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squeeneyart · 1 year

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Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 31

AO3

Jon caves to his curiosity in the empty house.

Who was this woman he'd searched for?

Jon woke to the shock of an empty bed.

It couldn’t have been long since Martin left. Of course without the mobile on the nightstand there was no telling the time, but dull morning light hadn’t yet dragged itself through the cloud cover to reach the bedroom floor. Considering their physical arrangement, Martin must’ve taken great pains to let Jon rest. Had it involved gently prying Jon off of him, scooting quietly to the edge of the bed, leaving Jon to sleep off the previous evening in peace?

A kind gesture if so, but the sheets beside him held no leftover warmth.

He slipped out of bed and walked rather hurriedly out of the room, passing the upstairs toilet. Dark. If it weren’t for the still air of that house he might’ve assumed it to be the dead of night, but no, as he made his way downstairs Jon didn’t hear anyone shuffling around the kitchen. He didn’t hear much of anything as he approached the foyer, ignoring the downstairs toilet and its neighbor, both shut tight.

Jacket and shoes were gone. Bag too. He’d gone to work, obviously.

Cracking open the front door revealed the beach. Jon shivered as he scanned what he could see of the horizon, dark strip atop dark strip, finding no still figure in the mist. Yes, Martin had gone to work, or had made it far enough that Jon couldn’t see him.

He closed the door, glaring at the beach through the protection of solid wood. “No point in getting spirited away,” Jon muttered and circled back to the kitchen.

Without switching on the lights he approached the kitchen window. It took a good amount of squinting, but he thought he could see the trail winding up between the trees. Maybe. Or his eyes were filling in what he knew to be there, just out of reach.

He couldn’t go back to sleep, too aware of the cold that already seeped through the bedsheets. Turning, he looked into the dark mouth leading to the living room. It didn’t give a perfect view, but similar to the kitchen its window gave him a way to watch for anyone coming from the cliffs once the sun decided to show its face.

Which was hours away.

Jon walked onto the worn carpet and paused. The thought of bringing the laptop down for what had become a mockery of research made him want to bang his head against the wall. Should he watch something in that collection of tapes by the television? Dull his mind for just a moment with whatever reruns of game shows he could find flipping through channels? Should he draft his whole life story so when Tim and Sasha came he could hand them a piece of paper with a note reading please do not use this against me?

He rubbed his hands over his arms, barely protected by the t-shirt he’d slept in. Decisions were easier to make when someone was there to tell you that you’d made the right choice. All he had at the moment was a house empty enough to hold every doubt that had him looking over his shoulder.

Hours to fill with nothing but cursory internet searches, doors shut tight for good reason. It was enough to make him claw at the walls. Maybe if he just kept moving…

Back in the hall. Front door would remain shut. As would the downstairs toilet, doubly so. Upstairs to the attic which he’d already rooted through once since he’d hidden himself away. A backroom, again already inspected in a fit of paranoia as he tried to find a suitable hiding place for his skin. Better for Martin not to know the state he’d been in that night.

And the closed door next to the downstairs toilet, unopened since he arrived. He knew what it was, conceptually. He knew who it had belonged to. When he’d learnt of her flight from this place, it had scratched at the back of his mind with frantic visions of a woman he’d never met, dead at the hands of her son and rotting behind a locked door. But it wasn’t locked. He knew this because he’d turned the door knob deep into his first night, cracking the door open an inch before shutting it tight in a moment of clarity.

There was no rot in that room. If he had to take a guess from that quick peek into the dark, all that remained was furniture and dust.

His hand gripped the door knob.

There was no finding her outside, in the sea. Martin didn’t need him to, and he couldn’t afford the risk. But he was without answers and Martin was-

The knob turned without ease or great resistance; the door opened like an ordinary old door, dragging slightly on the carpet. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the hall light in his wandering state and groped for a light switch but settled for the string of a small table lamp.

Dust was right. A bed sat in the middle of the left hand wall, duvet rumpled and retaining the absence of a person. Worn slippers were pushed slightly under the bed next to a discarded bathrobe. Curtains rested half-drawn in front of a window with only half a view of the sea, butting up against nearby trees and that wooden frame deteriorating at the side of the house. The chest of drawers near the door was newer and of lightweight material, as was the side table, but novelty saved neither from the layer of grey.

His flat probably didn’t fare much better in his absence, and at least this place wasn’t ransacked to hell. A few drawers hung open, somewhat full when examined. Jon gently pushed them into place. He’d almost moved to the half-open closet when he saw the very edge of a piece of paper shoved between the dresser leg and the floor. It was a heavy piece of furniture and it was all Jon could do to pull some of it away, tearing it off at the corner.

Divorce paperwork, served to Martin’s mother. The rest of it might’ve been under the furniture, or thrown in the trash years ago. It was difficult to tell if it had ended up in that spot on purpose or was lost in the shuffle of life.

The skin had remained with her when her husband left for good. Was it a final courtesy to a relationship that had fallen apart? Had he meant to take it with him? Or was it of no interest to him? Unbidden, Martin’s form in the kitchen doorway came to mind, face a mask of shock and nausea.

He shoved the paperwork back under the dresser.

Standing up, he walked to the closet and was met with hanging dresses and jackets now abandoned. By the way his nose itched Jon guessed they’d been untouched for much longer than a couple of weeks. With the steep incline of the cliffs it was a wonder they’d stayed in such a place.

“Did he not want the house? It’s not a happy place, so it wouldn’t be out of the question that he’d leave it behind as well,” Jon said to the fabric, destined for moths. “You didn’t take any clothes, not enough for a permanent stay on land. Planning to spend your final days in the sea, maybe? Or you had somewhere to swim to.”

It became clear after a few minutes of searching that the shallow closet held no clues. He wasn’t sure he was going to find much about the woman herself, let alone where she would flee to. And what selkie would leave a trace that others not in the know could follow?

He turned to the bed, crouching to search below. A pair of slippers and a shallow box shoved all the way to the back. Dropping to his stomach, he wiggled underneath and dragged the box into the lamplight.

Papers. It held countless pages and scraps of paper, some stapled together in threes or fours, others left to fend for themselves in a sea of potential papercuts. At least in this he found solid ground, digging through barely-legible notes. A lot barely started, crossed out, a miracle they weren’t tossed. But he had enough of his own useless audio notes to not judge this particular habit. After a few duds, someone asking about another’s day, local gossip, etcetera, he found a letter that started:

‘Paula, I’m at my limit. He needs someone to set a good example, to make him a good, loyal husband for whatever girl finds him worth her time. But it can’t be me. I can hardly look at him-’

Everything after was crossed out and then eventually torn away. The paper was old, at least a few years, crumpled and tossed in this box, never for whoever Paula was to see. Too old to be useful, and too much to think about. He could ignore it.

Similar notes followed, addressed to the same name. ‘You’ve been a kind ear since he left-’ ‘Seeing him every day, it’s going to drive me mad-’ ‘He’s almost eighteen. None of me in him. What else can I do?’

Over and over, letters without conclusions on a topic he’d been stewing on for the last week, only to find it so mundane and hurtful he had half a mind to shove it all back under the bed. And sifting through, no last name ever came up, just Paula ad infinitum. Someone in town, perhaps? Martin might know, but then how would he explain knowing the first name? Or a person she once knew, the remnant of a former life? He continued his search, tucking the name away for later. At the very least it was someone involved in this whole familial mess.

Then, in between the pleas the writer (Martin’s mother, no point in being coy about it once Martin’s name appeared more than once instead of the boy or his son), a detour. A photo. An old, old photo, yellow and fading.

Two young individuals, one smiling bright, the other subdued but not unhappy. Did the second look like Martin? With winter hoods pulled tight over the subjects’ heads and having never seen his mother, there was no way to be sure. But the rocky beach behind was unmistakable.The first looped their arm around the other’s, pulling their heads close together to fit in frame.

He stared at them both, resting on his knees. No seal skins in the photo, of course, but… On the other side of the photo, a note read, ‘When you’re ready, I’ll be far north, around the-’ Here, a pen did its job and completely obliterated the word. Jon cursed and almost tore the photo in two out of frustration. Instead, he finished reading, ‘It won’t do well to make me wait!’

How long did they last?

The photo should’ve made him feel something else. A kindred pull, or… But he didn’t know these people. With shaking hands, Jon shoved the photo down to the bottom.

Then, in the middle of another letter, a digression.

‘The cliffs feel so much taller. Could be the aches in my legs. How long has the beach been a bait trap? It wasn’t so when I was a girl. Not when my father made his living.’

Stuffing this note into his pocket, Jon consumed every word of every other note with a manic fury. He reread letters, searched for hidden messages, scoured the box for any other notes in that handwriting and almost came up with nothing. An old woman writing to an unknowing recipient like a diary .One pause just to grab the laptop from upstairs, then he dove back in, taking notes of the most minute references to an old woman’s feeling that something had gone wrong. That something had changed.

‘The house is empty now, but for us. It doesn’t make a difference.’

‘I don’t think I will be coming to town anymore. It doesn’t help, and it all makes my head hurt.’

‘When did it stop feeling like my home? My family’s home?’

He closed the box, stuffed it under his arm, and stumbled out the door.

Back in Martin’s room, Jon opened the laptop and began a new recording. He opened with the small section of writing he pocketed, then continued on, “This is just one of many notes found in Mrs. Blackwood’s bedroom, being the most prominent to the matter at hand. She’d felt something change. Perhaps it was a reaction to her increasingly limited mobility at first, but why a bait trap? Why those words? This feels less old than the others, but with modern paper it’s impossible to-”

He breathed in slowly, then out again. “I don’t like it. I don’t like this place, and I don’t like what it may want from us. We can only hope to make a quick exit once the lighthouse is either dealt with or proven too big for us, property ownership be damned.”

Tapping his fingers on the empty section of bed beside him, Jon glanced out the window. His little investigation had lasted quite a while, but it would still be long before Martin returned. “This was her family’s house. Hers, not her husband’s. Does that mean anything? Is it normal for her family to stay on land for multiple generations? How far back did this start?”

Martin should know about the box. He took it in his hands, felt the light, shifting paper inside and all of its weight. He eyed the metal waste bin nearby.

The notes lingered in his thoughts the rest of the day, all of them sitting under Martin’s bed in wait for their demise or salvation. But it was something he could act on, so it was a good burden for a day.

His final notes, spoken into the laptop, “Based on context and handwriting, everything outside of the photograph was written by Martin’s mother. All letters, all unsent.”

By the time Martin returned Jon already sat at the living room window. Near the end Jon had submitted to the view of grey skies and crashing waves, standing up every ten minutes or so to shake away the creeping sensation of no one at all. He hadn’t seen Martin emerge from the treeline, must’ve missed him when clearing his head, but there he was with hair wet from the evening mist and bag hanging limp from his shoulder.

It wasn’t a happy sight, but Jon breathed out in relief, forehead against the cool glass. He heard the front door open and poked his head out into the hall.

“You’re back,” Jon said.

A slow blink. “Oh. Hi,” Martin said.

“Hi,” Jon replied. “Everything all right?”

“As best as it can be?” Martin said, smiling weakly. He lifted a brown paper bag out from under his coat. “Brought home takeout.”

It was warming at least to share some cheap takeout on the couch, though Martin’s exhaustion was palpable. More than once during their show did he catch Martin’s eyes glaze over or begin to droop. Waiting could be easier, but what were the chances that he would be more awake the night after?

It was after just one episode that Jon spoke up.

“Martin?”

“Hm?” Martin jerked slightly, blinking some of the impending sleep away.

“I have a confession to make. I went through your mother’s things.”

“...What?” Somehow, this didn’t perk him up.

“Her room. I went through her room and found a box of letters and other notes, crossed out or torn or- It’s somewhat personal, but I found a reference to someone waiting for her and something I think might be important to this place, and I wanted to-”

“Jon.”

“Yes?”

“You can burn them.”

Jon froze, hand frozen halfway between them.

Martin continued, “‘S dangerous, right? Even if she crossed things out, it’s better no one has a trail to follow her with.”

It was a sound argument, and matched entirely with Jon’s gut reaction. “Are you certain you don’t want to look?”

“I didn’t go looking for them, did I?” Martin asked. He didn’t snap, was too unfocused to be anything other than calm. “You said there’s something important?”

“I…” Jon looked down at the box. “I already took notes on what felt relevant. A reference to the strange nature of this place, some other things. Otherwise it’s all personal, I-I think.””

“Then the rest can go. I know my mum well enough to guess what she wrote about.”

“We can wait until you’re… more awake to discuss it.”

A shrug. “They’re not for me. Do what you think is right.”

Jon grimaced. “I…I’ll take care of it, then.”

With a nod, Martin took his plate to the kitchen and left Jon to his thoughts. Too much space for that these days.

Still, it was decided. As he finished and brought his own plate to wash, he hazarded a look at Martin’s face. Impassive.

Perhaps it was for the best, Jon thought as he trudged upstairs. Once in the bathroom, he sifted once more through the bin until he found for whatever girl finds him worth her time and set it alight. The rest of the paper went together. Finally the photograph was torn to pieces and sacrificed to the flame. None of it was his to keep. This woman was never part of his life and most likely wouldn’t have had an interest in him. Still, he wished this act stirred more inside him, that something could make destroying documents he’d have been desperate for weeks prior less of an anticlimax.

The smiling faces were gone and Jon walked downstairs to an empty kitchen. An empty living room. An empty toilet, door unopened with no light peeking from underneath. Jon walked to Martin’s mother’s room and knocked, cracking it open to find the same empty space.

Then he bolted to the front door and wrenched it open to find Martin standing, staring with his back to the house.

“Martin?” Jon asked, stepping out onto the wood with bare feet. “You should come back inside.”

He sighed, not turning around. “It’s fine. I just needed a minute.”

“I’m sure it’s been more than a minute,” Jon growled, sending a useless glare out into the night. He grabbed Martin’s elbow and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind them. “What were you thinking?”

He was met with the same blank mask. “I wanted some air.”

Dragging a hand down his face, Jon asked, “Did something compel you?”

“Wh-no, I just-”

“There’s no ‘I just’ here. If I can keep myself inside the whole damned day, you shouldn’t have a problem doing the same for a few hours. So if something feels out of your control-”

“Christ, I stepped outside!” Martin exclaimed. “Maybe I want to stand on my own damned porch without it being the end of the world!”

Jon took a step back, arms crossed. “It’s not that simple and you know it.”

“My mum was fine for years,” Martin said, rubbing his arms.

“You-”

“I know I don’t know that! I-” Shoulders hunched forward, Martin averted his eyes. “I think…I need to sleep.”

It wasn’t a win, but it would have to do for now. He placed a hand on Martin’s back and led him upstairs, kicking himself for not cleaning up after the box and ashes. Martin seemed happy to ignore them, though, completing the nightly routine with no mention of it.

Once he was done Jon gestured towards the bedroom. “I’ll be a bit, but not long.”

Once he’d sent Martin on his way, Jon stepped into the upstairs toilet and cleaned up any stray bits of ash or paper he’d missed. No notes remained tucked into a corner of the room or the box he’d found. He broke down the box, shoved it in with the trash downstairs,and called it complete. She wouldn’t be found by someone with more clues than him. She wouldn’t be found.

By the time he entered the bedroom, lights were turned off. Martin sat in bed and stared at his mobile, only looking up when Jon cleared his throat. For the briefest moment his eyes seemed to flash in the hall light and the faintest sense of recognition bloomed in Jon’s chest. Then the moment was gone.

He’d paused in the doorway long enough that Martin spoke up. “Are you sleeping here or…”

“Yes. Sorry,” Jon said, smiling a little as he closed the door and slid beside him.

Martin scooted over to make space. “You don’t have to, you know. It’s early.”

Jon waved a hand dismissively. “Easier to keep to your schedule. I have plenty of time to myself during the day.”

Martin laid down, fingers laced over his stomach.

Following suit, Jon pressed his face into Martin’s arm and hooked cold fingers through Martin’s elbow. “I wrote down what I thought was important, if you ever….”

“Mm.”

Sleep didn’t come immediately, kept away not by the dread of the outside but by eyes that shone in the light of his torch, and two people smiling into the camera.

Jon stood at the edge of the water, his toes just out of reach of the grasping waves. Without glancing back he knew Martin stood behind him, looking past Jon’s shoulder at the choppy waters.

“Do you think we should get inside?” Jon asked, watching the waves grow larger in the distance. Cold lapped over the top of his feet, and he shivered.

Martin inhaled quietly and said nothing.

“I wouldn’t mind it. It’s too cold out here.”

Exhale.

Jon turned around, the water reaching his ankles. “Martin?”

He still stood just out of reach, eyes blank behind dark frames. The house loomed tall, taller than it ever should be, and empty over his shoulder. A gaping mouth, the front door swung in the gale.

“Let’s go inside.” Jon reached out a hand for Martin to take, but it was left to hover as Martin turned and walked up the rocky shore.

The water brushed up against his mid-calf as he attempted to follow, clinging so hard to his skin that he couldn’t lift his leg.

“Martin, wait, something’s- something’s wrong-” He grabbed at his knee with both hands and yanked upwards. Nothing. The water clung, nearly tearing the skin for the effort he put into pulling. Looking up, Jon yelled again, “Would you-”

The man continued to walk and reached the front steps of the empty house without turning.

Something began to crack in his chest. Another yank, but the water swelled and pulled him down by the hands, forcing him onto his knees. He looked up, sweat and sea dripping down his face. “Please! Whatever is going-”

Martin stopped just short of the empty blackness of his home and turned to look over his shoulder. From that distance Jon could barely see the expression on his face, if there was one at all. It was too far to tell anymore. But he’d stopped. Maybe-

The water was at his neck. He couldn’t even wrench his hands above the water to flail, but he had to see, had to hear, had to have enough of himself above water for Martin to grab.

Martin’s mouth moved.

The water dragged him down, filling his eyes and lungs with salt.

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #selkie au #celebrates first day post-top surgery recovery with a BITS #curses should be on it's way soon

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thelustybraavosimaid · 2 years

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"Do dead men dream?" Bran asked, thinking of his father. In the dark crypts below Winterfell, a stonemason was chiseling out his father's likeness in granite. (Bran I, ACoK)

He dreamt he was back in Winterfell, limping past the stone kings on their thrones. Their grey granite eyes turned to follow him as he passed, and their grey granite fingers tightened on the hilts of the rusted swords upon their laps. You are no Stark, he could hear them mutter, in heavy granite voices. There is no place for you here. Go away. He walked deeper into the darkness.

On the one hand, this could be a sign of his subconscious fucking with him, as Jon was always made to feel like an outsider in his own home. But this made me think...what if they're rejecting him specifically because he is not dead yet? What if the crypts serve as an in-between of the living and the dead for the Starks, as a threshold for crossing over?

"Father?" he called. "Bran? Rickon?" No one answered. A chill wind was blowing on his neck. "Uncle?" he called. "Uncle Benjen? Father? Please, Father, help me." Up above he heard drums. They are feasting in the Great Hall, but I am not welcome there. I am no Stark, and this is not my place. His crutch slipped and he fell to his knees. The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. "Ygritte?" he whispered. "Forgive me. Please." But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his golden eyes shining sadly through the dark... (Jon VIII, ASoS)

He's calling for Bran and Rickon because he thinks they're dead. They're not answering him because they're not there.

No one else is answering him because they are already at the feast (indeterminate for Benjen).

Robb/Grey Wind are on their way to the feast, up the way through the crypts to the Great Hall, encountered Jon on his way down and stop him from progressing any further...because he is not dead.

The feast upstairs in the Great Hall with the thunderous drums is for the dead only (if you've played Skyrim, like Sovngarde, or in general, as Valhalla).

This is confirmed in a chapter:

"I don't even dream of Ghost anymore. All my dreams are of the crypts, of the stone kings on their thrones. Sometimes I hear Robb's voice, and my father's, as if they were at a feast. But there's a wall between us, and I know that no place has been set for me."

The living have no place at the feasts of the dead. It tore the heart from Sam to hold his silence then. Bran's not dead, Jon, he wanted to stay. He's with friends, and they're going north on a giant elk to find a three-eyed crow in the depths of the haunted forest. (Samwell IV, ASoS)

Jon has a constant occurrence of dreaming of the crypts (which I believe is an off-handed implication that Jon was always meant to die prematurely) and the cycle of crypt-dreams will end and complete once he dies.

He is certainly dead, as is foreshadowed in Varamyr Sixskins' prologue for ADwD:

True death came suddenly; he felt a shock of cold, as if he had been plunged into the icy waters of a frozen lake.

Jon mentioned to Val:

She took a deep breath. "The air tastes sweet."

"My tongue is too numb to tell. All I can taste is cold." (Jon VIII, ADwD)

...and then there is this in the aftermath of the Ides of Marsh moment:

Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold… (Jon XIII, ADwD)

"I dreamed about the crow again last night. The one with three eyes. He flew into my bedchamber and told me to come with him, so I did. We went down to the crypts. Father was there, and we talked. He was sad."

"And why was that?" Luwin peered through his tube.

"It was something to do about Jon, I think." The dream had been deeply disturbing, more so than any of the other crow dreams. (Bran VII, AGoT)

Jon will be able to talk with Ned once he is dead.

#jon snow #canonjonsnow

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ieattaperecorders · 2 years

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Lost Cat, Do Not Find

Chapter 5 - Silence, Thought, My Alcove

Martin gets a ride home. Jon finds something unexpected.

Read on Ao3

Several mutually frustrating attempts at communication followed, as Martin tried to coax Jon to meow in response, to point or tap with his paw. Nothing worked, of course, and eventually it sank in that Jon wasn't going to be able to respond.

"How did you even --" he shook his head, "okay, I get that you can't answer, just, how do you get yourself into these situations?"

Jon gave a vaguely offended mrr, if only because Martin was one to talk. There were still tiny red marks on his hand where Jon had bit him moments ago, trying to pull him back from the Lonely.

The revelation of a problem solved (Jon wasn't dead or missing) and a second problem introduced (Jon was currently a small tortoiseshell cat) seemingly interrupted whatever had been happening to Martin. He was solid now, opaque, and his voice had life to it again. Superficially at least, he seemed normal. But the air around him hadn't quite lost its chill, and there was something in the hue of his skin, the way that light reflected off of him that felt muted and dull. Whatever reprieve he'd just gotten, Jon doubted it was permanent.

"Do the others know? No, of course they don't, they think you're missing . . . Christ," he muttered. "I should tell them, let them know what's going on --"

As Martin glanced towards the door, Jon leapt up with alarm. As much as he'd initially tried to alert the others to his condition, the idea of telling them now was terrifying, and he let out a yowl. Martin flinched at the sound of it.

". . . Ooor not?" He paused. "Why? Don't tell me you're embarrassed. "

A frustrated growl came out of Jon. For the moment, Martin was the only one who knew about this. But if he told the others . . . Jon was sure that once Martin could pass him off to someone else, his next act would be to return to the cold, lonely office upstairs. He'd tell himself that Jon had help and wouldn't need him anymore, and Jon just couldn't bear that. Not now. He needed to need Martin now.

"I can't -- I mean, I really don't know what to do with this," he gestured in Jon's direction. "The others would probably be in a better position . . . ."

Jon placed a paw on Martin's arm, as if he could hold him in place. Martin let out a long, slow breath.

". . . Fine." He rubbed his eyes. "I won't tell the others, at least not right away, but Jon, what -- what am I supposed to do here? I don't even know how it happened. Did someone do this to you? Did you touch some weird artifact, or a Leitner?"

Jon nearly meowed at the word Lietner , but the book's influence was still hobbling him, and the sound died in his throat. He closed his eyes, making an effort not to think until the wave of confusion passed. When he came back to himself, Martin was still talking.

" --even if I did know. It's not as if there's a manual for these things." He felt around the floor until his hands closed on a phone. He turned it on and checked the time. "Christ, it's late," he muttered. "How much time did I lose? No wonder I'm so tired."

The light from the screen made Martin's face look gray and washed-out as he ran a hand through his hair. Jon took note of the offhanded way he mentioned losing time. Wondered if something like this had happened before, when no one else was there to see it. Martin turned back to him, studying him seriously.

"You've . . . just been staying here, huh? Since this happened."

Since well before it had happened, in fact. He just hadn't seen the point in finding another place after he returned from the hospital. There were cots in the back and near the tunnels, and details like whether the bed he slept on was comfortable seemed awfully trivial under the circumstances. The thought of going apartment hunting while beset by monsters from within and without had felt like an absurd waste of resources.

Besides. This was where he belonged now, wasn't it? The Archivist in its archive, in situ. But Martin didn't need to know that.

"Probably isn't hard finding a place to sleep when you're cat-sized." Martin said. He rolled his shoulder in a reflexive manner, as if his body still remembered all the nights he'd spent on the cot in document storage. "Don't you worry that a janitor'll spot you and call animal control?"

Constantly, Jon thought, but none of the ordinary staff ever enter the archives at night. Not even security. Wise of them, frankly.

"Suppose you've been all right this long. For . . . a month now, almost? If you went missing on the first. Shit, Jon, I'm . . ." he got to his feet, slowly. "We'll -- I'll figure something out, all right? Just give me a night to process this, and to get some sleep. Okay?"

He wasn't sure why Martin was asking his permission. He was hardly in any position to tell him when to come and go anymore, and even if he was, he couldn't communicate those decisions anyway. The truth was, he absolutely didn't want Martin to leave. Not even for one night, not when he was finally looking at Jon and seeing him, not after he had nearly vanished before his eyes. Jon wanted him here, where he could keep close to him, grab him if he started to fade again.

But whatever was happening to Martin now, it wouldn't be helped if he imprisoned himself in the archive just to ease Jon's own fears and loneliness. So he padded over to the corner and curled up, lying down. He wasn't planning to sleep, really. Just to rest his head, to show that he was all right here. That it was fine.

"Right. All right." Martin made it as far as the door, then hesitated. He muttered something Jon didn't catch. "God -- look. I -- I shouldn't do this, but . . . would it be better if you spent the night at my flat?"

Like a shot, Jon raised his head as Martin continued speaking, still facing the door.

"Just -- if no one else knows about this . . . I mean, you can't even talk, and if something happened at night there's not a lot for you to defend yourself with . . . ."

There was no need to sell Jon on the idea, and to be frank he suspected that Martin was mostly trying to sell himself on it. It didn't matter. He rose from his corner and approached, so that when Martin glanced back again he was sitting on the floor about a foot away, looking up expectantly.

"And I'd just -- oh," he cleared his throat. "Right. Okay, then. I'll just . . . ." he glanced at his phone again, thinking. "Missed the last train anyway. I'll call a rideshare? That's probably easiest."

He waited on the floor as Martin made the call, then followed as he gathered his coat and bag.

"All right. Well. It'll be here in a minute, so--" he gestured towards the stairs.

They walked through the silent building together, moving slowly. Martin glanced back at him frequently, as if to check he was still there. It struck Jon as they approached the entrance that he was further from the archive than he'd been since his change, and it filled him with a strange anxiety. At some point he'd internalized the fear of being shut out, the thought that leaving the building would mean never getting back in. Being outside the institute felt unsafe now, frightening.

It was an irrational fear. He could push past it. He was with Martin, who was blessed with the gift of opposable thumbs and who wouldn't let Jon be trapped outside.

Unless he vanishes, something whispered at the back of his mind. Unless he fades like a puff of smoke the moment you look away. Unless the book makes him forget about you. Unless he decides to leave you behind.

He could push past it. He was used to pushing past fear.

The night guard didn't look up as they passed, and Jon wondered if they were even visible to him. As they reached the door Martin hesitated.

"Would it be all right if I picked you up? Just while we're outside."

There was no sign of assent Jon could make without muddying his thoughts, so he sat within arm's reach and simply waited. Martin bent down, slow enough to give Jon time to pull away, then hooked his hands behind his front legs and lifted him up. Reflexively, Jon walked his paws over Martin's shoulder to get himself more stability. With some juggling, Martin made a sort of seat for him with his left arm, the other arm coming around Jon's front to hold him in place. He shifted a little, testing his stability, and was satisfied that he wouldn't fall. He practically swam in Martin's arms, honestly, there was little chance of losing his balance.

The night air was a new sensation after weeks in basement rooms. The only noise came from a few passing cars, and the quiet left him vividly aware of everything else -- the alien sensation of a breeze moving his fur, the cacophony of scents in city air, the pressure of Martin's arms keeping him steady. There was barely time to take it all in before a car with an LED logo pulled up to the curb.

"Martin?" the driver asked.

"Uh, yes . . . Is it all right if I bring a cat in with me?"

"Sure," the driver said, not looking up from his tablet, "as long as it stays in a pet carrier."

"Ah. I . . . don't have one of those?" Martin said awkwardly. "I could keep him in my lap?"

The driver turned and took them both in. He sighed quietly, in a manner that suggested it was definitely not all right. Then he said "sure, that's all right" in a manner that suggested he'd rather allow it than give up his fare.

"Sorry, thank you, sorry--" Martin said, getting in. "I promise, he's very well-behaved."

"Mmm-hmm," the driver said, in the manner of someone quietly and intensely hating their job. He confirmed Martin's address and drove off without small talk.

At his back, Jon felt Martin quietly cringe. He made a point to keep still during the ride, so as not to get any fur on the seats.

* * *

When the car finally pulled up to Martin's apartment block, the driver paused and looked at his tablet with confusion.

"Why did --" he muttered, then his eyes caught the rearview mirror and he jumped. He turned to Martin like he hadn't been expecting him there. "Oh! Sh -- um, hey. This, uh, is this the place?"

If Martin noticed anything odd about his reaction, it didn't show. "Yeah, thanks," he said. "Sorry again, about the cat."

"No -- no problem. Really. It's fine."

A click, some shifting, and then they were outside again, night air and all. Jon shook his head, sending little bits of fur out into the breeze. He watched over Martin's shoulder as the driver left in a hurry.

Inside the lobby, Martin crouched so Jon could amble out of his arms onto the tiled floor. He was slow going up the stairs, as usual his size meant everything required that much more effort, and it was a good thing Martin's flat was only on the third floor.

"Don't expect much," Martin said as he unlocked the door, "it's kind of a mess in there."

Stepping in, Jon looked around, reflexively assessing. The flat was a little messy, he supposed. Mugs sitting out, things piled on the table by the door, wastebaskets overfull. Nothing he'd consider particularly bad, but frankly, with the way things were Jon couldn't imagine any level of mess that wasn't excusable. Martin could have opened the door onto a perfect recreation of Maggie's Dump and it would still have been a bit hard to judge. Still, he saw Martin self-consciously gather the mugs from the coffee table, taking them into the kitchen.

"Are you hungry?"

Jon must have visibly reacted to the question, based on the amused look on Martin's face. He pulled out his phone, typing on the screen.

"Not sure what I can get for you. I don't exactly keep a can of Fancy Feast for emergencies . . . though you probably wouldn't want that anyway, would you?" he paused, blinking. " . . . Actually, hang on, what have you been eating all this time?"

You really don't want an answer to that, Jon thought. And I don't know why you're looking at me like I can give you one anyway.

"I'll just add that to the running list of mysteries . . . okay." He squinted at whatever was on his phone screen. "Chicken and rice sound okay? I can manage that."

It sounded better than anything Jon had eaten in weeks. He watched as Martin busied himself, pulling a grocery store rotisserie from the fridge and tearing off meat with his fingers, dropping it into a blender with some leftover rice. As Jon's meal warmed in the microwave, he fixed a sandwich for himself and filled a cereal bowl with water. He paused, glancing at Jon, and then around the kitchen. For a moment he eyed the small, unsteady table pushed against the wall, but thought better of it and set the bowl on the floor. That was fine with Jon, really. Eating off the floor might be less dignified, but he was exhausted, sore, and didn't relish the thought of trying to make a jump onto untested furniture.

As he bent to have a drink from the bowl, Martin stepped back to the counter and returned with two plates, setting one on the table and the other on the floor beside Jon. The smell of food was overwhelming, and he found his jaws were snapping it up before he could even consider savoring. It was wonderful to finally eat something warm and filling, not scavenged from the garbage or hunted in the tunnels. It took willpower to slow down, to pace himself so he wouldn't be sick.

He pulled away from the heady distraction of food long enough to pause, have a few more licks of water and let himself digest. When he looked up, Martin was watching him -- though he turned away when Jon met his eyes, back to his own dinner.

"Sorry . . ." he muttered. "It's just weird to have someone over? Somehow that's weirder than the cat thing, even." He shook his head. "Ignore me. I don't know what I'm saying."

Jon turned back to his plate, looking away as deliberately as he could, trying not to scrutinize. Slowly, he drank and ate a bit more, feeling more full than he had in recent memory. There was a great deal left over since Martin -- who had never had a cat before -- portioned it as if for a human guest. He lay down on the kitchen floor as Martin finished his own meal, stood up and slipped the dishes into the sink.

"Dunno if you want to sleep now," he said over his shoulder. "Cats are nocturnal, right?"

That's a common misconception, Jon thought, cats are actually crepuscular, most active at dusk and dawn. Domestic cats typically sleep a good portion of the night, but because they'll still be active while their owners are sleeping it leads to popular notions--

"Didn't really think about that. Guess there's a lot I didn't think about," Martin laughed quietly. "A whole lot. Well. Dunno if you're sleeping now, but I sure am. I'm beat."

Jon rose and followed as Martin walked through the living room, then stopped at the bedroom door.

"I'm just going to get changed for bed?" he said. "I'll be right back."

Right. Embarrassing to realize he was so underfoot that Martin had to remind him not to follow him into his own bedroom . He took a few steps back as the door closed between them.

Left to his own devices, he walked around, idly taking a look at the place. The living room was narrow, with space for a small couch and end table, with little else in the way of furniture. Despite the size, and despite Martin's comments about the mess, the room wasn't cluttered. If anything, it was oddly sparse.

That was . . . different, wasn't it? Jon tried to recall. He'd been in Martin's flat once before, if only briefly. After Prentiss's attack on the archive -- when Martin had been back in his flat a little more than a week but still couldn't sleep through the night, Jon had offered to look the place over with him, suggesting that a second pair of eyes could help assure him that the building was still free of worms. Of course, he'd had a less noble motivation for offering -- he recalled with a hint of shame how eager he'd been to get a look at Martin's flat. Some asinine notion that he'd spot something suspicious there -- an incriminating letter left out, perhaps, or a firearm labeled ‘the gun I used to shoot Gertrude Robinson.'

The memory of what Martin's flat had looked like then was fuzzy with time, but he was certain that the couch used to have a few soft-looking blankets draped over it. Hadn't there been things hanging on the walls as well? Some sort of artwork or a framed poster or two, something like that? There had just been more things lying around, more stuff in general. What little clutter there was now consisted of work documents, loose dishes and a coat tossed casually aside, nothing personal or comforting.

The only spot in the room -- possibly the entire flat -- that still held anything sentimental was a bookcase pressed against the wall, which had a handful of knick-knacks, a cracked mug filled with pens and a shelf and a half of books. Climbing onto the arm of the couch, he could get close enough to see the spines, though the words were still gibberish to him. Frustrated, he wished he could still read. He'd have liked to know what sort of books Martin owned.

Jon began to wonder if this was reaching the level of snooping.

He didn't think it was. He wasn't opening drawers or rummaging through cabinets or peeking in closets, surely that was the line where it became strange. He wasn't trying to uncover any secrets, he was just curious.

But curiosity wasn't something he could trust in himself, not anymore. It was hard to ignore how eager, even hungry he felt for any details he could glean from Martin's living room. Was he being invasive? Was the Eye pushing him as it had before? Looking at someone else's books and knick knacks, that was basically normal, surely? Maybe it was. But he'd been made the Archivist for a reason, always the one who pushed too far, who asked personal questions, who pressed. It was difficult to tell sometimes.

Before he could chase himself in circles over this for too long, something new caught his eye and ground his thoughts to a halt. On a shelf above the books, inconspicuously sitting by a small wooden box, was a hematite bracelet. It was distinctive, with an alternating pattern of beads -- two thin, one thick -- and a small, sun-shaped charm at the center. Jon recognized it. He could almost hear the soft clack clack clack the beads used to make when Tim fiddled with it on quiet afternoons -- first in research, then in the Archive. Clack clack clack. He kept it close. Said it was his good luck charm. When he wasn't wearing it it would always be on his desk, wrapped around a pen like a figure-eight.

It was the same one. Jon didn't need Beholding powers to know that. He didn't know how long he stood there, staring brokenly at the bracelet, before Martin emerged from the bedroom.

". . . Jon? What are you -- oh. "

Martin's voice went soft on the last syllable, and Jon turned to him. He was looking at it now too.

"Yeah. It's Tim's," he reached over, picking it carefully off the shelf. "Afterwards . . . well, his family sorted out his apartment but no one ever came to clear out his desk. Basira and Melanie didn't really know him, and you were . . . you know. So I went through it."

He looked down at his hands, running his thumbs over the smooth, dark beads. Jon imagined him going through Tim's desk. Sorting papers into piles, deciding what would go back into the archive, what would go into the trash. Hesitating over small things -- legal pads that had a few notes scribbled in them, chewed pens, trinkets. Detritus that would have been meaningless before, but had now become a finite resource -- evidence that Tim Stoker once existed.

"I felt weird taking it, but if I hadn't it'd have just been thrown away. Or worse, shoved in some closet in the Institute. He'd have hated that, having a part of him stuck there even after he was gone."

He would've. It was odd that he'd left it in the first place, hadn't taken it with him to Yarmouth. Another sign that he hadn't been planning to come back. Or perhaps a sign he'd stopped believing in luck. Then again, maybe he'd just forgotten it, and trying to apply some deeper meaning to it all was the height of foolishness. Jon didn't know. He had no illusions of understanding Tim's mind at time of the Unknowing, save that he'd been in a bad, bad place.

Because of me, the back of Jon's mind reminded him. Martin sighed, returning the bracelet to its place. A mournful feline sound came out of Jon, and Martin ran a hand across the back of his head, just once. Jon pressed into the motion, something tight in his chest.

"It's late," Martin said quietly.

It was. He hopped down from the couch and followed him back to the bedroom.

As they entered, Jon's eye was caught by something on the floor -- it looked like a couple of pillows wrapped in a blanket to hold them together. He eyed it, then looked back at Martin, who shrugged, glancing off to the side.

"I thought I'd set up something for you to sleep on? Though I suppose you can just sleep wherever, I mean the couch is comfortable, if you'd rather sleep there."

The awkwardness of his tone was jarringly mundane, like the apology he'd made about the mess. As if Jon was just an unexpected guest, and Martin was only fretting over the state of his flat or whether he had sufficient sheets. It was a small, harmless sort of strangeness. He would have been fine with the couch, or even the floor, but he climbed into the makeshift cat bed out of politeness. It was comfortable enough.

"Right. Good night, then."

Martin turned off the light and climbed into his own bed, his silhouette turning and shuffling as he settled in. Only after he'd been still for a few minutes did it occur to Jon that he should probably stop staring at him.

It would be fine. Martin was there, and he was solid, and Jon was very, very tired. He closed his eyes.

* * *

There was no knowing how long he'd been asleep before the cold woke him. He came to disoriented, trying to reach with hands he didn't have to grab at blankets that weren't there, before his eyes opened and he remembered where he was. Alarmed, he looked around and found nothing out of place -- Martin's silhouette was still there, solid under the blanket. But it was cold , far too cold for a warm summer night. A cold that numbed his paws and burned his eyes. Something predatory. Stumbling on paws he couldn't properly feel, he hurried to the side of the bed and leaped up.

As soon as he landed, Martin turned calmly to look at him. He wasn't startled or groggy, it was as if he'd been awake the whole time. He took in sight of Jon as he stood, shivering on the bed, and got up without a word. He went to the closet and rummaged around until he came back with a thick flannel blanket, which he placed on the makeshift cat bed.

"Sorry." His voice was quiet. Not the distant, muffled quiet it had been before, just the hushed tones of someone whispering into the dark. "Gets cold at night, sometimes."

Gets cold at night. He talked as if it were a matter of poor insulation or freak weather, when both of them knew very well that it wasn't.

"It might be warmer in the living room," Martin sat back down on the bed, opposite Jon. He didn't look at him directly. "But the blanket should help, either way."

Jon stepped closer and saw Martin flinch subtly. It was a small enough motion that he'd likely have missed it if his night vision wasn't so sharp. He hesitated mid-step. Martin turned, just a little, in his direction.

"Don't worry about me. I'm used to it."

Of course he was. He believed that Martin was used to this cold , and that was in fact more worrying. Jon was shivering, hard enough that he felt like he might shake apart, but Martin was perfectly still. Did he think Jon didn't see what this was?

(Did he think he didn't care?)

He meowed, and Martin pulled in on himself again.

"Just leave it," he muttered, voice fragile with dread. "Please. Go to sleep."

What could Jon do? Martin's breath wasn't visible, his form was solid. Whatever was happening, he wasn't going to vanish into thin air. This was something that had been here for a long time.

Reluctantly, he crawled back to the little cushion and burrowed underneath the blanket. It did nothing to take the edge off the chill. Eyes closed, he heard the creak of bedsprings as Martin lay back down. He shivered in the dark, and tried to sleep.

#tma fanfic #jonmartin #cat!jon #tma #fic slowly grows like the Corruption #martin would later leave a guilty five star review for his uber driver

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kaleidoscopewritings19 · 2 years

Text

Bruce Wayne x Reader Series

“GLASS WALLS"

-CHAPTER 8-

WARNING(S): Some violence, not a lot. Some language. MENTIONS OF Drugs, (I DO NOT recommend or support drug abuse. More hugs less drugs)

CHARACTER(S): Bruce Wayne, x Reader (Robert Pattinson) (Or your choice of Bruce Wayne), Jonathan Crane (Scarecrow)

SYNOPSIS COMING SOON... HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE MOVIE.

-CHAPTER 1- -CHAPTER 2- -CHAPTER 3- -CHAPTER 4- -CHAPTER 5- -CHAPTER 6- -CHAPTER 7-

-----------

I called the GCPD and they showed up with gas masks and I had to wait in a cop car. They brought Rita out of the house, but she was covered in blood, and they zipped up the body bag. I got out of the car and ran up to Detective Gordon. “What happened to Rita?” I asked and he looked over at the coroner’s van. “It was Crane’s Fear Toxin. It was triggered when she opened the box. You were lucky you got out before it hit you- or else you would have had the same fate.” He said as he led me to the back of the house. “She ran through those French glass doors.” He said and I looked down at the shattered glass, it was blood stained and I had to look away.

“I would suggest leaving the house for a few days. To make sure that the toxin is fully out of the house. And if you can answer a few questions for me now, that would be great.” He said and I nodded.

I answered all the questions he had for me, and when they left, When I went back into the house, I put my coat over my mouth and nose, and I took a look around. By chance, I saw something in the floor’s air duct. I dug around through all of the drawers in the house until I found a screwdriver. The floor creaked as I turned the screwdriver to unscrew the bolts. Once I removed the metal grate, I saw that it was an envelope. I knew what these black envelopes meant, anytime I opened them, I knew I was damned.

Slowly, my fingers ripped open the envelope and I took a deep breath as I opened the piece of paper.

Dearest Y/N,

Before you open this box, I want you to give you my condolences. Your father was a good man, but fear got the better of him. So now, I give you all the answers to your problems within this box. If by chance you don’t open this box, just know, you can’t run forever. You can’t hide much longer. You have no one. But there is something that can buy you some time, before I forcefully give you my fear toxin. Tell me who the Batman is and I will give you longer to decide if you want the fear toxin. We can overcome fear, and your biggest fear is happening before you. You past is catching up with you. Y/N, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. I am going to help you

Much love,

Jon

“Y/N?” I jumped at the sound of Bruce’s voice. “Could you quit doing that?” I say frightened and I knew Bruce’s eyebrows were scrunched underneath his cowl. “Why?” He asked and I motioned around myself. “For one, you keep scaring me! And two-”

“What is that?” He asked and he grabbed the envelope from my hand. His eyes scanned the piece of paper, and I could hear him mumble a few words under his breath. He started walking around the house, and he was checking bedrooms and office rooms. I followed him around, “We need to get you out of here.” He said as began looking at the air vents and ducts. “Go pack a bag.”

I quickly went upstairs: when Bruce’s voice sounded concerned or worried, then it was time to panic. As I grabbed a duffle bag from the hall closet, I saw my bedroom door opened and I noticed the French doors to the balcony were opened. Slowly, I walked into the room and the only source of light was the moonlight coming in through the window. I closed the doors and I twisted the lock; I turned around and Scarecrow was in the room.

Before I could scream for Bruce, someone else came up from behind me and put a cloth over my mouth and nose. I was lifted off of the ground and I started kicking my legs like an angry toddler. I tried to scream with the cloth over my mouth, but whoever was holding me, his grip got tighter around me. My world went black; up until it got bright, really bright.

------

A figure came up to me and reached a hand out to me. I was laying on the ground, squinting up to see who was standing over me. “Who are you?” I asked and the shadow lifted off of the person standing over me. “Dad? I thought you were-”

“I am.” He said as he pulled me up off of the ground. “Do you know who captured you?” He asked and I dusted myself off. “Yeah it was Crane. I need to get out of here... where am I?” I asked as I looked around and then I gasped, “Am I... Am I...dead?” I stuttered out and my father shook his head.

“No. But if you don’t fight whatever he’s going to use on you, then you’re going to be.” He said and I gave him a hug. “When are you going to tell Bruce?” He asked and I looked up at him. “I will tell him soon.” I say as I looked over my dad’s shoulder. I had to get out of here and tell Bruce before it’s too late; there was light towards the back of this black room.

“Is that the way out?” I asked and my father nodded. “Just do me one favor before you go, kick his ass. And go check on your mother for me. Do whatever you can to help her recover.” He said as he pressed a kiss to my forehead. He led me to the bright lights, and when I went through the doorway, my eyes fluttered open.

---

“Hello, my dearest Y/N.” Crane’s distorted voice rang in my ears.

I have to get the hell out of here. I need to find Bruce.

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

I am so sorry if that last part is confusing! But I promise it will all make sense. These last few chapters were ideas given to me by a friend, because I did not know how to end this series. The rest of the chapters should be posted tonight. Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

#batman x reader #batmoblie #ben affleck #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x batmom #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #dc comics #dc heroes #christian bale #robert pattinson #battinson #the batman 2022 #the batman imagine #the batman x reader

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ashes-in-a-jar · 3 years

Text

The Purrfect Alternative

Premise: Why would there be a cat in the archives? An archive cat fixit.

2.7K words

Rated G

(Tw: A bit of violence but it's against Jurgen Leitner)

This is a fic dedicated to the @jonsimsandcats event! Hope you enjoy it :)

"Sorry, you haven't seen a cat, have you?"

Jon gaped at the larger man who suddenly barged into the office.

"I-I'm sorry, a what?"

"Uh, a cat, tabby I think." The man hurriedly explained.

"No. No I haven't. Is it.. Supposed to be here?" Jon knew book shops sometimes kept cats. Perhaps archives did as well. Maybe Gertrude had a soft spot in her after all.

"N-no actually. I, uh, I was feeding it on the way in but when I got up with my things, well, my hands were full you see, so when I managed to open the door it sort of slipped in with me? I'm so sorry, I have to find it before-"

"Okay okay calm down, stop." Jon held up his hand and let out a sigh. First day of the promotion and he's already stressed. But it's fine. He's fine. He can handle a cat. He's good with cats.

"Where do you work? Upstairs? Are you sure it came down here?"

"Yes, I saw it. And I just started working down here today? I'm Martin. Blackwood." He offered a hand. Jon automatically took it. Big and soft. He let go a bit too quickly and coughed.

"Work here? Are you certain?"

"Yes, I'm supposed to let Jonathan Sims know about becoming an archival assistant. He's the head archivist Elias told me to talk to."

"Well that's one thing to cross off your list." Jon smirked. "I'm Jonathan Sims. Jon, if you please. And Elias did not mention you. Tim and Sasha were supposed to be the only new recruits." Jon frowned to himself. He'll have to have a word with Elias about this. It's fine now that it happened but keeping Jon updated could really help in preventing these kinds of awkward introductions with people he's supposed to work closely with.

"O-oh! Well, here I am now too." Martin chuckled nervously, fidgeting with the hem of his jumper.

Jon hummed "So you are I suppose. Well, let's not waste time on trivial matters, there is a cat that needs to be found." Jon got up from his chair.

"O-oh god, you're right. I'm so sorry for this." The other man apologized, remembering why he was there in the first place. It was clear that he now realized that the fact that the person he's asking to help him clear up his mess is his new boss could be very problematic for him. Jon easily sympathized with that kind of familiar pressure.

"It's alright, let's just, get this sorted." Jon was not willing to admit that a part of him was also just looking forward to seeing the cat. It would help distract him from his own stress, as it were.

Ten minutes later the two of them sitting on the floor in the stacks with a chubby tabby cat sprawled on Jon's lap. Jon was petting it affectionately while amicably getting acquainted with his new assistant. The man turned out to be a library veteran with useful cataloging skills that could help with the mess that was left down here. Having calmed down considerably, Martin had stopped fidgeting and was cooing at the cat who was head butting his large palm. Their presence soothed Jon in a way that surprised him. In the tranquil, quiet atmosphere of the stacks, sounds of cat purrs and Martin's low murmurs, he felt almost optimistic that despite his lack of experience and the large task ahead of them, he would be alright.

-------

Paper meowed loudly behind him as Martin hurried down the tunnel with Jon and Tim at his tail. Martin glanced back as he reached an intersection and noticed they were too far behind, Jon limping on his injured foot. He hesitated, stopping and waiting for them to catch up. Paper came up and rubbed his leg before trotting down the tunnel on the right, tail held high and confident. Martin inhaled deeply to catch his breath, starting to walk again, this time more slowly. They managed to leave most of the fast worms behind and the ones down here were few and sparse enough to easily stomp down individually. Paper was making a game out of it. He kept leaping onto some that crawled ahead of them, squishing them loudly with his paw.

Jon and Tim caught up and the three followed Paper down the dark passage.

"Yeah, get the damn crawlers." Slurred Tim. The CO2 he inhaled was not helping his coherency.

"You know," gasped Jon, "I actually think they're larvae, given Jane's statement and-"

"Jon, I'm going to have to ask you to stop now." Martin said, as calmly as he could, his voice a tad too high and loud.

"... Sorry." Jon said sheepishly.

They followed Paper down the forking paths, hoping the cat knew where in the seven circles of hell they were.

Eventually they stopped seeing any worms as the path sloped up, ending in a sudden door. There was daylight filtering in from beneath it. Paper was eagerly pawing at it.

"Uh, I think we found a secret way out of the institute." Martin could hardly believe their luck.

"Excellent, now I can ditch work and no one will know I even left." Tim mumbled.

"Tim, if you wanted to succeed in that endeavor, you should have not said that next to your boss." Jon commented dryly.

The worm threat no longer being imminent, Martin allowed himself a nervous chuckle.

They pushed at the door and with a bit of group effort, eventually managed to pry it open into fresh air. They came out into a narrow alleyway which turned out to be not far from the institute. As they walked (limped) down the street to find access to a working phone they heard someone cry out.

"Jon? Tim? Martin!" They spotted Sasha hurrying towards them, carrying heavy bags of cat food.

"Sasha! You're okay!" Martin exclaimed. "We were worried you'd get back and be caught in it like Tim had."

"Where have you been?" Jon inquired, straining to stand upright on his own. Martin came closer, gently supporting him by the hip on the opposite side of Tim.

"We ran out of food for Paper, I figured I'd pop by the store for a moment to get some." Sasha said. "I came back when the building was being evacuated."

"Oh good, at least the alarm worked." Tim said tiredly.

"What in god's name happened to you three?" She inquired worriedly.

"Prentiss, we'll fill you in later. We need to make sure the ECDC is informed regarding the CO2 in the fire suppression system that needs to be activated."

"And get you to a hospital." Martin chastised, squeezing Jon's side.

"Yes yes." Jon waved dismissively but all the while leaning further into Martin's side. He really wasn't discreet, Martin thought smugly.

Sasha was about to say something else when a loud meow interrupted her. Paper was nosing into the bag, fully aware of its contents and who they were meant for.

Jon dislodged from Martin and Tim and hobbled towards the cat.

The cat turned and moved back into Jon's welcoming arms, as the archivist picked him up and stroked him fondly.

"We are lucky on all accounts that Paper is such a smart cat." He murmured into the soft fur, injury forgotten for the moment.

Tim chuckled, "cats always ruin evil people's plans, it's a well known fact. Anyway, Sasha, please call an ambulance for us?" He said, and promptly sat on the floor.

Martin sighed with relief. For now, they are all safe and together. And that's all that matters.

-------

It was all almost too much to take in. Luckily Paper was held tight in his arms as he listened to Jurgen Leitner ramble on about powers and fears and monsters and Jonah Magnus. He had been chased by a distorted form of his boss, who was apparently replaced by a monster Jon and the crew tried and failed to destroy, thus separating in the ensuing pursuit. In light of these events Jon now needed something soft to ground him in the face of so much new information.

The discovery of Elias' death was a shock, especially given the fact that apparently it happened when he was trapped in artifact storage during the Prentiss siege a half a year back.

He (that is, his doppelganger) told them back then that he was trying to reach the suppression system switch when he tripped down the stairs over one of Paper's many scattered toys, alerting Jane in the process and was driven back into the storage area. His account seemed to check out given he was rescued from there by the ECDC after Jane was dealt with. And given the few toys strewn about the stairs leading to artifact storage. Why Paper kept scattering his toys all over the building was beyond Jon but that wasn't the main issue at hand. After trapping the creature in the walls of the tunnels, Jurgen Leitner proceeded to reveal himself. Once Jon dragged him back to his office, and picked the protesting Paper up to calm himself down, he unveiled the truth of Elias', or Jonah's, whole operation.

Turns out Jonah Magnus decided life was too short to enjoy once and did exactly what eventually happened to him. Talk about karma. Leitner explained that Gertrude's plan was to stop Jonah from... Something he was planning. Perhaps a ritual to end the world in a way the others would fail to do. That bit of information was on a tape of Gertrude which Leitner played for Jon. By the time they reached the part where Leitner said, “they needed to kill Jonah's main body then burn down the archives.” Martin, Tim and Sasha had arrived back at the office as well.

"Jon? Jon! Are you okay?" Martin rushed forward, hugging Jon tightly, ignoring Paper's loud yowling at being squished in between them. Jon sighed, "Martin, thank god. I-I'm fine." He hugged him back, relieved his boyfriend was safe, as well as his other assistants of course. "It chased after me but he stopped it."

Tim raised his axe, "Jon are you sure he's not... Another one?"

"Yes I'm sure. That" Jon took a deep breath, "is Jurgen Leitner."

After the team's loud exclamations of disbelief he and Leitner updated them on everything they had discussed. As he was being hugged by Martin and holding the fluffy cat he slowly began calming down.

After Leitner was done a long moment of silence ensued.

"So," Sasha said slowly, "Gertrude's dead?"

"Yes, she was shot and then hidden by Jonah in the tunnels. Unfortunately I couldn't get out to allow for a proper burial, so I had to leave her there." He seemed sad admitting it. Jon did not feel sympathy for him. This man deserved none for his past and cowardice.

"And now, we need to, what, somehow find the center of the maze of tunnels to kill Jonah completely and burn the archives?" Sasha asked skeptically.

"Yes, the whole institute in fact. I have a gas main in the tunnels ready to be ignited once we find the center." Leitner said.

"How do we do that?" Martin frowned.

"Maybe Michael knows?" Tim quipped. "He just helped us out of that situation with his own… corridor labyrinth. Maybe he'll be able to help."

"Okay, okay let's first take a breather and calm down. We'll figure out how to solve this." Jon said, raising his hand to slow them down.

"Yeah, I'll make us some tea." Martin added, "At least now that... Thing won't bother us for a long while."

"Let it burn along with this hell of an institute." Tim said harshly. Knowing how his brother was killed almost the same way, Jon felt strong sympathy for Tim rush over him.

Which was replaced with a different emotion the moment he turned to the man who saved him.

"Thank you for your help, now Martin, I need you to hold Paper for a moment."

Martin, looking baffled, took Paper out of Jon's arms. "Jon wh-"

Jon swiftly approached the older man and proceeded to sock him in the nose with the full force of his fist. The crew gasped in unison.

"That's for everyone you hurt with your idiocy, you stupid old coward." Jon seethed and punched him again. He heard Martin chuckle and Tim whoop as the man whimpered and attempted to protect his face.

Jon was glad they were spared the horrible plans of a 200 year old evil man and that they had some semblance of a strategy moving forward. He was, however, equally elated for this opportunity to do what he fantasized about since learning of Leitner's existence.

And, he supposes, all of this can be indirectly attributed to Paper, the archive cat.

-------

Jon woke up to the warm snuggle of his lovely fiance and a mouthful of cat fur.

"Pffff, Paper geerroff," he mumbled, uselessly trying to push the stubborn cat away. The chirping of birds mingled with the sound of highland cows grazing in the field near their cabin.

After the success of their plan to end Jonah, after the fire had already burned down the horrors of that evil place, it took a while longer for their troubles to be resolved. They had to endure endless questioning and investigations of the police. Jon, who was weakened by the ordeal to the point of needing hospitalization, took a long time to recover and regain his strength. Leitner claimed it was lucky he was cut off from the Eye this early, or the consequences would have been much more serious. The others seemed to have been less affected, but once the archives were completely reduced to ashes they recovered, their jobs burned down along with everything else.

Sasha found a new job as a researcher in a prestigious institute, nothing supernatural involved. Tim moved on to journalism, utilizing his curiosity and charm to their full potential. Jon and Martin opened a tea & book shop, if only to make Paper a real bookshop cat. They have been slowly setting it up and settling down until... Well, Jon proposed and they took a break. Traveled to Scotland with Paper on an early honeymoon to see the cows and enjoy the quiet.

And quiet it was. Until Paper shamelessly began purring as loud as a train right in Jon's ear. Jon huffed in fond annoyance and got up, leaning down to give Martin a kiss on the head and then shooing the crime of a cat off to the kitchen.

"You can't give me a moment of reprieve, can you?" He stretched and followed the cat out the bedroom.

He filled Paper's bowl and sat on the floor leaning his back on the cabinet, closing his eyes as Paper chewed his food noisily.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, he was awakened by a soft tap on his head. He looked up blearily and smiled. The cat had long since finished eating and found a home in Jon's lap.

"Morning love." Martin murmured softly, matching his tone to the serene atmosphere. After hesitating a moment, he bent down and sat next to Jon. Jon looked at him adoringly as he absent-mindedly stroked Paper, humming along to his purrs. Martin joined him, petting Paper, their hands occasionally (and very purposefully) brushing against each other.

After a few minutes of calm silence, Martin spoke up.

"You know, this reminds me of that first day we met. In the stacks."

Jon smiled at the memory. "Ahh yes, all three of us had a very fateful meeting there, didn't we? God, I was so stressed back then."

"You handled it pretty well I have to say. Handled my nervousness pretty well too." Martin chuckled.

"I was lucky you were there. You really helped me calm down." Jon admitted. "Well, you and Paper." Jon added fondly.

"Paper was a really good archive cat wasn't he?" Martin said, leaning into Jon, pressing a warm, still sleepy kiss on his cheek. Jon closed his eyes, grateful for the events that led up to this moment of pure happiness, with his fiance and his cat.

"Yes, the best cat in the world."

#Had fun speculating with this one #Hope you enjoy!#tma #the magnus archives #Tma fic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #s1 archives crew #Jonah magnus #elias bouchard #jurgen leitner #Jonmartin #Fabric Rustles #My tma fic #jonsimsandcats2021 #Jon&cats

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amidstsaltandsmoke · 3 years

Note

Drabble challenge- 46 and maybe extra angsty please 🥲🥲🥲

Hiiiiiii! Ok, I don't think that I really pulled off the EXTRA angsty, but there IS angst involved!😆 Then I had to throw in the hurt/comfort/fluff. I also changed up the quote a little bit, I hope you don't mind! This is from an unnamed universe I'm currently working on 😌🥰 Hope you like!!!! Thanks for the ask! 🤗🤗🤗 ________________________________________________ 46.) “I thought you were dead!”

Jon was losing his damn mind.

Dany never went this long without responding to his texts and calls, especially when he was out of state for work and he only had technology to rely on to reach her. He wasn't possessive by nature, but ever since learning of her sometimes fragile condition - to which she insisted was not the case - he couldn't and wouldn't dare let his protectiveness be put by the wayside.

She was too important to him, and he really didn't know what he would do without her. Couldn't even begin to outline a picture of what his life would even look like without her right by his side in it.

He'd left the project early so he could return to the rental house and try her again. His boss had all but tossed him off the property by the hem of his pants because he'd been not only obsessively checking and rechecking his phone, but he was far too distracted and had already nearly drilled his thumb into a roof.

It was all in support, however - his boss knew Jon well, and understood the situation, and wouldn't sack him just because he loved his wife so hard it made him physically ill to think she might be in some form of danger. He didn't even care if she'd suffered a paper cut. He'd disinfect and bandage the shit out of that, too.

Gods, he was just as bad as her father had been, wasn't he? The very hovery, constantly-looking-over-shoulder person that Dany loathed and grew up with. He tried not to be, and most times he was successful. But he also wasn't typically eight hours away, halfway across the country, either.

He paced the living room, the other line just ringing and ringing with no answer. Her silky voice in the form of her voicemail passed through his ear again, and he sighed heavily. "Dany, I don't know what's goin' on, but you're really freaking me out. I'm sure you'll have my head when you see all the missed calls and messages...but please just let me know you're ok. You can send me the middle finger emoji for all I care. Love you more than anything. Bye."

Thumbing the red "END" button, he chewed on his lip and looked around the mostly-barren room, save for his suitcase which was still packed with his clothes. Tomorrow was the last day he needed to be here before flying back home...how crazy would it be to catch that night's red eye, anyway? And how livid would Dany be that he ditched this huge contract at the tail end?

His heart was made up before he could even try to rationalize it.

"Davos? I'm gonna take off...it's not like her to-," he chuckled nervously, while Davos commanded him to 'say no more and go get your girl'. "Thanks, mate. I'll keep you updated."

He wasn't sure Davos wanted to know any more than whether or not he found Dany safe and sound with all of the sulking he'd been doing the last several days.

Jon gathered up his toiletries from the bathroom in one hand, while his other was busy weaving around the airline website to book the soonest flight. To his relief, there was one in an hour and a half, which would give him just enough time to call for a rideshare and zoom his way over with thirty minutes to spare.

After the typical hell that was the airport and boarding process, plus the hole he burned through his credit card in just two hours alone (beyond worth it), he was in the air. Another torture was the distance; he managed to get himself a nonstop flight and shaved off two hours but still…

Naturally, he refused to sleep. His phone was clutched in his hand so the moment he landed, he could check it to see if he’d gotten any responses.

No luck.

He rushed through baggage and had already scheduled his next rideshare prior to his flight. Now that he was in his homeland and a mere twenty minutes from home, the anxiety and nausea were really setting in, the what-ifs and the endless possibilities; he wouldn’t know what he’d do if she wasn’t at the house…

When they pulled up, he was flooded with relief to see that her car was in the driveway, had he couldn’t have grabbed his luggage and get to the front door fast enough. He rifled for his keys and jammed it into the lock, Ghost’s howls instant and persistent until he got the door open and he whined upon seeing Jon walk through.

“Hey boy,” he greeted quietly, giving him a few good scruffs before haphazardly dumping his stuff on the floor and locking up behind him. He paused and strained his ears, exhaling when he heard the shower running upstairs.

Once he was in the conjoining bedroom, Ghost hot on his heels, he took his time shedding some layers and kicking off his shoes. On the nightstand sat a brown paper bag, folded shut, which was a little odd, but everything appeared to be in normal order. Their regular things skewed about as it was when they were there, Dany’s pajamas laid out on her side of the bed.

As he was going through his drawers to find some pajama pants, the bathroom door opened and he spun on his heel, just to confirm that she was there, safe and in the flesh.

A gust of air gasped into her mouth, her hand flying to her towel-clad chest as she jumped backward. “Seven hells! You scared the life out of me!” She breathed, her cheeks pink from the warm shower and damp hair tumbling about her shoulders. Even just the good-natured joke made him wince; it was the dormant worry that had been on his mind for hours now.

Then, a fond smile came over her face. “You’re home early.”

He was exhausted, and maybe that was why he couldn’t find it in him then to be playful, his brows twisting and her face falling a fraction. “You didn’t answer my texts or calls,” he said as gently as he could, but the fatigue was evident in his tone.

Dany blinked, then crossed her arms over herself, but she was still trying to keep it light. “Missi and I went on an impromptu girls’ vacation after my test and...,” she paused and stepped over to the mysterious paper bag, rustled her hand in it, then withdrew her phone and wiggled it, “dropped it into a pool.”

Jon took a moment to himself to shuck off his jeans and slip into his pajamas. He didn’t want to admit it...didn’t want to give her the ‘w’ word, but they were honest to the bone with one another. It was just how they programmed. He was still a little cowardly, avoiding her eyes when he said it. “I was worried sick about you.”

He heard her huff, and finally lifted his eyes to get a read on her. Clearly she was irritated, but not entirely furious. “There was nothing to worry about, Jon. I was stupid and dropped-”

“Not stupid,” he chided, cutting her a stern look. She was anything but.

Now she rolled her eyes. “It was only a little over a day; I didn’t think it was such a big deal if I just waited until I got home to try and fix it. All the stores were closed by the time I got in. And it was only a little over two days,” she defended.

Slowly, Jon frowned, and it grew deeper by the second. “A lot can happen in a little over two days, Dany,” he stated, tossing his jeans into the hamper in the closet.

“What did you expect had even happened?” She laughed humorlessly, getting more agitated by the second. Then she buried her phone back in the bag, which he now realized was full of rice, and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with her hair brush and began to detangle the damp knots.

He grit his teeth, fists clenching and loosening at his sides. “I don’t know, Dany, but I always get this terrible feeling in my gut after a period of time passes and I don’t hear from you,” his voice rose a hair. “I know you don’t want to hear it, and it’s bloody ridiculous on my end, but it kills me that I can’t turn it off. I worry when you’re at work, when you do a grocery run and I’m not there…,” he huffed and shook his head, running his hands down his face and briefly hiding behind them. He was overwrought with jet lag and lack of sleep and emotions on high, but he’d opened the floodgates now.

“Well, I’m not a fragile piece of glass that needs to be in a bubble day in and day out,” she returned, “or maybe I am, who knows! But I don’t want to be thought of that way. You know that. It makes me feel worse about myself and what I’m capable of and gives me heightened anxiety. I worry when you worry and it’s a vicious cycle!”

Closing his mouth, he forced himself to inhale a lungful of air through his nose, releasing it between his lips. “I do know. But it’s how I’m wired; I can’t help it sometimes.” Dropping his arms to his sides, he sighed. Gods, of course she wasn’t fragile. She was, far and away, the strongest woman, the toughest human being he’d ever had the pleasure of knowing let alone sharing a life with. He made it a point to remind her of that every single day, with all sincerity. She was the best thing that could have ever happened to him, bar none. Some days he wondered how and why he’d gotten so damn lucky, such as now. He was doing the very thing he swore he wouldn’t. Her father had been overbearing enough. And it wasn’t all-consuming always, but sometimes his nerves got the best of him.

Dany’s eyes narrowed. “Did you think I died or something?”

The dagger twisted in his stomach once more. “That’s where the worst of my thoughts went, yes.”

With a hard look and silence, she went back into the bathroom. For a while there was nothing but the sound of her trying to feed her brush through her hair.

“Dany.”

“What?” She asked through her teeth.

Maybe he ought to give her time and space to breathe for a few minutes, but gods, he needed her so, so bad. Just to physically hold her and know she was safe and whole and unhurt, but also that he had made a colossal fuck-up. He’d seen the tears welling in her eyes before she could hide them away, and it broke him. He was a blistering idiot. She had texted him that her test came back normal, and yet here he was with frazzled, totally frayed nerves.

Dany had one too many brushes with death in her young life, and he knew how she felt about that, too.

He crossed the room and stopped at the threshold, discovering that she was having a hell of a time getting the tangles out, and her face was scrunched adorably. Without a word, he reached for the brush and took it from her. A little stubbornly, her arms fell to her sides, defeated. Jon parted her hair in half and twisted it up out of the way while he gently began with the under layers first.

He could feel her eyes burning through him in the mirror. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he looked her straight in the eyes, his voice thick and gruff.

Wordlessly she spun around and curled her arms around his shoulders, nestling her face into his neck. In return, he secured her against him, nuzzling into her half dried hair and kissing the top of her head several times.

All of the fear seemed to evaporate off of his shoulders having her gathered up in his arms, grounding him, and maybe even herself. They stayed like that for a while before Jon moved them to the bedroom and he had her sit, then crawled up behind her on the bed to finish her hair. Nobody spoke for a time, but it wasn’t a tense silence, at least.

Once he finished, she reached back to squeeze his thigh, then stood to her feet and dropped her towel. Although his body reacted as it always did, it was evident that they both needed a good rest. He scooted to the edge of the bed and after she’d pulled on her silky sleep shorts, he motioned for her to lift her arms, and he slid on the matching top.

Before he could move again, she stepped between his legs and curled her arms around his head, holding him against her abdomen while he, happily, linked his arms around her middle and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered. Softly, she hushed him when he made a sound to argue. “I wish I didn’t get so defensive. Maybe it’ll get better with time.”

Shifting his head, he planted his chin on her breast bone and peered up at her, while she gazed back down on him and raked her fingers through his hair. “I don’t want you to change, Dany. Not anything, not ever.”

She studied his face for a few beats, her other hand cradling one side before she leaned down to kiss him sweetly. Jon did not consider himself a religious man, but she was the closest thing to heaven that he could conjure up. Rolling back, he took her with him fully onto the bed as she squeaked, and situated them so he could lay beside her. There was barely any part of them that wasn’t touching, their limbs a tangled mess.

“And anyway…,” he smirked slyly, “S’kind of sexy when you put me in my place.”

She quirked one thick eyebrow, her index tracing over his facial features. He was seconds away from completely passing out, the heaviness looming over his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” he conceded lazily, sliding his hand under her shirt to smooth over her warm back, her velvety skin a contrast against his worn hands and making her shiver under it. “How was your vacation?”

Dany pulled a face, lifting one shoulder. “Fun, but I bet I missed you more than you missed me.”

“I doubt that very much,” he croaked, blinking slowly now, but fighting it. “Has your boss ever thrown you out of your workplace for moping over your husband?”

“Jon!” She gasped, perfectly affronted and pinching his cheek.

He chuckled sleepily, then buried his face in her chest, kissing at the exposed skin there. “I think it did everyone a favor, honestly. And it was almost completed anyway, so…”

“So, you risked a job you adore and traveled eight hours unplanned, all because my arse was clumsy and let my phone go for a swim?”

“No,” he resurfaced from the warm haven of her skin, tilting his head up to see her properly, “because I love you. And don’t think I wouldn’t do it again,” he frowned in thought as an idea formed, “maybe we should get you one of those old people phones that you can wear like a necklace.”

Dany tossed her head back with a burst of laughter, and Ghost materialized on the bed to see what all the ruckus was about, until he decided he didn’t care anymore and stole Jon’s side of the bed. Jon grinned madly, rolling onto his back. Dany folded her arms over his chest while she caught her breath, her hair a silver curtain around them. “You wouldn’t dare,” she challenged quietly, leaning over to switch off the lamp, then curled herself around him completely, her breath tickling his cheek. “I love you so much,” she whispered, her hand returning to his face to caress.

The dull moonlight filtered in through the window, casting one half of her face in a faint blue. She pulled him closer and he poured all of his words and soul into his kiss, giving her a few small pecks afterwards. “I love you more than anything in this world, Daenerys.”

#jonerys #jonerys drabble #fic prompts #is it really a drabble if its 2700 words?

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shelby-love · 3 years

Text

KELLY SEVERIDE

Skeletons and Whatnot.

Requested: yes

Prompts: none

Warning(s): none

Author’s note: I feel like this is rubbish, but I also feel like it’s not. 50/50 (1.6K words - might come back to edit it tomorrow)

Also you can see how tired I am (it's 4:30AM) I mean what is this title??? GOOD NIGHT.

"That's not possible. Check again."

"But I already did! Like a million times!"

"Adam, I swear to God-"

"Alright, alright…" Your colleague mumbled, turning on his chair to run the data yet again.

While he sat on the chair, looking through files he didn't have a clue about, you were leaning against the wall and shaking in your boots. Your heart hammered and your palms felt clammy.

Not possible. I killed him.

"No look it says right there," Adam declared; proud of himself for being able to gather information like this on his own. "Some girl named Lucy Riggs pawned a gun she got off some guy named Jon Prescott.

You squinted your eyes at the information that made no sense. "Get to the point."

Adam visibly swallowed, "Turns out the guy's name isn't Jon. Shocker. It's actually Parker Torres."

Your blood ran cold at his words. A million thoughts raced through your head. You wondered where he was, what he was doing… The questions that evaded your mind are usually normal, but here, when you thought about the dark man of your past, the questions seemed to be anything but normal.

"What about the gun?"

Adam clicked away until a picture of a metallic gun popped out. "Smith & Wesson Model 64 revolver."

Next thing you knew, a chain of vulgar profanities escaped your mouth, and you couldn't stop them. Ruzek's eyes widened ever so slightly at your lack of composure. "Mind telling me what this all about?"

You took a deep breath. "My skeleton escaped the closet."

***

The lack of information you found within the last couple of days was mind blowing. The only lead you had was the gun that wasn't even in your possession, having gotten lost in a misfit of undocumented sales.

Lucy wasn't of help either. The poor girl just wanted to get rid of her husband's gun, saying everything but useful information along the way. "If he wants a gun, then he better get a good one… A new one too! I don't want that piece of garbage in my house. God only knows who used that gun!" Lucy told you, just 48 hours ago. Those exact same words.

She was right about one thing.

That dammed gun went through so many hands and took double more lives.

And you didn't even have a lead.

"You look like crap," Kevin Atwater teased, handing you a steaming cup of coffee.

You didn't even manage to smile, looking at him through your shades that were, so far, doing a great job at concealing the bags under your eyes from the world.

"Rough night?"

"Mhmm."

Kevin didn't know that you no longer lived with Kelly. The temporary solution to your problems turned out to be moving back to your own place. Putting Kelly in harm's way, no matter how much he thought otherwise, was something you didn't want to do. The comfort of his bed and body were replaced by a thin blanked and an uncomfortable dining chair.

Dozens of glass decorations were laid out all over your apartment. On every window still, next to every door… On every surface, really. You slept on the dining chair 5 yards from your front door with a pistol strapped to your back, a shotgun under the chair and a rifle wrapped around your two arms, acting as a teddy bear for every time you dozed off.

Friends from Interpol would call here and there, with nothing more than sad news.

Hank Voight was pulling out every contact from his little notebook, but not even they could solve your years long case.

You wanted to throw up.

"Hey Kev."

"What's up?"

"You still friends with that FBI agent?"

***

"Second floor clear," The grip on your radio loosened after the second you needed to inform your team about your situation had passed and you moved on upstairs. You could hear them respond in the same matter as you held your gun with both hands and carefully climbed up the stairs.

You didn't let a sound slip your lips as you trekked the stairs up to the very last floor, save for the attic. For a drug house, everything was eerily quiet. It didn't feel like someone left in a hasty hurry.

It felt like as though there was no one there in the first place.

Your need to report that to your Sergeant faded away quickly once you saw smoke. It seized your full attention within a few seconds.

Smoke grenade was your first guess. Nasty things but nothing new.

That was, until you took several steps closer and the smell of the source journeyed through your nostrils. It clicked in your head immediately. Three years of being a squad lieutenant's girlfriend can do that to you. The scent of fire is nauseating and sweet, putrid and steaky, or something like leather being tanned over a flame. The smell of it can be so thick and rich that it's almost a taste. Kelly's words rung in your head, and you pulled your radio to your mouth.

"Call CFD! There's a fire on the third floor!" You informed, shielding your eyes. "Stand down! I repeat –"

Things went black after those words.

***

"We have a detective trapped on the third floor," Voight informed the first responders. "That's where the fire started."

Wallace nodded, "Squad 3, take the third floor."

Unlike Wallace, who had found his source of information in Voight, Kelly Severide had found it in Jay, who stood on the street visibly stressed. "Jay where's Y/N?"

Jay frowned, "She went to scope ahead. She was on the third floor when the whole place just blew up…"

"She could be unconscious right now," Kelly muttered. "Squad 3 let's go!"

Kelly Severide was already in the burning building when Chief Boden found out just who was trapped upstairs. "Dammit."

***

"Y/N?!"

Kelly's patience was thinning by the second. Knowing that his time is limited and that the place could blow in a stronger matter at any moment, he paced toward your unconscious body expeditiously.

Noticing the angry streak of blood that came from your nose had his heart in his throat. You were twisted in a way not normal for a human body to be in, catching him off guard the moment he laid his eyes on you.

Despite all that, Kelly still swooped in to grasp your limp body in his arms.

The stress of the last few days he went through didn't come close to a match with this very moment. "I'm coming down chief!"

For a moment Wallace wanted to bark back, but he bit his tongue. Love makes people do crazy things.

He knew that better than anyone.

"Get the hoses ready!" Boden announced and turned to the Intelligence.

"She'll be okay."

***

You were okay.

Maybe even better than you thought possible.

"Kelly wake up."

You smiled cheekily at doctor Mannig, who stood by your hospital bed, waiting for Kelly to wake up with the same thin line of patience as you.

You woke him up with a slap to his shoulder.

Natalie was beaming, her eyes sparkled despite the fact that she was the doctor to the most heavily guarded patient in the whole city of Chicago. "I think congratulations are in order."

"What do you mean?"

She winked before handing you the tablet, "You're 11 weeks along Y/N. Congratulations you two."

You shook your head wildly and pressed a palm to your mouth, acting out what your defense mechanism wanted you to do. "Oh God…"

"Really?" Kelly asked next to you. He had already grabbed your hand and gripped it tightly, holding you to the ground of your new reality. "Are you for real?"

She nodded, "The tests don't lie. I'm so happy for you two."

Natalie hugged you both closely before disappearing back into the crowded ER.

"Hey," Kelly murmured, grasping your chin with his index finger and thumb. "What's wrong? You're not happy? I thought…"

You shook your head immediately, stopping him from saying something that was untrue. "No, Kelly… I'm really happy."

Two heartbeats within one body. Your body.

A child that was going to take after you and the man you loved most in this world…

You felt so incredibly lucky at that moment.

Yet so guilty.

"Our baby could've died today…"

Fresh onset of tears attacked your eyes, pushing through until the moisture was dripping down your face, and you tried to muffle the hiccups with your hands. Everything started to make sense.

"Baby you didn't know…" He tried to calm you.

You shook your head violently, dropping his attempts into the water. "I should've known better. We didn't use protection... Then I felt so sick last week."

"Y/N-"

"But I was so obsessed with Parker Torres that-" You couldn't even finish the sentence because the guilt turned into anger. "God I'm so stupid!"

"Babe, look at me," Kelly's voice hardened yet the hands with which he cupped your face were gentle and comforting. "You didn't know, so none of this is your fault. If you knowingly went in there that's when it would have been your fault."

He kissed your tears away and gave you the softest smile ever. "Do you want to have this baby with me? Because if you don't, we can…"

You stopped him with a kiss.

You were venerable in the moment of the kiss, yet you never felt more at home. In this kiss is the promise of years of love and the sweetness of life. No one mattered at that moment. Not Parker… Not anyone. Only you two and the vow you just shared.

The next few weeks will be hard, that much you knew. You were introduced to a new reality and priorities shifted. The hunt for your skeleton will continue in the hands of the people you trust most and as months go by the light will greet the darkness of your tunnel.

But the next few years, you see nothing but light and happiness.

No skeletons to torture your life, but a baby and a soulmate to make it better.

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MASTERLIST

#Kelly Severide #kelly severide imagine #kelly severide fanfiction #kelly severide x reader #kelly severide masterlist #Chicago Fire #chicago fire fanfiction #chicago fire imagine #chicago fire fanfictio #Chicago PD #chicago pd imagine #chicago pd fanfiction #chicago pd x reader

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catxsnow · 4 years

Note

18 with Jason 🥺

18."Stop messing with the lights" "... I'm not doing anything"

This one was fun!

Jason knew you hated two things most in the world: the dark and the Batcave.

The first one he could understand. It was easy to be afraid of the dark in Gotham when you never knew what lurked in the shadows. Clowns, murders, sociopaths. Being scared of the dark was easy when you lived in a city that was so filled with crime that crime was all it was known for.

The Batcave on the other hand? He could also understand. As many hours that he spent in that place, he could see why you hated it. Cold, dingy, memorabilia that only reminded you of Jason's horrible past. It was creepy in there - even more so when Bruce was there as well. It could be intimidating.

Of course, it didn't stop you from going there with him. Helping Bruce and his family or using their equipment for training when you were in town. No matter how much you hated being there - getting to eat Alfred's food always made up for it. It was the whole reason Jason convinced you to do in the first place.

Jason had dragged you down there once more to train with you. If there was one thing he had to admit about Bruce, it was that he had some great equipment down there. You were both drenched in sweat, Jason had rid his shirt long ago and remained only in his shorts that practically clung to him.

He watched you bounce in your place, light on your feet. His ankle was wrapped from the night before and a long along his chest. Gotham was always a cruel place for him. It would have been easy to take him down going directly for his weakened spots, but that was just playing dirty - which sometimes had to happen.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Jason toyed with you. "Nervous?" If he wanted to, Jason could win every single time you sparred with him. He had the height, the muscle, the shear force totally outweighing you. It wasn't just his body, it was his skill. He learned from the best - and now he was the best.

"Against you?" You raised an eyebrow. Before you could say another word, you dived into a series of attacks. It was easier to dodge than to throw against him. Jason grunted as you kicked right below his wound. He tumbled back a few steps - shocked by your move. "I'm never nervous."

Suddenly, the lights above you flickered. It made you falter for a moment, but you shrugged it off as nothing but electrical. Jason grabbed your wrist as you tried to throw another punch at him. He pulled you against his chest, back flat against him. Before you could try to escape, he grabbed your other hand.

"Babe, I think it's time for a break," Jason kissed your jaw. He felt you tense against him - not at his words but the lights flickering off again. It lasted for only a couple seconds before turning back on. "In the showers, two of us. What do you think?"

"I think," you tilted to look up at him. The new angle gave him the chance to kiss you properly. Jason let go of your hands and allowed you to spin around in his arms. He was so caught up in your kiss that he hadn't noticed you shuffle your feet to perfectly take out his injured ankle. He fell to the mat with a thud. "You're scared to lose against me."

Jason propped himself up on his elbows. His ankle now ached in pain and he was surely going to need to ice it again. Seeing your laugher was well worth his pain. You stopped immediately as the lights went out once more, this time longer than any of them before.

"Jay! You know I hate it down here enough as it is, stop messing with the lights!" You huffed. Jason pushed himself off the ground and threw his arm over your shoulder.

"It's not me," he promised. "Come on, let's hit the showers. The whole grid is probably going off. Maybe it's a ghost." You lightly smacked his chest at his ridiculous idea. It didn't matter what was happening - lights or not, you were safe with Jason.

Before you could strip down for a cold showering, the lights went off once more. This time, it followed with a loud thud that echoed throughout the cave. You couldn't stop the scream from passing your lips, as well as instinctively grabbing onto Jason for protection. He didn't want to admit it, but is freaked him out too.

The power came back on, but nothing seemed out of place. "You know what, let's go shower upstairs instead," Jason shuddered at the idea of staying down there long. You nodded your head and nearly raced him to the stairs to get the hell out of there. Whatever was going down there - you wanted no part of it.

"What the fuck was that?" You asked as soon as you reached the bright lights of the manor. Jason shrugged, he didn't have a clue. "God, I hate this place."

"Me, too, babe."

Damian couldn't stop his cackle as he watched the two of them run upstairs. Jon was crouched by his side, feeling guilty for what they had done. A remote was tightly gripped in Damian's palm, each button controlling the lights to the cave. It was way too easy to get a prank on them - especially (Y/N).

"Excellent work, Kent," Damian praised. He had timed it perfectly to jump down from the balcony they were hidden on to make the distinct thudding noise that ricocheted off the walls. "It was far easier than expected to prank them - and they don't even have a clue that it was us."

"We really scared, (Y/N), though," Jon rubbed the back of his head. It was Damian's idea in the first place - and just like always he had been dragged along to do his dirty work. "I feel bad, they're always nice to me."

"Grow up."

#jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd oneshot #jason todd x reader #red hood #red hood imagine #red hood oneshot #dc imagine #dc one shot #dc #batfam #batfam x reader #batfam imagine #damian wayne #jon kent #halloween prompts

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bubonickitten · 4 years

Link

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Chapter 15 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 15: mentions of Buried-related trauma (claustrophobia, etc.); a somewhat lengthy discussion of recurrent suicidal ideation (including some informal safety planning); panic/anxiety symptoms; mild self-harm (as a stim to distract from anxiety/intrusive thoughts); swears; mentions of starvation & restrictive behaviors re: Jon’s statement dependence (also some internalized ableism re: the substance dependence/addiction parallels); internalized victim blaming; post-traumatic stress reactions/flashbacks re: Jonah-typical awfulness. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Also, apologies in advance, but ADHD!Jon Went Off for several paragraphs at one point in this chapter and I (and by extension Martin) just let him run with it. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Chapter 15: What Comes After

Jon sits on the floor with his back to the wall, waiting as Basira helps Daisy wash away nearly eight months of grime. Through the closed door and underneath the rapid drumbeat of water, he can make out a steady stream of murmured conversation, punctuated by the occasional sob or bitten-back groan of pain. The words are indistinct, but Jon doesn’t need to Know what is being said to guess the gist of it.

Eventually, the shower turns off. It takes several more minutes before the door opens. Even though Jon knows what to expect, he has to suppress a sympathetic grimace when he lays eyes on Daisy.

She sits hunched forward on the closed toilet lid, damp hair hanging limp around her face and dripping onto the tile floor. There is a sickly pallor to her skin, mottled with bruising and scrubbed-raw patches of pink. The clothes she’s wearing are her own – Basira never could bring herself to discard her things – but they no longer fit. Her shirt practically drowns her emaciated frame now, hanging loose off of one shoulder and exposing the hollows of her collarbone. The dark shadows under her puffy, bloodshot eyes might just rival Jon’s.

“Better?” Jon gives her a weak half-smile.

“Cleaner,” Daisy says hoarsely, staring listlessly at the floor.

“Your turn,” Basira says, meeting Jon’s eyes and jerking her head back towards the shower. “Left the shower stool in there for you. Clean clothes are on the counter.”

“Thanks,” Jon says, but he doesn't move. Part of his brain is telling him to stand; another, more reasonable part is just now realizing that sitting on the floor in the first place was probably a bad idea.

“Do you, uh – need help?”

“No,” Jon says hurriedly, “that – won’t be necessary.”

“No, I wasn’t suggesting –” Basira sighs, flustered. “I just meant that maybe you want to wait until Georgie gets here?”

Now that the adrenaline is fading, Jon’s skin is crawling with every moment the Buried still clings to him. Every slight movement sends loose dirt raining down onto the floor. He needs a shower.

“If you could just help me stand up, I should be able to handle the rest.”

Basira gives a curt nod, quickly recovering from the awkward moment, and hauls him to his feet. Steadying himself against the wall with one hand, he tests putting weight on his bad leg.

“Daisy still needs to see a doctor, and –” Basira frowns, watching Jon wince as he takes a step forward. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? You’re not going to – pass out and drown in two inches of water, are you?”

It wouldn’t kill me, Jon tries to say, wry and only half-joking.

“Not enough to kill me outright,” he says instead. When he feels that familiar static-laden filter slide into place in his mind, he freezes. Before the fear can properly move in, though, Basira’s voice cuts through his stirring panic.

“You’re alright, Jon,” she says, authoritative but without heat. “Just breathe through it, remember?”

Jon nods distractedly, shutting his eyes and focusing on his own breathing. It takes a minute, but the pressure eventually eases enough for him to hear himself think again.

“Are you okay?” Daisy asks, brow furrowed.

“Yes. Sorry.” Just those two simple words are a struggle to vocalize, but once he manages, the rest of the weight lifts from his thoughts. He glances at Basira. “I’m sorry, it just – slipped out, and –”

“It’s fine.” Basira looks him up and down. “I think maybe you should wait for Georgie, though.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s just my leg, and I’m used to dealing with that on my own.”

“I thought you injured your ribs.”

“Archivist,” he says with a shrug – a mistake, he realizes a moment too late, as it disturbs his injuries. He just barely manages to avoid flinching. “I heal quickly.”

The truth is, his ribs are unlikely to fully heal until he gets a statement in him. In fact, the last time, his weakness only started to fade after he’d taken a live statement. He’d rather not dwell on that right now, though.

“Hm.” Basira fixes him with a skeptical look.

“I’ll be alright, I promise. You should see to Daisy.”

“No,” Daisy says. Both Basira and Jon glance over at her. A noticeable full-body shiver sweeps over her, and Basira grabs a dry towel from the small stack on the counter.

“You need professional medical attention,” Basira says firmly, wrapping the towel around Daisy and adjusting it to cover her bare arms. “I’m taking you to A&E.”

Daisy ignores her, raising her head to look at Jon instead.

“I was thinking I could – stay, if you want?” She casts her eyes down again and her voice drops to a low murmur. “It’s just – the shower, it’s – a tight space, and – and it might…”

Jon bites the inside of his cheek. It’s true: the shower stall is tiny. Claustrophobic. The room itself is small and poorly ventilated; steam builds up within a minute of the shower being turned on, turning the air thick and stifling with humidity. The single dim light in the ceiling has a tendency to flicker; the bulb has been known to come loose from time to time, plunging the area into near-darkness.

It isn’t the Buried, but there’s enough here to bring the Coffin to mind on a bad day – and especially right now, less than two hours out of the place.

The last time, Daisy never could manage to use the shower without someone else in the room to keep her company. When Basira was unavailable, she would turn to Jon. Eventually, he got comfortable with her returning the favor. It became a routine, but…

“I’ll be okay,” he says again. Unconvincingly, judging from the way Daisy’s eyes narrow at him.

“Do you really want to be alone right now?”

“I…”

No, I don’t. I really, really don’t.

“Look, I’m not trying to make it – weird,” Daisy continues, fiddling with one corner of her towel. “It’s not like I’ll see you through the curtain. I just thought – maybe you could use some company? Don’t say ‘I’m fine,’” she says as he opens his mouth to respond. “Just because you can deal with it alone doesn’t mean you should have to.”

“Well, yes, but –”

“Do you not want me here? Because if you really want me to leave, I will, but –”

“No, I wouldn’t mind the company, honestly, but –”

“Then I’ll stay.” She looks at Basira, as if daring her to object.

Last time, she did object, Jon remembers. Now, though… Basira simply sighs.

“Fine. But,” she adds emphatically, giving Daisy a severe look, “I’m taking you to A&E as soon as Georgie gets here, and you don’t get to argue.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Daisy says with a tired grin.

“Liar,” Basira says, shaking her head with a fond, amused sort of resignation. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

As Basira leaves, Jon catches Daisy’s eye.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Thank you,” Daisy says at the exact same time. “For not leaving me.”

Their tentative, exhausted smiles are mirror images of one another as understanding passes between them.

Someone upstairs has a statement.

The Archivist Knew the moment she mounted the steps to the Institute. She was marked by the Spiral, the Hunt, and the Lonely in quick succession, but the Archivist can only barely make out the edges of the story: how she was pursued through a nonsensical, constantly-shifting maze of alleyways by a hulking thing that always stayed one step behind, never letting her escape but never deigning to actually catch her.

There was no one in that place to hear her screams. Now, all she wants is to be heard.

The Archivist can give that to her. It would be so easy, so right. She came to the Magnus Institute of her own volition, didn’t she? She’s here to give her statement. The Archivist can take it from her and preserve her voice and relive her story for the rest of –

Jon twists his fingers in his hair and pulls until it hurts.

“You need to sit down,” Georgie says for the third time in as many minutes.

“Just keeping warm.”

It’s not necessarily a lie. The perpetual damp chill of the tunnels seeps into Jon’s bones in spite of his three layers of clothing and Georgie’s scarf wrapped twice around his neck. Beyond that, though, fevered movement is the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces. If he stops or slows, it will become all the more obvious how badly he’s trembling and all the more difficult to ignore the hunger gnawing away at him.

“You’re not even pacing, you’re just – limping.” When he doesn’t reply, Georgie reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Sit. We have some time before Martin gets here.”

With a sigh, Jon finally capitulates, sinking into the nearest chair. Immediately, he starts to jiggle one leg, fingers tapping restlessly on his knees.

“Talk to me, Jon,” Georgie says, taking a seat opposite him. “What’s on your mind?”

“I… I don’t know. It’s – a lot, and…”

He trails off, unsettled at the sound of his own voice, shaking almost as badly as the rest of him. His mouth has gone too dry to comfortably swallow, and every passing thought feels blurry around the edges, too ephemeral to translate into the spoken word. The only thing coming through loud and clear is the need and the knowledge that he has the means to sate it, if he would only embrace it.

There are no words to describe the experience, nor does he wish to verbalize it in the first place. As for the rest of it…

“Of course now I can talk,” he says with a weak laugh, “I suddenly don’t know what to say.”

“Take your time.”

Jon hunches forward, allowing himself to rock back and forth in slight movements as he tries to gather his thoughts.

“I’m –” Hungry. Terrified. Exhausted. Weak. Hungry, craving, needing, wanting – “At a loss.”

“About why you can talk again?”

Yes. Sure. He can go with that. It isn’t a lie, and it feels like a safer topic than all the rest.

“In part. I don’t understand why I have my voice back, or what that means, and of course my mind is immediately going to the worst-case explanations, and” – now he’s started, he rapidly gains momentum, his speech growing pressured and frantic – “I should just be grateful that I can use my own words again, but I can’t just let it go, because when have I ever been able to just let something go, and –” He tugs on a lock of hair again, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Unsurprisingly, I hate not knowing.”

“Well… how about starting with that? Give me some theories. Might help to get them out of your head for a minute.”

“Most of it comes down to… I don’t know – why now, I suppose? I don’t have an answer to that, which just makes me think – did I have a choice all along?” It’s a question that has been plaguing him for hours, sitting poised and ready to spring in the back of his mind, but as he finally speaks it aloud, a chill comes over him. His voice fractures like a crack spreading weblike through thin ice. “This whole time, was I just… not trying hard enough?”

“I don’t think –”

“It was the same with taking statements,” he blurts out, wide-eyed and wound taut. “When the others discovered what I was doing, I stopped, which means I – I could have done all along, and just – didn’t.”

“You implied before that you were sort of – influenced?” Georgie’s voice is thoughtful, not accusatory; her expression searching, but not judgmental. Jon can feel his shoulders relax just slightly.

“‘Influenced’ is one way to put it, yes. But not controlled, exactly – not quite. It was – instinctual, almost? And once a story starts, it’s sort of like – being in a trance, I suppose.”

“I remember you having a kind of… faraway look to you, when I was telling you my story.”

“It wasn’t like that in the very beginning,” he says, watching his fingers curl on his bouncing knees. “I don’t know when they started having that effect on me. I… didn’t even notice the change. Didn’t notice that I was physically dependent on them until I was traveling. Started to get sick the longer I went without them. And when I woke up… just reading statements wasn’t enough anymore.” He draws in a measured breath. Gathers his thoughts. Exhales slowly. “The first time, I was just shopping. I felt – unwell, hazy. Then he was there, and I just – Asked, before I even realized what was happening. The next time was just after Melanie stabbed me –”

“She what?”

“It was – sort of deserved,” Jon says, waving it off. He continues before Georgie can get another word in. “I felt – drained, after. Thought I just needed some air, so I went for a walk. Wasn’t long before I crossed paths with my next – victim. Didn’t realize until much later that I must have been… hunting, subconsciously. Like a fugue, almost. But just before I Asked, I had this moment where I – I knew what I was about to do, and I just – did it anyway. And then the third time was –”

“After the Coffin,” Georgie guesses. The look on her face is that mixture of sadness and pity that haunted Jon in their shared nightmares for so long.

“Yes.” Jon keeps his eyes downcast. “And the fourth time was after I – well, I tried too hard to Know something, and it sort of – took it out of me.”

“So the trigger is being injured, or weakened?”

“Maybe in the beginning. The last time, though… I was feeling weak, yes, but there was no specific incident that precipitated it. Basira needed me at full strength for a mission. So I Knew where I could find a statement, and I made sure to be in the right place at the right time.” He wrings his hands in his lap. “But the mission was just the way I rationalized it to myself. I was just hungry. I would’ve fed regardless, and reached for whatever excuse was closest to hand, and felt guilty later, and – well, rinse and repeat.”

“You didn’t quite answer when I asked before, but… is it an addiction, or is it sustenance?”

“It’s a… need.” Jon bites his lip in thought. “Feels like addiction sometimes, but the compulsion is worse than nicotine cravings ever were. And when I tried to stop, it – it wasn’t only withdrawal. I actually was starving. Still don’t know if it would have actually killed me, but…” He shrugs. “Suppose we’ll find out.”

“Jon –”

“But I – I need you to understand,” Jon says, jolting up straight in his seat. “I’m not making excuses. I’m done making excuses, there are no excuses, just – explanations. I was influenced, yes, and it often felt like being – enthralled, but I still… I knew that I was dangerous, that what I was doing was wrong. If I thought I couldn’t help myself, I should’ve told the others from the start and they would’ve done what was necessary. I always felt ashamed after, but I still – kept doing it, until I was forced to stop.”

He’s ranting at full-tilt now, breath quickening and heart stuttering in his throat.

“I didn’t just need it, Georgie, I wanted it. I – I liked it. It felt good. And I know for a fact that it still would, if I let myself do it again. I’ve seen the consequences of becoming – that, and I still…” His shoulders sag. “I miss it. I’m afraid I’ll never stop wanting it, I hate myself for that, and it changes nothing.”

“You’re hungry now, aren’t you?” Georgie asks gently.

Jon tsks and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That obvious, is it?”

“Mm.” She gives him a sympathetic smile. “You seem more jittery than usual. And you’re shaking.”

“Ravenous,” he says with a bitter laugh. “Worst I’ve been in – a long while, and it’s only going to get worse.”

He lets his gaze drift to the floor as he briefly debates whether to share the details. She should probably know what manner of monster she’s dealing with.

“Actually, ah – someone upstairs has a statement,” he says before he can lose his nerve. “She was writing it out just before we came down here, and I could See the shape of it, but not the whole story, and now I can’t See her anymore, and I – I need –” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair, scraping ragged fingernails against his scalp. “Christ, Georgie, it’s all I can do not to rush up there and rip it out of her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“Not yours, either. Don’t,” Georgie says, cutting him off when he opens his mouth to launch into another tirade. “I’m not saying that you were justified in hurting people. But you didn’t choose to be… this.”

“I may not have wanted it,” he says flatly, “but I did choose it.”

“How so?”

She sounds genuinely curious, not confrontational, which keeps him from going on the defensive. Instead, the question gives Jon pause.

“I… I don’t know how to explain it,” he says slowly, frowning. “Just – something Jonah said to me, and it – feels right.”

“He said that to you?” Georgie’s eyes narrow as she watches him. “Those words?”

“Yes?” Jon squirms in his seat; sometimes, Georgie’s scrutiny is on par with that of the Beholding. “A long time ago. Before the Unknowing, even. When I realized that I was becoming something – not human, and confronted him about it.”

Georgie taps a knuckle against her lips, looking down at the floor in thought.

“Jon, I’m going to say something, and I want you to think about it – really think about it, don’t just discard it offhand. Alright?”

“Okay?” Jon says, apprehension flooding him.

Georgie takes a breath and looks him in the eye.

“Supernatural flavor aside, that’s just how abusers talk in order to groom their victims.”

Jon recoils as if struck and shoves the information away from him almost as soon as the words leave her mouth.

“Does it really matter?” It comes out far more harshly than he had intended, closer to a shout than a comment, and he cringes. “Sorry. It’s just – he had a point.”

“Jon –”

“No, I chose to keep looking for answers at every turn,” Jon says, gesticulating wildly. “I’ve never known when to just stop, no matter how many times people get hurt from it. I was a perfect fit for the Beholding, the perfect candidate for Jonah to do with what he will, and I – I still am. Doesn’t matter if I wanted this outcome. I still sought it out. Moth to a fucking flame.”

“Doesn’t mean you chose it, and it doesn’t mean you deserved what happened to you,” Georgie says. For some reason that Jon can’t quite pinpoint, the quiet confidence with which she speaks grates on his nerves. “And anyway, it seems to me you’re doing a decent job at controlling yourself now.”

“Yeah.” He huffs. “Only it took Basira threatening to kill me.”

“She what?”

“Not recently. In my future. It was warranted,” he says with a dismissive gesture. Then he sighs, slouching in his seat. “And I don’t know if even that threat would have stopped me forever. Didn’t have to find out. I managed to end the world first, and then I had all the fear I could ever want.”

The moment he stops speaking, his mind once again drifts to the statement ripe for the taking just upstairs. His bitter expression turns anguished and he buries his face in his hands.

“I want to kill the part of me that misses it. That might just kill all of me, but honestly, Georgie, I don’t – I don’t know if that would be such a bad thing –” He chokes on his words and looks up at her with wide, frantic eyes. “I – I’m sorry, I didn’t – I shouldn’t have said –” He takes a deep breath and forces assurance into his voice when he says, “I’m not suicidal.”

“I won’t be angry if you are,” Georgie says evenly, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not suicidal,” he says again, but he looks away as he does, unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t – want to die. I just feel like as long as I’m around, everyone – everything is in danger, and – what right to I have to make that decision for the world? It’s – selfish, and – I really don’t deserve a second chance, especially when part of me still…”

Jon swallows hard. Once again, he wonders if the woman with the statement is still here. He pinches the skin of his arm and twists. Noticing the tic, Georgie frowns and opens her mouth to redirect him, but he carries on speaking, undeterred.

“I think the only reason I chose to wake up again is because I needed to help Daisy and Martin. I think the only reason I’m still alive now is because I don’t want to leave Martin alone. Or – no, that makes it sound out of obligation or – or guilt. It's not that. It's – I – I want to be with him, I do. I actively want to – to have a life with him, just – live, be. If not for that, though, I… I’m tired, Georgie.”

Tired of hurting and being hurt, of watching and being watched. Tired of hunger and want and an existence that hinges upon the misery of others. Tired loss and scars and nightmares. Tired of having to settle for not wanting to die instead of wanting to live. Tired of just surviving instead of actually living.

“I’m just tired,” he says, putting his head in his hands again. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to hear this.”

“I would rather you talk about it than keep it bottled up.”

“I just don’t want you to think that I’m not trying to get better.”

“Recovery isn’t linear. I’m not going to leave just because you have bad days. It would be different if you were closed off, denying you have a problem, but… you’re not.” When he doesn’t answer, her frown deepens. Her next words sound almost affronted. “I’ve been suicidal, Jon, you know that. Why do you think I’d hold it against you? I know you can’t just flip a switch to make it go away. Why are you so afraid –” Realization dawns on her face. “I left last time, didn’t I?”

“I never regained autonomy in the nightmares, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to you before I woke up.” Jon shrugs halfheartedly. “You didn’t expect me to wake up. Then I did, and I didn’t have any of the complications to be expected from a six-months coma. Not even a coma, really, just – everything but brain dead. A corpse coming back to life – I think it was too much for you. You told me I needed people to keep me human, and by the time I took that advice there was no one left to turn to, and now I wasn’t human anymore. It kept me from dying, but you didn’t think it was a second chance.”

“I said that to you?”

“The, uh, last bit,” he says reluctantly. He doesn’t blame Georgie for leaving, but he can’t deny that her parting words to him on that day still sting, even now – a resounding condemnation that he can’t quite shake. “But you weren’t wrong,” he says, rushing to reassure her when he sees the horrified look on her face. “It wasn’t a second chance, it was just… the next phase of the Archivist’s development. Anyway, you were tired of watching me self-destruct, you knew there was nothing you could to do change my trajectory, and you didn’t want me to drag you down with me. Or Melanie. Her life had – has, I suppose – been nothing but misery since the day she met me. She was trying to get out, to get better.”

“And you?”

“I wanted to, but I just… couldn’t see a way out. I couldn’t leave, but I…” He bites down hard on his lower lip, struggling with his next words. “I don’t think I was choosing to stay involved, either.”

“And I thought you were.”

“You weren’t the only one. And it wasn’t an unfair assumption. I was” – am, his brain corrects – “in too deep. I didn’t” – don’t, he reminds himself –“belong in normal life anymore. I couldn’t” – can’t, he does not say aloud – “reverse the change. Even when I found out how to quit… I couldn’t just leave Martin here alone. Also, I know now that it wouldn’t have worked for me anyway.”

“It would’ve killed you,” she guesses.

“No such luck,” he says with a short laugh, then feels his blood drain from his face. He looks up and fixes her with a panicked, apologetic look. “Sorry, I – that was in poor taste, it’s just – that was what went through my mind when I first realized it.”

“It’s alright.”

Jon clears his throat, still somewhat shamefaced.

“What I mean is that I, ah, tried to blind myself during the Ritual. Turns out I heal too quickly for it to have any effect on my connection with the Beholding. Otherwise I’d have tried it again the moment I woke up in the hospital.”

Georgie says nothing. When he chances a glimpse of her, he sees no judgment or anger, just more of that familiar, gentle sadness. He has to look away again.

“I don’t blame you for walking away back then. You didn’t have the whole picture. Neither did I, but even if I did, I probably wouldn’t have given you all the details, and you knew that. I can’t fault you for not wanting to stay involved when you didn’t know what being involved would actually entail.” He looks up and meets her eyes. “Honestly, Georgie, even if you’d stayed, I probably would have made all the same mistakes. I would have continued putting myself in danger and downplaying it. I would still have gone into the Coffin, and I wouldn’t have told you where I was going beforehand. I would likely have distanced myself from you on my own, because I’d have convinced myself it was in your best interests without asking you how you felt about it. I’ve… changed since then, but at the time, I probably would have continued retracing the same patterns. You would have only gotten hurt, even if it wasn’t my intention.”

“Maybe.” She frowns, chin propped on her fist as she considers. “I can’t speak for a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry you were alone.”

“And I’m sorry I didn’t realize how much I didn’t want to be alone until it was too late.”

“It’s not too late now, though,” she says with a cautious smile.

“No, I suppose not.” Jon’s answering smile fades as he gives her a serious look. “None of this obligates you to stick around, by the way.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious. I’m glad you’re here, but…” It’s more than I deserve, he almost says, but stops himself when he imagines Georgie’s reaction to that. “I don't want things to become – toxic, between us. If it gets to be too much, I’ll understand.”

“If it does, it won’t be just because you had a setback. Just – try not to wallow too much when you do, alright? You’re not good company for yourself when you’re like that.”

“Yeah,” Jon concedes on a long exhale.

Georgie sighs, a pensive look on her face.

“I think I may have given you the wrong impression before. When I made you promise that you didn’t have a death wish, it wasn’t because I was going to leave if you’re suicidal. It was because I don’t want to be lied to about it if you are. I don’t want to be blindsided by your self-destruction, or made complicit in it. It isn’t fair to me.”

“I don’t want that either,” he says softly. “And I – I wasn’t lying before, when I promised you that the Coffin wasn’t a death wish. I just… I thought…”

“You thought you could make the decision to live once and be done with it.”

“Sounds foolish when you put it like that, but… yes, I suppose so.”

“Would be nice if it worked like that,” Georgie says with a rueful smile. Then she sighs. “I’m not expecting you to get better overnight, and neither should you – especially when you’re still in the thick of it. I’m just expecting you to communicate when things get bad, rather than throwing yourself onto the nearest grenade as – atonement, or punishment, or some misguided belief that you have to earn the right to live. I won’t be a party to that. I can’t. I don’t… hold it against you personally, I get it, I’ve been there – but that’s why I can’t be around it. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“To be clear,” she says emphatically, waiting until he meets her eye before continuing, “I don’t mind hearing about those thoughts. I take issue with you acting on them with no regard for yourself or the people around you, and then minimizing the consequences. And that – that isn’t a value judgment. It’s just… watching you get trapped in that cycle, it takes me to a bad place.” Georgie chews on her lip for a moment, and then nods, as if coming to a conclusion. “If you were looking for a boundary, there it is. I know you can’t avoid danger entirely, but when you’re feeling like this, can you at least promise to talk to someone before making any drastic decisions? You have to let us know if you’re in a bad way, because it will affect your judgment.”

Jon lets out a long exhale. “I will.”

“Okay. I can live with that.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, self-conscious.

“About your voice, though.” Jon gives her a quizzical look. “I thought it was wholly a supernatural thing, but…” She looks up at the ceiling, gathering her thoughts, and then adopts a delicate tone. “Have you considered that it might also be a – a trauma response?”

“I didn’t before.”

“And now?”

“I… I don’t know. It first started partway through the apocalypse. The more I experienced, the more the Archive asserted itself. I was still me, most of the time, but I was also – more, I suppose? It’s… complicated.” Jon rakes his fingers through his hair as he works on his phrasing. “The human mind was never meant to contain that… much. The Archive’s purpose is to – well, to archive. Every instance of fear and suffering in that place was a statement. Billions of them, every moment recorded live – and when I read or take a statement, I live it vicariously. My own experience of it is… an essential part of the recording process.” He blows out a puff of air. “So I had a lot going through my head at any given moment. The human in me couldn’t be conscious of all of it at the same time.”

“That’s… horrible.”

“Yes. And it felt right.” He rubs one arm absently, looking off to the side. “I don’t think I was meant to survive – the human part of me, that is. I was just one mind; I should have gotten lost in the multitude. And I did, sometimes, but… I always found my way back. Martin always called me back. If not for him…”

If not for him, Jon would have lost his sense of self in the Archive, given up and accepted the role assigned to him, much like he suspects Gertrude would have. When he lost Martin, Jon almost did lose himself as well.

“Either way, I was – above all else, I was still an Archive. I learned to compartmentalize, to an extent, but I was never meant to have my own voice. At some point, it got lost in all the noise. If I wanted to communicate, I could only use the stories hoarded away in the Archive.”

Jon frowns in consideration, actively weighing the most likely theories as he talks himself through the evidence.

“I… don’t think it was purely a psychological response,” he says slowly, gaining in confidence as he speaks the words. “I think it was a consequence of what I was in that place. The Archive was part of that world’s fabric, so to speak. But this reality operates differently than the one I came from. Its natural laws aren’t dictated by the Beholding. It has… less prominence here. Case in point, I’m significantly less powerful now than I was in my future.”

Georgie raises an eyebrow. “How powerful are we talking?”

“I was an apex predator among monsters. A direct conduit of the Ceaseless Watcher. Oh,” he adds offhandedly, “and I Knew everything.”

“What.”

“Well – almost everything. And not all at once. It was more that I – I was able to Know almost anything if I looked for the answer.” He allows himself a small grin. “Post-apocalyptic Google, so to speak.”

“Sounds… useful?”

“In some ways. It’s awful to say, but I miss it sometimes. Having control over it, mostly. I could stop myself from Knowing things about a person, give them more privacy. But I also couldn’t opt out of Knowing entirely. I just… had more control over what I Knew and when. And there were still things I couldn’t Know. The Beholding will hoard almost any scrap of information, but it has a clear preference for the horrific. It was utterly silent on anything related to an after – an afterlife, a reversal of the apocalypse, any sort of escape or release from the nightmare.”

“God,” Georgie murmurs, almost to herself.

“Jury’s out on that one, too.”

“No, I just meant –” Georgie pauses when she sees Jon smirk. “Oh, I see. You’re just being a smartass.” She shoots him a grin and nudges him with her foot. “What about now? Do you still –”

“I don’t have near as much control over it as I used to, no. I can remember the things that I consciously chose to Know then, but… that sea of knowledge, all those potential answers to any hypothetical questions – my access to it is limited now. And I’m Knowing things unintentionally again.”

“What about the Archive – the statements?”

“When I first woke up, it felt – the same as it did in the future. A sort of – wall of static that lowered whenever I tried to use my own words. It lifted in the Buried, because I was cut off from the Eye – from the Archive. I thought it would reassert itself when I came back – and it did for a minute – but now it’s…” Jon stares down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap. “I still have recall of all the statements I already had archived. Not all at once, more like a – like a database, I suppose, but – they’re there if I look for them. The Archive is still there, and sometimes it slips through, but… it’s not as dominant as it was before. And seeing as I can speak at all, apparently state of mind is more of a factor than I thought. At least right now. Not sure about before.”

“Well,” Georgie says, “even if you have more control over it now, it doesn’t mean you always did. Sometimes circumstances change.”

“Maybe,” Jon says, his thoughts already beginning to stray.

Georgie sighs in exasperation.

“Just because there’s a future where things are better doesn’t mean you’re a failure for things being bad in the present. Jon, look at me.” He does, albeit reluctantly. “What you’ve gone through isn’t something that you just get over. It’s always going to be there. That doesn’t mean things will never get better. It just means that you need to make peace with the fact that you’ll have ups and downs. If you turn on yourself every time you’re struggling, you’ll never notice the moments of progress. And if you see every instance of progress as an opportunity to berate yourself for not achieving it sooner, then, well – I’m sorry, but things aren’t going to get better.”

“I – I know. It’s just…”

“Difficult. I know. I’ve been there.” Her expression softens. “I’m not trying to be harsh. I don’t expect one conversation to change the way you think. It takes years of practice to break that sort of pattern. But when you need reminders – and you will, and I won’t be disappointed when you do – I’m going to keep giving them to you. I’ll ask you to at least consider them each time before dismissing them outright. Does that sound fair?”

“More than,” Jon says, giving her a weak smile.

“Good, because I seem to recall you making the same request of me once upon a time.”

Did I? Jon thinks back and draws a blank. Not for the first time, he curses how unreliable his memory can be.

“Still,” he says, “I’m sorry to be such a –”

“If you say ‘burden’ or anything to that effect, I actually will be cross with you.”

“Noted,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “But – sincerely, I – I know that right now I’m –” Dead weight, he almost says. Volatile. Fragile. Tiresome. Untrustworthy. A walking doomsday button. Georgie gives him a warning look, silently urging him to consider his next words carefully. “Struggling,” he opts for. “But I do want to be there for you if you need me, in whatever way I can, so… open invitation to confide in me, or ask for help, or – or anything you need.”

“That was eloquent,” she replies with a teasing smirk. Jon rolls his eyes.

“Ironically, I think I was more eloquent when I was the Archive.”

“Eloquent in a poetic sense, maybe,” Georgie says with mock thoughtfulness, “but it didn’t lend itself to clarity.”

Another hunger pang rips through Jon's mind and he clenches his jaw, curling his shaking hands into fists.

“Hey.” Georgie prods his foot with hers again. “You ready to see Martin?”

“I, ah…” Jon gives a nervous laugh. “I want to see him more than anything, but I’m also – terrified? I know things won’t be how I remember them, I know I have to adjust my expectations, but I don’t know what to adjust them to, and I don’t know what to expect from myself, either, and…”

And the hunger is eating away at him from the inside out, an incessant undercurrent of need-want-feed running parallel with every other thought vying for his attention. He brings his hands to his face, puts pressure on his eyes, grounds himself in the ache. Almost immediately, his brain latches onto the words pressure and ground and suddenly he’s comparing the cravings to being buried alive, to drowning in noise, to being suffocated by the crush of stories that was – is – destined to comprise the entirety of his being. He’s being drawn over the threshold of that ubiquitous, baleful door in his mind: hated and feared, yes, but completing him all the same.

Guess that’s the thing about being the chosen one, Arthur Nolan’s words echo in the Archive’s halls. At the end of it, you’re always just the point of someone else’s story, everyone clamoring to say what you were, what you meant, and your thoughts on it all don’t mean nothing.

Jon tries to dislodge the statement, but there is no stop button to corral the Archive, and the story continues on: It seeds us with this… aching, impossible desire to change the world, to bring it to us.

There are hundreds of thousands of words pounding on the door now, none of them his own, an endless stream of them queuing up in his throat, cramming into his lungs – and with a painful lurch, he’s falling down, down, down –

Breathe, comes the familiar mantra.

On the one hand, he’s glad for how quickly and mindlessly that coping mechanism kicks in by now. On the other hand, he wishes he didn’t have so many opportunities to practice that it’s become so ingrained in the first place. There is something different about it this time, though. Usually, he imagines the command in his own voice, or occasionally Martin’s. Just now, he could pick out multiple tones, all overlapping: Martin. Georgie. Basira. Daisy. Himself.

The effect is potent. It allows him to walk himself back from the edge in record time. The hunger still scratches impatiently at the door, but he manages to tear his attention away from it long enough to remember where and when and who he is. When he glances back up, he realizes that only a few seconds have transpired – a storm so brief that apparently even Georgie didn’t register its passing. Instead, she’s staring over his shoulder. She catches his eye, raises her eyebrows, and nods, indicating something behind him.

“Well,” she says with a smile both amused and reassuring, “I think you’re about to find out.”

Another stab of panic shoots through him, shattering his momentary calm. Time stands still. When lightheadedness overtakes him and his vision starts to pixelate, he realizes that he’s been holding his breath. He lets out a juddering exhale, and turns around.

When he lays eyes on Martin, Jon is speechless all over again.

Martin startles when Jon’s eyes lock onto his, still unaccustomed to and unsettled by such direct eye contact. He immediately regrets that reaction when he watches Jon recoil and avert his eyes. The reflexive urge to vanish overtakes Martin then – and he feels himself begin to panic a little more when it yields no results. He had been accessing that power up until moments ago, when he dropped the veil; why is it out of reach now?

“Hi, Martin,” Georgie says, apparently unperturbed by the awkward atmosphere. “I was just keeping Jon company until you got here, but I’ll give you two some privacy now.” She stands, stretches, and brings one arm down to touch Jon’s shoulder. “I’ll be here for a while yet. If you need me, I’ll probably be in Melanie’s usual spot.”

Martin can see Jon incline his head slightly. If Jon sees her reassuring smile, he gives no indication. Georgie gives his shoulder another pat and starts to walk towards the ladder. Martin steps aside, giving her a wide berth – force of habit – and watches until the trapdoor closes behind her.

For what feels like an interminable moment, the stale air hangs heavy with silence. Martin stands rigid, mind drawing a blank. Could cut the tension in here with a bread knife, he thinks to himself, somewhat hysterically.

Jon, for his part, is staring steadfastly at the ground, utterly unmoving – and Martin’s heart wrenches painfully in his chest at the sight.

Of all the adjectives that could be used to describe Jonathan Sims, unmoving has never been one of them. When he’s not running his hands through his hair or scratching at his skin, he’s bouncing his legs, tapping his fingers, biting the insides of his cheeks, pacing, rocking in place – an endless rotation of fidgets and stims, flowing one into the next. When he’s excited, his eyes light up, intense and intelligent and impossible to break away from; he interrupts himself in his rush to translate his thoughts into speech before he loses them entirely; he’s a flurry of animated gestures and borderline manic pacing. Even at rest, his eyes are bright with questions and his hands flutter when he talks; even exhausted and lethargic, his mind is a hummingbird flitting from thought to thought with frantic abandon, eager to catalog every detail and cover every angle.

Sometimes, it’s vicariously exhausting to witness; most of the time, Martin is hopelessly endeared. In all the time that Martin has known him, the coma was the first time he ever saw Jon entirely still. Martin used to wish on occasion that he had more chances to just look at him. Up until that point, he’d had to make do with furtive glances and stolen moments when Jon was too engrossed in a task to notice Martin staring. In the hospital, Martin finally had a chance to really study him freely.

Stillness doesn’t suit him, Martin remembers thinking – and another piece of his heart chipped away.

Unconsciously, Martin finds himself studying Jon again now. He sits hunched forward with his arms folded tightly in front of him, a white-knuckled grip on each elbow, his narrow shoulders pulled in and forward. Judging from the predictably mussed state of his hair, he must have been combing his fingers through it nonstop recently. His lips are chapped and torn from chewing; the dark circles under his eyes seem to have shadows of their own. His multiple layers of clothing do nothing to hide the gauntness of his frame or the frailness of his wrists.

Jon is awake now, yes, but still he looks… distant. Listless. Too close to lifeless for comfort; too reminiscent of deathbeds and silent monitors and grey hospital linens. So Martin breaks the silence.

“Jon.”

He doesn’t raise his head, but his eyes flick upwards to gaze at Martin through his lashes. Sharp eyes, haunted eyes, more and more so with every passing day – and now, they’re downright bleak. Still, though, they’re beautiful: a rich brown, dark and deep enough to fall into, and Martin could lose himself in them gladly. Then, Jon breaks eye contact again, curling in on himself even further.

How is it that he manages to look more run down every time I see him? Martin thinks, and then he notices Jon’s hands, trembling in his lap now.

“You’re shaking.”

“Yes.” The word cracks on its way out, coming out as little more than a croak, and Jon clears his throat before trying again. “Just, ah – just hungry.”

“You’ve been back a few hours now, haven’t you eaten yet?” Martin replies automatically, the caretaker in him taking charge. “Jon, you were in there for over a week, you need to –”

“Not – not that kind of hunger.” Jon finally raises his head, but his eyes still dart away from Martin’s every few moments.

“Oh,” Martin says quietly. “Statements.”

“Yeah.” Jon scuffs one foot against the floor.

“W-well, I can wait, if you want to go record one?”

“No, I –” Jon clears his throat again, sitting up straighter in his seat. “I’d prefer to talk. If that’s alright with you. I’m – I’m sure you have questions for me.”

Martin considers. On the one hand, his instinct is to insist that Jon take care of himself first. On the other hand, he knows how stubborn Jon can be. Arguing about it wouldn’t change his mind, only waste time and ultimately leave him waiting longer for a meal.

“Yeah,” Martin says with a reluctant sigh, “I guess.”

“R-right. Well…” One end of Jon’s scarf trails in his lap, and he runs his fingertips over the weave, in the same way that one might pet a cat. “I – I’ll answer them as best I can.”

“Right,” Martin echoes.

“Would you like to sit?”

Martin nods wordlessly and takes a seat opposite Jon, but his mind goes blank again.

“Georgie said she explained things?” Jon tries tentatively.

“Sort of. She said she was working on an incomplete explanation herself.”

“Yes, that was – that was my fault. I was having some –”

“Speech difficulties, yeah. She said.”

“Which is also why my message to you was so…” Jon sighs. “I would have preferred to use my own words.”

“But did you mean it?” Martin blurts out. He feels his face heat in an instant and he has to look away.

“Yes,” Jon says quietly. Confidently, Martin notes privately, and blushes more deeply. “The sentiment was all mine. I know it may seem – out of the blue, from your perspective, but I – I meant it, all of it.” Jon ducks his head, but doesn’t look away. “I, uh – I still do.”

It’s Martin’s turn to break eye contact, keen to look anywhere other than into Jon’s eyes and the open, sincere warmth living there.

“I’m not the person you remember,” Martin says stiffly.

“Neither am I,” Jon replies, his voice softer than Martin has ever heard it.

Martin’s throat works as he swallows hard.

“I’m not the person you fell in love with.”

Jon’s expression softens and he gives Martin a beseeching look.

“I disagree,” he says, with more of his earlier assurance.

“I’m not,” Martin insists. “I don’t know what the me of the future was like, but I’m not – I’m not him. Whatever he did to make you fall for him, it’s – it’s not me.”

“Martin, I fell in love with this version of you,” Jon replies, his voice tremulous. “With every version of you.”

Martin just stares. Jon smiles at him: soft, sad, sorry, sincere.

“I – I know it’s difficult to believe. I treated you – horribly, and for so long. Took you for granted. Never gave you the respect or care you deserved. I… I don’t think I’ll ever stop being sorry for that.” He maintains eye contact, and Martin once again finds that he cannot look away. “I’ve never been… good at this sort of thing – putting words to how I feel. In retrospect, I was falling for you even before the Unknowing. I just – didn’t realize how much until I woke up and you weren’t there. There was a – an empty space where you used to be, and I couldn’t… I was almost too late. I almost lost you –”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Martin is startled to see the sheen to his eyes.

“I… I did lose you, eventually, and it nearly…” His voice is rough with held back tears. He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, there’s an intensity to his voice that Martin just now realizes he’s missed. “But not – not until much later. Not here. Not now. Not to Peter fucking Lukas.”

Martin lets out an amused huff at the venom with which Jon says the name. Jon looks up, tilting his head slightly – and Martin can feel one corner of his mouth turning up ever so slightly at the familiar mannerism.

“Sorry,” he says. “Just – don’t hear you swear much.”

“Well, he deserves it,” Jon replies, half-scathing, half-embarrassed.

“Can’t say I disagree with you there,” Martin says with a tired chuckle.

“About – about Peter.” Once again, the name sounds poisonous on Jon’s tongue. “He’s lying to you –”

A bolt of annoyance shoots through Martin at that.

“I’m not an idiot, Jon.”

“No,” Jon says hurriedly, his hands fluttering in agitation, “I didn’t mean to imply –” He breathes a heavy sigh, flustered. “I know that I – I underestimated you for far too long. But you’re clever, and capable, and you understand people in a way that I find endlessly impressive.” To his chagrin, Martin can feel himself redden at the unexpected praise. “You’re not gullible enough to trust Peter for a moment. I know that. And” – Jon grins at him with such open affection that Martin wants to flee – “last time, you outmaneuvered him so seamlessly that I – after seeing the look on Peter’s face, I think I fell a little more in love with you, impossible as it seemed.”

Martin’s face is on fire now, must be.

“I trusted you then, wholeheartedly, and I still do,” Jon continues. “I… I’ll respect whatever decision you make going forward. Even if it means you continue working with Peter. But,” he adds, licking his lips nervously, “I have information now that we didn’t have the first time around, and I – I’d like you to know the whole story. It could have implications for whatever strategy you decide on.”

“You’re talking about the Extinction.”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Is it a real thing?”

Jon lets out a long exhale, looking off to the side with a pensive scowl. Martin can feel himself smile at the sight of that oh-so-familiar crease between his eyebrows, a telltale harbinger of a Jonathan Sims dissertation. Resting his chin in his hands and leaning forward, Martin settles in for an earful.

“Yes,” Jon says after a moment’s hesitation, “but – it’s more complicated than Peter assumes. It’s real insofar as it’s a pervasive terror for large swathes of the human population. Justifiably so, I think it’s fair to say. And it’s possible that, given existential threats like global climate change, nuclear weaponry proliferation, pandemics, war, artificial scarcity, structural oppression and inequality embedded in society worldwide…”

He counts off on his fingers, the line between his eyebrows deepening as he builds momentum.

“And of course we have a twenty-four-hour news cycle inundating us all with that reality, and – entire genres of literature and film utilizing those apocalyptic themes… well, suffice it to say, the fear of a world without us might eventually reach a point where it could be considered on par with Smirke’s Fourteen.

“But Smirke’s taxonomy is also an oversimplification. The human experience is far too varied and complex to be split into neat categories. The animal experience, rather. It’s likely that the Fears have existed since before the advent of modern Homo sapiens, and if we consider the origins of the Flesh – it would be anthropocentric to assume that only the human mind is subject to them, and” – Jon shakes his head – “I'm veering off topic. Point is, the Fears bleed into one another. It’s why a Ritual for a single power was never going to work, why Jonah – Elias’ Ritual was predicated on bringing through all Fourteen at once. Or, case in point, perhaps Fifteen. The Extinction did have a domain of its own after the change, it was just… less sprawling than the others, and there were fewer instances of it. And no Avatars dedicated to it, as far as I could tell.”

Jon taps two fingers against his lips, leg bouncing restlessly as he ponders his next words.

“As for an Emergence, though… I really don’t think there is such a thing as a grand birthing event. The Extinction is already here, in a way. Many of the statements feature more than one Fear at a time, precisely because the boundaries between them are so indistinct. Some of the statements that Adelard Dekker collected – I do think that they contain genuine examples of the Extinction as a coherent Fear of its own, just… mixed in with other Fears. I imagine the Extinction’s trajectory might be similar to that of the Flesh – arising as times change, as more and more minds collectively experience that flavor of fear.

“It might be a quick evolution – similar to how anthropogenic climate change has followed an exponential growth curve, aptly enough – but I don’t think that the Extinction is or – or will be somehow more formidable than the other Fourteen.” His speech turns rapid-fire as he bounces from one thought to the next. “It can’t exist independently of the other Fourteen any more than the others can, so a Ritual on its behalf would collapse under its own weight. If there is a grand extinction event – well, when, I suppose; nothing lasts forever, the End claims everything eventually, time continues its slow crawl towards the inevitable heat death of the universe, et cetera –”

Jon is counting off on his fingers again. Martin shakes his head fondly.

“But it won't occur because of an Extinction Ritual,” Jon goes on. “There was an apocalypse where I came from, and it had nothing to do with the Extinction. Just… a very human flavor of monstrosity: the pursuit of power and personal gain, even at the cost of unimaginable suffering for everyone else.” He gives a humorless laugh. “Fittingly enough, though, it all started from a place of fear – of mortality, of subjugation, of the unknown.” Jon’s expression falls, and his voice drops to a near whisper. “And – and my own fear led me to the eye of that storm, so to speak. All of it can be traced back to that foundational fear of the unknown, can't it? The roots just… branch outward from there.”

Jon’s already trembling hands twitch abruptly, as if snapping something in two. He doesn’t appear to notice the gesture, too lost in his own thoughts. Before Martin can voice his concern at the shift in demeanor, Jon shakes his head and forges onward. He reverts to his previous hyperfocused, almost academic manner, but an undercurrent of anxious energy lingers.

“Anyway, I actually suspect that, much like the End, the Extinction wouldn’t benefit from a Ritual even if one could work. It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one. The Fears will cease to exist when there are no longer minds to fear them. Of course, it doesn’t have to be humans, or any creature currently living. If something does come after us, the Fears will likely survive and adapt, but otherwise –”

Jon finally makes eye contact with Martin for the first time in minutes and stops short.

“Oh,” he says, sounding mortified, “I’ve been… rambling, haven’t I.”

“I don’t mind,” Martin replies, unable to fight back a smile.

“W-well, anyway…” Jon rubs the back of his neck, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “I don’t believe that the Extinction is the world-ending threat that Peter claims, so if you were planning on continuing to work with him because of that…” He shrugs. “Also, his plan for you was never about the Extinction. Not really. He was – is – genuinely worried about the Extinction, but his plan to stop it is to have the Forsaken destroy the world first. But it hasn’t been long since his last Ritual failed; he knows it will be some time before he can try again. His immediate plan is all about one-upping Elias, taking control of the Panopticon, and accruing power in order to increase the chances of success for his next Ritual attempt.”

Jon exhales another humorless laugh, and his voice takes on an odd, breathless quality as he continues.

“Not all that different from Jonah Magnus, really. His allegiance to the Eye began when he realized that his peers would continue attempting their own Rituals. His solution was to destroy the world before they could. So afraid of his own mortality that he was willing to subjugate the entire human population for his own benefit.” Jon folds his arms again, tucking them against his middle and leaning forward, as if trying to make himself smaller. When he speaks again, there’s a noticeable waver in his voice. “Somewhere along the line, he went beyond justifying his actions – jumped right to taking pleasure in them.”

Jon’s sharp eyes go unfocused. The rise and fall of his chest quickens.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says gently. He doesn’t know what else he can say.

“For what?” Jon asks, coming back to himself after an overlong pause.

“Georgie told me what he did to you. I mean, she didn’t go into detail, but she mentioned that he possessed you and used you to –”

“It wasn’t possession,” Jon interrupts, a desperate edge to his tone. “Not in the conventional horror movie sense. It was the same compulsion that takes me when I start reading any statement, just – more intense. I couldn’t – couldn’t control my body, but he wasn’t actually in my head, it just – felt like it, like he’d crawled into my skin along with his words. Then again, I –” Jon laughs, gripping one wrist with his other hand, fingernails digging grooves into scarred skin. “I suppose I was possessed in a way, in the sense of being someone else’s possession. Have been for a long time – haven’t belonged to myself since the moment he chose me, still don’t –”

Jon’s gaze goes distant yet again, and Martin watches with burgeoning worry as his pupils dilate and constrict with the fluctuation of his voice.

“…he posited a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted –”

“– marked me as a part of that, without my understanding. Or consent –”

“Jon?” Martin says, apprehensive.

“– keep me in the dark just so I wouldn’t stop being useful – made me complicit in a thousand different nightmares, and lives ruined for the sick joy of some otherworldly voyeur –”

“– any future I might have had, sacrificed to his –”

“Jon, what’s –?”

There’s a singsong tenor to his voice and an intensity to his eyes now, reminiscent of the look he gets when he records –

Oh, Martin realizes. Statements.

“– I swear I could still feel those – eyes follow me – a grin of victory playing upon his lips –”

“Jon,” Martin says again, more insistently, reaching out on impulse to place a hand on Jon’s knee.

Cognizance flares to life in Jon’s eyes and his hands fly up to cover his mouth. He seems to struggle with himself for a minute, stolen words muffled beneath the hands pressed tight to his lips. He makes a noise that sounds almost like choking, or sobbing; he looks at Martin with wide, watery eyes, then takes a deep breath in. A quiet whimper chases the air out on his exhale, and Martin’s own breath catches in his throat. He’s seen Jon scared, but he’s never heard him make a sound quite like that – not while bleeding out from a fresh stab wound, not with a gash in his neck, not fumbling to apply ointment to a burned and peeling hand, not even with worms burrowing through his flesh and a corkscrew tearing through the tunnels they left behind.

“You’re okay,” Martin says, willing it to be true.

“I don’t – I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” Jon says abruptly, sharply. He winces and shoots Martin an apologetic look. “Sorry, that was – I didn’t mean to sound cross, I just –” He flaps his hands, lips moving wordlessly.

“It’s okay, I understand.”

Jon nods, but his breaths are still coming fast and shallow. One hand seeks out Martin’s, still resting on his knee; he grips it tight, fingers slotting between Martin’s like they belong there. The direct skin-to-skin contact sends pins and needles radiating up Martin’s arm, but he fights the impulse to draw back.

“We can talk about something else,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice.

Jon inclines his head again, gulping down air. Even as his breathing begins to even out, the shivers coursing through him only grow more violent, the tremor in his hands becoming more and more pronounced.

“You need to eat something,” Martin says.

“N-no, I –”

“Yes, you do –”

“No!” The exclamation cracks like a whip and ricochets off the walls, echoing down the tunnel. Jon’s face crumples and he shrinks in on himself again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout, I –”

“It’s fine –”

“It’s not.”

“We can argue about it when you’re not literally starving. I’ll go fetch a statement, and –”

“It won’t help.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon brings his free hand to his mouth and bites down on his knuckles.

“Jon?” Martin says again, more sternly. “What did you mean?”

“I’m – not just the Archivist, Martin, I’m the Archive. All of the statements stored upstairs, I already have them, every single one of them catalogued in my head, and – re-experiencing them takes the edge off while I’m reading, but as soon as the recording stops, the hunger comes back even stronger, and I want…” Jon gives him a pained look. “Did Georgie tell you about…?”

“She mentioned something about you putting yourself under house arrest because you’re afraid of hurting people.”

“It’s necessary,” Jon says, almost defensively.

“What will happen if you don’t take in new statements?” Jon says nothing, and Martin sighs. “Jon.”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you starve?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t know,” Jon says, pulling his hand away from Martin’s and rubbing his eyes furiously. “It feels like starving, but I don’t know if it will actually kill me. But I don’t want to hurt people just to keep myself from hurting. I don’t want to be like –” He cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath. “I’ve caused untold suffering as it is. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.”

“There was a woman giving a statement upstairs earlier –”

“I’m not taking her statement.” Jon’s reply is automatic, almost like a practiced line. It sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself more than Martin.

“I wasn’t suggesting –”

“Her name is Tricia Mallory,” Jon interjects. “It’s her birthday next week; she’ll be twenty-eight. She has two cats, and a parakeet, and a girlfriend named Shona, who has an engagement ring hidden in the bottom left drawer of her desk –”

“Why are you –”

“Because I’m so far removed from humanity at this point that I need to actively, continuously persuade myself not to see other people as cuts of meat.” Martin would have preferred snappish to the resigned, matter-of-fact, tired tone in which Jon gives that confession. “Her name is Tricia Mallory,” he recites again, in that same rehearsed manner. “She lost her voice in a minotaur’s labyrinth. She’s finding it again, slowly, but it will never be the same. Her nightmares are horrific enough without adding another monster to the mix. I’m not taking her statement.”

“What about just reading her written statement?” Martin asks. Jon blinks, slow and catlike, and Martin can see the uncanny glint of hunger in his eyes. “Have you already heard her story?”

“No,” Jon says after a sluggish pause. “I don’t think her statement ever made it down to the Archives the last time. And the knowledge of its content didn’t consciously come to me after the change. There were – so many other statements in progress by then. So much to See.”

“So it would be something new for you.” Jon is silent, staring off into the middle distance, unblinking, glassy eyes riveted on something only he can see. “Would that be enough to hold you over for now? It – it won’t be live and in person, but at least it won’t be… I don’t know, stale?”

“I…” Jon’s pupils dilate. Constrict. Dilate.

“She’s probably left by now,” Martin continues insistently. “I can go track down the statement and bring it back here.” Jon looks as if he’s warring with himself. “Please, Jon. It’s just a reading. You won’t hurt anyone.”

Blood wells up on Jon’s lip where he’s been biting it. Eventually, he gives a tiny nod, his shoulders going limp as if in defeat. Jon needs to eat, but Martin wishes it didn’t feel so much like pressuring someone to break sobriety.

“Okay,” Martin says, fighting back the surge of guilt, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Please don’t go anywhere, alright?”

“Alright,” Jon replies in a nearly inaudible whisper.

Martin tosses a glance over his shoulder as he leaves. Jon is eerily still again but for the persistent shaking. He looks small, and haunted, and lost; fragile, precarious, with a posture that brings to mind something broken and taped back together in slapdash fashion.

First things first, Martin tells himself, and tries to focus on the task at hand.

Once the trapdoor closes behind Martin, Jon buries his face in his hands.

That wasn’t how he wanted this conversation to go. Just judging from his demeanor, Martin has shaken off the Lonely more than Jon had expected, but still, Jon should be the one comforting him. It took the Martin of the future ages to acclimate to the idea that he deserved to be cared for, too; to unlearn the reflex to reverse any attempt Jon made to take care of him for once. Right now, Martin needs to be shown that care, and yet Jon can’t manage to redirect his one-track mind away from his hunger for more than five minutes at a time. Selfish, selfish, selfish –

The slow creak of a door cuts through the silence, and Jon’s blood runs cold when Helen’s playful lilt rings out behind him.

“Archivist,” she says with unrestrained glee. “Long time no see.”

Jon had been dreading the Distortion’s inevitable reappearance. He should have known that she would make her entrance when he’s at his most vulnerable. Like a shark to blood, he thinks to himself, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Brooding, are we?”

“Hi, Helen,” he manages, struggling to stay impassive.

It doesn’t matter; he jumps anyway, when several long fingers – too many angles; too many joints – curl around his shoulder. As if her touch was an unpaid toll, she removes her hand once he provides payment in the form of that momentary burst of alarm. Her headache-inducing laugh is made all the worse by the acoustics of the tunnel.

“Now, then” – Jon doesn’t look around at her, but he can practically hear her lips curl in a grin – “pleasantries aside, I believe we’re due for a chat.”

End Notes:

Citations for Jon’s Archive-speak: MAG 010; 134/111; 154/144; 098. And Arthur Nolan’s statement is from MAG 145.

I’m hoping Jon’s ramble wasn’t Too Much lmao,,, it is admittedly part self-indulgence (read: shameless projection) on my part, but also: ADHD is just Like That sometimes. I’m still navigating how to strike a balance between having something like that flow well and be, well, readable from an audience perspective, while also trying to capture the reality of how an ADHD ramble often does lack coherence from an external POV, because so much of the associative reasoning never gets verbalized (Thought Train Goes Brrr from Point A to Point Q and Does Not Show Its Work). All this is to say: I know that whole section is meta-heavy NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL TANGENTS. I don’t know if I achieved what I was aiming for, but it was fun practice. Hopefully the end result wasn’t too disjointed or too much of a slog. (I actually edited a lot out, believe it or not, lol.)

Also, in Jon's defense, he Really Needs A Snickers. And he hasn't been able to SPEAK FOR HIMSELF for months. He deserves a little infodumping, as a treat.

Thanks for sticking with me through the slower update schedule. We're back to full shifts at work now, so chapters are taking me longer to write. And apparently I've just decided all the chapters are gonna be 10k+ words now, whoops.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic

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puckngrind · 4 years

Text

What’s In A Name: 4 - J. Toews

Chapter 4

Where we left off: Bekah joined the Lady Jackets with Brynn in Chicago and didn’t tell Jon but he found out. After the game, he wrapped his arm around her at the arena to head back home making Bekah question things.

Warnings: smut, language

Word Count: 3,468

Series Masterlist ) Puck ‘n Grind’s masterlist

Questions.

Brynn had nothing but questions from the time Bekah returned to the hotel the next morning until the two hit her couch the following weekend after Chicago. Why didn’t Bekah tell her? Why would she not call them dating? How often does he text? Is he good in bed? Most of the questions were met with an I don’t know or I’m not telling you. Bekah was a slightly open book with her best friend but telling her how Jon makes her melt into a puddle wasn’t something she wanted to devolve.

April hit and Jon’s texts became less frequent. The Blackhawks made the playoffs and Bekah found herself most evenings in her apartment watching the game. Wondering if this was the round they would get knocked out. She would text Brynn asking for clarification on a hockey related thing. A day after beating the Ducks in 7 games Bekah looks down to see Jon’s name flashing on her phone.

“Hey Beks.” She can tell he’s laying down and there is a strain in his voice.

“Hey Tae?” Bekah’s questioning reply was noticed. “Congrats on making the cup finals again!”

“Thanks. I was thinking...”. He paused and cleared his throat. “Could you come? I don’t know, maybe starting the June 13th? We will be either be playing game 6 or we will be out. If it goes to 7 games you have the choice of coming to Tampa with me or hanging out at my place?” There was a silence on the line. Jon waited. “Beks?”

“Uh, I was just thinking. Sorry. Yeah, that should be fine. It’s a little short notice for work but I’ll see what I can do.” Bekah started pacing her apartment.

“Awesome. I know I could have just texted you but I wanted to hear your voice it’s been sooo long.” Jon’s voice staggers.

“Oh? I’ve heard your voice a few times during interviews.” This makes Jon laugh.

“I’ll set up your flight and everything as soon as you tell me if you can get me off...I mean get off work...fuck...me. I’m just gonna stop talking.” He cusses to himself.

“The whole no sex during playoffs really messing with you huh?” Bekah bites her knuckle to hold back the laughter.

“Well it’s been a little longer than playoffs so yeah...you could say it’s messing with me a bit. I just keep thinking of you. Speaking of, if it goes to game 6 and 7 you will be staying in a guest room. Sleeping next to you would probably make me explode.” The admission made Bekah’s entire body jolt. They quickly said their goodbyes and she typed out an email requesting off for the week.

Bekah flew in the morning of the 12th. Jon explained that they would be passing ships essentially but wanted to make sure she was set up before he left for the game in Tampa. Jon told her a driver would be picking her up and when she saw Beks scribbled on a piece of paper and Jon’s face emerging from under the Cubs hat she jumped and picked up the pace to him stopping just short of running into his arms. “Can I touch you or no?” She jokes.

“C’mere.” Jon pulls Bekah in and kisses her. Her hand immediately grabs at his beard.

“What barn are you raising tonight, Tae?” Jon chuckles as the two walk to grab Bekah’s bags. “Seriously, I thought it was just the bad rink lighting from my television.”

“My genetics hates the no shave protocols what can I say.” Jon kisses her on the top of her hair. “I’ve missed you, Beks.” He breathes in.

“Same, now let’s get me back to your place so you can kick some Tampa ass.”

Jon left a ridiculously detailed note about how to operate everything in his home. The number for the team manager if he didn’t answer and his house cleaning service just in case. Bekah roamed the halls of the giant townhouse. Taking in the things she didn’t notice before or he added and she didn’t know. She felt tiny in his massive kitchen but realized it was perfect for him in the many conversations about cooking they had. She finally wandered into the room he mapped out as the guest room she would use. Laying on the bed she sees a box. Jon’s scribble on a card laying on top.

You don’t have to wear this but it will look better than the last sweater I saw on you. Always, Tae

Bekah pries open the box to reveal a Blackhawks home jersey. Pulling it out of the box she notices the C on the chest. Flipping it around, Bekah fingers graze over the letters in Toews embroidered across the top. Of course he got her his jersey and not just a blank one. She slipped it on over her tshirt and snapped a pic in the mirror. Typing out a how does this look message she tossed her phone on the bed not expecting the quick response.

Jon: holy fuck Beks. I’ve never seen anyone look so hot with my name on their back.

Bekah: I’m sure 🙄

Jon: I’m adjusting myself right now because that’s how turned on I am. I’ll send proof

Bekah: I believe you. Good luck tomorrow. I’m gonna snoop through all your stuff and then head to bed.

Jon: Knock yourself out! Nothing to hide. I’m gonna take a very very cold shower.

The next night Bekah curled up on the sofa to watch game 5. Win they would come back only needing one more game to win...lose they would hope to go into game 7. Bekah kept falling asleep but the phone call in period 3 woke her.

“Derek thinks you are gonna see them take the cup at home.” Brynn’s voice vibrates in Bekah’s ear.

“Oh?” Bekah rubs her eyes and realizes the Blackhawks just scored with a few minutes left.

“He’s very jealous. Actually stewing about it if I were to go that far.” Brynn giggles.

“I guess I should wear this jersey then?” Bekah yanks on the Blackhawks emblem.

“He got you a jersey? Please tell me it’s his!”

“Yes Rin, it’s his. Not his his because I’m sure that would be swimming on me his sweatshirts do and pads don’t go under them.”

“Friend, I don’t know what you two call whatever this is but men who are just using women for sex aren’t letting them stay in their mansions without them, borrow their sweatshirts, and wrapping their chiseled arms around someone in public they consider their fuck buddy.” Brynn huffed out. Bekah could feel that she’d been keeping that in for awhile. She heard a beep and pulled the phone to see.

“Oh, shit he’s calling.”

“And they definitely don’t call them as soon as they get off the damn ice. Love ya!” With that Brynn hangs up and Bekah answers Jon’s call.

“You won Tae!” She breathe out not realizing she was holding it taking in all what Brynn was saying.

“We did! And we were suppose to fly back tomorrow morning but something got messed up with the hotel and we are heading to the plane. I just didn’t want to freak you out when I came in super late.”

“Oh, cool. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you for breakfast then.”

“Bye Beks.” She hung up and headed upstairs.

The slight kiss on her forehead the next morning was the next thing she remembered. “Sleep well?” Jon was dressed in his team issued sweats.

“Good morning!” Bekah answers quietly. “Your guest bed is pretty comfy I might not move.”

“I made breakfast and then I gotta get to the rink.” Jon’s voice sounded deeper to Bekah.

“Oh! Oh!” She rubs her eyes taking in the playoff beard. “Sorry. I forgot about the beard. When does that come off?” She ran her finger down the hard line between his soft cheek and coarse beard.

“When we win it all...or lose but I’m hoping we can win the cup here for once. For the fans.” Jon stands up.

The two make their way up to the rooftop where Jon has bacon, toast, fruit, some drink concoction that is clearly meant for him and coffee for Bekah.

“You don’t eat bread.” She pulls the mug to her lips then sips.

“I don’t but you do. So I made sure to have some for this week.”

“Thanks.” The two fall into easy conversation before he leaves for practice.

Bekah wandered her way down to campus while he was gone and took in the changes in the years since she graduated. She saw Blackhawks gear everywhere. She wondered if she just never noticed or because they were playing for the cup the next day was the reason for the abundance of sightings. She realizes how many times she could have seen Jon play before she graduated. Her best friend, only college friend, was an avid hockey fan from Minnesota. She would try to convince Bekah to go with her all the time. Chances of them meeting back then we’re slim and Bekah was sure as she walked back into his home that there was no way he would have ever noticed her if they had.

Dinner that evening was on the rooftop too. The views were amazing especially at night.

“You okay?” Bekah took in Jon’s demeanor and if that didn’t give away that something was bothering him the clicking of his foot on his chair was hard to ignore.

“Maybe a little nervous about tomorrow. Maybe a little horny. Maybe...I don’t know.”

“Maybe what Jon?” Bekah pulls her knees up into her chest while she waits Jon out.

“You are sitting in the family section.” Bekah gulps but nods. “It was the only seats I could get.”

“Ok...wait seats?” Bekah raises her voice accidentally.

“Yeah,” Jon nervously rubs his neck. “My parents are here and you are sitting behind them.”

“Oh...oh...OH!”

“Please say something else.” Jon squints.

“Fuck. Um. Yeah. That’s...fine. Have you told them about me? I mean why would you...but...fuck. Me in your jersey will look fantastic. Maybe I shouldn’t wear it. Hi, I’m Rebekah Pierce. I’ll be the one releasing your son of all his built up tension tonight if they win...nice to meet you.”

Jon start choking on the bite he just placed in his mouth and keeps coughing. “Shit! Babe!” Bekah rounds the table and pats him hard on the back. He finally stops and turns to pull her into his lap. “You cannot die tonight I would like to see you win this cup thing!” Jon smiles and kisses Bekah. “Oh Captain. That’s against the rules.” Bekah eyes down to where she can feel Jon hard as a rock.

“I’m fine. I’ll just take another ice bath. I’ve come accustom to them lately.” This makes Bekah giggle. “And my parents know I have someone here which is why they are not. They don’t know what we are because let’s be real...we don’t know. And please don’t talk about releasing anything to them. Fuck. I would like to pretend that my mother still thinks at 26 I’m saving myself.”

“Say what?” Bekah bats her eyes processing.

“They will be polite and I’m sure won’t ask too many questions.” Jon kisses her and she feels him jolt below her.

“I’m gonna get up now. I will not be to blame for a loss of anything.” Bekah kisses his forehead and starts to clear the table.

She felt her palms dripping with more and more sweat with each person being escorted to her section. Finally a Toews jersey on a lady that could easily be his mother comes into Bekah’s view followed by several others. Before Bekah can say anything the woman leading the group smiles at her. “You must be Beks.” Her arms come up to hug Bekah.

“Rebekah. Pierce. Yes. Nice to meet you Mrs. Toews.”

“Well...bonus points for the pronunciation.” Jon’s brother, David, laughs out. They made their introductions and sat down for warm ups. Jon skated a few time past them. Andrée turned around talking to Bekah more than paying attention to the ice. Bekah wondered if games ever got old for her. How many games has she gone to in his lifetime?

“I know a little about you. Just not super into hockey. You work in marketing in Columbus. Oh, and you keep my son on his toes. Which is what he needs.” She pats Bekah’s knee as she feels the heat in her face. Jon telling his mom about her added another layer to this whole thing. Thankfully the game started and the attention was drawn away from her and onto him. Bekah was on the edge of her seat. When the horn sounded and the Blackhawks won the stadium exploded. Without even realizing it Andrée had Bekah’s hand dragging her with the rest of the families to the ice.

Bekah leans into Andrée who is beaming since they left their seats. “I don’t belong here.” Bekah admits looking at the families waiting for the team.

“He said you would say that which is why I was told to drag you to the ice with me. He clearly knows you well.” She winked and then there he was. A hot smelly mess with a look on his face that made Bekah forget that she felt out of place. Andrée embraced her son pulling on the beard telling him it looked better every year. The rest of the family gave their hugs of congratulations and the Jon turns to Bekah.

His eyes soften as he pulled her in for a hug. Bekah feels his sweaty lips at her hairline and she laid her head on his chest. “I’m glad you didn’t fight my mom about this.” Bekah looks up and wraps her arms around his neck and he picks her up. “A little more celebrating here then home m’kay?” Jon kisses her temple then skates off to finish the victory celebration and interviews.

Jon busted through his Lincoln Park door with Bekah wrapped around his waist. The high from the Stanley Cup win adding to the need for each other. “Do you wanna head up?” Bekah tried to catch her breath as Jon unlatched her bra from under the jersey.

“Maybe later.” Jon eyes the couch and places Bekah down slowly. She goes take off the jersey and he stops her. “Keep that on. I’ve been dreaming about you in that for days.” Jon licks his lips and sucks his breath in hard.

“Oh. Okay Captain.” Bekah pulls her lip in between her teeth while she pulls off her pants and panties. Jon quickly removes his suit. “If ya want to bend me over the couch I’m already ridiculously wet.” Bekah stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips into Jon’s. The slew of French and English curse words mixed with grunts sent an unknown energy radiating through her body. Jon didn’t answer but spun Bekah around and she bent over the back of the couch. He tapped her inner thigh then moves the tail of her jersey up her back. Bekah looked up at Jon just as he slammed into her rocking both their bodies and the couch forward.

“Sorry.” He mumbled.

“I’m not.” Bekah barked out feeling the familiar stretch of Jon’s length against her walls.

“I’m not gonna last long but I’ll make up for it.” Jon states before leaning over and hooking his finger onto Bekah’s clit.

“Jon. Fuck.” Bekah cried out feeling her orgasm flood her body and then his pulsating deep inside her. His tired body pulls hers up to his chest.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Bekah turns around and leans against the couch.

“For the quickie. Not exactly my style. But damnit if you aren’t hot as hell in that sweater.” Jon traces her lips with his finger.

“Well, we have all week, right? I wasn’t expecting a marathon anyway plus watching you holding that cup up in the air was orgasm worthy.”

“Damnit Beks. You do things to me.” He dips down to kiss her lips.

“Now about this beard? Can we?” Bekah uses her fingers to illustrate cutting it off.

“Yes, let’s head upstairs.” Before she can move Jon hoists her over his shoulder and heads to his master bath. He places her gently on the sink’s countertop.

“I have legs damnit and I’m not a trophy.” Jon laughs and kisses her. “Plus how do you still have all that strength?”

“Adrenaline Beks. And you are better than any trophy.” Jon got the razor set, bowl of warm water, and towels out. He reaches for the razor and Bekah’s hand stops him.

“Do you trust me?” She pulls the razor from between his fingers and places it down. He just nods then stands between her legs. Bekah begins with the badger hair brush and cream. Lathering up his already damp beard. Jon’s eyes flash from her to the reflection in the mirror back to her. Using her thumbs she rubs down the bottom of his jawline causing a grunt to rumble deep in his chest. Finally grabbing the razor she whispers...”you trust me right?”

“Yes Beks. With everything.” His admission brought down the first stroke from the razor. She worked methodically down his face and then focused on his jawline making sure not to cut him. Jon groaned with every swipe of her thumb as she checks her work. Finally Bekah reaches for the warm, wet towel and gently wipes off the remaining cream and hair. Jon’s fresh clean face exposed. Bekah leans over to pull the moisturizing cream out from the tub but Jon catches her face and pulls her into his lips.

“That was so fucking sexy.” Jon whispers into her lips.

“Can I finish?” Bekah pulls away and runs the moisturizer down Jon’s face and neck and finally his shoulders. She feels him shutter under her grip. “Now I’m done.” She looked over her work then Jon captures her lips in his again. “I just realized you should be out partying with your teammates.” Bekah pulls away and places her hand on his chest to keep them apart. Jon shrugs. “You should go! The entire city is excited...I’m sure you won’t pay for a single drink Tae.” Jon’s strength over powers her and has Bekah’s body presssd tightly to his chest.

“Nah. I like this celebration better. The partying is more for the young guys and the ones who haven’t won it yet.” Jon’s muscles tighten around Bekah.

“Jon.” She squeaks out his name in protest.

“Beks, I have three cups now, two gold medals, and a world championship. I have partied plenty in my day with the winnings of each of them and I’m only 27. I just want to crawl into bed. Properly give you an orgasm and then do it again in the morning.”

“Damn.” Bekah whispers more for herself in realization that Jon wasn’t just a pro hockey player but would one day be in the hall of fame. Her face caught on fire when she realized that after winning the cup all he wanted to do is celebrate with her.

“You gotta talk to me Bekah.” Jon’s voice finally broke through her thought process. “Babe!” He swipes gently at the strands of hair that have fallen to her face. “Beks, talk to me.” Panic dripping from his voice.

“You called me Bekah.” She finally blurted out.

“And, it IS your name?”

“Yeah but you only ever call me Beks. Even your mother called me it which is conversation in itself later...but I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call me Bekah before.” This makes Jon smile.

“I just gave you the expansive run down of my hockey winnings that had earned me a spot in the Triple Gold Club...and you focus on the nickname I use!” Jon laughs hard and stares deep into Bekah’s eyes.

“Triple Gold Club, what the...what is that?”

“Youngest member too but that’s not what we are talking about.” Jon runs his thumb tightly along Bekah’s jaw line then over her lips she pulls it in and sucks hard. “Fuck Beks... I’m already hard.” She looks down between their bodies to see for herself.

“I just don’t want to be the reason you are not celebrating with your team and fans Tae.” She slides her finger from his collarbone bone down his abs.

“There is exit interviews and a giant ass parade. Plus I prefer my day with the cup over most of the public celebrations.” Bekah hummed taking in this information. “Can we take this to the bed now?” With that Bekah nodded and Jon carried her to his bed.

#What's in a name fic #WIAN #Jonathan Toews fic #tazer me 19 #Jonathan Toews #love a damn blackhawk 🤦🏻‍♀️

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dcnatural · 4 years

Text

Look What You Made Me Do

Word Count: 1468

Pairing: Reader x Scarecrow

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Years after last seeing him, you run into Jonathan Crane one last time.

Five years ago you were a psychology student at Gotham University. You were young, foolish and reckless. You were part of an anarchist group, and believed that society should be free from oppressing forces.

Five years ago you took a lesson on Psychology of Fear, to better understand what makes people afraid and how they react to it.

Five years ago you became fascinated by Professor Jonathan Crane, who lectured that class. And he became fascinated by you. Talking to him was like talking with a mirror.

Five years ago you two began to have late night discussions on how the government and the media used fear to control the population, and without that control, the power would fall back into the hands of the people. Without fear, there could be no government nor police.

Five years ago those late night talks became something more. You were more than a student for him, and he was more than a teacher for you. You were lovers.

Four years ago he changed. He began to crave power. The same power that you two had once despised became his obsession. He was tired of being someone’s puppet, he wanted to be the puppeteer. He lied to you, and convinced you to help him create a toxin that could induce fear.

Four years ago he donned a mask and a costume and started to terrorize the streets of Gotham as the Scarecrow. When Batman came to you, you had no choice but give Jonathan’s location. He was not the man you had fallen in love anymore. You soon graduated and left Gotham, put your past behind and started as an intern in a clinic at Chicago.

Three years ago you met Spencer through a friend in common. You started dating.

Two years ago you and Spencer got married.

One year ago you adopted a little girl, who you named after your mother.

A month ago, unbeknown to you, Jonathan Crane escaped Arkham Asylum, where he had been imprisoned for the previous years.

Three hours ago a strange man arrived in your front door. Spencer allowed him in, since he claimed to be an old friend of yours.

Right now, you arrive home, tired after a long day at work.

* * *

“Honey?”, you call after your partner. The house was too quiet, usually you could hear the noise of the small radio which Spencer always left turned on. The eerie silence sent a chill through your spine. It felt like the temperature had dropped. “Spencer?”, you call again. Still no answer.

You take off your sneakers and leave them in the cabinet at the entrance. Another unusual thing: there’s nothing baking in the oven. You look for a note on the fridge, just in case Spencer had left the house in an emergency, but you find none.

You decide to call Spencer’s phone, and when the call connects, you begin to hear the ringing coming from somewhere upstairs. “Maybe they fell asleep”, you think.

You climb the stairs step by step, and the ringing gets louder. There it was! On the nightstand near your bed, the small device flashed it’s light, indicating an incoming call. But, unlike what you had thought, you didn’t find Spencer and your daughter sleeping on the bed. You leave your cell phone and wallet on the bed and go searching on the rest of the house.

You decide to check on the baby’s room. As you near the door on the other side of the hallway, a strange smell floods your nose. The first thing you notice is that there’s a red liquid staining the beige carpet, then your gaze moves up and you find your daughter’s broken body hanging from the fan, her shirt had gotten caught on the edge of one of the many metal stars you had placed there by yourself. You let out a scream. Her neck is twisted in an unnatural angle, one eye is now a black hole, and her arms are full of deep cuts.

You take a step towards her, but then decide to leave the body there, because that’s what they say to do on those crime TV shows Spencer likes to watch. Spencer… You had momentarily forgotten about them. The blood trails leads to the closet and you pull the door open. Your partner’s body falls upon you, and you take a step back screaming. You notice that some of the fingers are missing, having been cut off rudimentary. You aren’t brave enough to turn to see Spencer’s face.

You race out of the room, back to your bedroom, picking the phone to dial 9-1-1. Before you can press the last number, someone grabs you from behind and yanks the phone out of your hand, throwing it on the opposite wall. The phone smashes and metal parts fly everywhere. It takes you a long moment to recognize the face in front of you. The years and the prison weren’t kind to him, his hair begins to show white strands, and a wrinkle on the middle of his browns makes it seems like he’s permanently frowning, or maybe he really is. But his eyes haven’t changed a bit, it’s still the same hue of blue as the ocean, one of many things that made you fall in love with him so long ago.

“Jon”, your voice is barely more than a whisper.

His voice is cold when he says your name. There’s no love or tenderness like it used to have. “Sit down”, he point to the bed behind you. You obey out of fear. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”, he asks as he closes the window blinds. Darkness takes hold of the two of you. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I didn’t think I needed to”, you reply. You try to control your voice for it not to shake, you don’t want him to know you are scared. It would only make this more fun for him.

“I see you moved on, started a family”, he gesticulates to the corridor, where on the other side lays your now dead family. Jonathan takes a step forward, bending down to look you in the eyes. “I was building us a life. And you turned your back on me”, he spits the words like they are venom. “You fooled me into believing you loved me and then abandoned me.”

“You are crazy”, you answer angrily. “You were killing people.”

“I was giving them a taste of their own medicine!”, he argues. “You say I'm a killer? But wasn’t it you who said you wanted to take down the powers that be? Didn’t you create the fear toxin?”

“You lied to me!”, you scream and stand up. He towers over you by a few inches, he always had.

“You lied to me!”, he replies, mimicking your words. “You sold me out to the Bat. But Arkham made me stronger, smarter, it gave me time to plot my revenge.”

“Can’t you see how insane you sound?”, you try to appeal to him.

He laughs. “Hraa hroo! This world is insane!”

“You killed the only ones how mattered to me!”

He stops laughing, looking you seriously. Somehow, it makes him look even more scary. “I only did what you made me do!”

It all happens too quickly for you to react. One moment he’s screaming at you, and the other he has a needle full of a liquid version of the fear toxin, and then he is injecting you with it.

Your vision gets fuzzy. Jonathan becomes only a silhouette in the darkness. You run but the shadows chase after you. You trip and roll down the stairs, hands sprouting from the floor ready to take hold of you, but for some miracle you escape. You stumble to your feet and raise your hands to cover your face, protecting from the attacks of the dark ravens. They try to bite out your brain, smacking into your skull, beaks ripping off parts of your hair. The phone rings from upstairs. You scream. You scream. You scream.

It’s all for nothing. Scarecrow’s long fingers curls around your neck, pressing harder and harder.

* * *

Thirty minutes ago came the first scream.

Twenty minutes ago came a new wave of them. The neighbors reported to the police.

Right now the cops open the front door, finding your dead body on the middle of the living room. At the backyard, the rustling of the leaves can be heard as a slender man runs through the bushes Spencer and you had planted when you first moved in. The sirens on the background announce the arrival of more officers.

“Be prepared for it”, a cop warns the detective assigned to the case. “It looks like a nightmare in there.”

#scarecrow #jonathan crane #jonathan crane x reader #scarecrow x reader #scarecrow imagine #dc #reader

84 notes · View notes

sweetiepie08 · 4 years

Text

RebelZ Chapter 6

Invader Zim fanfic

While analyzing Zim’s PAK for weaknesses, Tak discovers strange coding that sends her on a search for answers. The clues lead her to uncover a conspiracy that governs all of Irken society. When the truth sends her on the run, she has no choice but to return to the one place the Tallest would never willingly go: Urth.

Meanwhile, Dib has noticed odd changes in Zim’s behavior. Has the invader simply grown bored of his mission over the last few years, or is there something more interesting going on?

People who asked to be tagged: @incorrect-invader-zim , @messinwitheddie, @reblogstupids, @cate-r-gunn, @agentpinerulesall

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list feel free to message me. Also, if you’re on the tag list and you changed your name, please just let me know.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter 10.

[-]

Dib flipped through the streaming services, looking for something to watch. The documentary had ended, pizza had been eaten, and Gaz had gone upstairs to fix some emergency with one of her online gaming groups. He knew he had surveillance tapes waiting for him on his desk, (or worse, college applications) but he wasn’t ready to check up on them just yet. He was actually enjoying some downtime for once, and he didn’t want it to end.

Then, he heard the all-too-familiar sounds of an alien spaceship landing outside.

Nope, he thought as he hit play on whatever show he landed on. Didn’t matter what, so long as he could pretend he couldn’t hear what was going on in his driveway.

Some muffled arguing came from the front door, followed by the bell ringing. Dib turned up the volume. Not getting out of this chair.

Loud pounding began, accompanied by cries of “Dib-human! Open this door!” Dib turned the volume up as loud as it would go as the pounding continued.

“Jesus Christ, Dib!” Gaz shouted from upstairs. “Just answer the door!”

“Fine!” Dib shut off the tv and stalked to the front door. When he opened it, he found two Irken idiots.

Zim and Tak hung off each other and drank from plastic bottles while their robot pets bolted right in and made themselves at home. “Hey, you grew into your head,” Tak said, lazily pointing her claw at him.

“You know, Dib, there’s a lot of reasons to hate your planet,” Zim slurred, letting himself in. “You keep chihuahuas as pets, some of you refuse to inoculate against deadly diseases, and that Game of Thrones finale was garbage! But at least you don’t need identification to buy gingzor, and that almost makes up for it.” Zim punctuated his short rant by taking a long swig from his bottle.

“And look,” Tak said, pulling a box of ginger snaps out of a plastic shopping bag, “they had edibles.”

“Are you guys drunk? What is this?” Dib grabbed the bottle out of Zim’s hands. He checked the label, gave it a sniff, and took a small taste. Yup, it was exactly what the label said it was. “This is just ginger ale.”

“Eee-yup,” Zim said, swiping his bottle back. “Your light brews aren’t as potent as the ones we’ve got on Irk, but it gets the job done.”

“Wait, are you guys seriously telling me your species gets drunk off ginger?”

“Why?” Tak asked, shoving a cookie in her mouth. “What do humans consume when they want to forget the futility of existence?”

“Uh, alcohol, usually.”

The two Irkens locked eyes, then burst into laughter. “Seriously?” Tak squealed, wiping a tear from her eye. “That’s an antiseptic.”

“Humans really are stupid,” Zim agreed.

“Not that kind,” Dib grumbled, knowing he would be ignored. Then he felt his temper boil. “What are you two doing in my house?!”

“Oh yeah,” the two brushed past him and hopped on the couch like they owned the place. “We need to crash here for a while,” Zim explained. He turned on the tv, got blasted by an old episode of The Office, then turned the volume down.

“Why?”

“We uncovered a conspiracy behind the Irken empire and our government tried to kill us.”

“I discovered,” Tak corrected. “They just caught you harboring me.”

“Eh, details.”

“The point is,” Tak went on, “we’re both marked as traitors and we need to lay low for a while.”

Dib could have sworn his ears perked like a dog’s. An intergalactic conspiracy? There was a story here so juicy he could almost taste it. Still, as he watched the earth’s total Irken population spill ginger ale on the couch and grind crumbs into the cushions, the only question on his mind was, “why here?”

“Need your lab,” Zim tossed off as if it should have been obvious.

“So? Why don’t you go back to your base and use your own lab?”

“Can’t.” Zim took a teal cube out of his pocket and tossed it in Dib’s direction.

Dib caught it and brought it up to his eye to inspect. “What’s this?”

“My base.”

“Your whole base is in this?” Dib strained his eyes, looking at the cube. “What’s going on? How did this even happen?”

“How far back in Irken history do you want to go?” Tak asked, popping open a bottle.

“Wait, you mean you’re actually going to tell me?”

She gave a non-committal shrug. “Eh…”

“Hold on, wait right there.” Dib zipped upstairs to his room, grabbed a notebook, pen, and recorder, then zipped back down. He grabbed a chair, hit record, and poised his pen. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

[-]

Dib scribbled furiously, trying to keep up with Tak’s slurred ramblings. Zim interjected occasionally to add something or explain an Irken concept, but it was clear exactly who the conspiracy hunter was.

“So, anyway, that’s when I realized this parasite has been controlling our entire society for generations and, you know, it’s just a real buzzkill to find out you’re basically living food.”

“I see,” Dib said, making a note to ask about this library planet later (maybe get coordinates?). “And this parasite has been masquerading as the Control Brains.”

“Not ‘masquerading’ exactly,” she explained. “They always were the Control Brains.”

“And, just to make sure I got this, the Control brains are what, again?”

Before they could answer, he heard a loud “eh-he-eh-hm.” He looked over to see Gaz standing in the kitchen doorway. When he met her eyes, she curled one finger, ominously beckoning him over. “Uh, one second, guys.” He put down his pen and followed Gaz into the kitchen.

“Make this quick, Gaz,” he said, peaking back into the living room. “These two are giving me everything.”

“Okay then,” she said, her voice displaying her irritation. “Just answer me this: why are there two destructive aliens drinking like civil war amputee patients on our couch?”

“Revealing their government’s secrets, that’s what,” he answered with unbridled glee. “Turns out, ginger gets them drunk and when they’re drunk, they have no filter. They’ve been rambling on and on about their creepy big-brother-like society for an hour now. Look at all these notes.” He shoved the notebook in Gaz’s face and flipped furiously through the pages. “As long as I keep them drunk and happy, they’ll keep talking. Which reminds me…” He took out his wallet, grabbed a bill, and handed it to Gaz. “Go to the store and buy them out of ginger ale. We can’t let them sober up.”

“Five bucks?” Gaz said, wrinkling her nose. “I assume you’re planning on reimbursing me for the grocery bill later.”

“This isn’t about money, Gaz.”

“Then dig a little deeper, Scrooge. I know your part-time at Dad’s lab pays more than this.”

“And you make plenty off of your twitch gaming streams,” Dib argued. “Come on, this is about furthering human knowledge.”

Gaz raised her eyebrow in her ‘you’ve got to be kidding’ way. “You’re offering me $5 to drop everything, go to the store, and buy out their entire supply of ginger ale without reimbursing me for the bill.”

“Uh…yes?”

She scoffed. “Get a pulse.”

Dib pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the corners of his eyes. Was she seriously arguing with him about money at a time like this? “Look, what if I give you an acknowledgement when I publish this baby? Like, say, in the forward?”

“You mean the part no one reads?”

“Uh…”

Gaz let out an exasperated huff and looked into the living room at the two Irkens. “So, they’ll really ramble on and on if you stuff them full of ginger, huh? About anything?”

“Yeah, pretty much. We managed to stay on topic so far. I mean, Zim did go on a tangent about the Game of Thrones finale, but we got back on track.”

Gaz smiled. “Did he, now? About what?”

“Something about Westeros crumbling as soon as the credits rolled. I don’t know. You watched that show, not me.”

“Hmm…” Gaz murmured, looking pointedly at Zim. Oh no, she was thinking… Worse! She was plotting!

“Gaz? What are you doing?”

She threw him a wicked smirk and sauntered into the living room. “Hey, Zim!” she called, clear as a bell. “That Game of Thrones finale sucked, right?”

“Don’t even get me started, Dib-sister!” Zim called back, slapping his hand on the couch. “Zim has never seen such a staggering drop in quality!”

Dib dropped his face into his hands. Was it too late to offer a twenty?”

[-]

“I guarantee Dorne and the Iron Islands rebelled as soon as they stepped out of the Dragon Pit.” Zim said, splashing ginger ale on the couch with every gesture. “I’ll bet they only voted ‘yes’ on Bran because this would be the easiest reign to overthrow.”

“Exactly!” Gaz said, slapping the arm of her chair. “Dany promised Yara independence two seasons ago. There’s no way she’s just going to watch him hand his sister a kingdom and not demand what’s owed to her.”

Dib twisted the notebook in his hands as he listened to them rant. They’d been at this since Gaz brought up the subject.

“And what was with them acting like Dany was in the wrong for executing Varys?” Zim added. “He tried to assassinate her!”

“As if Jon didn’t execute a child a few seasons ago for the same thing. And it was obvious that kid was coerced into it by the higher-ranking Night’s Watch men.” Gaz said. “You’ll notice Dany didn’t execute the child Varys manipulated into poisoning her. And he only thought she was ‘mad’ because she stopped listening to his shitty advice.”

“Their ‘advice’ lost her the Dornish forces, the Iron Fleet, and Highgarden’s armies,” Zim agreed.

“Plus another dragon and her best friend. And when she goes into mourning, he’s all ‘Welp, she’s clearly gone mad. Time to put her down like Old Yeller.’ Oh! And what was with Tyrion’s ‘everywhere she goes, evil men die’ speech? Like that’s a bad thing? Yeah, I know. That’s why I liked her.”

“You know wat she should have done?” Zim said. “She should have flown her three dragons to the Red Keep like she wanted to do last season. She could have taken the city with fewer casualties.”

Gaz nodded in agreement. “Maybe even no casualties if King’s Landing surrenders immediately.”

“Then she’d have all three dragons and all the armies in the Seven Kingdoms to fight the White Walkers with!” Zim added.

“Yeah, then maybe there’d be enough time to make the army of the dead live up to the hype! Nice Long Night. Lasted about six hours.”

“What is this show?” Tak asked. “I want to watch.”

“Enough!” Dib burst, jumping out of his seat. “Enough Game of Thrones! If you want to keep complaining, go on the internet and do it! Now can we please get back to you two spilling the secrets of your evil intergalactic empire!”

“There are no more secrets, human,” Tak snapped. “We’ve told all. The only other information I could find is on this.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a square, plastic information drive. “But this technology is too outdated to decode. So, unless you have access to an ancient computer…”

Dib took the square and held it up to his eyes. “This just looks like a floppy disc.”

“Really, Dib-beast?” Zim scoffed. “Your planet’s technology is antiquated, but it’s not that archaic.”

“Actually, that’s pretty outdated for us too,” Gaz said, “but our dad’s got a computer graveyard in the attic. Maybe we can get one of those to work.”

Tak regarded the disc suspiciously. “You’re serious? You think you might be able to get it to work.”

“It could be possible,” Dib answered, eyeballing the disc. It looked about the right size and shape. It may at least fit into the disc drive. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve gotten Irken and Earth technology to work together. It’s worth a shot.”

[-]

After about an hour and a few trips to the attic, they found an old monitor and hard drive they managed to turn on. As the computer booted up, they compared the Irken disc drive to a standard floppy disc. Dib was right. They seemed to match up.

“You really think this has a shot?” Tak asked again. She looked skeptical they whole time the were getting set up, but as the computer whirred to life, Dib thought he could detect a hint of hope in her voice.

“It could,” Gaz answered. “If the magnetic polarity is the same as we use on earth, the computer might be able to read the disc.”

Dib nodded along. While he was good with technology, his area of expertise was more on the engineering side. Gaz was the one with an affinity for coding.

Once the computer was ready, they popped in the drive. They all gathered around the monitor and held their breath. A buffering window popped up on the screen and they let out a collective gasp.

After a few minutes, the picture went black and green Irken text scrolled up across the screen, accompanied by, what sounded to Dib, like a series of chirps, clicks, and hisses. “Um, is it supposed to be making that-”

Tak and Zim threw a sharp hiss in his direction, then went back to staring intently at the screen. When Dib quieted and listened harder, he realized the sounds came from an organic voice and had a deliberate pattern. Holy shit, it’s reading the text! This is their language!

The voice stopped and the screen froze on another set of Irken symbols.

“Oh, my…” Zim choked out, eyes still glued to the screen. “We’ve got to write that down!”

“MiMi,” Tak commanded, “my tablet.”

“Wait, what was that?” Dib asked as he watched the two aliens scramble to scribble down the symbols on the screen. “Was that guy speaking Irken? What did they say?”

“Yes,” Zim answered. “And those are coordinates to the next place we need to go.”

“You mean, I need to go,” Tak cut in. “I’m the one who uncovered the conspiracy, remember?”

Zim scowled and stomped up to her, getting in her face. “You made this my problem when you crashed at my house, drank all my gingzor, and got my base cubified.”

“Why would I ever team up with you?” she shot back.

“I’m every bit as Irken as you are,” Zim argued. “I deserve answers as much as you.”

“Will someone please tell me what that thing said?” Dib shouted. The two stopped their bickering long enough to cast him an icy stare.

“Well,” Dib growled impatiently. If these two thought they were going to force their way into his home, spill ginger ale on his couch, tell him about an intergalactic conspiracy, and not let him in on the details, they had another thing coming.

“This doesn’t concern you, human,” Zim snapped.

“You two waltzed in here expecting me to hide you form your creepy totalitarian government and let you use my lab. Unless you want me to throw you out on your ass…”

“Fine, fine,” Tak said, waving an arm dismissively. “That voice claimed to be Krislotch. He confirmed that he left the clues that lead me to discover the truth about the Control Brains. He also claims more information is waiting on a planet at those coordinates. I must go there next if I want to solve this mystery.”

“We must go there,” Zim but in.

“This is my conspiracy, Zim,” Tak growled, turning back to him. “If there are more answered waiting on that planet, I will be the one to find them.”

“Oh yeah?” he said with a smirk. “How you gonna get there? I’m the only one with a working ship.”

“Dib’s got a ship,” Gaz chimed in. She turned to Tak. “Actually, I think it’s your ship.”

“You!” Before Dib could say anything, Tak had already jumped on the coffee table and grabbed his collar. “You have my ship?!”

“Uhh…”

“Take me to her!”

[-]

“wha-wha…WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

They group stood in the garage and stared at the collection of barely-held-together parts, also known as Tak’s ship. Dib had to admit, his last few forays into space hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing.

“It doesn’t look like this all the time,” he tried explaining. “I’ve gotten it to work. But, you know, sometimes things happen… and when they happen, I have to convince the ship to let me fix it again.”

“And why is she blue?”

“Um… I like blue?”

“Stupid human!” Tak spat, rushing up to her ship. “You have no idea what you’ve been toying with!”

“Fine,” Dib grumbled under his breath. “Only repaired it multiple times of the last six years but whatever…”

“Ship,” Tak commanded, laying a hand on the ship’s windshield. “Respond.”

“Biosignature detected,” the ship said as it began to light up. “You are Tak.”

“Yes, yes, ship! It’s me!” she cried. Dib could almost swear there were tears in her eyes.

“Hmpf, what took you so long?”

Tak looked taken aback. “I was, uh, had a lot going on, you know? Schemes and such?”

“And you never once thought to check in on your ship?”

“When I have to eject, I thought I’d lost you forever,” Tak explained, pressing both hands on the windshield. “I never wanted to leave you behind, but I’m here now. I can take you back.”

“Hey, wait a minute…” Dib protested. He started forward, but Gaz pulled him back.

“It’s her ship, dummy.”

“And how exactly did you get here?” Ship went on.

Tak hesitated. “Well, I…”

“I knew it,” Ship huffed. “You have a new ship now, don’t you?”

“It’s not like that,” Tak insisted. “Yes, I needed a new ship to get around, but I swear, it was a simple matter of transport. That ship means nothing to me. I would trade every other ship in the universe for you.”

The ship went quiet, as if thinking it over. Dib found himself oddly captivated, like when he’d accidently get sucked into his grandmother’s soap operas. He quickly shook himself out of it. This is ridiculous. She’s talking to a ship.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Ship finally said.

“I promise, Ship, I will fix you myself and, after that, I will never even look at another ship again.” She gently caressed its side and the engines purred.

“I will allow you to repair me, for now. After that, perhaps I can allow you to pilot me again, in time.”

Tak smiled and continued to pet her ship while it continued to purr. The scene was almost sweet until Zim decided to break it up.

“Well, well, well,” Zim said, a smug smile on his face, “looks like I’m the only one here with an operational ship.”

Tak only hissed in response.

“So, I guess I’ll be taking those coordinates and be on my way,” he continued, “unless someone wants to grovel for the chance to accompany me.”

Tak stomped up to Zim and unleashed a cavalcade of Irken at him. Dib wasn’t sure what she said, but if cricket/bat/snake could cuss someone out, he imagined it’d sound something like that.

“Okay,” Zim squeaked out, looking up at Tak who now towered over him. “I suppose I could let you come, but only because you asked so nicely.”

“I’m coming too,” Dib declared.

Tak and Zim both turned to him with questioning looks on their faces. “Uh, what?” Zim said.

“I’m coming. I want to see what’s on that planet, too.”

“This doesn’t concern you, human,” Tak spat.

“Excuse me? Who’s house are you two crashing at? Who’s ancient computer did you use to get those coordinates? And who’s been keeping your ship running while you’ve been got?”

“We don’t need-” Zim started, but Dib cut him off.

“Yes you do,” he shot back. “You need my lab to get your base working again. You said so yourself. And Tak, you need my garage and my tools if you’re going to fix your ship. If you want to stay here and use my equipment, to fix your stuff, you need to let me in on the conspiracy.”

The two Irkens looked at each other intently, as if holding a telepathic conversation. Dib briefly wondered if they could communicate semi-telepathically, or at least through pheromones. They did have antenna after all.

Finally, they broke their stare down and turned back to Dib. “Fine, the Dib can come,” Zim conceded.

Dib felt a jolt of excitement jump through his body. “Yeah, Gaz and I-”

“Nope,” Gaz said, turning on her heals and heading back inside.

Okay, so no Gaz. Aw well, he could at least count on her to cover for him while he’s gone. “I will get my space travel equipment and be ready to leave within the hour.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” Zim said, and he and Tak headed back inside as well. Dib went further into the garage and began preparing the things he’s need for the trip.

“You’re seriously going to let him come along?” Tak asked as they walked away.

“Eh,” Zim said with a shrug. “If the Dib-worm wants to come to a dead planet where total species-wide genocide took place, let him.”

Dib let the helmet he’d been holding clang to the floor. “Wait, what?”

60 notes · View notes

queerbutstillhere · 4 years

Note

Hey prompts lover, how about Jon gets turn into a toddler and Damian has to take care of him. Cue baby Jon letting his feeling out from in his little toddler way and Damian thinking they are just baby talk although he wants to believe them + batfam finding this situation hilarious

(Well hey ;) lol, your prompt is my command! This one ran away with me, so it's pretty long lol. So long, in fact, that I had to edit it bc Tumblr told me it was too long. Enjoy!)

"This is why i don't hang out with you, Batson!"

"Robin, look, I'm. Sorry!" Billy whined, trailing after him.

"DD!"

"Shush, Kent."

"Me hungry!"

"I understand," Damian bit out.

Then he yelped as a sharp pain came from his scalp. He shot a glare over to the toddler on his hip.

"Do not pull on my hair."

The toddler pouted, leaning in and pushing his face against Damian's neck.

"Do you think he'll be okay?"

"I don't know, Billy, you're the one with the magical powers, you figure it out."

"Damian, that's not fair."

"Not fair?! Billy, my best friend has just been turned into a two year old!!"

The teen caped crusader flinched away, looking away from Robin's deadly glare.

"Go figure out how to fix this, Batson," Damian grumbled, jumping in the batmobile which he had just summoned.

"Damian-"

Billy's protest was shut down when Damian snapped the lid of the car and zipped away. Jon was sat in the passenger seat, gripping tightly to the door and staring out the window.

"Wee!!" He exclaimed, looking back at Damian with this huge grin.

Damian almost smiled back, but instead focused on the road. He was headed to the batcave as he tore through the late night traffic, keeping an eye on Jon at all times. When he got to the cave, he hopped out, picking Jon up and balanced the Supertoddler on his hip. One think he had learned through his years of being Robin was how to handle kids. He wouldn't say he liked it, but he knew how to do it.

"Oh god, he's becoming you," a voice came from across the cave.

Damian looked up, searching for the voice and found Tim on the platform by the batcomputer. Jon pointed and made a high pitch noise that caused Damian to flinch away.

"Damian. What is that."

He looked even further up and found Bruce hanging from the rafters, sealing a hole in the wall.

"It's a toddler, father. I thought you of all people would know what a toddler was," Damian snarked back.

He pulled off his mask as he walked up the steps towards Tim. Jon whined and wiggled, chubby arms wrapped around Damian's neck.

"Where's my phone?" He asked Tim, walking over towards the table they usually left things on.

"I think you left it upstairs to charge, didn't you?"

Damian grumbled in response, grabbing Bruce's instead.

"Hey-" Tim started to protest.

"Batman!" Jon squealed, pointing as Bruce dropped down near them.

"Shh," Damian gently shushed him, bouncing him slightly to adjust his position on his hip.

"Damian?" Bruce questioned.

Damian just found the proper contact and was preparing to call it when Jon started floating out of his arms. With a sigh, he reached out, grabbing the red cape still attached to the toddler.

"Oh my God. Is that Jon?!" Tim exclaimed, eyes wide.

"Hi Tim!" Jon said in that little toddler voice of his, waving from his now upside down position.

"Kent. Come down," Damian ordered.

"Me fly!"

"I see that. Come back down here."

The toddler just stared at him.

"Jon."

When he still didn't stop floating, Damian reached out, grabbed his little legs and pulled him back down.

"What happened?" Bruce asked cautiously.

Damian sighed and began to explain how they were helping Billy and then something to do with magic happened and next thing Damian knew, Jon was a baby.

"And he still has his powers."

"Some of them, at least."

Tim was snickering, shoulders shaking, hand clamped over his mouth.

"You think this is funny?" Damian snapped, staring at him.

"I think it's hilarious!" Tim busted out laughing, which caused Jon, still floating to start giggling.

Then the toddler started falling. Damian easily caught him, pulling the toddler to his chest as a surge of fear shot through him.

"Well, you should probably call Clark."

"I was going to."

"Other then that, uh? Just keep an eye on him I guess."

Damian shot Bruce a glare. "I do know how to handle toddlers, Father."

Damian ended up changing and taking Jon upstairs after he started whining about being hungry. Alfred was in the kitchen, already informed of the situation. He handed Damian a vegan grilled cheese and had a PB and J ready for Jon.

"Alfie! Hiiiii!" Jon said eagerly, waving as he toddled into the kitchen.

"Hello, Master Kent," Alfred greeted, picking Jon up as putting him in a chair at the island.

"Me hungry!"

"Yes, and I have a fine meal prepared for you," he said, putting it and a glass of milk down in front of Jon.

The toddler grabbed the sandwich and began shoving it into his mouth. Damian watched with mild horror before beginning to eat his own sandwich. He still needed to call Clark.

"How old are you, Master Kent?" Alfred asked.

"Uhhhh," Jon frowned at him, peanut butter all over his face. "Dunno!"

"He still has all his memories and such," Damian commented. "As far as I can tell, anyway."

"Me like Dami!" Jon exclaimed, grinning at him with his peanut butter face.

"I- okay. I'm going to call your father."

Damian shoved the last bite in his mouth and then walked out, running up to his room and grabbing his phone. He called Clark and discovered the man was in Japan and simply got a "you'll have to watch him". So Damian went back downstairs to collect his toddler-bestfriend. Jon was getting tired and clung to Damian tightly, wrapping his arms around his neck, nearly choking Damian. The toddler yawned as Damian held him, chatting with his brothers, who had made their way upstairs, still in their uniforms.

"Dami," the toddler mumbled, his forehead pressed into Damian's cheek.

"Yes, Jonathan?"

"Me sleepy."

"Okay, you can go to sleep."

"You sleep with me?"

"I have work to do," Damian said, gently rubbing his back.

The batsiblings had gone quiet, watching them.

"Noooo," Jon whined, pulling away, grabbing Damian's cheeks. "You sleep with me!"

"Jon, no. I have to work."

The toddler stuck out his bottom lip and made a little sobbing noise.

"Uh oh, Damian look what you've done," Dick said, grinning.

"You-" the toddler broke off, whimpering as his eyes tearing up.

"Oh no," Damian said, just seconds before Jon started crying.

"Damian, you monster!" Tim exclaimed. Both brothers busted up laughing.

Jon, crying loudly, pushed against Damian, trying to get out of his arms.

"Jon quit!"

A loud wail met his words.

"Jonathan you're being unreasonable!"

Another loud wail. Jon shoved so hard he almost slipped out of Damian's grip.

"Damian, he's a toddler, that won't work," Dick told him with a headshake.

Damian adjusted Jon, balancing him on his hip.

"Okay! Okay! I'll go to bed with you, okay? Just stop crying! I'm sorry, okay?" Damian exclaimed, desperate to get the shrieking to stop.

Jon sobbed again, blinking at Damian through his tears, giving him the biggest puppy dog eyes ever.

"Okay?"

The toddler nodded, shoving his face into Damian's neck, hiccuping lightly. Damian sighed, looking up at his laughing brothers.

"I guess I'm going to bed."

"Night, baby bat!" Dick called as Damian carried Jon out.

Jon hiccuped all the way upstairs. Damian walked into his room, kicking the door shut behind him, flicking on a light.

"Okay, Superkid," Damian said, plopping the tiny toddler on the bed.

Compared to him, at 18, this toddler version of his best friend - normally 16 - was absolutely tiny. Like, just reached his knees. He was absolutely terrified of accidentally breaking him.

"Me no Superkid," Jon sniffled out, rubbing his snotty nose.

Damian made a disgusted nose and grabbed a Kleenex, wiping the snot. Jon just looked up at him, that bottom lip stuck out.

"Me Superboy."

"Yes you are," Damian said with a sigh, throwing away the Kleenex. He crouched in front of Jon. "We're gonna figure out how to get you changed back, okay? And hopefully before school on Monday."

Jon nodded.

"I'm gonna go brush my teeth, okay? Stay here. Play with Alfred."

The mentioned cat sauntered over, rubbing against Toddler Jon.

"Dami," Jon sniffed out.

"Yes?"

"I luv you."

Damian blinked at him, straightening.

"I. Uh. Okay."

His heart was pounding really hard. And he didn't know why. He escaped to the en suite bathroom, starting to brush his teeth. He could hear toddler Jon chattering to Alfred. Damian hastily scolded himself. He was a toddler at the moment, probably no more then three. He was just being a toddler, and toddler's didn't understand love like teenagers did. He shook his head and brushed it off.

Not that he didn't want it to be true.

After he washed his face and changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to sleep in, he walked back out, finding Jon slumped on his side, tiredly patting Alfred's head. The cat just blinked up at Damian.

"Okay, Jon. Time to go to bed," he said, ruffling the kids hair before going to turn off the overhead light.

It wasn't the first time he had shared a bed with Jon. Just usually, Jon was larger then him. He got under the covers, and toddler Jon wiggled his way up to the top of the bed, crawling under the thick blankets.

"Good night, Jon," Damian said.

He fully intended to slip away once the toddler went to sleep. Instead, Jon crawled over and flopped on top of Damian's chest, getting comfortable. Damian groaned slightly, confused.

"Me sleep here."

"Jon, that can't be comfortable."

"Me sleep here!"

"Okay."

Who knew a toddler version of Jon could be so convincing. Jon reached up, squishing Damian's cheeks again.

"Dami, I luv you," he said again, looking sincere.

"Okay," Damian breathed out, reaching up and ruffling little Jon's hair. "Go to sleep."

The toddler scowled at him but laid back down, his little arms hugging Damian's chest. Damian sighed, placing a hand on his back, holding him still while he reached over and flicked off the bedside lamp. Then he settled on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Toddler Jon loved him. But did Teen Jon?

Why were emotions so complicated?

Damian eventually drifted to sleep, an arm wrapped protectively around toddler Jon. This was a horribly weird situation, but he supposed they could figure it out in the morning.

He woke up to a sudden massive increase of weight on his chest. He groaned in pain and shoved at it.

"Quit pushing!"

Damian snapped his eyes open, finding Jonathan Kent, sixteen, mere inches from his face.

"Kent!"

"Well duh, who else?" Jon grumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

"You're back!"

"Yeah?"

Jon crossed his arms on Damian's chest, resting his chin on his forearms.

"And you're incredibly heavy," Damian said, scowling now.

"Rude!"

Jon grinned at him and Damian glared back. Then he became aware of Jon's lower half laying in between his legs, his stomach pressing on-

"Okay, get off!" Damian snapped, easily flipping his weight to one side and throwing Jon off.

Jon laughed as he was tossed onto his back.

"Aw, come on, Dames, admit it, you're glad I'm back."

Damian just grumbled under his breath. Jon grinned, reaching over and pinching his side.

"Don't be a butt."

"You need to call your father."

"Hmm. What if I'd rather talk to you first."

"Kent."

"What if I start crying? That seemed to work so well the last time."

Damian tensed. "How much do you remember?"

"Oh, quite a bit," Jon said, his voice dropping. "I remember your heart going crazy when I said I loved you."

Damian was opening his mouth to respond when the door slammed open.

"Damian! I think the spell wore- oh."

Both teens snapped their gaze over to Billy Batson, in Shazam form, staring at the two of them, laying in bed together.

"Well... i guess you already knew that," Billy said, stepping backwards.

"Good assumption, Batson," Damian said coldly, eyes rolling.

"I'm just. . . I'll go. Hey Jon."

"Hi Billy," Jon said, laughing to himself.

Billy quickly retreated.

"Have I ever told you that i like him?"

"Go back to sleep, Jon," Damian grumbled, kicking his shins.

He rolled onto his side, glaring at the wall. Jon laughed, and then suddenly pressed himself against Damian's back, an arm slipping over his waist.

"I meant it," he murmured.

"Wait, what!"

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squeeneyart · 4 years

Text

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 7

AO3

Beta read by @thesnadger who does a great job

Tim and Martin sit out the nausea.

Martin talks to himself.

“You sure you don’t want to head home for the day?” Tim asked, picking at the grass beside him. He and Martin sat with their backs pressed against the cliff railing, facing away from the steep drop. The lighthouse loomed in front of them, barely casting a shadow as morning ticked closer to noon.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Martin replied. He rested his arms on his knees, his chin buried into the fabric of his coat sleeves. “I don’t really feel like walking down the hill yet? I’ll at least wait for the others to get back.”

“Well, they should be here soon, unless the place Simon pointed us toward is yet another weird building that makes you feel like you’re falling into a big hole.” Tim squinted up at the sky and immediately seemed to regret it, leaning forward to drop his face between his knees. “Ugh, the Fairchild place was almost as bad as here. I’m surprised we survived the walk back down. If we didn’t have someone leading us out, we’d probably be swallowed up by the carpet! Sorry to say, but I think your whole town is fucked. Or any place owned by the weird old guy club, I guess.”

Martin grimaced. “I don’t get how Jon and Sasha seem so unbothered by it. If it were just me, I’d chalk it up to stress or something, but, well.”

Tim nodded in solemn understanding. “‘But, well’.’” He lifted his head and squinted in the sunlight. “It could be they’re faking it and I’m the only one willing to ‘fess up. If that’s the case, they’ve been really good at pretending their stomachs haven’t been dropping straight into the sea all weekend. But, between you and me, Jon can’t act for shit.”

Martin’s shoulders bobbed with silent laughter. “He seems very easy to read, yeah.”

“Oh yeah, I don’t think he’s ever successfully lied in his life, unless you count avoiding a subject altogether.” Tim smiled and leaned back against the railing, brushing a hand over his hair. “Glad you two are getting on, by the way. I’m sure Sasha already talked to you about it, but the turnaround really was impressive. I was concerned he’d just be pissy this whole week over some spilt tea.”

Martin buried the bottom of his face a degree further into his coat. “Please don’t remind me. Anyway, I’m sure having something weird to chase after helped. Means this place wasn’t a total waste of time for you.”

“Hey, it wasn’t gonna be a total waste. I can’t speak for him, but I for one love to make new connections.” He waggled his eyebrow, making Martin snort and turn a brighter shade of red. “Really, though, you’ve been a lot of help. If the walk home is that bad, you should just stay up where the sun actually hits for a while. None of us will mind if you hang around, and I need someone here to prove that my dizzy spells aren’t just me being ridiculous.”

Martin’s mouth sunk into a frown. “No, once they get back I’ll head home. Lunch won’t make itself.”

“What, don’t want to grab something with us nerds?” Tim asked, smiling broadly.

“N-No, I just, y’know, I bought groceries yesterday, and if I eat out too much, I’ll end up wasting some of it, and-” Martin searched for more excuses that wouldn’t bring his mother into the picture and failed.

Tim scrunched his eyebrows together in thought, then took out his phone and asked, “What’s your number?”

“What?”

“Your mobile? In case we need to reach you. And so I can send you dumb shit in my down time that I’ve already sent to Sasha.”

For a moment, Martin sat in stunned silence. “Um. Okay?” He said, his voice cracking in the most embarrassing way possible. Then, slowly, he took an old phone out of his coat pocket, technically a smart phone but just barely. They exchanged numbers, and Martin stared at the new contact before slipping the phone back into place.

“There, now you’re stuck with me. I’ll keep you updated if Sasha and Jon do in fact decide to do something stupid that gets us all disappeared. Speaking of,” Tim said, shading his eyes with a hand. “Here they come now, and Jon looks especially irritated.” They both stood up, grasping at the railing and sharing a weary look.

“Come on, guys,” Sasha yelled from the bottom of the steps. “Break time’s over.”

Back inside, the four of them sat around the table. From the looks on their faces, Jon and Sasha had been disappointed by their short venture. “So, how are you two doing?” Sasha asked. “How’s the nausea?

“Oh, just fine. We can almost get up without losing breakfast.” Tim said. “How was the place?”

Jon crossed his arms. “Unsurprisingly, Simon Fairchild sent us to an inaccessible piece of private property owned by the Lukas family. We couldn’t even get anyone to come to the door. For now, it may be a dead end.”

“I could try to get Peter to let us in?” Martin suggested with little enthusiasm.

Sasha looked at his obviously pained expression and shook her head. “No, bad idea. Simon was pretty clear on Peter not knowing we went to his home. I’d guess that extends to any of us going into this other place. If what you said happened back at the house is true, I don’t want that kind of risk. We’ll have to try it later and hope for an answer.”

Martin let out a relieved sigh and stood. “Good, good idea. I’ll be going then. I guess if you need me for… questions? Updates? Tim has my number.”

Sasha raised her eyebrows at Tim in amusement, while Jon rolled his eyes and scowled. With a lopsided smile, Tim shrugged and said, “What? The guy lives at the bottom of the world. We can’t drag him up and down that hill all day.”

Perhaps quicker than necessary, Martin excused himself and walked out of the building. The last bit of conversation he heard was Jon complaining about a lack of workplace professionalism, followed by Tim making a mocking comment that Martin couldn’t quite hear.

Once he had walked a little ways away, he relaxed. They really did balance each other out, the three of them. He could imagine Sasha breaking them apart in a little while, then getting them on task like before.

His hand brushed against the phone in his pocket, and he felt a little pang in his throat. He pushed the sensation down. Chances were, they wouldn’t need to call him, and it would be best to pay as little attention to his phone as he always had.

After the usual walk home, Martin approached his mother in front of the television. There was one of her Christian programs playing, the kind with the television preacher. “Hi, Mum.”

“You took much longer than usual,” she said stiffly. He could see her attempting to swallow and went toward the kitchen.

“Sorry, work ran long today. I’ll get lunch going.” He began to look through the fridge, considering his options.

“I’m not hungry. Just want a glass of water,” she said, her voice hoarse. Martin winced.

“One second.” He quickly filled a glass from the tap and brought it to her. “You will need to eat something to get your medication down. I’ll make something for both of us and we’ll see how you’re feeling then.”

She huffed in response, taking a sip of water and clearing her throat. Once food was ready, she did eat enough for her medication and then some, setting Martin at ease.

“It’s sunny today, if you’d like to sit out front,” he suggested after cleaning up the tray in front of her. She sniffed and otherwise stayed silent. “Okay… let me know if you change your mind. The fog even cleared out a bit-”

“I am not going outside today.”

“Okay.”

Martin left her alone and went back to the kitchen and set some chicken in the fridge to defrost. His future self would thank him later, he thought, and he went upstairs to figure out the rest of his Sunday.

The first order of business was to lay down and sleep for a while. Two busy mornings in a row and he was exhausted, the muscles in his legs finally catching up to all of the extra walking. As he lay down, he thanked his walls, bed, and windows for staying in place and gently drifted off to sleep.

Several hours later, Martin woke to find the sun had retreated back behind clouds and a familiar layer of fog. He reached for his phone on the bedside table to check the time. 4:30 pm. It was almost time to get dinner started, but before he could move to set the phone down, he saw there was text notification. Without his glasses, he had to squint and hold the phone close to his face. The brightness stung his eyes. The messages were from about fifteen minutes ago.

Tim: hey Tim: what do these weird knobs and buttons do anyway

Attached was a distorted photo, apparently of the upstairs console in the lighthouse.

“Shit,” Martin mumbled, tapping out an answer.

Martin: dont know, peter never told me. work the lighthouse i guess, make sure the big light is running. Martin: also what does all the static mean

Almost immediately, he got a response.

Tim: is that how lighthouses work? Tim: means its weird shit. weird shit hates digital

Martin: its the only lighthouse ive ever worked in, your guess is as good as mine Martin: oh good

No response came for a bit, and Martin took the pause to get out of bed. Halfway down the stairs, his phone buzzed.

Tim: update, stairs still bad Tim: arseholes who don’t get spooky vertigo club

Attached was another photo, still fuzzy, this time of Jon and Sasha walking ahead with Tim’s hand just barely in frame, clutching the rail. Jon was looking at the camera with a stern expression, his mouth open in the middle of saying something. Martin laughed quietly and continued walking.

In the time it took to prepare the chicken for baking, his phone vibrated in his pocket a few times. With his hands coated, there was no way to check until he slid the chicken into the oven twenty minutes later.

Tim: dont think anything stupid will happen tonight Tim: no one’s gotten too desperate yet but tomorrow is a new day Tim: will let you know if we end up getting arrested in the middle of the night for trespassing tho

Martin: haha, very funny

Tim: give it until tuesday

Martin’s eyebrow twitched, unsure of how seriously to respond.

Martin: please dont get me fired?

Tim: no promises! ;)

It felt like a lighthearted enough response to put Martin at ease. Tim liked joking. Martin knew that by now. If Tim was saying it, then it was a joke. Plus, it was clear Sasha and Jon were very by-the-books. If Jon would lecture Tim about texting, he certainly wasn’t the type to do anything illegal.

Still, the number of times Tim had joked about it made Martin irrationally nervous. That and Simon being cryptic and threatening. And the buildings trying to make him sick. And Jon-

Sliding his phone into his back pocket, Martin distracted himself with preparing the rest of their dinner. It wasn’t the time to spiral. He had chicken in the oven and vegetables to steam.

Dinner was made and eaten within the hour, and Martin’s phone stayed silent for the duration. When his mother asked to go outside after dinner, he did his best not to be outwardly irritated at her change of mind and did as she requested, covering his face to protect himself against the night wind.

It wasn’t until later when he had just about settled down for bed that Martin checked his phone, under the pretense that he was setting his alarm for the morning. There were no unread messages, so he set his phone down onto the side table to charge.

The fog rolled outside his window, illuminated by the weak light of the front porch. When sleep eventually took him, he dreamed of nothing.

When 6 am came, Martin found himself in an empty lighthouse. Under his arm was the expected box of documents he was to work with for the week, which he set on his desk. He then dragged his chair back over from the folding table, which was still littered with loose papers and three used mugs.

“Right, right. Library day. They could’ve at least remembered to clean up a bit.” Martin brought the dirty dishware to the kitchen and placed them in the sink to soak, then looked around for something clean to use for himself. He managed to find a kitschy one he’d always liked, with a tiny, smiling whale on the side.

“Looks like it’s just you and me.”

His voice echoed through the building, the final ‘me’ stretching on much too long.

Martin glared out into the main room. “Yeah, yeah, I’m alone, laugh it up.”

Again, the last ‘up’ lingered and drifted up the stairs, and he wanted to slap himself for walking right into that one. There was no point in talking back to a possibly haunted building.

He settled on silently making himself some tea, then dove into the week’s work. It was mind-numbing, as expected, but after a while it grew to be calming and familiar. The weird ache in his chest gave way to distraction, and hours ticked by without interruption. Martin began to feel normal, or his version of normal before things started to be poked and prodded. Before he knew it, he had eaten lunch and was on his way to the second half of his shift.

“...up.”

Martin jumped, almost knocking over his tea. That had been his voice. Just a single noise that hung in the air with no echo to be heard. No, he thought, no, no, no, he was not going to take any bait in this place. He righted himself in his chair and reached for the pen he had dropped.

“Me. Up.” Even with his original tone resting in those syllables, the new sense of urgency was unmistakable.

Against every part of his brain screaming at him, he took a step toward the stairs. Before he could go any further the front door swung open.

“Hey, Martin, we’re back,” Sasha said, carrying a file folder. “We- woah, are you okay?”

Martin stopped and stared at her, his jaw clenched to the point of pain. “Um. Define okay.”

The three researchers stopped and shared a concerned look. Sasha walked over to set her things on the table. “Okay, okay, clearly something happened.”

“What’s going on?” Jon asked, looking around warily.

Before Martin could open his mouth, his voice came from above. “Up.”

Everyone froze, holding their breath for a moment. Jon was first to break the silence, his voice filled with disdain. “Good. It can record us now.”

“Up. Now.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Tim gripped Jon’s shoulder and gestured insistently to the front door. They all vacated the building and stopped on the front steps, finally letting out a collective breath.

“Have you all, um, dealt with ghosts? Directly?” Martin sat on the bottom step, rubbing his hands over each other. “Ones that take the last word you said?”

“We don’t know if it’s a ghost, but no, not personally,” Jon replied, sitting a few steps up and typing on his laptop. “Can’t say I really believe in them, either.”

Tim snorted. “Yeah, sure, definitely not a ghost in there.”

“I’m inclined to suspect something more concrete. Somehow, the lighthouse was trapping the sound of our voices. According to Martin it only used the last words he uttered, and the same happened with me. With only a few things to work with, it wouldn’t be hard to-”

“To accidentally order us up the creepy staircase of the creepy lighthouse.” Tim stood, hands in his pockets.

“If it’s using ‘me’, ‘up’, and ‘now’, what else could it say? Otherwise, there was just ‘back’ and okay’ as far as I can tell.”

They continued to go back and forth, Jon being much more stubborn about the whole thing than Martin would’ve expected from a paranormal researcher. Maybe ghosts were an especially contended subject? It didn’t seem like it from Tim and Sasha’s reactions, but Martin was out of his depth. People turning into seals was a far cry from specters and mind-bending architecture.

Still, it being a ghost sounded right. There were meaning and intent behind the words repeated back to him, he was certain of it. If that was the case, maybe there was someone or something in this place trying to talk to him. That’s what ghosts did, right? Reach out to the living?

“Then we’ll just have Martin stay outside for a bit,” Jon said, closing his laptop decisively.

Martin found himself back in the conversation. “What?”

“We’re going to try the place Simon pointed us toward again. Hopefully, we’ll be let in this time and get some answers. The library didn’t have much in terms of useful information, I’m afraid.”

Sputtering, Martin replied, “So, what, I’m just going to wait out here? I still have work to do!”

Jon stared at him and sighed. “Bring it outside then. It shouldn’t rain today, and we don’t want to risk anything now that we know something is… active. You’re sure nothing like this has ever happened?”

“No, this is... new.”

“Then the safest thing is to avoid whatever is going on. It’s for your own well-being, and since we’re probably the cause of it, I don’t want to be in the business of putting people in danger.” Jon said. Martin was at a loss for arguments and nodded. “Good. If our luck hasn’t changed, we’ll be back soon. Otherwise, I suppose Tim will text you the good news.” There was a slight, acidic turn to Jon’s voice near the end that Martin couldn’t place.

Martin pushed himself onto his feet. “Okay… good luck? I guess? I’ll go get my work, then.”

Apparently satisfied, Jon placed his laptop into its case and motioned for the other two to follow him. As they left, Tim shot Martin a worried thumbs up.

When Martin walked back inside, he stopped halfway to the desk, eyes glued to the staircase. He had told Jon he would get his things and go outside.

“Hello?” Martin waited and got no response. “If you’re a ghost, now’s the time to say so.” Still nothing. He let out a noise of frustration. “Say something? Please?”

“Hello? Up. Please?”

Taking a glance back at his desk, Martin bit his tongue and internally berated himself. No use giving the place a name to call him. He really was an idiot, he thought, creeping up the staircase as if the ghost might hear his footfalls. Why had he taught it to be polite?

#tma #the magnus archives #breathe in the salt #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #sasha james #timothy stoker #peter lukas #jonmartin #au fanfic #selkie au #fanfic

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