#once again i am saying...queliot au

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

for the ask! 19, 28 (help i'm alive 'verse & queliot), and 30 :D

19. Who is the easiest/hardest character for you to write about? Why?

easiest is quentin… still… i relate to him a lot and have an extremely detailed mental map of what i think his deal is and what i’m interested in about him, and also we are demographically similar enough as tri state nerds turned ivy league dropouts (like even the fact that julia’s family seems to be from NYC and quentin’s from new jersey is… SO relevant to my adolescence, lmao) that i feel very confident populating his world with easy-to-grab cultural referents, especially since the magicians writing room very consistently leaned towards music choices & touchstones its characters were just a little bit too young for, so every time i do the same thing as someone a little older than quentin it feels justified by canon In My Heart, lmao. (alice and quentin were like 12 when garden state came out… but that didn’t stop the magicians writers and it won’t stop me!!!!) there’s something about him where even though the show is so messy about what it does with him, somehow i look at every quentin moment ever and i’m like “this makes perfect and complete sense to me.” i also find his voice very appealingly flexible, such that i think you can do a lot of different things with it and still feel very quentin.

of the characters i’ve written for or about substantively, i think i find margo the most challenging, or at least the most intimidating. she’s a character who is so elevated by her performance that translating her into prose without summer to do the heavy lifting is already kind of scary, and she’s like, very close to being kind of a stock glamazon HBIC (do the kids still say that? lmao) quip machine, so i’m always afraid of making her too #fabulous. but then also, she’s really fucking funny and fun, in ways that are very different from my natural sense of humor, and i’m afraid both of making her not funny enough and of trying to be funny and failing.

i also love writing eliot but sometimes find him intimidating for similar reasons. i think eliot is probably the character who winds up the most different when i write him from how he is on the screen, just because, again, hale is doing so much fucking work at all times (one thing i find myself compulsively writing in magicians fics is lines where quentin thinks about how eliot is somehow always two apparently opposite things at once, because like, he is!!!), that writing him vividly always feels like it requires a level of stylization in both narration or dialogue that is somewhat beyond the actual text of the screen. i don’t think of this as wrong or out of character, partly bc who cares but also because fic is a kind of adaptation and it’s like the thing where the language of a play often feels stagy if not translated somewhat for film but in reverse - you literally need to do different things in different media to get comparable effects. but it is something i think about.

28. In [x fic], what is a happy, post-fic headcanon you have about [pairing]?

ahh so i’ve kept this tight for reasons of writerly superstition but i now feel confident enough about me actually doing it eventually that i can go ahead and say i am actually planning a little epilogue for the series, so i kind of don’t want to say too much here because most of my extant thoughts about that version of quentin and eliot in the future will show up there!! one thing that i think will get gestured towards in that story but not actually transpire is that they eventually wind up hitting encanto as a couple and having an extremely memorable time. also this will come up in the fic but it makes me laugh whenever i think about it: quentin and eliot do not have a safe word, but quentin and margo do.

30. Tell us an idea for a longfic you want to write in the future.

so the divorced quentin AU. (i’ve brought this up before, but what am i going to do, babble about the impossible to structure or plot underworld breakout fic? talk about fics i feel realistically will probably happen? lmao.) recently i was talking about how i find myself really compelled by eliot and quentin where we leave them at the end of season four and where they might wind up in the aftermath. you can to some degree see this in the three post-canon stories i’ve written, which to some degree are all inflected by this: the show gives eliot a very beautiful and moving and clear step-by-step arc that lands him somewhere so lovely and earned that even the fact of quentin’s death can’t undo for me what they built up for him, while the show does like the sickest and most fucked up hateful insane shit to quentin imaginable and pretends it’s a happy ending. this has driven me insane but also is why i feel compelled to fix quentin over and over and don’t have that same compulsion for eliot, such that in quentin POV fics eliot tends to have his shit much more together, and in eliot POV fics i just treat eliot’s problems with a lighter touch than i do quentin’s. it’s also, i’m now realizing, why i don’t think i would ever write a true season one AU (despite loving several of them - what i enjoy as a reader is MUCH broader than what compels or intrigues me as a writer), and like, the one time i did kind of write one, i used time loop magic to make it so that we still had the dynamic of Quentin The Most Fucked Up Boy In All The Land and Eliot, Who’s Actually Kinda Doing Okay.

so. like. anyway. this is much of the heart of the divorced quentin AU: how can i set up this fascinating situation that the show lays the groundwork for but never explores, minus the magic and also the insanely complicated baggage of the show? and the answer is, what if quentin is divorced? what if quentin, young and desperately looking for One Weird Trick that would make him feel okay, met alice in a core class during their first year of college, and what if they fell in love with - we all know i am a qualice truther! - the particular brand of passion and insanity only achievable by two very young people who have no idea how insane and traumatized they are and have never had grown-up feelings about anyone before? what if senior year quentin proposed, because he had never been as sure about anything as he was about being in love with alice, and alice said yes, because, well, who wouldn’t! what if they got married the summer after graduation, and it was the happiest day of quentin’s life, and when a few months later he got accepted to the MFA program of his dreams, he felt like he had done it - he had found his happy ending. he had learned the right lessons, and won the right to live his dreams. he had love and a future; he had everything he’d ever wanted. and what if like two months later alice came home and said, “i can’t move fucking iowa!”? and quentin begged and pleaded and offered to change his plans and promised to give her anything she wanted but alice had by this point realized what she wanted was not to be married at 23 to the first guy who was nice to her after her brother committed suicide with no idea of who she really was or what she wanted or what she could do on her own. and the divorce went through before quentin’s 24th birthday.

like don’t you think that would just kill our boy? i think it would. i think it’s a fun real-world analogue to this concept of like, feeling secure because you’ve played the song right, you’re in the right story, you’ve been Chosen, your life has the narrative arc you’ve always wanted, and then the floor falls from underneath you and you have to start from scratch only worse because now you also feel like the biggest idiot in the entire world, which is like kind of how several beats of quentin’s storyline in the show play for me with different increasingly depressing emotional valences (the volunteer tomato reveal; the turning magic off/quest thing; the blackspire/monster turn) and also one way i think it’s interesting to read his death and post-canonical resurrection. when i think of season 4 quentin the phrase that comes to mind is “dead inside,” and i think that being divorced before he’s old enough to rent a car is the kind of non-magical thing that could get him there. your college girlfriend leaves you, you contemplate ending things, you check yourself into midtown mental health, you realize that the way it works is you grow up, you sell the comic book collection - and this time there are no helpful interventions dragging you through a hedge bush to chance at a new life that promises to replace the stains of your failures with something shiny and you. this time there’s just the realization that this is what adulthood is. you close the door on your dreams (MFA? what, like he thought he was going to be, like, some kind of, some kind of novelist? some kind of artist? he was going to be a creative writer? idiot.), you put your feelings in a box, you train yourself out of hope and desire, and you figure that since this is more or less what it takes to survive being yourself, you must have solved the puzzle.

and then it’s ten years later and you meet eliot waugh: a few years distant now from the nightmarish existence of his own twenties, california sober and solid in his hard-won peace with himself, not that you have any way of knowing or any reason to suspect any of that at first. you just know that there’s something about being around him, something you didn’t think you could still feel - something you’d more or less sworn off, to be honest, and you have no plans to take that back, but, well, dinner can’t hurt. staying the night can’t hurt. saying yes can’t hurt, this one time, and this other time, and this other time…

i mean. this is simply an extremely sexy concept to me. who knows if i will ever write it or if it will just forever be my favorite bedtime story to meditate on. i do have other notions about it (a favorite is that the story opens with quentin getting out of emily greenstreet’s bed, because i think more fic should incorporate quentin’s depressing sexual escapades) but i am not really a writer of Romance in terms of stories where the romance is like the Thing that’s driving the plot, so it’s been hard for me to start sketching out like, the part of the story where they fall in love, if it’s not happening as the thematically connected backdrop to some other central concern. but i am very enamored of it!!!

#askbox #writing tag

[chaptersonetoinfinity]

NaNoWriMo 2020 Goals

First off, I want to say happy November to every one of you. 2020′s been a tough bitch, but we’re tougher, and we’re doing our best. And! Happy writing-month to all my writer friends, NaNo participant or not!

Backstory: in November of 2017, I started my first ever NaNoWriMo challenge with no idea of how far I’d make it through. I won that, and it felt good. 

Fast forward to the hellish year that is 2020, and I have a three-year streak that I want to turn into a four-year one. I worried I would not have anything to work on, since I posted a massive Fargo fanfic in September, but since then, my brain has come up with new ideas, so this is me taking another crack at the NaNo thing. 

Tags: #sas does nanowrimo again: take four, #nanowrimo 2020

The plan for 2020: 

I have two fanfic ideas at the moment, and I plan to do a bit of work on both. Ideally I would finish my Coffee Shop AU (working title: A Series of Flirtations at the Rolling Scones Cafe) by the end of the month, and start on my other work, currently referred to as the Unnamed Fic. 

To summarize said unnamed fic, it is a post-season 5 fix-it fic for The Magicians in which I will attempt to: 1) Bring Quentin back. 2) Help Queliot get their shit together and get together. 3) Build up a Kalice slow-burn. 4) Break hearts along the way (and patch them up again with a big happy ending).

Once again, I will not do NaNoWriMo in a conventional “begin a novel and write 50k words” way because you can’t tell me what to do. As always, I aim to write 50k words within the month of November. 

The only difference is that, instead of focusing on purely drafting, I will use some of those words to do outlines and notes for my Unnamed Fic. The story will be massive, per my usual fashion, so it’s imperative that I plan for it. The words I put toward my outline and notes are still original words that I wrote in November for my writing project(s), so they count, technically. This will be a great way for me to push myself into having a more concrete idea of what the fuck I’m doing by the end of the month, writing-wise.

I will also state, for the record, that I did manage to write 50k words in November of 2019, too. I was so stressed on getting my MHHE fic done that I had no time to post my daily progress here on tumblr. And, well, I really miss posting about my daily progress! But I did make it past the 50k mark within the month, and I validated my draft on the official NaNo website, so it’s in my records and I have a shiny badge and certificate to show for it and everything.

Disclaimer: if you don’t hear from me when December starts, I am probably fine, just momentarily deceased. Send me virtual chocolates if you wish.

#sas does nanowrimo: take four #nanowrimo 2020

[themagiciansreccenter]

Five @ Five @thursdayeuclid

As a part of our author spotlight, we’ve asked each writer to highlight 5 fics and tell us a little about their experience writing (or reading) them.

Modified Aspect Ratio by @sabrinachill

Quentin flinches when party hats suddenly appear on all three of their heads - the pointy, cardboard kind, with elastic straps that bite into the soft underside of their chins. Crepe paper streamers float in the air and balloons drop from where a ceiling should be, drifting down to scatter across the white expanse that serves as a floor. Tiny multicolored fireworks explode into shapes like smiley-faces and stars, and a three-tiered cake coated in yellow and red icing pops into existence in a puff of flour, hovering to the monster’s right.

But the biggest decoration - and weirdest, by far - is the enormous blue neon sign with the words “Welcome to Hollywood!” strobing insistently against the white blankness.

The monster is now wearing a wizard costume, for some unknown reason, and bouncing up and down while clapping its hands and performing a horribly off-key rendition of “Party in the USA.”

“This is officially the worst party I’ve ever attended, including the one where we murdered a couple of gods,” Eliot mutters.

Quentin’s answering sigh is epic and professional-grade, containing all the exasperated resignation in the galaxy. “Why is it that everything that happens to us is always equal parts absurd and terrifying? I mean, I could accept regular old fear and tragedy, sure, whatever, everybody gets those. But it’s like the universe gets off on dicking us around.”

He wants to slump, all dramatic and defeated, but he’s still pinned in place by the monster’s powerful will, like a butterfly in a display case.

This has to be my favorite Queliot AU. It's patently ridiculous but just believable enough to really touch your heart. Which, honestly, is most of the show too. I laughed and cried reading this. It's amazing and unpredictable and goes places I would never have imagined.

to be unbroken or be brave again by @milominderbindered

After the fourth time it happens, Josh decides to go for it, and as they’re bathing in the sweaty afterglow, he asks Margo if she wants to go on a date.

Margo looks at him, up and down, and says, “No offence, Hoberman, but no.”

“Oh.”  Josh’s stomach sinks a bit.  He pulls up his pants and takes a joint out of his pocket.  “Okay, that’s chill too. Wanna smoke?”

“Oh, don’t look all sorry for yourself,” Margo says, rolling her eyes as she picks herself up from the bathroom floor and inspects her hair in the mirror.  “It’s nothing personal. You’re nice, the sex is good, whatever. But, listen. Eliot is my best friend, and he’s going through this incredibly shitty time right now.  Specifically to do with love.  It’s been a couple months since that Mike shit went down, but he’s still seriously messed up, and he’s my first priority, capiche?  I’m not gonna start dating someone and just leave him by himself half the time, or shove a bunch of lovey-dovey crap in his face.  No way. I’m not gonna date anyone until Eliot’s dating again, too.”

“Right,” says Josh, slowly, as he lights his joint and thinks about it.  “Not until he’s dating someone too. Got it.”

He thinks about the party raging downstairs, and about what he knows about Eliot.  Eliot’s had no problem hooking with guys recently, everyone knows that, but he’s not kept anyone around for more than a night.  He’s heard Margo calling it Eliot’s attachment freak-outs when he drops the guys as soon as they suggest sucking his dick more than once , which makes sense.  Except. Well, there’s that one first year, with the floppy hair and the Lord of the Rings t-shirt.  Eliot and the first year with the weird name haven’t hooked up, according to Josh’s well-informed rumour mill, but he certainly seems to be the only person other than Margo who Eliot’s remotely interested in spending time with when he’s not drunk.

There aren’t a lot of things in life Josh Hoberman has an excess of.  But he’s not hard up for money. He’s got a trust fund and a drug hustle.  And he’d spotted Eliot’s first year at the school noticeboard taking the number for a three-headed-dog walking ad, the other day.

So, just like that.  The threads tangle together.

So this is a 10 Things I Hate About You AU (which was itself a reimagining of Taming of the Shrew), and I'm living for it, just right off the bat. I love Hoberman wanting Margo so badly he goes to all this trouble. I love Quentin being morally compromised but just wanting to spend all his time with Eliot... I love it. This story deserved more attention. It made me laugh and 'aww' and have feelings, plus it's on the shorter side so you have no excuse not to read it.

we can kiss like real people do by VeryImportantDemon

“No offense,” Quentin began, squinting at the stranger, “but I don’t know you, um… Janet.”

“None taken,” the man said. “And my name’s not Janet, it’s Eliot. None of the names on these things are right, we just grab a nametag.”

“Oh,” Quentin said. He supposed that made sense. “But I still don’t know you.”

Eliot shrugged again, taking a sip of his coffee and licking his lips afterwards. Q tried to pretend like he wasn’t staring, but he and Eliot both knew that he was. “In that case, it can’t hurt to tell me, then,” he added.

“Why are you even here?” Quentin asked, stalling for time. Maybe the ridiculously attractive barista was on break and if Quentin talked long enough, that break would be up and he wouldn’t have to confess his embarrassing predicament.

“You’re sad and cute and I was bored,” Eliot said. “Now, spill.”

He was not to be deterred so Quentin didn’t have very long to dwell on the fact that he’d just been called cute. “I, um… I kind of lied to my dad,” he said.

“Ooo,” Eliot said, leaning forward. “Exciting. About what?”

“It’s not that exciting,” Quentin said. “I just… He’s worried I’m lonely and he keeps asking if I’ve met someone. I just told him I had a boyfriend once to get him to stop asking and now he wants to see a picture of us.”

“Mmhm,” Eliot said. “I think I’m following. Why didn’t you get that snack that was here earlier to take a pic with you?”

“I can’t,” Quentin said, wondering how his life had gotten to the point that he was having an impromptu therapy session with a barista. “That’s Penny. He’s my… Sort of friend? And he’s kind of an asshole.”

“Pity,” Eliot said. “This your phone?” he added, gesturing to the phone on the table.

“Yeah,” Quentin said. Before he said anything further, Eliot scooped it up, unlocked it with Quentin’s face, and then set about doing something Quentin couldn’t see. “Hey!” he protested. “That’s my phone!”

“I know,” Eliot said. He rose from his chair, crouched down beside Quentin, and flashed a mesmerizing smile. Quentin was sure he looked a little startled and confused in the selfie because he really was confused. Eliot moved fast. He tapped on Quentin’s phone for a few more seconds as he crossed the table and sat down in the chair he had previously occupied before tapping a few more times and sliding the phone back to Quentin. “There,” he said. “Problem solved.”

I am a complete sucker for fake dating, and this story has a delightful array of truly ridiculous fake dating tropes. Also, it has transgender Penny dating Margo, and as a trans man, I can only aspire to such absolute game. Well done, trans Penny. Godspeed you, good man. There's a scene where I was freaking out and very upset and the author had to reassure me in comments it would be okay, so I kept reading, and everything was lovely in the end.

The Honor of Your Presence by Page161of180

One of the first years-- Elliott (oh no, that is too confusing, even in his own internal monologue), ah, Todd doesn’t remember her name, not because he doesn’t care, but because there are two Emilies and an Emilia in the new class and he hasn’t quite sorted them out yet. Maybe he should ask them about their middle names?-- makes it halfway down the stairs, before coming to a dead stop at the sight of the PKC’s friendly neighborhood post-grad locked in a silent stare-off with a six-foot-something R-rated Disney prince in head-to-toe-- Todd’s pretty sure it’s brocade? It’s very shiny and kind of between mint and seafoam. Definitely a nice color, against pale skin and dark hair. Which Todd knows from dressing himself , not because he spends that much of his time thinking about-- Not that there’s anything wrong with--

Ha. Ha ha. What? Not the point.

Todd shakes his head frantically at Emily, Emily, or Emilia, and she gets the message, turning back up the stairs and retreating to the safety of her room. Todd wishes he could go with her. Not, like, with her , specifically; he’s more into Emily (other Emily? Or maybe she’s Emilia?), honestly. But, you know, away . Would be good. 

Neither Eliot nor Quentin seem to notice she was ever there.

Eliot has been staring at Quentin for one minute and forty-five seconds, Todd’s face going more ashen with each moment that slips away, when the former (still?) king finally says, “I’m sorry. What ?”

And if it were Todd facing down Eliot like that (not that it would be; why would he be dating Eliot? Crazy.), he would have basically just, become one with the carpet, because that only sounds like a question. It is very clearly, obviously a trap. But Quentin-- man . Quentin has always been, just, super brave. Way braver than you would probably expect from someone who’s all, sort of, pocket-sized and, um, no judgment but, not really all that good? At magic? Like, not bad-- definitely not bad! Just. Kind of normal and-- soft? If that makes sense? He just sort of always looks like he needs a hug. Which is maybe why Eliot basically always has at least one arm wrapped around him.

Not now, though. Now, Eliot has both arms down at his sides, hands dangerously still, while Quentin crosses his own over his chest and sets his jaw.

This is just one of the greatest fics I've ever read in any fandom, for any pairing, and it's hilarious and feelsy and I had to keep pausing when I was reading it just to sit with my emotions for a minute. I recommend it to absolutely anyone who likes Queliot at all.

Ask Me, I Won't Say No by @veganshailseitan

None of them linger too long in their booth after they collect the gift certificate that will almost cover their drinks for next week-

Wednesday Night Trivia Rule 2: Only Penny and Alice are allowed to handle the gift certificates because they are the only ones who won’t lose them.

-exchanging hugs and kisses on cheeks. He’s walking out of the bar while texting —a grave mistake he should have learned from by now, but he just has to let the sitter know he’s going to be late real quick— when he suddenly smacks into something solid, sending his phone clattering to the floor.

Something solid which oh, fuck happens to be a person.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” the stranger says, despite the fact that Quentin should clearly be taking the blame here. 

He’s ducking to pick up his hopefully-not-shattered phone before he can even spare a glance at the person, “You’re fine, I wasn’t paying attention to-” he loses the sentence as he stands back up, looking up to a face he’s only seen from across the room “-you?”

His brief interaction with the enemy-

”I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Eliot. Waugh.”

“Um, yeah, I’ve seen you here before, hi. Quentin Coldwater.”

“Quentin Coldwater?” -sticks in Quentin’s mind for the next week. He’s excited for trivia. More excited than the usual eagerness for his night out of the house with grown-ups, and nervous for the first time since he could remember. Which is so dumb and shows Quentin how painfully out of practice he is at interacting with other human beings.

He and the guy —Eliot— had barely exchanged two sentences and he’s pretty sure one of them had just been Eliot making fun of his name. But then again, his type has always been the ones that pulled his pigtails on the playground —which, yeah super healthy there Quentin, way to go— except for Arielle.

And there it was: the surefire way to kill whatever ill-advised excitement he’d been holding onto for the night.

He’s early this week, for reasons he’s already overthinking, so he goes ahead and grabs their usual table. It’s his week to pick-

Wednesday Night Trivia Rule 1: The person in charge of choosing the team name will rotate on a weekly basis in alphabetical order. That week’s decider can only be overruled by a unanimous vote from the rest of the team (per the March 2018 addendum).

-so he lets the group chat know he’s there, checks them in with the Quizmaster as To Be Perfectly Queer, (because he’s at least self-aware at this point in his life) and heads to the bar, trying to focus on whether or not he wants to try the new local craft brew they were pushing this month-

And immediately runs into Eliot.

Thankfully not literally this time.

“Well, hello, Quentin.” Eliot looks as surprised to run into him as Q is, which is stupid on both their parts.

“Uh, Eliot. Hello. How are you?” just talk like a normal human, Quentin, Jesus.

Eliot smiles, sultry and so over the top that Quentin almost laughs, “Fraternizing with the enemy, are we? I’m sworn to hold our knowledge in secrecy, so don’t you dare try to seduce it out of me.”

Quentin does laugh at that, somehow put at ease by Eliot’s carefree flirtation, “I’ll try to restrain my charms. Scout’s honor.”

I actually -just- got around to reading this one and I liked it so much it made me squee out loud on a couple of occasions. It's hot, it's kidfic, it's sweet, and there's feelings and fluff and smut. Basically a ridiculous AU where Eliot and Quentin are on opposing pub trivia teams. However, that premise accounts for only a fraction of this story's considerable charms. I didn't expect to love it like I did--I did, in fact, expect to love it in a totally different way--and then it hooked me and dragged me panting and squirming through a smorgasbord of emotion. 

#the magicians rec center #five @ five #author spotlight #author spotlight: thursdayeuclid

[themagicianshea]

From now until November, we’ll be spotlighting some of our MHHE registered authors. Want to make art for them? Register here! Artists who register before July 6th get early access to claims.

MHHE Author Spotlight: Page161of180

What piece of work best represents your writing style, and how would you briefly describe it?

I think that my most representative piece is one called "You're a Story (I Can Follow)". It's a take on the Orpheus and Eurydice myth, that involves Eliot rescuing Quentin from the Underworld after the events of season four-- which, *heavy sigh*, I wrote in the middle of season four, before I realized how badly I would eventually a crave a story that gets Quentin back. 

I think it speaks clearly to the things I like to do as a writer: the plot is there but not overly complex, the focus is on the characters (specifically Eliot and Quentin) and how they understand themselves and each other and who they are to each other, there are just an absolutely gratuitous number of flashbacks and memories and little moments that show the truth of any relationship (in my view), it's deep in the feels but ends joyfully, and it takes as both thesis statement and rallying cry that the beating heart of love is knowing someone really damn well and taking care of them as best you can, even if you are a full disaster every time you try to express it. 

One of my favorite bits, which takes place near the start of the story, when Eliot is trying to convince himself that Quentin is actually following him out of the Underworld, follows below. If you want to know how I see Eliot in his relationship to Quentin (that is: desperately romantic and desperately dysfunctional about it), this is all you really need to read:

He cleared his throat once. It would have been almost comically affected, except for the fact that he actually did need to clear the choking lump that had formed if he was going to get a word out. “The thought occurs,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately casual, “that if we’re going to make it up however many stairs are in the Underworld Branch without me losing what’s left of my mind, the whole ‘ascending in silence’ thing isn’t going to cut it. I know there’s not much you can do about that at the moment--”

He grabbed the banister to cover the tremor in his hand, “--so you’ll just have to suffer through my sparkling conversation. Fortunately, I’ve cultivated a real gift for speaking to imaginary versions of you recently. And on the off chance you’ve bailed on the whole enterprise already, we’ll just-- chalk this up to the stage of the grieving process where I go full season 5 - season 6 hiatus Spike.”

Eliot actually could feel Q, then, but he knew it wasn’t coming from behind him, but inside him, the shard of Q that was a part of him, always, even all the months Eliot had repressed him. The part that was always watching Eliot with disappointed (but unsurprised) eyes as Eliot pretended every little thing about Q didn’t make him want to carve a shelter out of his body for this reckless little stormcloud of a man, with his awful clothes and embarrassing earnestness and the eyelashes that Eliot honest-to-God couldn’t not kiss every. Single. Time. he’d watched them flutter while Q flew apart with Eliot’s name in his mouth.

“Sorry,” Eliot said quietly, letting out a sigh. “I told myself that I was going to be better--” braver “--if I ever . . . saw you. Again. Ever so slightly less full of my own bullshit. But this is--”

Nothing like he thought it would be , for starters. In his relentless planning for what he’d do when he was free, he’d imagined what he’d say if Q was happy, if Q was furious, if Q had already fucked off and married Alice and they had 2.5 magical prodigies and Q hadn’t even thought of Eliot in thirteen years of however the fuck much time had passed. But never had he considered coming back to find Q-- gone . It hardly would have been conducive to maintaining his sanity. Nor had he considered what it would be like to find Q but to have lost the words . To be too chickenshit to say them, sure. To fumble them, abso-fucking-lutely. But to have mortgaged them away?

“-- it’s hard, Q,” he finally settled on. “It’s just-- really hard.”

He could imagine the Q behind him, and the Q inside him, both furrowing their brows.

“Oh stop it,” he shushed, in the familiar way born of having the time to learn every one of a person’s textbook moves. “You know you’re always worth it. To me.”

And: bonus answer! While I think "You're a Story" is probably my most representative work overall, it is a bit mournful in tone until the ending, so perhaps not the best representative of what my MHHE work will be like! For that, I'd recommend, "The Honor of Your Presence," which is the fully indulgent, outsider-POV, Queliot wedding piece that my heart needed: . A snippet (and strong contender for my absolute favorite piece of dialogue that I've written) follows below:

“Fine,” King Quentin says. “Forget the whole ‘obey’ thing. What about just love and honor ? That’s-- unobjectionable, right?”

King Eliot doesn’t answer immediately, and because he is wearing one of his looser tunics today, without the high-collared jackets he prefers, Rafe can see that the pulse in his throat begins to pound at a pace not unlike the palace’s fleet of messenger bunnies.

“Seriously,” King Quentin sighs.

“It’s not that it’s objectionable , per se,” King Eliot says, his voice a note higher than normal. Rafe might say it was verging on the hysterical, were that a word that could be fairly applied to a king. “Isn’t it just-- a bit gauche to come out and say it? What happened to preserving the mystery?”

What piece of work are you most proud of and why?

While I'm embarrassingly attached to everything I've written in this fandom (because I'm embarrassingly attached to the characters themselves), I think my personal proudest moment is a piece called "A Little Disguised, or a Little Mistaken". On one level, this is all about Eliot and Quentin's memory-wipe personas Nigel and Brian meeting and falling in love like the nonsensical soulmates that they are. But on another level, it's also about the parts of Eliot and Quentin that are immutable and come through no matter what, and the way that they keep making the same mistakes with each other (and getting the same things right) across their various timelines and identities. It's also, in large measure, about Jane Austen, for reasons. If you want to know what me writing a no-magic, modern AU romcom would look like (cough cough, MHHE!, cough), the first three-quarters of this are a pretty good indication.

“What can I make you tonight? And keep in mind-- we’re celebrating.”

That was right, Nigel’s text had said he had good news. Well, at least one of them did.

“Um. Something, like, fruity?”

Nigel smirked and it made Brian want to simultaneously slide to the floor and also reach over and pull Nigel in by the collar, but he did neither.

“Okayyy,” Nigel said. “Do I get anything more to go on?”

Brian shrugged one shoulder. “Surprise me.”

Nigel’s hands, always deft and sure, fumbled the glass for a moment, but he recovered it. “Why don’t you tell me what you don’t like,” he said once he had.

Nothing you’re offering , Brian wanted to say. But instead he cleared his throat and said, “Uh. Peaches, I guess? I don’t like them.”

Nigel nodded. “What don’t you like about them?”

They hurt to eat , Brian thought. “Too sweet, I guess,” he said instead.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Nigel said, already starting to gather ingredients.

“You’ve never eaten a peach?”

Nigel shook his head as he started muddling something with something else. “Allergic. Even the smell’s kind of overpowering, though. I get how they could be too much.”

As Nigel poured and shook and stirred, Brian watched entranced and a little sad that something Nigel did so naturally was so dangerous for him. Or maybe it wasn’t natural at all. Maybe Nigel was just a much better actor than New York had given him credit for.

Nigel finished his creation and placed it on a napkin, before sliding it across the bar to Brian. It was reddish-gold in color, shading down to a deeper purple-red at the bottom of the glass.

“Gin fizz with a plum shrub,” he said to Brian’s inquisitive look. “Anyway. Brace yourself. Good news incoming.”

What tropes can we look forward to in your MHHE fic?

Let's see . . .  There's going to be about a millisecond of enemies-to-lovers, but let's be real-- these two are far too charmed by each other to stay enemies for long. Not sure any of the following are within the strict definition of "tropes," but they're among my personal favorites, so you can go ahead and expect some gratuitous cuddling of a puppy, some deep-meaningful-late-night-talks-even-though-we've-only-just-met (time is an illusion! they bond fast!), so so so much expressing of thinly-veiled feelings through artistic expression, and actively pining while also actively sleeping together. Also, am I going snow these ridiculous gentlemen in? (I'm going to snow these ridiculous gentlemen in.) 

Fuck, Marry, Kiss (under the mistletoe) with three Magicians characters of your choice!

My fully honest answer is Eliot, Eliot, and Eliot. But my even more honest answer is that I'd rather sit back with a cup of tea and a plate of gingerbread cookies and sigh with deep appreciation while Quentin handles all of Eliot's mistletoe needs.

#mhhe #mhhe author spotlight #queliot #Quentin Coldwater #eliot waugh

[sadlittlenerdking]

wingardium levi-oh fuck up.

OPERATION KICK DEPRESSION AND NANOWRIMOS ASS -- 8 of 50

Word count: 780 (shit it’s short)

Summary: Whoops, Quentin’s fucked up a bit.

@harriepie prompted queliot hogwarts AU, though i doubt this is what you expected lol

“Are we--”

“Oh shit.”

Quentin opens his mouth, spinning in a slow circle as he looks around at the rolling scottish hills, and the looming, beautiful, old castle. Oh, god, Oh, fuck. He’s really done it this time. All he’d wanted to do was cast the monster out of Eliot and into another world. All he’d wanted to do was fix things.

He should’ve known better.

Eliot looks just as shocked as he does, as he points hesitantly up at the castle. “Is that what I think it is?”

Quentin blinks guiltily, before smiling--all teeth, all shame--and nodding. “Yeah, El,” He says, squinting his eyes to look up at the points of the castle. “I think it is.”

Eliot nods, once, like he gets it, but it’s more stuttery, like he can’t quite make sense of it, before he takes a step back, and then just collapses into the grass. He stares up at the castle from the ground, seemingly unconcerned about the dewey grass staining his pants. Porbably because they’re not his pants, but the monsters. Or because he’s in shock.

Quentin lets his own legs give out from beneath him, as he sits down next to Eliot.

“How the fuck are we at Hogwarts?”

If there’s a slight undertone of panic in Eliot’s voice, Quentin can’t really blame him.

He looks down at himself, and then a panicked little sigh works its way out of him, though it’s as defeated as everything else about him. He looks over at Eliot, and haha, yeah. Yep. That--that figures.

“Eliot,” He says, soft, almost like he’s trying to prepare him. Which, he guesses he is.

“What?”

“I’m apparently a Gryffindor.”

Eliot scoffs. “You’re a fucking hufflepuff through and through, Q. Don’t even--”

“And you’re a Slytherin.”

Eliot stops talking and gives him a look. “Seriously? Is now really the time to--” Quentin points at Eliot’s chest, where the Slytherin emblem, and a set of Slytherin robes have formed. Eliot follows his gaze, before sighing, just as defeated as Quentin. “Quentin,” He asks after a beat.

Quentin’s almost afraid to reply, but he sighs, too, “Yeah?”

“Did you send us into the actual books?”

Following backwards, Quentin nods. “I think I did.”

“What the fuck, Q.” It’s not even a question, and Quentin can’t blame him.

All he’d wanted to do was save Eliot.

Creating his own spell was probably not the way to go about it.

Eliot lies down next to him, staring up at the clouds shimmering over Hogwarts. “What do we do now?”

Quentin turns his head to look at him, can’t help the little smile the dances across his lips. It’s Eliot staring at him. Now that the panic, and real danger has passed, and it’s just the usual ‘oops, I fucked it all up again’ feeling, he can take the time to process. Fucked things up, yes, absolutely.

But, he also got Eliot back.

“You’re back,” He says. Like they haven’t been talking for the past five minutes.

Eliot blinks, like he hasn’t realized it either. He reaches out and grazes his fingers against Quentin’s forearm. “I am,” He breathes. “Holy shit.” He grins down at Quentin as he pushes up on his elbows. “Holy fucking shit, Q. You-- I can’t even feel it anymore.”

Quentin grins, too, but he doesn’t move. He nods, because, this could all be a dream. They’re in Hogwarts, dressed in robes, as if they belong here.

Eliot tilts his head, lets his finger trail up Quentin’s arm to his elbow, then his shoulder, up to Quentin’s cheek, where he pushes a lock of hair back. “Since we’re here,” He says, soft, almost like he’s afraid of breaking a spell neither of them have cast, “I’d really like to go explore the castle.”

Quentin sits up, wrapping his hand around Eliot’s wrist. “Holy shit, I wonder if Snape’s alive.”

Eliot’s eyes go wide. “We could absolutely go fuck with Snape if he’s alive.”

“I mean,” Quentin says, “We don’t really have anything else to do.”

“We are trapped in a fictional world,” Eliot agrees.

They stare at each other for a long moment before pushing up to their feet, and rushing towards the castle doors.

Oh yeah. They’re so going to freak Snape out.

*

Eliot loses four hundred points from Slytherin in less than two hours--and that’s before they’ve even had a chance to harass Snape. Who is, by the way, absolutely still alive.

Quentin somehow gains twice that for Gryffindor in half the time, and all he does is cast Wingardium Leviosa correctly in Filches class.

If they learn anything from this excursion, however long it lasts, it’s that there’s definitely a bias against Slytherin. Which Eliot hates, and Quentin can’t help but to exploit.

#the magicians #quentin coldwater #eliot waugh #hogwarts au #kinda #operation kick nano and depressions ass

[themagiciansreccenter]

Author Spotlight: @under-the-shady-tree

Every week we are going to be interviewing a writer from The Magicians fandom. If you would like to be interviewed or you want to nominate a writer, get in touch via our ask box.

First things first, tell us a little about yourself.

Well, my name is Lauren, I live in Indianapolis and groom dogs for a living. I have a very tight-knit family so I spend pretty much all my time hanging out with them and having fun being the “cool” aunt.

How long have you been writing for?

Since I learned how to write. My parents gave me a diary for my 6th birthday and from that moment on, I was writing all the time. I used to write stories about me and my friends and reading my stories during recess became a thing. I moved onto fanfiction once the internet came around and still continue to journal and write original fiction.

What inspired you to start writing for The Magicians?

A Life in the Day. I hadn’t written anything for almost two years. Life got rocky for a bit and I just couldn’t do it. I would get ideas for stuff, even The Magicians, but nothing would come of it. But that episode got whatever was blocked in my brain knocked out and it’s been non-stop since then.

Who is/are your favourite character(s) to write? What it is about them that makes them your favourite?

Quentin. I just relate to him so much and understand how that brain could work. He comes really easy to me. Eliot also is one of my favorites, I find so much emotion and love buried under his persona and that is so much fun. Writing them together is just a joy. I also really like writing Margo and that one surprised me because I am so different from her, but like Eliot I’ve found what’s underneath all of her bravado to be so interesting to write.

Do you have a preference for a particular season/point in time to write about?

I guess season 3 since it’s the most I have written about, but I’ll write where ever the inspiration takes me.

Are you working on anything right now? Care to give us an idea about it?

Right now my time is pretty much all focused on my timeline 23 fic, We Will All Be Changed, it’s kind of a monster of a story for me so it’s got most of my attention. But I have a few things brewing. More of the mosaic lifetime, kind of examining how Quentin, Eliot and Arielle worked as parenting team and how they dealt with her death. I’m also dying to write teenage Rupert!

How long is your “to do list”?

Too long!

What is your favourite fic that you’ve written for The Magicians? Why?

That’s hard, I always hate picking favorites. I lean more toward Destiny Is Bullshit I think because it was my first big one and it’s what really got me going into writing again. I really found Quentin and Eliot’s voices working on it and found that I actually could write Margo. The response I got from it was so positive as well and it really gave me a confidence boost that I never had before. It also inspired more than just that one story (now 8 in the series) and gave me a way to fill in the blanks for the rest of the season and for their mosaic lifetime.

Many writers have a fic that they are passionate about that doesn’t get the reception from the fandom that they hoped for. Do you have a fic you would like more people to read and appreciate?

I would have to say my fic All That Remains is Love. It’s a 5+1 story dealing with death so it might be too depressing, but it’s all of my favorite things. It’s missing scenes we didn’t get to see, angst and Queliot falling in love very slowly. I also worked non stop on it once the idea hit me and it drove me a little insane until it was done. It emotionally drained me writing it so I just want to shove it at everyone and be like “LOVE THIS!!!”

What is your writing process like? Do you have any traditions or superstitions that you like to stick to when you’re writing?

It depends on the length of what I’m writing. For the shorter fics I usually have more of an abstract idea and a few lines of dialogue or a surprise ending in mind. I have a few playlists for certain moods. (I’m a little obsessed about having a soundtrack to everything I do in my life, not just writing) Then I just start working it out line by line.

For longer ones, it’s a much bigger process because I like to plan. I don’t even consider starting a multi-chapter fic unless I’ve worked out the beginning, middle and end and what the conflict is. I create a playlist that goes to that particular fic and that always sets a good tone for me. Then I break it down chapter by chapter and start writing. I get the bare bones out, like the dialogue and where they are. Then I add the inner thoughts and actions and emotions and just kind iron it all out.

Sometimes it changes a lot while I write, sometimes it sticks close to what I thought.

Do you write while the seasons are airing or do you prefer to wait for hiatus? How does the ongoing development of the canon influence and inspire your writing process?

I’ve only been writing since midway through season 3 and haven’t stopped so I see myself just writing during both pretty consistently. As far as what will happen, it will only inspire more. I have a series that sticks very close to canon so I can get all my added scenes and further in-depth peek into the show. So that will only help that grow. And ideas that fit out of that bubble come along too and I just go with it.

I think it would be kind of fun to continue some of my season 4 speculation stuff right into au territory because I’m sure what I wrote won’t happen, so who knows.

What has been the most challenging fic for you to write?

Of fics that are finished, The Mess We Made. It was hard because I realized early on that I was writing a younger Quentin and Eliot than who they were in Destiny is Bullshit. I kind of struggled with getting them to fight, because I just spent months writing them with a lifetime together under their belt and a deep understanding of each other. The Mess We Made was them a few years into that lifetime so they were still learning things about each other and experiencing things for the first time. I ended up kind of leaning into that difficulty with getting them to fight and tried to amp up the fighting to a few big blow-ups.

My timeline 23 fic is quickly becoming my most challenging though, it’s basically 3 or 4 full-length fics that sometimes crossover and then all end up mashed together. It’s pretty challenging.

Are there any themes or tropes that you particularly like to explore in your writing?

Angst, angst and more angst, lol. I am also a sucker for deep connections between people, be it romantic or otherwise, and really expose the good, the bad and the ugly about those relationships. So you know, more angst. But happy endings are my favorite too.

Are there any writers that inspire your work? Fanfiction or otherwise?

I’m always inspired by all the other Magicians fanfiction writers (honestly, Magicians fanfiction is really the only fanfic I read right now)

Alice Sebold is probably my favorite writer. She has a way of writing emotion in a way that feels really real and honest to an almost uncomfortable degree. It’s almost too real. Also the authors of my youth, Ann M. Martin and Judy Blume, I wanted to write because of them.

What are you currently reading? Fanfiction or otherwise?

I am reading “Written in Blood” It’s a book looking into the death of Kathleen Peterson of Stairway fame. (I love true crime) Also, I’m actually reading The Magician King. My sister is reading the Magician’s books for the first time so I’m reading along with her so we can discuss. I also am keeping up on whatever comes up on AO3!

What is the most valuable piece of writing advice you’ve ever been given?

Keep writing, whether it’s good or bad, just get it out and you can build on it later but it needs to be out there to fix.

Cringe time:

Are there any words or phrases you worry about over using in your work?

Oh man, I don’t know, I sometimes think everything I write is just a repeat of the last thing lol. Looked, people are always looking at each other and it’s hard to come up with different ways to express that.

What was the first fanfic that you wrote? Do you still have access to it?

I wrote an American Girl fanfic. My best friend and I traveled back in time to 1774 and went on an adventure with Felicity! I still have it, in a notebook in a box in my closet. I have two boxes (not huge boxes or anything) of old diaries, journals and notebooks full of my writing. My parents didn’t want to throw that away growing up.

Rapid Fire Round:

Self-edit or Beta? Self-edit

Comments or Kudos/Reblogs or Likes? All of the above!

Smut, Fluff or Angst? angst!!

Quick & Dirty or Slow Burn? Slow burn, the slower the better

Favourite season? 3

Favourite episode? A life in the day

Favourite book(The Magicians books)? The Magician King

Three favourite words? Triskaidekaphobia, Loquacious, Fuck

Want to be interviewed for our author spotlight? Get in touch here.

#the magicians rec center #author spotlight #author: rays/under the shady tree

[sadlittlenerdking]

Lifeboat

The Magicians (mainly Queliot, but all ships on the show are canon)

Word count: 9.2k of ?

Chapter 1 of 3

Summary: After his family is massacred, Todd is given the opportunity to go back and find out why and how, and stop it from ever happening. (Alt. the todd is a time traveler au) 

Warning: everyone’s dead, and everything that happened in canon (up to the end of season 3) is canon.

Sidenote: a super huge thank you to @eversall for beta reading this. Thank you!!

He stumbles across Jane Chatwin’s little clearing in the Fillorian woods shortly after being crowned king. The crown dangles from his fingertips, vague memories of it resting atop his father’s head flitting across his mind the closer to the tips of his fingers it gets, as he crosses the barrier. He only recognizes her because his family had described her and their heroics practically all his life. Remembers his father, former High King of Fillory, sneering at the ground and proclaiming her, “The ultimate anti-hero.” And when she looks up at him with shining eyes and a gentle smile, his other Dad’s words ring even louder. “Anti-hero or not. She’s the only reason we’re alive. So we’re thankful, El.” He can practically hear the two of them bickering as if they were standing right beside him, facing their past with him. But, of course they’re not. He’ll never stand side by side with them again. The crown in his hand, digging into his fingertips, is an unwelcome reminder of that fact. Jane clasps her hands in front of her. “Well,” she says, “Royalty. To what do I owe this honor?” He nearly scoffs. Honor? He’s only king because the rest of the Royal court was murdered, and he’d been off doing some meaningless task he can’t even remember. He’s only king because he’s the only option left. What honor does that belie? She tilts her head after a moment. “I see.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You didn’t need to, Todd.”

He blinks, unable to help the step back he takes. Forgive him if he’s wary of strangers, whether or not they’re heavily featured in his family’s stories, but said family was recently slaughtered by a group of well informed assassins. “You know my name?” 

She nods. “You needn’t be afraid either. I wouldn’t harm you.” “Why not?” Shrugging, she turns her back to him and heads towards a plant in the back of the clearing. She hums thoughtfully as she picks up a pair of shears. “Because who else is going to fix this mess we’ve found ourselves in?” “I... I don’t understand.” Her shoulders rise and fall with a heavy sigh as she turns to face him again, the shears held at her side, “My dear. You’re going to save your family, obviously.” His heart practically stops in his chest as he rushes forward in three quick steps. He falls short, though, stopping suddenly. His family’s dead. Magic can’t turn back time. “That’s not possible.” “Of course it is.” “How?” “Honestly, it’s as if nobody’s told you who I am.” Before the week he’s had, he’d have laughed at the genuine offense she’s emanating at the thought of not being featured in his family’s stories. He used to laugh a lot. Kind of misses laughing at his father's and his aunts and uncles making petty, fond jabs at each other. He shakes his head, rolling his hands until the crown is sliding into the palm of his hand, the heavy stones each digging into the grooves of the skin there. It’s almost as if it’s trying to remind him that he’s not supposed to be king. That this isn’t his crown. Like the crown has its own mind and wants him to drop it, lest he wants to face its wrath. “You’re Jane Chatwin. The Watcher Woman,” he pauses, taking a moment to look down at the crown. His thumb runs over the largest stone, and he swallows thickly as he looks back up at her. “My father used to talk about how much he hates that you went for a pun. In your name.” She waves a hand, “The High King has a very limited imagination, is all.” “Had.” She tilts her head, hand moving up to rest on her hip. “I’ve met many people over the years, stumbling across the clearing.” She looks up at the sky through her eyelashes for a moment, before she snaps her gaze back to him, “Most of them speak kindly of the crown Prince’s infectious optimism. Why is it that I seem to be the only person missing out on it?” His hand forms a fist around the crown, and he nearly relishes in the sharp pain the gems shoot through his fingers. “Could have something to do with everyone I’ve ever loved being assassinated less than two days ago. Could also be the fact that I wasn’t even given time to mourn them before I was hounded by every member of the royal court insisting it’s ‘time to take the crown, Prince Todd.’ But you’re right.” He loosens his grip on the crown and takes a deep breath, before letting the all too familiar Royal Smile (trademark pending, of course) settle on his lips with ease. “I’m the king now. I should be playing the part of the happy king. I apologize.” She purses her lips before taking two steps forward and pointing at him. “Todd, my darling. Might that smile be real if I told you I’m going to send you back?” “To the castle? Probably not. They’re still cleaning blood off the throne room walls.” “No,” She pauses, furrowing her brow and dropping her hands to her sides, “Can’t they cast a spell to clear it up?” “The castles alive. It doesn’t want to let them go.” And neither do I. “I imagine you relate to the castle in that respect.” She clears her throat and continues on, “Back to the topic at hand. I’m going to send you to the past. Earth’s past, specifically.” “I’ve only been to Earth once,” He says, without meaning to. It’d always been a point of contention between him and his family. He wanted to see where they came from, but they couldn’t go back, and wouldn’t risk him not coming back. “After Margo died, none of them saw any point to returning. Why would I go there? They died here.” “The answer to your families fate isn’t in Fillory, Todd. The answer is in the past, on Earth. You’ll be a spy for the future. Look for who they upset, who they fight. What shortcuts they take to save the world. All of that.” She pauses, before offering him a soft smile, “You’ll get to know your mother.” “I knew my mother,” He mutters, bringing his other hand up to the crown, and rubbing at one of the larger jewels with his thumb. Jane clicks her tongue. “Dear boy. She died when you were a toddler. I —“ “My father's made sure not a day went by that I didn’t learn something new about her,” He interrupted, voice hard as his thumb nail scraped over the face of the jewel. “And I won’t stand here and have you beseech her memory. Or theirs for that matter.” Jane stares at him for a few long moments, her fingers tapping at her waist, before she nods, once—perfunctory. “Well,” She says, “If there were any question as to which of them were blood, that’s certainly gone.” “What?” “Eliot. You and he share a temperament.” His thumb slides off the crown and to the side, digging into the rough edge of it. “You think I’m like him?” He asks, soft. “It’s uncanny, really.” His chest tightens but he nods once, chin tilting down so he can look at the crown. “Thank you.” “Of course.” She claps her hands together, and he jerks his attention back to her, his thumb clumsily sliding off the smooth jewel and scraping against the side of the crown. “Now. I’ve already alerted Henry to your arrival—“ “Wait—I’m. I’m going now?” “Obviously.” “But I’m king. I can’t just—I have to prepare my people. And I—I don’t know anything about earth! Or about those times! I won’t fit in and I—“ She moves forward and gently grabs him by the shoulders, eyebrows raised high. “Quentin’s anxiety is infectious,” she says, “But best not let it overwhelm you. You’re going back in time. Whatever happens, if you do what you’re meant to do, will all be erased. When you come back, your family will be alive.” “All of them?” “All of them.” “Even my mother?” She makes a face, before shrugging. “Possibly.” “And Uncle Penny and Aunt Julia and—“ “And Kady, Alice, Josh, and everyone else. Your family’s death,” She pauses, her mouth settling into a thin line as she looks away, shaking her head.  “Was not meant to happen.” She lets go of him and takes two steps backwards. “If you want to set things right, you have to do it now. They’re coming for you. We have to send you back before they find you.” “They?” She nods. “Can’t tell you too much, I don’t want to affect anything. But if you don’t go now, you’ll die. And you won’t be able to save anyone.” He watches her, swallowing thickly. Part of him is ready to turn around and head back to the castle. Wait for them—whoever they are—to find him. Let them kill him so he can find his family in the underworld. So he can be with his dads and his mom. If he lets them kill him they can all be together again. But that wouldn’t make his family proud. And that’s the catch, isn’t it? Being torn between having them all again and making them proud. If he does this, goes back and watches their lives from the sidelines to try and see who killed them, he could screw everything up. Ruin it all. He could get them killed sooner. He— He could be the reason they die. But he’d also get to meet his mom before she got sick. Watch her become high king. Make her proud, too. He can’t do that if he’s dead. If he lets himself get killed, he’ll run into her arms in the underworld as a disappointment. He clenches his jaw and drops the crown. With it, the weight bearing down on his shoulders and chest eases and he squares them, defiant. “How’s this going to work?” He asks. “What do I need to know?” She smiles, glancing down at the crown sinking into the grass. “No affecting anything, unless otherwise stated by Henry—“ “Right,” He nods, then pauses, “Who’s Henry?” “Dean Fogg?” “Oh. My family has complicated feelings about him.” “I can imagine.” She nods to herself before continuing, “If there’s something you’re meant to do, he’ll let you know. Otherwise you’re not meant to actively be a part of their lives. Listen closely. Pay attention. Use your training to be King to your advantage.” His heart drops. “I can’t talk to them?” “I can’t stop you. But it’s not recommended.” So he’s going to talk to them. Talk to her. “Okay. What else?” “Pretend you belong.” “I don’t even know how people on earth dress—“ “Henry will have clothes for you.” “--or how they talk—“ “Exactly like your parents.” “Oh.” She laughs, soft and takes a deep breath. “Are you ready?” “I mean, no. Absolutely not. But we’re on a clock. So I don’t think I have a choice.” She nods again, chuckling as she moves forward and cups his jaw. “One day you will make a spectacular king. But not today. Today you get to be a child.” She raises her eyebrows before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Good luck, Todd.” And before he can even pull in a breath to ask how everything’s going to happen—the world around him starts spinning until he falls to the ground on something soft. Warm, and soft. His eyelids flutter open, blink rapidly as he tries to collect himself. A bright light shines down on him from the left, and he lifts his hand to block it out until his vision clears up and his surroundings aren’t blurry. When everything eventually comes into focus, he pauses, his hand slowly falling to his side as he pushes up on his knees. He glances down, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of a blanket, and the feel of the cushioning of the bed beneath it. Not the ground, then. He looks back up again, quick, as he recognizes the room he’s in and takes a fast breath as he stumbles off the bed, crawling through the blankets. He takes a step off, his leg tangled up in the blanket, and falls face first onto the ground with a loud crash. He jumps back up, huffing out a breath, and continues his way across the room, barely able to even register the searing pain of his entire face. His hands come up to rip the curtains open, sneaking in through the gap that the sunlight bleeds through, and jerking them apart so fast the bar almost comes out of the window. His hands fall to his side, as all the air he hadn’t realized he’s been holding in eases out of him, slow. His heart pounds frantically in his chest. It’s Brakebills, in the distance. He’d only ever seen photos before, but he’d recognize it anywhere. When you spend your entire childhood dreaming of a place, it’s hard not to recognize it. His dads would be so pissed if they knew. Turns out there’s a benefit to being orphaned: no getting in trouble. Without meaning to, he reaches up, fingers grazing against the smooth glass of the window. He’s within reach of Brakebills. He’s so fucking close, he could cast a spell and be there. Technically, he’s already there, though, isn’t he? He’s in the physical kids cottage. He turns around, as he remembers exactly where he is, and his heart starts pounding against his chest again as he steps away from the window. His legs go wobbly as he looks back at the blanket, now tangled and half hanging off the bed. He’s seen it before. In pictures. Oh god. Oh god. He’s not sure he’s ready for this. And obviously, like everything else in his life, because he’s not ready—the door bursts open. The girl—the woman—stands there, glowering eyes moving from him, to the mess of her bed, and back to him. Her head tilts, slow and cautious as she narrows her eyes and points a perfectly manicured nail at him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She asks, finally stepping into the room. Her movements remind him a predator stalking her prey. “I—Uh—I. Got. Lost?” Her eyes narrow even further, which shouldn’t even be possible—but she’d been a king for a reason, and it wasn’t because she was all sugar and sunshine and rainbows. “And getting lost equals fucking up my bed, how?” “... panic?” He’d always imagined getting to talk to her. Her hating him hadn’t ever been a part of what his mind made up for him. Eyes burning, he takes a step back as she advances. He wills himself not to cry. He can’t. This is his mother. She’s alive, and she’s not just well. She’s— She’s fucking beautiful. “Are you new?” He blinks. “Y—Yes,” He says, nodding emphatically, “That . . . is what I am. I’m. New.” To this school. To this world. To this time. Nobody can say he lied to his not technically dead, but actually dead mother, that’s for sure. “Well, new kid,” she finally stops, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking a hip, “I’ll generously give you five seconds to get the fuck out of my room.” She pauses, pulling one hand away and raising it in the air, “1.” Todd takes a careful step closer to her. “2.” A second finger pops up beside the first. She’s shorter than he imagined. Angrier. Still beautiful. She’s somehow more than he’s spent the majority of his life imagining. She’s got a ferocity he hadn’t expected—even if both of his fathers had gone on about it incessantly anytime she was brought up in conversation. And Uncle Penny’s numerous drunken exclamations of how wondrously bitchy she was — which was always said with a fond smile, and a far off look in his eyes.

None of it could have prepared him for how absolutely regal she is. And she’s not even royalty yet!

“3.” The third finger conjures a brief memory, fuzzy and barely there at all, from when he was a toddler, maybe four? She’s older. Staring down at him. But her lips are quirked, like she finds whatever he’s doing humorous. And just as quick as it’s there, it’s gone. He moves faster, barely makes it to the space in front of her before she shakes her head and drops her hand to her side. “Hang on,” She says, taking a step back, and flicking her gaze over him. “What the fuck are you wearing?” He frowns, looking down over himself. Fuck. Why hadn’t Jane let him change out of his coronation clothes? He looks back up, making a face as he pulls his arms around himself self consciously. He finally gets to actually meet his mother, and he’s wearing the ugliest, itchiest clothes the royal cabinet could find for him. Abigail and the rest of the cabinet suck, so hard. He clears his throat and shrugs a shoulder. “I’m . . . not from here.” A king he may be, but there’s a reason he wasn’t done training before the massacre. It’s because he’s an absolute shit liar. Jane didn’t think this plan through, at all, did she? “Alright, not from here, where’s your accent?” “Not everywhere has an accent?” She watches him for a moment before rolling her eyes. “Okay. Where were we? 4?” He nods, once, and darts out of the room, flinching as she slams the door shut behind him with a wave of her hand. Taking a deep breath, he leans against the wall and lets his eyes slide shut.  His hands tremble at his sides. Even if he had any intention of abiding by the ‘don’t talk to them’ rule, that’s a little difficult when he crash lands in his dead mother’s bed, isn’t it? He opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling, narrowing his eyes. His first interaction with the woman who gave birth to him in sixteen years, and he’s wearing a ridiculous smock of an outfit, and she has no idea who he is. He shoves away from the wall and clenches his hands. * Dean Henry Fogg is an asshole. When Todd appears in the doorway of his office, Dean Fogg sighs heavily, motioning for him to come in with a lazy, albeit reluctant, wave of his arm. And as Todd takes the seat across from the desk, Fogg pulls out a flask of whiskey and takes a long, impatient drink from it. He screws the cap back on and shoves it in a drawer in his desk and glares at Todd like he’s not quite sure what to do with him. “Do you know,” He says after a few moments of heavy, awkward silence, “how many times I’ve had to live through these delinquents’ failures?” “Sorry?” “40 times,” Fogg continues, as if Todd hadn’t spoken at all, “And now I learn that on top of the time fuckery I’m already dealing with, I get a call from Jane to tell me that there’s another layer—except this one’s from the goddamned future.” He picks up a pen, grips it in his hand tight like he’s trying to force all his anger and frustration at life into it. “I’m getting real sick of your family.” Todd blinks once, twice, before nodding and shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. “I’d give anything to have 40 lifetimes with them,” He pauses, furrowing his brow, before adding, “Sir.” Fogg doesn’t even seem to realize the implications of the statement. “Look. Todd. It is Todd, isn’t it?” “Yes. Todd C—“ “I don’t care. Can you do magic?” Todd clears his throat and nods. “I—have a limited knowledge? Aunt Julia tried to teach me to the best of her ability, but Dad and—“ “Still don’t care about the details, Todd. Odds are they’re not even going to succeed this time. None of it matters.” Todd blinks again, shifting forward in his seat, and tilting his head. “I’m sorry. But I’m from the future, remember?” He squints his  eyes, making a face, “In my future, they succeed. They defeat the beast, and a number of other magical, and non—magical foes. They become legends. All of them. They’re heroes. And—disasters, as my father would say. They’re imperfect, but they—“ “Alright. I get it. You can stop waxing poetic about the bumbling buffoons I’ve watched fail over and over again.” “You don’t speak of them in that way,” Todd hisses, anger rising like bile. “You’ve made your fair share of mistakes as well, sir. I know all about it. You do not get to talk about them as if they’re the only ones to make mistakes. My family risked everything to save magic. To save everyone. Including you.” He pushes up from the chair, and the tone of his voice falls, deeper, and more regal than he even realizes he’s capable, “It would be wise to remember that.”

Dean Fogg only raises an eyebrow before barking out a laugh and leaning back in his seat. “You’re Waugh’s kid, aren’t you?”

“I thought you didn’t care.”

His lips quirk, as he bobs his head, “Well. She did say I’d be dealing with a king.” He tilts his head, then, frowning. “Though in the past Fillorian kings have been…”

“Useless and an unjust burden placed on my people?”

“Both of your parents are from Earth.”

Todd nods. “And this is only my second time here. I am Fillorian, no matter my heritage. My people are in Fillory.”

“Then why are you here?”

“My people,” he says, soft as he leans back in his chair, “Have my spirit. I will give all that I need to, to ensure not only their survival but their happiness. But my family,” he swallows, thick, and lowers his gaze to the top of the desk as his fingers fidget in his lap. He can almost feel the crown in his hands again. “My family have my heart,” he adds, after a moment. “And no true king can rule without his or her heart.”

Dean Fogg stares him down, before he laughs again. “I take it back. You’re nothing like your parents.”

Todd’s gaze snaps back up. “What?” His stomach flips as he pushes out of the seat, shaking his head. “You can’t take that back. You said I’m like them. You can’t—“

“I meant that you’re actually smart. But sure, get offended.”

“My parents are—were… are? Are. They are smart.” He sniffs, his eyes starting to burn. “What is with all of you. Or—What is with you and Jane Chatwin talking about my family as if they are nothing more than pawns on a board you’ve placed? They are more than pieces you move to treat you whims. They are people. Incredibly loving, smart, people. And they don’t deserve—“

“Enough.”

Todd’s mouth snaps shit, and his lip twitches as he points a shaking finger at Dean Fogg. “I am the King of Fillory. You will not—“

“Not here you’re not. Sit the fuck down.”

So much for doing what his parents do whenever someone crosses a line they shouldn’t.

It makes sense. He’s not as intimidating as his father.

His dad says it’s because his eyes are too kind, that people can see the good in him.

At the thought of Quentin, a sharp pang of regret fills his gut. He regrets pushing him aside to follow Eliot around. Quentin was a good dad, too. But he wasn’t the High King. And all Todd wanted was to make his father, the High King, proud.

And in the end, he’d abandoned him again, in search of being something more than he is.

When he saves his family he’s got to tell Quentin he loves him. He misses the kindness. Misses his dad. Of course he misses Eliot, too. He’s spent his entire life idolizing him. Memorizing the way he walks, and talks. Learning to be just like him.

But now they’re gone, and Todd’s afraid only one of his parents knew he loved them.

He falls back into the chair with a soft plop and stares up at Dean Fogg. Neither of them say anything for a few long minutes. But he leans back in the seat, exhaling long and slow to ease the guilt and says, looking up at the ceiling, “Now what?”

“Now? I’ve got a shit load of paperwork, and you’re going to help. Then we’ll get you situated.”

**

The first time he sees him, is from a distance. His arms are overloaded with books Dean Fogg threw at him because “you’ll need these if you expect to learn anything” or something. He’d tuned him out in order to look over the covers of them as they were piled up. In fact, he’s gazing down at the cover on top of the stack, when he here’s a familiar laugh in the distance.

His head snaps up, just in time to see Eliot walking backwards, facing Margo and someone Todd’s never seen or heard about, grinning as he waves his arms around, probably telling some extravagant story he’s retold a thousand times.

Something in Todd’s chest pangs and he nearly drops all the books to run across the grass to pull them into a hug. His vision goes blurry, and all three of them turn into watery blobs until he can blink the tears away.

As he flips around to walk side by side with them, Eliot lets out another laugh, loud and boisterous and more than Todd could have hoped for. He takes a step towards them without meaning to, swallowing thick. “Fuck,” He breathes, turning his gaze back on the books.

Not yet.

Not until he can look at them without crying.

**

Quentin Coldwater has almost died – as far as Todd can tell – at least six times in the three months Todd’s been lurking around on the Brakebills campus. Which would be fine. Really. Okay, not really. Todd may know the future, but how many times does he have to hear second hand news of, ‘Did you hear what happened to Coldwater today?’ or ‘You will never believe what Coldwater did!’ before he stops having heart attacks? There’s only so much he can take of thinking his presence in the past has somehow altered everything so drastically that his dad is dead.

Ten years before he’s even been born.

And don’t get him started on having to see Quentin fawning over Aunt Alice.

If he ever gets back to the present, and his family is alive, he’s going to have to ask them why the hell nobody bothered mentioning that particular affair. Look. He’ll admit as much as any other human being who’s ever met her, Alice is beautiful. And inspiring.

But she’s his aunt.

And Quentin’s his dad.

It’s just weird, okay?

**

There’s a lot Todd expects when he walks down the stairs. His mother. Dressed in nothing but a bikini and chains?

So, so incredibly not one of them.

Like. At all.

His heart still jumps, when he sees them laughing and smiling together. Beats frantically in his chest, because this is the life he’s always wanted. The two of them. He knows how close they were. And he knows how deeply it wrecked Eliot when Margo died. And this is before most of the real troubles in their life begins.

So, when Eliot stands up wearing a goofy hat and ridiculous sunglasses, he can’t help but laugh.

Because he has never, in all his life, truly seen his father so absolutely, resolutely carefree. Even in halls of the castle, with Quentin. Even on trips, when he gets to pretend he’s not king, and he and Todd and Quentin just spend a few days out at sea, being a family. It’s a part of his father he’s never seen and it’s--

Well. It’s a get out jail free card for the future.

It’s also hilarious.

And he’s been here for four months. And they’re staring at him now. Eliot looks disgusted. Margo just looks bored. For a moment, he thinks, this is it. This is what it feels like to be on the outside of his own family. But, he’s smarter than people give him credit for, and if they find out he’s just eavesdropping trying to figure out who they’ve pissed off that’ll attack them thirty three years from now, he’s doomed.

So, he uses his eavesdropping to escape certain death. Okay, not death, because though they’re regal, they aren’t royalty yet. And Eliot does not have the ability to make that particular execution order, thank god, because his glares are terrifying-- a fact that does not change in the future-- and Todd does not doubt that he’d make the call without hesitation.

He grins, wide, and says, “Hey, so Ibiza!”

“Is a place.”

“That we’re going to.”

And it’s so clearly a ‘leave us alone’, but Todd’s stubborn. Thank his parents.

“I'm hearing Encanto Oculto this year is gonna be, like,” He pauses. What’s a phrase people of this time use? Oh! Right! “Off the chain. But you have to be invited by people who've been... and you guys have both been.” He’s not exactly sure at all what he’s talking about. It’s just clips of conversation he’s heard over the past couple days.

“Twice,” Eliot says, tossing his hat on the table.

Todd knows the frown on his face. But Todd is a king. And King’s aren’t scared of frowns. Even if his entire body is urging him to run back up the stairs and hide until they’re gone. He turns his attention to Margo, instead of darting out of the firing zone, and swallows. “Margo . . . you look so beautiful.”

She’s his mother. He can say it. It’s not creepy.

She smirks, glancing him over, until Eliot starts spluttering. And she says, all smooth, careful, “I got this.” Like she’s had to bat a thousand guys away every day for as long as Todd’s been alive. Which, considering the year, isn’t long at all because he’s technically not actually alive. She turns her attention back on him, blinking, “Tell me your name again.”

He supposes he should be thankful she doesn’t remember. He touches his chest, “Me? T--Todd.” He wants to remind her that she’s the one that named him, but holds that much back, at least. Because it’s not a reminder if she doesn’t already know.

“Todd,” And he can’t help the smile that eases across his lips at the sound of her saying his name, “Here’s the thing. Encanto Oculto is a solid week of sun, drugs, and magical art. Time stops, reality bends, and you fuck five times a day.”  

. . . Okay. He doesn’t need to know about his mother’s sex life.

Oh god. Please no mental images.

“On a bad day,” Eliot adds.

And that is somehow so, so much worse.

He’d walked in on Eliot and Quentin once.

He knows his parents have sex lives.

He just doesn’t need to know about them.

He laughs awkwardly anyways, because if he does manage to get on this trip - because apparently that’s a thing he now wants - he gets to spend time with them. Which is something he does actually want. “Sounds awesome!” So long as he doesn’t have to see, hear, or acknowledge any sex they have.

“It is, Todd. It is awesome. But honestly, you'd end up in a corner alone. Bitter. Bumming everyone out. Like last year at the bacchanal.” He’s not sure what she’s talking about entirely, but it does kind of sting, how quickly she dismisses him.

As a child, he’d always known her to be kind. Patient. She was a great mother. Even when she was sick, she’d pull him up onto her bed, and run her fingers through his hair while she read a story, or used a spell to bring the words of a storybook to life. It’s one of the few real, tangible memories he has left of her.

It’s just jarring that that’s not who she’s always been.

She turns her attention back on Eliot. And he continues for her. “Poor… wait. What was his name?”

“Hmm… Todd.”

“Todd! How weird is that?” ”

He’s almost shocked by how in sync they are with each other. But his entire life has been filled with stories of how Margo was Eliot’s soulmate, from literally everyone who knew them.

So, it’s not so much shocking as it is terrifying to be on the side that gets beat mercilessly.

He doesn't even know what’s about to happen. Just that, he’s definitely going to end up walking away with tail between his legs.

God, there’s a reason he wasn’t ready to be King.

“Todd,” Eliot repeats, this time to pull Todd’s attention towards him. Speechless, and so unsure of what the hell is actually about to happen, Todd obliges,  “You don’t want to end up like the other Todd.”

“What . . . happened to him?”

Eliot looks down like he feels bad, and before Todd can even think that oh, maybe this isn’t going to go how he expected, Margo picks up the invisible baton and carries on. “He just wasn’t meant to be there,” Right, okay. No mercy for the living, it is,  “He moped and whined and brought everything down.” He’s not sure he feels about his mother thinking he’s anything like his fictional alter ego, but he doesn’t say anything, just lets her go on,  “Okay, we were a little wrecked, and for fun, someone--Someone not us…”

“No. Not us.”

God, they’re terrifyingly sinister.

“--turned Todd into a pig.”

“And we ate him.”

Todd pauses, expecting them to laugh. But they don’t. And an unexpected, confused, awkward laugh bubbles out of him. But they stay stoic and scary, and suddenly he doubts that they’re lying to him at all as he grabs onto the banister. “Wait--are you guys messing with me right now?”

Margo--his mother, should the world need reminding--looks him over. Like he’s a piece of meat.

Unsure of what else to do, or say, because his parents are actually terrifying and no amount of Royalty is going to make him any less terrified that he’s going to actually get eaten before he’s even been born, he says, “Okay . . . I’m just. I’m going to… I’m…” And darts up the stairs before they actually decide to murder him.

At the top of the stairs, he hears them burst into laughter, as he falls against the wall and holds his hand to his chest.

Maybe this is the real reason Jane told him not to make contact.

Because his mother is somehow more terrifying than both his father's combined.

**

He’s not sure how he gets into helping Margo with the Gin, all he knows is he walked by a hall closet, heard something he prefers to have not heard, and was dragged into the livingroom by a livid, frustrated Margo Hanson.

And she may be snappy and irritated, but he catches glimpses of his mother.

So when Eliot and he-who-is-definitely-the-beast appear and Margo says, “Todd was more helpful than you,” he thinks this is the moment that he can finally become a part of the group. But he’s barely taken two steps when she looks at him, deadpan, and says, “Don’t.”

Which, fair.

But then, the Genie takes Eliot’s boyfriend -- who Todd is still debating telling them all is definitely the beast, because wow the trauma that unfolds from this particular thread is a hefty load, and a story his family doesn’t exactly like retelling, for obvious reasons -- and Todd finally gets to claim his place.

Because his family is smart. And they made him learn a whole lot in preparation of becoming a king.

And Arabic may not be his best language, but it does have Margo dragging him along to help.

Is it weird that his mother actually wanting his company, even if to use him for something, is the best part of his year?

**

“You wished my boyfriend away!”

“Boyfriend? He’s random cock!”

… And that is Todd’s cue to go find beast-boy because any talk of cock from his parents is so far out of his league it may as well be 33 years ahead of even his future.

Stumbling across the beast giving a doorknob the equivalent of a blowjob, is somehow simultaneously the most hilarious and confusing moment of his life. He wonders if his family ever realized, after discovering the truth, that they’d made the beast give a door a blowjob.

When he saves them he has to figure out a way to let them know. Like, maybe, “Hey your life was shit at this point in time, but did you ever consider the hilarity of the fact that the beast was trying to murder you, and in doing so, ended up humiliating himself?”

But then again it did send Eliot down a particular downward spiral that makes it onto the list of Things We Must Never Mention.

Like Margo’s death.

**

“Todd!”

Shit. Shit. Shit. They know he’s eavesdropping. He just needs to play it cool. He walks into the livingroom, thumbs tucked into his pockets. That’s casual, right?

“It’s your lucky decade. Pack a swimsuit.”

What?

“Seriously?”

She nearly rolls her eyes. “Ground rules: you need to fit in, so don't talk.” He can’t really argue with that. He’s still getting the hang of figuring out how people talk on Earth. In this time.

He opens his mouth to respond, but Eliot’s rushing forward, and grabbing onto Todd’s shoulders. He flashes back to the first meeting with the kingdom Loria, when both Eliot and Quentin had pulled him aside to tell him no matter what happens they’re proud of him and how far he’s come. Wills himself not to get emotional. “See that she hydrates, wears sunblock, and waxes. Mama's down south can get jungly.”

… Nope.

If his parents don’t stop giving him mental images he does not need, he might actually burst into tears. And for once, not the my life sucks and I’m traumatized tears, but more the, oh god the images won’t leave my brain, tears.

“And you’re in charge of the genie,” Margo adds, tossing him the bottle. He nearly drops it in his haste to catch it, but it’s okay.

Because he’s going to spend time with his mother.

**

It takes two days in Ibiza for him to fuck everything up.

Margo’s drunk, but calm and relaxed, lounging on the beach, staring out at the ocean, a cocktail in her hand, and a man fanning her with a giant leaf. Todd should be doing literally anything other than what he is doing. Which is, effectively, just gazing at her from his towel. Admiring her.

He assumes that when he was a baby that she had days like this. Days where she could just be. He doesn’t doubt that at some point in his childhood, he got to sit with her. Maybe on her lap. Maybe they watched a Fillorian sunset or two together. As mother and son. Maybe she ran her fingers through his hair, and pointed out things on the horizon. Maybe he got to have real moments like this.

But he doesn’t remember. He was too young. All he has are the memories of when she was sick. Of nights in the dark, and days in the castle staying by her side. Or of healers ushering him away.

Of her final days.

Eventually, she notices him staring. And really, that’s when it all goes to hell.

She sighs, dramatic, and pushes her sunglasses up so they’re resting atop her head. She raises her eyebrows, all drama -- which he’s learning is her default -- and lifts one shoulder. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His eyes dart left to right. “I’m . . . not looking at you in any particular way.”

She scoffs. “You’re looking at me like I kicked your dog or something. What’s the deal?”

“No deal. I’m--I feel bad for the leaf waving guy.”

“Seriously?” She asks. He nods, and she rolls her eyes, shuffling to sit up. She waves one hand lazily, and the guy fanning her with the leaf sets it down and walks off. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?”

Yes. Literally everyone he’s ever met. Including King Ess of Loria. But that’s irrelevant. Mostly because his opinion is irrelevant to every topic known to man.

He’s probably the only person less ready to be King than Todd and he’s been King two years longer than Todd has.

“Nope. Because I’m honest. Like a beaver.” He’d met a beaver once. Apparently it’s a part of their moral code to never tell a lie.

She narrows her eyes, before leaning to the side of the lounger and picking up the bottle with the Djinn in it. “That’s not an expression. And I’d suggest telling me the truth. Or I can make you. It’s really up to you.”

“Is it, though?”

“Nope.”

He huffs, nodding to the jar. “Shouldn’t you have given that to someone by now?”

“They didn’t want it.”

“Oh.”

She raises her eyebrow, “Come on. Out with it. You should be out fucking everything that breathes. Instead you’re staring at me. Which is usually fine, I am a sight to behold, but you’re not supposed to be sad when you stare at me. It’s creepy.”  

Oh. Well, at least she’s blunt. “I wasn’t trying to be creepy.”

“I got that. Doesn’t mean you’re not.”

He lets his gaze drop back down to the sand, fiddling with the towel. “I’m sorry,” He says, softer. Sometimes it’s hard to pretend. He can’t help it. It doesn’t matter that he’s been here close to half a year. Doesn’t matter that he still hasn’t come in direct contact with Quentin or most of the rest of his family. Doesn’t matter how many times his mother and father both push him aside and remind him that they’re not his parents yet.

“Oh for--” She cuts herself off and he looks back up to find her shuffling to the end of the lounger. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“It’s nothing. Really.” He offers a grin, waving a hand lazily, “Just homesick.”

She narrows her eyes until their thin slits, and taps one nail against the bottle, a sharp clink sounding between them. “I’ll give you one more chance to tell me the truth. I really don’t have the patience to play games.”

“I am—“

She scoffs, shaking her head, and pulling the bottle up into her lap and popping the cork in on fluid motion. If they weren’t surrounded by magicians on a private beach, he figures she’d have hesitated. But the genies appears, and a few people around them coo with jealousy, but nobody really reacts.

She stares at him, and the Djinn turns to him slowly.

“Come on—“ But the Djinn grants her silent wish, snapping his fingers as he appears, standing beside him, arms crossed.

Todd’s mouth falls open.

Did she seriously—

“If this actually works, you can’t lie to me.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “What’s really going on here? Out with it so we can go back to having fun.”

Jane’s going to kill him. But Todd’s only so strong. Because the Djinn reaches down, touches Todd’s shoulder, and the words come tumbling out; “It’s just jarring how much you’re like her, while not being like her at all.”

She tilts her head. “Explain.”

“My mother.”

“Why is me not being like you—do you have some kind of weird incest thing? Is that why you haven’t found someone to fuck?”

“No!” He exclaims, pushing up to his knees, only flinching a little as the Djinn’s fingers dig into his shoulder. “God, no!”

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?”

He tries. He really does. He clamps his mouth shut, swallowing the words that will themselves to the top of tongue, down. If he can’t not tell her the truth, then he can just opt for silence.

Which, apparently not. Because the Djinn’s grip tightens, nearly breaking skin, and instead of crying out in pain, he finds himself blurting it out;

“You’re my mother! Okay? You’re my mother! Ow! Fuck! Let—“ he struggles against the Djinn until it let's go and he jerks away, crashing into the sand on his side. He stares down at the sand beneath him, willing himself not to cry.

Because there’s no doubt that he’s just ruined everything.

Not only is he not going to save them in the future, he’s probably going to get them killed in the Now.

His fingers dig into the dirt as he swallows down the limp in his throat, fists filling with sand. He expects her to yell at him, maybe call him delusional. But she’s completely silent.

Only after he realizes she’s not going to say anything does he look up. Her elbows are still on her knees, but her arms are crossed at the wrist, dangling in front of her, and she’s staring at him with an inscrutable look on her face.

He sniffles, chin trembling as he turns his attention away from her.

“That’s not possible,” she finally says.

He shrugs a shoulder, silent.

There’s shuffling, and he can see movement out of the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t realize she’s moved until she’s sitting on the towel next to him. “How’s that possible? My wish was that you had to answer my questions honestly. So you’re not lying.” She clicks her tongue and pokes him, roughly in the side. “Tell me how that’s even remotely possible.”

He shrugs again, shuffling in the sand to sit up straight. “Maybe I’m just a really good magician and can —“

“Cut the crap, Todd.” She hisses, “What the fuck is going on?”

“I can’t tell you,” he whispers. “I can’t, Margo. Just—please.” Finally, he turns to look up at her. He can feel the tears streaming down his cheeks, and he’s sure he looks as much of a lost child as he is, but he doesn’t know how to fix this. “Please, trust that I’m not here to do anything—anything bad. I just can’t tell you.”

Her gaze softens, but she clenches her jaw and shakes her head, waving a finger in his face. “No fucking way is that going to work on me. What the fuck? You think you can just say that I’m—that you’re—“

“I didn’t want to!” He says, desperate, twisting and turning until he can kneel in front of her hopelessly. “You’re not supposed to know. None of you are!”

“None of—“ she breaks off, shaking her head with a furrow of her brow, “None of who?”

His mouth falls open. “I—can’t.” It comes out as more of a sob than anything, broken and aching. “Please.”

She purses her lips for a moment, staring him down before shoving herself up, sand scattering around her, and holding her hand out to him. “Get up,” she says, shaking her hand at him. “Now.”

“Margo—“

“You said I’m your mother,” she whispers, callous, “So you have to listen to me. So. Get the fuck up.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Todd. Get up.”

Dejected, he takes her hand, a memory of her taking his hand to walk through the garden flashing across his memory as she pulls him up. It’s gone in a beat, as she turns on her heel and drags him across the beach towards a booth. She opens it, shoves him in, and it’s only as he stumbles into a hotel lobby, does he realize it’s a portal.

“Damn it, Margo,” he says, flipping around to glare at her, “I—“

“Nope.” She grabs his hand again and pulls him through the lobby, into an elevator, and then down a hall until they get to a room, and she slams the door shut behind them. She locks it, turns to him and points at the bed. “Sit.”

“I—“

“Sit.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but she raises one eyebrow and he sighs. Turns around and sits on the edge of the bed without a word. Even before she’s his mother she’s commanding.

On the bright side, he’s finally getting the parenting from her he never got to experience.

She nods, once, to herself and moves to stand in front of him, crossing her arms and staring at him expectantly. “How am I your mother? How is it even remotely possible? You’re only a year younger than me.”

He stares up at her. Watches the crease between her eyes deepen.

And honestly. What’s the point of lying anymore? He’s already fucked it all up.

“I’m—I won’t be born for another ten years.”

“I have a kid when I’m thirty three? That is—“

“You’re technically the surrogate. But you’re also my mother. You guys—it was. It’s hard to explain. It’s not normal here, I think.”

She blinks, falling back to lean against the dresser behind her, her hands cupping the space between her hips and the wood of the dresser. “None of this is normal,” she says. “Like, fuck.”

“I know.”

She closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths. Which, he can’t really blame her. He’s freaking out, too. Just, less.

Because he has no idea what to do.

Because Jane Fucking Chatwin sent him into the past without a map, or a way to keep this exact thing from happening. He keeps expecting to find himself back in the clearing. But on the edge of the bed he remains. No wonder why Eliot called her an antihero. She’s the most morally grey, asshole of a hero he’s ever met. And he was born and raised in a fictional land full of people setting out to be heroes.

“How—,” she breathes, “Why?” She opens her eyes, and for once he’s not the only one misty eyed and confused.

But somehow being the person to make his mother cry? Not something he’d like to add to his list of achievements.

In fact, he’d like to go back in time again just to make sure she doesn’t cry.

“Something happens,” he says, looking down just so he doesn’t have to see. He wrings his thumbs in his lap. “I have to figure out why, and how to stop it.”

“What happens?”

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I can’t—won’t—can’t.”

She does say anything for a long moment. But when she does, it’s no surprise. He knows she’s smart. Smart enough to figure something as small as this out. “Does someone die?” He nods, once, and she lets out a heavy, stuttering breath. “Shit. Is it me?”

He jerks his head up, eyes wide. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” She scoffs, shoving away from the dressing and walking a path between the door and the bed, turning to walk it again as she reaches the end. She points an accusatory finger at him, “You’re the one who’s been staring at me all sad and shit. What the fuck else am I supposed to think?”

Can he tell her her actual fate? Can he even tell her what really happens?

Clearly he’s already said too much. He’s in too deep. But can he actually stomach telling her she’s dead?

He swallows and looks back down. “I can’t tell you what happens. It might affect the future.”

“If you think you’re leaving this room without answering my questions, you’re too dumb to actually be my kid.”

He flinches. She’d hit a little too close to home, there.

She stops pacing. “What was that?” She asks, moving to stand just a few inches away from him. “Why’d you make that face?” He shrugs.  And she huffs angrily, moving forward to kneel in front of him, narrowing her eyes. “Why. Did you. Make that face?”

His jaw trembles as tears flood his eyes again, and he forces himself to look away. He can’t stand this. How could anyone expect him to? This is his mother. All he has of her are his memories. And Jane honestly expected him to come to the past and not screw it all up over his love for his mother? Or his fathers’? Or his family? They’re all dead. What the fuck did she expect from him?

He doesn’t realize he’s said it all out loud, or that he’s sobbing, until she’s pulling him into her, her arms wrapping tight around his back. The tips of her fingers dig into the back of his neck, and her breath hitches as she tugs him impossibly closer.

He’d never been given the chance after their deaths to respond. It’s all been a series of “What next?” Since the massacre. Of people guiding him to the next post, telling him who he needs to be and where he needs to go. A sea of numbness blocking out the trauma.  

Even at the funeral, he’d been forced to play the stoic king.

And ever since he walked into Jane Chatwins clearing, he’s been playing the part of a stranger in his families lives. He’s had to watch them walking around, living their lives, unable to tell them. Unable to approach Quentin—too ashamed of how he treated him, even though this isn’t even his Quentin. Too scared to disappoint Eliot—despite this Eliot not being the doting, always-expecting King.

It’s too much.

It’s too fucking much.

Margo pulls away just enough to make him look at her. She tugs at the hair at the base of his skull, raising her eyebrows. “You’re not doing this alone,” she says. “We’ll figure it out together.”

“You—you can’t—“

“Fuck anyone who tries to stop me.” And she pulls him back in. “You’re my kid, Todd,” she says, “And when you calm down, you’re going to tell me everything. And then, we’re going to fix this shit. Because there’s no way on god's green fucking earth I’m letting you suffer this much. Not my kid.” She shakes her head, nails scraping against his neck. “Fuck that.”

“You don’t even—“

She pulls away again, squeezing his shoulder. “I have a son in the future,” she says, “And I know I put out some serious I don’t give a fuck vibes. And that right here, right now, I don’t actually know you.” She pauses, clicking her jaw, “But I have a god awful family, Todd. I have literally been left standing in the dust by my family. I’m not abandoning you. Whatever happens in the future, right now. I’m gonna be your mom.”

“You don’t have to—“

“Did you come out of my vagina?”

He grimaces. “I—“

“Well?”

“Yes…”

“Then you’re stuck with me. No future spawn of mine is going to suffer alone. So,” she nods to him, “Cry it all out. Because when you’re done we’re figuring this shit out.”

He stares at her. Tears brim his eyes, and she goes all blurry as he nods, once, before nodding again, more erratic. He pulls her in for the hug this time, finally allowing himself to breathe her in.

“I missed you,” he says, soft, as he closes his eyes.

Her only response is squeezing him tighter.

He’s fucked everything up.

But he can’t find it in himself to care. She’s younger, and more brash and reactive, but his mother is holding him.

Nothing else matters.

Not even the future.

For now, at least.

#the magicians #queliot #todd #quentin coldwater #eliot waugh #margo hanson #the todd is a time traveler fic