#future!martin tells them not to worry about it everything is fine and good. but you might want to stop staring back into the abyss :) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

eldritchqueerture · 2 years

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Chapter 3: Songs We Sing

Chapter Summary: Jon debates whether to inform his assistants about what is going on, while grappling with the scary truth about his future, that the Archivist has presented him with. A decision is made for him, when a certain statement proves more dangerous than the archival staff initially thought.

CW: Elias Bitchard and his very own manipulation station, canon typical worms and associated descriptors, spiders, injury (glass cuts), unreality

Author's Notes: This one took longer than I expected but finally here we are! I'm still very excited about this fic so don't let the time between updates give you the wrong idea kdfjgkjijh god i have IDEAS Anyways, I gift to you this chapter and I promise you I am not speedrunning Tim's arc. Not even a little bit.

Work Summary:

Jon awakens with a tidal wave of memories that don’t make any sense. In an attempt to go on with his life, he searches for the cause of the turmoil in his mind. He knows, though, that something inside him is waking up.

Likes are greatly appreciated, but please consider reblogging so other people may see it! Thank you 💜

The next months slip between Jon’s fingers like liquid, and before he can blink he’s staring at March in his calendar. It feels significant, strengthens his already high anxiety, yet he can’t figure out why. Nothing in the archives feels different; they’ve been researching and recording statements as normal. Bits and pieces of information slip into Jon’s brain, just to be swept away by the current of his memory. He’s gotten pretty good at differentiating real statements from false ones; they feel different and the real ones demand to be read out loud. Jon knows why that is even though he can’t quite put words to it. He knows a lot of things that way – vague hunches and feelings, but no real substance, no actual knowledge he can use.

That is one of the reasons he hasn’t explained anything to his assistants. The incident with Naomi Herne lingers over them like a storm cloud, and they’ve been asking about it at first, worried. Martin was the first to let it go, opting instead to go about everything as if nothing happened, for which Jon is, frankly, grateful. Sasha asked him twice, and has been observing him intently ever since, but Jon could deal with that. What he couldn’t deal with was Tim, who progressed from gentle concern to anger.

“Jon, for the last time,” he says, placing his hand flat on Jon’s desk. “Get it through your stuck-up head, I’m worried about you. You’ve been acting strange ever since you took this damn job, let us help , for Christ’s sake—”

“I told you it’s none of your business, Tim.” Jon presses his lips together. “Maybe you should put this energy into something more useful, like work.”

“God, you are impossible !” Tim throws his arms in the air with a look of outrage. “You can’t do everything alone! That’s not how life works!”

“I don’t recall asking your opinion on how I should live my life.” Jon’s voice is cold, and he stares into Tim’s eyes with drawn eyebrows.

“Fine!” Tim shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “Maybe you’re a lost cause, whatever. I’m done wasting my energy.”

He turns around and the office door slams behind him.

Jon sighs heavily and hides his face in his hands. Tim’s anger feels familiar and right in some way; he knows he deserves it. Tim is right – he knows he can’t do it alone. He wishes he could tell them what’s happening, but he barely grasps it himself and he can’t come up with a way to explain it. They wouldn’t believe him, they’d just think he’s finally lost his mind.

He realizes the irony of that fear, and yet he can’t tell them. He doesn’t know where he would even begin, and he decides that he needs to understand, truly understand what’s going on before he involves anyone else in it. Especially if it’s dangerous – and Jon has a feeling it is going to be, if it isn’t already. Perhaps ignorance can shield his assistants until the matter is resolved.

Of course, Elias pays him a visit the day after Naomi leaves, claiming to have heard what happened, and scolds him for driving away a statement giver. Jon is too tired from the nightmare to care, and he just agrees to everything, barely even listening. Elias stares at him again with his cold steel-grey eyes, trying to read him, but then he just shakes his head slightly and leaves.

After all that, no one brings up Naomi Herne again.

Jon makes a surprising discovery that only his relationship with Martin hasn’t suffered in the past months. While Tim had apologized for his earlier outburst, both he and Sasha have been quite reserved ever since (or was it Jon who have grown distant?); Martin however clearly wanted to keep the energy of the office up. Jon expected to hate it but, despite the pain and the persisting feeling of loss, he’s been enjoying his company. Martin has been consistently bringing Jon tea to his office, three hours before lunchtime – sometimes in the afternoons when Jon stays in the office past the clock – and Jon can’t help but admit he’s started to look forward to it.

He grows restless, however. The Archivist’s warning lingers in his mind: Martin will be first. First to what? Die? Jon doesn’t want to believe that. It can’t refer to the worms – the nightmare is so real in Jon’s mind that he feels he’s already experienced it before anyone else. Although, now that he thinks about it… He recalls a statement, the name Timothy Hodge. Could it be connected to his nightmares? Why would they come after them, though? Why would they come after Martin ?

As March comes, the feeling of not remembering something vitally important grows like an incessant weed, combating every attempt at eradication. Everything seems ordinary; Martin brings him tea and goes out for a follow up, Sasha quietly taps at her computer, and Tim is deeply engrossed in a Wikipedia article only tangentially related to the case he’s currently working on.

Then, the next day, Martin doesn’t show up for work. Jon stifles his panic because Martin clearly texted him he’s sick, but something feels off. The following two days are pretty much the same, with Jon fighting himself on whether it would be appropriate to check up on him; he even hopes the Archivist shows up in his dreams to explain this sudden alarm, but it doesn’t. He just dreams the same nightmare full of worms.

After a week of empty messages from Martin and a fifth unanswered call, Jon decides it’s enough. He puts his phone down on the desk and starts drumming his fingers.

“Hey, Jon, do you want some coffee?” Sasha shows up in the door to his office. “Or tea, I suppose. I’m going out for lunch, and I can get you something since Martin is still—”

“Do you know where he lives?” Jon asks suddenly and stills his fingers, looking up at her. Sasha blinks.

“Uh… what?”

“Martin. Do you know where he lives?” He prays she can’t hear the nagging anxiety in his voice. Sasha takes a breath, her eyes wandering to the side, thinking.

“Um… I don’t know. Why?” Jon tsks, and the drumming resumes. Sasha frowns with concern. “Are you okay?”

“He’s not picking up his phone,” Jon informs her dryly. Sasha shrugs.

“Maybe he’s just tired—”

“It’s been a week.” Jon’s lips form a tight line. “I need to see if he’s okay.”

Sasha looks genuinely surprised.

“You’re… actually worried,” she states more than she asks, and Jon looks at her again.

“Yes, of course I— Why is that surprising?”

“I just…” She shrugs. “I didn’t think you cared this much.”

Something tightens in Jon’s stomach.

“Well, I do,” he says after a quick pause. “Could you check his address for me?”

“Alright.” Her eyes linger on him for a moment, but Jon can’t figure out what exactly she’s thinking.

While Sasha sits down at her computer to do her digging, Jon leaves his office, following a sudden idea to check what Martin had been working on before he disappeared. He looks at his desk and searches the pile of documents; some notes about a residence on Boothby Road and a couple of unfinished poems (Jon feels his cheeks grow hot; he discards them hurriedly, pushing the bundle of feelings out of his mind). Finally, he finds it – statement of Carlos Vittery, the man followed by a creepy spider. Is Martin targeted by the Web? Is it at all related? Jon realizes he doesn’t know why he searched for the statement at all and leaves it be on the desk. There’s no evidence that Martin is even missing , he scolds himself in his mind.

“Do you have anything?” He asks, walking up to Sasha’s desk.

“Yeah,” she says, not looking at him. “Stockwell. I’ll text you the exact address.”

“You’re amazing, Sasha,” Jon says before he can stop himself and, not paying any mind to her surprised expression, takes his bag and leaves the Archives.

It is when he finds himself in front of Martin’s building that he realizes he has no idea what he’s doing. He wants to check on Martin, yes, but the anxiety in his gut is only rising and he has a feeling this isn’t a natural occurrence at all. The Archivist’s words have echoed in his brain the whole journey there: You better apologise to Martin in advance. He will be first.

He has no idea how to fight whatever he finds inside. All he has on him is a couple of loose documents, a book and… a tape recorder? Jon frowns. He definitely did not take it. He shrugs and turns the recording on.

“Even better that I have it,” he says. “I’m outside Martin’s house and I know whatever it is that is inside, is going to be supernatural. I don’t know why, but I just know . I’m recording this in case… Just in case.”

He puts the recorder back in his bag and opens the door. He pays no mind to the fact that he shouldn’t have known the code to the door; it comes too naturally to him. He quietly enters the silent building, his legs shaking a little. His eyes fall on the fire extinguisher in the corner, and he sighs.

“I’m taking the fire extinguisher as a, uh… A weapon. I don’t know how useful it can be but um… It’s better than nothing.”

As he climbs the stairs, he wonders where this certainty of a paranormal nature of this incident is coming from – no tangible facts would suggest that. Is he just making a fool of himself? Only further proving that his mind is deteriorating under the Archivist – if it is even real at all? Jon shakes his head and continues quietly but surely, wielding the fire extinguisher. This is no time for existential detours.

He finally reaches Martin’s floor, and he halts, fear stopping him dead in his tracks. The sound makes it to his ears first – the wet writhing and heavy breathing. Next is the putrid stench of decay, bringing tears to his eyes. He idly wonders how is it that no one in this building noticed anything. Were they all gone?

Jon steels himself and rounds the corner to face what he already knows is there.

The creature from his recent nightmares stands surrounded by all too familiar worms. Its hair is dirty and looks sticky as the worms move among it. Its punctured hand is knocking on Martin’s door, and it smiles baring more worms to the world. It turns to Jon slowly and looks at him with eyes full of goo and something black.

“ Archivist… ” it whispers. Its voice is distorted somehow, elongated, and just sounds… wrong. Jon finds himself frozen in his place for a moment, as the worms start crawling in his direction. Blind panic overtakes him, his mind plagued by the sensation of those same worms digging into his skin and feeding on his flesh. The next moment, he tightens his grip on the extinguisher and, not thinking at all, sprays the worms with the CO2. The creature hisses at him and the hiss lingers in his mind as the worms writhe in pain and try to escape the gas.

“ We’re not done… Archivist… ” The creature hisses. “ Their song… You shall hear… Their song… ”

Then the creature melts into thousands of worms and bugs that scuttle towards the window and leave the building. Jon keeps spraying them, mind cut off from processing, until the remaining worms are either dead or gone.

Feeling a bit light-headed already, Jon pounds on Martin’s door.

“Martin? Martin, it’s me, Jon!” He hears a little yelp from the inside. “Are you alright?”

“J-Jon?” A faint voice comes from the inside.

“Yes, it’s me! Open the door, Martin, it’s— that… thing , it’s gone now!”

He looks around again to make sure no worms made it back and leans one hand on the wall to steady himself. After a moment he hears a key turn in the lock and the door cracks open to reveal Martin.

He looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept in a couple of days. He’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie depicting a cow. His hair is in disarray, and he looks overall a mess.

“Jon? What—” He starts but Jon interrupts him by opening the door wider and pulling him into a hug.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Jon mumbles.

For a moment Martin is too shocked to do anything, but then his arms carefully wrap around Jon’s shoulders. Jon really shouldn’t be surprised that Martin is an amazing hugger, especially that a part of him already knew that, but he relaxes a little bit before he comes back to his senses and realizes he is actually hugging Martin, his assistant . He awkwardly withdraws to lean on the door frame, clears his throat, and crosses his arms on his chest, cheeks burning.

“You weren’t bitten, were you?” He asks very matter-of-factly, hoping to save face. Martin shakes his head.

“Uh, no I-I was here and—Jon, what is going on?” His insistent gaze clears a bit of the brain fog that the CO2 has left Jon with.

“Ah, I’m—I’m sorry. I, uh—” His eyes scan the flat over Martin’s shoulder. “Can I… uh, come inside?”

Martin looks nervous as he takes a step back to let him in.

“Yeah, sure, but,” –He stops when Jon sways unsteadily as soon as he lets go of the wall’s support. “Jon?”

“Sorry, uh… That’d be the CO2, I think,” he laughs. Martin steadies him and leads him to a couch, then closes the door. Jon takes a couple of breaths.

“You can open the windows, Martin, they, uh… they’re gone now.”

“How—,” He sighs and shakes his head. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Jon rubs his face. He stands up carefully and walks up to a window that Martin now opens. He closes his eyes; takes a deep breath of fresh air and can feel his brain clear up a little bit.

“Do you, uh…” Martin starts. “Do you want some tea?”

Something tightens in Jon’s chest, constricting his breathing room. He raises his eyebrows at this, frankly, ridiculous question, given the circumstances, but Martin’s disconcerted and confused expression doesn’t let him point it out.

“Yes, sure,” he says instead, noticing Martin nod with determination before heading to the kitchen.

Silence falls over the flat for a while, only broken by Martin’s tea preparations. Jon takes his time, clearing his lungs of the CO2 and Martin, even though he must be itching for an explanation (Jon scolds himself for the choice of words), seems to give him all the time he needs. When the two cups are ready, he places them on the kitchen table and takes a seat. Jon opens his eyes then and follows suit.

“How—" Martin begins. “Wh— H-How did you know…?”

“I…” Jon stares at his tea as he realizes he did not plan that far ahead. He didn’t plan at all . How is he supposed to explain? “You weren’t picking up your phone.”

Martin blinks.

“I wasn’t…” He exhales, trying to follow Jon’s thought process and shoots a glance at the apartment door. “But h-how did you—”

“Honestly, it was dumb luck,” Jon chuckles nervously and sips his tea, still not looking at Martin. “I grabbed the fire extinguisher randomly to have a weapon and… turns out it works on them.”

Martin looks down and swallows.

“Are you okay?” Jon asks, finally looking up. “How are you feeling?”

Martin takes a sip of his tea.

“I… I think this is, uh… I think I have a, um… a statement to give.”

“A statement?” Jon repeats and immediately reaches to his bag. He takes out the running tape recorder and places it on the table between them.

“Wh—W-Why do you have a tape recorder running?” Martin asks in disbelief. Jon shrugs.

“I wanted to… uh, have proof. In—In case something like this happened.”

“I thought you—”

“Just tell me what happened, Martin,” Jon interrupts, not very keen on answering questions he doesn’t have answers to. Martin sighs and nods. Jon takes a deep breath.

“Statement of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding…?”

“A close encounter with something I believe to have once been Jane… Prentiss,” Martin fills in, looking down.

“Recorded direct from subject, 7th March 2016. Statement begins.”

Silence falls over them when Martin finishes talking. Jon swallows and looks at him.

“Why didn’t you come to me before going back there?” He asks and Martin scoffs.

“You wouldn’t have believed me! You said dying encased in web surely had a natural explanation! No, I needed hard proof.”

Jon sighs and rubs at his face, pushing his glasses up to his forehead.

“This is probably as far as hard proof goes,” he huffs out. Martin doesn’t laugh. Jon looks up at him; he looks thoughtful, staring at a point in the table. “Statement ends.”

He clicks the STOP button on the tape recorder and clasps his hands together on the table. Martin is still in his thoughts, frowning slightly. He looks… sad. Jon feels a soft chill on his skin all of a sudden.

“Are you okay, Martin?” He asks quietly. Martin blinks, as if settling on something and looks up at him.

“Jon… why? Why did you, uh… I mean, don’t get me wrong, I really appreciate it and you, you might have just, uh, s-saved my life but, uh…” Martin fidgets with his fingers. “Why did you come here?”

Jon feels as if someone just stabbed him in the chest. He instinctively moves his hand to grab Martin’s but stops himself and takes a hold of his empty mug instead. He knows it doesn’t escape Martin’s notice, his green eyes following Jon’s hand, even though he doesn’t react. He does have rather pretty eyes, doesn’t he?

“I…” Jon exhales and looks down, shutting down that line of thought before it starts in earnest. “I just… I had a bad feeling.”

“A—A bad feeling?” Martin repeats and Jon sighs heavily.

“Yes, I know how it sounds, coming from me. But look at that, I was right! Even if I… don’t really know why. Or how.” Jon bites his lip and looks away. “Look, I… I want— no, I need you to know that, uh… That you’re valued at the Archives. And, uh… I was worried. About you. I’m… I’m glad you’re okay, Martin.”

Out of the corner of his eye Jon sees Martin look at him in surprise before turning his gaze onto the table. His face shows no emotion and his stare seems empty.

“Oh,” he lets out and nods slightly. “Th-Thank you for coming.”

Jon wants to comfort him somehow, but he doesn’t have the first clue on how to do it. He’s not exactly well suited for helping people come to terms with trauma, so he clears his throat and says the only thing he feels makes sense in the moment.

“We need to get you to the Institute.” His voice is deeper and more in control, and it grabs Martin’s attention. “You’re not safe here. I have a place in the document storage where I sometimes sleep when I stay in the Archives for too long, it should be enough to provide a safe space. I’ll ask Elias to double up on security and to maybe get more CO2, just in case.”

“Wh—uh… What do you think this means?” Martin asks.

Jon starts drumming his fingers on the table, but his mind is providing no useful insights. As he turns his attention inwards, all he feels is guilt. Could he have stopped this? If he just remembered, if he just… what? Listened to the Archivist?

“I think…” He starts. “I think something bad is coming, Martin.”

Elias Bouchard leans back in his chair, up in his office in the Magnus Institute. The office is immaculate and neatly organized, every book on the shelf and each document on the desk exactly in its designated place, as if afraid to step out of line under the Head of the Institute’s watchful gaze. Above Elias’ head, on the wall, there is a portrait of an older, greying man, wearing a monocle on a thin golden chain. Below it, on the frame, are three words, etched into the wood.

Vigilo. Audio. Opperior.

And that is exactly what Elias Bouchard is doing. He watches the two men enter the Institute and quickly head down to the Archives. He listens as they explain to their friends what has happened. And he waits for The Archivist to come to him, asking questions.

Elias can’t say everything is going according to plan. In fact, from the looks of it, he’s going to have some troubles with his current plan in the near future, but it doesn’t bother him much at the moment. The Archivist is bound to his position, as are his co-workers. He trusts in his own abilities to improvise should the need arise.

What Elias does not understand is what in the hell happened to Jonathan Sims.

He felt it; he’s fairly certain every Avatar of all of the fourteen powers felt it. The night before Jon’s first day as the Head Archivist something happened. Elias doesn’t know what and it bothers him like a splinter in the flesh of his mind. Something changed in the very fabric of the universe, Elias could feel it tear and split, and then sew itself back up as if nothing happened. But something happened. And after seeing Jon that morning, Seeing him absolutely torn apart, his whole being scattered like bricks of a toppled tower, he knew this was the result of whatever happened in the night. He’s tried to get a look into Jon’s head for a while now, but he’s become… guarded. His mind has created protections that his Eye couldn’t penetrate, and it was… frustrating to say the least. It doesn’t necessarily thwart any of his plans, but he has to assume Jon now possesses some knowledge and abilities, and that does pose a threat.

Elias sighs and straightens in his chair. Here he comes.

As expected, there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Elias says. Jon comes in and closes the door behind him. Elias does his best to read Jon’s expression, but he’s closed off, as ever.

“Martin was just attacked by a… worm hive we believe to once have been Jane Prentiss.” Ah, there it is. The anger. Not in complete control then, Elias chuckles in his mind. Now, that would surprise him.

Elias decides to play his part. Jon may already know his identity and perhaps his role in all this, but that doesn’t mean he needs to open his cards just yet.

“Martin was what?” He asks in disbelief and frowns. “What are you talking about, Jon?”

“I’ve seen it, Elias.” He revels in the little emphasis on his name, subtly saying ‘I know your secret, stop playing around’. As if that’s leverage. “Thousands of worms. And I’m sure you remember that statement about Jane Prentiss. It has to be her.”

Elias sighs and stands up.

“Alright, if you say so. Is Martin okay?” Elias glances at Jon. Anger flashes through his eyes. Oh, how curious he is to know what exactly Jon knows now.

“Yes. I said he’d be able to stay in the Archives until the matter is resolved.”

“Very well,” Elias nods reluctantly and runs down the stairs. “Does that mean you’re going to fix your sleep schedule?”

“I—what?” Jon blinks. Elias shakes his head.

“Since Martin is taking over your temporary bed in the Archives I’d think you’ll start going home earlier to get some proper rest.”

Jon doesn’t answer.

They walk the rest of the way to the break room in silence. Martin is sat in one of the chairs with a blanket over his shoulders and a hot cup of tea in hand and Tim is sitting next to him, telling a story. He stops as they enter.

“Martin, are you alright?” Elias asks and Martin nods.

“Yes, I’m—I’m quite okay now.”

Elias nods curtly and glances about the room.

“Do you have any proof of those… worms, you said?” He turns to Jon just in time to see his lips press together in stifled frustration.

“I have it all on tape,” he almost growls, and Elias raises his eyebrows.

“All of it?”

“Martin’s statement included. You can listen to it if you so wish.”

Tim raises his eyebrows, looking from Jon to Elias, while Martin continues to stare at his tea. Elias makes a mental note that Jon is already seeking out statements to feed the Eye.

“Very well. Do you need anything else of me, Jon?” He turns to the Archivist.

“We need extra security at the Institute’s entrances and more fire extinguishers,” he says.

“Thank you,” Martin says quietly and Elias nods in acknowledgement, his lips forming a slight smile.

“Whatever you need, Martin.”

Jon stares after Elias for a long while after he leaves, his lips forming a thin line. Thoughts crowd in his brain like ants in an anthill that has been stepped on. How much does Elias know of what’s going on in his head? How much of this is his plan? If so, what would be the next step? And, most importantly, how does he stop it?

“Jon, are you okay?” Sasha materializes in front of him, and he jumps at her voice a little.

“Oh, I… Yes, I’m fine. Why?”

“Elias left five minutes ago, and you’ve been unresponsive.” She frowns. “This must have been traumatic for you too, sit down and we’ll—”

“What…? N-No, I’m—I’m perfectly fine.” Jon sighs and shakes his head. “Elias gets on my nerves.”

Tim scoffs sympathetically and nods.

Jon unzips his bag and takes out the tape recorder, then places it on the table. It’s almost the end of their work day, but he can’t stand the thought of leaving Martin alone here.

“Do you mind if I play it?” Jon asks. Martin looks at him confused, so he adds. “The tape. From the… from today.”

“Oh,” Martin looks down for a moment. “I… I’d rather not listen to it, if that’s—”

“Absolutely,” Jon nods and takes the tape recorder. “I’ll be in my office then.”

As soon as he’s alone, he plays the tape. He listens to it intently, noting the static when he approaches Prentiss and the heavy distortions when she— when it speaks.

As the tape winds to an end, a memory resurfaces in Jon’s mind – a spider on the shelf, that shelf collapsing, thousands upon thousands of worms crawling into the Archives like a flood. It looks just like his nightmares, except Jon can swear he’s lived it. Besides, in his dreams he is always alone, and in the memory Sasha and Martin are with him. It’s a quick flash but the knowledge stays with him as he fumbles for a notepad.

Jane Prentiss is going to attack the Institute.

The tape finishes playing and the only thing that can be heard is Jon’s drumming fingers.

The walls hum a tune Jon doesn’t know, that nevertheless sparks a feeling of familiarity in his mind. The office is empty and would be quiet if not for the humming, getting progressively closer. He can’t determine the nature of the sound – it doesn’t sound like any instrument he’s ever heard. Despite containing no words, it speaks of warmth and love; family. Jon abandons his research on the desk (he can’t even recall what he was researching, but that doesn’t matter) to inspect a wall behind his chair, the only fragment of it not obscured by shelves. The surface vibrates ever so slightly under his touch, and he feels a surge of anticipation run through his body. Whatever hums on the other side of the wall yearns for him, and he finds that he yearns for it back. His heart goes out to the feeling of wholeness – unity – and he needs to find the source.

He locates the weak spot in the wall, cracked open so many times before, but he stops. A spider sits in the corner, just next to the place where Jon thinks a hole should be, and its black eyes glisten in the light of the office. Jon’s blood freezes and he withdraws, searching the surface of his desk for a weapon. He finds a thick book and lunges it at the spider without a second thought. The book and the spider carcass both fall to the floor, and all is still. A shiver of disgust and fear passes through Jon. It’s dead, it will no longer stand in his way.

“ That was very stupid. ”

A distorted voice comes from behind him, but as he whirls around he sees nothing but shelves and the absence of the door – all perfectly ordinary. The voice laughs, now somewhere to his right, and Jon wills his fast-beating heart to slow. He just needs to get to safety. The humming is getting closer still, inviting him into its embrace, calling him home; he carefully steps over the dead spider and punches the wall with his hand.

He expects pain and debris, but the wall gives way and tears easily, almost like wet paper. The dark tunnel inside is cut short by a door that, in the light getting through the entrance that Jon has made, seems to be pale yellow. The humming swells in his ears and a dizzy spell has him reaching out for the wall for balance. The stone is sticky and wet, as if covered in slime. Jon takes his hand back to see a squished white worm on his palm. He fights a wave of nausea as he frantically tries to get the remains of the worm off of his skin, a sickly sweet smell of decay filling up his nostrils and clouding his brain. The humming starts to sound suspiciously like wet writhing and the warm feelings of home rot in his chest, shrivelling and squirming in the pit of his stomach. Small bodies stir within him, moving in time with the beating of his heart – a sort of tickling but nauseating sensation – and he screams, revulsion making his body recoil.

The Archivist’s words ring in his mind – You can’t control the dream but following it until it ends usually works . He struggles to turn the handle of the yellow door the right way, the dizziness making it difficult to establish left and right. He needs to get away, somehow, run away from what’s inside him. The worms want to claim him as one of their own, a home, but none of the previous feelings Jon now recognizes as illusion could penetrate his utter disgust at this violation.

The door opens into a brightly lit corridor and Jon falls through onto the floor, the door closing behind him immediately with a gentle click. He gives himself a moment to breathe heavily, relieved at the feeling of his insides once again belonging only to him. Then, he blinks and sits up, trying to assess his current situation.

The corridor is hazy, doused in various hues of orange, red, and yellow light as if from an early sunset, except there are no windows to be found. It stretches for at least a mile ahead, Jon thinks with growing unease, joined by other corridors at different, peculiar angles. He can see one going up from the ceiling, another going diagonally up and to the left, and yet another one several dozen feet away from him dropping straight down. The walls are covered in an old-fashioned yellow wallpaper with dark wood moulding and a colourful flower pattern swirling into spirals that immediately give Jon a headache. On both sides of the hall hang mirrors of varying sizes.

Jon scrambles up to his feet, squinting in the light. The corridor smells like new carpets and paint, and he frowns at the sudden acrid intensity of it. For a second it’s so overwhelming he has to shut his eyes, but then it passes as if it never happened. Jon shakes his head and turns around to the door—

Only to find it gone, replaced by a floor length mirror. He flinches back, startled by his own reflection. Have his arms always been this long and thin, his fingers swirling into serpentine streamers, with nails so sharp they cut his eyes just by looking at them...

Jon staggers back, shutting his eyes again, and breathes slowly. He can get through this if he just follows the dream wherever it goes. If it happens to be down this wretched corridor then he just has to accept it.

He turns away from the long mirror before he opens his eyes again and starts walking at a brisk pace, careful to go around the hole in the floor that the branching corridor creates. His eyes involuntarily stop on the mirrors he passes, each showing a twisted reflection of himself.

He decides not to take any turns for fear of getting lost and continues ahead for what feels like twenty minutes. He then looks back idly but stops short in shock. There is a left turn behind him, right the way he came, yet he is sure he was going straight forward the entire time. He backtracks to see what is past the turn and finds an irritatingly similar yet nonetheless entirely different corridor than he has just been in. There’s a star shaped mirror on the wall that Jon is sure he would have remembered.

“This is impossible,” he mutters.

He turns back around to see a dead end, and a floor length mirror in front of him. His reflection is just slightly elongated with otherwise natural proportions this time, but its arms are crossed on its chest, and it looks at Jon expectantly.

“What—” he chokes down on the word and takes a step back.

“ Yes, it is quite impossible, isn’t it? ”

His reflection speaks with the distorted voice Jon had heard before.

“Wh—Where am I?” He wills his voice not to shake under his own scrutinizing gaze.

“ What an excellent question! ” The light, almost playful tone of the voice doesn’t match the hard expression on the reflection at all, even though the lips move with the words. “ You are nowhere and everywhere. You are here and you are there, but you also quite aren’t at all. ”

The voice giggles and Jon feels sparks of irritation break through the fear.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says and his reflection laughs again.

“ Oh, but it does make sense! It makes all the senses, the sight, the smell, the touch... ”

Jon feels something brush against the back of his neck and he flinches violently, only to realize it must have been his hair.

“How do I get out of here?”

“ What makes you think there is a way out? ”

The reflection moves to another mirror and Jon blinks, suddenly dizzy.

“ Perhaps you have always been here, the outside just a dream? ”

“No.” Jon shakes his head, trying to assemble his jumbled thoughts. “I know that’s not right.”

“ It is certainly not the first time you are here ; you know that as well, don’t you? ”

“I...” The corridor sways and, as he moves his eyes, his vision clips, as if the world moved ever so slightly to the left, sending a mild electric shock to his brain. “No, you’re lying.”

“ Well, isn’t that just stereotypical now, ” the voice lets out a mock scoff. “ I do so much more than lie. And yet it doesn’t change the fact that you don’t know what the truth is .”

And isn’t that right? He doesn’t know what’s real anymore, his head is heavy and spinning, and he looks up at his reflection staring down at him with contempt. In the corridor behind it, Jon notices a dark figure spotted with green. He whips his head around but all there is behind him is a wall, the flowery pattern on the wallpaper swirling hypnotically. He tears his eyes away to look back into the mirror, where the figure still stands in the distance. Determination rises in his blood.

Without unnecessary delay he slams his fist into the mirror and lets out a cry of pain when the shards of glass cut through his skin. The reflection shatters into pieces and disappears in the glass on the floor, leaving an empty frame on the wall. Jon is about to berate himself for acting on impulse, but he turns around and the corridor that he saw in the mirror now stretches before him, along with the dark figure looking at him with its hundreds of green eyes. The tape bounds wind down to the floor and snake right up to Jon, connecting to the cuts from the mirror shards on his palm.

“ For a moment or two I thought you would not make it ,” The Archivist speaks in Jon’s head. Its voice is emotionless and coated in static, as always, although Jon can’t help feeling judged.

“But I did, no thanks to you,” he retorts, looking apprehensively at the blood trickling down the magnetic tape. Every movement of his hand causes the tape to move in the wound and Jon grimaces at the uncomfortable feeling. “Were you watching?” He asks with a considerable amount of sarcasm.

“ I try to .”

Something in its voice suggests that these words have more meaning that Jon is able to see at the moment.

“I have some questions for you.” Jon decides to change the subject and get to the point before their time is cut short.

“ Of course .”

“When you said Martin would be the first, did you mean what happened with Prentiss? That he would get trapped in his flat?”

The Archivist nods and guilt churns in Jon’s stomach.

“How did you know it would happen?”

“ I’ve already told you ,” it sighs. “ This has all already happened. I’m here to change that, but I can’t . ” It raises its arms along with the heaps of tape. Jon frowns.

“Not that I don’t feel bad for Martin, but isn’t changing the past a little much for stopping someone getting trapped in their flat for a week?”

The Archivist blinks once.

“ This is just the beginning. Jane Prentiss is one small piece of the grand puzzle. ”

“Alright, what exactly are you trying to stop then?”

“ The end of the world. ”

Jon lets out a small sigh.

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that.”

“ After what you’ve seen I am very much expecting you to. ”

Jon scoffs, throwing his head back and rolling his eyes.

“Jane Prentiss is... a one in a million chance. Most of the statements are utter nonsense and the ones that aren’t are few; besides, my understanding of the role of the archive is that unnatural things, as rare as they are, have been happening for centuries! What’s so different now?”

“ You. ”

“Uh... What?” Jon falters slightly.

“ You are going to bring the end of the world. Unless I stop you. ”

Jon suddenly feels very cold.

“So, you do want to kill me,” he whispers, but the Archivist shakes its head.

“ No. There are many things that are going to want to kill you but I am not one of them. As far as I understand, you are essential for my own survival, such as it is. ”

“Right,” Jon nods with bitter humour despite the fear gripping his chest like a vice. “Because you live in my head. So, if I die, you die?”

“ It’s more complicated than that… But simply put, yes. ”

Jon takes a deep breath. The Archivist hasn’t moved since they started talking and Jon decides its presence was less unnerving when it was sitting down.

“What if you die?” He asks suddenly. “What happens to me?”

The corridor is quiet for a moment and Jon is uncomfortably aware of his own breathing.

“ The only way for me to die in this state would be from hunger, ” the Archivist begins; Jon can’t help but think its words sound more careful. “ But I don’t think that will be happening any time soon. ”

“What do you mean?” Jon insists. “How do you... feed?”

He grimaces and the Archivist blinks for the second time.

“ You don’t need to know that. All you need to know is that it isn’t hurting people. ” Somehow, Jon suspects the word yet has been left unspoken.

“But you haven’t answered,” Jon points out. “What happens to me if you die?”

“ Worst case scenario, you continue on your fated path like before. You make the same mistakes, and you bring about a world of fear. ”

“And what's the best-case scenario?”

“ You die with me. ”

Jon opens his eyes wider.

“You said you didn’t want to kill me.”

“ Your death is better than your ignorance. ”

Jon swallows and nods, more as an acknowledgement than an agreement.

“And—And what happens if I free you?” He asks, feeling a warm darkness starting to envelop his vision. Their time is running out.

“ Our minds become one. ”

Jon exhales sharply.

“So, my choice is either dying or becoming a monster?”

The Archivist chuckles quietly and bitterly.

“ It’s the only choice you ever really had. ”

#i heard full text chapters get more notes so here we are #who even cares about consistency #ldkflwsgklwjgwrg #tma oftm #tma #the magnus archives #niki.writes #jonathan sims #im so excited about where this fic is going

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purrincess-chat · 3 years

Text

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Remix CH11

And here the plot thickens! There’s a lot coming up in this next section that I hope you will all love. I’ve spent the most time in this middle portion, and I’m really happy with a lot of the character arcs coming up. Enjoy!

Previous First Next AO3

--------------------------

Chapter 11: Rain on Me

“It’s not much, but…”

Tall columns stretched up to the ceiling on either side of the grand staircase, and Marinette’s reflection beamed back at her in the tile. The foyer was bright and airy—a stark contrast to the duller hues of Adrien’s house. Macy’s home was grand but also inviting.

Eliott shoved Macy playfully. “I’ll say. My foyer is much bigger.”

Macy shoved him back, sticking out her tongue. “C’mon, I’ll show you my room.” She bounced up the stairs cheerfully, leading them to the door at the end of the hall. “This whole wing is mine actually. I’ve got a movie theater, a private bathroom—I even have my own sound studio.”

“I’ve begged my father to build a theater, but he doesn’t like the idea of having a lot of teenagers in his house,” Adrien said with a hint of envy. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

“You can look at whatever you want,” Macy giggled.

Martin and Eliott exchanged looks.

“I’ll go with them.” Martin followed them up the hall.

“Marinette, come check out the closet. Macy’s handbag collection is to die for.” Eliott took her hand and pulled her into Macy’s room. “Julius, can you bring us up some tea? Set it up on the terrace.”

Macy’s butler nodded politely before retreating from the room.

“You’re really comfortable here,” Marinette remarked as Eliott threw open the closet doors.

"Macy and I grew up together. We've been friends forever, so it's almost like I live here too," he said, sifting through a rack of designer dresses. "We're basically family."

"That's so awesome. I wish I had someone like that," Marinette said. She examined the photos hanging on Macy's vanity, smiling young faces that were all too familiar. "Who's the girl in these pictures? She looks a lot like you. Is she your sister?"

Eliott stopped, cautiously crossing the room to stand beside her. He shoved his hands into his pockets and frowned. "No, that's me.”

Marinette's eyebrows raised. "Oh. Oh. Okay." She nodded, turning back to the pictures awkwardly.

"Is that okay?" Eliott asked.

"Of course."

Eliott relaxed, trailing his thumb over the edge of the photo. "I started transitioning the summer before collége. I’m lucky that my family is so supportive," he explained. “Not many people at school know besides Macy—just a few teachers. I’m always a bit scared to tell new people because I don’t know how they’ll react, and even though we haven’t known each other that long, I trust you, Marinette.”

"Um, thank you for telling me." She clasped her hands together. “It means a lot to know you see me that way. After everything… I needed friends like you and Macy.”

"I should be thanking you. I’ve changed for the better every day since I met you. I can tell you have that effect on people,” he said. “Besides, it's who I am, and I don’t want to hide it from my friends. It’s just… not everyone is so understanding.”

"Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,” Marinette said. Her cheeks warmed when Eliott scooped her into a tight hug.

Things in her life were so different now. Different school, different people, but deep down, Marinette was still the same. Loving her friends wasn’t a bad thing. Alya may have turned her back on their friendship, but that didn’t mean that everyone in her life would. Eliott’s confidence in her was proof enough that these people would stay by her side.

“You two can go ahead out to the terrace,” Macy’s voice sounded in the hall, and a moment later, she appeared in the doorway. “Did you show her my limited-edition handbag collection?” She leaned against the frame with a knowing look.

“Yeah, she thinks they’re great.” Eliott winked.

“Good,” Macy said. “We don’t let just anyone see them, so you should feel honored.”

“I do. Moving to a new school was really hard, so I’m glad to have made such good friends so quickly,” Marinette said. “You’ve both changed my life too.”

“Aww,” Macy and Eliott cooed.

Eliott lifted her hand to his lips. “Don’t worry. From now on, we’re here for you, Marinette.”

“Yeah, you’re one of us now.”

♪♫♪ The Wrecked and the Worried ♪♫♪

“Thanks for taking me home,” Marinette said as Gorilla pulled out onto the street. “Macy lives so far away from my house.”

Adrien smiled at her, the warmth from his chest spreading to his cheeks. Marinette was so much happier with her new friends. Seeing her face light up when she laughed at one of Eliott’s jokes, or the slight furrow in her brow when Macy waved 2000 euros away like it was pocket change set his mind at ease.

The more distance Marinette put between her and Francoise-Dupont, the happier she became, and the more Lila’s threats lost their bite. Out of everyone in their class, he had always been drawn to Marinette. Maybe it was her courage or her compassionate nature that he admired so much or maybe her optimistic attitude. She’d lost everything because of Lila, and yet, she’d still managed to pick up the pieces and find happiness again.

In such a short time, he’d become so protective of her. He never wanted that smile to fade or those brilliant bluebell eyes to dim. More than anything, he wanted her to be free from the past, and he’d do anything to help her get there. Marinette deserved the best—she shared her light freely all the time and never asked for anything in return, so now he was going to do the same for her.

“It’s no trouble. I’m happy that I get to spend time together with just you,” he said. “Your new friends are really nice.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about Macy. She just gets really excited.” Marinette winced.

“It’s okay,” he chuckled. “Your designs look amazing so far.”

Her cheeks darkened three shades. “I dunno about that. They’re still pretty messy…Clara probably won’t like them.”

“Why not? You’re really talented. I’m sure she will love them.” He assured her.

“Thanks, I guess. I’m just so nervous about it.” She hugged her bag to her chest and bit her lip. “I still can’t believe I have an opportunity like this right now. It’s always been my dream to be a designer, but I pictured it as something I wouldn’t achieve until I was older. I feel so under-qualified.”

“You’re already a great designer, Marinette, and people are starting to see that,” he said. “You shouldn’t be so modest.”

“I know, but I can’t help it,” she said. “I don’t want to brag or seem full of myself.”

“I don’t think anyone thinks you’re full of yourself. It’s not wrong to brag every once in a while, especially for someone as incredible as you.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and offered her a warm smile. “We’re all just proud of you, and we want you to be proud of yourself. You deserve it.”

Marinette bit back a smile, cheeks pink and eyes shining in the dim light. How had he gotten so lucky to meet someone like her? She was so smart and driven and kind. Unlike Lila. Marinette was going to change the world for real someday—Clara was just step one.

“Well, looks like this is me,” she said as the limo slowed to a stop. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“You’re welcome, anytime.” Adrien pulled her in for a hug, kissing both of her cheeks. “See you soon.”

“See you!”

Adrien leaned back against the seat with a sigh, drumming his fingers as the limo pulled away. Lila needed to be stopped at all costs. If she got in the way of Marinette’s future, he’d never forgive her. He hated to admit it, but after his conversation with Nino and Alya, he’d officially run out of nice options. Lila would continue to use people for as long as she could unless they did something. Unless he did something.

Conflict made his skin crawl, but he owed this to Marinette. If he hadn’t been so complaisant, she wouldn’t have changed schools. She and Alya might still be friends, and he could even see Nino outside of class now. This was all his fault.

Granted, if she had stayed, she may not have the same opportunities now, and she never would have met her new friends. There was some good that had come of this. He couldn’t change the past, but he would make sure Marinette had a bright future—one devoid of Lila and her lies.

“Can we stop by the Grand Paris?” he asked, and after a small huff, the limo changed course. “Thank you!”

When Adrien arrived at Chloe’s suite, she was dressed in a silk robe with a green face mask and cucumbers over her eyes. Several stylists worked on her nails, and although she couldn’t see him, she knew the moment he approached.

“Did you come for a mani-pedi?” she asked.

He shifted his weight. “You told me to come back when I was ready to take down Lila, and… I’m ready.”

“Why should I help you? You didn’t help me when I needed you.” Chloe opened her mouth, and her butler placed a small chocolate on her tongue with a pair of tongs.

“Because we’re friends, and I know you’d do anything for me,” he said. When she opened her mouth for another chocolate, undeterred, he added, “because I know you still sleep with your teddy bear.”

A wicked grin curled on her lips, cracking the half-dried, green paste on her face. “Blackmailing me, Adrikins? I’m impressed. You really have come a long way.”

“Please, Chloe? I’ve tried talking to Alya and Nino. I’ve tried convincing Lila to change. I know I screwed up before, but there has to be something else we can do to stop her.” Adrien dropped to his knees, pressing his palms together. “I’m literally begging.”

Chloe hummed thoughtfully to herself while she chewed another chocolate. “How is Dupain-Cheng these days?” she asked.

Adrien’s heart jumped to his throat. “She’s fine, and I want to keep it that way.”

Chloe’s lip twitched, and she sat up abruptly. Her staff scrambled to remove the cucumbers from her eyes as she stood up to meet Adrien’s gaze head-on. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were in love with her. Why else do you care so much about Lila other than the fact that she’s tarnishing Marinette’s reputation?”

“She’s just a friend, and I don’t want Lila to turn everyone against her,” Adrien insisted.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Even I don’t believe you when you say that anymore, Adrikins.” She turned and waddled carefully to the bathroom, the bottom of her robe trailing the ground. “Lila might lie to others, but you lie to yourself. I can’t decide which is more painful to watch.”

“Chloe-”

She paused in the doorway and looked over her shoulder. “I will think of something to help you with Lila if it’s so important to you,” she said. “Now, I’ve got a date with a hot bubble bath, so beat it.”

“Thank you, Chloe-”

“Out!” She pointed to the door.

Adrien scurried from her suite, mashing the elevator button repeatedly. He pictured Marinette’s smiling face from that afternoon contrasted against her anguished sobs from only a few days before. Lila would pay for those tears, and Adrien would make sure she never caused them again. He’d protect Marinette Dupain-Cheng, no matter the cost.

♪♫♪ Runaways ♪♫♪

“See you tomorrow!” Marinette waved to Macy and Eliott outside Martin’s apartment a few nights later.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” Macy gestured to Eliott’s open limo.

“Yeah, I’ll manage. The subway isn’t too far from here, and it’s out of your way,” she insisted.

Eliott pursed his lips but didn’t press. “Alright then. See you tomorrow.” He blew her a kiss.

Marinette started up the street alone, enjoying a brief moment of solitude. After changing schools in the middle of the term, she was in need of a good study session, and her new friends were more than happy to oblige. Martin’s ritzy apartment building was smaller than Macy and Eliott’s sprawling mansions, but still far more luxurious than Marinette’s home.

“For having so much, your new friends are surprisingly generous.” Tikki peeked out from her purse.

“Just because they’re rich doesn’t mean they’re not nice people. Look at Adrien. He’s the nicest person I know.” She sighed dreamily before snapping herself out of it. “Martin, Macy, and Eliott have become people I can really count on. I owe them a lot for embracing me the way they have.”

“Do you think they’re worthy replacements for Rena Rouge and Carapace?” Tikki asked.

Marinette pursed her lips with a hum. “Time will tell. I want to be absolutely certain this time. No more mistakes.”

“Oh my gosh, hey!” A strangely familiar voice cooed.

Marinette stopped short, turning over her shoulder as an arm snaked through her own and tugged. Red hair blurred her vision until bright green eyes locked with hers.

“Wow, what are the odds that we’d run into each other. It’s so awesome to see you.”

Marinette’s eyebrows furrowed as Gabrielle dragged her further up the street. Her tight grip stretched Marinette’s shoulders painfully, but something in her voice seemed off. It was familiar and friendly, which was already puzzling enough, but Marinette also detected a hint of…fear?

“Gabrielle, what’s-”

“There are some creepy guys following me, play along, and I’ll leave you alone for a month,” she hissed. “So, what are you up to?”

Marinette grasped her forearm, giving the illusion of familiarity, even if it was to keep her shoulder from popping out of socket. “Uh, just out and about.”

“Hey, we should see a movie next week.” Gabrielle picked up the pace as they rounded a corner.

Marinette struggled to keep up with her long legs. “Yeah, totally!” She used a parked car to catch a glimpse of their assailants in the reflection. “Do you wanna take the subway with me?”

“We need to shake them off first,” Gabrielle said under her breath.

Marinette pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Follow me.”

Gabrielle arched a brow as Marinette took the lead, veering toward the park across the street. She cut diagonally across to the other exit, stealing a glance over her shoulder as they turned another corner. They were still being followed, their assailants picking up speed to match their pace. Marinette checked the time on her phone, abruptly darting across the street to the next block.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Gabrielle asked through clenched teeth.

“Trust me,” Marinette said.

Gabrielle eyed her skeptically but didn’t argue. Marinette pictured the route in her head, imagining the overhead view. She knew this city better than anyone, and as she ducked around one more corner, she finally made the plunge down into the subway. Gabrielle tensed, but Marinette grabbed her wrist and picked up the pace. They slid onto the subway car just before the doors closed, watching smugly as their pursuers slowed to a stop at the base of the stairs just as the train pulled off.

“Thanks.” Gabrielle averted her gaze stubbornly. “You didn’t have to help me.”

“I know,” Marinette said. She grabbed onto the pole as Gabrielle pulled out her phone and resumed ignoring her. “So, what are you doing out walking? Don’t you have a chauffeur?”

“None of your business.”

Marinette’s eyes narrowed on the apron sticking out of her bag, and Gabrielle shifted to hide it. Something weird was going on with her, but Gabrielle was right—it wasn’t any of her business. They were safe, and that was all that mattered.

“I can make it home from here,” Gabrielle said when the train stopped at the next station. “Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome…” Marinette leaned against the pole with a frown as Gabrielle stalked from the car.

“That was odd,” Tikki said from Marinette’s collar.

“Yeah,” Marinette said when the doors slid shut again. “Really odd.”

#marinette dupain-cheng's spite playlist #marinette dupain-cheng's spite playlist remix #mdcsp #mdcspr #my writing

77 notes · View notes

ieattaperecorders · 4 years

Text

Tendon, Heel

Considerations of injury, and the possibility of death. Discussion between the Archivist and Martin Blackwood, in situ.

(Because sometimes fanfiction is for making characters talk more explicitly about their thoughts and fears than you expect or even want them to in canon.)

Read on Ao3

They'd watched Basira walk towards the tower until she'd disappeared.

Martin had asked, because he was a glutton for punishment, how it was possible that they were headed towards the same tower from the same place but going two different directions. Jon had replied that she was on a different path now. When Martin asked what that even meant, he'd only said it "meant what it meant." Literally, symbolically, they were one and the same.

It really wasn't fair to be mad at Jon for giving him frustrating answers when frustrating answers were all that there were. Martin knew that.

They moved on. With each step, the heat of the furnace faded from the air and the sounds of metal grew distant. Jon had let his hand slip back into Martin's and his pace was slower, eyes fixed on the tower. For his own part, Martin tried not to look at it - it had a habit of holding his gaze in a way that felt non-metaphorical.

They'd walked in silence for a while when Jon abruptly cried out, his bandaged leg folding in on him. Luckily Martin had enough foresight to walk on the side of Jon's injury, so when he stumbled Jon leaned hard into him rather than falling flat on his face.

"Easy! Easy," he said, "here, sit down - -"

Jon grunted what might have been a response, teeth grit, face tight with pain. He took long, slow breaths as Martin eased him to the ground.

"S'alright," he finally managed. "Just took an odd step."

"Let me see your leg. I knew you shouldn't be walking yet." Martin sighed. "Just ‘have to stretch it out' like hell."

"That's not - - I thought it was healing." Jon reluctantly peeled up the tattered fabric of his pant leg. "It was healing, it has been. You saw the state that it was in before."

Martin didn't respond beyond a quiet hmm noise. Carefully, he pulled the blood-soaked bandages back, exposing the wound to the air.

Jon wasn't wrong, really. The mess that . . . that the thing that used to be Daisy had made of him was healing, far faster than would have been possible if natural laws meant anything. It was worlds better than what he had first bandaged up. But there was now scarring that was painful to look at, and the central spot where her teeth had dug in was still a deep, inflamed red.

"I think . . ." Jon's eyes got a distant look to them, one Martin recognized by now. "I think . . . it might not ever heal. Not completely, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"She was able to hurt me. Harm me. Something lasting," he sighed. "Something I can't easily recover from."

Martin frowned, looking at the center of his wound. He felt a twist in his chest. "It's . . . just going to stay like this?"

"Probably? It isn't - - I can walk on it fine. It hurts, but nothing serious. Just stepped at an odd angle and got caught by surprise."

"Well. I don't know how nightmare-magic healing works." Martin said, tossing the old bandages aside. "But I don't imagine a fresh bandage would hurt. And there are probably things out here that can smell blood or something, so . . . hold still for a moment, yeah?"

Jon nodded, and Martin pulled what he needed out of the pack, settling into the acts of first aid. He cleaned the area around the wound and taped down some fresh gauze. He'd just about finished his work when he felt something - a hand moving gently though his hair - and glanced up. Jon was looking at him with affection, reaching over to pet his head. Martin smiled back, brought Jon's hand down to his face and kissed it.

"I don't know if first aid makes any difference anymore," he said. "But it's something, right?"

"It does make a difference, I think. Not the physical bandaging, but the fact that you wanted to help me. That you tried," Jon looked at Martin intently. "I think it would be far worse now if you hadn't."

You tried. It makes a difference. Martin swallowed and let out a soft laugh.

"This is how it is now, huh? Dream logic. Putting a metaphorical bandage on a metaphorical injury on a metaphorical leg."

Jon smiled wryly. "I can assure you that the pain is very real."

Martin's expression must have changed, because Jon frowned and shook his head.

"It's not bad, though," he said, beginning to stand. "It'll feel better once I've had more chance to walk it off, and I think I'm ready to move on."

Oh, definitely not, no chance that he was going to allow that. Martin crossed his legs. "Well, I'm not. So how about you try resting it off for a bit instead, hmm?"

". . . Fine."

Jon sounded immensely put-upon as he sat back down. But the tension in his face lessened as he took weight off his leg, and he released a long, slow breath. Martin felt quietly vindicated.

"I really did get used to the idea that nothing here could hurt you," he said after a pause. "Not like this, anyway."

"Mmm." Jon traced his fingers over the edge of the bandage.

"Was it just Daisy?" Martin glanced uneasily around them, looking for signs of movement. "I mean . . . are there other things out here that could do that?"

"I'm not sure. Mostly not, I think. I don't know what will happen when we reach Elias, so it's possible he can. The Powers are infinitely greater, of course, but they have me where they want me already." Jon's eyes went glassy again, and Martin felt the hair on his neck stand up. "When Basira asked if - if she could kill me, I Knew the answer was no. But in hindsight I'm sort of glad she didn't try? It wouldn't have been fatal, but it might have been enough to hurt. Coming from her."

"Is there - - " Martin wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer, but he had to ask. "Anything that can kill you? I mean . . . permanently?"

Jon blinked at him. It was a deliberate act, a gesture of surprise, as Jon never blinked anymore unless he was thinking about it.

Martin blinked back. "What?"

". . . You don't know?" Jon asked.

Martin should have been more annoyed by the question, really, but he was so sincere. There was a look of innocent bafflement on his face, ridiculous against the backdrop of darkened skies and scorched earth and a face that always seemed set in shadow regardless of the lighting.

"No, Jon," he let out a small huff, fondly nudging his arm. "There's a great number of things I don't know, as you seem to keep forgetting."

"Ah. Right."

"Look . . . I'm trying to keep a stiff upper lip and all, but it really, really wasn't fun seeing that back there," Martin said, "and I'm not sure how many more surprises like that I can take. So if there's something dangerous that I don't know about, something that could really, permanently kill you, I want to know before it's coming up behind us and - -"

"It's not - I mean - -" Jon let out a small breath of laughter, "I think I'm looking at him."

Martin stopped mid-sentence. Even realizing how absurd it looked, he couldn't keep himself from turning around - as if there would be something behind him, something else for Jon to be talking about. He turned back. Jon was still looking at him.

"What - - you mean me?" he sputtered.

Jon nodded.

"How? How is that even possible?"

"Same reason Daisy could hurt me." Jon shrugged, mildly. "Same reason Basira could kill Daisy. Maybe even the reason your bandage helped as much as it did."

"I . . . ." Martin tried to process what he was hearing. He felt lightheaded. "Oh, Jon . . . ."

Jon held out a hand and Martin took it, squeezing as tightly as he could.

"Because I love you." Jon clarified, unnecessarily.

"God . . . yeah, okay." Martin took a deep breath. "Well, uh, geez. I won't. In case that needs to be said!"

"I'm not worried about that."

"Okay, good!" Martin's laugh was anxious and too loud, his head was still spinning. "Wait . . . why - why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"I didn't really Know until recently." Jon shrugged again. "I've been trying to, ah, give you privacy? . . . Not Look too hard. It wasn't until all this happened that I put it together."

Martin furrowed his brow. "But you thought I knew?"

"On some level, Basira knew she could kill Daisy before I told her. I thought this might be the same," he picked at the tattered edge of his pant leg. "I assumed you hadn't wanted to bring it up. Or you thought I knew already, since . . . ." he made a vague gesture with his free hand.

"Right . . . ."

"It wouldn't fix things." Jon said softly. "I was telling Basira the truth when I said that," he frowned in that intent way he did when he was trying hard to be clear. "I can't Know the future. But you don't need precognition to know what will happen if a glass vase is dropped from a ten story building. You just need to know how fragile the vase is, and how hard the concrete is.

"I - I'm not quite sure what my death would do," he continued. "Maybe it would be no different than the death of any other avatar. Either way, the entities would remain here. . ." he looked up at Martin, something searching in his face, desperate to be believed. "I would tell you if it would fix things, I wouldn't hide that from you. I know I've changed but I'm not a - - that is, i-if I knew a way back I would take it, even if - -"

"Hey. Hey. . . I know." Martin reached with his other hand, brushing it over Jon's shoulder. Quiet and careful. "I know."

Jon pressed himself into Martin, spindly arms clinging, head tucked under his chin. One of Martin's hands ended up crossing Jon's back, the other went on the back of his head, soft hair under his palm. He closed his eyes and breathed. Allowed the feeling of Jon shifting gently in his arms to block out everything else.

"I know you want to fix this as much as I do," he said when he was ready to speak again. "That's why we're both out here. And even if I can harm you, I never would. You know that, right?"

"Mmm." Jon held him close. There was no hint of hesitation or wariness in him, but his response still felt troublingly uncertain.

"Jon. You do know that, don't you?" He pressed. "I mean . . . lower-case ‘know,' yeah, but I'd hope you wouldn't need mind reading to figure that one out."

"I do know," Jon said. "But . . . what if I was like Daisy?"

Martin's grip on Jon tightened, he felt his stomach twist. "Oh, God," he said. "We're doing this, huh?

"We don't have to." Jon's voice was soft.

"No, no . . . let's . . . God, let's talk about it." Martin took a heavy breath. "Fuck. Would you - would you want me to? Do you want me to -" he winced, afraid of the answer "-make a promise like Basira did?"

He kept a hand on the back of Jon's head, it allowed him hold him close without looking him in the face. While he talked, Jon reached a hand across Martin's arm and gently stroked down it. The gesture was jarringly comforting against the content of the conversation.

"Honestly . . . I don't know." Jon sighed. "I should say yes. That's what I should want, but truly I don't know what I want anymore. I - I think -" his thumb drew thoughtful circles across Martin's bicep. "If it came to that, if I was that far gone, I'd wish for you to decide. Do what you think is right."

"No. Jon, no." Martin shook his head, "you can't put that on me. Not that."

"I think I might have to?" Jon pulled back, meeting Martin's gaze. "I don't understand my feelings lately. There are times I'll look around at everything, all the horror and nightmares and pain, and - -" he swallowed, but didn't look away, "and it will seem so right and so perfect. Then I'll see you, and - and I'll see the terror and sorrow in your face. And I'll remember, and come back to myself - -"

"Jon . . . ."

"I trust you," Jon's voice cracked on trust. "In a way that I can't trust myself. I can't trust my own mind. But I trust you. I - I need this to be your decision."

Martin looked at Jon for a long time, silently, until a gossamer-silk certainty rang in him. His mouth formed a hard line. When he spoke his voice was tight, calm, and iron-edged.

"Fine," he said. "If it's my decision, then I decide not to. You said yourself it wouldn't fix anything, wouldn't - wouldn't make anything better, so I can't see the point. And I don't - I don't want to."

Jon nodded and sagged back into him, resumed petting his arm. He couldn't tell if Jon was relieved or resigned. Maybe he was just glad to have the choice made, the uncertainty removed.

"We've got a plan, one that will fix things," Martin said firmly. "Go to the tower, kill Elias. Settle it all that way."

"Right. . . ."

The tone was familar. Filled with doubt he wasn't speaking of, but couldn't quite keep to himself.

"You don't need to say it." Martin sighed. "I know you don't think it'll fix things, killing Elias. But . . . you don't Know it won't, right? So it might work."

". . . Right." Agreement without conviction, more damning than an argument.

"If it doesn't, we'll figure something else out," he said firmly. "If he can dream-logic his way into this situation, we can dream logic our way out. We just have to not give up."

"Maybe." It wasn't full agreement, but the concession sounded earnest and that was something. "It's clear by now even if I could theoretically Know anything, there's a great deal I manage to miss."

Martin didn't even try to keep the sardonic lilt from his voice. "Like assuming that nothing can hurt you up until you find out the hard way?"

"Like that." Jon's hands kneaded the fabric of Martin's shirt. He smirked without humor. "It's . . . strange, you know. In a sense I'm so powerful, but I don't feel it. Not in the places that matter. I can Know the most intimate horrors of this world, but not a way to repair it. I can destroy whomever I please, but I can't . . . can't save a - a - single person who's trapped here. . . ." he trailed off, voice shaking.

Martin squeezed Jon a notch tighter. "You can protect me. You've been doing that."

"That's true . . . I'm glad of that, at least." Jon took a deep breath and pulled back, keeping their hands linked. "You're still vulnerable in many ways, Martin. But you're quite possibly the only thing in this world that could end me. And I include myself in that."

"Yourse - - wait, you don't mean - "

"No one gets that escape in this place," he said grimly. "Not unless it's part of some nightmare tableau, and then not permanently. You and I are no different there. No . . . my fate is in your hands. From a certain perspective, you might be the most powerful being in this world."

"Hmm."

"How does it feel?" Jon asked. "Being powerful?"

Martin considered for a moment.

". . . Bad," he said decisively. Jon squeezed his hands, a sad smile on his face.

"Yes," he sighed. "Yes, it does."

#tma fanfic #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #i see all your martin will kill jon theories #we all know it's going to be a fate worse than death for both of them

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seachanqe · 4 years

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Jon pulls open the box, and nestled within some white tissue paper is a ring: a simple dark black band. For a split second he studies it, utterly bewildered, before it clicks. Martin's here, nervous, presenting him with a ring. Martin's proposing to him.

I FINALLY wrote the fic based on the ace ring proposal post I made forever ago.

And, it happened to fit in nicely with the prompt "Misunderstandings" for The Magnus Writers h/c week!

Read on AO3 through the link above, or under the cut.

"Martin," says Jon fondly, when Martin comes back into their bedroom for the fourth time in a row without a word or an apparent reason, "Just tell me whatever it is already. Please?"

"Mm, what?" Martin asks, even though he was looking directly at Jon when Jon spoke to him. Martin's brow is furrowed in thought, his body tense with anxiety.

"Really, Martin, spit it out." Jon shakes his head but can't hide the warm smile on his face even if he tried. Things between them for the past week since they had arrived at the safe house had been good, wonderful even, as they tested out and fell into the habits of a new relationship.

Martin had gotten back from a trip to town not too long ago, and had seemed on edge about something since. But Jon isn't worried; he Knows there were currently no threats around, so whatever is bothering Martin is something they could solve together. He has no shortage of faith in that.

Now that he has Martin in the room for more than 3 seconds, he can see Martin is holding a small, black hinged box, like a jewelry box.

"What's that?" Jon asks lightly, nodding towards the box, compulsion held back like a breath.

"Oh!" Martin bites his lip, and glances down at his hands as if he's surprised there's something there. "This? Hah. Well, um. I, er? Got you something."

"Like… a gift?" Jon asks, bewildered. The word feels foreign on his tongue. He… can't remember the last time someone gave him any sort of present. Well. Maybe Prentiss' ashes. Jon cocks his head at it. What could it be this time? Some sand? Dust?

"Yeah, a-- a gift." Martin has a queer sort of look on his face, like he can't quite believe it either.

After several moments of quiet, Jon cannot stand the wait any longer. "You... said it was for me, right?"

"Yeah! Sorry, hah, here you go." Martin hands the black box over to Jon. Jon traces his thumb over the box as he takes it, enjoying its texture of smooth velvet.

"What's the occasion?" Jon asks, still studying the small box, before glancing up at Martin. Martin's brow is pinched and he worries his lower lip between his teeth.

"No occasion," he replies with a shrug. "Just saw something at a shop earlier today when I made the trip into town for groceries, and, uh. I thought of you?" Martin takes a deep breath, as if readying himself. "Listen, you don't have to keep it or wear it or whatever, especially if it makes you uncomfortable, and I--I hope this isn't inappropriate or--"

" Martin ." Jon steps forward, putting a hand on Martin's arm, steadily catching his gaze. "You're an incredibly thoughtful person. I'm sure I will love it."

Martin nods once, swallowing, and slips his arms around Jon's waist. "R-right. Thanks?" his voice wavering. "You haven't even opened it though," he says with a hint of reproach.

Jon sighs before leaning in to press a kiss to Martin's cheek, then immediately pulling back to admire the lovely flush of color that's spread across Martin's face. With some regret, he steps back to be able to open Martin's present; he'd rather spend more time in Martin's arms.

Jon could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he gazed down at the ring. He'd… actually never really thought about marriage before -- at least not in these terms. Marriage had always seemed for people in love, people who had things figured out -- normal couples that didn't include him. But, now, when he examined his future, all he saw was Martin.

He wanted Martin to be with him always, forever, and isn't that really what marriage was? Or should be? He wanted to wake up every morning and see Martin lying there beside him, be greeted by Martin's warm, soft, sleepy smile, have Martin in his arms. He wanted to be able to care for him, be cared for by him. He wanted to make sure Martin was happy like how happy Martin had made him. This past week had been like a dream, and now that he had a taste of what his life looked like with Martin in it, he couldn't go back. Sure, it may be a little hasty for this, but when had either of them done anything conventionally? Jon had already made Martin wait long enough. Jon could see the beauty in a spontaneous proposal, the romance, but what really spoke to him was making sure, no matter how much or how little time left they had together, with whatever Jonah was planning, Martin knew how much he cared for him, how much Martin meant to him, and how seriously he took their relationship.

"Uh, Jon?" Martin asks, nervously.

"Oh!" Jon gives himself a little shake out of his thoughts, excitement finally settling in. He had been keeping Martin waiting.

"Yes," Jon responds solemnly, but is unable to keep back a small smile as he gazes back at Martin. Though slightly uncertain about convention, he decides to just go ahead and put the ring on. He slips it on his left hand on his ring finger; it's slightly loose but, all things considered, fit rather well.

Jon holds up his hand to admire the black ring on it. "I'd be honored to marry you."

Martin makes a choked sound and turns bright red; Jon steps forward immediately, concerned.

"Martin, what is it?"

Martin is still sputtering, his mouth opens and closes but no words come out. Jon isn't sure if he's ever seen Martin this flustered and… well, that's saying something. Especially after the other day when they were both rather wine drunk and Jon shared with Martin a number of affectionate ramblings, such as that Jon hadn't seen a more beautiful man in his life than Martin, and that Martin smelled good, like home.

Jon bites his lip, anxious dread settling low in his gut that he had done something wrong, messed this up somehow, to upset Martin like this. "Did I-- are you, are you happy? Martin," Jon pleaded, "what is it, please?"

Martin inhales sharply at Jon's beseeching tone, shaking his head rapidly. "Sorry, sorry! I'm just. Surprised?" his voice pitched higher than normal.

Jon frowns at this, trying to push aside the hurt uncurling in his chest. Surprised? Did he… expect Jon to say no? Did he think Jon wasn't the type? Or did he think Jon wouldn't want to ever marry him? But then why ask in the first place?

"I don't understand," Jon says slowly, cautiously, afraid his voice would waver. He pulls his arms to his chest and wraps them around his middle, his hands clinging to his sides tightly.

" Jon," Martin says, pained, hushed, apologetic. He sighs heavily. "The ring… it was meant as an--an ace ring. I thought I'd show support, you know? For you. I saw that ring at the shop, and it looked about your size, and I thought of you. I had done some reading after our talk last week, and this seemed… like fate or--or whatever. It felt right . To give it to you. I--" Martin swallows, before taking a shuddering breath, "I'm sorry that it was misleading, I love you, Jon. And…" Martin stops, brow furrowed, pensive.

As he listens to Martin speak, Jon swallows past the pin-pricked tightness in his throat, fighting the urge to flee. An ace ring was nice, lovely even. He had never owned one, had never gotten around to it. He already felt safe and assured in Martin's quiet but eager acceptance of him when he explained his asexuality to Martin last week, but this…this was everything. A wonderful, thoughtful gift. Despite this though, his face still burns with embarrassment that his initial thought when being presented with a ring from Martin was marriage, how utterly stupid could he be?

"O--oh. Right. I'm sorr--," Jon begins, after several seconds goes by without Martin saying anything else, and Jon does his best to sound unaffected, calm, nonplussed.

"No!" Martin interjects, holding out his hands, as if reaching for Jon, but stops short. " Please don't apologize, Jon, never. I think… now that you mention it--I, I would be honored," Martin's voice wavers, thick with emotion, "to marry you too."

"I--" Jon starts before Martin's words catch up to him. He blinks, trying and failing to process it all.

Martin finally, finally, bridges the gap between them, taking Jon's hands in his. Jon feels Martin's thumb pass over Jon's new ring, bumping up against it. Martin's hands are warm, his smile tentative and kind. Martin's always been kind though, even when Jon didn't deserve it.

"I love you, Jon. And if you think you'd be happy married to me--"

That jolts Jon into action. "Now hold on," he says indignantly. "'I think' nothing. I know I would be happy married to you. No, not happy. Joyously ecstatic and immensely lucky to be your husband."

To his pleasure, Martin is finally blushing again.

"Jon," Martin says, fondly exasperated.

"Martin. I mean it."

Martin let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine," he says, smiling, squeezing Jon's hand. "If we were to do it, how would we go about it? I mean." Martin bites his lip. "Everything I know about weddings comes from movies, or…"

"Books?" Jon finishes with a wry smile. "It's the same for me. Hm. We can contact the registrar tomorrow… where is the nearest registrar?" he asked no one in particular before the information came to him with a hint of static. "Ah, perfect. There's one a town over, I bet we can call for a cab, or--"

"T-tomorrow?" Martin sputters, eyes wide.

Jon laughs, breathlessly giddy. "Well, we did already sort of elope, didn't we?"

Martin huffs a laugh back. "I guess… So are we really doing this? Are you being serious?" Martin said with a smile, tone carefully lighthearted, but Jon could hear and understood the fragile cautiousness underneath. They had both spent too long being hurt by the world.

Jon let go of Martin's hands, instead cupping Martin's face with one hand, the other wrapping around Martin's waist, drawing him close. Martin blinks rapidly as he scans Jon's face for a hint of a rejection, or a sign that Jon's joking, or something that would tell Martin that he wasn't wanted. Jon made sure he found none of that, as he calmly, resolutely stared back, thinking how lucky he really was to have Martin's love after everything they both had gone through.

"Martin, I--I can't see my future without you in it. I can't think of anything I'm more serious about."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Let's get married," Martin says, though he looks like he could still barely believe it.

Jon can barely believe it either after the emotional roller coaster of the past quarter hour. His heart and mind races, and he can't recall the last time he felt such combination of quiet contentment and near euphoria. As he starts mentally running through everything they'll have to do--like a cake! They can't have their wedding without a cake--Jon realizes a small issue.

"Just one problem." Jon pulls back slightly to look down at his left hand, where the black ring rests on his ring finger.

"Hm?" Martin quirks his head, bemused.

"Should I keep wearing this on my ring finger or move it to where ace rings are supposed to go?"

"Oh," Martin says with a laugh, looking a bit relieved. "Think of it as an engagement ring, but put it on your middle right. We don't do things traditionally anyway, do we?"

"No," Jon murmurs, finally leaning all the way forward so his head rests on Martin's shoulder. Martin's arms envelop him and hold him close, like he's something precious, and Jon takes a deep breath, relishing being surrounded by Martin (his softness, his scent, his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest, his warmth, his love) and the feeling of safety that brings. Jon thinks back to how many times over the years they had carefully danced around each other, going on lunch not-dates, quiet evenings of tea, emotionally laden looks and words, but, finally, here they were after years of folly, pain, and misfortune, together, navigating their relationship, no matter how unconventional it had progressed and came to be. "No, we don't."

#tmahcweek #the magnus archives #jonmartin #my writing #FINALLY ace ring proposal fic

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equalseleventhirds · 4 years

Text

quick disclaimer before fic: this is not meant to excuse or absolve melanie and georgie of outing jon; what they did was wrong and they should not have done it. instead it is an... examination of a character who is Maybe working some things out but, due to Internalized Issues, is harshly rejecting it both for herself and other people. (i’m aware i wrote something with the exact same FUCKING premise back when i was in the sh*rl*ck fandom dear god don’t read that linked fic it is from a deeply shameful time of fandom i only linked it as proof i did the same thing before. almost like i’m still working through the same stuff via writing fanfiction. hm.) (further discussion on THAT in post-fic notes; i wanted to keep it under the cut for personal reasons.)

furthermore: warning for discussion of sex (but not explicit depictions of sex), characters experiencing aphobia both internalized and not, mention of sexism wrt jobs, characters outing other characters without their consent (more than once, and more than just jon), and mention of consensual but unwanted sex (as in, consent was given, but the consenter did not enjoy it, and consented due to expectations).

- - -

It starts with: “I don’t, I, I usually can’t—Lately. I mean. Lately I can’t.” Melanie shuts her eyes so she won’t have to see Georgie, her hand on the sheets, judgment questions in her eyes. “Since I got—shot. It’s more difficult, is all.”

“Melanie—”

“You can still try,” she says, the words falling too fast, too panicked. “If you want, sometimes other people—and it’s fine! I’m always, it’s fine to try. Sometimes I do. I just might not. You know.”

“You might not orgasm,” Georgie finishes for her. It’s hard to tell how she’s feeling about it—until her fingers brush Melanie’s chin, turning her face up.

Reluctantly, Melanie opens her eyes, and then she’s glad she did. Because Georgie’s smiling, not a mocking smile, gentle. And they said this was just, just casual, just between friends (there’s too much going on with ghosts and the Institute and Georgie’s ex sleeping on her couch when he isn’t being kidnapped for it to be more than that), but Melanie’s glad Georgie is smiling.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Georgie says. She’s sitting up now, not lying almost-not-quite between Melanie’s legs anymore. She looks gorgeous, naked and cross-legged on that horrible mattress with a microfiber sheet wrapped around her shoulders, and Melanie wants to curl up in the sheet with her and eat the leftover pizza from earlier and fall asleep together with grease on their hands.

No. Focus. “It’s okay,” Georgie says again, gentler. “If you can’t right now. If you don’t want to. You certainly gave me a lovely orgasm—”

“—or three—”

“—yes, thank you, and if you’d rather just call it there, I’m not pushing it. As long as you enjoyed yourself.” She frowns, suddenly, glancing down at Melanie’s hands. “You… did enjoy yourself? I hope we didn’t—”

“I did!” She always does, when it’s other people coming, when she gets to be touching warm skin and watching someone fall apart. It’s… nice. “It’s just, you know. I got shot.”

(And isn’t that a convenient excuse, she sneers in her own head, and it sounds like Toni refusing to come back to the team, it sounds like the most sarcastic videos about her breakdown, it sounds like Elias. Isn’t it convenient that now you can blame your little problem on blood flow, or nerve endings, or stress. Never mind that you didn’t have those excuses a year ago. Or two years. Or back when you had a real girlfriend, and you always said yes but she got tired before—)

Georgie tucks a strand of hair behind Melanie’s ear. “Okay, good. If we, you know, try this again sometime? If you’re feeling better? Then I can try.” She stops, licks her lips, watches Melanie’s expression. “Or I can… not try, if you’d still prefer that. Later. You know. If.”

“I’m not—” And she’s rushing again, always rushing, she doesn’t even know if she and Georgie will ever—

“No, I know! It’s fine! But like—Look, this isn’t exactly new for me, you know? If that’s something you want. Something you don’t want. Or I, I’m saying it’s not a problem, if you do or don’t want me to make you come in the future, or even if you don’t want to have sex at all, I mean, when we were dating Jon didn’t—”

That’s where Georgie stops, as if talking about Jon is too much, as if she hasn’t been speaking Melanie’s secret insecurities out loud in bed like it’s something they can talk about, as if all of this hasn’t already been too much and too terrifying already.

Melanie stands up, grabs the comforter as a makeshift cloak (because Georgie has the sheet, and suddenly she isn’t sure she wants to share the sheet with her). “Right.”

“I’m just—I have a friend. Who you might talk to, if you wanted to talk about this.”

She steps away from the bed, towards the door. “Sure. Pizza? I’m hungry.”

The problem is, Melanie doesn’t much like Jon. He was such a dick about the Youtube thing, and about her statement, and about Sasha. And even though she knows (sort of) that part of it hadn’t been his fault, she still isn’t going to talk over her disinterest in sex with him. It’s mortifying. Even if he wasn’t her boss. And Georgie’s ex. And currently out of the Archives, anyway.

But she wants to talk to somebody, about Georgie’s words running around and around and around her head, about the sheer panic mixing with almost-relief and then the visceral no no no churning low in her stomach that had made it a struggle just to choke down her pizza. She wants to ask someone is this normal, am I allowed, is it even enough to be halfway to ‘not at all’ or should I just suck it up. She wants to talk that out desperately.

It’s just… she doesn’t have many friends left, after her whole fall from Youtube ghost hunter grace. She’s not going to ask Georgie about it, any more than Jon, although for pretty much the opposite reason. Who’s left? Her shiny new coworkers? Tim, who seethes and hates everything and everyone in the Archives? Martin, who’s still upset that Jon so much as spoke to her while he was on the run? Basira?

When Melanie met Sasha—the real Sasha, the one apparently no one but her even remembers—she’d been the only woman in the Archives. And Melanie had chatted with her about haunted pubs, and maximizing SEO, and how to talk to people who’d seen a white dog while they were drunk and thought it was a ghost. And about their jobs, of course, which led to both of them scoffing about the sexist bullshit of academia and how someone like Sasha could be just an assistant and the only woman on her team.

And then Elias hired Melanie to replace… the thing that replaced Sasha. Hired another woman to replace the only woman. You learn to see patterns from the kind of person who might say diversity the same way as toilet plunger: something necessary, but distasteful. Melanie was filling a role he needed filled, and she could live with that.

And then Basira.

Who wasn’t there because she wanted to be, of course, but was still there. Was still another woman in the boy’s club of terror they’d apparently signed on for. Could maybe, maybe, be someone Melanie could connect with. Someone she could talk to.

Maybe.

“Do you know if he and Jon ever…?”

“No clue, and not interested!” She’s laughing, about to just dismiss it out of hand, but… maybe. She can feel the questions she never asked Georgie, the words sharpening their claws on the edges of her mind. The no, not me, not allowed sinking in her gut.

“Although…” Make it light. Make it interesting. Make it about someone else. How to hook an audience without having a public breakdown and becoming a— “According to Georgie, Jon… doesn’t.”

It feels wrong as soon as she says it. Like she’s dirty. Like she’s lying. Like a thousand eyes are looking at her, watching her, waiting for more. Make it a story. Engage your audience. Like it’s 2013 in a convention hotel room and Pete just told everyone Don’t worry, Mel likes girls actually, and even though they were all fine about it that moment of sharpshock terror in her throat as they all looked—

“Like, at all?”

The one thing she never learned was how to stop talking. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, that does explain some stuff.”

And that’s… it, really. That does explain some stuff. Jon is a dick, has always been a dick, overfocused on work and not on other people, and that does explain some stuff. Right. Yes. Like her last girlfriend had told her, about all you do is work, I can’t even get you off. An explanation, just like she always knew it would be.

It doesn’t really matter. She has a boss to go kill.

“I think,” she says, slow, like every word is being dragged out of her, “that I might not like. Sex. As much as, you know, people do.”

“You’re a person,” her therapist says, firm, and she has to bite back a sarcastic laugh.

“Right. ‘Course.”

- - -

post-fic notes: i myself personally have previously identified as: heteroromantic gray-ace, heteroromantic ace, aroace, aro gray-ace, aro bi, bi, arospec bi, aro bi again, and aro bi but sex ambivalent. part of that has been natural progression and change; part of that was bcos some people i considered friends got very into aphobic discourse, and i internalized a lot of what they said. in recent months i have been examining my sex ambivalence (sometimes repulsion) and considering what that means about whether or not i am on the ace spectrum. i’m still thinking about these things. i’m still, deep down inside, afraid of the aphobic people i respected and cared about hearing about this.

in part i wrote this to work through some of My Own Shit regarding this. in part i wrote this bcos i will get my grubby little aspec hands (bcos regardless of anything else, i am aspec, whether that’s ace or aro) on every character i can. yes, even the ones who did an objectively shitty thing to jon, the one canonical ace character. bcos sometimes people (like me) internalize things and make mistakes.

#absolutely not beta'd or britpicked or even edited much #i needed to get this out and now it's late but i'm WORKING THROUGH SOME STUFF #uhhhh ambiguous ending about melanie's like! decisions! identity! feelings!#ambiguous if she or georgie EVER talk to JON #nothing is resolved! nothing is fucking good and light and happy! it's all MESSY #it's also so long i'm so sorry but melanie spent a lot of time looking at georgie and then a lot in emotional turmoil so like #what can ya do.#anyway. fuck it. posting a thing.#fanfiction #algie writes things #the magnus archives #hopefully i have rambled long enough this doesn't get maintagged sry if it does ignore me i needed this for ME #and i guess like. i do want other ppl to read it. but i do not want to maintag it. u kno how it is.#NOW WITH EDITING

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karliahs · 3 years

Note

“I’ll get the jackets,” Tim says, and hopes it’s something, one more little signal for the thing he doesn’t know how to put into words anymore. If Tim is no longer a thing of easy pleasures, he hopes he can become a creature of effort - of intentional, worked-for warmth.

Jon squeezes in return before taking his hand back, his grip delicate and warm. Tim rifles through a wardrobe for two soft hoodies, paying little mind to who they belonged to - Jon was a known clothing thief who gained power from appropriating Tim and Martin’s jackets.

By the time he’s shrugged one on and headed out into the living room, Jon is standing by the open backdoor, looking out over the heathers and hillside beyond. He looks dazed, more than anything, finding all that space stretching out in front of him, and Tim can’t tell if it’s loss or gratitude holding him there. A surge of tenderness goes through him at the sight, and Tim almost laughs at himself as he pads over to join Jon. You're going soft, Stoker, he thinks. After all that, you're going soft.

Once again, Tim sees an echo of a place they haven't quite reached: sees himself tugging the jacket around Jon's shoulders like a blanket. Instead, he hands it over and leads Jon outside to the rickety chairs. It's not hesitance holding him back exactly, and certainly not a lack of desire. It's more like…care. Care he never would have needed before.

He drags his own chair a little closer to Jon's before he sits down, knowing Jon sees him do it, letting him note and process this intentional drawing closer. Tim used to flirt lightning-fast and joyous, instinctual, safe in the knowledge that he could fall a little in love with half the people he met, so what did rejection or awkwardness matter, really? But Jon takes things slowly these days, and Tim is relearning love as a back and forth, as goodbyes and welcomes. He is luxuriating in having time to wait and see what will come of the two of them. The three of them.

"Martin shouldn't be long," Tim says into the silence.

"It's Saturday," Jon replies, sounding weary but fond. "He always dawdles at the markets."

"I could text him," Tim offers. "Chivy him along a bit."

Jon shakes his head. "You're…it's fine, Tim. I…I need you, too. Both of you." His voice is low and his eyes are fixed on the horizon.

from nothing sweeter than local honey

!!!! thank you for asking!! alright here we go:

i will try not to make this self-deprecating because that's no fun for anyone, but this is not one of my most-edited fics so my brain is already yelling SHOW DON'T TELL at me. the last thing i will say on this matter!

so much of this fic was just me thinking about what it would be like if tim got to have an after. any after. what would a good life for him look like that also acknowledges he's been fundamentally changed by his experiences - and knows that himself too, because tim's smart and self-aware

love concrete gestures in place of things you don't know how to say. 'i want you to be warm, i'll help take care of you, we're a team so i will take this if you take that'

'creature of effort' is a little bit harking back to one of my fave quotes by leslie jamison: 'I believe in intention and I believe in work. I believe in waking up in the middle of the night and packing our bags and leaving our worst selves for our better ones.'

i usually try to sort of apply critical thinking before simply adopting popular fanon into my own work but jon sims: clothing thief is GOOD and it can stay

also the small intimacies of living side by side, intermingled clothes, no longer feeling a need to insist on what exactly is mine or yours

i like little scaps of realism among my h/c to make the comfort even juicier, and so one of the things i nitpick myself on is not having every character just look at the other person and immediately know everything that's going on in their head - which happens partly because describing expressions is hard! so that's why tim can't 100% tell what jon is feeling in this moment

i think jon is actually thinking something like: wide open exposed space in front of me, is that safe? footsteps approaching from behind, even though i know who they belong to, is that safe? do i make myself less safe, provoking those around me, by not totally believing in this safety? do i deserve safety if i can't feel its presence? am i wasting this maybe-safe time by worrying about whether or not i deserve it?

having lots of space in front of them is obvs Metaphorical. they have a future now and that's terrifying and good. what do you do when you're alive and you never expected to be. can we endure it, the rain finally stopped?

tim's thoughts there slip into a more playful cadence - he's making jokes, even just to himself - to reinforce that that hope is still there.

again in terms of pockets of realism...a lot of times in romance things just Happen, people are just drawn in by the tide of it and find themselves doing perfect romantic things. and that's nice!! but there is something more real and kind of more romantic to me about making choices, building on small gestures, going slow because you care so much about this. you leave and then you come back, and you get them their jacket, and you hope it all says: look, i'm here, i'm trying, let's try

i always really appreciate characters who seem to have a genuine love of people - gregarious, high-charisma people where it stems from loving people in general

in my mind these little concrete offerings show how well tim knows jon, deep down. i would imagine jon as someone who doesn't always pick up on nuanced emotions exclusively communicated through words and prefers when there are actions to back them up, partly because that's the way he communicates himself. 'tim says he forgives me' is a lot harder to hold onto than 'tim brought my favourite berries back from tesco, tim brought me a jacket, tim could have sat further away but is choosing to be close'

"Martin shouldn't be long," Tim says into the silence.

"It's Saturday," Jon replies, sounding weary but fond. "He always dawdles at the markets."

"I could text him," Tim offers. "Chivy him along a bit."

Jon shakes his head. "You're…it's fine, Tim. I…I need you, too. Both of you." His voice is low and his eyes are fixed on the horizon.

lil realism: there are awkward silences sometimes

i don't know how to explain it but it feels so right to me that jon would use the word dawdle. and that tim would say chivy. they're dorks your honour

sorry martin is sir-not-appearing-in-this-fic, in my defence i do not like to write martin because i am not good at it. he's shopping. let him shop

love that jon here is trying to communicate the fact that he cares about them and also has some needs, sometimes. he's trying! he's had time and space in which to get to a place where he can try!

'eyes fixed on the horizon' it's the future and they have one. this whole fic is me going there's a future and they're going to be in it together, that is so simple and yet so huge that you'd need forever to get your head around it

#asks #tysm for asking!!#long post #tma /#jontim

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drmazel · 3 years

Text

certified maria tma speculation (TM) (lazy version)

this turned out way longer than i thought it would. it’s a collection of snippets from tma transcripts just barely hinting at a speculation i have so if you don’t care then scroll fast!

i don’t feel like spending a bunch of time coming up with some speculation and theory when 1) i could be wrong and 2) i just wanna have fun but! for no reason whatsoever here are just some fun and cute quotes from s5 that i haven’t been able to get out of my head that don’t seem to have really been addressed much if at all in the narrative yet and i definitely don’t think are just pressing at the edges to come back and smack us in the face as the finale approaches <3

not that i think they’re all necessarily tied together but mmm a few of these taste of Essence of Foreshadowing yummy! a.k.a. (jonny voice) martin is not going to be okay

MAG167

Jon: W-Without trust. W-Without a reason. Gertrude needed both the purpose her mission gave her and the control her position allowed. To be here, like us, without a – a reason, without someone to ground her? She – She’d have power, but – no control. No real purpose. Perhaps she’d have dedicated herself to a doomed quest like us but – No. I think this would have broken her. And she’d have resigned herself to – ruling her domain.

...

Martin: So. If you say Gertrude wouldn’t have been able to go on without a reason –

Jon: Yes, Martin, you are my reason.

MAG170

(sudden lucid moment amongst a cloud of forgetfulness) Martin: Why. The Eye has won. It can already see everything; it wouldn’t need a – w-wouldn’t need a –

MAG171

Martin: Don’t do that.

Jon: What?

Martin: Don’t use me as an excuse.

MAG172

Martin: If you look, and I was – influenced, then how can I trust anything else? How can I believe any of my thoughts and feelings are really mine?

MAG176

Jon: I don’t like betraying someone’s trust like this.

Martin: It’s not a betrayal if you’re doing it to help.

Jon: I’m not so sure.

Martin: Look, if it was me in her shoes, I’m sure I’d forgive you. It-It’s for the best!

MAG177

Basira: And if I killed you now?

Jon: You couldn’t. And even if you could, it wouldn’t be enough to undo what’s happened to the world.

MAG178

Jon: No-one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most. Even me. [personal note: mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm bark snarl bark bark bark bite bite snarl grrrrr!!!!! bite!!!]

MAG179

Jon: Hmmm. Apparently. I mean, I know it sounds strange, but it… it felt right for Daisy to be able to hurt me.

Martin: Dream logic again?

Jon: Mmm. The… resonances from our relationship before the change carried over and –

MAG181

Annabelle: Don’t worry, Martin. We’ll meet again. Hopefully when you’re feeling a little bit more… open-minded. [personal note: SNARL GROWL BITE BITE GROWL SNARL wife GRRRR BITE!!!!!!!!!]

MAG183

Jon: Well, you’re a watcher, Martin. You worked for the Institute, you read statements. The Eye is… fond of you.

MAG184

Jon: What was I supposed to do? I owed you. Didn’t want to just watch you suffer.

Martin: It’s what you’ve been doing for everyone else. It’s what you’re expecting him to do.

MAG185

Jon: Either way, even if I wasn’t here, I don’t think you’d be in any danger. Not anymore. I wasn’t sure when we first started out, I hadn’t properly, er… looked into it, as it were. But now I’m certain.

...

Martin: Even though I didn’t ask for it? Did nothing to deserve it?

Jon: ‘Deserve’. Huh. Now there’s a word that always causes trouble.

Martin: Don’t be patronising.

Jon: I just mean that nobody here deserves the position they’ve found themselves in, not really. I suppose a few may have asked for it, sought it out even, but far more didn’t. They just made the wrong choices for the right reasons. Or even the right choices. But ones that still led them here in the end.

...

Martin: I guess we should get used to it. Knowing that all these awful things are happening for our benefit.

MAG186 (this is a big one that ties a lot of my scattered thoughts together)

Martin: So, this price. What do you think? Are we going to have to kill John?

Also Martin: I don’t know because you don’t know. But it seems like something we should at least consider.

Martin: I… have thought about it. And… I won’t. I don’t think I could. But anything else? Any other price? I’ll pay it.

Also Martin: Even dying?

Martin: Yeah!

Also Martin: Jon’s as bad as we are. He wouldn’t let it happen.

Martin: It’s not his decision.

Also Martin: Fine. So flip that round, then. What are you going to do when he tries to sacrifice himself, because you know he’s going to try?

Martin: I don’t know, all right? I don’t know.

Also Martin: And that’s okay for now, but I just want us to have thought about this stuff properly before it comes up. Because even if that’s not it, chances are it’ll be something else you don’t want to do, and we need to make a proper choice. We can’t just react out of shame or fear or whatever.

Martin: What, like with Peter and Elias?

Also Martin: Yes.

Martin: That was a proper choice?! I chose wrong!

Also Martin: But you made a decision. Your own decision. Regardless of the outcome.

...

Martin: But I can’t keep existing like this at their expense. It’s not… it’s not right. Whatever happens with Elias, W-with the rest of the world… I can’t live on the misery of others.

Also Martin: They’ll suffer either way.

Martin: I get it, okay? I can’t decide what happens to them. But… I just might be able to decide what happens to me. And… And if it comes down to it… I’ll get John to destroy me like the others.

Also Martin: You don’t really believe he’d do it?

Martin: I don’t know. Maybe?

Also Martin: This took a dark turn.

Martin: Yeah. But… this time, it doesn’t feel like despair. It feels like resolve.

MAG188

Jon (statement): She looked at the eye, and the eye looked back. Carmen’s arm shot out, thrusting the tip of the blade right into the pupil. But it did not cut anything, for there was nothing but empty blackness. Carmen’s knife, then her hand, then her forearm passed into the void of that pupil, her skin bristling with the cold. And then the iris closed around her arm, the thin flesh of the tightening muscle clenching with astonishing strength as it held her in place. Then, inch by inch by inch, it began to pull her in. But her flatmate simply shushed her. Her terror was pointed and crimson, and tomorrow she will wake up hating London and worrying about how many characters there are.

MAG189

Jon: No, Martin, listen, what I’m saying is that whichever way you cut it, ultimately it just comes down to who The Eye chooses. [personal note: MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM]

...

Jon (statement): They can all hear him now. Any words he speaks will ring out through the chamber. He wants to talk of the people outside, the bruised and abandoned ones that suffer and die to slake their appetites. He wants to cry for restitution, for justice, for a future, for anything. But all eyes are on him and he falters. He remembers the cold, the hunger, the ache of concrete beneath him. He is afraid. And his chair is so very comfortable. The minister coughs, once, uncomfortably, and sits down. [personal note: wow if only there was a character that had a thing about comfortable chairs this season? anyway,]

Act III trailer

please go read the rime of the ancient mariner or the wikipedia synopsis or something. for real. like for real for real oh my god i can’t believe i didn’t think of this of course jonny chose that shit on PURPOSE

MAG191 (of course)

Martin: And you have to promise me you’re going to do everything in your power to live. That you’re not going to sacrifice yourself at the first opportunity, just because you feel guilty about what happened. [personal note: see MAG186. Jon isn’t the only one that feels guilty that this happened, and I can’t stop thinking about how this promise did not go both ways.]

MAG193

Jonah: Enough. Tell me, why are you here?

Jon (statement): I… I don’t know.

Jonah: Were you drawn here?

Jon (statement): Yes. I was.

Jonah: Against your will?

Jon (statement):No.

Jonah: Then why did you heed the call?

Jon (statement): Because… this is the place I know I should be.

Jonah: Good. The job is yours.

[personal note: OBVIOUS parallels with jon and being promoted to archivist then being promoted to Archivist, but my “martin is not going to be okay” brain is very guilty of reaching for connections and i do see this parallel with the conversation between jon and martin in MAG039 about why martin hadn’t quit. inch resting.]

anyway i said i don’t have the mental energy to come up with some long speculation and i DEFINITELY don’t now after pulling all this out of the transcripts. i could be wrong i could be right i could be somewhere in the middle, but i think it’s very possible that jon tries to accept the eye’s “offer” to take jonah’s place, martin doesn’t let him, martin does it instead then something i don’t even want to think about happens because he does NOT want to feed off of people’s suffering as has been repeated over and over. i’m probably way off but i’ve just been thinking about it and needed to get it down somewhere. maybe i’ll reblog this on thursday after the release of 194 with an update, who knows! whether i’m right or wrong both martin and jon will be fine tho <3

#THAT 178 ONE REALLY GETS ME AHAHAHA MMMMMMMMMMMM #FORGOT ABOUT THAT UNTIL SCANNING THROUGH THE TRANSCRIPTS JUST NOW HEHEHE HOOHOO #tma speculation #the magnus archives #LONG post #sorryyyy

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uh-drarry · 4 years

Text

Wolfstar Adopting Harry Headcanon Pt 2! This is really long. Also this is supposed to be like a headcanon post but I wasn’t about to go back through and add bullet points after they disappeared. Anyway I hope you enjoy! Sorry for all the errors that are riddled throughout this.

Part 1 here. Masterlist here.

Harry spends time living with Ms. Irvine after he is removed from the Dursleys. He soon learns her name is Jane, he calls her Janey.

It’s actually two months of Harry staying with Jane and seeing Remus and Sirius as well as a therapist daily before anyone considers Remus and Sirius for Harry’s adoption.

Ms. Irvine and a few others interview Remus and Sirius and talk to Harry and visit their home to see if they think they are a good fit for Harry.

Harry’s therapist, Dr. Martin, or Beck to Harry, talks to him about Remus and Sirius, or Moony and Padfoot as Harry calls them. For some reason he doesn’t understand, but Remus and Sirius answer to it, so he doesn’t see a problem.

“Harry do you think you’d like to live with Padfoot and Moony?” He asks the boy playing quietly with a stuffed deer.

“Like I do with Janie?” Harry asks, looking up at the therapist.

“Yes like that. But they would be your new parents.”

Harry sat quietly for a few seconds then asked quietly, “Like Aunt and Uncle?”

“No Harry, they’d be real parents. Your aunt and uncle weren’t parents to you, they are very bad people. If you lived with Padfoot and Moony, Ms. Irvine will come to your new house a lot to make sure you’re okay in your new home. Do you think you’d like that?”

“Janey would take me away if they are bad?” Harry asks

“Yes Harry, Jane would come check on you a lot more than anyone did when you lived with Petunia and Vernon.”

“Then okay. I like Padfoot and Moony. I hope they like me too.” He looked thoughtfully at his deer, then up at Dr. Martin, “Do you think they like me?”

“Harry they wouldn’t try to adopt you and take you home if they didn’t like you. I’m even positive that they love you.”

“Really”

“Yes, Harry.”

“So they’d both maybe be my daddies?”

“Very much so, Harry.”

Harry smiled a little at that and whispered, “I’d like that.”

“Well I’m sure they would be thrilled to hear that.” Dr. Martin smiled at Harry, “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?”

When Ms. Irvine told Remus and Sirius that they would be given custody of Harry, they were, predictably, ecstatic. They immediately worked to finish what they had wanted to do in their home for Harry.

They had a cupboard under the stairs and were worried about Harry seeing it so they turned it into a little reading nook with pillows, blankets, books, and three lamps.

They had asked Harry what his favorite color was and now they were just finishing his yellow painted room. Making the bed, and arranging stuffed animals, among other things.

(One of the teddy bears became his second favorite stuffed animal and Harry named him Andrew. Harry also ended up naming his deer only after he’d lived with Remus and Sirius for about a month. He named it Cherry which they didn’t understand until they realized it was because Sirius kept calling Harry ‘ma chérie’ all the time.)

When Harry is shown his room, he is very confused and tells them that he doesn’t need this much space, really. And with broken hearts they tell him that of course he needs this space and he can use it to grow and play and learn and fill with his toys. Harry also notices that there’s no lock on the door and he really likes that.

Harry also would make sure to wake up before Remus and Sirius to make breakfast. Like he did at the Dursleys.

Remus and Sirius always made sure to thank him and tell him it was delicious. But also that they really didn’t want him using the oven or stove because they were very dangerous for kids.

Harry got a bit panicked at the idea of having done something wrong already and apologized profusely as tears gathered in his eyes

Remus and Sirius got him to calm eventually and Remus said, “Harry, you are a very good cook. We just don’t want you using those things because you could get very hurt. If you want to cook some more, we’d be happy to cook with you to make sure nothing happens to you. Would that be okay, Harry?”

They agree that Harry will only cook with one of them there.

Harry was always excited when Janey came to visit them. The two of them would go and play in Harry’s room together and she would ask him questions and chat. She’d always ask what kind of food he was eating and what he did with his guardians. The first time she asked him about what he did with Remus and Sirius, he told her that he didn’t have to do any chores, how was that possible? She was very happy for him.

He talked about being nervous for his new school that he would start soon, and worried if the kids would like him or be mean like at his other school.

She often reassured Harry that he was a good kid and he would make wonderful friends at school, that he deserved the love that Remus and Sirius showed him, and the food he was given and to never ever forget that.

He also told her that Remus had been taking him to work with him at the University during the week.

“Remus gives me games to play and coloring books and crayons, and he even lets me draw on his chalkboard! And his students always come say hi to me when they come into the room and when they say goodbye when they leave. They even ask me questions about the books they talk about. I usually don’t understand, but I talk like Remus and they say I’m really smart.” He smiles and giggles at that.

“Well you are a very smart boy, Harry. I have no doubt about that.”

“Thank you! I like going to work with Moony, can’t I just do that instead of going to my new school? Moony said that University is just a really big school. So I’m already at school anyways!” He gestures as if he’s so exasperated about the whole thing which makes Jane laugh.

“You have to go to your own school, with kids your own age, Harry, so you can make new friends, and learn everything you need to do to go to University one day. University is for kids when they know what job they want to do in the future.”

“Fine.” He huffs out and lets his head fall backwards like he can’t believe the inconvenience of it all, “but I’m going to Moony’s school when I know what job I want to do.”

“I’m sure he would love having you in his class as a student when the time comes.”

Harry pauses, looking down at his drawing for a minute, then says, “Janey?”

“Yes Harry?”

“Are Padfoot and Moony my daddies now?” He looked nervous, suddenly much more like the shy boy she helped months ago.

“Yes Harry, they are your legal guardians, or your parents. I’m sure they’d love it if you called them your daddies, or Daddy and Papa, or Moony and Padfoot, or even something else.”

“Okay.” he says, playing with the crayon in his hands.

“Do you want to talk about it at dinner tonight while I’m there?”

“No.”

“Okay then.”

He looks up at her, “and don’t tell them I asked you, please.”

“It will be our secret.”

A few weeks later, the little family decided to go to the park and enjoy the lovely day. The weather was gorgeous and they had opened all the windows to enjoy it to the fullest. They asked Harry to go change out of his pajamas after breakfast while they cleaned up and he raced up the stairs to his room.

He walked to the closet and stepped into the little room to reach a shirt on a hanger when a sudden burst of wind slammed the door closed behind him causing the room to go very dark.

Harry froze and when he couldn’t see where he was anymore, he started panicking and banging his fists on the door yelling for someone to let him out and apologizing to his uncle. After a few seconds of that he was sitting on the floor sobbing and had the beginnings of a panic attack.

Remus and Sirius ran up to Harry’s room as fast as they could when they realized Harry was yelling in fear. They yanked the closet door open and found harry in a ball on the floor, his arms over his head.

There was really only room for one of them, so Sirius crawled towards Harry, talking in as calm and even a voice he could while feeling so scared and heartbroken. He quickly started rubbing at Harry’s side and said, “Harry, it’s okay, it’s Padfoot. No one here will hurt you, we just want to help you. Can I have your hand, Harry?” He was able to remove Harry’s hand from where it was clenched and put it on his sternum, “You’re not in the cupboard Harry, it’s okay. Can you breathe with me darling? In and Out. Can you feel me breathing? Breathe in, and breathe out just like me, c’mon darling. You’re okay, we love you so much, Harry.” Sirius kept talking while Harry finally started trying to breathe with him.

Remus asked, when Harry was a little calmer, “can you take you out of the closet, Harry?” When he nodded, they brought him over to Harry’s bed and sat him on Remus’ lap, he held on tight to his shirt, one hand holding Sirius’ shirt as well, and buried his head in Remus’ neck while he still sniffled.

“We have a glass of water if you’d like some.” Harry nodded and sat up a bit, drinking a bit of the glass. Sirius continued to rub Harry’s back and they all just sat quietly for a few minutes while Harry finally calmed all the way.

“Do you think you’d like to talk to Beck about this tomorrow, Harry?”

“Yes.” he whispered back, falling asleep on Remus’ chest.

“Okay, darling, we’ll call him.”

They did end up going to the park later in the day after a nap and some hot chocolate.

Remus and Sirius noticed, however, that Harry wouldn’t go near his closet anymore. It was suggested by Dr. Martin that perhaps putting something in front of the door to Harry’s closet to prevent it from closing would help Harry. When that still didn’t work, they decided to remove the door entirely and added a light to the inside. Harry never had another problem with his closet and he would always remember what his dads did for him to help him so much that day.

Time Jump

Harry had nightmares quite often, especially when he first moved in with Remus and Sirius. But he would never go wake the two up when he was scared. They assured him that they would be happy to have him get them if he was afraid or needed a hug. But if they woke up from Harry’s nightmares and tried to comfort him, he would apologize for minutes at a time for waking them up. And Harry would never go wake them up himself if he’d had a nightmare.

But one day, about 6 months after they had brought him home, Remus and Sirius woke up to a Harry buried in the blankets between them. Sirius and Remus could only look at each other with wonder etched on their faces. They just hoped that this meant he finally felt comfortable with them.

They sit quietly and let Harry sleep. They assume he had a nightmare again last night and they don’t want him to be too tired.

About an hour later, they decide to wake him so he will be ready for bed at a normal time that night.

Remus reaches over to smooth Harry’s hair, and Sirius rubs at an arm. Soon, Harry’s little face scrunches up, he rolls over a bit, and grumbles out, “No Daddies, sleepy.”

Remus and Sirius just stare at each other in shock and happiness before big grins cover their faces.

Sirius dives in to attack Harry with tickles which causes screaming and flailing limbs and laughter.

Harry then yells, “Moony, help!” And Remus can’t ignore that.

He dives on top of Sirius tickling all his most vulnerable spots. Enough to make Sirius give up on Harry in order to protect himself. Harry then climbs all over the two of them while also reaching out to tickle Sirius, all of them laughing uncontrollably.

Remus then leans down to kiss Sirius, as soon as Harry notices, he tries to push his way between their chests and yells, “My turn!” with his hands thrown into the air.

Sirius and Remus turn to him and smother his face with kisses until Harry is giggling again.

When they lay there catching their breath a few minutes later, Harry pops up to sit on his knees and plays shyly with his stuffed deer and teddy while looking at Remus and Sirius uncertainly.

“What’s up, Pup?” Sirius asks, running fingers through Harry’s wild hair.

“Are you two my daddies?” he fiddles again with the stuffed animals, and continues before they can get past the shock and answer. “Because Beck said a long time ago that if you wouldn’t have adopted me and brought me home if you didn’t love me and want me. And then Janie said she was sure you loved me and that you’d like it if I called you my daddies, or Daddy and Papa, or something else. And I really do love you Moony and Padfoot and I do want to be your family and I know my mummy and daddy died when I was little but you can take care of me now for them right? Because they said they wanted you to have me if they ever went away like they did? So you can be my daddies and I can be your kid right? Because–”

“Harry, ma chérie, calm down, take a breath, you’re going to get another panic attack darling. Deep breaths with me okay? In and Out. Very good, keep going.” Sirius and Harry breathe together for a couple minutes before Harry seems to really calm down again.

Then Remus says to him, “Harry, pup, we love you so so much and we would absolutely love to be your daddies and you’re already our kid, you were our kid as soon as we got to take you home. We love you and will take care of you forever just like your parents would have wanted to and just like we should’ve been able to since you were 2 years old. You can call us whatever you’d like, darling. Whether that be Daddies, or Daddy and Papa, or Padfoot and Moony, or even Remus and Sirius, or something else entirely. No matter what we will always love you and we will always be your daddies. And even if we are your daddies, your Mummy and Daddy will always be your Mummy and Daddy too.

Harry then starts to cry (happy tears), which causes the other two to tear up, which then turns into a big cuddle puddle and breakfast in bed with Harry’s favorite movie, and then a nap.

Harry thinks about it for a few days and then tells the two of them that he wants to call Sirius Daddy and Remus will be Papa. They give him big hugs and tell him they love the names and him.

Harry and Sirius then get to work on making a chocolate cake “to celebrate our family love, Remus, what else would we do at this time? Why are you arguing over a chocolate cake, chocolate is your favorite, right behind Harry and me!”

“Yeah Papa, you love us and chocolate!” Harry says.

“Yeah Papa!” Sirius then echos much to Harry’s amusement.

Remus just smiles and gives them both a kiss and then says, “You’re right of course. How could I forget that if you two make cake, I get all of my favorite things? But you two forgot your aprons!”

He walks over to a drawer and pulls out two aprons, one says ‘Little Chef’ and the other says ‘Daddy Chef’ on the chest.

Harry and Sirius are very excited for their gifts and put them on immediately so they can pose for Remus who takes many many photos.

#wolfstar adopting harry #wolfstar #wolfstar raise harry #dad wolfstar #wolfstar raise harry potter #Harry Potter #harry potter au #Remus Lupin #remus #sirius #Sirius Black #Sirius Lupin #kid harry potter

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] Also on AO3

Chapter 9: Jon

“Sit down, boss,” Tim says insistently.

“Jon, please,” Martin—the real Martin—says, his voice soft. “We’ll explain, just...sit down. Please.”

Jon doesn’t want to sit down. He wants to stay standing, to put himself between this—this thing wearing his assistant’s face, his skin—and the three people he’s already nearly lost tonight. But he responds to the please and sits, slowly, never taking his eyes off the creature claiming to be Martin Blackwood from the future.

It’s a good likeness, he has to admit. The...creature or whatever it is looks almost identical to his—the real Martin, down to the odd twist in one set of cables on his sweater (not that Jon’s spent a lot of time staring at Martin or his sweater, of course, only that it’s not quite even and the oddity catches his attention) and that one errant curl that never seems to do what he wants it to. But this creature is also...muted is the best way Jon can think of to describe it. As if someone has turned down the saturation on a picture, or coated the whole thing in a grey wash.

“How long were you waiting for us?” Tim asks the other Martin. It seems safer to think of him that way.

“Not long,” Other-Martin answers. “Maybe a minute.”

“Really? It took you that long to get here? Must’ve been a hell of a complicated route.”

Other-Martin gives a soft snort of laughter without a lot of humor in it. “Time in those corridors doesn’t follow the same rules. As far as I could tell, I was only in there five, ten minutes, tops.”

“Tim, you invited this here?” Jon exclaims.

Tim shrugs. “It seemed safer than leaving him in the tunnels under the Institute. You know, what with the worms and the police and everything. Hard enough to explain to us what’s going on, but someone who doesn’t deal with this every day?”

Other-Martin tilts his head slightly, but his gaze is directed at Jon. It makes him feel uneasy, for reasons he can’t quite explain. He tries to bring his chin up defiantly, but he’s aware of the fact that he’s terrified and wonders if this creature can smell fear. “And you expect us to just...believe you. That you’re—that you’re Martin come back from the future. There is no scientific explanation for time travel—”

“There probably is, actually, but that’s got nothing to do with how I came back,” Other-Martin interrupts. “And no. I don’t expect you to just...believe me. Not like that. I mean, especially not right now. I know you well enough to know you’re pushing the skeptic thing as hard as you are because you know it’s real and you’re afraid. You can feel something watching you when you’re recording the statements, the real ones, the ones that you have to do on the tape, yeah? That’s what you told me. So you believe in the supernatural and the paranormal and all that, but that doesn’t mean you want to. And it sure doesn’t mean you’re going to believe I am who I say I am without some kind of proof.”

For just a moment, Jon is speechless. He’s never told anyone about that persistent feeling, or his belief that the “difficult” statements are actually true encounters. He certainly wouldn’t have told Martin, although if he’s being honest, Martin is probably the only one he would have trusted with that knowledge. To hear it pour out of someone else’s mouth is startling, to say the least. It’s not really proof, of course, but it’s certainly enough to crack the shell of skepticism Jon hides behind.

“Wait,” Sasha interrupts. “You’re saying those statements...the ones that won’t go on the laptop...they’re real? Like, they actually happened?”

“They did, yeah. I know they’re hard to verify, but, well, that’s the thing about the paranormal. Ghosts don’t leave a lot of physical evidence. And...well, people see what they want to see, and they rationalize out a lot of things they don’t.” Other-Martin sighs. “It used to drive Basira nuts.”

“Basira?” Tim asks.

“Ah—you haven’t met her yet, I don’t think. Unless you...no, she was one of the officers on the scene when all this happened in my timeline, but honestly, I had a hard time concentrating on who I talked to that night and who I talked to later. I was too busy worrying about—” Other-Martin snaps off the sentence. “She’s a cop. One of the officers assigned to the investigation at the Institute. In our timeline, she...eventually got hired to work in the Archives. It’s—”

“A long story?” Martin says, sounding tired.

Other-Martin holds up his hands. “I know, I know. I promise, we’ll explain everything as soon as—”

“We?” Jon and Sasha say in unison.

“I didn’t come back alone. Well, I mean—we came back separately, but I’m not the only one who came back. We were warned we’d probably end up in different places, though.”

Tim lifts an eyebrow and grins. “Ooh, did you arrange a rendezvous at a secret meeting point? Send one another coded messages?”

“Tim,” Sasha hisses, elbowing him.

Other-Martin smiles, a little wistfully. “I wouldn’t say that, but...the plan we worked out before we came back involved us being at the Archives, so we were going to meet there. I have no doubt they’re on their way there.”

“And when they get there?” Martin asks quietly. “When they show up and see...everything that’s happening? What then? Did you have a—a backup plan?”

“Not really. But my guess? They’ll come looking for me. Or at least for you all.”

Jon tenses. “Looking for us? Why?”

“We were always planning to bring you all into it, after we...took care of Jane Prentiss. This wasn’t...exactly how we planned to do that, it got a bit out of hand, but I had to improvise, and I didn’t do it well.” Other-Martin gives another soft huff of not-all-that-amused laughter. “I’m quite literally lost without them. But I don’t doubt for a minute that if they can’t find me, they’ll come to you all.”

Jon is torn. On the one hand, he wants to shout at this creature, demand to know what its game actually is, chase it from the building, and keep it from coming anywhere near his assistants ever again. On the other hand...the more he talks, the easier it is to believe what he’s saying. Also, this isn’t Jon’s house and it’s not exactly his place to deny access to it.

“How did you get in here, anyway?” Jon decides a change of subject might clear his mind.

“Michael,” Other-Martin answers.

“That thing that attacked Sasha?” Jon exclaims. “You’re friends with it?”

“Oh, God, no,” Other-Martin says with another laugh that has no humor in it. “Michael hates anything to do with the Archives. Not necessarily without reason. I just managed to talk him into a temporary truce. Mostly I told him I knew what would happen to him and if he didn’t want to be utterly destroyed, he’d best help me out. I think that’s the only favor I’m actually going to get out of him, though.”

Sasha rubs her temples with her fingers. “Wait, wait. If he hates us so much, why would he tell me how to save everyone?”

Other-Martin hesitates. Beside Jon, Martin sighs deeply. “Is this another ‘telling you might be dangerous until someone who can protect you shows up’ thing?” In response to the startled look Jon shoots his way, Martin gestures at his doppelganger. “That’s what he keeps saying when I push too hard.”

“Look, I know it’s frustrating, but it’s also serious. You might be okay tonight, but...I’m just reluctant to risk it until—”

A firm rapping sound interrupts him. Sasha glances at Tim. “Somebody’s knocking at your door.”

Martin hums something under his breath, which brings that sad, wistful smile to Other-Martin’s face for a second. Tim gets up. “I’ll be right back. Try not to kill Martin Prime while I’m gone.”

“Really, Tim? Star Trek reference?” Sasha snorts.

“How about you? You understood that,” Tim shoots back at her before disappearing down the hallway.

Jon wonders whether to demand an explanation or not when a yelp comes from the direction of the doorway. He’s on his feet before he can think about it, nerves thrumming with adrenaline, not sure if he wants to launch himself down the hall to drag Tim to safety or stay where he is to protect Martin and Sasha. Sasha and...their guest rise from their seats, too, all of them tense for a moment. There’s the sound of voices, too low to be distinguishable, and then, unmistakably, Tim’s laughter, and Jon relaxes a little bit. Not hurt, at least. Then Tim comes back into the room, bringing with him a person who takes the breath from Jon’s lungs.

It’s him.

Or at least, the tiny part of his brain that insists on remaining skeptical says, it’s someone who looks like him—albeit a bit less like him than the other Martin looks like his—their Martin. His hair is longer than Jon is wearing his right now—more like the length he wore it in uni, if he’s being honest—pulled back into a sort of half-ponytail and far more liberally streaked with grey. His face and hands are dotted with round scars, and Jon’s stomach lurches as he realizes they’re probably from the worms. There are probably more scars, but they’re impossible to see, as he’s draped in a dark green sweater several sizes too big for him. He looks weary, like he’s carrying far greater a burden than one would reasonably expect to fit in the pack on his back, but he’s also smiling a little. It’s Jon’s smile, that’s for sure, just...sadder, somehow.

He stops dead just inside the room. All the tension seems to drain from him. “Martin,” he gasps.

The other Martin’s face lights up. “Jon?”

Jon swears he doesn’t see his counterpart move. One moment he’s standing just inside the doorway and the next he’s in front of the sofa, and the two of them are embracing tightly. The other Jon’s bag slips to the floor with a soft thud, but neither of them seem to notice it.

“Oh, thank God,” Other-Jon chokes out. The words tumble out in a semipanicked, breathless rush. “I couldn’t find you, I tried to use the—to Know where you were, but it was—I c-couldn’t see you and I was worried, I tried to tell myself you would be fine, but I—I didn’t think about—I should have realized whatever hid you from the Eye would mean I wouldn’t be able to see you either, but I thought since it was you I’d—”

“Jon, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Other-Martin says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you all right? You’re not hurt?” Other-Jon pulls back enough that he can look up into Other-Martin’s face, but doesn’t let go of him. If anything, his grip seems to tighten just a little.

“I’m fine,” Other-Martin assures him. “I’m okay. Are you all right?”

“I am now.” Other-Jon pulls him into another tight hug.

Jon feels a bit like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be privy to, but at the same time, he can’t look away. Partly because the reunion is so compelling, partly due to what feels like the same thing that grips him when he’s reading those statements, but mostly because he does not want to see the look on Tim’s face right now, thank you very much. And he’s not sure he can look at Martin without making a fool of himself.

Whatever else happens in the future, he finds himself thinking, at least he loosens up enough that he can express how he actually feels instead of trying to hide behind a professional facade. Because this is pretty much how he wanted to react when he saw Martin emerge from the quarantine tent—to wrap him up in a hug, to tell him how glad he was that he was safe, to reassure himself Martin was alive and whole. It’s why he was so quick to help him walk. He almost envies his future self this freedom, the ability to just wrap his arms around Martin and know he’s all right. Whatever else they’ve gone through—and from their appearances, they’ve been through a lot—at least he has this.

He realizes the direction his thoughts are trending and clenches his teeth, mentally grasping the last bit of skepticism in his mind with both hands. He still can’t be completely sure these two are really them from the future. Yes, they look a lot like him and Martin, sound like them, but...what was it his cousin used to say? Correlation does not imply causation. There could be a perfectly normal explanation for this—a non-supernatural one, one that doesn’t involve time travel or the end of the world or anything like that. He’s just got to figure out what that explanation is.

Tim, naturally, is the one to break the silence. “So!” he says, settling onto the sofa and stretching out his arms along the back. “Should we be expecting Tim Prime and Sasha Prime to come along any minute now?”

“No,” Other-Jon says quietly, drawing back from Other-Martin with visible reluctance. “No, it’s only us.”

He turns to look at Tim and Sasha, and Jon finds himself torn between the desire to shift and stand between them and the fear of leaving Martin exposed if he does so. He takes a small step forward and speaks up, drawing the attention back to himself. “How do we know you’re really from the future? What proof is there that you’re really who you say you are?”

“Well, we believe them,” Tim says. “Or at least we believe him.” He waves at Other-Martin.

“Not good enough, I’m afraid,” Other-Jon says before Jon can. There’s a faint hint of amusement in his tone. “You’re all rather too credulous. It’s easy to convince you. He’s far less ready to believe on flimsy evidence. Proof, that’s what’s needed.”

Tim tilts his head sideways, as if considering that. “He’s certainly got you pegged, Boss.”

Jon narrows his eyes. He rather suspects he’s being mocked, and he doesn’t like it in the slightest. “If that’s the best you can come up with—” he begins.

“A Guest for Mister Spider,” Other-Martin interrupts.

Jon’s entire body goes still with horror as the memories come rushing in, not that they’re ever far from his mind. He fights very hard to keep it from showing on his face, however, and says as evenly as he can, “I beg your pardon?”

“Your grandmother bought it in the bargain bin a charity shop when you were about eight.” Other-Martin’s eyes seem to stare right through Jon, as if they’re seeing him all those years ago, walking down the streets unknowingly with his nose buried in a book. “It was your first encounter with the supernatural. Your first encounter with the name Jurgen Leitner. It’s why you came to work at the Institute in the first place.”

The words are as gentle and as inexorable as falling snow, and just as chilling. Jon’s very soul seems to freeze. He stares at the other Martin without really seeing him, without really seeing anything except the darkness within that door, the boy whose name he can’t remember vanishing in its depths, the growing smears of red on black and white drawings...

“Jon? Jon, are you all right?” Martin sounds worried, but he also sounds very far away.

Other-Martin looks slightly embarrassed as he turns to look at Other-Jon. “Too far?”

“No—no, I-I think that was...just about right.” Other-Jon reaches out and presses two fingers to Jon’s shoulder, pushing him downward. “Sit down and breathe, Archivist.”

It’s the word Archivist that pushes through the fog in Jon’s brain, oddly enough. It at least serves to remind him that he’s not actually eight years old anymore. He draws in a deep, shuddering gasp of air and sits down rather heavily, jostling both Sasha and Tim.

Other-Martin and Other-Jon sit down as well. Jon notices, with the part of his brain not currently paging through the Owner’s Manual to the Human Body for the instructions on breathing, that Other-Jon rests his hand on top of Other-Martin’s. Other-Martin strokes Other-Jon’s thumb with his own in slow, careful strokes. It’s a gesture that speaks of intimacy and tenderness, and a jealousy curls in his stomach that he has no idea what to do with. Other-Jon’s free hand taps on his thigh as his eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, Jon assumes it’s an idle fidget until his brain latches onto the regularity of it and realizes what it is. He’s counting out the seconds to regulate his own breathing.

All the fight goes out of Jon in that instant. He knows when he’s beaten. This other who bears his face is him, not some stranger or monster or evil being. Which means the other must be Martin. They are from the future. They’re telling the truth.

He’s not going to admit that out loud, not just yet, but they slide from being Others to being Primes, as Tim called them, in his mind.

After a moment, Jon Prime squeezes Martin Prime’s fingers briefly, exhales, and opens his eyes. “I...I suppose you have more than a few questions.”

“You could say that,” Tim agrees.

“So where do we start?” Sasha asks, the last word nearly being swallowed in a yawn.

Jon is burning with curiosity, but he also recognizes that Sasha is tired, and likely Tim as well. And Martin...Martin must be absolutely wiped out. His own energy, the adrenaline that’s been driving him since he saw the emergency lights at the Institute, is starting to flag. It’s late.

“As much as I’d like to know what the hell is going on here, I think most of it can wait until tomorrow, when we’re all fresh,” he says, putting as much authority into his words as he can. “I need to get your statements before you start forgetting the details.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Sasha says, not quite under her breath.

Martin Prime snorts. “It’s not. Best to get your statements done now, though. Trust me.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “I think Martin should go first.”

Jon turns to look fully at Martin. He’s visibly exhausted, but he nods, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Jon.

Jon exhales. “All right, then.”

#tma #the magnus archives #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#jonmartin #IT'S THE REUNION SCENE BITCHES #ollie writes fanfic

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thelastranger · 4 years

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So, a long time ago @ranger-melany gave me some prompts and one of them was HaltxPauline. This is the filling of that prompt and it used to be much, much shorter, but it got out of hand and here it it! I am sorry that it is so late, but I hope you all enjoy it.

(Spoilers about Halt’s backstory and maybe the Early Years?)

There was rarely a courier mission Pauline couldn’t handle by herself, but there were some missions that were beyond her control. Take for example, the ball being thrown by Baron Smith at the end of the week that was specifically for couples only. Normally this type of mission would be beyond Pauline’s line of duty as she was more of a longer mission courier, but Smith had been rumored to be gathering money and intelligence for Morgarath and the king needed intelligence on that immediately.

The only problem was that all the couriers Pauline could have asked to go with her were away on missions and all the other options weren’t available. Arald had offered to help out, which is what brought Pauline to his office one fine afternoon.

“Pauline, I know you’ve had many dangerous missions and you can handle your own, but the ball thrown by Baron Smith is specifically for couples only. A ranger is needed.”

“Yes, Arald, I understand that, but why Halt?” Pauline didn’t know why she was arguing so strongly against Halt; she liked him a lot and any chance to see him again would be lovely. But that was her heart talking and her head provided all the reasons Pauline needed to protest. Halt wasn’t trained for this type of undercover work and while Pauline was halfway sure she loved this man, Halt would never pass as a noble.

Arald leaned forward, folding his hands together as he addressed Pauline. "Believe me, I asked Crowley the same thing. He said that Halt was the only ranger available and that he would do a good job. I swear commanding the rangers is already scrambling Crowley's brain."

A sigh escaped Pauline’s lips, but she resolved to make the most of the situation.

“At least the ball is next week; we’ll have a little bit of time to give Halt some lessons. Basic dancing, dress...”

“Manners.” Arald caught Pauline’s eye and they both winced, remembering how Halt had stumbled around their first meeting and told them how Morgarath should shove off. It would be an uphill battle, but Pauline was confident she could whip Halt into passably shape before the ball.

Arald was composed as he started to write a message to Crowley. “I’ll have Crowley send Halt over this evening and I can give him the first lesson tonight on dining.”

Pauline nodded; it was perfect. “I have some paperwork to finish up and I have to check on some couriers tonight, but I can do a lesson tomorrow.”

“Excellent.” Arald sealed up the envelope and motioned for Martin, who had been standing silently in the background, to come forward. “Can you send this to Crowley? Halt needs to see it.”

Martin nodded. “I’ll see to it that he gets it promptly.”

The envelope passed hands and Martin exited. Pauline took this as her cue to leave as well. She had work to do and if she was to be tutoring Halt, she needed as much time as possible. Pauline bid Arald farewell and went to try and take her mind off the fact that she and Halt were going to have to be a couple, for at least a night. The thought was nice and one day Pauline hoped that they could be an actual couple, but there was something… off about Halt. There was always the sense that Halt was hiding a deep secret from everyone and Pauline wasn’t sure how to deal with that. Finding out secrets was literally her job, but she would respect Halt’s wishes for now.

Arald called Pauline into his office later that day. He wordlessly pushed a scrap of paper towards her. Pauline recognized it as the letter Arald had sent earlier. It had Crowley’s reply and on the back it had the messiest handwriting Pauline had ever seen.

She looked at Arald. “I can’t read this chicken scratch.” Pauline tried turning the paper sideways; the note still made no sense.

Arald shook his head. “Neither could I. Apparently it’s Halt’s answer.”

“Well, what does it say?” Pauline demanded Arald, anxious to hear his response. Time was of the essence.

"According to Crowley, Halt has refused to take lessons due to his, and I quote, "busy nature" which prevents him from coming in."

Arald’s dry tone made it sound so natural that it took a second for Pauline to fully understand the words he was saying.

“He’s not taking lessons? What does he think he’s going to do at the ball?”

“Probably shoot them to death.”

This was the worst scenario Pauline could come up with. If she needed a partner to accompany her, Pauline had to be able to trust her partner and there was no way that Pauline would be able to leave Halt’s side and do investigating on her own if she had to cover for Halt all night.

“Go talk to Halt, see if you can convince him to change his mind.” Arald didn’t need to tell Pauline twice. Before he had even finished the sentence, Pauline was up out of her chair and heading toward the door. There was a reckoning coming and no one would stand in her way.

Pauline could see Halt sitting on the porch of his cabin, looking out toward the town and trees. Busy nature, her foot. Halt wasn’t doing anything; he could easily come to the lessons.

“Halt Arratay, care to explain why you are refusing lessons for this important undercover mission?” Pauline’s voice was higher than she wanted it to be at the moment, but she thought she still sounded demanding and properly intimidating.

Halt leaned back on his elbows and stared up at Pauline with his dark eyes. “Don’t need ‘em.” He looked like he should have a stalk of wheat sticking out of his mouth. Halt had never seemed so casual.

Pauline scoffed. “I don’t believe that.” She had taken years of etiquette classes to learn all the minute details of noble life and she still didn’t know all of them; there was no way Halt would know enough to pass.

A smirk emerged on Halt’s lips, not that Pauline was staring at them, and he tilted his head towards hers. “You better believe it because I’m not taking lessons on manners. Mine are fine as they are right now.”

“Halt, you told Morgarath to, politely put, shove one up his-”

A blush spread across Halt’s face as he remembered the exact expression he had used the first time he met Pauline. “Okay, okay, you don’t have to repeat it.”

“So you’ll come to the lesson tonight?” Pauline was hopeful, but that hope was dashed with his answer.

“No, I’m not taking lessons.”

"You have to!"

"No. I don't." Halt was firm in his answer, but Pauline could still detect a bit of a joking tone in his words.

"Why are you being so stubborn? Let me help you."

There was no trace of humor left on Halt’s face as he stood up and got real close to Pauline. “Listen, do you trust me or not?”

She had not been expecting that and yet there was no other answer for Pauline except a resounding “Yes.” Halt stepped back and Pauline was just a bit disappointed.

“Then let this go. It’s for the best.”

Pauline hated going in unprepared, unplanned, but she would go with her gut and trust Halt’s word. There was clearly no arguing with him. Something about him made her want to dive into the future. She shook those thoughts out of her head and started briskly talking again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for your fitting appointment at least; you’ll need clothes to dress the part. Arald has some of the best seamstresses, even one that fitted royalty in Clonmel years ago. ”

Halt’s head started up like he hadn’t thought of that idea. There was a flash of panic in his eyes and Pauline wondered what had inspired that fear.

“Do you trust me?” The desperation was obvious in Halt’s voice as he pleaded with Pauline. “If you trust me, don’t make me go. I will take care of everything. I promise.”

Pauline was shocked at the raw emotion Halt was showing. “Halt, manners I can excuse, but clothes make the man…”

“Please?”

Even in the short time Pauline had known Halt, she knew he wasn’t the type of man to beg or say please. She had never seen him this desperate. This was important to him and so she relented.

"I trust you Halt."

“I won’t let you down.”

Pauline had been worried all week and she wasn't alone. Arald had enlisted Martin to join his letter writing campaign and the two of them wrote some heated but polite letters to Crowley about Halt’s refusal. Eventually, the only reply they got from Crowley was a beleaguered note that read “You think I can control what Halt does?”

Arald had to admit that was fair, but it didn’t mean he liked the answer. Pauline didn’t like it either, but no one could ever say that Pauline duLacy wasn’t flexible. She would play with the hand she had been dealt and if that meant dragging Halt alongside her everywhere, so be it.

There had been a note on Pauline’s desk in Halt’s chicken scratch saying that he would meet her by the manor of Baron Smith this evening. If Pauline had been nervous before, her nerves skyrocketed after reading that note. It just wasn’t done.

It turned out that at least some of her worries were for naught. Halt was exactly where he said he’d be in front of the manor, waiting for her.

“Halt O’Carrick, at your service.” Halt bowed low and deep. As he came up, Pauline could see every detail, every stitch of his clothing was immaculate. She wasn’t sure how he had gotten the right type of clothing, but it was nicer than anything Pauline could have provided.

Pauline curtsied in return, careful not to let the hem of her dress brush in the mud, and was surprised to see Halt’s arm offered to her when she came up.

“Oh!” She let out a soft gasp and Halt smiled gently at her.

He started to lead the way to the thick oak doors and Pauline was struck by the way Halt carried himself. It was so self-assured and confident unlike his normal way of slinking around. Halt had never seemed to regret or waste an action, but he had never actively courted attention the way he was now. Tonight, he was practically begging to be the center of attention.

Halt snuck a glance at Pauline and he couldn’t help himself; he had to smile. They weren’t even past the doors yet and Pauline fit in so well here. She had an air of quiet regality around her, one that he couldn’t resist. This was her playing field and Halt was just a willing pawn in her game.

Once they were inside, a butler asked for their names and Halt smoothly provided the names Pauline duLacy and Duke Michael McDonough.

Their names rang out into the enormous ballroom and a few heads glanced their way. A Hibernian duke at an Araluen ball? That was something to take note of.

They glided into the ballroom and Pauline had to talk. “Duke McDonough, is he a real duke?”

It wasn't meant to be a silly question, but Halt looked at her in amusement. “He’s real enough. A well-mannered, ditzy duke who likes his alcohol a bit too much.”

That didn’t answer her question so she decided to lean in and murmur in his ear. “I’ll find out your secrets McDonough.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Halt whispered back and it sent a thrill down Pauline’s spine. They were immediately swarmed by a horde of curious nobles clamoring for a chance to meet the mysterious new duke. A glass of wine suddenly appeared in Pauline’s hand and Halt had an identical glass in his. Halt twirled the expensive wine around in his glass and let out an obnoxious laugh that fit in perfectly with the nobles.

Halt’s brogue was even thicker than before and if Pauline hadn’t known the ranger underneath, she would have really believed he was a Hibernian duke. He looked the part and he sounded the part. The brogue, the inane topics of conversation, it all sounded real and Halt never stumbled. The conversation was aimless chit chat until someone brought up Hibernia.

“Did you hear about the coronation of King Ferris? Such a shame what happened to his brother…”

Halt’s jaw stiffened ever so slightly and Pauline didn’t know why. The nobles talked among themselves and Pauline and Halt politely listened, but inevitably, the attention turned to Halt.

“Duke McDonough, you’re from Hibernia, correct? Did you attend the coronation?”

Halt’s voice was casual, too casual to be real when he responded to the innocent question. “Ah no, unfortunately I was in the middle of the ocean when it happened.”

This caught the couple’s attention. “Were you sailing over here and missed the coronation? That’s a tragedy.”

Halt smiled and it wasn’t his normal, rare smile; it was an utterly charming grin. “Yes, I was sad to miss it, but I must tell you that I saw a selkie on the way and it was an experience one must have…”

Everyone gathered around him, eager to hear his tale. Halt had to chuckle a little; no one realized that he was telling them an old wive’s tale that his mother had told him when he was little.

Rather than listen to Halt’s story, Pauline took the time to scan the ballroom. Baron Smith was still making the rounds around the room

Out of the corner of her eye, Pauline saw a couple making their way over to her and she mentally groaned.

“What’s wrong?” murmured Halt in her ear. Somehow he must have sensed her or noticed a change in her posture. Pauline made a note to ask him about that when he had time. If there was a tell in her behavior, it would be good to know about it.

“The couple coming towards us, the Buchanans, are some of the most obnoxious and empty headed people I have ever met.”

Halt frowned playfully. “Aren’t you supposed to be more diplomatic in your assessments of people?”

“You’ll see and then you’ll agree with me.”

There was no time for Halt to respond as Lord and Lady Buchanan flounced up. Dripping with jewels and giving off an air of superiority, Halt could already see why Pauline disliked them.

“Pauline!” squealed Lady Buchanan as Lord Buchanan gave Halt an appraising once over. He didn’t seem to be impressed by what he saw.

“Elizabeth,” replied Pauline, trying to muster up some enthusiasm.

“It’s been ages since I saw you last. You simply must come visit our estate; it’s 1,700 acres you know.” Elizabeth Buchanan was one of those people who could not resist dropping in every conversation how rich they were.

“Your estate is only 1,700 acres? Pauline, my love, why didn’t you tell me estates were so tiny in Araluen?” Pauline had to stifle a laugh at the shocked face Halt was making and the offended look on Elizabeth’s face.

Lord Buchanan bristled. “My estate is one of the largest in all of Araluen!”

“Oh I’m sure it is,” simpered Halt, the picture of an adult trying to humor a child. “But my estate in Hibernia is well over 4,500 acres.”

“You must be new money. The Buchanan estate…” Lord Buchanan was going to continue, but Halt cut him off.

“Buchanen, eh?” asked Halt. To anyone else, the question would have sounded amicable, but Pauline could hear the sharpness underneath. He was setting a trap. “You must come from some Scotti nobility.”

Lord Buchanan swelled up with pride. “Yes we do, though the Buchanans came to Araluen a long time ago due to a trade agreement with King Herbert. Our lineage is very distinguished.”

“Wasn’t it Buchanan the one who sold out his regiment to the high king of Clonmel in exchange for riches?”

A grimace of pain flashed onto Buchanan’s face. “Yes, but that ended up being a setup for the king and my ancestor double-crossed him.”

Halt stepped a little closer, the grin on his face was like the tip of a dagger aiming for the heart. “That’s not the story that’s told in Clonmel. Buchanan is the most revered traitor in our history. Do you want to know how I know that?”

Buchanan had a look of revulsion on his face, but he couldn’t step away; Halt had him in an iron grip. “Not really.”

“My ancestors were the ones who told Buchanan to lie so we could get information on the Scotti tribes. You think you come from a long line of nobility?” Halt laughed, a grating and ill-tempered chuckle. “My ancestors were ruling in castles while yours were still in the dirt. Your line was all because of my forefathers and their cunning. See that don’t you forget it.”

Suddenly Halt let go and Buchanan stumbled back.

“Come on Elizabeth, I see someone else we have to talk to.”

The Buchanans swept off and Pauline was shocked. That was the quickest conversation she had ever had with the stuffy couple. She should bring Halt to all the balls she had to go to.

“That was exhausting. I can see why you dislike them.” Halt let out a breath like it really had exhausted him. Pauline could relate.

“They doubled the taxes of their renters and then kept the extra money. When confronted about it, they claimed it had all been a clerical mistake.”

Halt turned to look at her in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? I would have been much more irritating towards them!”

“You could’ve been more irritating?” She found that hard to believe; every word Halt had uttered to Lord Buchanan Paulie had heard and it was hard to believe that Halt could have lowered their egos any more.

“Pauline, I practically invented the irritating stuffy noble move.”

That made her laugh, but in the back of her mind she wondered if Halt had been undercover as a noble before. It would explain some things, but not everything.

Before she could ask him, Halt hissed under his breath. “I see our friend Smith is making a move.”

“Let’s go.” Pauline pulled Halt into her arms and dragged him onto the dance floor. Most likely Smith was moving onto another group of nobles, but there was a chance that he was making his move. The dance floor would provide them with a better vantage point.

The music swelled and Pauline felt light on her feet as Halt swung her to the swells of the violin. She hadn’t known Halt knew such a complicated dance. Another piece of the mystery that made up Halt O’Carrick.

“So are you going to tell me what that little display was all about?” She gestured her head towards the Buchanans.

Halt smiled in response and dipped her.

“Smith is talking with one of his butlers, an older man with gray hair.”

From her dip, Pauline could see the exchange happening and she could see how Halt had dodged the question.

“I see him.” A soft yank and Pauline’s face was next to Halt’s. “He looks annoyed that this exchange is happening now.”

Another twirl. Halt could see Paline scanning the ballroom, trying to figure out where Smith was heading next. She was so focused and determined; he loved that about her.

“Smith’s finally heading upstairs.” Halt couldn’t tell if the flush on Pauline’s cheek and the sparkle of excitement in her eyes was from the dancing or the fact that Smith was finally doing something.

He offered a charming smile. “Shall we go see what our esteemed host is doing?”

Pauline offered a dazzling smile in return. “I’d like nothing more, McDonough.”

Halt and Pauline followed the baron to a hidden alcove above the action. The faintest strains of music could be heard as they saw Smith duck into a dark corner and greet a hooded man. Halt pulled Pauline back to a reasonable distance away and motioned to a white marble pillar. The pillar was so small Halt and Pauline were practically smushed together; if Pauline pressed her face forward anymore, she’d be kissing Halt.

They could just make out the fervent whisper of the baron and the hooded man.

“Are you sure you have the false records, Andreas?”

“Yes, my lord. The false ledgers will be planted in the duke’s office and their discovery will force him to give you the land.” The hooded man, Andreas apparently, handed the ledgers over to Smith who started to rifle through them.

This was exactly the type of evidence Pauline needed. She nudged Halt who had come to the same conclusion. They only needed to get the ledgers to take down Smith. Halt tried to shift a little closer, but there wasn’t enough space.

Blast it, despite his training and previous experience, Halt wasn’t used to sneaking around in the royal tunic and chains. He brushed up against the pillar and the thick chain scraped loudly against the marble.

Immediately, Baron Smith swiveled his head towards them and the hooded man melted into the shadows.

“Who’s there?” Smith demanded, his eyes blazing.

Pauline knew they would be seen and apparently Halt had come to the same conclusion because he popped up giggling. Halt never giggled.

“You caught us baron!”

Baron Smith was shocked. He hadn’t expected anyone to actually appear. “Wait, us?”

Pauline popped up and tried to keep a guileless look on her face. She didn’t think it was exactly working, but Halt took her arm and snuggled up to her rather erratically. Pauline had bluffed her way out of several situations like this before, but looking into Baron Smith’s eyes, she wasn't sure he’d believe her excuses. The baron was made out of steel. She had several excuses on the tip of her tongue, but Halt beat her to it.

He looked at her for only a moment, a plea of forgiveness in his eyes, before turning to Smith with a grin that was too self-satisfactory for it to ever appear on Halt’s face.

“Heh, please excuse us Baron. We were just looking for somewhere…” Here Halt paused like he was trying to find the right word, but his alcohol addled brain couldn’t find it. Suddenly his face lit up. “Some place private.”

Pauline knew exactly what he was doing and she did her best to look away demurely. The baron stared at them suspiciously like he didn’t believe a word Halt said. And then Smith made a mistake.

“You didn’t see anyone else with me, did you?” growled the baron. If that wasn’t a statement of guilt, Pauline wasn’t sure what was. She let Halt take the lead, still playing the role of the embarrassed girlfriend. Halt grinned again and lurched toward the baron suddenly in a drunken lumber. The two men collided and Smith angrily pushed Halt away.

“Oof!” yelped Halt, but there was no hurt in his tone, only amusement. “Don’t worry Baron, your secret love affair is safe with us.”

Halt mimed zipping his lips as Pauline pulled him gently back into her arms. He turned his head and gave her a tender kiss, a silent thank you.

Even though she wanted Halt to keep going, Pauline gently pushed him off. “Not in front of the baron,” she said, jerking her head toward the noble.

Smith sneered in disgust as he stalked off, apparently convinced that they were harmless.

“Go to the garden if you must.”

As Halt gently pulled her away from the baron, he guided her towards the garden with a dopey wave over his shoulder. Baron Smith stared at him for a moment, perhaps wondering who the empty headed Hibernian was, before heading inside with a shrug. It was of no concern to him. Other than the meddling at the end, his acquaintance had remained unseen.

The garden was awash with moonlight and a marble bench beckoned them. As soon as they got into the garden, it was like Halt shed his skin. He slumped down and his face darkened to his normal scowl. There was no trace of the genial Duke Michael McDonough in his features at all.

Neither of them knew how to talk about what had just happened, but Halt broke the silence first.

“I'm sorry about that. It was the only thing I could think of that he would believe.” Sincerity was laced in his words and yet Pauline wasn’t concerned about the kiss. They didn’t have the ledgers or any concrete evidence which was the whole point of the evening.

As if he could read her mind, Halt reached into his fine cloak and pulled out a thick wad of papers. Of course Halt had the ledgers.

Pauline murmured “You are just full of surprises,” as she reached for the papers. This was exactly what she needed.

“Nicked ‘em off of our favorite baron when I bumped into him.” Halt’s brogue was almost gone, but his voice was still rough, almost like he was trying to convince Pauline of something.

Something just wasn’t adding up with Halt and she had to know why.

“I don’t understand you Halt. You put on a big show of hating finery and having no manners, but when push comes to shove, you have a better air of nobility than the actual nobles.” He also had excellent pick-pocketing skills, but Pauline felt it wouldn’t be tactful to mention that.

Halt winced.

“I didn’t know you were paying such close attention to me.” For any other man, that line would have been a chance to flirt, but with Halt, it was more of a quiet resignation, an acceptance of the idea that he wasn’t invisible as he might have liked to be.

The emotion she felt scared Pauline, but she answered truthfully. “I always pay attention to you.” Was she actually flirting with Halt right now? Pauline couldn’t believe herself. And was he going to flirt back? Pauline couldn’t reconcile the side of Halt she had seen tonight with the man she had known.

His voice was husky. "You are the only person I would let see this side of me."

Pauline was flattered for a moment before the deeper meaning of his words started to sink in.

"Halt, why haven't you told anyone about your past?" Pauline had an inkling of why he hadn't

told anyone.

If Halt had been a noble in Hibernia, it wouldn't change anything. If there was another heir or even another person willing to take up the mantle, legally there was nothing that would force Halt to go back to Hibernia. He could stay in Araluen; he could stay with… her.

Halt looked away, but Pauline looked closer. His features were strong and in the moonlight, she could imagine him being a secret noble.

Halt's voice cracked. "My past is complicated and it would change everything, believe me. I

can't lose this life."

He looked his age there; only a few years past being an adult. Pauline had forgotten how young he was, how young they all were.

“I’m not going to force you to tell me. I’ll respect your decision.”

“No Pauline, I need to tell you the truth. Tonight made me realize that someone needs to know.” There was the tiniest drop of sweat on Halt’s brow and Pauline wasn’t quite sure why she was so aware of it.

Pauline was starting to get alarmed at the way Halt was speaking and how emotional he was getting. She laid a hand on his arm in an effort to get him to calm down.

"Halt, truly, you don't have to explain yourself. So what if you were part of the nobility in Hibernia; we're in Araluen, you have your own life here."

“Pauline, you don’t understand! I wasn’t part of the Hibernian noble class- I was the Hibernian noble class. I wasn’t a duke of Clonmel; I was a prince, the first prince of Clonmel and heir to the throne, Ferris Cathan Niall O’Carrick.”

The name was familiar to her ears; she had studied the Clonmel case as part of her final courier study. The name was familiar, but she wasn’t processing everything right. She studied his strong face again, thinking about the brief charcoal sketch she had seen of the former king of Clonmel and the current king.

“The prince who died.” murmured Pauline. How wrong she had been. Everything made sense now. Halt’s manners, the clothing, the way he avoided talking about his life in Hibernia.

Halt slumped down at her words, a much different man than the one who had swept Pauline into the garden. His fine clothes looked rumpled and she could see the slight stains on them. Wear and tear that would be explained from making the trip to Araluen from Clonmel.

“They made your brother look quite different.” The jaws were different between the portrait and real life and it was obvious now that the painter had been trying to give Ferris a commanding presence, but hadn’t succeeded.

“Ferris was always quite vain,” grumbled Halt. “I’m not surprised his portrait is altered.”

Pauline couldn’t quite hold back her snort, which quickly turned into a full blown laugh. Halt smiled beside her. It felt good to laugh after such a stressful time.

“Is he truly that horrid?” There had to be some reason why Halt hadn’t gone back to Clonmel yet and Pauline wasn’t self-delusional enough to pretend she was the reason. No, something in Clonmel was keeping him away.

Halt sighed and it was deep and weary. There was no way he was going to even come close to breaching the truth about Ferris with Pauline yet. He just couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t talk about why he wasn’t going back. “Everything you saw tonight was all Ferris.”

He couldn’t understand how much that fact hit Pauline. First, the fact that his apparently awful brother had so much of an impact on him and secondly that he had been pretending the whole night. There had to be some part of Halt that he hadn’t been faking.

“Everything?”

A glance towards her and a reluctant admittance. “Not everything.”

Pauline couldn’t help but angle closer toward him. There was hope.

“All the surprises tonight, it’s like they won’t stop coming.” She normally wasn’t fazed by anything, but Halt had thrown her off her game. First with his undercover skills and then his bombshell secret. It was overwhelming and Pauline was sure the full ramifications of tonight would catch up with her tomorrow, but for now, she only wanted Halt to kiss her again.

Halt glanced at her, the softest smile gracing his features. “Do you want the surprises to stop coming?”

She had to answer truthfully. “No, I don’t”

“Then I’d like to surprise you again.” It was like Halt was reading her mind. He leaned forward and Pauline went to meet him, their lips meeting in a tangle of unsaid love.

#Ranger's Apprentice #Halt O'Carrick #Pauline duLacy #Baron Arald #Prompts #Oh man this ended up so much longer than I planned #The plot doesn't make sense but I really wanted to see Halt and Pauline undercover #Halt O'Carrick/Pauline duLacy

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abduct-me-helen · 4 years

Text

Class 108′s Apocalypse Field Trip | Chapter 5.

“Marcy’s alive?” Jon asked incredulously, eyes wide in surprise. Martin stood next to him, and their height different was apparently “adorable,” or so class 108 had said.

“That’s what Annabelle told me.” Martin replied, thinking back to the conversation and searching for details in the way that she’d sounded. He knew he was dealing with the Web though; Annabelle was nothing if not manipulative and direct in both her overt and subtle actions.

“On the phone.” Jon raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“That’s where we talked, yeah.” Martin confirmed, his tone shifting as he looked behind them to see Elliot and Raphi snogging while the others, (minus Riko and Katie), chanted “make out! Make out!” over and over again.

Nope, he was not getting into that.

“How? Why is Annabelle keeping her alive?” Jon asked, pointedly ignoring what was going on behind them.

“She’s not, or at least that’s what she said. She thinks it has something to do with the End.” Martin told him wearily.

“That’s lucky for us.” Jon said.

“Why?”

“We’re coming upon the Corpse Roots soon enough.”

Martin perked up. “Are we going to, you know, go kill bill?”

Jon hesitated.

“Jon.”

“I don’t know, Martin. It’s-Oliver Banks rules over this domain.” He explained, gesturing wildly.

“So?” Martin questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“I, I just don’t think…I don’t think he’s evil.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s a very benevolent ruler of a hellish fear prison.” Martin replied sarcastically.

“It’s just-he helped me. Wh-when I was,” Jon sighed, running his hand through his hair and taking a second to pause, “He woke me up.”

“Wow, what a hero.” Martin deadpanned.

“Martin?” Jon asked, amused and raising an eyebrow.

“What.” Martin said shortly. Jon made an amused noise, an all-too-knowing smile beginning to grow on his face.

“Yeah, alright; I know; I’m sorry.” Martin apologized quickly, sighing.

Jon was now smirking, voice full of amusement. “…Is there something you want to talk about?”

No, I’m-fine; it’s fine; everything’s fine! I’m sorry.” Martin said quickly, ducking away and speeding up his footsteps. Jon did the same to match him, a smug grin on his face.

“Martin…” His expression was like the cat getting the cream.

“I said it’s fine.” Martin snapped quickly.

“Are you jealous?” Jon questioned, oh so audibly smug.

“Yeah, Martin, are you jealous?” Raphi yelled, pulling away quickly before snogging Elliot once again.”

“Oooh…” The class’s eyes lit up, their voices in unison, getting higher in pitch as their call of smugness continued. Turning away from the couple, they advanced towards the two men who led the head of their group. Cal clapped politely at Elliot and Raphi as they broke away to join the rest of his peers in taunting Martin.

“Just-just, hey, why is everyone ganging up on me!” Martin cried indignantly. Elliot smirked, before starting a chant.

“Mr. Sims and Martin, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love-” Elliot grinned as he spoke, before Cal cut him off quietly.

“-Then comes marriage-”

“Then comes a baby in a baby carriage!” Tabitha finished, grinning with a smug glee.

“Don’t they have anything better to do then gossip about our teacher’s love life?” Riko scoffed, trailing behind the rest of the class with Katie at her right.

“…probably not.” Katie answered dully, looking on with something akin to judgmental fondness, as much as that could be expressed on someone who was as reigned in as her.

“…that’s fair.”

“I told you not to Know things about me!” Martin pointed at Jon, telling him off.

Jon laughed. “I really didn’t have to.”

“I-y-you-good. ‘Cause I’m definitely not.” Martin said stubbornly, looking ahead in defiance.

“Sure.” “Pfft, that’s such a lie-” “Are you scared he’s gonna steal yo’ man?” “PUT A RING ON IT MARTO!”

“Alright!” Jon agreed smugly, obviously taunting Martin.

“Look, I’m fine, alright?” Martin told him forcefully.

“You said.” Jon agreed, nodding with a knowing smirk.

“Yes, I did! And e-and even if I was jealous, I would be perfectly justified anyway, so!” Martin explained quickly, refusing to look Jon in the eye.

Class 108 was snickering, and Martin decidedly didn’t comment on that.

Respect your elders! he wanted to tell them. But he couldn’t control them, no matter how much he wanted to. They were teens.

Teens.

He sighed inwardly, mentally banging his head against a wall.

“But you’re not.” The fact that Jon’s amusement was almost tangible is one that Martin loathed.

“No! I’m fine.” Martin exclaimed.

“Hey, give him a break. I say murder is a go.” Elliot coos, and Cal laughs quietly behind him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Rosie said, laughing.

“Riko agrees with me. Hey! Riko! You agree, don’t you?” Elliot raised his voice, gaining Riko’s attention.

“Oh, I’m not getting involved.” She told him, raising her eyebrow.

“Pfft, boring.” He said, sighing dramatically.

“Tch.”

“Look. Martin, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m not going to kill a man just because you’re jealous.” Jon and Martin continued to argue, both attempting, (and failing), to tune out class 108’s jeers.

“Why not?!”

Beat.

Martin deflated. “Yeah. Yeah, I know, I know, I know.” He sighed, before pausing. “Please?”

Jon laughed and Martin’s lip quirked upwards.

“Let’s go apeshit! Let’s go fucking apeshit!” Tabitha screeched, pumping her fist into the air.

“Language.” Jon chastised, heart not in it.

Tabitha stuck her tongue out.

Cypress felt…strange. It was the only way to put it. The corpse roots were comforting, in their own way, and he looked on with a fondness that should have surprised him.

It didn’t.

He knew what the End was now, but he still thought of it as death more than anything else. And he found peace in that.

Or maybe it was the depression talking.

He didn’t really care.

But he was pulled in, interested and feeling an odd, almost tugging need to do something. He had no idea what that something was, but he knew he’d find out soon.

“-know, but I just, I need to. I can be ignorant when all of this is going on!” Tabitha said loudly, surprising Cypress out of his reverie. He turned, and saw that she was talking to Mr. Sims.

“Statements…Tabitha, they change you. I’m not sure-”

Ah, so this was what they were arguing over. Cypress had been worried too. Tabitha’s hunger for knowledge was not knew, but the desperation to get it certainly way.

Or maybe not. The more he thought about it, the more he realized it had always been there it to an extent.

“Please,” she begged, voice rising, “I just-I need to know. This world, it’s…it’s terrible. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

“You really think this will change anything?” Riko shot back acerbically.

“No, but it’ll make me feel better, so piss off.” Tabitha snapped, then sighed. “Sorry Riko.” She apologized.

Riko rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

Jon sighed. “Fine. Okay. You can listen.” Martin raised an eyebrow, and he shook his head. Tabitha cheered.

Cypress stepped closer. “I,” he paused, looking around before finalizing his thoughts, “I want to listen too.”

Jon was once again taken aback. “Why?” he said, incredulous.

Cypress shrugged. “I don’t know. I just,” he sighed, “I have my reasons, okay?”

Jon nodded slowly, sighing and motioning Martin to leave with the rest of the class, who looked on concernedly.

He waited a moment before he furrowed his brows and talked once again, looking up at the two students. “Once I start, I can’t stop. But if you get uncomfortable, at all, please leave. I won’t think worse of you or take offense. Agreed?”

Tabitha and Cypress nodded, but they both knew they’d stay, no matter how horrible it was. Jon sighed, and began the statement.

Report to prevent future deaths. This report is being sent to: The Great Eye that watches all who linger in terror and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze. And its Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself.

One: Coroner.

I am Oliver Banks, sometimes known as Antonio Blake or Dr Thomas Pritchard. I serve The Coming End That Waits for All and Will Not Be Ignored.

Two: Coroner’s legal powers.

I make this report under no authority; no regulation or act of law save the hollow power and grim responsibility given me by the Termination of All Life. With it, I may see and spread the hidden veins of destiny that wrap us close and draw us through the empty, yearning parody of meaning that we call life, knowing at all stages that the last and final point of this journey is a blank and futile end.

I have no power to stop it, and even if I did, I would not do so. For to rob a soul of death is as torturous as its inevitable coming.

Three: Investigation and inquest.

On the first and last day of the age of the Beholding, I begin my vigil into the story of Cypress Evans.”

Cypress and Tabitha looked up, eyes wide.

“What?” They said in unison, before refocusing once again.

He was about thirteen when it happened. Or, rather, he happened. The tendrils of the lonely had clung to him, but that is not the focus of my tale. No, I suppose I’ll be blunt.

Cypress Evans killed himself.

Cypress grit his teeth, and Jon’s eyes were wide. Tabitha tried to get up, despite her curiosity, in order to preserve his privacy, but felt tied down to the roots like a string.

Cypress did the same, not wanting to remember the tale that was spilling from Jon’s mouth.

It wasn’t dramatic. He didn’t write a note, but in the days before his first ending he gave many gifts to those he cared about. Gifts that were his belongings.

He even wrote a small will, though it wasn’t as if it was anything official. He was thirteen; he didn’t have much property of his own.

But that is not the important part. What is important, is that he succeeded. Cypress Evans was officially dead for about five hours. No one found out.

Tabitha inhaled quickly, and this was not unnoticed by Cypress, who looked down in shame. She took his hand and gripped it while she maneuvered him to rest next to her, huddled into a ball while he shook.

Because he woke up.

Her eyes widened once again, glancing at him in shock.

His arm was knitted back together by some sort of thin, clear thread. And he was alive.

He didn’t tell a soul.

It was about two months later when he tried again, a different method this time. He tried pills. So many pills. A lot of pills.

And so, Cypress Evans died for the seemingly second time. And for the seemingly second time, he came back.

He looked away. Tabitha could guess that he thought it was a failure on his part, but she was glad that it hadn’t worked.

And worried for him.

How had she not known? Did she not pay enough attention?

She bit her lip in thought.

He is one of many thousands, neither remarkable nor unique in his background and goals. He has spent the last three of those years acutely aware of his seemingly immortal state of being and in constant dismay over it. The thing was, Cypress never feared death.

He craved it.

And it was being denied from him, one time, then two, then three, then four, then five, and so it goes on. At some point, it became recreational, to not be anything at all. To end, even if temporarily.

Cypress clenched his fist, and Tabitha squeezed his other hand.

Do not worry, Cypress. I’m certain you’re listening to this, though I’m not sure why I’m aware of that face. That thought was not my own, and I’m acutely aware of a spider crawling down my arm, so I can only assume one of the Web’s ilk is involved with this. Never the matter, I wanted to tell you this. No matter how immortal you may think you are, all things end, even if it takes a very, very long time.

You can be reassured that one day, you will die.

Tabitha hated the look of relief that washed over him, but shivered at the thought of being manipulated. The Web, above all others, irked her, ever since her experience with Marcy.

Back to my account.

Cypress, now sixteen years of age, if not for the odd situation regarding class 108, I believe he would’ve found himself within my domain, traveling slowly and unremittingly along the length of the stretching Corpse Routes.

And to his delight, eventually ending.

The earliest he can remember being certain he was about to die was when, at the age of six, due to allergies, he passed out. It was from a spider bite. Not a poisonous one, mind you. It was just his allergies, putting him in the hospital for a few hours.

The oddest thing though, was that he didn’t mind. Cypress had already accepted the inevitability of death, with his father passing away from cancer about two years prior to the bite. He found it reassuring, relaxing even.

The point was, Cypress was comforted by death.

And so it continued for the next three years of his life. He would die on the weekends, crave the release of not existing as a reward for doing so during the week. He always came back, groggily and painfully.

He never liked that part.

Five: Coroner’s concerns.

The matters of concern are as follows:

a) Cypress Evans was affected by the Web at some point during his life. I do not know what the reason for that is, but it’s a concern nonetheless. I do not know why Cypress does not walk the corpse roots, just as I do not know why class 108 seems to have been spared from the domains. I, again, suspect the Web to have something to do with this.

b) This place is a limit on the fear that can be generated from them, as their pool is necessarily finite and ultimately, however slowly, it will be exhausted.

To be offset, this consideration will require the acquisition of victims from other domains as replacements, potentially inciting…bad feeling between those domains.

c) A metaphysical quirk of this new reality’s divorce from the traditional concept of time, and - one for which I have no further explanation, means that I do not believe new humans are being created or born.

The souls trapped within this transformed world are the only ones who will ever be here, and the presence of the Termination of All requires that-ultimately, that is what will happen.

However slowly, the domains of death will be removing sufferers from a closed system. However many thousands of years may be experienced in time, eventually this world will be left barren and empty.

d) When this happens, the Great Powers themselves will also fade and die, withering away into nothingness and releasing this reality from their grip.

I… do not know how I feel about this.

Six: Actions that should be taken.

None. Even if such a fate could be avoided, as it comes closer and the other Entities grow in their awareness of their own end, the grotesque ripples of their own impossible panic shall glut and feed my master, gorging it to the point where-perhaps it will even surpass the Watcher in prominence.

Barring that, I have no desire to be destroyed by other Avatars who are upset at what they regard as “stealing” human souls to walk the Corpse Routes. If it becomes necessary to intervene at some point regarding whatever web the weaver is puppeting, I will do so.

The others may take what actions they wish; they may plot and plan and tear themselves apart in an attempt to separate from the fate that they know they cannot escape, but they will fail. The currents of perception and reality may twist in whatever shapes they want, but none of them can ever render things truly eternal.

And I shall help, ushering on this final, blank emptiness. Perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned.

But I am too much of my Patron now, and my feelings cannot help but reflect the shadows of… anticipation that lurk within the grave. The End does not fear its own cessation, for it is the certainty and promise of all life, however strange, that it will one day finish, and that includes its own stark existence.

It shall be the last, and when the universe is silent and still forever, it shall, perhaps, in that impossible moment before it vanishes, finally be satisfied.

Seven: Your response.

Please, Jon, do not interpret this report as a plea for mercy or a call to action. I would have offered it willingly, of course, but to do so is no longer an option.

I only ask that you be wary. I do not know what, but I believe the Web is up to something. Bar that, I believe it to be controlling even you in a world where you wear the crown.

Finally, Cypress, know this. All things end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose, only brings you closer to it.

I’m sure that brings you comfort.

Report ends.

Jon looked up, eyes widening as he regained control.

Cypress bolted.

“What the fuck happened?” Riko asked, sitting down across from Tabitha, gesturing to Cypress, who was in a clearing alone. Cal was sitting next to him but they didn’t appear to be talking.

Tabitha shook her head mutely, sighing. “It’s-I’m not going to intrude on his privacy. It was just-it was just intense.” She gestured.

Riko shrugged. “He isn’t dead. It’ll be fine.”

Tabitha knew that Riko was trying to comfort her, but those words made her bark out a bitter laugh.

Riko raised an eyebrow.

Tabitha sighed. “Look, basically the statement Mr. Sims gave was about Cypress, and for some reason Cypress and I couldn’t leave.”

“Wait, like you were tied down?” Riko asked incredulously.

“No, like…ugh. I don’t know how to put it. Yes, like we were tied down, but it was…more than that.”

“Oh, that’s revealing.” Riko said sarcastically.

“Hm.” Tabitha agreed, before looking behind her to see Jon approaching. He walked up the green hill before sighing, and running his hand through his hair.

He does that a lot, Tabitha thought absently.

“May I speak to you in private?” Jon asked Tabitha, who nodded. Riko didn’t budge, and raised an eyebrow.

“I was here first.”

Tabitha snickered. “Fair.”

Jon followed her until they came to a spot next to a tree, leaves waxy and tinted with the green light of the sky.

“So,” Jon awkwardly began, “I think it would be best if you didn’t discuss Cypress’…condition with anyone else. I know you wouldn’t,” he added, “I just wanted to make sure.”

Tabitha nodded. “No, totally, I get it.”

Jon nodded gratefully. “Do you think he’d benefit from talking to Martin or I?”

Tabitha tilted her head in thought. “Not really. He seems like the kind of person to wear his heart on his sleeve, but…I don’t think he likes to be vulnerable with people. Cal seems to have it covered already though.” She pointed across the clearing to where Cal and Cypress were silently sitting side by side against the trunk of a thick hickory tree.

God, she hoped it was a hickory tree. While watching her friends get chased around by a living tree-monster thing was funny, it was also terrifying.

“That checks out. Well, that’s all I wanted to speak with you about.” His eyes seemed to glaze over familiarly, though Tabitha couldn’t quite place where she’d seen that look.

Tabitha nodded warily as he got up and walked towards Martin, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

#tma #the magnus archives #teacher jonathan sims #teacher jon #tma fic #apocalypse field trip #suicide tw #past suicide tw #pills tw

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tmabutlesbian · 3 years

Text

This one wasn’t requested bUT! i went on a random chooser thing and put the ships in and the two A girls came first!

This is like. An example of what a request will look like. In any case, this one shot happens when Agnes is about 14 years old. If you’ve read my other post about this AU, you’ll know that shit goes down when she’s 14 so. yeah.

Summary: Annabelle and Gerry have kept secrets from Agnes and Martin. Agnes’ too busy running away from a ghost lady and dealing with cult stuff to be properly mad about it. (Agnes and Annabelle)

(this got long so. sorry. also its 2am so if theres any errors, tell me pls thx)

(TW: Agnes is a bit of an unreliable narrator. She refers to the cult as her ‘family’ a lot, so if that’s not up to your league, here’s your warning. She does realize her situation by the end, btw. If you’re still interested in reading, I’ll link you an edited version. Not right now, but I’ll do it, no worries.)

(edit: I’m fixing some errors and fining some stuff. i don’t want to change much, my progress will show better in other future works. yh thats it)

------

The rain kept pouring, hard, heavy. There wasn’t much wind and yet when the three ran they felt as if the air itself was in their favor, pushing them forward, faster, scrambling their way into the manor before she could catch them.

Ah, yes, she. The lady of the lake apparently. Gerry hadn’t explained himself well enough. And even if he did it would never be enough. Through the trees and the front garden, Agnes can hear Martin’s anger and hurt and betrayal between the fear. She feels it too, somewhere.

Their feet pound in harmony with the rain and they stop in sync when the big main doors close behind them, dripping all over the main entrance like wet dogs. God, she hates the rain.

Annabelle has heard them by now for sure. Does she know more than Gerry does? What do they know, entirely? Does it matter anyways? She can hear the voice of her family, all the way back in town. ‘The world will end anyways, Agnes,’ the reverence and want in their voices makes her want to smash her head into a wall and end, ‘you’ll bring it to us, not them.’ This may be the perfect opportunity to end it. To end her stay at Magnus Manor, to leave, and cry, and hurt, and end-

“Okay-” the broken silence grounds into dust when Gerry speaks up, and yet she’s glad for it, in some far away part of hers. “She can- fuck- open the... main doors even if they’re locked so-” Martin doesn’t look like he’s listening but he’s good at appearing non-existent. It would be more effective if he didn’t end every harsh breath with a growl.

Gerry takes longer to continue, and Martin snaps his head up, eyes golden around the edges. “She can... the-” he swallows around his dry throat. “The ghost lady. That comes- from the lake. She can just... open the main doors...?” Agnes feels his disbelief, somewhere, far. He’s indignant too. She can relate. “And you were just- just going to- to not tell us about it?!” masking hurt under anger is more of a Gerry move, but Martin spends so much time with him, he’s prone to pick up some habits. “How is this protecting us! How?! What-”

“Listen, I know this is bad and I’m sorry,” she hears faint running steps from deep within the manor. Annabelle’s coming, “but we have to get away from the- the doors.” when he grabs and drags her away she goes limply. Martin just pushes him away. Gerry falters; he’s shaking. “Martin, please-”

Oh, how Agnes aches when she sees the tears forming in Martin’s brown- golden eyes. “No, fuck off! How dare you! You, Annabelle,” he turns to Agnes and frowns, teeth bared but she can’t be sure, why is everything so unclear, is she crying-? “even Agnes- you all lied to me! Hid from me!” Gerry tried to butt in but Martin didn’t let him, “No- you- the ghosts! The fears! The magic! You hid everything from us, and you call that ‘protecting us’ but in reality it just puts us in more danger!” where’s Annabelle? She takes her sweet time in the worst moments. Gerry’s shaking but she’s sure it’s not all cold. “You wanted to study us. Right? You bloody-”

The rain drones everything out when the lady opens the main doors, even Annabelle’s hurried entrance. The lady’s so close, too close, they’re too close to the door-

Suddenly she’s farther away and Martin’s right next to Agnes, both of them behind Gerry, arms out to hide them away from her, from the lady. But she ignores everyone and ascends the stairs, Annabelle scurrying out of her way, and then the ghost turns a corner, and vanishes from view. And all is quiet.

Annabelle descends the stairs in a much quicker but staggered pace than the ghost, looking stricken while the lady had no face at all. “What were you doing out there? Are you all alright? Gerry-”

“They know.” it was surprising how his voice didn’t shake when the rest of his body did. Annabelle froze. “Annabelle-”

“Were you ever going to tell us?!” she hears Martin’s voice break and the tears spill, and they glisten the gold in his eyes, but she needs to get out, she needs to go, she’s going- she can’t-

“I,” she speaks so quietly these days. While she grows hotter, scalding and perfect for her family, to them- Martin, Gerry, Annabelle- she’s ice cold. She’s dying away, just like the world will, one day, she will burn it, whatever else is she made for but to destroy? “I want to leave.” even quietly, they stop and listen to her. Gerry frowns, mouth hanging open. Annabelle goes still but her eyes are set; she knows something Agnes knows too, but she can’t reach it, she’s so far away. And Martin. He’s breathing hard again but it’s the tears’ work this time, not the running. He can only let out a ‘what?’, soft and weak and fragile and too much when they all hear the footsteps of a fourth entity coming down.

They swivel around and back away but the lady’s in her own world, roaming out of the manor slowly, resigned. Agnes can relate to that too.

The doors shut out the rain as they close, and Martin’s sniffs are the only thing more broken than the quiet she left behind. Annabelle turns around, facing Agnes head on. Many don’t respect Miss Cane, and she never understood why. Is it her height? Her lisp? The fact that she needs a cane to help her walk? All Agnes has ever felt for her was respect. Reverence, but different from the one her family in town have for Agnes. Behind her pursed brow and hard set lips lies the mother Agnes never had. Really, is she crying? She feels like she should be. Can a messiah cry? Agnes’ too far away to know, probably.

If Agnes had been shorter than Annabelle she would’ve knelt down to her knees. As it is, she only places her steady shaking hands on Agnes’ shoulders, hard. “Agnes, I need you to listen to me very carefully.” Martin’s shoulders bunch up to his ears and Gerry’s nearby, hesitant to help lest he makes it all worse, and she should look back to Annabelle now, let the boys fade to the background. “I know who your ‘family’ is, alright? The ones who have been stealing you away from us,” Agnes wouldn’t call it stealing. It just made sense. What’s the point of friends if everything’s going to burn anyways. “us, Agnes, and do you know why? The real reason why?” the twitch in her brow will have to be answer enough. She feels lightheaded. Annabelle’s hands are the only thing keeping her upright. “Because we are your warmth, Agnes.

“Those people you go back to, they want you to burn. But you don’t want that do you? Not really. I can see it, y’know? When it’s snowing and they come to pick you up sooner than you were expecting and- you hate the snow, the cold, and yet you hesitate at the front doors when it’s time to go.” Agnes remembers. She- she wants to go, surely, it’s her home, with her family. Her- she- it’s her destiny. She can’t stay. There’s nothing else to do but to go. “They tell you big words, about ‘destiny’ and ‘fate’, but they’re wrong. The only destiny you have it’s the one you make for yourself, not what others have carved out for you.” her hand flies to her face and it comes back wet. Oh, there’s the tears. She hiccups around Annabelle’s words. “I will never tell you lies ever again. I will never show you a path while hiding the millions of others and claiming it’s the only way. I will never hurt you by making you do it yourself and believing it’s the right thing to do. And,” here her voice shakes, and Agnes can’t remember any other time when Miss Cane wasn’t steady and yet, here they are, “I will never give up on you, Agnes.” her thin body, like dry sticks ready to be lit, shakes when she sobs but she doesn’t dare break eye contact with her mother.

“There’s no soft way to say this, and I won’t sugarcoat anything else, or hide anything from either of you again.” she looks briefly at Martin, who’s in a very much similar state to Agnes, grabbing Gerry’s sleeve. Agnes’ closer now, and the thought of ‘I’m going to tease about that later’ almost makes her laugh out loud. “You are being raised in a cult, Agnes.” well, there goes the laughter.

Something she knew but couldn’t reach. It’s like- well, not a slap, a slap’s surprising. More... a wave crashing all around her; she saw it coming, and she let it emerge her in the messy, icy depths of it.

Annabelle takes it away, explains their plans, the plans for her, teaches Agnes about all the painful things she knew deep down but couldn’t reach. She’s lucky, she realizes, to have someone take her by the hand and pull her closer, however jarring it is.

She takes Agnes’ face in her hands, smearing them with tears, and when she promises, “I’ll make this right, we’ll do it, just tell me how and we’ll make it true.” she believes her. Truly, so raw it burns her chest, and it hurts, but she’s closer than she’s been in years, and the most she can do now is throw herself at Annabelle and let herself be hugged.

There’s so many things to do. They need to get her family- the cul- her- them out of her hair until she can find herself again. Or for the first time. They took all the years she’s had until now after all.

Martin all but runs to her arms, wetting her sleep clothes. Gerry wraps an arm around her shoulders, slowly, and rests his head on top of hers, his mutter barely audible when his mouth is in her hair. “I’m sorry. Please don’t go.” she reaches for the wrist resting on her free shoulder and squeezes, and Gerry sighs a broken little thing that has her shaking harder again. But she’s closer now, again. She’s here. She wants to stay in here.

Her hand meets Annabelle’s and she feels herself breathe, again. Finally.

#tma #the magnus archives #agnes montague #annabelle cane #tma au #the hauting of magnus manor #tmalesbeen AU #tmalesbeen writes #martin blackwood #gerry keay #requests are open!!

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ieattaperecorders · 4 years

Text

Something's Different About You Lately

Jonathan Sims has been head archivist for just a few months, but he has memories of holding the position for years. Somehow, he'll have to keep everyone safe from what's coming. Meanwhile, his assistants can't understand why their prickly jerk of a boss has gone sappy all of a sudden.

(I went ahead and started a fanfic inspired by that Jon-sends-his-memories-back-in-time comic by @questbedhead. Not sure whether I’ll add to it, but thought I’d post this much at least.)

Read on Ao3

Jon woke suddenly and bolted from his chair. He made it halfway to the door, stumbling in a blind panic before reality caught up with him and he remembered where he was. The room that was half his flat came into focus. Shadows pooled against the dim light coming from outside.

He breathed slowly as his heart rate returned to normal.

Jon’s dreams were his own now, and in them he was only himself. Mostly they were nightmares, and mostly the nightmares were bad. But he’d still take them any night over the pitiless, helpless consumption of secondhand terror that he knew was the alternative. Still. This one had been awful. He could still see images of it, lingering in his mind. In particular he remembered Martin’s face, twisted in an expression of pain and fear for just a moment before his grimace turned into an unnatural, too-wide smile . . . Jon shuddered as he tried to forget it.

His phone was on the table that served as both desk and eating space, and he checked the time. 8:15. He’d nodded off in his seat and slept for less than an hour.

Jon stared at the phone’s screen and wondered how Martin was doing. There were several months to go before Jane would attack the institute. The table that had held the thing that once took Sasha, the centerpiece of this particular nightmare, it hadn’t even arrived yet. Martin would be fine in the archive, Jon knew that. He’d sleep there without incident for months, unharmed. There was no need to worry about his safety just yet.

The image from his dream remained in Jon’s mind, unmoved by his own reassurance. He found himself wishing, not for the first time in recent days, that he could reach into the ocean of Knowing that had once pressed so forcefully against his mind. That he could just Know if Martin was all right, See what he was doing right now. But the door in his mind wasn’t just closed, it was gone. Not yet built. Never to be built if Jon could help it. There was nothing to reach for and nothing to give in to. It was just as well, he supposed, since he’d promised to give Martin privacy. Lacking the ability to check just removed the temptation to do so.

Without really thinking, Jon ran his thumb over his contacts and scrolled until he found Martin’s name. He tapped it, opening their history. The last message visible was still from Jane Prentis and Jon frowned at the sight of it. Martin had a new phone now, of course, but the number was the same.

Jon could call him if he wanted to. Just check in, make sure he was all right. Reassure himself that nothing terrible was happening.

Sighing, Jon set the phone down. Hadn’t harassing his staff been one of the things that caused so much trouble the first time around? Martin didn’t need Jon bothering him every hour of the day and night with all his worries. He’d have enough of his own after his encounter with Prentiss. No. Jon would go in to work tomorrow, see Martin there, and everything would be completely fine - or at least as close to fine as was possible, under the circumstances. It wouldn’t be that long until morning.

He checked the time again. 8:17.

Of course, if he happened to stop by the institute because he’d forgotten something there, he’d be sure to run into Martin. Then he could see for himself that he was safe. That would be perfectly all right, wouldn’t it? He nodded to himself as he got his coat.

On the train ride downtown, he thought about another Martin. The one in his memories - his new memories - who had tried so hard to keep Jon safe and present and whole. Who’d somehow kept a grip on hope even after everything fell apart, a hope so blind and powerful that it alternately seemed like foolish, sad denial and like a beacon that could rival the dread powers in its brilliance.

In another time, another life, another world, Jon had watched that light grow slowly dimmer as the cruel reality of the new world smothered it. The world he had brought into existence.

Jon had spent so long in despair and resignation by then. He’d even been frustrated at times by what seemed Martin’s unwillingness to face reality. It was really rather ironic how much he had panicked when he began to realize that Martin was giving up as well. The final blow had come after Jonah was destroyed. When they learned that killing him had accomplished nothing except binding Jon to the Panopticon completely. Jon had felt his body go limp, his edges softening, his body merging with with the flesh of the tower as a thousand eyes he hadn’t known he’d had opened at once. He was fairly sure he’d have have accepted his fate without a fight if it hadn’t been for the look on Martin’s face.

So he’d done the only thing he could. He’d drowned his mind in the Knowing that howled at the edge of his consciousness. Dove as deeply as he could, drinking it in, reaching for anything that might give them a chance. Perhaps it had been his regret, his childish desire to go back and undo all of his mistakes that had guided him to the answer. He’d already known that he could force knowledge into the minds of others, just as Jonah had. But Jon was more powerful than Jonah had been and he had now been placed permanently in the center of the Beholding. He could send his knowledge anywhere. Possibly across time itself. He could send all that he knew - his memories, his experiences - back to a time when he might still be able to do something with that knowledge.

It had been a long shot, an unlikely gamble. But as he explained his plan to Martin he’d seen light return to his eyes. Watched a tearful smile bloom in him as he held what remained of Jon’s hand.

If Jon did nothing else good with his life, if he truly couldn’t escape what he was and everything fell apart again this time, he’d still be proud of that moment. When he’d found a way to rekindle that precious spark of hope Martin had carried. If one day he found himself back at that tower, trapped in the knowledge that he could only repeat this horrific cycle over and over and over, he would still have that.

Of course . . . it hadn’t really been him who’d done that, had it?

Jon looked at the smooth, unbroken skin of his hand. His palm was soft, unblemished, and free of pain. His wrist lacked the twisted trails he’d memorized the locations of. He remembered the Carousel and Night Street more clearly than he could recall what must have been last week for him, but what felt like it had happened years ago. But he had never truly been to those places. He only had the memories of them.

What had happened to the man who’d be there? And what had happened to his Martin? Did they exist in some future that was still being unwritten? If Jon could stop this all from happening, would they blink out of existence along with the rest of their world? Or worse, would they continue on in their horrific timeline that could never be changed or erased? And if it became clear that nothing could save them, would that spark in Martin finally die, forever?

Jon shook his head. He couldn’t think about that. There was no way of finding out the answers to those questions, and he had to focus on the world he was in. On the people who were here, still alive, still with him. On the Martin that hadn’t given up. And even if he wasn’t truly the person in his own memories, if his skin was unmarked and his mind was distressingly quiet and still, he still felt like that person. It was one unbroken chain of events to him - from the institute to the safehouse to the tower and back here.

It was harmless, he decided, to keep thinking of himself as that Jon. He had enough on his mind without adding on another existential crisis.

It was 8:57 when he reached the front door of the Magnus Institute, walked in and headed for the archive. His neck still ached from the awkward position of his unexpected nap, and he rubbed it irritably as he walked. He’d gotten so disconnected from his body after the coma. Even pain, which had been his constant companion for a long time, had begun to feel abstract to him. Now every physical sensation was loud and demanded attention.

Maybe it was the distraction of that ache that kept him from noticing the noise coming from beyond the archive door. He barely had a moment to recognize the thing that was hurtling towards him before it came within inches of his face.

Jon’s reflexes were not enviable. He did not leap back gracefully so much as yelp and stumble into the desk behind him. A heavy wrench sailed through the air just inches away as his back hit the desk’s edge. He slid to the floor, arms splayed, trying to get his balance again. Things might have gone quite bad for him if his would-be attacker hadn’t stopped, frozen in horror, to stare at him wide-eyed.

“God! Jon! I’m - - I’m so sorry!” Martin dropped the wrench, hands shaking. “I didn’t hit you, did I? Please tell me I didn’t - -”

Jon’s brain took a moment to catch up with what he was seeing, adrenaline still flooding him as he connected Martin’s expression with the blow to the head he’d just avoided. He’d been defending himself? Had Jon’s fears been right, was there an attack on the archive ahead of schedule?

“I’m so sorry,” Martin looked more distressed by the moment, and Jon heard a crack in his voice. “I didn’t know it was you. Are you hurt? Tell me if you’re hurt, please - -”

“I’m fine, Martin.” Jon did his best to sound calming. “Really. You just . . . startled me.”

“Good. Thank God. Ah. . . sorry.”

Now assured that he hadn’t given Jon a concussion, Martin bent down to hesitantly offer a hand up. Jon took it, the shape of Martin’s palm around his own natural and familiar. He placed another hand on Jon’s back, pushing him gently upwards and holding there for just a moment. The difference in their height and size, the sheer physicality of Martin’s presence was immensely steadying and Jon felt some disappointment as he pulled away. If Martin noticed this he gave no sign, still nervously babbling apologies.

“Martin. Martin,” Jon cut him off. “It’s fine. I’m all right. What’s going on? Were you just . . . lurking behind the door, wielding a blunt object?”

“I just - - I heard - - I don’t know.” Martin rubbed the back of his neck, beginning to look more embarrassed than afraid. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here and it’s so quiet at night and I just - just heard something moving around and I thought maybe - - ”

Something finally clicked for Jon.

“Martin . . . .” he said. “Did you think that I was worms?”

Martin’s face flushed and he looked down, muttering. “I mean, you could have been worms.”

“Yes. I suppose I might have been worms.” Jon agreed, biting his cheek to hide an amused smile. “Perhaps a slim chance of that. But given everything you’ve been through I can’t bame you for being on edge about that.”

“I’m really sorry - -”

“No harm done. Let’s not worry about it anymore.”

Jon smiled fondly and reached up to pat Martin’s shoulder. Nothing lingering. Just a few, quick taps, a ‘there there’ motion. Surely that was all right, wasn’t it? That wasn’t too familar? Maybe it was - Martin looked uneasy and confused more than anything else. But he stopped apologizing and nodded, so that was something.

“Er . . . what are you doing here?” Martin asked. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt - presumably one he slept in, given the flannel pajama pants that he also wore. It had a cartoon bear on it that Jon was fairly sure was from a video game. “I thought you went home.”

“Ah. I did.” Jon remembered the excuse he’d come with. “Yes, I went home. But then I realized that I’d left something important in my office, and I had to come back for it. Which is why I’m here.”

Don’t ask what it is. Jon thought desperately as he went through the motions of walking towards his office door. Please don’t ask what it is.

“Oh. I see.”

Martin didn’t ask what it was, to Jon’s relief and gratitude. He made some pretense of rummaging around in his desk as Martin appeared in the doorway, hanging there hesitantly. Jon noticed he’d picked up the dropped wrench and was holding it at his side. He paused, looking at it.

“Sorry, but - -” Jon asked “- - were you planning to hit the worms with a wrench?”

“Oh - -” Martin looked at the tool in his hand, laughing nervously. “No, uh. I mean there’d be too many of them for that to do any good, right? I just . . . well, I could tell that it was a person moving around, or at least something person-sized. And I thought if it was Jane, I - - I didn’t want to get trapped again so I was going to make a run for it. But I wanted something in case she tried to grab at me, you know?”

“I see. Yes, that would make a bit more sense.”

It didn’t escape Jon’s notice how tightly Martin was gripping the wrench, or the way his eyes would occasionally dart to the corners of the floor. Or the fact that, despite his apparent embarassment over nearly bashing Jon’s head in while in his pajamas, he was lingering in the doorway rather than returning to the room that he’d been staying in.

He was right to be afraid. Jon knew he was right to be afraid. The worms were most likely already there. They wouldn’t attack for some time, true, but they were still present. Waiting. Martin would sleep safe and unharmed night after night, his worst fear writhing in the walls around him. The thought made something deep in Jon’s stomach squirm.

It was only when Martin shifted uneasily that Jon realized he’d been staring. He fixed his gaze on his desk again, moving some papers around.

“I know this place is unsettling at night,” he offered.

“Yeah . . .” Martin exhaled. “I do appreciate you letting me stay. I’d probably be a lot more jumpy if I was back at my flat right now. At least the archive’s sealed off.”

“Still, if you’d feel more comfortable I could - -”

Jon stopped himself mid-sentence, the offer halfway out of his mouth before he even realized what he’d been saying.

Could what, you damned fool? he thought. Stay here tonight? Sleep in the narrow cot with him? Hold his hand and stroke the crown of his head if he wakes up afraid, the way you used to when he had nightmares? Yes, surely that’s what he wants to hear from his prick of a boss that’s never been anything but unkind to him.

“. . . Could see if there’s some way to . . . enhance security around here,” he muttered after far, far too long a pause.

“I mean, if you think it’s worth looking into.” Martin chuckled nervously. “Not sure if there’s anything a burgler alarm could do about worms. But at least Jane could maybe be kept away?”

“I’ll look into it.” Jon said, insincerely.

“Could convince Elias it’s worth doing just for general security, right?” Martin asked hopefully.

Jon didn’t try to hide the contempt in his voice “I’m sure he’s very concerned about employee safety, yes.”

Martin went quiet at that. Jon had probably been pretending to rummage around in his desk for too long. He pulled a few papers out of his top drawer, tucked them in a file and stuck it under his arm. Then he hesitated. He really didn’t want to leave. These months in the archive had been hard for Martin, Jon knew that. He’d gone to sleep every night afraid that he’d wake up with worms boring into his skin. And more often than not the people around him - Jon especially - had treated his anxieties like an annoyance.

Jon wanted to stay, to give Martin the comfort of another person’s presence. He knew all too well how being alone with one’s thoughts sent them spinning into further extremes of fear and paranoia. He wanted to be there for him this time.

And it wasn’t just for Martin’s sake. It was perhaps absurd for Jon to think that he missed someone he saw daily, but it was true. He’d felt adrift in the week since he’d gained his knowledge of the future. This Martin - truly, the only Martin there was, the only one that was real - didn’t lean into him or laugh when he was annoyed. He was nervous around Jon. He flinched back awkwardly when their hands brushed accidentally, and seemed like he was always waiting for some admonishment.

There was nothing for it, though. He’d just have to stick to the plan. Soon enough Sasha would be approached, and though Jon wasn’t thrilled at the thought - - he knew how sharp those hands were - - he knew Michael wouldn’t harm her. Once the fire suppression system was replaced with CO2, he’d just have to wait until the others were gone, find some excuse to send Martin away, and take care of Jane on his own. Martin would just have to endure a few more bad nights in the meantime.

“Well,” Jon gestured to the file under his arm. “This is what I came back for.”

Don’t ask what it is, he thought. Please don’t ask what it is.

“Oh? What is it?” Martin asked.

I am being punished for my crimes against this world.

“Ah. Just. Hmm. Some things I’ve been working on at home. Statements.”

Martin seemed to accept that. It was probably best not to add any unnecessary details.

“It’s sort of a personal research project of mine,” Jon continued, mouth moving without the consent of his brain. “Trying to work out some patterns I’ve noticed between statements with similar themes.”

Stop, you fool. Jon thought.

“Really?” Martin seemed genuinely surprised. “Honestly, I kind of got the impression you thought the statements were mostly fake.”

“Well, I do. Of course.” Jon fumbled. “But ah, there can be some value in categorizing even the, uh, the ramblings of the delusional. It’s revealing. Teaches you about what people are afraid of.”

“Uh . . . right.” Martin raised an eyebrow.

“I should go.” Jon’s formerly pressing desire to stay was overruled by a need to flee before he started babbling about Smirke’s fourteen and made Martin’s nightmares even worse. He hurried towards the door.

Martin stepped aside to let Jon pass.

“Right. Er, good night.”

Just as Jon reached the archive door, a thought occurred to him. It wasn’t much, and he doubted Martin would take advantage of it. More than likely it would just confuse the poor man even more. But if he was destined to keep doing reckless and foolish things, at least one of them should have a chance of easing someone’s fears instead of feeding them.

“If you hear something again.” Jon said, “or perhaps just think you hear something, you should call me.”

Martin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You said you were worried that Jane might come here. If you ever have reason to think she might be. . . .”

“I mean . . . thanks, but, shouldn’t I call 999 if that happens?” Martin tilted his head. “No offense, but I mean . . what are you going to do against the worms?”

Emergency services wouldn’t exactly do much against them, either. Jon thought, but did not say.

“You should certainly do that if you’re in danger.” Jon said. “But I imagine you’ll hesitate rather than phone them at every odd sound.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“As I said, I know this place is unsettling at night,” Jon shrugged. “A second perspective can be a breath of fresh air. Can . . . help make it easier to tell whether something is a true danger or just in your head.”

Martin stared at him, brow furrowed, looking like he was trying and failing to solve a particularly difficult math problem.

“And I keep odd hours,” Jon continued, waving his hand. He kept his tone stern and dismissive, as if that might disguise the fact that he’d essentially asked Martin to call him if he was feeling scared so he could talk him down. “So don’t worry if it’s late at night. Believe me, it won’t matter.”

“Um. All right,” Martin blinked, an uncertain smile that Jon considered a victory forming on his face. “Thanks.”

Jon nodded. “Sleep well, then.”

He hurried out before he could spoil this rare triumph with more reckless words, then ran to catch the late train home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #tma fanfic #time travel au #mild body horror in a few spots #and some negative self talk because look at these characters

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thecatsaesthetics · 4 years

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Ashara's baby. The whole thing seems so weird to me. What do you make of it?

This is probably gonna be unpopular and let me say this I’m okay to be wrong. So many people write theories and act like they can’t be wrong. I’m fine if I’m wrong. Also, I don’t give a single fuck what the show did. The show to me will never define all the canon. As Martin said when answering if it was the correct ending yes… no…. yes…no. Meaning yes some things were probably “plot points” but just because the show didn’t go into certain things doesn’t mean it won’t matter in the books. So please no “BUT THE SHOW” cause I don’t believe everything has been revealed at all.

I tend to think if Ashara’s baby is gonna pop up it will be Dany. I know a very very controversial opinion. But let’s look at Lemongate, which doesn’t prove Ashara but raises doubt on Dany’s parentage. Lemongate is undeniable, anyone who says otherwise is completely fooling themselves.

Martin confirmed it’s important:

Livejournal Question: “Dany remembers a lemon tree outside the house with the red door in Braavos, but citrus trees shouldn’t really grow in Braavos’s cold, foggy climate. Is this discrepency significant? Does it point to future revelations about Dany’s past? Thank you so much.”

Answer: “Very perceptive of you. Yes, it does point to … well, that would be telling.”

This means no matter what Lemongate matters. There is a reason Martin put it in the plot. Whether I am right or wrong doesn’t matter, Martin has confirmed it points to something. Something he will be revealing. So for anyone who claims Lemongate is nothing is wrong.

Rhaella and Aerys infertility. Rhaella had Rhaegar, 3 miscarriages, 2 stillborns, and 3 short live children. There is obvious fertile issues with them and she has all of these losses under the best medical care. But we’re supposed to believe Rhaella gave birth to a healthy living child, without a maester, after an incredibly stress war, the loss of almost her entire family, flight to Dragonstone, and the constant fear of being caught by Robert Baratheon.

Dany has violet eyes. People might not think this is important but it is. Viserys has lilac eyes and Rhaegar has indigo eyes. No keep in mind Martin is pretty much you get either “mom or dad’s traits.” recessive genes don’t seem to be a thing (the whole reason the “black of hair” nonsense drives some fans nuts). On top of that Dany is supposed to be the daughter of two generations worth of brother-sister marriages. These violet eyes are a mistake. Even Viserys points it out in Dany’s first chapter he makes her wear a purple dress to “bring out the purple in her eyes” Viserys is terrified she doesn’t look like a Targaryen Princess. But will get into that later. The only person in the timeline of Dany’s conception that had violet eyes was Ashara. Barristan Selmy even says Dany’s eyes remind him of Ashara.

Back to the Viserys point. He is terrified she doesn’t look enough like a Targaryen. The first chapter is him dressing her up and trying to convince himself that she looks enough like a Targaryen. It’s the eyes that are worrying him probably, they are wrong.

Viserys doesn’t speak High Valyrian but Dany does. When they speak with in front of the Dothraki they speak in The Common Tongue. We know Dany speaks High Valyrian, a language few would know where they were. So it seems like Viserys didn’t know High Valyrian.

Dany says she was born in the worst storm in Westerosi history. Not a single person has a memory of this storm, this storm that supposedly smashed the Targaryen fleet (leaving them defenseless) and made the stones at Dragonstone come down. This doesn’t make for many reasons. First Stannis has a naval battle at Dragonstone, Davos mentions that Stannis led the assault against Dragonstone which implies there was a battle. Furthermore, Dragonstone castle isn’t made out of stone, it’s made out of magically fused Valyrian stones. Dragonstone couldn’t crumble the way Dany said it did. On top of that Stannis, Davos, etc never mentions repairs made to Dragonstone.

Further disproving the “stormborn” Dany claims the storm happened in the summer during her birth. Which doesn’t make sense, we know that winter/autumn storms are in The Narrow Sea with the worst being winter.

Dany remembers Willem Darry as a “great grey bear” of a man and also that he died wasting away of sickness. He remembers Willem Darry never leaving his bed, and him walking with a cane. She remembers he had soft hands, but Willem Darry was a knight and master-of-arms. His hands would be rough.

Dany says she and Viserys were robbed when they left the house with the red door. Leaving them with nothing. But Dany also said that Viserys sold all there Targaryen treasures, including there mother’s crown. So the servants stole everything but just missed all that good Targaryen treasure?

Dany tells us they went from Dragonstone-Braavos- Myr-Tyrosh-Qohor-Volantis-Lys-Pentos. Just look at a map. Tell me how this makes sense. On top of that Dany specifically says she remembers the flight from Dragonstone to Braavos. Dany was an infant apparently, how would she remember it?

Dany says in her first chapter they lived in Pentos for 6 months, Illyrio says that the marriage between Drogo and Dany was “years in the making” and also mentions to Viserys not to ruin plans that have been in the works for “years”.

And finally, Lemon trees don’t grow in Braavos. The smoking gun, Dany remembering a Lemon Tree outside her window: here is the specific quote

“That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window”

Now many have claimed it’s possible that they lived with the Sea Lord and that the Sea Lord had a glasshouse similar to the Starks. Now that’s possible, but Dany doesn’t remember a glasshouse. She remembers a Lemon Tree outside her window. If you look at the Sea Lord’s Palace it doesn’t seem like the room Dany would be in would be close enough for her to see the Lemon Tree. Also in The Stark glasshouse, it’s interesting that Lemon Trees aren’t grown. Considering Ned Stark had a daughter who loved lemon cakes.

Lemon trees are most associated with Dorne. This has been repeated in the text a bunch of times. Similarly the idea that Braavos grows no lemon has also been mentioned. And as I mentioned in the first point Martin has said this issue will be brought up and revealed, and I’m sorry if I don’t believe Dany will have it revealed to her she once lived at a place with a glasshouse. I think it’s probably a little more.

Now all of this is evidence that Dany’s past doesn’t add up. There are questions about it. There are many theories about it, but if Ashara’s baby is going to be important I would suspect it’s because she’s Dany. Now many have speculated Ashara’s baby is Aegon, it’s possible but I think it’s important that we’re told that Ashara’s baby was a stillborn girl. Also Ned’s guilt over the decision to kill Dany. Also, The Daynes hold Ned in such high respect despite him killing Arthur. It’s very odd. I mean Edric Dayne is nicknamed Ned… which seems to be for Ned Stark. There is something going on with The Daynes, I’m sure of that. I mean Barristan says when he looks at Dany it’s like he’s looking at Ashara’s daughter. So I think if anyone’s gonna be revealed to be Ashara’s baby it will be Dany.

Now there are many baby daddies, Brandon, Ned, Aerys, Rhaegar… I still tend to think Dany is a Targaryen so I would throw out Brandon or Ned. I mean possible B+A=D, especially with the “looked to Stark” but idk I think Dany’s a Targaryen.

Aerys is interesting Daenerys Daen-erys Dayne-Aerys. Idk maybe the very name itself was meant to be a clue. Aerys was known to take mistresses, to be a rapist, etc. He was obsessed with Joanna Lannister for a while and Rhaella sent her away in order to protect her. It was said Aerys was interested in beautiful women and Ashara was supposedly the most beautiful of them all. Aerys would have had access to Ashara given she was his daughter in laws lady in waiting. Plus it was said someone “dishonored” Ashara at Harrenhall, Barristan claims. Who was known for dishonoring maidens? Aerys.

Rhaegar is also a strong case, Rhaegar again had access to Ashara. It makes more sense for him to fall for his wife’s lady in waiting then Lyanna a woman he just met. Dany has strong ties to Rhaegar in the books, he’s mentioned so much in relation to Dany. Rhaegar being Dany’s father would make sense. Again fits with the “dishonor” but I also argue it would fit with the “looked to Stark”. Let’s say Rhaegar and Ashara were having an affair, and then suddenly Lyanna showed up at Harrenhall and Rhaegar realized that only a child of “ice and fire” would be The Prince that was Promised. Is it possible Ashara took to the Starks in order to actively dishonor or humiliate them after being set aside for Lyanna? Again this is speculative but possible. We know she leaves Elia’s service soon after the birth of Aegon. It seems like she was set aside.

So that’s it… again don’t take this too seriously. I’m okay if I’m wrong. I’m not someone set in stone when it comes to ASOIAF theories. But I just think The Daynes do have a role to play.

#daenerys targaryen #meta #asoiaf meta #anonymous

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leviackermanheichooo · 3 years

Text

Chapter 119 { one shot} @thedeadre on Wattpad

It was late. Too late. By now, you and Atsumu were supposed to be IN the car DRVING to your parent's house. But no, you were still in the living room waiting for him to hurry his slow ass up. And to think, he thought YOU were going to take a long time.

Well, you actually did take a long time but it doesn't prove his point when he's taking even longer than you.

You checked your watch angrily again. " Tsumie! we're going to be late if you don't hurry it up!"

" I know, but I can't find my tie!" He yelled from your shared bedroom. What a messy boyfriend he was.

Your eyebrow twitched. " THAT'S WHAT'S TAKING YOU SO LONG?! IT'S RIGHT HERE ON THE COFFEE TABLE SO GET THAT AND YOUR ASS IN THE CAR NOW!"

You weren't overreacting. This was an important dinner with your parents and you could n o t afford to miss it. It was about the family business being taken over and impunctuality was not allowed.

You see, poor Atsumu was definitely not raised nor built for such an economic person such as yourself, but he really couldn't stop himself from falling in love. And just like him, you weren't raised nor built for such a carefree person such as him, but he was north pole, and you were south.

The first meeting was weird, too.

Although you weren't the first born child, your parents saw an unwavering fire in your eyes that secured success like a vault, and so they decided you would be the heiress to the family business. Before meeting this blondie, you were ecstatic about the position. You had spent your entire life proving your worth and it would finally pay off.

However, your parents wanted to expand a little bit more before they handed the business to you. Particularly, into sports.

They had arranged a meeting in which they would sponsor some volleyball teams such as the MSBY Black Jackals and well.... that was when you first layed eyes on him. Or rather, met his gaze as it was already on you.

The first thing he did when your eyes met was make the ugliest, goofiest gorilla face ever, and you laughed.

In the middle of the meeting. You laughed.

Dear god, was all you could think of once you realized what you'd done. You apologized immensely and the meeting continued. Long story short, he somehow managed to slip in his number into your pocket once you left.

And despite relationships being forbidden unless arranged by your parents, you couldn't stop yourself from seeing him.

At one point, your family found out but you had already fallen under his spell, ready to give up the business if you could be with him.

However, it was very unlucky for your parents because they had no other choice than to except your love. Why? Because the other possible heir, your dear brother Carl, has been in jail for drug dealing and fraud.

You were the only one they had left.

And today, you and Atsumu were supposed to be talking with your parents about the future of the business and the future of your relationship.

You were already in the car as he shuffled his way inside. He stretched his arm behind your chair and looked back as he backed out of the drive way, something you found extremely alluring. But that's not going to distract you from the task at hand.

" Sorry, Y/n." He said kindly. This was a surprise, and he actually sounded very apologetic.

" Why are you saying sorry?"

" Eh, I made us late, right?"

" Well, " You glanced at your watch to find a silver lining, " not entirely. If you drive a little faster we can get there with, like, three minutes to spare."

His eyes sparkled. " Seriously?! WooHOO!"

You were about to warn him to not take you so literal but he had already sped up by then. With one glance, it was obvious he was going at least fifteen over.

---

"Five minutes extra, let's go!" He victoriously raised his arms as you fixed your hair from the fast ride.

" I am never letting you drive again." You mumbled under your breath.

Hilariously, his mood suddenly changed once he realized he was at your parents' house. " Damn it, I forgot how rich you guys were."

" It's okay, " You chuckled at his cuteness as you walked to the front door, " you'll fit right in as long as you don't act like a bitch."

" H-Hey!"

That was definitely something he loved about you. You weren't afraid to speak your mind and you knew how to make it humorous, too.

He walked up with you and nervously adjusted his tie. " I feel like I'm meeting them for the first time again, babe."

" You'll do great, I swear. And if they make you leave then I'm coming with you."

The door opened. " Aww that's so sweet."

" Even if it probably was your fault for getting kicked out."

He gawked at you as you walked ahead of him, and only at that point did he notice the back of your dress. It was a low cut that exposed the line of your spine. Oh fuck, yet another obstacle he might have to avoid.

In a good way, of course(:

He arrived right behind you and immediately made eye contact with your awaiting parents' stone faces.

He placed a sheepish smile on while awkwardly waving his hand. "Hi."

Your father hesitated skeptically. " Hello...Atsumu."

" Alright, let's get on with the business then." You interjected between the sensitive mood and briskly walked to the dinner table, sitting at the extremity of the table.

---

"And so that's all." Your father joined his hands together as he leaned forward, dismissing the finished topic.

" If everything's been settled, and the business is officially under my name, then Tsumie and I will be on our-"

" No, no, stay. " Your mother kindly interrupted with a half smile. " Columbia's almost finished desert for us. It's just in the oven."

You visibly clenched your jaw in anger. " Mother, please, it's Maurice. Use his real name."

" And why am I obligated to do that?"

" Because he's a real person." You irately referenced to the way your mother addressed the workers in the home. This was one of this biggest reasons you left the house as soon as possible.

She wouldn't call the maids or butlers or chefs by their first or last names, but the country they were born in. As a child, you did so as well not knowing how wrong that was. But you quickly realized the proper way to treat human beings even if she disapproved.

A terrible family you were born into no matter how wealthy.

She laughed as a stereotypical elite would. " Nonsense! Columbia's just fine with that, right?" She glanced towards the tall old man in the tuxedo menacingly and he quietly nodded yes.

You gave him a sympathetic look. You knew he was being forced to say yes.

Don't worry, Maurice! You can come with me once I overthrow my parents!

" Now, now, while we're waiting for the food, why don't we talk about you, Atsumu honey." She sweetly suggested. He had been quite quiet this entire time in fear he would mess up something he said. That just goes to show how much he loves you; the old Atsumu Miya would never give two shits about how people viewed him.

" Oh, I'm not that interesting..."

" Nonsense, sweetheart! Of course you are if you're dating our Y/n. So tell me, what is it again you do for a living?"

" He's plays professional volleyball for the MSBY Black Jackals. No more questions." You knew where this was going and needed to shut it down real quick.

" Don't interrupt other peoples' conversations, Y/n. We've taught you better than that." Your father stated flatly.

" Thank you, dear. So what is it like playing for the Jackals? If I remember correctly, we've sponsored you guys a few times."

" Well volleyball is definitely the second best thing I've ever devoted my life to. No doubt about it."

" Second that you've devoted your life to? What would be the first then?"

" Y/n." He responded instantly. You jolted your head towards the man flustered but his stare was directly at your snake-like mother, never wavering. He was determined to show them he was worthy, and you could see it right down to his pupils.

" Aww, that's so sweet. Isn't it, dear?" He looked towards her husband and he nodded sarcastically. " Oh, I remember when F/n and I were in love. For our first date, he brought me to a 5 star Michelin restaurant. Where did you bring Y/n on your first date, Atsumu?"

" Mother, sto-"

" An aquarium in my hometown. " He responded confidently. " She loves sea animals, and I would take her there everyday just to see the sparkle in her eyes."

" I see, so you need to bring her somewhere for her eyes to sparkle? How negligent of your actual relationship."

Shit! Her Bitchass™ Mode is on.

" Mom, I already-"

" Really? Cause her eyes were duller than your personality when I first saw her. Seems pretty negligent of your actual relationship to me."

Your mother angrily arose out of her seat. " How dare you say that to me in my home!"

Atsumu, as well, angrily jumped from his chair. " How dare you treat Y/n like she's just a money-making machine for when you die off!"

" That's because she is! And she should be grateful she's such a privileged heiress to such an astute business! Without us, she would be nothing, like her brother!"

" Without you two, she would've grown up happy!"

" SHUT UP!" You screamed suddenly. You couldn't take yelling. That was the one thing you were sensitive about.

" Y/n..." They said in unison.

You slowly stood from your seat, your head hanging low. " Tsumie, we're leaving. Now."

Upon trying to leave without conflict, your parents (well, your mother) attempted to stop you at the door.

She put a bony hand on your shoulder. " Y/n, th-"

You slapped her hand off your shoulder with a strike. " Don't talk to me or Atsumu ever again. I came here for a purpose and it was fulfilled, so under no circumstances will we be seeing each other anymore."

" Oh don't say that, sweetheart! Of course we'll see each other in the office from time to time!"

You gave her a glare before pulling out your phone and dialing a number.

" Martine? Are you there?" You asked the company lawyer with an aggravated fixed expression.

" I am. Is this Y/n-sama?"

" It is. For my first order as the current CEO of the corporation, I order an immediate prohibition and ban of entrance on Mr. and Mrs. L/n." You were looking directly into your parents' eyes as you exiled them.

" You...." she looked at you in disbelief, "...you didn't...YOU BITCH!"

She was about to swing at you but you caught her furious fist.

" F-F/n...she...she grabbed it...my hand, she grabbed it..."

" What did you expect, M/n." Your father responded from a chair, a cigar in his mouth. " When the girl grows up with her mother hitting her the same way, she get's used to it. And then you become predictable enough to be stopped."

" N-No...."

You threw her fist down in disgust and exited the house with the blonde. This was a whole new side of you he's never seen before, and to be honest, he was totally living for it. Not the traumatic part of course, but the fiery side of you that never gave up.

He watched as you took a breath of prideful breath of relief once you entered the car.

" Felt good, didn't it?" He said with a cute boyfriend smile as the car stopped in the driveway.

You bit your lip joyously, your eyes sparkling. " Yeah."

" You know what else would feel good?"

You weren't fast enough to reply as suddenly your seat fell backwards, leaving you on your back and a hovering Atsumu smirking down at you like a predator. The street lights illuminated his face perfectly and accentuated his dark, honey voice.

" Tell me." You cooed lightly, feeling your breath become unsteady with anticipation.

" I'll do better than that. " He kept eye contact as he lowered towards your open legs. " I'll show you."

---

With every rock of the car he sped up. You felt like his thrusts were a mixture of lust and the anger he held for your parents, but you were loving it either way. It was when he was rough and let his feelings take over that you loved about sex.

"Ah~" He groaned out heavily. Once again picking up the pace and becoming sloppier.

You grabbed the passenger bar for support because by now, your entire body had given out but his hadn't. Must be an athlete's stamina. And you know, you wouldn't be surprised if the seat was broken after all this.

One of your hands were tangled into his now disheveled hair as he dropped in swiftly, wrapping your lips in his warmth with his own. He immediately shoved his tongue into your mouth and vibrantly scrutinized the area.

Despite knowing it well, there was always something new to explore.

He viscously bit your lip as his hips repeatedly rocked into yours hard. His muscles twitched with every movement he tried.

" I'm never leaving you, babe~" He let out sweetly, though you weren't quite comprehending that properly since you were currently seeing stars.

He gripped your thighs with extreme might at once and pulled out, coming on your stomach. And because he typically fucks you on a surface where he can flop down on right beside you, he did so....but you were in a single seat, so it's more like he flopped right onto the floor of the car.

You looked over the seat as he was face down on the ground and laughed. " If you wanted me to peg you that bad you could've said something. No need to be dramatic."

#ff #fanfiction #Atsumu #Wattpad #Lemon #Some smut #Business #One shot #Chapter

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