#sorry I made martin’s eyes so blue. i’m too tired to fix it

[dannibals]

but seriously why doesn’t oswald like ivy I hate him

#gotham #fanart #my art #martin cobblepot #ivy pepper #oswald cobblepot #edward nygma #the riddler #the penguin #riddlebird #nygmobblepot #question mark #s4 oswald gets me so mad whenever I think about how he treated her #sorry I made martin’s eyes so blue. i’m too tired to fix it

[penwieldingdreamer]

Falling for you

The second installment of my drabble series. Let me know what you think about it. A big thank you again to @fortheloveoffanfic for being my beta 💗 Happy reading everyone

Also here are the songs played at the pub:

Bean Pháidín , Tell me Ma-Gaelic Storm , Galway Girl - Fiddler's Green

Summary: A few weeks later finds the reader in all kinds of embarrassing situations - mostly tripping over stuff or falling over people - right in front of Lee

Warnings: none, besides fluff, clumsiness and a little tinge of jealousy

Words: 2231

Another day on the set of the second installment of the Hobbit series and already you felt like the clumsiest of all people on set. Either you’d slip, trip or let stuff fall to the ground. But it wasn’t random, it only happened whenever you were around Lee or in his close proximity.

James and Martin had made fun of the fact that it would only happen with the tall actor, but you waved them off and of course Benedict chimed into the scheme.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re falling for the King, luv.” he said one time while the four of you had been granted a break from filming. “You make a fool out of yourself because there’s that one person that makes your heart skip a beat.”

Angrily shuffling your food around the plate, you glared at the British actor. “Well thank you for the vote of confidence. If you hadn’t said it I wouldn’t have known I was such a joke on set.”

“What Ben means to say, dear,” James started, putting his hand on your arm. “is, that when you feel something for another person you get clumsy, do crazy things or fall all over yourself because you can’t concentrate around them. All three of us went through that when we met the women we knew would one day be our wives. It has nothing to do with you being bad at your work, the opposite, actually.”

Reluctantly you nodded your head, feeling like you just made a fool out of yourself again in front of those that were your friends. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve never been like that before and I fear if this happens more Pete will get tired of me messing up. I don’t want to lose this job.”

“You won’t,” Martin said with so much conviction, you couldn’t help but give him a small, teary smile. “Peter isn’t like that. He values your work as part of the crew and how you bring up new ideas or possible changes. Now if you were to set the whole place on fire that would be another case.”

Ben and James laughed softly and you couldn’t help the giggle escaping your lips when you listened to him. You were very lucky to have friends like them or you’d probably would have resigned after the first incident. “Thank you, you have no idea how much I needed this.” you said sending them a grateful smile. "But now I got to head back to work. The king on his throne is waiting for me."

All three laughed before Martin called after you. "Be careful up there and if you fall, fall in his lap, that's a lot more comfortable than the ground." he joked when you had turned back to the three actors but waved him off with your own middle finger. You knew he had a knack for putting his fingers up for the camera when he shouldn't and you were sure there were some scenes he snuck his middle finger in, just like he always did.

A chorus of laughter followed as you righted your work bag and made your way back to the set with Thranduil's throne.

Orlando stood underneath it, grinning up at Lee dressed up as the Elvenking and waited his turn. "Looking good, dad." he called with a chuckle and you could see the tall actor grin.

"Thank you, son. I feel very good up here." he answered leaning back on the chair, trying to fix his robes and wig as best as he could while a few strands were hanging in the branches of his crown.

Peter saw you emerging from the mass and called you over. "Ah, Y/N, good that you're here. Lee's just had a bit of a stumble up the stairs but we'll be doing a few headshots of him and well, you see the mess."

"Sure, I'll get right on it." you told him, taking a deep breath and steeling yourself so you'd be as relaxed as possible while working on fixing the actor. When he saw you approaching, Lee stood up and made to walk down, but you halted him with a motion of your hand. "Stay, I'm coming up so there's no repeat of that."

He stayed standing, watching you make your way up the stairs. Thank God there were handrails just in case. "If you insist

I could have come down, didn't want you to fall to your doom, dear mortal."

"Charms get you everywhere, huh?" you asked him with a grin as you ascended to the Weta built throne, pointing to the seat so he would sit back down again, keeping his long legs tugged to chair so you could start your work on his hair.

"So far it worked out rather well, I think." He told you, smiling as you gently pulled a strand away from the branch of his crown.

You couldn't help the small smile forming on your face as you listened to his jokes while you freed the last of his hair and righted his crown. A final touch of powder over his nose and you were finished. "Now, you're all done and you're looking regal again." You packed up your bag and turned to descend the stairs when you lost your footing and if it hadn't been for Lee's swift reaction, you would have tumbled down.

Short puffs of breath were leaving your mouth when you held on tightly to his shoulders, his arms circling your waist as you had fallen into his lap with that move. "Hello there." he whispered, watching your shocked face, eyes blown wide with fear. "You okay?"

Biting your lip, you couldn't help but enjoy the feel of his hands on your hip, the warmth spreading through your clothes. "I-I'm sorry, I, the stairs…I guess…missed steps." you brokenly mumbled, apparently having forgotten how to talk when you looked into his blue eyes. The contact lenses only intensified his gaze.

"Yeah, they're dangerous." Lee agreed, his head leaning closer, the rest of the world around you forgotten.

Yet before he could close the gap, Peter interrupted you with a loud whistle. "If you two turtledoves are ready, we'd like to continue." he called out to you with a chuckle. Of course everyone had seen that and you already felt the heat of your blush rising all over your body.

Carefully, yet hastily you scrambled off of Lee's lap and made your way down the stairs and to the back of the set. You would have loved for the ground to swallow you up when Benedict had come over and grinned at you.

"So, I don’t think you will tell me what that up there was.” he said matter of fact, knowing you wouldn’t even be able to describe it.

“Nope,” you said, eyeing the actor and PJ going over the next scenes with a dummy. “I’d rather leave it like it is. This is just too embarrassing."

He put his arm around your shoulders pulling you close. Martin was just walking around the corner having seen the whole thing and he instantly knew you'd be shutting down, only doing your work and nothing more, keeping your distance from Lee. The Brit found the eyes of his friend and co-Sherlock-actor, nodding once, then twice. They were your friends and could see that the sparks between their fellow actor and you were there, now they only needed to kindle the fire.

"Oh, this is wonderful." you gushed, looking around the Irish pub everyone decided to visit at the eve of their day off. "It's been too long since I had so much fun besides being on set."

Already the ciders and beers and whisky were flowing and everyone was laughing and singing with the band that played that night. James had decided to take a row of tables next to the musicians so the cast and crew that wanted to go there would fit into the seats.

"You all deserve a time off after the amazing work you did." Peter said, raising his pint of Guinness for a toast. You all followed suit, calling out a shout of "Hear, hear."

Laughing and listening to all the stories everyone was telling about their time on set, you enjoyed the feeling of warmth that spread through you. Not because of the alcohol but because of your family away from home.

"Are you enjoying the music?" James asked after a short while, himself listening to the tunes and words from his home country.

Nodding your head, you clapped your hands to the rhythm and smiled as a few people started to dance to the songs you couldn't understand the lyrics to. “What is she singing about?” you asked him, leaning in so he could understand the words with the louder music.

"It’s a really old Irish song, dating back hundreds of years in Ireland. This is one of the funny old Irish songs that is sung by a woman, and she sings about another woman." the Irish actor tried to explain over the loud music. "Back in the day women would get together and sing this song about the woman in town that was married to the man that they all wanted to be married to. ‘It’s a pity that I’m not Phaidin’s wife,’ and this woman who’s married to him, they hate her, and as the verses go on, they talk about what they’d like to do to her, like they want to break her legs and get rid of her and do anything to be this man’s wife. It’s a fun song. Irish music is like that. When you translate the words, sometimes it’s like gruesome and dark, but they’re meant in a lighthearted way."

You were always blown away by the way such a story could be shown in a nice tune. "The music is so lively, you'd never guess it's such a sad and dark story behind it."

"That's just the way the Irish are." James grinned at you before another song was starting.

"For our next song we'd love for you guys to get up, dance some more and just have fun." the female singer announced and waved to all patrons in the pub. The violin, banjo and drum began to play the first chords before the singer joined in. "Tell me ma when I go home, the boys won't leave the girls alone."

Benedict and James smiled at you, holding their hand out and pulled you from your seat and onto the provided dance floor where others had already started twirling around. "Let's dance and have some fun." the Brit said, giving you a twirl.

You couldn't help the smile that found its way on your lips as you danced around with the two actors, unbeknownst of the dark blue eyes following your moves. The dance was exhilarating and both James and Ben led you through the steps, jumping and twirling with other patrons until you were out of breath and another song was over.

When you came back to get something to drink you saw one of the seats being vacant. Lee was missing from the group of merry friends and you leaned over to Orlando, who had been sitting besides him. "Where did your dad disappear to?" you asked him, mirth coloring your words as you took a large sip of your drink.

He turned to you and smiled, patting the seat next to him, so you didn't have to stand. You were grateful for that with your feet aching from all the dancing you did with his fellow actors. "He said he needed to get back to the hotel, his flight back to the States is taking off early." Orlando said and your face must have shown your confusion as you didn't know Lee was needed back in America. "Shooting for Guardians of the Galaxy is starting in a few days and he wanted to get back earlier so he arranged it in the last few days. Peter knew about it, I'm surprised he didn't tell you."

"Oh, no, I really didn't know and Lee hadn't mentioned anything before." the disappointment colored your words and you sank back down in your seat. You couldn't help the feeling that it was something that recently happened and especially something you did or he would have been open enough to talk to you.

The British actor patted your leg and grinned. "Don't worry, he'll be back before you know it. Once he's done with that movie Lee's going to annoy us again with his dad jokes."

Nodding your head, you tried to feel confident, but still you didn't know why he didn't at least wait until you were back at the table to say his goodbyes. No he just left without so much as a word. Of course you were only there doing his make - up and hair but you had hoped that in the time you worked together you at least had become friends. Giving the dark haired actor a small smile you made your way back to your corner seat, staring off into space and trying not to get too drunk on your cider while thinking about why not even Peter had bothered to tell you his Elvenking was leaving the set sooner than planned.

Taglist:

@fortheloveoffanfic @toomanystoriessolittletime @omgkatinka @fuck-yeah-hope @wholelottatiffy @axshadows ​@a-really-bi-girl @madbaddic7ed @maggiemoo1892 @pinkzsugar @agniavateira @mary-ann84 and everyone else who wants to read this.

#lee pace imagine #lee pace x reader #drabble #the hobbit rpf #lee pace #the hobbit #the hobbit imagine #series

[captaincravatthecapricious]

I Thought I Could Trust You- Prompt Fill

 CWs: panic attacks, mental health issues, suicidal thoughts kind of? (Jon wishing that if someone is going to kill him that they would just get it over with), paranoia, insomnia, season 2 Jon and all his issues. Yes basically same as last chapter.  Oh and Food and asthma.  

This is basically a follow up for It Was My Job to Protect You

For Someone on Ao3 whose name escapes me because I haven’t slept well or recently and I am so sorry.  If it’s you please let me know!

LAST BINGO! FINALLY.  I am taking "things you said" prompts, come drop me one of those prompts for Jon, Martin, or Tim!  I am very tired and can't remember if I proofread, so sorry in advance, or in past tense I don't know anymore time is fake and so is the order in which we perceive events.  Have a lovely stretch in your existence.  Card by the wonderful @celosiaa​!  Also very much inspired by @janekfan​

Jon can hardly keep his eyes open.   The stairs were almost too much for him.   Wavering before his eyes and pulling on his heavy limbs, aching and shaky from his earlier panic attack.   

It’s not like he can ask for help.  And even if he could, Martin is just as badly off.  And Tim... Tim scares him.  

Tim is loud.  Tim is angry.  Which is Jon’s own fault.  If he hasn’t been following Tim, Tim would be boisterous, not shouting.  Jon wouldn’t have learned to flinch when he talks.  To flinch when he moves.  

And he wants to trust him but he’s afraid.  And if Martin didn’t kill Gertrude, that makes it all the more likely that Tim did.  

But no.  No.  Tim is his friend, right?  Was his friend.  

But all worry of letting him into his flat vanishes when the climb steals his hard-earned air from his lungs.  Leaving him swaying and gasping on the landing.  

Tim’s speaking and Jon flinches away.  Almost teetering down the stairs, before he’s caught.  By Tim.  

“Oi, steady on, boss!”

Almost drown out by his breathing.  Narrow chest heaving with effort and none of it reaching his brain.  

“Hey Jon, could you maybe hold off on passing out on me until you give me your keys?”  

Is that what Tim had been talking about?  

Keyes, he can do that.  Right?  

But enervated fingers fumble with them in his pocket and he can’t grasp them.  To his unending shame, he feels tears on his cheeks.  

At least Martin is too out of it from his own panic attack earlier to notice.  Much as the comfort would be welcome.  It would also be stifling and even more embarrassing.   

“Jon?”   Still too loud.  Tim’s too loud too close still steadying him physically which is still sending him further off balance.  “Never mind, I’ll use mine.”  

Because right.  Tim had a key.  Which Jon has been regretting because too loud too angry Tim could slit his throat while he sleeps but he doesn’t have it in him to change the locks so he’s been putting wedges under all of his doors.  Ugly old wooden things that scuff the floor but that’s fine if it keeps him alive a little longer.  Warns him early enough to arm himself.  Although.  Dying quickly without any fuss sounds... like a luxury.  

Tim guides an overly pliant Martin to Jon’s understuffed and threadbare sofa.  He tries to guide Jon to the bedroom before Jon’s knees buckle but Jon doesn’t want to be put to bed.  He doesn’t want Tim in attended.  He wants to trust Tim.  But he can’t.  

Much as Jon wants to sink into his bed and make up for all the sleep he’s missed over... well over the course of his whole life, he can’t leave Tim alone.  Unsupervised.  

Can’t let Tim kill him.  Or poor, exhausted Martin on the couch.  Or risk some other person breaking in and killing them all.  

Jon isn’t sure if it would be better to be killed by someone he knows and once called a friend.  

He isn’t sure.  

But when Tim goes to the kitchen to make them all some food which Jon’s lackluster supplies, Jon follows. 

Jon can’t keep his eyes open.  Hyper vigilant to the sounds of the kitchen.  But he can’t keep his eyes open.  And… it might be welcome if Tim’s curry ends up killing him.  So long as the poison does its work quickly.  

He doesn’t want to die, not really.  He’d very much like to survive, but surviving is exhausting, and maybe he wouldn’t mind too much if he just… wasn’t.  He doesn’t want to be a mystery, but he doesn’t want to be afraid anymore… to Hurt anymore.  And he is so exhausted that he does Hurt.  Endlessly.  Not to mention the ragged holes in his skin, still inching ever closer to being ugly scars… or they would be if he could stop worrying them… making them bleed.  

But as tired as he is, it doesn’t stop him from being afraid.  Afraid of dying?  Or maybe just the fear of not knowing When the end is coming.  If he only knew, then he could relax until it was actually imminent.  Not just remaining alert every moment.  

Christ he wants to sleep.  

And… he does… in a way.  He dozes while Tim cooks.  

But he’s afraid that it’s poisoned.  He is afraid Tim will be angry if he can’t make himself eat it for fear… then again it probably won’t be dangerous because Tim and Martin will presumably also be eating…

He wakes up to a clatter of something.  He wakes up with numbed arms and a pounding pulse.  He wakes up with Tim too close holding a knife.  

And later he can parse out, Tim is only too close because he is picking up the cutting board that fell off Jon’s cluttered and diminutive counter, but all he sees is Tim with a knife, Tim cursing loudly.  And he can’t even scream because his chest is too tight.  

This is it.  This is the end of Jonathan Sims.  

He’s going to die.  He is certain he is.  

He shrieks.  And aborted, choked off sound.  Pathetic.  

And he almost thought he could trust Tim.  He almost thought he could trust him.  Almost.  

When Tim drops the knife and makes his posture as non-threatening as possible, Jon hates himself.  Still unable to draw a full breath, and he Hates himself.  

He’s broken Tim’s trust again by not trusting him.  Again.  Not even the first time today.  He wants to tear himself up from the inside out, flacking little bits of old and poorly preserved parchment.  Wants to make those lines appear and send tiny flakes of paper and dust flying and have no more of himself.  Nothing left.  Just this gaping chasm.  Which is all he deserves really.  Leaving nothing but a mess, just like always.  Horrible… wretched… selfish… guilty… pathetic…  What is WRONG with him.  This is Tim.  Tim.  His first friend at the institute.  Tim who has always been there for him.  Until Jon went and Fucked it up.  Properly fucked it up, with no way back.  And.. And… FUCK.  

He’s crying again.  Making a proper fool of himself.  

“Jon?”  

He can’t look at Tim.  Can’t catch his breath.  Catching and wheezing in a way that is pitting the asthma against the panic and making them both all the worse.  

Tim isn’t as gentle as he can be when he shoves the inhaler at Jon for the second time today.  But Jon’s been sitting at the edge of a panic attack for weeks, and this time, it had been his fault.  Not his fault that Jon’s been a jumpy paranoid wreck, but his fault for being loud and angry and threatening and waving a knife around in front of the nervous wreck that used to be his friend.  

“Jon, you’ve got to use the inhaler.  If you don’t breath, I’m gonna wake Martin from his nap.  And he’s gonna be pissed at me, and if he gets pissed at me, I’m gonna get pissed at you, and you don’t want that.”  

Probably a mistake to threaten the person afraid of you, but he can’t fix his anger in one day.  Not until Jon puts in the work too.  

Okay he gets it.  Jon can’t exactly help being paranoid.  He isn’t gonna shame Jon for having shit mental health.  That would make him a bloody hypocrite.  But… Jon did not handle it well.  You’re supposed to reach out if you’re having a breakdown!  (Yes he knows… he’s still a bloody hypocrite but Less of one).  So… Jon’s gonna have to make an effort, and Tim… will try to be less …threatening?  Loud?  Big?  

Jon stops stalking him, Tim takes a good snoop around his flat, they take turns keeping watch for monsters so maybe they can get some goddamned sleep.  Simple enough!  

If Jon can stop having a panic attack while he’s trying to cook!

No… No.  Not gonna be angry at Jon for having another panic attack.  Hardly even came down from the last one.  Still too paranoid to leave Tim alone in the kitchen, stubborn bastard.  And what kind of an idiot only has a few withered vegetables in his fridge?  

(The kind who is too paranoid to eat non-packaged food, Tim does NOT think to himself).  

Still.  Jon should have reached out.  should have said something before it got this bad!  This isn’t Tim’s Fault.  He didn’t help, sure, but it isn’t his Fault!  And he isn’t going to apologize and he isn’t going to forgive Jon.  (At least for now).  

Jon has to be better.  Try to be better.  Tim will meet him halfway, but Jon has to make the first step, and use the goddamn inhaler.  But the threatening just made it worse.  

Jon looking frail and skinny and tired, hands over his head again, bracing for an attack.  Just like in his office, just like on the stairs.  Crumped up in such a way that even if he weren’t having an asthma attack and a panic attack, it would probably still be hard to breathe.  

“Boss, you’ve got to breathe.  We did this earlier, I didn’t kill you then.  Not gonna kill you now.”  Tim moves slowly so Jon isn’t surprised, and guides him a little straighter in his chair, holding the inhaler for him, as Jon’s finger tips (and lips) are going blue.  

And Jon’s still fighting him, although quickly losing what little strength he had to begin with.  

It takes some soothing before Jon lets him near enough to get the inhaler in his mouth.  “That’s good, boss.  That’s it, bud.  Now breathe with me.”  

He has a hand on Jon’s narrow chest now.  Sticky with cold sweat, heaving unevenly.  And Tim can’t believe how fragile his friend(?) has become.  

But as soon as Jon has breath in his body, the apologies start flowing out.  

“Hey, now.  None of that now.  You can apologize until you’re blue in the face once you’re not, ya know… literally blue in the face.  I do want those, but not until you’ve gotten some sleep and you eat some of this damn fine curry that I am somehow making from your truly pathetic supplies.  I’ll take the first watch, then we can talk about it, and you can actually start doing better.  Because that’s what I want.  I want you to stop hiding from us.  I get it, you can’t trust right now.  Fine.  But what you’ve been doing isn’t okay.  You don’t trust me.  That’s …well not fine, but I get it.  I do.  But stalking us, and yelling at Martin, and hiding from us isn’t how to deal with that.  You don’t trust us, so tell us how to help.  How can we prove to you that we aren’t gonna hurt you?  So you can’t help being a paranoid wreck, that’s understandable, but you can’t take that out on us.  That isn’t okay.  So first curry, then sleep.  Then we’ll talk.  Okay?”  

And Jon nods.  Allowing himself to be helped to the couch while Tim finishes dinner.  

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #tim stoker #timothy stoker #tma fic #cw food #cw panic #cw paranoia #cw panic attack #cw mental health issues #cw suicidal ideation #cw insomnia #my writing #my fic #hurt/ comfort #cw strained friendships

[artiewiles]

You Just Think You Love Me (3/7) Fact: Pidgeons can smell

“Agent Sterling! How can I help you?"

Lance smiled with his smile number two. "I'm looking for Walter. Do you know where he is, Martin?"

"Walter is in lab four. He's working on something dangerous."

He looked around the shared lab, where something exploded or ignited every now and then. "Of course, I understand. Thanks, Martin!"

"You’re welcome, Mr. Sterling ..."

But Lance was leaving already. Armed with a practiced number one smile, he walked through the corridors, his face completely calm. He’s going to do it today. He’s asking Walter on a date today. Maybe he'll turn him down. It does not matter. Nothing will change. They will stay friends. Everything will be fine. Everything will be alright. Everything will be fine.

(links to ao3 and wattpad)

He knocked on the lab door and entered the decontamination room when invited. He closed his eyes and let himself be sprayed with this and blown dry with that. When the green light came on, he continued. Along the way, he waved at the guy in the control room, who was in charge of the whole process. Then, he finally entered the lab looking as confident and normal as possible.

"Hi, Lance, what brings you here? It's great that you came!” Walter welcomed him and then followed with? "I have tested the new gadget I told you about. The one that helps you to get the bad guys on your side. You know, to make them trust you and after that to love you, to entrust their secrets, maybe even to persuade them to change careers. Wait…” He studied Lance carefully. "What's going on?"

He looked at him confused. "What, what should be going on?"

"You look ... pale. Is something wrong?"

"No." He shook his head quickly and exchanged the smile for a smaller and perhaps more plausible one. "I'm just a little tired, that's all. Tell me, what are your plans for tonight?"

"You really don't look well. What about my calming pillow, does it work? And wait, you didn’t have the canteen bread, did you? I'm sure it's not gluten-free, and you still have an upset digestive system because of the transformations."

"I'm fine. And the cushion works well, really. I sleep much better now.“ Lance waved his hand and tried not to pay any attention to his pounding heart. He should get himself together, for god sake!

"Okay. So, this one is done. Do you want to see it?"

He looked at Walter, who almost vibrated with enthusiasm. Was it just his imagination, or did his eyes shine? He smiled at him. "Yeah, I'd love to."

"Okay." He clapped and took a gray marble from a bowl. Although, when Lance looked at it properly, it seemed to bend slightly under the fingertips. "This is a mixture of gases and fragrant essences that directly affect the frontal lobe. And it works even when you have a cold. So we will not repeat Alaska again.“

Lance laughed softly. "That’s good. But we managed to slip out smoothly."

Walter pointed the ball at him. "You got out smoothly. I slid, and I still have bruises on my ass. I can’t believe it worked out. It was the weirdest fourth of July in my life.“

He raised an eyebrow. "Team Weird?"

Walter nodded with a smile. "Team Weird."

Is it just him, or do they look into each other’s eyes longer, than friends would?

It must have been longer than friends would look into each other’s eyes.

It was longer than friends would look unto each other’s eyes.

He made himself look at the gray ball.

Walter cleared his throat. "Um… yeah, so… Sure. Frontal lobe. Yeah. This," he pointed at the marble again, “will burst, and the air will release the scent. It's not very conspicuous, but it should be strong enough. I still plan on making it into a perfume that you can always wear. Just need to figure out how to give you immunity. It is a combination of our good old lavender with vanilla and sandalwood. Perfect for discovering any secrets and making best friends.”

He handed him the ball and put on a respirator. "Whenever you're ready, burst it."

He measured him suspiciously. "Why are you taking it?"

"Because I've been breathing it for a month, and when I overdose, I cuddle."

That wouldn't be so bad. He made himself look at the tiny ball in his hand. He took a deep breath.

"Wait!" Walter stopped him.

"What?"

He put on Lance an electrode cap and looked at his watch. "Go ahead."

Lance squeezed the ball between his fingers. It burst but nothing happened.

He frowned and looked at Walter.

"You have to wait. Breath in," he said muffled.

Lance listened. He smelled a faint scent. Smiled. It smelled nice. It reminded him of something…

"It works!" Walter cheered, watching Lance's brainwaves. "According to this, you are calmer and happier, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Lance smiled and took another deep breath. He felt calmer. He was fine. "Walter?"

"Yeah, Lance?"

"When we're done here, would you go on a date with me? Or in the evening? A film, dinner, or a walk through the art gallery sculpture park?”

Walter paled. "Oh no…"

The pleasant feeling was gone. Maybe he just didn't like the choices… “You don't want to go to the park? They still have summer opening hours, and you've said several times that you'd like to look at the statues. Or we can go to that cinema. We will find some with Korean movies… "

Walter was typing something furiously on his watch. "Not that."

Lance fell silent. He took off his cap and laid it on the table. Just calm down, nothing changes. "Okay, then no. It was just an idea.” He turned and smiled again. "Forget it."

"This is bad. This is very bad.“

Why doesn't he feel anything? Shouldn't it be sadder? He can't be in shock because of this.

"Hey, calm down." Lance wanted to put his hand on his shoulder, but then he changed his mind. "No need to make a fuss about it. Forget it. I have a meeting with the boss and then I have some other plans, so I'll see you tomorrow."

"Lance, wait!"

He changed his mind! "Yeah?"

"You have to stay here. This is science! I screwed it up! I'm so sorry, I don't know how, but I screwed up."

He shook his head and swallowed down the disappointment. "It’s cool. Don't think about it anymore. See you tomorrow."

"No, you don't understand! The scent was too strong! I didn’t plan it.” He shrank. "Are you mad?"

He sighed and rubbed the spot where the cap had pressed him a little. "No, I'm not angry. And you didn't screw it up. I feel good."

"Exactly. You feel too well. And it's my fault! I didn't mean to, but I promise I'll fix it! "

"Walter, calm down and tell me exactly what happened. Breathe.“

Walter sat down on a barstool and took several breaths. Then he began to explain: "The scent is to make the enemy your best friend. But I didn't expect what he would do to a best friend.” He looked at Lance and widened his big blue eyes. "I think I did create by mistake… you can call it a love potion."

Lance burst out laughing. "A love potion? What are you talking about?"

"You…" he pointed at Lance, searching for the words.

"I," he pointed at himself with his thumb, "am not under the influence of any love potion."

"But you invited me to dinner."

He gritted his teeth and nodded. "Exactly."

"Because you're under the influence of a love potion!" Walter insisted. "But don't worry, this should go away soon."

"No, I invited you because I love you, and it did not go away in months!" Well, the cat was out of the bag.

"You think you like me because of the smell. That is all. There is nothing more.“

He opened his mouth to argue. Closed it with a click. If Walter needs to believe it… Now he gets it. Walter is not interested in Lance. It gives Lance a chance to back off while both of them save their faces. It saves their friendship. He nodded. "All right. If you’re right… I'll take time off and go home. I'll try to sleep it off. If you came up with something or figure out how to speed the process up, let me know.“

"Okay," Walter nodded with relief. "Take care of yourself, alright?"

Lance smiled and ruffled his hair. As he always does. He can still do that, can't he? "Sure thing."

He went through the decontamination room, then the whole agency. Responded to the greetings of others out of reflex. The smile number three plastered on his face. He turned into a pigeon and flew away. How much rum and whiskey does he still have at home?

Probably not enough.

#fanfic #fanfiction #love potion #unrequited love #pining #spies in disguise #ao3 #lance sterling #walter beckett #lab #love spell #wallance #walance #experiment goes wrong #lavender #gadgets #translation #no beta we die like men #but pls don't kill me #pidgeon

[vanxcks]

all my bones coming back

Slowly, Jon and Martin grapple with things, tie up loose ends. It's a lot to get used to.

OR, a safehouse fix-it, because they deserve it.

Word Count:  6576

AO3 link in notes because tumblr hates me

It feels like they only actually start to breathe once they’re on the train. They’re frazzled, cobbled together, and wearing the clothes that they’d had stashed at the institute. Their bags are packed with a mess of objects—sweaters, money, two umbrellas, a flashlight, and no tapes. They’re exhausted and the brightening sky outside continues to remind them how long it’s been since they last rested, but at least there are no tapes.

No tape recorders, either. Although the click of the recorder stays in Martin’s head, makes his fingers itch and—

“Martin, there aren’t any in there,” Jon says from beside him, placing a hand on Martin’s arm.

Martin pulls it out of the bag, zipping it up again and sighing. “I know. I know, I just—”

“You just can’t stop thinking about Elias.” Jon meets his eyes. “Yes. I can’t either.”

“He was there. In the panopticon. I mean, I could have killed him. I should have killed him. I wanted to kill him.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. And I...I know it was the right choice. But it feels—it feels like a loose end, and I hate it.”

“There are so many loose ends. It’s...terrifying,” Jon says, and his voice shakes on the word. Martin wants to put his arms around him. Then he realises he can, and he does. Jon leans into the embrace. “We’re out, though. That’s good.”

“I still want to kill him.” Martin laughs a little. “Next time we see him, I’m not letting that—that weasel say anything. It’s just: bam bam. Done.”

Jon’s facing away, but Martin feels him smile against his arm. “Yes?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Maybe Daisy and Basira should have taught you how to use a gun.”

“Maybe they were scared of me.”

Jon laughs at that. “They should have been.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know what’s coming.”

For a while, it’s comfortably silent. The countryside races by, sun now well and fully risen, sky that specific and gorgeous shade of pale blue. Jon shifts slightly in Martin’s arms, and Martin feels a wave of something , something big, wash over him, and he needs to shut his eyes so the tears won’t spill over.

It’s still fresh in his mind. The fog, Peter Lukas, Jon’s face piercing through it all. I’m here. I came for you. I thought you might be lost. And then Jon’s hands cupping Martin’s face, Look at me and tell me what you see. He’d tipped Martin’s head up so their eyes met, and—

So much. The years gone by. Small favors, milk and sugar, hands brushed together over desks. Quiet admiration, adoration, and then love, so much love, pent up and chained and threatening to spill over like a tidal wave.

Martin saw. He understood.

Jon really had liked the tea, the whole time.

Now they’re here, and Martin knows Jon is still afraid, hell, Martin’s afraid, but they’re here, and they’re together and it’s...it’s almost too much. Too much happiness. But it doesn’t feel wrong.

The movement of the train is calming, and Martin finds himself realising how long it’s been since he’s felt something like it. How long had it been since he’d left London? Left the institute, really, other than to go to his apartment? How long has it been since he’s seen actual grass? Then something occurs to him.

“Jon, where are we actually going?”

“Hm? We’re going to Scotland. You bought the tickets.”

“No, yeah I—I know that, but where are we going? What’s in Scotland? You said there was somewhere safe, but you never said what.?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I hadn’t told you. Daisy has a safe house, for when she didn’t want to be tracked down. She has several, but this one’s far away enough. I think. I hope. For the monsters not to reach us.”

“That’s good. Scary, but good.” Martin glances down at his wristwatch. “Shouldn’t Basira have called by now?”

“I don’t know. The attack was bad, I think. We’re just going to have to be patient.”

Martin sighs. “I know. I just...I want to hear what’s going on. I want to know.”

“We will soon. I hope. Right now...I can’t see, but after it clears up, we’ll call in. See it in the news or something.”

“Yeah.”

They sit there for a moment, and then Jon shifts a little, threading their fingers together. “This is good, though,” he says, half muffled by Martin’s arm.

“Yeah. Yeah, it—it is.” And Martin leans his head against Jon’s, letting the rhythm of the train lull him to sleep.

Later that morning, Martin’s phone finally buzzes. It’s eleven or so, and he and Jon are sitting in the station cafe, inhaling cheap ham and cheese sandwiches. It feels like it’s been hours since either of them have eaten. It has been hours since either of them have eaten. Even Jon, who’d made a slightly off-color joke about missing his regular statement diet, seemed happy with it.

The phone’s been sitting on the table, screen up, and Martin picks it up shakily on the first ring.

“Basira—”

“Martin,” she said, by way of greeting.

“Basira, what’s—what’s going on? Are you okay? Is the institute alright, where’s Daisy, what’s happened with the monsters, are you…” he makes himself slow down (Basira waits, and he’s grateful). “Are you okay?”

“I’m safe.”

“Daisy?”

“Yeah, she’s here. She’s not fine, but she’s here.”

“What happened?”

“She went full Hunt. But she’s back now.”

“Okay. That’s—that’s good.”

“I’m glad, because the rest of my news isn’t.”

Basira hangs up, which Martin’s glad of because he’s not sure his hands are steady enough to press the button. He turns to Jon, whose face is grim.

“I take it I don’t need to explain all of that to you.”

“I heard enough,” Jon says, eyes tired.

“At least the Institute is alright. I mean, by our standards.”

“A little monstering isn’t too new, yes. And the police-men getting lost—”

“Bad. But apparently fairly normal for Section 31. Which means they’re not likely to cause a big stink about it.”

“And Daisy…”

“Yeah. I’m glad.”

“I couldn’t really hear, did Basira—did she tell you anything else about her? Anything in more detail?”

“No. She didn’t. She didn’t want to talk about it.” Martin looks at Jon, who shuts his eyes for a moment. “Do you think that’s a bad sign?”

“I think…” Jon sighs. “I don’t know what to think. Do I think it’s good that she came back at all? Yes. It’s miraculous, really. I didn’t think it was even possible, not after going all the way like that. But…” he shakes his head as if ridding himself of the thought. “I don’t know. It’s good.”

“Jon.” Martin says, reaching across the table and tilting Jon’s chin up so he meets his eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t cut me off.”

Jon looks at him for a moment, and something behind his eyes breaks. “I’m scared, Martin.”

“Yeah.”

“I just wish I knew what she had to do. To come back. I want to know what I...what I need to do.”

“Hey,” Martin says, taking Jon’s hand in his own. “Hey. I love you, okay? We have time.”

“Yes,” Jon murmurs. Then, as if shaking something off, “yes. Yes, we do.” He raises Martin’s hand, kisses it briefly on the knuckles. Martin still isn’t used to it—this casual onslaught of love. He’s not sure he ever will. “I love you, too, Martin. Thank you.” He smiles, sadly, and Martin does the same.

The safehouse is small, and far enough off the grid that their cab almost misses it. It has a small kitchen, a living room, a balcony, and an office, although Martin can’t fathom what Daisy would use it for. Her interest in policing seemed less focused on the paperwork side and more on the murdering innocents one. Although she’d gotten better, he knows that. He shouldn’t be so harsh. And she did provide them with this house, after all.

The balcony is nice, though Martin’s only seen it briefly. It’s pleasantly cool outside, foggy and wet, but in less of the oppressive London way he’s used to. It’s more refreshing. He doesn’t think about the comparisons to the Lonely—the small town, the rolling mist, the empty countryside mere meters away. He doesn’t. Jon is here, and he doesn’t think about it. Anyway, Martin’s more the type to read in an armchair by the fireplace.

The living room is more like that; it’s sparely furnished, and he’s pretty sure Daisy doesn’t know the definition of a throw blanket, but it has a fireplace and a sofa, as well as a dusty, near-empty bookshelf.

“Shame,” Martin had said when they’d walked in, “I know books are important to your professor aesthetic.”

Jon had scoffed. “My professor aesthetic ?”

“The tired, angry professor thing. Do you not do that on purpose?”

“I absolutely do not have a professor aesthetic. Academia, if anything.”

“You’re not telling me those are two different things.”

“They are!”

“Okay, Jon, I believe you,” in a tone that said he didn’t.

Jon hmphed. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already seen enough books for this lifetime, anyway,” he’d said, and then he’d gone upstairs to put their bags away.

Martin, meanwhile, made a quick stop in the kitchen. It’s small, sparse, but there’s a large window over the sink that lets just enough sun in for it to be cozy. There’s not much food, no, but they’d stopped at the minimart on the way to get some of the basics.

Of course, that wouldn’t be enough for long. Martin made a mental note to ask Basira to send up some statements.

During the nights, Jon and Martin wake up. Sometimes screaming, sometimes crying. The monsters that can’t follow them through the safehouse doors make it into their dreams, take hold, infest.

Martin will wake up crying, silent, heaving tears, shaking shoulders. He curls in on himself, trying to brush off the fog that clings to and sinks through his skin. Peter Lukas’s voice echoes in his head. Jon pulls him in, turns him around so they’re facing each other, holds Martin’s face in his hands. Takes the whimpers of It was so empty, Jon, I forgot my own name, I forgot your name, Jon, and you couldn’t find me, and holds him in his arms, and Martin feels so, so small.

Jon has nightmares, too. Different, but just as often, just as terrible and monstrous. He’ll wake up crying out, clutching his chest or his neck or his arm. Screaming about doors, winding hallways, fracturing minds and mazes and fingers that cut. Gasping, clawing at his skin, brushing and swatting at it like it’s covered in worms. Sometimes, he’ll wake throwing the blanket off of himself, scrambling to the center of the bed so that he’s as far away from each wall as possible. Martin knows not to touch him, on those nights.

And then, there are the nightmares of the watcher. They both get them, but Jon’s are something else. Waking up clawing at his own eyes as if he wants to gouge them out, gasping and grabbing at Martin and telling him he can’t look at him, can’t open his eyes, because then he’ll know, he’ll know about all of it, he’ll come after them. Martin aches to see him like this, but he averts his eyes, holding Jon’s hands firmly so he stops scratching, rubbing them with his thumbs and going It’s okay, take your time, I’m here, until Jon’s breathing slows and he just cries, silent and shaking sobs.

Most times, they don’t go back to sleep. Not at first. Instead, Martin and Jon sit in bed, huddled against each other, and talk. Anything that will chase off the darkness. They tell each other about their childhoods, about college. They talk about the movies they’ve watched (in Jon’s case, virtually none, and Martin has an ongoing list of those he wants to show him), and the books they’d hated most in high school. Jon tells Martin about being in his high school play (Martin laughs out loud at that, Jon indignant), and Martin tells Jon about the sci-fi novel he was writing for years (Jon insists on reading it, Martin says, steadfastly, that he never will, absolutely not, and no, Jon, that pleading face isn’t going to get you anywhere, as adorable as it is).

On those nights Martin is filled with such a blistering rage he’s not sure how it doesn’t come out, flames licking at his hands and skin. He’s not even sure what it’s directed at.

Well, that’s a lie. He knows what— who did this to them. Who put them here, who warped them and destroyed them both. Plagued them with these fears, these dread powers, so deeply that even now, when they’re safe, they still come after them. And who’s probably sitting now, smug and comfortably in his tower. Martin wants to kill him.

But Jon is here, finally falling asleep in a sweater that’s far too big for him, and Martin finds himself tired too. Maybe, just maybe, they can relax. They’re here now. At least they have that.

The town itself is tiny, but oddly nice. Pleasant. Nice to walk through, like they’re doing now. There’s a certain charm to the squat little houses, to the paths winding in order to fit into the low and rolling hills. Martin likes the city, but he can’t help but fantasize, for a moment, about a life someplace like this. Quiet, serene. Trips to the farmers market every weekend. And highland cows everywhere.

“God, this place is freezing,” Jon grumbles beside him, and Martin looks at him. He’s shivering, arms crossed, and already wearing two sweaters. He’s thin, even more so than usual, and Martin knows why. The distance from the eye, from the statements, is eating at Jon.

Still, he’s allowed to poke fun a little. “How are you cold all the time?”

“Shut up, Martin. Aren’t you supposed to give me your jacket, or something?”

“Tough. I’m cold too,” Martin says, but he really isn’t. If Jon’s always too cold, then Martin’s always too warm. “Fine,” he says in a put-upon voice, shrugging off his hoodie and passing it to Jon, who squirms into it and resumes his shivering.

“How chivalrous of you.”

“It was against my will,” Martin says delicately. They walk for a moment more, looking around, and then he continues. “You can’t say it’s not pretty, though.”

“I guess it is. In a bleak, grey sort of way.”

“Oh, don’t.”

“The cows are nice.”

“They are! And isn’t it nice to have some space? Some peace and quiet?”

Jon smiles, without much humor in it. “That’s very Lonely of you to say.”

“Oh, shut up. Anyway, that’s not possible anymore. I have you.”

There’s a beat where Jon just looks at him, and then he smiles softly. “Yes, I suppose you do.” He reaches for Martin’s hand, threading their fingers together.

Martin flinches. “Jesus, your hands are cold.”

“ Martin, I’m an avatar of the Eye, it’s not exactly time to call me Jesus.”

“That’s not what I—” Martin starts, snickering, when out of nowhere a golden dog the size of a small bear barrels into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Jon yells. Then, “Where did that thing come from?”

Martin laughs in delight as the dog comes running back, sniffing him and letting Martin scratch its ears. “Yeah, good boy. Good boy, you.” Martin looks up for Jon, who’s standing a few feet away with his lip curled. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of dogs. ”

“I’m not—I’m not afraid of them, they’re just so... wet. Slobbery.”

“I have no idea what you—” the dog jumps up at Martin, who is now crouched down on a knee in front of it. Its paws land on his shoulder, and it starts frantically licking at his face. “Okay, I—” Martin sputters, laughing, “I guess I—I get that.” He finally succeeds in pushing the dog off, but it just dances in a circle and over to Jon, sniffing and licking and tail wagging at a hundred miles an hour.

“Oh, no no, I don’t like that, I’m not your friend,” Jon protests, putting his hands up. Then “Oh, god, oh god,” as it jumps around him enthusiastically.

Martin can’t stop laughing, but he claps his hands and the dog turns around, ears perked. When it gets close enough, he leans down to look at the tag hanging from its collar.

“Don’t tell me we’re taking it home, or something,” Jon says.

“No, I just think it would be good to see who the owner is. I mean, what if it’s lost?”

“Then that’s none of our business.”

“I want to bring him back before he gets hit by a car or something. Here, there’s a phone number on the back. It’ll only take a moment.”

“God, curse you and your...humanitarianism.”

It only does take a moment: the owner picks up on the third ring, frantic with worry, and she gives them her address. She’s only five minutes away. She thanks them, explains how her dear had jumped the back fence, rushed off and gotten completely lost. She offers them “tea, or coffee, or anything, money, or something, to thank you for bringing back my baby,” but they politely decline.

“So what, you don’t like animals?” Martin asks as they walk away.

“I don’t know. I mean, I like cats. The Admiral liked me.”

“You know, I’ve heard so much about this Admiral character, and I’m still yet to meet him.”

Jon laughs. “Maybe you can, when we go back to London.” He quiets a little. “If Georgie ever speaks to me again.”

Martin looks at the ground for a moment. Then, “So no chance for a pet?”

He chuckles, once. “Jury’s still out on that one. Not a slobbery dog, at least.”

“But a cat, you’d be up for that.”

“You know, I think that would actually be rather nice.”

Martin nods. “A cat. We could have a cat.” He laughs, and throws his arm around Jon’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

What happens shouldn’t take Martin by surprise, but it does. It’s all so quick.

He’d just finished talking to Basira, had walked back to the cabin. Her words are still ringing in his ears. Police, terrorists, the tunnels. The only good news was Daisy. She was finally recovered enough to talk (although recovered from what, Martin still doesn’t know.) When Martin had called she’d been sleeping, but Martin made Basira promise to call again a couple days later. He’s not even sure if Daisy will want to speak to him, after how he yelled at her. But he wants to know she’s safe, at least.

The package is there, like Basira said it would be. Sitting in the mailbox.

He’s not sure what compels him to glance through the papers. Simple curiosity? Or was something pushing him? Whatever it was, he didn’t intend it to be anything more than a cursory skim, seeing what horrors Basira had so kindly provided.

What he notices first were the tapes, littered amongst the papers. And a tape recorder, which makes Martin’s heart skip a beat. But, well. Jon always seemed more... sated when he recorded the statements, anyway, so maybe that was just Basira being considerate. Good on her for remembering, he supposes. Even if he may or may not want to throw the thing out on the spot.

Then, though, the words, printed across the page of the first statement, right under the heading and name.

Hello, Jon.

Something seizes inside of him, and he flips to the next page, brow furrowing.

There, printed plainly in the professional cursive Martin knows so well. Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

Martin’s hands go limp, the pages nearly dropping to the ground.

Fuck.

Time feels slow as Martin walks up the stairs, chewing on the inside of his cheek so hard it draws blood. He doesn’t feel it. All he can feel is the paper slowly crinkling under his white-knuckled grip.

Jon is sitting cross-legged in an armchair reading, but he puts the book down and stands as Martin enters the room. “How was she?” he asks, smiling. Then he meets Martin’s eyes, and his face falls. “What happened?” he asks. Then, stronger, “Martin, what happened?”

“I—he—” Martin drops the statements as his tears spill over. Jon rushes forward, reaching out as if to help, and Martin yells. “No, don’t touch—don’t go near them. Please,” he says, voice breaking.

Jon stops in his tracks, but Martin can tell it takes everything in his power to do so. “Martin, what... what did Basira send us?”

Martin bites his lip, trying to hold back more sobs as he shakily gathers up the pages. “It’s not. It’s not Basira, Jon. Elias sent a statement.”

For a second it’s as if Jon’s mouth doesn’t work; he gapes, trying to form words but no sound comes out. “I—I don’t understand, she wouldn’t help him—how did it get in there? Why would he—”

“I don’t know!” Martin cries, finally stuffing them back into their envelope but not standing up again. He’s not sure his legs are strong enough. “I don’t know, but—but there it is, okay, Jonah Magnus, printed right there, no, don’t look, it’s not...it’s not safe. Christ.”

“But how—why now? Why would he—”

“I don’t have the answers for you, okay? I don’t know. I don’t know anything, I just. I don’t understand either.”

Jon’s eyes are wide, and he’s still for a moment. “Elias...Elias sent us a statement.”

Martin sobs again, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop another. “Yeah. Yeah.” Jon starts to sit down, and Martin puts a hand up. “Far away. Please. I don’t...I don’t know what this thing will do. What it’ll do to you.”

“Okay,” Jon says, softly, and moves back, settling down a few meters away from Martin. “Okay.”

For another moment it’s silent, Martin’s shoulders shaking and Jon staring, wide-eyed, at the floor in front of him.

Tentatively, Jon speaks. “Have you...read it?”

“No. No, and I’m not going to. I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Alright. Alright, that’s… that’s okay.” Jon inhales, rubbing his face with his hands. Then, quieter, “What are we going to do, Martin?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

In the end, they lock the statement up. In one of the disturbingly many lockboxes that Daisy keeps, in the back of the closet, on Martin’s side. Martin piles clothes on top of it, and they don’t make him any more comfortable, but at least he can pretend they do. He can’t get Elias’s face out of his head, his smug voice. Every time he thinks about what might have happened if Jon had read the statement, it stops him in his tracks.

If he’s suffering, though, Jon is faring even worse. The hunger, it seems, is finally catching up for real.

“Are you feeling alright?” Martin asks, passing Jon a mug of Earl Gray. Jon’s sitting in bed, blanket over his legs, and he looks pale and tired, but he still smiles up at Martin as he takes the tea. “The night of sleep do you any good?”

“Not really.” He sips. “But thank you. For this.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Martin sits on the bed at Jon’s feet. “How are you feeling, though? Give me details, I want to help.”

Jon laughs ruefully. “I’m not sure you can help with this one, Martin. I mean, outside of—”

“I know, I know, letting you read the statement. Which would be insane.”

“Yes. Yes, it would. I didn’t mean for that to come out so...passive aggressive.” He sighs. “I’m just tired. I mean, I’ve been tired this whole time, ever since we left the institute, but it’s more bone-deep, more... intense. I don’t know how to describe it. But I think having that thing here is making it worse.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

He breathes in, out, before he meets Martin’s eyes. “I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

Martin puts a hand on Jon’s leg, then withdraws it, sighing. “Well, if real food will satisfy you in any way, I’m going to start breakfast. Eggs okay with you?”

Jon brightens as if shaking off a weight. “Yes, please.”

“Okay,” Martin says, standing and walking over to the stairs. He stops with his hand on the railing, looking back. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

He smiles a little. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but...I’m sorry.”

“I’m back!” Martin calls, nudging the door open with his hip. His hands are occupied: in one hand he holds his satchel, in the other, he sorts through the contents. “They didn’t have your archaeology documentaries, but I did find one on the Vikings, which I hope will suffice. Also,” with a little laugh, “men in armor is a plus—”

He cuts himself off as he realises he’s talking to no one. The living room is empty. “Jon?” Jon is sick, but he’s not bed-ridden sick. So where is he?

Martin checks the kitchen, but that’s empty, too. Then the balcony. He clenches his fists, urging the rising panic back down. It’s fine. It’s probably fine, he’s just...taking a nap or something. So he goes upstairs to check.

What he finds freezes him in his tracks.

The closet doors are thrown open. Martin’s clothes are strewn across the floor, and Jon is crouched over the lockbox, fingers shaky and scrambling over the lock, turning it and turning it, too fast to even click.

“Oh no, oh no no no no,” Martin cries, and Jon doesn’t look up at him. Martin can see his eyes widen and his hands pick up speed. “Oh, god,” he whimpers, and rushes forward, crouching down and grabbing Jon’s hands. They continue to twitch and thrash, but Martin’s grip is firm. And still, Jon’s eyes stay locked on the box. “Jon, stop, Jon, Jon, wake up, please.” Martin bites his lip and then slaps Jon across the face.

Jon freezes, and then he shakes a little, falling towards Martin. Martin catches him by the shoulders, holds him up, grabs his face. “Jon, is that you?”

Jon grabs Martin’s hands, eyes wild and unfocused. “Martin.”

“Jon. Jon, look at me.”

“Martin…” slowly, Jon’s gaze turns toward the lockbox, and his eyes go wide. “Did I...oh god. Oh god.” He jumps up, scrambles backwards, hands shaking.

Martin stands up, stepping towards Jon, and Jon throws up his hands.

“No, don’t—don’t touch me, I’m not safe, I—”

“Okay, okay, just. Okay.” He stops, hands still up in a keep calm gesture. “ Jon, you’re still you. You didn’t do anything.”

“If you hadn’t shown up, if you hadn’t come home then, then—”

“But I did. I did, alright? You didn’t. Do. Anything."

Jon stares, then nods slowly. “Yes. Yes...I...yes.”

Martin moves forward again, slowly this time so Jon has time to protest, but he doesn’t. He crumples against Martin’s chest when he wraps his arms around him, tears shuddering out. “Shh, shh,” he murmurs, and he just holds him until Jon’s shoulders stop shaking. He pulls back slightly, takes Jon’s face in his hands. “Jon, tell me what happened.”

“Put it away, first. Please. I don’t want to be able to see it,” Jon says into Martin’s shirt.

“Okay.” Martin picks up the lockbox, placing it back on its shelf and shutting the closet doors. He looks at Jon for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs."

They sit down at the little kitchen table, across from each other. Jon is slightly less shaky, and Martin does everything he can to stay not break down, to not let his fear show. “Tell me what happened.”

Jon puts his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know. I didn’t really feel it? I mean, I didn’t feel most of it.”

“Then tell me what you did feel."

Jon’s hands still cover his face, but Martin can see through the cracks that he’s covered his eyes. “I felt this need. This roiling, desperate need—I guess it wasn’t so different from the hunger I’ve felt for the last few days. Distance from the archive, from the statements, and all of that. It’s the same as when I was in America. But this was something stronger, yanking at me like,” he laughs mirthlessly, “like puppet strings, I guess.”

Martin’s brow knits. “Wait, are you saying the Web —”

“No, no, It’s just—just a turn of phrase.” He sighs, then continues. “I don’t actually remember what happened after that. I mean, you saw. But I didn’t actually feel it. It was just darkness, blank until you slapped me.” Softly, he continues. “I wonder if that’s what...I wonder if that’s what it’ll be like when I finally turn.”

“Stop,” Martin says firmly. “Don’t talk like that, I won’t hear of it. You’re not a monster, you’re not.”

There’s a pause, and then Jon simply says “Alright.”

“So, this hunger, your— roiling, desperate need —it can be satisfied with statements? Any statements?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“So that just means we need to call Basira and have her send some more.”

“Right.”

“Well, we’re going out to town to call her today, anyway, so that works out just fine. Will you...will you be alright? To do that? To go out?”

“I think I will be. I mean, I’m just tired, I’ll be fine.”

“That’s good.”

Jon shuts his eyes. “Martin, the statement. Are we...what are we doing?”

“What do you mean?” Martin asks, although he knows the question’s unnecessary.

“Are we going to read it? What, confront Elias? What are we going to do?”

“I really don’t know, Jon. I really don’t.” Martin fidgets, picking at his cuticles. “Can we figure this out later? It’s nearly time to go.”

“Fine.”

“I still can’t believe your favorite ice cream flavor is rum raisin. ” They’re at the ice cream shop in town. It’s tiny, the inside only a counter and one table, so Martin and Jon are sitting at one of the picnic tables outside. It’s overcast and downright gloomy, but at least the breeze is nice. Not exactly ice cream weather, but it’s fine.

“What’s wrong with rum raisin?”

“You’re thirty-one, not eighty-five. Where’s the fun?”

“It’s better than strawberry. I don’t know how you stand that brand of sickly-sweet.”

“Oh, you go so hard on the brooding, bitter old man thing—”

“Excuse me!”

“I’m Jonathan Sims, I hate dogs, I tell my coworkers I’m ten years older than I am and I eat rum raisin ice cream .”

“Okay, now this is offensive,” Jon scoffs, and Martin laughs. “Anyway, you know how much I love being mocked—”

“Of course.”

“...but wasn’t Basira supposed to call us? I thought that was the only reason we came here.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t love this place.” Martin glances down at his watch. “But you’re right. She did say she would call at three, and it’s—” The phone starts to ring in his hand. “Oh, there it is! Right on schedule, I guess."

He picks up the phone. “Basira, hi!”

But it’s not Basira’s voice that answers. “Hi, Martin.”

“Daisy!” he cries joyfully.

Jon’s jaw drops, and he makes grabbing gestures at the phone.

“Oh, hush, I’ll just put it on speaker.” He does. “Daisy, hi! How are you, how have you been?”

“I’ve been...good. I’m alright. Healing.”

Jon leans forward in his seat. “How are you and Basira?”

“We’re good. Better than good, really. I mean, we’re together, so we’re happy.”

Jon looks at Martin, eyebrows raised and clearly holding back a smile. Together? the expression says.

Martin shrugs. “Wait, like together together?”

“Yeah, together together,” Daisy says, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

Martin claps a hand to his mouth, smiling like an idiot.

“That’s great,” Jon says, “I mean, congratulations!”

“Finally!” Martin interjects.

“Let me guess, they’re being ridiculous about it,” Basira says, faint.

Daisy laughs. “Not so much, actually.”

“We’re just happy for you, it’s been a long time coming,” Martin says, grinning.

He can hear the smile on Daisy’s voice as she says “Right.”

There’s a short silence, and then Martin speaks. “Daisy, I'm so sorry, for—for everything I said. Telling you to, to bugger off, and all. It was—”

“It was the Lonely,” Daisy says. “Thank you for apologising, but it’s okay. You’re not the only one who’s done shitty things because of a power.”

“Y—yeah,” Martin says softly.

“Daisy, about that. Are you okay?” Jon asks. “I mean, I’m sorry, that’s a stupid question. I just mean...the Hunt is dangerous, it’s one of the most drastic transformations. And from what Basira said...did it leave any scars?”

“Yeah, it left some pretty massive ones, actually.”

Martin and Jon exchange a worried glance. “...like?” Martin asks tentatively.

Daisy sighs, but not in a frustrated way. “Basira had to shoot my legs. Can’t hunt if you can’t walk, right?” She laughs mirthlessly. “It’s alright, though. I mean, I’m in a wheelchair, but it’s not the worst thing that could have happened. At least I’m free of it.”

“Oh, Daisy.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gravely.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Will it...heal?” Martin asks.

“I’m not actually sure. The doctors said there was some chance, but it’s not likely.”

“Basira really did a number on you,” Jon says.

“Yeah, she really went all out.”

“You’re welcome,” comes Basira’s voice again, then Daisy’s laugh.

“It’s good, though. At least it saved me.”

Jon speaks up again. “Do you have any news? Anything we should hear?”

“Here, I’ll give you to Basira. I don’t know anything.” There are sounds of shuffling, and then muffled words.

“Right,” Basira says, no longer muffled. She goes on to tell them about the institute—the official police declarations, the disappearances, the scattered sightings of monsters around London. Martin asks Basira to bring them some more statements, preferably in person this time. On the whole, Martin’s feeling rather relieved when he puts the phone down, so he’s surprised to see sadness on Jon’s face.

“Jon, are you alright?”

“Yes...yes, I am.” Jon says, but it’s slow and the expression doesn’t leave.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“No, really I—here, I’ll pay, I’ll tell you in a moment.”

“O—okay,” Martin says, a little taken aback. He clears away their paper cups as Jon pays at the counter, and then they walk out and onto the walking path, etched out along the road.

For a few minutes, they walk in silence, Martin glancing nervously at Jon, who’s clearly deep in some sort of brooding. He’s not sure if he should speak.

Eventually, he gets tired of waiting. “Jon, tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jon makes a frustrated face. “I don’t—”

“Because if you’re angry at me or something, there’s something called communication —”

“No, no, I’m not mad at you, Martin. I just didn’t know how to...how to put it into words.”

“Then try.”

Jon furrows his brow for a moment as if trying to form the words. “It’s just...They were so happy. They seemed so happy. And, I don’t know, maybe I’m jealous. Maybe I want that for us. I want us to be happy. To be free of all of this...this bullshit.”

“...Oh.”

“I know it’s...immature, or whatever. But I just want to be done. With Elias, with all of that. Done with the Institute, the panopticon, the end of the fucking world. And I know it’s not possible, but—”

And suddenly, Martin’s sure. He’s not sure why it took him so long.

“Let’s burn it.”

Jon looks at Martin, eyes wide. “What?”

“The statement. I want to burn it. F—fuck Elias, fuck the statements, fuck all of it,” he cries. Jon doesn’t answer for a moment, though, and Martin’s confidence faulters. “I mean, as long as you’re—”

“No, no,” Jon says, nodding quickly, “I’m actually kind of with you on that. Burn it, yes.”

“Yeah? Yeah!”

“The tape recorders, the tapes, all of it.”

“I mean, what were we waiting for, really? Basira’s bringing more statements next week. And it’s not like you were gonna have that one anyway.”

Jon laughs. “You know, I really don’t know.”

They walk faster after that.

When they get home, it’s already darkening, and it’s cold enough that they probably would have set up a fire anyway. Martin places the wood in the fireplace and Jon pulls out his lighter, prodding at the hearth until the fire is burning merrily.

Jon looks up. “So, time?”

Martin nods, inexplicably nervous. “Yeah. Probably best if I do the actual burning. Wouldn’t want you touching the paper itself, tempt your roiling, intense need, or whatever."

“You’re probably right.”

So Martin goes upstairs, retrieves the lockbox, takes the paper out. Statement of Jonah Magnus, regarding the Archivist. “Good riddance,” Martin says, staring at it for a moment, and then he folds the paper in half and heads back down.

“Any last words?” Martin asks, as he holds the paper near the flame.

“Not really. I mean, thanks a lot, Elias, for being a flaccid dick in a suit. But that goes without saying.”

Martin laughs. “Yeah, gotta echo the sentiment on that one.” Then, “Ooh!” as the statement catches, and then he drops it and the whole thing goes up.

From the bed, Jon cries out.

Martin’s bolt upright, rushing over in a second. “What was that? What happened?”

Jon shakes his head. “No, don’t worry, it’s…” he unbuttons his shirt slowly, and there’s a slightly smoldering spot above his heart. It’s in the shape of an eye.

“What’s that, a brand? An imprint, or something? Please tell me that’s not bad news, Elias watching us out of your chest or something.”

“No, I—” Jon smiles in what seems like relief, “I don’t think it is. Just another scar for the collection. Nothing more.”

“Oh,” Martin says, letting out a breath. “Well. Very classy, I think.”

“I’m sure that was the intention,” Jon replies, and Martin laughs, putting an arm around him as they watch the final bit of charred paper turn to ash.

“Do you think this will do it? Free us?”

Jon tilts his head, considering his answer. “I can’t be quite sure. I think a lot of Elias— Jonah went into that statement. And destroying it…”

“...destroyed Elias?” Martin asks hopefully.

Jon smiles. “Unfortunately no. But I do think it weakened him. And that very well might be enough.

“Okay.” Martin laughs, shaky but real. “Okay.”

They end up sitting in the living room until the flame burns out completely, cold and dead in the fireplace. The sky outside gets dark, wind howling, but it’s all distant, safe, Martin feels still for the first time in he doesn’t know how long. And Jon has fallen asleep in his arms.

Martin could get used to this. And it seems like he’ll be given the chance to after all.

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives #fluff #angst #fix-it #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonathan sims x martin blackwood #my writing #hurt/comfort #safehouse #daisy tonner #basira hussain #daisira #i rly meant for this to be fluffier than it is #but i wrote it in a blind post tma binge frenzy so this is the trainwreck yall get

[eldritchteaparty]

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

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

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

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

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

“Jon, take the pills.”

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

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

“You’re going to get cold,” Jon said.

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

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

Martin wrapped his arms around himself.

“At least get a coat,” Jon said.

“At least take those pills.”

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

“Pot and kettle, Jon.”

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

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

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

“They did say you have nutritional deficiency—”

“—minor nutritional deficiency—”

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

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

“Will you take those pills?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon grumbled.

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

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

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

Jon turned to him. “And?”

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

“Depends on the favor.”

“Will you make me some tea?”

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

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

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

***

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

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

“Hey.”

“Did I keep you up?” Martin asked.

“No.”

“What time did you get in bed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want to come to lunch?”

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

“Oh—me?” Martin asked.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever—wanted to leave?”

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

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

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

“Oh. They’re still coming in, then?”

“Sometimes. Not every day, but enough.”

“I—I didn’t know. Does Jon know?”

“He’s been there for a few, yes.”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t think so.”

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

“Exactly,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did it mean now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shrugged. “I’m ready.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ate,” Jon said when he picked up.

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

“Martin, are you—what’s going on?”

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

“Are you ok?”

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

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

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

“Who?”

Martin took a deep breath. “Jurgen Leitner.”

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

“First, don’t touch anything.”

Martin didn’t respond.

“Ok—don’t touch anything else, then.”

“All right,” Martin said.

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

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

“I don’t know.”

“Can I—ok, can I destroy them?”

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And just leave them all here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“It’s a trash bin,” Jon observed.

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

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

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

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

“Martin,” he whispered. “I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[singledarkshade]

Nightmare Scenario

Summary: How do you live in a world you don't belong to? Rip does his best to survive while running the Time Bureau, while Sara does her best to make sure he doesn't disappear into his work. Danger however is on the horizon and Rip's life is about to be torn apart once more. A Season 3 rewrite. Author’s Note: Rip Week Day 2: Perfect Episode – Rip left the show too soon, so give us the ideal episode that we never got. Alternatively, you can fix something to make it better, or give us that perfect scene that we never had. Canon compliance optional. I chose to rewrite the beginning of Season 3, this may be continued but until then, enjoy.                                ********************************************* Sara stared at the man who appeared through the portal before them. He was wearing the same blue suit as all the people who suddenly surrounded them, his hair was shorter than she’d ever seen it and he was clean shaven, which frankly Sara thought just looked odd on him.

“Well,” he stated as he removed his sunglasses, “You really buggered things up this time.”

“Rip?” was all she could manage to say as she stared at the scene around her.

Ray however demanded, “What’s going on?”

“Crossing our timeline fractured time forming anachronisms,” Rip stated, “I created The Time Bureau to deal with them.”

“Time Bureau,” several voices echoed in confusion.

Sara frowned, “You left the ship fifteen minutes ago.”

Rip shrugged, “To you maybe but building the Bureau has been the focus of the last five years of my life.”

Not sure how to reply, Sara worried because knowing the man before her the fact he had been alone without the team, but especially without Gideon, for that long was not a good thing for him.

“I suppose it’s only fitting, since I created the team,” Rip continued, “That I dissolve it. Your services are no longer required.”

“What?” several voices around her yelled while Sara stared at him.

With that said Rip turned to leave. He paused, turned back and added, “That means you’ll all be looking for jobs. Can I interest you in positions within a time travel organisation?”

Sara rolled her eyes, “How long did you work on that for?”

Rip shrugged, “Longer than I care to admit.”

Six Months Later

 Sara walked through the Bureau’s main building towards the offices, it had been a long day and she wanted something to eat but had to do one thing first. Reaching the office, Sara walked in without knocking.

“Gideon,” Rip said, not looking up as Sara entered, “I thought we agreed no one has access to my office without my say so?”

“Miss Lance has an appointment to meet you for dinner,” Gideon replied, with that smugness she got at times which Sara loved, when it wasn’t directed at her.

Rip frowned and looked at Sara, “Since when?”

Sara shrugged, “Since Gideon feels you’re not eating properly or taking time off work. So, put whatever you’re doing down for two hours and come have pizza with me.”

He continued to stare at her.

“I’ll tell you all the gossip,” Sara grinned before adding, “And if you don’t you know Gideon will start doing the passive aggressive thing you hate.”

“Director,” Gideon spoke up, “You have not eaten anything substantial since early this morning.”

Rip rolled his eyes, “I’m not going to get any peace if I don’t join you for dinner, am I?”

“You are smart,” Sara teased.

With a long sigh, Rip rubbed his eyes and stood, motioning Sara to lead the way knowing Gideon would lock down his office while he wasn’t there. Sara watched Rip as they walked through the corridors to the carpark. He looked tired but these days he always did. His decision to create a replacement for the Time Masters, one that was better than his former masters, put a lot of pressure on his shoulders.

Sara did her best, along with Jax and Ray to get him out of his office every so often, just to remind him there was a world outside of it.

Officially he lived in one of the apartments at the top of the Bureau’s main building but, in reality, was living on the Waverider again which was berthed in the lower levels. Gideon did her best to look after him in their new circumstances. Ensuring that Rip was forced out of his office every so often for dinner with one of them and on occasion persuaded him to take the ship out on a mission.

 Rip sat on the armchair in Sara’s living room stretching his legs out and closing his eyes. He knew he fought against it but, it was nice to get out of the office for a while.

Gideon worried about him, he knew this. She was concerned that he was isolating himself from the world, but Rip couldn’t get too involved or he could accidentally change time more than he already had.

He didn’t belong in this century.

He didn’t belong anywhere.

Other than on the Waverider or at the Vanishing Point.

“Pizza is on its way,” Sara announced as she appeared and handed him a bottle of beer.

Taking the bottle, Rip nodded.

“You know,” Sara said, dropping onto her couch and curling her legs beneath her, “Friends talk to one another, tell each other how they’re doing, how their day has been and other things.”

Rip took a quick drink before replying, “I’m doing fine, and my day has been busy.”

“Master conversationalist as always,” Sara rolled her eyes.

He shrugged, taking a long drink before asking, “And you?”

She chuckled, “Mission went well, but I’m sure once Agent ‘Dull and Boring’ gets through with the report she’ll give you the lowlights.”

“I really wish this feud you have going with Ava would fizzle out,” Rip sighed, “It is…” he paused before settling on, “Irritating.”

“Sharpe is the one who started it,” Sara said innocently, “I believe she took offence to my style of training agents.”

Rip sighed again, he’d had this discussion with them both far too many times in the past few months, “Well you were trying to train them for the League of Assassins.”

Sara laughed, “Just wanted them to know how hard their job will be.”

Shaking his head Rip finished his beer, “Did anything happen today that I should know about?”

“No, it was pretty standard,” she assured him before changing the subject, “You know Martin has invited us all to Lily’s baby shower on Saturday.”

“Gideon told me,” Rip replied, becoming very interested in the bottle he was still holding, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to go.”

Sara didn’t say anything for a minute before sighing, “It’s a get together with your friends, Rip. Time away from work which will be good for you.”

“Sara…”

“I know,” she interrupted him, “That the whole baby thing is hard for you but, it’s going to happen more and more. Especially since you ensured the Bureau didn’t follow the Time Master’s policy on agents not marrying.”

Sadness filled him, the pain tugging against his heart reminding him of the hole that would always be there.

“You can’t avoid it forever,” Sara continued softly, “And Martin has been asking after you. This is just an excuse he’s found to get you there for a few hours. You have to start living in the world at some point.”

“Sara,” he sighed, “This isn’t my world. I survive here because I must. My home is gone, along with my family.”

“But you have friends,” she reminded him, “We’re here for you. You need to remember that. You’re not alone.”

 Rip bade Sara goodnight, accepting the cookies she handed him and opened the portal to the Waverider. Stepping through he felt relief fill him to be back on board.

“Did you have a good night, Captain?” Gideon asked as he made his way to the galley and stored the cookies in the cupboard.

She had taken to calling him Director within the Bureau but here on the Waverider, he was always Captain.

He shrugged dropping into a chair, “It was nice to spend time with Sara, but could you stop scheduling things without talking to me first?”

“Since you continue to ignore everyone’s attempt to socialise with you,” Gideon noted, “Then in order to follow my directive to protect, and keep you healthy, I sometimes need to push.”

Rip couldn’t stop the smile that touched his lips, “Is that what you call it?”

“You require sleep, Captain,” Gideon reminded him, “You have an early meeting tomorrow morning.”

Nodding Rip headed to his room, he knew he would have to take the ship out soon, it wasn’t fair on Gideon to be trapped down here but he needed her to be with him. Gideon was all he had left and losing her was something he could never contemplate.

Readying himself for bed, Rip slid under the covers and closed his eyes. He fell asleep becoming aware of another presence at his side. Gideon wrapped her arm around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder.

“Sara is right,” she said after a few minutes, “You should spend more time with the others, you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Rip sighed, his fingers tangling with her hair, “I have you.”

“Rip,” she reminded gently, “I’m not human, I can’t be with you physically outside your dreams.”

He hugged her tighter, “I don’t need that. I just need your support.”

“You always have it, my dear Captain,” she told him, “But you also need people you can interact with in the real world. Going to Lily Stein’s baby shower will be a good thing.”

Rip nodded, “And I’m betting you already ordered a gift from us?”

“It is a lovely gift with all the necessities Lily will require,” Gideon replied, making him smile.

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, Rip sighed and closed his eyes, “I need to sleep properly.”

“I know,” Gideon murmured, “Rest, Captain I am watching over you. Always.”

                                 *********************************************

 “Well, this is a sight I did not expect,” Martin laughed as Rip stood in the doorway, “Welcome to my home, Captain Hunter. Sorry, Director Hunter.”

Rolling his eyes, he suggested, “How about just Rip?”

Martin nodded, “Come on in, Rip.”

Walking into the house Martin had moved to in Star City only a few months before so he could consult with the Bureau, Rip smiled to see Sara, Ray and Jax were already there.

“I’m guessing Gideon has something to do with you being here?” Sara asked as she handed him a glass filled with what appeared to be fresh orange juice.

Rip shrugged, “She bought a gift. I had to deliver it.”

Jax and Ray began to chuckle while Sara grinned, “Of course you did.”

Shaking his head Rip sipped his drink as he looked around the cheerfully decorated room, suddenly realising there was no one else there.

“Am I early?” he asked.

“I thought we could all have an hour to catch up before the rest of the guests arrived,” Martin told him.

 Rip enjoyed catching up with his former team. He knew what Ray, Jax and Sara were doing within the Bureau but rarely got the chance to talk to them. Even when they dragged him out his office for dinner, they mostly talked about work.

Martin looked happy, being at home with his wife and seeing his daughter engaged with a baby on the way. Jax was working part-time within the Bureau’s engineering department while taking college courses. Ray was looking for a way to separate them from the Firestorm matrix, so they didn’t have to meet up so frequently while also helping in the Bureau’s labs.

He sat and listened to the others talking, joining in the laughter as he caught up on his friend’s lives.

The guests for the baby shower began to arrive and as the others mixed with the guests Rip took the tea Clarissa had made for him, sliding out the back door into the garden.

“You know the party is inside,” Lily’s voice made him turn.

Quickly moving to help her to the nearest seat, Rip shrugged, “I’m not a party person.”

“Me neither,” Lily confessed, “But my mom wanted to do this. She’s so excited about the baby. Personally, I just can’t wait to not get kicked in the kidneys every time I lie down.”

Rip smiled slightly, “As long as you put the baby in the crib. Because trust me, babies tend to know instinctively where to hit you.”

“It was nice that you came today,” Lily said, “My dad misses talking to you. He says you have an interesting way of looking at problems.”

Rip shrugged, “Your father is a brilliant man. And from what I hear you are making waves in the scientific community as well.”

Lily smiled, “I had a great teacher.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Lily sighed, “I suppose I should go back inside since this is my party. Help me up?”

Rip offered his hand to pull her to her feet before letting her take his arm escorting her back inside.

“And tell Gideon thank you for the present,” Lily told him, “It was beautiful.”

“She’ll be pleased you liked it, but I warn you now, she will want you to visit with the baby.”

 Ray and Jax intercepted Rip as he was about to leave escorting him back to the living room after the other guests had left.

“You’re not going back to work,” Ray told him, “Sara has already called Gideon who won’t let you into your office until tomorrow morning.”

With a sigh, knowing he was defeated before he even tried, Rip accepted the bottle of beer Sara handed him and took a seat. He listened to them chatting, speaking every so often so they didn’t try to entice him into a full conversation.

About an hour later, Martin was in the middle of a story about some of his new students when the doorbell rang, Clarissa slipped away to answer it.

“Martin,” Clarissa called, making them all turn to see several cops following her inside along with a familiar man.

“Dad?” Sara jumped to her feet, “What are you doing here?”

Quentin Lance gave her a quick frown before turning, “Rip Hunter?”

Rip stood confused and nodded, surprised when he was seized and handcuffed.

“What the hell are you doing, Dad?” Sara demanded.

Her father shook his head before he looked at Rip again, “You’re under arrest, Mr Hunter.”

“On what charge?” Rip demanded coldly.

“The murder of Miranda Coburn and Jonas Hunter.”

#RipWeek #RipWeek2020 #Day 2 #RipFic #legends of tomorrow #rip hunter #sara lance #gideon #martin stein #lily stein #season 3 rewrite

[lostinthewiind]

Hey there! First of all, congrats on nailing your atonomy lab! Second of all, I would like to request some johnny martin fic if that's okay. I really enoy the way you write his character. Hope you have a lovely day

I love my sweet mama Martin! He doesn’t get enough love :) 

Guys, buckle up, this is gonna be feel-central. I tried to think of something happier, but this idea just won’t leave my head. I know you probably wanted something happy anon…I apologize. 

Warnings: death, loss, sadness - like seriously guys I really went hard on this one and I’m sorry 

Red-Tinted Snow

You could feel everything, and at the same time, nothing at all. You were numb but the cold snow pressing against the back of your neck was making you shiver to no end. Your eyes fluttered open and closed as you struggled to stay awake; you had to stay awake.

Another mortar went off beside you and cold, hard, frozen dirt shot up into your face. The soil hitting you felt like hail and it stung. You could feel the snow and the dirt, but somehow you couldn’t feel the fact that half of your lower leg was missing and that a large chunk of tree shrapnel was protruding from your opposite thigh.

You stared down at your wounds almost as if you were an observer. Those couldn’t be your legs, could they? You would feel that, right? You should feel that. 

Your chest heaved up and down in a rugged, uneven rhythm. This couldn’t be happening. You were supposed to make it through this. He had promised you would make it through this. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

As the attack came to an end you could hear the faint voices of your friends in the background as they checked on each other. Sooner or later someone would find you. You hoped it would be sooner because even though you were indifferent to the major injuries, the red-tinted snow around you was a sign that you were not in good shape. You were bleeding out fast.

Funny, you always thought bleeding out would hurt more. 

Your shaking intensified from both the cold and the blood loss and you suddenly felt like you were going to throw up. You were dying in the middle of a fucking forest and the only thing you could think about was how gross it would be to throw up all over yourself. 

“Y/N?!” a voice echoed through the trees. 

You heard the calling and you heard the footsteps, but you couldn’t do anything about it. You couldn’t speak. You were going to pass out soon, you were sure of it.

“Y/N?!” the voice called again. It was louder now. He was closer now. “Y/N where the hell are-”

The screaming cut off and you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around you from behind. “Y/N.” Martin dropped to his knees behind you and pulled you into his chest. You couldn’t see his eyes but you knew he was staring at you — staring at your legs, or more accurately, the slight lack thereof. 

“Help…” was all you could muster as you let your weight sink into his embrace. He was warm. He was safe. Johnny Martin was always there for you when you needed him.

“MEDIC!” Martin bellowed, his voice ripping through his throat before he turned his full attention back to you. You were so pale. You were so cold. 

Martin felt his heart drop at the sight of the blood — there was so much blood. How could there be that much blood? He hadn’t left you alone for that long; how had you lost so much blood? 

“You told me I would be okay.” your words were barely audible, but Martin was close enough to hear every last squeak that left your lips. “You…promised.”

“You will be.” Martin pressed his face against yours, his forehead resting on your temple. “You will be.”

Your eyes fell to look at your legs again. Somehow they looked worse the second time around. “I don’t look okay,” you commented. “Johnny…am I going to die?”

Before Martin had the chance to answer another body leapt into the clearing. Company medic Eugene Roe skidded to your side, his hands already digging around in his bag before he had even come to a full stop. “How you doing Y/L/N?” his tone was calm and collected as if he were simply chatting you up and not saving your life. 

“How the fuck do you think she’s doing?!” Martin snapped, his arms tightening around you protectively. “Her left foot and half of her fucking calf is missing, Roe! She’s bathing in her own blood! Quit the fucking small talk and save her!”

Your shaky hand slowly worked its way up to cup Martin’s face. “Don’t yell at the boy,” you told him. “Please…he’s doing his best… and it’s loud in my already ringing ears.”

“I’m sorry.” Martin pressed a kiss into your dirty and tangled hair. “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

As Martin mumbled apology after apology into your hair, you started to feel a tingling sensation. Lifting your head as much as you could, your half-open eyes followed Eugene’s every movement. 

You watched as his hand went down to your leg, and as soon as he touched you, all the pain that had been missing filled you at once. You let out a blood-curdling scream and screwed your eyes shut as excruciating pain traveled up your legs and into the rest of your body. 

“What the fuck did you do?” Martin’s wide eyes searched the medic for answers. 

“I have to clean the wound the best I can before I bandage it up.” Eugene was dealing with your missing leg first, completely ignoring the decently sized sliver wood sticking out of your flesh. “It’s going to hurt, Y/N, I’m sorry. I-I don’t have any morphine.” You had a death grip on Martin’s arm as Eugene continued to tend to your wound. You were freezing but you were sweating. Your skin was almost as white as the snow and your eyes were sunken and full of fear. You didn’t want to die. You weren’t ready to die.

Was anyone ever ready to die?

Tears welled up in your eyes as you stared up past Martin at the dead treetops and bright blue sky. You didn’t want to go without saying goodbye to everyone. You didn’t want to go out like that; crying a pool of your own blood. You had spent years training to be one of the best and bravest soldiers in the USA and here you were, crying. 

You weren’t supposed to be weak, but hell, you thought you were dying, and dying was scary. 

“Don’t cry.” Martin wiped your tears away with his thumbs and directed your gaze back at him. “Don’t cry. You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

You shook your head as you felt your mind begin to swim. “Don’t…don’t promise me things you can’t promise me.” 

“I can promise you this,” he demanded, his eyes frantically searching yours for the hope and optimism you usually kept there, but they were missing. “Roe’s gonna get you all fixed up and then you’re gonna be okay. Right doc?”

Eugene looked up from your leg, his hands covered in blood and his face expressionless. He made sure you weren’t looking before he locked eyes with Martin and shook his head. He couldn’t say it out loud, he refused to, but there wasn’t much he could do. If you were going to live, you needed to get to an aid station as soon as possible. 

Martin swallowed hard before forcing a smile and looking back down at you. Your eyes were barely open at that point and you had become a complete dead weight in his arms. He couldn’t watch you die. It would destroy him. 

Standing up, Eugene exhaled. “I’m gonna go get a jeep. Stay here.”

Martin didn’t say anything, but as the medic disappeared into the forest, he suddenly felt completely and utterly alone. “Y/N?” he shook you and sighed in relief when your eyes fluttered open again. “Don’t go to sleep on me. Stay with me.”

“I’m so tired.” your eyes pleaded with him to let you sleep. You had never been so exhausted in all your life and in Martin’s warm, comforting embrace you wanted nothing more than to close your eyes and let all the pain fade away. 

“I know you’re tired.” he lifted you up further and pushed away some strands of sweat-soaked hair that had fallen into your face. “Just hold on a little bit longer, okay? Can you do that for me? Eugene will be back soon…just, look at me. Keep your eyes on me.”

A faint smile flashed across your lips as your hand went back to his cheek — you hadn’t even noticed it had fallen, but there it was, right by your side again. “I could look at you all day.” you breathed out, a cough escaping after the fact. 

As you laid there in the snow, Martin gripping you like his life depended on it, you slowly felt yourself losing consciousness. There was no sign of Eugene, there was no sign of a jeep, there was no sign of hope. “If I die-” you started.

“No!” Martin gritted his teeth at the thought. “No, you don’t say that to me! You’re not going to die.”

“Martin.” you silently begged for him to let you speak. You had to say this. “If I die I want to-”

Martin thus far had been successful in holding back his own tears, but as you slowly slipped away in front of him he couldn’t stop it anymore. The floodgates had opened, the damn had broken, the switch had been flipped. “Please…stop…” a tear slid down his cheek as he pressed kisses to your face. “Please don’t die…I love you too much to lose you. Please…don’t leave me.”

Martin had never told you he loved you. As a matter of fact, he had never kissed you before either, but at that moment, he was doing all of the things he had been waiting for the right moment to do. The was doing everything because deep down, even though he didn’t want to admit it to himself, he was afraid this would be the last chance he would ever get. 

You felt little heat rush to your cheeks at the confession of love. “What happened to grumpy Martin?” you still managed to find room for a joke.

Martin cracked a small smile, his tear-soaked lips stretching tight. “Grumpy Martin loves you too…all of me loves you. Grump Martin needs you…all of me needs you. Please don’t die.”

Martin pulled you into him hard, your face secure in the nape of his neck. You could hear the faint sounds of footsteps and an engine, but you couldn’t hang on any longer. Using every last ounce of energy you had left, you open your mouth to speak and intertwined your fingers with Martin’s. 

“If I die I want to die in your arms.”

As soon as the confession left your mouth, your eyes peacefully fell shut and you relaxed into your final exhale. Once again, you didn’t hurt. There was no pain. There was no cold. There was no fear. There was no blood. There was no war. 

There was just you and Martin. 

When your grip in his hand loosened and Martin felt you become limp, his entire body tensed up. “Y/N?” he shook you once more, but this time your eyes didn’t open. “Y/N!” he screamed as Eugene ran up, the jeep behind him. “Y/N wake up! The jeep’s here. You’re going to be okay.”

Kneeling down next to your body, Eugene placed two fingers to your neck. There was no pulse. 

You were gone.

“Martin, she’s-” Eugene started.

“No!” Martin growled as he adjusted you, your head lolling to the side in the process. “No! She can’t be! Help is here…she’s going to be okay…she has to be okay.”

Eugene patted Martin on the shoulder before backing away and giving him some space and time with you. 

“No…” Martin sobbed as he buried his face into your chest. “You can’t do this to me…I love you…you-you love me. It’s not supposed to end like this. It can’t end like this.”

If there was one thing you learned in your final moments on Earth, it was that life sure had a sneaky way of hitting you with monumental things when you least expected them. 

Maybe things could have been different if you had gone with Martin to collect some more supplies for your foxhole. Maybe you would have survived the war together. Maybe you would have had a good life together after. Maybe you would have gotten married and had kids.

Maybe. But not in this lifetime. 

In this lifetime your pale body would lie in the snow and freeze with the coming nights. Your dog tags would be sent home along with a standard issued letter to your family. Your warm clothing would be stripped and given to soldiers more in need; alive soldiers. 

In this lifetime Martin would miss you every day and every night that he lived longer than you did. 

#band of brothers #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers fanfiction #johnny martin #johnny martin x reader #martin #martin x reader #hbowar #reader insert #feels #death #lostinthewiind #im sorry i wrote this

[capfalcon]

n.8 for the wintery prompts? ❄️⛄

08. i slip on some ice and you’re the stranger who catches me

“Yeah, Martin, sounds great,” Tony said, wishing for the thousandth time that he could build a robot to answer his phone calls for him. Actually-that wasn’t a terrible idea.

“Absolutely, I will be there to start off your Christmas party. After all, what’s a party without me?” Tony murmured, still thinking over the improbability of his robot idea.

Finally, and with great relief, Tony ended the call, rolling his eyes. Damn congressmen, with all the politics and funds and terrible taste.

Tony walked briskly through Central Park, looking around at the snow that adorned each tree, the Christmas lights strung up around lamp poles. He didn’t go out often by himself- too much of a target -but it was Christmas and Tony didn’t feel like calling any of his security just to take a walk through the park.

Tony got so absorbed in the sparkling Christmas decorations against the white of the snow that he didn’t look where he was walking, stepping on a patch of ice.

“Son of a bitch!”

Tony braced for the impact of the cold, wet ground, but it never came.

Instead, he opened his eyes tentatively to find the most attractive man he’d ever seen staring down at him with a concerned expression.

Greek god was gripping Tony’s arms with ease, holding him up, and Tony felt himself go a little weak at the thought that Tony’s weight was nothing to this man. You will not swoon over a stranger, Stark, he reprimanded himself as he slowly shifted his weight so that he was standing on his own two feet again.

“You okay?” the man asked, his unfairly blue eyes still fixed on Tony’s, worry crinkling his forehead.

“Am I dreaming?” Tony blurted out. “Did I take a hit to the head? Because, I’m gonna be honest with you, I seriously gotta thank my imagination for thinking you up.”

“I’m fairly sure you’re not dreaming,” the man replied, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a halfway smile.

God, Tony would give practically anything to see hottie grin. There was no way this man was real. He had to be dreaming. There was no other explanation.

But no, he was still gripping Tony’s arms, and his hands certainly felt real enough.

“Well then, that’s wonderful news, darling, because I’d sure hate for you to be a dream,” Tony replied, looking the man up and down now that he could see him fully.

He was built, which came as no surprise, given how easily he’d caught Tony. He seemed nervous though, and his every word was so painstakingly earnest. His hair was blonde and Tony resisted the urge to reach up and run his hands through it. There were snowflakes melting slowly against the man’s skin and eyelashes, highlighting the blue of his eyes.

He seriously didn’t look real. Tony wasn’t even sure it was possible for another human being to be this attractive.

The man blushed, his cheeks pinking. God, that had no right to be as cute as it was.

“What’s your name, gorgeous?” Tony asked, secretly reveling in the pink that was creeping its way down the man’s jaw and neck.

“Uh…Rogers. Steve. Steve Rogers,” the man-Steve stammered out.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Steve Rogers,” Tony said, holding a hand out. “Tony,” he said, giving a little flick of his fingers towards himself.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Tony.”

Tony lifted an eyebrow at that. “So, besides rescuing strangers, what are you doing alone on Christmas, Steve? No one to go home to?”

Steve shrugged. “I like walking through Central Park on Christmas. It’s pretty,” he said almost bashfully.

Tony smirked at him with what he hoped was fond amusement. “Of course you do, Steve Rogers. Wouldn’t have expected any less.”

“What do you mean?”

Tony lifted a shoulder. “It’s all very Good Samaritan-esque. Rescuing strangers, admiring the scenery.”

Steve looked down at Tony, a soft smile spreading across his face. “If you say so.”

“Oh, I do,” Tony drawled. “Since you’ve saved my life and all that, you mind walking with me, Rogers? Unless you’ve got a bunch of puppies that need saving?”

Steve snorted and Tony felt a surge of pride. He’d made him laugh.

“No, saving the puppies was at 4, Tony, sorry you missed it, I’ll be sure to call next time,” Steve responded drily.

Tony surprised himself by laughing. Greek god was apparently funny. God, there was no way Tony wasn’t dreaming him up. People like this didn’t just exist in real life.

They both started walking again, Tony’s hands tucked into his jacket.

“Are you from around here?” Steve asked as Tony snuck some not-so furtive glances of him.

“Manhattan, born and raised.”

“Brooklyn’.”

Tony grinned. “Of course.”

“What?” Steve asked, looking over at him.

Tony shrugged. “No, it just…it makes sense, let’s leave it at that.”

Steve smiled a little, and Tony felt his heartbeat grow erratic. Seriously, Stark? A cute stranger in the park, and suddenly you’re 15 again?

They wandered around the park, talking for what seemed like a few minutes, but when Tony looked down at his phone, he saw that it’d been hours. In those hours, he’d found out that Steve was a painter, who had apparently already met Pepper, Steve didn’t have a girlfriend-or a boyfriend-and he was an army veteran.

Tony also appreciated, more than he could say, that Steve never once mentioned or acknowledged that Tony was Tony Stark. It was refreshing, to talk to someone because they wanted to, not because they wanted something from you, or because you paid them.

Eventually, they ended up sitting on a bench, talking, and Tony watched with endless fascination as Steve talked, his eyes bright, his entire body leaning towards Tony. He wasn’t just a pretty face, he was obviously smart, and talented, if Pepper had bought some pieces from him.

And before he could convince himself otherwise, as soon as Steve stopped talking and looked at Tony with a soft smile, Tony spoke.

“That’s fascinating, Rogers,” Tony said, absentmindedly tracing his finger through the snow that had fallen onto the bench. Normally, when he called things fascinating, he hardly meant it, but with Steve, he truly did. Steve had a way of making even the most mundane things seem interesting, with the amount of care and enthusiasm he put into his stories.

“So, would you want to do this again sometime?” he asked, holding in a breath. He genuinely wanted to see Steve again, and not just because he looked like he walked off an Abercrombie and Fitch winter clothes photoshoot.

Steve smiled at him, a wide easy smile. “Sure, Tony.”

Tony let out the breath he’d been holding and returned the smile. “Coffee?” he offered, pulling out a business card from his pocket.

“I’d love that,” Steve replied, taking the business card and slipping it into his own pocket.

“Alright, goldilocks, I gotta go, but thank you for making sure I didn’t give myself permanent brain damage, and thank you for the wonderful conversation,” Tony said, standing up from the bench.

Steve merely smiled up at him, the christmas lights reflecting in his eyes. “Anytime, Tony.”

Tony nodded and smiled again before turning around and beginning to walk off.

He’d gotten about 20 feet away when he heard Steve yell from behind him. “Don’t slip on any ice when I’m not there to catch you!”

Tony laughed, the image of Steve’s smile filling his head. He hadn’t fallen on the ice, but he was pretty sure he’d fallen for Steve Rogers.

He shrugged. There were worse ways to spend Christmas.

Thinking back to Steve’s eyes and his warm laugh, Tony smiled as he toyed with the small slip of paper Steve had given him, his number messily scrawled across it.

As far as Christmases went, Tony was pretty sure that this was actually one of the best ways he could have spent his.

(Okay, okay, I know that this is a similar ending to like 3 of my other fics, but I’m tired, I have no idea how else to write an ending, and I didn’t want them to kiss bc you know, strangers. also, thank you for requesting this one bc i wanted to write it so badly. So, I hope this is what you wanted, anon! My exams are finally over, so if anyone has any festive/wintery asks they want to ask, please go ahead!)

#stony #stony fic #stony fluff #steverogers #tonystark #steve rogers #steve x tony #steve/tony #stevetony #steve/tony fic #stony au #tony stark #ironman #avengers #iron man #captainamerica #stevextony #stony fanfic #stony fanfiction #request

[everpantherr]

Loved and lost. Pt 1.

Now before you cry guys everyone assume that Everett did survive the snap but my honest I hope he turned into dust like not a bad thing I want him to be kept good looking for T'challa so they can be together..and be in more marvel movies but this story he stayed behind :'(

Warnings: none

Mentions mpreg,

Official post to wattpad.

Artist: BIM

The story will go on to the characters pov and parts of narrator.

He remembered it was like yesterday when Shuri and okoye told him the breaking news and that the half of the population were gone..

It was two years since the snap happened and it was really hard for Everett because T'challa didn't survived and Everett fell into deep depression even though he had 3 children that are counting him was hard for him he couldn't decide if stay in wakanda to help Shuri the queen and help wakanda expand or go back to the USA and go back to help people who did survive.

He made a decision.

He decided to leave his baby's in wakanda with Shuri and Ramonda it was safe and the best for them while he does help in the America,he wasn't sure when he able to see them again

But it was for the best

He was getting to leave on his plane but he stop and give kisses to his kids

"Dada" his youngest son martin said as he give kiss on his forehead he teared up

"Martin.. I love you so much" he sniffed as T'chara and T'chaka came hubble over and hugged his arms

He kissed them both and rubbed T'chara cheeks

"Just like your father.. T'chara please take of your brothers while I'm gone ok?" T'chara just giggled as Everett smiled

He pick them both up ( he had lessons )

And brought them to there play rooms as he requested a Dora to watch them over

"Tell Shuri to look after them..."

"But consort-"

"I gotta go help back in the America it's safe for them to be here then the city I should be back in a few months..and also I'm no longer royal, my baby's are but now you have queen Shuri so respect that" Everett said as he grab his bag and headed off to America.

Not even a day that he was already crying and missing his kids but he had to stay strong and help the people.

After 3 months he came to wakanda he was hurting because he thought that his children won't recognize him he was done putting the gone list and the survival papers and send them around the world for the people and help the foods and etc it wasn't easy but he did, got it done

"Daddy!" They both scream and pulling him to the ground

"I missed you guys" Everett tears up as he hugs them both and kissing them

"Yeah know colonizer I should beat you up for leaving me to be the mother of YOUR children" she smiles

"But welcome back"

"Your highness thank you I'm sure I'm staying put this time..." There were sadness in that and Shuri knows it

"We are hurting Everett he was my brother"

"It was hard being out there and it's hard being here too.."

"How about take your boys to the field and get some air" she really didn't want to have more emotion as she has hands full already

"Yeah.. alright"

I grab my blanket and took my kids to a open field to watch them wonder and play

I play with martin as he was only a year old and barley can wonder around

It was peacefully and hearing my kids giggle away playing with there toys

But until I heard a deep voice startled me

"Ahh kitten you are alive"

Everett turns and sees M'baku alive and well

"Heh I could say the same thing to you.. how's your tribe are your people safe?"

"I lost so many especially children and familys"

"I'm sorry.."

"I'm sorry about T'challa... you know he did his best out there he loved you very much Everett just know that."

"Thanks M'baku.. I can't just think about the future how I'm going to tell them what's happened to this world and there papa"

"Don't think about that now kitten there still young you have long ways to tell them that"

"Sorry.. your right I'm just stressed.."

"I complete understand I heard you went back to help in America"

" I did.. it was like being in the air force again, God I'm so lost M'baku" Everett croaked and tears were falling down

"Kitten.. listen you are a strong man who you serves your country you help save wakanda and beinging strong to your boys, your just stressed out and need some rest.. if you want you are more welcome to Jabari and rest there since queen Shuri is busy with wakanda and since your... ahem but aside from that Everett I'm more welcome to open doors for you I know if you head to USA Your kids aren't safe."

"I... i-"

"Don't worry about the cold my tribe has made coats for every children and toddlers for the cold, and I have a hut I barely don't use since I'm busy with my tribe but you are more welcome to use.. just think about it it will take things mind off from the world. I'm not forcing or anything it's somthing to think about"

Everett stay silent has M'baku hold little martin

Everett was thinking about this and M'baku was right he wasn't much needed in wakanda anymore he wasn't sure if he should live here with all the stress that Shuri might put him through and back in the America will be worse so Jabari might just what he needed besides the cold though but it could help him and his kids, drop off the world and start a new life

"You know what.. you're right it might start help with a new life and my kids and besides they might love the snow but how I'm i going to get there with 3 kids? Oh I guess my plane could help.. I still have a job."

M'baku smirks

"Pefect saves me less traveling I'll give you a day to pack if that's fine see you then kitten"

M'baku walks off

"Why does he keep calling me kitten?" Everett mumbles as he packs up his kids and head back to the castle and pack up for the night and put his kids to sleep.

During the night Everett put his kids sleep expect martin he was crying and struggling to sleep

"Ssh... ssh..." rocking him back and forth

The door open and it was M'baku again

"Sorry I walked by and headed your little one crying do you need some help?"

"No.. no.. he's just being stubborn that's *yawn* all.."

"You are tired Everett let me i can help him sleep I promise I won't hurt your baby"

Everett was exhausted and he does trust M'baku since he did offered his home to him

"Ok thanks M'baku" he hands over martin

"Don't mention it just have a seat on the couch I have the rest from here"

Everett sat down on the couch and he eventually fell asleep

By the morning

He was woke up to a blanket around him and seeing martin in his crib sleeping Everett checked the time on his wrist watch and it was still early and have lots of time to pack so that's what he did during all morning

It was around the after noon that Everett packed up in the plane and M'baku came up

"Hey M'baku I can't thank you enough for last night "

"Again don't mention it you almost done?"

"Yes just waiting for my kids to wake up"

After heading to Jabari M'baku showed Everett and his kids to the hut where he was staying and it was cozy warm and roomie

He quickly made a little crib to put martin down and unpack while his toddlers are in playing in the snow already with M'baku he went his room and started un pack when he stumble across his wedding photo of him and T'challa he looked at it one more time until he shoved it down in a drawer to not look at it again as he was starting a new life.

"I'll start the fire for you but then I gotta go back to the tower"

I nodded as he starts the fireplace

"Alright the fire has started there's a market few down a hill for dinner but anyways you should be good to go" M'baku said as he was heading out

"M'baku... thank you"

He just nodded and left

"Well kids its time to a new start life" i smile at them

And Everett did what he did he dropped everything from the world expect his work because he not near to close to retirement even though he's living in Jabari for free but he still serves the America

M'baku helps around me and my kids for months now which i appreciate

But lately I started to feel feelings for him I mean He does bring me wine or beer after our tough days together

But that one night I drank because my son's called M'baku Daddy which I choked my food that dinner night and it through M'baku completely off the table too but laugh so hard

We sit on the he couch as the fire was going and the boys are asleep

M'baku had his arms behind me and I wrapped up in blankets

And I know that the fact he does lik- Love me

Am I started to feel the same thing??

"Are we going to talk about what happened?"

"Everett you are the one letting this happened I mean you let me into your house and let me help around what did you expect"

"N- uh... ahem I guess..." i had no words to that

"Do you want them to call you dad?"

"Do you want them to?"

"I don't know.."

"Look.. M'baku I appreciate what you do for me and my boys but.. after all of this and you being around i.. I started to feel about this-" Everett was interrupted by M'baku putting his hand on his mouth

"I can fix that.." he mumbled and he lean in towards Everett and Everett leaned in and they both connected lips

Everett closed his eyes as this happened he haven't felt a kiss for like Ever to be honest he doesn't even remember when was his last kiss from T'challa but he doesn't want to think about that now

Everett and M'baku stopped And pulled back

"Wow.. heh uhem" Everett was nervous and was turning red

"Haha my god Everett your reacting if it was looking your first time kissing!" He laughs quietly

Everett punches him on the arm

"Shut up its been 2 years M'baku!"

And since that night Everett and M'baku started a relationship but it was slow progress for Everett because he wanted to take things slow since he's new life with his sons were going good

But he still had emotions to T'challa but he had to move on

And eventually there love was strong

And after a few months

On the night of traditional winter blue moon festival

M'baku purpose on the blue night in M'baku palace on the deck were it was beautiful

And Everett said yes 

They got married and Everett once again was a royal member

By next year Everett had some shocking news..

He was pregnant with M'baku child.

He had a hard time believing this was this a prank?

But it was true and it wasn't a prank

He can't believe it he was so happy did wanted a big family and he was shocked again by his age but he didn't care and when he told his husband he was filled with joy and happiness and he so happy that his child was going to heir to his Thorne

By M'baku's Jabari health care he told that Everett was going to have twins one boy and one girl

They couldn't be happier

By the time he give birth to his new born son M'baku and Everett named him M'Buka after M'baku great grandfather

After his long rest M'baku had to go wakanda for a meeting and Everett was actually nervous to go back because he moved on from T'challa and married M'baku

But M'baku said that it was going to be fine

But oh boy he was wrong

Queen Romada and shuri, okoye were pissed at Everett and M'baku and growling yelling at Everett for leaving T'challa 'so soon' apparently but Nakia was supportive and understand for Everett

By the year went and Everett was at his office when one the deputy agents came barging in unannounced

"Sir! We have some news! People are reappearing again from the snap!"

"Wait what!?" Everett rushed to the scene and he couldn't believe his eyes

"Get everyone and I mean everyone to work and get around fast! And get the avengers!"

"I gotta get back home!"

Everett landed back in Jabari and rushed to M'baku and his boys

"M'baku!? Honey? Kids???"

"Your highness your husband is helping in the tribe as people are coming back. And your kids are safe in the another room"

"Thank you" He said and ran off to find M'baku.

After the whole incident and things settled down

Everett was getting ready to the market for dinner and he put on his wakadian blanket on and had his vase for water when his son martin and T'chara and T'chaka came running up to him

"Daddy!! Daddy!!"

"What's wrong??"

"Some guy wearing a black suit came up to us claiming that we are his kids and we were scared and trys to claim that he knows you but we ran!" T'chaka cried

I froze as I think who it was..

Can't be..

#blackpanther #everpanther #everett ross #t'challa #everett/t'challa #marvel #M'baku #M'baku/Everett

[badboys-imagines]

Lie to me

Pairing : Tom, Reader

PART II

Summary : A complicated story in which Y/N and Tom already know each other from work.

Y/N : Your Name

Y/L/N : Your Last Name

A/N : Tell me if you like it :)! xx

(PART I here)

Y/N stared blankly at the screen as the emission ended.

God. Tom loved her.

Reality took hold and she grabbed her phone, her hands shaking as she dialed his number.

Wait, a little voice sang in her head.

What if he didn't want to be with her ? After all, he'd never said anything. Besides, Tom lived a peaceful life in London while she enjoyed New-York City...

She had to send him a message, at least.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" She wrote.

Not good enough, Y/N thought, erasing the sentence.

"Seems like we need to talk, Hiddleston. "

No, no and no.

Y/N sighed in exasperation. She knew why it was so hard for her to speak the truth. They were different. A life by Tom's side would mean paparazzis, tabloids and all the things she despised. Not to mention the female celebrities who flirted with him. For all these reasons, Y/N would never be able to admit her feelings.

"I love you." She typed lazily, "I'll never gather enough courage to say it or send this stupid message. How pathetic. I'm so scared all the time, always wondering if you finally fell for some sexy actress. Anyway, with time you'd get tired of me. I feel so small in your world. But hell, I need you, Hiddleston. My dearest friend, my partner in crime. I will always love you."

Y/N knew she would never send it. Instead, she just lied down on the couch, throwing her phone next to her. She stared at the ceiling for a while, emotions becoming overwhelming as she thought of Tom. The young woman slightly turned her head, eyes wandering on the TV screen. Lulled by the constant chattering on her favorite channel, Y/N drifted into sleep.

Just before she could reach for Tom's hand in her dream, a loud noise of shattering glass awoke her.

Y/N groaned, opening an eye.

"Fuck !" She swore, contemplating her broken phone on the floor, "No, no, no !"

It was a disaster. Y/N desperately needed it to receive calls from her boss.

She ran to the closest shop and paid a colossal amount of money to get her device fixed in the week. Meanwhile, they gave her another phone and she trotted back to her building, partly relieved.

A lump in her throat, she spent the worse night of her life, her stomach in knots as she checked her phone every five minutes, wondering if she should call Tom.

After what seemed an eternity, Y/N finally closed her eyes.

When she woke up, it was already noon.

Dragging her feet to the kitchen, Y/N contemplated cooking something, but then fell on a chair, releasing a long sigh. Her heart felt so heavy it seemed to drag her body down.

Rubbing her bloodshot eyes, she gulped at the thought Tom was just going to disappear from her life if she did nothing. In fact, there were only few chances they were going to meet again. Y/N had to call him. Tell him she needed him, as a friend of course.

She dialed his number and it rang.

At the same moment, a soft knock on the door caused her to lift her head up.

Probably the neighbor.

To say Mr. Thurman didn't like her was an understatement. He was certainly annoyed after she'd let the TV on all night.

"Just a minute !" Y/N yelled, anxiously waiting for Tom to pick up.

That's when she realized another phone was actually ringing. Behind her door.

Y/N froze. She thought about the infinitesimal chance it was him standing in the corridor, but it was delusional.

Tom was in Europe, miles away from her. It had to be that grumpy neighbor of hers.

Sighing deeply, Y/N made her way to the door and unlocked it, running a hand through her messy hair. As soon as she opened it, a familiar scent invaded her senses, causing her stomach to clench, and a sharp British accent came tickling her ears,

"Good morning." Tom's voice softly said, checking her out from head to toe.

Y/N's jaw dropped.

Oh god. She wasn't dreaming.

"Tom ?" she gasped, "What are you doing here ?"

Heart stuttering, Y/N cleared her throat, hating herself for being in her pajamas at that very moment. Wasn't he supposed to be in UK ?

She rubbed the back of her neck with her hand and an uncomfortable silence fell between them. Tom's eyes darkened to the point they almost looked grey in the daylight. To the way he stared at her in disbelief, Y/N could tell he was surprised and maybe slightly disappointed by her reaction.

After a moment, he shrugged, burying his hands into his pockets, "I'm sorry," he chuckled uncomfortably, "I didn't mean to disturb you. I'm here for a while. I was just wondering if you could... Host me for a few weeks."

At first, the young woman remained silent. There were plenty of hotels out there, cheap and expensive ones. Tom could have easily found a room. Her gaze settled on his and she finally caught the last words of his sentence.

Oh, no.

"Don't you have friends who could give you a room ?" she suddenly asked, heart hammering in her chest.

Tom blinked in confusion, pressing his lips together,

"Well, yes I do." He paused, narrowing his eyes, "Are we not friends ?"

Y/N bit the inside of her cheeks, her heart slowly sinking in her chest.

No, he wasn't just a friend.

However, she missed him. Her giant dork, the guy who made her laugh, the man she loved.

"A few weeks you said ?" Y/N repeated, taking a moment to think, "I guess you could sleep with me. Oh... I mean, not with me, in my bed, in the bed." She stuttered, her cheeks turning crimson red. Gulping audibly, Y/N quickly shook her head, "Anyway. Yes, you can stay here."

Damn it.

Even though he kept his voice low and calm, Tom bit down onto his lip, his usually cold, pale skin tinting with light shades of red,

"Very well then." he plunged his gaze into hers and for a moment, Y/N lost herself into the blue ocean of his eyes, ''If I can sleep in your bed," Tom quoted teasingly, "we should be fine doing this for a few weeks.''

"I didn't mean it like that..." Y/N started to mumble.

Wait. A few weeks ?

It took her a moment to realize what it would involve. Tom living with her, even just for several days, would be the end of her. The simple fact he was standing at her door had her trembling and unable to speak correctly.

"But a few weeks..." she repeated, fidgeting with her fingers, "It's pretty long, Tom."

It was the moment Y/N's neighbor chose to pop out of his apartment, grumbling and swearing as he used to.

Martin Thurman had always been curious. Maybe too curious. He stopped what he was doing and pretended to look for his keys, watching Tom intently. There were great chances her neighbor had been listening to them through his door.

"Why don't you come in ?" Y/N suddenly asked, gripping Tom's sleeve as to pull him inside.

He took a few steps ahead and swiftly glanced behind him, just in time to notice Y/N's neighbor before she closed the door. As soon as he turned around to look at her, the young woman clumsily bumped into his chest. Tom promptly wrapped an arm around her waist, keeping Y/N from falling on the floor.

Her heart started pounding erratically as a delicious warmth filled her stomach. Y/N felt Tom slightly pressing her body against his and she cautiously avoided his gaze. As his thumb made tiny circles on her back, Tom brought her closer.

"Y/N."

He lifted her chin up with his free hand and locked eyes with her. As soon as his icy orbs pounced on hers, Y/N was lost.

"Do you want me to leave ?" Tom rasped, causing her to blush.

Holding his blue gaze, Y/N tried to utter something like a yes. Her lips moved as to form the word, but no sound came out of her mouth.

It was going to hurt, again. She knew it.

They remained silent for a few more seconds, Y/N barely breathing, her skin burning as she felt his body so close to hers. Heart thundering in her chest, she took a deep breath,

"Stay."

-

Tags : @medussaurora, @nataliehasgrace, @hakuoyuki, @candygui, @im-not-having-your-baby

Everything tag : @darling-loki

#TOM HIDDLESTON #IMAGINE TOM HIDDLESTON #TOM HIDDLESTON IMAGINE #TOM HIDDLESTON IMAGINES #IMAGINES #TOM HIDDLESTON TV #TOM HIDDLESTON AU #TOM HIDDLESTON FLUFF #TOM HIDDLESTON X READER #TOM X REAER #TOM HIDDLESTON MARVEL #LOKI #MARVEL #MARVEL IMAGINES #FANFIC #MARVEL X READER #HIDDLESTON X READER #GOD OF MISCHIEF #LOKI LAUFEYSON #TOM HIDDLESTON LOVE #tom hiddleston x you #LIE TO ME PART II #LIE TO ME #PART II

[josefkavalier]

It wasn’t as biting that night as forecasted. Then again, alcohol had a way of warming a person from the inside out. Sam fingered the bottle of travel sized mouthwash in his suit pocket as he took another sip from his vodka-laced lemonade. He owned far too many tiny bottles for a sixteen year-old with parents who would always be preoccupied with matters more important than the occasional underaged drinking of their son. He could have walked out with a giant bottle of Grey Goose, he could have left the mouthwash behind entirely. But he would never be that cavalier, never knowing when one of his parents might pull him into a conversation and introduce him to some world leader. Boozy breath was not the kind of first impression he liked to make.

Sam didn’t even like alcohol, it’s just that he liked uptight parties with hundreds of guests even less. Perhaps he was leaning a little heavily into dramatics, escaping to go drink alone, but it was only because his sister had ditched him for her new boyfriend. Typically, he could trudge through anything, if Sofia was suffering by his side. They were not codependent, at least it wouldn’t be his choice of words, there was just something undeniable about sharing a womb with another person. Whenever someone said something stupid in front of their mother, his first impulse was always to make a face in Sofia’s direction, and always she would reciprocate with one of her own.

“You want a smoke?”

The unexpectedness of the address made him jump slightly, just enough to send lemonade spilling over the side of his glass. “No, thanks,” he answered, rubbing his hand along the inside of his suit jacket where it couldn’t be photographed, reprimanded, or thought of again.

The other boy shrugged and Sam watched the way he cupped his hand around the cigarette to shield it from the wind as he flicked his lighter on. The action probably shouldn’t have struck him as beautiful, but it was a thought that arose without warning, and he shook his head as if this would banish it from his mind.

Sam stared into his cup with fixed concentration, but his new company didn’t seem to mind. It was after a few more minutes that he spoke again, and Sam didn’t realize he’d been waiting for the other boy to break the silence in-between exhales of smoke.

“Hey, you’re President Huerta’s son, aren’t you?”

If only he had said anything else.

“Yeah. That’s me.”

It was one thing to be known as the first son, but he wondered if this guy even knew his name. Sofia was more well-known, because in some ways she played along with the constant attention. She put care into her appearance when she left the White House and Sam could wear the clothes all right, but he often read descriptions about how he looked tired or bored, while Sofia was described as “effortless” and “elegant.” 

“Sam, right?”

Realistically, there wasn’t a single guest there that night who didn’t know his name, but his pulse quickened as if this boy had paid special attention when Sam came up in the news. “Yeah. That’s me,” he said, again, not realizing until a second later that he had repeated himself exactly. Sam winced, turning away at the same time to hide his face, and coughed into the crook of his elbow as if that had been his intent. He turned back to the boy with a smile. “And you are?”

“Sisto.”

Sam waited a beat too long for him to reveal his last name. He was only sixteen, and had gone to school and lived almost a normal life for the first twelve years of his life, but even then, introductions had always involved the use of full names. His parents had fallen in love at the White House, working for a president who was out of office by the time he was born, and he had gotten used to the constant political energy around him before he moved into the White House himself.

“Cool. Um...nice to meet you.”

Sisto laughed, taking a long drag from his cigarette before speaking. “I always thought they forced the president’s kids to, like, take a shit ton of etiquette and public speaking classes. Just in case, you know?” He shook his head, smiling. “Guess not.”

Sam forced a smile in return, but it looked self-deprecating, even in the thin light streaming out from inside the White House, aided only slightly by the moon.

Giving Sam a sideways glance as he tossed his cigarette on the ground, Sisto let out a much quieter laugh this time. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.”

“Oh. It’s not?”

“No. You don’t seem as robotic as you look on TV.”

It was, surely, supposed to be a compliment. But Sam just looked at the ground, every fear and insecurity he’d ever had about standing silently behind his parents in front of a sea of cameras and reporters instantly validated.

“Hey,” Sisto said, his voice much closer than before, and then his hand was on Sam’s shoulder. “Sorry. I never took any etiquette classes either.”

“It’s okay, I get what you meant.”

“You sure? I feel like I oughta apologize now.”

“Really, it’s fine—”

Sisto took him by the elbow, tugging once. “C’mon. I want to show you something.”

***

They were supposed to be greeting the public during an afternoon tour of the White House, but Sam was too busy texting to notice the crowd shuffling into the Blue Room. Sofia elbowed him, much more roughly than necessary, and smiled sweetly as people start filing into the room. He only had time to scowl at her for a brief moment before he mirrored his sister’s expression and stepped forward to welcome everyone to his home, and even though it was exactly what he was supposed to say, it never felt true. It still felt like living in a museum or a history book, with Zachary Taylor’s ghost floating between the various rooms, and members of the Huerta family regularly greeting guests in the room uncreatively given its name by Martin Van Buren.

Sam shook hands and posed for photos, though he doubted anyone actually cared about his special brand of celebrity. At first glance, the tour group had been elated to see the first children, but he knew they would have preferred to see the president herself. As was often true, their mother had more important matters to address, and Sam and Sofia could never use that same excuse.

Once the group moved on, Sam turned his attention back to his phone, not even noticing as Sofia stood on tip-toes to look over his should. “Who’s Sisto?”

Sam whipped around, narrowly avoiding a shoulder to Sofia’s face. She would have deserved it. “Could you not invade my privacy?”

“What privacy?” Sofia asked as she dropped into one of the room’s blue and gold cushioned chairs. “Twenty people just took our photos and then immediately posted them all over the internet.”

Begrudgingly, he sat down across from his sister. No matter his level of annoyance, they would both have to wait for the next tour group together. “That’s different, and you know it.”

“All right, I know it. But why would you not tell me about someone you’re obviously obsessed with?”

He exhaled deeply, shoving his phone into his pants pocket where it was safe from unwanted glances. “You always have to make things so salacious. I never ask you invasive questions about whats-his-name.”

“You know his name. But I appreciate the feigned disinterest.”

Not only did Sam know his name, he also knew what Sofia’s boyfriend looked like, and not that he would ever voice the thought to Sofia, but it was uncanny how similar their tastes were. Sam was hoping to put off any twin jokes about the matter for as long as possible. But when it came to their parents, particularly their father, nosiness was not something that could be avoided entirely.

Sofia stared up at the ceiling, her eyes drifting towards the gaudy chandelier that hung in the dead center of the oval room. So many ovals in this house, something about George Washington preferring them to circles. “I wish dad would catch on.”

“Well. Keep wishing.”

It was easy for him to say, he could hear her already, the accusation in her voice completely justified. Had Sam ever wanted a love life before now, his father would not have paid the least bit of attention. But when it came to Sofia, he tried to keep track of her comings and goings as closely as possible.

“Tony is just so...non-threatening. Dad acts as if I’ve started dating the literal antichrist.”

“Hey, maybe next time.”

This time, it was Sofia who barely managed a glare before hopping out of her chair and hurrying over to the door in preparation for the next tour group.

***

It wasn’t until Sisto pushed him up against a wine rack, immediately sending an $80 bottle of Pinot crashing to the floor, that Sam considered maybe he was the one dating someone antichrist adjacent. Not that spilling wine was satanic – no matter how much the pooling of dark red liquid looked eerily similar to blood.

“Shit,” Sisto muttered against his mouth, and Sam didn’t want to open his eyes again, he would prefer to pretend the glass and wine spreading across the wine cellar floor was just his imagination.

Sam wasn’t sure what to do in this situation, or any awkward situations. When Sisto had suggested they break into the White House wine cellar, he had laughed. A little cruelly. They need not break in, really, just open the door and enter. The look of disappointment on Sisto’s face when he saw the cellar was exactly as Sam had predicted.

“This is the president’s wine supply? It’s...it’s even worse than my uncle’s!”

“It’s not all of her wine. But, officially speaking, this is it.”

They stood inside the closet-sized room, the two of them barely able to look at any of the labels without bumping into one another. The first few times, Sam told himself he wouldn’t let it happen again, but after the fourth time, Sisto abruptly stopped reading the labels and pulled a bottle out from the rack.

“Here. This one is good.”

Sam looked it over, not knowing enough to either agree or argue otherwise, so he nodded. Sisto produced a Swiss army knife from his pocket, expertly removing the cork in a way that made clear how many times he had done so in the past.

He put both the knife and cork in his pocket, then leaned his head back to take a generous sip. “Like I said,” he offered the bottle to Sam with a grin. “It’s a good one.”

Sam took the bottle tentatively, the neck almost slipping from his clammy hands. Before Sisto could comment, he took an ambitious swig from the bottle, swallowing more than he had anticipated. He handed it back to Sisto nervously, hoping he wouldn’t be forced to take another sip. While Sisto had aspirations of talking about wine for a living, Sam would happily never sample another bottle again.

He raised his hand to wipe away the stray wine from his lips, but Sisto reached out to grab him by the wrist. The wine lover was about to scold him for daring to waste a single drop, he thought, the only logical explanation for his action.

“Sisto, I just—”

But Sisto kissed him before he could finish protesting, an argument that was never going to be made in the first place, and as soon as Sam processed this, his head rushed to meet up with his lips, his hands, his legs. All at once, he kissed Sisto back with intention, the wine tasting much sweeter from the other boy’s mouth, his hand breaking free from the now slackened grip, reaching upwards to clutch at hair and jaw, his thumb swiping over Sisto’s cheek as he stepped in closer.

Of the few things he never discussed with his twin, romantic intricacies of relationships was one of them. They talked about whether or not they were seeing somebody, eventually, but even that took time, and they never dared speak about first kisses or dates. For Sam, there had never been anything to talk about, anyways.

Sam took a breath, and something in Sisto must have instructed him to steal it back, and that was when the pushing and the wine bottle crashing interrupted them, though Sam could have convinced himself that he hadn’t heard anything after all, if Sisto had been willing to play along. They looked at the spilled wine, neither saying anything or moving for a moment, then Sisto looked back at Sam, his hands still gripping the collar of his shirt, and he offered an unapologetic smile. “Well, if it’s already broken.”

And their lips met again.

***

When Sam stumbled upstairs to the second floor, still tipsy from the half drunk bottle of wine, he noticed Sofia’s bedroom door was open and gave a courtesy knock with his knuckles.

“Knock knock,” he said as if it was a joke, somehow, not noticing his sister’s faintly red-rimmed eyes.

“What do you want?” She asked, but her voice sounded wrong, and she turned onto her side to face away from him on her bed.

“Wait, what’s wrong?”

“Do you care?”

Although he was in a spectacularly good mood, and buzzed enough not to fully grasp Sofia’s mood, he felt offended that she could possibly ever believe he wouldn’t care that she was upset. “I always care, Sof.”

With a sniff, she hesitantly turned back to him, slowly sitting up and wrapping her arms around her middle. Sam entered her room fully, closing the door behind him in case one of their parents came upstairs, and sat down beside her. “What happened?”

“Pretty much exactly what you’d expect. Dad said I’m not old enough to date. Girls my age get married every day!”

“Not a great argument, but I understand.”

Not even bothering to complain about his criticism, she leaned into him, putting her head on his shoulder. “It’s not like I was going to listen to him, anyways. But he got Tony removed from his White House internship, so I’ll probably never see him again.”

“If he cares about you at all, he’ll make sure you still see each other.”

“Of course Tony cares—”

“I meant dad.”

Sofia peered up at him, disbelief temporarily replacing the sadness in her eyes. “He cares about me. He just doesn’t express it the right way.”

“Mom will talk to him. And she’ll get Tony his internship back. They kind of have to listen to her.”

She let out a weak, watery laugh. “Maybe you’re right.”

He was right. And he still felt guilty, anyways. Because it took so little for their father to punish Sofia, but when it came to Sam, he could practically get away with murder without detection. He wanted to defend Sofia without implicating himself, he just wasn’t sure how.

#i just reformatted this bc mac is whack and i reread it and oh boy can i skip class next week jakshdfjg #f: huerta #c: sam huerta #s: sistam #I THINK #writing

[shinydixon]

Bud Melks x Reader - Attraction [THE BELKO EXPERIMENT]

So, here you are a little story for Michael Rooker’s character in The Belko Experiment.

I really liked that movie, and I wanted to write something about Rooker’s character, Bud Melks.

WARNINGS: MENTION OF SEX AND SLIGHT SMUT

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE SO, SORRY FOR EVENTUAL MISTAKES.

The annoying sound of the alarm clock wake you up from your slumber and made a tired moan escape your lips.

Today was another day you had to spend at work, sitting on a chair for 9 hour, working for a company full of assholes such as Wendell Dukes…gosh, that man was so creepy.

However, all those bad thoughts were interrupted by a delicate trail of kisses which started from your nape toward your jawline.

“Good morning sugar”

You couldn’t help but smile, thinking about the events of the previous night.

You had a very stressful day at work, Barry gave you a lot of paper work to do, Wendell kept flirting with you even after you told him you weren’t interested , making you feel uncomfortable.

Thanks God, there was someone who made all those hours of work bearable, and that person was Bud Melks.

Bud worked as a janitor at Belko, and since you started working there, there was a strong attraction between the two of you.

At first you both ignored that, mostly because of the age gap.

Bud thought that a beautiful young woman like you couldn’t be interested in some old janitor, and you thought that he wasn’t interested in someone younger than him.

So the both of you kept your relationship professional for two months.

But, on one eventful day, the air conditioning unit stopped working and, since you were the “new recruit” Barry sent you looking for Bud so he could take care of it.

Obviously, it was useless telling him you weren’t his secretary and your job at Belko wasn’t looking for people, so you made your way toward the elevator, and then, once you reached the ground floor, you walked toward Bud’s office.

You didn’t have to tell him twice, he was already ready with his tools in hand.

Nonetheless, he was surprised when you asked him if you could accompany him to the generator in the basements, telling him you needed some time away from your boss.

He noticed immediately you were tired and stressed, so he just smiled at you and agreed .

You didn’t know how, thirty minutes later, you found yourself bend over a pile of old boxes while Bud thrusted hard and fast, in and out of you.

Maybe it was all your flirting with him, or him wearing such a tight overalls that defined his round ass every time he would bend over the generator, or you looking for a way to release all your stress.

That was the first of many rendezvous in and out of your workplace, what started as a relationship based on sex, ended up into something more and the lust, became love.

Obviously, no one at work knew about you two.

Not that you two were ashamed on dating each other, but, except for a few people such as Mike, Leandra, Kit and Martin from the cafeteria, you find Belko’s employees a little judgmental, and you didn’t want hearing people telling you that you were too young for him, or him being too old for you.

Your private life wasn’t their business, so, you both decided to not tell anybody except your friends.

Anyway, since yesterday night you worked until late, you asked Bud If he could come over, knowing that it was late at night and maybe he was too tired for doing anything.

However, twenty minutes after  you texted him, the doorbell ringed, and, when you opened the door, you found Bud, with a grin on his face and a bottle of wine on his left hand.

So here you are, after a night full of steamy love making, he was still there kissing you and cuddling you, knowing that the moment will end soon.

Turning around into his embrace, you snuggled into his chest, leaving little kisses everywhere you could reach.

“Didn’t you have enough last night sugar?”

“You know that I’m insatiable”

Bud let out a growl, before bringing you under his firm body, kissing you passionately, while both of his hands massaged your hips.

“Mmmh, baby, you know how much I’d like to have you pound into me, but we have to get ready for work”

Getting up from the bed, Bud didn’t waste any time on picking you up bridal style and walking toward the bathroom.

“You know what sugar?  There’s always time for a quickie in the shower”.

  Four hours into work and you were already screaming internally.

Wendell kept looking at you, sending you his creepy grins, the phone kept ringing and ringing and you were waiting for some statistics which were supposed to be ready this morning but, the person who was working on it, completely forgot, delaying all your work in the meantime.

“ Hey (Y/n), do you have a moment?” Looking up from your computer, you noticed Leandra standing in front of your desk.

“Yeah, what is it”

“The air conditioning unit stopped again…Barry wants you to look for Bud, so he can fix it”

Rolling your eyes, you nodded and stood up from your chair, noticing Leandra giving you a sympathetic smile.

 Of course he wasn’t in his office; you just found Lonny, who told you that Bud was in the basement working on an engine.

So here you were, walking around the basement, looking for your handsome janitor.

Suddenly, someone pulled you against the wall, and, when your (e/c) met blue ones, a smile formed on your face.

“Long time no see sugar”

Giggling, you wrapped your arms around his neck, giving him a peck on his pink lips.

“There’s a problem with the damn air conditioning unit…again”

Bud grinned down at you and moved down on your neck.

“Isn’t that damn unit that brought us together huh?”

Bud started a trail of kisses from your neck toward your breasts.

“That unit brought your pretty self on those boxes if I remember correctly”

He started to undoing the buttons of your pristine white blouse, while his hands went under your black pencil skirt, until he reached your clothed sex.

You let out a moan which was swallowed by Bud’s lips on yours, his tongue battling with yours.

Everything was getting more intense, however, as soon as you started to crave for more, Bud’s hands disappeared.

“I’d like to take you here sugar, but we have a job to do…but don’t worry, tonight I’ll resume what I started, and I’ll make sure you let out other sounds like that”

Bud moved away from you, and started making his way toward the generator.

Smiling, you looked at his firm back, before buttoning up your blouse and straighten your skirt.

As soon as you made sure you were presentable, you made your way toward the elevator, looking forward for tonight, when you and Bud will finally have some time for yourselves.

@rookerstash @kimqueenofhell

#bud melks x reader #Bud Melks #the belko experiment #michael rooker #michael rooker x reader #merle dixon x reader #yondu udonta x reader #yondu x reader

[davidcarner]

Hotel California Ch 1, Bartowski, IT

A/N:  Fanfic community after canceled intervention:  Thank God, we've got him down to four ongoing.

Me:  NEVER!  *pushes publish to get reaction from everyone on this being an ongoing and skips out of the room*

A/N 2: A few notes before we start. This fic will be (not this chapter, but down the road) a little more…saucy, spicy, than things I've done before. It's still T but, I'm going to take it up one or two notches. This fic takes place current time, Chuck is approximately 26 years old. Welcome to Hotel California Ch 1, Bartowski, IT

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, but I do own several copies of Hotel California.

He felt the eyes on his back watching his every move. This had required more than he thought it would when she brought him the laptop. Most men were scared of her beauty, but he wasn't. It was a weird friendship, but one just the same. They teased each other….well, she teased him, and he laughed about it. They were on the same page about the important things. He felt her over his shoulder.

"What's wrong, Chuckles," Carina said breathily into his ear. Her breath was making it hard to concentrate, but that was Carina's game. She loved making Chuck uncomfortable. She probably loved making all men uncomfortable, but he had no empirical data to support that theory. "Have I corrupted the hard drive? Please don't ask me to turn off, because you already have me so turned on." Chuck turned toward her slowly.

"Carina, I'm pretty sure that's sexual harassment," Chuck said, an amused smile on her face.

"What you gonna do, report me to myself? I am HR," she replied, bending back over his shoulder to watch him work on her laptop.

"Carina, you are in benefits until they hire someone," Chuck said, chuckling. "You're the Director of Operations."

"And I'm trying to let you enjoy some benefits," she said with a smirk. Chuck stopped in mid turn of the screw on her laptop. "Well, finish screwing me."

"I swear I keep walking right into these," he said, finishing putting the case back on. He plugged it in, hit the power button, and sat back, bumping Carina because she was so close.

"Chuck are you trying to touch me?" Carina asked.

"Keep it up and I won't fix this," he said. She jerked her hands back in a defensive posture. He paused, unsure if he should say anything or not, but it was her, so he went ahead. "Carina, there was some interesting porn on there." She looked at him. "I'm pretty sure it wasn't yours."

"Chuck, you think you know what I want to see?" Carina asked, with a coy smile. He looked at her with no humor on his face.

"It was furry porn," he said. She closed her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Let me guess, some guy you were seeing used it." She nodded, opened her eyes and looked at him.

"Explains why he wanted the costumes," she mumbled under her breath. Chuck shuddered. The computer started up, and she hugged him. "You are the best, Chuck. Can I pay you?"

"Nope," he said, unhooking everything, giving her the laptop, standing up, and walking with her to the door. "You could tone down the innuendos."

"But then how will I see you blush?" she asked. "I love to see you blush, all the way down to the roots of your hair." She looked him up and down, slowly, and not even trying to hide what she was doing. "I wonder if you blush…everywhere?" With that, Chuck began to blush. "Hmmmm." She gave him a grin that looked nearly predatory. "Hey, I have an idea."

"Nope, no, not a happening," Chuck said, shaking his head. She reached up and moved his hair around, fixing it the way she wanted it. He looked up at her hand, back at her, and she finally stopped, satisfied with how it looked. "No blind dates, especially when they're probably with you," he said, grinning.

"You don't know the blind date I was gonna set you up on was gonna be with me," Carian said. He gave her a look and she bounced a shoulder. "Fine, but you're missing out." The look on his face was "here we go again." "I swear one night with me would ruin you for all other women."

"Is that what you really want, Carina, me at your door step every night playing bad love songs to win you?" Chuck asked, amused. She rolled her eyes.

"You would too, wouldn't you," she said, laughing. Chuck leaned against the door frame and gave her a look. She thought she might melt.

"Well, you want to ruin me," Chuck said, waggling his eyebrows. She gasped.

"Chuck Bartwoski, are you flirting?" she asked. Chuck grinned at her, and winked. She hugged him, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and watched as he turned and started back to his desk. She couldn't help herself, and slapped him on the back side causing him to whoop and high step for a second.

"Seriously, HR!" he said, with a grin. She winked, spun, and strutted out of the room as only Carina could. Chuck shook his head. "That woman is twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag," he said to himself.

-ooooo-

Carina returned to her office and shut the door. She liked Chuck, he was a sweet guy, but he was also one of those forever, with a house, 2.3 kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. Carina was not in to that, today. Someday, maybe, but today, today she wanted to have fun. She sighed and pulled out a folder that she needed to turn in before the day was over before Zondra gave her grief. Well, not too much grief, because Zondra knew Carina would get things done. Her thoughts returned to Chuck. She felt bad for the guy. It was a few months ago that she was talking to Martin in the kitchen, or was it Morgan, she wasn't sure. Whatever his name was, he had told her how his friend Chuck had been screwed over by Bryce. Bryce had framed Chuck at Stanford and gotten him kicked out of college. Bryce denied it, but Martin swore Chuck wasn't that guy. They needed someone in IT, and Carina was intrigued. She thought Bryce was a tool as well, so that's why she went to scope out Chuck at the Buy More. She tried to flirt with him, but he basically was nothing but super professional and excused himself when some idiot father forgot to load tape into his camera to record his daughter's ballet recital.

Carina told Zondra about Chuck, but left out everything about Bryce. Zondra called him, offered him an interview, and Carina asked if she could take care of it. She and Chuck had a long talk more than an interview. The reason for hiring him was two-fold, one, it might upset Bryce. Two, he was good, real good. She had called around and asked those who used the Buy More if there was a technician they would recommend, and all the recommendations came back as one Charles 'Chuck" Bartowski. She had to admit, she was pissed at Bryce for hurting Sarah, and if this would upset Bryce, all the better. Bryce might be the Hotel General Manger, but Carina wasn't scared of him. His parents loved her too much to fire her, and that's who she was worried about, the Larkins.

Zondra tried to remind Carina that they needed to keep their personal lives out of this, and it was somewhat Sarah's fault for dating the boss. Zondra thought Sarah knew better, and she did. But, Carina had encouraged Sarah to date Bryce, and that had been an absolute disaster. Sarah thought they were in a relationship, and Bryce thought they were casual. She caught him with someone, Sarah never would say who, and that was the end of Sarah and Bryce. Sarah refused to date coworkers now, and since she didn't want to go clubbing much anymore, Carina was determined to find her someone. Chuck wouldn't bite, Sarah wouldn't bite, so somehow she had to get the two together. How? And that's when it hit her. She picked up the phone and made a call.

"Hey, Reg, it's Catrina," she said smiling. "Did I say Reg, I meant Rick, sorry." Whoops. "So, I got my laptop fixed. You know the one you visited the furry porn site with. Yeah, Rick, that one. Well, there's a real simple way to make it up to me. Tell me the site name. No, I'm not kidding. I met a cute IT guy and I want him to come scrub my hard drive. I know that sounds dirty, I said it." She wrote down the website address. "Thanks Rick. No, I don't want to dress up. Good-bye." She hung up, a grin on her face. She knew just what to do.

-ooooo-

Sarah came in the next morning, tired. She had stayed up most of the night watching old movies on the old movie channel. She liked her job, loved it actually, and especially the people she worked with. She liked them all, except for Bryce Larkin, the biggest cheat that ever cheated. "We're causal," she said, in a low mocking voice, twisting her face. The thing was, she didn't miss him, she was upset at how bad she had gotten burnt. She swore it would never happen again. No guy was going to hurt her, and definitely no guy at work. She turned on her computer and waited for it to warm up as she drank her coffee. Maybe she'd get lucky and someone would pull the fire alarm today and she could watch the firemen come in. She always enjoyed that. She shook her head as she logged into her computer. She waited a minute and realized it was acting very weird. There was a strange icon on her desktop. She double clicked it to see what it was.

"OH GOD!" she screamed and turned off the monitor. She looked around to see if anyone had seen that and then she remembered she was in her office, and no one could see what had happened. The backs of the monitors were facing the doorway…what was that noise. THE SOUND! She turned the monitor back on, found the sound bar, and muted it. She took a deep breath, and nearly jumped out of her seat when there was a knocking sound on the door.

"Hey," Carina said. She took a good look at Sarah and had to fight not laugh. Sarah looked beautiful as usual, her blond hair just past the shoulder with that slight curl, the simple blue top and the black jeans. She looked elegant, and frazzled as can be, all at the same time. "Something wrong?"

"Uh, well," she began.

"Oh, before I forget, there's been a slight porn problem on some computers. If you have any problem, call down to IT and ask for Bartowski," Carina said. "Skip is a good guy and all, but Bartowski is the one you want."

"Have you had any problems?" Sarah asked, nervously.

"Oh, no," Carina said. "Gotta run," and she was gone. Sarah took a deep breath and composed herself. She picked up the phone, put down the phone, walked over to her door, shut it, locked it, and called IT.

"Bartowski, IT," the voice on the other end answered. Sarah smiled at the soothing voice.

"Hi, this is Sarah Walker," she said trying to have steel in her voice.

"Hello, Sarah Walker, are you okay?" he asked.

"Why do you ask?" Oh no. Was she so shook up over this that this guy could tell? What was he gonna think? She had to get control of the situation. "I need help and so help me God, if you tell me to turn it off and turn it back on, I will come down there and…"

"Well, that answers that question. You don't sound like things are going well, and that's never good," he said. "What's wrong?"

"There's this weird thing on my computer," she said with a low voice, still snapping. She didn't care if he thought she was an awful person, but she couldn't have him thinking she was looking at porn at work. "Carina told me to call you to get it off."

"Carina Miller?" he said with a hint of laughter. "Okay, so we're probably going to be at this for a bit, my name is Chuck."

"Chuck?" she asked, her tone changing to curiosity.

"Yeah, my parents were sadists," he said. She laughed. She couldn't help herself. "But, I've managed to make my way in this world despite it." She was wrapping the cord around her finger, and feeling better just talking to him.

"Chuck, I'm sorry," she said. "Things….well…"

"Something went wrong, you snapped and I happened to be the first person you talked to," he said. She winced. She bet that happened a lot.

"No one calls you to say thanks for making everything run smooth, do they?" she asked. Chuck laughed.

"Nope," he said quickly. "So, what happened?"

"Well, I started my computer, and it was running weird, slow," she began. "There was this weird icon…."

"You clicked on it didn't you?" he asked. She heard the humor in voice.

"I was very tired and not thinking clearly," she said waspishly. She huffed. "Again, I'm sorry, I'm just having a very bad day."

"Hey, I'll fix it," Chuck said. "And I won't judge." She looked guilty and was glad no one could see her. "You have no idea how many people get things on their computer and call me wanting me to fix it and are in the foulest mood because they think I'm going to judge them."

"I don't watch that stuff," she said softly.

"You said Carina told you to call me?" he asked. "Is it a certain type of porn?"

"Yes," she said, burying head in her hand.

"Well the good news is I can fix it quick," Chuck said. "But I'm going to have to come up there."

"I've got a meeting, do you think you do it while I'm gone?" she asked.

"Sure," Chuck said cheerfully. "Go to your meeting, and when you get back it will be fixed. Sound good?"

"Sounds great," she said. "And, Chuck, I'm sorry I was a jerk."

"Don't worry about it," Chuck said. "Bye," and with that, he disconnected.

-ooooo-

Chuck pulled up today's calendar and made sure and waited five minutes after the meeting started before he headed to Sarah's office. The last thing he needed was to be yelled at by some crazy woman because she had double clicked an icon that wasn't on her desktop the night before. He had already reformatted a hard drive and loaded her backup from the night before. This would literally take minutes, and then he would reformat the original hard drive and use it down the road. He checked his watch, saw he had some time, and accessed the log-in system. Her computer had been accessed last night by Carina after Sarah had logged off for the evening. What was Carina doing? Chuck thought about the blind date thing Carina had mentioned yesterday. He closed his eyes and had a bad idea as to what was going on. She was going to try to pawn another insane person off on him. What did he do to deserve this?

He appreciated all that Carina had done for him, most of all getting him this job. He sat back in his chair, wasting ten more minutes. He thought about that day they met for the interview, and how she told him about her friend who Bryce had screwed over. Join the club, he though. She told him about how she wanted someone she could trust in IT. She wasn't saying Bryce was doing anything wrong, but she wondered how he had some of the ideas he came up with. Bryce was a lot of things, but his new hotel security internet system made her scratch her head. Chuck's ears perked up when he heard that. He had been working on a project for a class. It was unfinished, but the security system would have been full proof by the time he was done. He asked if he could see it, and with a grin, Carina told him she couldn't allow him to see it unless he was hired. He took the job immediately. When she logged him in and let him access the system, he became sick to his stomach. It was his system, exactly the way he left it, and more importantly it wasn't finished and there were security holes. He told Carina and she could only shake her head. She told him to keep his head down and do his job.

A few days later he got walked up to Bryce's office by Casey, head of security. Chuck figured he was fired. When he sat down Bryce grinned at him like they were old pals. Bryce said he was glad he could give Chuck one last chance, and he really hoped Chuck didn't blow it. If Chuck did well, Bryce could give him all the recommendations to clear that little snafu at Stanford and Larkin Hotel and Resort would gladly pay his tuition to finish up his degree. Chuck started to say something, but realized it was his word against Bryce's, again, and that had gone so well last time. Bryce told him if something happened here like it did at Stanford, the Buy More would be the only place he would work for the rest of his life. Chuck just stared at him, but knew he couldn't win this fight. He simply nodded, thanked him for his time, and got up to leave. Bryce had asked him how Ellie was. Chuck stopped, turned, smiled, and said, she hates your guts and if you ever enter her house she knows over one hundred painful ways to kill you. Bryce blinked and Chuck walked out, grinning.

He looked at the clock, got up, and headed upstairs to the offices. He entered Sarah's office, and quickly took apart her computer, swapped out the hard drive, put it back together, turned it on, check it out to make sure it was alright, logged off, and started to leave. He paused, that was unprofessional. He left her a note to say if anything was wrong, make sure and call and ask for him. He looked at it, smiled, and started out the door, when he nearly ran into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Chuck was tall, but so was she, only a few inches shorter than he was. She had blond hair, and stormy blue eyes. He was transfixed.

"Chuck?" she said again.

"Hey, that's me," he said, grinning. "Got your corrupted old drive here," he said, holding it up. "Give it a whirl and if you need anything just give me a jingle," he said, holding his hand up to his ear like a phone and internally wincing. Jingle? Who the hell says jingle?

Sarah meanwhile was trying to hold down a giggle, wondering when the last time she had giggled. Who had hidden tall and dark-haired curly down in IT? Get ahold of yourself, she thought. She scolded herself. No more interoffice relationships. Besides, what could they possibly have in common. He was a nerd and she was a conman's daughter who was lucky enough to get out of the life her father had tried to drag her into and make her way through college working odd jobs.

"So it's fixed?" she asked.

"I believe so," Chuck replied. He stood there staring at her, and that's when he realized he was standing in her office. "Soooo, guess I'll be going," he said, pointing out of the office. She was blocking his way.

"Oh, yes, of course," she said, and stepped aside. "If I need anything I'll give you a jingle," she said as he was walking away. He paused, looked over his shoulder and saw her biting her bottom lip so as not to laugh. He smiled and headed on, determined to have words with Carina.

-ooooo-

"What do you think you're doing?" Chuck hissed, coming into Carina's office.

"Well hello to you too, Handsome?" Carina said. "Miss me?" she asked with a wink.

"Carina, why did you put porn on Sarah's computer?" Chuck asked. Carina studied him a minute. "I have log-in access," he reminded her.

"Oh, yeah," she said, grinning and shrugging. "So, how was it?"

"She's crazy," Chuck said. "She double-clicked the icon you installed on her computer and then yelled at me about it."

"But, Chuck," Carina began.

"No, no, no," Chuck said. "I am not dealing with a crazy lady, no matter how attractive she is and how soothing her voice is."

"Her voice is soothing?" Carina asked, an eyebrow raised. Chuck glared at her.

"Carina, I'm telling you, NO!" he said, and headed out her door. Carina sat there a minute, thinking.

"Well, I'm just gonna have to try this a different way," Carina said, grinning.

A/N: Shrugs...Welp...that one has been sitting in todo folder for months.  I finished chapter 2 yesterday and thought I'd give this a test run.  Like Chuck V2 (the previously known as Chuck 2.0) I'm just putting it out there to see...I have two more fics in reserve as well...Reviews, PMs, and anything, are always appreciated…take care…see you soon…til next time.

DC

#Chuck #Sarah #Charah #fanfic #fanfiction #Hotel California

[marrishzone]

Series: Cross My Heart

Chapter: Intro

Words: 1576

Tag notifications: @machinasolidaria and @buttheadjakeperalta - the other 2 finished installments will be automatically posting later. (sorry if this series sucks lol I’m so out of practice and couldn’t figure out if it needed to be fixed)

Natalie Martin didn’t make a habit of dropping by unannounced, so when Lydia found her mother waiting for her arrival she knew it must have been important. Lydia didn’t say a word. She just sat on the couch parallel to the one her mother sat on. Lydia didn’t want to be the one to speak first. She’d rather have context to rely on.

“What are you doing?” Natalie finally sighed. “I can’t even begin to understand what’s going on with you.”

“Thanks mom,” Lydia crossed her arms. “Look, I think I know why you’re here. You don’t see me enough.”

“No, honey.” Natalie’s lips curved up into a small smile. “I mean yes, but no. That’s not why I’m here.” She hoped Lydia would chime in, but she never did. “Do you remember that trip we took a couple years back? Your father had business in Hawaii, so we turned it into a family vacation.”

“Of course,” Lydia grinned thinking of the perfect weather and countless hours on the beach. “That was my favorite trip. I mean, it was just the two of us most of the time but it was fun.”

“And do you remember the deal you made with your father while we were there?”

“Oh, I… Um…” Lydia cleared her throat. “Mom, what are you getting at?”

Lydia knew what was happening, but she had to hear the words herself.

“Your dad wanted you to go to law school and join the family firm. You refused, so you promised if you weren’t successful in whatever career you chose for yourself in the next five years, you’d settle down. Get married. Have a family of your own in order to gain access to your trust.”

“Mom?” Her eyes widened. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure the words would help her come to terms with what was going on.

“Sweetie,” Natalie sighed. “Your dad says that your time is up. How’s your relationship with Tommy going?”

Lydia didn’t respond. They both knew the answer to that. Tommy and Lydia never planned on having a serious relationship. They were just having fun until they got tired of being together. As of two weeks prior, Lydia was tired of Tommy.

“I’m sorry, Lydia. I tried to change his mind, but he won’t budge.” Natalie glanced down at her hands for a couple of seconds before sitting next to her daughter. 

“Your dad wants you to set the date of your wedding. But seeing as how you don’t have a boyfriend and are therefore nowhere close to being engaged, I think his next idea is going to be an arranged marriage.”

“Mom…” The shock still hadn’t settled. Lydia’s mind was racing. The few times she imagined herself getting married, she never imagined an arranged marriage. If she was going to sacrifice her life as she knew it, she wanted it to be out of love, not duty.

“Oh, sweetie. I know this is hard.” Natalie gently rested her hand atop her daughter’s. “But you’re 25 years old now. It’s time to think about settling down like you promised. You know your father. He doesn’t want to be your financial crutch for the rest of his life.”

“I refuse to marry some guy I don’t know!”

“I know. Find a loophole, sweetheart. Or make a new deal.”

With that, Natalie hugged Lydia and let herself out. Lydia knew her father well enough to know that he wouldn’t agree to a new deal. She had to find a way out of her predicament. There was no way she would pass up her trust fund. Her only option was to trick her father into thinking she was in a serious relationship. Surely they didn’t actually have to go through with the wedding. It would be easy to get out of it. Lydia finally breathed. It was a solid plan, but she still needed someone to agree to play along with her. Luckily, she knew just the guy she should ask.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Kyle! Sorry I’m late.” Lydia’s hair swayed as she took her seat in the booth he’d reserved for them at their favorite pizzeria. She was only five minutes late, but Lydia was always the type of person who valued punctuality. She sipped her strawberry soda already on the table.

“It’s alright.” Kyle grinned. “What’s up? Your message sounded urgent.”

“It is!” Lydia paused, considering the typical definition of ‘urgent’ and realized this might not qualify. “Kind of. It’s my dad.”

“Ah, now I see.” Kyle buried his head in his hands. Lydia’s relationship with her father was rather strained. They had never quite seen eye to eye. “What did he do now?”

“I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend!” She forced the words out before she could even think about alternative methods to asking this favor.

“What?” He crossed his arms tightly. His smile was fading. “Why?”

“My inheritance. Long story.”

“Lydia…” Kyle didn’t know what to say, but he knew he couldn’t help her. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Kyle?”

“You know how I feel about you!” Kyle whisper-shouted, careful not to be too loud in the middle of the restaurant. He cleared his throat, quickly glancing around at the tables surrounding theirs. “I can’t do it. I’ve finally accepted that we’re never going to be anything more than friends. But now you want me to pretend that’s not the case? I won’t.”

Without another word, Kyle got up and left. Lydia didn’t try to stop him, though she wanted to. She would have apologized, promised not to ask another favor like this one again. The reality of it, however, was that she knew it wouldn’t do any good. He wouldn’t believe Lydia meant it. She never realized his feelings for her could run so deep. The one thing she regretted was letting it get so far out of control. She felt horrible, especially having forgotten about his crush on her in the first place.

“Excuse me?” An unfamiliar voice called from next to her. Lydia looked up at him. He wore a blue t-shirt, black jeans, and a black leather jacket. His green eyes fixed onto Lydia’s. “May I?” His hand gestured to the seat Kyle had just been sitting in.

“Uh, sure.” Lydia nodded, uncertain of what to expect. “Go for it.”

“Thanks.” The man smiled as he sat right across from Lydia. “I’m Jordan. Jordan Parrish.”

“Lydia.” She paused. She was suspicious of him, but he seemed harmless enough. What could possibly go wrong? “Martin.”

“Listen, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on your conversation.”

He stopped talking as Lydia’s usual server placed a large pizza on their table. Half cheese, half pepperoni. Lydia never had to place her order anymore. She and Kyle always got the same thing whenever they visited Donatello’s.

“Thanks Maria,” Lydia beamed.

“Yeah,” Maria nodded, looking between Lydia and Jordan with an eyebrow raised. She was positive she saw a spark between the two. “Enjoy.”

She winked before slipping away. Jordan didn’t seem to notice, but Lydia did.

“Please, continue.” Lydia prompted, attempting not to laugh at Maria’s assumption.

“Okay um…” Jordan hesitated. Suddenly it felt like a terrible idea. He was regretting ever having decided to go through with approaching Lydia. “I think um… I think I can help you out. Pretend to be your boyfriend. Whatever you wanted your friend to do, I’m your guy.”

“What do you want, Jordan?” Lydia narrowed her eyes. “A cut of the money, perhaps?”

“What? No.” He absentmindedly began brushing his hand along the length of his arm.

“You don’t know me. I don’t know you either, but I’m pretty sure you’re not doing this solely out of the goodness of your heart.” Lydia examined his perfect face, crossing her arms. “What’s in it for you?”

“Honestly?” Jordan waited for Lydia’s nod. “I just got out of a relationship that ended badly. It’s been a few weeks and I could use a change of pace. If helping you out of a jam can also help me out of mine, why not give it a shot?”

“So we help each other? A mutually beneficial arrangement.” Lydia bit her lip. This seemed like one of those things they would warn you about in the movies, but Lydia had never turned her back on a crazy adventure. She wasn’t about to start now. “Okay. If we’re going to do this, we’ll need to have our stories straight.”

Lydia pulled a cheese slice from the pie and waited for Jordan to do the same. He chose pepperoni. They ate in silence. For the first time all night, Lydia finally felt like her scheme was under control. All she needed was a fake boyfriend, right? Nothing could possibly go wrong.

“Tomorrow.” Lydia expected him to know what she was referring to. He didn’t. “Tomorrow I prep you.”

She could only hope that nothing would go wrong, because next week would have to be the best performance of their lives if Lydia would have any chance at keeping her inheritance.

“Oh, and Jordan?” She hesitated. “Promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Just…” She bit down on her bottom lip. Lydia knew it would sound kind of silly, but she needed his assurance that this scheme wouldn’t get out of control. “Swear to me right now that you won’t fall in love with me.”

He was confused, but nodded in agreement anyway.

“Promise me.”

“Yeah, of course.” Jordan grinned. “Cross my heart.”

#mymarrishheart #actually mine #davette here #fic #au #lydia #jordan #Natalie #original #3rd

[stilitana]

Lo and Behold | 10k | completed

Jon and Martin make up for lost time, before lost time makes for them.

Yet another safehouse story, needed to offer something to the between-seasons void. This is about scars and healing and reciprocity.

 “A monster is not such a terrible thing to be. From the Latin root monstrum, a divine messenger of catastrophe, then adapted by the Old French to mean an animal of myriad origins: centaur, griffin, satyr. To be a monster is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.”

— Ocean Vuong, from “A Letter To My Mother That She Will Never Read”

 The safehouse was small, and dusty, and after the tumult and chaos of leaving the lonely, the unbroken silence of its unbreathing walls and the rolling hills all around seemed remote as the surface of the moon. A quiet, otherworldly dreamscape where the sky was powder blue, the air cool and fresh as clear water, and in the distance the hulking purple forms of mountains. 

For all its tranquility, Martin cannot mistake the place for the lonely – that endless foggy coastline where he had waded through water that never rose past his hips no matter how far he walked, where there was not another soul any more reachable than the pale sun, like a clouded white cataract, not even so much as the silver flash of a fish. For one thing, there was the town just down the road with its quiet, pleasant bustle, regular people going about their lives and minding their own business. For another, there was Jon. Jon who had, ever since taking his hand and leading him from the lonely, hovered around him like a watchful shadow, if not at his side then keeping watch from nearby. The presence is...a lot to get used to, after so long on his own. After getting so comfortable with being alone. And it might be funny, if it weren’t so sad, if he weren’t still a little numb and hollowed out, that after everything, it’s Jon who is clinging and vying for his attention, as if it were something of value. 

Jon set about taking the place apart once they got inside, Martin standing by idly, unsure of what to do with his hands, which felt like anvils sitting useless and heavy on the ends of his wrists. He opened all the cupboards, the cabinets and closets, even checked under the bed, and Martin does not comment on the way his hands tremble or his breath catches as though he is steeling himself to find something terrible, a body under the baseboards, a bloodstain. 

There is just one bedroom. This makes sense – Daisy had hardly needed to splurge on a safehouse suited to accommodating guests. Martin followed Jon inside, where Jon yanked open the closet and the medicine cabinet, eyes narrowed, and then he knelt down by the bed, wincing as he did so. 

“What exactly are you looking for?” Martin said. 

“Something. Anything.” 

“Do you...have a reason to think there’s anything to find?” 

“Not exactly? Oh. You mean do I—know there’s something here. No. I’m trying not to, you know,” Jon said, waving a hand in a vague gesture he probably thinks is more helpful than it is. “See things.” 

“Is that even possible for you?” 

Jon sat on the floor, hands in his lap, looking small and vulnerable and lost, and Martin can only distantly wonder at how the sight fails to make his heart clench. Instead it elicits only a deep-seated ache, like an old injury warning of rain. 

“I don’t really know,” Jon said. “But I think I should try.” 

“...Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

Martin shrugged, managed a halfhearted apologetic wince. “Sorry. Still feel a little...my head’s foggy.” 

“Of course. Of course, I’ll keep—you lie down, rest, I’ll, you know,” Jon said, reaching up to use the bed to help him stand up with a small, pained sound he can’t quite stifle. Martin held out his arm to offer a hand too late, and Jon took it once he was already half risen, which left them both standing awkwardly clasping hands. A year ago, Martin would have let Jon go as though burned, stammered apologies. A year ago Jon would have let him, face a mask of carefully maintained indifference which Martin would have interpreted as disgust. He knows now he has a hostile attribution bias—tends to read neutral expressions as negative. The seeds planted in his upbringing having grown up into a choking mass of weeds making him second guess the most harmless interaction. Now he just feels tired. And Jon looks lost. 

Jon cleared his throat and let go, looked down, gestured awkwardly at the bed. “Right,” he muttered. “Leave you to it, then.” 

“I don’t want to sleep, Jon. I didn’t mean...I’m fine. Or I will be fine. I just wanted you to know it’s not that something’s wrong, or—not that right now is wrong, just—my mind’s moving a little...slow, right now. It’s getting better, has gotten better, already, than it was, but...you know.” 

Jon nodded, and Martin isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to seeing how open and unguarded so many of Jon’s expressions are these days, as though all that has happened has flayed him of all his past masks and reservations, left him naked and exposed. There is real sympathy and understanding and acceptance in Jon’s expression and he doesn’t know how to handle that. Even if, when he’s being honest with himself, he has to admit it’s been there for a while now. Since Jon woke from the coma, at least. All the more reason he’d had to pull away. 

“I do know,” Jon murmured. “I mean I understand. Is there anything I can...do, for you?” 

Martin is momentarily breathless, as though something heavy has struck him in the chest and winded him. His head full of this dull, hollow ringing like an upturned bell. “You don’t...have to take care of me, Jon.” 

“What?” 

“I mean, you’ve done enough.” 

“Oh,” Jon said, voice careful and controlled. “I see.” He swallowed, and Martin watched him schooling his face into a wary mask of aloof detachment, the way he has seen Jon do so many times. It doesn’t quite work anymore. There’s a fragile, haunted quality to all Jon’s careful movements now which belies his composure and leaves him looking...breakable. Trauma will, Martin supposes, do that to you. The thought should horrify him. It will horrify him, as soon as he works up the courage to let all the emotions he’s been bottling up seep back out, but that’s...he’s not ready for that. 

“You’ve already done...more than enough.” 

Jon blinks at him, and for all the time they’ve spent together over the past—how long has it been, a day? — however long since they left the lonely, Martin thinks this is the first time Jon has really stared at him. With a fixed intensity, as though trying to know him by sight alone. And Jon...has changed. There’s no denying it. His eyes, his gaze, bears a faint pressure, a warning tingling feeling that raises the hair on the back of Martin’s neck, as though he is being stared at by something behind him as well. And he knows that Jon could push, could wield that gaze like a weapon and break him open. Knows that Jon could tear secrets out of him like pulling teeth. And he knows that he won’t. No, that’s not right—he believes that he won’t. Because, even through the lingering fog in his brain, he must admit to himself that the truth is this: he believes in Jon. Still. After everything. It’s still him. 

“Martin, this isn’t...this isn’t the lonely talking, is it?” 

“I think you know it’s more complicated than that, Jon. I don’t think it’s one or the other, anymore, I think...we probably shouldn’t try too hard, trying to determine what’s us and what’s...it. Slippery slope, and all.” 

“I...yes,” Jon murmured. “But that doesn’t...doesn’t that bother you?” 

Martin shrugged. He’d never been much of a shrugger, before, but now, well. He just doesn’t have it in him to trip over himself coming up with appropriately personable reactions. The memory of how he used to contort himself trying to appease everyone all the time alone exhausts him. “It could, if I let it. But honestly, I don’t want to. Bad things have always happened, things you have no control over, that change you and get under your skin, even before we had names for them and thought of them as entities. Maybe no one is ever themselves. Maybe we cling to a sense of solid identity because we’re attached to the illusion of permanence. I don’t...really care, which is true. I’ve just decided not to. We couldn’t change it before, can’t change it now, we can just...do what everyone else has always done, I guess. Our best.” He shrugged again, too emotionally drained to bother with embarrassment, the sort he always used to feel whenever he spoke his mind, especially to Jon, ready to be scoffed at and made to feel small and stupid. 

Instead, Jon lets out a shaky, shuddering breath. “I wish I could...you really think that?” 

“Yes.” 

“In the lonely, you said—” Jon broke off, wrapping one arm around his middle, his other hand coming up to press his knuckles to his mouth as he breathed through his nose, as though bodily holding himself together. His voice was muffled by his hand when he spoke. “I know you’re you, I know you’re still—Martin, I could—I knew it was you, that’s how I found you. And in the lonely, you said—you said—” 

Martin’s heart manages a little pang, not of panic but of exhausted sorrow at the thought of Jon saying back to him what he had confessed in the lonely. He doesn’t think he can stand it, not now, and wants to stop him, but can’t bring himself to speak. 

But Jon doesn’t mention the confession. Jon said, “You said I was me.” 

Martin blinked, thinking back. It’s not that he doesn’t remember saying I see you, Jon, because of course he does. Of course he does. It’s just that...it had seemed so obvious, so true and so right, that he’s unsure why Jon seems to be falling apart right in front of him over it. 

Jon heaves in another labored, shaky breath, still holding himself and staring at the edge of the bed. “Did you—did you mean that?” 

And Martin recalls leaving a tape with Basira, and a note, Talk to him. And he remembers a terrified young woman describing the monster in her nightmares, and recognizing it as Jon, his Jon, his Jon who gets that dear little crease between his brows when he’s thinking, who smiles like he’s taking a risk, who was all eyes, and he was all eyes . 

Martin does not need to think about his reply. The truth is as always beyond reproach, beyond reason or doubt or evidence to the contrary, the truth is not fact but feeling and faith, the truth is simple and down in the marrow. He is so tired of overthinking, of second-guessing. “Yes,” he said. 

Jon made a small, pained sound, curling in on himself and pressing his hand hard against his mouth. “I didn’t realize—how badly I needed to hear—but I don’t think I deserve to,” he said, his voice catching and breaking on something that’s part sob and part the choked, somewhat unhinged beginnings of a laugh. His voice was ragged, strung-out, teetering over a great gulf of loss so vast Martin knows they could free-fall through forever. And Martin is tired of loss and free-fall and of isolation. And Jon is falling apart in front of him, tears brimming and leaking silently from his strange, familiar eyes, shoulders hunched and body curled as if to protect his core, and it is the simplest thing in the world to at last give in to his most natural impulse, and Martin reaches out slowly, giving Jon time to pull away. When he doesn’t, Martin takes Jon into his arms. 

He expects Jon to tense up, and for a second he does, as though braced for pain, and then he gives. He uncurls his arms from around himself and wraps them around Martin’s back, presses his face into Martin’s chest, sucking in a wet, shuddering breath, and Martin can feel it through the rise of his sharp shoulder bones, his ribs. He rests his head against Jon’s and holds him and it is so easy, and it hurts more than anything, and it doesn’t hurt at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, his voice nearly inaudible. “I shouldn’t be—you don’t have to—” 

He tensed as if to push away, but Martin holds him, gentle and firm as he can. “Please don’t go,” he whispered, and Jon obeys as though it is the greatest relief in the world to be told to stay, to be held in place, and he makes ugly, painful sounds as he tries to silence his crying. 

Martin rubs his hands down Jon’s back in a way he hopes is as soothing to Jon as it is to him, and Jon’s arms are wrapped tightly around his back as though he’s trying to make them into one being, and it’s almost too much, overwhelming in its closeness after all the loneliness, but Martin knows that healing often is painful, so he holds on and makes comforting nonsense shushing sounds, because he can’t quite cry and can’t think of anything more to say. 

He doesn’t know how long they spend like that. He’s lost his sense of time. But eventually Jon’s sobbing gives way to sniffling and Martin realizes that his shaking is no longer from the strain of trying to hold back tears but rather his body trembling with exhaustion. “We should sit down,” he mumbled. And then—“Do you want tea?” 

Jon laughed, once, choked and gutted. “Tea would be...divine.” 

“Tea would be divine,” Martin repeated, a faint smile tugging at his lips. 

Jon untangled himself from their embrace, eyes puffy and red, his face splotchy from crying and flushed. “It’s been a long day,” he said, and Martin is helpless to how endearing the defensive prickliness in Jon’s tone is. 

Jon followed him into the kitchen and sat on a stool, and Martin felt his gaze on him as he prepared their tea. They sat at the little dining table afterward and Martin couldn’t recall the last time he had felt this – companionable silence, the pleasure of letting his own thoughts wander while someone else did the same close by. He is aware, now and then, of Jon raising his eyes to stare at Martin. Jon had never been one for prolonged eye-contact, had even actively avoided it when he could, and the staring isn’t exactly new, but it is...different, now. For a while Martin ignores it, and then, experimentally, turns to meet Jon’s gaze. 

Jon blinked and looked down, cringing. Martin didn’t know what to make of that, exactly, and didn’t know how to broach the subject, so for now he let it go. 

“We should probably...there’s no food here,” Jon said. 

“Have to get to the store.” 

Jon hummed, staring at his mug. “We could both...go?” 

When he looked up tentatively, Martin was ready to meet him, smiling and relieved. 

 In the little local grocery, Martin grabs a basket and Jon trails behind him through the brightly lit aisles, eyes darting this way and that, as though trying to see in all directions at once. “What’re you in the mood for?” Martin asks. He has decided he is not going to lose his mind at having found himself dumped abruptly from a nightmare into some parody of domestic bliss with Jonathan Sims, of all people, acting like a couple on vacation. He has decided that the way Jon keeps close to him, as though grounded by Martin’s presence, is not going to break his heart. He has decided to accept all things as they are, except for the things he cannot accept, which he is pretty sure they have earned a momentary respite from, hard-won though it was. 

“Oh. I don’t care,” Jon said, gazing listlessly at the shelves of food. “Up to you.” 

“You can have whatever you want, you know.” 

“I haven’t been shopping in a while.” 

“But you have been eating, haven’t you?” 

“Er. There’s always something lying around in the breakroom,” Jon said, waving a hand dismissively. 

“Jon,” Martin sighed. 

“It just – it's not like it’s easy to do much cooking, in the institute, you know.” 

“Still. What about the others?” 

“The others? I’m sure that they – they went out, got takeaway, you know. Daisy and I sometimes, you know, we would – but truthfully, it just never...you know. They went out to lunch, and I’d read a statement.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yes.” 

“But you do still need to eat?” 

“I haven’t actually tried starving myself to find out.” 

“Let’s keep it that way, okay?” Martin said, not at all liking the detached, pondering way Jon said that, as though considering conducting such an experiment on himself. Just to know. 

Jon frowned. “I don’t...think I want that to be true. I don’t think I’d like that.” 

“Well, you don’t have to find out. I don’t really feel up to making anything too complicated right now, though.” 

“Oh, of course not.” 

In the end they bought basic things – soups, pasta, ready meals, anything that seemed easy enough to bother with. Jon hemmed and hawed over a selection of green apples for longer than Martin thought at all necessary, scrutinizing each one in turn with a sharp, critical eye. 

“You know minor blemishes don’t at all affect the quality of a piece of fruit, right? It’s a common misconception. It’s kind of a big issue, actually – a lot of food gets wasted because of picky shoppers. Like you. You’re pretty much feeding the extinction right now, probably.” 

Jon shoots him a look. “I know that. I just – don't like it when they’re. Spotty.” 

“You like the idea of an apple more than you like an apple itself, you mean.” 

“It’s just a preference, Martin, you don’t need to conduct a philosophical inquiry on the subject,” Jon says, so snotty and prim that it startles a laugh from Martin. A clumsy, genuine laugh, the kind he hasn’t managed in...months now. Jon’s eyes crinkle and he goes back to muttering over the apples. 

Back at the house, they eat their hastily cooked pasta while seated on the couch together and listening to the radio, just to fill the silence. There was no television, and Martin suspects the radio is for emergencies more than entertainment, or so he thinks. The food is bland but hot and filling and Martin finds himself...content. Comfortable, warm in a way he’d forgotten he could feel. Beside him, a whole cushion of space between them, Jon is pressed against the armrest, looking impossibly soft. They’d both showered and, as all of Jon’s belongings had been left at the institute, where they’d obviously decided not to return, Martin had given him a t-shirt and pair of flannel pajama bottoms. They were too big, the drawstrings knotted with a bow around Jon’s waist. He had the collar pulled up and was stroking the fabric seam against his lips and Martin  knows  it doesn’t mean anything, knows it’s just a self-soothing tic and Jon’s mind is elsewhere and he definitely doesn’t realize he’s doing it, but. Still. 

He doesn’t want to ruin Jon’s apparent state of uncharacteristic calm, but he knows they have to talk about this eventually, and the sooner the better. So he says, not without reluctance, “Jon. How are you...feeling?” 

Jon drops the collar. “What? Fine. Why? Is something wrong?” 

“No, I just...well, we don’t exactly have any statements lying around, do we?” 

“Oh. No, but...but you know Basira said she’d try and send some, as soon as she’s able.” 

“But we don’t know when that might be.” 

Jon swallowed, carefully studying how the fibers of the couch shifted as he stroked his finger up and down along the armrest, brushing them forward and back. “No. We don’t.” 

“And how long can you go without having one?” 

Jon frowned down at the couch, face flushing. “I’ll be fine, Martin,” a familiar tone of curt dismissal in his voice. 

“That wasn’t an accusation, Jon. I’m not asking because I think you’re going to go on a rampage and start pulling them out of random passerby.” Jon winced, and Martin rushed to go on. “I know you stopped – that. I know it wasn’t easy, but you did it, and I know you’re going to keep doing it, because you want to, and that’s good. I’m asking for the same reason we just went shopping. Because we’re not trapped in that awful place anymore, and there’s no excuse not to take care of ourselves, and if you need statements to be well, then I just want us to be aware of that.” 

Jon’s voice is careful and controlled when he replied. “I was hoping...I had almost hoped it would just...go away. Once we left, I thought...maybe it will just stop.” 

“Jon...” 

“But...it seems I’m still beholden,” he said, his face twisting into a grimace. “I don’t think it’s going to stop,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry?” 

“Because you shouldn’t have to – you should get to be free of all this. But you can’t be. Not as long as I’m here, being – this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. 

“Jon. Please stop telling me what I want,” Martin said. “It’s been months of nothing but people telling me what they think I want to hear, and honestly, I’m sick of it. What I want isn’t just to get away from the institute, to leave every trace of this behind. What would that even mean for me, or any of us, at this point? It’s been years of this being our lives. We’ve all changed. I don’t know who I’d even be – none of us can just walk away. It’s not what I want.” 

“What do you want, then?” Jon said, desperate. 

“I want – what I always wanted, I guess. For us to...to try and be happy. I know, I know – nobody's happy all of the time, you can’t make somebody happy, Martin, god I know. But for us to try. To stop pretending that by being miserable, we’re somehow doing – penance, or something. As if us being miserable does anybody any good. Tim and Sasha, you think they’d be glad that we decide to punish ourselves for living, for the rest of our lives? What good does it do? I just want a chance. I just want...to try. That’s all.” 

“Oh. Okay, then,” Jon said, swallowing. “I think I can...try. To do that.” 

“Good. So...please don’t hide things from me anymore, okay? It won’t do either of us any good.” 

“You, too.” 

“Fine. And if you...if you really need a statement, Jon, like, it’s to a point where you’re hurting yourself, just...please say something? I’ve probably got a statement in me somewhere knocking around, and I honestly don’t mind if—” 

“No, Martin,” Jon said, eyes wide. 

“Yes, Jon. Yes, okay? It’s not like what you do kills people.” 

“Peter Lukas,” Jon muttered, sounding oddly torn up about it. 

“Well...maybe him. But that was...not the norm. He was such a goddamn recluse that probably just having you look at him sent him off.” 

“I don’t even know what happened there. I didn’t...I didn’t really mean to. I just wanted to know, and he wouldn’t tell me, and I didn’t understand how he was doing it, and so I pushed, and I – I didn’t think it would –  kill  him. Maybe he’s still there. In the lonely.” 

Privately, Martin is pretty sure that Peter Lukas is gone for good, but if Jon isn’t ready to deal with that reality, Martin isn’t going to push him to confront it tonight. So he just says, “I don’t know. The point is, the problem with you taking statements was more an issue of...consent, than anything. As well as, you know, you making sure you were...making your own decisions. Well, I consent. And I won’t even have you seeing me in my dreams or whatever, since I’m pretty sure I’m still very much linked to the eye, and, well, it’s not as though I haven’t been having nightmares since Prentiss anyway, so if a giant eye or whatever wants to turn up and watch them, well, have at it.” 

“But I don’t want to see you,” Jon muttered, turning away. “I don’t...it’s awful, seeing them, not being able to do anything, and at the same time, feeling...it, its...disinterested interest. But – but I can’t complain, of course, it’s not – it's me doing it, isn’t it? It’s only my...the other people, who’ve got any right to...you shouldn’t be okay with that, Martin. I don’t want you making sacrifices.” 

“Oh, right. Coming from the person who went around shaking the hands of killer wax people, climbing into coffins, and willingly flinging himself into the lonely on what was for all he knew a suicide mission, sure, you’ve got every right to lecture me about self sacrifice.” 

“Isn’t that exactly what you were doing, working with Lukas in the first place?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then it sounds like we’re at a bit of an impasse here, Martin, when it comes to questionable acts of martyrdom.” 

“Maybe. But I did what I did because I – to save you. All of you. To keep people safe. And I know that’s part of why you do what you do, but honestly, Jon, don’t think it’s somehow escaped my notice that you also seem to think you deserve whatever punishment the universe throws at you. Except, oh wait – it's you who seems to go actively looking for the punishment.” 

“Oh, that’s not fair – you said yourself you had nothing to live for and that’s why you started working with Lukas – a good way to end up dead, indeed.” 

“How did you hear that?” 

“What?” 

“I just – you weren’t there, when I said that.” 

“It -- it must have been on a tape. Wasn’t I...I wasn’t there?” 

“Maybe it was an earlier tape, I just...well.” 

“It must have been.” 

“Right. Must have been. Anyway...instead of arguing over who’s been more self-destructively stupid lately – which it is you, by the way – we should probably rest.” 

“Right,” said Jon, and Martin found himself wondering if Jon slept anymore, before pushing the thought away, feeling guilty for some reason, as though it was somehow a betrayal to wonder about the ways in which Jon had been altered. “I’ll take the couch.” 

“No, Jon, you—” 

“Martin. Please.” 

Martin sighed, too tired to argue. “Fine,” he relented, standing. “But at least let me help set it up.” 

He brought a few pillows from the pile on the bed, as well as a sheet and a quilt he found folded in the closet, and fussed over the couch for a few minutes while Jon hovered nearby, trying not to smile. When he couldn’t come up with any more excuses to linger, he smoothed the quilt down one last time and turned to Jon. “All right. Well. Good night, I guess.” 

“Goodnight, Martin.” 

“I’ll be...” 

“Right in the other room.” 

“Right.” 

He did not shut the bedroom door. With it open, the little light plugged into the outlet in the hallway cast the faintest glow into the room, and he could hear Jon shifting around on the couch, a comforting reminder that he was not alone. He closed his eyes and sleep took him. 

 Those weeks were good ones. Quiet ones. They took walks together into town and in the fields and stayed up very late because it seemed there was no end to their conversation, the conversation which was like a third newborn being held between them, a small fire which needed careful tending and gentle kindling.  

Sometimes Martin felt himself overcome by that subtle creeping fog which left him fuzzy and unreal, as though the world around him were made of dream matter, dust and cobwebs. Sometimes he couldn’t sleep. Sometimes his insomnia aligned with the times when Jon was dragged roughly from sleep by a particularly vivid nightmare, and they would sit up together listening to the radio or reading, drinking tea in companionable silence, or making bleary conversation. 

On one such night, Martin wakes and finds himself unable to go back to sleep. The clock blinks the time at him: two thirty in the morning. He finds that he doesn’t mind this, not so much. There were parts of the lonely that weren’t scary at all, that just filled him with a great calm. He might be able to persuade himself he’s the only person awake for miles, but that isn’t being alone—Jon is sleeping in the next room, the town at repose down the road. 

Or, Jon was sleeping in the next room. Martin hears shifting, a muffled groan. He’s slipping out of bed before his mind catches up with his body, knowing only that Jon is awake and shouldn’t be alone. Three nights in a row now they’ve done this (the fatigue is starting to catch up with him). But this is the first time Martin stops in front of the couch to find Jon hunched over himself, hands over his eyes, shuddering. 

“Jon?” 

Jon just pressed his hands harder against his eyes and shook his head, sucked in a ragged breath. Martin sat on the couch beside him, leaving a few inches of space between them, and gently put his hand on Jon’s knee. Jon trembled and curled tighter in on himself, mumbled something Martin couldn’t make out. 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” 

Jon repeated himself, and this time Martin made out only, “don’t deserve.” 

Martin doesn’t push. Doesn’t crowd, or fuss. He’s learning Jon, learning how he works all over again. He hums and rubs light, soothing circles on Jon’s skin with his thumb. “A bad one, then,” he murmured. “You’re awake. It’s over now, and it’s going to be all right.” 

Jon made a small, wounded sound that Martin thought might have been intended as a laugh, that bitter, sardonic laugh he used to hear a lot, but it doesn’t quite come off. “I’m going to put the kettle on,” he said, standing, only to be stopped when Jon’s hand shot out and held his wrist. “Or...I could stay here.” 

Jon let go of him, and with his hands dropping to twist nervously in his lap, Martin could see the frustrated misery on his face. “Sorry.” 

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

Jon laughed, bitter and hurt. “You can go back to sleep, Martin.” 

Martin stood, looked down at Jon, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Is that what you want?” When Jon wouldn’t reply, Martin sighed and went to prepare the tea, turning on the warm kitchen light as he did so. When he returned, he handed Jon his mug and sat down beside him once more on the couch. 

“Thank you,” Jon mumbled. “For...everything.” 

“And the tea.” 

“And the tea.” 

Martin watched Jon sip his tea, whole body curled like a comma and pressed against the armrest, hair mussed with sleep, dark circles under his eyes. He said, “You’re very silly, you know that?” 

Jon spluttered and looked at him, so disgruntled that Martin smiled. “I’m what?” 

“Silly. You’re silly.” 

“That--that is probably the last thing anyone would—” 

“It’s okay, Jon. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone, and ruin your professional mystique.” 

Jon shifted to turn towards him, gaze comically serious as he looked at Martin as though he were something worth studying. “I’m not—that.” 

“What, silly?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hm. Disagree. It’s part of your essential you-ness.” 

“And you’re--strange.” 

“And you’re quite boring, really.” 

“And--and confusing.” 

“Do I confuse you, Jon? Really? Little old me?” 

Jon inched forward on the couch, as though getting closer would help him better see through to whatever he was looking for. Martin held very still, as though not to startle something wild and rare. “ Yes ,” Jon whispered. “You always have.” 

“Oh. Always?” 

“With your, your cheer, looking glad to see me, your damn ‘Good morning, Jon,” and, and your damn tea.” 

“That’s all it takes to baffle you? Manners and tea?” 

“And your kindness,” Jon said, almost hissing out the word, eyes narrowed as he studied Martin, for once unselfconscious about his own uncanny gaze. 

“Even with an all-knowing eye popping neat little facts about the world’s mysteries into your brain, that’s what throws you? Kindness?” 

Jon withdrew, and Martin worried he’d pushed too far, by bringing up the eye, but he somehow knows that he needs to say this. Needs Jon to have whatever revelations he’s working himself up to, cogs almost visibly grinding away in that overworked head of his. His gaze remained on Martin, softening somewhat, eyes dark and liquid. “The eye is no good for things like that. No good for much at all, really. But especially not that.” 

“Things like what?” 

“Anything worthwhile. People. Feelings. It needs me for that, I think. Or so I’ve been told, I think.” 

“Then I guess I’m an enigma you’ll have to work out on your own. Tough luck, Jon.” 

Jon laughed, a little clumsily, but the sound plucked at Martin’s heart. “You’re...different.” 

“So are you.” 

“Yes, but I mean—” 

“I’m not talking about the eye. Not talking about rituals, or statements, or the archives. I know that’s part of it. I’m not denying that’s part of it. But I’m talking about something else.” 

“And what...might that be?” 

“I’m figuring that out. For one thing, though, you say thank you a lot more now.” 

Jon’s face twisted with discomfort. He glanced down, and then forced himself to look back at Martin and maintain twitchy eye-contact, something Martin knew wasn’t the easiest thing for him. Hadn’t ever been. “I--somehow,” he said, swallowing a lump in his throat, “I think that worrying over my humanity has made me realize...how I might have put more of it to better use, while I had some to spare.” 

“Yeah? Like how?” 

“Martin, I—I have not always been kind. To you.” 

“Oh, you have your own ways of showing it. I think risking your life to save me from an eternity in the lonely counts for something.” 

“But--before. I was...dismissive.” 

“Yes, sometimes you were. But I think I knew you had a heart in there, all along. When you said I could stay at the archives, after Prentiss—I think that’s when I knew I was right. No matter what Tim had to say about it.” 

Jon swallowed and Martin watched the scars on his throat stretch. “I...Martin. So you’re saying you...you do know that, that I...” 

Martin waited, gave Jon time to collect himself and wrestle with whatever thoughts and doubts and warring impulses were blocking up his speech. “I understand that it’s been...a while, and that you don’t...not anymore, and that’s...I understand, but I just need...I want you to know that I, also...before the lonely, I don’t know how long, knowing and realizing something are different things, but it’s been...a while, I think, that I’ve...felt. For you. Love.” Jon said the word like it hurt. 

For a moment they sat in silence. Martin knew he’d been leading Jon along towards something, but now, all his newfound confidence and security fled him and left him stupefied, staring at Jon, face heating, while Jon, looking pale and scared, squirmed and looked away. After a moment of silence, Jon began speaking in a nervous rush. “That is—I think that what I feel counts as—I know I’m not—I've never been—even with Georgie, it was different, but—that's the only other—I don’t know if I can even, given what I am, or if I know how, or—you don’t have to say anything, I didn’t mean to, to, to impose, or, or make you uncomfortable, god, I just—don't say anything, please, unless you want to, that wasn’t a—” 

“Jon.” 

“Yes,” Jon breathed, as though desperately grateful to have been shut up. 

“Sorry, did you just...did you just say that you?” Martin pointed at Jon, and then himself. “Me? You love me?” 

Jon nodded miserably, as though Martin were confirming that he’d contracted some kind of horrible disease. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at it.” 

“Jesus, Jon—you—do you have any idea...would you come here?” 

Martin held open his arms, and Jon hesitated. “You don’t have to do this, Martin. I know you’re stuck with me, given our situation, but you don’t have to...just because I said this, don’t think that I expect anything. You’re always giving.” 

“Jon. You’re being daft. Please come here.” 

“But I—” 

“I want to hold you.” 

“Oh.” 

And then Jon crawled across the couch and into Martin’s arms. Martin had to shift to make them both comfortably able to lie against the cushions, entwined, and he pressed his face to Jon’s hair and breathed. “Like I said,” he whispered. “You’re silly.” 

“Oh.” 

“I know you’re still scared,” Martin whispered. “I am, too. And I know you worry, I know you overthink things, it’s what you do, and I love it about you, but this...doesn’t need to be complicated. If you feel that way, and I feel that way, then...then this is easy, isn’t it? See?” 

“I see,” Jon whispered. He cleared his throat, and Martin felt it against his chest. “Could we, ah...could we do this, in the bed?” 

“Oh. God, yeah.” 

Martin stood and offered his hand, which Jon looked at as though it was some fragile, wonderful gift he was worried about leaving dirty fingerprints on if he touched it, but then he took Martin’s hand and let Martin lead him to the bedroom, where they both slid beneath the sheets and lay in the dark close together, facing one another and holding still. 

After a moment, Jon said, “This is much more comfortable than the couch. You mean to tell me if I’d just said something earlier, I could have been doing this, for days?” 

“Pretty much, yeah.” 

“Wow.” 

“Quite,” said Martin, unsure if Jon caught his little dig at an impression as Jon only shifted slightly closer, hands curled at his chest. He took them in his own, marveling at his freedom to do so. Did he really get to do this? And that? To brush Jon’s hair out of his eyes, tuck it behind his ear? Rub the pads of his thumbs over Jon’s palms, carefully touching each, one smooth and one scarred? Fall asleep here, like this? After all this time, all the danger and the sacrifices, the loss, the longing, all of it? “Does it...hurt?” 

“Does what hurt?” 

“The scar,” Martin said, stilling his fingers just in case. 

“Which...one? I have something of a collection going on.” 

“I was thinking of the one on your hand, but...do any of them? I just don’t want to accidentally hurt you.” 

“Oh,” Jon said, voice full of such wonder, brimming over with something Martin can’t name or place but which about breaks his heart anyway. He wants to cry, suddenly. Wants to shake the bars of the world and scream himself voiceless at all its sharp edges and demand an explanation or at least an apology for how carelessly it handles and breaks its people. He does none of these things. They wouldn’t help. The night is for quiet and calm and healing. 

Jon shifts on the bed, careful to keep his hands in Martin’s. “It’s...it’s not so bad. What about you, is there anything I should...know?” 

“No. I mean, nothing comes to mind. You know I’m still...still working through some things, the lonely, especially, but...I was asking you.” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“What’s nothing?” 

“You can’t hurt me. I mean, it’s already done, nothing you do will hurt it anymore.” 

“Jon.” 

Jon’s voice is careful and brittle when he replies. “There are...a lot, now. Some I don’t think you...it’s just a lot. I’m not complaining. I mean, it means I lived, doesn’t it? But it isn’t...exactly a comfort. Isn’t comfortable. But. It’s fine.” 

At a loss for anything to say, Martin just kisses the back of the hand Jude Perry had branded with her handshake, pressed Jon’s curled knuckles to his mouth. Jon’s breath came sharp and then he held it, unbreathing for a long moment. “I would like to make you comfortable,” Martin said. “If I can.” 

Jon turned his face away, pressing it into the pillow. “Too much,” he mumbled. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Jon,” Martin said, making to move away, but Jon held his hands and shook his head, and Martin liked to think he had learned when it was good to push and when it was time to relent, so he let himself drift off to sleep. 

 They shared the bed from then on. Certain conversations were made for that place—in the dark, side by side, on the edge of sleep, on the edge of the world. They could say things they couldn’t say elsewhere, true things, fragile things. Gradually the lonely’s influence faded and Martin’s mind cleared, although he didn’t think it would ever leave him completely. He thought it had probably been there all along, at least a bit. He began sleeping through the night. 

Jon did not. Sometimes Martin would be woken by him getting out of bed, or shifting, although he knew Jon did his best to be stealthy and not wake him. And then they would sit up together or hold each other until sleep overtook them again. 

Once he woke to find light filtering past the closed bathroom door, the sound of the shower turning on. “Jon?” he mumbled, rising sluggishly from the bed. He knocked on the door. He did his best not to crowd Jon, but it was four in the morning, and Jon was a creature of habit, so this seemed like cause for alarm. 

“What?” Jon said, and even through the door and with the shower running, Martin could hear how thick and choked his voice was. “Go back to sleep, Martin, I’m fine.” 

“Are you?” 

When Jon didn’t reply, Martin hesitantly put his hand on the doorknob. “Jon, I’m worried. Please. Maybe I can help.” 

To Martin’s shock, Jon nudged the door open. He didn’t look at Martin, and moved immediately back into the bathroom, hunched into himself and shivering, still clothed but pulling his oversized t-shirt (Martin’s t-shirt) down over one shoulder, twisting to look in the mirror. 

“What are you doing?” Martin said, careful to keep all judgement or accusation out of his tone. 

“Corruption,” Jon said, fingers ghosting over his own skin, as though he were afraid to touch or press. “I swear I can – feel it, like they’re still – in me. Inside. Underneath.” 

Martin’s stomach flipflopped. He was no stranger to dreams about Jane Prentiss and her burrowing worms, but he could imagine how much worse it would be to have the tactile memory of how it felt to have them digging into his flesh to go with the mental images. And the marks as a constant reminder to show for it. Jon was tugging the shirt down further, twisted away from Martin as though that would keep him from seeing somehow, but in the mirror Martin could see his fingers scanning across his skin, skirting shakily around worm scars, and with a pang he realized how extensive they were. He’d seen the ones that were visible, of course, and had known, logically, that there must be more, but he hadn’t...it wasn’t something he’d let himself think about before. 

“I need to get clean,” Jon said, his voice tight and barely controlled. “Go back to bed. I’m sorry. I just need to – I feel – I don’t feel good.” 

Martin spoke before thinking. “I could come with you.” 

“What?” 

He swallowed a lump in his throat. He was afraid to push Jon’s boundaries, hadn’t yet figured out where they lay exactly, but his desire to help and care for Jon won out. It always had. “In the shower.” 

“You--what.” 

“You can say no. I just—just let me take care of you, Jon. If you don’t want that, fine, but—but please don’t say no just because you feel guilty, or like you don’t deserve this, because I am so sick of us dancing around this and missing out because, because we’re scared, of what? Of letting someone take care of you? Just—please, Jon. It kills me to see you...please.” 

Jon froze, let the shirt drop back. “Just...just a shower?” 

“Yes,” Martin said, although his heart was pounding. It was just a shower, and yet, he well knew the level of vulnerability he was opening them both up to. What he was asking for. He could hardly believe it when Jon nodded, stiffly. 

“If you’re sure,” Jon said, his voice oddly flat in his attempt to keep it from breaking. “You can...turn around, now, then.” 

“Jon, we’re getting into the shower, I’m going to see...” 

“Fine,” Jon snapped. 

“We don’t have to—” 

But Jon was already yanking the shirt over his head and kicking his boxers off, and Martin did turn around, not quite second guessing this but coming close. He waited until he heard Jon step into the shower and yank the curtain shut behind him before taking off his own clothes. 

“Okay. I’m going to—” 

“Yes,” said Jon. 

“You’re sure this is okay?” 

“...If you are.” 

“Jon...” 

Jon gave a frustrated, needy whine. “If you don’t come in, could you—at least stay there and talk to me?” 

“So you do want me here?” 

“Martin.” 

“I’m coming in now,” Martin said, his voice going high and funny for a moment, because this is absurd, this is ridiculous. He stepped carefully into the shower, averting his gaze for a moment to stare at the wet yellow tiles. 

It’s cramped. He is suddenly, awkwardly aware of the amount of space he takes up. He had thought he might have been over this by now. For the most part, he is. But he can’t help the momentary hyper awareness. Then he let himself look at Jon, who was stood directly under the spray, hair pasted down over his face, arms wrapped around himself, staring right back at him. Not without apprehension, but with overwhelming...well, Martin can only really think to call it desire. Not lust, but want. Nerves, yes, but more powerfully, trust. As though Martin could do anything in this moment, and Jon would accept it as his due. 

He knows he must be careful. 

“What...now,” Jon said. 

“What do you want?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I could...wash your hair. If that would feel good. If not, then...” 

“That sounds like it could be nice. If you wanted. To do that. To me.” 

“Scoot over here then,” Martin said, and they shuffle clumsily to change positions so that he can wash Jon’s hair without the water splashing onto it. He thinks, distantly, that drawing a bath would really have been the easier, smarter thing to do, but it’s too late, and it doesn’t matter. He squirts a too-generous amount of the shampoo he’d bought in town into his hands and says, “I’m going to start now,” just to give Jon a warning. Jon is tense, but nods, and Martin begins working the shampoo into his hair, gentle at first, and then, when Jon gives no sign of discomfort, but on the contrary makes a tiny, needy sound and leans back, he relaxes and knows that this is okay, this is going to be okay, and begins to massage Jon’s scalp. He watches Jon’s shoulders hitch as he takes a sharp breath. 

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” 

“No. No. I just—haven't had...” 

“You’re okay.” 

“Martin,” Jon says, his voice cracking. “It’s just—for years—everything that’s touched has—hurt.” 

Martin wants to do something desperate, then. He settles for continuing to massage Jon’s scalp, and as the minutes wear on, Jon goes gradually boneless under his fingers, and the helpless passivity that overtakes him would be alarming except that Martin knows he needs this, needs to be able to be helpless and taken care of for a moment, and most importantly, he knows that Jon is in capable hands. He directs him under the stream of water and Jon goes willingly, lets Martin rinse his hair and then go about repeating the ritual with the conditioner. When Jon feels his fingers slowing down, he gropes for the soap, fumbling with the cap. 

“I’ll do this part,” he mutters. 

Martin averts his gaze as much as he can. Not that it does much good. Jon’s body is...it takes the breath out of him like a punch to the gut. He’s beautiful. He holds himself like he’s in pain and if he doesn’t keep tense, he’ll fall apart. He is scarred all over, some of them familiar, some of them a mystery, and the chronicle of harm he has endured is written across every part of him, unmistakable and obvious. Jon catches him staring and Martin looks away. 

“Sorry,” Jon muttered. 

“Sorry?” 

“For,” Jon said, gesturing vaguely at his corner of the shower. “I’m not. I know it’s not nice to see. To look at. Not that I was ever—but now it’s—I know.” 

“It’s always nice to see you.” 

Jon laughs shakily. 

“I didn’t know you were...self-conscious.” 

Jon tenses impossibly further. “I’m not. I just know it’s--ugly. And probably reminds you of things you’d rather forget.” 

“Are you talking about your scars?” 

“What else?” 

“Nothing. Just—I'm sorry. I’m sorry, is all. That so much has hurt.” 

“Well. I probably deserved a lot of it.” 

“That isn’t true.” 

“You always see the best in people.” 

“I see  you .” 

Jon shot him a dry, exasperated look tempered by hopeless fondness and made ridiculous by his wet hair dripping into his face, and Martin can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “You’re a sap,” Jon muttered, ducking his head. 

“And you love it.” 

“Hm.” 

“Jon. I know it’s not—the same, at all, but...I do know a little of what it’s like. Being uncomfortable in your skin.” 

Jon blinked, as though confused. “Why?” 

“Jon, come on.” 

“But you’re--let me do yours now,” Jon said, reaching for the shampoo, and Martin understands what this means, in Jon’s clumsy language cobbled together with half-starts and gestures. Reciprocity. 

“I think you might need a stepstool.” 

Jon just huffs in response, but he winces when he reaches up for Martin’s hair, and Martin gently catches his wrist. “Jon, it’s all right. I already showered today? I’d honestly rather get warm and back in bed, if you’re...if you’re ready.” 

“You don’t always have to be the one doing things for me.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Another time?” 

“Yes. Another time.” 

All right then,” Jon mutters, looking down and hugging himself. “Then--okay. The water’s getting cold anyway.” 

They towel dry and get back in bed, snuggle under the covers and look at each other. Martin is content to do so until they fall asleep, when Jon clears his throat and whispers, “Did you notice, um...the ribs?” 

“The what?” 

“I just—I guess I wanted it all sort of—on the table.” 

“What...ribs?” 

“Mine. Two of them, actually.” 

“Jon...” 

“I don’t know why I wanted you to know.” 

“Know what?” 

“I still have ten, so it’s not—I'm fine.” 

Martin’s hand went to Jon’s side, lightly holding him, feeling his sides expand and contract with his breath. He can’t...necessarily tell, he doesn’t think, but then, he’s no anatomist, and he’s afraid to...press. In case something gives. “Jon, how?” 

“Jared Hopworth,” Jon said, doing a squished version of the hand-waving gesture he uses to be dismissive when he’s uncomfortable. “It’s nothing. I just—the idea was that I needed an anchor, to find my way out of the buried, and I thought—part of my own body would probably do the trick. So. One for an anchor, and one for...payment.” 

“ What ?” 

"Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up.” 

“No, you definitely should—should tell me stuff like this, Jon, I just—how? Payment for what?” 

“He just sort of...reached in.” 

“God, Jon...” 

“I wouldn’t say it was comfortable, but—but it was fine.” 

“It was fine?” 

“I’m okay now. I could live functionally with even less ribs, in fact. I checked. Online.” 

“Well, don’t, please? Why a rib for an anchor, why not, not—I don’t know, something you really liked, or used a lot, like—just the archives, or, or anything.” 

“It needed to be...visceral. I don’t know, Martin. I don’t know. It probably didn’t need to be a rib, I just—I mean, I was trying to use one of my fingers, but the damn things kept growing back before I could cut them all the way through, and Daisy was in there, and I just—” 

“Jon,” Martin groaned, rolling over and putting his hands over his eyes. “What am I going to do with you.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Just--why two? What was the other for?” 

“Ah. Yes. That one was in exchange for his...statement.” 

Martin rolled back over to stare at Jon. “Say you’re joking.” 

Jon shrugged helplessly. “I really...wanted that statement. And. It didn’t seem to matter much. What’s a rib when you’re not...human. Anymore.” 

“Jon, I...I guess I’m glad you’re telling me things, but...please. Please try not to think that way, anymore. I know it isn’t easy, just...you can’t do that.” 

“I know,” Jon whispered. “You know, I...I think every entity has had a go at me, by now, so—so maybe that means they’re done with me,” he said, with a soft laugh half hurt and half hopeful. “They’ve left their marks, maybe they’ll let us be.” 

“They better,” Martin said, pressing a kiss to the back of Jon’s knuckles. “I’ll fight ‘em.” 

“You’ll fight them? All fourteen—potentially fifteen—dark powers beyond our comprehension bent upon harvesting our pure mortal terror?” 

“M-hm.” 

Jon sighed and wrapped his arm around Martin. “What did I ever do to deserve such a knight in shining armor?” 

“Hm. Dunno. Might have been your love of small talk.” 

When Jon laughed, his breath tickled Martin’s throat, and he held him closer. Martin closed his eyes. Jon sighed and shuffled away, as he usually did when he was ready to fall asleep. “I hope that’s what it means,” he murmured. “That they’re done, and not...I don’t know about this feeling I have that it might be...something else.” 

“You worry too much,” Martin mumbled, already slipping under into sleep. “Gonna start getting gray hair if you don’t cut it out.” 

“Shut up,” Jon muttered half-heartedly, and Martin can hear the smile in his voice, and all is well in the world as he drifts into sleep. 

 When Martin receives the box of statements from Basira, he is partially filled with trepidation, but mostly relieved. Jon’s gaze had been getting...hungry. There is no better word for it. He’d kept it under control, largely maintained his composure, but Martin had been able to tell it was wearing him down, and so was glad to have such a gift to bring inside for Jon, whose poise slipped for a moment when he took hold of the box, eyes going unblinking and intent as he made to tear the box open. He forced himself to slow, look up at Martin, thank him and make polite conversation about the cows. 

Martin glances back at him, hesitating in the doorway. Jon is seated on the floor still, box opened, papers and tapes spread across his lap and the surrounding tile, unable to wait to find somewhere more comfortable to read. There is a recorder in his hand, the one he had brought, the one Martin had done his best to forget about. It had not turned on at all during their stay at the safehouse, and he hadn’t seen Jon use it once. But not it is in Jon’s hand as though it had never left, as though that is where it belongs, sure as if it is an extension of his body, as though it is operating his fingers rather than Jon operating it. He watches Jon scan the statements with dark eyes, the pupils dilating, eating up his irises. He watches Jon’s hand still over one statement in particular, the little nod of Jon’s head as he recognizes it as the one for reasons Martin will never understand. Jon picks the statement up and clears his throat, and Martin closes the door quietly behind him, pushing aside his unease. 

This is Jon. This is a part of Jon that cannot be separated from the rest. Martin knows this. Accepts this. Is determined not to ever let this make Jon thinks that Martin sees him as anything other than as he is. And he is. And Martin would not change him, even if the change might make life easier for Jon, because it is not his place to. 

He walks away from the house, letting the cloudless sunny sky warm his face and settle his unease. This is a good thing, he tells himself, firm and leaving no room for doubt. This is good for Jon. Jon needs this. He’s only uneasy because it feels like having the institute back in their lives, but that’s just superstition or anxiety talking, it isn’t true. They’re only statements, and old ones at that. He walks along, looking at the rolling green hills, the distant purple mountains, the powder blue sky. Jon will feel better than he has in days, when Martin returns. He will be warm and pliant and fuzzy-headed with the post-statement drowsiness, and will probably let Martin tuck him into the bed for a nap. Maybe he will not even dream, and wouldn’t that be nice? This is a good thing. 

I never knew I could feel like this, Jon had whispered, in the dead of night, to no one but Martin. With awe and wonder and yes, a little terror. Because all awe is terror in part, and all terror awe. Martin had felt it too. The enormity and the smallness, too. The myriad contradictions that made up Jon, made up himself, made their connection. Enduring and fragile, wounded and healing, improbable and inevitable. 

That they have both somehow, miraculously, remained capable of gentleness, despite it all, must mean something. Martin is suddenly so, so proud of them both, and so in love, and so impossibly terrifyingly happy that he finds himself smiling as he walks along. He smiles at the rolling green hills and the distant purple mountains while above him the powder blue sky begins to darken to the color of a new bruise. He thinks that he would like to feed Jon ice cream out of a carton. He thinks he might even be well enough now for poetry. Martin looks up. 

And the whole world goes wrong. 

 Jon is slumped on the ground and Martin stops frozen in the doorway, his whole being empty but for the howling tear of wind and the static hiss of tape recorders. His whole being says, NO. 

And then he stumbles forward, collapses to his knees, and sees that Jon is breathing, shallow and fast, and that his eyes are darting beneath their lids, a high feverish flush to his cheeks. His skin is hot when Martin lifts him, pulls Jon’s back to his chest and supports his head when it lolls forward on his neck. He is saying Jon’s name but his own voice is a stranger speaking gibberish. Jon had lain on a bed of scattered papers, and Martin sees the statement he must have been reading still clenched in his hand, crumpled on both sides as though he had been squeezing it so hard while reading as to almost tear it in two. There is a thin line of blood under his nose, already dried. Martin does not want to know what these things mean. He does not want to know. 

Jon groans and his eyes open and his eyes open and his eyes oh god his eyes— 

(And he was all eyes, said the woman with the haunted, hunted look leaning across Martin’s desk, and he was all eyes.) 

Is this what she meant? Is this what she saw? 

Martin helps Jon to his feet when Jon asks and he blurts out, “Don’t go out there, it’s--it’s bad, Jon, it’s real bad,” when Jon goes for the door. Why does he bother? Of course Jon is going to look out there. Martin even left the door open in his haste, swinging on its hinges and creaking. 

“I’m scared, Jon.” 

“The whole world is scared, Martin. Because of me,” Jon says, and his face is wide open, cracked, shattered. It isn’t right. It isn’t right. It’s him but it isn’t right. Martin wants to ask what he means but he doesn’t want to hear the answer. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut very tightly and then open them again and be in bed with the clock reading three in the morning and Jon drooling on the pillow beside him, eyes closed, snuffling quietly in sleep. 

Jon stands in the doorway and Martin goes to stand beside him, and Jon is standing rigid as though fighting some cosmic force that has him in its grip, and then he looks up, and his face is open, wide open, and his eyes are all open, and the whole world is pouring into them and pierced by them, and Jon’s voice is a tortured mockery of itself, and he is in rapture, crucified by the gaze that meets his own. 

“Look at the sky, Martin. It’s looking back,” Jon says, all awe and terror and wonder and joy and devastation, and it wrenches something in Martin’s chest, twists it into knots and crushes it. 

When Jon laughs, it almost sounds like laughter should. 

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #hrm. i think i might have put this up whilst tipsy and deleted immediately after from embarrassment. o well #also this is canon-compliant...99% cows with a dash of apocalypse you've been forewarned