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art-gelato · 4 years

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How the Heart Bends

Aaarrrgghh works through some personal issues while Blinky works through quite a lot of fur. [AO3]

Aaarrrgghh doubtfully eyed the bag slung over Blinky’s shoulder, as Blinky stood before the larger troll with all four of his palms facing up. “I promise this is a good idea,” Blinky said.

Backing up a little, Aaarrrgghh made a rumbling noise. It had been a week since the Battle of Killahead, and the former Gumm-Gumm was on edge. A lot had happened, and most of it felt too good to be true. The Dwoza trolls were wary of him, of course, and that was the only thing that was currently convincing him that the oversized bowl dropped on him hadn’t sent him into a deep dream. Otherwise, being free of Gunmar, being friends with Blinky… it was good. And Aaarrrgghh didn’t trust it when things seemed good. Too often, there was another shoe waiting to drop.

But it had been a week, and the scales hadn’t tipped for the worse.

It made him tense.

And now Blinky was proposing something that would require him to completely drop his guard, that would require vulnerability.

Aaarrrgghh shook his head.

Blinky’s lower hands clenched, before he took a deep breath to relax again. “Aaarrrgghh,” he said calmly. “Your mane is a mess. Please allow me to-”

Aaarrrgghh snorted, and Blinky squinted against the hot blast of air.

“At least tell me why you won’t,” Blinky pleaded, frustration creeping into his voice.

Aaarrrgghh ground his knuckles against the stone floor of Blinky’s dwelling. Blinky was between him and the exit, and though he could easily push the smaller troll aside, the thought of raising a hand to his new friend made him feel ill. Gunmar’s voice, ever present through his upbringing and not yet banished from his head, berated him for his weakness. “Can do it myself,” he grumbled.

“Clearly, you can’t!” Blinky snapped back, his patience running thin. He rubbed his face with his upper set of hands, while patting the air in a settling gesture with his lower set. “Apologies, my friend. I didn’t mean to take a harsh tone. But I can reach the places you cannot, and Gumm-Gumms aren’t especially known for their hygiene. No offense.”

Looking away, Aaarrrgghh hunched his shoulders. It was true, and no offense was taken. However, it just made him all the more aware of how he didn’t fit into this new setting. All the trolls here had different values, a whole different culture from him. He was already an adult—how could he ever hope to catch up with the rest of them? He might have shed his Gumm-Gumm armor, but maybe there were just some fundamental things about him that couldn’t be changed.

“Aaarrrgghh,” Blinky said softly, stepping closer. He held out a hand, but didn’t make contact. “You are safe in this place. You can be honest with me. What’s bothering you?”

Aaarrrgghh wanted to believe Blinky. He wanted to so badly. But trust and safety were antithetical to the world he’d been raised in, to every lesson he’d ever learned.

Well… almost every lesson. He was still learning, wasn’t he? Hesitantly, he moved his own hand forward so the knuckles pressed against Blinky’s palm. “Scared,” he admitted.

Blinky’s fingers folded over the hand that was so much larger than his own. “Who isn’t?” he said, his face creasing into a warm smile. “We live in a strange and frightening world. But that is what friends are for, yes? To make the world a little less so. To create our own pockets of comfort.”

Aaarrrgghh let out a shaky breath. Comfort. Slowly, he nodded. “Okay.”

“Excellent!” Blinky declared, stepping back and digging into his satchel. Aaarrrgghh felt an odd stab of disappointment at the loss of contact. “I’ll start with brushing your fur, to make it easier to wash. Then we can head to the springs, if you’re up for it, and I’ll teach you about proper grooming so you don’t have to rely on me.”

As Blinky rambled, Aaarrrgghh lowered himself to the floor, lying on his belly to give Blinky easy access. He was becoming very fond of listening to Blinky talk—which was fortunate, because the smaller troll never seemed to run out of things to say. Once Aaarrrgghh was comfortably settled, Blinky approached him with a wiry brush in one hand and scissors in another.

“If I tug too hard on a knot, or if you get overwhelmed and want to stop, just let me know, alright?” Blinky asked, waiting for an assenting nod before reaching for the back of Aaarrrgghh’s head.

Aaarrrgghh suppressed a flinch as Blinky’s hands entered his blind spot, focusing instead on keeping his breathing steady. Blinky was silent at first as he worked the brush through the tangles and knots of Aaarrrgghh’s shaggy mane, pausing occasionally to make sure Aaarrrgghh was still okay. Then, as he fell into a rhythm, he began to hum softly. It wasn’t a familiar tune to Aaarrrgghh, but it was a soothing one—somehow putting him in mind of warm summer evenings, of a gentle breeze in the trees and a chorus of crickets in the grass. Blinky did his work well, his many hands moving deftly down Aaarrrgghh’s neck and over his shoulders. Sometimes the humming would be interrupted by a muttered curse as Blinky discovered a mat of fur he couldn’t brush through, but even that was strangely relaxing.

Eventually, Aaarrrgghh became aware of a steady rumbling sound, and was surprised to realize that he was the source of it. He shifted subtly so one of his hands was under his chest, and marveled at the vibrations coming from deep within. “What-” he began, and the rumbling stopped.

“You have a wonderful purr,” Blinky remarked as he carefully freed a tangled twig. “Though a little rusty, it seems.”

“Didn’t know I could do that,” Aaarrrgghh mumbled, fighting the childish urge to hide his face in embarrassment.

Blinky’s hands stilled for a moment before continuing their task. He didn’t speak or hum, or make any sound at all for a little while. At last, he murmured, “Thank you.”

Aaarrrgghh wanted to look at Blinky, but that would require turning his head and upsetting the amiable peace they’d formed together. “What for?”

“Letting me help you with this,” Blinky replied. “For… letting me in at all.”

At first, Aaarrrgghh wasn’t really sure how to respond. He just let Blinky’s hands run through his fur, clearing away decades of neglect. “I trust you,” he finally replied.

Blinky let out a small chuckle. “It wasn’t so long ago that you hated me.”

True. Aaarrrgghh could still remember it with crystal clarity, how all his resentment at being captured by a bunch of gravel miners had channeled directly towards the one who was tasked with keeping an eye on him. “And you were scared of me,” he said. He remembered, too, Blinky’s concerned hand on his back, so soon after being so worried for his own wellbeing. Before that touch, physical contact had always been something to dread.

“What a start, eh?” Blinky said, and then the playfulness in his voice faded to weariness. “What a pair we are.” His hands slowed, and he took a shuddering breath before speaking again. “I’m going to have to climb on your back to reach some spots. Is that okay?”

Aaarrrgghh wished he knew what Blinky was thinking about, to sound so tired. He wondered if he was allowed to ask. “Yeah,” he said.

With a small grunt of effort, Blinky hoisted himself up Aaarrrgghh’s side and onto his broad back. It wasn’t long before Blinky was humming again as he worked, a new song that was just as relaxing as the last. He was small enough that his weight didn’t make Aaarrrgghh feel pinned or trapped, and so the big troll’s eyes slowly slipped shut as he began to purr again.

Aaarrrgghh must have drifted off at some point, because it felt like mere moments later that he was roused by two hands patting his arm. He blinked his eyes open to see Blinky standing before him, smiling.

“I hate to disturb you when you look so comfortable, but I have to get your front now,” Blinky said.

Aaarrrgghh made a rumbling noise that he hoped was agreeable as he sat up, shaking off the last shreds of drowsiness. Blinky stepped forward and got back to work, and Aaarrrgghh’s attention wandered around the cramped dwelling. There were tufts of fur scattered on the floor about him, along with twigs and some leaves. He was surprised to see a few bone fragments as well—while Gumm-Gumm cleanliness standards were lower than those of other trolls, they drew the line at leaving the remains of prey in one’s fur. Blood and gore left to fester could bring disease with it, and the stench could drive game away or reveal your position to an enemy.

Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising, though. No one had ever helped Aaarrrgghh clean himself up, and as Blinky had said, there were places he couldn’t reach.

His gaze slid back to Blinky. The smaller troll was lost in his mission, brow furrowed in concentration as his four hands worked through the mass of green fur. The tip of his tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth.

Aaarrrgghh’s chest suddenly felt tight.

There must have been some telltale shift in his demeanor, because two of Blinky’s eyes looked upwards. “Are you quite alright?”

Aaarrrgghh didn’t know if those bones were animal or human. For so long, he’d never truly thought of them as two separate categories. In more recent years, he’d been noticing the differences, but hadn’t allowed himself to dwell too long on them. His throat worked a couple of times before he managed, “Still… scared of me?”

The other four eyes joined the first two, and Blinky flattened one of his palms against Aaarrrgghh’s chest. “No,” he said softly. “I’m not.”

For some reason, panic flooded through Aaarrrgghh at this answer. He knew it already, of course—Blinky wouldn’t be this close, wouldn’t be so relaxed if he was afraid. But, but- “You should be.”

“Why is that?” Blinky asked, corner of his mouth quirking up. “Are you going to hurt me?”

Aaarrrgghh’s nostrils flared. “I could.” It would be so easy. Blinky was full of openings and weak points, and he almost certainly hadn’t ever been in a proper fight before Killahead. He could barely hold off a few goblins. So why wasn’t he afraid of Aaarrrgghh?

Blinky sighed. “I know that,” he said. “But are you going to?”

Aaarrrgghh had never had a choice before. His purpose was to hurt others, and he was as much Gunmar’s weapon as the Decimaar Blade. But Gunmar was gone, and even before that, Aaarrrgghh had defected. He wasn’t a Gumm-Gumm anymore—he was just a troll taking up too much space in a home that hadn’t been designed for someone his size. He was a friend. “No,” he said.

Blinky smiled, warm enough to burn. “I know,” he said. “I trust you, too.”

Aaarrrgghh averted his gaze; looking in Blinky in the face right then felt akin to staring at the sun. He wanted to say, A week isn’t enough to know you can trust someone. A week is nothing. Trust is too precious to be given so easily. But would that make him a hypocrite? After all, he was the one who had admitted to trusting Blinky first.

That was different, though. Blinky couldn’t hurt him.

Well… not alone. But all it would take was one word from Blinky to turn the rest of Dwoza into a mob against Aaarrrgghh. His residence here was fragile, and Blinky was all that stood between Aaarrrgghh and life as a complete outcast. It was a terrifying thought. Here he was, living in a den of former enemies, and his sole guard was an undersized bookworm who brought a broom to a swordfight.

Worst of all, Aaarrrgghh didn’t think there was anyone better for the job. He trusted Blinky with his life—not just because he had no other choice, but because he knew Blinky would defend him. He’d already gotten proof of that, when Blinky had wasted precious time before an impending battle to free Aaarrrgghh from prison. Aaarrrgghh still didn’t really understand why, but no one had ever done anything like that for him before. Gunmar wouldn’t have even considered going out of his way to help, for all the centuries of loyalty Aaarrrgghh had provided him with.

“Thank you,” Aaarrrgghh said, his ears flattening in discomfort.

“Of course,” Blinky replied easily. He tugged the brush through Aaarrrgghh’s fur a few more times, then stepped back. “Well, we’re done this part. Would you like to move on?”

Right. Blinky had said something about springs. Aaarrrgghh nodded, and Blinky grinned. “Follow me, then!”

Aaarrrgghh trailed after Blinky as the smaller troll led him through the heart of Dwoza. The other trolls gave the pair a wide berth, and mutters dogged their heels through the caverns. Blinky’s expression remained pleasant and friendly as he rambled about the structures they passed—the history, the materials, the building techniques—but his ears occasionally twitched in the direction of the whispers. As they went deeper into the caves, the number of trolls dwindled.

“Does it bother you?” Aaarrrgghh asked when there was finally no one else around.

Blinky paused in the middle of explaining how this particular tunnel below Dwoza had been discovered. “Does what bother me?”

“What others say,” Aaarrrgghh said.

“Ah,” Blinky said, then let out a brief chuckle. “No. To be frank, I’ve never been especially popular here. They all think I’m… a bit odd, to put it mildly.”

Aaarrrgghh frowned.

“Not that I mind,” Blinky added with a shrug. “I am odd. And why should I care if they think ill of me for it? I’ve always had Dictatious. I-” He stopped walking so abruptly that he skidded on the gravel underfoot, and Aaarrrgghh grabbed him by the shoulders before he could fall.

This was the first time Blinky had said his brother’s name since the immediate aftermath of Killahead, seeming to do his best to avoid the subject of Dictatious entirely. Blinky looked shaken by the slip, both literal and metaphorical. “I never needed anyone else,” he finished vacantly.

Aaarrrgghh wanted to say something about how Blinky had him now, but the words caught in his throat. It wasn’t the same. They’d only known each other for a couple of weeks, and for half that time they’d been on opposite sides. He couldn’t replace a beloved brother, and he didn’t want to. He just… wanted Blinky to feel better.

Remembering how it had seemed to work before, Aaarrrgghh moved one of his hands and gently patted Blinky on the head. It was a clumsy and awkward gesture, speaking to centuries of inexperience in dealing with the more fragile emotions, but the tension drained from Blinky’s frame. His expression softened, and he put his hand over the one Aaarrrgghh had left on his shoulder. “Ah, forgive me,” Blinky said, giving Aaarrrgghh a rueful look. “I’m supposed to be assisting you today.”

“We help each other,” Aaarrrgghh replied. “Alone together.”

Blinky scrubbed at his face, then smiled weakly. “Quite right,” he said. “Though I find myself feeling less and less alone, the more we spend time with each other.”

“Me too.” Reluctantly, Aaarrrgghh let his hand slide off Blinky’s shoulder.

The loss of contact seemed to snap Blinky out of his thoughts, and he cleared his throat. “It’s not much further now,” he said, beginning to walk again. “Should be just around this corner.”

Aaarrrgghh trundled after Blinky as he followed the curve of the tunnel. Sure enough, after the bend, the tunnel opened up into a wide cavern. The floor was dotted with milky pools, many of which fed into each other. Steam rose from them, either venting through a few shafts in the ceiling or condensing against the vaulted rock, dripping back down along stalactites mirrored by stalagmites. It was a stunning view.

“Wow,” Aaarrrgghh said, at a loss for any other words.

“The springs!” Blinky announced grandly, spreading his arms out in presentation. “Fed by a water system much further below us and heated by magma, they’re full of minerals that are quite healthy for our living stone. And, due to the influence of our local Heartstone, they have some minor healing properties as well! Mainly, though, they make for an exceedingly relaxing soak.” He gestured towards the pools. “Take your pick.”

Aaarrrgghh hesitated, then wandered over to one of the larger pools. Blinky stood beside him as he dipped a finger in to test the temperature. If he weren’t made of stone it would be scalding, but the heat felt good. Something in the water fizzled pleasantly against his skin, and he could feel the faint, familiar thrum of Heartstone energy.

“Ah, before you get in… it will probably take that paint off, or at least fade it,” Blinky said, twisting the fingers of his top set of hands together. “I assume you don’t mind, but… just in case?”

Aaarrrgghh traced his thumb down the side of his chin, where he knew a stripe of white paint was. “Want it gone,” he said. It was warrior’s paint, and he wasn’t a warrior anymore. He eased into the water, careful not to splash too much liquid over the edge. Sinking until he was sitting at the bottom, he leaned back against the side of the spring. The waterline reached halfway up his chest, and he watched the cloudy-white surface ripple hypnotically around him.

Blinky picked up a bucket lying on its side beside a nearby stalagmite and passed it through the spring to fill it. He stepped behind Aaarrrgghh. “I am going to douse you now,” he said, so seriously that Aaarrrgghh couldn’t help a huff of laughter. “I just didn’t want to take you by surprise,” Blinky added, a touch defensively but still in good humor, and upended the bucket over Aaarrrgghh’s head.

Aaarrrgghh snorted to keep the water out of his nose, then pushed his fur back from his forehead. Movement caught the corner of his eye, and he saw one of Blinky’s hands beside his face, offering a lump of something that looked like thick mud. “It’s clay,” Blinky explained. “I’m using it to wash your fur. If you could get your front while I get your back…?”

“Clay,” Aaarrrgghh echoed, accepting the handful.

“It’s a mixture of minerals, many of which are found in these very waters,” Blinky said, and Aaarrrgghh felt him begin to work some of the substance into his fur, starting at the top of Aaarrrgghh’s head. “Make sure you work it in to the roots. That’ll get your mane clean all the way through, and it’s good for your skin as well.” He began to ramble about the ingredients and their various benefits.

Aaarrrgghh only half-listened. He didn’t understand all the words Blinky used, but he got the gist of it. After a moment of contemplation, he smeared the clay across the fur on his chest and began to do as Blinky instructed. The clay had a grainy texture that was surprisingly nice, like it was scratching an itch he hadn’t even known was there. Since his own hands were much bigger and he had less area to cover, he finished claying up the front part of his mane before Blinky was past his shoulders.

By then, Blinky had run out of things to say about clay and moved on to explaining how the spring system worked, which involved even more words Aaarrrgghh didn’t know. It seemed more interesting than the clay—at least, Blinky certainly got more excited while talking about it. Aaarrrgghh was kind of disappointed he couldn’t understand it better, but he didn’t want to annoy Blinky by asking questions. Still, one eventually slipped out. “Aquifer?”

Immediately, he winced. He’d interrupted Blinky mid-sentence. Under Gunmar’s command, that alone would have been enough to send the warlord into a rage, never mind the unnecessary questioning.

But he’d braced himself for a punishment that wasn’t coming.

Blinky immediately lit up and dove into an explanation about how water moved underground, and Aaarrrgghh started to understand. Not just about the springs and such, but about Blinky and about this new life.

There were no scales to tip, no other shoe to drop. Blinky wasn’t Gunmar, wasn’t constantly searching for new and creative ways to flex his power over others. Things were good, without condition, and they could stay good.

A weight he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying fell away from his shoulders, like an echo of the armor he’d left behind.

“Alright!” Blinky declared, patting Aaarrrgghh’s back. “Now, you can simply rinse off by submerging yourself in the water.”

Aaarrrgghh slid down until the water was at his chin, and he tilted his head back to look at Blinky.

The smaller troll was standing with his arms akimbo, the corner of his mouth quirked fondly upwards. “Enjoying yourself?” Blinky asked.

Humming an affirmative, Aaarrrgghh slid the rest of the way into the water. He swished around until the gritty, mucky feeling of the clay was gone, then resurfaced. Shaking his head free of excess water, he looked around and saw Blinky holding a rag and a brush that looked like the end of a broom. He gave Blinky a curious look.

“The paint,” Blinky said. “You said you wanted it gone?”

Aaarrrgghh nodded, so Blinky held out the rag to him. “Use this on your face. I’ll get your back.”

The cloth’s texture was coarse, just shy of true abrasiveness. Aaarrrgghh dipped it in the water and passed it over his face a few times, as Blinky scrubbed at his back. There were a couple of stripes on his chest as well, and he scoured them until only the faintest hint of white remained. It took Blinky considerably longer to finish Aaarrrgghh’s back, as that was where the majority of the paint was, but eventually he stepped back with a harrumph. “That should do it,” he said, cricking his neck.

Aaarrrgghh looked at him, and Blinky sighed.

“Here,” Blinky said, holding out his hand. “You missed some spots.”

“Sorry,” Aaarrrgghh replied, handing over the rag.

Blinky huffed. “No need to apologize,” he said. He gently took Aaarrrgghh’s face in his lower set of hands, guiding it towards him as he rubbed away the remaining paint.

Aaarrrgghh’s eyes closed. He really could get used to this. For a moment, it was a frightening thought—he was vulnerable, he was being weak—but then Blinky’s thumb brushed across his cheek. The gesture served no obvious purpose, but the soft scrape of Blinky’s stone against Aaarrrgghh’s was so deeply soothing that Aaarrrgghh couldn’t keep a content grumble from escaping his chest.

“There we go,” Blinky murmured, pulling the rag back but leaving his hands where they were. “Why, you look like a brand-new troll.”

“Good?” Aaarrrgghh asked.

Blinky patted the sides of Aaarrrgghh’s face. “Very good,” he said before withdrawing.

Feeling boneless, Aaarrrgghh sank back into the spring, letting out a long, low hum.

“I take it you’d like to soak a little longer,” Blinky said, and Aaarrrgghh could hear the smile in his voice. Aaarrrgghh just grunted an affirmative. “Mind if I join you?”

In lieu of a verbal response, Aaarrrgghh shifted his position so there would be room for both of them. Blinky undid his suspenders and stepped out of his trousers, taking a moment to fold them neatly by the spring before sliding into the water. He settled opposite Aaarrrgghh, rolling his shoulders with a sigh of satisfaction.

Aaarrrgghh wasn’t sure how he’d gotten so lucky, wasn’t even entirely sure he deserved it. Still, he wasn’t going to question it. Because for the first time in his life, he began to feel like he could truly believe in a happy future. It was a tentative spark of hope, one he wasn’t really familiar with—and so he tested it.

“Blinky?” he rumbled.

“Yes, Aaarrrgghh?”

“We’re going to be okay.”

Blinky lifted his head from where he’d been resting it against the edge of the spring, giving Aaarrrgghh a soft, searching look. “Yes,” he said after a moment, and Aaarrrgghh could see the same spark in his eyes. “We are.”

#tales of arcadia #trollhunters #blinkous galadrigal #aaarrrgghh #wizards toa #writing counts as art

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twofootedbones · 3 years

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Give Me Your Answer Do

Summary: Something inside Logan's head was telling him that this wasn't a situation he wanted to be in anymore, whether it be Deceit's doing or his own brain, Logan selectively listens to the sounds. The other sides pound on the doors to bring the logical side back to the light, but the singing metal had become accustomed to the darkness.

Old fic, so please forgive any cannon errors!

‘They’re not going to listen to you,’

The voice grew louder.

‘They’re never going to listen to you,’

It started to make sense, but after hearing the repeated words they would lose their edge.

‘You might be a light side, but you’ll never be one of them,’

Logan wasn’t an emotion. Logan was the brain, Logan was logical thinking, Logan was thinking.

It’s obvious how the other sides would have a sort of bias against him because of this, but it still managed to hurt when all the emotions get their own way simply because there are more of them. Logan was alone in his accounts, he wasn’t like all the others, and because of this, they deemed it okay to not have to treat him like the others. They hurled insults at him faster and more often than at each other. They were all ever so quick to shut anything and everything he had down. Yet, the sweet small amounts of praise he gets when he's finally seen equal at the end of a video was exhilarating. Frustrating, he meant frustrating. Just as the conflict outside raged on, the conflict inside continued.

‘Just duck out now,’

Logan watched as Roman got presumably louder as he yelled at Virgil, who in turn yelled back, but he couldn’t hear a thing. The voices were all gone, he listened to everyone underwater as his own thoughts started to drown him. Roman turned to him and started to yell as well, it looked like he expects an answer to some kind of question, too bad he didn't hear it.

‘What are they going to lose?’

They would literally lose the voice of reason, he had to stay-

Right?

Roman turned away from Logan, throwing his arms up in frustration. Patton starred worried at the unresponsive Logan, it didn't take long for his attention to be pulled back into the argument.

‘You’ll always be a part of Thomas, you don’t really have to be here,’

That was true. That was extremely true. Logan himself had said that before, while he’s not an emotion he will always be working and will always be there.

So he left.

Logan sunk out while everyone continued to argue and bicker.

You can bicker you can talk you can bicker bicker bicker, but with the subject at hand, none of the other’s knew the territory. The logical side wondered how long it would take them to notice he was gone.

As Logan rose up into his room, the first thing he did was turn off the lights. Listening to people who have no idea what their talking about and refuse to let you talk for forty-five minutes can really give you a migraine. The darkness was comforting for once; Logan had always thirsted for knowing what exactly is out there and shedding light on life, but the unknowingness of the darkness calmed him on this day. He craved to emulate that darkness one day. To become nothing, yet everything all at once.

Knock Knock Knock.

Sweet, Sweet disruptions. Surprisingly enough it didn’t take them too long.

“Logan?”

It was Patton, of course, it was Patton.

“Ya kinda ducked on us,”

‘Like I was giving much to the conversation anyway, what am I even supposed to do just stand there and be the groups Bozo Bop?'

“Are you there?”

‘No, go away’

Logan sat on the other side of the door. He was dead silent, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t speak. There is a limit that every person much reach. There was something he needed, a smell, a touch, a reassurance. The cold feeling of the crisp night air hitting one’s face after opening a window. The smell of the trees and the precipitation in the air as the night’s clouds soon became the morning’s dew drops. The touch of the wooden windows frames as you pushed the glass up to let the air in and out.

Logan reminded himself of these simple joys. He romanticized these moments, he lusted after the short breaks in between constantly being at work to keep Thomas happy and healthy and making sure that the other’s don’t murder each other in the process.

The current feeling hurt. Logan listened to the sounds of Patton’s footsteps only travel a small distance away before joining in on a whisper with two other voices. The room smelled musty, it gave an ancient feeling in the worst way possible. Although the room was a stark black, Logan could still tell what a mess the place was, considering that he tripped on his way over to the door.

The room was hot, it felt as if the place had no windows at all. There was no light, no air, and no pleasant smell. There was no stopping the sensory attacks space had on his migraine.

There was a sharp tug at his shirt.

The others were attempting to summon him.

This only made the Logical side laugh.

There were sixteen more tugs before they gave up, they were finishing the video without him, whether they liked it or not. The pounding continued, the steady beat of the war drums rung pain through his body.

They didn’t care.

Tomorrow he would have to get up and re-live the process.

Get up, get yelled at, work, work, work, work, work, pass out.

‘Just stop’

“What do you mean?” he asked the voices aloud.

‘Stop everything, make them beg,’

“Beg?”

‘For you to come back of course,’

This was all so confusing. He wasn’t going to become one of Deceit’s egoists just because he has a few rough days. That's all they are. Rough days. Right?

As morning came and Thomas had to start the day, Logan got to work. At his desk. The logical side would never leave his room. He owed Thomas just enough work to keep him alive, he never had to show up to the side’s meetings. They were all meaningless anyway.

Every day they pounded at his door, they would bang and scratch at all his defenses, trying everything they could to get into his room. The rhythm of their fists slowly started to match the drumming of his migraines.

Strangely enough, just like soundwaves, the pains started to pulse through Logan. Something was changing, he just couldn't tell what.

Logan would slowly sing to himself as the days drew out, it was the only song he knew.

"Daisy, Daisy,"

"Give me your answer do,"

Logan would repeat the song while he worked, ignoring how automated his voice started to sound.

"I'm half crazy, all for the love of youUu,"

His voice hissed as the vocal cords became sound bites.

"It wON'T be A sTYLISH MARRIAGE,"

Like the flip of a switch, he started to sound like that famous computer.

"I CAN'T AFFORD A CARRIAGE,"

The synthetic sound rang through the room, it was beautiful in its own way.

"BUT YOU'LL LOOK SWEET, UPON THE SEAT,"

The voice felt natural, as if this is was Logan really was. He sang to himself varying in volume as the synthetic voice shot out of him.

"OF A BICYCLE BUILT FOR TWO-,"

It took them a week before telling Thomas he could infiltrate the room with ease. Immediately the man rose up into the darkroom. There only light that pierced the room was the shine of the stars out the window and the dying bulb of the green desk lamp.

"Logan? Please tell me you're here,"

The pang of desperation that rang through Thomas's voice made the logical side vaguely guilty.

A small shuffle in the darkness and the side reveals himself through the lamplight. The audible gasp that followed only made the guilt gain specifications.

"Wh- what happened, Lo?"

The metal skeleton only avoided eye contact as Thomas drew closer.

"We're all so worried,"

' That's rich'

Logan backed away, back into the darkness. Just looking at Thomas's face hurt him.

Can I bring the other's in?"

"NO."

Thomas flinched as the rough sound of an IBM 704 echoed off the empty walls. That was the first time Logan had spoken to anyone since he first clocked out, and frankly, it terrified him.

"Logan please,"

"THEY ARE BETTER WITHOUT ME, I HAVE NO REASON TO PARTICIPATE IN THE EMOTION'S CONFLICTS," the voice wavered as he spoke, the sound bites seeming to crackle with every word.

"That's not true! Patton hasn't stopped crying since you left, Roman is blaming and destroying himself, and Virgil hasn't spoken in ages,"

"THEY DON'T CARE, THEY DON'T LISTEN TO ME, WHY DOES IT MATTER,"

Thomas grew desperate, trying to find the source of the soft computer somewhere in the darkness.

"Please let be bring them in,"

"NO."

Thomas hesitated, he wanted to respect the Logical side, but what he saw was something he couldn't just let brew. He needed to calm the logical side down.

"I can hear your singing,"

The comment surprised Logan, he slowly moved closer to the light.

"YOU CAN?"

As the metal frame poked itself into the light, Thomas knew he got him. The seemingly rusty plates did everything but shine in the light, even the dark screen that was once his face refused to reflect.

"Yes, Roman says that it actually sounded pretty nice," Thomas laughed, but it was short-lived, he couldn't hide the concern on his face for the metal man standing in front of him.

"Could you sing for me?"

The machine whirred as several fans started to go off, Thomas could only assume that meant he was embarrassed about it.

"You don't have to if you don't want to-"

It didn't take long for the logical machine in front of him to start playing notes. Thomas watched a simple roll of paper, silently go turn over and over in Logan's arm. He played a simple tone as the mechanics warmed up.

"THERE IS A FLOWER WITHIN MY HEART,"

The melody was surprisingly calming.

"DAISY, DAISY,"

Thomas listened, waving his arms behind his back to bring Patton into the room.

"PLANTED ONE DAY BY A GLANCING DART,"

Thomas held onto Patton, urging for him to be quiet.

"PLANTED BY DAISY BELL,"

Patton finally heard the voice he had been listening to from behind the door for a week now.

Logan's frame broke him, he was no longer metaphorical flesh and bone like the rest of the sides. He was open metal plating, wires fraying out here and there that were obviously self-inflicted.

"WHETHER SHE LOVES ME OR LOVES ME NOT,"

Parron followed suit, slowly bringing Virgil into the room, covering the anxious side's mouth as he came into the room.

"SOMETIMES IT'S HARD TO TELL,"

Virgil almost screamed at the sight before him, that was what Logan turned into. A broken down Macintosh for a face with a salesman's IBM 704 model for a chest. A metal tube connected the chest to a pair of rusted metal prosthetic legs.

"YET I AM LONGING TO SHARE THE LOT, A BEAUTIFUL DAISY BELL,"

The synthetic notes chirped, the computer screen flashing as the sounds made Logan happy.

"DAISY, DAISY,"

The metal body swayed back and forth lovingly.

"GIVE ME YOUR ANSWER DO-"

Virgil finished the chain as he brought Roman into the room, quickly shoving a hand over the fanciful side's mouth as he attempted to scream. Roman forced Virgil's hands off his mouth.

"IM HALF CRAZY, ALL FOR THE LOVE OF YOU,"

Before Roman even got a peep out, he immediately knew what he was looking at. "Oh my god, Logan-" Roman whispered watching the computer continue to play.

"IT WON'T BE A STYLISH MARRIAGE,"

Thomas joined in on the end of the chorus.

"But you'll look sweet, upon the seat,"

"OF A BICYCLE BUILT FOR TWO,"

"Of a bicycle built for two,"

The computer sputtered and staggered back as it continued, listening as Thomas continued to harmonize with the cracking sound bites.

"We will go tandem as man and wife,"

Patton stepped forward and joined in.

"Daisy, Daisy,"

"PEDDLING OUR WAY DOWN THE ROaD OF LiFE,"

The melody started to break as Logan noticed how many people were in the room.

"I and my Daisy Bell,"

Virgil sang. Patton wasn't the only one who listened to Logan's song.

"WHeN THE ROaDS DArk wE CAN BOTH desPISE,"

Electrical cracks rang through the darkness, illuminating the room for split seconds as the machine became the man.

"policemen and lamp as well,"

Roman stepped forward. He pushed past everyone, trying to find the android in the darkness. The others quieted down, only humming the tunes as they watched the prince move forward.

"There are bright lights is a dazzling eye,"

"OF beauTIFUL Daisy Bell,"

Scrapping metal screamed through the room as the music stopped.

A sobbing voice came through the darkness.

"D-Daisy, Da-Daisy,"

Roman's strong voice called out to the logical side.

"Give me your answer do,"

An arm reached out for the creative side, he gladly grabbed onto the arm and pulled the body that belonged to it forward, pulling it into a tight embrace. Roman continued the song as he felt tears start to soak through his shirt.

"I'm half crazy, all for the love of you,"

He squeezed the logical side tightly, refusing to let him disappear into the darkness again.

"It won't be a stylish marriage,"

Logan's knees faltered, causing both sides to sink to the group as Roman refused to let go.

"I can't afford a carriage,"

The other sides rushed to make the place more comfortable, Patton turned on the lights, only to reveal the disaster that was the room. Virgil grabbed Logan's bed comforter once me managed to find it.

Logan shook in Roman's arms, his sobs wracking his whole body.

"But you'll look sweet, upon the seat,"

Patton, Virgil, and Thomas rushed over to the pair on the floor, Virgil wrapping the comforter around the group the best he could.

"Of a bicycle built for two,"

Roman finished the chorus, his grip on the Logan refusing to loosen. The group sat in near silence, the only sounds running through the room being Logan's labored breathing and Roman's sweet whispered nothings. "I'm so sorry Lo," he apologized for the 20th time.

"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean anything I said,"

Logan stifles a chuckle. "I-I," he had to take a shaky breath, he was lucky if he managed to finish his sentence. "I did- didn't even h-hear what you s-said," he looked up at creative side with a weak smile. "M-my my migraine w-was too loud," he admitted.

"Please don't do that to me ever again," tears started to form in the corners of Roman's eyes. The saltwater threatened to pour over as he repeated the words, his voice silently cracking. "I care about you Logan, I'm sorry, please don't do that again, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it," Roman continued to mumble clinging to Logan as if he was his only life source. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm-"

The logical side cupped the creative side's face, forcing him to look at him.

"R-Roman,"

Tears started to stream down the prince's face.

"It's okay,"

"I l-love you, Logan,"

"I k-know Ro-Roman"

#sanders sides #roman sanders #logan sanders #logince #patton sanders #virgil sanders #thomas sanders #ts logan #ts roman #ts patton #ts virgil #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic

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sdv-lostatsea · 4 years

Text

Tracks- SDV Sebastian

Uh well this is the first thing I’ve written in a while so I’m pretty rusty, but I liked how this turned out so I’m gonna throw it to the internet anyway. Of course it’s angsty as hell because what’s new with me.

Sebastian & Farmer/Reader: You meet him at the train tracks during an unforgiving night.

It was almost ridiculous how visible the stars were, but then again light pollution wasn't really a problem in Pelican Town. However, it was cold enough for your breath to be visible, small clouds obstructing the nearly flawless view above.

You don't know why you agreed to come out here. The night made the cool air sink into your bones and it was going to be a long hike back to the farm. And yet here you were lying on your back with your head cradled by steel rods made to carry trains and not human heads full of overwhelming thoughts.

To your right he takes a deep breath, face illuminated by the glow of the cigarette, then exhales. Smoke mixes with the cool air in a slow moving dance, extending it's fingers outward until the night swallows it inch by inch. Nothing remains but the smell.

All of this you see from your periphery as you still have not looked over at him. Not fully. You know that at some point you will probably have to, drawn in by his voice as he asks what's up with you tonight. But he hasn't yet and he probably won't until he has discarded the cigarette.

For now it is quiet.

Through the hood of your winter jacket you can feel the hard metal and resist the urge to shift into a new position. String in the pocket of your jacket keeps your fingers occupied and you long for this moment to be over, to be able to go home and crawl into bed and rethink every little encounter you've had with him until your mind shuts down. But you're stuck here with him in a silence that you wish wasn't so damn awkward because they never used to be. Silence had always been welcome, it showed trust. Now though, now it was twitchy movements and spiralling thoughts and-

"Stop thinking so loud."

It's the first thing he's said since you laid down beside him. You shut your eyes tightly and try to overcome the embarrassment that has heated your face. After a moment of internal debate, you turn your head slightly so that his face is mostly in view. He's not done with his cigarette.

He's not looking at you, eyes focused on the moon as he lazily takes a drag. If you hadn't known him for almost a year now you would think he looked almost serene, but there were emotions roiling under the surface of his resting face. He flicks the ashes off to his right, away from you, and then takes one last drag before discarding it.

Now comes the moment you've dreaded.

He turns to face you, fully shifting to lay on his side. He uses an arm to cushion his head from the steel and he huffs slightly in attempt to move the fringe from his face. And then silence settles again.

You want to look away but his dark eyes bore into yours, a steady gaze that holds you captive. If it wasn't so cold out you're sure you'd be sweating but instead you're trying to transfer some of the numbness of your fingers to your emotions. If you couldn't feel the sting maybe it would all just go away and you could walk home with blissful apathy and a mostly intact friendship.

"What's wrong?"

You're not even sure he spoke but the question lingers in the frozen air between you.

You're about to sputter out an undeniably horrible excuse when the truth rushes forward in the worst form of bile you've ever tasted.

"I saw you and Sam earlier."

His eyes only widen a fraction before returning to normal and he looks at you with a gaze more scalding than you've ever seen on him. He's defensive, you realize.

"I-it's not… it's that…"

A lump forms in your throat and you struggle to breathe in the cold air for a while. He won't stop staring at you.

The few minutes it takes for you to compose yourself are deafening and it's like he's solidified into all the fears you had going into tonight.

"I just thought… I hoped it could be me." Your voice is meek and shaky but his face softens a touch. The hard facade melts into a soft frown and worrying eyes.

"(Y/n)..."

"It's fine Sebastian." You turn away as pity starts to form in his eyes, yours burning with the threat of tears.

He sits up, movements sluggish, and he reaches into his pockets for another cigarette. He puts the stick between his lips and fumbles with the lighter, clicking it once, twice, and a third time with no success before muttering sharply under his breath and putting it away. The cigarette dangles from his lips while his hands remain in his pockets. He won't look at you.

You knew this was a bad idea but some part of you was hoping you had misinterpreted the scene, that maybe Sam had laid his hand sweetly on Sebastian's cheek after the kiss as some platonic gesture of gratitude. But you weren't that naive. It didn't take more than a glance to see the emotion in Sam's eyes or the burning of Sebastian's ears.

And you will him to look at you, to say something, anything. He doesn’t. Instead he pulls a hand out of his pocket, fingers trembling, as he takes the cigarette from his mouth. He doesn’t put it away, choosing to hold it tightly between his thumb and forefinger. His face is turned away from you and you wrap your arms around your chest to try and retain any semblance of warmth.

“I don’t know what to say.” His voice is quiet, strained.

“I don’t know what I want to hear.”

He shakes his head gently, as if the notion is absurd.

“I know what I would want to hear if I were you… but I can’t say it. It wouldn’t be the truth.”

You knew, had known since you walked away from where Sam and Sebastian had been in the back of the saloon, that he wasn’t going to love you back, but hearing him voice it feels like cracks in already thin ice. The cold air hurts your lungs but you try to focus on pulling air in, visualize the tissue there freezing outward in the pattern of snowflakes until your whole body becomes like one of Robin’s ice sculptures. At least then Sebastian might look at you.

Through the hood of your jacket you can feel the hum of the rails. For a moment you close your eyes and will everything to disappear, but then the vibrations grow stronger and you force yourself up. You stand, forcing your gaze to him as he rises as well. He doesn’t look at you and you take this as your cue to leave.

You make it a few steps before he calls out to you. When you stop you don’t look at him, but you can hear his footsteps crunch in the light frost.

Finally you’re looking at each other again. His eyes are solemn, jaw clenched, looking like he wishes he had all the answers to every question he’s ever asked because maybe then he could resolve this. But that’s the funny thing about the situation: there is nothing to resolve. There’s no conflict, no issue, no pent up anger to dissipate. Just the splintering of a dream you had clung to at night. And while it hurts, there is nothing to apologize for.

You want to tell him this but he opens his mouth first.

Whatever he was going to say is drowned out by the sound of the train’s horn as it comes howling down the track. A strong gust of wind accompanies the noise and you have to focus on not losing your balance. His hair whips around wildly but his gaze is steady, never leaving yours. It’s so cold and windy and the night has been an exceptional disaster, but for a moment there is no one here but you and Sebastian, eyes locked as if letting go means losing every last trace of your fragile friendship. And, as the train carries past on squealing wheels and rattling cars, you can feel your heart beating in your throat, a rhythm so steady for the most disquieting night you’ve had since moving to the valley.

It’s over too soon. The train continues onward and your moment ends.

He’s still looking at you but the atmosphere isn’t the same. What could have been mended is lost, sinking below a sheet of ice into a frozen lake. You could try to resurface it but it would be changed, maybe even unrecognizable. And you know that whatever emotions he’s feeling are too destructive to heal you right now.

So you say goodbye. Not with words since the time for talk has long passed. Instead you take a step forward and place a kiss on his cheek, but rather than waiting to see his expression as you would have just yesterday, you turn on your heel without so much as a glance his way.

Maybe with time the waters will thaw and you will be able to go back to late night track talks, but for now you just want to curl up in bed and sleep the rest of the abysmal night away.

#stardew valley #stardew valley sebastian #sdv sebastian #sdv sebastian scenarios #sdv sebastian fics #sdv sebastian x reader #stardew valley sambastian #stardew valley sam #sdv sam

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soveryanon · 4 years

Text

Reviewing time for MAG178~!

- Notable thing this episode was the intensity of the sounds (understandable given where they were), almost covering Jon’s words at some point, and the fact that once again… we got statements-specific ones. It used to be a bit unclear whether the sounds we were hearing belonged to the scenery around Jon or if they were emanating from the statement itself: for example, the sounds of the war (MAG163) were surrounding Jon&Martin before the statement while they were immersed in the domain, same with the carousel (MAG165) or the burning building (MAG169); and likewise, the wailing of the worms (MAG166) was audible outside of the statement (surrounding Martin at the end of the episode, when he wasn’t even in earshot of Jon)… but the squelching we could hear during Jon’s statement was a manifestation of what was happening in Jon’s narration. The hooks attacking Francis (MAG172) were a bit more ambiguous: were they audible outside of the statements, and Jon was commenting on them as they were happening? (Jon himself, after all, was described as present in the audience in the statement itself.) In The Extinction domain (MAG175), were the scuttling and hisses of the creature audible anyway around Jon? Or were these sounds created by Jon’s statement?

It’s been a bit clearer with these last three episodes that Jon’s statements seem to be creating/emanating these sounds, or allowing them to be heard: we could hear the sounds of running footsteps and pants while Jon was unmoving (MAG176); we heard the clock of the room, the chair creaking or scraping, the pills getting swallowed, the altercation, the distant wailing, the peeling of Doctor David’s face… and these sounds disappeared (including the clock!) when Jon got out of his statement, while the tinny muzak reappeared (MAG177). This time, Jon was stated to be in a closet: yet, we heard the factory gates opening, the grunts of the “things”, the tools they used, the sizzling of flesh, the cutting… and same thing, they faded once Jon was done with the statement.

(MAG176) ARCHIVIST: “Feet pound, silent whisper, silent blood on lips, blood on teeth, blood-scent of hated prey flows through veins and into feet pound silent in pursuit. [IN THE BACKGROUND, CONSTANT SOUND OF A CHASE IN THE FOREST: FEET RUNNING, PANTING, SHUFFLING OF LEAVES AND BRANCHES] Teeth smile. Ready to kill. [SHUFFLING OF BRANCHES]”

(MAG177) ARCHIVIST: [SIGHING] If you say so…! [INHALE] [STATIC RISES] [DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES] [FOOTSTEPS, A TELEPHONE RINGS IN THE BACKGROUND] [CLOCK TICKING IN THE BACKGROUND] [STATIC FADES] ARCHIVIST: “Hi. How are we doing? You can call me Doctor David. […] Like I say: we have all the time in the world! [STATIC RISES] And good old Doctor David isn’t – going – anywhere.” [STATIC FADES] [SOUNDS FROM THE STATEMENT FADES] [THE TINNY MUZAK RESUMES]

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: “The only smell… is the smell of cleaning products. The door finally opens, [RUSTY DOOR OPENS] and another thing stands there. […] Finally, he is led over to a grate on the floor. [SWIFT METALLIC NOISE] He barely even has time to register the red-hot wire cutter [SLASHING SOUND] before it is in and out of his left arm with practiced, professional ease, neatly removing a small wedge of muscle. […] [SHUFFLING, CRACKING AND ELECTRIC SAWING SOUNDS] The last thing he sees before returning to the processing line… is everything going into the garbage. There wasn’t a single, suitable cut. [ANGRY FOOTSTEPS] “Useless,” one of the butchers says. And Tyler is gone.” [STATIC RISES] [SOUNDS FROM THE STATEMENT FADES] [STATIC FADES]

Is Jon “creating” them through dream-logic? Could Martin&Basira hear them, if they stayed around as Jon’s audience, or are these sounds only present on the tape we’re hearing? I’m keeping in mind that the tape recorder is not acting like an out-of-the-box machine: through Jon, it seems to be able to “interact” with the content of the domain/the stories Jon is describing, as affected as the characters…?

- Jon explaining how this domain worked was super interesting (and terrifying):

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: Uh… [EXHALE] Technically, a lot of them… actually aren’t people? BASIRA: … Come again? ARCHIVIST: A–a lot of them are created by this place as, uh… “set dressing”, I suppose? Th–this domain, the fear of it requires these… queues, these… this, uh, intricate hateful bureaucracy o–of hundreds of thousands of doomed souls, it needs far more than the number of people who actually ended up here. MARTIN: Wait–wait–wait, so… so it just… makes the rest of them up? ARCHIVIST: Er, maybe one in a hundred or so are actually real? The rest are there to make those people’s fears more acute. MARTIN: … That’s… Ugh, that’s somehow more disturbing.

… because it felt almost like some level of consciousness was at work? Or, well. Once again, a symbiosis between the Fear and its victims, the fact that the domains are literally their fears given enough autonomy to construct that reality and hurt them even more. (I’m thinking back to Jon’s “You want to talk about psychological projection, try viewing the metaphysical world through the lens of a being that is, by its very nature, a reflection of your own obsessions and fears.” from MAG175: he was, in context, talking about his own relationship to The Eye, but that… actually applies to every victim in the domains.)

Things getting me in the statement: the implicit rules/functioning of the domain being so unpredictable and odd that Tyler couldn’t expect them (“He looks around, unable to find a pen, a pencil, anything. The thing sat behind the desk does not respond to his questions. Finally, Tyler takes his fingernail, now long and ragged from his time in the queue, and painstakingly scores the words into the paper.”), the hurt and the pain never being factored by the creatures around him, the fact that his reactions were never timed exactly right (didn’t try to flee when he could have; would like to flee later but knew it was too late in the line), the fact that trying to find a meaning in his own sacrifice was utterly denied (“Is it not better, at least, to be useful? […] The last thing he sees before returning to the processing line… is everything going into the garbage. There wasn’t a single, suitable cut. ‘Useless,’ one of the butchers says.”). There were such a range of different fears in the whole statement: the anguish coming from limited options, the idea of suffering for nothing, of being evaluated and imprisoned into categories outside of one’s control, the crushing feeling of inadequacy, of accepting sacrifices and yet being labelled as a disappointment. Jon described it as an “intricate hateful bureaucracy of hundreds of thousands of doomed souls”, and there was indeed a big aspect of it evoking modern workplace environments (… unfortunately).

Even with the description and the beginning of the statement, I was surprised that this one was a Flesh domain! I do get the “Meat is Me” aspect (the idea of being reduced to meat and value, of being stuck in an abattoir), but I reaaaally felt a Vast vibe in it (being one amongst thousands, of time and space spreading, of being meaningless) with dots of Web (being absolutely dispossessed of agency, having the “choice” to rebel and being conscious enough of the decision not to) and maybe of Lonely (disconnected from the others, lost-in-the-crowd yet unable to reach anyone). One gigantic blob of terror, I know, but it’s a nice feeling when Jon labels a domain and I got a slightly different vibe, while seeing and understanding Jon’s logic!

(- Re: time, it was also very striking in this one that Jon is not exactly describing things as they are happening, but condensing them, since this one would spread through “years”:

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: “Time has no meaning in this place – but that does nothing to lessen the certainty that Tyler has been in this line for years.”

Or. Well. That time experienced in the domain is an absolutely subjective experience, to the point that it might be possible that, actually, Jon is still telling the story as it happens although there would be no way for his words to match the rhythm of the events he describes? It’s still dream-logic, so whatever can happen.)

- ;; Once again, domains affecting victims’ abilities to remember or be conscious of anything that happened to them before the Change (or creating memories to hurt them more efficiently):

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “Next to him, Charlie saw Ryan, who he’d known since childhood – though the other details were hazy. Ryan gave him a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile – before his face exploded inwards to a sniper’s bullet, peppering the boat with shards of bone and gore.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “There was never a time before the disease, no matter what the old bastards tell you. It has always been in the village, always festered in the dark corners where nobody could stomach to check, where good neighbours wouldn’t dream to speculate.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “Its pace remaining as it ever was, it does not care for coming pains as you are torn. Doesn’t it know who you are? No… And soon… neither will you. […] You will be someone again, someday. […] “I’m still Hannah!” you try to scream, but are you? No. Perhaps there’s some Veronica as fragments there, or Julian, or Anya, but… no. You feel the last of names and “who” you might have been be torn away and borne towards new bodies. New pages, blank; determined to be people.”

(MAG166) ARCHIVIST: “When had the crushing pressure in his chest become literal? When had the empty promise of the horizon finally vanished completely, replaced by the pitch darkness of this “forever wall of earth”? Sam did not know. Time had no meaning here. […] His existence was static, and eternal. Immutable. “Sleep” was only a memory, because even the prospect of unconsciousness might have made his present state slightly more bearable. Food as well, he knew, must be a thing, for he could feel the hunger, but his imagination failed to picture it. The only smell he knew was the damp, and the dirt.”

(MAG169) ARCHIVIST: “How long as she lived here? How long have these cramped, dingy rooms in the back of this sprawling rundown tenement been the place her heart calls home? She cannot recall, but long enough for her to grow into love for it, to cherish every rusted appliance, every crumbling piece of plasterboard, every – flickering – lightbulb. […] Sabina cannot… picture their faces, but knows that should they wake to see the state of the place… their anger would be blistering. […] What floor was her flat on again? Surely, it can’t be this high. […] Limping and desperate, she turns to see her furniture in flames, the bookshelves full of memories, that she can’t quite place [STATIC RISES] but knows are precious to her, curl and float away as ash. The photos on the wall of her family whose faces seem indistinct but she knows that she loves, begin to blacken, as the glass pops out of the frame.”

(MAG170) MARTIN: … It’s sort of weird, isn’t it? [CREAKING] A smell can trigger memory so… powerfully. Like this one; it, it–it makes me think of… [INHALE] Hm. [INHALE] Hm. I, I don’t know. Is it a person? A place? No, no; people, people don’t smell like that. Besides, I’m all alone. … I’m, I’m all alone. [CREAKING] Why, why am I alone? I, I shouldn’t be alone! There should be people! It’s such a, such a big house, my house, there mu–, there must be other people! People who care. Unless…

(MAG174) ARCHIVIST: “When it had first covered her home, bathing the street beyond her window in unexpected shade, she had thought it an eclipse. There wasn’t supposed to be one then, she is… sure of that – although if pressed, she could not have told you what day it is today. Before the shadow fell, she is sure that the sun was shining brightly – although, if pressed, she could not have pictured it. And the humid heat of a lingering summer had left the world sleepy, and unprepared – although, if pressed, she remembers the heat, but not the season. […] Mehreen cannot quite make out their faces as she bundles them into the car, old and shuddering as it coughs into life. Does she remember having a child? A spouse? Does she remember her mother having such a cruel sneer? It doesn’t matter. They are here now, and she has to save them.”

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: “It’s faded now. He remembers aches and worries and, sometimes, something that might have been joy…! But it’s far away now, like something seen projected on a distant wall.

I still wonder if that situation will evolve, by MAG200… Jon said that the Fears would stay as long as there are people to fear them, and the current status quo is that victims are imprisoned in a loop – their fears made manifest, torturing them in turn, leading to more fear, their perceptions and memories biased to prevent them from feeling something else. We’ve seen how anchors could work as a point of focus to get out of their grasp; it’s not possible with how the world is shaped now, but if the victims could remember something else than their fears, maybe…?

- Oh! I hadn’t noticed/wondered if there was an echo of Beholding in the domain itself in a while, but:

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: “Even if he had the will to, Tyler could not have struggled: the movements of the things scrutinising him are as gently unstoppable as a piston.”

… that’s a big Eye mood.

- Same as in the Slaughter domain, it seems to be a loop of fear:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “There is a rumbling in the earth around him, as a tank speeds along its unstoppable path, and Charlie is immediately pulled under its tread. He has a moment of shocked horror, before being reduced to a smear in the mud. […] Next to his bleeding corpse, Charlie wakes from what passes for sleep in this place. A sergeant is yelling at him, screaming for him to take his gun and get into the waiting transport.”

(MAG172) ARCHIVIST: “The tragedy of Francis. A comic puppet show, in all acts. Act 48067”. […] And so it will be until the curtain descends at last, and THE SPIDER resets the scene, its belly already beginning to swell once again with replacements for the creatures it so gorily birthed. AUDIENCE (BACKGROUND): [LAUGHS] Pause, for laughter. AUDIENCE (BACKGROUND): [LOUD CLAPS] And so the curtains descends.” AUDIENCE (BACKGROUND): [LOUD CLAPS AND CHEERING] [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: “The tragedy of Francis. A comic puppet show in all acts. Act 48068.”

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: “The last thing he sees before returning to the processing line… is everything going into the garbage. There wasn’t a single, suitable cut.”

(And I’m still dubious of Oliver’s claim that The End’s domain was better than the others and would deliver it for real! Though Jon mentioned dream-logic as the rule at work, to explain why Daisy wouldn’t be coming back if killed… so maybe enough belief in The End as an absolute ending makes it real in that world. Mm…)

- Back to Martin worrying over victims’ feelings, and being vocal about it!

(MAG163) MARTIN: … They’re not… real? [VOICES SHOUTING IN THE DISTANCE] ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLING] No…! They’re real; they were… normal people before the– … Before me. But now they’re here, meat for the grinder. I just mean there’s no point… talking to them. MARTIN: Don’t be a prick, Jon. Hey! I’m, I’m sorry about him. He’s–he’s going through a lot – well… we all are, I suppose, but well… “Hi”, I guess. [SILENCE] Hello? ARCHIVIST: They won’t hear you, Martin, they’re all… too busy waiting to die. MARTIN: Jon…

(MAG178) MARTIN: [HUSHED] Oh, would you both just keep it down, please? ARCHIVIST: They’re not aware of us, Martin, I keep telling you. MARTIN: Yeah, I know, but it’s not okay to talk as though they’re not there. They’re still people. […] [MARTIN JOSTLES A BODY] MARTIN: Excuse me. ARCHIVIST: [EXASPERATED] Martin, they can’t hear you. MARTIN: [SHARP] I know, Jon, that’s not the point. ARCHIVIST: … All right…!

He hadn’t been vocal about it in a long time! (And he had felt a bit disconnected about it, to me, with the worms and the carousels.)

In comparison, I do understand Jon’s pragmatism in the uselessness of trying to Know who is real and not:

(MAG178) MARTIN: Wait–wait–wait, so… so it just… makes the rest of them up? ARCHIVIST: Er, maybe one in a hundred or so are actually real? The rest are there to make those people’s fears more acute. MARTIN: … That’s… Ugh, that’s somehow more disturbing. BASIRA: … How do you tell which is which? ARCHIVIST: I mean, you could ask me, I suppose. B–but I don’t… really see the point. Would it help you to know whose suffering is real and… whose is just a… grim reflection? [SILENCE] BASIRA: No. ARCHIVIST: Well, there you go then.

… but still, a bit aouch about that logic – it’s true that people in the domains are not aware of them, so taking them into account doesn’t change anything, but it still means ignoring real people. (I wonder if they will end up in a domain where victims are aware and conscious and a potential threat to them, if it’s the point of the domain?)

- I’m glad, however, that Jon was trying to make them avoid the avatar of the place, because it was contrasting a lot with Jude:

(MAG169) MARTIN: That turn…! You, you took a hard turn after the roots back there. I knew that was a thing! Why are we here? ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] It’s just… [INHALE] When you said… [SIGH] MARTIN: Jon, why have you taken us here? ARCHIVIST: Jude Perry. … This is where Jude Perry rules.

(MAG178) BASIRA: So who’s in charge, here? ARCHIVIST: Not anyone you’re familiar with. We won’t be meeting them. MARTIN: You’re not going to… y’know? [MARTIN VOCALISES AN EXPLOSION] ARCHIVIST: No. Even if I wanted to, he’s in the, uh… Main Processing Room, and believe me when I say that’s… not somewhere you want to be. MARTIN: … Yeah. I guess.

(And even with Oliver: Jon had made the decision that he wouldn’t pursue Oliver, but it had been shown as a rare act of mercy in the face of Oliver’s actions. Here, it really sounded like he wanted to spare Martin and Basira more suffering, didn’t want to put them in an upsetting situation.)

… a bit worried that Martin still hasn’t let it sink in that Jon didn’t want to go Kill Bill anymore because he felt that it was detrimental to himself, but to be fair, Martin sounded like he had asked just to clear it up and wasn’t pressuring, just checking.

- OHOHOHOH about Martin’s frustration feeling extremely… meta (it’s something an audience would say):

(MAG178) MARTIN: [INHALE, EXPLOSIVE EXHALE] God, I hate all of these… loose ends…! ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry. MARTIN: It’s, it’s fine. [INHALE] We’ll just have to tie them all up in one go!

Both the thread imagery and the storytelling aspect are screaming a bit “Web?” (THIS IS HOW WEB!MARTIN CAN STILL W–)

- I’m still a puddle on the floor about the fact that:

(MAG178) MARTIN: … Yeah. I guess. [INHALE, EXPLOSIVE EXHALE] God, I hate all of these… loose ends…! ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry. MARTIN: It’s, it’s fine. [INHALE] We’ll just have to tie them all up in one go! ARCHIVIST: Hm? MARTIN: [SIGH] Around Elias’s neck. ARCHIVIST: … Ah.

MartinElias. The MartinElias in season 5 is so delightful *snif*. Strangulation? That’s such an intimate way of killing… It’s what Will described as what his preferred method for killing Hannibal would be… My MartinElias rights…

I love how. Martin. Just brings up Elias so much this season.

(MAG161) MARTIN: Elias won, and there were some tapes he’d kept for himself, and he wanted to gloat. So, he sent them! ARCHIVIST: He’s not… MARTIN: I–I don’t see– ARCHIVIST: … “Elias”. MARTIN: Jonah, then. I don’t know, I find it hard to think of him as… I don’t really like to think of him!

(MAG162) MARTIN: Do you think it’ll do anything? Confronting Elias?

(MAG164) MARTIN: What about Elias?

(MAG170) MARTIN: I mean, the interview was weird, I… I don’t really remember the man who talked to me. Just his eyes. They stared at me; th–through me, and… and, I–I knew that he knew what I’d done. God, I…! I was so scared, but… but then he smiled and shook my hand…! What was his name? [CREAKING] He said I “had the job”…! [CHUCKLE] That he “looked forward to working with me”! … I was still so scared I could barely move my arm…! I was so terrified I’d let him down…!

(MAG174) MARTIN: … Hang on, you’re still down to kill Elias, right? Uh, oh, Jonah, whatever.

(MAG177) BASIRA: … So what’s your plan? MARTIN: Long-term? Elias. He’s up in that that… “Panopticon” tower thing.

(MAG178) MARTIN: God, I hate all of these… loose ends…! ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry. MARTIN: It’s, it’s fine. [INHALE] We’ll just have to tie them all up in one go! ARCHIVIST: Hm? MARTIN: [SIGH] Around Elias’s neck.

* “I don’t really like to think of him!” said Martin Blackwood, before proceeding to mention Elias at every turn. (And still “Elias”! Jon and Martin seem to have completely given up on calling him “Jonah”. He’s still “Elias” for them, even though they know who he truly is.)

* Oh, Martin… He really seems to have decided that “killing Elias/getting revenge on Elias” was their goal, and that it would do anything good. Jon has already proven that killing avatars in domains didn’t free victims, didn’t improve their situations; that the domains just… kept going, even “unsupervised”. Even if Jonah is still around in some shape or form (in his old decaying body, in “Elias Bouchard”’s body, merged with the Panopticon, anything), and even if he is the ruler of the Panopticon (not a given, since Jon said that they were heading towards his own domain: unclear if it was the Archives, the Institute, the Panopticon, or all of them)… killing him would not fix the world. Is Martin absolutely in denial about this? Or does he need a small goal to keep going and process his feelings?

(;; And there is just a huge chance that… Martin is mostly feeling guilty about what happened, about the fact that he had the chance and opportunity to kill Elias but refused to do so, and that it led to Jon getting his last mark with The Lonely (with potential additions of not having checked the package they had received, and having chosen to leave Jon unsupervised while he would read a statement). The episode was about Basira knowing all along what was happening but trying to pretend she didn’t, and how this prevented her from reaching her goal (Daisy); I wonder if Martin will soon have to undergo the same process, to allow him and Jon to reach the Panopticon…)

- About Jon’s need for a stop:

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: Left. [INHALE] Just up ahead. [STATIC FADES] Although, uh… Hum… Actually, you might want to head through that door and… wait. BASIRA: Again? Already? ARCHIVIST: There’s a lot of fear in this place. […] MARTIN: New plan. We wait in the corridor; you go in the spike cupboard and tell your story to all the… hooks and stuff.

Once again, it’s definitely presented as Jon having to unload an excess, and I’m really interested in Martin’s lexicon. In MAG177, he called it a “statement”, and this time, presented it as “tell[ing] [his] story to all the hooks and stuff”: “story” had been how Fanshawe had described Albrecht von Closen pouring out his horrors, and Martin’s formulation took into consideration the need for an audience. Jon did introduce the tape recorder as a necessary audience in MAG163 while he was giving the domain’s statement (and he had mentioned how “pouring out” into them had helped him to understand what the cabin was doing, in MAG162), but really, I’m struck with how similar Jon sounds to how Fanshawe had described Albrecht?

(And what is happening with the tape recorder, what is Jon creating through them…)

- Uh! So it seems like Basira got Enough already, by listening to Jon last time. Not keen to reiterate the experience, uh. (Well: it’s mostly Jon who, first and foremost, took it as a given that Basira wouldn’t be listening either.)

- I’m fond of the fact that:

(MAG178) [DOOR OPENS AND METALLIC JANGLING IS HEARD] MARTIN: [EMPHATICALLY] Nope! BASIRA: … What the hell sort of tools are those? ARCHIVIST: “Flesh” factory, remember?

The tools weren’t described. Some things better left to imagination, nondescript but evoked through characters’ reactions, uh?

- ;w; Is Jon still worried about Martin potentially losing himself in a domain? He really almost lost Martin in the Lonely house, and Martin had wandered away too deep in the Web one:

(MAG170) ARCHIVIST: Oh, Martin! Thank god, I, I was… I–I thought you were behind me. [FABRIC RUSTLES] MARTIN: I thought you’d left me behind…! Gone on without me.

(MAG172) MARTIN: No, I… Not for most of it. I just thought I heard… something. Whatever. I went exploring, all right? I don’t know why; I shouldn’t have. ARCHIVIST: No, you–you shouldn’t have!

(MAG178) MARTIN: New plan. We wait in the corridor; you go in the spike cupboard and tell your story to all the… hooks and stuff. ARCHIVIST: … Fine. Just don’t wander off.

… I really wonder if, at some point, Jon will try to come back to Martin&Basira, and they’ll be just… gone, because of Helen, Annabelle, or the domain’s work. (… It might be how Daisy could appear? While Jon is focusing on a statement and unaware that she reached them first?)

- Martin has his Limits and will be vocal about it:

(MAG178) MARTIN: [EMPHATICALLY] Nope! […] New plan. We wait in the corridor; you go in the spike cupboard and tell your story to all the… hooks and stuff.

… but mostly, I’m snickering so hard, because. It was.

It was.

It was Martin refusing to go into the closet. I’ve been snickering about it for a week, alright.

- … I really wonder what Martin was talking about with Basira:

(MAG178) MARTIN: –I know, I know you find it hard whe– … Done already? ARCHIVIST: Yes. [INHALE] Talking about me? BASIRA: … I assume that’s a rhetorical question. ARCHIVIST: I am trying to keep my powers to myself. BASIRA: Sure! MARTIN: I was just… giving Basira some advice. ARCHIVIST: [GOOD-NATURED] Avatars are from Mars and humans are from Venus, that sort of thing? MARTIN: [TINY CHUCKLE] I mean… yeah? Sort of? ARCHIVIST: [BRIEF CHUCKLE] MARTIN: Well, w–we were pretty much done anyway.

… Jon’s shitty sense of humour… (Was that an allusion to the feared vs. the fearful, as Helen made the distinction? To the Jon/Martin relationship as avatar/human? x’))

Was Martin’s “advice” about how to not take what Jon was saying too badly, how to try to talk with him constructively since she and Jon had grown sour towards each other in season 4? … Or does Martin have a plan in the making, that requires Jon to not know about it? Because this episode and the previous one made a point to remind us…

(MAG177) BASIRA: … What’s it like? Being with someone who can see the inside of your head? MARTIN: Hm? Oh! Oh no, he doesn’t. I told him not to, and so he tries to… look away? BASIRA: And you trust him to do that. MARTIN: [DECISIVE] Yes. I do.

… that Jon doesn’t know what is happening in Martin’s head since Martin asked him not to “know” about him…

(I’m glaaad that Martin and Basira are talking outside of Jon!!)

- I like the contrast between Jon absolutely knowing what he was doing, where he was leading Basira and Martin… and the fact that Basira didn’t know about it.

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: Next one’s through here. BASIRA: Next one? ARCHIVIST: Her latest victim. [DOOR IS WRENCHED OPEN WITH A METALLIC CREAK] MARTIN: [REELS] Oh… [SOUNDS OF FLIES BUZZING]

Not exceptionally great from Jon, but typical from season 5 – it just highlights how much Jon knows how the world operate, what is around them, is indeed almost completely omniscient… and forgets how others aren’t.

- I really, really love how Daisy’s victims have been introduced for these past two episodes:

(MAG177) ARCHIVIST: We’re here. [DOOR CREAKS] MARTIN: … Oh! Jesus… [BAG JOSTLING] ARCHIVIST: Yes. Horrible way to go…! BASIRA: You’re sure this is Daisy’s handiwork? ARCHIVIST: Positive. […] I could tell you. BASIRA: [EXHALE] Don’t bother. I know who he is. MARTIN: What? BASIRA: [SIGH] Noah Thomson. That… nasty piece of work. Crossed him a few times when we weren’t doing sectioned work. Last I heard, he’d dodged a GBH charge Daisy brought him in on. Blinded a guy during a robbery. I guess she didn’t forget. MARTIN: Wait. Wait, so… so, she’s hunting down criminals? People who she… thinks got away with stuff? BASIRA: … Sure. ARCHIVIST: Really? As simple as that? BASIRA: What’s your point? ARCHIVIST: What, you think he ended up in Wonderland House at random? We’re just going to ignore it, and write him off as a “nasty piece of work”? BASIRA: We don’t have time for this. ARCHIVIST: Then we should make time. You want to hear how he ended up blinding that man? Because it wasn’t a robbery. He was running away from Daisy, lashing out in a panic. The court believed it. But you believed her…

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: Recognise her… BASIRA: … No… I don’t think I do. ARCHIVIST: That wasn’t a question. It was an instruction, we can’t… move on until you do. MARTIN: Jon, what are you getting at? ARCHIVIST: This isn’t just a journey through spaces. BASIRA: … Fine, I recognise her. I don’t know her name, though. [STATIC RISES] ARCHIVIST: Isabelle Moran. Shoplifter, drug addict. [STATIC FADES] Daisy was certain she was dealing as well, derailed her recovery twice.

Jon asking Basira to “recognise” the victims is such a significant move? It’s about giving them some dignity back: we’re given their names and last names (which… is more than what we’re getting in the domains’ statements; it feels more real); we’re being introduced to who they were through their identity, their history, what was done to them, the wrongs done to them… both as humans actions (the hurt Daisy caused as a police officer, although influenced by The Hunt) and as monstrous actions (Daisy butchered them as a beast). It feels very striking that most of the violence inflicted upon them is… not especially the fact that they’ve been murdered in these domains (Jon implied they should respawn?), but really, about what was done to them before, and how fundamentally Daisy’s behaviour had hurt them.

I really like how Jon is pushing Basira to acknowledge all of this, to process Daisy’s responsibility (and indirectly, hers, as someone who let it happen)? There is something very empathetic, very powerful in the fact that what needs to be done is about seeing the harm, understanding how it happened, before being able to proceed to the next step and take actions?

(- Basira, serial Sayer Of Fuck And Swears:

(MAG143) BASIRA: [SIGH] So, what, this was another waste of time? What, no Church, no Dark Sun? … I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch…!

(MAG148) BASIRA: You sent us to the North fucking Pole for no goddamn reason. ELIAS: A, a–hem… miscalculation.

(MAG177) ARCHIVIST: [DEEP EXHALATION] … Satisfied? BASIRA: Ff… Fuck.

(MAG178) BASIRA: Don’t give me that patronising, ominous-oracle bullshit, Jon. I’m not an idiot…! […] Of course I fucking care!

Now she’s on equal ground with Jon!)

- Basira broke my heart into tiny pieces this episode, because all her prickly behaviours were bad, as she was put in that uncomfortable situation and trying to flee (while Jon relentlessly pushed her to see)… and it felt so human in its own way?

(MAG155) BASIRA: I’m trying to convince her to go after them. To, er… “Hunt” them. ARCHIVIST: Why? BASIRA: Because I’m not going to lose her. ARCHIVIST: She goes Hunting again, you might anyway. BASIRA: And if she doesn’t, she might die. ARCHIVIST: Something you’re fine with in certain other cases. And something she’s made peace with. BASIRA: Because of the guilt she feels over the stuff The Hunt made her do…! It’s not her fault. ARCHIVIST: Earlier, when she was still out of it, I, uh… I “saw” some of the things she was talking about, some of the things she did, while she was police. I’m not convinced I disagree with her assessment. [PAUSE] Do you want me to tell you? BASIRA: No. No, I don’t. ARCHIVIST: … You knew, didn’t you? You knew the sort of things she did, and you let her. BASIRA: No, not exactly. I thought… [PAUSE] It’s not that simple. ARCHIVIST: It never is. But that doesn’t make it okay.[SILENCE] BASIRA: None of us are who we were, Jon.[SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: No. I suppose not. In many ways, it’s simpler now, isn’t it? At least now, our demons have names. BASIRA: Mm.

(MAG178) BASIRA: Fine. Noted. Can we just move on please? ARCHIVIST: I’m afraid not. BASIRA: Why not? ARCHIVIST: We aren’t finished here. BASIRA: Is that a threat? MARTIN: Guys, come on, don’t do this, not here. ARCHIVIST: I told you before, we can’t hunt a monster you refuse to see. BASIRA: Don’t give me that patronising, ominous-oracle bullshit, Jon. I’m not an idiot…! ARCHIVIST: I never said you were. MARTIN: Guys… BASIRA: [ANGRY] Look, I need you to lead the way. I don’t need your advice, and certainly don’t need you stood there judging me! MARTIN: [LOUDLY] Enough, enough! Someone has died! Show some respect. Or don’t you care? BASIRA: [INCENSED] Of course I fucking care! … [QUIETER] That’s the problem. MARTIN: I… I don’t understand. BASIRA: … I just… I don’t need him laying everything out for me like I’m some kind of idiot. I know, all right? Daisy is the only person I could ever rely on and… [GETTING QUIET AND SHAKY] And she… she did things, terrible things, and I… [SIGH] I refused to see it or… said it was my duty, or whatever. I don’t know. MARTIN: Basira…

Basira’s discomfort had to do with her feeling judged, criticised, leading her to get so defensive, all of which we’d already seen a lot in season 4! It’s a defence mechanism! And we finally could see what she was hiding, the feelings she didn’t want others to see! It was long due, and it was such an amazing pay-off!!!

I feel like it’s the equivalent of Melanie in MAG131, and Daisy in MAG132, when they explained themselves to Jon, gave him the keys to understand what was happening in their heads and why they behaved like they did, and, once again, it was such a precious, sensitive moment?

(MAG178) BASIRA: I care, I just… I don’t need to wallow in it. I need to end it. All of it. MARTIN: … We’re here for you. BASIRA: No. She was there for me. ARCHIVIST: … “Cops versus robbers and monsters”… BASIRA: I thought we were doing good. I really did…! I knew there was some bad shit, I knew Daisy was into a lot of it, but… I thought it balanced out. [WEAKLY] … I thought we were good. ARCHIVIST: [SOFTLY] I know how that feels. BASIRA: … I wanted to help people, you know? When I first joined. Protect people. But then I saw what some of those same people were capable of, and… something changed. I wanted to hurt them, the ones that deserved it, and it… it felt good, it felt… righteous. I thought I could feel the line, though, I really did. Eventually, though, it was… too much. [PAUSE] I was going to quit. I couldn’t… take what I saw myself becoming, but… then I got sectioned, and suddenly… suddenly it turned out there were real monsters out there, and… Well, that just made the power feel better. So things kept slipping. But… Daisy was always there for me. MARTIN: All those innocent people… BASIRA: Were they? Innocent? ARCHIVIST: Some. And if not? [INHALE] What crime warrants what was done to them? Theft? Violence? Disrespect?

* Honestly, the raw vulnerability, melancholia and sadness? It was my favourite performance from Frank ever.

* I really love how it tied in with what Basira had already said about her relationship to police, that she had never really felt extremely attached to the profession (MAG117: “I don’t want to be here. But by the end, I didn’t want to be police either, so… guess I don’t really know what I do want, which… maybe that’s just as well. My options… they’ve gotten a lot narrower over the last year.”). It’s just such a sad story because, in her case, she hadn’t gone there for the power (unlike Daisy); as she explained, she had good intentions… and the structure in place tends to sour and corrupt, encourages its agents to abuse their power, won’t make them become better persons (will only make them worse), and turns out to be a threat for the vulnerable instead of protecting them. It’s even sadder that Basira thought about quitting shortly before she got sectioned because, with the timeline in mind:

(MAG043) BASIRA: Okay, well, the first time I got hit with a Section 31 was five years ago, August 2011. I’d got my badge the year before that, and was still getting used to some of the more stressful bits of the job.

It happened barely a year after she joined the police. And she was already aware that she was becoming someone she didn’t like, that she was doing terrible things, and was considering quitting because of it…

* The “I wanted to hurt them, the ones that deserved it” reminded me a bit of Melanie explaining her anger in MAG131, and I’m sad in retrospect about how… Basira and Melanie could have understood each other much better in season 4 if the circumstances had been different…

* I also like how the existence of the supernatural goes hand in hand with Daisy’s side of things: the monsters and the avatars were a pretext for Hunters to unleash their violence. It was never about protecting the population from dangerous people; it was about having easily digestible targets, which allowed them to feel good about being violent (since, after all, they were only eradicating threats, right?). As both Basira and Jon pointed out:

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: … “Cops versus robbers and monsters”… BASIRA: I thought we were doing good. I really did…! I knew there was some bad shit, I knew Daisy was into a lot of it, but… I thought it balanced out. [WEAKLY] … I thought we were good.

It wasn’t a clear-cut situation – there were monsters out there. But we’ve also seen how so many of these monsters had initially been preyed upon by the entities, had initially been trying to survive, and how the line about their “badness”… wasn’t as easy to establish as characters would have liked. (And, in Daisy’s case: indeed, it wasn’t worth it anyway to… push struggling people deeper into misery, just because she had power over them, and Daisy, in season 4, was the first to remind people of it.)

* T__T I really love the… complexity of Basira’s situation? How would you react if the person there for you, representing a fixed point (your anchor?), turned out to be doing wrong things? In theory, it feels easy to answer that the good behaviour would be to turn your back on them, or to try to make them improve; and in practice, in Basira’s case, it meant allowing her whole system to collapse, and having to rebuild from there. I’m really fond of how she explained that she wasn’t stupid, that she was still aware of what was happening: that she still chose the pack mentality over a rejection of that system, but that she was already disillusioned with it. Basira had often felt a bit… emptier than the other characters; we only knew of a life-lesson given by her father, and the rest of her life seems to have been tied to the police force for the past few years, before she joined the Institute. It has really felt like Daisy was what brought her stability and peace. And yet: Daisy did awful things, Basira enabled her by trying to think it was for the greater good (MAG091: “But I… I always thought you just killed monsters.”), and Basira wasn’t even able to make the most of her return in season 4, when Daisy wanted to improve, since Basira was stuck on the idea that they needed a strong defence against threats… (And I wonder how much of Basira’s initial rejection of Daisy in season 4 had to do with the fact that… allowing herself to understand and hear the “new Daisy” would mean having to acknowledge that the old one had been bad and wrong; that Basira had allowed her to be monstrous, and that they both shared responsibility in those crimes.)

- Really loved Martin’s attempt, too:

(MAG178) MARTIN: … We’re here for you. BASIRA: No. She was there for me.

Because it said so much, that Martin used a present tense while Basira answered in the past (as if, after Daisy, there couldn’t be anyone else). It also put back in my mind how Basira had tried to be a bit softer on Martin at first, after his mother died (MAG127: “But I didn’t want to push it. He was in a… bad place, what with the attack and his mum and everything, so I didn’t press it.”) but didn’t provide comfort either; and how, even earlier, Basira and Martin had tried to be there for Melanie when they learned what Elias had done to her (MAG110). There’s still a lot of ice, but I’m glad that Martin offered, and that Basira didn’t attack him on it either – she’s mourning (that past tense in “she WAS there for me”…), but not… absolutely rejecting him either.

- In the moments of small understandings, Jon’s was also noteworthy:

(MAG178) BASIRA: I thought we were doing good. I really did…! I knew there was some bad shit, I knew Daisy was into a lot of it, but… I thought it balanced out. [WEAKLY] … I thought we were good. ARCHIVIST: [SOFTLY] I know how that feels.

Since he also had to face the reality that the Archives team hadn’t really been doing “good” either, although he had tried to cling to the idea:

(MAG150) MELANIE: Because this place is evil, Jon! And so… doing this job… ARCHIVE: [LOUD EXHALE] MELANIE: Helping it out… even in small ways, i–is in some way… evil too! Every time we try to use it to do good, it just seems to make everything worse, and… and I will not be a part of that anymore. ARCHIVIST: What about The Unknowing? We, we saved the world! MELANIE: Did we? I… I mean, I–I think it was the right thing to do, but how many people were killed to do it? We, we weren’t even a neutral party; we did it as agents of The Eye, because Elias told us to. ARCHIVIST: An–and then you put him in jail! MELANIE: Martin put him there. And, and–and he’s still doing harm.

(With the additional fact that Jon had indeed saved Melanie and Daisy, but had attacked five people during the season; that The Unknowing would have failed anyway; and that ultimately, a lot of Jon’s “good” actions had also marked him as a preparation to Jonah’s ritual.)

Re: Jon’s situation, it’s the same thing with Basira’s declaration about caring:

(MAG178) MARTIN: [LOUDLY] Enough, enough! Someone has died! Show some respect. Or don’t you care? BASIRA: [INCENSED] Of course I fucking care! … [QUIETER] That’s the problem. MARTIN: I… I don’t understand.

(MAG152) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … When does it stop? HELEN: What? ARCHIVIST: The guilt… The misery… All the others I’ve met, they’ve been… cold. Cruel. They’ve enjoyed what they do. When does The Eye… make me monstrous?

It had been Jon’s “problem”, too: how he was conscious and aware of the suffering he caused, and how he had to live with it, wasn’t okay with it. I really like how it feels like, finally, after season 4, Basira is able to participate in a conversation where they’re opening up, talking in good faith, trying to understand each other and… not hurt each other anymore? How they can relate, or just listen?

- I’m back to sobbing about Jon and Daisy’s relationship in season 4 because:

(MAG178) BASIRA: [SHAKY] … You knew her. She was trying to be better…! ARCHIVIST: She was. But she never asked me to forgive her. BASIRA: Forgive her? ARCHIVIST: … I’ve been scared, terrified for my life so many times these last few years, but I’ve never, not once, felt so horribly, abjectly powerless as when she… took me into that forest to kill me. I’ll never forget it. MARTIN: … You never said. ARCHIVIST: It’s not easy to talk about. MARTIN: Oh, Jon… BASIRA: … And would you have? Forgiven her? ARCHIVIST: No… But she never asked me. She knew she had no right. [SILENCE]

… It’s still “aouch”, but not surprising: Daisy had been terrifying in MAG091, absolutely hammering in that Jon’s life was in her hands, that she had decided who and what he was and what he deserved. It had been a very hard scene, cruel and violent, a demonstration of what Daisy could do (and had done)… and I really don’t feel like it negates the moments she and Jon shared in season 4, it mostly just casts another dimension on it? How Jon was a bit tense and awkward around her, and slowly mellowed down:

(MAG133) DAISY: You sure? ARCHIVIST: No, uh, it’s, hum. It’s fine. DAISY: It’s just… Basira’s busy. ARCHIVIST: I–I understand. Ho–honestly, er, I’d actually appreciate your insights, er, for this one, just… You know, keep quiet during the statement and that. DAISY: Sure. I, I can do quiet. ARCHIVIST: Right. Er, oh, do you want a chair? DAISY: No. ARCHIVIST: Oh. Okay.

(MAG136) MELANIE: W–well, I’ve kind of got to… uhm. I’ve got somewhere to be. Do you mind if, if… she hangs around, with… ARCHIVIST: Er… I suppose… Not at all. She’s very welcome. […] Are you alright? DAISY: Asked me that already. ARCHIVIST: Right. Sorry. DAISY: I didn’t ask her. To do that. ARCHIVIST: I–it–it’s fine. […] DAISY: Get over yourself! You’re always talking about choices – we all made ours. Now I’m making the choice… to get some drinks in. Coming? ARCHIVIST: I d–… I… [SIGH] … yeah? Okay. DAISY: Melanie’s out, but I’ll go get Basira. ARCHIVIST: Is she… W–will she want to join us? DAISY: If she doesn’t, I’ll rip her throat out. ARCHIVIST: Uh… DAISY: It’s a joke, Jon. ARCHIVIST: … oh. Hahah…! Yes… Uh, I–I’ll get my coat.

(MAG139) ARCHIVIST: The others are doing… better, I think. Basira’s busy doing research for something secretive, unsurprisingly. But she seems to be adjusting to, uh… the new Daisy. I actually like Daisy now, which is a… really weird feeling.

(MAG153) ARCHIVIST: Are you alright? DAISY: [BREATHLESS] Don’t touch me. ARCHIVIST: Christ, he was right, I, I didn’t… When did you get so thin? DAISY: I’m not, it’s fine. ARCHIVIST: … It’s The Hunt, isn’t it? Without it– DAISY: I’m fine. Just haven’t been hungry. I’m strong enough. ARCHIVIST: Clearly. […] Even so, if it’s having this much of an effect on you– DAISY: I’m not going back. I can’t let it in again. ARCHIVIST: But it– … What if it kills you? DAISY: [CHORTLE] Always said I was dedicated to justice…! ARCHIVIST: Daisy! It’s not… You can’t think like that. DAISY: Jon. Do you have any idea how much damage you can do if you’re a police officer who wants to hurt people? How much the system will protect you? ARCHIVIST: [SHARP INHALE] DAISY: I managed to keep most of it from Basira, but… ARCHIVIST: That wasn’t you, that was The Hunt! DAISY: … [SIGH] We were the same. [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: … You’d never known anything different. [SILENCE] DAISY: Because I never wanted to. All that time trapped was good for one thing: thinking. And I did a lot of it. I’ve made my choice.

I feel like… there is a form of deep respect from Jon, when he explained how Daisy didn’t ask for forgiveness – because it proved, in a way, that Daisy was very aware that the harm she had done was too huge to be forgiven, and that she couldn’t ask that from him (and that it might be a reason why Jon accepted to get closer with her in the first place: because she wasn’t lying when she said that she now understood how terrible she had been). We’ve seen, however, how Daisy was quick to apologise:

(MAG132) DAISY: [CRIES OF PAIN] I’m, I’m sorry… I’m sorry Jon… I’m sorry…

(MAG142) MARTIN: I know. [PAUSE] Not nice being interrogated, is it? DAISY: I… [EXHALE] Oh. MARTIN: Yeah. [SILENCE] DAISY: [INHALE] I’m sorry, Martin. MARTIN: It’s alright. Wasn’t you. [INHALE] Not really. DAISY: No, it was. I hate… a lot of what I did back then; doesn’t mean I’m not… responsible for it, doesn’t mean it… wasn’t me.

But indeed: never asked to be forgiven. And it might strike a very personal chord for Jon, since… he knows, first-hand, how it is to not be forgiven:

(MAG119) TIM: Jon, I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can… ARCHIVIST: [FAINTLY AND FAR] Tim…? TIM: I don’t forgive you. But thank you for this.

(If I remember correctly, the only time Jon had asked to be forgiven had been to the assistants through the tape recorder, when threatened by the Not!Them and panicking. But, same as Daisy: afterwards, he said “sorry”, and didn’t ask for it.)

- There is another thing, not mentioned but hard to forget if we’re talking about Daisy’s victims, including Jon: what about Jon’s? What about the statement-givers who were plagued by the nightmares, and specifically the ones he attacked knowing the harm that he would do to them? We’re exploring the harm Daisy caused to her victims, I wonder if we’re heading towards what Jon did to these people, too… (Are they waiting at the Panopstitute or the Archives, since it’s “Jon’s domain”? He used to terrorise them through the nightmare zoo, and had claimed them for Beholding: but in this new world, he doesn’t sleep anymore. It would feel logical that… they’re still trapped and victimised by The Eye as of now.)

- Early season, Jon had really felt like Virgil leading Dante (Martin) through the circles of Hell, and there is a bit of that with Basira too! Except that it’s not a didactic exploration of divine retribution/punishment, but… precisely, it is about how the “punishments” were the problems, how nobody was inherently unsalvable (or even, how everyone was plain pushed towards misery because of a biased repressive system)? There is still that idea of guiding Basira, both physically and mentally, through a terrible and hard journey, to make her able to see the reality of the world and reach her goal… (and that makes Daisy “Beatrice”. Who is… already dead TT__TT)

- From MAG163 to MAG177 (excluding MAG167, which was Jon&Martin taking a break and Jon giving the statements about the Archives during Gertrude’s tenure), we crossed through all the Fears present in Jonah’s invocation, minus Beholding itself and plus Extinction. MAG178’s was explicitly labelled as The Flesh; although it was another aspect from Jared’s garden, it’s still a “repeat”. I would infer that, either Jon&Martin’s journey has been set aside and put on hold right now (since they’re focusing on finding Daisy), and they now will be able to reach the Panopticon as soon as they’re done with this current quest… either no, going through one domain of each Fear wasn’t the point of Jon&Martin’s journey to reach the Panopticon, and it is something else. Since they left the cabin, Jon had mentioned multiple times that their journey wasn’t a purely physical one, that there was a meaning underneath it:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: Geography doesn’t work anymore. Space… doesn’t work. MARTIN: … All right. So what does that mean? ARCHIVIST: It means the journey will be the journey, regardless of how we choose to make it. […] You see that tower, way off in the distance? MARTIN: Yeah. [PAUSE] [SIGH] It’s watching us, isn’t it? [SIGH] ARCHIVIST: The Panopticon and the Institute. Merged into something entirely new. MARTIN: Wha–, what? No, th–there’s, there’s no way we could see it from here. We, we must still be a hundred miles from the border, never mind London! ARCHIVIST: You could see that tower from anywhere on Earth. And it can see you. And if you walk towards it, eventually you’ll get there. But you have to go through everything in-between.

(MAG164) MARTIN: How much further do we still need to go? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: A long way. Through many dark and awful places… […] MARTIN: Are we safe, traveling like this? ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, sort of, we’re… I don’t know how to phrase it, we’re… something between a pilgrim and a moth. We can walk through these little worlds of terror, watching them; separate, and untouched.

(MAG165) MARTIN: But. You said we needed to go through these places. … Is that even going to work here? ARCHIVIST: Uh… [EXHALE] We need to go through them… metaphorically. MARTIN: Mm… ! ARCHIVIST: Psychologically, we need to… “experience” them.

(MAG177) ARCHIVIST: She was here, but the corridors of this place are… Rushing isn’t going to close the distance faster, it’s more about how we choose to move through these domains rather than our speed. BASIRA: What does that mean? MARTIN: I’ve been with him the whole way and I still don’t know. ARCHIVIST: It means we’ll reach her quicker if you stop tearing off, and let me concentrate on finding a proper path through this place. […] BASIRA: [ANGRY] I told you not to look in my head! ARCHIVIST: I didn’t. And I won’t. But you can’t hunt a monster that you refuse to see.

(MAG178) ARCHIVIST: That wasn’t a question. It was an instruction, we can’t… move on until you do. MARTIN: Jon, what are you getting at? ARCHIVIST: This isn’t just a journey through spaces. […] We aren’t finished here. […] I told you before, we can’t hunt a monster you refuse to see.

What is Jon’s and/or Martin’s journey? Basira has to learn to see/acknowledge the monster in order to hunt it; what is the mental process that Jon and/or Martin have to go through in order to be able to reach the Panopticon again? Is it about guilt, about their active responsibility (vs. what wasn’t their fault)? Is it about the line between victims and culprits not being that simple to establish, and them being unequipped to judge? Is it about their own fears?

- It felt like Basira made a lot of progress in this episode. She finally opened up and admitted how turning a blind eye had made her complicit. She implied that she had indeed tried to flee the responsibility of having to kill Daisy:

(MAG178) BASIRA: [QUIET] … I really am going to have to kill her, aren’t I? ARCHIVIST: There’s no way to bring her back. Not any more. At this point, if I tried to take away her fear… it would destroy her anyway. BASIRA: Am I even going to be able to? ARCHIVIST: Yes. BASIRA: And she stays dead? ARCHIVIST: In this case… yes. MARTIN: What about the powers? ARCHIVIST: Dream logic remember? She won’t come back. Trust me. BASIRA: … Does she want me to kill her? ARCHIVIST: She asked you to, didn’t she? BASIRA: No, I mean, right now. Is she suffering? ARCHIVIST: … No. Right now, she’s… She’s happy. MARTIN: [DEJECTED SIGH]

* Before this episode, Basira would probably have been unable to do it. Jon’s certainty contrasts with what he used to say about it:

(MAG164) MARTIN: What’s Basira going to do? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: She… thinks she’s going to kill Daisy. Like she promised. [STATIC DECREASES] But she’s conflicted. MARTIN: And will she? ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know, th–the future, th–that’s… that’s not something I can see.

So it feels like he, too, thinks that she’s now ready.

* I was wondering about whether or not Jon would be able to do anything to save Daisy with his powers: I was mostly waiting for him to explain whether he could or couldn’t help, I’m fine with this explanation (which makes sense in context). It also strikes me that… he had probably been mourning her for a while during that journey:

(MAG164) MARTIN: And Daisy? [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Bestial. Brutal. [STATIC DECREASES] [INHALE] Carving her way through the domains of other Powers, following the scent of blood. … Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry…

(MAG175) ARCHIVIST: Basira and Daisy. We’re close. MARTIN: Wait, what? Wait, really? B– Th–that’s brilliant! What are we waiting for, let’s go! ARCHIVIST: Uh, y–yeah, i–it’s… It’s not… it’s not going to be easy, things aren’t… good.

The fact that, despite Daisy’s murder attempt and the fact that it deeply traumatised Jon, they were able to form that friendship, feels so fragile and precious at the same time? Jon didn’t want to lose her. He’s not allowing her or letting her die because it feels like a fair punishment or the only way to deal with Daisy; it really feels like… it’s to honour Daisy’s last wish, as a person who wanted to be better and who got caught up by The Hunt.

* I’m a bit more curious about Jon explaining that Daisy would stay dead because of “dream-logic”: is it because of Jon’s own feelings influencing the world (if he feels like she’s dead for real, then she is)? Is it because, as long as Basira goes through that inner journey, killing someone in these circumstances can grant a “permanent” death unlike the domains? Is it because of their connection to The Eye…?

* é_è Basira’s last questions about what Daisy currently wanted broke my heart… and Jon’s answers did, too. It really feels like “Daisy” truly died in MAG158, uh? That what matters is what Daisy wanted while she was still herself, even though the beast she turned into is “happy” in this state. (And it requires a bit of faith: who is the real Daisy, which wish should be respected? The beast happy to hunt or kill? Or the assistant who was sorry about the harm she caused, withering while trying to “listen to the quiet”?

* Martin’s dejected sigh said a lot… Until now, he was mostly optimistic about the possibility of finding their “friends” back, of helping them. I don’t think he had envisioned that… no, Jon couldn’t save Daisy, could only “help” her by helping Basira to respect her last wish. (Martin was mostly withdrawn from that last conversation, and… yeah, it might have been a lot to internalise for him, too. Jon seems to have borne that knowledge for a while; it might even have contributed to his perception that he couldn’t improve the general situation whatsoever? While Martin, who was lacking the keys, had kept hoping that they could… do something good. Killing avatars, saving the children, helping their friends, maybe getting Daisy back. I wonder if the current circumstances are making him more susceptible to reach for Annabelle or answer her call a next time, since she had offered her “help” and Martin has been realising, lately, how powerless they are…)

- This episode was a Lot of processing and of sadness, and that last note…

(MAG178) BASIRA: Killing her won’t undo any of it. But… that’s not the point. ARCHIVIST: No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most! … Even me.

* Killing Daisy will be hard, and indeed. It won’t even change the harm she caused, won’t change the apocalypse. It won’t even be a matter of “retribution” or “justice”; but I’m glad that Basira is aware of that already, and that “the point” lies elsewhere. In this context, it’s really about respecting Daisy’s choice and what she wanted, to allow her to escape The Hunt one last time – even if it means killing her, and to prevent what she became to cause more harm. It’s about Daisy. (Which requires, to reach her, to go through what she had done: the person she had wronged and whose story had been hidden until now.)

* … I really loved Jon’s sad insight about this world. It is an unfair world, an unfair system, quite often echoing what the old world was: Daisy’s victims were, after all, already crushed and pressured by an unfair society, already pursued by their own fears (MAG177: “it’s the worry that everything is, is awful, and it’s actually… your fault. That, that you made it up […]. What, you think he ended up in Wonderland House at random? We’re just going to ignore it, and write him off as a ‘nasty piece of work’?”; and it’s meaningful, in the same way, that in this episode, Isabelle Moran was found in this factory, where people are pressured and pushed around and ultimately labelled as “useless”).

* I still really wonder what all this means about Jonah. He was initially afraid to die, or to be subjected to a different apocalypse, so is he also a victim of “whatever hurts him the most” in this new world…? (I still really wonder how Jon will behave in front of Elias. We’ve seen, again and again, how labelling someone/something as a “monster” doesn’t cover the whole reality of it: the “criminals” were mostly dragged down by society, the cruel “avatars” had often been preyed upon when they were vulnerable… I can still dig Jonah as TheWorstTM, the selfish asshole who doomed the world for his own benefit; but I also feel like it would be very in synch with this season to… mostly have Jon spitting to his face about how pitiful and afraid he had been, and how fear had motivated his actions way more than he thought?)

* What is “what hurts Basira the most”, then? Is it to have to kill Daisy? To see and acknowledge their past actions? I wonder what will happen to her next: will she be pulled back in into a domain? Will she be spared because of Jon’s presence, or because of her connection to The Eye because she’s still an assistant? (I’m thinking again about the possibility of Jon’s victims being in the Panopticon right now: the assistants were protected from the nightmares once they had signed the contract… but Martin, Basira, Melanie and Georgie had all given their statements to Jon. Would they happen to all be journeying towards his domains in a way, because they belong there because of the statements they gave…?)

* Big question being, of course… what is “what hurts Jon the most”. Is it the guilt of having launched the apocalypse and having to benefit from it despite his disgust (he’s not hungry anymore, he’s aware that it does feel good in a way that he hates)? Is it to have to be a passive voyeur in this new world? Is it to lose his friends, first with Daisy? Is it The Web dancing around Martin? Is it something he knows about their journey or about the Panopticon, and doesn’t want to tell Martin yet…?

- You could really see Basira’s progression through the episode, as she dealt with how Jon was leading the way:

(MAG178) BASIRA: … You’re sure she came through here? ARCHIVIST: Have I steered you wrong so far? BASIRA: I don’t know, do I? We haven’t actually found her yet. ARCHIVIST: We’re getting closer. BASIRA: Great. […] ARCHIVIST: Great. Well, in that case, shall we move on? BASIRA: After you. ARCHIVIST: … Right. […] BASIRA: … Can we move on, now? ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] Yes. I believe we can. This way.

From being distrustful of Jon to… being way more humble about it, and accepting that he knows what he’s doing and that it’s in her interest, too. From being suspicious and defensive, to cautious and strategic, to confiding and relying on him.

- Overall, I’m “!!” because this episode… managed to sell me on Daisy’s death, while I was really dubious about it?

I was pre-emptively a bit disappointed about the possibility of Daisy coming back as a Hunt beast just to get killed, because I felt that it was a bit pointless to make it drag for so long, while she… could have died on her terms in MAG158 instead. But here, where to reach Daisy, in order to fulfil her promise, Basira has to see, process and acknowledge the harm Daisy had caused and that she had herself enabled? It works for me! It finally unlocks Basira’s own development, that I was hoping for; it’s sad as hell; and it’s not portrayed as Daisy’s punishment or retribution. It’s about both acknowledging the harm and damage Daisy had caused (as the process to be able to catch up to her), and about respecting Daisy as an individual who was capable of growth, exercised it, was aware of the wrong she had done and firmly owned up to it, and didn’t want to return to that life – but was forced to by a power too big and crushing, and circumstances playing against her. It’s not done as an act of hate or revenge, or because Daisy’s crimes are too heavy for her to be allowed to live. It’s not a death sentence. It’s both about acknowledging Daisy’s crimes and how she had wrecked people’s lives, how she had been allowed and enabled to unleash her violence and unfairness, how Basira had willingly decided to ignore most of Daisy’s actions, and it’s because Daisy didn’t want to be a “sadistic predator” again, and asked Basira to stop her, respecting the fact that Daisy had improved as a person (to the point that she knew she couldn’t ask for “forgiveness”). So, I’m relieved about how things are heading: it’s sad as fuck, I’m going to be miserable, but so far, things sound incredibly satisfying, narratively?

(We know that The Eye might influence Jon to only see the worse or more painful side of things, so I’m not entirely ruling out that there could be a surprise, Martin doing something, or Annabelle, or Georgie&Melanie appearing with a solution? But I doubt it: I’m satisfied with the explanations given, how we’re prepared to say goodbye to Daisy, how respectful it is both of her victims and of her awareness of the harm she had caused, leading to her decision to be better… So, really, I’m fine. Crying in advance but FINE.)

MAG179’s title screams “Basira!” (but could technically apply to Annabelle or Helen, or Jon himself…). I’m not sure Daisy is getting killed this episode, but we might get a whiff of her? Or a cliff-hanger about her towards the end?

Domain-wise, mm… Could be a pause like MAG167, could be Hunt or Slaughter, Corruption? (It does feel like an anti-Lonely title, mostly!)

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watarigarasu · 4 years

Text

May 21st – Angel/Demon AU

Lyn’s Writing Event

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Word count: 1,791

Warnings: None

Author’s note: None

The cathedral was empty, not a single soul wandering through its halls since at least thousand of years. It was a corpse, a memorial of what it have been once, the mere shadow of whispered prayers still lingering on the high pillars which did not have to support anything—the whole wooden roof gone long ago, rotting with the benches on the ground. The most bizarre thing about this place, however, was how quiet it was, as if with the first step inside the ruins all the sounds from the surrounding forest were disappearing behind the glass wall, trapping everyone who dared to come closer.

And it was cold, much colder than the frozen earth, covered with the thin layer of snow.

When you first approached the abandoned building, you thought that it must have been a sign. A very obvious, flashing red sign saying that you should never get inside, under no circumstances. The stink of death was present in every corner and it was exactly that, which led you to this place, walking around the woods until you have finally found the source of the disturbing energy. Perhaps human’s eyes could not spot it, but you saw the cathedral very clearly and you could imagine how did it look like when it was still a house of God.

Crossing the threshold, you let your gaze wander over the pillars covered in wild ivy, over an open roof where you could see the gray sky, over the mossy walls and empty windows. It was a sad picture, bringing back the feeling of melancholy and reminding of a passing time. Slowly, you approached the presbytery, carefully dodging the pieces of wood and rocks laying on the muddy ground and when you were finally by the steps, your attention was focused on something below your feet rather than in front of you.

The stone plate was broken to pieces, opening an entrance to the catacombs level below.

It was so dark here, you could not recognize any shapes not see the bottom, but it did not startle you, not when you could sense that the source was closer than ever before. Turning around, you quickly noticed that although the whole ruin was covered in wild plants, the hole in the ground remained untouched, not a single weed growing on the black earth.

And so, you jumped inside.

The catacombs reminded you of an old basement, wet and full of rats which were nowhere to be seen, as if there truly was only you and the endless corridors ahead. Taking a torch from your bag, you lightened the hall, mentally taking a note that this part of the building must have been never seen, considering the complete lack of any trash nor names written with colourful sprays on the walls.

Whatever lived here must have been frightening enough to keep any intruders away.

You did not know how long you were wandering through the corridors, sometimes realizing that you were walking around, the other times reaching a dead ends and turning back. Losing a track of time was your habit during the stay on Earth, still not getting used to the daily rhythm the humans considered as healthy, but the longer you were looking for, the more you were sure that the resident knew about your presence already. It could have been night outside when you finally spotted a path you did not take before and so, you went along, wondering what kind of creature you would eventually find in a place like this.

Whatever you were hoping for, the reality proved wrong in the same second you went from around the corner and saw the enormous cave—all filled with shining gold. The coins, jewelry and cutlery, the weapons and gems, all of this was reflecting a dim light of the burning fire in the torches placed by the walls. Even you, not being tempted by such a mundane goods, had to admit that the collection was impressive, bigger than anything you have ever seen in your whole life.

Your eyes automatically spotted a dark figure sitting upon the throne by the highest step of the stairs ahead of you, its gaze looming over your frame and waiting for your move. When you peeked down, to the small coin laying right next to the tip of your shoe, you could almost hear the low growl coming from the depths of its throat.

So, you thought, Greed, that is.

“What are you looking for?” The demon asked you and his baritone echoed in the cave, disappearing around the corners and remaining in your mind for a while longer than it should have.

From your perspective you could not clearly see its features but you knew that it was a man, broad and powerful, the King of his Treasure.

“I am looking for you,” you told him and in an answer received only a quiet mutter.

“What for?”

“I have realized that you have been there for quite a long time now. Your presence reached my senses far away, in the city, and if I can do it, then anybody else can find you, too. You and your treasure.”

The demon did not speak further, waiting for your explanation—or considering whether to take your words as a treat and kill you in an instant.

“I came here to offer you my help.”

He chuckled darkly and you heard the fabrics moving when he stood up from his throne, taking few steps to your direction so the light from the torches could touch his face; long hair and beard with silver strands proving that he was not some impulsive, young demon, but rather the one who could possibly watch the fall of Lucifer himself. His bright blue eyes, however, did not seem cruel nor furious, but rather surprisingly calm and utterly tired.

“What kind of help you can offer?” he asked and spread his arms, vaguely gesturing to the wealth all around him. “I have everything.”

You did not say out loud the first thought which came to your mind after hearing those words. Instead of considering him a blind fool, you felt the overwhelming pity.

“It is not the matter of what you have but what you need.”

He frowned. “Do not assume that you have a greater knowledge, angel. I have seen the worlds collide and being torn apart long before you were ever created. And what for?”

“I have not figured it out just yet.”

“Then perhaps there is no purpose. No aim in your existence, just another godly spark which will soon fade into the dark sky. No more remembered than me.”

Admitting the truth would mean that you had lost your arguments and gave upon his will, and it was the very last thing you wanted to happen. You came prepared, knowing that demons tended to manipulate your own fears in a way which would only make you suffer and doubt—doubt your worth, your own value and everything you called dear to your soul.

“Perhaps you are right,” you thought for a while. “Perhaps you are not. What if my purpose is exactly to be right here, standing in front of you now and giving you my hand?”

In a blink of an eye, he was right in front of you, dressed in majestic furs, the crown on his head and the unpleasant expression on his face. But the eyes—the eyes were still as bright.

And curious.

“That would be quite a waste of your existence, won’t you agree?”

“Perhaps you are right,” you repeated, a small smile appearing on your lips. “Perhaps you are not.”

The demon muttered something under his breath.

“What is your name?” you continued and watched the tough expression change, from the surprise to the disappointment.

Then, he turned his back on you and before you could react, he was sitting on his throne again, face hidden in the shadows. That must have been a wrong choice of words, since you have clearly startled or annoyed him and now you could only hope that he won’t want to get rid of you for disturbing his peace. Just when you were thinking of an excuse, maybe giving him your name or using another argument on why should he at least listen to you, his voice echoed in the cave once again, low and reminding you of an animalistic growl.

“Thorin.”

You nodded, speechless. It was a tiny step forward but it was still better than none. You smiled at him politely, although you could not see his reaction.

“Well then, it is nice to meet you, Thorin.” You bowed your head and introduced yourself, too. “Did you know that it is currently winter outside? There is snow all above us, white and cold, and so beautiful.”

“Are all of your kind so stubborn?” he interrupted. “Or is it just you, not taking a ‘no’ for an answer.”

“You have never said ‘no’, Thorin,” you stated. “And if you will, then I will leave you alone. But the question is, if you really want me to.”

There was a silence between you two, all the treasure long forgotten, since something else seemed to catch the demon’s attention.

“You do not see me as a monster.” His voice was now barely a whisper. “You are different than the others.”

As if someone poked you on the shoulder, you turned your head back and spotted the various bones grotesquely piling up by the wall, some of them still freshly white but mostly rusty, dry brown—all shattered to pieces with deadly claws and jaw, torn apart when there was still life around them. You recognized them as belonging to angels, humans and even one or two different demons, the ones who dared to try to steal from the King now damned for the whole eternity.

“I do not believe this is my place to decide on who is and who is not worthy of receiving help,” you answered, turning back to him. “I was not created to judge but to bring hope.”

“And do you truly believing there is still any hope for an old fool?”

“What I believe in has nothing to do with it. It is all the matter of whether you will accept my hand or not and only then I could do my best in bringing you back.”

The demon was quiet, lost in thoughts for so long that you started to think that it has been whole centuries since you came down there. When he eventually spoke, his voice was calm, the slight tremble of anticipation causing the goosebumps to appear on your skin.

“Tell me more about the snow outside.”

#lyn's writing event #thorin oakenshield #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin #thorin x reader #the hobbit

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yesloverboy · 4 years

Text

Baby You’re a Haunted House (Iwan Rheon!Mick Mars x Reader)

Requested: Anon

“Hi! Could you do a Mick Mars one shot where Mick and the reader are really close friends and they’re watching a scary movie at his house and she’s scared so he lets her stay over. And she has trouble sleeping so she sneaks into his room and they both awkwardly admit they like each other?”

note: finally, after an arduous hiatus brought upon by school, I have a new little request to add to the library. I’m a little rusty so I hope it’s up to par. I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m glad y’all have stuck around. :’) (also if anyone wants to change their taglist preferences, lmk)

word count: 3,219

[no warnings! just two idiots in love!]

tags: @lauravic, @lululovesgwtw, @kingbouji3, @oldschoolimagineblog, @thecrue, @colsonbakersnoseringmain

To say you had a stressful week would be an understatement. Despite your best efforts to hold it together, things just seemed to go completely wrong of their own accord. You burnt your toast at breakfast, found an angry pink parking ticket on your windshield, and spent the entirety of your day working your fingers to the bone. It could have been your sour mood, or the melodramatic attitude you had developed since waking up that morning– but the day seemed completely and utterly cursed.

Even as you leave your shift, you can’t help but stare bitterly at the sun as it dips lazily into the horizon, wondering what exactly you did to make everything feel so shitty. It’s a Friday for Christ’s sake and it seems as though you hadn’t even gotten the opportunity to look forward to the weekend, let alone make plans.

Speaking of Fridays, you think, eyes flitting down to the watch dangling loosely from your wrist. The hands point toward 6:45, making it known that you are running incredibly and unbelievably late. Flustered, you sprint to your car, keys jingling noisily between your fingers. You should have left at least half an hour ago, but there had been so much going on at work that you lost track of time.

“Shit!” you exclaim, jamming your key into the ignition and speeding recklessly out of the parking lot. Tires screech against the asphalt as a cloud of dust erupts from behind you, settling only when you skid out onto the open road. The sky quickly shifts from honey orange to dusky purple as you retreat from the glittering lights of the city, instantly becoming more relaxed at the sight of sparse houses and distant mountains.

You and your best friend, Mick, have a Friday night tradition of staying in and watching movies while the rest of his friends– and bandmates –go out to wreak havoc on the remaining population of Los Angeles. Mick is similar to you in a lot of ways; you’re both the strong and silent type, usually only speaking when spoken and always responding with a biting comment. The two of you met in a record store off Sunset Boulevard, quickly bonding over your love for the emerging metal scene and your hatred for cheap glam rock. Nothing was ever smoke and mirrors with Mick– no, he was raw and honest. Something you admire far more than you’re willing to admit.

Fingers tightening around the steering wheel, you suppress the feeling of your heart twitching excitedly against your ribs. You aren’t sure what’s been up with you lately, but every time you’ve seen Mick these past few weeks your heart has begun to skip along to an unknown rhythm. This new sensation makes you grit your teeth in frustration. Mick is your best friend, you have no reason to feel anxious around him. Right?

Typically, when something abnormal is going on in your life, your first instinct is to tell Mick, but you already know this isn’t the kind of conversation you’re prepared to have with him. These days, it feels as though Mick is the only person you can really be yourself around and you can’t imagine jeopardizing your friendship for the sake of talking about your feelings, of all things.

With a heavy sigh, you pull into the sloping curve of Mick’s driveway, hoping the walk to his doorstep will be just enough time to get your head back on your shoulders. You rap on his door with a heavy hand, listening to the sound of crickets thrumming softly in the distance. It’s times like this where you find yourself thankful that Mick decided to move outside of the Los Angeles city limits. Sure, the drive is long and the daytime traffic could be excruciating, but there’s at least some semblance of stillness in the air.

Mick pulls open the door, greeting you with a soft smile and bright eyes. Rather than wondering what took you so long, he gives your disheveled appearance a once over and simply asks, “Long day?”

You nod, the fatigued slump in your shoulders only getting heavier as Mick motions for you to step inside. Abandoning your jacket and keys by the door, you flop onto Mick’s plush sofa with a content groan.

“Sorry I’m late,” you mumble, voice partially muffled by the pillow pressed firmly against your cheek. At this point, you had been over to Mick’s place so many times that it was slowly starting to feel like your own. You roll on your side, arms cradling the side of your head as you gaze upward with glassy eyes.

Mick just chuckles and lifts your legs so that he can sit underneath them, allowing your calves to rest comfortably in his lap. His fingers ghost the exposed skin of your ankle, making your breath hitch uncomfortably in your throat. The gesture is so familiar and yet, you can’t help but feel as though it were the first time. To your relief, Mick doesn’t seem to take note of your sudden uneasiness, and instead picks up a video tape from the glass coffee table in front of you.

“I rented A Nightmare on Elm Street,” Mick grins, “you seen it yet?”

You sit up, eyebrows knitted in concentration as you study the tape, unsurprised to see that it’s a horror movie. The cover art depicts a young girl staring entranced at a set of knife-like fingers as they hover menacingly above her head. The guys in Mick’s band often joked about him being some kind of ghoul or vampire, and his love for the spooky and supernatural really didn’t help his case.

“Another slasher, Mickey?” you tease, shoving at his shoulders playfully. Just last week the two of you spent the night watching My Bloody Valentine, all the while jeering and laughing at every ridiculous mistake that the characters made. At this point, it may as well be a Friday night tradition.

Mick rolls his eyes, “Come on, Y/N. It’s not just a regular, old slasher. This guy is supposed to come after you to haunt your dreams and shit.”

“What? You sick of me haunting yours?”

“Never,” Mick scoffs, flinging your legs to the side so he can get up and feed the tape into the VHS player. “Not if it’s you.”

For the umpteenth time that evening, your heart leaps.

...

As it turns out, Mick was right, it wasn’t just a silly slasher movie– it was a fucking terrifying slasher movie. By the time that the television screen faded to black and the credits began to roll, you hardly noticed the way your body had wrapped around itself in terror. Gripping the blanket across your lap, you jump as the dark living room becomes illuminated in pale, yellow light. You peer behind a wall of couch cushions to see Mick lurking by the lightswitch with a smirk dancing on his lips.

“Jesus, Y/N, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were scared,” Mick grins, his expression infuriatingly smug.

You feel your face grow hot as your heart hammers noisily in your chest, a mixture of embarrassment and frustration bubbling from within.

“I wasn’t scared,” you insist, “I was just–just, uh, startled is all. Long day, remember?” Gesturing to your blanket enshrouded form, you hope that the dark circles under your eyes are enough to persuade Mick to say he’s ready for bed and leave you be.

“Speaking of long days, it’s getting pretty late. Why don’t you just crash here for the night?” Mick points to the digital clock on his mantle, the bright red numbers flashing 1:32.

You nibble on your lip wordlessly, trying your best to ignore the feeling of butterfly wings tickling your stomach and climbing into your throat. Mick has a point, it is getting late. However, in all your time as friends, Mick had never once invited you to stay over. Would this change things? Could it change things?

“Um, Earth to Y/N?” Mick steps over to your place on the couch a waves an impatient hand in front of your face, making you jolt upright. “What’s the matter? Freddy got your tongue?”

“You little shit, I swear to God I am not scared–!” your tangent is interrupted as a clap of thunder rumbles from somewhere outside the window, the panes rattling and shaking in protest.

A dramatic yelp escapes your lips before you have time to rationalize what’s happening, making Mick double over in laughter. With trembling hands, you pull the blanket up over your head in an attempt to shroud your humiliation from Mick’s taunting eyes.

“F-fine, you win!” you relent, voice muffled beneath the quilted fabric.

Mick pulls the blanket away from your face, his dark blue eyes glittering with amusement. “Guess we’re having a slumber party after all.”

“If you wanted a sleepover, you could’ve just asked instead of scaring the fuck out of me. We could have braided each other’s hair by now,” you grumble bitterly.

“Better luck next time, I guess,” Mick flicks off the lightswitch with a devious grin, leaving you enveloped in darkness, “Sleep tight, and don’t let the interdimensional sleep demons bite…”

“Oh fuck off,” you squeak, uneasiness creeping on you as Mick leaves you alone in the blackness of his living room. Living closer to the city’s epicentre, you can’t even remember a time it was this dark in your apartment, let alone right outside the window.

Bundling yourself into a tight cocoon, you try to let the rare patter of California raindrops soothe you into unconsciousness. Just as the fuzziness of sleep starts to curl around your weary mind, another clap of thunder rattles through the walls of Mick’s house, your eyes snapping open in fright. You attempt to regulate your frantic breaths, chanting sweet nothings of normalcy and security to no one in particular. But, no matter what you do, nothing seems to unprickle the hairs standing rigidly on the back of your neck.

Rolling over, you decide to face the room in the hopes that your tired eyes will eventually adjust to the darkness. The shadows seem to squirm and shift as your spine tingles with paranoia, making you curse yourself for ever agreeing to stay in the first place. You groan internally when you realize that, in the time you’ve spent anxious on the sofa, you probably could have made it home by now.

Goddammit, Mick.

Ignoring the oppressive movement of the shadows, your eyes wander toward the hallway. The position you have on the couch gives you a direct view of where the curve of the hall snakes into the door of Mick’s bedroom. More than anything, you wish he had stayed out in the living room with you rather than retreating to the confines of his bedroom. It would have been completely unfair to ask that of Mick considering it’s his house, but you can’t help it. You hadn’t been this afraid of the dark since you were a kid and, as far as you knew, Mick wasn’t scared of anything.

The longer you lay scrunched up on the couch, the more tempted you are to just barge into Mick’s room and see whether or not he’s still awake. Minutes feel like hours as you debate the odds of Mick being mad–or worse, weirded out–at the sight of his best friend shaking him awake in the middle of the night. If Mick were having the same problem you probably wouldn’t be upset, right? Then again, there was a better chance of hell freezing over than Mick actually being afraid of the dark.

Deciding you can’t handle being alone a second longer, you swiftly untangle yourself from the comforting embrace of your blanket cocoon and place your bare feet on the cool, wooden floor. Shivering slightly, you hug your arms around your shoulders protectively and pad toward Mick’s bedroom, a nervous lump knotting in the back of your throat.

You approach the white door apprehensively, wondering for a brief moment if testing your friendship like this is even worth it. With a hefty sigh, you abandon all caution and pull the door open, a soft breeze rushing forward and tickling your face from the sudden movement. Heart thudding unceremoniously in your chest, you find yourself faced with the sight of your best friend sleeping soundly in a tangle of black velvet bedsheets.

Lying flat on his back with arms crossed securely over his chest, Mick slept like the dead, looking just as peaceful and twice as forbidden to disturb. A soft smile ghosts your lips at the sight of Mick looking so unwound and at rest. He was always a high-strung individual, that much is true, and watching him sleep so soundly made all your anxieties from earlier feel unbelievably not worth the effort. The realization that Mick’s face alone is enough to settle your nerves makes your heart hammer out a strangled pulse of adoration, twisting your stomach into a knot.

Inching away slowly, you decide that it’s probably for the best if you just saunter back to the couch and squash your feelings. Mick deserves a good night’s rest, not a lovesick best friend who is becoming blindsided by her feelings. Cursing your heart for being so fixated on the trivial human need for intimacy, you take a step back and immediately bump right into Mick’s dresser.

“Fuck,” you hiss as the dresser’s wooden frame trembles noisily against the floor.

To your horror, the man in front of you begins to stir. Raising balled fists to his eyes, he wipes away the sleep and glances over to the source of the sound in a haze of weary confusion. Your heart plummets to the ground as his eyes find yours in the darkness.

“...Y/N?” he mumbles, as he rises stiffly from his pile of blankets like a mummy from a sarcophagus. “Am I dreaming?”

“I was just leaving,” you squeak, hoping beyond hope that Mick would be tired enough to think nothing of his best friend suddenly creeping into his room in the middle of the night. Turning on your heel, you attempt to reach for the door knob but are immediately halted by the sound of Mick’s voice.

“Wait–” Mick calls out, his voice faint, “stay.”

You suck in a breath, grateful that the cover of night conceals the cherry red flush of your cheeks. Taking a tentative step forward, you find your fingertips gingerly clinging to the cool metal of the doorknob in worry. Swallowing the lump in your throat, it feels as though you might be the one dreaming.

“Mickey, look, I can explain, I, uh–I was just…” you stumble over the words of your confession, eyes now well-adjusted enough to see Mick’s expression go soft, almost as if he were concealing a smile.

Mick chuckles at your embarrassment, his gravelly voice making your heart flutter involuntarily. “You were scared, weren’t you?’

“Yeah,” you sigh, not bothering to dig an even deeper hole, “I guess I was.”

Staring down at your bare feet, you allow a beat of silence to pass between the two of you. Mick says nothing, only stares, and for a moment you squirm at the thought that you may have overstayed your welcome. The thought alone is enough to make you cringe.

Mick clears his throat, startling you out of your compulsive rumination. Peering up like a scolded child, you watch him scoot toward the far end of the mattress and straighten out his wrinkled duvet with a lazy hand.

“Well don’t just stand there,” he grins, “get in.”

“Seriously?”

Mick rolls his eyes and pats the empty space for emphasis, “Yes, seriously. Freddy can’t get ya so long as you’re with me– scout’s honor.”

“As if you were a fucking boy scout,” you snort, unable to let your previous feelings of shame conceal the utter ridiculousness of the present situation. Here you are standing at the bedside of your best friend with a bleeding heart, and he’s already prepared to bandage you back up.

“But it’s the thought that counts, right? Now hurry your ass up, I want to get back to sleep.”

Your feet seem to propel you forward of their own accord and, before your neurotic brain can shift into overdrive, you’re already nestling into Mick’s bedsheets. You hum comfortably, the velvet still warm from where he had been sleeping. Every inch of the fabric smells of him, and it takes the last shred of your willpower to not just let your feelings leak straight out of your mouth and onto deaf ears.

“That’s easy for you to say, Mickey,” you tease weakly, “you’ve never been scared of anything.”

“I get scared sometimes,” Mick confesses, “I just wouldn’t want you to ever think differently of me because of it.”

You don’t need to see Mick’s face to know that he’s frowning.

Emboldened by his sudden admission of vulnerability, you turn on your side to face him. Mick’s eyes are fixed firmly on the ceiling, as if all the answers to life’s deepest, darkest questions could be etched somewhere in the popcorned pattern.

“W-what do you mean?” you meant to sound confident, but your voice comes out as barely more than a whisper.

To your disbelief, Mick turns over as well, his deep blue eyes shining through the shadowy bedroom like the frothy caps of a stormy sea. You can practically feel your heart reaching out to him, begging to pull you under and keep you there.

Mick’s hand finds yours somewhere beneath the velvet sheets and gives you a gentle squeeze, his warm palm enveloping your cold one in an instant.

“There’s something I want to say but I’m afraid…” he whispers, voice as delicate as spun sugar, “...I’m afraid I’ll lose you if I do, and I don’t wanna lose you.”

For a moment all you can do is blink, your mind reeling from the implications of what your best friend may or may not be admitting to you. You know that you need to say something quick, but your tongue turns to sand in your mouth.

Mick’s hand still entwined with yours, you take the opportunity to move in closer. Slowly you close the gap between the two of you, leaving nothing but the space reserved for the halo of mutual body heat forming around your place in the sheets.

“I think I know what you mean,” you bring Micks hand to your chest and let the frantic pulse of your heart do all the talking.

Without warning, Mick gives you a gentle kiss on the nose. The touch is so faint, you’re almost worried you may have imagined it.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah, Mickey?”

“I think I love you.”

Your free hand rests gingerly on your best friend’s cheek, and for the first time that night you find yourself unafraid of what comes next. His face is red hot to the touch, and you wonder if anyone else knew Mick could be so warm.

“You sure you’d want to do a crazy thing like that?”

Mick just chuckles and shakes his head, “Nothing feels crazy when I’m with you.”

“Then I guess I’m just gonna have to love you, too.”

#hello!#i'm kind of back for now #sorry to be so shit #the dirt #the dirt requests #motley crue imagine #motley crue oneshot #motley crue #mick mars #tommy lee #nikki sixx #vince neil #iwan rheon #80s #80s rock #the dirt netflix

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chocafe · 5 years

Text

the rhythms of summer — lee eunsang

summary: eunsang isn’t like the other spirits. one touch of the human skin will cause him to obliterate into the summer haze, and that’s enough to frighten you and your love for him. genre: romance, angst, fantasy, friends to lovers word count: 4.3k a/n: inspired by the animation movie, hotarubi no mori e.

Eunsang is everything the world admires. He is the bittersweet aroma of coffee beans. He is the warmth that summer possess. He is the hope that everyone longs for. He is simply everything. However, he is not human.

“Eunsang, are you out there?” You call out into the empty forest, gliding your bare hands against the rusty tree trunks.

“I’m here!” Eunsang says with excitement as he magically pops up in front of your eyes.

“Oh my gosh! You scared the living out of me!” No matter how many times you meet Eunsang, you will never get used to him popping in and out whenever he pleases to. Sometimes, you wished that he could walk normal like others, but then you remembered, he isn’t normal ─ Eunsang isn’t even a proper human being. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that little quirk of yours.”

His lips stretch into a smile and you’re sure it was the prettiest thing you have ever seen. “That’s what happens when you’re friends with a spirit like me.”

“I’m friends with a spirit that I can only see in the summer.” You notice how Eunsang’s smile quickly disappears by your comment. “B-But you’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for! Seeing you in the summer is the highlight of my year!” In between each word, your voice trembles as you try your best to bring up Eunsang’s confidence and liveliness.

“You really think so?”

“I know for sure.” You take your hand to wipe the sweat off of your forehead. It sure is hot in the summer. “It’s wonderful that this forest is right next to my grandparents house, but is hours away from my actual house in the city. Maybe when I get older, I can get a job over in this area, just so I can see you whenever I want to.”

“I would really like that.”

Actually, Eunsang would love that.

Your and Eunsang’s happiness was measured in the amount of laughters you two shared and the amount of days spent in the hazy summer season.

There’s something about Eunsang that soothes your heart. You don’t know how he does it and what it is about him. What you do know is that he’s purely the epitome of comfort.

Ever since you shared how you’ve been encountering endless numbers of sleepless nights, Eunsang begins to sing you a serene lullaby, causing you to fall asleep within the open meadow field. Despite always being eager to see you, Eunsang doesn’t mind the fact that you’re sleeping when you should be spending time with him. He cares for your overall well-being and if sleep is what seems the best for you, then he’ll choose that over swimming laps in the river.

Within the time being, Eunsang manages to braid the stems of flowers together to form a handmade floral bracelet. “All done!” He shouts in excitement, only to immediately close his mouth right after as he remembers that you’re sleeping peacefully beside him. Rather than continuing his conversation with himself, he chooses to smile instead because he’s extremely excited to show you the bracelet he had made for you.

He takes a quick moment to look at you and ends up staring at your face for a whole minute. Were humans always this pretty when they were sleeping? Were you always this pretty when you were sleeping? His heart skips a beat and he wants to remember this image of you forever.

Oh, how Eunsang wishes he had the ability to see you every single season, every day, every minute and every second; But the two of you were only limited to seeing one another in the summer.

Eunsang wants to watch you underneath the spring cherry blossom trees. He wants to jump on dried leaves and drink seasonal pumpkin spice lattes with you. He wants to play out in the angelic snow and perhaps, kiss you underneath the mistletoe.

“What are you thinking?” Eunsang questions as he lightly slaps himself in the face, trying his best to stop all of the upcoming thoughts of passionately kissing you. Nevertheless, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop imagining as his cheeks flush into a peachy shade of embarrassment.

Once more, he gazes right back at you and then at your lips.

“Y/N is sleeping, so they won’t know.” Eunsang thinks as he hovers his face above yours.

The urge to kiss you takes over Eunsang’s body as there was only a five centimeter gap in between your lips and his very own lips. He was so close, yet so far.

He pulls himself back to his original sitting position. “I can’t.” There was a certain heaviness in his heart, but a marked lightness in his soft tone of voice.

Eunsang can’t kiss you.

He can’t even lay a single finger on you.

One touch of the human skin and Eunsang will obliterate into the dying hot sun.

It’s not funny, but Eunsang awkwardly laughs and it rings through his bones like an unwanted phone call. “Why would you even try, you idiot.” He takes a big deep breath before sighing.

As he proceeds to drown himself in daydreams, he soon hears the sounds of you whimpering in your sleep. Sweat is dripping down your skin, your breathing pattern becomes peculiar, and Eunsang is terrified at the sight. You must be having a nightmare.

“Y/N.” Eunsang constantly calls out your name. “Y/N, wake up!”

No matter how loud he screams out, it wouldn’t be loud enough for you to wake up. In a rush, Eunsang speedily grabs a piece of wood and hits your open forehead. It was his last resort and the only thing he could potentially think of in a nervous state like his.

Your dream cuts to an end without receiving a proper ending roll credit and you wake up in pain. You were dazed, confused, head throbbing and the first thing you wanted to do was to yell at Eunsang in pure furiousness. “What is your problem? Why would you hit me with a stick while I’m sleeping?”

“Y-You” His voice began to shake since he wasn’t used to you yelling at him. “You were shaking in your sleep. It seemed like you were having a nightmare, so I thought it would be better to wake you up instead of letting you suffer.”

“You could’ve just called out my name instead, you know.”

“I did. I tried, multiple times.”

You couldn’t help, but to compare Eunsang to your mother. On the mornings where you’re too tired to wake up, your mother would barge into your room and profusely shake your arm until you were wide awake. Eunsang isn’t like your mother because your mother is human and Eunsang is a spirit who could not touch a single soul.

He’s different and you’re sorry.

It takes you a moment to realize that he couldn’t physically touch you to wake you up. “I’m sorry for getting angry when you were merely trying to help me.” The tone of your voice suddenly changes as you become apologetic in the snap of a finger.

“Hey, it’s okay!” Eunsang isn’t the type to hold grudges. “Do you remember what you were dreaming of?”

“Yeah, I do.” You scratch the back of your neck due to feeling uncomfortable because of the so-called dream that felt way too real.

“What was it? Was it a nightmare? Actually, you don’t need to tell me about it if it’s a little traumatizing.”

Moments before, you had dreamt of Eunsang disappearing into the void. It’s a constant nightmare of yours that remains to shake you to the core.

You don’t have the heart to genuinely tell Eunsang your biggest fear, so you tell him a white lie. “It was the worst nightmare. I dreamt that I was back at school and there was suddenly a test I didn’t study for!”

Eunsang tilts his head and raises an eyebrow that says really? Either you’re lying or you seriously hate school, and Eunsang chooses to believe the second option.

“Oh! Since you’re up─” He grabs a hold of the flower bracelet he made while you were asleep. “Look at what I made for you!”

Naturally, you brought your wrist to Eunsang as he began to place the bracelet on you, avoiding any skin contact with a bright smile on his face.

In a generation like yours, many people seem to adore materialistic gifts instead of gifts that truly come from the heart. You, on the other hand, would take the beautiful mother nature gifts Eunsang surprises you with than anything else in the world.

“It’s really pretty!” You comment.

You’re prettier, Eunsang thinks to himself, but giggles as a vocal response.

“I love these type of gifts from you, I really do.” You raise your wrist into the sky, so you can look at the beautiful bracelet and the bouncy white clouds, together, as one. “This just reminded me how you always used to pick out four leaf clovers for me in the past. We could be running down the hill, but once you see a clover, you would stop and place it behind my ear.” The nostalgic memories you shared with him began to play in your head like a movie.

“Ah, I forgot!” Eunsang swiftly stands up on his two feet. “Throughout the seasons, I’ve been collecting all of the four leaf clovers I’ve been coming across, precisely so I can give them to you once you visit!”

He runs off into the forest, telling you that it won’t take him too long to retrieve them all. You don’t mind waiting in the meadow because you’re too busy admiring the bracelet and the four leaf clover you had stuck behind your clear phone case.

Not even a minute passes by and you hear rustling noises behind the green bushes. “Eunsang, you’re back!” You say, only to turn around and lay eyes upon a slender cat-eye like man. “Wooseok?”

His facial expression was serious and the atmosphere he gave off was mysterious, but once you stated his name, he broke character like a shattered glass. “Wait, you know who I am?”

“Of course! Eunsang loves talking about you all and he mentioned a few times that you were very good looking, so I can only guess that you’re Wooseok out of everyone.” Rather than being afraid that you were meeting a spirit, you were more than happy to know that you were having a conversation with a friend of Eunsang’s.

“He isn’t wrong, I am pretty good looking.” Wooseok brushes his delicate fingers through his hair, but abruptly stops himself as he recollects as to why he originally wants to speak to you. “Listen, I need to speak to you, but it’s pretty hard to find you without Eunsang by your side.”

Wooseok makes his way towards you and grabs you by the chin, something full spirits were capable of doing. “Don’t you dare lay a finger on Eunsang. He isn’t like the rest of us and if you’re the reason he disappears then─”

Before Wooseok could continue on, you cut him off by slowly pulling his hand off of you. “I know everything, so don’t worry about it.”

Indeed. You knew everything about Eunsang and maybe that’s why the two of you were the greatest friends you both could ever wish for.

Eunsang wasn’t like the other spirits that roamed around the forest. He isn’t a monster, but he sure isn’t human anymore. Eunsang was merely a human child who was abandoned in the forest. He was destined to die, but every forest spirit took sympathy for him and used all of their magic to keep him alive. A body like Eunsang’s is weak as he solely depends on magic to keep himself alive. With one touch of the human skin, he will vanish as he’s just as fragile as the winter snow.

“So, you know everything?” Wooseok’s voice lowers down due to his surprise for your knowledge.

“Yes, I know everything. Despite you threatening me, I know that you and the others are all to kind to even harm a human being like me.” Wooseok was ethereally pretty, but his personality said otherwise. “I know you all think of him as a little brother, and to me, he’s my friend. We all don’t want to lose him, so trust me, I’m going to make sure Eunsang won’t be gone anytime soon.”

Wooseok opens his mouth and then immediately shuts it close as he hears the distant sounds of Eunsang running through the forest. At a time like this, he’s incapable of saying anything more because if Eunsang found out that Wooseok tried to scare you, then Eunsang would finally blow up and might even ignore Wooseok for the rest of eternity. Wooseok decides to vanish into the air because the thought of Eunsang hating him sends shivers down his spine.

Eunsang comes running back, out of breath, with a basket filled with tiny four leaf clovers. The sight of Eunsang is enough for your lips to creep into a smile and he does the very same right back at you.

Four leaf clovers are lucky, unlike Eunsang.

However, Eunsang is lucky enough to have met you and you’re just as lucky enough to have met him too.

“Hey, Y/N.” Eunsang clears his throat and stares off into the radius, refusing to make eye contact with you. “Hold onto this stick.”

“The same stick you hit me with earlier?” You look up at Eunsang and notice that he was flushed with a scarlet shade appearing all throughout his face.

Oh? Is this embarrassment? Nervousness? Shyness? Every single emotion combined?

Not only did you notice the fact that Eunsang was blushing, but you acknowledge that this is his way of asking to hold your hand. Without saying anything more, you grab onto the other end of the stick as the two of you walked besides one another.

Even though you were happy, you still felt a sharp pain inside of your heart. This had reminded you that you and Eunsang will never be able to be together. You will never get to be held in his embrace. You will never get to see him outside of summer. You will never get to properly experience love with Eunsang.

The river is lukewarm, but that doesn’t stop you and Eunsang from dipping your toes in the water. The sun is being eaten up by the sky and once more, you’re reminded that summer and your time with Eunsang is coming to an end.

“Have you ever been in love?” You randomly blurt out, kicking your feet as small specks of water splash onto your face.

“Excuse me?” Eunsang chokes up because he was never ready for a question like this. “Why do you want to know?”

“Is it my fault that I want to know whether or not my friend has fallen in love before? Come on, tell me about it!”

He hesitates before responding back. “I can’t tell you.”

Eunsang can’t tell you the true answer to your question because he fell in love with you and is still in love.

“Don’t want to tell me? Then I’ll tell you the story of how I fell in love.” It might take Eunsang years to gather up the courage to tell you about his love life, but it only took you a mere second for you to want to tell him about yours.

“Huh? You’ve been in love before? You’ve never mentioned it before.” Eunsang’s eyes widens as he’s almost frozen with shock, modestly hurt that you’ve fallen in love with someone who surely isn’t him.

“I met him in the summer heat five years ago. At first, I thought of it as a small crush since I was so young and naive at that time, but as I grew older, my feelings became even stronger than before.” You looked off into the sunset with a slight grin. “I realized that I’ve been in love since the very start and I still am in love with this person.”

He laughs softly, but thinks somewhere inside of him must be the sound of his heart breaking. “That person sure is lucky to be loved by you.”

“Yup, you sure are lucky.”

Eunsang quickly turns his head towards you and it takes him a second to process what you had just said. He’s in disbelief, and yet, he doesn’t need you to say it twice because he heard you clearly the first time.

“I’m sorry.” Are the only words that roll off his tongue.

What are you saying? You’re absolutely in love with Y/N, Eunsang thinks, but somehow doesn’t say it.

“It’s okay.” From the very start, you were prepared for Eunsang to reject you. The two of you were never meant to be with each other to begin with. “You don’t need to love me back.”

But I do love you back, He doesn’t say anything.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry.” He repeats himself. “I’m sorry that I can’t properly love you like other humans.”

What does he mean?

You’re still not sure how he feels about you.

Nevertheless, the two of you sit there in silence, feet in the water, staring at the sunset like it’s the rising tide.

The countryside differs so much from the city life you’re used to. Unlike the city, the countryside is dark with not much people in sight once the moon emerges into the night sky.

Maybe it was Eunsang’s urge to protect you or maybe it was his need to spend as much time as he possibly could with you; But after every time the two of you hang out, Eunsang would walk with you all the way to the end of the forest, so you could walk back to your grandparent’s house in peace. Ever since you met Eunsang, you’re not an ounce afraid of the lightless forest. However, you still allow Eunsang to walk with you, each and every time, because you love having him by your side.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

The only sounds you hear are the footsteps of yours and Eunsangs, and the four leaf clovers shifting around in the basket you were holding.

As you continued to walk through the forest, there was a sudden tug at the bottom of your shirt. You turn around, only to find Eunsang holding on while he stared directly at the ground. “Eunsang, what’s wrong?”

“I’m so sorry. It brings me so much pain.” He grips even tighter onto your shirt, wishing he was holding you instead.

“What are you talking about?”

“I want to experience being in love so badly, but I only want to if I’m with you.”

He wants to be real ─ For you.

Eunsang takes one step closer and that’s enough for you to snag your shirt away and take five steps away from him. “What is wrong with you? Remember, we need to keep a distance between us.” Your heart is rapidly beating, not because you’re in love, but because you’re frightened at the fact that Eunsang is putting his life at the line. “Don’t be irrational!”

“That’s exactly it.” He brings his head up and there’s tears flooding the whites of his eyes. “I’m sick and tired of this distance between us. Don’t you know how badly I want to be with you?”

You could see how desperate Eunsang was and you’ve never seen him in a state like this before. Seeing tears fall down from his eyes caused you to freeze up and become speechless at the moment.

“Y/N, I love you.”

Eunsang doesn’t need to think twice.

He is certain that he is in love with you.

There are times where Eunsang would long for you in the autumn, winter and spring. There are times where he wants to spend time with you and do nothing, but run into a field and pick out every flower that he deems as beautiful as you. There are times where you tell him stories of your city life, because you know how bored he could get in this lonely forest. There are times where Eunsang wishes it was only you and him on Earth. Each of these moments were when Eunsang strongly feels his love for you, and he loves realizing it every time. Falling in love with you makes him feel more like a human than he will ever be.

“You know, I love you too.” You remind Eunsang once more and it falls out of your mouth as easy as reciting the alphabet.

“Then, may I kiss you?” He takes a few steps closer to you, breaking the forbidden gap.

“You shouldn’t.” You say with quivering lips.

“But I want to.”

The basket of four leaf clovers crash onto the ground.

In a matter of seconds, Eunsang presses his soft lips against yours and finally has the power to wrap his arms around you, holding you tightly in his embrace. He doesn’t want this kiss to end and he never wants to stop holding you, but everything has an expiration date, including him.

You were completely unprepared for the kiss, but that didn’t stop you from passionately kissing him back. You would think that after all the summers you’ve spent with Eunsang ─ watching him talk, laugh, smile ─ that you would know all there is about him and his lips. With him being a spirit, you’ve never imagined his lips being this warm pressed against your very own.

The kiss ends as soon as the two of you feel your tears combine into one.

“Are you out of your mind?” You scream out loud, but not loud enough as your tears were powerful enough to fill you up.

“Are you out of your mind? For falling in love with a spirit like me?” Eunsang places his hand onto the side of your face, bringing both of your foreheads together, so they can touch and lean against one another. “How silly must I be for also loving you?”

Is this what it feels like to experience love? Eunsang is glad he can finally let you live through this, but despite being glad, he begins to think how much he’s going to miss your warmth.

Eunsang detects that it’s too difficult for you to speak with tears spilling down your cheeks. He takes a long, deep breath, as his fingers and voice trembles all at once. “I’ve always loved being with you. Every single time, I felt like I was alive. Y/N, you make me feel alive and I want to thank you so much for that.”

Parts of Eunsang begins to fade away into the air and within a minute, he’ll be nothing but a figment of imagination. As your arms were wrapped around Eunsang’s waist, you can feel him become lighter and you were never prepared to say your final goodbyes to Eunsang. He was supposed to be your summer delight, not your nightmare in disguise.

“Y/N, please tell me you love me once more.”

“I love you.” You beam your eyes towards Eunsang, never wanting to forget his face. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you!”

“I love you just as much.” Eunsang manages to muster up his famous soft smile, amidst the tears that were continuously streaming down his cheeks.

It would be amazing if time finally stopped, but time doesn’t care for anyone.

“Once I’m gone, falling in love with me will feel like a dream to you.” He leaves a soft peck on your forehead and continues to wipe the tears off of your face, despite being in the same frightful state as you. “I hope that this dream has been a happy pleasant one.”

Everything hurts and you’ve never knew love could bring this much pain to the two of you.

“Eunsang, don’t say that.” In return, you kiss his lips once more. “I will never forget you and I want you to know that I was more than happy in every moment that we shared together. You’re the one who makes me happy. I─” Your tears choke you up. “I just wish we had more time. Why would you do this?”

“Because I love you.” His voice is still comforting and it will forever play in your head. “I’m so delighted to hear that you were happy in every moment we shared, even if our time together was limited to one season of the year.”

Before you could say your last goodbye to Eunsang, you feel the cold breeze hit you and you were holding nothing, but the air.

“Eunsang?” You quickly turn your body around, trying to detect your lost boy in the hidden forest. “Eunsang!”

Eunsang isn’t hiding.

He’s long gone now.

Your weak legs give up and you fall onto the ground, burying your face into the dirt. “Why does it feel like I’m suffocating?”

Spilled four leaf clovers are scattered out everywhere.

You heavily cry out loud as tears drip down from your chin. There was no Eunsang to bring you back to comfort and he wasn’t coming back anytime soon, not even at all. “Eunsang, please come back!”

There’s something mystical in your pocket and you’re unsure as to what it is. You could feel it’s light stem and when you pull it out, you lay eyes upon a four leaf clover. It was as if it was Eunsang’s last wish to give you the last four leaf clover he had picked out for you that following day.

Summer will never be the same without Eunsang.

#pls give me clout i wrote this in one sitting #eunsang scenario #eunsang imagine #x1 scenario #x1 imagine #lee eunsang #x1 #eunsang scenarios #eunsang imagines #x1 scenarios #x1 imagines #pdx101 scenario #pdx101 imagine #produce x 101 scenarios #produce x 101 imagines

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laughingpinecone · 4 years

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1140w, Teen And Up Audiences, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cabanela/Jowd Characters: Jowd, Cabanela Additional Tags: mid-chapter 9, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of past death, brooding like a chicken

@fyeahghosttrick Ghost Swap treat for dearest @siverwrites 💖💖💖

The city has changed. Under the harsh light of the full moon, death row inmate Jowd follows his captor’s lead through a maze of foreign streets. This is not his home. It does not interest him. Instead he nurses a little fantasy to keep himself busy as they walk: in his mind, he pictures Cabanela getting shot, or run over, not that there’s much traffic at this hour of the night, so that that strange ghost who wears Yomiel’s face could save him (ironically enough, all things considered). Then, and this is the important part, they could talk. Soul to soul. Imagine that. The prospect of intimacy – strange and forced, for old friends who betrayed each other and cannot talk – sends a thrill down his spine. It is a good thought to entertain, over and over.

Of course life is not that charitable. Jowd is not stupid: this little fantasy is unattainable. When the strange rules of ghosts forced him to open his heart and be honest, he was quick to see how half-truths, honest questions and untold truths could build adequate walls. Cabanela is not stupid either and would only find new ways to lie.

It would still be nice to die together, even if just for a handful of minutes.

The high rises cover the moon. Just neon and ads dotting the sky now. A man in a black suit walks to meet them across the expanse of the empty boulevard. The artificial light that falls over his pale hair paints it an unnatural white; as their gazes meet, Jowd knows at once that there is copious blood on his blue hands, and he’s out for more.

Murderer intuition: roughly the same as detective intuition, it turns out. Also, in a way, like riding a bicycle and easy to pick back up after five years of stasis.

The man’s firm polite smile widens into something unintelligible. He has a gun trained on them, hidden under his jacket in a display of modesty that does not suit the rest of him. He makes a wide gesture toward them. Cabanela rolls his eyes, lets his own gun drop to the ground and raises his hands. Jowd sees the first beats of his fantasy play out in front of his eyes and wonders whether he should feel guilty about it, for having conjured this scenario out of thin air as well as for the anticipation that’s settling in his bones.

For about five seconds, he tries to conjure a chicken, too, but reality doesn’t seem to be interested in catering to that specific desire of his and so he drops that line of thought.

It’s Cabanela who first breaks the silence. “You wound my heart, baby,” he says, with the tone of voice one usually reserves for declaring opening moves in chess.

“Everything I said was true,” replies the foreigner with the same detached fascination, more interested in what will happen six moves ahead than in the immediate aftermath.

“You said, two desseeerts.”

“Long spoons don’t fall in the bowl.”

Jowd ponders the connections that allow the sharing of a code. People making new connections while he wasn’t looking. His erstwhile best friend first and foremost.

Cabanela nods, pondering that bit of ciphered wisdom meant for him and the assassin alone. “But even they fall from the table,” he says eventually, “like thiiis.” He lets his left arm drop, snapping his fingers, and a bullet is fired.

Again: detective’s instincts, murderer’s instincts, rusty either way, but still sharp enough for Jowd to feel the change in the air before he hears the shot, which rings in his ears when he’s already jumped, already hit the ground, shielding Cabanela’s twiggy body with his own. Turns out that Jowd’s imagination can paint that white coat bloodied in painstaking detail, but when push comes to shove, his instincts disagree, or maybe his goal was to claim that bullet for himself and get his sentence now that that meddling ghost is far away. So he’s curled around Cabanela, pressing his body against the ground as the gunshot echoes and fades across the street, and he expects the pain to hit at any moment now. It’s a comforting thought. All the times he tried to climb to his freedom during the blackout and a guard put him in his place, there was an element of relief to the pain blooming in his wound. It felt like a chunk of his guilt had been shot away, as if his body had finally caught up with what the rest of him deserved, again and again, botched attempt after botched attempt.

He can still feel those deaths. But only in his memories. Seconds pass in silence and nothing changes. He breathes. His heart beats. This satisfaction is denied to him. Eventually, he raises his head.

Half a dozen feet away from them, the assassin is lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Jowd squints. He’s pictured several outcomes of this little confrontation and this doesn’t even come close to any of them.

“My coat,” grunts Cabanela from underneath him.

“That’s your first concern?”

“What eeelse?”

“No, you’re right. Can’t think of a single thing.”

“Pah. If I had to worry for every business end of a gun I’ve seen of late… please catch on, baby. Tonight is a baaattleground. I had snipers in place. Obviously. Now if you’d pleeease let me lift an arm, I’d like to signal to the boys that we’re fine here. Unless you have other plans?”

Funny thing is, for all of Cabanela’s grumbling, Jowd can’t help but notice how the man hasn’t moved a muscle to try and sneak out of his predicament. As a matter of fact, he is staying so still that he isn’t even tapping the ground to some rhythm in his head, and Jowd could swear he has never been this quiet even when (if) he falls asleep – motionless except for the slow, deep breaths he is taking against Jowd’s collarbone, through the thick fabric of the smock.

Even then, his muscles are tense and he is so very alive. Cabanela burns with a fire of his own and in the end it is Jowd who pulls back and leaves him to his official Inspector business, signal the squad, examine the body, whatever else a detective may have to do in this faraway future he’s been thrown into all of a sudden.

Sitting on the sidewalk as he waits for their little tour to resume, he can still feel his heartbeat, his warmth, that fire that feels contagious. Jowd can’t afford that. Jowd doesn’t deserve that, either.

He stares at him from afar; Cabanela turns around for an instant and notices. Jowd notices that he’s noticed. It is a strange connection. For now, it will have to do.

#siverwrites #ghost trick #ghost swap #ghosttrick10th #fanfiction #ch9 springs eternal #spoilers! I'm only posting from here so tumblr doesn't eat my posts!

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 5 years

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A love that never leaves (9)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Mentions of torture.

A/N: Finally, we learn more about the Reader. Hydra sucks so hard and love has so many different forms. This chapter also features a cameo from the greatest woman in the MCU and this is my first time writing her.

Links don’t work, so if you want to access the full ALTNL Masterlist, just click the MASTERLIST header on my blog.

Previously...

“When I was 12-years-old, a group of men came to my home. The - blond man. He was looking for me. They arrested my Father and I ran. As far from Berlin as I could get.” Closing her eyes, the memory of that black night burns fresh. “I made it to the coast and bought the first ticket out of Germany I found. In March of 1929, I got to London.”

Bucky imagines her as a little girl, alone, penniless, mourning her father and hiding from an unknown horror. It makes him want to raze the world for her.

“That was brave. You were really brave,” he tells her, still rubbing her skin, but she shakes her head.

“That’s where I met him.”

*****

Late June - December, 1942 London, England

Night time in the hospital is peaceful.

Every bed is taken, housing occupants with injuries ranging from broken bones to missing limbs. During the day, a steady stream of chatter and cries of pain will fill every nook and cranny of the sterile hospital, but at night, silence reigns.

Beside a small metal table, she dumps out a basket full of clean clothes. Picking each individual strip, she stretches out the wrinkles, smooths them down, folds it in half, and rolls it into a tight ball. Each bundle goes carefully into the empty basket. Her fingers find a rhythm and the basket begins to fill.

Stretch. Smooth. Fold. Roll.

Out in the rows of sleeping soldiers, the occasional squeak of a bed spring pings as a patient shifts, trying to get comfortable. There’s a disgruntled sigh of failure and the place grows quiet again.

On and on she works, until she hears it.

From the rows of broken men, comes a whimper. The sound of a child holding back tears. It is so lost, it cuts to the bone.

She knows that sound.

Slipping back into the ward, she walks silently through the rows of beds, passing men with shattered limbs, men drowning in plaster casts, men who’s faces have been scorched away. There in the corner, she finds him. Locked in sleep, his head thrashes back and forth, terrified whimpers pushing past his lips. Bending over him, she sees tear tracks streaking down his cheeks, a sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead.

Tugging a clean cloth from the starched pocket of her pale blue dress, she runs it down his face, wiping away sweat and tears. Still, he makes those hurt noises, and she hears the words “no, please, no, sorry, sorry, sorry,” in a panicked whisper.

Out of habit, she glances over her shoulder, but no matter. She is alone with nothing but the soldiers and their nightmares for company.

As she’s done so many times before, she can help.

So, she does.

Placing perpetually cold hands on his face, she hums softly, hushing him. The broken whispers stop, but fat tears still leak from his closed eyes. Closing her eyes, she concentrates on what she finds, feeling the strangeness of warmth tickling her palms, no more than a mere second -

Instantly, the tears stop. Still fast asleep, the man sniffles and those hard lines carved into his face relax. In sleep, he looks so young, and really - isn’t he? No more than eighteen. Cursed to live in a time when men his age are dying in bunkers and battlefields.

Navigating around the clean white beds, she goes back to work.

The tragedy, is that those dark memories will haunt him all his life, but at least tonight, thanks to her, he finds solace in a dreamless sleep.

Sometimes these small acts of mercy, they are enough.

*****

Late one night, she sits at the front desk filing patient reports. Absorbed in the task, she doesn’t hear the man approach until he clears his throat.

“Excuse me, miss.”

Looking up, she sees a tall, lanky soldier. Curly black hair frames a broad forehead and deep brown eyes. Dressed in a crisp military uniform, she sees the Lieutenant insignia on his shoulder. Clutched in his right hand, is a knobby cane, and with his left, he doffs his hat and tucks it under his arm.

“I’m sorry to startle you.” His accent holds a hint of east London. “I’m here to retrieve yesterday’s patient files. Would you know where I might find them?”

“Of course, Lieutenant,” she says. Rising to her feet, she smooths the front of her dress and steps to the file cabinet.

At her words, she sees him touch the gold pin at his shoulder nervously. Leaning the polished wooden cane against the table, he tries to stand up straighter.

“Not much of a Lieutenant these days,” he says wryly.

“An injury doesn’t change that,” she states. Locating the file, she hands it over.

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “Pardon my poor manners. My name’s Henry Lewis.”

When he offers his hand, he gives her a shy smile and she accepts it. It feels warm, but then again doesn’t everything feel warm to her?

*****

The next night, she recognizes the sound. Hears the click-tap of a cane, and the gentle shuffle of a slow gait. The door opens, and Henry steps through. He sweeps his hat from his head and tucks it neatly under his arm.

“Good evening,” he says.

“Hello Lieutenant,” she replies.

A routine is born.

Each night he stops by the hospital, collecting files to return back to his office. Each night they exchange a few words before he tips his hat and ambles slowly away. She finds herself looking forward to his visits, discovering she likes having someone know her, as friends are a luxury she often foregoes.

It is much easier to hide the past when there is no one to ask.

*****

After a month of conversation, brimming with awkward stops and starts, Henry asks her to dinner.

They find a cafe with a table by the front window. Over watery lagers and small bowls of salted potatoes, they talk. She learns he grew up poor on the east side of London; when war was declared, he signed up the same day. Rising quickly through the ranks, he was a clever soldier in the field, until an unexpected bomb drove a chunk of rusty shrapnel through his knee in Belgium. Several surgeries later, the doctors declared it the best they could do.

Now, he walks with a heavy limp. Working in one of the Westminster war departments, he’s resigned himself to a stationary life.

Sitting across from her, his fingers draw patterns in the condensation of his pint glass. He speaks wistfully of war. Of being part of a team. Doing good in the world, fighting for what’s right. It kills him, sitting here while his friends are still out there.

“After all,” he says sadly. “Who needs another broken soldier?”

Shaking her head, she reaches for his hand and squeezes tight. His dark eyes light up at her touch.

“The world always needs good men,” she says.

“Tell me about you,” he answers instead.

She speaks of her life in London, of her work in the hospital. But those details of her past, her father, Berlin, her ability - she reveals nothing, offering only the black and white sketch of her life. There is no color she wants to provide.

Because, well. Being different is hard.

*****

The months are filled with a low simmering courtship. A drink in the pub after work, the occasional picnic in the park, dinner at the few restaurants still open in the midst of war.

Henry is an easy man to like. Gentle and unassuming, he has dimples in both cheeks that follow his shy smiles. When he gets excited, he talks with his hands and he stutters just a bit, and she finds herself charmed.

One night, he walks her home and quietly asks if he can kiss her goodnight. She hesitates for only a moment before saying yes, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses warm lips to hers.

It feels nice, this closeness. She basks in it.

Time drifts along, and there, surrounded by the frantic pace of war-torn London, they fall in love.

There is no earth-shattering event, no wild racing of the heart; it’s not that kind of love. Sometimes love comes barreling in, fierce and wild and full of fire, but other times it arrives slowly and without fanfare. It may not be what she expected, but love is love and she accepts it.

Having someone feels so nice.

*****

December 1942 London, England

Rain has been falling steadily for the past three days.

Inside the cafe, the radiator works over-time and the hot air coats the windows in a thick fog. At their customary table, she waits for him, cold fingers curled around a cup of tea. Milk is hard to find these days, so she drinks it black, stirring absently to cool the scalding liquid.

When they were walking home last night, Henry asked her a question.

“I’d like to marry you. If you would have me.”

Perhaps she’s been naive, but it took her by surprise.

Growing up, she remembers her father spinning a world of fairy tales, about a beautiful princess and a handsome prince, so in love they could overcome all odds. That was the love he knew, the love he had for her mother. It was what she hoped to find when she grew up, that wild, soul consuming love. The kind that could move mountains and bring you to your knees. The kind that always gives more than it takes.

The kind of love that never leaves, no matter what happens.

That was then. In this world, she long ago abandoned those sweet dreams; the nightmares of the present and the horrors of her past make everything so bleak.

But with his question, Henry’s given her hope. She knows that while she may never have the powerful love her parents shared, she can still have this. A gentle life filled with contentment.

So, she said yes.

Maybe it’s not true love, but it’s a deep affection all the same.

Maybe that’s enough.

After two hours of waiting in the bustling cafe, she decides to go home. Henry’s been buried at work and likely lost track of time. Shrugging into her coat, she drops a few coins on the table and waves to the woman behind the counter. Stepping into the crisp December night, she glances down the empty street, fiddling with the clasp on her purse.

A black car turns the corner and she squints at the dim headlights.

“Waiting for someone miss? May I keep you company?”

The voice at her shoulder is polite, but something makes her flinch. Goosebumps prickle up the back of her neck, biting into her skin and she forces a tight smile as she looks up, intending to brush the man away.

“No thank you, I’m - ”

Recognition comes like a fist to the face.

His brown hat is pulled low, but a tuft of white blond hair peaks beneath the brim. Time has carved tiny lines beside his pale eyes, but the cruel curve of his mouth is shockingly familiar.

Tonight, she sees it all up close, instead of from a hidden spot inside the wall of her living room.

A vicious smile curls his lips. Darting his hand out, he catches her wrist in an iron grip and she sucks in a breath as he leans close, his breath hot and sour, smelling faintly of whiskey.

“Hello little girl. I said I’d find you.”

The black car rumbles to a stop. Panicked, she opens her mouth to scream, but her deep breath does nothing more than inhale the fumes wafting from the damp cloth he suddenly shoves against her face. Speckles of black dance across her vision and she feels herself thrown into the backseat.

The door slams shut with a sickening finality.

The world tilts and goes black.

*****

December 1942 Location Unknown

The bare cement walls are slick beneath her palm. She presses her hand against it, feeling the rough grit of crumbling mortar; it has a vaguely tomb-like smell and she can’t stop shivering.

Rolling over, she pulls the flimsy wool blanket tighter, keeping her eyes locked on the door.

Where is she?

Her head aches and her mouth feels cottony dry, a lingering taste of the drug they used. Dammit. All those years of being cautious, of keeping her eyes open, and this is how it happens.

With a harsh, whining screech, the door bangs open.

Sitting up quickly, she recoils from the throbbing ache behind her eyes. Yellow light spills into her cell, before a bulky silhouette fills the frame. Dressed head-to-toe in black, from the tips of his boots to the thick black gloves to the high-necked collar of his shirt, every bare inch of skin is covered.

“Stand up,” he orders brusquely, “back against the wall. Hands out front.”

Defiance fills her, but exhaustion follows just as swift. Climbing painfully to her feet, she leans back against the cold stone and extends her arms. There’s a clank of metal and heavy shackles clasp her wrists, binding her hands together. Lifting her hands above her head, he presses himself flush against her, pinning her to the wall. She turns away and his mouth is hot and wet against her ear.

“You’re nothing but a fucking freak,” he sneers. “If you try to touch me, I’ll shoot you in the face.”

With that threat, he jerks her from the wall and shoves her into the bright hallway. Leading her down a narrow corridor, they pass by an open room where there’s a brief glimpse of shiny metal, and then she’s climbing a winding staircase. Up and up she goes, circling until she’s dizzy.

Finally, a wood door with a brass knocker appears. Three hard knocks and he shoves it open.

The room is small, with one wall made entirely of glass. It looks down upon a bustling laboratory filled with doctors in white coats, and through the window, she sees in full the glimpse of metal she passed moments ago.

It looks like a chair. Attached to the back, is a rudimentary hook, holding the thick metal halo hanging above; wide leather straps are affixed to the arms and legs, their silver buckles gleaming, while two round spotlights shine down, illuminating the entire contraption.

Even from behind the thick glass, the device pulses with a sinister aura. The chair emanates torture, destruction.

Death.

Seated at the table, is the man who grabbed her. Sipping coffee from a delicate china cup, he looks up at her entrance and bestows a congenial smile.

“Hello. Thank you for joining me.”

Shoved unceremoniously into a chair, the guard who brought her departs without a word. Still smiling, the man leans back, folding his hands over his stomach.

“You have questions, I expect.”

Looking around the room, she waits a full minute before she responds with the only thing she can think, her voice still husky from the drugs.

“Who the hell are you?”

At the question, a spasm of anger flits over his face. “My name is Colonel Wilhelm Richter. Someone you should have met a long time ago.”

“I don’t associate with Nazis,” she spits out.

“Oh, come now,” he chuckles. “Nazis? No.” Fingering the pin on his lapel, he unhooks it and sets it on the table. She sees it clearly now, the silver skull with eight protruding tentacles. “Hitler and his thugs are welcome to whatever they want, but Hydra are interested in more.”

“Hydra,” she says slowly and the name tastes like acid on her tongue. “And what do Hydra want?”

“The best for everyone,” he breathes. “Order and control. In the future, these wars will be unnecessary. We simply need people to follow our path, it’s so easy. But to get there, we need soldiers. That’s why we’re here,” he gestures to lab below. “Creating a new breed of super soldier. Strong and obedient. A fist to destroy what we command.”

Considering his words, she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood.

She knows what’s coming.

“Why am I here?”

Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the table.

“Years ago, I knew a young woman. Beautiful. Indescribably talented. When I discovered what she could do, I wanted her. More than anything. Hydra was just starting, we could have had such a bright future together, but no,” he sneers, lip curling in disgust. “Instead, she ran off and married some worthless piece of trash, and a few years later, she went and had you. I knew you’d be just like her. Able to wipe a man’s brain clean with the touch of your fingers.”

Piece of trash. The words send her blind with rage.

She thinks of her handsome father, his dark eyes sparkling as he watched her mother shuffling a deck of cards. It was late at night and they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, trading warm smiles and sweet words. They never knew she was hiding behind the armchair in the living room, hugging her baby blanket, a sleepy smile on her face as she listened to the sounds of love. It was one of the last nights they had, before a fever stole her mother like a thief in the night.

If she could summon up the saliva, she’d spit in Richter’s face.

“Don’t you ever talk about my father that way,” she snarls. Her fingers flex rapidly in the shackles and he watches her fury with amusement.

“I’ll say any god damn thing I want. He took her and then hid you from me for years. He was a thorn in my side until the day I killed him,” he says, and a fervent gleam lights up his eyes. “That night I came, you did it to him, didn’t you? Wiped him?”

All these years, and the wound is still fresh.

A dark November night. The smell of snow in the air and a dark apartment. The touch of childish hands on a gray stubbled face. Removing every last memory from her father’s head. Knowing he would go to his grave without remembering he had a daughter he loved beyond anything in the world.

“Yes,” she says through clenched teeth.

“You know,” Richter says confidentially, “he was so confused at the end. Had no idea why we took him. Every time we sliced off a finger he just screamed. I finally figured it out though, knew you’d taken it all and we weren’t getting a fucking thing from him. Should’ve just killed him straight away, but I was angry.”

Testing the restraints, she glares at him. “He asked me to do it and I did. But I don’t do that now. Not anymore.”

“That’s where we disagree,” he replies. “Because you certainly will do it again. For as long as I require.”

Laughing hollowly, she slumps in her chair. “There’s no way I’ll ever help you.”

“I thought you might say that.” Rising elegantly, he walks over and pulls her to her feet. “I’ve brought motivation. Let’s have a look.”

Dragging her to the large glass window, they look down at the lab. Richter pushes a red button on the wall and speaks.

“Soldier Lewis, please.”

A door bangs open and two guards march forward, a tall, dark haired man between them. At the sight, her knees buckle.

“No,” she whispers. “Oh my god, no.”

“You will notice we fixed him,” Richter says clinically. “With just a few experiments, we solved what his previous doctors were unable to fix.”

She sees the truth in his words. Henry walks confidently, his limp disappeared. He seems taller now, broader even. Something about him is different.

“What did you do to him?” she chokes out.

“Nothing he did not request. He wanted to serve again, and we gave him the opportunity. We need a perfect soldier, and he is a prime test subject. Natural talent on the battlefield, eager to please. Exactly what we need. There’s just one small problem.”

When Henry sees the chair, he stops short.

“Jesus, no. Please, no. I can’t do it again, please!”

Even through the plate glass window, she hears the fear in his voice. The guards ignore his plea and motion toward the chair. Henry shakes his head vehemently, trying to back away.

“They all resist the chair,” Richter sighs.

Backpedaling now, Henry bumps into two more guards, who grip his arms and drag him forward. He struggles briefly, before sagging in their hands and letting himself be manhandled into the chair. Reluctantly opening his mouth, a gag is thrust between his teeth.

“What is this?” she demands. Her fingers are splayed on the glass, as though she can touch through the window.

“It’s called a memory suppression machine. Our first prototype. Electric currents are used to scrub their minds.” The whirring hum of electricity begins and the halo above the chair twitches to life. “Unfortunately, the effects don’t seem to last. The machine destroys the memories for a brief time, but they reappear.”

The halo rotates and lowers over Henry’s face, locking in place. It makes a loud, vibrating noise and then, with every bit of breath in his lungs, Henry begins to scream. On and on, the bloodcurdling screeches fill the room, heartbreaking sounds of unimaginable pain.

“Stop!” she screams, beating her fists against the window. “You’re going to kill him! Stop it! Please, please stop!”

“As you can see,” Richter says dispassionately, speaking over her screams, “it appears slightly painful.”

With a final lurch, the machine goes silent and Henry’s screams fade away. When the halo lifts, he remains in the chair, shivering uncontrollably. The guards unbuckle the straps and haul him to his feet. Blank and docile, he appears to wait for instruction. It takes nothing more than a sharp request from the guard, for him to spin on his heel and march through the door from where he came.

Panting in the observation room above, she feels sweat dripping down her temple.

“Why are you doing this?” her voice breaks on the last word and she swipes tears from her eyes.

Richter retreats to the table, shuffling a thick stack of paper and tapping the edges even.

“Our research began years ago, that’s why I wanted you then. Our newest trial is starting now.”

“And what the hell does this have to do with me?”

“You know what I want. We’ll continue using the chair on our soldiers until we get it right. Or - you can make it easier. Painless for them. It doesn’t have to be like this. Make the right choice to help them. It’s selfish to say no.”

Closing her eyes, she gives the glass a weak smack.

“You don’t understand. What I do - people don’t come back from it. Whatever I take, the memories are gone. Forever.”

Tilting his head, he observes her with a curious smile.

“I know.”

“No,” she says softly. “I won’t. I won’t do that to people against their will.”

“Haven’t you been doing that exact thing to those poor souls in the hospital?” he says. “Didn’t you take things from them?”

“That was different,” she argues, tears now spilling over. “I was helping them. I only took the bad things, I always left behind what made them who they were.”

“And now you’ll take more. It really is simple.”

“I won’t.” Finally finding that saliva, she spits at his feet. Raising a lazy eyebrow, he looks down at his shoes. When he speaks, his voice is bitterly cold.

“So then - our little game begins.”

*****

Every morning he comes for her. Drags her into the observation deck and forces her to watch while they put a parade of men through the memory suppressing machine.

It spins and sparks and fires bolts of electricity through screaming, writhing bodies. Sometimes they go into convulsions. Sometimes blood streams from their eyes. Sometimes they foam at the mouth.

Every evening, she tells him no.

Every night, she stuffs her fist in her mouth to muffle her sobs, the screams of the tortured soldiers running on a loop through her brain.

And the next morning, it begins again.

*****

On and on it goes.

Until finally, it happens.

Until finally, she says yes.

*****

One morning, he drags her into the room. They open the door and there’s Henry again, his dark eyes rolling in panic. The moment he sees the chair, he begins to cry.

“Please,” he sobs and his voice breaks. “Please stop.”

The crack in his voice reminds her of the soldiers in her hospital, whimpering as the darkness closed in and the nightmares descended. She helped those men, gave them a measure of peace, but taking away nightmares is not the same. This is more, this is so much more.

The guards are holding him in the chair, strapping his arms in place, cinching the buckles around his legs and she can see Henry’s tears dripping down his cheeks, soaking the ragged collar of his shirt and suddenly it’s too much.

“Wait.”

Richter turns to her, triumph in his face.

“Yes?”

Will she really do this? She looks again at Henry’s terrified face, and her stomach rolls when she sees that the constant bursts of electricity are turning his hair gray.

Will she really do this?

“Take me down.”

When the door to the lab opens, a low moan comes from the chair when Henry sees them dragging her closer. Even with his scrambled brain, through the murky fog of half-formed memories, he recognizes her.

“No! Oh my god, no. What is this? Why are you here?” he asks in anguish. He fights the straps, a fruitless endeavor.

Reaching for him, she wipes away his tears. Everything inside her is screaming, begging her to refuse. She can’t do this again, she can’t destroy a man’s life.

But if this is the only way to end the pain - then she must.

“It’s okay,” she soothes. “It’s okay. I’m okay, please don’t worry. They said they’ll let me help you.”

“Help me?” he repeats, tear-filled eyes searching her face.

“Yes, I can - help,” her voice hitches. Desperately holding back tears, needing to make this moment as painless for him as possible.

Cupping his wet cheeks, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. There’s a moment of nothingness, and then a soft glow appears. Heat flows through her fingers and he relaxes. The white light glows brighter and brighter and brighter, until - she lets go. His eyes roll back and his head droops.

Stepping back, she feels the wave of cold pulsing through her.

Everything, nearly all his memories, wiped away with a touch of her hands. All those pieces that made him who he was are gone. Obliterated from existence, never to be recovered.

Well. Nearly all.

Inside his head, she leaves a few sparse memories. Because as selfish as it sounds, she cannot fathom the pain of being forgotten again, by someone she loves.

*****

It never gets easier.

With the gentle press of her fingers, each man goes limp as she scrubs their brains fresh and clean, ready for whatever Hydra wants to put in place. Strangely, their individual abilities, those that put them on the Hydra selection block - how to obey commands, how to shoot a gun, how to speak a foreign language - those remain. She comes to realize that some things are so deeply ingrained in a person’s DNA, those strips of muscle memory cannot be taken.

Each time she wipes another man clean, she grows colder, the rush of their memories like ice in her veins.

Most of the Hydra guards are disgruntled with the new procedure. They enjoyed listening to the screams, laughed at the writhing bodies as they fought the electric currents shooting through their brains, burning their memories to ash. Torture was what they wanted, that was what they signed up for, not this quiet destruction.

How boring, they mutter glumly to each other. Where’s the fun in this?

*****

Early one morning, she lays on the flimsy mattress, hands folded over her chest, counting the bricks in her cell. She reaches 200 when the door bangs open.

“Get the fuck up,” Richter orders furiously. “Now.”

Rolling her head to look up at him, she sighs tiredly.

“No.”

She keeps counting.

“What did you do?” he snarls, stomping forward. Reaching down, he grabs the chain linking her metal bracelets together, hauling her to her feet. “He’s fucking asking about you. Has a fiancée, he says, needs to tell her where he is. What did you do? It’s supposed to be absolute!”

Swaying slightly, a heady rush of triumph sparkles through her and she shrugs. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

“No, you weren’t, now get the fuck out there and finish the job,” he orders.

Shaking her head slowly, she sinks back to the mattress.

“No. I’m done doing your dirty work.”

“This is your last god damn warning, I mean it.”

Exhausted laughter bubbles up. Her last warning? What else was he going to do?

“I said no.”

The struggle is clear, twisting his features into something ugly. She watches him, curiously detached.

Suddenly, his face goes eerily calm.

“Alright. Remember you said this.”

Turning sharply, he storms away. She resumes counting.

The faint red glow of sunset peaks through the small bars of her tiny window when he returns. Opening the door slowly, without his customary bang, he says nothing. Instead, he leans in the doorframe and crosses his arms. She pays him no attention, staring at the ceiling.

“I wanted to let you know, we increased the power on the chair. Had to find a way to get rid of those pesky memories you left in his head.” His words caress like the smooth slice of razor blades on her skin. “It’s a shame, but he didn’t make it. Voltage was too high, blood vessels in his head exploded. Brutal. Such a mess to clean up.”

She should have expected this. She should have known.

“Maybe next time you’ll listen,” he adds.

Next time, she thinks numbly. There won’t be a next time.

*****

January, 1943 Location Unknown

One morning they take her to a new room. Dark shelves line the walls, cluttered with silver tins and glass vials full of colorful liquid.

The guards hoist her onto the table in the middle of the room and chain her arms above her head, fasten her ankles to the edge of the table with smooth leather cuffs.

This is new.

She kicks and squirms, tries to reach for them. They trap her easily, laughing at her weak attempts and in retaliation, cinch the cuffs so tight they tear her skin.

A short, bespectacled man arrives. Leaning over her on the observation table, she sees her reflection in his thick glasses, before the light hits them and they turn an opaque, milky white.

“Hello, Fraulein,” he murmurs, stroking a finger down her cheek. “I am Dr. Arnim Zola and I am very glad to meet you. So much we have to learn together. Let’s see what we can find.”

Her mouth is forced open, a gag between her teeth so she can’t bite through her tongue. Pulling a tray closer, Zola rubs his hands excitedly and picks up a syringe full of a glowing yellow liquid.

The gag does little to muffle her screams.

*****

For three straight weeks, they experiment.

Strapped to the table, liquids of different colors and textures and variations are pumped into her veins. They burn and twist and rip apart her insides bringing incoherent screams that shred her voice, leave her throat so raw and swollen she can barely speak.

Not that it matters. They don’t care what she has to say.

“We will magnify you,” Zola whispers in her ear, while her body vibrates and flails against the restraints. “Such a simple power, we can take it further. You will help us wipe the slate clean for the masses, build an army for Hydra. So easy to restore order to the chaos.”

Every night, they release the straps and drag her back to her room. In the darkness, she huddles under her little blanket and thinks. She understands what they want.

But the weeks pass and the tests continue with no results.

There was no expansion of her ability. It was impossible, something that could not be touched, because it was born inside her, a power sourced directly from her soul. A part of her that was unalterable, no matter what they tried to do.

And so, with nothing else to be done, the experiments simply strung her in a new direction.

Age, the natural progression of life, fell to the wayside. It would come eventually, but for now, their sick experiments simply extended her life.

What a waste, she would think in later years. What’s the purpose of a long life, when you’re all alone?

*****

In the middle of the night, she hears the guards talking outside her door.

“They’re moving everyone next week, sending us to a new base. More of a work camp I guess.”

“Yeah? Hopefully warmer than this shit-hole. Where’s this fancy new place anyway?”

“Some place in Italy. Azzano, I think.”

Dread fills her. Somewhere new. Somewhere with more men she will be forced to destroy.

The night ticks along and that elusive goal, sleep, finally wraps drowsy fingers around her aching limbs. Floating toward that blessed unconsciousness, she’s on the precipice when it happens.

There’s the sound of a soft, cajoling female voice. It’s a stark contrast to the rough, guttural tones she normally hears and her ears perk.

There’s a pause and she hears the sickening crunch of bone on bone. Scrambling upright, she clutches the blanket, keeping her back to the cold wall. Keys jingle, scraping with a muffled curse and suddenly the door opens. Light floods in, illuminating a strange sight.

A woman steps inside, wiping blood from her knuckles and grimacing.

“Imbeciles. Dammit, that hurt quite a lot more than I expected,” she says to someone behind. She is strikingly beautiful, with thick brown hair falling in fat curls to her shoulders and a sunny, wide-lipped grin.

Pulling up short at the sight of a dirty, disheveled woman crouched on a mattress, she throws her arms out, stopping anyone else from entering.

“What is it?” a man’s voice inquires impatiently, and the woman shakes her head.

“Stay there. Give me a minute.” Raising her hands slowly, she opens them wide, showing she holds nothing dangerous. Her voice is kind when she speaks. “Hello love. My name’s Peggy Carter. Let me help you.”

*****

Flanked by a small, covert group of undercover agents led by SSR Agent Margaret Carter, she escapes. The agents were clearly not equipped to support a captive, they were simply there for intel, but it doesn’t matter.

When Peggy Carter insists, everyone listens.

As they make their way out, she asks the date and then does the math.

Between December 1942 and January 1943, she spends 44 days in Hydra’s grasp. She will remember every second until the day she dies.

*****

The trip home to London takes a week. In transit, she learns the base was deep in the countryside outside Krakow, Poland.

Peggy never leaves her side. She appreciates the warmth of a protective arm around her, lets herself be lulled into drowsy comfort by the rolling English accent. One evening, as she sits huddled under a thick blanket, Peggy takes her hands and rubs them encouragingly.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

There is such obvious gentleness there, but she refuses.

“Thank you, Peggy, but no. I just want to forget this ever happened.”

What an ironic comment from her. Forgetting.

“I understand. What will you do next?” Peggy asks carefully. “I can help you find a job at the SSR if you like. We always need good recruits.”

There are good intentions there, and frankly if she still had the capacity to trust anyone in this world, she would trust Peggy Carter. But she knows how the world works and in the end, they’re all the same.

Hydra. The SSR. Once they know her ability, she would become nothing more than a weapon. Something to be primed and aimed at whatever target suits their interest. She can never allow herself to be in that position again.

And above all, she knows he will come searching. Whatever happens, she cannot let him find her again.

Normalcy is all she wants, a quiet life away from everything. A small house, somewhere safe to lay her head. Somewhere hidden.

“Please, I just - I want to disappear. From everything and everyone. Please help me.”

Peggy wraps her in a fierce hug and she buries her face in those thick brown curls.

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

*****

In the SSR records, there is no mention of an enhanced woman discovered at a Hydra base in Poland.

*****

In the stuffy space of her tiny London flat, she quickly packs everything into a worn carpetbag.

Treasures she cannot live without, tangible memories she keeps close. While her memory will never allow her to forget, there’s something beautiful in feeling the shapes and textures of her past; she holds tight to those little objects, no matter the cost.

A soft baby blanket. Photos of her and her father. A silver hairbrush and a jewelry box that belonged to her mother. And once again, in the middle of a black night, she disappears.

Finds passage on a ship and sails down the coast of France, weaving through Royal Navy blockades and nests of Nazi gunners. Takes a train and walks miles to a small village in southern France. Buries herself in the rhythm of the town, creating a new life for herself.

She finds a comfortable house. A small kitchen with a bathroom off the back, a tiny bedroom with a little fireplace upstairs. She trades her sewing skills for two chickens and then barters the eggs for a chipped white vase. Every day, she fills it with something fresh.

And she lives a quiet life, alone again. Forgotten by everyone she’s ever known, except the one man she wishes with all her heart would cease to remember.

She mourns for Henry and the tragedy of his fate. Loving a soldier was one thing she never expected and the experience nearly killed her. The war trudges on, and sometimes soldiers pass through the village; while she always puts her nursing skills to good use, she keeps her distance.

Sometimes she sits by the creek, washing clothes in the cold water and thinking. She wishes she had the power to scrub her own brain clean, but no.

This is her penance, the one she will pay from now until the end of time.

To remember.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky fic #bucky barnes fic #altnl

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shaniacantdance · 6 years

Text

Reunion

-I’m having a lot of Reunion!Bellarke feels. Don’t judge me. I don’t quite know what the setting is for this, but it’s definitely after Octavia and the others in the bunker are out.

Enjoy!

Seeing him again felt like time had stopped.

It was almost as if her entire reality was malfunctioning, because him existing once more was some sort of glitch in the system.

Her skin erupted in goosebumps, shivers cascading down the length of her spine, making her tremble. It stole the air from her lungs while simultaneously jump-starting her heart. It was almost as if her body had been barely running on lost fuel for such a long time, that it was only now she finally realized how to actually be a person again.

You never notice that you weren't whole until the piece of yourself that was missing, tries to sneak back in unannounced and play it off as if it had never left in the first place.

“Hi,” she says, in a voice that shakes with shock but finds stable ground in sheer relief.

Everything felt so entirely clear. Her head, her heart, her lungs.

He looks back at her, dark eyes that had been her north star and a figment of her dreams, were glassy with unshed tears.

“Clarke,” he croaks out, equally as wrecked, stumbling away from the wall and towards her.

She doesn't know who closes the distance first, but all she wants is to never, ever wake up.

He had always been tall and strong and solid, but the last vestiges of teenage softness had left him, and in its place stood muscle and skin and bone that was hard to the touch but felt safe to be held by arms that gripped her too tight.

And that was fine because she was sinking into him like a seed to earth, fingers digging deep into the worn, tattered fabric of his shirt and feeling too-hot skin that almost burned her fingertips.

Her face was burying itself into the vulnerable, sweat-slicked place where neck meets shoulder, her ear desperate for the soothing sound of his heart beat.

All she could hear was Bellamy Bellamy Bellamy.

She knows that home is supposed to be a place, not a person, but the way his hand fit perfectly to the nape of her neck and the possessive grip on the small of her back had her thinking that a home never felt as good as this.

As right.

For the first time in six years, she took a breath, and breathed in hope.

He sucks in a shaky gasp, his hand coming up to cup the back of her head, his fingers threading into her short hair. She tries, too hard at first, not to cry, but she can't seem to help it.

And that's okay, because it's Bellamy.

Everything was okay now.

“Shh, shh,” he murmurs, swaying them a bit, and she’s not sure if he’s trying to soothe himself or her, but maybe it’s both.

She chokes out a laugh, feeling dizzy and almost like a child, for happiness is a taste she hasn’t fully been able to consume. It merely sits on her tongue, dissolving as soon as her mouth began to water with the anticipation of it.

There had always been something terrible or sad or frustrating to follow that tiny drop of joy. So her hunger had never been sated, and instead, she survived on what she had come to know: bittersweet.

True euphoria was something she had sketched out with charcoal and dreamed about when the night got dark.

But this… this felt like everything she never thought she deserved.

“I’m sorry, God I’m so sorry, Clarke,” Bellamy rushes out, his voice breaking on the rhythm of her name. And then her brows furrowed in confusion, pulling away as much as he’ll allow so that she can see his face.

She doesn’t like what she finds there.

It’s almost laughable how much Bellamy had changed and hadn’t at the same time. To anyone else, he probably looked similar, maybe just a bit taller, his shoulders broader, a black beard flickering at his jaw and neck. But to her, it was blinding.

His eyes, those big dark eyes that had always seen too much but still held a multitude of compassion that scorched like flames, had been stamped out so that only a flicker of a spark remained.

There was a new white scar that broke through the middle of his left eyebrow, and she unthinkingly reaches up a hand and smoothes her pointer finger over the spot, feeling the roughened texture.

The question as to how it got there could be saved for later, she knows, but a tiny part of her wanted to have every single answer at once.

Instead, her gaze hungrily tracks the gauntness of his cheeks, the deep hollows underneath dark brown orbs, the full, teeth-bitten lips.

His hair was longer, curls falling rakishly over his forehead and sweeping over his ears. There was a certain weariness in the way he held himself, as if bracing for a never-ending fight that he’d been losing for quite some time.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she whispers, a small smile curling up on her mouth as another tear slides down her cheek.

Bellamy immediately shakes his head, his fingers releasing her hair only to find the line of her jaw, his thumb stopping the tear before it reaches her chin.

“We should’ve- I should’ve waited longer for you. Clarke-” She cuts off his pained words with her hand, something warm curling in her stomach at the feel of his lips against her skin.

Mentally forcing that sensation away for the moment, she huffs out a breath that’s too damn overwhelmed to be exasperated.

“You did exactly as I told you to do. You saved them, Bellamy. If you had waited any longer, you would’ve died. You used your head.” she trails her fingers up to his temple, tapping lightly.

She’s grinning once more, so proud and so, so happy.

Bellamy snatches her hand, small and capable in his own, and presses it to his cheek.

Leaning into her touch, he says huskily, “I thought you died. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Well, it looks like you’re stuck with me,” she tries to joke, shoving back down another sob.

In response, Bellamy reels her in closer, his arm constricting around her like a vine. For a moment, it’s hard to breathe. He realizes and loosens his grip slightly, but when he looks up at her again, that spark has erupted into a fire in his eyes once more, blazing fiercely.

“Don’t do that. Just don’t. Not when you know how much you mean to me, how much I-” he cuts himself off with a growl, his shoulders heaving, his emotions bubbling inside of him like a volcano that’s long overdue to explode.

“What do you mean?” she asks, her voice barely over a hushed whisper. Almost afraid to ask, because this answer could ruin her all over again. And she’s survived a lot of things, but she’s not sure if she could piece herself back together after this.

“Dammit, Clarke. You know this, you know that I- that I love you,” he strangles out, shutting his eyes, slumping in her arms. Almost as if he’s given up, as if maybe he might be ruined by her answer, too.

She’s never been so scared in her life.

But she’s also never felt so… giddy. Elated. Relieved.

Clarke laughs, and it’s rusty and hurts her throat, but it feels incredible all the same.

“I love you too, Bellamy,” she murmurs, absently twirling one of his curls around her finger. Her heart’s threatening to race a mile out of her chest, but other than that, she’s never felt more calm.

More right.

Bellamy freezes for a moment, the shock of what she’s said charging the air between them. It causes goosebumps to tingle up his arms and heat to bloom in his cheeks. Slowly, and with great effort, he raises his head.

He searches her face, a hunter with a target, mapping out her features like a trail he’s desperate to follow. When his gaze finally meets hers, however, his mouth drops slightly, shocked and maybe… maybe a little bit happy.

But he also looks scared, too, because her and Bellamy had gotten used to not deserving good things, that it just wasn’t in the plan for them.

Screw the plan.

Pressing up on her toes, just a little, just enough, Clarke shuts her eyes and ever so carefully brushes her lips with his own.

It had been six years since she had kissed anyone, and a part of her was nervous, because this felt like the start of something and what if she screwed it all up on the first try?

What if she ruined a relationship with the one person that has kept her from going insane for all of this time? Who trusted, supported and believed in her?

She wouldn’t be able to handle that.

But then Bellamy is kissing her back, his mouth moving softly and insistently against her own. Warm hands slide up her waist, pulling her even closer, closer, closer.

“Wait.”

Bellamy breaks off the kiss with a gasp, pressing his forehead against hers and squeezing his eyes shut. Clarke releases a shaky breath of air, sky blue searching his features for any sign he doesn’t want this, her.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah, yes,” Bellamy rushes out, and then this time, he’s kissing her. It’s a kiss of promise, binding and true, almost bruising in its intensity. He pulls back just as she’s searching for more, his hands gripping her shoulders. “Clarke, this has to be real between us. If we do this-“

She cuts him off because she can’t handle how scared he sounds. “Hey, look at me.” Clarke places both hands on his face, leans in to catch those dark brown eyes with her own determined ones. “I sent you radio messages, every day, for six years, just hoping for the one time I’d hear your voice. Don’t-“ she stops whatever guilt-ridden words he was about to say with a finger to his lips, before continuing.

“You and the others had to leave, Bellamy. There was no other option. I don’t blame you for leaving. I never will, okay?” She raises an eyebrow, almost challengingly, giving him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. In response, Bellamy’s eyes tear up, and he nods, albeit shakily.

Unable to help herself, Clarke runs her fingers through his curls once more, wondering absently just how she was able to hold herself back from the action for all of the time that they were together.

“Do I get to say something now?” Bellamy asks, his voice rough with held-back emotion. Clarke nods, still smoothing back curls over his ear.

“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for leaving you behind. Don’t- I know that you did it so that we could survive, but Clarke, you lived. All by yourself, without anyone.”

Clarke sniffles, shrugging a bit. “I have Madi,” she says, but Bellamy shakes his head, teeth tugging on his bottom lip. “And I will never be grateful enough for that. But it still doesn’t feel right.”

“I’m not going to lie to you and say that it wasn’t hard. But… knowing that you and our friends were safe? That’s what kept me going,” she says, lightly tweaking his ear, trying to keep crying at bay, because if she really starts to think about how lonely she was for so long, she’ll crumple to the floor.

Bellamy, however, pushes back, hands balling into fists, so heartbreakingly frustrated and angry with himself, with timing and this fucking planet.

“But I didn’t have that! I thought you were dead, Clarke! I thought I’d never see you again, and the last thing I ever got to say to you was “Hurry,” when I should’ve said so much more.”

He breathes harshly through his nose, wanting to control himself but he can’t, because it’s all so much to take in and while all he wants is to revel in the fact that Clarke is safe and he can hold her and not worry about ever having to let go… he can’t help the torrent of resentment he feels towards himself right now.

Clarke watches him, utterly shocked as he struggles not to fall apart, because even after all that they’ve been through and what they mean to each other, it’s still such a revelation to her.

It’s a revelation to discover that Bellamy, the reckless soldier who would do anything to protect a sister that had long learned how to do the job herself, was tearing apart at the seams because he left Clarke behind.

Clarke didn’t know when she had crossed the line from friend to something more altogether, but she did know that he needed her. And it’s that, right there, that has her closing the distance he had made.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she tries to soothe, wrapping her arms around him tightly. Bellamy stiffens, rigid in her arms for a moment before letting out a sound that’s not entirely human, something between a sigh and a groan.

Then Bellamy’s arms are around her once more, tucking her close and burying his face in her short hair.

“We can’t go back, Bellamy,” she whispers against his chest. “But we’re together now. That’s what matters.”

Bellamy breathes in her scent, presses a tiny kiss into the blonde strands, before pulling away to meet her gaze. Those blue eyes, only having the memory of them for so long. But now he can see them again, framed by thick dark lashes and filled with a happiness he so badly wants to deserve.

“Together,” he says reverently, his hand coming up to cup her face. She leans into his touch with a small sigh.

She knew that there were still words to have, arguments to be made, reassurances to give. But for right now, they were okay. And they would be.

#bellarke #I'm literally bellarke trash #the 100 #fanfiction #fic #mine #clarke griffin #bellamy blake #bellamy x clarke #words

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