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celosiaa · 4 years

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i can almost see you

Summary: Tim says his final farewells.

Martin refuses to leave his side.

(for a prompt from @nebulousowl requesting an exploration of Tim saying his last goodbyes, and being comforted through it all)

CW: suicidal(ish) thoughts, discussion of death wish/martyrdom, heavy angst

this is a bit of a dark one--definitely heavy on the angst, but I’ve got the comfort here too, never fear. Though I would not classify Tim as suicidal, I could see how this piece could potentially be triggering for folks who struggle with those things. Please please please be careful!!! Love to you all! <3

“Honestly, I hope that John learned something from her because—because I don’t expect I’m going to be coming back from this. I don’t know if I want to. And if he needs to pull the trigger, to use me to stop it… well, he’d better have the guts to do it.”

Tim stops briefly, the faint flicker of compulsion fading away to nothing as he says these words.

My last words.

He knows it as sure as anything—this had been his last statement for the archive. Whether that means he escapes, or he dies, Tim can’t even find it in himself to care. Just for it all to be over.

He’s just got to end the tape.

“Timothy Stoker, August 4th, 2017.”

It’s so very like an obituary that he cannot help but laugh.

“Statement ends.”

Clicking off the recorder, Tim buries his face in his hands, rubbing at eyes that have seen no rest for days now. He hasn’t been able to sleep, able to eat, able to—anything, really, now he thinks of it. And what would be the point anyway? He’s only got to last a little bit longer.

“Tim? Are you alright?” a timid voice asks from the doorway.

Of course it would be Martin.

Of course.

“Well, isn’t this just the icing on the cake?” he says with as much vitriol as he can manage, pulling the corners of his mouth into a wide and terrible grin.

To his surprise, this does not seem to intimidate Martin in the slightest. Certainly, the man of a few years ago would have balked at this behavior, so worried even to look at someone the wrong way that he would rather just run out of the room. The expression he’s directing at Tim right now, however, speaks volumes as to just how much they’ve all changed.

“Look, you can—you can be nasty to me all you want,” he says, stepping into the office and closing the door behind him. “It’s not going to stop this conversation from happening.”

Bastard.

Wiping the grin from his face, Tim leans back in the wooden chair, which creaks a bit as he crosses his arms tightly across his chest. Martin absolutely refuses to look away, his eyes just boring into Tim’s with a steadily-building intensity—until he finally bursts.

“What? What do you want, Martin? Just spit it out,” he shouts, slamming a hand against the table and returning the stare with equal force.

“I heard what you just said,” he says quietly, refusing to match Tim’s outlandish volume.

“Great, thanks for eavesdropping then! Really appreciate it,” Tim spits, tipping back even further to stare angrily at the ceiling.

“Well, I’ve already heard it, so tough. And to be honest, it fucking terrified me.”

What?

Taken so completely aback by this language, his eyes immediately snap back to Martin—who is staring at him more seriously perhaps than ever before.

There was time I would have loved this, he thinks dimly, just a flicker of memory of teasing and laughter dancing across his mind—gone as quickly as it had come. It makes his head ache.

“Yeah—yeah, I mean it, alright?” Martin continues, straightening up even taller, firm in his determination not to let this go.

“What you said about not expecting to come back, and—” he breaks off to inhale a quick, shaky breath. “—and not wanting to. That bit. That terrified me.”

Seeing the fear written all over Martin’s face, knowing that he had put it there, that this might be the last time he saw him—

Tim can’t think about it—he won’t.

Just get out just get out just get out

“If this is your idea of an intervention, Martin, it’s very sad,” he says, standing from the chair with a wooden creak and crossing the room quickly.

A firm hand grips his upper arm before he can make it to the door—and it’s been so long since anyone has touched him that he cannot help but freeze in his tracks, briefly overwhelmed by the sensation. He stares down at Martin’s hand on his arm, frozen in shock.

“I know, alright?” Martin says, clearly fighting with his own voice to keep his tone gentle. “I know this probably won’t help, and you probably won’t listen to me at all, and that it might all be rubbish.”

Tim can’t help but huff out a derisive laugh at this as he tries to move away again—but Martin’s grip remains firm.

“But I also know you, Tim.”

You don’t know me you don’t know me you don’t

“I know you, alright? And I know what you’re trying to do—be a hero, be a martyr, sacrifice yourself for the sake of vengeance—"

“You know fuck all about me,” Tim hisses, cutting off whatever ridiculous nonsense Martin was about to say at once, trying yet again to shoulder past him.

And he’s stopped again—this time by a gentle hand on his shoulder. It’s warm and soft and…and kind.

Something is coming back to Tim now, scratching at the back of his mind like some half-forgotten dream.

“That’s not true,” Martin says, sharp and low. “That’s not true and you know it.”

…I do know.

Clawing to the surface of his thoughts, of his memories, of everything that he’s tried to shut down or block out for the last few months are pictures—small scenes in flashes, colors all faded and running together, yet still somehow so vivid it makes his head spin.

Martin on their first day of work together, chasing a dog around the archives while Tim tries to stop laughing long enough to catch it.

The two of them seated at the breakroom table with ice cream, Martin listening to him pine after Sasha with a small smile on his face.

Martin staying at his apartment for a bit after his mother decided to move out, watching telly and eating pizza and just taking comfort in each other’s presence.

Martin sitting with him on the floor of the archives bathroom, rubbing his back and listening to him pour out his grief on the anniversary of Danny’s death.

Sasha and himself sharing food and wine with Martin after he’d ended up staying in the archives—and Martin confessing his crush on Jon at last, blushing fit to burst.

Martin driving him to physical therapy after the worms had injured his shoulder, trying to make up for having left him behind, though he has insisted over and over that it’s not Martin’s fault.

The two of them trudging through the tunnels under the institute, with Martin supporting his weight after he’d turned his ankle.

Both of them together, sharing their grief over Sasha—until Tim had begun to pull away.

Even now, Martin still reaches out to him, still checks on him, knowing he’s been so full of despair and anger and sorrow that he’s drowning in it. Even now, he still continues to throw him a lifeline, and Tim knows he’s been so nasty, that he’s been cutting everyone out and everything is just so wrong—

Someone gasps—and Tim quickly realizes it was himself.

“Tim?” Martin’s hand moves from his shoulder to behind his elbow now, his brows furrowing in concern. “You okay?”

“Fine, fine,” he manages to mumble, his voice coming from somewhere far beneath the earth.

The room begins to spin.

“Woah, okay, just—just sit down, alright?” Martin urges, guiding him quickly back toward the chair with hands clasped behind his elbows. “I’ll get you some water.”

Sit down? But—

When he looks up again, he is already sitting, head buried in arms he’s crossed over the table in front of him. He lets out a soft groan at the movement, the office around him pitching sickeningly—and promptly folds over onto his arms once again.

God, how did I get here?

How did I become this?

He stays quiet for several moments, rubbing his forehead miserably into his arms as he begs his vision to stop swimming. Even now, he’s considering running, overwhelmed by everything that’s just flooded his memories, hoping that if he runs again he can just ignore ignore ignore until it’s all finished. Until he’s finished.

“Tim? I’ve got you some water.”

Once again, Martin is there to stop him, bringing a bit of comfort with him in the process.

God. He shouldn’t even care about me at this point.

I’ve done everything I could think of to make him stop.

Chest twinging with the weight of it, Tim raises his head slowly, unfolding his arms to prop himself up to sitting braced against the table. Martin pulls the chair around from the other side, setting himself catty-corner to him.

“You alright?” he asks in a near-whisper, tilting his head to try and get a better look at Tim’s face.

The gentleness with which he asks this question is enough to bring a lump immediately to Tim’s throat, and he reaches out for the glass set in front of him—swallowing the tears and the water down to the last drop.

“Alright, that’s good, that’s—that’s great,” Martin praises, though it does not sound at all like he thinks so. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

Tim cannot bring himself to reply. He’s quite certain Martin already knows the answer to that question, anyway.

Is this really how I want to leave this?

How I want to spend the last of our time together?

To leave without even an apology, after everything.

In a moment, he makes a decision, gripping every foul thing that has forced him to hold his tongue and casting it all away.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he mutters, hanging his head. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

“It’s alright,” Martin says, because of course he would.

“It’s really not.”

Turning to face him now, Tim is greeted with hazel eyes full of worry, lines creasing between eyebrows that have shot up past his fringe. He can’t help but smile sadly at the sight—knowing that Martin will never understand, how hurt he will be over whatever happens tonight, how hard he’s tried to make friends in this world, only to have them all stripped away till none remain—barely Jon, and not even Tim anymore.

He deserves to know. He deserves to have a place to visit her.

The smile Tim offers him now only furrows the lines of worry on Martin’s face closer, and Tim knows he must really look rather frightening at this point.

“Look, I—I want to show you something,” he says, standing carefully from the table. “Something you should know about.”

“What do you mean?” Martin asks apprehensively, standing with him, arms hovering near Tim’s elbows, just in case.

“It’s not far,” Tim assures, grabbing his keys from the table and making his way toward the door. “We’ve got some time yet.”

“Wait, Tim, where—?”

He turns back to face him, meeting him with an expression that begs for his trust, however unearned it may be.

“Just follow me, okay?”

“O…kay?”

Though his fears are far from disbanded, Martin follows Tim out of the office, flicking out the lights out behind them in a final farewell.

---

Upon reaching the cemetery, the one where Danny has been buried for nearly four years now, Tim leads them quickly down the earthen path, straight toward a patch of trees and brush on their left. Behind him, Martin stammers a bit in confusion.

“Tim, I thought…I thought Danny’s was over—oh.”

Tim has stopped now, a few yards back into the trees, where he has erected a small monument. It’s not much, really—just a stake in the ground, sanded and stained cherry with his own hands, and a bit of carving at the top.

Sasha Eloise James

4 August 1985 – 29 July 2016

“The Best”

“Oh,” Martin chokes, a bit wetter this time.

Turning at the sound, he looks Martin over—finding him rapidly blinking back tears.

“Just thought,” Tim starts, his voice coming out hoarser than he’d expected. “Just thought you should know this is here.”

He pulls his eyes away from Martin to give him some privacy, as well as to allow himself to breathe through the memories—all distorted by the face of the Stranger, now. After a few deep inhales, it seems Martin finds the strength to speak again, his voice wobbling only a bit around his tears.

“You made this?”

“Yeah,” Tim replies, brushing his thumb over the carving to scrape away some dirt that has built up there. “Probably not exactly legal, but…I didn’t really care.”

“It’s beautiful,” Martin whispers, stepping forward at last to stand at his side, his simple act of camaraderie pulling a wry smile to Tim’s face.

“She was beautiful,” Tim says, the constant hollow of his chest flooding with something both aching and lovely as he speaks. “I can’t…I can’t remember her face exactly, but I remember that. And so smart. And—”

“And kind,” Martin finishes, reaching an arm across his shoulders, the warmth of it seeping deep into his back. “Always kind. And always willing to stick up for you.”

“Yeah,” Tim’s voice breaks properly now, and he hangs his head to hide the tears stinging in his eyes.

Martin notices, of course. As always.

“And bossy, a bit,” he continues with a smile, pulling Tim into a proper side hug now, running a hand comfortingly over his upper arm.

Tim can’t help but laugh roughly at this, the sound of it more choking and wet than anything.

“Yeah a bit,” he whispers, the tears at last spilling over his cheeks.

It’s too much, it’s all too much, and it aches aches aches—he can’t help but double over, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it all, biting back against the sobs threatening to burst from his throat.

“Hey, hey,” Martin soothes, rubbing his back, gentle as ever. “Are you alright?”

No, he wants to say more than anything.

I don’t think I ever will be.

“Just…just give me a moment, would you?” he asks, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Oh—yeah, erm…I’ll just be at that bench, okay?” Martin says at once, stepping back and thumbing in the general direction of a park bench they had passed.

Tim merely nods in response, and then Martin is gone—leaving only him, the quiet, and the birds singing above. He lets it lie there for a moment, staring down at the curving letters of her name, trying desperately to remember her face, her true face. But nothing comes to him—nothing save the rising static and the cold and the dark.

I’ve got to tell her. She has to know.

“I haven’t forgotten you, you know. Never could do. You’re—‘unforgettable,’ as you put it. Thought about carving that on your post here, but I could hear your voice in my head saying it was ‘too on-the-nose.’”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face now, the memories feeling closer to him than perhaps ever before.

“I…I think I’ll be seeing you soon. Really soon, in fact—you and Danny both. And I just want you to know that it’s alright, that I’m not scared, and that I’m going to see justice done. I won’t stop until it’s done, I promise.”

Crouching down in front of the post now, he rubs his thumb back over her name again and again, memorizing the feeling of it in his hands to tide him over for however long he has left on this earth.

“I promise, sweetheart. I know you hate when I call you that, but it’s just the truth, isn’t it?”

With a soft smile, he rises back to standing, knees aching in protest as he brushes them off.

“Can’t wait to see you, Sash. We’ll have a laugh at the whole thing soon, I’m sure.”

As he starts to turn away, his heart shatters with the thought that this can’t be it this can’t be it this can’t be it—

And he turns back, laying his hand to rest on top of the cherry wood.

“Tell Danny I’m coming, okay?” he whispers—before looking away at last.

What more could he say? What more could he say that she doesn’t already know, that Danny doesn’t already know? He’ll be there soon, and he’ll say it all again, hundreds of times, thousands even, if they have the time—

“You alright?” Martin asks, standing from the bench as Tim makes his way back through the trees. “You look pale—maybe we should sit a little.”

“I’m fine, Martin,” he lies easily, and with a smile. “I promise. We can go, unless you want a moment.”

Martin seems to consider this briefly, gazing over Tim’s shoulder at the trees behind him, worrying at his bottom lip.

“No, I…I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet,” he replies at last, voice low and rough.

“That’s alright. Let’s just go then.”

As they walk, Tim tries not to hear Martin’s muffled sniffling, tries not to think about him coming back here, utterly alone in his grief—when he’s reminded of Jon.

God, Jon.

…he deserves to know too.

Even after everything.

“Tell Jon about this after, alright?” he says, turning toward Martin as they walk. “So he can come here if he wants.”

“Tell him yourself,” Martin mutters wetly, eyes firmly fixed on the ground in front of him.

He knows.

He knows that this is the end.

He just doesn’t want to see it.

“Martin.”

Tim forces them to stop, turning Martin towards him with a hand on his shoulder. The tears welling in Martin’s eyes, wild with repressed panic and sorrow, are like knives in Tim’s chest.

God, Martin.

I’m so sorry.

“Promise me. Promise me you will,” he begs in earnest, grabbing Martin lightly by the folds of his jacket.

At this, the pools in Martin’s eyes begin to run over, unbidden and so full of hurt Tim could choke on it.

“I will. I promise,” he murmurs, voice thin enough to shatter.

Good man.

Quirking up a half-smile at this, Tim reaches on hand up to rest on his cheek, thumbing at the steady flow of tears.

“Thank you, Martin. Thank you for—”

--lovingcaringlaughinglisteningcryinggrievingholdingreaching—

“—for being with me.”

He pours as much meaning as possible into these words, broken and small and fragile—and suddenly he’s being hugged—properly hugged, wrapped up in a warmth that makes him sigh in relief from the comfort of it all. A proper Martin hug.

Not a bad way to end things after all.

“Just please try to come back alright?” Martin begs, voice rumbling in Tim’s ear where he’s got it pressed into Martin’s chest.

“Martin—”

“Just try. That’s all I ask. Try to make it out. It’s what they—it’s what Sasha and Danny would both want.”

He doesn’t understand he doesn’t understand he doesn’t understand.

Biting back against the lie with all the strength he has left, Tim reassures him of a falsehood too dreadful to bear.

“I’ll try,” he whispers.

“Thank you.”

At last, Martin pulls away—eyes still brimming and swiping his nose desperately against his sleeve—but offering a gentle smile all the same. He’s choking it all back, and Tim knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s for his sake—and can’t help but return the favor.

“Come on then,” he says, shoving Martin’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Plenty to do before it’s dark.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma fanfic #hurt/comfort #angst #cw suicidal thoughts #martim if you want it mayhaps #timsasha as well #and some background jonmartin #my writing #for real though be careful with this one #it's the saddest thing i've written so far i think

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allyvampirelass29 · 4 years

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Murder at Cripple Creek

A NOS4A2 Review By: Allyssa J. Watkins

A boomtown swimming with ghosts Dead eyes can't hide Their hedonist living Drinking, debauchery and sinning Scarlet ladies having babies But a whorehouse is not a home Trading flesh for coin Tempting patrons, at the sacrifice of your boy Little Charlie grew up in the hellish dark The sins of the mother Scarring the son's heart Murder brewing in this simmering fleshpot Oh Hateful Harlot, Mother Manx Is is to your neglect and bitter thanks Your baby boy, molested, and you can't protect Your little dreamer from the wicked world you wrought for him Blood on a beautiful boy's hands But the only thing murdered here Is his innocence. Sending his rapist and that lustful bitch Back to hell Charlie, Charlie you're not a villain You had to save yourself.......

Is...... anyone alive out there? It's been days, and I'm still sobbing, my heart desolated by the roiling emotional turmoil, my ignited rage murderous. I don't know about you guys, but...... I'm an absolute wreck. WHY are you DOING this to me, NOS4A2!?!? After the brilliant turn of last week, the sleek sophistication, and glamourous entrapment, "Cripple Creek," was a backhand strike, a blatant violation that I never saw coming, and I spent the entire episode, quivering, sobbing, pleading desperately behind my hands plastered over my face, watching between my fingers, helpless to stop the punishing abuse My Charlie suffers in two different timelines, his bruises of an abused childhood mingling with the fresh wounds of now, as he is tortured, beaten and berated by Bing Partridge!!!

I hated this episode. I HATED it. There, I said it. But I think you're supposed to, I think that was the sole purpose of this traumatizing ordeal. However, as far as Bing (GO TO HELL YOU FILTHY BASTARD) is concerned, the writer's motivation seems drastically convoluted. If this was supposed to be Bing's Big Epiphany, his "redemption," (Ughhh seriously?) This episode fails miserably in accomplishing that. And if this episode was meant to do, what I had predicted back in Season One, cement him as the actual villain of NOS4A2, making him the more immoral evil, be his rise in notoriety, his coming of age as it were, into the monster he was always going to be, giving Charlie and Vic someone to unite their hatred against, it fails to do that too. The biggest misstep of the series, after so elegant a triumph, I'm going to drown my sorrows in ice cream, and try to forget that any of it ever happened. Close your eyes, and think of Christmasland........

I audibly groaned when we opened onto Bing at the Lake House. After so much needless repetition in an otherwise FLAWLESS episode, I REALLY did not want to relive Bing's point of view of the siege, unless it was him getting shot by white knight Chris McQueen over, and over, and over........ Thankfully, the rewind didn't last too long, but I was having NONE of his, "Are you there, God, it's me, Bing Partridge," moment!!! On his knees in the graveyard, (Why...... why are we in a graveyard?) Bing appeals to the heavens, proclaiming his own innocence, asking God to show him what he should do next. I snickered coldly, the whole thing melodramatic, and absurd, as he cries, "I've been so good!!!" Secretly, I was fantasizing about Buffy SLAYING his creepster ass in the graveyard, beating him bloody, before staking him in the heart with a witty saying like, "It's been a gas, Bing, but I get the last laugh!!!" Alas, alack, no such luck. His appeal to the heavens was answered not in divine intervention, but with bird droppings splattering in his mouth, which of course, translated in Bing-A-Ling Logic to, "Kill the FIRST person that tries to help you, bury him in the freshly dug grave, and take his keys!!!" It's PRAYING Bing, you dolt, not preying!!!

While the side quest FINALLY explains how Bing was able to catch up to Charlie and Wayne, after previously believed to be on foot, not to mention shot, which would have been IMPOSSIBLE, supernatural car not withstanding, it's altogether unnecessary. It was the less than scenic route to get to last week's blood-curdling cliff hanger, and I really think we could have done without all the maudlin hullaballoo, and picked right up from there. Also, it creeped me out BIG TIME hearing Bing Partridge say, "Hidey holes," because that's what I called them last week, when Charlie was adorably telling Wayne about his hiding places. "Look at you with your hidey holes, Babe!!!" Needless to say, Bing has ruined that phrase for me FOREVER!!!

"Charlie, Charlie, telling lies, soon he will be crying cries......" A chilling foreboding that was like ice in my veins........ I was definitely crying cries...... I literally WEPT with this horrid little rhyme, and even still I was so naïve, unprepared, for the gut-churning horror that waited in the shadows of a broken little boy's murdered childhood, and the degradation of the beautiful soul that survived it. It's one of the most grueling, and disturbing things, I've ever watched, and like my Darling Boy, strapped to the chair, enduring forced interrogation by gassing, brutal beatings by Bing's homicidal, ham-fisted punches, and some....... deeply unsettling sexual innuendo, I felt like I was the one getting tortured.........

I did utterly enjoy Charlie's feigned relief, as he uses that silver tongue, in valiant effort, to slip his way out of this sickening predicament. "Bing, My Dear Fellow, thank the stars! I thought you had been done in by those wretched McQueens!!" Charlie gasps, thankfully, knowing full well he'd left Bing behind to die, and for good reason. Any other time, this would have worked, Charlie would have used his coaxing charm, and Bing's oafish gullibility, twisted them into a breathtaking manipulation, weaving the lie that he had no choice but to leave him behind, and Bing would have eaten it out of the palm of his hand, because he wants that badly for it to be true. But Bing watched it happen, his face falling, as Charlie sped off without him, and he's DONE playing. Charlie's pleas fall on deaf ears, as Bing drugs him for answers, revealing the fatalities of every single one of Charlie's former accomplices, and with the finality of one apocalyptic truth....... Bing descends into a frenzied, foaming madness.

"Cripple Creek," is the double edged sword that none of us were meant to survive. Switching between the stabbing scenes of Charlie's withering assault, his lifeline to The Wraith, cruelly severed, and the slicing violation of his childhood self, his innocence massacred before our very eyes, our bleeding hearts never stood a chance. I always knew that Charlie's childhood was going to be horrid, downright Dickensian, devoid of magic and light, unloved by his drunk, whore mother, but I had no idea the HELL this beautiful boy endured at so tender an age, forever scarred, betrayed by the one person he trusted, respected, desperately in need of a father figure, only to be exploited in the most heinous way. It's a MIRACLE My Precious Love can even function as an adult, much less still manage to find wonder and beauty in the world, clinging, clawing to hold onto his ember, his remnant of pure light that persevered in a life of darkness.

The inexplicable joy at seeing a young Charlie Manx, aged 11 or 12, tapdancing on stage, along with the giddy marvel that this young actor looks just like our leading man in miniature, is short-lived, as a stranger takes an uncomfortable interest in him....... I don't know how, maybe it was the intent way he watched him dance, or the way he touched his shoulder a little too long, but I knew........ I KNEW this man was going to sexually abuse Charles, I felt it gnawing in my stomach, instantly unnerved, and I hoped with all my heart, my first instinct was wrong....... I'm devastated to say........ it was not.

Not only does this manipulative pedophile Son of a BITCH molest my baby, he first uses him to persuade other boys to flock to his house, knowing full well how much the young ones look up to Charlie, as their leader. He wins Charlie's favour and trust by befriending him, and giving our little darling the one thing he wants more than anything else. Escape. Escape from the vulgar, gratuitously sexual environment, that no young boy should have to endure, a chance to make money, have an honest, respectable living. A chance to have a father figure, a man to look up to, learn from, and take him under his wing. The shop owner offers all of that, with a crooked smile, the charade falling dangerously away, as he knocks back a shot glass, eying our boy, and then says in the cruelest, most chilling voice. "You've earned yourself some fun........"

Thankfully, NOS4A2 was not overly graphic in this lewd portrayal, but the innuendo was enough to make me ugly cry, and seethe, as this sweet child is violated by someone he admires so much, realizing in horror, that he led all of his friends to be mishandled in this same disgusting manner, like lambs to the slaughter. But our brave little Manx was NOT going to let this sin go unpunished, and I clapped, cheering him on, as he uses his sled, now tainted by its means of acquisition, to kill the shopkeeper, dark fire flashing in his eyes, blood splattering on the shot glass, and I've never been so happy, or nervously relieved to see someone die.

His mother comes to him, and instead of crying, and taking her boy in her arms, stroking his dark curls, soothing his fear, and assuaging his guilt, she just scoffs at his accusation, the picture of apathy, and places the blame back on him. "You knew too, Charlie!!!" You WHORE-ABLE Mother!!! Your son was just sexually ASSAULTED, and YOU DARE make it his own fault, like he'd turned a blind eye, and therefore deserved to get raped!?!? Charlie might not have killed her, if she'd actually had a maternal bone in her body, if she'd done SOMETHING, shown any sign of regret or compassion, but she doesn't, and I feel nothing but proud as he finishes her off too. Her death was surprising, given the admonishing way Charlie talks about his mother, creating the impression that she'd been a bane on his existence his entire life, and yes, as a writer, I wanted to see more of a direct conflict between them to make that defining moment that much more satisfying, but as a viewer, I was just grateful she was dead, and Charlie was free. The only murder perpetrated, the only death I mourned at Cripple Creek, was that of Charlie's innocence, his childhood slaughtered.

Meanwhile, Bing continues to torture Charlie in the present day, my chest shuddering with every thrown punch, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming. What was the deafening truth spoken that sends Bing Partridge into a flailing rage, you ask?

"Christmasland is for children. We are special...... That's why we can't go......."

Charlie was never going to take Bing to Christmasland. All that this poor dope had lived for, dreamed of, for eight years, amidst his conning his way into dentists' offices, and offing mothers, and it was always a lie. I had suspected it the entire time, especially after the mention of a, "special feast," but what SHOCKED me the most, was the unimaginable heartbreak of Charlie's own deepest secret coming to light, and as Bing draws it forth, it's like drawing blood. In spite of being the architect of his lifelong dream, and greatest solace from a life full of abject misery, Charlie doesn't think he deserves Christmasland, because he sees himself as ruined........

I broke down sobbing, that pain, that anguish, that he's so long carried with him, ripping through me, and I'm tearing up even as I write this, remembering....... Charlie denying himself his own dream, seeing himself as a ruined article that might profane its pure vision, is a tragedy that I can't come back from. It's a sorrowful, aching confession, and yet somehow it explains so much, and in this, his greatest pain, his darkest secret, I felt intimately closer to him. At last........ we see why Charlie never stays long in his Christmas kingdom, why he's so focused on the next child, and the next, sacrificing time with his own daughter, because they deserve Christmasland, and he doesn't. Always the courier, never the partaker. Christmasland is for children, and Charlie Manx never got the chance to be one.

The searing pains of his past still guide so much of who he is today, placing a strict emphasis on propriety in every aspect of his person, in manner, speech, and dress, because he was robbed of his dignity as a child. I also, FINALLY, after two seasons, understand why he turns the children into vampires, a contradiction to his love of them, that has remained frustratingly elusive to my grasp. Charlie's childhood was taken from him, brought to a vulnerable, violent end, and by turning the Lost Children, theirs becomes eternal. They never have to grow up, and lose that purity, that innocence. I also realized, that by giving them their bite back, they are able to defend themselves, meaning no one can ever hurt them again.......

There was so much awful going on, so much inflicted misery, and disorienting chaos, that I was sure I'd heard wrong when Bing decides on an even more dehumanizing method of torture. Did Bing just...... call Charlie a BITCH!? I shook my head, but there it was again, and at this point I'd HAD it. Somebody give me a GUN, I will WASTE this SICK BASTARD myself!!! The skeevy sexual threat against Charlie felt like overkill to me, utterly ridiculous, a cheap shot at adding dramatic effect, especially in the face of his childhood shame. Bing has exhibited absolutely no inclination of...... swinging that way, as it were, before, and yeah they kind of threw in last minute that he'd done this to Mike's father, offscreen, but I don't know WHY he would do that, especially given his particular affinity for Mike. Charlie, himself, pointed out that there was no indication in the Graveyard of What Might Be that Mike needed saving, or that his father deserved punishing. It's awkward, and disturbing, and there seemed to me no method in this madness.

"If I'm a monster....... who deserves to die....... You deserve so much worse." BAM. Hell yeah, Babe!!! Thank GOD, Charlie's quick enough to convince Bing that he too is a monster, and we are spared any further asinine innuendo. Bing, after these series of unfortunate events, beating, berating, and threatening Charlie with rape, suddenly, deus ex machina-esque has a change of heart, and an epiphany that comes a LOT TOO LATE!!! We're both monsters, we BOTH deserve to die....... What we're doing is WRONG. Was I happy when Bing urged Wayne to go, and tell a police officer that his mom is Vic McQueen? Yes. Do I believe he did it out of the goodness of his heart, and has finally seen the light? Freaking HELL NO!!! Bing, after losing Christmasland, has nothing left to live for, and this is his way of giving up. If I can't go to Christmasland, Wayne can't go...... and he decides a bizarre murder/suicide in The Wraith is his final act of redemption.

Before they even showed the car crusher, I was already sobbing profusely, losing my freaking mind, because I had figured out exactly where Bing had taken Charlie.

"There's going to be two less monsters in the world........"

Meaning to crush them both, and kill the Wraith irrevocably, Bing puts on his mask, and presses the button. At first Wayne laughs, and thinks it's a game, his inner vampire child coming out, but when it hits him that Charlie's in actual danger, he realizes he has a choice to make....... Save Charlie Manx, or let him die, and go home safe to his Mom and Lou.

"No, My Boy, this isn't a game, it's time to play, Save Father Christmas!!!"

Charlie calls out frantically, coaxingly to his young charge, and I loved that so much, my heart overwhelmed with emotion. Yes, Wayne, PRETTY PLEASE save Father Christmas!!! A lot of people despised him for what happened next, screaming at Wayne for his choice, even calling him a stupid kid, but I, myself, felt even more love in my heart for that already dearly cherished little lad, as he smiles, and slams down on the button, halting the crusher, and saving Charlie from imminent death.

It's a profound moment, the abductee choosing to save his kidnapper's life, and many cried out strongly against it, but you have to understand....... Charlie Manx has become so much more to Wayne than the scary face in his mother's paintings. Here is a man that has shown genuine interest in his life, his hopes, his dreams, who has treated him gently, fussed over him, concerned, and who has come to love him like a father. Couple that with The Wraith's effects on Wayne, slowly tying the two of them together, it makes perfect sense to me, how this unexpected bond has formed. Yes, had Vic been there, herself, he would have chosen her over Charlie in a second, but when faced with the reality of letting Charlie die, our tender-hearted Bats just couldn't do it.

"Do think of me at Christmastime, won't you?"

CHARLIE. LIKE. A. BOSS!!!! The single greatest moment, and brightest scene in an hour of plunging darkness, is definitely Charlie, snapping back into his delectably dark, unrivaled perfection (although, I must say I still found him incredibly dashing in his distinguished grays) charging Bing Partridge, murder striking in his wild, smouldering eyes, stabbing him, with a reveling whisper, twisting the knife, with this most PERFECT line, that gave me wonderous, reverberating chills!!! I also LOVED how Charlie glowers in his lumpy face and says, "You were never special." DAMN that's HOT!!! My only grievance with an otherwise ENTHRALLING moment, was that inexplicably, yet again, CHARLIE DIDN'T KILL BING!!! Charlie has KILLED for so much less, and while he did offer a vague explanation about prison being so much worse for Bing than hell, it felt like hell frozen over that Charlie would ever let Bing live. I know this is the writers wanting to keep Bing around to creep another day, but MY GOD, hang that Partridge from a pear tree, and HAVE DONE already!!!!!

This was an especially dark episode, but there were flashes of some really beautiful, albeit fleeting moments, first with Wayne and Craig, and then with Millie and Cassie, though the reoccurring theme, the common thread, did seem to be Innocence Lost. I was startled with the The Wraith's sneaky trick of causing a child to forget their parents the longer they are in the car, and BLESS YOU, Craig for helping your son remember his mother, and fight the transformation!!! He tells Wayne that Vic's favourite movie was Jaws, and Wayne tells him that her favourite holiday is the 4th of July. (Which is really cool, because it's my favourite too!!!) This slows the Wraith's effects on Wayne, and becomes a very special moment between father and son, as they fight to keep Vic's memory alive.

"How do you know my mom?"

"She was my best friend."

More overwhelmed sobs, because apparently I haven't cried enough this episode!!! Craig decides not to tell Wayne that he's his father, but our little Bats is ingeniously clever, and I think he's going to figure it out before long!!! Another mini heart attack comes with a second lost tooth. The suspense of Wayne's slow turning, mirroring the tender emotion in this scene was fantastic.

Millie and her mother have a similar moment, and I thought that was BRILLIANT of her to introduce Vampire Millie to her former human self. The two play with dolls, and human Millie talks about how she can't wait to go on a date, and have adventures when she grows up! It's such an endearing scene, and also incredibly sad, as the pale, gaunt shell of Vampire Millie envies her bright, and bubbly human counterpart, seeing the hope and innocence that she's so long been bereft of. "She's me...... Who I'm supposed to be." Cassie explains that her father's sad fantasy is depriving Millie of the gift of growing up, and explains that there's nothing Charlie Manx fears more than a woman with her own mind, and that's the LAST thing he wants his beloved daughter to become. A woman that would eventually leave him. More tears. Poor Millie. Poor Charlie!! Can I just give everybody a hug!?

"Cripple Creek," lingers like BAD Dream, and all I want to do right now, is curl up with Charlie Manx, hold him in my arms, stroke his cheek, soothe him with the tenderest hands, and softest words, tell him he's beautiful, and that he deserves Christmasland, and the world, that he's not ruined, but PURE!!! This was my least favourite episode in the entire series, and just like, "The Gas Mask Man," will be skipped indefinitely in the re-watch, but like I said, it endeared Charlie even more to my heart, and I feel fiercely protective over him, over that goodness that still glows in his dark eyes, despite lifetimes of feeling unloved, and in ever-present pain. All I ever wanted in Season One, was a glimpse into the past that crafted my mysterious and refined vampire chauffeur, and this entire experience, My Darlings, is an exercise in, "Be Careful What You Wish For..........."

#nos4a2 #nos4a2 review #charlie manx #wayne mcqueen #bing partridge #christmasland #the wraith #cripple creek

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