#I SWEAR TO GOD ILL FINISH THE BUILD GIFT!!!!!

[deathbypufferfish]

WHAAATAY THE FUCKKK THANK YOU!!!!!! I've only had this blog for a year y'all are nuts thank you!!!!!

[webanglikethat]

How can he be guilty as sin? (A Wyatt one shot)

Published: 08/06/24 Words: 1,767 Summary: Wyatt, a member of the royal guard, struggles with forbidden feelings for Princess Ellaire, knowing that his duty demands unwavering loyalty, not love. as he battles his heart's desires, he begins questioning whether his deep devotion is a sin or the truest expression of his allegiance. Ao3: read here and please leave a comment!! Note: I haven’t finished HoT yet so don’t spoil anything !! and this is for my best friend Agrima 💙

Wyatt knew it was wrong. he had always known that harboring feelings towards the princess, the future Queen of his homeland, was a mistrial in the temple of his feelings. he shouldn’t be feeling this way because no other emotion other than interminable loyalty should flow through the veins connected to his heart. or at least that’s what he kept repeating himself as she walked past him, gifting him one of those secret smiles of hers that she kept just for him, like an oath only they knew the words to. he knew, deep down, that harboring such feelings for the princess was not only forbidden but also fundamentally wrong. a a member of the royal guard, his allegiance was first and foremost to the crown, to serve and protect without question or hesitation. anything beyond that — especially feelings of affection or longing — was a transgression and transaction he could ill afford.

and yet, each time her eyes met his, Wyatt felt a pull stronger than his sense of duty, tempting him to forget his role and forget it all, as long as he didn’t forget her. her smile, delicate and sweet, stirred something deep within him, a longing he had no right to feel, a longing that didn’t belong to him, a longing he couldn’t spare. after all, he was but a mere queensguard and he had been one since the age of two, when he was elected for this specific role, thanks not only to his skills but in part to the legacy his father was building. but that didn’t mean Wyatt had the right to feel what he felt, for he was a mere civilian, and she the Queen to be. how could he even dare to think of her like that? how could he dare envision his lips tracing doodles on her body, immortalizing it as a piece of art? sometimes he could swear he felt her warm hand squeezing his, and differentiating wishful thinking from reality had become his newest enemy, one he couldn’t escape or reach. how cruel fate was, to play such games with his mind, holding his heart hostage, squeezing it until it confessed the emotion’s name his lips didn’t dare to utter. 

so he clenched his fists, trying to force the inappropriate emotions back into the recesses of his mind where they belonged, like a dirty secret he couldn’t risk being brought to life. for some people, the skeleton in their closet was an actual corpse, but to him, it was his own traitorous heart. so loyalty, he reminded himself. honor. duty. a legacy to uphold. he repeated these four terms in his mind until they all swirled into one, but being warned by God didn’t stop Eve from biting the apple and therefore, forcing himself to not feel anything didn’t stop the emotions from threatening to overflow. not even the shackles of fate can hold back a lover’s desire. 

as she drifted further down the corridor, her laughter ringing softly in his ears, a melody he couldn’t stop replaying in the secrecy of his room at night, Wyatt couldn't help but wonder if she sensed his turmoil. did she know the effect she had on him? did she feel the same forbidden spark? did she feel the same pull, forcing her to linger by his door sometimes, just to hear his breath and know he was alright? did she too keep these longings locked inside? was he too more than just a friend to him? the questions gnawed at him, the way a monster would play with his victim to elongate the pain, threatening to unravel the tight control he prided himself on. he shouldn’t think of this, for he didn’t know what was worse — the not knowing, or the knowing — in a scenario where her answer was a refusal.  and perhaps that would’ve been better, he told himself. a clear no, a distinct refusal and maybe he could turn off his heart, an organ he didn’t - couldn’t - claim as his own anymore. or perhaps he should stay in his own bubble, drown in memories where holograms of her were the only actress starring unendingly every moment of his existence. perhaps having her there, a place no one else could get into, was more than he should already be grateful for. 

it was especially in the quiet hours of the night, as the world around him slipped into slumber and he eluded the sleep fairy that his thoughts invariably turn to Ellaire. night seemed to always unfailingly be the time his mind's inner thoughts gravitated to her. he wouldn't be surprised if, in the undoing of the grand tapestry of his existence, all else faded but her memory. it was in those moments, bathed in the gentle glow of moonlight, that he would find himself consumed by a most exquisite and excruciating tenderness for her. he had known her for his whole life, had begun caring for her before he could even learn how to draw a sword since he was raised to protect and care for her, so truly, who could condemn him for his affection love? she had been the foundation of his existence, and he’s so anything to keep hers intact. 

to him, she was akin to the moon for she was the only glow in his longest nights, a light he could always count on to guide him home. she was a star, one of those important ones that you never get tired of contemplating — the one you run to look for as soon as the sun goes down and a golden light begins to twinkle behind the clouds. she held that same light that guides lost fools in a storm’s disaster, which makes you fall in love with the night and makes you plead to remove your own eyes, so you could bask in it eternally. at last, Wyatt understood why kingdoms would lose their minds over love, why rulers would forsake their crowns for just one kiss from the woman they adored.

and he .. well, what was Wyatt? there were so many small stars in this vastness called universe so how could he expect to be important to her? he was just one doodle among many more, another black shade in this sky, a planet out of human sight. even if he dared to imagine himself next to her, he knew it could never be the way he painted it in his mind. there would be no great dark ink depicting their story, no grandiose declaration of devotion etched into the annals of history, and he would remain a footnote in the story of her existence, a forgotten annotation in the manuscript of her grandeur. but as long as she was the name on its cover, he didn’t mind being nothing more than a spectator. for as long as she shone brightly, he could drown in the darkest shadows and he’d laugh with the utmost joy. 

but even as he belittled himself, Wyatt knew that his loyalty and devotion were unmatched. he knew that wherever Ellaire went, he would follow. should she ask him to close his eyes and lead her to inferno itself, he wouldn’t deny her request. together, they would face the unknown, and he would protect her, as he had always sworn to do. for Wyatt, the thought of denying her anything, of refusing her even the most perilous of requests, was inconceivable. he would risk his life, if it meant she got to exist in his stead. he’d give her his heart if she’d only ask him and he’d unstitch every vein to give her the prettiest part, deign of a Queen. he’d bleed himself dry to keep her warm with the tepidity of his vital claret if she was cold. he would’ve done anything for her — unraveling his sanity to preserve hers and giving up all knew for her, for who was he, if she wasn’t there? he’d grown up knowing her, and so he would die. 

in her, he found his purpose to exist. she was the embodiment of everything he held dear, the light that illuminated his darkest corners. and though he may never be more than a shadow in her radiance, he would stand by her side, hanging onto every ray of light she shone, akin to a drunken man holding onto the lips of their lover knowing their doom. in her luminescence, he discovered a solace that outweighed anything he had ever seen or felt before, willing him to face any fate as long as he could remain even as a fading phantom in her orbit. 

as the echoes of her laughter faded into the distance, Wyatt found himself enveloped in the stillness of the night, his thoughts consumed by the woman who held his heart in her hands. and maybe, giving up something so vital was freedom in itself. and for a moment, Wyatt dared to entertain the possibility that his love for Ellaire was not a sin to be condemned but a sacred calling to be embraced. what if, he thought to himself, the way he felt was not a betrayal of his allegiance but the truest expression of his devotion? what if the way he held her was the holiest subject of his faith? what if the words slipping from her lips were a religion he had woven into his soul? what if his lingering touch, so wrong yet so right, was the prayer he whispered in the quiet of his heart? so truly, how could he be guilty as sin, when love is the first virtue a person learns? was it not love that led Eve to take that fateful bite, trusting in the bond she shared with Adam? and if love was the foundation upon which humanity was built, how could he be faulted for following its lead? love, the most primal and pure of all virtues, surely could not be a sin. if Eve’s love for Adam sparked the beginning of life, then how could he be condemned for allowing love to guide his actions?

so he wondered, how could his love be a sin, when it was the foundation of his existence, of humanity’s history ? so may them condemn him all they want, he thought to himself, for he know that love was the longest-standing temple of humanity, the only divinity to be revered. and he’d die fighting for his religion, his love, his Ellaire. 

love, above all, was the truest form of sanctity, and he’d rather die a sinner for her, than a nonbeliever. 

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳

taglist: @annn-starrr, @pawaki17luna, @goddessofwonderland, @liykaii💙

[charismaofobedience]

HIIIII MUTUAL WHO'S INDULGING ME 🥺 okok so um. this will all be really rambly and out of order and based solely on what i find on my rpg maker bin. uh. also most if not all of them are more the type of old rpg maker games so y e a h

I think if i had to pick like. One game only that most of the cast could enjoy it'd be To the Moon not only because it's one of the VERY FEW not horror focused games in this god forsaken folder but also the story is just. ueeh. if i had to specifically pick characters though, i will have to say arashi and adonis. yeah.

Ib is another classic I can see a fair bit of characters enjoying??? if we are going on the gamer characters only, then id probably say makoto + trickstar (and i can see specially mao being into it). the puzzles are fun and the story is very compelling,,, i think the 4 would all probably play together as a "way of bonding!!!" but also as a way for hokuto to make sure makoto isn't scared and subaru isn't getting distracted every 3 minutes. mao would be solving the puzzles 90% of the time and the 4 all have so much fun playing it <3

I thiiiink this one might be a controversial one and i SWEAR im not being biased since this one's my favorite but. considering all the complicated over the top lore + all the philosophical shit in it. i think nagisa could EASILY get into Hello Charlotte and etherane stuff in general. yeah sure nagisa isnt the type of guy who would play online games and ill agree to that, but i can see jun maybe mentioning some philosophical game and Nagisa just staring at him with autism eyes filled with glee and curiosity. would probably end up spending two days not doing anything besides playing the whole trilogy + heaven's gate. right after that he is rambling to EVERYONE about it and the lore and the characters and how he related to both Vincent and Charlotte and no one gets what the hell Nagisa is talking about. would also bond over playing a game with Sora or something except Sora has no clue about the game Nagisa played. It's all a bunch of complicated words and what the hell do you mean gods and kids and different realities and. but Sora's very happy Nagisa seemed to have fun and now wants to invite him to play other stuff hashtag autism besties

talking about sora! 1bitHeart. cute silly warm game about making friends. the colors and soundtrack are all also very nice and i think sora would absolutely enjoy them. would get way too attached to ALL the characters after spending so much time talking with them and giving them gifts and i don't know man. 1bitHeart just has the switch vibes aesthetic-wise to me. natsume would also probably be into it and played it because of sora, thinking it'd be just a silly friendship game but natsume got too attached to certain characters too (not that they'd admit to it. if you ask natsume they'd just go "a silly game about befriendING others. it does NOT suit someone like ME.")

and talking about miwashiba games + natsume. I can fully see natsume being into LiEat. Both the world building and the characters in general + the premise itself of a dragon who feeds on lies screams natsume to me. would also NEVER admit to being into it but sora is very aware natsume enjoys it. i don't really have much to say on this one just trust me okay i swear LiEat natsume makes sense

to finish the miwashiba saga. ritsu would be into Alice Mare and i don't know how to explain this one either. the aesthetics just scream ritsu to me and i swear it makes sense somewhere ok please trust me cries

Dreaming Mary is a complicated one. just based on aesthetics id probably say tori but like. considering the bad ending stuff and all? i think tori would just get the bad ending and think its just a cutesy teehee ending and not pay it any mind. now if we are talking about someone who'd also get the real ending and still be into it i. kind of want to say hinata honestly. the aesthetics are overly cutesy, yeah, but i ALSO don't know how to properly put into words how i feel hinata would enjoy Dreaming Mary. i swear this is the final one i ask for you all to trust me on okay

Yume Nikki is also very much a classic but I can't exactly pinpoint like. one specific character who'd be into it. the game is too vague and explorative for me to be certain on who'd enjoy it. however, if you asked me right *now* id probably guess yuta or midori??? yeah really not sure for yume nikki but im sure SOMEONE would be into it

finally. the fucking mystery of kagehira mika. i originally considered funamusea's stuff but at the same time i don't think mika would be fully into them. then my brain went to the more classic horror games. maybe The Witch's House? or maybe Mad Father + Misao???? but then i recalled that corpse party is arguably a rpg maker game so case closed. mika corpse party.

thanks for listening.

[redhoodedangel]

Scars that Last (Arkham!Jason Todd X Scarlet Witch! Reader) {Route A} Pt.2-Loss

So, there is going to different routes like I mentioned in the first part (and an edit I did on the first part). This is the first part of Route A and I’m working on Route B as well. When I finish it, I’ll put a link to it on this post.

⚠️ Warning ⚠️: themes of death, abuse, torture, sadness, heartache/heartbreak, nightmares, and mental health and mental illness

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even after your failed attempt to mentally track down Jason, you continued to build up your mental powers to find some way to find him and bring him home safe. The search on the GCPD's part was coming up dry and Batman's own search was even drier than the Sahara Desert. Barbara was even joining in on the search with both sides as Batgirl, in hopes of increasing efforts and results. Hell, even Nightwing was checking the borders of Gotham for activity. But, nothing was coming up. No developments…no leads… no evidence… no sightings…

Nothing…

Your own attempts with numerous types with mental stimulation and manipulation were fruitless, too. You tried tapping into your mental response to pain, hoping it would help you better access Jason's memories and figure out his location. But all it did was make the pain that the Joker was inflicted on him and in turn, you, more unbearable. Every try failed and you were beginning to lose hope. But you couldn't give up on your soulmate. He was counting on you and Batman...

You couldn't fail...

You couldn't risk losing Jason...

You couldn't risk losing someone so important to you...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Whenever you had dreams, there were more like premonitions or visions. Events that had yet to happen or, better yet, were currently happening as you slept. Tonight’s premonition was the most terrifying one you’ve had in a long time. You had never felt more sick to your stomach before after seeing what you saw happening in front of you…

You were standing in a darkened room, a single light hanging in the middle. From what you could see, the floor was tiled black and white. Under the light was a young man, tied down to a wheelchair with barbed wire and rope. His hair was dark and his eyes were an ocean blue, his marked up skin matching yours. But, the most notable details was the fact that he was wearing the familiar red and black Robin suit.

Oh god…

It’s him…

It’s Jason…

You were about to try and call out to him to see if this dream was connecting your minds together. But, you were stopped by the sound of familiar maniac laughter. That son of a bitch…

“Well, well, well, my boy, you’re in for a treat, tonight!” The Joker announced, stepping out of the shadows behind Jason. The boy wonder visibly stiffened at the sound of the Clown’s voice, keeping his head down in fear and anger.

“Apparently, the Commissioner’s adopted daughter has been looking for her soulmate. One who she says is being ‘tormented’ and ‘mistreated’. The entire GCPD is looking for the poor lad. And strangely enough… the scars she has resemble the ones you have now…” Jason picked his head up at the news. Now, you knew that he knew about the soulmate bond between you two. Even if he didn’t know your name or what you looked like.

However, there was an aura of panic to him now. He was shaking and his eyes were glossed over, tears ready to spill out. As you come closer to him in this dreamscape of yours, you could hear his thoughts. He was crying… pleading… but not for his life… but for yours…

‘Oh god… no. Please, don’t touch her! Please don’t hurt her! Goddamn it, please!’

“Oh my goodness, what was the kid’s name? Was it… uh… (Y-…um... hold on... Aha! Now I remember!… (Y/N) (L/N)!” The psychotic clown said your name like it was some big event. It honestly made you want to throw up.

“What a wonderful surprise! Well, maybe I’ll leave her a nice little ‘Congratulations’ gift! Something she might appreciate!”

“I swear to God, if you hurt her, I’ll… Agh!” Jason’s protective growl was cut off by a pained yell as the Joker hit him in the jaw with a crowbar. You then feel the same pain on the left side of your face, creeping and burning under your skin.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t lay a hand on her! I’m sure you know how this song and dance goes…” the Joker rose the crowbar once again like a baseball bat, ready to land another hit.

“NO!” You screamed at the top of your lungs as the image winked out before you see what happened next. You then woke up in a cold sweat, with new scars and with more news about your soulmate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You told Batman and Barbara about your nightmare, giving them an idea of what the Joker have planned next. When you told your father, you had to exclude the fact that your soulmate was the second Robin, in order to keep the police from getting suspicious of the other Bat vigilantes. He then had the information used to triangulate possible locations where the Joker could be running his operations. Places where Jason could be being held...

However, about six months into the search, Batman found a new ward to take up the mantle of Robin. Needless to say, you weren't impressed with this decision, considering the current Robin, your future significant other, was still alive. The new scars that kept appearing on your body and face were proof of that. You refused to talk to this replacement Robin, no matter how much he tried to contact you for leads or any further information you didn't possess.

Nightwing had tried to explain Batman's choice and how the new boy wonder, a young detective named Tim Drake, had figured out their true identities. You still weren't persuaded, knowing full well that Batman could've compromised with him and had him man the comms or keep the Batcave on lock. But, that wasn't your call to make, nor Nightwing's or Batgirl's, so you didn't have a right to complain.

Meanwhile, you were building up your arsenal of mental tricks. You still hadn't found a way to connect to Jason without hurting yourself or him, but your experimenting gave you new ways to turn a villain or thug's mind against them. However, your search for a mental link between you and Jason still continued...

You just hoped he knew that you were trying to reach him...

"Please hang in there, Jase. I'll find a way to get you out of that hellhole if the law and the vigilantes fail... I'll make sure you get out of there alive... I promise..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another six months passed and it was now obvious to everyone who left the scars you were receiving. A 'J' marking was now burned into your left cheek, along with a few other scars that littered your face and body. Your bones creaked and ached with a dull pain that you had never experienced before. Your mental health was severely impacted, the pain of the scars was numbed because of it.

The search for Jason was practically a failure, as were your own attempts to mentally determine his location. However, you found a way to comb the entirety of Gotham for missing people. However, it was going to take a lot of trial and error in order to find Jason. You just hoped that you weren't too late...

You were standing on the roof of your apartment building, finding a spot to use your powers to find Jason. You were hoping that this would be the last effort to save him. You praying for it to work and stretch out around Gotham. You were about to cast the spell… when your phone vibrates…

Pulling out your phone, you saw that an unknown number was FaceTiming you. Your gut suddenly twisted into sickening knots, as if a part of you knew that this video call had to do with Jason. You knew this was something bad, but you had to know just how bad it was…

You had to know that he was okay…

That he was going to be okay...

You hit the green phone button and the call began streaming. The video showed Jason, sitting in a wooden chair and his arms and legs free. His face was marked with the same scars as yours, which was no surprise, but it still made your stomach lurch to see. But something was wrong with him... he wasn't fighting the Joker and using his silver tongue to hiss at the clown... he was still like a statue...

Oh god... that clown got to him... didn't he?

"Have you got something to tell the nice man, Jason?" The Clown Prince said from behind the camera. Hearing the Joker call your soulmate by his real name made the knots in your stomach grow tighter. Bile made its way to your throat, but you swallowed it in an attempt to calm your nerves.

"My name is Jason Todd..." the way Jason spoke was almost robotic and void of emotion. His face was blank and expressionless, a broken version of the spitfire boy wonder you were used to seeing and hearing about. His eyes... it was like looking into a shattered mirror on a stormy night...

"Who do you hate?" The question was simple... and so was the incoming answer...

"Batman..." Oh no...

"Excellent. Of course, you do. Do you have anything else to say?"

"Yes. I'm really sorry, (Y/N)... I failed you... as a hero and as your soulmate..."

'No...no... you didn't fail me... I wasn't fast enough... I broke my promise to you... please... please, don't let this be the end... God, please... I haven't even met you for real... I haven't gotten to know you...' your thoughts started running a mile a minute as your heart began throbbing in agony.

"Did you get that, Bats? (Y/N)? Kid's not yours anymore. He's mine... mine, mine, mine. To do with as I wish." Oh, how much you wanted to jump through your phone screen and strangle that horror movie antagonist reject.

"Hey. I never asked. What's the big secret? Who is the big, bad bat? His name. Tell me!"

'No... don't answer that, Jason... DON'T ANSWER THE QUESTION!'

"Of course, sir. It's-..."

BANG!

As soon as that dreaded sound hit your ears and the image of Jason hitting the floor after the Joker shot him filled your sight, you dropped your phone. You could hear the screen crack as it hit the cold ground, but you didn't bother to pick it up. The pain of your heart breaking into a million pieces was the only thing you could feel, minus the bitter wind blowing around you. Your senses all shut down, unable to take in your surroundings as you plummeted into endless nothing...

You lost him...

You lost Jason...

Your soulmate...

Your Robin...

Your hero...

Your everything...

After being silent for what felt like an eternity, you finally opened your mouth and a scream of despair pierced through the air. You then collapsed onto your knees and a red pulse of energy left you, creating a shockwave that you were sure all of Gotham could feel. Hell, at this point, the Gotham vigilantes probably knew where you were and what happened... no doubt they were probably on their way now...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Barbara was the one to find you and bring you to the police station. You were wrapped in a blanket by Nightwing as you three, along with Tim, waited for Batman to arrive. Your father was out, handling a robbery somewhere downtown. Your cheeks were dry and no longer had tear tracks on them, as you had spent all your tears during and after your breakdown on the roof. Your eyes were still red and puffy, your eyes empty of any emotion. Your mind was now in denial, trying to make up a fantasy world for you to better ease the pain. But, nothing worked...

You heard footsteps approaching, moving your head slowly to see Batman walking to you and the other vigilantes. You felt a burning feeling in your chest as the urge to start yelling and shouting overwhelmed you. But, you held back... you wanted to hear whatever bullshit excuse he had before you raised holy hell...

"Batman, she saw the video, too. The Joker streamed it to her, live on FaceTime..." you heard Barbara whisper to the bruting Dark Knight.

"Let me talk to her..."

You then heard those familiar heavy footsteps come up to you, stopping next to you. You didn't even bother to look up at him... that's how angry you were with him... with every superhero in that room... with yourself...

"(Y/N), are you alright?"

Really? That was all he had to say? After everything that just happened here tonight? To Jason? To you?

"'Am I alright?'... 'Am I alright?!'... I've never been less alright in the entire sixteen years of my life! My soulmate, your sidekick- no, your son-, just died and you have the nerve to ask me that?! After your half-assed searches and giving Tim the Robin mantle, giving the Joker some fucking leverage to break Jason down further?! Meanwhile, I'm trying to find a way to use my powers to contact him or locate him and nothing I did worked! Then, finally, when I found a potential solution, a way to save him... that clown shoots him dead!"

More tears came pouring from your eyes as you collapsed into the Bat's chest, unable to keep yourself up with how much emotional pain you were in. Your whole body felt like it was made of lead and you couldn't get up. You couldn't do anything else but cry...

As a piece of you had just died hours ago...

[chaos-is-my-jam]

More Viktor headcanons because I’m trash for this beautiful man:

There are some Vik/V too... Hope there aren't many errors... anyways. ENJOY.

TIRED BISEXUAL DISASTER™

We know this already but this guy is H U G E - 6'3, whoopin' healthy 219lbs and bUILD LIKE A TANK.

I think he's around 48-52 years old.

"I can't, I'm old."

Look I know what I said about socks but hear me out... Vik 100% has a collection of those silly ties with cartoon characters like pokemon etc... he likes that blue one with cats best...

He knew V was special when he finished installing their first implant after they first met and shot him with "So, do I get a lollipop for bein' a brave patient, doc?" with that cheeky smirk of theirs... even if just for shits and giggles Vik actually gave them their lollipop the next time they visited his clinic. "Fine, you my fave doc now, won't go anywhere else."

He has Hamsa and evil eye tattoo on his left pectoral, Misty told him that it meant protection from evil and he thought it fitting as a symbol of starting his career as a ripperdoc - he saves lives after all.

Viktor smokes. Not very often, sometimes he can go several days without cigarettes but if the day at clinic is hard or gods forbid he lost a patient... he smokes like a chimney. By some mysterious coincidence he started smoking even more when V came along. I wonder why?

He genuinely enjoys V's company. He LOVES when they just sit at the clinic and talk or even just sit in silence. Their presence is really refreshing for this old doc.

Once Viktor, Misty, Jackie and V went to actually eat IN the restaurant. Misty and Vik casually sat and talked but, of course, Jack and V had a sword fight with chopsticks and Vik asked the waiter for two regular menus and for two menus for kids. After V called him "dad", "pops" or... wait for it... "daddy" for the rest of the evening, Viktor never made the mistake of going out to eat with V. Both V and Jackie still bring it up sometimes much to doc's dismay. Takeout is much safer option now.

Guess who is the one to always pick up horrendously drunk merc duo at 4am in the middle of the week. Yup. It's Viktor. Usually they wait for him outside, sitting on the pavement, arms on each others shoulders, singing love songs. Sometimes they burst in tears when they see Vik "coz youre the best friend I've had Viky", "yea, doc, there no other like ya".

Dad jokes. That's it.

UNGODLY ALCOHOL TOLERANCE. THIS MAN CAN DRINK AND DRINK AND DRINK AND SAY HES JUST TIPSY. Jackie? Under the table. V? Babbling something about "hopin' there is real afterlife" while hugging toilet bowl. Viktor? Checking if Jack still breathes and holding V's hair if necessary. "Amateurs" he thinks.

One of his most beloved possessions is a teddy bear. A gift from V. A they had put it "for caring for people around you and so you don't feel too lonely here in clinic and, well, for being you". Little fluffy fella has a special place in Vik's heart as well as on his couch right beside the boxing gloves.

No one keeps secrets like he does.

He takes GREAT pride in being the only person who knows V's real name.

Also he's the person who saw V at their most vulnerable. Bleeding, bruised, beaten, drunk, crying.

As true to their promise as they are, he thinks V's loyalty is amusing and rather sweet but also dangerous bUT V JUST WON'T GO TO ANY OTHER RIPPER. Found some new chrome somewhere else? They bought it and had it delivered to Vik's. Small repairs? Go to Vik's. Bleeding out somewhere in Pacifica? Go to Vik's. He swears he will strangle them himself one day.

Nicknames. Doll, Sweetheart, Champ, Captain, Big Guy, Charmer, Knock Out, Honey, Sweet pea, Cupcake, Pumpkin... I COULD GO ON FOREVER.

Usually it's Misty to find him sleeping on his desk but when it's V and Jack... well... let's say sharpie can be pain in the ass to wash off from your face.

Jackie got him pink gauges with daisies. As a joke. HA! Jokes on you Jack. He wears them. P R O U D L Y.

My man loves whisky. Nothing like late friday evening and a glass of liquid gold with ice.

Once, when V was keeping him company at clinic after he closed, he tried to be smooth (we all know the way he moves with that chair on wheels of his)... long story short he misjudged the distance from chair and he fell on his ass with a loud *T H U D*. He sat like that for some time. "Oh my god! Vik, are you ok?" "Yeah, yeah, just... give me a moment..." And that was the end of "Smooth Vik".

Officially Misty is his emotional support spiritualist. Unofficially V is his emotional support idiot merc, but also, like, the cause of most of his frustrations. JESUS V TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF IS THAT YOUR ARM THAT YOURE CARRYING IS THAT ANOTHER BULLET WOUND FOR FUCKS SAKE HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE ILL KILL YOU MYSELF I SWEAR. Smeone just give him a hug please.

[imonthinice]

The Criminal Psychology Majors, Jason Todd x Fem!Reader Part 8/?

Word Count: 1.6k

Author’s Note: Y/N - Your Name, A/N - Any Name (Your Best Friend’s Name)

This one is shorter because of the last one’s length.

Hi everyone! By the time you see this, I will probably be out and therefore cannot update the other parts with this one’s link, so don’t worry about that if you notice it.

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Jason’s Trauma and his Death, Lightning, no beta bitch we die like Jason Todd

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9)  (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16) (Part 17) (Part 18) (Part 19) (Part 20)

Going on day 5 of knowing each other, Jason and Y/N would spend the day apart. Why? Because they gave each other the chance to have family time, Jason got it by playing around with his baby siblings, playing Assassin.

Fluff Head canon came from frownyalfred on Tumblr, who wrote about Jason playing Assassin with his brothers 

He would go running through the halls playing the game that he and Dick knew all too well, it had been the only ‘no contact’ game they were allowed to play at a summer camp Bruce had sent them to all those years ago when they weren’t adults with a bunch of other siblings, and girlfriends. But here they were, explaining the game to their younger siblings while Alfred and Bruce hung out with Barbara, who wished she could play, but was paralyzed.

Everyone missed playing games with her like they used to, but with the video game consoles in the house they did transfer a lot of their gaming to online so they could relive memories with Barbs. It was bittersweet, and everyone remembered when she became paralyzed like it was yesterday, but she always wanted them to play games like they used to, with or without her. 

Jason admired his, hopefully, one day older sister for how she treated her disability, like it was a gift, not something that impacted her everyday life and made her have to hang up the cloak of Batgirl.

But running around chasing after Dick, because of course, he got Dick, the universe wanted them to play again, was something he missed so much. They hadn’t had so much of this time, family time, ever since they all became vigilantes, and they never realized how much they missed the thrill of running around with each other.

Jason ended up getting Dick and throwing him out of the game, calling it a ‘selfless act of brotherhood so you can hang out with your girl’ and they both laughed at it. Titus, Damien’s dog, ended up barking up a storm at Jason when he killed Dick, like the big dog was rooting for Dick to win the tournament.

“Down boy! It’s a game!” Jason would whisper-yell at his dog.

“Yeah! Good boy, Titus! Get him!”

“No!” Jason would yell while running throughout the house, Titus on his heels. Passing by Alfred, Bruce and Barbara, where Titus would stop and go lay at Bruce’s feet, but Jason didn’t know that.

Jason would end up coming in just 10 minutes later, with a green slash on his neck. Tim, who had pulled Cass but killed her, Cass, who had pulled Jason. Tim now had two kills in the game and both were to people who could have easily overpowered him. 

“Jase! Welcome to the land of the dead,” Dick greeted him.

“God dammnit I’ve already been here,” Jason whined in a joke.

“You and your ‘I died pity me’  jokes,” Barbara said.

“It’s called a coping mechanism, Barbs. And hi dad, Alfred,” Jason said as he waved slightly at both of them, Alfred waved back and Bruce nodded at him.

“You could just to go therapy, Jase,” Barbara said, seeming concerned for someone who she considered her baby brother. She remember when he came into the Manor, she was older than him, sure . But he had nightmares and she and Dick would switch between who would sleep at his door at night, they both had terrible backs until the nightmares calmed down. Jason never knew they did this.

It also happened when he was resurrected, but the nightmares were worse and he’d wake all sweaty and upset. There were too many nights where batkids would be in Jason’s bed with him from 12am to when Alfred would greet them in the morning. The nightmares had slowed down a lot in the past few years with the introduction of his Goddaughter into his life, but they still came by to remind him of what happened.

He didn’t talk about it much. They would always try to edge him on about about really happened, but he was stubborn. It made sense, sure, trauma is trauma. But they all wanted to help him get better. It hurt them all that he was hurting and they didn’t know how to help him get through it.

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

Y/N would sit on her bed that morning and finally finished organizing her criminal psychology and regular psychology notes when she came across her printed copy of Dr. Barry Allen’s dissertation she had studied so hard. She found it so weird that she was so close to someone who she looked up to in the field while also being so far in the same breath.

She didn't dote on it for long, she stocked it away with her forensics notes in their place. This, the relationship she had with Jason that intertwined her with so many people, was something she was getting used to by the minute, but it was never something she’d get fully used to as time goes on.

She would put on a JCS - Criminal Psychology video in the background as she worked and tried to make her journal look nicer when Jason texted her,

Good morning. He said.

Good morning :)  She said back.

I just lost a game against a 16 year old.

Huh?

My brothers and 2 of my sisters were playing Assassins with me right? Well my 16 year old brother, Tim, he ended up getting the better of me and beat me. 

Oh! So you suck!

What!? No, I’m literally so cool what do you mean? He said, it clearly had sarcasm undertones to it, so Y/N wasn’t worried if she offended him with saying he sucked.

Oh yeah? Then why’d you lose?

Well, I killed Dick.

Okay so you didn’t lose, Dick lost.

It started raining a little bit, the sounds of it hitting lightly against her window, and she felt at peace. It was never hard for her to feel peace when she was by herself. She only had one roommate because she liked the silence, to be alone to collect her own thoughts in her head.

Her parents said it was because she probably had underlying mental illness that they never had the money to diagnose. She agreed. But she still didn’t have the chance to do it.

Jason and her deserved so much more than what the world have given them up to this point, so when they found each other it was, in a way, the universe saying ‘I’m sorry, you deserve this’ and with each passing day it made the pain they had both felt in their lives just a little bit more tolerable.

No, I guess Dick sucks at the game more than me.

Where’d you even get the concept for that game?

Dick and I used to play it at a Summer Camp before we got kicked out.

For playing the game?

No, for being unruly children.

You seem like you were a handful back in the day.

I was, I was the worst kid to raise, my dad has a shirt that says ‘Proud parent of a kid who is sometimes an asshole but that’s OK’ and he wears it all the time.

What a dad moment. Don’t tell my father that shirt exists, he’ll get one for my mum and himself to represent my sister and I.

Were you an unruly child as well?

I was a troublemaker. Getting into arguments with my authoritative figures about dress codes, rules, why girls couldn’t carry chairs, literally anything that was unequal, I was at their throats about it.

I mean, as you should. My older sister, Barbara, and my younger sisters, Stephanie and Cassie, they would like that about you.

I feel like in someway I’ve won over every part of your family.

The rain would get more violent as time went on. Strikes and hits of lightning would strike all around the city, hitting those gargoyles on every building, she always figured they were decorative, but A/N explained that their horns were made out of copper so people wouldn’t get struck by lightning. Bruce Wayne actually made that a thing, A/N said.

Y/N got a message from the dance competition that she signed up to, turns out, California was hit with a hurricane and most people evacuated. No one was allowed in or out. She guessed weather was being funky everywhere. It sucked, but she already was wishing she could spend time at home instead of out in the world.

A feeling she hated.

She would spend the rest of the day on and off the phone with Jason while it stormed. She would go to bed early that night.

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

Jason slipped on his vigilante uniform, the Red Hood was going to be on patrol over this night, stormy or not, it was his duty and he knew that. Did he want to go? Yes. He was killing for some action and he was going with Dick. They would probably have some ‘Bro Time’ which Jason wanted. 

Even if it was silence, having Dick nearby him meant enough and gave him peace of mind.

He grabbed his guns and loaded them while packing a few extra magazines in his belt, when Dick placed a hand on his shoulder, “You have to be careful tonight, Jase,” Dick said as he gulped down tears, “Just come back to me alive if you break off from me, okay?”

“Alive but bruised,” Jason joked.

“I’m serious. I can’t lose you again and tonight is going to be massively dangerous.”

“You won’t.”

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

In Search of Lost Screws (RQBB '21)

Here at last is my entry for the 2021 Rusty Quill Big Bang!

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Rating: T Word count: ~30k Warnings: Chronic Illness, Mild Body Horror, Internalized Ableism, Canon-Typical Spiders, Mention of Canon-Typical Suicidal Ideation, Alcohol Other tags: Cane-user Jon, EDS Jon, Canon-compliant, Season 5, Set in 180-181 (Upton Safehouse period) Characters: Jon Sims, Martin Blackwood, Mikaele Salesa (secondary), Annabelle Cane (secondary) Relationships: Jon/Martin Summary: While staying at Upton House, Jon and Martin accidentally break their bedroom’s doorknob, and can’t get back into the room until they fix it. Meanwhile Jon tries not to break into literal pieces without the Eye, and also to pretend he’s having a good time as he and Martin lunch with Annabelle, parry gifts from Salesa, and quarrel about whether Jon’s okay or not. He's fine! It's just that the apocalypse runs on dream logic, and chronic pain feels worse when you're awake. Excerpt:

“Have I mentioned how weird it is you’re the one who keeps asking me this stuff?” “I’m sorry. I’m trying to help? I just…” Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouse’s dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. “I can’t seem to corral my thoughts here.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s actually kind of fun, it’s just—I’m so used to being the sidekick,” Martin laughed. “Besides, I miss my eldritch Google.” “Should I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?” Another laugh, this one less awkward. “No. That won’t work, remember? This place is a ‘blind spot,’ you said.” The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice. “Right, right. I forgot,” Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger he’d felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds he’d allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadn’t somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutes’ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think I’ll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martin’s face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him. “Honestly, it’d almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.” “Hey.” Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. “I think I’ll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.” Was it just because of Hopworth that Martin’s elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way he’d learnt not to fear out there?

Huge thanks to @pilesofnonsense for hosting this event; to @connanro for beta-reading; and to @silmapeli for their amazing illustration, whose own post you can find here.

If you prefer, you can read this fic instead on Ao3. I won't link it directly, since Tumblr has trouble with external links, but if you google the title and add "echinoderms" (my Ao3 handle), it should come up!

Crunch. “Oh god. Shit! Oh god, oh no—”

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

A clatter, then a noise like a small rock scraping a large one. Jon’s heart plunged; halfway through his question he knew the answer.

“I—I broke it? Look, see, the whole thing just—take this.” Martin tore his hand out of Jon’s and dropped the severed doorknob in it instead. Then he dropped to the floor, diving head- and hands-first for the crack between it and the door as if that crack were a portal between dimensions. Jon closed his eyes and shook this image away, hoping when he opened them again he could focus on what was real.

He should have known this would happen from the moment they left for breakfast. Every time he’d opened that door its knob felt a little looser. Why hadn’t he warned Martin? Well, alright, he didn’t need powers to know that one. He just hadn’t thought of it. Been a bit preoccupied, after all. And even if he had thought of it, that was exactly the kind of conversation he’d been shying away from all week. Watch out for that doorknob; it’s a little loose, he would say, and yeah, probably Martin would answer, Oh, thanks. But there was a chance Martin would say instead, Why didn’t you tell me?—and all week Jon had obeyed an instinct to avoid prompting that question. All week he had made sure to enter and exit their room a few steps ahead of Martin, and hold the door open for him. Martin probably just saw it as Jon’s way of apologizing for their first few months in the Archives together, and once that thought occurred to him Jon had started to look at it that way himself. Maybe that’s why he’d forgot this time.

“Nooo-oooo, come on come on!”

“I don’t think you’ll fit,” Jon said, when he looked again and found Martin trying to wedge his fingers under the door.

(Martin used to leave Jon’s office door open behind him—perhaps absentmindedly, but more likely as a gesture of friendship and openness, which the Jon of that time would not suffer. Sasha and Tim, n.b., only left his door open on their way into his office, when they didn’t intend to stay long; Martin would leave it gaping even if he didn’t mean to come back. Every time Jon had sighed, pulled himself to his feet, and closed the door behind Martin, drawing out the click of its tongue in the latch. And a few times he’d closed the door in front of him, so as to exclude him from a conversation between Jon and Tim or Sasha that he, Martin, had tried to weigh in on from outside Jon’s office.)

“What are you looking for?”

“The—the screw, I saw it roll under there. It fell down on our side. Oh, my god, it was so close—if I’d reacted just half a second earlier, I could’ve?—shit.”

“Oh.” Jon huffed out a cynical laugh.

“I can’t believe it. I broke Salesa’s door! He welcomes us in to an oasis, and I break the door. Oh, god—I’ve broken an irreplaceable door, in a stately historic mansion!”

A few more demonstrative huffs of laughter. “No you didn’t.”

Martin paused. He didn’t get up, but did turn his head to look at Jon. “Yes I did. It’s right there in your hand, Jon—”

“I should’ve known. Check for cobwebs, Martin.”

“Oh come on.”

“This can’t be your fault—it’s far too neat. This is all part of Annabelle’s plan.”

“Do you know that?”

“W-well, no. I can’t, not here. I just—”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, Jon. Pretty sure it’s just an old doorknob.”

“Did you check for cobwebs?”

“Of course there are no cobwebs. A spider wouldn’t even have time to finish building the web before somebody wrecked it opening the door!”

“Then what’s that?” With the tip of his cane Jon tapped the floor in front of a clot of gray fluff in the seam between two walls next to the door, making sure not to let it touch the clot itself.

Martin rolled over to see where he was pointing, and almost stuck his elbow in it. “Ah. Gross. Gross, is what that is.”

“Christ, I should’ve known this would happen. I did know this would happen,” Jon reminded himself—“just ignored the warning signs because I can’t think straight here.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Jon. It’s a corner. Spiders love corners. I mean, unless you can prove the corner of our doorway has more spiderwebs than anywhere else in the house—”

“Well, of course not. You forget she’s got her own corner somewhere, which we still haven’t found by the way—”

“So, what, you think Annabelle Cane lassoed the screw with a strand of cobweb.”

“Not literally? She could be sitting on the other side of the door with a magnet for all we know!”

Martin peered under the door again with an exasperated sigh. “She’s not.”

“Not now she’s heard us talking about her.”

God, what a delicate web that would be, if all he had to do to avoid the spider’s clutches was reach a door before Martin did. Perhaps if he’d knocked first that’d have saved him. Maybe Martin was right. How could Annabelle know him well enough to foresee this mistake? Most of the time he hated people opening doors for him, after all.

Why do people see someone with a cane and think, Only one free hand? How ever will he open the door!? They don’t do that for people with shopping bags—not ones his age, at least. Letting another person open a door for him felt to Jon like… defeat, somehow. Like admitting the dolce et decorum estness of this version of reality all nondisabled people seemed to live in where he couldn’t open doors. And that version of reality horrified him. Not so much the idea of being too weak to open them—that sounded merely annoying. Like knocking the sides of jar lids on tables and swearing, only with doors. He had beat his fists against enough Pull doors in his time to figure he could live with that. It was more the idea of becoming that way. Letting his door-opening muscles atrophy ‘til it became the truth.

But sometimes you just let a thing happen, and forget to hate it. That was the thing about pride. Sometimes your convictions and your habits stop fitting together—you believe Fuck this job with all your heart, but still tuck in your shirt when you come to the office. And then you fly back from America in borrowed clothes, and pop in at the Institute like that on your way to Gertrude’s storage unit, and that’s what changes your habits. Not the knowledge you can’t be fired; not your now-boyfriend’s plot to put your then-boss behind bars. A thirdhand t-shirt with a slogan on it about how to outrun bears.

On his way out this morning the doorknob had felt so loose in Jon’s hand he almost had told Martin about it. But Martin had been full of let’s-go-on-an-adventure-together-style chatter—like when they’d left Daisy’s safehouse, only, get this, without the dread of entering an apocalyptic wasteland—and listening to him put the door out of Jon’s mind before he’d had time to interject.

Their first day here—or at least, the first they spent awake—Jon had inadvertently taught Martin not to accept invitations from Salesa. The latter had bounded up after Martin’s lunch in linen shirt and whooshy shorts and was, to Martin’s then-unseasoned heart, impossible to deny. So Jon had spent thirty minutes on a creaky folding chair, lunging out of his seat on occasion to collect a ball one of the other two had hit wrong, and trying to keep Salesa’s too-bright white socks out of sight. He’d pretended he preferred to sit out, knowing Martin would worry if he tried to play. But he hadn’t done as good a job hiding his boredom as he thought. “Thanks for putting up with that. Sorry it went on so long,” Martin had said as they re-entered their bedroom. “I just couldn’t say no to him, you know? For such a cynical old man he’s got impressive puppy eyes.”

“It’s fine? You know me, I don’t mind… watching.”

“I just mean, I’m sorry you couldn’t play. How’s your leg, by the way? Er—both your legs, I guess.”

“It’s fine. They’re both fine. I didn’t want to play anyway, remember? I don’t know how.”

“Sure you don’t,” Martin replied, words tripping over a fond laugh.

“I don’t!”

“Come on, Jon. Everyone knows how to play ping-pong.”

Martin had turned down Salesa when he showed up the next day in khaki shorts and a pith helmet with three butterfly nets, without Jon’s having to say a word. More emphatically still did he turn him down when Salesa mentioned the house had an indoor pool, and offered to lend them both antique bathing suits like the one he had on, “Free of charge! A debtor is an enemy, after all, and in this new world I have no wish to make an enemy of” (sarcastic whisper, fingers wiggling) “the Ceaseless Watcher who rules it. I have nothing to hide from you,” he’d alleged, for the… third time that day, maybe? Each morning Jon resolved to count such references; he rarely missed one, as far as he knew, but kept forgetting how many he’d counted.

But Salesa was a salesman, and over time his efforts had grown more subtle. He stopped showing up already dressed for the activity he had in mind, and instead would drop hints at meals about all the fun things they could do if only they would let him show them. Martin loved how the winter sunlight caught, every afternoon around four, in the branches of a tree visible outside the window of their bedroom. “Ah, yes,” Salesa had agreed when he remarked on it one morning. “Turning it periwinkle and the golden green of champagne.” (He poured sparkling wine—the cheap stuff, he said, not real champagne—into an empty juice glass still lined with orange pulp. Over and over, without once overflowing. The oranges weren’t ripe enough to drink their juice plain yet, he said. But they’d still run out of juice first.) “If you think that’s beautiful”—he paused to swallow bubbles come up from his throat, waved his hand, shook his head. “No. On one tree, yes, it is beautiful. But on a whole orchard of bare trees in winter”—he nodded in the direction of Upton’s orchards—“the afternoon sun is sublime. You can see how the twigs shrink and shiver under its gaze; the grass rustles with a hitch in its breath as if it fears to be seen, but with each undulation a new blade flashes gold like a coin,” &c., &c.

“Wow. Sounds like you really got lucky, finding such a nice place to, uh. Sssset up camp?”

Jon knew Martin well enough to hear the judgment in his voice; if Salesa recognized it then he was an expert at pretending not to. “And it's only a two-minute walk away,” he’d said, instead of taking Martin’s bait. “It would be such a shame for my guests not to see it.”

“Oh, well. Maybe in a few days? It’s just, we’ve been outside nonstop for ages. It’s nice to be between four walls again. Besides, we don’t know the grounds as well as you do—and the border isn’t all that stable, you said? Right?”

“It is if you know how to follow it! I could accompany you—show you all the best sights, with no risk of wandering back out into the hellscape by mistake.”

“We’re just not really ready for that, I don’t think. Right, Jon?”

“Mm.”

“Are you sure? If it were me, a foray into a beautiful natural oasis would be just what I needed to convince myself that my peace—my sanctuary—is real.”

“If it is real,” Jon couldn’t stop himself from muttering.

Salesa remained impervious. “You would be surprised how difficult it is to feel fear in a place like that. I don’t think that is just the camera.”

“We‘ll think about it,” Martin conceded.

“Yes—you should both think about it. I am at your disposal whenever you change your mind.”

And so on that morning they had narrowly escaped. Would they had fared so well today. The problem was, on these early occasions Jon had interpreted Martin’s No thankses as being, well, Martin’s. But after a few more of Salesa’s sales pitches Jon began to second-guess that.

“Is it warm enough in here for you both?” Salesa had asked them last night at dinner. “I worry too much, perhaps. I only wish the place took less time to warm up in the morning. At breakfast time, in sunny weather like we've been having, I’ll bet you anything you like it’s warmer out there than in here.”

“It’s alright; we’re not too cold in the mornings either. Right, Jon?”

“Hm? Oh—no.”

“Perhaps we three could take breakfast out there, before the weather changes.”

“Ha—that’s right,” Martin had laughed. “I forgot you still had that out here. Weather changes. Brave new world, I guess.”

Salesa smirked and shrugged. “Well, braver than the rest of it.”

“R…ight. ‘We three,’ you said—so not Annabelle?”

“Mmmmno, probably not her. I have tried taking spiders outside before; they never seem to like it much.”

Nearly every day, here, Jon found a spider in their bathtub. The first time Martin had been with him. Martin had picked the thing up with his fingers and tried to coax it to leave out the window, but by the time he got there it’d crawled up his sleeve.

“Excuse me.”

Martin pulled back his own chair too and frowned up at him. “You okay?”

“Just needed the toilet.” He tried to arrange his mouth into a gentle smile. “Think I can do that on my own.”

The other two resumed their conversation the moment Jon left the dining room. Before the intervening walls muffled their voices Jon heard:

“I suppose that does sound pretty nice.”

“Pretty nice, you suppose? Martin, Martin—it’s a beautiful oasis! What a shame it will be if you leave this place having done no more than suppose about it.”

“It is a bit of a waste, I guess.”

“You wouldn’t need to sit on the ground, if that’s what concerns you. There are benches everywhere.”

He’d been just about to cross through a doorway and out of earshot when he froze, hearing his name:

“Oh, ha—not me, but, Jon might find that nice to know,” Martin said. “Thanks for.” And then silence.

Was that the whole reason he kept declining invitations to explore the grounds? To keep grass stains out of Jon’s trousers? Martin was the one who’d sat down on that godforsaken Extinction couch; why did he think—?

Not the point, Jon told himself as he sat on the toilet and set his forehead on the heels of his palms. He tried to watch the floor for spiders, but his eyes kept crossing. The point was that if—? If Martin was lying about wanting to stay inside—or, more charitably, if he was telling the truth but wanted that only because he thought Jon would have as dismal a time out in the garden as he had at ping-pong—then…?

He imagined holding hands with Martin while surrounded by green. Gravel crunching under their feet. Martin smiling, with sunlight caught in the strands of his hair that a slight breeze had blown upright.

“And if you get too warm,” he heard Salesa tell Martin, as he headed back into the dining room, “we can move into the shade of the pines! You know, they don’t just grow year-round? They also shed year-round. The floor under them is always carpeted in needles, so you need never get mud on your shoes.”

“Huh,” Martin laughed. “Never thought of it that way.”

“But of course there are benches there too,” Salesa added, his eyes flickering up to Jon.

As Jon hauled himself into his seat he asked, in a voice he hoped the strain made sound distracted ergo casual, “So, what, like a picnic, you mean.”

Not a fun picnic. Not very romantic, since their third wheel was the first to invite himself. Salesa neglected to mention how much wet grass they would have to trek through to get to his favorite spot; that there were benches everywhere didn’t matter since they couldn’t all three fit on one, so they ended up sat in the dirt after all—and n.b. it required a second trek to find a patch of dirt dry enough to sit on at this time of morning. Jon was so sick with fatigue by the time they sat down he could barely eat a thing, though he did dispatch most of Martin’s thermos of tea. His hands shook and buzzed, and felt clumsy, like they’d fallen asleep; he ended up getting more jam in the dirt than on Salesa’s soggy, pre-buttered toast. He felt as though the rest of his flesh had melted three feet to the left of his eyes, bones and mind. Eventually he elected to blame his dizziness on the sun. When his forehead and upper lip started to prickle, threatening sweat, he stood up and announced, “It’s too hot here.”

Or tried to stand, anyway. One leg had oozed just far enough out of its joint that it buckled when he tried to stand; indigo and fuchsia blotches overtook his sight. He pitched forward, free arm pinwheeling—might have fallen into the boiled eggs if Martin hadn’t caught him. “Jon! Are you okay?”

God, why was Martin so surprised? This must have been the fifth or sixth time he had asked him that question since they left the house. One time Jon had bent down to brush dirt off his leg and Martin had thought he was scratching his bandages. So he asked him were they itchy, had they started to peel, did they need changing again, were they cutting off his circulation (no, not yet, not yet, and no). How could someone be so attentive to imaginary ills and yet miss the real ones? At another point, an enormous blue dragonfly had buzzed past, and instead of Did you see that? Martin had turned around to ask Are you okay. Now, on this fifth or sixth occasion, for a few seconds of pure, nonsensical rage he wondered how Martin dared stoop to such emotional blackmail. Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Jon thought; aloud he snorted, as in malicious laughter. His throat felt thick, like he might cry.

“Fine, I’m just—sick of it here.” He pulled his arm free of Martin’s and overbalanced. Didn’t fall, just. Staggered a little.

“Should we move to the shade? We could try to find those famous pines, I guess.”

Jon sank back to the ground. “What about Salesa? Do we just leave him here?”

“Oh. Right,” said Martin. Salesa had eaten most of Jon’s share, and drunk both Jon’s and Martin’s shares of wine. Now he lay asleep in the dirt, head pillowed on one elbow, the other hand’s fingers curled round the stem of a glass still half full. “I guess, yeah? I mean he seems to know the place pretty well, so. It’s not like he’ll get lost out here.”

“We might, though.”

Martin sighed. “True. Should we just head back to our room, then? Maybe get you a snack.”

“Not hungry.”

“A statement, I meant.”

“Oh. Alright, sure,” Jon made himself say. “That sounds like—sure.”

So then they’d headed back, and only Martin had a free hand, and Jon was too tired by that point to distinguish his mind’s vague warning not to let Martin open the door from his usual pride on that subject—and that kind of pride never does seem as important when it’s your boyfriend offering. So he’d dismissed the warning and, well, look what happened.

When he got up from his knees and turned round Martin frowned at Jon. “Are you alright? You’re sat on the floor.”

Jon frowned, too—at the seam between the floor and the hallway’s opposite wall. “I was tired.”

“You hate sitting on the floor.”

“I sat on the ground out there,” Jon said, with a shrug that morphed into a nod in the direction they’d come from.

“Yeah, under duress,” Martin scoffed. “In the Extinction domain you wouldn’t even sit on the couch.”

There was something odd in Martin’s bringing that up now; somewhere, in the back of his mind, Jon could hear a pillar of thought crumbling. But he lacked the energy to find out which of his mind’s structures now stood crooked. “I think this floor is a lot cleaner than that couch,” he said instead, with an incredulous laugh.

“Even with the cobwebs?” Martin didn’t wait for Jon’s answering nod. “Fair enough,” he said, one hand on the back of his neck as he twisted it back and forth. He dropped the hand, sighed, cracked his knuckles. Looked at Jon again. “Yeah, okay. Guess we don’t have to deal with this right now. Let’s find you another bedroom first.”

“Maybe that’s just what Annabelle wants,” Jon muttered, deadpanning so he wouldn’t have to decide whether this was a joke.

Martin snorted. “I’ll risk it.”

Find was a generous way to put it; in fact there was another bedroom only two doors down. By the time Jon got his legs unfolded he could hear the squeak of a door swinging open down the hall. When he looked up, Martin said as their eyes met, “Nope—bed’s too small. You good there ‘til I find one that’ll work?”

“Seems that way.” Jon tried to smile, relief warring with his usual If you want something done right urge. In the quiet moment after Martin neglected to close that door and before he swung open the next one, Jon made himself add, “Thank you.”

“Of course. Oh wow,” Martin said of the next room, in whose doorway he’d stopped. “This one’s a lot nicer than ours. It’s got a balcony. Wallpaper’s pretty loud though. D’you think that’ll keep you awake?” Laughingly, “I know you don’t close your eyes to sleep anymore, so.”

“How loud is ‘pretty loud’?”

“Sort of a… dark, orangey red, with flowers?”

Jon shrugged. “I won’t see it at night.”

“Oh, god. I hope it doesn’t come to that. Should we do this one, then?” Instead of closing the door, Martin swung it the rest of the way open, then strode back to Jon’s side of the corridor, arm already outstretched. Jon managed to stand before Martin could reach him, but, as it had done outside, his vision went dark for a few seconds. He felt Martin’s hand on his shoulder before he could see his frown.

“You alright?” Martin asked yet again.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“It’s just—you don’t usually blink anymore, except for effect.”

“Oh.”

Out there, none of the watchers blinked. At first, soon after the change, Martin had asked Jon to try, “Because it just feels so weird. Like I’m under constant scrutiny. Literally constant, Jon. You get why that feels weird, right?” (Jon had agreed—sincerely, though he wondered why Martin needed to ask that question in a world whose central conceit was that being watched felt weird. He’d also chosen not to point out that his scrutiny, like that of Jonah Magnus, was not, technically, constant, since he did sometimes look at other things. But he still rehearsed this retort in his mind every time he remembered that conversation.) Turned out it was hard to time your blinks properly when your eyeballs didn’t need the moisture. He’d forget about it for who knew how long, then remember and overcompensate by blinking so often Martin at first thought he was exaggerating it on purpose as a joke. It got old fast, in Jon’s opinion, but even after he learnt Jon didn’t intend it as a joke Martin still found it funny. “You’re doing it again,” he’d say every time, shoulders wiggling. Eventually Jon had asked him,

“You know you don’t blink anymore either, right?”

“Oh god, don’t I?” When Jon shook his head, with a smile whose teeth he tried to keep covered, Martin squeezed his own eyes shut and pushed their lids back and forth with his fingers. “Ugh—gross!” And for the next half hour he’d done the whole forget-to-blink-for-five-minutes-then-do-it-ten-times-in-as-many-seconds routine, too. After that they had both agreed to pretend not to notice the lack of blinking. Jon figured he couldn’t hold it against Martin that he’d broken this rule though, since Jon himself had broken it first, on their first morning here:

“You blinked,” he had informed Martin as he watched him stir sugar into his tea. Martin, who had not only blinked but broken eye contact to make sure he dropped the sugar cube in the right place, replied with a scoff,

“Didn’t know it was a staring contest.”

“No, I mean—”

“Oh! I blinked!”

“…Right,” Jon said now. “I’m—it’s nothing.”

Martin sighed. He closed his eyes, but probably rolled them under their lids. Jon used the inspection of their new room as an excuse to look away, but took in nothing other than the presence of a large bed and the flowered wallpaper Martin had warned him about.

“‘Kay. If you’re sure.”

Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, Jon looked down at his grass-stained knees and prepared himself to ask, Look, does it matter? I’m about to lie down anyway, so, functionally speaking, yes, I am fine.

“So, you’ll be okay here for a bit while I go figure out what to do about the door?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll come check on you as soon as I know anything, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Although—if you’re asleep, should I wake you up?”

“Yes,” Jon replied before Martin had even got the last word out. He heard a short, emphatic exhale, presumably of laughter. “Wait—how would you know, anyway?”

“Oh. Yeah, good point.”

Jon looked down at his shoes. His fingers throbbed in anticipation, but he figured he should spare Martin the horror of getting grass stains on a second bedroom’s counterpane. The first shoe he pulled off without untying, since he could step on its heel with the other one. But he had to bend over to reach the second one’s incongruously bright white laces, biting his lip when he felt his right femur poke past the bounds of its socket as between a cage’s bars. On his way back up his vision quivered like a heat mirage, but didn’t go dark. He scooched himself up to the head of the bed. Made sure to face the ceiling rather than the red wallpaper.

A few months into his tenure in the Archives, Jon had discovered that if you close your eyes at your desk, even just for a minute, you can trick your whole body into thinking you’ve been gentle with it. But that trick didn’t work anymore. Out there, this made sense; interposing his eyelids between himself and the world’s new horrors couldn’t push them out of his consciousness, any more than it had helped to close the curtains at Daisy’s safehouse. Martin’s sentimental attachment to sleep had baffled him, as had his insistence on closing his eyes even though they’d pop back open as soon as his body went limp. Here, though, Jon sympathized with Martin’s wish. He too missed that magic link between closed eyes and sleep. Probably he should just be grateful for this rest from knowing other people’s suffering? The thing he had wished to close his eyes against was gone here. But now that most of his bodily wants had synced up with his actions again, it felt… wrong, like a tangible loss, that he couldn’t assert It’s time for rest now by closing his eyelids. That it took effort to keep them joined. Jon even found himself missing the crust that used to stick them together on mornings after long sleep.

That should have been his first sensation on waking, their first morning here. After seventy-one hours his eyelids should’ve been practically super-glued together. Instead, they’d apparently stayed open the entire time. It wasn’t uncomfortable—he hadn’t woken up with them smarting or anything. Hadn’t noticed one way or the other; after all, when not forced awake by an alarm, one rarely notices the moment one opens one’s eyes in the morning. He just didn’t like knowing that he looked the same waking and sleeping. It didn’t make sense. The dreams hadn’t followed him here, so what was he watching? He could see nothing but the ceiling.

He rolled over, hoping to look out the window. Doors, technically. Between gauzy curtains he could make out only wrought-iron bars and the tops of a few trees. A nice view, he could tell; when he got his second wind he was sure he’d find it pretty. For now he wondered how much more energy debt he had put himself in by rolling over.

Drowning in debt? We can help!

How had he not foreseen how horrible it would be inside the Buried? The inability to move or speak without pain and loss of breath—“Just imagine,” he muttered sarcastically to the empty air, as though addressing his past self. “What might that be like.” He’d lived for years with the weight of exhaustion on his back—heavier at that time than it’d ever been before. And he knew how it felt to risk injury with every movement. What an odd frame of mind he must have lived in then, to think his magic healing wouldn’t let him get scratched up down there. Had he thought it would protect him from fear? I must save my friend from this horrible place! But also, If I get stuck there forever, no big deal; I deserve it, after all. There seemed something so arrogant about that now, that idea that deserving pain could somehow mitigate it. That because monsterhood made him less innocent, it would make him less of a victim. How could he have thought that, when he’d known pulling her out of there didn’t mean he forgave her? He should apologize to Daisy for—

Right. Nope, never mind.

He began to regret rolling over. If he planned to stay on his side like this for long, he shouldn’t leave his shoulder and hip dangling. He could already feel their joints beginning to slide apart. But his body had started to drift to that faraway place from which no grievance ever seemed urgent enough to recall it—neither pain now nor the threat of greater pain later. Nor the three cups of tea he’d drunk.

After he and Martin had fallen asleep on Salesa’s doorstep, Jon had vague memories of being led up the stairs to their bedroom, though he remembered neither being shaken awake nor getting into bed. Just a seventy-odd-hour blank spot, followed by pain of a kind he had thought he’d left behind.

It wasn’t that watchers couldn’t feel pain, after the change. They could, but it was like how real-world pain felt through the veil of a dream. Your actions didn’t affect it as directly as they should. In the Necropolis Martin had asked him, “How exactly does a leg wound make you faster?” If he’d had the courage to answer, at the time he would have said something about his own wounds not seeming important now that he had to tune out those of the whole world. That wasn’t it though, he knew now. Pain just worked differently out there. When Daisy attacked him, it had hurt—but the wound she left him hadn’t protested movement. Not until he and Martin entered the grounds of Upton House. You could bear weight on an injured leg just fine out there, because it wouldn’t hurt more when you stood on it than otherwise.

Sometimes, when his joints slid apart while he slept, he could still feel it in his dreams. Up until 13th January 2016 (for months after which date he dreamt Naomi Herne’s graveyard and nothing else), his sleeping mind used to craft scenarios to explain its own pain and panic to itself. Running from an exploding grenade, staying awake through surgery, that sort of thing. But over the years, as the sensation grew familiar, his dreams about it became less urgent, their anxieties more mundane. He’d shout for help from passing cars, then feel like he’d lied to the stranger who opened their door to him when it turned out running to get in the car hurt no more than standing still.

Even before the change, it’d been ages since he’d had to worry about that. Since the coma, Beholding had fixed all these accidents, the way it’d fixed the finger he tried to chop off. They wouldn’t reset with a clunk, the way they had when he used to fix them by hand. It was more like his body reverted to a version the Eye had saved before the moment of injury. When he tried to pull open a Push door he’d hear the first clunk, followed by about half a second of pain, then after a gentle burst of static—nothing. Just a door handle between his fingers that needed pushing. If he tripped on uneven pavement he might still go down, but his ankle wouldn’t hurt when he stood back up, and the scrapes on his hands would heal before he could inspect them. Here, though, in this place the Eye couldn’t see, Jon lacked such protections. He didn’t have the dreams either? And that was more than worth it as a tradeoff, he was sure. But it still smarted to remember that pain had been his first sensation waking up in an oasis. Not birdsong, not sunshine striped across linen, not the warm weight of another person next to him. He knew he’d come back to a place ruled by physics rather than fear because he’d woken up with gaps between his bones.

“Jon? Are you awake?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes.”

“Cool.” Martin sat down on what felt like the corner of bed nearest the door. “I think I know how to do this now.”

“How to put the doorknob back on?”

“Yeah. God, I still can’t believe it twisted clean off in my hand like that. With no warning—like, zero to sixty in less than a second. I mean, can you believe our luck? The thing’s perfectly functional, and then suddenly it just—comes off!”

“Er…”

“Oh, god, sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“What? Oh—hrkgh”—Jon rolled around to face Martin, hoping the little yelp he let out when his leg slopped back into joint would sound like a noise of exasperation rather than pain. He found Martin sat looking down at the severed doorknob which poked up from between his knees. “No, Martin, of course not, I know—”

“Still, I’m sorry about—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine?”

On that first morning, Jon had managed to get his limbs screwed back on properly without making enough noise to wake up Martin. He’d limped out of their room and down the hall, pushing doors open until he’d found a toilet, whereupon he sat to pee and marveled that the flush and sink still worked. It was bright enough inside that he hadn’t thought to try the light switch on his way in—too busy contorting his neck to look for the sun out the window. On his way out, though, he flicked it on, then off. Then on again and off again. How could it work, when there was no power grid the house could connect to? Automatically Jon tried to search his mind’s Eye for a domain based in a power plant or something. Right, no, of course—that power did not work here.

When he got back to their room he found Martin awake. “Oh—morning,” Jon told him with a shy laugh.

“It—it is morning, isn’t it,” Martin marveled. Then he asked if Jon could hand him the map sticking out of his backpack’s side pocket. (What good are maps when the very Earth logic no longer applied here, after all. But Martin was rubbish at geography, so Jon still had to provide the You Are Here sign with his finger for him.) Jon grabbed the map on his way back to bed, and was about to tell him about the miracles of plumbing and electricity he’d just witnessed—not to mention the bathtub he’d admired on the long trek from toilet to sink—when Martin frowned and asked, “Why are you limping?”

“Am I?” Jon had shrugged, then cleared his throat when the motion made his shoulder audibly click. “Daisy, must be.”

“No, Jon. That’s the wrong leg.”

He slid both legs out of sight under the blankets and handed Martin the map. “It’s nothing. It just… came off a bit. Last night."

Before Jon could add It’s fixed now though, Martin said, “I’m sorry, what?”

Jon had assumed Martin understood the kind of thing he meant, but that he’d misled him as to its degree—i.e., that Martin objected to his talking about a full hip dislocation like it mattered less than what happened with Daisy. So he’d said,

“No, sorry, not all the way off—”

And Martin just laughed. “What, and you taped it back up like—like an old computer cable?”

“Sort of, yeah? It—it does still work, more or less.”

“Right, of course. No need to get a new one, yet; you can just limp along with this one. No big deal! Just make sure you don’t pull too hard on it.”

“I mean.” By now he could sense Martin’s sarcasm, his bitterness; that didn’t mean he knew what to do with them. So he'd said with a huff of laughter, “I can’t just send for a new one. That’s—that’s not how bodies work. You have to….” Wait for it to sort itself out was the natural end to that sentence. But he hadn’t been sure he could say that without opening a can of worms.

“Wait so… what actually happened? Are you okay?”

Only at this point had Jon recognized Martin’s response as one of incomprehension. What happened exactly? he had asked, too, when Jon told him the ice-cream anecdote. Did no one ever listen when you told them about these things?

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s fine.”

“Oh come on.”

“It’s. Fine! It’s not important.”

And then for days Martin kept alluding to it. Like some kind of reminder to Jon that he hadn’t opened up, disguised as a joke. Every time something came out or fell down he’d mutter, “So it came off, you might say.” Eventually they’d fallen out over it, and now neither one could come near the phrase without this song and dance.

“Don’t worry about it, Martin,” Jon assured him now; “I’m over it.”

“…Uh huh. Well, putting that to one side for the moment—I think I can fix this?”

“Oh? Great!—”

“—Yeah! It should be simple, actually. I think I just need to replace the screw that fell out? I mean, there doesn’t seem to be anything actually broken, just, you know,” with an awkward laugh, “the screw lives on the wrong side of the door now. But if we can just put a new one in the door should be fine.” He looked to Jon as if for help plotting their next steps.

“I—I don’t, um. Think we have one.”

Martin’s shoulders dropped; the corners of his mouth tightened. “Yeah, I know we don’t have one, Jon. I just mean, we need to find out where Salesa keeps them.”

“Oh!” Jon replied, in a brighter tone. Then he registered what this meant. “Oh. Right.”

“Y…eah.”

“Any idea where to look?”

They checked what seemed to Martin the most obvious place first. Salesa used one of the ground-floor drawing rooms as a sort of repository for everything he’d left as yet unpacked—all the practical items he hadn’t been able to repurpose as toys, plus some antiques he’d been too fond of or too nervous to part with. Two nights ago, Salesa had noticed the state of Jon’s and Martin’s shoelaces, and insisted they let him replace them with some from this little warehouse. “Please, come with me; I’ve nothing to hide. You can have a look around, see if I have anything that might help you on your journey….” As he said this he’d counted to two on his fingers, as though listing off attractions they should be sure not to miss.

Jon watched Martin perk right up at this. All week Salesa had kept pleading with them to tell him about any luxuries they had wanted while touring the apocalypse, so he could try to find something to fulfill those wants. “Well, I—I don’t know about luxuries,” Martin had ventured the third time this came up. “But I do think we might run out of bandages soon, so. If you’ve any extra?”

“Of course, of course, yes, how prudent of you, always with one eye on the future. Must be the Beholding in you.” (Neither Jon nor Martin knew what to say to that.) “But there will be plenty of time for that. I meant something for now, while you are here, while you don’t need to think of things like that.” And sure enough, each time Salesa had come to them with presents from his little warehouse (booze, butterfly nets, more booze, antique bathing suits, &c.), he’d forgot about Martin’s homely request for gauze and tape. Martin insisted they change the dressing on Jon’s leg every day; by now they’d run through the bandages he brought from Daisy’s safehouse. So when Salesa suggested they accompany him to his repository, Martin said,

“Sure, yeah! That sounds really helpful.” (Salesa clutched his heart as though he’d waited all his life to hear such praise.) “Er. The things in your warehouse, though. They’re not L—um.” Leitners, Martin had almost called them. “You don’t think they’ll develop any… strange properties, when we leave here, do you?”

“Of course not,” Salesa had answered, stopping and turning all the way around in the corridor to face Martin with a frown. “Martin, I promise, only my antiques are cursed—and even then, not all of them.” He’d resumed the walk toward his little warehouse, but turned around again and held up a hand, as if to preempt a question. “There are, indeed, yes, some items out there, touched by the Corruption, which can pass their infection on to other things they come in contact with. But, no,” he went on, his voice fighting off a joyous laugh, “no, the only item I have like that does almost the opposite.”

“Oh.”

Salesa nodded, but did not turn around this time. “Strange little thing. It’s an antique syringe that, so long as you keep it near you, repels the Crawling Rot. I like to think it helped dispatch that insect thing Annabelle chased away. But if you try to get rid of it,” he added in a darker tone, “all the sickness, the bugs, the smells, even stains on your clothes—everything disgusting that it’s kept away—they remember who you are, and they hunger for you more than anyone else. The man who sold it to me….” He shook his head ruefully, hand now resting on the door.

“Was eaten alive by mosquitoes,” Jon muttered.

“Something like that, yes,” said Salesa, as he jerked open the door.

Jon hated the way his and Martin’s shoes looked now. He hadn’t had to put new laces on a pair of old, dirty shoes since he was a kid, and the contrast looked wrong—the same way starched collars and slicked-back hair on kids look wrong. Jon’s trainers were gray, their laces a slightly darker gray, so these white ones wouldn’t have looked quite right even without the dirt. Martin’s had once been white, but their original laces were broad and flat, while these were narrow and more rounded. The replacements’ thin, clinical white lines looked something between depressing and menacing. Too much like spider web; too much like the stitching on Nikola’s minions. When they came undone on this morning’s walk, Jon had made sure to tread on them in the mud a few times before tying them back up. Poor Dr. Thompson’s syringe must have retained some of its power here, though, because they still looked pristine. Jon wondered if it had no effect on spiders, or if without it this whole place would have been draped in cobwebs.

Martin seemed pleased with their haul, though. Despite Salesa’s amnesia on the subject, his little warehouse held more plasters, gauze, medical tape, antibacterial ointment, alcohol wipes—the list went on—than one man could ever use. In a strange, raw moment Jon liked to pretend he hadn’t seen, Salesa had wrung his hands as his eyes passed over this hoard. His lip had quivered. He’d practically begged Martin to take the whole lot away with them. “What harm will come to me here? And if it does come, what good will it do, protecting one lonely old man from skinned knees and paper cuts? The two of you—where you are going—the gravity of your mission!” At this point he’d seized one of each their hands. “Everything I have that even might help, you must take it. Please.”

“I—yeah,” Martin stuttered. “This is—really helpful, yeah. We’ll take as much as we can fit in our bags.”

Salesa had let go their hands by this point, and crossed his arms. “Right, yes, bags, of course, the bags. Are you sure you don’t want my truck?”

“Oh, well, thanks, but I don’t think either of us knows how to—”

“To drive a truck?” Salesa uncrossed his arms and began to reach for Martin’s shoulder. “I could teach you—”

“It won’t work without the camera anyway,” pointed out Jon. “We have to walk.”

Martin sighed. ”That too. ‘The journey will be the journey,’ as Jon keeps saying.”

“I said that once,” Jon protested.

No such success on this return visit. They found a small pile of miscellaneous screws, one of which Martin said would work (though it was the wrong color, he alleged, and had clearly been meant for some other purpose), but the screwdriver they needed remained elusive. “I mean, I can’t be sure they’re not in here—the place is as bad as Gertrude’s storage unit. We could spend all day here and still not be sure—”

“Let’s not do that,” said Jon, pushing an always-warm candlestick with a pool of always-melted wax out of Martin’s way with his sleeve for what felt like the hundredth time.

“No arguments here.”

“Where to next?”

“I guess it makes sense that they’re not here. This room’s all stuff Salesa brought, and why would he bring home-repair stuff when he didn’t even know where he’d wind up.”

“Except for the screws.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like he keeps screws here, remember? There’s just a couple random ones lying around, like he forgot to put them away or something.”

Jon peered between the clouds in his mind, trying to catch sight of Martin’s thought train. “So you’re saying the screwdriver should be…?”

“Somewhere less… frequented, I guess? They’ll probably still be wherever they were when Salesa found the place.”

“Not somewhere that was open to the public, then.”

Martin sighed. ”I mean yeah, probably. Not that that narrows it down much.”

“Somewhere… banal, less posh.”

“Not sure how much less posh you can get than this place. But yeah, I guess. Have I mentioned how weird it is you’re the one who keeps asking me this stuff?”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to help? I just…” Jon closed his eyes, which itched with the warehouse’s dust, and rubbed their lids with an index finger. Odd that his eyes weren’t immune to dust, when leaving them open for seventy straight hours hadn’t bothered them. And why didn’t the syringe keep dust away? In Dr. Snow’s day (not far removed from Smirke’s, n.b.), Jon seemed to recall that dust had been used as a euphemism for all waste, including the human kind Dr. Snow had found in the cholera water. It was like how people today use filth—hence the word dustbin. And hadn’t Elias once called the Corruption Filth? Jon opened his eyes and watched Martin swirl back to full color. “I can’t seem to corral my thoughts here,” he concluded.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s actually kind of fun, it’s just—I’m so used to being the sidekick,” Martin laughed. “Besides, I miss my eldritch Google.”

“Should I go back out there, ask the Eye about it, then come back?”

Another laugh, this one less awkward. “No. That won’t work, remember? This place is a ‘blind spot,’ you said.” The words in inverted commas he said with a frown and in a deeper voice.

“Right, right. I forgot,” Jon sighed. He lowered himself to the floor and examined the finger he’d felt snap back into place when he let go his cane. During the five seconds he’d allowed himself to entertain it, the idea of heading back out there had excited him a little. A few minutes to check on Basira, verify what Salesa had told them about his life before the change, make sure the world hadn’t somehow ended twice over. Give himself a few minutes’ freedom of movement, for that matter. Out there he could run, jump, open jars, pick up full mugs of tea without worrying a screw in his hand would come loose and make him drop them. He could stand up as quickly as he thought the words, I think I’ll stand up now, without his vision going dark. God, and even if it did, it wouldn’t matter! He would just know every tripping hazard and every look on Martin’s face, without having to ask these clumsy human eyes to show them to him.

“Honestly, it’d almost feel worth it to go back out there just to formulate a plan to find them. At least I can think out there.”

“Hey.” Martin elbowed him slightly in the ribs. Jon fought with himself not to resent the very gentleness of it. “I think I’ll come up with the plan for once, thanks. Some of us can think just fine here.”

Was it just because of Hopworth that Martin’s elbow barely touched him? Or because Martin feared that Jon would break in here, in a way he’d learnt not to fear out there?

“Oh—I know,” Martin said, clicking his fingers and pointing them at Jon like a gun. “We passed a shed this morning, remember?”

Jon squinted. “Not even remotely.”

“No yeah—on our walk with Salesa. I tried to ask him what it was for, but he kept droning on and on. By the time he stopped talking I’d forgot about it.”

“Huh,” said Jon, to show he was listening.

“That seems like a good place to keep screws and all, right? If it’s so nondescript you can’t even remember it.”

“Sure.”

“Great! Are you ready now, or d’you need to sit for a bit longer?”

“I’m ready.” This time he accepted Martin’s hand, not keen to trip on something cursed.

“Anyway, if we don’t find them and Salesa’s still out there, we can ask him on the way back.”

Jon’s heart shrunk before the prospect of inviting Salesa to be the hero of their story. Please, Mr. Salesa, save us from our screwdriver-less hell! They would never hear the end of it. It would inevitably remind the old man of the countless times in his youth when he’d been the only man in the antiques trade who knew where to find some priceless treasure. Let Salesa open their stuck door and they’d find Pandora’s bloody box of stories behind it. He winced and let out a grunt as of pain before he could stop himself. “Let’s not tell him, if we can help it.”

“Of course we should tell him,” Martin protested. “We can’t just leave it broken like this.”

“But if we can fix it without his help—?”

“What? No! Even then, he’s our host. We have to tell him. It’s his door, he deserves to know its—I don’t know, history?” Martin sighed, shoving one hand in his hair and holding out the other. “If he’s got a doorknob whose screw comes loose a lot, he should know that, so he can tighten it next time before it gets out of hand. I mean, we’re lucky it only chipped the paint when it—when it fell off, you know?” (Jon, for his part, hadn’t even noticed this chip of paint Martin referred to.) “And—and suppose he’s only got this one screw left,” tapping the one in his pocket, “and the next time it happens his last screw rolls under the door like this one did.”

“And what is he supposed to do to prevent that scenario? There aren’t exactly any hardware stores in the apocalypse.”

Big sigh. “Yeah, fair enough. I still think we should tell him. It just feels wrong to hide secrets from him about his own house, you know?”

“Fine,” sighed Jon in turn. ”Should we tell him about the scorch marks on the window sill as well?”

“No?” Martin turned to him with an incredulous look. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I mean—I was, but—”

“Please tell me you get how that’s different.”

“Enlighten me,” Jon said wearily.

“Seriously? Of course you don’t tell him about the?—those were already there! If we’d put them there, then yeah, of course we’d need to tell him.”

“So it’s about confessing your guilt, then. Not about what Salesa makes of the information.”

“I mean, I guess?” Martin looked perplexed, lips drawn into his mouth. “Actually, no. Because those are just scorch marks, they don’t—you can still get into a room with scorch marks on the windowsill, Jon.”

“And yet if you’d left them you’d tell him about it?”

“Well yeah but if I told him about it now it’d just be like I was—leaving him a bad review, or something. It’d just be rude. ‘Lovely place you have, Salesa. So kind of you to share your limited provisions with us refugees from the apocalypse. Too bad you gave us a room whose windowsill could use repainting!’”

Jon laughed. “Yes, alright, I get it.”

Martin’s sigh of relief seemed only a little exaggerated. If he hadn’t wiped pretend sweat from his brow Jon might have bought it. “Okay, that’s good, ‘cause”—when Jon kept laughing, Martin cut himself off. “Hang on, were you joking this whole time?”

“Sort of?”

“Were you just playing devil’s advocate or something?”

“I mean—not exactly? For the first seventy or eighty percent of it I was completely serious.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know. It was just—fun. It felt nice to take a definite sta—aaaa-a-aa.” Something in Jon’s lower back went wrong somehow. An SI joint, probably? The pain caught him so much by surprise that when he stepped with that side’s leg he stumbled forward.

“Whoa!” Martin’s hand closed around his upper arm. Jon yelped again, from panic more than hurt this time, as his shoulder thunked in its socket. “Jon! Are you okay?”

“Don’t do that,” Jon hissed, trying lamely to shake his arm out of Martin’s grip. It didn’t work. The attempt just made his own arm ache, and produce more ominous clunking sounds.

“I—what?”

“It was fine. I don’t need you to catch me.”

Martin let his arm go. “You were about to fall on your face, Jon.”

“I’d already caught myself—just fine—with this.” He gestured to his cane, stirring its handle like a joystick.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“I don’t know, look?”

“It’s not—?” Martin scoffed. “Look when? It’s not like a rational calculation. I can’t just go ‘Beep. Beep. See human trip. Will human fall on face? If yes, press A to catch! If not, press B to’— what, stand there and do nothing? It’s just human nature; when you see someone falling that’s just what you do. I’m not going to apologize for not calculating the risk properly.”

“Fine! Yes, okay, you’re right. Forget I said anything.” Throwing up his free hand in defeat, Jon set off again—tried to stride, but it was hard to do that with a limp. Even with his cane, he couldn’t step evenly enough to achieve a decisive gait.

It was fine, Jon reminded himself. He’d had this injury (if you could call it that) a thousand times before. When it came on suddenly like this it never stuck around long. Sure, yeah, for now every step hurt like an urgent crisis. But any second it would right itself as quickly as it had come undone.

“No, no, I understand! Point taken! Note to future Martin,” the latter shouted from behind Jon, voice troubled by hurried steps; “next time let him fall and break his bloody nose.”

Trusting Martin to shout directions if he went the wrong way, Jon pressed on, rehearsing comebacks in his mind. Is this not a boundary I’m allowed to set? You don’t let me read statements in front of you. Isn’t that part of human—isn’t that my nature, too?

Oh, yes, human nature, that must be it. You didn’t lunge after Salesa at ping-pong the other day, did you? I saw you opening doors for Melanie when she got back from India. You stopped for a while, did you know that? You all did, everyone in the Archives. And then—it’s the strangest thing!—you all started up again after Delano. Maybe you lot don’t see the common factor here; people always do seem to think it’s more polite not to notice.

So what if I had broken my nose? You nearly broke my shoulder, catching me like that. Does that not matter because you can’t see it? Because it wouldn’t scar?

They were all too petty to say aloud. Too incongruous with the quiet. He could hear his own footsteps, and Martin’s, and the clank of his cane’s metal segments each time it hit the ground, and a few crows exclaiming about something exciting they’d found on his right. Nothing else.

“Looks like Salesa went inside,” Martin shouted from behind him.

Jon stopped walking and turned around. “What?”

“Left a couple things out here, but yeah.” Martin jogged to catch up with him, from a greater distance than Jon would have expected given how much limping slowed him down. He must have veered off course to inspect the clearing Salesa had vacated. In one hand he carried an empty wine glass by its stem, which he lifted to show Jon.

“Huh.”

“Yeah.” When he caught up with Jon, Martin stood still and panted. “Guess it won’t be as easy to ask him about it as we thought. If we don’t find what we need in there,” he added, glancing demonstratively to something behind Jon.

Following Martin’s eyes, Jon finally saw the shed. Nondescript boards, worn black and white by the elements. Surrounded by hedges three months overgrown.

Turned out it wasn’t a shed anymore, though—Salesa had converted it to a chicken coop. “Explains the boiled eggs,” shrugged Jon.

“God, they’re adorable. Do you think it’s okay to pet one?” Martin crouched in front of a black hen with a puffball of feathers on top of her head. (Martin called her a hen, anyway, and Jon trusted his authority on animals other than cats). “I don’t really know, er, ch—hicken etiquette,” he mused, voice shot through with nervous laughter.

The black hen sat alone in a little box, and didn't seem to want attention. A little red one they’d found strutting around the coop, however, ventured right up to Martin and cocked her head, like she expected him to give her a present. While Martin cooed over her and the other chickens, Jon went outside and laid flat on his back in the grass under a tree. “Take your time,” he shouted. “I’m happy here.”

Sure enough, when Martin emerged from the coop and helped him stand back up, whatever cog in Jon’s pelvis or spine he had jammed earlier was turning again. And by the time they got back to the house, Martin had talked himself into the idea that maybe all the house’s doorknobs that looked like theirs came loose a lot, and Salesa had taken to keeping the screwdriver to fix them in, say, the hall closet, or in their toilet’s under-sink cabinet.

“I think we’re gonna have to find Salesa and ask him about it,” concluded Martin, when these locations turned up nothing they wanted either.

“If you’re sure.”

Jon sat down on the closed toilet seat. Hadn’t that been what he said just before the last time he sat down on the lid of a toilet before Martin? He’d dutifully turned away, that time, as Martin undressed, wanting to make sure he knew he’d still let him have some privacy. But then, of course: “Where should I put these, do you think? —Er, my clothes I mean.”

“Oh. Um.” Jon had turned his head to look at the stain on Daisy’s ceiling, for what must have been the tenth time already. “I can hold onto them if you like.” Which then meant Martin had to get them back on before Jon could undress for his own shower and hand him his clothes. As he’d piled his trousers into Martin’s hands a tape recorder fell out of one pocket and crashed to the floor, ejecting the tape with Peter’s statement on it. “Shit,” Jon had hissed and ducked to the floor to pick it up, trusting the slit in his towel to reveal nothing worse than thigh.

“Shit,” Martin echoed. “I hope that wasn’t your phone.”

“No—just the recorder.” Still on the floor, Jon clicked its little door shut and pressed play. Sound of waves, static, footsteps. He switched it off. “Seems alright.” Thank god, he stopped himself from adding. Jon didn’t want to lose this one, this record of how he’d found Martin, in case he lost him again. But he didn’t want Martin to hear the sounds of the Lonely again so soon, either. That was why he’d stayed with Martin while he showered, rather than waiting in the safehouse living room. He wouldn’t have insisted on it, of course. He didn’t exactly believe Martin would disappear again? But long showers were such a cliché of lonely people, and steam looked so much like the mist on Peter’s beach, and when Jon asked how he felt about it, Martin said that thought hadn’t occurred to him,

“But as soon as you started to say that, I.” He’d stood with his teeth bared, half smiling half grimacing, and bringing the tips of his fingers together and apart over and over. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Heh—it scares me too now, if I’m honest. That’s… a good sign, I guess, right?”

They had come a long way since then, Jon told himself. They were more comfortable with each other now. On their first morning here, they’d showered separately, but after (Martin’s) breakfast Jon’s irritation had faded and he had resolved to pretend along with Martin that this was a holiday. So they’d got to use the enormous bathtub after all— the one at whose soap dish Jon now found himself staring as he sat on the lid of the toilet. When the heat made him dizzier, as he’d known it would, he had relished getting to rest his cheek on Martin’s arm along the rim of the tub, where it had grown cool and soft in the few minutes he’d kept it above the water.

“Let’s have lunch first,” Martin said now; “you’re getting all….” While he looked for the right word he dropped his shoulders and jaw, and mimicked a thousand-yard stare. “Abstract, again. Distant. People food should help a little, yeah? Tie you back down to this plane a bit?”

“Probably,” Jon agreed, smiling at Martin’s tact.

But to get to the kitchen they had to pass through the dining room—where they found Salesa snoring in a chair at the head of the table. “Let’s just ask him now before he gets up and moves again,” maintained Martin. Jon shrugged his acquiescence and leant in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot. Why hadn’t he used the toilet before letting Martin lead him here?

”Um, Mikaele?” Martin inched a few steps toward him, but a distance of several feet still gaped between them. “We have something to ask you, if that’s—hello? Mikaele?”

A likely-sounding gap between snores—but nope. Still sound asleep. Salesa sighed, licked his lips, then began to snore again.

“Mikaele Salesa,” called out Jon from his post at the door, rather less gently. “Mikaele Salesa!” He turned to Martin, meaning to suggest that they eat now and trust the smell of food to wake Salesa, but stopped himself when he saw Martin creeping timidly toward Salesa with his hand outstretched.

“Sorry to disturbyouMikaele,” Martin squeaked out, so quickly that the words blended together. He gave Salesa’s shoulder the lightest possible tap with one fingertip, then snatched his hand back with a grimace of regret as Salesa’s own hand reached up, belatedly, as if to swat Martin’s away. “Oh, good, you’re—”

Salesa interrupted with a snore. Martin sighed and turned to Jon. “What d’you think? Should I shake him?”

Jon pulled out a neighboring chair and sat on it. “No need for anything so drastic. Try poking him a few more times first.”

“Right.”

Once he’d tired of rolling his cane between his palms Jon bent down to set it on the floor. He’d learnt his lesson about trying to hang it on the back of these chairs, though in this fog it had taken several incidents to stick. Every time it ended up crashing to the floor, when he scooched his chair back or when Martin tried to reach an arm around him. Then again—he conjectured, bent halfway to the floor with the cane still in his hand—if he did drop it, that might wake Salesa.

Two nights ago Jon had got up to use the toilet, and knocked his cane down from the wall on his way back to bed in the dark. It crashed to the floor; Jon swore and hopped on one foot back from it, imagining the other foot’s poor toenail smashed to jagged pieces as it thumped to life with pain. Meanwhile he heard rustling from the bed, and Martin’s voice, querulous with sleep. “Jon? Jon, what’s—happened, what—are you.”

“Nothing it’s fine go back to”—he’d hissed as his knee decided it had enough of hopping—“don’t get up, just. I’m gonna turn on the light, if that’s alright.”

“What fell? Are you okay?”

“The cane. I knocked it over in the dark.”

“Oh.”

He got no verbal response about the light, but guessed Martin had nodded.

From a distance his toe looked alright—no blood, anyway, so he could walk on it without risking the carpet. Jon picked his cane up from the floor and steered himself to the foot of the bed, where he sat down. His toenail had chipped, it looked like—only a little, but in that way that leaves a long crack. If he tried to pick it straight he’d tear out a big chunk and it would bleed. But if he left it like this it would snag on the sheets, on his socks, until some loose thread tore the chunk of nail off for him. What could he do for this kind of thing here? At home he’d file the nail down around the chip, then cover it in clear nail polish, and just hope that’d hold out until the crack grew out and he could clip it without bleeding. But here? A plaster would have to do, he guessed. They had plenty of those now.

Jon hated bandaging, ever since Prentiss—in much the same way that Martin hated sleeping in his pants. He’d had time to learn all its discomforts. How sweaty they got, the way they stuck to your hairs, the way lint collected in the adhesive residue they left. Didn’t help he associated them with that time of paranoia. They didn’t make him act paranoid, understand; he just habitually thought of bandage-wearing as what paranoid people do. It made an echo of his contempt for that time’s Jon cling to his perceptions of current Jon. On his first morning here, when the ones on his shin where Daisy’d bit him peeled off in the shower, he hadn’t bothered to replace them. After all, the bite only hurt when something pulled on it or poked or scraped against it, so he figured his trousers would provide enough protective barrier.

“That healed fast,” Martin had remarked, when he noticed the undressed wound in the bath—and then, when he looked again, “Yyyyeah I dunno, I think you might still want to bandage that. We don’t want dirt getting in there.”

“Do I have to?”

“Humor me.”

When they got back to their room he’d let Martin dress it himself. Martin had sucked air through his teeth. “This is days old—it shouldn’t be all hot and red like this.” According to him these were early signs of infection, which would get worse if they didn’t take better care of it—i.e., keep the wound freshly bandaged and ointmented. Jon refrained from pointing out that when the cut on his throat had got like that he’d left it uncovered and been fine. But he did ask what worse meant. “Really bad,” testified Martin. “I had a cut on my finger get infected once. Really disgusting. You don’t want to know.”

Jon smiled at him, raised his eyebrows. “After Jared’s mortal garden I think I can handle it.”

Martin smiled too, but wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “There was pus involved.”

“Oh, god! How could you tell me that!” gasped Jon, hand to his chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it also hurt? A lot? And it can make you ill. So we should try to avoid it, yeah?”

He’d tried to disavow the disappointment in his sigh by exaggerating it. “Yes, alright.”

“Don’t know why you’d want to leave it exposed anyway. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Well, sure, when you do that,” Jon had muttered, flinching away. As he asked the question Martin had lightly tapped the skin around the gash through its new bandage. A second or two later Jon added, “Less than when I got it? It’s hard to tell; it’s… different here.”

With a sigh that caught on phlegm and irritation, Martin asked, “Different how?”

He hadn’t been able to answer then, but he knew now, of course. It hurt the way things do when you’re awake. Not with the constant smart and throb it had when he’d first got it, but, it snagged on things now. Had opinions on how he moved. When he bent his knee more than ninety degrees, that stretched the skin around it painfully. Also if he knelt, since then the floor would press against it through his trousers. And stepping with that foot felt odd. Didn’t hurt, exactly, but sort of… rattled? Like a bad bruise would. This all seemed so small, compared to the moment of terror for his life that he’d felt when Daisy bit into him—that gaping wound in his new self-conception, which his healing powers had sewn up so quickly. The ritual of bandaging it every evening seemed so otiose, so laughably superstitious. He despised the thought of adding another step to it.

While Jon went on examining his toe, Martin asked, “What was the... thumping. It sounded like.”

“Oh—no—I didn’t fall; it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No—yes—stop, it’s nothing, don’t get up. I just forgot I left it on the—leaning against the doorwall” (he hadn’t decided in time whether to say doorway or wall and ended up with half of each) “so I walked into it, er, toe first.”

“Oh,” Martin said again. Jon could hear him subsiding against the pillows behind him. “It came down?”

Big sigh. Jon’s fingernails met his palms. He set his foot back on the floor, and when his hip whined in its socket he clenched his teeth and kept them that way. In his mind he heard days’ worth of similar jokes. When he couldn’t get a jammed jar open: So you’re saying it wouldn’t… come off? When they got back their clean laundry: Can you believe all those grass stains came out?—oh, sorry: that they came off, I meant. Always with an innocent laugh, like Jon’s original phrasing had been just, what, like a Freudian slip, rather than something perfectly comprehensible that Martin had refused to engage with, taken from him, and rendered meaningless on purpose. “No it did not,” he snapped, “and I would appreciate it if you’d quit throwing that back in my face.”

“Whoa, uh. O…kay. What’s… going on here exactly?”

“You—?”

His heart plummeted; his face stung with embarrassment. Came down, Martin had said—not came off. He’d just been confirming that Jon’s cane had fallen down.

“Oh, god—nothing, never mind. You did nothing.”

“Well that’s obviously not true.”

“I just—I thought you’d said ‘came off.’ I thought you meant, had my toe ‘come off.’”

“Oh,” said Martin, yet again. When Jon turned to look he found him still blinking and squinting against the light. “Do you… need me to not say that anymore?”

“Not when I—?” Not when I’ve hurt myself, Jon meant. But Martin hadn’t done that, so this grievance didn’t actually mean anything. He’d been seeing patterns where there were none, and now that he’d seen through the illusion Jon knew again that Martin never would say it like that. “No, it’s fine. Do whatever you want.”

Martin turned the tail end of his yawn into a huff of false laughter. “Nope. Still don’t believe you.”

“Everything you’ve said makes perfect sense with the information you have. It’s all just—me. Being cryptic again.”

“Okay, uh. Are you waiting for me to disagree? ‘Cause, uh. Yup—you’re still being cryptic. No arguments there.”

Jon just sighed, really scraping the back of his throat with it. Almost a scoff.

“Sooo do you wanna fill me in, or.”

“No?” With an incredulous laugh. “Well, yes, just.”

He hadn’t known how to start from there, while so tightly wound and defensive. It seemed cruel to raise such a sensitive subject when Martin sounded so eager to go back to sleep. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear Martin whimper apologies. Didn’t want to deal with how fake they would sound. They wouldn’t be fake; he knew that. But they would sound fake, which meant it would take an effort of will, a deliberate exercise of empathy, to accept them as real. He wasn’t in the mood to hear yet another person say I’m sorry, I didn’t know; much less to respond with the requisite It’s okay; you didn’t know. It would take a strength of conviction he didn’t have right now.

“Y—you don’t have to explain it tonight? I’ll just, I’ll just not use that phrase anymore, and maybe in the morning you’ll be less in the mood to lash out at me for things that don’t make sense.”

And what was there to say to that? It had taken Jon three tries to force out, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Good night, Jon.”

“Good night. I still need the light, for.”

“That’s fine. Just turn it off when you come back to bed.”

“You won’t wake him up,” a new voice interjected.

Annabelle. Jon couldn’t see her, but he had learnt by now to recognize that voice, with its insufferable upbeat teasing inflection like every sentence she said was a riddle. He caught a glimpse of movement, then heard the click of her shoes on the floor. She must have poked her head round the doorway at the far end of the table while she spoke, then scuttled off again. At last he got a good look at her, as she put her blonde-and-gray head through the closer door.

“He’s a very heavy sleeper,” she informed them, with a smile and a shrug. “You can shake him all you want; it’s not going to work.”

Martin cleared his throat—trying to catch Jon’s attention, presumably. But Jon feared Annabelle would vanish again if he took his eyes off her. Not that he wanted her here, either, but?—he at least wanted to know which direction she went when she disappeared.

“What are you doing here, Annabelle.”

She shrugged two of her shoulders. “Just offering you some advice.” Then she used the momentum from the shrug to push herself backward, out of the doorway back into the corridor. Before the last of her hands disappeared off to the right, she waved to both of them.

“Well, how about some ‘advice’ about this, then—”

“She’s already gone, Martin.”

“Seriously? God—which way did she go?” Jon pointed; Martin bolted down the hallway after her. “Oi! Annabelle!”

“Shhh!”

“Annabelle! Do you know where Salesa keeps the—”

Jon did his best to follow him, praying all his limbs would go on straight this time. “Don’t!”

“What? Why not?” he heard, from the other side of the wall. Thankfully he could no longer hear Martin’s pounding footsteps. He overtook him in the hallway, just about able to make out his face around the dark swirls in his vision. “She’s as likely to know as Salesa, right?” Martin continued. “And it’s not like she’d lie about it. I mean, what would be the point?”

“I just don’t think we should give her any kind of advantage over us,” Jon snarled. The attempt to keep his voice down made the words come out sounding nastier than he intended.

Martin scoffed. “You don’t think maybe this is a bit more important than your stupid principle about not accepting help from her?”

“Is it?” Jon took hold of Martin’s sleeve, having just now caught up to him. “The new room’s fine. It’s even nicer than the old one, right? We could just stay there.”

“I already told you, Jon. I’m not just gonna leave it like this.”

“’Til Salesa sobers up, I meant.”

“If we have to, yeah, but—? All our stuff’s in that room. The statements’re in there.”

“I just don’t think we should show her that kind of vulnerability,” Jon hissed, shifting from foot to foot in his eagerness either to sit down or go somewhere else. “I don’t want to give Annabelle something she can use over us.”

“How does this make us more vulnerable than we are eating her food?”

“It doesn’t, alright? That doesn’t mean we should add more to the pile!” He watched Martin shrug and open his mouth, but cut him off in advance: “Last time we had this argument you were the one maintaining she was dangerous.”

It was on their first night here—their first awake here, anyway. They’d been heading back to their room, Martin lamenting that he’d not packed anything to sleep in when they left Daisy’s safehouse. “Won’t make much difference to me,” Jon had shrugged at first.

Martin had shaken his head, grimaced at something in his imagination. “I hate sleeping in my pants. It’s just gross. Dunno why anyone would choose to do it.”

“How is it gross?” Jon had laughed. He’d expected to hear some weird thing about its being unsanitary for that much leg to touch sheets that only got washed every two weeks, and to argue back that in that case shouldn’t he sleep in his socks. Disdain for the body seemed damn near universal, and yet manifested so differently in each person whose habits Jon had got to know up close. Georgie had heard that underarm hair helped wick away the smell of sweat—so she let that hair grow out, but shaved the ones on her stomach for fear they’d smell like navel lint. And Daisy, a woman who used to sniff her used-up plasters before throwing them in the bin, would spray cologne in the toilet every time she left it. Jon had enjoyed getting to know which of bodily self-contempt’s myriad forms Martin subscribed to.

But this turned out not to be one of them. Instead Martin explained, “It’s so sweaty. Like sitting on a leather couch in shorts, except the leather’s your other leg? Ugh. I hate waking up slippery.”

“That’s why I put a pillow between mine,” laughed Jon. “Suppose I will miss Trevor’s t-shirt, though. Now that I don’t have to worry about showing up in people’s dreams like that.”

“Oh, god, right—what is it? ‘You don’t have to be faster than the bear’—?”

“‘You just have to be faster than your friends,'” Jon completed, in the most sinister Ceaseless-Watcher voice he could muster. Martin snorted with laughter.

And then they’d opened the door to discover Annabelle had done them a fucking turndown service. Quilt folded back, mints on the pillows, and a pile of old-timey striped pajamas at the foot of the bed. “Huh. Cree…py, but convenient, I guess. Least they’re not black and white, right?” Martin unfolded the green-striped shirt on top, then handed it with its matching trousers to Jon. “These ones must be yours.”

“Mm.” Jon let Martin hand him the pajamas, then tossed them onto the chair in the opposite corner of the room (from which chair they promptly fell to the floor). The mint from his side of the bed he deposited in the bin under the bedside table.

“So who’s our good fairy, d’you think? Salesa, or.”

“Annabelle,” Jon hissed. “Salesa was with us all through dinner.”

Martin nodded and sighed. “Yeah.” He sat down on the bed, still regarding the other set of garments—these ones striped yellow and blue—with a puzzled frown. “God, I’ll look like a clown in these. You sure I won’t give you nightmares about the Unknowing?”

But Jon said nothing, still hoping he could avoid weighing in on Martin’s choice whether or not to accept Annabelle’s… gifts.

“It’s probably Salesa’s stuff, at least. Not Annabelle’s. I mean,” Martin mused with a brave laugh, “he’s got a lot of weird outfits on hand apparently.”

“Unless she wove them out of cobwebs.”

“That’s not a thing,” Martin groaned, making himself laugh too. “Spider webs aren’t strong enough to use as thread.”

“Not natural ones, maybe,” Jon said with a shrug and a careful half smile. With no less care, he turned the sheets and counterpane back up on his side of the bed, restoring the way it’d looked when he and Martin made up the bed that morning. Stacked the frontmost pillow back upright against the one behind it. Punched it a little, more as a way to break the silence than because it looked too fluffy. Then sat down in front of them and put his shoe up on the bedside table so he could untie it—glancing first at Martin to make sure he didn’t disapprove.

“I mean, I guess,” Martin mused meanwhile. “Not sure why she’d bother, though. Maybe it’s”—with a gasp and a smile Jon could hear in his voice—“maybe she’s put poison in the threads, and that’s why yours and mine are different. Mine’s got—I dunno, some kind of self-esteem poison, like, a reverse SSRI, to make me feel like you don’t need me, so when she kidnaps you I won’t try to save you. And yours….”

As Jon pulled off his now-untied shoe one of the bones in his hip jabbed against some bit of soft tissue it wasn’t supposed to touch. He gasped and dropped his shoe. It thudded on the floor.

“You alright?”

“Fine. Some kind of dex drain, probably.”

“Ha.”

After a silence, Martin spoke again: “Are you sure you’re okay staying here for a bit? Sorry—I kinda bulldozed over your objections earlier.”

Jon finished untying his other shoe, then paused to think while he shook the cramp out of his hand. “No,” he decided. “You didn’t bulldoze, you just…questioned. And you were right to.”

“Still, I mean. It might not be a great idea to stick around here with the spider lady who’s had it in for us since day one. Have you re-listened to the tapes from the day Prentiss attacked, by the way, since you got them back from the Not-Sasha thing?”

“Right—the spider, yes.”

“Yeah, exactly! You wouldn’t even have broke through that wall if it hadn’t been for the spider there!”

Jon nodded and scrubbed at his eyes, trying to muster the energy to match Martin’s tone. This was an important conversation to have, he knew. And a part of him shuddered with recognition to hear Martin talk about those tapes. He had re-listened to them—first at Georgie’s, one night in the small hours as he cleaned her kitchen, thinking clearly for the first time in months and trying to pinpoint the exact moment his thoughts had been clouded with paranoia, so that he might know what signs to look for if something else tried to infect his mind like that. And then again after Basira found the jar of ashes. That time he’d just wanted to suck all the marrow he could from the memory of Martin with his sensible corkscrew and his first answer to Why are you here, even if it did mean having to hear himself ask if Martin was a ghost. A few weeks later, however, after Hilltop Road, he’d done a fair bit of obsessing over the spider thing with Prentiss, yeah. He just wished he could remember what conclusion he’d come to.

All he could remember was going for those tapes yet again only to find them missing from his drawer. But he’d been chasing phantoms all day; it was late at night by then, and when he’d dashed out to tell Basira his fear Annabelle had stolen them, stolen his memories from him just like the Not-Them had, he’d stood there over her and Daisy’s frankenbag for what felt like an hour, mouth open, unable to utter a sound. It felt too much like going to wake up his grandmother after a dream. So he’d told himself to sleep on it—that he’d probably left the tapes in some other obvious place, and would find them in the morning. And when he remembered his panic, the next day at lunch, and checked his drawer again, the tapes were back, right where he expected them. He’d dismissed it as a dream after all. But no—Martin must have borrowed them. He must’ve been worried about the Web, too.

“It’s… it should be okay. I don’t think it’ll be like that here.”

Martin sighed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That thing where you just—decide how something is without even telling me why you think so. I mean it’s one thing out there, when you ‘know everything’” (this in a false deep voice) “and can’t possibly share it all, but here? When you’re just guessing, like everyone else? Why don’t you think it’ll be like that here? And what does ‘like that’ even mean?”

“I'm sorry—you’re right—I just mean, I don’t think she has her powers here. Based on what Salesa said about the camera, and on what happens when I try to use my powers….”

“Salesa just said the Eye can’t see this place, though. What about that insect thing he said found its way in?”

“I mean.” Jon shrugged. “We managed to find our way here without the Eye’s help.”

“Yeah, but if the Web has no power here then how could she have called me on a payphone? She had to have known where I was to do that, yeah? And she couldn’t know that from here unless the Web told her to do it, right?”

“Maybe? We don’t even know if the Web works like that.”

“Told her to do it, made her want to do it, gave her the tools to do it, whatever. You know what I mean. Look—we know the Eye’s not totally blind here, since it can still feed on statements. Right?”

Jon wondered now how either one of them could have been so sure of that. “Apparently,” he liked to think he had said—but more likely he’d replied simply, “Right.”

“So then by that logic the Web still probably likes it when she—I don’t know, when she manipulates people here. It probably still gets, like, live tweets from her about it. How do we know it can’t use that information to weave more plots around us?”

“If that’s even how it works,” Jon had replied again. “The other fears don’t work like that—they don’t plan, they just.” He tried to sort his intuition into Martin’s live tweet metaphor. “The fears just like their agents’ tweets, they don’t… comment on them, o-or build new opinions on what they’ve read. It boosts the avatar's… popularity, I guess? Their influence?” Jon hadn’t even logged into Twitter since before the Archives. “But unless the Web is different from all the other fears, it doesn’t—it’s not her boss. It doesn’t come up with the schemes, it just.”

“Isn’t it literally called the ‘Spinner of Schemes’, though? The ‘Mother of Puppets’?”

And Jon couldn’t remember what he’d said to brush off that one.

“Of course she’s dangerous,” Martin said now. “I just don’t see what sinister plot of hers we could possibly be enabling by asking her where to find screwdrivers.”

Jon scoffed. “She’s with the Web, Martin! The ‘Mother of Puppets,’ the ‘Spinner of Schemes’? You’re not supposed to be able to see how the threads connect. Anything we ask her gives her another opening to sink her hooks into.”

“So what, you just don’t want to owe her a favor?”

“Yes?” Jon blinked—on purpose, needless to say. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I mean—why do you think she’s here, Martin, ingratiating herself with us?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s the one place on Earth that hasn’t been turned into a hell dimension?”

Jon snarled and set his head in his free hand. The dizziness was coming back. “In her statement Annabelle said the trick to manipulating people was to make sure they always either over or underestimate you.”

“Okay,” granted Martin, as though prompting Jon to explain how this was relevant.

“She’s trying to humanize herself,” he maintained, scratching an imaginary itch behind his glasses. “We shouldn’t let her.”

“I mean, she is physically more human here.”

“Is she? She doesn’t seem to be withdrawing from the Web; she’s not—like this.” Jon turned his wrist in a circle next to his head.

“Yeah but she’s been here for months, right? Maybe she’s passed through that stage.”

A bitter huff of laughter. “So you’re saying she’s reformed.”

“No. I’m saying the fact she’s not all—loopy here doesn’t necessarily mean she still has any power.”

“She’s got four arms and six eyes, Martin!”

“And you sleep with your eyes open and summon tape recorders, Jon!”

“Well,” mused Jon with a wry smile, “not on purpose.”

“That’s my point! You’ve only got—vestiges here, yeah? I’m not saying we should trust her; I don’t wanna be friends or anything. I’m just saying I don’t think the actual concrete danger she poses here is what’s making you hate the idea of asking her for directions.”

“What about that insect thing Salesa said she chased off. Does that not sound spidery to you?”

“We don’t know that! Maybe she waved his syringe at it.”

Jon took a deep, shaky breath through his nose. He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to bring up this next part; he feared it might make Martin too afraid to stay here any longer. “I think she’s plotting against us.”

Blink. “Well, yeah. Of course she is. She’s been plotting against us for—”

“Here, I mean. I mean, I think that’s why she’s here. She’s been hiding from the Eye on purpose so she could lure us into her trap with her spindly little”—Jon thought of the earrings that dangled from Annabelle’s ears like flies, swinging with her every sudden movement. Unconsciously he struck out with his hand as if to catch one, closing his fist around empty air. “Without my being able to see either her or the trap. At best, she’s here gathering information about us so she can report it back to her master.” He pictured the thousand spiders he’d seen birthed during Francis’s nightmare crawling back and forth with messages between here and the nearest Web domain—

“I thought you said the fears didn’t work that way,” pursued Martin—

“And every little thing we tell her is one more thread she can use to pull on us.”

“Okay, but, even if you’re right, ‘Hey Annabelle, our doorknob’s busted, can you help us find the tools to fix it’ isn’t actually a fact about us.”

“But that’s just the best-case scenario, Martin! The worst-case scenario is that she predicted we’d get locked out of our room, or even loosened the screw herself—”

“Not this again—”

“—because she knew we’d have to ask her for help, and wherever she tells us to look for the screwdriver is where she’s laid her trap! Think about it—this couldn’t happen outside the range of the camera, right? It would only work in a place where I can’t just know where to find something. That’s the only scenario where we’d ever ask her for directions.” Martin sighed, crossed his arms, rolled his eyes. Jon looked right at him, hoping to catch them on their way back down. “What if her plan is to trap us here forever so we can’t go stop Elias? What if by trusting her with this, we give her the tools to keep the world like this forever?”

Again Martin sighed. He bit his lip, at last seeming not to have an argument lined up already.

“I can’t actually stop you from going after her”—Jon heard Martin scoff, but pressed on—“but I can’t take part in this.”

“You sort of already did stop me, Jon.” He lifted his arm, pointing vaguely in the direction she’d gone. “We can’t catch up with her now.”

That wasn’t quite true, Jon knew; Martin had chosen to stop and listen to him. Instead of pointing this out in words Jon smiled, meekly, and reached for Martin’s hand. “Guess that’s true. Are you, er, ready for lunch now?”

His answering scoff sounded fond, indulgent, rather than incredulous. “Yeah, alright.”

With Martin’s hand still in his, Jon turned around—an awkward business, while holding hands in such a narrow passage—and began to walk back towards the dining room. At the end of the corridor stood a tall, thin, many-limbed figure, holding a water carafe, a stack of glasses, and four steaming plates of food.

“You boys getting hungry?” As she stepped toward them her shoes clacked against the floor. How had they not heard her approach? And what was she doing back at that end of the corridor?

“How did you—?”

“I have my ways. I’ve brought lunch for you both, if you’re amenable.”

“Oh—well, thanks, you’re, you’re just in time, actually.” Jon didn’t dare look away from Annabelle Cane long enough to confirm this, but suspected Martin had directed that last bit at him as much as her. “Can I help you with those?”

Annabelle managed to shrug without dislodging anything from the four plates in her hands. “You can take the napkins if you want,” she said, extending toward Martin the forearm from which they hung.

Jon sat back down in the chair he’d left at a haphazard angle—though it felt weird, since he usually sat on the table’s other side. He thanked Martin when he handed him a napkin, and allowed Annabelle to set an empty glass and a plate of food in front of him. It was a pasta dish, with clams—from a can, he reminded himself. A can and a jar of pasta sauce. Couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes to put together.

“Salesa’s still out of it,” observed Martin. “Don’t think he’ll make too much of his.”

“A shame,” Annabelle agreed. She set a plate down in front of the sleeping Salesa anyway. “Maybe the smell of food’ll wake him up.”

“Are you going to eat with us?” Martin asked, as he and Jon both watched her deposit a fourth plate across the table from them.

“I may as well. We do still have to eat to live here, don’t we?” Jon could tell she meant this comment as an invitation for him to join their conversation, but he didn’t intend to take her bait. “Besides,” Annabelle went on, “this way you’ll know I’ve not saved the best for myself.” With one hand she picked up her own plate again; another of her long, thin arms reached out to take Jon’s plate.

He dragged it to the side, out of her reach. “No, thank you.”

“Alright. Martin,” she said, looking over at him with a patient, patronizing smile. “Will you switch plates with me?”

“Oh, my god,” Martin groaned into his hand. “Sure, why not.”

Something small and gray skittered across the table toward her. For half a second Annabelle took her eyes from Martin. Her nostrils flared; one of her eyes twitched; Jon heard a stifled squawk from behind her closed lips as she swept the skittery thing over her edge of the table. He made no such effort to hide his scoff. Did she think she could play nice, by declining to hold little spider conversations in front of them? That they’d think she was on their side as long as they couldn’t see her chatting to her little spies?

“Thank you,” Annabelle sing-songed meanwhile, returning her gaze to Martin. “You’re sweet.”

On their first morning here, after showering and then shuddering back into their filthy clothes, Jon and Martin had barely left their room before Annabelle dangled herself in their path, with cups of tea (Jon refused his) and an offer to show them to the pantry. From this tour Jon had concluded that all food in this place was tainted by her influence. And he didn’t actually feel hungry at that point? He remembered Martin remarking on his hunger before they’d both fallen asleep, but Jon had felt only tired. Surely that meant he still didn’t need food here, right? It’d been like that before the change, after the coma—he’d needed sleep and statements to keep up his strength, but could function just fine without… people food. So he’d resolved to accept nothing offered him here—or at least, nothing Salesa and Annabelle hadn’t already given him and Martin without their consent. No tea, none of Salesa’s booze, no use of the huge industrial washing machines, no food.

That resolution lasted about nine hours. He knew because on that first day time still felt like such a novelty he and Martin had counted every one. Once he’d tried and failed to compel Salesa—once he’d heard him give a statement and managed to space out for half of it, rather than transcending himself in the ecstasy of vicarious fear—Jon started to grow conscious of his hunger. After two hours he felt shaky; after four he started picking quarrels, first just with Annabelle when she showed up with snacks, then with Salesa, and then even with Martin; after six he felt first hot, then cold. Finally around the eight-hour mark he was hiding tears over an untied shoelace, and figured it was worth finding out how much of this torment people food could solve. He sat through dinner, flaunting his empty plate—then stole to the pantry for something he could make himself. Settled for dry toast and raisins. “Couldn’t you find the jam?” Martin had asked him.

“Didn’t think of it,” Jon lied, once he’d got his throat round a lump of under-chewed toast.

“You want me to get some for you? That looks pretty depressing without it,” Martin said, with his eyebrows and the line of his mouth both raised in a pitying smile.

“Better make it one of the sealed jars.”

“What, so Annabelle can’t have got to it?” Jon nodded, chewing so as to have neither to smile back nor decide not to. “You know she made the bread, right.”

Of course she had. Jon dropped his head onto his fists. “Fuck.”

“What did you think?” mused Martin with a laugh. “That Salesa just popped down to the supermarket?”

“I don’t know—that they’d taken it from the freezer, maybe?”

“I mean, that’s possible,” Martin granted with a shrug. “Should I get you that jam?”

Big sigh. “Fine.”

In reality he’d stared up at the row of jam jars in Salesa’s pantry for a full ten seconds before deciding not to have any. He feared spiders would spill out of the jar onto his hand as soon as he got it open. But he also feared he might not be able to open it at all—only hurt himself trying. Way back in their first year in the Archives together, Martin had once seen him struggling to get open the jar where he kept paperclips. Jon hadn’t realized he was being watched—or, that is, that Martin was watching him. In the Archives the sense of someone watching was so omnipresent one soon lost the ability to distinguish Elias’s evil Eye from other, more mundane eyes. Anyway, after three minutes’ effort and nothing to show for it but a misplaced MCP joint in his thumb, Jon had given up on paper-clipping the photos Tim had pilfered for him to their relevant statement and begun hunting through his desk drawers for a stapler instead. And then a high-pitched pop above his head made him startle so badly he gasped, choked on his own spit, and flung the picture in his hand across the room like a paper airplane.

Around the sound of his own cough he could hear Martin shouting Sorry, and Tim and Sasha laughing on the other side of the wall. Martin’s laugh soon joined theirs, though it sounded desperate, sheepish. He dove after the photo Jon had dropped, and then, when he came back with it, explained, “Got the paperclips for you.”

Jon frowned. “This is a photograph, Martin.”

“No, I mean—?” His laugh came out like a whimper; he picked the unlidded jar up an inch off the table, then set it back down. “Here.”

Okay, so, not exactly an auspicious start, but, it still became a thing? Martin opening his paperclip jar. At first he’d wished he could just remember not to seal it so tightly; he could get it just fine when he stopped turning it earlier. At least when the weather hadn’t changed since the last time he opened it. But then when they all started leaving the Archives less often, and the break-room fridge filled up with condiments that all seemed to have twist-off lids… he’d kind of liked that? Martin would hand him the peanut-butter jar, with its lid off and pinned to its side with one finger, before Jon had even finished asking for it. This seemed to be the pattern behind all his early positive impressions of Martin: the jar lids, the corkscrew, the way he managed to make mealtimes at the Institute feel like proper breaks. Martin had seemed like such an oaf to him at first—clumsy, absent-minded, always seeming to think that if he professed enough good will with his smiles and cups of tea and I know you won’t like this, but, then no one would notice his impertinent comments and all the doors he left wide open. All the dogs and worms and spiders he let in. He’d seemed to Jon the human embodiment of a fly left undone—more so than ever after the morning he’d walked in on him wearing naught but frog-print boxer shorts. But he had this easy grace with things that needed twisting off. Banana peels, bottle caps, wine corks, worms.

And then when he came back after the Unknowing Martin was never around. Jon and Basira and Melanie all lived in the Archives, like Martin had two years before, but by that point he wasn’t on Could you open this for me? terms with any of them. But he hadn’t needed people food anymore, and if he subluxed a joint it would heal instantly anyway. So he’d just struggled and sworn, feeling stupid for shrinking from the pain even after having chopped off his own finger. And it got easier with practice. By the time he and Martin reunited, he’d got so used to it that sometimes he’d hand jars to Martin already unlidded. Martin hadn’t seemed to notice. Finally, one evening a day or two after that row they had over the ice-cream thing, Jon had opened a jar of pasta sauce (he’d taken up people food again at Daisy’s safehouse, if only to make their time there feel more like a regular holiday), and reached out to hand it to Martin—then paused and retracted the hand that gripped the jar, remembering his promise to be more open about.

“This is, um.” He’d glanced up at Martin, then back to the floor as the latter said,

“Huh?”

“This is one of those things that’s got better since the coma. Since I became an avatar. I can, um. I can open jars now? Without.” He’d almost said Without hurting myself, then remembered that wasn’t technically true. Deep breath. “Without lasting harm. It—it hurts for a second? But the Eye heals it instantly. That's why I’ve been.”

“Oh,” Martin said, seeming to stall for time as he absorbed this information. He accepted the jar which Jon again held out to him, and turned it around in his hands, eyes on its label. “Yeah, I—I noticed, you’re really good at opening jars now,” he went on with a laugh. Again he paused, and blew a sigh out of his mouth. “Right. Okay. Thank you for telling me?”

“I’ll try and be better about….”

Martin nodded, turning back to the stove and beginning to stir sauce into the pasta. “Yeah. I, uh—I didn’t know that was why you used to need me to open them for you?” Since the other night’s argument, Jon had gathered as much. He nodded too. “I thought you were just, heh, you know. Weaker than me.”

“I mean, I am—”

“Well yeah but you know what I mean.”

“I do. I should’ve told you.”

“No, I—actually I think you’re in the clear on that one, if I’m honest. I just—it’s just weird? I thought I was done having to” (another blown-out sigh punctuated his speech) “having to reframe stuff I thought was normal around some unseen horror. Sorry,” he added when he’d finished beating sauce off Daisy’s wooden spoon; “that’s probably not a great way to.”

“No—it’s fine?”

“Suppose it sounds like an exaggeration, now, after all we’ve.”

Mechanically, Jon nodded, without deciding whether he agreed or not. Around an awkward laugh, he confessed, “‘Unseen horror’ might be the nicest way I’ve ever heard anyone describe it.”

“Er. Yikes? That sounds like you might need some better friends, Jon.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, laughing again. “I—I just mean, it’s nice to hear something other than?” Jon paused and pushed his little fingers back the hundred or so degrees they each would go. First the left, then the right. Other than what? Well, doubt, for a start. Though most of the doubt he heard from outside himself was implicit. Careful silence from people he told about it; requests people made of him seemingly just so he’d have to tell them he couldn’t do that; impatience, bafflement, suspicion from strangers. Why are you out of breath, the woman behind the Immigration desk had asked him at O’Hare, as if breathlessness incriminated him somehow. But that wasn’t the response he’d subconsciously measured Martin’s phrase against. What he had in mind now was more like… bland support. Hurried support. Assurances quick and dutiful, yet so vague he could tell the people who gave them were thinking only of the mistakes they might make, if they dared to acknowledge what he’d said with any more than half a sentence. The I’m sorry you’re in pain equivalents of Right away, Mr. Sims.

That was it—unseen horror was an original thought. Martin had put it in his own words, rather than either borrowing Jon’s or using none at all. “Other than a platitude.”

So at Salesa’s when Martin came back with the jam jar he handed it to Jon. Jon made a show of trying to open it, but could feel his middle finger threatening to leave its top half behind. It frightened him, in a way he’d forgot was even possible. For such a long time now, pain had just been pain? He’d grown so unused to the threat it held for normal people. The threat of actual danger, of injury. He’d set down the jar on the table in front of him, and crossed his arms in front of it.

“Can’t get it, huh?” Martin asked; Jon shook his head.

How much danger, though, he wondered. Earlier that day, after he and Martin got out of the bath, his left index finger had popped out while he was buttoning his shirt. It still ached when he used the finger, or thought about the cracking sound it had made—but didn’t throb anymore without provocation. Not much danger there; not even much inconvenience. He supposed if he hurt his middle finger too then he might have some trouble with his trouser button the next time he had to pee? Right, yes, what a cross to bear. I hurt myself doing x; now it hurts to do x. But it already hurt to do x, didn’t it? Didn’t x always hurt, before the change? Why did he so fear to face an hour or a day where it hurt more than usual, but not so much I can’t do it?

“So you’re saying it won’t… come off?”

“Ha, ha.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“What if I open it and it’s full of spiders?”

Martin had smiled, rolled his eyes, pulled the jar toward him, and twisted its lid off with a pop. “See? No spiders in this one.

“While you’re here, Annabelle,” Jon heard Martin say, “I don’t suppose you know anything about where Salesa keeps his screwdrivers?”

Annabelle tapped her chin and said, very pleasantly, “Hmmm. Perhaps they’re where he left them after the last time something broke.”

Martin’s lips drew closer together. “Yeah,” he nodded, “probably. Any idea where that might be?”

“Perhaps he keeps them next to whatever screw comes loose most often.”

“And do you know which screw that is?”

She shook her head, though who knew whether that meant she didn’t know or merely that she didn’t mean to tell him. “Perhaps he only uses the item when he’s alone,” she said, with a shrug and a sly smile.

“…Ew.” Annabelle cackled like a school kid pulling a prank. “Right, great,” sighed Martin. “Thanks a lot. Forget it. You done, Jon?”

Jon glanced sleepily down at his plate. Only half empty, but cold by now. “Yes.”

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Annabelle,” Martin said, sliding his and Jon’s plates toward her side of the table.

Instead of energy, lunch gave Jon only a slight queasy feeling—like one gets from eating sweets on an empty stomach.

“God”—hissed Martin, with clenched fists, as they ambled back to their room—“‘Perhaps he keeps them next to the screw that gets loose most often.’ Yeah, figured that out already, thanks! Can you even believe her? Sitting down to eat with us, as if she’s all ready to help, and then the best she can do is,” he paused and straightened, then said with a finger to his chin in imitation of Annabelle, “‘Oh, hm, guess he only uses it alone. Oh well!’”

“Don’t know what else you expected.”

Martin sighed, his arms crossed now. “Guess I should’ve done what you asked after all, since that accomplished nothing.” After a moment he went on, “Least it wasn’t a trap, right? I tried not to give her anything she could use against us.” With a smile Jon could hear without looking at him, “You notice how I pointedly didn’t offer to help clean up?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jon confessed, laughing a little.

“No?!” Again Martin paused on his feet, frowning, incredulous. Jon wished he wouldn’t; standing still made him dizzier, took more effort than walking, like that poor woman in Oliver’s domain. Daniela? Martin shook his head at himself. “Ugh—then who knows if she noticed, either. I thought I was being so obvious!”

“I mean—”

“Wait, hold up, let’s double back.”

“Are you going to go back and tell her it was on purpose?”

“No, just”—he echoed Jon’s laugh—“no, of course not. I just wanted to try that wing’s toilets next. Didn’t want her to see which way we were going.”

“Oh.” By this time Martin had turned around and started to walk the other way; Jon hung back. “Er. I thought—I thought we were going to our room first.”

“What, the new one you mean?” asked Martin, turning his head around to look back at him.

“…Yes,” Jon decided. Until this moment he’d forgot about that, and been daydreaming of their original bed.

“Sure, if you want. Do you need a break?”

“I… I think so, yes.”

Martin turned the rest of the way around, shuffled toward Jon and looked him over, with a concerned frown. He took his free hand between his fingers and thumb, brushing the latter over Jon’s knuckles. “Yeah, okay. You still seem pretty out of it. How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” answered Jon, though he smiled in relief at Martin’s willingness to change the plan for him.

“Food didn’t help?”

His stomach seemed hung with cobwebs; his mind, like a large room with half its lights burnt out. His light head seemed attached to his heavy, aching body only by a string, like a balloon tied to an Open-House sign. He still needed the toilet. “Not really?”

“Yeah, thought not. You need a statement, huh.”

Jon shrugged, avoiding Martin’s eyes. “Probably.”

In the interim bedroom Jon sat down at the edge of the bed, bent down over his legs, and untied his shoes, wondering why his life always came back around to this. His hip got stuck like a drawer that’s been pulled out crooked, so he had to lever himself back up with his arms, trapping fistfuls of counterpane between thumbs and the meat of his palms. It made his hands cramp, but that helped—the way it would have helped to bite his finger. When he’d got himself upright again he sat and blinked for a few seconds, hoping each time he opened his eyes that his vision would’ve cleared.

Martin sat down next to him and put his hand on Jon’s arm. “You’re blinking again. You okay?”

“Just… kind of dizzy? It’s an Eye thing.”

He let Martin pull him towards him until their shoulders touched. “Yeah. Makes sense. Nap should help. Statement’ll definitely help.”

“Right.”

They agreed to lie on the bed rather than properly in it, not wanting to have to put the covers back together afterward. Jon set his head on that squishy part of Martin’s chest where it started to give way to armpit, knowing to angle himself so the scar tissue pressed the hollow part of his cheek rather than anywhere bonier. It was normally dangerous to lie half on his back, half on his side like this, but he’d lately discovered he could use Martin’s leg to keep his hip from falling off. He could feel the muscles in his shoulder twitching and cramping, whether to pull the joint out or keep it in who could tell. But it’d be fine as long as he shrugged the arm every few minutes.

All the ways they knew to spend time in each other’s company had come together in Scotland, where he’d had none of these worries. Even after the change, on their journey, with nothing but sleeping bags between them and desecrated earth, he’d borne only the same aches he’d been ignoring since he read the statement that ended the world. Jon imagined lying next to Martin like this on the cold stone of a tomb in the Necropolis, surrounded by guardian angels’ malicious laughter. Not feeling the cold, or the grain of the stone against his ankles and the bandage on his shin—just knowing it was there, like when you watch someone suffer those things in a movie. Less vivid even than a statement about lying on a tomb; in Naomi Herne’s nightmare he’d felt the stone in her hands.

“Hfff, okay—ready to get back to it?”

“Mrrr.”

“…Jon, are you asleep?”

He shrugged his hanging shoulder. “No.”

Nose laugh. “Come on, wake up.”

“Mmrrrrrrr.”

“My arm’s asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It won’t wake up ‘till you get up off of it, Jon,” said Martin, gently, between huffs of laughter.

“Hmr.” Jon rolled away to face the wall with the window, freeing Martin’s arm.

“Do you want me to go look without you?”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

Cold air washed over his newly-exposed arm, ribcage, side of face, the outside of his sore hip. It was cold on this Martinless side of the bed, too. He rolled back over into the shadow of his warmth, but that still wasn’t as good as the real thing. Maybe he could pull the covers halfway out and roll himself up in them.

“Aaagh, no—Jon”—Martin’s cool hand on top of his as he tried to hook his fingers round the counterpane— “we’re trying to leave the room the way we found it, remember?”

“Hmmmrrgh.” He consented to leave his hand still when Martin’s departed from it. A few seconds later, a rustle against his ear, the smell of smoke and old clothes.

“Here.”

Jon crunched the jacket down so it wouldn’t itch his ear. “You won’t need it?”

“Probably not.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll be back for it if I have to go outside again, yeah?”

“Okay.”

In his mind’s eye they trudged into the wind, hand in hand. It blew Martin’s hood off his head, and inverted Jon’s cane like an umbrella. He shrunk himself further under Martin’s jacket, relishing the new pockets of warmth he created as his calves met his thighs and his hands gripped his shoulders.

“Ooookay…! Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” managed Jon around a yawn.

Martin had been right about the wallpaper. Not only was the red too bright to look at comfortably; it also had the kind of flowered pattern just complex enough that every time you look back at it you’re compelled to double-check where it repeats. Every fourth stripe was the same as the first, right? Not every second? And that weird little scroll-shaped petal—he’d seen that one too recently. Was it the same as?—No, that one was a bud. He pulled Martin’s jacket up so it covered his eyes.

They’d put their jackets through the laundry with everything else, their first day here, but that hadn’t got the smell out. Enough time had passed between the burning building and their arrival here for the smoke to embed itself permanently into their jackets and shoes, like how duffel bags once taken camping always smell like barbecue. And everything they’d ever shoved in those backpacks still had some of that odd, sour, Ritz-cracker smell of clothes left unwashed too long.

Daisy used to smell like smoke and laundry, too, once she quit smelling like dirt. It was the smell of the old green sleeping bag she’d zipped up to Basira’s. She said she’d have showered it off if she could; she didn’t like it. To her it was a Hunt smell—it reminded her of her clearing in the woods. But there weren’t any showers in the Archives. She’d point this out every time, in the same wry voice, so Jon was sure she’d intended the metaphor. No showers in the Archives: you couldn’t hide your sins in a temple of the Eye. This had comforted Jon—or maybe flattered was the word, though he knew her better than to think she’d have done so on purpose. He just wasn’t sure he agreed. He’d hid his sins pretty well from himself, after the coma. It was easy; you just had to lose track of scale. No one could remember all of them at once, after all. Others had had to point the important ones out to him.

Were those footsteps he could hear out there? Not Annabelle’s—? No; her clicky shoes. These were blunter. Could be Salesa, awake at last, come to invite them to play a game with him. “How do you two feel about… foosball?” he would say, drawing out the last word in a husky whisper. Only then would he swing the door wide open to reveal himself in a shiny jersey, shorts, and studded shoes. He set his fists out before him and turned them in semicircles, pretending to manipulate the plastic rods of a foosball table. Jon curled still more tightly into himself at the thought of Salesa’s face, how his showman’s grin would crumple like a hole in a cellophane wrapper when he realized the fun one had gone and that he faced only the Archivist. “Oh—hello. Jon, is it? Where has your lovely Martin gone?”

“Oh, uh. Martin needs a screwdriver to fix our door, so I.”

He watched Martin march his silent way slowly, solemnly down a corridor that grew darker, grayer, vaguer with every step until the webs that lined its every side and hung in laces from the ceiling began to catch on his shoes, his belt, his glasses.

“I let him go off alone.”

Jon’s whole body flinched. He gasped awake—oh shit. How had he just let Martin go? He had to—couldn’t stay here—find Martin—keep him out of Annabelle’s clutches—

Stick-thin bristling spider legs tapped the floor of his mind like fingers on a table. Find Martin. Jon instructed himself to sit up, swing his legs over the side of the bed and reach down to grab his shoes. He twitched one finger. See? You can do this. In a minute he’d try again and be able to move his whole arm, push himself up onto one hand. Find Martin.

Also probably go to the toilet. With an empty bladder his head would be clearer, he could figure out which direction to look first.

After Hopworth, while he laid on the couch in his office waiting for the strength to throw himself into the Buried, Jon had imagined Martin and Georgie and Basira and Melanie all stood around that coffin, wearing black and holding flowers. Denise? No, it definitely had three syllables. A scattered applause began as Jonah Magnus emerged from his office, closed behind him the door printed with poor dead Bouchard’s name, and stepped up to the podium. Georgie, not knowing his face, began to clap; Melanie stayed her hands. Elagnus’s shirt, hidden behind suit except for the collar, was striped in black and white. A ball and chain hung from his sleeve like an enormous cufflink. He opened his mouth to speak, and a tape recorder began to hiss.

“What are you doing here?” asked Basira.

“Never underestimate how much I care for the tools I use, Detective. I wouldn’t miss my Archivist’s big day.”

“So they just let you out for this.”

Elias shrugged with false modesty. His chain jingled. “When I asked them nicely.”

“How did you even know he was dead?” interposed Melanie. “Basira, did you tell him about the—”

“She didn’t have to,” said Elias, raising his voice to cut Melanie’s off. “Nothing escapes my notice, and I like to keep an eye out for this sort of thing.”

“Well—it’s—good to see you.” Tim’s voice. Unconvincing, even then.

Jon steeled himself to hear his own voice stammer out, “Yes—y-yes!” but heard nothing except the hissing of the… tape. Yes, that was the wrong tape—the one from his birthday.

“Anyway. Somebody mentioned cake.” Elias jingled as he arranged his hands under his chin.

Tim scoffed. “They didn’t serve cake at my funeral.”

“I preferred going out for ice cream anyway,” pronounced Martin, his arms crossed and his nose in the air. Jon pushed himself up on shaking hands. Find Martin.

They had gone for ice cream at John O’Groats before the change, while living at Daisy’s safehouse. Martin had apologized on behalf of the kiosk for its measly selection—no rum and raisin. Jon pronounced a playful “Urgh,” assuming Martin had cited this flavor as a joke. “I think I’ll manage without that particular abomination.”

“Wait, what? Why did you order it at my birthday party then?”

Jon stood still with his ice cream cone, squinted into space, and blinked. “I did?”

“My first birthday in the Archives, yeah!”

“Huh. That’s… odd.” Martin placed a gentle hand on Jon’s back to remind him to resume walking. “I suppose I must have been—huh. Yes,” he mused, nodding slowly as his hypothesis came into focus between his eyes and the ground. “I must still have thought I was tired of all the good flavors at that point.”

He heard Martin scoff a few steps ahead of him. “What, and now you’re happy with plain old vanilla?” Then he heard arrhythmic footsteps thumping toward him from Martin’s direction; he looked up to find Martin reaching his napkin-draped free hand out toward Jon’s ice cream cone. “You’re dripping again,” he explained.

Jon mumbled thanks and shrugged a laugh. “I-I’ve, uh. Come back around on most of them.”

“Except rum and raisin?”

“No—I’ve come around on it, too, just, uh.” He tried to make the shape of a wheel with his ice-cream-cone-laden hand. It flicked drips of vanilla across his shirt. Martin came at him with the napkin again. “Thank you. I just disliked that one to start with.”

“…Right. Okay, so what revolution occurred in your life before the Archives that overturned all your opinions on ice cream flavors?”

So Jon had told Martin about that summer when his jaw kept subluxing. He’d used that word, assuming Martin was familiar with it already—incorrect, as he knew now. Presumably Martin had gathered from context that Jon meant he’d hurt his jaw, in some small-scale, no-big-deal way whose specifics he’d let slide as an unimportant detail. But then as the anecdote wore on he must have begun to feel the hole in his knowledge. And lo, at last Martin had invoked that dread specter the clarifying question.

“Okay but so your grandmother had no problem with you basically living off ice cream all summer?”

“Well, she did when I could chew. But not when it was that or tinned soup.”

“Ah—right. ‘Cause you hurt your… jaw, you said?” Jon nodded. “What happened exactly?”

“Oh. Uh. Happened? Nothing, just my—I was born, I guess. Just part of my genetic condition; I happened to get it especially bad in the jaw that year. I-it’s much better now, though,” he hastened to add when he noticed Martin’s frown.

“What genetic condition? You never told me you had one.”

“Didn’t I?”

At the time, the anger in Martin’s answering scoff had surprised him. “No, Jon, you never said.”

“Oh. Sorry? I—I mean, you’ve seen me with this for years—I just?—thought you knew.”

“Seen you with—what, the cane, you mean? I thought that was Prentiss!”

Jon glanced to the doorway to double-check that was where he’d left his cane.

“What? No,” he had mused. “Of course not. I’ve had this since….”

“But you never used it.”

“No—surely, I—”

“Not once before Prentiss.”

Even as he’d said the words, Jon’s memory of that time had returned to him and he’d known Martin was right. Before Prentiss attacked the Institute he’d brought his cane with him to work in the Archives every day, and every day left it folded up in his bag. All out of an obscure notion that if he’d used it before Elias and before his coworkers, they’d take it as a plea for mercy, an admission of weakness or incompetence. God, he was naïve back then. He’d used the cane often enough back in Research; why hadn’t he worried Tim and Sasha would find its new absence conspicuous? That they’d worry just as much about his refusal to use it? The whole thing seemed even more stupid, too, now that he knew Elias must have noticed the change. How it must have pleased him, to see his shiny new Archivist so obsessed with proving he was fit for the job.

“Yeah but,” Jon pursued, instead of voicing any of this, “Tim never—?”

Martin nodded and shrugged. “I don’t know; I figured Tim didn’t get them in the legs as much as you did. I didn’t see you guys after the attack, remember? Not ‘til you got out of quarantine.”

“Right, no, of course you didn’t. I’m sorry,” said Jon mechanically, already consumed with the question he asked next. “Martin—did you think it was the corkscrew?”

From Martin’s sigh Jon figured he’d been expecting this question. “Kinda? At first, yeah. Half for real, half just—you know, as a habit? Like, ‘Look, a way to blame yourself!’” He splayed out his hands, rolled his eyes.

“Yes—I do that too.” Jon barely got the words out above a whisper; he couldn’t not smile, but fought to keep it from showing teeth. A muscle under his chin spasmed with the effort.

“But then I noticed you switching sides with it a lot, so, yeah. I knew it couldn’t be just that.”

“Really?” He waited for Martin’s answering shrug. “You’re the first person who’s ever noticed that. Or at least commented on it.”

“Sorry?”

“No—it’s.”

This attempt to communicate a similar sentiment, Jon recalled as he reached for his shoes, hadn’t gone as well as the one a few days later (over unseen horror &c.). Beholding had at that moment presented him with the image of a fat, hunched woman in shorts. She shuffled forward a few steps in a queue at Boots, next to him, and shifted her weight so the cane in her right hand supported her nearer leg. He felt a strong impulse he knew wasn’t his own—one born partly of resentment, part exasperation, part concern—to tell the woman that was bad for her shoulder, that she should switch hands too. But knew if he tried she’d either pretend she hadn’t heard it, or tell him off for criticizing her. Jon didn’t know what she would say more specifically; the Eye didn’t do hypotheticals. It had given him no more than this single moment of preverbal intuition. After the change he could have sought out other conversations Martin had had with his mother, and they might have given him a pretty good idea. But he’d promised Martin not to look at things like that.

He managed to dislodge a finger while tying his shoe. The other shoe he’d pulled off without untying; in a fit of impatience he tried now to shove his foot into it as it was. No good—he got the shoe on, but it just made the other index finger, the one he’d hooked into the back of the shoe behind his heel for leverage, pop off to the side too. Jon was afraid to find out what shape it would end up in if he pulled his finger back out of the shoe like that, so he had to untie it after all, one-handed. Then carefully extract his finger. It sprung back into place as soon as he removed the offending pressure (namely, his heel), but he still whimpered and swore. The corners of his eyes pricked with indignation when he remembered he still had to pee.

In this case, for once, Beholding had told him the important part: that that was why Martin had noticed. Had he noticed Melanie, too, Jon wondered, when she got back from India? She would switch hands sometimes, too—but, of course, without switching legs. He wondered if that had picked at the same unacknowledged nerve of Martin’s that his mother’s habit had. It had bothered Jon, too, but in a different way. He’d resented it a little, but also felt humbled by it, the way he always did by others’ discomfort. Getting shot in the leg seemed so big? Like such an aberration. So uncontroversially important—probably because it was simple, legible. Georgie could convey its hugeness to him in three words. She got shot. Obviously there was more to the story than that; there were parts he could never…

Well, no. There was a part of it he felt he should say he could never understand: that she’d kept the cursed bullet because she wanted it. In fact he was pretty sure he did understand that. But he didn’t have the right to admit it, he didn’t think. And no reason to hope she would believe him if he did. The second he’d learnt the bullet was still in there, after all, he and Basira had rushed to dig it out. Surely, from her perspective that could only mean he didn’t and could never understand. Or maybe he just wanted her to see it that way—wanted her to get to keep that uncomplicated resentment of his ignorance. It made his perspective look stupid and ugly, sure. But the truth made it look self-absorbed and pitiful. The truth was that until Daisy insisted otherwise, he’d assumed only he could see his own corruption and assent to it: that the others must not have known what they were doing.

Then again, maybe even if Melanie knew that, she would see only that he had underestimated her. Maybe it didn’t matter how much she knew.

Melanie switched off which hand she held her white cane with now, too. But that was probably healthy? Jon knew no more than the average person about white-cane hygiene. He just remembered feeling the floor drop out of his stomach when they’d got coffee together during his time in hiding and he had seen her switch her original, silver cane from hand to hand. Part of him had wanted to scoff or rationalize it away. How much could the shot leg hurt, really, if she still noticed when her arms got tired? But another part of him shuddered at the thought one arm alone couldn’t compensate for the weight her leg refused to take—that she had to keep switching off when one arm got weak and shaky from supporting more weight than it should have to. It wasn’t that he hadn’t experienced pain or impairment on that scale. He had, though the thought of a single injury sufficing to cause it still made him feel cold inside. It was that he kept seeing proofs, all over, everywhere, that the parts of his life he’d only learnt to accept by assuming they were rare weren’t rare.

Leitner hadn’t made the evil books; he’d just noticed they were there. And then had his life ruined by their influence, like everyone who came across them. Jon had had no time and no right to deplore the holes Prentiss had left in him and Tim, because on the same damn day he learnt someone had shot the previous Archivist to death. Alright, so it was him, then, right? Him and Tim—just doomed, just preternaturally unlucky. Tim, handsome face half-eaten by worms, estranged (as Jon then assumed) from a brother who seemed so warm and accepting in that picture on his lock screen; Jon, saved from Mr. Spider only by his childhood bully, now fated to take the place of another murder victim—and also half-eaten by worms. But no; he and Tim had got off lightly. Look what had happened to Sasha the same fucking night. The very thing whose influence convinced him the world had it out for him? Had killed Sasha. Literally stolen her life. How many lives around him got stolen while he mourned his own?

“I want you to comment on it,” Jon had managed to clarify. But Martin had scoffed as he stood in the foyer of Daisy’s safehouse, hopping on one foot to pull off the other shoe:

“Yeah, well. You haven’t exactly led by example on that one.”

“How could I?”

He accepted Jon’s scarf and long-discarded jacket, hanging them up beside his own. “Gee, I don’t know—commenting on it yourself?”

“On… switching which side I used the cane on.”

“Don’t play dumb, Jon. On this ‘genetic condition’” (in a deep, posh voice, with a stodgy frown and fluttering eyelashes) “you’ve apparently had this entire time. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I thought you knew, Martin! Why would I mention it in a childhood anecdote if I didn’t think...?”

“Well I didn’t know, okay? You never told me. You never tell anyone anything about what’s going on with you, you just—you just make everything into another heroic cross to bear.”

“That’s not—?” He wanted to tell Martin just how little that made him want to say about it. But he guessed Martin was really talking less about the EDS thing, more about how he’d spent their whole first year in the Archives pretending to dismiss the statements that scared him. How he’d sent Tim and Martin home when he’d found out about Sasha. How he’d stayed away from the Institute even after his name got cleared for Leitner’s murder. “What do you want to know.”

“Why you never—?” In a similar way, Martin seemed to reconsider his initial response. “Yeah, okay, right. Object-level stuff, yeah?” Jon nodded and wanly smiled. “Okay, so. What’s it called?”

After taking a minute to ditch his shoes, wash the sticky ice-cream residue off his hands, and drink some water, he’d sat down on the couch with Martin and told him its name, what it was, what it did. What does that mean, though, Martin kept asking, so he’d explained how it applied to the anecdote about his jaw. Martin asked why it meant he needed a cane.

“Be…cause all my joints are like that.”

“Yeah, but why does it help with that? What is the cane actually for, is what I’m asking.”

Jon hated being asked that question. “It—it means I don’t fall over when one of my joints stops working? A-and… also makes walking hurt less. I suppose.”

“So, when they’re working right, that’s when you don’t need it?”

“No—yes?—sort of. Now sometimes I just need it when it’s been too long since I had a statement. I get sort of. Weak.” Quickly Jon added, “But I don’t need it for stability so much since the coma.” He’d shown Martin how now, when he pulled out his finger, the Eye would just sort of erase that version of reality—how the dislocation wouldn’t snap back, but simply cease to exist. As if his body were a drawing on which the Beholding had corrected a mistake. He put his palms together behind his back, in the way he’d been told one couldn’t without subluxing both shoulders, and told Martin to watch how the hollows between his shoulder bones vanished. He opened his jaw ‘til it jarred to the side, and told Martin to listen for the static.

But Jon had never shown Martin how these things worked before the coma. Martin had no reference for this kind of thing; he understood only enough to find the sights unsettling. “That’s—no, that’s okay, I’ll”—he stuttered as Jon fumbled with his kneecap in search of a fourth example—“I-I get it. I’ll take your word for it.”

“I just thought.”

“No, I—? I don’t need you to prove it to me, Jon.” (The latter nodded, blushing, trying to smile.) “I get… I’m sorry. I guess I get why it’d feel easier not to say anything if? If you think it’s either that or have to convince people it’s a thing.”

Again Jon nodded. He suspected Martin wasn’t through talking yet. But Martin still wasn’t looking at him, eyes squeezed tight against Jon’s party tricks. So, to show he was listening, Jon said, “Yes. Er—thank you, Martin.”

“I just don’t like it when you hide things from me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You could at least ask if I want to know about them, yeah?”

Even at the time, Jon had doubted this. If they’d had this conversation after the change, he might have pointed out to Martin that when you mention something the other person has no inkling of, you make them too curious to decline your offer of more information, even if afterward they’ll admit they wish you’d never told them.

“Or ask me if I even recognize what you’re talking about, the next time you start going on about some childhood anecdote where you incidentally had a dislocated jaw. Honestly, would it kill you to start with, ‘Hey, did I ever tell you about x’?”

“No, it wouldn’t. You’re right. I’ll try. What… kinds of things did you—? For the future, I mean. What kinds of things did you want to make sure I tell you about.”

Martin sighed, in that way he did when he thought Jon was going about something all wrong. But after a pause to think, he did ask, “About this, or in general?”

“Either—both—first one, then the other.”

“Okay. I guess… I want to know when you’re hurt, mostly. Like—I can’t believe I even have to say this—that’s kind of important, actually? How am I supposed to know how to behave around you if I never know whether you're secretly in pain or not?”

This seemed weird—both now and at the time. Jon figured he must be missing something. If Martin thought he only needed the cane because of Prentiss then, sure, that might have affected how he imagined Jon’s discomfort to himself, but? Wasn’t the cane itself an admission of pain? Why did Martin think he owed him more than that—that he had owed him more than that at the time, no less? Did he not realize how fucking private that was? What a surrender of privacy the cane represented?

But, no, he reminded himself now; nondisabled people don’t realize that, unless you tell them about it. Repeatedly. Over and over. It only seems obvious to you because you lived it already.

“Er.” At the time he’d just shown Martin his teeth, with the points of his left-side canines joined. Nominally a smile, but more like a show of hiding the grimace beneath than an actual attempt to hide it. “That’s harder than you might think? Technically I’m always….”

“Oh.”

“Sorr—”

“—What do you mean, ‘technically’?”

“I’m—not always aware of it?” He disliked that phrase, in pain—how it implied a discrete and exclusive state. One could not be in Paris and at the same time in London; similarly, most people seemed to assume one could not be in pain and also in a good mood. In raptures. In a transport of laughter. That when one admits to being in pain, one implies that’s the most important thing they’re conscious of.

“Well that doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, I know—‘if a tree falls down in a forest’—blah blah blah.” With a gentle smile to acknowledge he’d picked up this mode of speech from Martin. He turned his wrist in circles so it clicked like an old film reel. “Philosophically speaking, if you’re not aware of pain, you can’t be in it. Maybe ‘technically’ isn’t the right word.”

“Oh yeah ‘cause that’s the angle I want to know about this from.”

Jon sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. I just mean, it doesn’t always matter to me.”

“Well it matters to me,” Martin scoffed.

“Yeah—I’m getting that. Is there any way I can explain this that you won’t jump down my throat for?”

Martin sighed, groaned, pulled at his hair a little but made himself stop. (He doesn’t pull it out, Jon knows—he just likes having something to grab onto during awkward conversations. Usually emerges from them looking like a cartoon scientist.) “Okay, yeah,” said Martin. “I get it. I’m sorry too.”

“I mean—when you get a paper cut, that hurts, technically, right?”

“Well yeah, a little, but that’s not the kind of—”

“But just because you notice that hurt doesn’t mean?” He paused to rearrange his words. “You’re not going to remember it later unless someone asks why you’ve got blood on your sleeve.”

“Y—eah. Sure.”

“Is that…?”

“When you’re suffering, then. I want you to tell me that. And—whenever something weird happens? Like, before it stops being weird and you talk to me like I’m stupid for not already knowing about it.”

“What if”—this far into his question, Jon worried it might come off as a smart-alecky, devil’s-advocate thing. So he paused, pretending he needed time to formulate its words. “What if I haven’t decided yet whether it’s weird or not.”

“That in itself is pretty weird, Jon.”

“Fair enough.”

“I want to be part of that conversation. I want you to trust me enough to bounce ideas off me! It’s not like—? I mean why wouldn’t you do that?”

Jon had shrugged and grimaced, hands in his trouser pockets. “Not to worry you?” he’d suggested. But as he bit his lip and shimmied down from the bed Jon knew now that that was the sanitized version—and probably, if you’d asked him a day before or afterward, his past self would have known that too. Most things you told Martin, he’d either ignore them completely or latch onto them, refuse to let them go, and interpret everything else you said in the light they cast. Jon had learnt not to raise any given topic with him until he was sure he wanted to risk its becoming a long, painful discussion. This was part of why he hadn’t kept his promise, he told himself as he turned their interim bedroom’s doorknob. Why he’d said so little about anything weird that had happened to him at Upton House.

“Martin?”

“Oh hey, Jon—you’re awake.” Martin glanced in his vague direction but stayed bent over his work, so Jon could not meet his eyes.

“You found the screwdriver.”

“Yeah! And a screw that matches better, see?” He fished the first one they'd found out of his pocket and held it up next to the door for comparison. Jon supposed they looked a little different—bright yellowy gold vs. a darker gold. “They were in the library, of all places. There’s a little box full of ‘em that he keeps right next to his reading glasses, apparently. Guess he must break them a lot. How are yours, by the way? Any bits feel loose?”

Dutifully, trying to keep his dazed smile to himself, Jon pulled off his glasses. Folded and unfolded each arm, jiggled the little nose pieces. He shook his head. “Don’t think so. You can have a look yourself though, if you like.”

“Remind me later. Should’ve brought the whole box, probably,” Martin said, voice strained as he twisted the screw that last little bit. “There!” His open mouth broadened into a smile. “Time to see if it worked. You wanna do the honors?”

Jon shook his head, breathed a laugh through his nose. “You should do it. You’re the reason it’s fixed.”

“I mean, yeah,” shrugged Martin as his hand closed round the doorknob, “but I’m also the reason it broke.” It opened with a click. “Ha-ha! Success! Statements—our own clothes—our own bed! Er. Ish.”

Something tugged in Jon’s chest; he’d forgot the statements were why Martin thought this quest so urgent. He lingered at the side of the bed while Martin rummaged in his backpack, remembering for once to toe his first shoe off while standing.

“Man. Looks sorta underwhelming now, after the other room, huh?”

“Least our wallpaper’s better.”

“Tsshhyeah, and our view.”

Jon didn’t turn around, but surmised Martin must be looking out at that tree he liked. “Is it four already?”

“Uhh—nearly, yeah. You were out for a while; took me ages to find that damn thing. Here you go,” announced Martin as he slapped a zip-loc bag full of statement down on the bed.

(“So they won’t get water damage,” he had answered a few days ago, when Jon asked him why he’d individually wrapped each statement like snacks in a bagged lunch. “What? It’s not like we have to worry about landfills anymore. If I put them all in the same bag, you’d take one out and not be able to get it back in.”)

“What happened to my jacket, by the way? And yours?”

“Uhhh.”

“Right, okay,” Martin laughed; “I’ll go get them before I forget. I’ll put this away too, I guess” (meaning the screwdriver still in his hand). “Don’t wait for me, yeah? I don’t mind missing the trailers.”

Jon smiled. “Sure.”

As Martin hurried off, Jon sat down to untie and pull off his other shoe, threaded the lace back through the final eyelet from which it’d come loose, picked up the first shoe and untied that one, then stood up and set them by the door next to his cane. Both hips and all ten fingers behaved themselves throughout. As he walked by the vanity he grabbed the coins he’d removed to do laundry the other day and stuck them back in his trouser pocket. Useless, of course, but he’d missed having something to fidget with. He squatted down and peered under the vanity for the hair tie he’d dropped, for the fifth or sixth time since he’d misplaced it. Didn’t find it. That was fine; he had another one around his wrist. His knees felt weak, so instead of standing back up he crab-walked to the foot of the bed and sat down with his back against it. Straightened his legs out before him on the floor. Then he dug the coins from his pocket and counted them. Yup—still 74p.

Danika! Not Daniela—Danika Gelsthorpe. God, he would never forget one of their names out there. Never underestimate how much I care for the

“I'm back. What’s down there? Did you find the screw?” asked Martin as he hung their jackets up behind the door.

Jon shook his head. “Forgot about it. I was looking for that hair tie.”

“Well you’re on your own there; I’m done finding things today. The screw can wait,” Martin laughed—“he’s got a whole bag inside that box in the library. Do you need a hand getting up?”

He let Martin help him. Both knees cracked; the world’s edges went dark for a second. “Thank you,” he said, and it came out more peremptory than he’d meant it.

“Statement time?”

“Right. You don’t mind? I can wait ’til we’ve both had a rest, if you don’t want to be in the room while I.”

“No, I’m alright; I’ll stay here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hated statements.”

Martin shrugged. “Not these ones so much, now that. Heh—they’re almost nostalgic, if I’m honest. ‘Can it be real? I think I’ve seen a monster!’”

“They are a bit,” agreed Jon, looking down at the plastic-sleeved statement and making himself smile.

“Go on. Seeing you feel better will make me feel better too.”

That made it a bit easier to motivate himself, Jon supposed. From the moment he’d lain down on the bed he’d felt like he was floating on gentle waves—like if he let himself listen to them he could fall asleep in seconds. But that wouldn’t make Martin feel better. And no guarantee it would him, either, once he woke up again. He rearranged the pillows behind himself so he’d have to sit up a little; this might help keep him awake, and it meant he could rest his elbows on the bed while he held up the statement, rather than having to lift them up before his eyes. It made his neck sore, a bit, this angle, but that was fine. That might help keep him awake, too.

He sighed, readying himself for speech. Then heard a click, and felt a familiar buzz and weight against his stomach. The tape recorder had manifested inside his hoodie’s kangaroo pocket.

“Statement of Miranda Lautz, regarding, er… a botched home-repair job. Heh. Seems appropriate. Original statement given March twenty-sixth, 2004. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

[Image ID: A digital painting of Jon and Martin on an old-fashioned canopy bed with white sheets and orange drapes. Jon sits on the near side of the bed, reading a paper statement. He frowns slightly, looking down at the statement in his hands; he wears round glasses perched low on his nose. He’s a thin man, with medium brown skin dotted by scars left from the worms, and another scar on his neck from Daisy's knife. His hair is long and curly, gray and white hairs among the black. Jon sits supported by pillows—several big, white, lace-trimmed ones behind his back, and one under his knees. His right leg is slightly crossed over his left ankle, on which a clean white bandage peeks out beneath his cuffed, dark green trousers. He wears an oversized red hoodie and red-toed brown socks. Sat on the far side of the bed, next to Jon but facing away from both him and the viewer, is Martin—a tall and fat white man with short, curly, reddish brown hair and a short beard. He has glasses and is wearing a dark blue jumper and gray-brown trousers. Past the bed on Martin’s side, the bedroom door hangs ajar; in this light, it and the wall glow bluish green. On the near side, though, the light grows warmer, the orange canopy behind Jon casting pink and brown tints onto the white pillows and sheets. End ID.]

It seemed to be a Corruption statement, or maybe the Spiral. Possibly the Buried? A leak in Ms. Lautz’s roof caused a pill-shaped bulge to appear in her kitchen ceiling, about the size of a bread loaf. Water burst from it like pus from an abscess (as she described it. Nothing else Fleshy though, so far). Ms. Lautz repaired the hole in her ceiling, but every morning a new one reappeared somewhere else. Sometimes they appeared bulging and pill-shaped like the first one; other times she found them already burst, covering the room in water shot through with dark specks like coffee grounds.

Jon wished he’d refilled his empty water glass before starting to record. His mouth was so dry that every time he pronounced an L his tongue stuck to its roof. At this point he’d welcome a hole to burst in it and flood his mouth with water. Then again, he did still have to pee.

Eventually she and her spouse hired someone to find out what was wrong with the roof. She described hearing boots tramping around up there for half a day while they checked out all the spots where she and Alex had reported leaks. The inside of Jon’s trouser leg pulled at the bandage on his shin, making it itch. The repair men told Ms. Lautz it’d be safer and barely any more expensive to replace the whole thing. The ring and little fingers of Jon’s left hand were starting to go numb from having that elbow too long pressed against the bed. Miranda and Alex thanked the roof people and sent them off, saying they’d think it over.

He began to regret crossing his legs this way. He’d balanced his right heel in the hollow between his left foot’s ankle and instep, and in the time since he’d arranged them that way gravity had slowly pushed his foot more and more to the side, widening that gap. By this time he was sure it was hyperextended—possibly subluxed? It hurt already, and, he knew, would hurt more when he tried to move it. This rather ruined his fantasy of heading straight for the toilet when he finished reading.

Martin was right; these old statements seemed positively tame, now. He knew he owed it to Ms. Lautz to engage with her fate, but?

No. No buts. Whatever hell she lived in now, it looked just like the one she was about to describe for him, only worse. You can’t even pretend you’re sorry she’s living out her worst fear if you stop in the middle of reading that fear’s origin story. Never underestimate how much I

Once the repair men had left, Miranda Lautz wandered into her kitchen for lunch. She found her ceiling bulging halfway to the floor, with the impression of a face and two twisted arms at its center. Like someone had fallen through her roof, head first. Jon’s stiff neck twinged in sympathy. Miranda screamed and strode to the other side of the house in search of beer, figuring she'd find better answers at the bottom of a bottle than in her own head. When she got back to the kitchen with them, the beer bottles didn’t know what to do either, but said—

“God damn it. Not ‘ales’—‘Alex’. Obviously.”

He let the statement’s pages flop over the back of his hand, let his head tip backward until the top of it bumped against headboard and his eyes faced the ceiling. That settled it, then, didn’t it. If he had the Ceaseless Watcher looking through his eyes, he wouldn’t make a mistake like that—and he certainly couldn’t change position while recording. On top of his more substantial regrets, Jon had spent their whole odyssey before they came to Upton House ruing that he’d sat at the dining-room table to read Magnus’s statement, rather than on the couch or the bed. The chairs at that table had plain, flat wood seats—no cushion, no contouring for the shape of an arse. When he opened the door to the changed world, the cataclysm had preserved his bodily sensations at that moment like a mosquito in amber. He’d had a sore tailbone and pins and needles down his legs for untold eons. Right up until he and Martin crossed from the Necropolis onto the grounds protected by Salesa’s camera, where his tailbone faded out of awareness and his head filled up with cotton.

“Ohhh. ‘Alex’. Okay, that makes a lot more sense,” laughed Martin meanwhile. Jon could feel Martin’s shoulder bouncing against his. “She must’ve written it in cursive, huh.”

“I can’t do this right now, Martin.”

“Oh—okay, yeah. You rest; I’ll finish it for you.”

Jon closed his eyes and let air gush out from his nostrils. But you hate the statements, he knew he should say. Wouldn’t this make it easier, though? To let Martin have out this last bit of denial first?

The tape recorder in his pocket still hissed, still warmed and weighted down his stomach like a meal.

“Thank you,” he said.

The operator on the phone said she and Alex should wait for the ambulance to arrive, rather than try to free the man in the ceiling by themselves. Jon turned his neck back and forth, hoping Martin couldn’t hear its joints’ snap/crackle/pop. He picked his elbow up off the bed and shook out his hand. But when the paramedics cut the ceiling open, only a torrent of water gushed into their kitchen—water flecked with a great deal of what looked like coffee grounds. A day or two later the roof people called, to ask if they’d decided whether to have the roof repaired or replaced. They assured her none of their employees had gone missing. At the time of writing, Miranda and Alex still hadn’t decided what to do about the roof. A week ago, they’d found a squirrel-shaped bulge in their bedroom ceiling; they’d packed their bags and come to stay with Alex’s sister in London.

“Right! That wasn’t so bad.” Martin set the statement down and stretched his arms over his head. “Huh.”

“Hm?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just—it’s been a while. Thought it might feel, I don’t know, worse than that? Or better, I guess, since the Eye’s so ‘fond’ of me now.”

“I don’t think they work here.”

“What?”

“The statements. The Eye can’t see their fear.”

“Oh.” Jon could feel Martin deflating. He let himself avalanche over to fill the space. “You don’t feel better, do you.”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s just—slower here, like it’s taking a while to load or something. Remember how long the tape recorder took to come on last time? It was like—you were like— ‘“Statement of Blankety Blank, regarding an encounter with”—Oh, right,’ click.”

That was true. The tapes had known Salesa would give a statement before it happened, but with these paper ones they’d seemed slow on the uptake. Martin had also sworn the recorder that manifested to tape Mr. Andrade’s statement was a different machine than the one Salesa’d spotted that first morning. Jon wondered which machine the one in his pocket was.

Not relevant, he decided. He shook his head in his palm, stroking the lids of his closed eyes. “No—if they worked here I wouldn’t be able to stop in the middle of one.” As soon as he said it he winced, bracing himself for argument.

After the change he remembered wailing to Martin about how he couldn’t stop reading Magnus’s statement—how its words had possessed his whole body, forced him to do the worst thing any person ever had, and forced him to like it, to feel Magnus’s triumph as they both opened the door. Martin had pressed Jon’s face into his clavicle, rubbed his nose in the scent of Daisy’s laundry soap, covered the back of Jon’s head with his hands. Tried to interpose what he must then have still called the real world between Jon and what he could see outside. He’d said over and over, I know, and We‘ll be okay. Jon had known that meant he wasn’t listening, and yet still hadn’t been prepared for the argument they had later, when he mentioned in sobriety the same things he’d wailed back then.

“Hang on”—Martin had pleaded—“no, that can’t be true. I’ve been interrupted in the middle of a statement loads of times—and I know you have too.”

“By outside forces, yes, but you can’t decide to stop reading one. Believe me, Martin, I wouldn’t have—”

“Tim did.”

“No, he didn’t—”

“Yes he did! He was gonna do one and then Melanie—”

“No, Martin, I’ve heard the tape you’re talking about. Tim introduced the statement but didn’t actually start—”

“He did so! He read the first bit, and then stopped. ‘My parents never let me have a night light. I was—’”

“‘Always afraid, but they were just’....” Behind his own eyes he’d felt the Eye shudder and throb with gratitude. Just that sort of stubborn, it had seemed to sing, in a bizarre combination of his own voice with Jonah’s with Melanie’s, which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening.

“Yeah,” said Martin, forehead wrinkling. “And then he said, ‘This is stupid,’ and stopped.”

“You’re right.”

Jon still had no satisfying answer to that one, and cursed himself for having opened that can of worms back up again. It had been Tim’s first-ever statement, he reminded himself, and maybe Tim had never intended to get even that far. Maybe he’d been waiting for someone to interrupt him, as Melanie eventually did. Even out there, the Eye couldn’t really show him things like that. He could find out what Tim had said—could look it up, as it were—and what he’d thought, but motivation was a bit too murky, multilayered, complicated. It wasn’t real telepathy? The vicarious emotions the Eye gave him access to worked in broad strokes, generalities—just like common or garden empathy. Sure, he could imagine other people’s points of view more vividly, now that he could see through their eyes. But he still had to imagine them to life, based on the clues around him and what emotions those clues stirred in him. It didn’t work well for situations like this; he could hear Melanie’s footsteps and feel Tim’s reluctance to read a statement, but that was it. Enough to concoct plausible explanations; not enough to pick out the truth from a list of them. Plausibilities were too much like hypotheticals.

In the timelessness since that argument with Martin, though, Jon had also wondered whether it mattered if Tim had read the statement before recording it. He didn’t have footage, as it were, of Tim doing so; either the Eye had more copies of the statement’s events than it needed already and so had deleted that one from storage, or, conversely, perhaps it could no longer see versions of it that relied too heavily on the pages Mr. Hatendi had written it on, since Martin had burned those. But Tim’s summary, before he started reading. Blanket, monster, dead friend. It was bad, sure (like the assistants’ summaries always were, a ghost of past Jon interposed). But it sounded like the summary of a man who’d read it with his mind on other things. Inevitable and gruesome end. How he tried to hide; he couldn’t. Not at all like that of someone skimming it for the first time as he spoke. He did rifle through the papers though? So Jon couldn’t be sure. The suspicion ate at his mind, especially here. Could he have kept the world from ending just by—reading Magnus’s statement, before he went to record it? The way he used to way back at the start, before he trusted himself to speak the words perfectly on the first try? You didn’t mean to record it, did you? No, I’m sure you told Melanie and Basira you were just going to

“Guess that makes sense,” Martin said now. “So, you’re still feeling…?”

“Not great?”

“Yeah.”

“I… I feel human, here.”

“Oh wow. That’s—”

Jon told himself to put the hope in Martin’s voice to bed as soon as possible. “I know I’m not—not fully.” He allowed a smile to twitch the corners of his lips, flared his nostrils around an exhale that almost passed as a laugh. “Most humans don’t spontaneously summon tape recorders. Or sleep with their eyes open.”

“Yeah, but still, you don’t think maybe—?”

Again Jon hastened to cut Martin off. “A-and even if I was, it’s. I know that should be a good thing? But—”

At this point Martin interposed, “Should be, yeah! You don’t think it might mean you could—I don’t know, go back to normal? If we stayed here for a while?”

“Maybe? I-I might stop craving the Eye so much, but we’d still have to go back out there eventually, to face Elias, and. To be honest with you, Martin?” He huffed a laugh out, bitterly. “My ‘normal’ wasn’t exactly...”

“Right.” Martin sighed. “So you mean you feel like you used to, as a human. Which was…”

“Not great.”

“Right.”

“I haven’t been very well, here.” Jon shrugged for the excuse to duck his head. He could feel himself blushing, the heat spilling from his face all down both arms. Good thing the tape recorder in his pocket had gone cold.

Next to him, Martin puffed air out of his cheeks. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m dizzy and confused without the Eye, and it—it can’t fix me here? When I.” He drew in breath, lifted his heel off his ankle and set that leg to the side, letting its foot roll into Martin’s shin. Bit his lip and scrunched his nose in preparation. Flexed the other foot’s toes, trying to isolate the lever in his ankle that would—there. Clunk. Then a noisy exhale: “Jyyrrggh. When that happens,” he choked out, voice strained by both pain and nerves. “It’s like before I became an avatar. I have to fix it myself, and it doesn’t just.” Magically stop hurting, he hoped went without saying; already he could hear Martin sucking air through his teeth. It made Jon’s cheeks itch. “Shouldn’t have let myself get used to a higher standard, I suppose.”

“What? No—of course you should have. Did you think I was gonna say that?”

“No, of course not; I just meant—”

“You deserve to feel healthy, Jon.”

“Do I? Health is clumsy, it’s callous, it, it lets terrible things happen because they don’t feel real—it can’t imagine them properly, can’t understand what they mean….”

“Okay, first of all, ouch.” Jon snarled a laugh at that, without knowing whether Martin meant it as a joke. “Second of all, that is not why you—why the world ended, okay? Especially, ‘cause, you weren’t ‘healthy’ then. You read Elias’s bloody statement because you were starving, remember?”

“Hmrph,” pronounced Jon, to concede he was listening without either confirming or denying the point.

“And thirdly, you’re not ‘callous’ out there? You don’t”—a scoff interrupted his words. “You don’t ‘let things happen because they don’t feel real’—that’s sure not how I remember it. Okay? I remember you crying for—god, I don’t know, days, maybe? Weeks?—about how you could feel everything, and couldn’t stop any of it. That’s the thing we’re hiding from here, Jon, so if you don’t actually feel any healthier here then what even is the point?”

In a voice embarrassment made small Jon managed, “I mean? I’m still kind of having fun.”

“Really? You don’t seem like it—”

“Not today, maybe—”

“Right, yeah, no; spending all day trying to fix a doorknob isn’t exactly—”

“But I don’t want to leave yet. I should still have a few good days left before the distance from the Eye gets too….”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” For a few seconds he tried to think of something better to say, then gave up and told the truth, though in a jocular voice to hide his self-consciousness. “Always was the person who got ill on holiday.”

“Oh, god, of course you were—”

Voice growing higher in pitch, Jon pleaded, “It didn’t usually stop me from enjoying it?”

“What about America?” laughed Martin. “Did you still enjoy that one?”

“Of course not—I got kidnapped.”

“I mean, yeah, but you were pretty used to that too by then, right?”

“God.” Jon sniffed, crunchily, reeling back in the snot he’d laughed out. “Besides. That was a business engagement.”

Martin acknowledged this comment with a quick Psh, as he turned himself around on the bed to face Jon a little more. “Can I trust you to”—he stopped.

“Yes.”

“No, let me—that wasn’t fair; I can’t ask you that yet.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Martin; I didn’t—”

“Of me, I meant, it wasn’t fair.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’ve been ignoring your distress all week because I wanted it not to matter.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it ‘distress,’” pointed out Jon. “Plus, I have been sort of, er. Secretive, about it.”

The exasperation in Martin’s sigh was probably meant for him, not for Jon, the latter reminded himself. “Yeah, but you’re not subtle. I can tell when you’re hiding something. It wasn’t exactly a big leap to figure out what. But I told myself it was temporary, and that you were acting like.”

Jon laughed preemptively. “Yes?”

“Like a little kid in line for a theme-park ride.” Again Jon laughed—less at the comparison itself than at how much Martin winced to hear himself say it. “I’m sorry. I should’ve taken you more seriously.”

“And I should have told you what was going on with me.”

“Yup,” concurred Martin at once.

“I know you hate it when I keep things from you.”

“I do—I hate it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry too.” Martin waved this away like a fly. “I just—you said you think we’ve got a few more days, before it gets too much or whatever.”

“Yes.”

“Can I trust you to tell me when we need to leave?”

Jon tried not to answer too quickly, knowing vaguely that that might sound insincere. “Yes,” he said again, after pausing for a second. “You can trust me.”

“Okay? Don’t try to spare my feelings, or anything like that. Like—don’t just go, ‘Oh, well, he’s having a good time. That’s fine; I don’t have to.’ Yeah? ‘Cause I won’t have a good time if I’m worried you’re secretly suffering.”

This Jon did know; it sent a thrill of recognition down his spine, as he remembered their first day’s ping-pong adventure. “Right. I’ll do my suffering as publicly as possible.”

“Uh huh.” Martin’s arm tightened around Jon’s shoulder. “Just don’t worry about disappointing me? I mean, sure, I like it here, with the whole ‘not being an evil wasteland’ thing, but I’d much rather be out there with you happy than with you than spend one more minute in paradise with her.”

With a smile, Jon replied, “That might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I suppose we do.”

As they walked on out of the range of Salesa’s camera, Jon glanced backward one more time and thought, Yes, that makes sense—but couldn’t quite recall what he had expected to see. It was like when you look at a clock, and tick Check the time off your mental to-do list, then realize you never internalized what time it was. “Pity,” he mused.

“What?”

“It’s, er, going away. That peace, the safety, the memory of ignorance.”

“That’s… Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Do you remember any of it? W-What Salesa said? Annabelle?”

“Some, I think. It’s, uh… do you mind filling me in?”

“Wait, you need me to tell you something for once?”

“I guess so. It’s, er… it’s gone. Like a dream. What was it like?”

After a pause Martin said, “Nice. It was… it was really nice.”

“Even though Annabelle was there?”

“I mean, yeah, but she didn’t do anything,” shrugged Martin. “Except cook for us. That was weird.”

“She cooked?” Jon watched Martin nod and smile around a wince. “And we let her do that? I let her do that?”

With a scoff Martin answered, “Under duress, yeah.”

“Huh.” Jon twirled his cane in circles, wondering why he’d thought he would need it. “Well, she didn’t poison us, apparently.”

“Nope. And believe me, we had that conversation plenty of times already. Er—maybe just let me put that away for you before you take somebody’s eye out, yeah?”

Jon nodded, folded his cane and handed it to Martin, then made himself laugh. “Was I… a bit neurotic about it.”

“About Annabelle?” Again Jon nodded. “Oh, we both were. We kept switching sides—one day I’d be like, ‘But she’s got four arms, Jon!’ and the next you’d be like—”

“She had four arms?”

“Yup. And six eyes. But your powers didn’t work there, so we thought maybe hers didn’t either? Never did find out for sure. God—you remember the day we got locked out of our room?”

“Er….”

“So that’s a no, then.”

“Sorry.”

Martin’s lips billowed in a sigh. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“So… what happened? Who locked us out? Was it Annabelle?”

“No, no, no one locked us out. It was just me, I uh—I sorta broke the doorknob? God, it was awful. Went to open it and the whole thing just came off in my hand, like” (he made the motion of turning a doorknob in empty air, and imitated the sound Jon figured it must have made coming off) “krrruk-krr.” Jon fondly laughed; he could imagine Martin’s horror at breaking something in a historic mansion. “It was just one screw that came loose, though, so you’d think, easy fix, right? Except the bloody screwdriver took forever to find. Turns out Salesa kept them in the library, of all places.”

“S-sorry—what does this have to do with Annabelle?”

“Oh—nothing ultimately, just.” Martin grimaced at his own recollection. “God, we had this whole argument over whether to ask her about it, and when I finally did can you guess what she told us?”

“What?” managed Jon; his throat felt small and weak all of a sudden.

Martin put a finger to his chin, and blinked his eyes out of sync. “‘Perhaps he keeps them next to something that breaks a lot,’” he recited, with an inane, self-congratulating smile. For a fraction of a second Jon could recognize it as Annabelle’s I’ve-just-told-a-riddle expression. But the memory faded and he could picture her face only as he’d seen it in pictures before the change.

“O…kay. And was that… true?”

“I mean, yeah, technically. Useless, though. And after we spent so long agonizing over whether it was safe to ask her….”

Jon allowed himself a cynical laugh. “Are you sure she didn’t orchestrate the whole thing?”

“Ugh—no, it wasn’t her. We had this conversation at the time. You made me check for cobwebs and everything.”

“And you… didn’t find any?”

“Of course not, Jon; it was a doorway.”

“Right. Doorway, yes.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling better? You still seem a bit….”

“No, I’m—I feel fine, I just can’t seem to. Retain anything concrete about… where did you say it was? Upton House? God that’s strange, that it would just be….”

Part of Jon felt tempted to deplore it as a waste of space, on the apocalypse’s part. These stretches of empty land were one thing, but a mansion? Couldn’t they at least get a Spiral domain out of it?

“I mean, not really. He told us all about it, remember? With the magic camera?”

“Right, yes,” Jon agreed.

“Well, we got it all on tape, if you want to listen to it later.”

“Yes, that sounds—all of it?”

“Well not the whole week or anything. It just came on whenever it thought it was important, I guess.”

“So not the part about the doorway.”

“Nope.”

“Pity.”

[sngies]

delusion

a/n: hi! this is the first fic i’ve ever written, i hope you guys enjoy!! feedback is much appreciated :)

genre: angst(?) & fluff(?)

pairing: han jisung x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of mental illness(?), death, swearing (please message me if i’m missing anything!!)

word count: 781

desc: han jisung is head over heels in love with you but so is his best friend, or at least that’s what jisung thinks.

Chan looked over to where his blue-haired friend was sitting, “Jisung, seriously, you have to stop with the letters, man." 

"Chan, you're just saying that because you're jealous that I have a beautiful, gorgeous, pretty, kind, warm-hearted-" Chan's glare cuts off the boy before he could go on and on and on about his "lovely girlfriend". 

"Whatever man, I'm heading out now." Chan waved over his shoulder before leaving the room. Jisung looked around, happy to have the apartment to himself. Markers and stickers laid messily around the table. There were even a few ink stains on his cheeks. Excitement welled up in his heart, looking over the letter he had just finished writing. He imagined the many expressions that will show up on your face as he presents the letter to you. He sighs contently, getting up from his seat and heading over to the coffee shop the two of you usually meet at. 

Jisung walked into the cozy shop, bells clinking, signaling people of his presence. His eyes roamed the room until they finally landed on you. A smile tugs on his lips, he scoots into the booth, happiness overwhelming his being. He slides the cutely packaged letter onto the table. Jisung watches as a smile appears on your face, he swears that it's a god-given gift that he's been blessed with because every time he sees it, he falls further in love with you. 

The sky is faded to an orangey-gold hue, sun setting, while Jisung's giggles are filling the empty shop around him. 

"Hey! Hello! Jisung?" Seungmin, the cafe owner, frantically waving his hands attempting to get Jisung's attention. 

Jisung's eyes widen as he started to profusely apologize, "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry Seungminnie! I didn't even realize that your shop was closing! Me and Y/N will start to clean up and get outta here quick! Thanks so much, Seungminnie!" Jisung's eyes are sparkling while he looks up at Seungmin. Seungmin's heart aches while he looks at the boy, the younger has no choice but to nod his head and quietly mumble, "Take your time, Jisung." 

Seungmin busied himself by wiping down the countertops with a damp rag, his eyes occasionally looking over to Jisung's table as he's talking animatedly. The soft jingle of bells catch Seungmin's attention, "Hey, we're about to close up for tonight-" Seungmin stops in the middle of his sentence when he realizes it's Chan that walked in, "Oh, Chan! Welcome in! What're you doing here so late? Aren't you supposed to be producing music or something?" Seungmin laughs, but the look on Chan's face is anything but happy. "Chan? Hey Ch-" Seungmin is abruptly cut off once again. 

"Jisung. We need to talk now." 

"Uh, can we talk later? I'm on a date with Y/N right now." Jisung looks up with pleading eyes. 

"No, this isn't okay. I can't take it. I can't see you like this anymore," Chan is starting to yell at this point, frustration and anger that was once steadily building up is now crumbling down. "At first, we ignored it but you can't just keep living like this! Just because she's-" Jisung scoffs, interrupting the older's tangent. He's left speechless, never in a million years would he think one of his best friends wouldn't be supportive of his relationship. His loving and caring girlfriend, who wouldn't even hurt a damn fly, is being insulted by Chan? 

"Who do you think you are? First, you tell me to stop writing letters, you interrupt our date, you come in here while Seungmin is trying to close up, and now you're gonna insult Y/N? What's wrong with you?" 

"Jisung, why won't you just listen? Open your fucking eyes! Y/N is-" 

"Chan, Jisung, enough. That's enough. Both of you need to relax-" 

"You're jealous, huh? I was right, you can't stand seeing me with Y/N." Jisung smirks, "Come on, let's go Y/N." Jisung walks out of the cafe, the bells clinking, signaling his departure.

Seungmin sighs, he looks at his older friend, "Chan, I get it. I really do, but you have to relax man. You can't just spring all of that onto him at once. You'll crush him." Chan nods his head, smiling weakly, he looks up at Seungmin, "Yeah, I get it. I just- It hurts to see him talk about her all the time. I don't know what to do Seungminnie," Chan sniffles, "I hate seeing Jisung write letters for her everyday. It's a reminder that she's not here anymore. That she passed away and Jisung is just talking to the air and writing letters to her, pretending that she's still here." 

a/n whoaa did you guys expect that? i hope you weren’t bc i wanted it to be a plot twist LOL. anyways, thanks for reading!! feedback is appreciated!! thank you guys once again! <3

[imagineabrighterworld]

The Saint and the Prince pt.2

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝔀𝓱𝓸 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓮𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝔀𝓱𝓸𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓭𝓸𝓮𝓼𝓷’𝓽 𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓼 𝔂𝓸𝓾

You look at your mother through the mirror as she braids ribbons into your hair. Her hands flutter as they hold your locks of hair with infinite gentleness.

You were dressed in the color of persimmons and summer peaches, from the ribbons in your hair to the dye streaking your cheeks. You felt silly dressed so weirdly. It wasn't like your family to be so.. Colorful. Not on a day like this. Everyone was wearing black except for you.

You shuffle uncomfortably in your seat. Your mother was crying, and yet she was doing your hair.

“Mama?” You whisper, hating the way her hands began to tremble and lose hold of your hair. Why was she crying? What was making her so sad? “Mama you're scaring me.”

She sniffles, using the back of her palm to wipe away the wetness of her tears. “Forgive me..” The kohl lining her eyes is smeared, but she pays no mind to the smudges on her hands. “Forgive me.”

You want to comfort her but she coaxes you into staying still as she finishes with your hair. It is only when your father comes into the room that you begin to piece together what is happening. You were being taken away from her, but why? It was supposed to be a good day today. The Alshanun Iraziz, the Sun Saint was supposed to be coming to bring her blessings, just like your papa said.

Your mother’s cries of anguish grow louder now as your father guides you out of the room, his own sniffles paled in comparison to hers. The sound of shattering glass is your only goodbye from your mother.

“Papa? I'm afraid.”

He says nothing. His hand tightens around yours, the bones in your hand squeezing together, but you're too afraid to pull away from him. Afraid he might disappear, or go back home to mama, leaving you alone.

A crowd lays in front of you, the familiar black clothing of the Sun Saint’s day is before you. Why were you in color when they were in black? You felt like an ill beating heart in the crowd of bleakness.

Now, you stand in the center of your town.

The villagers around you murmur prayers as you pass them by. They reach out and kiss your palms. As if you were a saint in the books your grandmother had coveted so long ago. Whispers surround you, the sounds crawling on your skin uncomfortably.

𝓞 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓴𝔂, 𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼, 𝔀𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓝𝓪𝓭𝓪

Your father left you behind somewhere in the crowd as he ushered you to the platform in the middle of the crowd. His face blurred among the people, but somewhere in the throng you swear you can hear his cries.

As you look down at the orangewood platform carved with prayers, you know why your mother was crying. You know why the people have to hold your father back as his cries turn to screams.

“Bueirikan kembali! Khadhnaa!”

Give her back. Take me.

“Ahfuz tifli!”

Save my child.

The high priest stands behind you as the sun begins to rise.

𝓐𝓵𝓵 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼

The orange sky is the last thing you see as a knife is plunged into your back.

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓶𝔂 𝓮𝔂𝓮𝓼

---

Shoto returned to the others with his mind full of the color orange.

He mostly stayed quiet for the reminder of their tour around the town, his eyes constantly drifting to the blossoms covering every inch of the buildings. Their sweet scent was almost too much. Their flowers thick with nectar.

The town felt stifling, he didn't know why, but perhaps his talk with the mysterious woman would clear things up.

Bachar leads them back to his home and holds a feast with several of the neighboring lords as guests. Shoto isn't eager to converse, but he does his part as prince and answers their questions and occasionally offers up one of his own. They spoke of trade between the kingdoms and the benefits their people might have if they worked closely together. 

The Alshanun kingdom had bountiful amounts of herbal medicine, spices, and pastures full of cattle, while Todoroki’s kingdom had less greenlands. But where it lacked in greenery, it was full of libraries, a strong army to defend from invaders, gold deposits, and waterfalls that held water so clear you could see all the way to the bottom of their lakes.

A partnership could keep both of their people comfortable for years to come.

Night fell, and soon the group was off to their chambers.

“Todoroki?” Midoriya asks from behind him, his hand on the doorknob of his own room. “Where did you go? You know, earlier.”

Shoto remains quiet, his eyes shifting to his door. A phantom breeze brushes against his arm, eerily reminding him of a hand. “Nowhere.”

It wasn't in his place to question a prince, but it was in his place to question a friend. So Midoriya asks once more. “Are you sure?”

Shoto looks at his friend, his eyes roving over his face. He was worried, and it warmed his heart to know he had a friend who truly cared. But he didn't have answers yet. He couldn't reassure his friend without any information. All he had was the memory of a girl.

“I’m sure.” The corners of his lips tug upward. “Goodnight.”

Entering his room, Shoto looks at the wallpaper lining the walls and the stumpy candles lining the window sill. With a flick of his hand, he lights them, watching as the wax begins to melt at their center. The warm smell of vanilla fills the room as he changes and soon he is in bed, drifting off to sleep.

When he wakes, the sunlight is weakly filtering in, not yet a deep gold but a pale yellow that engulfs his room. He sits up slowly and looks at the window to where the candles had long been extinguished in their own wax. 

He listens for the sounds of life outside his door, but all there is is silence. Not even the servants were up yet.

Shoto sits up and pulls the sheets away from himself. He had half a mind to stay in bed and wait until the others were awake, maybe travel around the nearby towns and meet its lords. But he didn't listen to that half. 

Slipping out of his room, he quietly makes his way out of the mansion after dressing in simple black clothing. It wasn't what he was accustomed to wearing, not when it was the color of mourning. But it helped him blend in with the early risers already setting up shop, helped him not feel a fool when they waved good morning to him. 

Wending his way to the fountain from the day before, he sits at its edge, looking into its waters. Vaguely he could sense it, feel the way it would turn to ice beneath his touch. How its side would frost. 

He doesn't notice you as you look over his shoulder at the water. Doesn't see your reflection until you're smiling at him.

-

“Hello again princeling.” You step back just as the stranger in front of you whips his head back. His eyes widen before they narrow, his lips a flat line. 

“Hello.” He says warily, his eyes flickering to your orange and saffron clothing. “Why are you dressed like that?”

You sit next to him, undisturbed by how he looks at you. As if you were doing something out of line. He truly was a prince, one who obviously wasn't very social. “That’s the wrong question. I’ll grant you one answer.”

“Why do you speak like this? What are you hiding?” 

“Wrong again princeling.” 

Small ice crystals prick at his skin as a small pout forms on his face, a crease building between his brows. You hold in a smile as you see the gears turning in his head. You rarely got to have fun, and it was amusing seeing him so confused.

“Who are you?”

You let your smile show. Finally, he got it right. “I am the Alshanun Iraziz. The Sun Saint.”

“Were you always this way?”

Now he was asking the right questions, you muse as you inspect his hands that had folded themselves neatly on his lap, hiding the frost that was forming on his fingers. You could feel the power thrumming in his veins. The ice and the fire. If you were alive, you would have been concerned at how easily he might set you alight or freeze the blood in your veins. But you were an Iraziz, a Saint, and his gifts held no sway over you.

“No. I used to be just like you. Alive with a beating heart. I used to wear black, just like you. Now, all I ever wear is this.” You look at your silk slippers and the folds of your skirts embroidered with gold string. It was the most expensive thing you ever had in life. A gift from the High Priest that had ended your life, giving you this life in its place. 

“What is your name?”

So much for one answer, you think to yourself. But it had been so long since you've spoken with anyone. 

“I’ve forgotten my true one.” You dip your hand in the waters of the fountain, the cool waters soothing your warm skin. It was always so warm around this time of year, even when the sun was at its weakest. “I didn't know to hold it close, the day I became the Alshanun Iraziz was the same day I lost my name. I don't suppose I’ll ever get it back now.” It had been too long. Your people were long gone and replaced with their descendants. The faces you looked at now were watered down versions of your kin. 

“What is your name?” You ask him, looking at his face to find him staring at your hand and the waters that didn't shift with your touch. 

“Todoroki Shoto.”

You hum. “Todoroki. I’ve heard of it before. When your family was still only lords, not kings and queens.”

Todoroki’s face turns considering. “You've been alive a long time.”

“Alive is one way of putting it.” 

“Then how did you come to be? Is your gift to be an undead? A shadow?”

“I’m glad you still believe I’m some form of alive, but I assure you, my life was snuffed ages ago.” There was no bitterness in your voice, you had long ago come to accept your fate. “I was sacrificed to become the new Iraziz, my people decided my fate long before your kingdom was unified.”

You feel his ice before it crawls into the water, freezing the fountain as a look of diluted horror crosses his face. “Your own people let you die?”

You chuckle. “It’s not unlike parting your meal for your gods, or offering them a glass of wine. Or how you dedicate a moment of your day in prayer for good fortune. My people gave me to the Sun, praying for a miracle. When my life was taken, a new one was given.”

“Were you.. the first?” The ice behind you slowly melts, a hiss of steam telling you the prince was undoing his work.

Now you can feel the old ache. The ghostly touch of your mothers hands as she fixed your hair, the feeling of your fathers fingers curling around your own. 

“No. I wasn't.”

So many girls had gone through the same ritual. So many had their lives ripped away like pins in the hair. “I am, however, the last. After me, no other girls have been sacrificed.”

“Why?” What stopped them? You can see the unspoken question in his eyes.

“Each year, my spirit withers and turns weak, which is why they replaced the Iraziz each year with a new girl, a fresh spirit. But I’ve held onto this life, I’ve preformed miracles to show I’m still here. So no other girl has to die.”

The bubbling of the water fountain speaks for the both of you as you watch the people in their shops, readying their wares. No matter what their ancestors did to you, you held no hate for them in your heart. You could feel the remnants of rage that the girls before you held, but you had no such reservations. 

Todoroki watches your people with you, his eyes distant and unfeeling. You didn't understand what he was thinking, but you could feel. Feeling wasn't your gift, not like how his gift was ice and fire, but you were always open to others feelings. So susceptible. It was heightened now in death. 

“What is it you're thinking of princeling?” You ask. 

“You said something when we meant yesterday. That I needed you.”

“I did.”

“Why do you think I need you?”

“You're lonely. You feel lost, like a ghost in a living body. Something is holding you prisoner.”

He glances at you from the side. “I’m not lost.” 

“Then why do you have this look in your eyes, like you wish to be somewhere else. I felt a kindred spirit in you when I first crossed paths with you. Can you say you didn't feel the same?”

He doesn’t agree, but he doesn't disagree either. He simply stands up and begins to pace around the fountain, his hands clasped together behind him. 

You lay down on the stones of the fountain, watching his pacing. As a saint, you couldn't help but feel pulled to the needy. It was strange knowing he needed you. That a prince could be so deeply wounded that he needed a saint’s help. But you couldn't rest until he was happy, until that dark ache inside of him was soothed. 

“I.. I do not need you.” He says aloud, stopping across from you, the water fountain blocking your view of him. “I’ve already let go.”

“We both know that isn’t true.” You whisper, “I can feel you calling out. But I will be here for when you need me.”

“I don't-”

But you were already gone, and the sun was looming gold over the land. 

[ladynestaarcheron]

Prompt idea: cassian and nesta’s first disagreement / fight as a couple (if it’s LPG verse i’ll be super happy but it’s up to you how you want to go about it hihi)

anything to make you super happy!! it’s lpg-verse, but you don’t really have to read lpg to understand it. it’s a few months after nesta goes to illyria with cassian.

and hey, has everyone signed up for the fandom-wide holiday gift exchange? it’s gonna be loads of fun and the deadline’s coming up, so please hurry!

---

In his half-millennium of life, Cassian has had plenty of occasions to look back and marvel at the stupidity of his youth. Like how he used to think garish scars and bruises were good ways to show girls he could fight. Or when he thought that he could just sleep off getting blackout drunk. Or when he loved War Week.

It’s not that he hates it, exactly. He may be the General Commander, but he’s still a soldier. Still addicted to the adrenaline of the drills. An intense desire to prove himself, even now, by besting anyone who crosses him in the ring.

But…he is the General Commander. And War Week isn’t just about him giving his all, it’s about ensuring the entire military is in top form. And considering a significant portion of the military just died a few months ago, and another part are actively trying to de-throne Rhys, and the trust he has spent centuries building with these people is falling through...well. It has not been the best week.

It hasn’t been a week, either—it’s the tenth day of this nightmare that it finally ends. All drills have been run, all reports filed, all meetings concluded with the grim confirmation of their worst suspicions: Hybern has weakened them considerably.

And that and all it entails will be there tomorrow morning. So tonight, he can go home, finally, and drown his sorrows…in Nesta.

Just thinking of her tugs his lips upwards. He’s barely slept all this time, always something to do, oversee, correct, and on and on and on, but it’s finally over for just a bit. It’s nearly six in the evening, and the first meeting to discuss reform is tomorrow at eleven, so he has till then with her.

He shivers, not because of the windchill, as he imagines what seeing her again will be like. Has she missed him as much as he’s missed her? Has she planned on welcoming him back into their bed, like he had at every spare moment? Maybe she’s even cooked for him. Maybe duck, like he always makes for her. Perhaps she’s set the table the same way he did on the night he first kissed her—properly, he means, without any imminent existential threat looming over them—with the fine china, like a real homecoming. Maybe she’s dressed up. If she’s dressed up, he should dress up, too. What if she’s laid out clothes for him? She’s always reading about grand romantic gestures, isn’t she? Perhaps she’s been inspired.

Every wild fantasy spurs him faster, and before long he lands at his house, throwing open the door before even setting both feet on the ground.

“Nesta!” he calls, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. Gods, he’s missed her so much.

But one look inside tells him there’s no romantic dinner awaiting him. There’s only a plate drying on the rack.

Even so, Cassian can’t keep the grin off his face. If Nesta’s not here, then she’s in their bedroom.

On any other day, he might’ve teased her right back and taken his time coming to see her, even made himself dinner until she gave up and came to see him, but it’s been ten very hellish days. He moves quickly to the room, as if participating in one of his drills.

The door’s closed, but he can smell her, feel her, and gives himself just a moment to adjust before he opens it—

Nesta. There, beautiful, alive, in bed, waiting for him, perfect—reading a book. 

She doesn’t look up.

Cassian bites his cheek to keep from grinning. So that’s how she wants to play this.

“Hello, Nesta,” he drawls.

She dutifully ignores him, her dark curls bouncing slightly as she angles her head to the side to flip a page. Oh, how he’s missed this, seeing her read in bed. She sits beside him some evenings, head on his chest, one hand in his, the other holding her book.

“Did you miss me?”

At this, Nesta—finally—acknowledges his presence. She lifts her cool gaze to meet his and holds it for three seconds before looking back down at her book.

Cassian’s grin falters. That wasn’t very fun.

But he saunters up to her anyway, and, laying down on his side, reaches his hand over to slowly crawl up her thigh. “This wasn’t the warm welcome I was expecting, you know.”

Nesta jerks her leg away from him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, voice icy.

Cassian sits up immediately. This isn’t a game. He looks over her wildly, but her face and posture show only anger.

He reaches his hand out again, tentative, this time, and to hers, not her thigh. “Nesta,” he says, putting as much concern into his voice as he can without her accusing him of being condescending.

“How was War Week?” she shoots at him.

He blinks. “Awful,” he says, smiling uneasily. Has she heard something about it that upset her? He racks his brain, trying to think of what it might be…she knew Rhys was going to be there. Is she upset because they saw each other?

“Are you sure you’ve finished everything?”

He gives up rifling through everything. Nothing’s coming up, and frankly, he doesn’t want to waste anymore of the hours he has to spare with her arguing.

“What are you upset about?” he asks.

Nesta snaps her book shut and straightens her back. She faces him head-on, anger radiating off her like he imagined joy would this night. “You said it would be a week. It’s been ten days.”

Oh.

Right.

“I’m aware,” he says lightly. “It was only meant to go on for a week. But apparently, we’re all completely out of shape. Good news for anyone trying to overthrow the crown,” he adds, touching the tip of her nose. Her glare doesn’t falter, so he continues, in a much softer voice, “Do you really think I enjoyed finding out I had three more days of War Week, when I had planned our reunion out a thousand times in my mind? I wanted—“

“I don’t care what you wanted,” she hisses. “I want to know why I had to find out you weren’t coming back from Emerie instead of from you.”

“I couldn’t come back to tell you—“

“Is the art of letter writing too advanced for your brain to comprehend?”

There’s more than just ire in her stormy grey eyes. Cassian can sense pain, too. “I…I know I should’ve written, but I was just so busy. There was always something—and you know how stupid Illyrian males are, don’t you?” he says with a grin. “And obviously, you like it a lot, but I was never particularly into—“

“Is everything a joke to you?” she demands.

Cassian shuts his mouth. She hasn’t been angry at him like this since…before they started this—thing between them. These past few months have been so easy. Blissful. She doesn’t get mad anymore, only vaguely irritated, and even then, only to give him reason to appease her. But this is an argument. A fight.

How did they resolve those before they got together? Cassian can’t remember ever emerging victorious; only miserable and angry. Nesta’s favour is earned through months of good behavior alone.

But he doesn’t have months. He only has fourteen hours before he has to leave.

“Of course not,” he says, voice low. “It’s just I’ve missed you so much—“

“And how do you think I felt?”

There’s that pain again, etched more clearly on her face now. It thins out her cheeks and tightens her jaw.

“Do I even matter to you? Or do you think you can just waltz in and out as you please and—“ Cassian cuts her off with a tight grip on her hands.

“Don’t say things like that,” he says, serious. “You know what you are to me.”

“You couldn’t find the time to send word you were going to be three days late,” she says, not trying to break out of his hold but not pulling him closer, either. She bites her lip for a moment, hesitating, before she says, “And you haven’t even apologized.”

He goes through their conversation quickly in his mind and swears inwardly. “I’m sorry, Nesta,” he says. “For being late and for not telling you and for not apologizing right away.”

Nesta’s shoulders relax slightly and she pulls her hands away from him to clasp them tightly in her lap. “Well, I don’t want to forgive you.”

This, he decides, is not the right time to suggest all the ways he can make it up to her. Instead he moves closer, and says, “I didn’t write because I was sure I would be here. I spent every second of the overtime doing everything I need to so that I could come back as fast as possible. I didn’t think things would keep coming up, and each time they did, I was sure that it would be the last.”

“Well,” Nesta says, “you’re very ill-prepared for war.”

Cassian grins. “You can see why we needed the extra practice.”

“Hmph,” she says, not smiling. “For future reference…don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t,” he says immediately. “I promise.”

This calms her considerably, and she leans back against the headboard. “All right, then,” she says, prim. “You’re forgiven.”

His heart skips a beat. His next breath of air feels cooler, more refreshing, somehow. He hadn’t realized just how anxious this has made him. But he doesn’t tell her, doesn’t thank her, worried of what he might say and how she might react. So he puts a hand on her thigh again. “Are you sure you don’t want to hear any of my other reasons? They’re very convincing.”

“No,” she says decisively. “But you can start proving your worthiness right now.”

He grins again, and then he does.

Later, tracing lines up and down her stomach, he says, “You know, you were only angry because you missed me so much.”

Nesta sniffs. “I most certainly did not.”

And there’s the game he’s been waiting for. Definitely worth the extra three days. Although he’ll never catch her off guard like that again. Besides, Nesta’s far more fun to play with when she’s the one setting the rules, anyway.

[100layersofdaddyissues]

Angel - Chapter 3

ITS HERE ITS FINALLY HERE IM SO SORRY. UGH THAT TOOK SO LONG.

but there it is chapter three. I literally wrote most of this chapter while i was in the lobbies of among us games. 

Warnings: Smut, swearing nothing too bad this chapter. 

words: 4.2K!!!!!!!

As the sun rose on the city, your alarm decided to screech its ugly voice across the whole apartment. Why you had decided that waking up at 5am, when you didn’t start work at your new job in Lord Industries at 9am, was absolutely beyond you. You chalked it up to nerves. I mean sure, you were fucking the owner and CEO but that doesn’t mean you’re going to become complacent about this position. Not only were you working in the largest company in most of the country, but you were also Head Marketing for your city’s division. 

           You started your day as you would any other workday, groaning and convincing yourself that leaving bed was worth it. After that, it was coffee and shower time, and if you were lucky you could throw in a cigarette on the balcony, and since you didn’t need to leave for another 4 and a half hours you thought you might just test your luck with multiple. 

Halfway through your shower you heard the phone ringing, you trudged out to the phone wondering who in god’s name was calling at 4:23am. To your great (and welcomed) surprise, it was Darius. “My dearest I’ve been told to inform you that I will be picking you up today, I’ll be at your door by 7:30. So, be ready.” 7:30? That was a whole hour before you were planning on leaving the comfort and security of your new home. 

           “Darius, I didn’t think we started until 9am why are you picking me up so early?” you queried. 

“Well, it seems Maxwell doesn’t want you catching a cab but also did not offer for me to take you both so obviously this means that I will be picking you up first and making me work extra hard.” 

           Oh. he doesn’t want to ride with you to work. You considered that it was perhaps because he didn’t want to incite rumors, but you found it strange, but nonetheless you told Darius that this would be fine and that you would see him at 7:30. An hour early. 

Only you didn’t see Darius at 7:30, in fact you didn’t even see him at 8, it wasn’t until 8:15 hit that you heard any word from him. “Darius I was just about to call a cab you never came? Is everything okay?” 

“Well, it seems Mr. Lord has contracted an illness, called a hangover. I picked him up at 6:30 to get McDonalds. I’ve already dropped him at work, I suspect he’s napping in his office as we speak.” you couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of Max laying on the floor of his office completely passed out. “I’ll be down in a moment, just let me pick out my shoes.” you said back to him, “ahh so I’ll see you by sundown.” Darius quipped back in a lighthearted way. If things ever went belly up with Max, you really hoped you could keep Darius around. 

The ride to the building was filled with the banter you’d become accustomed to with Darius, until you were pulling up to a big silver building, the largest in the city, obviously. You were in absolute shock and awe when you stepped out of the car, you’d thought for a moment in time, ‘woah, this is what ants feel like.’

“Hello ma’am could I see your ID and security badge please?” were the first words you heard when you walked through the doors to the lobby, you stammered over your sentences confused, you didn’t have a security badge, you didn’t realise you’d need one, Maxwell had never mentioned it. “Thank you, Keith, that won’t be necessary, Miss Y/N here is our new head of marketing, I’ve been tasked by Maxwell to escort her to his office.” Darius said coming up behind you. You hadn’t even realised that he had left the car, but here he was escorting you up the escalators. “Ahh yes, I see, of course.” the security guard, Keith, said with a sly smile and a wink. You knew what that meant, and it churned your stomach to think about. How many times had Max given his one-night stands jobs? If he was willing to do it for you, he was willing to do it for others. 

Unfortunately, your question was answered the moment you reached the top floor where Maxwell’s office sat. he had 4, beautiful, well-shaped, pardon your French but devilishly fucking sexy assistants. Why he would need more than one exceptional looking assistant was a question that in itself was the answer. 

“You can’t go in there, Mr. Lord doesn’t like visitors in the morning, he’s especially not looking for new, meat.” one of them all but sneered at you. “Holly if you would quit blabbering, I think I’d like to escort your new head of marketing to your boss if you don’t mind. Will that be okay with you?” Darius was on a roll today in saving you from situations with people. 

As you walked into his office, Maxwell was, surprisingly, upright, on a phone call, drinking coffee and looking all but exasperated. He opened his eyes for only a minute to point at you and then the chair in front of you, and at this Darius left the room and you had no savior from this situation because Maxwell, well, he looked mad. You were worried you’d already done something to upset you and that’s just what you needed right now. An angry man who housing you and providing you job security and most importantly, orgasm security. 

For almost 10 minutes you sat in that chair waiting for Maxwell to be off the phone, never looking up, as to avoid eye contact. When he finally hung up the phone Maxwell stood up, came around the desk and sighed heavily saying, “god I’m glad you’re here,” before all but smashing his lips to yours. Okay. not upset. That’s good, that’s easy to deal with. “I’ve only been here an hour and already I’m just ready to go to your apartment and fuck all my frustration out.” well you weren’t expecting that per se but it’s a welcome surprised. 

“Well, stop me if this is too unprofessional, but you have a perfectly good table to bend me over.” you said, looking up at him through your lashes, trying to look innocent. 

“God you’re incredible woman.” he said pulling you out of your chair and oh would you look at that, bending you over his desk. 

“I really hope you didn’t buy any pants in that shopping haul of yours because having access to your pretty pussy at work is going to work so well for both of us, he said hiking your skirt up just enough so he could pull down your panties, he bent over you until his mouth was hovering at your ear, “you’re going to need to be quiet angel, don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about you now do we?” and before even finishing his sentence his thrust his cock straight into you. It took everything in you to not cry out, but you bit the back of your hand to keep yourself quiet. 

“God it’s only been two days and I missed this pussy, how have I fucked you so hard so often and you’re still this tight? You’re fucking magical, aren’t you? You and your magical cunt are going to kill me, you know that? If I could stop sleeping to have more time to fuck this pussy I would if I could starve myself from food and only eat you dear god I would. So, fucking good.” 

“I thought you said we had to be quiet?” you said to him, with a small smirk on your face that quickly vanished as he spanked your ass a few times, then started thrusting into you with such force you thought you might slip open, he pulled you hair to bring you up against his chest, “that shut you up, didn’t it, you fucking brat,” he said replacing your hair in his hand for your throat. 

Within minutes he was Cumming right into you, he must have realized you hadn’t come yet, only stopping for a split second to pull out, spin you around and replace his cock with his fingers, pushing his cum, back into your cunt, finger fucking you until you were once again about to bite into your hand, when Max switched hands and shoved his cum coated fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet. As you cum around his hand and screamed around the other one, Max could only look at you with lust blown pupils. 

“Well, I think this is the best first day I’ve ever had.” you said to him, completely breathless. 

“It’s about to get better angel, let me show you to your office.” 

He was right, your office did make it better. It was a big, beautiful space, with high ceilings, timber floors and a view to die for, you truly didn’t know how you got so lucky just from a random hookup, but you weren’t but to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Max this is absolutely beautiful, did the head of marketing get this office too?” you asked in wonderment. 

Well, actually no, this was my office, but I’ve taken over my father’s office, I think it’s about time I moved into it and you gave the motivation to do so.” his smile was small, but it was sincere, you think that might have been the first sincere smile you’d seen from Max. 

“I’ll let you get acquainted with your new space if you have any questions, my extension is 0204 okay? If any of my assistants give you any grief, just tell them that their bonuses are on the line they’ll smart right up. I promise.” Maxwell gave me a wink and then shut the door. You walked around the room, gingerly touching the walls, the painting, slowly sliding your hand across your desk, you felt a sense of pride wash over you as you sat at your desk, you weren’t really sure what to do first, you searched around your desk for notes, maybe the previous person in your position left. 

Just as you thought you’d found them, your door swung open, a woman with burgundy hair and a bright pink skirt suit walked through the door. 

“Hello sweetheart, I’m here to help you out, I’m your assistant and Mr. Lord told me that you’d be starting today I figured that he wouldn’t have told you anything, so I thought I’d come give you the rundown, I was the last guys assistant too.” she was really perky, very upbeat for 9:13 in the morning. “Oh, you probably think I’m so rude, my name is Sookie, Sookie Amelia Jersey, it’s nice to meet you?” he hadn’t even told anyone your name yet? Okay feeling less special now. 

“y/n my name is y/n y/l/n but just call me y/n, thank you so much I really have no idea what I have to be doing.” you said trying not to sound like you weren’t supposed to be there or that you didn’t know what you were doing. Which you didn’t. But she didn’t need to know that. 

“Well then let’s get right to it.” and with that, you and Sookie started talking business. 

 It seemed like the time was going so slow, that was until the door swung open once again, only this time Darius stood at the door, coffees, and an ominous brown bag. “I knew you wouldn’t have eaten, so I’ve brought sustenance, oh hello Miss Jersey.” Darius really just knew everyone, maybe he’s a wizard. 

“Darius you are absolute life saver, I think you might be the love of my life.” you said with utter certainty that Sookie now probably thinks there’s something going on between you guys. Ahh if only she knew. 

“And you are mine, dear, but before we begin planning the wedding might I suggest food?” he places the coffee down on the table and what you can now see are croissants. Hmm, 4 coffees, 4 croissants. And as if on cue Darius mutters that he’ll be back as he needs to deliver Max his lunch. 

“I didn’t realise you were already in with Darius. That man took me four years to crack, another two for him to start bringing me food, and here you are on your first day on a first name basis? Who did you fuck to get that treatment?” oh god had she caught on? Does this happen a lot? Does Max give jobs to everyone he fucks? Your mind is running a million miles an hour when you sheepishly laugh and tell some lie about how Darius was an old friend. She seemed to buy it as she moved on to talking more about marketing and what you’ll need to do. 

Soon it was the end of the day and Darius was back at your door telling you to meet him at the car. You said goodbye to Sookie and apologized for stopping her from working. 

You left the building and walked to the car seeing Maxwell in the back of the car. Oh. so now he’s good enough to go home with you but not to come to work with you. You see how it is. 

           You greeted him as you entered the car only for him to point at the phone, you looked at Darius in the rear-view mirror and you both shared a look between you that said, “here we go.” 

           Maxwell was on the phone the entire ride back to your apartment, only removing the receiver from his ear to say, “wear something classy I’ll be back at 7.” 

           What? 

           Its Maxwell Lord, you decided it would be safer for you to heed his warning and just wait to find out what happens. Maybe he just wanted to fuck someone high class tonight. 

            As it neared closer to 7 you kept meticulously checking your hair and makeup, making sure there was nothing on the red gown you’d chosen to wear. You really hoped you would figure out what was going on first, so you didn’t need have anxiety waiting to find out. 

           Just before you could contemplate jumping off the fire escape there was a sharp knock at the door, and a very sharply dressed Maxwell. 

           “Hello angel, I’m here to escort you to your first lord industries gala. You look incredible and I am definitely going to ravish you later, but we really should be going.” he all but pulled your arm out of its socket as he led you out of your door towards the elevator 

           “I don’t mean to sound clueless, but what gala? I haven’t been told about a gala?” you said to him, sounding slightly timid. 

           “Oh? Did I not tell you? We’re having a gala to celebrate the surplus budget this quarter and has my new head of management I thought it only proper to escort you there myself. Plus, there will be some CEOs from rival companies there, I do love to gloat to my competitors.” there was a new air around Max, he looked more pristine and confident. Tonight, was going to be intense you could already feel it. Even on the drive over he was, happier? Maybe he really did just get a kick out of showing off. You understood that. You couldn’t lie and say that it didn’t excite you to be walking in on Maxwell’s arm. To have all eyes staring at you wondering who you were and what you were doing with him. 

           As you arrived at the gala there was a slew of cameras lining a beautiful gold carpet. “We always go with gold because red is overdone, and Lord Industries is revolutionary. Were made of gold baby.” well that explained it. Not that you were questioning it, he did seem like the type to break the mould when it comes to luxury. I mean he was housing you just for the luxury of having convenient sex. It just seemed to fit Max really.

           Exiting the car, the barrage of flashes and yelling hit you like a wall, it was a wonder you didn’t freeze up under the pressure, but you walked next to Max with all the poise and confidence you could muster. The photographers were yelling questions at Max, not at you, but they were all asking about you, you kept your head forward and so did Maxwell. He didn’t say anything while walking past them and up the stairs, his expression only changed after entering the building. He turned to you and praised your level of composure before leading you up to two large doors. On the other side you could hear music and chatter, you wondered why you weren’t entering until you heard an announcer say “Folks, I’m sure were all having an absolute stellar time, but I’d like to draw your attention to the man of the hour, Mr. Maxwell Lord.” his voice rang out over large speakers as the doors opened and Maxwell lead you into the ballroom to polite applause. 

           You were stunned at how many people there were standing in the ballroom, you stood there feeling quite awkward at the stares that were being passed your way and the slight glares coming from some of the women, (and a few men) in the room. 

           “My friends and guests, thank you all so much for coming tonight and while I can appreciate that you would all like to go back to drinking my champagne id first like to introduce someone to you, your new head of marketing for Lord Industries, Miss Y/N Y/L/N. I’m sure she’ll fit right in with us and help us continue to be the frontier for this country.” Max had an excellent public speaking voice; he commanded the room, and you couldn’t lie. You got kind of wet seeing him so, for lack of a better word, bossy. 

           Max leaned in and whispered to you, “go mingle, if you need anything Darius will be floating around.” and then he was gone leaving you to your devices. 

           Thankfully, Sookie found you almost immediately, “I just knew he’d leave you floundering the moment you got here, he’s probably already in the bathrooms giving one of his assistants a ‘bonus’ doesn’t worry sweetheart I’ve got you covered ill introduce you to the actual important people.” and so she did. Within the hour you’d met the head of sales, Mary, head of finance, Samuel, and their assistants, Lorelai, and June. she showed you (but absolutely did not introduce you to) the head of Human Resources, Marcus, who was (in her words) a total douchebag, the head of purchasing, Manny, who apparently would want to corrupt you, you didn’t want to ask what that meant but you had some idea and wanted to laugh because if only Sookie knew. By the time you’d met Jenny, lady who ran the coffee shop in the lobby, Darius had found you both and you sighed a breath of relief, you loved Sookie, but you still weren’t too familiar with her. 

           “My dear you look exquisite I told you that you would look amazing in that dress.” Darius said with one of the biggest smiles you’d ever seen him wear. “You’re drunk aren’t you Darius.” you laughed at him; he was wobbling a bit. 

           “Y/N I am offended that you think I would drink at a work function. But yes, I am absolutely sloshed. Galas are the only nights I can get so drunk I can’t walk, and Maxwell doesn’t fire me, he says it’s good for me to let go, I have no idea what he’s talking about. I am very relaxed all the time, who wouldn’t be working for the prince of darkness. Oh god he’s not behind me, is he?” 

           “Darius you’re rambling, he’s not behind you, I haven’t seen you since he left me at the start.” you said trying to get him to stop talking so rapidly.” 

           “Well, my dear he has seen you; he’s been staring at you since Sookie found you.” Darius’ head vaguely pointed to the wall behind him, you stole a glance and sure enough there was Maxwell, talking to someone but not paying attention to them, he was staring right into your soul, it wasn’t a glare or even angry in anyway, but it was intense, like he was trying to read your mind. Somehow you believed he actually might be able to. You gave him a small smile and he nodded his head in your direction. You looked back at Darius, “he’s probably just making sure I don’t embarrass him.” you said trying to write off the fact that he was staring. Trying to convince him it meant nothing. Or yourself that it meant nothing and that there definitely was not butterflies in your stomach. 

           An hour passed as you and Sookie milled around the room, you lost Darius at champagne number three, with him and Sookie both calling you a prude for not drinking, and you telling them every time that you hated champagne and would much prefer tequila. 

           Suddenly a hand tapped you on the shoulder, you spun around expecting Max, or Darius or literally anyone else. But not henry. Not your ex-boss Henry Giorgio. “Y/N it’s so good to see you! I was quite surprised to hear that you had left us, but I can see why, head of marketing and you get to fuck the boss? What a steal!” your eyes widened from shock not just at seeing him but hearing what he said, you grabbed his arm and dragged him towards a wall telling Sookie that you’d be back right away. “What do you mean fucking the boss? I am not sleeping with Mr. Lord and I will not have you come here and try to embarrass me just because I wouldn’t sleep with you.” your voice was low but harsh as you spoke you him. 

           “Oh, please darling, this is Maxwell, every time a new woman under 30 starts at his company everyone knows that it because he’s sleeping with her, but you got head of marketing, you must have really shown him a good time, I mean everyone else just gets assistant jobs, but you, well that must have been a good blowjob.” he was snarky and rude, and you felt like you were going to cry. 

           “Oh, don’t tell me I’ve hurt your feelings, what did you think was going to happen? Maxwell was going to fall for you. Darling I wouldn’t even waste your breath on that idea, that man has never felt love, his fiancée went missing for god sakes and he came home and went to work the very next week. He doesn’t care about you. You could die and he wouldn’t notice.” 

You suspected that Maxwell only hired you because he could fuck you but hearing someone else say it mad tears begin to sting your eyes. You didn’t think you wanted Maxwell to fall for you until that very moment in time. Before you could say anything or think too hard on the subject, you felt someone come up behind you, it was Maxwell, and if you could have tensed up even more. 

           “Is there a problem here Mr. Giorgio, I should hope you’re not trying to steal back our new member of the team.” Maxwell also sounded tense, but you knew better than to think it was because you’d been upset and not because Henry was his rival. 

           “No not at all Maxwell, just giving her my good wishes, is all.” Henry’s voice was dripping in the smug tone you’d heard so many times working for Halo. 

           “Well then if you’re done, I’d like to steal Miss Y/L/N back if you don’t mind.” Henry merely waved Maxwell off but by then you didn’t want to be there anymore, your head was swirling, and you could only feel pity for yourself, you broke away from Maxwell to go find Sookie. 

           “I need to go home, please I want to go home, now.” you were trying so hard not to cry, tears stinging and threatening to spill over as Sookie led you out of the ballroom, and as you passed Darius, him quickly catching on and following. You didn’t see the confused and hurt look on Maxwell’s face.

           After you finally exited, you noticed the cameras had left, and you broke down in Darius’ arms as Sookie called her husband, Jackson, to come pick you all up. Darius gave Jackson the directions to your house, and when Sookie and Darius offered to join you, and take care of you inside you brushed them off giving them a lame apology about going to bed early and that you would see them tomorrow at work.

           As you showered and climbed into bed, you were mad at yourself for getting so hurt, this was just a business arrangement. You weren’t special. And you shouldn’t see Maxwell as special either. But you did. 

           And it sucked.

tags: @mandoalorian-mainblog​ @mrschiltoncat​ @innerstrawberrypolice​ @bonjour-je-mappelle-fuckyou​

to get added to taglist let me know!!!

[buckthegrump]

IBTHNTTTY - 9

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Y/n hates Bucky Barnes. Absolutely loathes him what makes it worse is that she has to share her office with him. Now with a promotion on the horizon she has to find a way to work with him and not against him.

Word Count: 1621

Warnings: this one has a lot of fluff, swears, sickness stuff, your welcome

A/n: leaving comments/ sending asks makes me happy

Working with Bucky on their project was turning out to be much simpler than Y/n once thought. During the first half of the week, he’d been super sweet to her. Honestly, it had set her on edge. Then one Wednesday, he had a personality change and was back to being a dick.

Which was almost a relief, but Y/n would be lying if she said that she hadn’t enjoyed the softer side of Binky Barnes. She had taken to calling him Binky in her mind to distance herself from those unwelcome feelings. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t working.

And to top off this week, she’d had a surge of anxiety on Thursday night. It was messing with her stomach, and when she woke up Friday morning, she didn’t feel much better. 

Y/n’s car had finally escaped Carol’s grasp and was sitting in her building's garage. But Y/n realized that walking made her feel like she was exercising daily, so she felt less guilty about lounging on the couch the rest of the time.

The smart thing to do would’ve been to drive her car, especially since it was pouring down rain. But she knew that if she’d even tried to get into any moving vehicle, she would’ve gotten car sick. She had this notion that if she got fresh air, she would feel better. It was just a minor stomach ache, after all. 

Her rain jacket that had been a gift from her parents had done nothing in the rainstorm. Neither had the fresh air. Her stomach was still uneasy.

Her outfit clung to every nook and cranny of her body, not leaving much to the imagination. Little baby hairs that had escaped their cages were now glued to her face. And she was dripping, legitimately dripping all over the floor.

As she entered the building, she had a thought. A troubling thought, she could risk getting motion sickness in the elevator that would last a few seconds, a minute at most. Or she could walk up the stairs, but who knows how long that would take.

Elevator it was then. She walked into an empty one hoping that she would get to suffer alone. (She was always extremely grumpy when she got sick.) But she wasn’t ill. It was just anxiety. 

Just as the doors started to close, Bucky slid through them. Damn it.

“Hey,” he greeted, not looking up from his phone. Y/n responded with a nod.

The elevator jolted into motion, and she almost heaved right then and there. She held her fist over her mouth and closed her eyes. 

“Are you ok?” He asked, looking over at her. 

Y/n waved him off. She was uncomfortable; her clothes were still soaking. (Not that she thought they would magically dry between entering the building and the elevator, but one could dream.) All she wanted to do was rip them off and put on her biggest and comfy-est t-shirt then crawl into bed. Ok, so maybe she should’ve stayed at home.

He closed the distance between them. She felt his hand, which was freezing, against her forehead.

“Your hand is cold,” she whined.

“No. You're just hot,” Bucky said.

“Stop trying to get in my pants, Binky.” His hand stiffened against her forehead and was pulled away.

“I meant your temperature, you’re burning up. Did you walk here in the rain?”

Y/n swallowed, attempting to keep the bile from coming up. “No, I rode my roller skates.”

“I highly doubt you would’ve even been able to get the skates on. Go home, you're sick.”

The doors opened with a soft ding, and Y/n was off the elevator in a flash. She walked to her office with her head held high, ignoring the looks she got from her co-workers. They were probably staring at her because she was sopping wet, but Y/n felt like they could sense her sickness.

No, she was not sick.

When she was finally safe in her office, she slumped down into her chair.

“You need to go home,” Bucky repeated. 

“I have a deadline,” she paused, “today that I can’t miss.”

“How long will it take you to finish it?”

Y/n didn’t answer. She was focused on getting the draft edited and sent off.

Luckily the edits were mostly done, so she finished the draft before noon. Before she got the chance to send it, she pulled her trashcan into her lap and vomited.

A hand started rubbing small circles on her back. 

“Let me take you home,” Bucky whispered. 

With no more fight in her, she sent the manuscript to Natasha and let Bucky help her out of her chair. She pulled away from him just as someone knocked at their office door.

Coulson entered after Bucky told him to. “I have a -” Coulson took one look at Y/n and froze, “Good God, Y/n, are you ok?”

“She appears to be a little sick, so I was going to take her home. All her work is done for the day -”

“Yes, of course,” Coulson nodded and stepped out of their way, “you can take the rest of the day too, Barnes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Y/n walked through the office space, this time a little less confidently, with Bucky right behind her. 

Once in the elevator, Y/n leaned most of her body weight on the railing. There were small black dots in her vision and her knees buckled beneath her. Bucky was quick to catch her before she could fall to the ground; he then lifted her into his arms.

She mumbled something about being too heavy for Bucky to carry, his only response was for her to shut up. Letting herself relax in his arms and nuzzled her face into his neck. 

“You smell good,” she mumbled. 

Bucky’s chest rumbled with laughter. “I’m surprised that my smell isn’t making you nauseous.”

“Did you not shower today or something?”

“You’re halfway to death and still making fun of me,” he chuckled.

“Someone has to; if I don’t, your head will get too big, and you’ll be insufferable.”

“I think you’ll be pleased to know that you are not the only one who thinks that,” he told her. She hummed into his chest.

* * *

Y/n must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing that registered was Bucky helping her out of the car and into her building. He tried to pick her up, but she was being stubborn and walked with Bucky hot on her heels. 

He stood by patiently while she fumbled with her keys. Bucky gently grabbed the keys from her hand.

“I can do it,” she whispered.

“Sunflower,” he chuckled.

She froze and looked at him. “You haven’t called me that all week. Are you mad at me? Did I do something to make you mad at me? Because I’m sorry if I did. I don’t really hate you.”

He opened the door, and she walked in. Slowly, she melted to the floor, ready to just sleep there.

“No, no, no,” Bucky said, helping her to her feet. “You need to get out of those clothes and into something dry before you catch a cold on top of the flu.”

“I don’t have the flu.”

“Sunflower -” Bucky walked with her as she half led him to her bedroom.

“You never answered my question,” she said. Without thinking about it, she stripped down to her underwear.

“Oh my god,” Bucky quickly turned his back to her. “You can’t just take off your clothes like that.”

“I’m in my own house and -” she opened and closed her drawers. She finally found a new change of panties and her comfy shirt. After changing, she walked over to her bed. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“No, I’m not mad at you,” he said. 

“Bucky, come here,” Y/n ordered. Once he was standing next to her bed, she opened an eye to look at him. “Will you stay?”

“Oh, I don’t trust you not to do anything stupid,” Bucky reached out with his right hand and gently pressed it to her forehead. “Do you have a thermometer?”

An unbidden giggle escaped her lips. “My mom made me my very own first aid kit when I moved here. It’s in the bathroom under the sink.” 

Bucky’s thumb stroked her eyebrow before he walked away.

“Is your first aid kit in a little mermaid lunch box?” He called from the bathroom. She mumbled something into her pillow, not even she knew what she was trying to say. “Here.”

He held out the thermometer for her. 

“Will you do it? Just stick it in my armpit,” she groaned.

“Believe it or not, sunflower, I’ve taken someone’s temperature before,” He said.

“Some people are a stick it in the mouth kind of people. I just don’t want you to put my armpit thermometer in my mouth.”

“Noted.” He hesitated, then Y/n pulled at her neckline to give him access to her pit. 

“I’m hungry.”

“Probably because you’ve puked up everything you’ve eaten,” pulled the thermometer from her after it beeped. “But you’ll have to wait until you don’t dry heave for a few hours. You are currently at 103. If you go above that, I’m taking you to the doctor’s.”

Y/n grabbed his hand, and he stilled. She pulled him closer to him. Getting the hint, he took off his shoes.

“You don’t have to wear your pants,” she said. “Unless you’re going commando. I don’t want your dick out ready to play.”

He ignored her and climbed onto her bed and sat next to her. He didn’t get under the covers at all, nor did he lay down.

[theesteemedladydebourgh]

hello! i hope you're doing well. so i saw the director's commentry post and wanted to ask about the tale of you and I. you mentioned that this fic (WHICH BY THE WAY SHOULD BE HANGING IN A CATHEDRAL FOR US MERE MORTALS TO WORSHIP) is closer to the kind of stuff you write outside of fanfiction. id love to hear more about that, your writing that is, if you don't mind sharing. but let's be honest ill practically devour anything and everything you say about any of your fics (yes i read them all and no i have still not gotten out of the puddle of tears they left me in). so ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

oh my god thank you!! 🥰i adore that fic ah (and I adore you!)

so yes, all of my non-fic writing fits very firmly into the 'whimsical, magic/fantasy category'. originally i started writing because i wanted to write the next harry potter 😂 And then i got sucked into the YA fantasy craze of secret heir-warring kingdoms-ensemble quest and honestly i still have an old draft of a novel along those lines with a heist that was actually really cool and one day i swear i want to finish it.

then i got older (and possibly more pretentious?) and all my writing took a very sharp turn into whimsical, magical realism, who-even-knows-very-self-indulgent nonsense. over covid (spurred by folklore thank u taylor swift) i wrote 100k of a book about a faerie ballet in a mirrored paris that got stuck there during the french revolution and these two characters who fell in love in their dreams and my mom read it and was like, wow, it's so...much and yet so little at the same time (which i'm not really sure how to interpret, except that i banked hard on nostalgia and sadness and abstract faerie magic which really suits my tastes, but not everyone's!)

it's funny because in fic i have no trouble finishing things off quickly, even when the word counts are super high, but in my other writing i just can't find myself able to finish anything. I think it's because in fic i mostly write romances in a not very complex setting (or one that's so familiar, like canon, that it feels ordinary) and i focus on the relationship and that's it.

But with original work (and I'm actually feeling it a bit with The Tale of You & I, because the faerie world feels big and kind of entirely in my head) it's harder, which is no surprise i guess. the fun is writing magical worlds where i can do anything and i LOVE world building so much, outside of romance it's my favorite thing. (which might be another difference between fic and original, bc in fic i concentrate solely on romance and in originals i'm all caught up in world building).

i love taking things that feel lovely and...i don't really know how to describe it other than aesthetically appealing? like for example faerie courts caught in spring where rivers run in reverse, or ballets performed in marble towers in the sky of a city that's been reversed, or sandy, desert empires with old gods that don't speak anymore in the middle of an ocean.

I always start with a setting and insert characters into that. I love writing ensemble casts, though keeping track of all the dialogue is a nightmare, but the opportunity for banter is so fun, and of course there's always a love story. sometimes several 😉

anyway this was mostly rambling and likely doesn't make much sense 😅 but i love writing and i love inventing things from scratch, because it makes me really feel like i can do something with my mind.

and i love writing fic because it's taught me how to really write a romance, and develop feelings in different worlds or scenarios that all lead to the same place. they're compatible skills, and getting to jump between them is a great gift 🥰

[pickybearcub]

Getting to know Spiderboy: Chapter 2

A/N: Welp... no feedback yet, but well, I haven’t really posted fics here til this one. Just have to keep cracking on then. (Note: Dividers by @whimsicalrogers)

Pairing: Peter Parker x OC

Genre: Friendship/ Adventure/ Family

Warnings: Again, none so far.

Masterlist

**A few days later**

Nadia still couldn't believe that she'd found the actual spider boy's bag. Maybe her family really was a magnet for the out of the ordinary in this world.

The masked vigilante had been spotted more and more throughout Queens. She'd never seen him herself, but the internet was full of blurred pictures and quite a few videos. She'd never expected him to be so young either.

Thank God for Facebook. Why she hadn't thought of it before she made several calls to different Parkers in the phonebook, asking if they had a young relative named Peter or if they knew someone with that name, was embarrassing as hell.

When she'd found who she knew had to be the right Peter Parker less than two minutes from inputting his name in the search bar, she nearly banged her head on the table.

She came across a few group pictures with him in a school marching band and some candid shots of him with who she assumed was his friend with an academic decathlon banner in the background.

From another shot, she made out the name of his school.

Midtown School of Science and Technology

 Ugh… she felt like a stalker.

She could either try her luck spotting him at his school…

Or scroll through more of the pictures and maybe…

Bingo!

Nadia found a selfie of Peter with a woman wearing glasses who looked to be in her thirties. She got a family sort of vibe from it. The picture was tagged too.

 with May Parker

 Lucky…

"May? I'm home." Peter shut the apartment door behind him and slumped onto the couch. "Sorry, I'm late." He'd spent a bit longer on patrol today.

"Peter?" His aunt called. "Look who found your backpack."

The teenager immediately straightened and looked to where May was seated in the dining room, a dark-haired young woman he didn't recognize seated next to her. The stranger looked like she was in her late teens or so.

The lady gave a slightly awkward wave and a small smile.

Peter returned the gesture with an even more awkward half-smile. His wave ended with him pulling a hand through his hair.

"Th-Thanks… uh…" He trailed off when he realized the young woman didn't introduce herself yet.

"Nadia." She said, giving him an apologetic look before turning back to his aunt. "Uh… Ms. Parker, I-"

"Just May, please." Said woman chirped cheerily.

"May…” Nadia corrected herself, “I just wanted to drop off Peter's bag. I'm sure he has a lot of homework and stuff to do. I should be going." She got up from her seat to leave.

"Oh, sweetie. Please stay for dinner. It's the least we could do." May got up as well, remembering the rotisserie chicken she had in the oven. The timer on the appliance rang and called the older woman away before Nadia could protest.

"Well… okay…" The dark-haired lady said to no one in particular as Peter decided to approach the table hesitantly. May would give him a lecture if he just went to his room to avoid interaction with the stranger.

"So… uh, th-thanks again, Nadia." He stuttered out slightly. "B-Better dinner now, I think. Other-Otherwise May might insist on coffee or something another time." Peter chuckled a bit, one side of his lip quirking. He knew just how his aunt could be at times.

"I'll take your word for it." The lady smiled back, this time more relaxed.

"So how did you figure out I owned the- the backpack? and..." A sudden realization hit him and his eyes widened slightly. "How did you know I live here?" He said slowly, body tensing slightly even when he couldn't sense any ill intent from the lady in front of him. Instead of acting like she got caught or something, her cheeks heated and she looked slightly away, letting out a slightly nervous chuckle.

"I found a few papers in your bag with your name on it. Then tried looking you up on Facebook…." Peter could sense that there was more to it than that, but he didn't push. "There were a few pictures of you at Midtown, and I found a few tagged with your aunt's name. Then it was easy just looking up ‘May Parker’ in the phonebook." Nadia scrubbed a hand down her face in embarrassment as she finished her explanation. "God, I'm sorry. I still feel weird and guilty for looking you up like some kind of stalker."

Peter relaxed, shrugging. "N-no need to apologize. I guess- I guess I understand how that would have worked." He knew how easy it could be to find someone with all the social media nowadays. The lady didn't look like she was hiding anything. As far as he could tell, she was sincere. His spider senses weren’t tingling.

---

Dinner would have been a little awkward with a stranger at the table, but May's insistent questions and push for conversation made things quite a bit easier.

Peter found out that Nadia just moved to Queens just two weeks ago and worked part-time at a café a few blocks from the deli store he frequented.

Nadia learned what instrument Peter played in his school band and that he had a best friend named Ned.

The two laughed out loud when they both shot Star Wars references at each other.

May was ecstatic that Peter seemed to have made a new friend. She knew her nephew wasn't a loner, he did have Ned, but it would be nice to have someone else to help keep an eye on Peter. Especially with how strangely he was behaving for the past two months.

The dark-haired woman left the apartment with May promising that she and Peter would visit the café she worked at some time and that the teen would show Nadia some of the sights in Queens when he was free.

Nadia shot the boy a "Don't worry about it" look when May wasn't looking.

Peter was honestly relieved. Nadia was nice, but he didn't really know her to not be unbelievably awkward if he gave her a tour. Though, when he thought about it while he emptied his newly returned backpack in his room, showing her around wouldn't really be a bad thing. It was awesome that she liked Star Wars too.

He found the quizzes that she had mentioned.

Yup.

They did have his name scrawled on the upper left-hand sides.

He let out a breath when his black notebook was one of the things that fell out of the bag. He tensed a bit when he realized it was the one he wrote his web fluid formula ideas in.

"At least all she went through were the papers." Maybe he could use his chemistry class to try mixing a new formula-

Peter gaped at the sauce stain in the middle of the page. A note was stuck on the bottom, written on a Post-it.

 Sorry about the mess.

 Next time you need a place to leave your bag,

I can take care of it for you. The fire escape at my building faces the alley.

I'll put my spider plant out so it's easier to spot.

(Not me trying to be funny. I actually already had that plant before I found your bag. It was ahousewarming gift.)

 There was an address scribbled at the bottom of the note, along with an apartment number.

:: Boss, there’s been some suspicious activity that might suggest someone is searching for Mr. Parker.::

Tony Stark frowned. "Already?" He'd recently connected the dots regarding the teenager being the new masked vigilante that was swinging around New York. From what he'd seen, the boy had a lot of potential. "Bring up the data, FRIDAY."

Searches by a Nadia Capelli for Peter Parker on Facebook. Not really anything alarming. Could be a girl with a crush.

Nope.

What did a woman in her twenties want from a kid like Peter?

What really did raise a red flag were the calls this Nadia made before the search. She'd managed to ring up quite a few "Parkers" in the phonebook before resorting to social media. A call to May Parker was then registered a few minutes after the search.

So she was specifically looking for Peter. Even more concerning was that she apparently just moved to Queens barely two weeks before she started searching.

What made Tony decide to keep tabs on this Nadia Capelli was the fact that records of her were quite a bit lacking for someone her age. He couldn't let a possible threat get to Peter Parker before the man could decide whether or not he was going to take the boy under his wing.

Nadia wasn't really surprised when a red and blue costumed figure landed on her fire escape the next night.

She disregarded his agitated posture, sliding open the window and sticking her head out.

"Spider boy! Looks like you have your bag with you this time." She grinned. "I've got brownies." She slipped back inside after that simple statement.

Peter took a few deep breaths to control his anxiety before he ducked through the window. He ignored the rest of the apartment and went straight to the kitchen. Nadia was slicing said pastries into squares.

"You said you only-"

"You sound a little muffled, Peter." She replied offhandedly while placing half the brownies on a plate and the other half in a paper bag.

The boy put his laced fingers behind his neck and paced agitatedly, "Oh man…." His fear was confirmed. Someone knew he was Spider-Man. It was a split-second decision, but he pulled off his mask and goggles.

"You said you only looked through my quiz papers!" Peter's voice was high-pitched and cracked at the end.

"I said I saw your name on some of them. I just didn't mention that I looked through your notebook to find a few more hints to your school and such." She clarified simply, moving a bit closer to the distraught teenager.

"B-but-!" Nadia cut the boy off, raising a hand before he could work himself well into a panic. "Finding that page was pure coincidence. I swear, I won't tell anybody."

Peter's eyes were wide, and he was wringing his hands. "P-please-" There really wasn’t any protocol for someone finding out his secret. He’d been careful!

"I won't." She said softly. "I'm sure not even your aunt knows…"

The boy shook his head in response.

"Which is why I didn't say anything about the notebook. I didn't want you to freak out in front of your aunt. That would have been hard to play off." Nadia chuckled.

Peter forced out a small laugh, his brain still in panic mode. The dark-haired young woman noticed the still present tension in his shoulders.

"Peter, I know what it's like to have to keep a secret." She assured, continuing to speak in a soothing tone. He looked doubtful. A sigh escaped her lips.

Before Peter could say anything else, Nadia mumbled something under her breath.

The bag of brownies on the kitchen island glowed slightly before gently floating over to her outstretched hand. The light faded when she clutched the top of the paper in her fingers.

Peter gaped, his jaw dropping.

"There's no way I'm giving you the recipe for these brownies." She said with a smile before placing the bag in the teen’s hands. "But if you or your aunt want more, just say so." She pats his shoulder, leading him back to the window.

The wide-eyed teen seemed to have collected some of his wits and turned to her. "You- You can-"

Nadia put a finger to her lips and winked.

"Put your mask on, Spider-boy. And you better put those in your bag before you swing off." The young woman gestured to the paper bag.

Peter fumbled for a moment and did as she said, adjusting the goggles over his eyes. He was out on the fire escape before he paused to look at Nadia again. "Thank you." He breathed, a little overwhelmed with relief and wonder as well.

"If you need anything, Spider-boy." She smiled before waving her hand in a shooing motion.

Peter smiled back under his mask. "It's Spider-Man." He said before turning and shooting a web to swing away.

"Boy!" Nadia hollered after him just before he disappeared around another building.

---

Tags are open

[harryimaginestuff]

Ruin the Friendship: Part 2

hi lovlies! sorry for such a long wait, I hope you enjoy part 2!

Word count: 3k

Genre: angst 

    It had been 7 months since you had last seen and heard from Harry, the last time being when you walked away from his house and out of his life. In the beginning there had been a hole shaped like Harry that had sat heavily in your heart that had affected every one of your moves. You had never felt that way until Harry and you repeatedly promised yourself that you would never allow yourself to feel those emotions ever again.

     However, your pessimism ended soon after as the hole in your heart slowly began to fill of a love for something else.

      “Sam! I swear to god put that shit back how many times have I told you I can’t eat that!” You whine at him as he picks up a plate of sushi. “Why can’t I have it then?”     

“Because you love me so much and wouldn’t want to tempt me?” you bashfully ask, giving him your sweetest smile as you walk closer to him to envelop him into a hug.      

Whilst Sam is rarely stopped in public, the both of you wanted to ensure your privacy as you stepped out for your weekly shopping trip. Ever since Harry had been out of your life you had somehow grew even closer to the man beside you, something you had originally believed was impossible seeing as you were practically joined at the hip ever since you had met him when you were six.      He had been there for you every step of the way. He was by your side once you had returned from Harry’s the same morning as your eventful ‘break-up’. He was by your side letting you cry onto his shoulder not saying a word because he knew that silence is how you deal best with sadness. He was even by your side the day you found out you were pregnant.

      “Uh oh,” you hear Sam whisper causing to look over at him, aiming to see what had caught his attention. Annoyance fills you as your eyes follow his gaze to the wall of trashy magazines all with the common theme of himself and a ‘mystery woman’.

      ‘Sam Claflin spotted with mystery woman.’

     ‘Claflin spotted entering London home with mysterious girl and a telling package.’

    ‘Exclusive! Sam Claflin photographed entering home carrying baby crib packaging with mystery woman.’

    The same image is used throughout all magazines, a blurry picture with your back the camera and whilst you’re not visible enough to be recognised, Sam’s face is clear as day which would in turn make it hard to disregard the pregnancy rumours that are bound to come.

      “Hey look at me.” Sam reassures, gently grabbing your shoulders as to divert you away from the issue that has captured your attention. “It’s all going to be fine, and if someone stops us, we just say nothing okay?”

     Trashy magazines were usually untrue, always coming up with some fabricated lie from a ‘reliable source’, however in this circumstance there was no need for a reliable source seeing as pictured in every one of the magazines was a picture of her and Sam and whilst she wasn’t recognisable, it only meant that a shit storm was on the way, it was just a matter of when.

      “I know Sam, we both knew it was going to happen eventually.” You signed, stroking the swell of your stomach, “just didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

     “Let’s finish buying you your ice cream and get out of here.”

     “Love you Sam,” you smiled cuddling into his side.

      “Love me enough to let me buy some Sushi?”“No.”

// 

    That night you couldn’t help but let your mind wonder to the moment you found out about the human growing inside you. 

     After almost a week of incessant puking and convincing yourself that it was just a general illness, as after all there had been some kind of virus that had been making its rounds around work over the past few weeks. And if you were being honest you would have ignored and waited out this apparent sickness if it weren’t for Sam’s friendly concern.

      It was getting to the point where his consistent badgering and bothering had gotten you to reach your boiling point, leading to him taking you to the doctors for his benefit rather than yours.

      It felt like only a week ago when you were sitting inside the doctor’s office with Sam waiting for you outside patiently.

      It felt like only a week ago when the doctor had put you at ease and then into a frenzy in so little time.

      It felt like only a week ago when you were left in shock after discovering that you were growing a real human inside of you and that little human happened to share the same blood as the man who singlehandedly held your heart and broke it.

      You couldn’t even begin to explain the way your stomach dropped and the way your heart thumped so loudly within your chest. The words ‘pregnant’ has echoed across the room filling you with despair and warmth simultaneously. Tears had  filled your eyes, but it wasn’t sorrow for yourself and the fact that you had accidentally fallen pregnant with a man who couldn’t lob you, instead it was grief for the small part of you growing from within who may never learn who their  father is.

//

     After going for your weekly shopping trip, the both of you were exhausted, you more so because of the full-grown baby chilling in your stomach, and Sam because you had made him carry every single one of the bags. All 10 of them.      And now being the bestest friend that he is, he was currently sitting on a makeshift chair by your feet and massaging out the full ache that had developed. Who knew motherhood would be nothing but ache, pains, puke and love?

      “I love you.” You moaned out, expressing your gratitude to the man who’s always been stood by your side.

      “I’m only doing this because you let me eat sushi, albeit I had to eat it on my own in the toilet, but still, the gesture counts.”

      You and Sam has been friends since childhood, before fame there had always been you. The whole reason he took on his role is Love, Rosie was thanks to you seeing as he saw so much of the both of you in the characters, sans the romance of course.

      This is why as soon as you revealed your surprise pregnancy the first thing Sam said was that he would be whatever you needed, whether that was the baby’s father figure or just the cool uncle, either way you knew he’d be there for you through thick and thin. And he was. He attended every appointment, he was there for every craving, he was there for the first kick. Quite frankly here was no way that you would have been able to do it so smoothly without him.      “Harry just texted me.” Sam said cussing your stomach to drop with unease. The last time you spoke to him was when you ended it and the last time Sam spoke to him as far as you knew was when he went to pick up some of your belongings from Harry’s place. “He must’ve seen the articles. But he doesn’t know it was you.”

     You can feel the dread slowly travel through every vein in your body as the colour drops from your face. This is it. The moment you knew was coming       “What did u want me to say.”

      “um… just… I don’t know… just confirm a pregnancy but say nothing about me.”

     Sam looked at you, eye brows slightly raised. “Are you sure? If we lie we can’t turn back and if he finds out we’re in shit.”

     “Yes, yes I’m sure just send it.”

     “Okay whatever you want.”

     The inevitable fact that Harry could and would soon find out about his daughter had been pushed to the back of your mind as you concerned yourself with more important and urgent matters as you prepared for the arrival of your baby. However, deep down you knew that the real reason why you refused to acknowledge the truth was because you were terrified of what could happen if he ever did find out. More now than ever as you had made Sam outright lie to him, putting you in a pretty bad spot if he was to ever find out. You knew that the confrontation was unavoidable and either Harry would find out on his own accords or you would reveal it to him yourself. Either way that day was fast approaching, and you were one step closer seeing as Harry now believed that there was a pregnant woman in Sam’s life.

     You just never thought that that day would be today.

      Both you and Sam were sat inside the nursery, which previously was a game room that Sam had sacrificed as soon as you moved in with him. The two of you had been working on building a crib and painting the room since earlier that day. Whilst in every other sense the two of you made a great team however the both of you had come to the realisation that decorating was your weakest point. Rather than working together you were in one corner painting the wall whilst Sam was in the other building the crib. You currently weren’t speaking seeing as not even 20 minutes ago you had fallen into a tedious argument on what the colour of the wall should be, with you arguing for a universal yellow and Sam arguing for a lilac hue.

      You were pulled out of your mindless humming by the sound of the doorbell ringing causing your movements to halt at the sudden intrusion.

      “Mind getting it for me.” Sam asked, fiddling with the wooden boards laid out in front of him.

      You simply nodded and strolled out of the room. Perhaps the person waiting behind the door was the delivery man, after all Sam had been raving on about some kitchen gadget he bought earlier on in the week, so perhaps it was that.      Peeking through the hole you felt your body turn ice cold as behind the door stood a very familiar curly headed man.

    “Shit shit shit.” You mumbled to yourself as you roughly distanced yourself, almost as if the door was fire, with the flames licking at you, melting the glue that pieced together your heart.

      “Sam? It’s Harry.” The familiar voice ignited your body as you bolted up the stairs and back to the nursery.

     “Harry-he’s-Harry…” Despite the broken phrases, Sam was still able to understand you as he gently pushed you into a chair and handing you his glass of water as he sweetly whispered in your ear.

      You could hear the muffled voices of the distant men below you as you once again hid from your issues. From what you could hear, Harry’s random appearance was down to him giving a small gift for a child he beloved to be Sam’s. It was weird hearing his voice now so many months after you separated, and it was even weirder to think that that was the voice you listened to almost everyday. But now wasn’t the most recent time that you had heard his voice. The last time you heard it was soon after you found out you were pregnant and you had been calling and calling him only to be met with his voicemail over and over again, until one day rather than hearing him, it was an automated message informing you on how the number was no longer available. For you that had drawn the line since the lack of need for him to keep you updated on his contact details was a tell-tale sign that you no longer held any importance anymore. And yet there you were on the other line, completely in love with him and pregnant with his baby.

     “Y/N?” And there it was again, that voice. That voice that could make you smile, scream and cry all at once. But it wasn’t the that that made you choke up this time it was the fact that he was standing right in front of you staring at your rounded stomach. You watched as his mouth taped open and closed like a fish and if it wasn’t for such a tense moment you would have burst out laughing, but this wasn’t the time.

       “It’s you.” He hesitantly steps forward his hand subconsciously lifting towards you. “You were the girl who was pregnant.”

      He takes one more step towards you before settling down at your feet his hands resting on your legs.

      “You were the girl Sam was talking about.” You’re yet to open you mouth and speak, but the fear consumes you as you watch the clogs turn in his mind as he tries to piece together the information he’s just been given. “You’re pregnant with Sam’s baby.”

     “What? No.” Apparently he was piecing together the wrong information. Sam chooses this moment to walk in, mumbling a quiet ‘shit’ at the image in front of him.

      “I mean Y/N there’s no point denying it now I can see that you’re pregnant and Sam told me he had a pregnant girlfriend.”

     “I’m almost 8 months Harry.”

     “Okay?” He asks confusion still written across his face until suddenly his face goes slack and you think that this is it, he knows now.

     “You were sleeping with me and Sam?”

      “Harry for Christ sake.” He stands up creating a distance between you as he moves him self to the corner.

      “You told me that you loved me.” He pauses as his eyebrows furrowed in anger. “But you were with Sam behind my back. That doesn’t look like fucking love to me.”

     You open your mouth to speak but he holds his hand up to silence you.      “And you.” He points at Sam. “You were supposed to be my fucking friend. No wonder you stopped speaking to me! You were sleeping with my girl. You were both laughing behind my back. I knew you were like everyone else, just using me. We were supposed to be exclusive.”

     “Mate calm down, don’t say stuff you’ll regret just let her explain.” Sam said lightly gripping his arm.

      “M’not your fucking mate.”

     “You’re such a dick Harry! And still as oblivious as ever, first when I was trying to tell you I loved you and now when I’m trying to tell you the baby’s yours.”

     Harry stills the anger leaving his face, “why didn’t you tell me?” He whispers.      You laugh dryly, “I did so many times. As soon as I found out before telling anyone I called you. Over and over again but you never answered but I never gave up until that bitch automated voice me that your number wasn’t available, you changed it. Do you know how that felt?”

     “Do you know how it felt to reach out to someone you had known and cared for and loved for two years to act like you never existed, to be left on the ground like dirt. You say now that I must’ve been using you but I’ve never felt more used at that point, I was left thinking that I was never anything more than a good fuck and once I was no longer willing to cooperate you pushed me aside to find a new plaything. I felt like complete and utter shit. I was so in love with this man, pregnant with his child and absolutely scared shitless. I didn’t know what to do and you weren’t there!” You cry out. “You were never there. Not when I needed you the most.”

     “I can’t believe I was dumb enough to believe that you cared at all for me.” You broke down in tears, your body folding into itself as you curled up into a ball, a subconscious effort to protect your already split heart. 

     “Y/N… that’s not true.” Harry finally said after Sam quietly left the room, allowing you to have the conversation that was needed.

      “There’s no proof from your actions that tells me otherwise.”

     “I left you because I thought that that was what was best for you.”

     “Harry don’t feed me the shit that you feed all the other girls when you no longer want them anymore, that you end whatever you have with them for their own safety.”

     “But it wasn’t just for your safety this time. I did it for my sanity as well as yours. Do you know how many of my past relationships has ended as a result of the hate they receive? Basically, all of them. I realised too late that I loved you too, after spending a week without you in my arms I realised that I didn’t want a day like that ever again. But then I remembered all my past relationships and I couldn’t let you go through all the shit they had to. Not you because I had never loved anyone more than I love you.”

     “You can’t say that to me?” you cried out. “You can’t play with my feelings like that. You never wanted me before this pregnancy, why would I ever believe that you were genuine about wanting me now. You’re just in love with the idea of a family. But you’re not in love with me.” 

    “I love you; I swear I do, and I’ll keep telling you that until you get sick of it. I didn’t handle the situation well back then, but I swear I’ve changed as much as a man can change in eight months. We don’t have to jump into everything now but please let me be in your life. The both of yours.” He said reaching out to stroke your swollen stomach.

     “I’m only agreeing for now for the sake of our child, if we’re in contact we do it on my terms, I’m staying here-”

“-but”

     “I’m staying here with Sam, you can come to any other appointments I have and of course the birth, whenever that is. But that’s it for now.”

     “We just see where things go?”

     “Yeah, we’ll just see where things go.”

     You watched in awe as Harry sang softly into your stomach, maybe you’ll finally have your happy ending.

// 

tags

@harryisalittleshit @killerqueenishere

[arazialotis]

Moto Grand Prix - Part 1

Pairing: Jensen x Reader

Word Count: Around 3000

Warnings: swearing

Summary: A request from @acortez82 An idea I liked so much I decided to to a little series out of it. Jared invites Jensen to not just any motorcycle race but the biggest one of all. The final race of the grand prix happening in Valencia, Spain. A hot rival between seasoned veteran Suarez and new to circuits Esposio makes the excitement buzz in the air. Although knowing nothing about the sport, Jensen can’t help but root for the rookie. And just perhaps, he will leave Spain with more than just the love of the track. 

Everything I write is beta’d by the wonderful and pristine @misguidedconqueress I couldn’t do it without her!

I intend no hate or ill wishes to him or his family. This is purely just for writing and wasting my time. This is purely for a hobby and my enjoyment. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I am by no means a writer so I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

Let the race begin! 

----

As soon as the clapperboard snapped down, marking the end of filming and the start of winter break, Jensen raced to his trailer; bags already packed, wanting nothing more to run back home to the warm sunshine in Austin. While the rest of the cast and crew were celebrating with champagne, he was putting together the last bits of his travel details. A knock on the trailer door startled him from his thoughts and he went to answer, dreading anything that could keep him at work longer. Jared appeared on the other side, bundled up from the chill up yet still beaming with delight.

“I was hoping to catch you before you rushed off.” He laughed, his breath fogging in the air. Jensen nodded his head, directing him to come in. The wind slammed the door shut behind them. “Man, I am so sick of this weather.”

“You and me both, brother.” Jensen chuckled. “When I signed up to become an actor, I thought it’d be palm trees and beaches. Had I known they were going to ship us off to Canada, I might have thought twice. So uh, you doing anything fun with your time off?”

“Actually that is what I wanted to talk to you about.” Jared started. “But first let me give you an early Christmas gift.” He said, handing Jensen an envelope.

Jensen eyed him suspiciously before taking it from him. “With it still being over a month away, I’m afraid I can’t yet reciprocate the gesture.”

“Would you shut up and just open it.” Jared playfully ordered.

He ripped open the seal with his thumb and pulled out its contents. His eyes widened with shock as he tried to process what he was seeing. He looked at Jared for clarification but received nothing other than a smile. He held two tickets in his hand, one for an airline and the other for some type of sporting event.

Jared couldn’t contain his excitement any longer. “I scored tickets to the MotoGP!” “The what?” Jensen asked, still confused.

“Dude.” Jared chastised. “Grand Prix motorcycle racing. The last race of the year… In Valencia! To determine the winner. Esposio is so close to taking the lead…”

“Wait. Wait. Hold up. So you are taking me to Spain?” Jensen clarified.

“I’m taking you to Spain!” Jared exclaimed.

“Dude!” Jensen went in for a quick bro hug. “This is going to be awesome. God, how can I repay you?”

***

A few short weeks later, both Jensen and Jared had ventured to Spain. Seeing sights, experiencing local cuisine, and breathing in the glorious ocean air revived their spirits after months in the desolate Canadian winter. But the main event had yet to take place. Jared couldn’t keep his mouth shut the entire time. Naturally it caught Jensen up to speed. Apparently, many people were rooting for the racer named Esposio. It was his first tour and he was neck in neck with a long seasoned veteran of the tracks, Suarez. Esposio needed to place first to take the championship, and on top of that Suarez had the home track advantage.

Jared had made a vast understatement when he said he had scored seats. The VIP Lounge which they had access to was positioned right over the Ducati and Yamaha garages and just past the finish line, allowing them a great view of all the action. Jared was already schmoozing with other high rollers in the lounge but Jensen prefered to keep quiet, leaned up against the railing and watching the commotion in the pits. Part of him even wished he could be down there, working in the trenches, but knew he’d screw something up.

Anxiety and excitement heighted as the time for the race drew nearer and nearer. Jared pointed out Esposio, on a Ducati bike numbered 34, decked out in a grey and red uniform. The rider appeared nervous, looking back and forth between other drivers, checking and rechecking his bike’s mechanics. Jensen could understand why. From what Jared had explained, everything for him counted on this last race.

Before the crowd could even realize it, the race had begun. The bikes whizzed passed the stands; already heading into the first corner. Jensen gulped against a lump in his throat, realizing how close the bikes were to each other and how low they got at each turn, the drivers’ knees literally scraping the edge of the track. He kept a sharp eye on 34, dreadfully anticipating a crash at any moment as the bike weaved in and out, skillfully attempting to move closer to the lead.

The bikes drove out of sight, but the crowd could still make out the whirring of the engines. They grew distant, the seconds drawing out, the roar slowly building up until the bikes were visible again. A few made their way closer to the line and flew by once again. The crowd roared, Suarez already taking a place in the top three. Another large group sped past with Esposio caught in the middle. Finally a few stragglers joined the rest, and just like that the first lap was over.

Jensen felt a slap on his shoulder, which drew him from the trance.

“So first lap over, what do you think?” Jared boomed, energized from the action.

“Man. It is crazy. You think they’d let us test run after they are finished?” He playfully questioned.

Jared chuckled. “Dude, you would die before you even got to the first corner.”

“I know how to ride a bike.” Jensen rolled his eyes.

They watched the group take another corner, darting low to the ground. “Not like that.” Jared remarked.

“Not like that.” Jensen agreed.

The racers took each lap at incredible speed, the entire thing couldn’t last over an hour. He had trouble keeping track of the leaders and laps as most everything was conducted in Spanish. So instead he found himself keeping his eyes fixed on Esposio. He was sure tactics and strategy were involved but to what extent he had no idea. Esposio seemed to keep in third or fourth place a majority of the race, weaving in and out, darting dangerously in between other bikes. Jensen was simply amazed.

When it came down to the final two laps, a hush seemed to come over the crowd as everyone waited with anticipation to see if Esposio would be able to pull ahead. Even Jared’s bubbly expression was replaced by intense concentration. Almost as if Esposio had been holding back on the gas pedal, a burst of speed gave way taking him to second place.

The distance between first and second was noticeable and they were both going full speed, Esposio persistently chasing Suarez. The final lap sounded and Suarez quickly glanced behind. Both took the first curve tightly and little by little Esposio was gaining on him. Jensen was practically holding his breath.

Coming up on the fifth turn of the track, they were neck and neck, fighting for control of the inside corner. Suarez beat him to it, pulling a bit further ahead. Esposio had caught back up by the eigth curve, and again started the dance for control. Jensen watched on the screen as Suarez seemed to jolt his bike towards Esposio, almost as a threat. Esposio backed off, taking the outside of the curve, but then came speeding up on Suarez taking advantage at the ninth and tenth.

With only four more turns left, the crowd began to hold their breath with Jensen. Esposio held the lead but not by much. Both riders were so focused on the track ahead, yearning so badly for the win. With only a few more nail biting minutes left, the gap between Esposio and Suarez began to grow and grow as did the hope for victory. Finally, Esposio crossed the finish line and the crowd erupted with a roar. Esposio continued down the track throwing his hands up in the air. His hands came back down on the bike before popping a wheelie, gaining more cheers from the crowd.

As he made his way around the track once more for the victory lap, celebrating with the crowd, it was clear some Suarez fans were leaving the stands with sour faces. Esposio went to the Ducati pit and joined in dancing with the crew, jumping up into the coach’s arms and being lifted into the air.

During the time between the initial celebration and the podium, Jensen finally was able to part with the track to do a bit of schmoozing and grab some hors d'oeuvres. By the time he made his way back, Mayer had already took his place in third and Suarez on second - sporting a clenched jaw that raged with jealousy. As the announcer continued Jensen could barely translate, something about a new driver making history, Clelia Esposio, and the crowd erupted again as the racer made his way to stage.

The red and gray helmet came off with a flow of long hair shining in the sun and Jensen was struck. Time slowed as she made her way to the middle, accepting a medal and trophy. She kissed the announcer on the cheek and laughed before throwing both her hands up into the air with a yell. Time came back to speed as her team raided the podium with shaken up champagne bottles spraying her. She continued to the laugh and joined in the riot as Suarez grudgingly left the stage.

“So we coming back next year?” Jared asked Jay.

“You never told me Esposio was a girl.” He said breathless.

“Didn’t I?” Jared seemed confused. “I’m pretty sure I did. You interested?” He teased.

“Shut up.” Jensen shoved him with his elbow.

Jared chuckled. “Good, less competition for me.”

Jensen pleaded with any powers-that-be he’d be able to meet her.

***

The following morning, after a brisk morning bike ride, Jensen was heading back to his room for a quick shower before he planned to meet Jared for brunch. The hotel was classical romantic, filled with red stone floors and archways. Yellow lanterns hung from the ceiling and vibrant plants decorated the lobby. Sounds of birds echod along with the chatter of guests. Jensen made his way to the elevator, pushing for the doors to close.

“¡Espera!” A voice called before a hand then, an arm appeared; stopping the doors from closing.

As you made your way into the elevator, Jensen caught his breath. Despite the lack of helmet hair or a uniform, he recognized you immediately.

“Lo siento y gracias.” You spoke in your broken middle school level Spanish.

You pushed your button before looking to meet the stranger; both of you staring at each other, his soft green eyes invited you in. You looked away, blushing for the moment that lasted too long.

“Oh, um… No hablo Espanol.” Jensen stumbled.

“Oh.” You laughed, picking up on his accent. “Me neither, at least not well, but I am picking it back up little by little the more time I spend here.”

Both of you remained silent glancing at your feet, waiting for the elevator moving slowly up.

“So um…” Jensen dared to speak again. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but uh, you look very similar to Clelia Esposio.” He kicked himself for asking a question he often was asked by fans. He knew you could easily blow him off if you weren’t interested.

You smiled and bit your lip, but excitement won over and you widely grinned, the victory of yesterday still resonating with you. “Actually that is because… I am…”

“Wow.” Jensen sighed. “You had an amazing race yesterday. I was there, watching the entire time.” “Hopefully not rooting for Suarez, that pig. Oh, don’t tell anyone I said that. Could cause a huge PR Scandal.” You laughed still getting used to all the publicity.

Jensen clearly understood. “You have my word.” He sincerely promised.

The atmosphere was suddenly interrupted as the elevator unexpectedly jolted down and then up again. You yelped and clung to the sides. The doors partially opened showing a concrete wall and then shut again. The elevator halted, the lights went off with only a dim light flashing. Jensen came from the corner he held steady to, to test the doors but they refused to open.

“Jeez.” He complained, taking a phone corded to the wall. “Hola. Ah yes, um… the elevator.” He looked at you desperate. “I have no idea what he is saying.” He whispered.

You gritted your teeth. “I can try.” You took the phone from him. “Hola Senor. Si, el ascensor no trabajar. Si. Mas despacio, por favor… uh huh. Si. Que?! Tres horas?! No. Senor. Por favor. Si, si… okay. Gracias.” You hung up and looked hopelessly at Jensen. “They are aware of the problem and have already contacted a crew, but it could take up to three hours.” You sat down on the floor defeated.

Jensen’s stomach grumbled and he joined you on the floor. Though he was hungry, he couldn’t help but be excited to steal more of your time. After a few minutes of silence, he dared to start a conversation again.

“Sorry for the, uh.” He peeled the sweaty shirt from his chest. “Smell. Went bike riding this morning, the pedaling kind.”

“Oh no problem, I think you smell good.” A blush hit you after you realized what you said. “Sorry, that was weird. Its fine, it smells fine, I mean not horrible. Um… So, you been a fan of MotoGP long?” You nervously ran your hand through your hair, trying to change the topic.

“Yeah, I mean no. I actually just found out about it. This was my first race and I learned about everything this weekend from my friend Jared who bought the tickets.” He explained. “But I think I will probably be a fan from now on.”

“You from the states?” You asked.

“Yeah Texas originally, then moved to Cali. Now I spend most of my time between Vancouver and Austin.” He rambled.

“Those are like opposites.” You pointed two fingers at an imaginary map to visualize the distance. “Cause of work or family?”

“Work.” He briefly stated. 

“And what do you do?” You asked.

“Uh, me and Jared are actors.” Jensen shook his head, almost embarrassed.

“Wow.” Your eyes lit up. “Anything I would know?”

He laughed. “Mainly a TV show called Supernatural.”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to recall if you had seen it. “So like… monsters, and ghosts?”

“Yeah. It’s about two brothers who save people and hunt things, the family…” He stopped himself. “Yeah, like vampires and werewolves and shit.” You stifled a giggle. “I guess I’ll have to check it out.”

“Oh, you don’t have to say that.” He waved off.

“No, I want to.” You promised. “So Jared and um.. What was your name again?” “Jensen.” He reached out his hand and shook yours. “Jensen Ackles.”

Your tongue peeked out between your teeth. “Is that like a stage name?”

Jensen’s shoulders shook as he silently laughed. “Nope, that’s my real name.”

“You can tell me.” You pushed. “Clelia Esposio is…” You pointed your finger at him very seriously. “But you can’t tell anyone.” Your demeanor eased. “My real name is Y/N Y/L/N. It’s weird, only family and a few friends know.”

“Well Y/N.” Your name sounded enticing rolling off his tongue. “It is very nice to officially meet you. But I promise my only name is Jensen.”

“Fine then.” You pretended to pout. “Keep your secrets.”

He chuckled. Though the minutes dragged on, you and Jensen filled up the time chatting, getting to know each other, talking travel, playing 20 questions and would you rather. And what was three hours, both of you wished was longer. The lights blinked back on and the elevator shook to life. Both you and Jensen stood up, steadying yourselves against the wall. The elevator was heading back down to the lobby.

“I guess this is it.” You stated.

“I can say without a doubt, would recommend 10 out of 10 getting stuck in this elevator.” He joked. “But perhaps it was only the company.”

You bit your lip. “Ah, but if it wasn’t posted to twitter, who's to say it happened at all.” You teased back.

Jensen thought about it, and gave it. “Actually, you’re right.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “Do you mind? To commemorate the moment.”

“Of course not.” You smiled.

You leaned in close to him, grinning widely as his lips held tightly together forming a slight smirk.  

He looked down at it and smiled ear to ear. “Perfect.”

“Find a good filter.” You pleaded. “I don’t want to look ugly.”

Jensen scoffed. “That’s not possible.” You found heat rising to your cheeks yet again. “Say uh, are you and Jared in town tomorrow night still? Perhaps we could go for tapas and dancing.” 

“Yeah.” Jensen agreed. “I’d love that.”

“Wonderful. Meet me tomorrow night at Casa Montana? 11?” You asked.

“That should work.” He believed.

“Let me know officially through your tweet.” You winked. Jensen was about to ask for your number when the doors being pried open silenced you both. When they finally busted open, your freedom in containment was broken by the assault of flashing cameras.

“Ms. Esposio. Ms. Esposio. Clelia!” A crowd of Spanish reporters called.

Hotel security escorted you through the lobby, evading the group to the best of their ability. Jensen was left alone and unnoticed except for a bell clerk suffering through an attempt at an English apology. Before you were brought to a guarded service hall, you turned around to glance at Jensen once more, subtly licking your lips and parting with a wink.

----

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