would be a good first impression of Christmas for Henry.” Emma patted her belly.

Bae just laughed. The times were indeed strange, but there was always hope on the horizon.

#OUAT fic #swanfire #rumbelle #sea devil #dragon queen #Lab Nights 'verse

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ibelieveinharrystyles · 4 years

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Chapter Ten: Make A Wish

Forever? Masterlist

5th July 2017 Ashley woke up to the sound of Daisy babbling away happily in her cot, the sooner she could get a two bedroom flat the better. She climbed out of bed, greeting Daisy with a massive smile, “Hello birthday girl how are you?” She asked, lifting her out of the cot, getting a babble of random sounds back, she had recently learnt to say ‘mama’, something she had been overusing extensively. “Shall we have a special birthday breakfast? How about some pancakes?” Ashley asked Daisy as she took her through to the kitchen, resulting in an excited clap from Daisy as she put her in the safety of her highchair. She turned on the radio, hearing the familiar sound of Roman’s voice, understanding that Ashley was a single parent he offered to host the show on his own for the day to allow Ashley and Daisy to spend some quality time together. “Shall we listen to some of Uncle Harry’s music?” She asked Daisy as she weighed out the necessary ingredients for pancakes.

“Yeah! Yeah!” Daisy cried from her high chair, before Ashley began playing some classic One Direction out of the speakers in the kitchen.

London was in the middle of one of those heatwaves, the ones where one week it would be chucking it down with rain, and the next it's uncomfortably hot, For this reason Ashley thought it best to travel by bus, rather than subjecting herself and Daisy to the heat of the London Underground. Daisy seemed content though, she was sat on the seat beside Ashley, looking out of the window as they went past all the big monuments and crowds of people, Ashley spotted a heavily pregnant lady sat across from them, reminding her how unbearable she had found being pregnant with Daisy during the sweltering heat of summer, “How far gone are you? If you don’t mind me asking?” She asked the lady.

“Thirty seven weeks, if he doesn’t grow up to be a footballer these kicks will be wasted.” she told Ashley.

“Oh wow, I thought it was difficult carrying this one through summer, but she was born six weeks early.” Ashley replied.

“Oh goodness, how old is she?” She asked.

“It’s her first birthday today, we’re on our way to her uncle’s house for a birthday picnic.” Ashley explained.

“Oh you’re off the radio aren’t you? I listen to the breakfast show every morning, I think it’s wonderful.” She told Ashley.

“Thank you, I’m glad you enjoy it, as you can probably imagine, getting to work in the mornings after getting this little lady ready can be a struggle, but we make it work.”

When Ashley first mentioned to Harry that she wanted to organise some sort of birthday celebration for Daisy he jumped at the chance to host it, even though the guests only consisted of Anne, Gemma and Linda, he still wanted to pull out all the stops, Ashley’s knock on the door was answered almost instantly by Harry, a massive smile upon his face, like he had just won the lottery, “Hello birthday girl!” He cried, stretching his arms up in the air, which in turn made Daisy smile from ear to ear, Ashley passed Daisy to him, knowing how much she idolised her uncle, he led them both into the kitchen that had been decorated with an impressive jungle theme, green balloons in a vast variety of colours and sizes littered the high ceiling. Whilst on the island in the middle of the kitchen a two tier vanilla and chocolate birthday cake was sat, decorated with figures of jungle animals, also on the island were bowls of crisps and plates of Daisy’s favourite snacks.

“You didn’t have to do all of this H, she would’ve been fine with a cake from tesco and a bag of chocolate buttons.” Ashley sighed as Harry showed Daisy all the toy jungle animals.

“I wanted to, it looks like I’ll be on tour for her birthday next year, and my favourite little lady deserves spoiling.” Harry insisted.

Gemma, Anne and Linda had all arrived shortly after Ashley and Daisy and now the celebrations were in full swing, everyone was sat around the island snacking on the crisps and biscuits Harry had laid out. “Presents! Let’s do presents!” Harry declared, before disappearing and returning with several parcels wrapped in obnoxiously pink wrapping paper.

“Anyone would think Uncle Harry wanted to be your favourite,” Gemma said to Daisy who was currently sitting on her lap.

“I already am her favourite,” Harry informed Gemma, before miming tossing his hair, he placed the parcels on the table for Daisy, and with the help of her Auntie Gemma she unwrapped them one by one, Harry being Harry had gone all out, the presents ranged from a giraffe teddy to a pair of mini old skool vans, which Harry insisted were a necessity. Gemma treated her to a set of insanely soft pyjamas and a toy elephant, whilst Anne bought her a set of story books and Linda gave her a new dressing gown that looked like a giraffe.

“Thank you so much, all of you, these are such lovely presents, you’re a lucky lady aren’t you Daisy? What do you say to everyone?” Ashley said to Daisy.

“Ta!” she exclaimed, resulting in a mixture of sighs and claps from everyone sitting around the table.

“I’ve got you one more present,” Harry handed Ashley a green envelope, Ashley opened it hesitantly, inside was a picture from London Zoo, “Before I leave for tour, I’ve booked us a tour of London Zoo after they close, so that Daisy can see all the animals properly, and we won’t have to worry about the hassle from photographers and all that.”

“You’re a proper softie Styles,” Ashley said, moving round the island and wrapping her arms around him, “Thank you for all of this.”

After indulging in slices of Daisy’s birthday cake everyone agreed a walk across Hampstead Heath was necessary, Harry carried Daisy on his shoulders, who seemed to be having way too much fun playing with her uncle’s hair. Anne and Linda strolled behind, chatting about their children, and the adults they had become, whilst Gemma and Ashley walked side by side, “He loves her doesn’t he?” Ashley whispered softly.

“He’d do anything for her, they have the purest little friendship.” Gemma told her.

“I don’t know what I’d be doing if it weren’t for Harry, Daisy and I would’ve spent today watching all the Madagascar movies whilst eating our way through a chocolate cake, but he’s made this day so memorable for her.” Ashley replied as they all found a seat underneath a big tree to provide them with shade.

“You alright up there munchkin?” Ashley asked Daisy, gently stroking her cheek.

“I should probably get Daisy home soon, it's nearly her bedtime.” Ashley sighed, the sun was beginning to set over the heath, a golden glow dancing on all their bodies, the heath was pretty empty except for a few families and couples who were either enjoying the infrequent summer weather or taking their dogs for a well needed walk. Ashley hadn’t really clocked it at first, but there was a distinctive figure hovering by a tree across from them, being friends with Harry for as long as she had, she learnt to shrug off people loitering near them, assuming they were either a fan or a photographer. But when she caught a glimpse of this person again she realised she did in fact know them, “What the fuck,” she whispered under her breath, quiet enough that Daisy wouldn’t hear, but loud enough that Harry did hear, he glanced in the same direction as Ashley, realising what she had seen. Ashley stood up without saying a word and walked towards him.

“Well if it isn’t Harry Styles’ favourite baby mama,” He slurred, taking a swig of what must have been his fifth or so can of beer.

“What the fuck are you doing here Matt?” Ashley asked him, pushing him back.

“I just wanna see my daughter.” He told her, leaning against the tree.

“No, that’s not happening,” Ashley told him bitterly.

“Why? You scared I’ll see she actually has an uncanny resemblance to that prick over there?”

“Harry is not her dad!” Ashley told him.

“Well then why can’t I see her?”

“You lost the right to see her the day you told me you didn’t want anything to do with her, you know she was born six weeks early? She was kept in an incubator because she was too small, except you wouldn’t know that because you weren’t there, so excuse me for not wanting you to have anything to do with her.”

“Are you alright?” Ashley turned to see Harry, he had left Daisy in the capable care of Anne.

“Here’s your knight in shining armour coming to your rescue,” Matt slurred.

“I’m fine Harry, can you take Daisy back to yours? I don’t want her seeing this.” Ashley asked him.

“I’m not leaving you with him Ash.” Harry replied.

“How long did it take you mate?” Matt asked him.

“What are you on about?” Harry responded,

“To get her into bed? Didn’t take me too long if I’m honest-” Harry tried to swing a punch at him, but Ashley was quick to hold him back, pressing both her hands against his chest.

“H, he isn’t worth it.” She soothed, cupping his face with one hand, so as to make him look her in the eye, whilst still holding him back with the other.

“If you try and approach Ashley or Daisy again, you will be hearing from my lawyers, do you understand?” Harry asked him sternly.

“I get you big man, I’m not sticking around to deal with you and your emotional baggage.”

The group had now returned back to Harry’s house, Gemma, Linda and Anne were entertaining Daisy with cartoons in the living room, “You didn’t have to step in like that H,” Ashley whispered as she poured him a cup of tea.

“He was out of order.” Harry insisted as he took his mug of tea, “I wasn’t just going to stand there whilst he talked about you like that.”

“He’s not wrong though is he? I didn’t have to sleep with him that night, I just did anyway.” Ashley said, fiddling with the lid on the milk bottle.

“Just because you slept with him that doesn’t make you easy, you think I haven’t slept with people I regret?” Harry replied.

“It’s different for you, a man sleeps with twenty girls and he’s a lad, a girl sleeps with five men and she’s a slag.”

“You know I don’t think that don’t you?” Harry assured her.

“I know, because you are a gooden, and one day when Daisy brings a boy home I want him to be as good as you, and I think by having a positive male role model in her life like you, she will learn that she deserves someone who if she asks for the world will give her the universe.” Ashley told him.

“Is that you saying you think I am boyfriend material?” Harry grinned.

“Don’t push it Styles.”

#harry styles imagine #harry styles best friend fic #one shot #blurb #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfic #fanart #treat people with kindness #harry styles #harry styles imagineharry styles instsgrsm #one direction #harry #harry styles imagines #harry styles fanfiction #best friend harry

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all-the-love-harold · 4 years

Text

Chapter 2 - I’m Having your Baby

Master Post

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: None

***

December 21st 2019

Poppy was late. 3 days late. Or maybe it was 4. She couldn’t quite remember, but she knew that she was late. She also knew that she was stressed with Christmas coming up, and that when she got stressed her period tended to stay away for a while, so she wasn’t getting her hopes up. Nonetheless, when she was out getting herself and Harry a coffee she ducked into the pharmacy nearby and bought a few home pregnancy tests, just to be sure. She was in no rush to take them though and if she was honest, she didn’t really have a spare second to think about it once she got home. Between making sure Oli got his lunch and preparing things for his 2nd birthday party which they were crazy enough to be having just three days before Christmas. Oh and did she mention that her and Harry were hosting Christmas lunch this year for his family AND hers.

The pregnancy test crossed her mind again when she was giving Oli his bath that night and Oli picked up his doll that they kept as a bath toy.

“Bubba” he said, dunking it’s head in the water “wash hair bubba”

Poppy couldn’t help but giggle “You’re gonna a great big brother buddy.”

She was glad that he was too young to really understand what that meant, if he was any older she’d be getting a thousand questions about a baby she doesn’t even know that she had yet.

“Pop, I’m going to pick up your family from the airport now” Harry called from downstairs “Need anything while I’m out?”

“No, we’re all good H, good luck” Poppy called back “Love you”

“Love you too” he said and she heard the door shut behind him.

“Alright Ol, let’s hop out now, get you dressed”

“Love you Mum” he smiled up at her as she helped him to stand up and wrapped his tiny toddler towel around him. Her heart melted and she placed a gentle kiss on his head.

“I love you too Oli.”

She helped him to get dressed into his pyjamas, encouraged him to use the toilet (he wasn’t quite ready to be out of nappies yet, but he was getting close) and brushed his hair so that he was all ready for bed. Since dropping his afternoon nap, it had been much easier to get him to sleep at night, which Harry and Poppy were both pleased about.

“Right” Poppy said to Oli once he was all tucked up in bed “Have you got Itchy?”

He nodded holding on tightly to his toy.

“And Pippy?” she asked and he pulled his dummy out of his mouth, showed it to her and put it back

“And a big kiss from mummy” she kissed his forehead and pulled the side of the cot up so that he couldn’t perform some kind of gymnastics and escape from his bed in the middle of the night.

“Sleep tight my big boy”

“Night night Mum” he said as Poppy closed the door to his bedroom.

She went straight to the bathroom and pulled out the pregnancy test, feeling more broody than ever knowing that her first baby turns two tomorrow. She remembered what it had been like taking the test when she thought she was having Oli, she was scared then because she wasn’t sure that she was ready to be a mum and now she was scared because she wasn’t sure she could face not becoming a mum again. Her heart pounded as she waited for the results to show. 3 minutes had never felt so long.

“Poppy, dear - we’re here” she heard the sound of her mother’s voice walking in the front door.

“Shit” she whispered to herself as she left the bathroom, making sure to close the door behind her. She made a mental note to come back to it as soon as she could but she couldn’t leave her family waiting, not after they’d been on a twenty four hour flight.

“Hi Mum, Hi Dad” she said, half running down the stairs to give them a hug “Good flight?”

“Awful” her dad, John, shook his head “Can’t smoke on planes these days, did you know that?” he began pulling a packet of cigarettes from his pocket

“Can’t smoke in my house either Dad” Poppy said sternly “Follow the stairs all the way up and you’ll find a garden and be quiet, Oli’s just gone to bed”

“It’s freezing out there Pop” he huffed but started climbing the stairs anyway.

“Don’t I get a hello?” Her sister Addison said from next to Harry.

“Of course you do” Poppy side stepped her mum and wrapped her sister in the biggest hug of them all “God you’re getting so adult, can you stop please?”

“I’m as old as you were when you moved here” Addie added “And I still live with mum dad”

“It’s much cheaper that way” Poppy smiled

“Yeah, you spent so much money in that first year didn’t you love” Harry said sarcastically

“Enough outta you” Poppy squeezed his cheek making him giggle.

“Can I get anyone tea or coffee or anything?” Harry asked trying to get them all out of the entryway

“I’d love to see my grandson” Linda said, turning towards the stairs

“I’ve just put him to bed Mum, you’ll see him in the morning, he’ll be up bright and early”

“Right, well in that case, I’d love a glass of wine” she smiled at Harry.

“Of course” Harry nodded tentatively, not entirely sure he had any wine to give her “Addie, wine? Tea?”

Addie shook her head “No thanks Harry”

“Vodka?” he asked

“I’m fine” she giggled, although a shot or two of vodka was temping after being on a plane with her parents for 24 hours.

“I’ll show you both around while Harry does that” Poppy added and started going upstairs. Linda and Addie followed, with their bags still in their hands.

“Leave those” Poppy said “Your rooms are downstairs anyway”

They dropped the bags and followed Poppy. A grimace already evident on Linda’s face

“So this is mine and Harry’s room” she said when they got upstairs pointing to their bedroom door “It’s a mess so we won’t go in there”

“Never have been able to keep your room clean have you Poppy” Linda added, peering in anyway

“It’s so nice to have you here Mum” Poppy said, unable to hold her tongue. “And that room there is Oli’s so let’s be a little quiet”

“Is he a good sleeper” Addie asked. She knew a lot about babies, she worked in a nursery back home, very similar to the one Oli goes to.

“He’s been much better since we stopped the day sleep”

“His teachers must hate that” she laughed

“They don’t seem to mind” Poppy shrugged and continued the tour down the hallway towards the next staircase

“This is where Harry’s mum sleeps when she stays, so we’re keeping that for her and you guys will all be downstairs

“How many bedrooms is this place?” Linda asked, looking up the staircase

“6 or 7” Poppy said “That’s Harry’s office up there and there’s a studio downstairs, but he never uses it”

“I accidentally told him I loved the album like 6 times on the way here” Addie giggled “he probably thinks I’m weirdly into him”

“He wouldn’t think that much of it Addie” Poppy smiled “Shall we go downstairs?”

“Shouldn’t we go up?” Linda asked

“We can” Poppy nodded “There’s not much to see up there though, it’s just a desk and the garden which I’ll show you in the morning”

“Oh alright” Linda sighed and turned around on her heel with a huff in her breath . Poppy was starting to remember exactly why she’s decided to move to the other side of the world at just 18. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mother, she just found her selfishness intolerable.

“Not giving a tour without me are you Pop?” John bellowed as he walked down the stairs, lips blue from the cold.

“There’s not much to see dear, just a few oversized bedrooms” Linda drew her lips into a sharp line “That haven’t been cleaned. You know with Harry’s salary you could afford a cleaner”

Poppy and Addie shared a knowing look and Addie turned away from her parents and walked down the hallway towards the stairs.

“I’m going to find that vodka Harry mentioned” she called, waving her hand for them to follow. And they did, without saying a word. Poppy had always admired how easily Addie could read people and turn a situation around in seconds without offending anyone and she smiled to herself because that hadn’t changed.

In the Kitchen, Harry had two glasses of red wine sitting on the bench waiting for them and he had his head stuck in the fridge searching for something that seemed to be buried in the depths.

“What are you looking for H?” Poppy said as she made herself comfortable on one of the bar stools.

“All that cheese we bought the other day,” he said, head still in the fridge “and the dip”

“That’s in the butler’s fridge” she said quietly, suddenly realising that somehow she was living a life very different from the she left behind.

“You have a butler?” Addie said, shocked “and he has his own fridge?”

“No” Poppy laughed “there’s a mini kitchen in that little room over there” she pointed to the door that harry was opening “they call it a butler’s pantry, so we call the fridge the butlers fridge”

“Oh Harry you’ll have to get me something else, I don’t drink red wine” Linda said before Addie had the chance to respond to Poppy.

Harry, who was safley hidden away in the butlers pantry rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. If this was how he felt after an hour with Poppy’s family, how was he going to spend a whole two weeks with them. He did, however, take comfort in knowing that Poppy was feeling the same way.

“I want to tip the wine over her head” Poppy whispered walking into the pantry with the glass in her hand. Harry took the glass, put it on the bench next to him and wrapped his arms around Poppy.

“We could probably survive off the food in here for the next two weeks if you want to lock the door?” he whispered back

“Believe me, if I could I would” Poppy said with her head still pressed against his chest. He placed a kiss on the top of her head and pulled away from the hug.

“Guess I’ll go pull some white wine out of my ass then” he said, only half joking.

“There’s some in the bar fridge in your man cave, I think sarah left it here” she called after him as he walked out again.

The rest of the evening passed by slowly, Addie, John and Linda filled Poppy and Harry in on what was going on back in Australia, it was nothing to really write home about, just the usual kinds of things that happen in a tiny coastal town, known for being home to quite a few Great White Sharks, that somehow never made an appearance on the beaches. Poppy was not at all surprised by her Mother’s lack of interest in anything about her life in London, if it wasn’t for Addie, all they would have talked about would be when Poppy was going to move back home again. She always thought that would happen when she had children, she wanted them to have the childhood that she did, but now that she’s here in London with Oli she couldn’t imagine anything else for him, because their life was here, with Harry. Linda thought that was ludicrous though and with every opportunity, she found a reason to tell Poppy that a child shouldn’t grow up in a city, especially a city without a beach. But, just like she had upstairs, Addie managed to turn the conversation around every time without offending anyone, until she mentioned the possibility of moving to London too.

“There’s plenty of spare rooms here Addie” Harry said to her before linda could shut her down “We’d love to have you”

“I might just not leave” she laughed and stood up from the table “I am going to go to bed though”

“I’ll show you to your room” Poppy stood up too and chauffeured her out of the room towards the living room, which lead onto the bedrooms.

“You’re in this one Addie, and Mum and Dad are next door”

“Thanks Pop” she smiled “I’m not joking about moving to London, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now”

Poppy hugged her “Like Harry said, you’re always welcome here, this room can be all yours”

“Was this your room when you first arrived?”

Poppy shook her head “No I was always upstairs, in Oli’s room”

“Right next door to Harry” Addie giggled “makes sense”

“Good night Addie” Poppy said, putting an end to that conversation before it even started.

Poppy didn’t go back into the kitchen, she slipped straight into her bedroom and into bed. Who knew working full time and being a mother would be so exhausting. Her heavy eyes fell closed and she only stirred when Harry came into the room an hour later and wrapped his arms around her.

December 22nd 2019

Poppy rolled over in her bed, exposing her upper arm to the cold morning air and saw that Harry was still fast asleep next to her. She reached for her phone to check the time, wondering why she’d not yet been woken by Oli’s cries to be taken out of the crib.

7:03. He was usually awake by now, but she shrugged it off, because he did go to sleep late last night and rolled back over to face Harry, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose to wake him. He blinked a few times and scrunched up his face as she giggled

“Morning love” he smiled, finally opening his eyes and wrapping his arms around her “Oli not up yet?”

“Nope” she emphasized the end of the word, burying her head in his chest “either that or my mother got up to him”

Harry scoffed “Seems unlikely, your sister, maybe”

“That sounds more possible”

He let a content sigh “This time two years ago, we were sitting in that hospital room, waiting for him to arrive”

Poppy sat up “Harry, today’s his second birthday”

He furrowed his brow at her “Yeah” he said, sounding confused “I was just sayin’ that”

“And we haven’t heard a thing from Danny”

The realisation dawned on him and a huge smile spread across his face “We haven’t heard anything from Danny- shit Pop I can adopt him”

“You can adopt him H” she smiled kissing his puffy morning lips “You’ll have to give the lawyers a call tomorrow, but it should be a pretty simple process, they should still have all the paperwork we filled out before the hearing, we’ll just have to sign it”

“Easy” he kissed her again “He could be mine by Christmas”

“I doubt it, red tape takes time and there’s only three days to go” she heard the faint sounds of Oli stirring next door “I’ll go” she smiled, throwing the blankets off and shivering at the cold December air. She wrapped her big fluffy dressing gown around her and walked out of the room to go and get Oli out of bed, leaving Harry there, smile spread across his face.

“Happy Birthday big boy” she said walking into his room

“Mumma” he smiled at her throwing his dummy out of the cot “Pippy” he tried to reach for the dummy that was now on the floor.

“Pippy’s on the ground bub”she leaned down and picked it up “mummy get it for you”

“Ta” he took it from her and stuck it back in his mouth.

Poppy reached into the cot and unzipped his sleeping bag as she picked him up “Where’s itchy?” she said. Oli had become quite attached to it when they took him on tour with Harry last year and after seeing Mitch playing the guitar at one of the shows he’d started calling it ‘itchy’ unable to say the ‘m’ sound in his name, and he couldn’t go anywhere without it.

“Itchy’s gone mum” he frowned shrugging his shoulders and looked around the room.

“He can’t be gone bub” Poppy giggled searching behind the cot and spotted him on the floor behind it “there he is! He’s hiding from you Oli” she put him down and moved the cot out from the wall, so she could lean down and pick the toy up. “Silly itchy” she said handing it to him.

“itchy silly mummy” he giggled giving the toy a big cuddle

“Shall we go see Daddy?” she ruffled his hair

“Yeah” he said, nodding his head

“Come on then” she walked out of the room and he followed her.

“DADDY!” he burst into their bedroom and climbed into the bed next to harry.

“There’s my big two-year-old!” Harry said, and Oli snuggled into his side “Happy birthday little man” he kissed the top of his head. Poppy stood in the doorway watching their interaction, heart filled with more love than she’d ever thought possible.

Oli handed Harry itchy “Daddy, itchy hiding”

Harry furrowed his brow “Was itchy hiding from you bub?” he chuckled, turning to look at Poppy “what’s mummy doing all the way over there?” he asked, “There’s room for one more in here”

“Why don’t we all go downstairs for some breakfast, Mummy’s hungry”

“Breakfast!” Oli nodded and jumped down from the bed, toddling out of the room and downstairs. She followed him closely behind, making sure he didn’t slip and helped him into his high chair.

“What would you like today birthday boy?”

“Toast” he said enthusiastically, which made Poppy and Harry both giggle

“Daddy can make you pancakes if you want little man?” Harry offered, searching the pantry for all the ingredients

“No, toast” he nodded

“Fine” Harry huffed pulling the jar of strawberry jam from the shelf in front of him “Jam toast it is”

“No Daddy, Mite toast”

Poppy giggled to herself, handing Harry the Jar of vegemite “the kid knows what he wants”

“You’re a bad influence on him,” he said, putting a piece of bread in the toaster, shaking his head at her

“I’ll do this” Poppy said, taking the butter knife off him “you go get the presents”

He placed a kiss on her cheek and walked off, upstairs to get Oli’s birthday presents. Once the toast was ready she spread the vegemite lightly across its surface and cut it into four triangles, placing it onto a Winnie the Pooh plate that Grimmers had given them when he first started eating solids.

“Vegemite toast for the Birthday boy” Poppy smiled, pinching his cheeks as she laid the plate in front of him.

“Thanks Mumma” he smiled.

“Good Morning” Linda yawned, walking into the kitchen in a very light cotton dressing gown “It’s freezing here”

“It’s London” Poppy admitted “I’ve turned the heating on”

“Good” Linda smiled “Now where’s my grandson”

“He’s eating his birthday breakfast” Poppy said excitedly while pointing to the high chair “Oli, say hi to nanna”

She wasn’t quite sure how he would react to linda, he’d really only met her through facetime and part of her was convinced that he thought she was just the lady that existed in the phone. He turned in his high chair and looked at Linda. He was puzzled at first but his expression soon changed and a big toothy smile grew on his face.

“Nanna” he said, taking a bite of his toast.

“Hi Big Boy” Linda smiled back, placing a big sloppy kiss on his cheek “Happy Birthday”

“Do you want anything Mum? Tea, Coffee, Breakfast?”

“I wouldn’t mind a tea and some eggs” she said and sat down next to Oli. “Is that vegemite you’ve got there?” she said to him

“Mite” he smiled and held the toast up to her

“You’re a real little Aussie then, just have to get your mum to bring you home”

Poppy filled a pot with water and put it on the stove so that she could poach some eggs for everyone when they eventually woke up and she heard her phone ringing on the bench behind her. Seeing Harry’s name on the screen, she answered it, confused.

“Did you forget where we hid the presents?” she giggled into the phone as Oli sat in his high chair giggling away at Linda as she pulled faces at him.

“No” he said flatly “Can you come here for a sec, need your help with the big one”

“I think it’s time you started those personal training sessions again then Styles” Poppy said standing up from her chair “I’ll be right up” she hung up the phone and turned to Linda and Oli

“Oli, Mummy’s just going to help daddy for a few minutes, I’ll be right back” she kissed his head and walked upstairs into her bedroom where she found Harry standing in the bathroom doorway holding what like a pregnancy test.

“What’s this love?” he asked, handing it to her

“Shit” she said, not looking at it “I took this last night and left it to do it’s thing when you got home from the airport and I kinda forgot about it with all the chaos”

“It’s positive love”

Poppy turned it over in her hand and saw the same two blue lines that she’d seen almost three years ago when she found out she was having Oli, and a few tears formed in her eyes as she looked up at Harry “It’s positive H”

He wrapped his arms around her, bringing her in close to his chest, “We’re having a baby Poppy.”

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sareyen · 4 years

Text

Das Haus am See: The Lake House Cherik AU (Part 2/3)

Read on ao3

Chapter 2

A Lake House Cherik AU: Charles and Erik both lived in the lake house, Charles in 2017, and Erik in 2019. By magic or fate, the two find out that the house’s letter box is able to send letters through time - and, in doing so, the two fall in love despite living in two different years. They vow to meet in the future, but fate is fickle, and time waits for no one.

Unfortunately, with all the work he had to do, Erik couldn’t stay near the lake house for the entire weekend, not with so much work piling up.

If it were any one but Charles, Erik would have maybe postponed visiting – it wouldn’t be the first time Erik cancelled his plans for work, something that had contributed to the end of his marriage with Magda.

But Charles… Gott, Charles. Charles, who was so sure that he would have waited two years for Erik to call. Charles, whom Erik believed had waited 2 years for him to call, but for some reason or another, couldn’t answer.

In the week of waiting, Erik had searched up everything he could online about someone named Charles F. Xavier, but found practically nothing – considering the man had so many PhDs, Erik thought that something would come up on university pages. While his name was listed on some university sites – Oxford and Cambridge, in particular – there were no pictures of the man anywhere. No social media accounts seemed to match the Charles that Erik knew, no journal publications, no news articles.

Even though it felt like Erik knew Charles, the man was still an enigma. With the social media search being a bust, Erik tried to track the man down through their only shared connection – the lake house.

Unfortunately, the real estate company couldn’t tell Erik much about the property, even though he had lived there for over a year. With the squabble over its ownership, everything regarding the property, including government records and the like, had been clamped down, leaving Erik with nothing more than empty air to chew on.

So, the only thing he could do was talk to Charles.

Eventually, Erik was able to leave work – for once, Shaw was still in the office after Erik left, seemingly in the throes of a strained phone call with the Graymalkin client – Francis Graymalkin’s sister, Erik surmised.

From what Erik has observed over the past week, settling the Graymalkin estate was an absolute nightmare – the man’s death had been sudden, and his will had been some sort of mess. It didn’t help that the man was a multimillionaire, and when a multimillionaire’s belongings were up for grabs, estranged relatives always emerged from the woodwork, which was apparently what was going on right now two years after his death.

But, that was Shaw’s headache, not Erik’s.

Erik had his own life to worry about.

Erik left for the lake house very early on Saturday morning, the week after his lengthy conversation with Charles. Considering Erik only had the weekend off, and that he had to return on Sunday in order to get his work completed, he had to make the most of the time that he did have.

When Erik parked his car in front of the lake house, he smiled when he saw that the flag was down.

Erik had never walked so fast in his life.

As Erik expected, there was a letter waiting for him, his name printed on the front in Charles’s handwriting that Erik believed he could recognise anywhere.

I do hope you managed to get here safely, my friend. It is a long drive from NYC, though hopefully by your time they’ve fixed that bottleneck along the highway – it was a nightmare in 2017, let me tell you. But, if you’re reading this, then I can assume you made it here safely, which I’m grateful for.

Responding to your last message, I can say that I have read The Once and Future King before, but that was a long time ago, so long ago that I can’t even remember where my own copy is – so, I’m also grateful that you have lent me yours. I can see that it is well-loved, the spine is basically falling apart. But, Erik, I’m mortified to know that you’re someone that dog-ears your books. It’s blasphemous, and may or may not be a deal-breaker for me.

Unless you can persuade me otherwise?

Erik laughed, shaking his head at Charles’s words, all of his frustration with Shaw ebbing away at the first curl of Charles’s lettering.

***

Charles knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t sleep the morning Thursday came, and instead camped outside wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of tea in a thermos, keeping a stern vigil on the letter box. He knew it was irrational, and that Erik had a life and a job – there was no way Erik would get there at 2am on what would be a Saturday for him, but there Charles was, sitting and waiting.

Charles had just gone inside to have breakfast at 11am, and had walked back out mid-chew and carrying a bowl of cereal when he noticed that the letter box’s flag was up.

Charles promptly choked on his mouthful of cereal, milk and cornflakes spurting all over his lawn and down his pyjama shirt.

Charles raced to his spot in front of the letter box, placing his bowl beside him as he pulled out his pen from the pocket of his robe, the flag flicking down.

I did make it here safely, thank you, but I regret to inform you that no, they haven’t fixed the bottleneck along the highway. In fact, it’s probably gotten worse, the asphalt falling to pieces. There have been a few car accidents along the highway, especially when it rains. Do you think you can put in a complaint to the council or something in back where you are in 2017? Then, hopefully, they would have it fixed by now.

And I’m glad you enjoy the book – but, like you said, I’ve only let you borrow it. I’ll be expecting you to return it to me in 2 years, in person.

Charles looked at the letter, awed, his heart clenching.

And he realised that yes, he may be a little bit in love.

***

Erik talked to Charles for almost the entire Saturday, up until he had to leave at sunset to make it back to NYC in one piece. They talked about everything – the future, politics, books. At one o’clock in the afternoon, they both ordered delivery pizza – the same one from the same shop – and pretended that they were eating together.

Charles had asked Erik, seemingly teasingly, if this was a date. Erik replied back that it was, not teasing in the slightest. Erik swore that he could feel Charles’s blush through his words, and the German smiled at that thought with far too many teeth.

Again, parting from Charles and the letterbox was painful, but that was life, wasn’t it? Erik was used to parting with people, but it was somehow more painful with Charles. Erik thought that it was probably because the chasm between him and Charles was more vast than any other – time was a formidable foe. At least, this time, Charles didn’t leave Erik empty handed.

Let’s go for a walk together then, my friend. What about your Wednesday evening, after you finish work? The weather forecast in 2017 says it’ll be a surprisingly sunny day for me – not sure if it’ll be the same in 2019, though.

Here’s a list of the route I’ll take around NYC – and maybe you’ll find something I’ve left you.

Until next time, my friend.

So, it was that Wednesday that Erik shrugged out of his work clothes and into some comfortable jeans and a T-shirt, as well as a waterproof jacket since, unlike in 2017, the weather was moderately cool and drizzly. Still, Erik thought that the day was beautiful.

Erik pulled out Charles’s letter, even though by this point he had read it so many times he could recite it.

I’m standing in front of your apartment complex right now, Erik, but in 2017 it’s more like a construction site. From what I would think is the front entrance, turn right and walk east along the street, past the Starbucks I’m sure will still be there.

Erik chuckled, glancing at the Starbucks just a few doors down from his sprawling apartment complex, as Charles said. Erik let his feet step to the cadence of Charles’s words, following the man on his walk. Charles pointed out the things he saw, similar but different to the things Erik witnessed on his own walk, but with Charles’s letter warm in his hands Erik could imagine the man walking beside him.

Erik followed Charles to the park, where he directed him amongst the trees, before telling him to stop by a specific bench by the fountain.

Read the plaque on the bench, Erik. This is my gift to you.

Erik raised a brow, bending down to peer at the little metal slab bolted into the rain-damp bench.

‘To Erik, my dear friend from the future Two years is a long time But maybe you can rest your legs here on our walk while you wait for me to catch up.’

Erik choked, mouth popping open. Charles had bought Erik a bench. In Central Park.

Charles’s letter made a bit more sense, now – “wait for me”.

So, Erik sat on his bench and waited. And waited. And waited.

But, Charles did not come.

And Erik walked back home, alone and despondent.

***

Sitting in the study in the lake house, Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a groan before rolling his neck. His spine ached a little from being hunched over his desk all day, the words coming to him relentlessly. It had been a while since Charles felt so alive, so eager to tell a story – his and Erik’s, story.

Francis Graymalkin’s new novel, “Days of Future Past” was coming together chapter by chapter, paragraph by paragraph. The novel was vastly different from Charles’s previous work, and was essential a love story between an engineer named Max Eisenhardt living in the year 2019 and a genetics professor called Wesley Gibson living in 2017.

Well, that’s what the characters would be called in the final version. In the incomplete draft, Max was called Erik, and Wesley called Charles.

Charles had just written the final paragraph in chapter 13, in which Max went on a walk alongside Wesley, crossing through Central Park where Wesley had gifted the older man a park bench.

Smiling to himself, Charles looked at the certificate park management had sent him after he made a hefty donation of $10,000, allowing him to lay claim to one of the benches in the park. Giddy and with a fluttering feeling in his stomach, Charles allowed his fanciful imagination to envision the future between him and Erik.

Charles’s plan for 2019 was to lead Erik through the letter to the park bench dedicated to him, and then to appear. As a cheesy romantic, Charles imagined his future self emerging from behind a screen of trees brandishing a bouquet of bright carnations. Red ones, perhaps, because they symbolised love – and Charles was sure that he loved Erik.

Charles imagined Erik’s shock, and even though he had never seen the man’s face before, he’s sure that the expression on the man’s face would be beautiful. Then Charles could tell Erik that he loved him, and has loved him for two years – and hopefully, Erik could say the same.

Charles had to wonder, though – Erik had told him that Charles hadn’t picked up his phone call, two years in the future. Charles frowned at the thought. Charles doubted that his feelings for Erik would wane, even as new as they were. Charles had never felt anything like this before, and he doubted that two years would change that, not when he knew that Erik would be waiting for him at the end of it all.

Maybe Charles had changed his phone number. That was the most logical explanation.

Charles ignored the small kernel unfurling in his gut that, maybe, something else had happened.

But Charles was sure that he would have gone to meet Erik at the park, two years from today. Charles had already written it down in pen in his calendar, circling it bright red as to not forget.

Charles vowed to himself that, no matter what, he would meet Erik there.

Closing the screen of his laptop, Charles took a moment to check his phone, having ignored it while working. Charles found that, though the isolation at the lake house did wonders for his creativity, Charles had been a little starved for human interaction lately (despite his weekly correspondence with Erik via letter box).

Charles saw that he had two missed calls from Raven, calling her back as he reclined in his chair. His sister picked up on the first ring.

“Charles! You finally decided to call me back, huh?!” Raven screeched into the writer’s ear, the man wincing.

“I was busy writing, Raven. You know how it is,” Charles said, Raven silent for a moment.

“So, you got over your writer’s block? Good for you, Charles. I wonder who thought it would be a good idea for you to get out of the city. Maybe you should thank that person, they’re really very intelligent, don’t you think? Maybe you could even buy them a thank you gift, too… A little birdy told me that they’ve been looking at a particular Dior bag recently,” Raven said, playing at being coy.

Charles just sighed, too used to and too fond of his sister’s antics.

“Thank you, Raven. Yes, you were right, getting out of the city was a good idea. Send me the link to the bag and I’ll get it for you,” Charles said, Raven squealing and chanting “Love you, love you, love you!” which made Charles smile, shaking his head.

“Oh! But you distracted me! I was calling to see if you were free this Saturday?”

Charles was going to focus on writing his and Erik’s story on Saturday after finding out what happened on their park date – because it was a date, was it not? A date, booked two years in advance.

Raven could apparently smell her brother’s excuse through the phone, cutting him off swiftly.

“Please, Charles! You know my friend, Angel? She’s getting married on Saturday, and I had RSVP’d a plus one, since Irene and I were gonna go together, but… Irene and I are going through a rough patch right now, and I don’t want to go to the wedding alone!”

“Raven, I really do have… plans,” Charles said, wondering if telling Raven that said plans were him sitting in his house thinking about a man living two years in the future inside a mail box would end up with her committing him to a mental hospital.

It probably would.

“Charles, what plans could you possibly have all the way out there?”

“Raven,” Charles groaned, his sister pleading.

“Please, Charles? Just this once. Pretty, pretty please!”

Charles had never been able to deny his younger sister anything, and reluctantly agreed. Raven squealed, screaming “Love you, love you, love you” again, before promising to send Charles the details of the wedding.

Raven soon hung up promptly to browse dresses online for the wedding, leaving Charles in his quiet study. Sighing to himself, Charles wheeled his desk chair to the side slightly, reaching across his table to a small lockbox, unlatching it and smiling as he pulled out the first piece of paper contained within it, letting himself float amongst the comforting words of Erik’s letters.

***

At the wedding reception, Raven immediately drifted away from Charles to chat and dance with some of her friends, and Charles wondered why she needed him to come with her in the first place. She was clearly fine on her own.

Charles spent most of the night just hovering by the buffet, figuring that at least there was free food and wine, and he did end up sharing a dance with his sister partway through the evening. Still, the majority of the guests were much younger than Charles, and while the party was only getting more and more wild as the drinks poured, Charles was already knackered.

Needing to get some fresh air, Charles meandered outside onto the balcony of the countryside mansion Angel and her now-husband had hired for the reception, nursing a full glass of wine in his hand. The balcony overlooked a sprawling garden lined with neatly trimmed hedges, the quiet fountain in the middle of it gleaming silver with the moonlight.

Charles was busy admiring the quiet peace of the garden when the French doors to the balcony opened behind him. Charles jumped, whirling around, eyes locking with the surprise guest – it was a tall, handsome man with hair that shone a little auburn. His steely grey eyes locked with Charles, surprised to see someone already on the secluded balcony as well, and Charles noticed a slight shadow of ginger scruff across the man’s angular jaw. Like Charles, he wore a suit, but with his lean legs and narrow waist, Charles thought that the man pulled off the polished look far better than he did.

“Sorry,” the man mumbled stiffly. “I didn’t realise someone was already out here.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Charles said, letting out a soft laugh that was carried away by the wind. “Not quite sure why you’d be surprised, though. You would hardly be the only one wanting to get out of there.” Making a point, Charles shuffled along the balcony’s railing he was leaning on, making space for the man.

The left corner of the man’s lips curved up with barely-visible amusement as he stepped through the balcony’s threshold, closing the doors behind him. When the man made his way to stand next to Charles, he pulled out a cigarette from an inner pocket of his suit jacket and held it between his lips. As he held a lighter near the end of the cigarette, the man gave Charles a sideways look, questioning.

“You can smoke,” Charles said, shrugging. “You’re the one that will get cancer though, my friend.”

The man snorted at that, lighting up and taking a deep drag from the cigarette, exhaling through his nose. Charles ignored the bitter curl of the smoke through the air, the man tapping some of the ash off on the balcony’s banister with long, slender fingers.

“I’ve been trying to quit,” the man suddenly murmured quietly, Charles humming in response. “I did quit, while my wife was pregnant. The first time.”

“But you started again after your child was born?”

“No, I started after the child was miscarried,” the man said, the empty tone in his voice only making him seem full of anguish, though his face betrayed nothing when Charles glanced at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles supplied, the man shrugging, tapping some more ash off his cigarette before snuffing it out against the stone banister.

“It is what it is,” the man said, like he was trying to convince himself.

“Just because it is what it is, doesn’t mean you have to pretend that it doesn’t hurt,” Charles said, his balcony companion turning to him with a raised brow. Charles let out a huff of breath into the night air. “But, you probably don’t need a stranger at a wedding giving you a pep talk.”

“Not really. I’ve had enough of pep talks, especially after the second miscarriage,” the man mused, Charles’s eyes softening.

“Then let’s talk about something else. How do you know the lovely couple we’re celebrating here tonight?” Charles asked, the man giving Charles a small smile.

“I don’t know them personally. My wife is one of the groom’s co-workers. I’m just here for the free food,” the taller man said, Charles chuckling. “You?”

“My sister is friends with the bride, and I’m also just here for the free food. Oh, and the open bar,” Charles said, gesturing to the half-empty glass of wine he had balanced on the balcony rail. “But, frankly, even the wine isn’t enough to make me want to go back in there. I always loved a good party, but lately I’ve come to realise that I’m no longer a spry twenty-something-year-old.”

“Can’t keep up with the kids these days?” the man said, smiling with a show of straight, white teeth. Charles huffed again, though he couldn’t help his own smile that was beginning to grow on his face. For some reason, this man reminded Charles of his Erik, who teased him good-naturedly through his hand-written prose.

“Oh, no. I just don’t want to steal their thunder,” Charles said, waving his hand in the air, winking. The man let out a chuckle at that, before turning away from Charles to stare off into the distance once again.

“Sometimes I wish I could go back to how things were when I was their age,” the nameless man said, Charles leaning his chin on his palm while resting across the balcony, glancing at the man beside him. The man felt Charles looking at him, and laughed under his breath, almost incredulous. “Sorry. I don’t know where this sentimentality came from. I’m not usually like this.”

“It’s weddings,” Charles said, shrugging. “Makes people sentimental. That, plus the wine.”

“Mm, you may be right. Weddings. They remind me of my own, and how… much things have changed,” the man said, Charles remaining silent, before tentatively reaching out to pat the arm of the man beside him, just once. That light touch seemed to make the taller man falter a little, throat clogged. “I just don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore.”

“Just because someone stumbles and loses their way, it doesn’t mean they’re lost forever,” Charles responded quietly, the man beside him freezing, before turning to Charles with slightly wide eyes.

“Is that a quote from Francis Graymalkin? From the second novel in the X tetralogy?” Erik asked, Charles blinking. This man has read his books?

“Yes, it’s from when Professor X-”

“-Talks to his younger self, and gives him a pep talk, of sorts,” the other man responded, eyes alight. Charles laughed at the way the man brightened the moment he began to talk about Charles’s books, warmth spreading inside him.

“Indeed. I take it you’re a fan?” Charles said as he picked up his wine glass, bringing it to his lips while the other man nodded, a smile on his face.

“I am. Francis Graymalkin is one of my favourite authors, his work has gotten me through some… tough times. ‘First Class’ is one of my favourite books, probably second only to The Once and Future King,” the man said, Charles pausing, lips pressed against his wine glass.

That’s Erik’s favourite book.

No. There’s no way…

Coincidence?

Fate?

“You…” Charles started, just as the French doors behind him opened, for the second time that night. Charles and the man turned simultaneously to look at the interloper, revealing a pretty woman with dark brown hair and neatly trimmed bangs, a little rounded in the belly – pregnant – and a slightly stiff smile on her face.

“Magda,” the man beside Charles breathed out, the woman giving him a slightly tired look.

“I was looking for you everywhere, Erik,” the woman said, and Charles almost dropped his wine glass.

ErikErikErik.

“Sorry, I was just…” Erik said, glancing at Charles, who was staring at him with an indecipherable expression on his face.

“I know you don’t like big gatherings, but at least tell me when you’re going to get some fresh air,” Magda said, hand cradling her baby bump. “I just wanted to tell you that it’s probably a good time to go home, it’s best that I don’t strain myself… because you know…”

Erik’s face darkened a little, likely thinking about the previous miscarriages, nodding immediately. Erik flicked his spent cigarette onto the stone beneath his feet, walking over to his pregnant wife.

ErikErikErik.

“It was nice talking to you,” Erik said to Charles, small smile on his face. “And thanks, for reminding me. That, you know – ‘I’m not lost forever’.”

Erik gave Charles another tiny smile before stepping beside his wife, large hand splayed against her lower back, intimate and protective.

Charles could only watch as the man he loved walked away, blue eyes trained on the back of a man that was still too young to recognise Charles at all.

In the silence of the night, the sounds of the wedding muted as the French doors closed, Charles remember another line from his second novel.

“Countless choices define our fate: each choice, each moment, a moment a ripple in the river of time. Enough ripples, and you change the tide… for the future is never truly set.”

“How right I was,” Charles sighed to himself, draining the rest of his wine in one large gulp and revelling in the warm haze that swept over him.

***

I saw you, you know – on the 25th of February, 2017. You look good in a suit.

Erik stared at the letter Charles had sent through the letter box, heart hammering.

‘I’ve met Charles before?!’ Erik screamed in his mind, rifling through two years’ worth of memories to try and find the one with Charles. 25th of February, 25th of February. Erik couldn’t pinpoint a specific time or event, that period of his life a vague collection of moments labelled ‘Mid-Magda’ and ‘Post-Magda’. Magda’s third miscarriage was towards the end of that month, and it wasn’t long after that that they had put their divorce into motion. Erik’s memories were hazy regarding everything else, his mind focused on his broken marriage.

But he had met Charles back then? And he couldn’t even remember it?

In novels and film, the meeting between two people was always cataclysmic and seemingly life-changing. The world stops turning, time freezes, and the protagonists always think ‘Oh, this is fate, isn’t it?’. But when Erik had supposedly met Charles, time did not stop, and the world did not stop turning.

Erik couldn’t even remember him.

When did we meet, Charles? This was two years ago for me, and I can’t remember you and my memories aren’t clear.

Erik hoped that Charles wouldn’t feel disheartened about the fact that Erik couldn’t remember him, not when Erik didn’t even know what he was looking for at the time. Erik had been so lost, and…

Suddenly, it clicked in Erik’s foggy head, just as the flag on the letter box moved.

It was at Angel’s wedding. You were with your wife.

Erik swallowed thickly, his suspicions realised – the man on the balcony, the one with the smooth English accent and ocean-blue eyes. The man that quoted Francis Graymalkin, the man who told Erik that he wouldn’t be lost forever. The man that Erik never got the name of.

That was Charles?

Why didn’t you say anything?

Erik frowned, brow crinkling and wrinkles gathering on his forehead.

You didn’t know me back then, so what could I say? ‘Hi there, Erik – I’m your pen pal you’ll start writing to 2 years in the future by shoving paper into a magical time-warping letter box’. You’d think I was mad.

And besides, you were married.

I assume that’s not the case in 2019?

Erik could feel Charles’s hesitation through his penmanship, how his ink grew lighter like he was wary of pressing too hard into the thick note paper. Erik quickly replied.

Magda and I divorced not long after the wedding. Not long after our third miscarriage.

Erik did not know what else to say after that, sending the two sentences as they were. Charles took a moment to respond, Erik biting the inside of his lower lip in anticipation and nervousness.

I am sorry to hear that, my friend.

Erik smiled wryly.

You’re not really sorry, are you?

Another pause in Charles’s reply.

I am sorry – I can’t imagine that it would have been easy for you. But… I can’t say that I’m disappointed. Does that make me a bad person, Erik?

Erik chuckled, gazing down at Charles’s words fondly – now that he knew what the man looked like, even if his two-years-ripened memories were a little fuzzy, he could picture Charles nervously biting on his lower lip, which Erik recalled as being unnaturally red like wine.

Maybe. But if it helps, I’m glad that you feel that way – it appears that we are both terrible people.

But, on another note – you’re a fan of Francis Graymalkin? I shouldn’t be surprised, not when you seem to share his naïve beliefs.

Erik could imagine Charles scoffing, blue eyes rolling as the man crossed his arms over a lithe chest.

Really, Erik? Let’s talk about you for a moment. You’re a fan of m his work as well, and yet you can’t seem to let go of your divisive separatist ideas.

Erik laughed, feeling heat flare in his belly. Suddenly, the image of arguing with Charles face-to-face, maybe over a drink in front of a warm fireplace, a chess board between them quickly being forgotten as they chatted relentlessly.

I assure you, Charles – I firmly believe that Magneto is correct, even if Francis Graymalkin turned him into a foil for the Professor.

I prefer to think of them as two sides of the same coin – frankly, one cannot exist without the other. In the end of the fourth and final book, they united and began walking the same path, did they not?

Yes. Even with their differences, they came together, in the end.

Do you think it could be the same for us?

Erik kneeled by the letterbox, waiting for Charles’s response. Erik had been thinking about this for a while, ever since Charles had failed to appear during their walk through the park, and not to mention when the man had failed to answer Erik’s phone call. Erik knew that he liked Charles, more than he has liked any one before – even maybe more than he had liked Magda when they had first started dating.

But, Erik has known too many failed relationships to risk being hurt again, especially when Charles had already failed to keep his promise twice. Maybe Erik was the naïve one now – was it perhaps foolish to think that a divide of two years was surmountable?

Yes, for Erik, seeing Charles would be like no time has passed at all. But for Charles – sweet, genuine Charles – it would be two years. Two years of waiting for Erik, who didn’t even know that he existed. On the balcony at the wedding, Charles had known Erik, while Erik hadn’t even given him a second thought. Erik couldn’t imagine how that would have felt.

Maybe two years was too much. Or, maybe Charles’s feelings for Erik just weren’t enough.

‘One last chance,’ Erik thought to himself, as he opened the letter box, reading Charles’s response.

I’d truly like to believe so, my friend. I want nothing more.

How about we meet for dinner, exactly two years from tomorrow – March 3rd, 2019. I’ll make a reservation, and I’ll see you there. You should choose the restaurant – it would be a shame if I made a reservation for a place that went out of business before 2019.

Erik swallowed, running his fingers over the date. A promise written in ink.

Erik preferred it to be written in stone.

Make a reservation for Genosha.

Done. See you at 7pm in two years and a day, Erik.

Yes. See you tomorrow, Charles.

***

For Erik, tomorrow came quickly, but he could imagine that the same could not be said for Charles.

Erik spent most of Sunday morning on March 3rd, 2019 lying on his couch just watching the clock tick on, a monotonous countdown until 7pm. At four, Erik showered. By five, Erik had ironed his dress shirt and black slacks. By half-past-five, Erik’s shoes were polished and his hair dried. By six, Erik was doing up the buttons on his shirt and tucking it into the waist of his trousers, sliding a sleek leather belt through the beltloops. By six-thirty, Erik was on the subway heading towards the restaurant, Genosha.

And, at ten-to-seven, the manager of Genosha was asking Erik if he had a reservation.

“Yes,” Erik said, a little breathless as the woman smiled at him patiently. “A reservation for two for 7pm. It should be under Charles. Or maybe Erik.”

The woman’s eyes seemed to widen with recognition as she looked at Erik, before a smile began playing at her lips.

“Oh, we’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” the woman said, crossing the name ‘Charles’ off her reservation book. Erik glanced down at it, noting that the woman had jotted down in the margin ‘the two years from tomorrow reservation!’, making Erik’s heart squeeze.

“Yes, two years,” Erik mused, the woman smiling in understanding, likely having been the one to take Charles’s initial reservation two years ago. She didn’t say much more as she ushered Erik to his table, low-lit with tea lights.

“Would you like to order a drink while you wait?” the woman asked, Erik shaking his head.

“No, I’ll wait for him.”

Charles has been waiting for 2 years, after all. What was ten minutes?

“Very well, sir,” the woman said, giving him another gleaming smile, before ducking back off to greet some other patrons.

Erik nervously smoothed the ironed legs of his pants, then began fiddling with the white table cloth, and then making his hands busy by straightening all of the cutlery in front of him.

Erik checked his watch – 6:58pm.

Two minutes, then.

Two years. What was two minutes compared to two years?

The minutes ticked by, and 7 o’clock came and passed. The manager stepped in with some water just after 7:00, filling Erik’s glass and asking him again if he wanted something to drink. Erik declined.

7:05pm.

7:10pm.

At 7:15, Erik ordered a glass of wine.

7:25pm.

7:40pm.

8 o’clock.

Erik caught the manager looking at him with a forlorn expression from the front of the restaurant, but her expression could not even touch the turmoil brewing inside Erik’s chest.

Erik’s hands were tightly fisted under the table as he found his eyes growing hot, and he gritted his teeth.

He was not going to cry, not over something like this. Erik rarely cried. In recent times, he could only pinpoint three times that tears had slipped from his eyes – his mother’s death, the first miscarriage, losing Magda.

So, Erik was not going to cry over someone who couldn’t keep a promise. Not over someone who clearly didn’t care about Erik.

***

On his Thursday (and Erik’s Saturday), Charles waited eagerly for Erik to respond to the letter he had placed in the early hours of the morning. It would have been just under a week ago that Erik and future Charles would have had dinner together at Genosha, and Charles was giddy thinking about what would happen now.

Would Erik tell him how well it went? Would he have a photo of the two of them together, a Charles that was two years older than the one he currently knew?

Or, would Charles accompany Erik to the lake house and tell the past him that everything turned out as Charles hoped it would, and assure him that it’s alright to still have hope.

Charles could only wait, feeding his anticipation with fanciful scenarios in his head.

The note Charles had left in the letter box was simple:

Erik, please tell me I recommended the tuna nicoise to you. The tuna nicoise at Genosha is to die for.

It took a while for Charles to gain a reply, which wasn’t surprising considering Erik had to travel from NYC to the lake house every week.

As Charles was envisioning him feeding Erik said tuna nicoise, the letter box squeaked, and Charles immediately leapt to his feet. Pulling out the letter, Charles licked his lips, unfolding it.

The words that he read made all of the colour from his face drain, Charles’s usually pink cheeks turning ashen.

You weren’t there. You didn’t come, Charles. Again.

‘No,’ Charles thought to himself, before speaking out loud. “No, no, no, no, no. That’s impossible. I would never…”

Charles felt frantic, reading into Erik’s words – the harsher-than-usual slope of his lettering, the way the ink seemed to rip into the page. Erik was angry, or disappointed, or both.

And it was future-Charles’s fault.

I don’t understand. Erik, something must have happened. I am so, so sorry, my friend. I would never… At least, the me writing this to you, right now in 2017, can’t even fathom the idea of not showing up. I’ve thought of nothing else since.

I have two years, Erik. We can try again.

Charles shoved the letter into the letter box, gnawing on his lower lip. The response was surprisingly swift.

No, Charles. It’s too late. It already happened, more than once, and every time it didn’t work.

“No,” Charles gasped, voice cracking as his eyes grew wet, Erik’s words growing blurry behind the veil of tears. “No, please.”

Charles’s hands were shaky as he wrote, his cursive wonky across the page. Some of the ink smeared as the tears that slid down his cheeks dribbled onto the page.

Please don’t give up on me, Erik. Remember Professor X and Magneto – they waited for each other for years. Decades. They meet again, time after time. They have another chance.

Please.

Charles loosed a sob as he saw the flag on the letter box shift up and down, and part of him dreaded opening it to read Erik’s reply.

Life isn’t a book, Charles. No matter how much we may wish it to be.

I let myself get lost this time. I got lost in this fantasy where time seemed to stand still. You helped me forget my troubles, even for a short while.

But, Charles – I have to learn to live the life I’ve got. I can’t wait for you to show up, and you couldn't keep your promise. We clearly don’t want the same thing.

So, please don’t write any more. I won’t be coming back to the lake house. Don’t try to find me.

Let me let you go.

Charles cried, writing frantically across the paper, a litany of ‘please’ and ‘Erik’ and ‘I’m sorry, forgive me’.

Charles sent his plea, but the letter box didn’t move again.

Next chapter (3/3) →

#cherik #Charles Xavier #Erik Lehnsherr #X-men #x-men fic #marvel #magneto #professor x #ao3 #AO3 fanfic #james mcavoy #Michael Fassbender

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