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agaypanic · 9 months

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The Fella Part 9 (James Maguire X Quinn!Reader)

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Summary: The girls have been waiting for months to see Take That in Belfast. When a polar bear is on the loose and Mary forbids them from going, they have to take matters into their own hands.

A/N: only took a million years but i finally wrote a new part lol BIG thanks to @crumpets-are-better-with-jam for writing out the episode’s script for me, without them I probably would’ve never found the time to be able to write this. Also the word g*psy is censored and used as little as possible because it’s considered a slur but some say that if you say it with the right context it’s ok, but i don’t wanna take any chances, you know?

***

The weekends were always the best part of the week for Y/n. No school or work, no obligations except for church on Sunday, and being able to sleep in late. Y/n wished to be an adult, so her life could be like this every day.

But this was going to be the weekend of all weekends. Months ago, the girls and James scrimped and saved every coin and bill and were able to buy concert tickets to see Take That in Belfast. And today was the day of the concert. The girls sat all squished together on the couch, watching said band on the TV, with James perched on the arm of the sofa, subtly clinging to Y/n. Their relationship was still a secret somehow, today marking their third month together. They were honestly surprised nobody noticed how their affection was more than friendly.

“God Almighty.” Grandpa Joe spoke in horror, glaring at the screen. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. Bloody perverts.”

“You’re overreacting, Da,” Mary said from the kitchen. Joe scoffed in disbelief.

“Overreacting? That lad’s got no trousers on, for Christ’s sake.” Michelle grinned at the detail that had been pointed out.

“He’s wearing too much still, if I’ve anything to say about it.” She muttered to the girls, who giggled apart from James and Clare.

“Why do they keep touching themselves?” Grandpa Joe asked the telly, as if it would provide any answers.

“‘Cause they’re artists, Granda,” Erin said, but he just grumbled.

“Dirty English bastards is what they are.” He turned to look at James. “No offense, son.” Although he didn’t really sound like he cared whether or not he had offended the boy. Y/n patted James’ thigh in comfort as the scene on the TV changed from the girls’ beloved boy band to a news anchor.

“Come on, girls. Time to hit the road here.” Gerry announced as he came in. He gestured at James. “Have they roped you into going as well, son?” Y/n laughed, leaning against James to look at her father.

“Hardly. He’s practically riding Gary Barlow. Aren’t ya, Jamie?” He rolled his eyes at the statement, as if they had had this kind of conversation a hundred times.

“I’m not! I just respect him as a songwriter, that’s all.” Michelle rolled her eyes at him, as if she had also had this kind of conversation a hundred times.

“Aye, dead on, James, so you do.”

“Will we need our passports, Gerry?” Orla asked, giving her lungs a break from blowing on her mother’s spray tan.

“For Belfast? I don’t think so, Love.”

“Belfast?” Joe asked, but was ignored.

“Are we not a bit early, Daddy?” Erin asked, checking the time on the wall.

“It’s a two-hour drive with traffic, love.”

“This thing’s in Belfast?” Sick of not being acknowledged, Grandpa Joe stood from his favorite chair to stand with the girls and Gerry.

“Da, it’s eight hours till the doors open,” Y/n said, almost laughing at her father’s sense of urgency.

“I know. We’re cutting it fine.” He seemed completely serious about the matter, which just made Y/n want to laugh more.

“Belfast?” Joe said again, now effectively catching the room’s attention. “Sure, why didn’t you just sell the wains into white slavery and be done with it?”

“Gerry will be with them, Da.” Mary tried to reason, but that just seemed to set him off even more.

“Well, that’s worse. Sure, they hate his kind there.”

“My kind?” Gerry asked, not knowing what Joe could possibly be talking about.

“Pricks.” Y/n laughed, shrinking in her seat when Gerry whipped around to look at his daughter in offense. “Sorry, Daddy.”

“That is enough!” Mary finalized, still working in the kitchen. “They’re going to the concert, Da, and that’s the end of the matter.”

The news switched to another topic again. Something about how a polar bear escaped from Belfast Zoo. Hearing the name, Y/n started to worry.

“Now, will you see sense?” Grandpa Joe asked his daughter, pointing at the TV. Erin snorted.

“Aye, Granda, ‘cause an escaped polar bear’s gonna track us down and kill us. As if Mammy’s bothered by that.” There was a beat of silence, and suddenly, all the girls were panicked.

“Wise up, Mammy!” Y/n squealed frantically, shooting up from her seat on the couch to get a good look at her mother. “As if a polar bear’s gonna rock up a Take That concert!”

“He wouldn’t get a ticket for a start,” Orla added. “They sold out months ago.”

“You’d be surprised, girls,” Mary said.

“The concert’s nowhere near the zoo.” Gerry tried to reason. As usual, Joe countered him.

“But he’s not in the zoo anymore, is he, Simple Simon? He’s sauntering about Belfast without a care in the world!”

“Aye, keep up, Gerry,” Sarah said, blowing on the wet tan that coated her fingers.

“What I’m saying is that it would be quite a lot of ground for him to cover.”

“They’re quick on their feet when they wanna be, love,” Mary said. Y/n sped to her father, grabbing him by the shoulders to make him face her.

“Daddy, please, don’t listen to her.” She pleaded. “We should go now so we’re not late. Please, Da!” Gerry put his hands on his daughter’s wrists, rubbing his thumbs over the joints while giving her a sympathetic look.

“Oh, love, I’m sorry, but I’d rather keep my head.”

“Come on, Mary.” Michelle pleaded with the girl’s mother. “If you don’t let Y/n and Erin go, then our ma’s won’t let us go.”

“Well, neither they should, and I’ll be ringing them to say as much.” The teens looked at Mary in despair as she went to the phone, likely to ring everyone’s mothers. While dialing, Mary looked back to the living room. “Look, girls, I know how much you were looking forward to seeing This and That.”

“Take That.” Erin corrected.

“But there’ll be other concerts.” Y/n laughed humorlessly, resting her head on her father’s shoulder momentarily before letting go of him completely.

“No, there won’t.” She felt hysterical. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Months of looking forward to this concert just to be banned by her mother because of a polar bear. Only something like this would happen to her. “The fact that this one’s happening is a miracle ‘cause no one good comes here ‘cause we all keep killing each other!” James shifted on the arm of the couch to make room for Y/n to sit next to him. He rubbed her back as she leaned against him for support, devastated.

“And now we’re overrun with polar bears.” Sarah sighed, pulling out a cig.

Frustrated, Y/n stormed up to her room, the girls and James close behind. They had found her face down on her bed, screaming into a pillow. James sat beside her, pulling the pillow out of her grasp before she could suffocate herself. While everyone settled in Y/n’s room, she rested her head on James’ thigh. Her anger and sadness were slowly washing away from James rubbing her back.

“This is so fucking unfair.” She muttered.

“I know,” James responded, brushing hair out of her face.

“Well, I dunno about you lot, but I’m not letting that fat furry fuck ruin the biggest day of my life,” Michelle announced harshly, pacing the floor.

“What can we do?” Erin asked, lying across her sister’s legs.

“Right, listen, girls.” Michelle drew their attention. They hoped that she had come up with a plan to save the day, but were quickly let down. “I’ve never told anyone this before, but… sometimes, when Robbie’s being interviewed, it’s like he’s sending me messages through the TV. You know, like telepathically or whatever, It’s like he’s saying…” She sighed, clearly in a dreamy daze. “We’re meant to be together.”

Everyone stared at her.

“Aye, maybe don’t tell that to anyone again, Michelle,” Erin said. “Ever.”

“I think she might be more cracked than Orla,” Y/n muttered to James, who snorted.

“What?” Orla looked at Y/n after hearing her name.

“Nothing, love.”

“Look, this is too important,” Michelle said. “I’m going to that concert. I’m not afraid of a fucking polar bear!” Everyone enthusiastically agreed. They shouldn’t pay mind to a random bear or what their parents have to say about anything. Nothing would stop the girls and James from seeing Take That.

“I’ll kill it with me own two hands, if I have to.” Orla declared.

“Bring it on!” Erin egged on.

“Okay. We seem to have gone down a weird road here, people. I think we just got a bit confused.” Ever the realist and anxiety-riddled girl, Clare tried stopping her friends from the odd discussion. “We don’t actually have to fight a polar bear, and if we did, I wouldn’t fancy our chances because, well, they’re massive.” Orla looked around, confused.

“But there’s six of us.”

“Aye, I think we’d have a real chance,” Y/n said, albeit slightly sarcastically.

“The point is, the polar bear’s not the one stopping us from going to the concert. It’s our mothers, and we’ll never get them to change their minds.” Y/n gasped, sitting up suddenly, seeming to have an idea.

“So we fight Mammy.”

“No, definitely not.” James shot down the idea immediately and welcomed his once again pouty girlfriend to rest in his lap. Michelle leaned toward the group like she was gonna tell them a secret.

“We’re not gonna try and change their minds.” She smirked, and everyone became slightly fearful because Michelle always had less than bright ideas that she’d have them execute. “We’re gonna do something else.”

“What?” James asked.

***

“I’m still trying to figure out whether or not this is a good idea,” Y/n muttered to James, who she clung to while sitting on his lap. Michelle had somehow convinced everyone to sneak away and get on a bus to Belfast. The group sat in the back of the bus to avoid anyone who may be suspicious of six teenagers traveling by themselves. There wasn’t enough seating for all six of them to sit together, so everyone squished together, and Y/n sat on James’ lap. No one said anything about it besides the comment from Michelle about how James must be giddy to be so close to a girl. He told her to fuck off.

“Same here.” He sighed, hands gripping her closer as the bus crossed a few bumps on the road.

“We’re gonna get caught; I just know it,” Clare said anxiously to the group.

“We’re not gonna get caught, Clare, because as far as our ma’s are concerned, me, you, and James are ’round Erin’s, and Erin, Y/n, and Orla are ’round mine,” Michelle explained, trying to calm Clare down.

“But we’re not ’round yours, Michelle,” Orla responded, confused. “We’re on the bus to Belfast.”

“Christ.” Y/n rolled her eyes, having heard her cousin say this multiple times since they left the house.

“I cannot explain it to her again. I’m gonna scream.” Michelle looked away from Orla, probably because she would strangle her if she had to deal with the confusion for another second.

“What’s in the suitcase, Michelle?” James asked, staring at the case his cousin had set on the remaining seat near the group. Y/n could’ve sat there, but Michelle wanted a close eye on whatever was in the suitcase without holding it in case they got caught. Everyone stared, curiously waiting for an answer. There was a beat of silence.

“Vodka.” You brought an entire suitcase full of vodka?” Erin asked incredulously.

“Jesus, Michelle, you’ve got a problem,” Y/n added.

“No. There’s mixers as well. I’m not a savage.” Michelle took a second to think, looking down at the case. “You can mix vodka with cider, right?”

“God, I am boiling.” Clare sighed, fanning her face.

“Gee, I wonder why, Clare.” Y/n laughed, looking at her friend who was completely bundled in jackets and scarves.

“What are you wearing?” Erin asked.

“Yeah, you look like a fucking Provo.”

“I don’t want anyone recognizing me, okay?” The bus paused its venture, opening the doors for people to come in and out.

“No one’s gonna recognize you, Clare.” Michelle chastised.

“Clare Devlin, is that you?” Panic ran through everyone. The voice sounded very familiar and fear-inducing. The girls looked towards the front. Sister Michael was moving past the seats and right for them.

“Jesus Christ.” Clare squeaked, trying to hide in her mountain of clothes. Erin leaned into her.

“Relax, Clare.” She said. “She has no authority over us at the weekend. She has no right to question us, and if she tries to, I’ll tell her as much.”

“Aye, I’d like to see you try, Erin.” Y/n hissed to her sister before Sister Michael reached the group.

“Morning, girls.” She said.

“Morning, Sister Michael.” Everyone said in unison.

“What takes you to Belfast?” There was a heavy pause. The girls were silently trying to decide who would speak and what they would say. Erin volunteered herself, speaking quietly from nervousness.

“I’m not really sure that’s-”

“Speak up.” Sister Michael interrupted her. Erin gulped.

“I’m not really sure that that’s any of your business…” Sister Michael stared blankly at her. Everyone waited for her to jump and murder Erin for saying such a thing. Soon, she found words.

“I’m going to assume that was an ill-judged attempt at humor, Miss Quinn.”

“Yes,” Erin whispered, sinking into her seat. Y/n silently prayed that the bus would start moving so Sister Michael would be forced to leave and find a seat somewhere. But God never seemed too kind to the girls.

“Now, answer the question.”

“... We’re going to the museum.” Erin devised a good lie; the girls just hoped they could keep up with the inevitable follow-up questions.

“Which museum?”

“Ulster Museum,” Clare answered.

“What for?”

“A project,” James responded.

“A history project.” Y/n amended. Sister Michael looked at the two. It seemed like she was about to ask why Y/n was in James’ lap, but she decided against it, not wanting to go through the trouble.

“What about?”

“Ulster,” Erin answered once again. Sister Michael gave an unconvinced hum and turned around to find a place to sit. Everyone sighed in relief as the bus started to move again.

“A history project,” Clare said in disbelief. “This web of lies we’re spinning is getting out of control now, girls.” Y/n put a hand on her friend’s shoulder to take her attention.

“If it makes you feel any better, Clare, I actually have a history project due soon.”

“I thought we finished that,” James said quietly to her. She turned to him.

“Yeah, but now I’ve gotta put it all together.”

“It’s grand, Clare,” Michelle said, rolling her eyes at Clare’s constant anxiousness. “I think she bought it.”

“Of course, she didn’t buy it. She’s onto us, I’m telling you. Oh God, I’m sweltering here.”

“Then take it off,” Erin said.

“I can’t take it off; I’ve nothing underneath it.” Everyone paused, looking at her confused.

“What, not even a bra?” Erin asked.

“Jesus, Clare, you’ve no bra on?” Michelle asked incredulously.

“I haven’t got a bra on,” Orla commented.

“Aye, me neither,” Y/n said.

“What?” James practically choked. Suddenly aware of his girlfriend’s body and this new information, he moved his hands down to sit at her hips. Y/n shrugged.

“They dig.”

“What’s she doing now?” Clare asked, and everyone looked at Sister Michael, who sat a few rows ahead of them. She was reading a book, laughing every now and then.

“Reading her book,” James answered, as if they all couldn’t see it. She suddenly turned to the woman in the seat next to her. She had a look of disgust while the woman ate a sandwich. “Now she’s looking at the woman beside her.” Sister Michael stood from her seat. “Now she’s getting up.” She moved towards the back of the bus, closing in on the girls. “Now she’s coming this way.” Soon enough, Sister Michael stood before the group, staring at them. “Now she’s standing right in front of us.”

“What’s he doing?” Sister Michael asked, looking weirdly at James.

“Now she’s-” James’ words were halted by Y/n putting a finger to his lips.

“Stop narrating, Jamie.”

“I want to sit here.” Sister Michael said with finality, pointing to where Michelle’s suitcase sat. Michelle started to panic.

“What? Why?”

“Well, you’re just such wonderful company, girls, what with your stimulating conversation and razor-sharp wit.” Everyone knew she was being sarcastic. Except for Erin.

“Really?” She asked, seemingly flattered. Sister Michael rolled her eyes.

“No, not really. The woman next to me is eating an egg and onion sandwich, and the smell is enough to turn an Orange March.” The girls cringed at the description. Sister Michael grabbed the suitcase, trying to move it. But she was evidently struggling. “Christ, but this is heavy.”

“Sister, no, let me,” Michelle said, leaning over to grab the case.

“What do you have in here, girls?”

“It’s not ours!” Clare quickly responded with a shriek. Everyone glared at her lie.

“Not yours?”

“We have never seen it before in our lives, have we, girls?” It was better to just agree, so that’s what the girls did. They nodded, giving different mutters of confirmation.

Sister Michael turned to look at everyone else on the bus.

“Excuse me, everyone. Can I have your attention, please?” She raised her voice to get everyone to listen. Confused, the passengers looked at her while she pointed to Michelle’s suitcase. “Does anyone own this red suitcase?” No one claimed it. “Now, let me be clear. No one can claim this bag, is that correct?” Everyone confirmed her question. She looked down at the suitcase. “I think we have a Code Red on our hands. Driver, pull over!”

***

The girls were definitely fucked. Everyone had to evacuate the bus while they waited for the military to come and extract the suitcase. Now, a crowd watched as a military robot examined the case.

“Jesus Christ!” Clare squeaked in a panic.

“Aye, this isn’t great,” Erin said, watching the commotion. Michelle shrugged.

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“They’re about to blow up an entire suitcase of vodka, Michelle.”

As Michelle and Erin quietly argued, Y/n leaned into James’ ear.

“And here I thought Clare’s paranoia would be our biggest problem.” James rested his head on Y/n’s, eyeing the situation in front of him in disbelief.

“Why is this place so mental?” He asked. Michelle scoffed.

“That’s enough, James. You have serious fucking anger management issues. Do you know that?” Before anyone could give a rebuttal, there was an explosion. The robot had successfully eliminated the threat in the red suitcase, which was the girls’ ticket to a good time.

There were lots of talks among the soldiers over the radio. The girls silently celebrated when one said they could pack everything up. Soon enough, they’d be back on the way to Belfast.

“Powerful smell of vodka down here, over.” The girls froze in their places as they heard the soldier over the radio. God really did seem to have it out for the teens.

“Vodka, did he say?” Sister Michael asked, slowly turning to her students. “Interesting.” The girls gave her nervous smiles. Suddenly, Y/n pointed over Sister Michael’s shoulder.

“Oh my God, Sister! What’s over there?!” Sister Michael whipped around, and Y/n made a break for it. All of her friends followed after her.

They ran like hell, not knowing where they were going. After a while of wandering around, they slowed to a walk down a dirt road, all trying to catch their breath. The girls debated whether or not they could reach Belfast on foot, especially with that polar bear on the loose. But the conversation dwindled as some men came into view on the side of the road.

“Is it just me, or is that g*psy an absolute ride?”

“As usual, I think it’s just you, Michelle,” Y/n said, groaning at her sore legs.

“Michelle, you cannot say that.” Erin scolded.

“What?”

“They’re called ‘travelers now. Y’can’t say ‘g*psy’ anymore. It’s insulting.”

“Okay, but you just said it, Erin.” Y/n pointed out. Michelle and Erin continued arguing over the correct word to use for the men. It continued for a while, and only stopped when they had gotten closer to the men.

“Howya, girls.” One of them said, with a bit of a slurred speech. The girls politely greeted him and continued walking. They got a few feet past them when the one who greeted them started calling after them. “Hey, hold on.”

“What does he want?” Clare asked in a panic.

“I don’t know,” Erin replied, just as nervous.

“I’m talking to you!” The man shouted. The girls ignored him, but he kept walking after them. “Hey, are you deaf or what?”

“Just keep going.” Y/n urged her friends, grabbing James’ hand to yank him along while she pushed her tired body to go faster. The teens started walking more quickly, and soon enough, the shouting man and his friends were all tailing after them.

“Get back here!”

“Faster. Walk faster.”

“Am I gonna have to come after you, am I?”

“Jesus Christ, he’s following us,” James muttered, now being the one to pull Y/n further.

“Run!” Y/n yelped, breaking into a sprint and out of James’ grip because the sudden change in pace had caught him off guard. Everyone ran after her, the teens to catch up with Y/n and the travelers to catch up with the teens. The girls were terrified, except for Orla, of course, who could always find the fun in a fucked up situation.

“Piss off!” Erin went to the edge of the dirt road and came back to the strange men waving a giant stick around. They backed up in alarm, and the girls stopped to stand behind Erin.

Except for Y/n, who was still running like hell. James yelled for her, but she couldn’t hear him over the thumping of her feet and heart. She didn’t even notice that her friends had all been left in the dust behind her.

“Jesus fuck!” Y/n screeched when she was grabbed suddenly by the shoulders and yanked back into someone’s chest. The person who caught her breathed heavily, slightly using her as a crutch. Y/n immediately recognized the whines and groans of exhaustion and smacked the man in the arm. “Scared the fuck out of me, James.”

“I know, ‘m sorry.” James brought her closer to him, back pressed against his chest as he rubbed her arms up and down to comfort her. “Can’t run off like that, love. Could’ve lost you.”

“Sorry.” She apologized sheepishly, and James kissed her head to show she shouldn’t be. When the couple regained strength, they turned around and started walking back to the group that was currently arguing with the strange couple of men when they abruptly ran to the side of the dirt road. A van sped past them as if they weren’t even there, honking the horn and stopping in front of the stand-off of travelers and teenage girls. Y/n and James hesitantly watched, not knowing what was happening.

Soon, Erin stuck her head out from behind the van so her sister was in her view. She waved her over frantically.

“Y/n, come on!” Erin then disappeared, likely into the strange van. Knowing everyone else was probably in there, and not wanting to be left stranded, Y/n broke out into another sprint, leaving James in the dust once again.

“Not again.” He mumbled.

***

When Y/n had snuck away from her family and hopped on a bus to Belfast with her friends, she obviously didn’t expect the bus plan to go to shit, and she and her buddies would be riding around in someone’s van. Yet here she was, jostling around in the back, surrounded by half-assed Take That shirts. Erin was trying to converse with the driver; Rita was apparently her name. Meanwhile, Michelle hogged a cardboard cut-out of Robbie Williams, and Clare and Orla were sifting through all the different merchandise.

“Robie?” Clare said to herself as she held up one of the shirts to look at before frantically digging through the rest of the boxes. In the driver’s seat, Rita seemed to have some type of drunken meltdown. Clare turned to Y/n, panicked like always. “Y/n, what are we gonna do?”

“Pray.”

“She’s spelt ‘Robbie’ wrong on every single t-shirt.”

“Huh?”

“How are we gonna break it to her?” Y/n snorted. That was not what she expected her dear friend to be worried about.

“Clare, we’re being driven around by some crazy tipsy woman, and I bet she doesn’t even know which direction Belfast is in. And yet you’re worried about a spelling mistake?”

“I find it disturbing.”

“I find your priorities disturbing.” Rita continued talking in her drunken, weepy state, leading to another discussion between Erin and Michelle about the correct label to use for the intimidating men they had run into.

But everything was cut short by the van ramming into something, causing everyone to jerk forward. There was a moment of silence as everyone tried to figure out what had just happened.

“Jesus Christ.” Michelle groaned, rubbing her head as she sat up.

“What was that?” Erin asked no one in particular.

“Did we hit something?”

Orla opened the sliding door of the van and stuck her head out. Everyone heard a gasp of both surprise and delight.

“Oh my God, it’s the polar bear!” The sentence made everyone, excluding Rita, who smoked her cigarette in the driver’s seat, jump out of the van and surround the body.

“Orla, this is not a bloody polar bear.” Y/n sneered, looking down at the dead sheep that lay before her feet. Everyone slowly looked over at her.

“You’re soundin’ like James,” Michelle said in slight disgust.

“Shut up.”

“Get it shifted, girls!” Rita commanded from the van, taking another drag. Reluctantly, the girls grabbed the sheep carcass and tried carrying it to the side of the road to clear their path. There was a lot more struggling than they intended.

“Why’s it so heavy?” Erin said with a strained voice. “Aren’t they meant to be ninety percent wool?”

“Just put your back into it. The sooner this is done, the sooner we’re back in the van and on our way to see Robbie.”

“Shut it about Robbie, Michelle!” Y/n groaned, trying to pull the sheep. There was much more arguing, and after a very short while, the girls decided they were officially over this task.

“Fuck this!” Michelle shouted. “Let’s just make James do it, the lazy bastard!” Everyone dropped the sheep on the ground and waited for James to do all the work.

But he never did. It was just the girls on an empty road with a dead sheep and a crazy woman.

“Wh… Where is James?” Clare asked, looking around, hoping he’d suddenly pop out of a bush or something.

Y/n thought long and hard. She might have been the last one to be with James. Backtracking to her last known moments with James, Y/n gasped and raised a hand to her mouth. The girls looked at her expectantly, waiting to find out where he was. Her response was an embarrassed and horrified whisper.

“I left him with the travelers.”

***

It took much persuasion, mainly for Michelle, but the girls had gotten Rita to go back for James. It was primarily the revelation that James was the one who had the concert tickets. After a long drive, the van skidded to a stop in front of the traveler’s stands of vegetables and fruits. James was among the men, helping them. Y/n yanked the van door open, relieved that her boyfriend hadn’t been mugged or stranded or something else of the sort.

“James!” She yelled in delight, immediately catching his attention. He grinned but stayed stuck in his place.

“What are you playing at? Get in the van, fucko.” Michelle commanded, less thrilled to see James than Y/n was. The man who first chased the girls put a hand on James’ shoulder.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, James.”

“With all due respect, this has nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah!” Y/n added, desperately waiting for her boyfriend to get into the van.

“The way you treat this fella, it’s disgraceful.” The traveler reprimanded.

“Fucking excuse me?” Y/n felt beyond insulted.

“What’s going on, James?” Michelle asked.

“Jonjo and the lads…” James looked at said lads with a smile. “They just get me. And it turns out, I’m a really good salesman.”

“He’s a natural,” Jonjo said.

“So, what, you’re a g*psy now?” Michelle asked, clearly thinking this was an unfunny prank.

“Traveler.” Erin and Y/n corrected in unison, Erin louder than her sister.

“Actually, g*psy’s fine,” Jonjo said. Michelle smirked, finally being able to prove to Erin that she was right. Rita yelled at everyone to hurry up, and Michelle nodded.

“Right, get in the van, come on. And do not test me ’cause we’ve already missed PJ and Duncan.”

“Is that who was supporting them?” Clare asked. When confirmed, she pouted. “Oh, I really like them!”

“I’m not leaving, Michelle,” James said with finality.

Y/n sighed, stepping out of the van. The tense gaze James had for his cousin softened when his girlfriend walked up to him.

“Not even for Gary Barlow, Jamie?” Y/n knew she made the right move because now James looked unsure of himself.

“I don’t really rate him as a, as a songwriter, y’know?” Jonjo said. The horrified look James suddenly had painted on his face made Y/n smile, both because she knew that the girls would now be leaving with him and because he looked so adorable.

James took off his fanny pack and handed it to Jonjo in disappointment, refusing to make eye contact.

“I’m sorry, Jonjo, but you’ve just crossed the line there.”

Y/n wrapped an arm around James’ back and guided his sad self to the van, where the door was just behind them. She brought him to the back of the van so he could mope a bit in peace. The girls all talked excitedly amongst themselves about the concert.

“I’m sorry I stranded you,” Y/n said quietly, moving her hand down James’ back to squeeze his hand. He squeezed it back and smiled softly down at her.

“I’m just glad you came back.”

“Of course, I came back. You have the concert tickets.” James shoved Y/n away and couldn’t hide the growing grin from hearing her laugh. “Kidding, kidding.”

After a long drive, long lines, and a big fight to get to the barricade, the Derry girls were finally able to enjoy Take That in all its glory. They screamed the lyrics, jumped to the beat, and danced all together in excitement. They didn’t care about the consequences when they would get home to their parents, who were probably worried sick. They didn’t worry about how they’d get home that night. All that mattered was that they were currently in the presence of one of their favorite bands of all time.

Somewhere in the middle of the set, the excitement winded down a bit as a piano intro played. Y/n squealed, tugging on James’ sleeve, as she recognized what was dubbed as her and James’ song, A Million Love Songs. James grinned at her excitement.

“Oh my God! I have something for you!” Y/n exclaimed over the music, digging around in her pockets. James looked down curiously as she brought out a folded piece of paper. “If it’s bad, you’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

“What is it?” James leaned down so he was closer to eye level with Y/n, making her blush. She pinched the edge of the paper, creasing it a bit.

“Do you remember when Erin became magazine editor, and we were going through those essays and… and Michelle found mine?” James nodded, remembering the day clearly because he was devastated when he heard the title of her little essay. “Well, I figured, since it’s our third month together and all… I wanted to give it to you.” He was gentle when taking the paper from her, so incredibly curious about what she had written. “Especially since my fancy isn’t so one-sided as I thought.”

All Y/n could focus on was the beautiful song in the background and the beautiful boy in front of her, reading words that had come straight from her heart when she thought her love for James was just a hopeless crush. She didn’t know if it was a good sign, seeing him become more flustered and blushy as he read on. When he was finished, he slowly and carefully folded the paper back up while Take That started to play a more energetic song.

“Again, you can’t make fun of me if it’s bad!” Y/n shouted over the noise. “I know Erin’s the writer or whatever, but- oof!” She was interrupted by James pulling her to his chest, arms wrapped tight around her and face buried in the crook of her neck. She immediately returned the affections.

“It’s amazing.” He said in her ear. “Amazing, and lovely, and perfect. Just like the girl who wrote it.” Unable to help herself, Y/n brought James’ face to hers and kissed him with such passion, a passion he reciprocated instantly. It was as if it was only them existing at that moment.

Of course, it wasn’t. Clare would later tease and squeal at the two and interrogate them about when they had finally gotten together and why they didn’t tell her. Too enamored with the men just feet away from them, the rest of the girls didn’t even notice the couple.

And somewhere in Derry, while the rest of her family was fighting, Y/n’s father Gerry smiled fondly at his television where he saw his daughter having the time of her life at a Take That concert with her best friends and boyfriend. A boyfriend he’d absolutely be asking her about in private when he had the chance.

~~~

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#james maguire x reader #james maguire #derry girls x reader #derry girls #agaypanic

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blasphemous-lies-and-deceit · 1 month

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67: tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin

With GerryMichael because as a fellow tall people I know Michael's hands are unbearably cold from lack of circulation but his face is easy to go red 🥰

Tall people with bad circulation 🤝 office workers working in cold offices

Michael wondered if Gertrude would let him help her kill Elias.

It was only a matter of time. He'd had his eyes wrenched open, no longer blind to reality. He knew who they were working for, and while he didn't necessarily like it, he knew Gertrude hated it. She was not quiet about her criticism, and while he was glad she wasn't keeping him in the dark anymore, it was still quite a thing to listen to his boss openly plot murder.

He didn't care if Elias was dead at her hands- really, the Head of the Institute was just as guilty as the others, and worse. What Michael did resent was the relentless busy work that he was being assigned, probably to keep them busy so they couldn't plot their boss's demise. The amount of incoming statements was so relentless, they nearly didn't have room to put them all. Gertrude was busy with her own plots, so she was no help, of course. And Elias's ever-so-helpful suggestion of "digitizing" the hand-written statements just meant more work for him.

Michael groaned as he flexed his fingers against the keyboard. He was a fast typer, but the statements were usually rambling, and the handwriting nearly illegible. The Eye helped a bit, but that left him with an awful headache at the end of the day, and exhausted beyond belief. He was even beginning to have dreams about the statements, which was incredibly annoying since he couldn't even have a break in his sleep.

The most current annoyance to him, however, were his fingers. He felt like he couldn't warm them up, they were like stiff icicles against the keys, and blowing on them or tucking them against his chest made no difference. Fingerless gloves might help, but he didn't have a pair on hand, and he'd been too tired to knit recently, so he couldn't whip up a pair either. It wasn't enough to slow him down, but it did make his mood worse, and he was more than ready for a break.

"Gerry," Michael sighed, leaning back limply in his chair to watch his boyfriend descend the stairs with a bag of takeout. "My love, the light of my life, the greatest joy, my absolute treasure-"

"That bad, huh?" Gerry grimaced, crossing the distance between them to drop a kiss on top of his head. Michael just groaned, long and whale-like, and spun his chair around so he could bury his face in Gerry's chest. "I'm sorry, love."

"It's awful," Michael moaned, slinging his arms around Gerry's waist. "It's like they don't realize someone's going to actually read what they've written. They don't even try to make it legible."

"Ugh." Gerry leaned over him to peer at the papers next to his computer. "Their handwriting is worse than mine."

"And it's so pointless! It's just busy work." Michael leaned back so he could see Gerry's face. "Next thing you know, that bastard'll have me recording them or something."

"I'm sure you'll do a fantastic job regardless," Gerry assured him, staring down at him with a terribly fond expression. He raised his hands to cup the back of his head, gently rubbing the tension away. "You're too damn good for this place."

"Flatterer," Michael rebutted, helplessly charmed. Gerry just smiled and bent down to kiss him, so soft but full of meaning. Michael kissed him back, feeling all of the tension drain right out of him, leaving him soothed and relaxed. It meant everything to him to have Gerry by his side, sympathetic and caring and exactly what he needed the most. As if Michael couldn't possibly be more in love with him.

And to show his appreciation, he rucked up the back of Gerry's shirt and plastered his hands to the small of his back.

Gerry yelped and jumped away, gaping at Michael incredulously as he fell into giggles. "What the hell?" he gasped, sounding aghast and offended. "Why are your fingers so cold?"

"Because its cold down here!" Michael pointed out. "And my jumper doesn't cover my hands." He wiggled his fingers to prove his point, and Gerry rolled his eyes, coming back to take his hands in his.

"Poor guy," he commiserated, rubbing his hands and bending to breathe warm air over them. "I have some fingerless gloves back ho- back at Pinhole, I'll run over and grab them for you."

"Thank you," Michael murmured, touched that Gerry would step foot back in that place for him. Over the past few months they had been removing Gerry's clothes and personal items and relocating them to his flat, slowly moving him in where he belonged. Michael couldn't help but feel a deep stir of pleasure at the thought, of getting Gerry away from that awful place for good. It's what he deserved.

Gerry knelt next to him, tucking his cold hands under his chin as he smiled at Michael, happy and content. "Can you take a break for lunch? Get out of this basement for a bit?"

"Of course." Without looking, Michael put his computer into sleep mode and guided Gerry back to his feet, pulling him in for a hug. This time, when he cold hands wandered under Gerry's shirt, he didn't pull away.

#gerrymichael #gerry keay #michael shelley #doorkeay #rebelwriting #thanks for the prompt!

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autisticsupervillain · 10 months

Text

The Magnus Archives AU: The Magnus HR Department

Because the Distortion is kinda sorta Michael, it's still under the contract for Elias that Michael signed. Distortion Michael finds its plans derailed by having to still work at the Institute. With nothing else for the Spiral agent to really do, Elias makes him head of HR, tasking him with feeding anyone who complains too much to the hallways. Archive staff is exempt because Elias still needs them so Michael has to settle for being an unbearable coworker to Jon instead of killing him as planned.

Jon only discovers this when he takes Not-Sasha to the HR office to help fix her computer for the fiftieth time and sees Michael sitting there with bags under his eyes and a cup of glowing coffee. Not-Sasha has an existential crisis when Michael explains the situation, realizing that they might be stuck under Elias's contract too. This being Season 2 Jon, this breakdown only further convinces him that Sasha is trustworthy and everyone else isn't. How else would you react to finding out the eldritch abomination stalking you was now your co-worker?

Not-Sasha tries to quit, but Elias makes it clear he knows exactly what they are and reassigns them to HR to keep them from trying to kill his employees. Elias is hoping this'll provoke the Stranger cult to attack the Institute so Jon can get marked by them, but Nikola thinks this situation is hilarious and leaves them be so she can hear about all the juicy Magnus office drama instead.

The Archive Staff try to be sympathetic to "Sasha" being stuck working with her stalker and Tim even threatens Michael not to lay a hand on her. Jon stops by to offer his support to Sasha and Michael is flabbergasted to see a Head Archivist who actually cares about his employees. Not-Sasha is just annoyed.

Everyone outside the Archive staff thinks that Michael is just a myth, until one day he walks out into the break room, nabs some random guy, and drags him back to the HR Office so Michael can "hear his complaint". After three minutes of screaming, the guy is never heard from again. Everyone tries to resign in mass after that, but Elias tells them to take it up with HR. No one does.

Martin thinks he's protecting the staff by satiating Michael with tea. Michael plays into this because he thinks its funny. And the tea is really good.

Not-Them uses Michael's hallways as an uber to report back to the Circus about their ritual plans. And to gossip with Nikola about the burgeoning Jon Martin love drama.

Not Sasha's new responsibilities keeps them from trying to kill anyone and Sasha's absence keeps Jon from investigating her and discovering the truth, so they survive undercover past Season Two. Instead, Jon happens across Jurgen while investigating the tunnels and the rest plays out as in canon from there.

When the Unknowing is foiled, Not Sasha gets their revenge by being maliciously compliant, become a very helpful HR Rep who improves the workplace in ways that help employees but inconvenience Elias/Peter. Michael helps because Peter keeps sending bad employees to the Lonely instead of letting him eat them, so he's pissed too.

While annoying Jon in his office one day, Michael notices Jon about to burn Gerry's page and swipes it from him. When Michael reads Gerry's page, he explains that if the contract can keeo Michael on staff now that he's the Distortion, then Gerry probably still works here too now that he's a book. The HR Department now spends all of Season 4 complaining about Gertrude and passive aggressively annoying Peter, with Gerry as an unofficial member (no one can find Peter to ask him what Gerry's job should be now).

Finally, the Season ends with the HR Team preventing the apocalypse by realizing that Elias technically isn't protected by the contracts while in prison, so Michael just stops by jail and yeets him into the hallways. Jon kills Peter to save Martin and Martin is now head of the Institute, working to undo the damage Elias and Peter did while trying to keep the HR Team in line. They can't hurt anyone else while working for him, after all.... mostly.

#the magnus archives #tma spoilers #michael shelley #michael distortion #not them #gerry keay #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #elias bouchard #jonah magnus #peter lukas

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pitviperofdoom · 8 months

Note

PITS JONGERRYS LETS GO

Uhhh uMMMMMM URBAN FANTASY JONGERRYS

Things had escalated. With Gerard Keay involved, that meant something inevitably wound up on fire.

The initial blast took out two of Jon’s attackers and threw the rest into confusion. He was already running the second he was free, reaching out blindly until Gerard found his wrist. Without a word, his bodyguard shoved him to the front and sent another fireball into the cultists behind them. The flames, as always when they came from Gerard, burned hot and spread fast. The resulting confusion left their pursuers in disarray, but the spread of the flames cut off their exits as thoroughly as the cultists’ pursuit.

In the end, their only recourse was to flee deeper into the Rayner compound, away from the screams and shouts of their would-be captors.

Jon kept his mouth shut, breathing deeply and evenly as Gerard hurried him along. He was getting used to running, he thought wryly. Less than a year ago he would’ve been gasping and staggering after the first three hallways, but now his breath came easily, and he barely registered the burn in his legs until they finally came to a halt.

A spacious storage closet served as a temporary refuge; the closet itself was dark and unlit, but a small window at Gerard’s eye level provided him with a vantage point. Jon leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

“Lost them for now,” Gerard murmured. “Won’t matter much if we can’t get out of here.”

“Mm.” Jon let out a long, slow breath. “I think it’s safe to say that relations between Elias and the People’s Church have thoroughly broken down.”

“Long time coming, if you ask me. Mum always says Rayner’s lot don’t want anything less than total dominion. So alliances don’t tend to—”

Abruptly he went still and silent, ducking away from the window. Footsteps rushed past outside; a shadow fell over the dim beam of light that leaked through. Jon didn’t dare move. Eventually, after a few heart-pounding seconds, the figure outside moved on and joined the rest of the cultists searching the building.

The silence lasted nearly two full minutes before Jon built up the nerve to speak again. “Gerard?”

A soft sigh emanated from the darkness. “Thought I told you to call me Gerry.”

“I… haven’t forgotten,” Jon replied. “Gerry, then.”

The name felt uncomfortable on his tongue, even with permission. It held meaning, he knew. Gerard—Gerry had thrown it out in an off-hand manner, but Jon didn’t need to be a seer to sense the weight in that request. It wasn’t just a preference; it was an offer of trust, a wall coming down, a privilege that Jon had somehow earned, entirely without meaning to, without offering anything in return.

“I’ll follow your lead,” he said.

Gerry’s face hovered into the light again, casting sharp shadows over his features. “Not quite good enough.”

“What?”

With a sigh, Gerry let his eyes slide shut. “There’s too many of them. If we make a break for it, they’ll run us down, overwhelm us with sheer numbers.” His eyes opened, focusing on Jon. “You’re fast. A lot faster than you used to be, at least. All you need to get away is a diversion.”

“I don’t like where this is headed—”

“I’ll be fine,” Gerry said calmly, with a roll of his eyes. “And most importantly, you’ll be fine. You’ve got the easy bit. All you have to do is run fast until you’re out. I’ll take care of the rest.”

He reached for the door handle. Jon got there first.

***

Jon’s hand closed around his wrist, tight enough to make his fingers tingle. Gerry jerked back with a surprised hiss, but Jon refused to let go.

“Gerry, stop,” he hissed. “It won’t work.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” It was getting a little harder to keep his voice steady. Sure, his chances were slim, but that was nothing new. Slim chances were his baseline.

“No, listen to me,” Jon gritted out, yanking him away from the door. “It won’t work. There are too many of them and they’re spread out through the building. No matter where, when, or how you try to make a stand, I won’t even make it outside.”

Conviction rang in every word, bringing Gerry up short. He looked back; in the dim light through the door’s small window, he could see the set of Jon’s face.

“Trust me,” Jon pleaded. “I know.”

Gerry’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know? I didn’t see you swooning over a vision.”

“Think of something else,” Jon told him.

“Jon—”

“The longer we take to decide, the more everything shifts,” Jon snapped. “Think of something else.”

“Fine!” Gerry thought quickly. “It’s a straight shot to the east entrance from here—”

“Won’t work,” Jon cut him off. The light from the hallway struck his eyes, setting them aglow. His pupils, no longer light-absorbing black, flashed like a cat’s in the dark. “It’s too narrow—no escape routes. It’ll funnel us straight to them. Try again.”

“South, then. It leads to the warehouse—there’s plenty of places to hide.”

“The mezzanine’s already packed with armed cultists,” said Jon. “It’d be like running into a firing squad.”

“If we go further down—”

“No way out, and… there’s something down here.” Jon squinted and grimaced, free hand flying to his forehead as if in sudden pain. “I can’t—I can’t quite get the shape of it.”

“Then… up…?”

Jon blinked. “Keep going.”

“What?”

“Upstairs, then what?”

Gerry thought for a moment. “Head to the roof, take the fire escape down.”

“Fire escapes aren’t maintained, they won’t hold both of us,” said Jon. “Try again.”

“Not the roof, then. Out one of the windows. I can climb and carry you.”

“You—” Jon blinked, his strange eyes widening. “Huh. So you can.”

“Are we good?” Gerry asked.

“Wait.” Jon’s eyes flickered again, before he squeezed them shut and came back into himself. “Christ. Car park on the west side of the building. There’s a blue sedan with keys on the center console.”

“Okay.” With one last look out into the hallway, Gerry reached for the door handle. There would be time for questions later, and Gerry had many. “Get ready to run.”

***

“Want to tell me what that was about, then?”

Jon’s hands barely shook. It was a bold move, starting an interrogation when Jon was the one applying gauze to a bullet graze Gerry couldn’t reach himself. “Depends on what you want to talk about—”

“Don’t.” Gerry’s voice brooked no argument, barely stuttering even as Jon pressed a disinfectant-soaked pad to the gash over his shoulder blade.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jon insisted. “I’m a seer. You knew that when Elias brought you on. Why are you so disconcerted over watching me see the future?”

“Because you’ve been holding out on me, Sims,” Gerry said mildly. “Holding out on him too, seems like. Does Elias know you can do that? Just peek into the future of your own accord, instead of waiting for it to creep up and pounce?”

Jon sighed.

He didn’t say anything after sighing, but he did continue to patch up Gerry’s wounds. Gerry sat patiently, holding still even as Jon’s ministrations stung his torn and scorched skin. He could be patient. Once Jon was done, he wouldn’t have an excuse to hide behind anymore.

“I’m not stupid,” Jon said. “Or naive, or sheltered. I don’t know why you thought I was when we first met.”

“You’re not my first bodyguarding gig,” Gerry told him. “In my experience, anybody who gets as petulant about being protected as you were is usually naive and a bit stupid. And after that stunt you pulled with Jude Perry, you can forgive me for coming to a reasonable conclusion.”

“That wasn’t stupidity or naivete,” Jon said primly. “That was recklessness. Learn the difference.”

“Jon.”

“I just mean—I know how people see me,” Jon went on. “What they usually want from me. It happened back when I was a kid, before my grandmother stopped letting me talk about it. Everyone wants to know something about the future, even if they think they don’t. I’m a useful tool for some, a deepest wish for others. I’ve been hiding what I am since I was a child. And when Elias identified what I was in spite of my best efforts… I thought it best to keep hiding what little I could.”

“Like having control over your own power.” Gerry’s eyes narrowed. “But you work for him. Being a seer is literally what he pays you for.”

“But I don’t know why.” Jon finished fussing over his wounds and stood back. “He pays me a wage plus a bonus for every vision I report to him, but I don’t know what he’s getting out of any of it. He’s looking for something—I know he is. I just don’t know what.”

“If you don’t know what he wants from you, but you don’t trust him enough to ask, then why stay at all?” Gerry asked. “I’ve seen your paycheck, and it’s not that good. Why do you still work for him?”

Jon moved to the sink, where he washed his hands with the methodical care of a surgeon about to walk into an operating theater. Gerry was halfway through putting his shirt back on when Jon finally replied.

“Because I haven’t found a path to quitting that doesn’t end with Elias killing me.”

Gerry froze, his shirt still rucked up over his chest.

“I’d been working for him for about… six months? When I finally admitted to myself that I wasn’t comfortable.” Jon returned to the kitchen table and sank back into the chair beside Gerry. “I didn’t think much of peeking ahead, so to speak. Elias just struck me as the sort of boss who would take a resignation personally, and I wanted to know what I’d have to deal with.” He took a deep breath. “Turns out, what I’d have to deal with was Elias coming into my home and beating me to death in a staged burglary gone wrong.”

Gerry gripped the edge of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

“I-I went through as many possible exits as I could think of,” Jon went on. “Moving wouldn’t help. Neither would changing my number, ghosting him, stringing him along to keep him from realizing I was quitting—nothing. If I try to quit, he’ll kill me. And I don’t know why.”

He stopped, steadying himself. “All I can do is just—linger. Be as useless as possible. Try to figure out what he wants from me. I-I keep checking, every now and then. Cycling through possible resignation methods. I’m—” HIs voice caught. “I’m quite sick of watching myself die, as you can imagine.”

“Can’t you use your sight to figure out what he wants?” Gerry asked.

“No, it’s—it’s not that simple, it’s—a question like that is too vague.” Jon paused, looking thoughtful. “Did your mother ever teach you about probability?”

Gerry gave him exactly the look that question deserved.

“Right, didn’t think so. Here—here’s an incredibly simplified demonstration.” Jon reached across the table and snagged a legal pad. “Right, so—imagine you’re trying to pick an outfit for the day. And you have… two pairs of trousers, three shirts, and four pairs of socks. So you start with picking the trousers.” Turning the pad sideways, he started on the left and drew a sideways V, the two branches spread wide, nearly spanning the width of the page. “These two points are your two choices of trousers. From there, you pick a shirt. Both choices of trousers can then go with three possible shirts, making six outcomes in all.” From the end of both branches, he drew three more branching lines. “And from there, you choose socks—so each of these six shirt-trouser combinations have four further possibilities for socks.” He continued drawing until the diagram resembled a sideways skeletal tree with twenty-four branches at the end. “And you can continue this ad nauseum—you’ve got three possible pairs of shoes, five possible hats, two possible pairs of gloves, and so on and so forth.” Before long, the entire page was filled with simplistic tree branches, uneven and crowding each other on the page. “Following me so far?”

“Yes?” Gerry said dubiously.

“This is, once again, an incredibly simplified version of what the future is like,” Jon explained. “It’s not a straight path. There are countless possible outcomes for every single—well. Everything. You make different choices to go down certain paths, and the choices available to you depend on random chance and the choices of the people around you, who are also living in their own tangled probability trees.” He tapped the scribbly mess on the page with his pencil. “When I use my sight of my own accord, that is what I see.”

Gerry stared down at it. “Huh.”

“The trick I pulled in the Rayner compound was… simpler than it could have been,” Jon went on. “It’s easiest to see what’s straight ahead, because that puts me back here—” he tapped at the single point on the left side of the page, from which the rest of the branches originated. “Because I can focus on myself, and my own choices, and the number of possible outcomes are slightly more manageable. The present and immediate future are always the easiest to deal with, because whenever I choose a particular branch, the rest of them… wither away, so to speak, and all the tangled might-have-beens that grew from them disappear. It frees up my attention.”

“So it’s difficult to figure out what Elias wants from you because… you don’t know how to find the right branch?”

Jon nodded. “I don’t know how to find the path that leads to him telling me.”

“Do you know what happens if you tell him the truth about your abilities?”

“I looked, once,” Jon replied. “Not for very long. None of the outcomes I could find involved him letting me outside ever again.”

“Fuck,” Gerry breathed out. “You realize you’re taking a huge risk by telling me, right? For all you know, I could take this straight to Bouchard.”

Jon’s eyes flickered again. “I’ve yet to find a branch where you do.” Gerry snorted. “And besides that…”

His scarred hand came to rest over Gerry’s. By some miracle, Gerry managed not to jump.

“We’re in this together,” Jon said. “We’re both stuck, and I’m relying on you just to keep breathing. You’ve been—good. To me. So far. You’re no friend of Elias, that’s for sure.”

“I’m not,” Gerry said firmly.

“Maybe it is a risk,” said Jon. “But I’m just—tired. I’m trapped either way, and the closest I have to company I trust are the infinite possible future versions of myself, who I can only observe and learn from. To tell you the truth, I’ve been getting a bit lonely.”

“Bit sad, that.”

“Never said it wasn’t.”

They sat in silence for a while, neither of them pulling away from the other’s touch. Gerry stared at the hand over his own through half-lidded eyes, wondering what would happen if he turned his over and held Jon’s properly. For a split second he wished he could peek ahead.

“Hey Jon?”

“Yes?”

“What happens if—” He faltered for a moment. “What happens if I’m with you when you try to leave?”

“Hm.” Jon’s eyes flickered for a moment.

Without warning, they flew open wide.

“Jon?” Gerry asked nervously.

“I…” Jon’s throat bobbed. “Sorry, that—that just opened up an entire dimension of branches that I didn’t even—” His eyes flicked from side to side, as if the entire tree of fate was sprouting and growing before him, and he could only take in a few branches at a time.

“Talk to me,” said Gerry.

“There are—a lot more answers to that question than I realized,” Jon said. “Still a lot of ways to die, but—not as immediate. There are more branches ahead, I can’t quite…” He seemed to catch his breath. “I have to think about this. But…” The strange light in his eyes went out, and he turned to look at the Gerry of here and now. “Would you do that? Are you sure?”

Gerry took Jon’s hand and squeezed. The outcome, it turned out, was Jon’s wide eyes locking on his face, and the faintest hint of a blush creeping over Jon’s skin.

“Yes.” He wondered how many paths vanished when he made his choice.

#jongerry #jonathan sims #gerard keay #the magnus archives #tma fic #fanfiction #tales from the pit

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werewolves-are-real · 6 months

Text

Time Travel Temeraire snippet

At first, Laurence assumes he's dead.

It's a natural conclusion. He remembers dying, after all.

He and Tenzing were at a function hosted by Wellesley. They were mostly there to support the dragons. Temeraire had long abandoned them to quarrel with Perscitia in the courtyard, with half a dozen ferals watching like it were a jousting match. Wellesley had laid out his grounds to allow room for dragons and men to mingle, but a good portion of the guests retreated inside to avoid the raised voices of the dragons.

Laurence wonders how Temeraire felt about that, later. About not seeing.

He was stabbed. He barely remembers it – just a quick pulse of pain in his chest, looking down. Red blooming over his coat.

Then he was on the floor. People screamed. Tenzing appeared, grappling with a tall and finely-dressed man; he used a dinner-knife to punch a hole in the stranger's throat, in a fantastic spray of blood, and dropped the body at once to kneel by Laurence's side.

He remembers Wellesley barking orders – bandages, water, a hot knife. Have to cauterize it, he'd shouted. Keep pressure -

But Tenzing never spoke. Just pressed down on Laurence's chest, over the wound, without particular panic. Laurence still remembers the grim resignation on his face; Tenzing knew what was coming. Laurence was glad to have him there when he died.

Then Laurence woke up.

The world sways in a familiar way, a rhythmic motion that Laurence registers on a soul-deep level. He's on a ship. But why? Where is Tenzing, Temeraire? Why would they put him on a ship?

“I think the fever's breaking,” says a voice. A naval doctor, disheveled and salt-stained, with long scars down his bared arms. “Oh, and awake too!”

“Well thank Christ,” says another man. One Laurence recognizes.

It's Captain Gerry Stuart – but he looks different, younger than the last time Laurence saw him, with smooth skin and dark curly hair.

Gerry died two years ago.

“Well, Lieutenant! You gave us a scare – how are you feeling?” Gerry asks.

“It's Admiral,” Laurence corrects rather than all the other things he does not dare ask. He hates the title foisted upon him; but it's at least more comprehensible than Lieutenant, and he clings to that rather than demand where did you come from.

Stuart throws back his head to cackle, though the concern doesn't leave his face. “Still perhaps a bit feverish, I think!”

“That might be the laudanum,” says the doctor, also amused. “Why don't you sleep a bit more, Lieutenant?”

“But where is Temeraire? Or Tenzing?”

“I can only assume you had some very vivid dreams,” Stuart chuckles. “You were babbling and babbling for Temeraire – isn't that a ship?”

“Perhaps the flagship of his fleet,” suggests the doctor, and Stuart laughs again. “Get some rest, Mr. Laurence. Holler if you need me.”

They both exit the sick-berth. Laurence stares blankly at the door.

What?

Laurence pats his chest. No wound. He looks down, startled by the pale thinness of his fingers, his youth-soft skin.

Well; not soft. Callouses cover his hands. But even these patterns are different – hard skin in places where he would hold a sword, or pulls ropes. His hands should be more wrinkled, yes; but these callouses faded years ago.

“Where am I?” he asks when the doctor returns. “And what is the year?”

“The year? 1793. You don't remember?”

1793. Laurence was 19 in 1793. A lieutenant for two years, on the Shorewise.

The doctor narrows his eyes. “What's my name, lad?”

Laurence swallows. His stomach churns; for the life of him he can't remember.

The doctor rushes off to retrieve the captain.

_____________________________

Laurence is diagnosed with brain fever, and partial amnesia. Gerry is horribly guilty about laughing, earlier; Laurence could not care less. He is given strict orders to stay on bed-rest for another week, in hope his strength will recover – and his mind.

Laurence doesn't think he'll have any issues working – he's forgotten many of the people around him, true, but he may never forget the way to run a ship. He's far more concerned with learning what happened.

From all appearances, it is indeed 1793. France is undergoing riots, and declared war against Britain in February. Temeraire has not hatched. Napoleon is probably a corporal or general himself, at this point. If he exists at all. God knows, perhaps Laurence is only mad.

But he doesn't feel mad. His memories are too vivid to be mere fever-dreams. A man cannot dream up twenty years of life!

But neither can a man go back to his youth, and live it all again.

I have a dragon, he thinks of saying. There is no war, because I captured Napoleon – an unknown man who makes himself emperor.

Mad. It sounds mad even to Laurence himself. But to imagine that Temeraire was a fever-ridden dream... Tenzing and Granby and China, all of it...

Laurence doesn't share his turmoil with anyone – not even with Gerry, who checks on him fretfully. After a week the doctor declares him well enough, physically. He's paired always with another lieutenant for the first few days on duty, and his shipmates watch him carefully for signs of permanent debilitation; but aside from a moment or two of hesitance, Laurence competently resumes his duties. The oversight lessens.

Laurence thinks about writing letters.

He thinks about writing to Tharkay's late father, who ought to still be alive, inquiring after his son. He thinks of writing to Prince Mianning, asking about the health of Lung Tien Qian. He thinks of writing to young Midshipman Granby, his unwed brother, his dead father...

Not all of them would reply. But he could ask questions. Could verify the truth of things. Unless this, instead, is the delusion.

Is he in 1793, imagining the future? Is he in the future, imagining the past? Or maybe he is already dead, and this is the reality of hell. He came here burning with fever, and now he burns with fear. Surely that is it's own form of torture.

Laurence is ironically given the task of tutoring the midshipman and lieutenant-hopefuls more than any other duty as the weeks pass; his crewmates still look askance, and the more eager of the midshipman become protective. Laurence remains perfectly capable of command; it is only that he can't help but be absent-minded, sometimes, staring at all the crewmen that pass him like they are nothing but moving paintings. Images of a world that no longer matters.

One evening the midshipmen drag him away to a meal with the other officers. It's a noisy crowd; Laurence would find the friendly bustle comforting in another life.

One of the senior officers, Lieutenant Moore, waves him down as Laurence enters. Evidently they used to be friends, given his notably concerned behavior of late. Laurence can't remember the man, and has a sneaking suspicion he died too soon to make a lasting impression.Moore jostles him when Laurence sits at the long table. “Will! Did you get any letters with the last batch?”

A patrolling gunboat brought a satchel of letters just this morning. “I did not,” Laurence says. He's grateful for the fact. He'd found a few pieces of correspondence in his quarters that he dutifully sent on; he cannot imagine writing a letter now, in this confused state.

“Then you've had no news! Robespierre has gone mad. Madder than before, I suppose.”

“Robespierre?” asks Laurence blankly.

Lieutenant Moore double-takes, as does everyone else around them. “Good lord, Will, please tell me you remember Robespierre?”

Right... Robespierre's reign was brief, but this is when he led France. Some of the things the papers published...

Well, at least Laurence has a well-worn excuse for his ignorance. He plays up his malady: “Yes. I think I recall he was... French?”

Groans of horror mixed with amusement echo around the table. “...Well you aren't wrong,” says Moore, looking pained. “He has styled himself the 'President' of their Assembly, which is some stupid way of being king; the French are all mad about removing and adding words right now. I don't know how they expect anyone to hold a conversation.”

“We should... probably educate Mr. Laurence about the war at some point,” some midshipman mutters. Laurence doesn't recall his name.

Moore sighs again. “Anyway. Robespierre is a tyrant, of course. But he's elected someone else to rule France! Barely more than a boy, too.”

Laurence frowns; he doesn't remember what Moore's talking about. “Why would he do that? Did they capture one of the Bourbons?” Declaring himself regent of a child-prince would at least make sense.

“Well, at least you remember them. No; it is some nobody, a young soldier. Not even French! I cannot fathom it.”

It feels like Laurence has been dunked in ice.

For a moment he can't respond. “What was his name? The soldier.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte. He has been chosen as head of their new heresy, the 'Cult of the Supreme Being,' they're calling it; and now de facto head of the government, too. Must be a priest? I don't know, nothing the French are doing makes sense. I expect his little group will be as short-lived as everything else about these riots.”

But Laurence doesn't think so. “...Excuse me; I'm feeling a bit poorly,” he says, rising on wavering legs.

“Yes, you look it! Go on, we'll tell you about the war later...”

Laurence flees.

#posting bc i have no idea where this is going or if I'll do anything with it #it's just a funny stupid idea #Laurence travelling in time: I have gone mad. I am plagued by visions. God is punishing me for my Sins. This is purgatory.#Why is this happening? What moral course of action can I take under these circumstances?#Napoleon travelling through time: No idea how this happened. Neat. Time to hijack a cult and rule my country even earlier.#basic concept is Laurence has an ongoing existential crisis about his Place In The Universe #but also he is determined to stop Napoleon #who is delighted and fascinated they BOTH came back and sort of indulgently lets him try #basically resulting in Laurence becoming Napoleon's unwilling advisor frantically trying to do damage control in between bouts #of philosophical dread and despair #“Poor Mr Laurence was loyal before the brain fever we swear”#meanwhile Laurence is in France just trying desperately to make Napoleon Stop #etc etc #Temeraire

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