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swordsonnet · 2 years

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keep on reaching towards the light

Jon/Martin, 7780 words, rated T. Post-canon, fluff and angst. Also on AO3!

Summary: A series of birthdays.

written for day 7 of @jonmartinweek, for the prompt 'growing old together' (there's a teensy bit of 'forehead kisses' in there as well though). this is set in the same universe as my somewhere else multi-chapter fic, which you don't need to have read to understand this one, but feel free to check it out, of course :D

content warnings: guilt & self-loathing, anxiety, grief, body image issues, self-deprecation, alcohol. references to apocalypse and parent death

Jon’s 31st birthday goes by almost unnoticed. Well, to his credit, Martin makes an effort to celebrate it, bringing him breakfast in bed along with two neatly wrapped presents, but when Jon only offers him a perfunctory thanks for the non-fiction books inside and pushes away the breakfast tray after taking no more than three bites of his croissant, Martin is quick to get the message. He returns the tray and the crumpled-up wrapping paper to the kitchen with a sheepish look on his face, like he’s ashamed for having tried.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles once Martin has crawled back into bed beside him, his face pressed into the pillow and turned away from Martin. “I’ve… never much liked celebrating my birthday, to be honest.”

“It’s okay,” Martin says, and the palpable dejection beneath his thin veneer of nonchalance pierces Jon’s heart like a sharpened knife. He longs to soothe Martin’s sorrow, to tell him this was a wonderful idea and they should make the most of this special day, but the words turn to bitter ashes on his tongue.

Who is he kidding? He’s not the kind of person to have carefree birthday parties with his boyfriend, to walk hand in hand through the park, to round off the evening with a candlelit dinner in a tasteful restaurant. The mere thought of it feels absurd. He’s never been that kind of person, not really, and he certainly isn’t now, not when he brought destruction to the entire world and then inflicted further suffering on countless other universes, not when he knows full well that beneath his human exterior lurks a wretched, ravenous beast, one that he fears will one day be unshackled. Wouldn’t it be cynical of him, callous in the extreme, to allow himself to enjoy this second chance despite knowing that every last bit of it is founded upon the damnation of others? Doesn’t he owe those other worlds that he sacrificed on the altar of his selfish impulse some form of atonement, at the very least? But by doing just that, by punishing himself with hunger and sleeplessness and endless ruminations, he is punishing Martin as well. He hates himself for that, for causing the man he loves even more pain than he has already put him through, but that’s not enough to make him stop his hollow revenge on himself. It seems that no matter what choice he makes, he is doomed to hurt someone, one way or another.

And isn’t that what it means to be a monster?

How foolish he’d been to, even just for a wild, hopeful second, dare to think of this as a fresh start. To believe the knife between his ribs could eradicate all his atrocities. Now, almost a month after their arrival in this universe, he is more lost than ever before, groping around in the dark without ever finding any of the answers he so desperately longed for, without reaching Martin even when he is right beside him.

He wasn’t lying about not liking to celebrate his birthday, not quite. He was too young to remember any of the birthdays he’d spent with his parents, and his grandmother always seemed vaguely uneasy on the day, like she knew that a measure of affection and attention was required of her that she wasn’t comfortable providing. It had come as a relief to both of them when they agreed to stop acknowledging his birthday entirely. At university, he’d refused to tell anyone his birthday, guarding it like a shameful secret. Georgie was the only one persistent enough to weasel the date out of him, but at least she honoured his request to never mention it to anyone else, though he doesn’t think she ever quite understood why. After their relationship ended, so did most of his already limited social life, and there wasn’t really anyone he could celebrate his birthday with, even if he had wanted to.

The last time he had a birthday party – probably the only proper one in his life – was… 2015. His 28th birthday. Not long after his promotion to Head Archivist. When Tim and Sasha were still alive and on speaking terms with him, and had insisted on throwing him that ridiculous surprise party, and Elias had shown up unannounced and uninvited, and Martin had seemed on the verge of a mental breakdown, and Jon had rolled his eyes at it all. He might have put on a good show to everyone else, but he couldn’t hide from himself just how touched he was by the lengths his co-workers had gone to to give him a memorable birthday, by the fact that they had even thought of him at all.

He would give anything to be back there now. To scoff at Tim’s terrible jokes and complain about Sasha’s invasion of his privacy, to add a decade to his age in the ludicrous hope that the blatant lie would earn him some respect. He wants to return to a life where his biggest concern were the unpredictable antics of his subordinates. What a self-absorbed prick he was back then, too blind to see how good he truly had it, too curmudgeonly to give three of the most important people in his life the appreciation they deserved. Now Tim and Sasha are dead, and all he has is the fading memory of their voices, all he has is regret.

By the time his 29th birthday rolled around, Jon was knee-deep in paranoia and his fruitless investigation into Gertrude’s murder and the mystery surrounding the Institute, far too occupied with other matters to even pay attention to the date. By this point, none of his co-workers were keen on throwing him a party anymore, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The only mention of his birthday came from Martin, who brought Jon a cup of tea and upon leaving, murmured Happy birthday, Jon, so quiet as to be barely audible. Against his better judgement, that small kindness made Jon smile.

His 30th birthday was spent in a coma, and therefore not worth mentioning. And, well… that only leaves today. He feels like at least a decade has passed since his last birthday, despite knowing that even accounting for the slippery timeline of the apocalypse, it couldn’t be more than two years. But so much has happened in the meantime, so much that left its indelible mark on him. He feels much, much older than 31.

Maybe it would be nice to mark this occasion, he catches himself thinking, to mark the beginning of their new life by bringing a little more celebration into their day-to-day. But how cold-hearted would he be to celebrate his continued existence knowing full well how much suffering he has brought to others? Besides, the mere thought of a birthday party, of being the centre of attention and forced to perform happiness, still makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t changed that much, it seems.

He wraps the duvet tighter around himself and curls into a near-fetal position, stubbornly ignoring the sunlight streaming through the window and his common sense telling him that it’s time to get up. He’s so tired that he’s pretty sure he could just sleep the whole day away, enveloped in the safe cocoon of his blanket, and only wake up again after midnight, once this dreadful day is finally over. Maybe then he won’t have to acknowledge that it’s his birthday, maybe then he won’t have to acknowledge the inexorable passage of time, maybe then he won’t have to acknowledge that any of this is real.

But he can’t do that, of course, because Martin would start to worry, and Jon has caused him enough concern over the last few weeks. So he drags himself out of bed and brushes his teeth and changes his clothes, goes through all the tired old motions of being human, and Martin does the same, and both of them are careful not to allude to the forbidden topic of Jon’s birthday again.

~*~

On the morning of Jon’s 32nd birthday, he wakes with an undefined sense of dread, a low-level undercurrent of unease simmering in his insides. It’s entirely irrational, of course, not warranted in the slightest. He feels embarrassed to even admit it, but Martin’s light-hearted promise about a month ago that he was going to make Jon’s birthday memorable sounded more like a threat to Jon’s ears. Has Martin forgotten what Jon told him in no uncertain terms about his aversion to celebrating his birthday? Or has he simply chosen not to care? Either way, Martin was so excited about his mysterious plans that Jon didn’t have the heart to put his foot down, much as he would have preferred a quiet day in. He would bear any exhausting party or unwanted surprise, fake a smile and pretend to be having the time of his life, as long as it made Martin happy. The last year had been one hell of a bumpy road for both of them, and now that they have finally made it onto steady ground, Martin deserves a proper celebration, something for Jon to express his immense gratitude to Martin for sticking with him throughout it all. True, Jon had made an effort for both Martin’s birthday and their anniversary, but he knows that even after months of therapy, some part of Martin is still deeply uncomfortable with being at the centre of attention. He’s only truly in his element when he gets to dote on someone else, and Jon doesn’t want to deprive him of that.

Still, that hasn’t stopped him from fretting over what kind of birthday surprise Martin could have prepared, a nagging anxiety that has begun to manifest as a mild but persistent headache. Whatever it is, he hopes it won’t involve too many people, and he hopes it will be over soon, letting him get to the one part of today he is actually looking forward to: curling up in bed with Martin like they do every night.

Speaking of Martin, he is conspicuously absent from his side of the bed, which can’t be a good sign. Jon throws a glance at the clock on the bedside table, which reads 9:23, and lets out a drawn-out sigh. To make matters worse, it’s a Sunday, which means he can’t even use work as an excuse to get out of whatever Martin has planned. Well. Best to get this over with. He is about to drag himself out of bed and face the inevitable, when there is a soft knock on the door.

Jon takes a deep breath, already bracing himself. “Yes, Martin?” he says with as much kindness as he can muster.

Martin opens the door just enough to stick his head through the narrow gap, a sheepish smile on his face that makes Jon very suspicious. “Morning! I, er, I’m making breakfast. It’s… downstairs. If you want it.”

He disappears again, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts. He’s rather grateful that Martin has opted against breakfast in bed this time. Okay, even he has to admit there’s some kind of indulgent appeal about the idea, but in practice it ends up an utter mess more often than not. There’s nothing romantic about crumbs in bed, thank you very much. He’s also grateful that Martin is giving him the space to get ready by himself, rather than refusing to leave his side from the moment he wakes. They’ve learned a lot about each other over the course of the year. He hesitates over his clothes for much longer than he normally would, thinking that this day warrants a nicer outfit than his ratty old pyjamas, while also knowing that he’d feel utterly ridiculous in something fancy. Any other day, he would have just picked a random pair of trousers paired with a jumper swiped from Martin, but today he wants to make an effort. For Martin’s sake. He settles on his nicest button-down along with an elegant pair of slacks, a combination that is not quite new, but at least he has definite evidence of it making Martin’s jaw drop on one memorable occasion.

After taking far too long to brush his teeth and rake a comb through his sleep-tousled hair, he decides it’s time to stop dawdling. He tentatively makes his way downstairs, still beset by the unshakeable dread of being hit with some awful surprise. Martin wouldn’t do that to him, he reminds himself. At worst, he would inflict something tedious but well-intentioned on him, something that would make Jon wince inwardly but that he’d at least be able to get through unscathed. Still, that only half soothes his anxiety.

When he tiptoes into the kitchen, almost hoping that Martin won’t even register his presence, he is met with the rather pleasant smell of bacon and sausages sizzling in a frying pan. Martin, standing by the stove and prodding at the meat with a spatula, turns around to give Jon a wide smile, his face lightly flushed by the steam rising from the pan.

“Morning,” he says brightly.

Jon’s eyes dart across the room, scrutinising it for anything suspicious, but he comes up empty. Sure, the breakfast is a little more elaborate than usual, but otherwise the kitchen looks much like it does on any ordinary morning. There are no presents wrapped in shiny paper, no flowers on the table, no indications pointing towards a raucous party to be thrown later. Martin hasn’t even acknowledged his birthday out loud. Has he forgotten about it? That would sting a little, if Jon is being honest with himself. But no, Martin has been looking forward to Jon’s birthday much more than Jon ever has himself, mentioning it almost every day throughout the last few weeks, so there’s no way it has just slipped his mind all of a sudden. That leaves the much more likely and much more terrifying explanation that Martin’s silence on the matter is just a ruse to get Jon to let his guard down, so he won’t be prepared for the inevitable surprise party this evening. Jon would like to think that Martin knows him better than that by now, but, well… they haven’t been together all that long, after all.

If he wants to avoid that excruciating outcome, he should put his cards on the table now, and hope Martin will do the same. “Um, Martin… you do know it’s my birthday, right?”

Martin stops in the middle of distributing the bacon and sausages onto two plates, along with mushrooms, tomatoes, and eggs, and throws him a baffled look. “Of course I know, Jon. Um… happy birthday. I just thought… look, correct me if I’m wrong, but I was kind of under the impression that you didn’t like doing anything for your birthday?”

“Well, I don’t,” Jon says bluntly. “But I thought you wanted to celebrate my birthday.”

Martin sighs, setting down both plates on the table and motioning for Jon to take a seat. “I mean, yeah, I guess I do, but that’s not the point. It’s your birthday, so it should be about what makes you happy, not me.”

Jon just gives him a blank look. “But I want to do what makes you happy.”

Martin spears a tomato with his fork and raises it halfway to his mouth, then lowers it again. “That’s very sweet of you, Jon, but what makes me happy is doing things for you that you actually enjoy. Not forcing stuff on you that you think you have to go along with for my sake.”

“So…” Jon says, a grin spreading over his face. “What makes me happy is making you happy and what makes you happy is making me happy.”

Martin laughs. “This is starting to get a bit circular.”

“Mm. I’m sure we can find a way around that.”

Martin’s expression turns more serious, and he cuts the sausages on his plate into ever smaller pieces without eating them, as if stalling for time. “Um… I wasn’t ignoring your birthday, by the way. I really wanted to make a big deal out of it, to give you a proper celebration, but every time I brought it up, you… didn’t seem to be much into the idea?”

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles, staring down at his plate.

“No, no, you don’t need to apologise!” Martin assures him at once. “It just got me thinking about what you said last year, about not liking to celebrate your birthday. Back then, I’d just kind of dismissed it as you being grouchy about everything, but… I guess it’s really not your thing, huh? And I might not entirely understand your reasons for that, and you don’t have to tell me, but I can at least make an effort to respect your preferences.”

Jon isn’t sure Martin would understand even if he tried to tell him. It’s not that he’s opposed to birthday celebrations in general, much as he’s tried to convince himself of that over the years. Maybe bad memories of disappointing childhood birthdays tainting the experience for him would be closer to the truth, but that’s only scratching the surface of it. No, the real, deeper reason is that on some level, there’s something ominous about even acknowledging his birthday. Counting the years feels like tempting fate, like striking an uncertain bargain with some mercurial deity of time. He doesn’t know how to explain that it still feels like every year he spends in this new universe, every year he lives in domestic bliss with Martin, is stolen treasure snatched from the very fabric of time itself, and eventually they’ll have to pay the price. Isn’t it strange how much a birthday party reminds him of a funeral?

“Anyway,” Martin continues when it’s clear he’s not going to get an answer from Jon, “I thought we could just have a nice day together. Completely unremarkable. We could maybe go for a walk on the beach, and watch a movie tonight, one of those super long documentaries you like. How does that sound?”

Jon stands up, his breakfast momentarily forgotten, to walk over to Martin’s side of the table just so he can grab his face in both hands and kiss him soundly.

“Thank you, darling,” he says when they draw apart.

And he means it. More than he could ever put into words.

~*~

On Jon’s 35th birthday, he is, against all expectations, having a party. His last few birthdays were quiet affairs, just him and Martin having a nice day in with their cat and maybe a slightly nicer bottle of wine than they’d usually pick, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. But as November grew closer this year, he began to think that it might be time to dip his toes in unfamiliar waters. When he first pitched the idea to Martin, he was sceptical about Jon’s motives, worried he was suggesting it for Martin’s sake and not because he truly wanted it. But after Jon had assured him numerous times that he was serious about giving this a try, Martin came around to it rather quickly, with an enthusiasm that warmed Jon’s heart. Jon was very clear on how he envisioned this celebration to be, and Martin, who had taken sole charge of the organising, made sure to listen to him on every little detail. It was to be a small gathering, probably not even enough guests to count as a proper party, with only their closest friends on the invite list. Jon had resolutely vetoed presents of any kind, suggesting that people bring cat treats for the Captain instead if they didn’t want to come empty-handed. The party was to be no more than a few hours long, consisting just of dinner followed by a few rounds of boardgames in the living room. That way, Jon hoped, the evening wouldn’t leave him completely exhausted.

Now, it’s close to 7pm, the official start of the party. Jon is pacing between the front door and the living room in a fruitless attempt to expel some of the nervous energy that has been building up inside him all day long. Everything will be fine, he tries to reassure himself. Those are their friends, he’s known most of them for years, and this isn’t the first time any of them have been to his house. He has nothing to worry about. Of course, that does little to settle his nagging, ever irrational anxiety, that persistent sense of dread that has dogged him the entire day. Maybe this was a bad idea, he thinks. Maybe he should have played it safe and barely acknowledged his birthday like he did the years before, instead of inviting chaos into his own home. But it’s too late to call the party off now, no matter how much he might want to.

He completes another lap of the not very spacious ground floor, starting to feel like an animal trapped inside a tiny cage, and steals a glance at the clock. 18:55. A minute later than the last time he checked, meaning there are exactly five minutes left. Well – if his guests are punctual, that is. He’s been told that people like to be ‘fashionably late’ for occasions like this one, though he doesn’t quite understand what’s meant to be fashionable about tardiness.

At least the mouth-watering smell drifting over from the closed kitchen door manages to distract him a little. Martin has insisted on taking over the cooking for tonight, refusing any help from Jon, though Jon has made him promise to stick to something simple, not attempt some elaborate dish that could go wrong in about a million different ways and that Martin would almost certainly spend the whole day fretting about. Martin has been rather secretive about the exact dish he is making – though judging by the smell, it’s something meat-based – and has expressly prohibited Jon from entering the kitchen until dinner is ready, so as not to spoil the surprise. Jon privately thinks this might be taking it a bit too far, but has decided to play along, if only to humour Martin.

After having more or less resigned himself to being forced to wait in uneasy anticipation for at least another quarter of an hour, Jon is pleasantly surprised to find his guests arriving on time. Molly is the first, with her new boyfriend Aidan in tow and a super-sized pouch of cat treats in her hand. No sooner has Jon let the pair in, nervously ushering them inside the hallway and offering to take their coats, than the doorbell rings again and he rushes to open the door.

This time it’s Catriona, whom Jon can’t recall ever being on time for anything before, alongside her wife Eilidh. They have brought an even larger bag of cat treats (which Eilidh claims to have made herself) and a bottle of wine, both of which they nearly drop to the floor in their haste to envelop Jon in a bone-crushing embrace. Jon has only just managed to wriggle himself free when the fifth and final guest appears: Jack, the taciturn but kind-hearted owner of the local antiques store. Thanks to Martin’s determined efforts to make conversation, as well as Jon providing him with a helpful hint for tracing the origins of a 19th century lamp Jack had discovered in the shop’s backroom, he has been integrated into their small social circle a few years ago, and though he is not a man of many words, Jon appreciates his calming presence.

“Happy birthday, mate,” Jack says quietly as he tiptoes past Jon inside the cottage.

Jon successfully prevents Catriona and Eilidh from launching into an extensive tangent on the folk festival they went to last week, and shepherds them into the kitchen, which he is finally granted access to. In between labouring over the stove, Martin has somehow found the time to set the table with their nicest plates and cutlery and light a plethora of candles, lending the whole room a tasteful ambiance and transforming it from an ordinary kitchen into something special. Martin lifts the lid off a huge steaming pot to reveal he has made beef bourguignon, a dish far more complicated than Jon had in mind, plus a side salad and a strawberry tart for dessert. Jon considers admonishing him for this, reminding him that he'd promised to keep it simple, but the wide, unabashed smile on Martin’s face melts his irritation, and he contents himself with pressing a quick kiss to Martin’s cheek and whispering a sincere thanks.

Once second servings of everything have been had and Martin’s cooking skills have been duly praised, the small group moves to the living room for board games. They start off with a rather intense game of Settlers of Catan, followed by a much more relaxed round of Charades, which eventually dissolves into casual conversation. Jon and Martin are huddled together on the couch, and Jon smiles as he presses even closer to his husband, pleasantly tipsy and full of good food. Everyone’s attention is centred on Aidan, who is sprawled across the floor and twirling the stem of his wine glass between his long fingers, in the middle of a gripping anecdote on how he lost his previous job by accidentally uncovering a money laundering scandal during a work retreat. Something closes like a vice around Jon’s heart as he observes the carefree grin splitting Aidan’s face, the glimmer of mirth in his eyes, the way his mere presence seems to set everyone in the room at ease.

Martin must have reached the same conclusion, because he leans in to whisper “You know who he reminds me of?” in Jon’s ear, and they both say “Tim” at the exact same time.

Once upon a time, maybe even not so long ago, that memory alone would have been a sharp knife in Jon’s chest, would have been enough to make him run out of the room and bring the party to an abrupt end. Tim and Sasha’s gleeful voices on that cursed birthday tape had haunted him for so long, had plagued him with the indelible reminder of how badly he had messed everything up. But now, the memory has lost some of its cruelty, though none of its potency, and he can look back on it with something close to fondness. Still a ghost, but more of a benevolent one. Some part of him will always miss Tim and Sasha, miss them like a limb, and that grief is just another thing he has to learn to live with.

But it isn’t all that bad, not anymore. He much prefers mourning to oblivion, to erasing the past from his mind altogether, and he is comforted to know that some distant echoes of his absent friends can still reach him here. If he squints, his eyesight already impaired by alcohol and excitement, he can look at the young couple across the room, Aidan with his carefully coiffed hair and infectious smile, Molly leaning into his side with a fond eyeroll, and almost mistake them for someone else. Just for a second, he can imagine that seven years ago and a universe away, Tim and Sasha are still alive and happy and no horror will ever taint their gilded lives. That they will never stop being his friends. In this tiny time pocket that exists only in his imagination, the two of them can get the happy ending they have always deserved and never been granted.

From where she’s lounging on one of the cushiony armchairs, Catriona leans over and takes a playful swat at Jon’s side. “Hey, birthday boy, you’re miles away. Care to share?”

“Oh, nothing,” Jon says, discreetly wiping away a few stray tears. “Just… thinking about old friends.”

~*~

On his 43rd birthday, Jon discovers that at long last, he has gone completely grey. Not a single black hair remaining. Well, truth be told, he might have reached that milestone long before this day without even realising it. He tries not to dwell on his appearance, these days, if he can avoid it. He doesn’t cover every mirror in the house or anything as dramatic as that; no, he still looks at his reflection for the purpose of basic grooming, but nothing beyond that. He’s come to view his body as skin in need of washing, hair in need of combing, teeth in need of brushing, rather than a full picture of a human being that could be evaluated according to some scale of attractiveness (or lack thereof, in his case). Thinking too hard about that has only resulted in misery, in blinking back stubborn tears as he repeatedly reminds himself that vanity is an unbecoming vice, a silly indulgence for people who have nothing better to do.

The crux of the issue, as so often, is Martin. Or rather, not Martin as a person, whose mere existence has been an overwhelming net positive in Jon’s life, but the constant, nagging fear that he will never be good enough for Martin, that no matter what Martin might say to the contrary, Jon is just not worthy of the immense honour of being Martin’s husband. He knows Martin has struggled with his own body image at times, and has tried his best to be understanding, though he privately finds it hard to wrap his head around the absurd idea of Martin of all people not being satisfied with the way he looks. It still baffles him how genuinely unaware Martin seems to be just how much out of Jon’s league he is, and though they’ve been married for long enough now that Jon can be certain that Martin won’t just up and leave the moment he realises he can do so much better, that doesn’t stop the insidious fear of Martin doing just that from festering somewhere in the back of his mind, curling its venomous tendrils around his thoughts. He is careful not to voice these insecurities to Martin, well aware of how pathetic it is to whine about something that can never be changed, but Martin must have caught on to it regardless, because he keeps saying how beautiful he allegedly finds Jon. Jon wishes he could believe him.

But it’s not a big deal, he tells himself stubbornly whenever that perfidious doubt starts to creep in. As long as he doesn’t acknowledge his own appearance in any way, as long as he doesn’t look in the mirror for a second longer than is required of him, he will be fine. There’s no need to dwell on this ridiculous topic any further.

He’s not sure what drove him to take a closer look at his reflection today of all days. Perhaps it’s the undeniable reminder that he is starting to get old, the niggling fear of his looming mortality. But, to be honest, he doesn’t really care about going grey, or about growing old. In his mind, it’s vastly preferable to an unholy immortality, to a stolen life sustained by the suffering of others. But that’s exactly the issue, he supposes: being alive. Having survived when so many others didn’t, when he still feels like he did nothing to deserve it. He’s been over this time and time again with his very patient therapist – though always shrouded in careful metaphors, of course – but it’s still difficult to internalise that he doesn’t bear full responsibility for the terrible things he was an unwilling part of, that he was just as much a marionette as everyone else. It’s still hard to look his own reflection in the eye.

“Jon? Are you in there?”

Jon whirls around at the muffled sound of Martin’s sleep-slurred voice coming from behind the bathroom door. “Er, y-yes, I am, uh… come in.”

The door creaks open and Martin shuffles into the room, wrapping his arms around Jon from behind and dropping a kiss in his hair. Jon is enveloped in the musky smell of unwashed skin, a powerful rush of Martin that he probably shouldn’t find as appealing as he does.

“It’s not even six,” Martin mumbles. “Why are you up already?”

Jon shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Martin makes a sympathetic sound and presses another kiss to the top of Jon’s head. “Poor thing. Did you have a nightmare again?”

There’s no point in denying it, so Jon just nods.

Martin frowns at him in the mirror. “Why didn’t you say something? You know you could have woken me.”

Because it’s my birthday, Jon thinks. Because it’s my birthday and I just want this to be a perfect day for both of us, and I’m sick of being a burden on you. I’m ashamed to admit that even after all those years, I still wake drenched in sweat sometimes because I had yet another dream about losing you. I thought everything would be fine if I just nipped to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on my face, but then I made the mistake of confronting my own reflection, and here we are.

But he knows it would only upset Martin if he said any of that out loud, so he files it away for his next therapy session, and chooses to change the subject instead. “Did you know that my hair has gone all grey now?”

Martin laughs. “Yeah, I know. It’s been like that for a few months now.”

“…oh.”

“Do you have a problem with it?” Martin asks, and Jon is quick to shake his head.

“Good,” Martin says. “Because I think it looks great on you. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you were rocking the salt-and-pepper look too, but this is just a whole new level. Very distinguished. Kind of sexy professor vibes.”

They’ve had enough conversations about Jon’s asexuality right from the start of their relationship that Martin knows he can make jokes like that, and Jon knows he can laugh at them without fear of expectations he cannot fulfil. Still, he lets out an incredulous huff. “Really? That’s what you’re into?”

Martin grins. “Thought you’d have caught on to that by now, love.”

“Anyway,” Jon says, making a weak attempt to wriggle free, “you’ve probably had enough of staring at me in the mirror now. You must be tired, why don’t you go back to bed for a bit?”

“Nope!” Martin says cheerfully. “Wide awake now. And if you think even for a second that I could ever get enough of looking at you, then you’re very much mistaken.”

“Yes, yes,” Jon grumbles, heat rising to his face as it always does when he is subjected to Martin’s ridiculous compliments. “In that case, you might want to… take a shower, maybe?”

Martin gapes at him in mock affront. “Oi, are you saying I stink?”

“No!” Jon protests at once. “Not at all. I just… don’t want to disrupt your morning routine.”

“It’s your birthday,” Martin reminds him, tightening his arms around Jon. “Today my morning routine consists only of appreciating my husband.”

Under any other circumstances, Jon wouldn’t have been able to resist teasing him about the incredible corniness of that line, but he’s not in the mood for levity right now, so he just gives a drawn-out sigh.

Martin loosens his hold right away, a deep flush spreading over his face. “I, um, did I make you uncomfortable? Oh god, I made you uncomfortable, didn’t I? I’m so sorry.”

Jon presses himself back into Martin’s arms, flashing him an unconvincing smile over his shoulder. “No, no, you did nothing wrong,” he hastens to assure him. “It’s just… I don’t like looking at myself in the mirror, that’s all.”

Martin gnaws on his bottom lip, his face scrunched up in contemplation, like he is figuring out how to navigate the uncertain territory of this conversation without tripping over his feet. “Is it… because you’re scared of aging?” he asks slowly.

Jon shakes his head without even needing to think about it. “No, I don’t mind that at all. It might sound weird, but I… kind of like it, in a way? It shows that we survived. That we get to grow old together.”

Martin smiles. “That’s a nice way of looking at it.”

They’re both silent for a while, Jon still stubbornly refusing to make eye contact with his reflection, and Martin clearly deliberating how to phrase his next attempt to get through to Jon.

“Look, I know you have… certain insecurities about your body,” he settles on in the end. “And I know you don’t believe me when I tell you how beautiful you are, and I think that’s a real shame. But I will keep telling you, because I want you to hear it, and because I hope you’ll believe me one day. Okay?”

Jon sighs again. “That’s sweet of you, Martin, but that’s not it either. Not really.”

It’s the truth, he realises only now. He used to think he avoided mirrors just because of his body image issues, and while that may have been a small part of it, the true reason is far deeper and far more insidious, buried so deep within his sub-conscious that sometimes even he struggles to access it.

“Then what is it?”

Jon wants to be anywhere but here, to be talking about anything but this. He wants the earth to open up beneath his feet and devour him whole. But Martin asked him a question, and he owes him an answer.

His face burns as he whispers his reply, the words tumbling over themselves in his haste to get them out. To get this over with.

Martin furrows his brow. “Sorry, love, I didn’t catch that.”

A little louder and a little slower, Jon repeats, “It’s because it’s… me.”

To anyone else, without further context, those words would have made little sense. What Jon is talking about, what he is too ashamed to spell out properly, is that even after over a decade of living in this world as Jonathan Sims, husband and cat owner and upstanding member of his local community, he is still terrified that the Archivist lurks somewhere beneath the surface, just biding his time for the right moment to emerge. He is scared that if he looks in the mirror for too long, he will see a monster staring back. So he avoids his own reflection. Tries not to dwell on his existence any more than necessary. It even works. Most of the time.

Martin knows him well enough by now to understand what he leaves unspoken, because he doesn’t ask for clarification, just turns Jon around in his arms and pulls him into a tight hug, tucking his head under his chin and burying his face in Jon’s hair.

“Oh,” he murmurs as he strokes gentle paths along Jon’s back. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Jon breathes in the familiar scent of Martin’s worn sleep shirt, and allows a few tears to escape. Maybe he doesn’t have to be strong all the time. It’s comforting to know that he can let his guard down around Martin, that he can let himself fall and trust he will have a soft landing. They just stand there in silence for a few minutes, absorbed in the gentle comfort of their closeness, until Jon feels brave enough to slip out of their embrace and turn around to face the dreaded mirror again. This time, he looks himself right in the eyes. Forces himself not to avert his gaze.

The man staring back at him is far from handsome, no matter what Martin says, but he’s not an awful sight either. He looks rather normal, even, at least if you ignore all the scars, which takes Jon by surprise. He also looks old, there’s no denying that, much older than the last time Jon had paid proper attention to his own reflection, much older than his 43 years. But Martin was right in one respect: it suits him. He wears premature aging with grace now, less like the haggard twentysomething with dark bags under his eyes that he used to be, and more like someone who has settled into a comfortable middle age. His face is weathered, bears the marks of both suffering through storms and basking in the sunlight, but it shows that he has lived.

Most of all, though, he looks human.

~*~

On Jon’s 62nd birthday, he wakes to gentle sunlight warming his face and Martin’s soft snoring beside him. It must be close to noon already, but they both have the day off and have chosen to sleep in, then spend a lazy day unburdened by any responsibilities. Jon is rather looking forward to it. He rolls over in bed so he lies facing Martin, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes land on Martin’s tranquil sleeping face. His view is hazy without his glasses, but Martin’s face is the most familiar sight in the world to him, and he has committed every tiny detail of it to memory, catalogued all the minute changes over the years. The deep laughter lines around his eyes, the stray grey curls falling onto his forehead, the freckles dotting his skin. One would think that after over thirty years spent together, looking at Martin would have lost some of its novelty, but it still never fails to take Jon’s breath away. He doesn’t think he will ever get used to getting to call Martin his husband, will ever start taking for granted the astronomical stroke of luck that allowed them to grow old alongside one another. Sometimes he still feels the urge to pinch himself to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

But this isn’t a dream – he is very much awake, and awake before Martin at that, which is a rare treat. Martin has always been an early riser, to Jon’s mild chagrin, while Jon is only a morning person if he forces himself to be. He intends to make full use of the opportunity to watch Martin wake up.

And he only needs to wait for a few more minutes before Martin’s eyes begin to flutter open and he gives a little yawn.

“Morning,” Jon whispers, his voice brimming with fondness.

“M’rn’ng,” Martin mumbles in response, then his bleary eyes light up. “Oh, wait… happy birthday!”

He leans in to press a light kiss to Jon’s lips, heedless of morning breath. Jon smiles against his mouth, lingering in the kiss for a languid moment. When they part, they just lie there lazily with their foreheads pressed together for a little while, their eyes starting to drift shut again.

Then, a sudden revelation, piercing his mind like a lightning bolt, shakes Jon from his stupor. “Martin?” he asks, suddenly wide awake.

Martin blinks one eye open and gives a sleepy hum.

“You know… I’ve now spent more time living in this universe with you than my entire life in the… in the old world. Well, I suppose it’s hard to be exact, with the apocalypse… complicating matters, but at a rough estimate. I wasn’t quite 31 when the apocalypse started, and now I’m 62.”

Martin opens his other eye as well. “Huh, yeah, I… I hadn’t thought of that.”

To his slight embarrassment, Jon feels tears pricking his eyes. He seems to be getting weepier with every passing year, damn it. “Back then…” he whispers. They both know what he’s referring to. “Did you ever think we would make it this far?”

Martin shrugs. “Well, yeah. I always believed there was a happy ending on the horizon for us. That’s what kept me going.”

Now Jon can’t hold back his tears anymore, but he doesn’t mind too much, because Martin is there to wipe them away with gentle sweeps of his thumbs over Jon’s cheeks. He isn’t at all surprised by Martin’s words. Martin was always an incurable optimist, always searching for hope even where there was none to be found, always looking for the light at the end of an infinite dark tunnel. He was Jon’s sole reason not to give in to despair, his reason to leave the safehouse and venture out into the ruined world, his reason to persevere through countless fear domains, his reason to change his mind right at the very end, and he’s still his reason now. Without Martin, he would have never made it through the apocalypse. Without Martin, he knows he wouldn’t have lasted a single year in this strange new world.

“Thank you,” he says softly. It’s inadequate to convey the true depth of his feelings, but it’s all he can do for now.

Martin presses a soft kiss to Jon’s wrinkled forehead. “And look where we are now.”

Jon allows himself a moment to take stock of his surroundings, to acknowledge just how surreal all of this would have felt 32 years ago. Unlike Martin, he never believed happiness was on the cards for him. Even as a child, not yet consciously aware of the intricate machinations of fate, he felt that inexorable pull towards tragedy, that unshakeable certainty that life was bound to destroy him sooner rather than later. That one day, he would go knocking on the wrong door, and Mr Spider would be waiting behind it. He’d viewed growing old as a luxury that simply wasn’t meant for him, and growing old with another person, finding someone he could genuinely imagine spending an entire lifetime with, seemed even unlikelier. And yet here he is, in the bed he shares with his husband of almost 30 years, still every bit as in love as he was on his wedding day, if not more so, about to celebrate his 62nd birthday. Funny how life works out sometimes. And okay, it may not all be sunshine and rainbows, it may not and may never be entirely free of nightmares and persistent pain and the heavy weight of guilt over a past that cannot be rewritten, but just because their life isn’t perfect, that doesn’t mean it’s not worthwhile.

If Jon is very very lucky, he might get another 30 years together with Martin, but even if he died tomorrow, he would still be grateful for the life he has been given. Despite all the hardships, despite all his mistakes, despite all the grief and pain and ugliness. The first 31 years of his life may have been riddled with terror and uncertainty, but he thinks the 31 years following after that have more than made up for it.

#jonmartinweek 2022 #tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonmartin #my writing #it's two minutes to midnight so i'm not late in posting this!

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imagine-darksiders · 4 years

Text

Homesick - Chapter 2

Behind the door.

Warnings: implied child abuse, abusive parents, blood, nosebleeds, angst, themes of childhood trauma, ptsd

Tags: Darksiders, DeathxAzrael, hurt/comfort, angst, Reader, Found family, Reader needs a hug

Chapter 1

---

“What lays beyond that door?”

Azrael's innocent question causes you to stiffen and your steps falter on the landing, knowing precisely to which door he's referring, but unwilling to even spare it a backwards glance.

The momentary delay hardly lasts for more than a second and goes seemingly unnoticed by the angel, whose gaze appears too focused on the locked, mahogany door that stands quiet and guiltless at the furthest end of your landing. Hanging back near the top of the staircase however, with eyes sharp and turned just enough in your direction that they catch the hitching of your chest, Death does notice.

Then, he blinks, and you're suddenly twisting your head over a shoulder to look beyond Azrael at the door in question, a smile on your lips but not in your eyes.

“Oh, that's just a storage cupboard,” you say casually, waving a dismissive hand through the air and continuing your journey to the opposite side of the house, “I've been in and out of there all week stacking boxes of junk up to the ceiling. Now, come this way, all the best human-y stuff is stock-piled in my bedroom.”

You're too quick to disregard the door, too eager in turning to walk towards your room on stiff legs and Death wishes the angel would turn to look at you so he might also see what the Horseman sees, if only to confirm that he isn't imagining things.

Alas, letting out an intrigued little hum, Azrael clasps his hands loosely behind his back and sweeps after you, all the while pivoting his head this way and that to take in everything your humble home has to offer.

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

You had so nearly forgotten what the joy of discovery looks like in another person. To see the eyes of someone else grow wide and bright with unbridled wonder at a world you've long since lost a taste for.

Azrael's fascination at the most mundane of human objects manages to put a genuine smile on your face, though the ensuing pain still throbs like the beat of an insistent drum every time your cheeks press against your bruised eye.

Luckily, the angel appears to have missed your subtle wince.

After first having dragged him away from your television, you've managed to introduce him to many of humanity's other wonders that lay dotted around your bedroom.

Before long, Death had even slunk inside to join you both, taking up the mantle of an uninterested observer and absently perusing your book collection in the corner whilst keeping a surreptitious eye on the goings on of his companions.

You've perched yourself comfortably in a bean bag, content to simply sit back and observe whilst Azrael explores your room, his wide, white wings folded neatly against his back in order to spare some of your ornaments from being knocked off their shelves.

“This... ursine mammal,” he says, pausing beside your bed and poking a finger into the fur of an old, stuffed bear sitting atop your pillow, “Does it serve some purpose?”

You're too preoccupied with fighting back a laugh to answer him right away, and by the time you realise he's watching you expectantly, Death pipes up in your stead, cutting off any explanation you might have offered.

“I imagine it's only there for decoration,” he muses, casting a critical eye over your bookcase and the dozens of unread stories scattered about on the shelves, “But then, I have to wonder if half the things in this room aren't just ornamentation.”

Knowing what he's implying, you spare the back of his head a scowl. It isn't as though you've had a lot of time to read those books he gave you, not between rebuilding your own home and helping humanity come to terms with life post-apocalypse.

“Ah!” Azrael's head shoots up and he tears his eyes from the bear, glancing towards you instead. “It is symbolic, no? In resembling a most ferocious predator, this bear represents the perfect guard for your home.”

He looks so damn pleased with himself, you almost don't bother to correct him, instead wrestling your grin into a pensive frown and nodding slowly.

“Uh, sure! That is a pretty... exciting way to look at teddy bears.” Hopping to your feet, you make your way over to the bed and sweep a few of Azrael's primary feathers aside, picking up the toy bear and squeezing it to your chest. “But mostly humans use these for comfort at night, when we sleep. We usually get given them as children. And, as we grow older, I... guess we just get too attached to get rid of them. Most humans keep their childhood toys long into adulthood.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Death huffs, shaking his head with a smile hidden beneath the bone-mask, “You humans will get attached to anything that sits still for long enough.”

Azrael, on the other hand, looks as though you've just revealed to him one of humanity's greatest secrets. Rubbing his chin in thought, he says, “Remarkable! I've heard that humans are rather famous for the bonds they forge with other species, yet I never imagined that could extend to inanimate objects as well.”

“Yeah, you'd better believe it,” you smirk, placing the bear down on your pillow once more, “Someday I'll have to tell you about the woman who married the Eiffel Tower.”

At once, the Archangel blinks hard, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair line. “A tower? Surely that’s a jape?”

So perplexed is his expression, you throw back your head and let out a bark of delighted laughter. “What are you, Shakespeare? Nobody says ‘jape’ anymore, Azrael!”

Off on his own side of your little bedroom, Death's neck twists around slightly to regard both you and the angel as you engage in a light-hearted back and forth about the use of archaic vocabulary. He doesn't even realise that one corner of his mouth has begun lifting at the sight.

There is a truth about the Horseman that even he is reluctant to acknowledge, and that is that the constant slew of bad things happening in the Universe is... wearing. It’s wearing. To be on a constant path that always seems to lead towards battle or tragedy? Sometimes it feels as though his entire existence has merely consisted of one battle after another.

He saves one world, only for another to be torn apart, he destroys a species, and another asks him to fight their war for them, he helps the makers but in doing so, inadvertently kills their elder. Century after century - a millennia of bloody battles and terrible sacrifices and trying to keep his siblings safe - If he ever stopped to think about it...

Death’s eyes slip slowly shut.

He has worked... so hard, hasn’t he? Is it really so wrong if he enjoys these moments of fleeting repose?

All of a sudden, a strangled sound leaves Azrael's throat and Death is yanked from his peaceful reverie. “Y/n!?” the angel exclaims, his expression shifting to horrified in less than a second, “You're bleeding!”

Apparently, mentioning your name and blood in the same sentence is enough to get Death's voice to crack as he whips around properly and barks, “What!?”

Baffled, you raise a hand to your nose, dabbing at a sticky wetness gathered there whilst the taste of salty liquid drips onto your upper lip. “Oh, so I am,” you observe casually, only to have a pair of chilly hands curl unexpectedly around your forearms.

Without warning, the terrifying visage of the Horseman is looming mere inches from your face and in another instant, one of his hands presses itself to your forehead and firmly – albeit gently – tips it backwards.

“Um... Death, we've talked about this. Personal space, remember?”

The Horseman remains eerily silent as he stares transfixed at the blood oozing from your nose and you squirm uncomfortably when the grip he has on your arm begins to grow even tighter. Meanwhile, his wordlessness allows Azrael to fret aloud in the background.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” the angel mutters, pacing back and forth behind Death, never tearing his eyes from the red straining your face, “You shouldn't be having all this excitement. You should be resting.”

It's difficult to hold back your groan of exasperation as you lift your arms and knock Death's hands aside, stepping out of his reach.

“Oh for - It's just a nosebleed! Honestly, what has gotten into you two?” With a hefty sigh, you skirt around the rigid Nephilim, dodge one of Azrael's wings as it tries to curl instinctively around you and march into your ensuite bathroom.

Almost immediately, the angel tries to follow, but he swiftly has the door pushed shut in his face before he can enter and soon, they hear your voice filtering out to them from the other side. “I'm not a baby, guys! Nosebleeds are no big deal, it's just happening because of... well, you know.”

Azrael's stomach twists itself into knots at the sight of yet another locked door standing between himself and his human friend. He's about to call out for you to let him see the damage when an icy chill sweeps across the room and he turns, his mouth falling open slightly at the sight of Death staring at him through unseeing eyes.

The old Nephilim's body has gone completely still and there's a haunted look about him, as though he's lost, or perhaps trapped in another time, another place.

“Horseman?” Azrael murmurs uncertainly, feeling the cold prickle at the hairs on the base of his neck. Seconds pass and he receives no answer. Hesitant now, the archangel reaches towards Death's shoulder and, when he isn't immediately shoved away, places a hand on the frigid, solid muscle that bunches under his gentle touch. “Death,” he tries again, and this time the Horseman's head snaps up to stare at him, as if only just realising he's there.

The angel ducks his head to better catch Death's eye, his voice soft enough that only the two of them can hear it. “Are you alright, old friend?”

A long silence stretches between them with only the faint sound of running water from your bathroom tap to fill it.

Then, giving a start, Death roughly shrugs the comforting hand off his shoulder and stalks past the angel towards your window, leaning his elbows heavily against the sill and stubbornly refusing to acknowledge Azrael's concern. He doesn't think the archangel has ever been that close to him before, close enough that the subtle scent of old books and clean linen invaded his nose and chased away the awful stench of your blood, effectively leaving his mind clear once again.

'Idiot,' he chastises himself, eyes still wide behind the bone mask. How could he have frozen like that? In front of Azrael no less. Creator, he'd never live that one down. He had – for lack of a better word – panicked, and it's as embarrassing to admit to himself as it is to have been caught panicking. But...

The sight of your blood... The smell of it, sweet and strong enough that it even settled on his tastebuds...

It's pathetic, really. He is Death. He's seen and caused far more bloodshed than arguably any being in any realm. So why then does your spilled blood hold his dead heart in such a cruel and unforgivably tight chokehold?

The redundancy of taking a calming breath isn't lost on him, yet he does it anyway, tipping his head up to peer out of your window, chest rising and falling with motions he could only have picked up after spending so much time around you.

It's begun to rain, he notes idly. Tiny droplets of water patter down onto the dusty window panes and Death follows the path of one until it merges with several others and is lost in the fray.

Down in the streets below, many passers-by have dived for shelter, yet there are still two figures who remain. One is an angel, whose golden complexion shimmers when raindrops trickle steadily down his face. He's standing in the shadow of a water-logged bus stop and beside him, leaning just a little too close, is a serpentine demon, scales black and glittering like obsidian. The odd pair rest almost shoulder to shoulder underneath the bus stop's awning, each sharing a brief respite from the rain with what was once a well-loathed enemy.

Death blinks upon seeing that their hands are intertwined. Dainty, golden fingers curl loosely around clumsier claws and suddenly, the Horseman feels as though he's intruding on their secret moment, so he turns back to face your room.

Azrael has drifted closer once again and there's a knowing expression on his face that causes Death to frown. Sure enough, the archangel spares your bathroom door a hasty glance before he looks at the Horseman once more. “...Death,” he says slowly, “It's... all right, you know. If seeing Y/n’s blood upset you-”

Hackles are raised in half a second, a set of sharp teeth clack together and Death hisses, “You think I'm upset?”

Judging by the flat look he receives, that is precisely what the archangel thinks.

Despite the obvious vehemence behind Death's tone, he's careful to keep his voice down, ever mindful that you're only a room over. Perhaps getting defensive isn't the best idea.

“There is no shame in it, Horseman,” the angel coaxes softly, “Y/n is my friend as well. There has already been far too much human blood spilled this century.” He casts another, baleful glance towards your bathroom, quietly adding, “I didn't think I would be seeing it again, not this soon. And especially not from our human.”

...Our human.

Death is unnerved by how natural that sounds coming off Azrael's tongue.

Expertly, the Horseman wills his shoulders to slump and his muscles to relax, then, with an unmistakable air of indifference, he folds his arms across his broad chest and turns himself deliberately away from the archangel, glowering at your bedroom wall.

And Azrael, wise enough to read the standoffish behaviour for what it is, allows his mouth to fall shut because he knows that, as far as Death is concerned, the conversation is over.

He has a care not to release a weary sigh. But with you shutting him out physically and the Horseman shutting him out verbally, it's difficult for even the composed archangel to keep exasperation at bay.

Just then, your voice calls out to them from the other side of the door. “Ugh, sorry about this guys. It's slowing down, but it hasn't stopped yet. I'll just be a minute!”

“So long as you're all right,” Azrael replies.

When he receives no response from you and no further input from Death, he lets his head drop into a disappointed nod, pressing his lips together. Suddenly, his presence feels a little too big for the space he's occupying. He needs to think.

Azrael leaves your bedroom with a far heavier heart than he'd gone in with, raking his fingers through fine, white hair and expelling a soft breath from his lungs, as if that might alleviate the weight settling across his chest.

So far, this first visit to your home has not gone as he'd hoped it would. Through no fault of your own, mind. But trying to focus on taking in everything you show him whilst he knows you're in more pain than you're letting on is woefully distracting. That's without even mentioning the creeping sense of unease that has been hanging over him ever since he first stepped foot through your front door.

Briefly, Azrael wonders if Death had noticed the way your breath hitched slightly and your reply had an almost imperceptible, underlying tremor when he asked you what lay beyond the door at the end of your landing. He'd have to ask the Horseman about that later, when he's in a more talkative mood.

Already, the archangel can feel the beginnings of a frown forging crevasses down the centre of his forehead. He composes himself in another breath and finally lifts his eyes from the carpet, only to stop in his tracks.

That door – that unassuming door to your cupboard lays ahead of him, quiet and solid as all doors should be, just sitting there under a flickering light bulb, as though it had been patiently waiting for him to notice it.

And notice it, he does, because something about the door has changed since he saw it last, something so obvious, yet also entirely unsettling.

Where it had once been shut tight, now it stands ever so slightly ajar.

Despite everything in him screaming that he must respect the privacy of his host, Azrael's curiosity grows too bold and he finds himself treading silently down your landing, his shoes making no sound on the grubby, cream carpet. Drawing to a halt, the angel's keen gaze sweeps over the wooden door, taking in hairline cracks and mottled rot that a hundred years has left upon it like battle scars on a warrior's face. Slowly, he roves his eyes down to the dull, brass door handle and he immediately falters, doing a double-take.

Sitting atop the handle is a very noticeable, very thick layer of dust.

His brows knit together until they nearly touch and he reaches out to swipe a finger delicately along the brass. When he pulls away, he lifts his hand for an inspection and, sure enough, the pad of his forefinger is now sporting the same, grey substance.

'Why would a door you claimed to use recently have so much dust upon the handle?' The feeling of unease that had been stealthily keeping to the back of his mind now pokes its head out a little more, creeping forwards, daring him to acknowledge it.

'Something's wrong...' a quiet voice tells him.

Azrael's hand reaches out once more, except this time, it curls around the handle entirely and rests there for a moment as the angel's mind starts to race. 'Y/n.... Are you hiding something from us?'

As soon as the thought enters his head, he can't shake it loose.

Yes - he trusts you - he knows you'd have no reason to lie to him, and especially not to the Horseman. And yet... Clearly there is something beyond this door that you're trying to divert their attention from and whatever it is has you spooked.

Feeling more and more like a common criminal, Azrael keeps one ear on the room behind him and slowly begins to twist the door handle, wincing when its rusty springs catch and squeak in protest.

His wings shiver with anticipation as he pushes the door open.

What awaits him on the other side is decidedly not a storage cupboard...

“A... bedchamber?” he murmurs to himself.

Within an instant, he's hit by an oppressive wave of must and wood rot. The smell spills like liquid from the room and seeps into your hallway, causing the archangel's lips to curl, though he's quick to smooth his expression out again because there's something far worse lingering below the initial stench, something that – even after a hundred years – still clings to the peeling wallpaper and broken, dust-choked bed in the corner of the room.

It isn't quite magic, more like the residue of a dark and terrible memory. Azrael knows as well as any angel that memories can be immensely powerful things and capable of haunting a place long after the living are dead and gone. Hesitating, he takes a moment to steel himself before stepping over the threshold and entering that old, foreboding bedroom.

At once, he notices that, as with the door's handle, absolutely everything is covered in a thick layer of grime and dust, the television on the wall, the various, glass bottles that stand on a table at the room's centre, amidst which sits a single, yellowing glass.

Against the wishes of his own nose, Azrael takes a brief sniff at the air and grimaces.

Alcohol.

Even the most pious of angels would recognise it.

He dismissively turns his attention from the bottles and glides over towards a worn dresser that stands to the left of the bed, a bed that stinks of an odour he desperately tries to ignore. Upon the dresser are a vast array of what you;d once called 'photographs,' all of which sit inside basic, wooden frames. Inquisitive, Azrael bends down and peers at them, a soft smile worming across his face when he sees a familiar human grinning back up at him.

You couldn't be much older than four or five, but he'd recognise you at any age. It seems even as a child, you possessed that same, mischievous spark in your eyes.

You're standing alone, and in spite of a clear gap where a tooth has fallen out, you're beaming up at the camera so hard, he imagines your cheeks had to have hurt. In fact, the more Azrael inspects the photo, the more he thinks your expression most resembles a grimace, not a smile. He shrugs it off however, and moves on. After all, the facial structure of humans is such that they're capable of expressions far more complex than those of angels or demons. Perhaps he’s only misreading it.

The next picture sees you looking a few years older, sitting in the lap of a tall, angular man wearing a white shirt that looks to have been frequently stained by all manner of substances whilst his face is stretched into a grin that makes Azrael's skin crawl. Captured in stillness, it looks menacing and shark-like. Worse still is the large hand that seems to have secured itself like a vice around your thigh, squeezing noticeably into the little, blue leggings you'd worn that day.

You aren't smiling as widely in this photograph....

The archangel's face begins to fall as well.

Humming, he moves on to the next picture and in an instant, that creeping unease suddenly rings in his head like an alarm bell.

Again, you're older here, perhaps early into your adolescence, and the smile you'd sported before is barely there at all. The same man is standing behind you this time, and his long, gangly fingers are clamped down over your too-small shoulders, fingernails digging so hard into the bare skin, the resulting indents are even picked up by the camera.

Your lopsided wince that could be mistaken for a smile at a glance shows off one side of your mouth and in it, Azrael can clearly see that you're missing a tooth.

He may not be the most well-versed on human biology, but he's definitely heard that children only lose the same tooth once. And that the process is a natural one.

Through the lense of the camera, your younger counterpart seems to peer up past the glass frame, past the fabric of time and space and straight into Azrael's misty, pale eyes, a silent yet clear plea in the tilt of your brows and the whites of your knuckles.

'Help me.'

All at once, the archangel feels sick. He staggers backwards, away from the dresser and doesn't even notice the golden halo on his back is thrumming with protective magics, pushing them outwards to envelope your entire house.

He doesn't need Jamaerah's second sight to know that you were afraid of that man who's eyes are stained the same colour as yours. Hazarding a guess as to why you were afraid causes Azrael's throat to tighten.

Swallowing hard, he tries to regain his composure. The archangel has always considered rationality to be one of the greatest weapons in his arsenal and if there was ever a time to use it, that time is now.

'Perhaps... I am mistaken,' he reassures himself, 'I don’t know human customs nearly as well as I-’

“Azrael?”

The angel gives a start and jerks his head around to face the door, only to find Death eclipsing it, his eyes blazing like twin fires.

Stepping forwards into the room, he hisses, “What are you doing in here?”

The Horseman is quite certain he's never seen Azrael look so guilty.

Instead of giving him an answer though, the angel slowly breathes, “Where is Y/n?” Soon, he droops in relief when Death throws a thumb over his shoulder and replies, “Still in the bathing room, tending to a bloody nose... You didn't answer my question.”

Beckoning the Horseman closer, Azrael keeps his voice to a hushed whisper and holds the last photograph up in front of him.

“What do you make of this?”

Azrael's behaviour strikes him as so uncharacteristically odd and secretive, Death actually hurries over to him and snatches the picture frame from his hands, making an effort not to appear curious about the room he's never been inside. The angel watches raptly as Death scans the photographs with his luminous, orange eyes. Then, all of a sudden, the Horseman's fingers tighten around the little, wooden frame, hard enough to make it splinter and Azrael knows his worst fears are being realised. He hadn't imagined it.

Death sees it too.

“You guys shouldn't be in here.”

A tiny voice, low and trembling calls from the doorway and the angel's gaze snaps up. Death, in the meantime, remains too fixated on the photograph to bother acknowledging your presence.

Azrael drifts towards you cautiously, as though you'll bolt at any second. He tries to decide whether it would be better to apologise for invading your privacy or ask you why you look so terrified.

“Y/n,” he starts, paying attention to the way your hands turn over one another incessantly, “We were only-”

“... How... How did you get in? The door was - it was locked! You can't be in here... Get out!” Your voice raises in pitch. There are tears leaking from your bruised eye, swiftly turning the skin underneath it slick and shiny and there’s still a trace of blood underneath your nose.

Death finally lowers his gaze from the photograph and holds you captive under a wide and menacing stare. “A storage room, was it?” he asks curtly, showing you the picture clutched between his ever-tightening fingers.

The moment you lay eyes on it, your back goes rigid and all the blood drains from your face. “Put that down!” you demand and lift your foot as if to take a step inside the room, but as soon as you cross over the threshold, you seem to remember something, and quickly jerk yourself backwards, stumbling into the hallway again and sucking down a ragged gasp, blurting, “Just – Just don't touch it!”

“Why not?” Death drawls and tilts his head to one side, calculating, “It can't be that important to you. You've had it locked in this storage cupboard for these past two years.”

He's pushing you, Azrael realises with a sinking feeling, he's trying to provoke you into an honest reaction, no doubt. The archangel doesn't like it, but he likes the look of that man in the photograph even less.

“That's none of your business!” you snap, heart pounding like a jackhammer against your ribs. Unfortunately, your response only seems to stir something in the Horseman, who draws his head back as though you'd struck him a physical blow and he growls, “I hate to disappoint you, but it is my business where your welfare is concerned.”

“My welfare stopped being your concern about two years ago!”

Death falls silent, jaw clenching.

He'd be remiss to say that your comment hadn't struck at a place he guards jealously. He's painfully aware of the angel's eyes burning a hole into the side of his head and he nearly squirms at the pitying look he's receiving.

It would seem that Azrael knows him a little too well.

“You never once stopped being my concern...” the Horseman mumbles, his gaze moving down to the image in his hand. A younger, smaller you peers back at him with woe caught like sleep-dust behind your eyelashes. Death's eyes shoot back up to you again, the softness gone from his voice when he growls, “Why did you lie to me?”

Tensions are high enough that Azrael doesn't think it prudent to mention you'd lied to him as well.

Apparently, a direct confrontation was not the best way to deal with this delicate situation, a fact that becomes clear when you cinch your jaw shut for a moment, gaze flickering to and fro between the angel and the Horseman.

Seeing two of your most trusted friends standing in his bedroom with a symbol of your shame and your trauma held quite literally in Death's grasp sends your heart rate skyrocketing, fear like poison dripping down into your stomach. You can hardly believe they'd invade your privacy like this. Death especially, who knows better than anyone the necessity for keeping some secrets buried.

He doesn't need to learn about that part of your history - neither of them do. You don't want to have them worrying. And God forbid they should pity you.

Squaring your shoulders, you spin about on a heel and begin to march purposefully down your landing to the stairs.

“Where do you think you're going?!” Death barks after you.

Chest heaving, you pause on the first step and cast a heavy frown over your shoulder at the Horseman, matching his ferocious gaze without a single blink. “If you won't leave that room,” you tell him, “then I'll leave this house. And I'll thank you both to be gone by the time I get back.”

And just like that, you continue to descend your staircase and disappear below the wooden balustrades. Seconds later and there's an almighty 'slam' that signals you've had an altercation with the front door before leaving through it.

For some time, the house is weighed down under a blanket of silence as the pair of unearthly beings are left to stand in the aftershocks of their actions.

“Oh dear..” Azrael's stare is vacant, worried, and he has several fingertips pressed to his lips. “I fear I've reopened an old wound..”

“No. This... isn't your fault,” the Horseman sighs, “I should have addressed this sooner. I've known for some time there was something Y/n didn't want me to know. And, I suppose, I'd always suspected that this room might lead to some answers.”

Taken aback, Azrael turns a mystified look onto the Nephilim. He'd expected Death to lay the blame upon his feathery shoulders, after all, he was the one who first ventured into this so called 'storage cupboard' and upset the proverbial applecart. Still, he finds it somewhat odd that the Horseman – a nosy creature if ever one walked the nine realms – hasn't ever tried to see for himself what lay beyond the door. Tilting his head, the angel asks, “You never thought to investigate?”

At the question, Death averts his gaze and shrugs one of his pale shoulders. “Admittedly, no, I did not.”

“Well... Why?” Azrael presses, though he already has an inkling.

After a moment of frowning pensively at the photo in his hands, the Horseman turns to look at him and he's once again thrown off by the level of emotion in those wild, striking eyes. Death really has grown since knowing you.

“I never brought it up because....”

“.... You didn't want to jeopardise your friendship,” Azrael finishes for him softly, and Death is only grateful that he didn't have to say it himself out loud.

At the same time, the two of them peer back at the photograph and the archangel is surprised at himself for the anger that boils in his lungs at the sight of that man’s hands on you. Death however, isn’t in the least bit surprised at the presence of his own rage.

“Horseman...,” Azrael says, his voice eerily calm, “You don’t supposed.... Y/n might be trying to hide something else, do you?”

"The bruise...”

Furious, orange eyes meet cool and misty white.

“It isn’t out of the question,” Azrael breathes, “A random attack from human zealots? Or-”

“- Or something a bit closer to home,” Death finishes as he tosses the photo onto the nearby bed and turns to face the door.

Outside, rain continues to hammer relentlessly on the house whilst a streak of lightening illuminates the bedroom and the two, imposing beings inside, one with dark magics crackling at his fingertips, and the other with a halo of solid gold on his back that thrums with violent energy as the glyphs on his wings begin to glow electric blue.

Without a word, the Angel of Death and the Grim Reaper slip from your house and stride out into the coming storm, their ancient minds focused solely on tracking down their human.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #darksiders 3 #Azrael #Death #Reader #abuse #child abuse #angst #Angel #Nephilim #Horseman of the Apocalypse #Hurt/comfort #found family #demon #guardian angels

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that-shamrock-vibe · 4 years

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Movie Review: The New Mutants (Spoilers)

Spoiler Warning: I am posting this review the week following the movie first airing in the U.K, so if you haven’t yet seen The New Mutants do not read on until you have.

General Reaction:

A three year delay for the final instalment of a twenty-year franchise, was it ultimately worth it? Well as an X-Men fanatic I am always going to say yes, it wasn’t a swan song or a wrap up to the X-Men Cinematic Universe, far from as it was originally pitched as the start of a trilogy and does sew the seeds for that. However, while Dark Phoenix did feel like a sombre instalment not only for that “First Class” timeline but also the team movies as a whole, this had an air of sadness to it because this is the last time I will see anything X-Men related on the big screen for who knows how long.

In that sense, this was an emotional movie for me, more than just the fact that the emotion of fear is a running theme through the movie. However, in terms of my actual enjoyment of the movie, it was a very good movie for what it was.

When your very final movie is effectively an origin movie then there’s always going to be that sense of incompleteness, and what this movie teases both for these characters and who is the big bad behind all of this, it’s really frustrating to know it’s over before it truly starts.

With that in mind, The New Mutants is very slow to get started as there’s a lot of exposition and because it feels like it’s own branch of the X-Men Cinematic Franchise, similar to Deadpool, there is a level of “Beginner’s Guide to Mutants 101″ at play here with the explanation of what a Mutant is and when a young or “New Mutant” first discovers their powers that, to give this movie credit, I have never truly seen explored properly outside of the comics other than a quick explanation from Storm to Jubilee in the first episode of X-Men: The Animated Series.

It’s also disappointing to know that unlike X-Men: The Last Stand or Dark Phoenix, there isn’t a sense of finality for these characters as we have just been introduced to them. Outside of Sunspot who has briefly appeared in X-Men: Days of Future Past, this is the first cinematic appearance for all of these characters. The X-Men are briefly mentioned and Professor X is alluded to quite cleverly but every character outside of Sunspot is debuting here and to know they’re never going to be seen in this continuity again with a chance to develop is very sad.

In terms of the “horror” aspects of this movie I have to say this is very comic-book horror as in how Blade in the late 90s was horror. If you know the jump scares in this movie are coming then there are no jump scares, so basically if you’ve seen the trailers you know the jump scares.

As a horror movie, it felt very much like It-lite in terms of the theme of bringing nightmares into reality, only without the hard R-rating of the blood and gore because outside of one maybe two scenes there is nothing truly horrific to look at here.

There’s also a great parallel to the Gentlemen from Buffy the Vampire Slayer shown from their episode in this movie and the Smiley Men who are Illyana’s nightmare brought to life. They’re creepy like them but they’re not as sinister as them...and that is a great choice of wording considering who the big bad behind the scenes of this movie is.

As an X-Men movie, which is what this is as the New Mutants in the comics are basically younger versions of the X-Men, as I say the first half of this movie isn’t that power heavy but is about introducing and establishing this team, the second half/last third on the other hand is power heavy. Not exactly Days of Future Past or Apocalypse heavy but still heavy for the powers this group of Mutants have.

Overall generally as both an X-Men movie and a comic-book movie, this was really a great movie particularly for the first new movie I have seen since lockdown.

Characters:

So this breakdown will be easy as there’s only really six characters to talk about but I’m going to make it a seven-character breakdown as the looming presence in the shadows of this movie deserves their own section.

Illyana Rasputin:

Alright so it is somewhat difficult to say if Illyana is my favourite or if Rahne is my favourite but I ultimately landed on Illyana for first as Anya Taylor-Joy is really in the spotlight the entire way through this movie. Every time she’s in a scene she commands the attention, and all five of the New Mutants have solo scenes so for Illyana to stand out the most, this is why she is #1 for me.

I’m not entirely sure where this movie takes place in terms of the overall X-Men timeline...but considering it’s supposedly in the revised timeline and Colossus is a member of the X-Men in the late noughties/early 2010s, I imagine this is either around the same time or can even be modern day (2017 or 2020).

Anya Taylor-Joy is as suited to the role of Magik as Channing Tatum would have been as Gambit in my opinion. Not only does she have a reasonable Russian accent but she just simply looks like how Magik looks in the comics.

I loved the rebel teen angst she had all the way through from when we first meet her to the very end, not only is it fitting for the movie but in my opinion it’s fitting for the character. This is a girl that literally goes through some resemblance of hell and is effectively a serial killer so of course she is going to have this icy dark exterior.

In terms of powers, I am slightly disappointed she never fully armoured up, it was always just her left arm that she had armoured complete with Soulsword, whereas in the comics her main look is her entire body. I guess the argument could be made the majority of it is simply a uniform and her arm is the only part armoured but I would have liked to have at least seen her crown.

But Magik’s powers for me here are an interesting combination of Zatanna and Nightcrawler which is a very good combination. The scene where she first appears through limbo fighting the Smiley Men was very impressive.

I would have also enjoyed it if we had spent more time in Limbo, given that we always saw cameo flashes of it whenever she manifested a portal, but we never actually had a full scene of her in her “special place”.

Not being too familiar with the comics however, I am almost completely unaware of Lockheed as a character. My only prior knowledge is his appearance in Pryde of the X-Men as a pest and I have to say I much prefer him here. The animation of both Lockheed and the Demon Bear were stellar.

As I say, I feel we have only just scratched the surface with where this version of Magik could go. I doubt very much Kevin Feige would bring Anya Taylor-Joy back if/when he does bring the character into the MCU because he doesn’t like playing with used toys but if ever there was an exception I would hope it would be her.

Rahne Sinclair:

It is slightly obvious to think of when Maisie Williams was filming for this movie as her hair, unless it’s a wig, is in that “Arry” phase of her Game of Thrones tenure.

Because of the current entertainment climate and the non-starting stance this movie finds itself released in, I think the lesbian romance between Rahne and Dani is going to go unnoticed. But considering this is the first major LGBT romance in a comic-book property I feel this movie will be cheated out of that representation in favour of what is to eventually come from Marvel.

Outside of the romance, I feel Rahne’s story rooted in her religion and mutation was fantastic. I love me some werewolf action and I feel I saw enough actual wolf to satisfy Rahne spending most of her time in “halfway form” as the character has been known to do in the comics.

The fact her nightmare was that religious leader branding her as a werewolf and thereby a monster, not only was it believable given her character but also the parallels to devout religious views on homosexuality were subtle but there.

I do feel the character spent way too much time screaming towards the end of the movie. This girl is a werewolf but spent most of the final battle as the screaming protector of her unconscious lover, I mean she was I guess helpful in waking Dani back up but never truly let rip like I feel the character could have.

I’m not entirely sure if Williams has any Scottish heritage about her but the slipping in and out of the accent was slightly distracting at times. When she was able to be loud the accent was often broken but in her quieter moments or longer dialogue scenes you could hear it.

I do appreciate keeping the nationality of the character from the comics, considering the mess they made of Banshee and Moira MacTaggert, and I do understand having an at the time name talent like Maisie Williams in the role, but there are surely Scottish actresses out there and the casting pool wasn’t exactly high for this movie.

Dani:

The main character in this movie, or focal character I guess as it’s an ensemble movie, is either Illyana or Dani, but because we start with Dani and are introduced to the other characters through Dani I guess she is the focal character.

Again, I give credit to the movie for keeping the nationality of the characters from the comics, but while Anya Taylor-Joy and Maisie Williams border on appropriation as they are not Russian or Scottish themselves, although Anya is of Scottish Argentine descent, Blu Hunt is at least Native-American as Dani is. I think they come from different tribes but I don’t think people are going to focus too much on that technicality.

Similarly to all these characters I don’t really know much about Dani so have no frame of reference to compare her to. I remember she appeared in one episode of X-Men: Evolution and I know her powers involve dreams, which similarly to the majority of the characters in this movie lends itself beautifully to a horror movie, but that’s about it.

I felt her relationship with Rahne was genuine and her own “survivors guilt” over being the only member of her family still alive after the Demon Bear attack was well explained.

I just didn’t understand why it was decided that Reyes had to kill Dani because of the severity of her powers, maybe it was the unpredictability of her powers because their limitations are literally the power of imagination, but I thought Reyes was responsible for sorting out those capable of being killers...surely the power to bring nightmares to life as many times as it takes to kill the person qualifies?

With the Demon Bear being tamed at the end of the movie, I kind of don’t see anywhere for Dani to go if they did continue, she still has the power to solidify nightmares, and I guess she can always call on the Demon Bear, but unlike Rahne or Magik I do not see any further development for her.

Sam:

Sam Guthrie aka Cannonball was an interesting one for me as I knew the character and I knew the actor, but hadn’t properly seen either one fully explored before. I have not watched Stranger Things so do not really know Charlie Heaton’s acting potential...but what I do know is he is from Yorkshire and cannot really do a Kentucky accent.

As for the character of Cannonball, I thought that early scene of him strapping himself to that weight while zooming through the air to either test himself or hurt himself was really well realised. There wasn’t enough of him going full cannonball throughout the movie, mostly it just came across as a sort of super speed which in a way I guess it is but projecting that force-field while he is zooming about is what makes the power set unique.

Similarly to Dani he had guilt over his nightmare which was him causing a mining accident which killed his co-workers and dad, but unlike Dani who never really developed the thought of it being her fault for her family’s death because of her conjuring the Demon Bear, Sam did at least hold a lot of guilt over what had happened...despite his nightmare being probably the weakest as the main effect it had was totalling a washing machine.

I also didn’t understand the back-to-back scenes of Sam suggesting he was meant to be in the hospital and felt he had to be there, but then in the next scene him trying to walk out saying he doesn’t belong there. Maybe it was the editing but it just seemed like a complete 180 from scenes that were literally back-to-back.

Roberto:

As I said this is Sunspot’s second cinematic appearance and I guess in the revised timeline he has gone from being portrayed by Mexican actor Adan Canto to now Brazilian actor Henry Zaga.

I didn’t feel the boys in this movie had that much to do, with both Sam and Berto it did feel like them simply coming to terms with their powers. I did like how both had that fear of hurting people and both had to learn I guess to push past that fear.

With Berto’s fear though, I do feel his power first manifesting in conjunction to him reaching sexual maturity was very well explored, because of course the combination of testosterone and becoming a living solar flare are not exactly two things anyone wants to mix. So when the result is burning your girlfriend to a crisp it is going to shake you.

Outside of his powers though there wasn’t a lot to the character and it is hard to remember a good line that he or Sam had that weren’t douchey, but for what we got he was a good character.

Reyes:

Wow this woman deserved to be eaten by the Demon Bear, which by the way I found almost as humorous as Katie McGrath being carried away by a pterodactyl in Jurassic World.

But yes, this doctor was the “villain” of the movie as she was the agent of the big bad Essex Corporation in charge of determining the new mutants’ powers and whether or not they’re worth progressing to their facility.

Outside of that I didn’t really think much of her as a character, she wasn’t a sympathetic character, she wasn’t believing to be doing this for the benefit of these young mutants, she was simply following orders.

It’s a deviance from the comics where Reyes is a hero and member of the X-Men, whereas here she is far from it.

Alice Braga is also regionally appropriately cast as she is Brazilian whereas the character is Puerto Rican, although whenever she spoke I kept thinking about Gal Gadot a lot, even looks wise there are similarities.

Sinister:

Now let’s talk about the looming big bad who I imagine would have been the major big bad of this supposed trilogy. Despite the new mutants believing the facility to be owned and run by the X-Men, it is in fact run by the Essex Corporation...Essex as in Dr. Nathaniel Essex, a biologist obsessed with evolution who became the Mutate supervillain Mister Sinister.

I want to see Mister Sinister in a live-action movie so badly it’s unreal, they’ve done Apocalypse so why they can’t do Sinister I don’t know.

This isn’t the first time Sinister has been alluded to as the Essex Corporation was in an end credits scene of X-Men: Apocalypse that acquired samples of Wolverine’s blood presumably to create X-23, but because those events took place in the 80s and these events take place in somewhat modern day it’s hard to correlate the two.

Obviously we are no longer going to get X-Men movies in this universe and continuity, but with the seeds being sown for Sinister more than once now, the baton has been laid down for Feige to finally bring this villain to life.

Reccomendation:

If like me you are more or less interested in just completing the twenty-year franchise because you love these characters and any interpretation of them then this is the movie for you. However, don’t expect wall to wall action, and I would recommend not getting too attached to these characters. It’s too late for me with Illyana I already love her and already feel Anya Taylor-Joy has set a high bar for whoever plays Magik next.

But for me personally, this franchise has been my favourite movie franchise and my favourite property. Even the bad movies I can at least find something good about them regardless of if the overall movies have been good or not. But just to reiterate, I do feel this is one of the good movies.

In a ranking of the 13 movies (not counting Once Upon a Deadpool), this ranks somewhere between #6-8 for me.

Overall I rate the movie a solid 8/10, by no means the best or a perfect X-Men movie but by no means one of the worst. The movie benefits from new characters (aside from Sunspot) but suffers due to the inevitability of this being the definitive end for the current franchise.

So what did you guys think? Post your comments and check out more Movie Reviews as well as other posts.

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aion-rsa · 4 years

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DuckTales Season 3 Episode 22 Review: The Last Adventure!

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This DUCKTALES review contains spoilers.

From the opening moments of DuckTales’ final episode it feels like the end. Almost everyone is here. There’s an extra care put into the scenes, a knowledge that we are in the last hour of their adventures. A last moment of uncomplicated joy before things get messy. And at the center of it all?

Webby. In the beginning she seemed to be the POV character of DuckTales, the one everything seemed to focus around. Some of that was caused by the original air dates of the episodes accidentally putting all her focus episodes at the start but it was a feeling that never left me. The show was an ensemble piece but there was something about Webby that kept her at the forefront. Something that made go, “if anyone had to lay claim as the main character of DuckTales, it’s her.” Boy, was I right about that!

The finale puts her in the middle of everything and finally pays off the mystery set-up at the top of the season. We finally learn about her past and as its slowly revealed it tugs on Webby’s biggest heartstring. Family.

Her clones May and June press her with questions about the family. How none of the people she has connections with are related to her by blood. They aren’t her REAL family. Scrooge’s family isn’t hers. Her friends aren’t family. They play on a fear that’s been deeply held within her, that for all the talk of family is what you make it they still aren’t REALLY family.

It calls into question that critical core element of this new DuckTales. One could argue the show has done a LOT to say family is what you make it and this shouldn’t be a problem for Webby but come on, she has two sisters right in front of her. That would mess with her head and make her feel insecure.

This question of family extends out of Webby’s plotline and to all the others, especially Donald and Della. Donald wants to go off on a big trip with Daisy, intentionally leaving the family behind for the first time in who knows how long. This is a major step for him. He gave up his life to help raise Huey, Dewey, and Louie. He’s stuck by them even as they lived at the mansion. The guy deserves some time with the person he cares about without the weight of responsibility he’s carried for so much of his life.

Della though can’t take it. She tries to get him to reconsider. She has excuse after excuse but the real reason comes out, she doesn’t want to lose any more time with him. She was gone for so long why can’t he stay and make up for that lost time? He could, but as much as Donald loves Della he’s finally putting himself first. Of course Della accepts it because she’s Della and she’s great. I’m so happy they did this with Donald, the guy deserves it. Just because Della wants to spend more time with him doesn’t mean he HAS to. He can take time for himself, he can be his own person, he doesn’t have to be defined by the loss of Della anymore. Of course he’ll still see her and the rest of the family, he’s just going off to start his own part of the family. That’s a crucial element of family as well; you don’t always have to be together.

But of course when Webby and Huey get kidnapped Donald is right there to help and so is everyone else. The whole family rallies together, though Beakley is off on her own. Earlier in the episode Beakley revealed to Webby that she retired specifically because of her. That Webby was more important than anything else and, as we later learn, she gave up taking out F.O.W.L. to do it. There’s a running theme of how much you’ll sacrifice for your family here, as Beakley puts it, “when you find your family you’ll give up everything for them.” It’s well threaded throughout the episode, the biggest example of it of course being the giant mission to storm the temple.

It’s here the family comes up against the biggest nemesis of the series, Bradford. Bradford’s whole deal is that he was the first Woodchuck (and a terrible one.) He wants to rid the world of adventure, contain all the chaos it brings. What does all this mean? Why is he doing this? On first watch it’s a little unclear but when you zoom out Bradford wants to keep the world in order, in check. No deviations, nothing unexpected, no challenges, nothing unpredictable. He claims he’s a businessman, not a villain… but of course he’s a villain because a LOT of business people ARE villainous. Wanting to keep the world in check and playing by their rules is how they keep control. How they stay in power.

Adventures threaten that. They give power to those who don’t have it; they allow a wonder and mystery to fill the world. To give people hope, to bond them together. For Scrooge, it helped create his family. So of course Bradford would try to shut that down, he’s better served if people are unhappy and under his thumb as a businessman. Controlling Scrooge’s money was also a great bonus.

Bradford threatens the very heart of the series, adventures. He uses Webby specifically to gain the ability to take Scrooge’s adventures away… but of course he underestimated the family. He thought creating Webby’s clones would tear them apart, that separating everyone into cages would keep them from rising up… but you can’t stop the Duck family and Webby is the heart and soul of that. Even when she learns she was just another clone that doesn’t stop her for long. For anyone else that might have been a bigger blow but when she learns that Beakley saved her when she was a baby? That Beakley gave up everything for her so that someone would love her? That keeps her going.

That and the fact she’s (more or less) Scrooge’s daughter. Yeah she was made by F.O.W.L. but WHATEVER SHE’S REALLY A BLOOD PART OF THE FAMILY! At this point I was taken aback. Why does Webby NEED to have a blood relation to the family? Why can’t she just be a friend who became a part of the family? Isn’t that what DuckTales has been preaching for its entire run, you don’t have to be related by blood to be family and even if you ARE related by blood that doesn’t always mean you’re like family to someone else.

Some might consider this an easy cop out, a way for Webby to get what she always wants… but it’s so much more than that. Okay yes, Webby was sort of made from Scrooge’s DNA but that still doesn’t automatically make her a part of the family. They could easily reject her for not being “real.” But everyone in the McDuck family loves her and that’s why she’s family, blood or not. Plus, the rest of the episode goes out of its way to show that damn near every good person the team has met is part of the family. So yes, Webby is now confirmed to be related by blood but that doesn’t undercut DuckTales’ message about family. Lena and Violet are part of the family, Gizmoduck, Darkwing Duck, Gosalyn, Launchpad, EVERYONE. As Webby tells May and June,

“Family are the people who stick by you. Fight for you. Blindly invade a sinister villain’s secret strong hold for you. Family would do anything to keep you safe and sacrifice everything to love you no matter who and what you are. Like Scrooge, like my granny, like you two.” That’s family and that’s DuckTales. Scrooge is willing to sacrifice it all, to give up adventuring… but FAMILY is the greatest adventure of all! It’s so powerful it breaks the most powerful magic contract of ALL TIME. BOOM, FAMILY!

‘The Last Adventure’ was nothing short of an absolute masterpiece, the closest thing to a true 2017 DuckTales movie we’ll ever get. The action was big, damn near every character from the show made it in, and it capped off everything so beautifully. It’s stunning how many references and characters are squeezed in here but it never feels rushed or over bloated. All the references work, whether you know the deep cuts or not. My personal favorite was the revelation that Manny is no intern… he’s actually The Headless Manhorse of the Apocalypse AND HE LIVES AGAIN… voiced by Keith David. It’s such an elaborate Gargoyles reference but even if you don’t know that it’s hilarious to see this new side of Manny.

There’s too many moments to talk about. So many little bits that could deserve full articles on their own. Della using her leg like an axe, B.O.Y.D. being just a head, or Launchpad becoming Gizmoduck! If you’ve been reading all my DuckTales reviews you know how much I’ve loved the character of Lena and just seeing her there at the end as part of the family made me smile and warmed my heart. She went through so much and look where she is now, she has people who love her AND she’s a superhero.

As the credits rolled and all the characters we’ve all grown to love soared past the screen for the final time, it hit me just how much I’m going to miss DuckTales. I’ve reviewed every single episode of the series and it has been an immense privledge. The level of care and creativity that went into every single aspect of the series did not go unnoticed. The people behind the scenes truly delivered something special, a series that will stand the test of time as not just a worthy entry into the Duck universe or just a Disney cartoon series, but as an absolutely wonderful show all on its own. It was incredibly funny, joyously warm, and knew how to hit you with some major life lessons. Lena’s story arc in particular will always stick with me and works as a gut wrenching portrayal of the effects of abuse. Her story was just an example of DuckTales as its strongest, when it was able to use it stories to hold up a mirror to our own lives and safely let us explore them. While also giving us a lot of laughs.

DuckTales has power; it’ll keep having power. Now that the show’s ended I have no doubt more people will check it out on Disney + and realize how special it was. How great it was. How even if it still had more stories to tell it still gave all it had.

Thank you for everything, DuckTales. You’ll never be forgotten.

DuckTales Quotes To Make Your Life Better

-“No, no maniacal laughter! We are not common villains.”

-“Come with me if you want DEW-live.”

-“Yes I was right! …. Oh no, I was right.”

-“I LIVE AGAIN… Again.”

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-“Please hold all startled utterances of disbelief for the end.”

The post DuckTales Season 3 Episode 22 Review: The Last Adventure! appeared first on Den of Geek.

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cas-backwards-tie · 4 years

Note

“ of course i knew where you’d be. you’re my friend. ” and “I still care” for your new fave character, my good friend 👀

Words: 999

Warnings: swearing, mentions of fighting and insults, apocalypse.

A/N: I love that you paired these two sentences together! Like ahhh!!! So cute :) This is my first time writing for Five, so... I hope it’s okay!

Tugging your cardigan snug around your shoulders, it doesn’t help block tonight’s cool wind as much as you’d thought it would. Staring up at the stars, you try to ignore the aching weight of sadness and frustration in your belly your best friend caused you earlier. Sure, perhaps you’d prodded him one too many times, attempting conversation at dinner that was clearly one-sided now that you look back at it. Eventually, the boy snapped and yelled at you in front of his whole family, however, insulting you to the point of humiliation, tears, and a dramatic exit. It all happened so fast that you hadn’t seen their faces with the blurry pool of tears in your eyes… but it didn’t matter to you. Five never did that before, and sure, over the short time you’ve known each other you’ve had arguments, but this time was different. This time it was public.

It all seems so small now, though. The stars help in that way; you suppose. A healthy dose of existentialism really puts things into perspective, shifting things and reminding you that: out of everything in this galaxy, this universe… one small fight doesn’t matter. Yeah, that doesn’t excuse Five’s behavior, but it shouldn’t ruin your night. You know that it was probably just stress, is all. Sighing, you lean your head back against the brick wall of your apartment building’s rooftop entrance. The sound of the wind and occasional cars passing obfuscate Five’s entrance. He makes sure to approach you slowly, not wanting to scare you with his sudden appearance; a lesson that’d needed learning many times at the beginning of your friendship.

A shadow blocks a few lights in your field of view and you look up to see him. Five awkwardly approaches, his hands stuffed in his pockets, lips twisted as if he isn’t sure what to say. When he’s only a few feet away he stops, standing there as he looks down upon you as you sit curled up, knees to your chest on the pavement of your rooftop. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Your voice is cold, venomous, sharp on your tongue as you avoid his gaze, instead opting to stare straight ahead out at the many buildings in the city, a park to the right behind your building.

The old man sighs, rolling his eyes as he knows he can’t just brush you off. Words, consoling, and comforting words more specifically, just aren’t his thing. Without answering your first question, as it should be pretty obvious, he instead answers the second. “Of course I knew where you’d be. You’re my friend,” the way he states it as if it were obvious- a clue that even a toddler could deduce… well, it partially makes you mad. On one hand, there’s the admittance that you indeed both are still friends. That’s comforting to say the least, especially considering Five is a man of few words. Sneaking a glance up at him, it doesn’t go unnoticed. You make eye contact, and he sighs again, removing his hands from his pockets as he sits beside you up against the wall of the building. “I didn’t mean what I said back there. You’re not a pest, or a weasel, or any sort of vermin for that matter. I just-” he shakes his head and rolls his eyes at himself, mentally cursing his own actions, “-didn’t want to talk, alright? I don’t always like the way you’re constantly asking questions. I mean, sure… sometimes it’s fine, but… there’s just… so much going on lately.” There’s a pause in his words as he rakes his hand through his hair. Looking over at him you listen, as this might be the only time that Five actually trusts you enough to tell you anything like this- something this important.

“The apocalypse is coming in six days. Less than a week and I have no clue how to stop it.” For the first time during this discussion, he takes the opportunity to look over at you, eyes meeting, Five using the moment to finally see you. Of course, it wasn’t just because of your curiosity and questions. There had to have been more, and now it’s out in the open. Staring at you, Five can’t bear to look away. You don’t know it, of course, but he knows that you die in the apocalypse. He’d seen it himself. Sure, you haven’t been friends long, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. “I know that doesn’t excuse my behavior, or make up for what I said… but… I am sorry. I shouldn’t have let it get to me or have taken it out on you. You’re not involved in this shit and are probably the only sane person that I know. I do still care and I shouldn’t have said or implied otherwise. If you interpreted my words that way, then I’m here to correct that.” It’s not exactly an apology, as you worry sometimes he only keeps you around because you’re the only ‘sane’ one as he puts it, however you know that’s not the only reason. It can’t be. An impending apocalypse is nothing new, but distressing nonetheless. A sorrowful smile displays itself across your lips and your eyebrows furrow slightly as you search within his eyes, seeing the genuineness of his words. “I forgive you, but… I don’t appreciate being insulted, Five.”

“-and I understand that!” He defends. Making up will be a longer discussion, and dealing with the apocalypse will have to come first, but you haven’t given up on Five yet, and you’d be damned if you gave up on him now.

#request #Five Hargreeves x Reader #Number Five x Reader #tua #the umbrella academy fic #tua fic #the umbrella academy #kylosupremeimagines #tua five #Five Hargreeves x Reader Angst #my writing #angst #prompt list #misc. sentences #misc. sentences prompt list #Five Hargreeves x Platonic!Reader

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of-tatooine · 4 years

Text

mercy. | chapter 5 - metal

you look for the light.

The freezing cold air managed to seep through the cardigan pulled over the scrubs as you gazed briefly into the night through the vast windows of the University of Eastern Colorado's medical wing.

Slight buzzing of white fluorescent lights surrounding the entire compound comprised of labs and makeshift infirmaries seemed to calm you down, giving you a sense of habitual ease that had been so hard to come by. In this makeshift base constructed out of whatever supplies remained from the university, scientists and doctors who had been at the top of their practice before all hell broke loose had been given a new direction, a new hope to serve humanity - you could spot them working hastily on various samples taken from Clicker dens, some gathering around a freshly taken out runner to inspect as you walked through the hallways of the college.

Would this time be any different? Was there really the slightest glint of hope for a cure after twelve years? Would the next blood sample from an infected, the next brain dissection pave the way for a novel discovery, arm humans in the ways of eradicating the Cordyceps brain infection?

As you made your way to your post in the infirmary, the repeating questions in the back of your mind brought back images of the tens to hundreds of infected dragged into this facility only to be ripped apart and studied to no avail. The leashed Clicker that bit one of the doctors during an experiment gone wrong, the way they both had to be brutally executed. The screams of the monkeys as scientists struggled to keep them confined to their cages. One of your patients turning right in front of you on the operating table, his teeth cracking with the newfound hunger he had for your flesh.

For quite the long time, the metal pendant against your bare skin with your name engraved forever on it, had emanated a certain comforting, relieving warmth. Knowing that you were part of something much, much bigger than just surviving day by day, that you played a considerable role in restoring faith for humanity. The glimmers of hope towards order coming back to society through any means necessary had given you much-needed strength to keep working.

The warmth of the pendant turned stone cold whenever your mind drifted to the blood you had spilled, to the innocent lives taken for the pure intention of survival, to the gut-wrenching memories of helplessly watching the military bash your kin’s skulls to the cement - made you double take whether there was a humanity worth saving at all. It haunted you that the patients you continued to save on behalf of them and the experiments you aided conduct would never even come close to make up for all of the sins you have committed over the years.

“They’re waiting for you inside,” the soft yet assertive voice of Marlene spoke to you, walking up to you with a slight smile on her features as you entered the infirmary. It was a pleasant surprise to see her, back in control and overseeing everything as best as she could. The Queen herself looked weathered down, having just returned to base. The dried splashes of blood on her caramel skin making you wonder about how many she had killed to get her crew out of the Denver zone and come back alive.

“On it. Hope this one does not turn on us,” you would respond with a brief nod as shivers traveled all around your bare skin under the scrubs, slipping out of your cardigan and making your way towards the somewhat sterile, makeshift operating room.

“Hold up, you see that?”

And the cold that froze the blood in your veins was replaced by the sweat forming on your neck under the burning sun. The scrubs so worn out you could not discern the color of turned into bloody cargo pants and a tank top. Linoleum you stepped on was no more as the dried grass crunched under your boots. The slightest spark of hope you had in your orbs disappeared as your head tilted up at the sudden call.

“Oh, shit. Fireflies.”

Whatever breath you had left in you got hitched into your dry throat, the hollow in your stomach deepening when you focused on that familiar white graffiti sprayed out on a stop sign, neighboring a house with a rather big porch. Instinctively, your hand would move to your holster, the absence of the cold metal against your neck seeming to hit you then.

Upon taking a couple of steps ahead of the duo, your eyes could spot the somewhat fresh white paint, some droplets leaked down the red metal, your focus then shifting to the faint yet audible thudding on wood on your left. On that, you took out your handgun with a vice-like grip on it, body twisting to catch the eyes of your companions as you gestured them to get down behind a rusty shell of a car.

Every fiber in your aching body owed their prolonged existence to the man kneeling beside and a deal was a deal - you help them out along their journey and then go your own way. Yet, being tasked with watching over the two, even though it was just for getting even, apparently struck some resurfaced sense of responsibility in you. It had been a damn long while since you had shot and killed for anyone else other than yourself, and for the time being, your adventure in the apocalypse had some meaning to it.

With the instinct fueled by responsibility, your arm would shield over the little girl crouched in front of you as you sneaked a peak towards the house. It did not go unnoticed that Ellie did not protest this time, only opting to send you a look of confusion mixed with anxiety, letting you handle the situation as you saw fit. Ever since that little chuckle you rewarded her for the terrible puns, she had been more accepting to your companionship meaning she did not curse at you every five minutes, hopefully seeing through your rough exterior that harbored a creak of innocence left. The change in her attitude towards you, no matter how small, you would need. You needed every single drop of trust and courage if you were going to make it out alive from this.

Joel, on the other hand, leaned his broad back against the beaten down car, the wide expanse of his chest rising and falling, a guarded expression on his hard features that you had never seen before. Every encounter you had with him since he rescued you, he remarkably possessed a determined composure, his olive eyes clear and set on whatever had been on his mind.

This time was different - in the face of imminent risk, he seemed to be pondering, his vision and face clouded as his emptied gaze focused on the cracked concrete road. Whatever it was on his mind preventing him from blasting in guns loaded, had to be pretty messed up if it made a hardened survivor like him falter. At that moment, you knew much, much better than to ask him if everything was alright and instead tried to count heads through the shattered windows.

Fortunately, you could only see two lurking around what seemed to be the open-space living room.

Leaving them had been one of the hardest things you had to do since the outbreak hit. The once revered Fireflies who worked to restore order to what was left of a country, seemed to be causing more havoc than restoration recently with their constant planned bombings in quarantine zones and increasing smuggling operations. With the military hunting down what was left of your old kin, many became stragglers just like the ones you were facing then.

You had to play this nice and safe. It was unclear if you could afford to tell the gruff man beside you the truth, that you had been one of them once - some hunch inside told you not to. You could trust him on the road, to some extent, but this information could cost you your precious life at best. The Fireflies were not exactly epitomes of good citizens, with your old leader’s wanted posters around the quarantine zones. That left you with the sole option of handling this clusterfuck by yourself.

You did not know what was worse - them recognizing you and sparing you for a while or killing you on the spot. It baffled your mind how you could bump into stray Fireflies out of all enemies in the forsaken world, especially when whatever soldier there was left ached to pop a lead in them, but you were about to find out the hard way.

One glance towards the side of the house where a driveway used to be under the grown weed, partially gave the answer and caused your lips to curl up a bit in hope.

“The paint’s still fresh. These two just arrived,” you whispered to Joel beside you, who seemed to jump out of his brief trance upon your words, the expression in his amber eyes instantly hardening into survival mode.

Switching your weight to your opposite leg with a wince, your nimble thumb would slowly turn the safety off on your revolver. The faint clicking sound echoed, making Joel and Ellie turn their gazes over while you would respond with a quick nod at their confusion.

“I’ll sneak in. Chances are they have pretty hefty supplies,” you made yourself clear to the pair, though you may have had slightly different intentions than just gathering supplies from your old crew. Upon that, the girl’s mouth opened up in protest but she knew better than to talk loud after the gaze Joel threw at her in a split second. The man shifted, turning to face you with his gaze slipping over to the little girl at times, no doubt assessing the situation.

“No. It’s safer if we just sneak around ‘em. Ain’t got much ammo to waste on two stragglers,” he reasoned, his voice assertive. What he said would be exactly the course of action you had followed if it did not involve members of your old team having something you so desperately needed. Without saying a word, you motioned him to look over his left shoulder, showing him the functioning pickup truck with the tail lights still gleaming a welcome red.

The man looked a bit appalled at his sudden luck - it did not come his way often, and when it did, it came at the cost of doing terrible deeds. It seemed too good to be true, and he would not put his and Ellie’s life at risk for a false promise of hope, but this time around they had someone willing to jump into danger for whatever God forsaken reason she had. The good man hidden deep within him did not want to let a wounded woman go in there alone, with her only defense being her gun, yet the survivor in him told him to protect Ellie and him at all costs - even if it meant sacrificing you to the cause.

If he had listened to the good man in him for all these years, he would be long dead and gone.

The brief nod he gave along with his own hands reaching for his gun were all the signs you needed as you slipped by his side and snuck up to the house, leaves crushing under your boots, your bandaged leg still a bit sore but manageable. Making your way around the stucco walls towards the back porch, you made sure to stay far away from the car - their main point of attention.

“Think she’s in the zone? Heard that place was a fuckin’ hunter trap for years now.”

Her? Who the hell were these bastards looking for? One eyebrow cocked in confusion, your hands clutched onto your revolver tighter, controlling your breathing as you would climb through the cracked open window, your boots hiting wood as silently as they could. The moth-eaten curtains swayed in the light summer breeze, the mid-day sun shining through the creaks. Heart beating out of your chest with your bare skin against the chipped walls, your eyes closed for a moment as the men’s footsteps made the hardwood creak and thud.

"I ain't steppin' foot in that zone after what happened to the old crew. She can burn in hell for all I care."

Moments like this brought out the worst of you. When you succumbed to the new woman this doom has made out of you. The ruthless killer it had molded you into. It had been a hard-earned virtue to shoot first and ask questions later. It kept you alive for so long, for over twenty years suffering in the gutter, but alive nevertheless.

That was not going to change anytime soon.

As you leaned over the edge of the wall, a gunshot rang through the house, making the ground rattle with a dying scream.

#mercy #val writes #writing #my work #fanfic #tlou #the last of us #the last of us joel #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you

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