#and now seven years later I opened up tumblr tonight to look for more fanfic recs

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr | Also on AO3

Epilogue: Martin Prime

“…see it into a new era. Please join me in welcoming to the podium the Head of the Magnus Institute of London, Dr. Walter…Kos-ki-e-wicz.”

“Fifteen months and he still can’t pronounce it properly,” Jon whispered under the cover of the applause that followed the introduction.

“He’s better than he used to be,” Martin whispered back, squeezing Jon’s hand gently. “Go make nice.”

Jon lifted Martin’s fingers to his lips and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the knuckles before pushing back from the long table and getting to his feet. Martin turned his head towards where the podium ought to be, thankful they’d been able to come in early and get the layout of the room so he didn’t look like a complete tit staring off into the wrong direction, as the clapping gradually tapered off into an expectant silence.

“Thank you, Mr. Campbell.” Jon popped the normally silent P with a dry, pointed humor Martin knew well. When the laughter had died down, he continued in the deep, rolling affectation he had begun adopting when he needed to act as the face of the Institute. “Friends, colleagues, distinguished guests. I stand before you tonight with the awesome and humbling privilege of thanking you all for coming to celebrate two hundred years of the Magnus Institute.”

Martin, who had listened to Jon practice this speech in the comfort of their living room at least twenty times in the last two weeks, let it fade into the background and settled back into his seat. Not being able to scan the assembled gathering was annoying, but while this might have been the largest event they had attended in the past year, it was by no means the first. He was used to having to fold his hands over his stomach, or the end of his cane, and imagine what everyone’s faces were doing.

A familiar whirring started up from the space Jon had vacated, and Martin smiled and laid his fingers on the tape recorder as it buzzed away. Somehow, it was comforting to know she was still listening, even now.

It hadn’t been easy getting to this point. Martin had never really actually expected killing Jonah Magnus to instantly make everything sunshine and roses again, but he definitely hadn’t expected the attempt to drain Jon so badly that he collapsed in his arms. Nor had he expected that it would take three days for him to open his eyes again. (Melanie had teased Jon a bit about “taking this whole Messiah Complex to extremes”, but even she’d been strained.) And the news from Great Yarmouth hadn’t helped matters. Martin was still kind of thankful that he hadn’t been able to see Sasha’s face when she got off the phone with Basira and reported what little she knew. Or the look on his counterpart’s face when he called and filled in the gaps thirty-six hours later. Martin had hoped they’d get out of the building before blowing it up, but at least they hadn’t gone into the Unknowing itself.

It had still been touch and go, though, and Tim was still adjusting to his new reality, but thankfully he had plenty of support. Martin could hear in their voices when they spoke that they were happy, in a way he was only just learning himself that he could be.

Jon made a surprisingly good Institute Head. It hadn’t necessarily been something he’d planned on, but when they got back from taking Charlie to see Present Jon and Present Martin—who refused to leave the hospital until Tim was awake and ready to come home himself—and Melanie informed him about the new temporary head, Jon had almost literally hit the roof and stormed the Institute himself. It had taken him two days to manage to get an audience with Peter Lukas, but in the end, he’d stood before him and informed him that he had a choice: Vacate his position and leave the Institute alone, or be destroyed utterly.

Peter Lukas, unsurprisingly, had chosen poorly.

For Jon to subsequently take control of the Institute had been Sasha’s idea, and her points—that Jon was bound to the Institute and would need a reason to stay close to it, that he was the only person who knew enough to keep it running and keep it safe, that anyone else would either make things worse or become corrupted by the Beholder—had been valid. She’d crafted an entire identity for both Jon and Martin and somehow managed to have Dr. Walter Koskiewicz declared Elias Bouchard’s sole heir. Publicly, that was who he was and who he remained, but on the day he’d assumed the position of Institute Head, he had called a meeting of all the department heads and bluntly, concisely, and completely told them the entire truth. He had left it up to each head whether or not to tell their staff everything—although he was emphatic that they be told about the Eye, at least to some extent—and had made it clear that anyone who wanted to quit would be more than welcome to do so, with full severance; he wouldn’t hold it against anyone who chose to leave. But, as he had told Martin that night when he got back from the Institute, he didn’t want anyone else feeling trapped, or to not know they were working for, essentially, a fear god. He’d been far more surprised than Martin when, out of eighty-seven employees, only three had chosen to leave and one had asked for their job back a week later.

Getting the rest of Elias’s estate had taken longer. Obviously there was no body, so what they technically had was a missing person. Surprisingly, it was Daisy who’d pushed that forward by manufacturing proof that he’d been killed in the explosion at Great Yarmouth, claiming she’d followed him there as part of her hunt for Gertrude Robinson’s murderer. When Tim, freshly back in the Archives, looked over the assortment of tapes that had previously been in the tunnels and unerringly plucked the one with Gertrude’s death on it, Daisy’s superiors decided that he was responsible for the House of Wax as well, closed both files, and declared him officially dead.

Jon told Martin that Jonah Magnus had terrible taste in interior decorating. Martin told him he would just have to take his word for it.

Martin tuned back into Jon’s speech as he caught the words that meant he was winding down. He’d been reluctant to agree to this event, especially given what today was, but it was expected, so he’d caved, with a few stipulations. The speech, unfortunately for Jon, was non-negotiable, but at least he was able to keep it fairly short.

“And so, as we move into our third century, I leave you with a few carefully chosen words,” Jon said. “To our Institute donors, I give these words: Thank you for your support of the Magnus Institute over the years, and I hope that you will continue to support us throughout the changes to come. To those who come to the Institute to study and learn, I give these words: Your work furthers ours as much as ours furthers yours, and we look forward to working with you and developing that relationship, now and well into the future. And to you, the Institute employees, those who make this Institute what it is, I give these words…” He paused for a moment, letting the suspense build, and Martin licked the corner of his mouth to hide his smirk. It was obvious from Jon’s voice, though, that he wasn’t bothering to hide his own. “Three-day weekend. See you all on Monday.”

The cheers, applause, and laughter nearly drowned out Jon’s “Thank you”, and Martin let his grin escape as he joined in the applause. He heard the rustling of fabric and guessed what was happening a split-second before Wade’s tap to his elbow told him for sure they were giving Jon a standing ovation.

It went on for nearly a minute solid before it started to die down, and as Martin slowly sank back into his seat, he felt Jon’s gloved fingers tangle in his.

“Almost done,” Martin murmured, knowing Jon was close to his breaking point but would never admit it.

There were a few closing remarks, and then footsteps came over to them. “All right, if you’ll just stand over this way and greet a few people…”

“No more than half an hour. I mean it, Harrison,” Jon warned.

“I know, Mr.—I mean Dr.—uh, sir,” Harrison stammered. “I promise.”

“Mister Doctor Sir?” Martin teased Jon as Harrison walked away. “Sounds like something you’d name a character in Spire.”

“That’s Mister Doctor Director Sir to you.”

They shared a laugh before Martin took a half-step back, cane folded up in one hand and his other resting discreetly against the small of Jon’s back. Jon took a deep breath and straightened himself up, but didn’t move away from the point of contact. They’d learned their lesson one of the first times Jon had had to do an official event. Martin did some of the bookkeeping and budgeting for the Institute—God knew he’d picked up enough being Peter Lukas’s assistant, and Jon knew bugger all about the business side of things—but for the most part, he wasn’t an employee and certainly wasn’t who the more important guests at these events wanted to talk to, so he’d stepped back and stayed quietly in the background. Unfortunately, the Lukases were still Institute donors, and even if they avoided Jon beyond the bare minimum that politeness dictated, the presence of even one was still enough for Martin to slip back into old habits. Thank God the bond Annabelle had put on them was still extant and he’d been able to pull himself back, but it had still been a scary few minutes for both of them.

Most of the donors who spoke to Jon—briefly, Harrison was being as good as his word about limiting the official greetings—either ignored Martin or only acknowledged him with a silent nod, which amounted to the same thing. For the most part, Martin didn’t mind, but he could tell it was getting to Jon long before the fifteen-minute mark.

“Last one, sir, I promise,” Harrison whispered at last.

“Harrison, I have told you about the ‘sir’ thing,” Jon muttered. Martin hastily turned his laugh into a cough.

“Dr. Koskiewicz, so good to see you again.” Martin couldn’t place the speaker’s voice except that it was posh, which meant it was an Institute donor, and loud. Probably belonged to a large man, almost certainly an older one.

“It’s an honor to have you here, Sir Henry,” Jon replied, his voice slightly strained. Martin guessed that the man had a very firm handshake; an ordinary hand would be swollen and sore after half an hour of shaking, but the scarring on Jon’s made it far worse. “And you as well, Lady Vane-Tempest.”

“Lovely party, darling, so kind of you to invite us,” Lady Vane-Tempest said. Her voice, at least, Martin couldn’t forget—well-bred, but harsh and grating at the same time. He’d met the Vane-Tempests at the Christmas “party” he’d been forced to run on behalf of Peter Lukas and had not enjoyed the experience. “Congratulations on two hundred years. Obviously you haven’t been here the whole time, of course!” She trilled with laughter.

Martin felt Jon stiffen, and then he said with forced politeness, “Thank whatever gods you believe in that I haven’t, madam.”

“Looking forward to touring the building,” Sir Henry said. “Understand you’ve got some new interesting new acquisitions in your Artifact Storage. Love to see them.”

“We’re not doing tours this evening, I’m afraid,” Jon said. “That was the end of the gala, but it’s good of you to come. If you’ll get in touch with Ms. Zampano, I’m sure we can arrange a suitable time for you to see the building.”

“Oh, come now, darling, surely you can spare some time now,” Lady Vane-Tempest coaxed. If Martin was any judge, she’d been imbibing freely of the champagne, enough to get at least slightly tipsy. “We’re so looking forward to it.”

“I do apologize, but I have another commitment this evening.” Martin was a bit startled when Jon’s arm slid around his waist, but he willingly shifted his own position to return the gesture. The smile in Jon’s voice was obvious; he’d never been very good at hiding his pride and delight in anything to do with their relationship. “It’s our first wedding anniversary, you see.”

The Vane-Tempests mumbled polite congratulations, wished Jon a good night, and moved away. Jon let out a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his toes and sagged against Martin. “Thank God that’s over with.”

“That’s the last one,” Harrison promised. “I’ll just go say a few words to the press. Have a good weekend and—um—happy anniversary?”

“Thank you,” Jon and Martin said in unison. Martin unfolded his cane, and they walked out of the Institute the same way they had since escaping Peter Lukas in their own time—arm in arm.

Ninety minutes later and Martin, wearing his most comfortable sweater and a soft, threadbare pair of jeans, walked into the room they had designated as the “living room” with two mugs of tea and set them on the heavy, solid coffee table. “How’s the hand?”

“Still a bit sore, but I’ll recover.” Jon’s voice sounded slightly muffled. Martin wasn’t sure why until he heard the soft crackle of burning wood, and then Jon was right next to him and pulling him down for a kiss. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Martin murmured, brushing his nose against Jon’s. As he pulled back, he added, “By the way, there was a message from the agency. They’re coming by for another assessment tomorrow, around noon.”

“Good thing I gave everyone the day off, then. Did she say anything about how the application is looking?”

“I don’t know that they’d tell us that on a message. We can ask when she gets here.”

The doorbell rang with the deep, sonorous tones Martin still privately felt belonged in a Gothic soap opera, and Jon sighed and slid out of Martin’s arms. “Bets on who got here first?”

“Not against you,” Martin informed him. Jon’s snickers followed him out of the room.

After more than a year of living in the house, Martin knew his way around by heart, especially after they redid the flooring so that he could tell by the texture beneath his feet which way he was heading. He made it to the front door without bumping into anything, made sure the chain was still secure, and pulled the door open to the length of the chain. “Who goes there?”

“Just the usual suspects,” Tim’s voice said. “We even found a Sasha rattling around in the gutters.”

“Shut up, Tim,” Sasha said, a bit grouchily.

Martin chuckled and closed the door enough that he could undo the chain, then pulled the door open. “Come on in. There’s a fire going.”

Each one of them gave him a hug as they came in, prefaced by a greeting so he’d know who he was hugging. He was pleasantly surprised when, after a fierce hug from Melanie, he heard a higher voice say, “It’s Georgie. Will you accept one from me?”

“Oh, sure, of course.” Martin hadn’t worried about any of Jon’s exes, or anyone who might possibly catch his interest and remind him that he could do better, since—well, actually, since they’d been reunited after traveling back in time, but the weight of the ring on his left hand and the memory of the tremble in Jon’s voice as he’d promised ‘til death comes for us both had finally quieted the last of his doubts. And Georgie did give good hugs. “Glad you could make it, Georgie. Anyone else?”

“No, Basira pulled a night shift tonight, I think. Here, let me get that.” Georgie—or someone, anyway—pulled the heavy door shut and slid the chain into place. “Hope we’re not too early.”

Martin shook his head. “You’re fine. Not like we’re doing anything particularly exciting.”

It took a few minutes of arranging, playful debates, and mostly-joking grumblings about getting those disgusting socks away from the food, Timothy Stoker, but soon everyone was settled down with something to drink and a baked good from the basket the others had brought with them. Jon sighed with obvious pleasure and curled up against Martin’s side; Martin wrapped an arm around him and held him close.

“Where’s Charlie tonight?” he asked.

“Late rehearsal, and Sasha’s uncle offered to pick him up and watch him after,” Present Jon answered. “We’d have brought him along, but he’s got a maths exam tomorrow and I know he’s not ready for it.”

Tim laughed. “Come on, Jon, cut him some slack. He’s doing much better this term than he did in the spring.”

“To be fair,” Melanie pointed out, “there was kind of a lot going on in the spring.”

There was a hum of agreement before Georgie added, “From everything you lot told me, I didn’t expect that grandmother of his to fight you so hard on custody.”

Present Martin sighed heavily. “I did. I mean, the last thing she wanted was for people to think she was a terrible guardian, you know? Even if Children’s Services didn’t get involved and take him away, the very fact that someone else dared ask to take him—and the fact that Charlie wanted to go…”

“And the fact that you kept insisting on referring to him as him, despite the fact that she has consistently and for his entire life refused to accept that he’s a boy,” Sasha put in. “She’s a poisonous old witch and he’s lucky to be shed of her. But yeah, between that and the fact that he got anxious and panicky and afraid to let any of you out of his sight—you know, at the beginning of April—it’s no wonder he came close to failing the spring term.”

There was a short pause before Present Martin asked carefully, “Did he tell you that, or…?”

“Oh, goddammit,” Sasha sighed. “He didn’t say anything to any of you about that, did he?”

“No, but we should have noticed,” Present Jon said quietly.

Melanie snorted. “I’m not sure how you would have, considering how clingy the three of you were being.”

Martin tightened his arms around Jon as the Archives crew began bickering, mostly lightheartedly but with an undercurrent of seriousness. During their first time experiencing…well, everything they had experienced…he and Jon had never really had a chance to stop and consider anniversaries. The one-year anniversary of Jane Prentiss attacking the Institute had fallen while they were trying to get ready for the Unknowing; the one-year anniversary of that had been while Martin was still having to avoid Jon, but he remembered staring at his reflection in the mirror and wondering if he would be better off calling out of work or if he should go in and lurk in the shadows of the Archives to reassure himself that Jon was actually still there. Passing the anniversaries—or, for that matter, the dates themselves—in a timeline where they didn’t technically happen hadn’t made things significantly better, so he could definitely understand why the present crew had been reluctant to be far from each other a year after so nearly losing one another, and more particularly nearly losing Tim.

Jon sank against him, also clinging tightly, and let the banter go on for a bit before he broke in. “Have you told Charlie about the trip?”

“We’re going to surprise him after school tomorrow,” Tim said, and Martin was pretty sure he could hear the relief in it. “Hope he likes the plan. He’s been asking to come with us the next time we go out of town since Jon got back from Jonah’s little hell-quest, and I don’t think he’s ever been out of London.”

“Well…you weren’t conscious at the time, but they did bring him to visit while you were…” Present Jon’s voice trailed off.

Martin was about to say something when something solid and heavy hit his leg on four tiny pressure points and screamed. Only six months of practice enabled him not to jump completely out of his skin. “Hello, Duchess.”

“Oh, damn, I didn’t feed them before the gala.” Jon carefully disentangled himself from Martin and removed the solid iron weight masquerading as a ball of fur from his lap. “Come along, Your Grace. What have you done with your sister?”

Martin couldn’t help the soft smile that touched his lips as he stared off in the direction Jon had gone. Hearing him talk to the cats in that tone of voice always did something funny to his insides.

The smirk in Melanie’s voice was obvious. “I genuinely can’t decide which one of you is going to be the bigger pushover when you get approved to adopt.”

“Have you heard anything yet?” Present Martin asked.

“There’s another visit scheduled tomorrow. We’re almost four months into this part of the process. I’m hoping we’ll have an answer soon.” Martin picked up his mug of tea and took a sip. It had started to cool a bit, but it was still drinkable. “Not that we’re in a hurry or anything, but it’d be nice to know, you know?”

“I could probably poke at your social worker’s mind and see if they have an answer,” Sasha offered. “It’d be easy.”

“Sasha, we’ve talked about this,” Present Jon said with an audible frown.

“Yeah, if I can manage to keep myself under control…” Tim trailed off. “Sorry, Georgie. I know you’d rather we didn’t talk about it.”

“It’s fine,” Georgie said with a sigh. “I’m getting used to it. It’s not like any of you can just…stop being what you are. Did—um—did your Georgie have a problem with it?”

It was the first time she’d asked about her past self since being introduced to Jon and Martin over a year ago, and Martin couldn’t explain why it felt so weird. “She did. At first, anyway. But I think it was less the whole…supernatural fear thing and more the fact that we—and particularly Jon—kept acting like nothing was wrong.”

“Yeah. At least you lot admit this is messed up.”

“Not so much the admitting it’s messed up as trying from the get-go not to play into it,” Jon’s voice said from the direction of the kitchen. The loveseat bounced slightly—very slightly—as he sat down, leaned into Martin’s side, and kissed his cheek. “Your cat is a menace.”

“Why is she only my cat when she’s misbehaving?” Martin teased, turning his head to capture Jon’s lips with his own before they moved away. “What’s Cosmic done now?”

“Just the fact that you know it was Cosmic Creepers—”

“The Duchess has made it very clear that she’s your cat.”

Sasha gave a mock-groan. “You two as actual parents are going to be insufferable.”

Melanie’s snort was practically elephantine. “Like you don’t have the three of these with Charlie as evidence for that.”

Martin sensed the remark calculated to cause maximum chaos coming before Tim opened his mouth, but there was nothing he could do to head him off. “So, Melanie, when are you and Georgie going to add a bundle of joy to your family?”

The resultant storm of profanity and invective directed at Tim sent Jon into paroxysms of laughter, and from the sound of it, Present Jon as well. Martin could imagine Tim’s triumphant, shit-eating grin. Even Sasha was giggling.

“Seriously. I don’t even want more than one cat,” Georgie finally said when the chaos wound down. “Children have never been in my plans. Not even remotely.”

“Have you ever thought about fostering?” Present Martin asked. “Teens, maybe? I bet you’d be good at it.”

A short silence followed the question, and when Melanie answered, there was a note of surprise in her voice. “Maybe. Not right now, though.”

“I guess my question is—and please, none of you take this the wrong way—why would you want to involve a child in the…life you’re all leading?” Georgie asked. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“No more than being a child is dangerous anyway,” Jon said. “Most of the fears don’t…a child’s fear isn’t fully formed, so it’s not as satisfying, but that doesn’t mean they don’t pay attention. I was marked young. So was Annabelle Cane. Callum Brodie was on the Dark’s radar long before Rayner chose him as a vessel. A-apparently the End was paying attention to all of us before my father died. A child being taken care of by someone who knows what’s out there, and isn’t…enamored with it, I suppose, stands a better chance than a child wholly unprepared.”

Martin rubbed Jon’s arm. “Besides. The more connections you have outside the Archives, the harder it is for the Fears to…use you. I guess. Even besides the Lonely, the more isolated you are, the easier you are to hurt.”

“I never thought of it that way,” Present Jon said, sounding like he was talking half to himself. “But it does make sense why Jonah tried so hard to pit us against one another. A person with no support is far more vulnerable. Far easier to use and manipulate.”

“And that’s what beat him in the end,” Melanie said. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

“Hear, hear.” Martin raised his mug in salute. Someone clinked a mug or glass against it, and the conversation drifted to other, less volatile topics.

They’d done this a lot over the last year. Ever since Jon, or his alter ego, had officially inherited the estate, they spent more evenings and weekends here than they did in Tim, Present Martin, and Present Jon’s house. First there’d been the intense repainting and redecorating period, during which Martin had offered deadpan commentary on color choices until Jon threatened to paint his mouth shut and Tim had unearthed more than a few artifacts belonging to other entities in various nooks and crannies. Once they were settled in, there had been pizza and pasta-making parties, movie marathons, drinks after hard weeks, and game nights. They’d come over to wrestle the garden into submission in the spring, helped decorate the house for Christmas, and watched fireworks on New Year’s from the widow’s walk on the roof. Jon had even organized an Easter Egg hunt for the neighborhood children, which had been when Martin had finally broached the idea of reaching out to the local authority about beginning the adoption process.

And exactly one year ago tonight, they had stood in the drawing room they never otherwise used and finally, finally made the bond between them a legal one.

“I can’t believe you two are spending your anniversary like this,” Sasha said, and if Martin didn’t know for a fact that she couldn’t read his mind beyond finding a back door into his dreams when Jon’s lay alongside her, he’d have told her off for it. “You’re such hopeless romantics, I expected you to go out for a candlelit dinner somewhere. Moonlit stroll in the park. Kissing under the stars.”

“It’s Thursday,” Martin reminded her.

“We’re going to Scotland for the weekend,” Jon said. “That’s part of the reason I gave everyone a three-day weekend, so we could get an early start and make the most of it.”

“I accuse you of abusing your position for your own gain,” Georgie said, but she was laughing as she did so.

“I’ll confess to that,” Jon replied immediately. Martin couldn’t help but laugh. “But seriously, we—it’s going to be a nice, relaxing weekend, but we thought spending the evening with our family would be a good start.”

Something thumped down on the coffee table. Martin guessed it was Melanie’s glass. “You know what I can’t believe? That you picked the eighteenth of October to get married. I mean, you know literally everything in the world, and certainly everything about the Institute. You had to know that was the day the Institute was founded. And then you had to spend your first anniversary making nice with the donors. Why would you do that?”

Martin looked in Jon’s direction. “You want to tell them, or shall I?”

Jon sighed heavily and dropped his head to Martin’s shoulder. “You go ahead. I’d rather not say it out loud.”

“Uh-oh.” Tim sounded worried. “This is…what happened on the eighteenth of October, 2017 in your timeline?”

“Bugger all,” Martin replied. “It was today. In our original timeline, this was when Jonah slipped his ritual into a statement and fed it to Jon against his will. Eighteenth October, 2018.” He ran his hand through Jon’s hair, which had fallen out of its braid. “We didn’t want to wait until this year to get married, but we’d already agreed that we wanted it to be the eighteenth. We wanted to take back the day Jonah Magnus tried to ruin and make it ours.”

“To replace the memories,” Present Martin said softly.

“Exactly. He’s taken too damn much from us already. We’re not letting him have everything.” Martin pressed a kiss to the top of Jon’s head.

“So where in Scotland are you going?” Present Jon asked.

“John O’Groats. It’s—Daisy used to have a safehouse up there,” Jon explained. “Well, she still has the house, but she’s just renting it out to vacationers these days. She told us we could use it for free a couple times a year as a thank-you for helping her get the Hunt under control.”

“Yeah, Basira says she’s a lot more relaxed than she was when she was a cop,” Sasha said. “If you can believe it. Is that where you two stayed…um, up until the eighteenth of October?”

“Yep.” Martin popped the P in a method that, he hoped, would indicate the subject is closed and you should not push further, Sasha James.

Thankfully, it seemed to work. Georgie was the next to speak up. “What about you three? Do you have plans for your trip to America or is it just more of a ramble?”

“We were planning to visit Boston,” Present Martin answered. “Lots of history, lots of walking trails, lots of potentially haunted stuff. But…well, Jon changed things around a couple weeks ago and he’s been vague about what we’re doing now.”

“Oh.” Present Jon sounded both embarrassed and excited. “I—ah—I’m sorry, I got so…I completely forgot I hadn’t told you. I managed to track down my cousin. You know, the one I stayed with for a bit before starting uni? He moved to a new town about the time I started at the Institute, actually. Apparently he’s married now. His husband sounds…um, interesting. And he wants to meet you two—and Charlie, too. I actually managed to get us tickets out there. I—I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind getting the chance to meet a relative that not only doesn’t hate you, but doesn’t care you’re in a relationship with two other men and is excited about the idea of meeting us? Of course we do, it sounds horrific, why would you do something like that,” Tim said flatly. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jon, we’d love to meet your cousin.”

“It’ll be fun,” Present Martin agreed. “Did you ever…I mean, have you met him?”

It took Martin a second to realize the question was directed at him. “Honestly, until you all started talking about him, I didn’t even know Jon had a cousin.”

“I’d love to see him again,” Jon said, a bit wistfully. “I do miss him. I suppose asking you to pass on my best wishes would be a little much, but…”

“I’m going to tell him,” Present Jon said softly. “About all of this. I think he deserves to know, and…I think he can handle it.”

“Well. Give me a call if you get the chance. I’d love to talk to him.”

“Of course.” Present Jon hesitated. “I—um, I think he might have a couple…statements. Something about the way he said ‘scientifically interesting’ when talking about the town. I’m going to tell him about…this, and us, and what we can do. Let him decide if he wants to share.”

Jon made a slightly pained noise, but Martin rubbed his arm soothingly and said, “You’ll probably need something. At least Tim will. That’s—you’ll be too far from the Institute for too long not to take a statement or two. Better if it’s someone willing, wouldn’t you say?”

Tim took a deep breath. “Does it ever get any easier? Needing to—sensing in your case, or seeing in mine, that someone has a statement, and needing it so badly?”

“Not really,” Jon admitted. “It’s why I don’t go out alone so often. The trouble is that sometimes it helps them and sometimes it…doesn’t, and you can never tell before they tell their stories whether it will or not. The Eye likes it better when it’s…forced, but the Eye can honestly get stuffed. We’re doing this on our terms.”

“Hell yeah,” Tim said with a laugh. Jon leaned forward at Martin’s side, and from the sounds, he guessed they were bumping their fists together.

They spent about another hour together, talking and laughing and generally relaxing. Finally, though, Present Martin asked, “How early were you two planning to head out?”

“Not until early afternoon. The social worker is coming, remember?” Martin shrugged. “But if you lot want to get going…”

“Yes, we—we should probably make sure Charlie’s in bed, and I’m sure Wade is ready to be released,” Present Jon said. There were a number of rustles and creaks as everyone got to their feet, and Martin stood, too, stretching out his spine. “Call us when you get there.”

“We will. Let us know when you get to America,” Jon replied.

“Are you taking the cats, or do you want us to stop by and look after them?” Melanie asked.

Martin paused and looked in Jon’s direction. He could practically feel his thoughts flowing between them, running through the bond Annabelle had put on them like a telegraph wire. “Well, we were going to take them, but…actually, would you mind?”

“Of course not. We’d be delighted,” Georgie said.

Jon squeezed Martin’s waist, then slid away. “Come here, then, let me show you where we keep the food.”

Martin saw the others to the door and handed out another round of hugs. Jon arrived with Georgie just before they pulled away, so was at least able to wave, and he hugged both Georgie and Melanie and thanked them again. And then it was just the two of them, alone in their house, and together.

Jon shut and latched the door, then took Martin’s hand. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm. Close your eyes and follow me.”

Martin smiled more broadly, but he did as Jon asked. Jon led him through the house and up three flights of stairs. It somehow didn’t surprise Martin when Jon pushed open a final door and he heard the soft sounds of an autumn evening.

“Stargazing?” he teased.

“It is a good night for it,” Jon said, not rising to the bait. “But no, not what I had in mind.” He tugged Martin forward a few feet, then added, “You can open your eyes now.”

Martin didn’t point out that it wouldn’t do any good; he simply opened his eyes. He could smell roses and peonies, he thought—the same flowers they’d decorated the drawing room with for their wedding. There was a soft click, and a tape recorder began playing—which made him smile—and then Jon was there and holding his hands. “Can I have this dance?”

Martin’s smile broadened as he recognized the song. “For the rest of your life.”

Martin let Jon lead him, singing quietly along with the music as he did so. He was still barefoot and it was a bit cold on the widow’s walk for that, but he didn’t care. It was the song they’d chosen as their first dance at their wedding, something of a fast waltz, but the lyrics had struck both of them as being so very them. As soon as Martin realized that, he also realized that this was probably the tape Tim had made for them to play at their wedding. It had been their way of ensuring that Annabelle, if she was still listening, would be able to be a part of things, too.

They still made a point of shooing out spiders and cleaning out cobwebs, but the tapes? Those could stay.

When the first song was over, rather than let Jon go, Martin simply shifted his grip and took the lead for the second song on the tape—the first song they had ever danced to, in Tim and Present Martin and Present Jon’s kitchen the night they’d moved in. He pulled Jon closer, letting their foreheads touch, and sang along to that one as well. He could feel Jon shiver in his arms and knew, knew, it wasn’t the cold that was doing it.

They slowed to a stop just before the song ended. Jon slid his arms around Martin’s neck and simply held him; Martin wrapped his around Jon’s waist and pulled him even closer until their bodies were flush, until they were practically fused into a single person.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too,” Jon whispered back. “Happy anniversary, Martin.”

“Happy anniversary.” Martin leaned forward and kissed him thoroughly.

Jon kissed him back, deeply and intensely and with all the emotions they had built up between them over the years: loneliness and desperation and fear, love and tenderness and hope. They had fought their damnedest for a moment they thought would never come, and now that it had, Martin was going to savor it. This and every other moment that ever could be.

At last, the need for air forced them to separate, and Jon laughed quietly. “You know what I didn’t think through about this?”

“We’re still barefoot?” Martin guessed.

“We are still barefoot,” Jon agreed. “And I’m still rather…worn out from the day. What do you say we go inside, shut the cats in their room for the night, and make use of that oversized tub in the downstairs bath?”

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” Martin said. He kissed Jon again, very softly, and then stepped back. “Lead on, Mr. Blackwood-Sims.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Blackwood-Sims,” Jon drawled. He stopped the tape with a gentle click, then laced his fingers through Martin’s, the metal of his wedding band smooth and cool against his fingers as it rolled over the webbing between them. “Come on, my love.”

Hand-in-hand, Martin and Jon, the man he’d loved for years, the man he’d fought for, fought with, the reason he had survived apocalypse after apocalypse, his anchor—his husband—turned away from the world they had somehow managed to save and into their home, into the future they had made.

Together.

[chelsfic]

Devotions - WWDITS Fanfic - Nandor x Guillermo

Sequel to: Maybe One Day, My Love

WWDITS Masterlist

 A/N: Quick note to let you guys know that I have been writing up a storm, but I’ve posted many fics exclusively to AO3. It is just so much work to format every story for Tumblr. AO3 is such a superior place to read and write. So, check that out to see what you’ve missed. Thanks to @sinaesthete​ for beta reading this fic for me!

Summary: Following a death in the family, Guillermo goes to the park for his weekly "visit" with his ex-master. After two decades of distance and one-sided conversation, Nandor finally steps out of the shadows.

Warnings: Smut, Religious References, Parent Death

---

“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.” -Mary Oliver, Wild Geese

It’s nightfall once again.

       Guillermo de la Cruz clutches a prayer card in his fist as he strides down the familiar path for the appointment he never misses. Not even tonight. 

       Puddles dot the paved lane; he carefully avoids them, not wishing to ruin his patent leather shoes. He’s still dressed in the clothes he wore to the funeral: a dark suit and tie that make him look somehow older and younger at the same time. Like a little boy dressed up in his father’s clothes. His rigid soles scuff against the cement. The scraping sound grounds him in time and place, pulling him back from the vision of the gleaming white casket heaped with flowers. 

       It’s early spring. The night is still chilly, but the park has begun to transform with the new season. Green shoots of grass peek out between moldy fallen leaves. Crocuses emerge in the flower beds that line the walk. The branches hanging overhead are heavy with verdant leaves whispering in the light breeze. Guillermo breathes in the damp, mildewy scent of new growth. Idly, he wonders if the funeral arrangements have started to wilt.

       He rounds the well-known turn in the path, finally arriving at his forgotten little alcove with its dilapidated bench. The wooden slats of the seat give way to his weight as he sits; the wood is soft and worn. He recalls the hard, polished church pews and decides that this is a much more suitable place for worship. The laminated prayer card bites into the tender flesh of his palm and he releases it, taking his hands from his pockets and letting them rest on the well-loved bench.

       Night sounds fill his ears: crickets murmuring in the grass, distant traffic rushing on the highway, gentle wind blowing through the trees. No matter how carefully he listens, holding his breath and keeping perfectly still, Guillermo will never hear his master’s approach until Nandor wishes it. Instead he begins his vigil, communing with the night, with this place, the setting for his devotions.

  “Let us pray...

I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever live and believe in me shall never die.”

       The priest’s words float back to him as if conjured by the night wind. Guillermo’s thoughts fix upon his lord. The one he’s worshiped since he was nineteen-years-old. He calls up Nandor’s image with ease, despite the years that have passed since actually seeing the vampire. Dark eyes ringed in fire, bottomless pits into which Guillermo has been falling for the last thirty-seven years. A body as cold and lethal as a winter’s night. Fangs that reap bloody sacrifices from his victims. Guillermo closes his eyes and Nandor is there before him--skin warm in the candlelight, lips relaxed in a rare smile, holding out his hand and beckoning Guillermo to come forward. In his vision, Nandor places his palm on the crest of Guillermo’s head in a blessing. 

  “Blessed are those who mourn,

For they will be comforted.”

       The snap of a twig announces him. Guillermo eyes snap open; he stares straight ahead into the trees on the other side of the nook. He senses Nandor in the darkness behind him, a guardian or a devil. Both. But he doesn’t turn to look, though every fiber of his being is attuned to his master’s cold presence; though he longs to lunge at him and hold him and never let him leave this place. That is not their arrangement. 

       Just this once, though, he wishes it could be different.

       Guillermo tries to speak; tries to perform their ritual as usual. But the words stick in his throat, congealing into a heavy lump that suffocates him. A shaky breath passes through his parted lips and becomes a sob. Suddenly there are tears spilling down his cheeks. He reaches into his pocket, removes the prayer card with Silvia de la Cruz’s beautiful portrait on it, and sets it on the seat beside him. 

       “She… died,” he explains in a shattered whisper, scrubbing furiously at his eyes with his fists. “Mi mam á . She’s gone, Nandor.” 

       For an instant the rest of the words stick in his throat: Guillermo’s not supposed to address him directly. That’s not part of their ritual. Now Nandor will leave; now he’ll never come back. But the grief soon scours away the fear of breaking their rules and Guillermo collapses down to his elbows, hanging his head and sobbing out his heartache and pain. 

       “It happened so s-suddenly, Nandor. I didn’t get to say good-bye or tell her I’m sorry.”

       Guillermo crosses his arms over his chest, hugging and rocking himself in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. His sinuses are blocked; his face is flushed; his mouth tastes like bile and communion wafers and his t í a’s buñuelos. He’s desperate to get a hold himself, to salvage this evening somehow, but every time he nearly has the crying controlled his mind supplies him with a new torture. The stricken look on his amá’s face when he left home to work for Nandor. The smell of eggs and fresh tortillas in the morning. The sound of her clambering in the kitchen, cursing under breath. Her smile. Her hugs. The way she took him in, without questions, when he came back home covered in blood and hysterical after a decade of being a bad son. 

       Guillermo is so lost in memories, he almost misses the soft, hesitant touch on his shoulder. A hand--solid, strong, cold--closes around his shoulder and squeezes gently. Their first touch in twenty-six years. Guillermo’s breath stutters from his lungs. He freezes, terrified of breaking the fragile sanctity of this moment. He wavers on the threshold of action. Before he can summon the courage to cross it himself , Nandor does so  for him. The vampire’s hands are suddenly clutching, pawing at his shoulders and chest; clawed fingers dig into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket and haul him over the bench. He’s dragged through the spider-riddled bush and then all at once he’s in his master’s embrace. As if it hasn’t been decades since the last and first time they held each other. As if a whole lifetime of experience--sadness, joy, yearning, hope--hasn’t slipped through Guillermo’s mortal fingers. 

     Nandor wraps Guillermo up in his cape, the rich fabric and gold embroidery are clean and well-maintained. Guillermo finds himself wondering if Nandor has himself a new familiar, quickly deciding he doesn’t want to know. He buries his face in Nandor’s strong, broad chest and breathes him in. He smells like rose water, argan oil, and Tide To-Go Pens. He smells like warm candle wax and brassy, spilled blood. He smells like dust and animal pelts and frozen decay. He smells like home. 

  “And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long.”

       Guillermo never really left him, did he? Two decades spent building a human life, and with one simple embrace he is back on Staten Island, a nineteen-year-old boy knocking on a pagan god’s front door and offering himself in sacrifice.

     “Nandor,” he cries. It’s a plea, a demand, a tribute, a prayer. Once the name falls from his lips he can’t stop. “Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nandor. Nan--”

       The vampire shushes him, bringing his hand up to cradle Guillermo’s head against his chest. That voice, rich and deep, rumbles through the fabric of the leather vest and into Guillermo’s tear-streaked cheek. “I am sorry, my Guillermo. Your mama… she was a good lady. She took care of you, kept you safe and happy after…” he trails off, clearing his throat uncomfortably. His arms tighten around Guillermo. “I am so very sorry.”

       Guillermo clings to him, hands fisting in the cape, tugging at the material until Nandor is forced to stoop down. Guillermo closes his eyes, terrified of opening them to find that this is all a dream. Some kind of religious vision that will dissipate in a cloud of smoke if he breaks the spell. Nandor’s face is so close, he can feel the vampire’s cool breath on his cheeks. Guillermo presses forward, nuzzling his face into the whiskers of Nandor’s beard, gasping at the soft caress of long hair against his face.

       “Is this real?” Guillermo whispers; his words are fragile, like moth’s wings fluttering through the air between them. “Master, is it really you?”

       “Who else would it be, Guillermo?” Nandor chides in the same old amused tone that Guillermo has preserved in his heart like dried flower petals between the pages of the family bible. “Who else but me? It’s always me, Guillermo.”

       Thumbs wipe away the salty, stinging tears from Guillermo’s cheeks and the human huffs out a sound that’s a laugh, a sob and a cry of joy all at once.

       “It’s always you, master,” he agrees and seconds later he feels the cool, miraculous brush of Nandor’s lips on his.

  “Almighty God, cleanse my heart and my lips that I may worthily proclaim your Gospel.”

       Guillermo’s eyes fly open. Dark hair and pale, luminous skin fill his vision. Arms--powerful, undeniable--wrap around his soft little human form. He melts into Nandor, all the strength in his limbs bleeding away until the vampire’s strong grip is the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees. He’s resplendent, overjoyed to give himself up to the predatory angel before him. 

     The grief--a hollow, aching hole in his chest--is still there. But with it is a new sensation, at once well-known and utterly novel: ecstasy, fulfillment, completion. To be united with Nandor finally, after decades of pining, feels unreal and yet meant to be. It’s everything he’s dreamed of and denied dreaming of for so long. 

       Nandor’s lips slide against his own, cool to the touch yet soft and welcoming. Nothing like the hard and forbidding marble he’d always imagined. Nandor’s mouth is pliant and giving; it’s not unlike kissing a mortal man… as if Nandor isn’t the untouchable celestial being of his dark dreams, but flesh and--yes--blood. Guillermo flicks out his tongue and traces his master’s full, pouting lower lip. Nandor opens his mouth at once, granting him the entry he seeks. How can this be happening? After a lifetime of longing and supplication?

       “Guillermo,” Nandor says his name like a plea, his lips brushing, the syllables melting into their kiss. “My Guillermo. You’re mine, still, aren’t you? Will you be mine?”

       Guillermo mouth molds to his master’s. Nandor’s beard drags against the soft skin of his chin and cheeks. He pulls himself away long enough to answer. “Yes, Nandor. I’m still yours. If you’ll still be mine. Oh, God , please tell me you’re mine, Nandor!”

       God. For the first time in eight centuries, Nandor feels no pain at the holy word. Instead it dribbles from Guillermo’s lips, melting into their kiss and tasting like sweet honey. Yes, he thinks, finally allowing his hands to roam down his human supplicant’s body. Yes, I am your god, little mortal. And you are mine.

       The words spark in the night air, a spell that will keep them safe so long as they don’t stop touching. “I’m yours, Guillermo. Forever.”

       They tumble to the earth, a tangle of grasping limbs, rolling hips and desperate, longing kisses. Nandor breaks their fall, landing in the dewy grass with a soft grunt and clutching Guillermo to his chest with reverent care. Guillermo is alight with sensation. Prayers fall from his lips, holy words that once would have sent his master hissing and flinching, but which now seem to feed him. 

       “Nandor, my god!” He pulses his pelvis with every repetition of the name. “God, I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

       Love . A word that should bring Nandor as much pain as the other and yet… Guillermo’s heartache, his abandon, his devotion have unlocked something inside of him. He lets himself free. His hands clench Guillermo’s backside and squeeze; he grinds their pelvises together in fervent desperation. Guillermo settles heavily on his chest, sinking his fingers into the vampire’s soft hair and raining kisses on his face. 

       “You will give yourself to me, won’t you?” Nandor whispers, an edge of uncertainty in his voice. “Finally?”

       The weight of ecstasy and sorrow on Guillermo’s soul leaves no room for the exasperation that he should rightfully feel at those words. As if Guillermo has not given himself to Nandor every day for his entire adult life. As if he wouldn’t have gladly killed to be in this position decades before. But here, in this holy place, in the communion of their bodies and souls, Guillermo doesn’t scoff. He presses a gentle, wet, lingering kiss to Nandor’s lips before answering. 

       “You already have me, Master.”

“ Take this... and eat of it, for this is my Body, which will be given up for you.”

       They lay Nandor’s cape out on the grass like a blanket. It’s almost completely dark in the shadowy undergrowth, but Guillermo still blushes as he shrugs off his suit coat and begins unbuttoning his shirt, aware of the vampire’s heightened senses. The darkness presses up against Guillermo’s eyeballs; he strains to see merely the faintest outline of Nandor’s powerful frame. His face is a dark blur except for his eyes. Nandor’s predator eyes drink in every bit of ambient light and reflect it back at Guillermo. They glow. Hallowed, fiery rings in the night.

       Guillermo is no longer a virgin. He feels a small, pitiful pang at the knowledge that he can’t give Nandor that part of himself. He’s slept with a few men over the years. But he’s never truly offered himself to any of them like he’s doing now. Guillermo takes off his shirt, his undershirt. He toes off his shoes and socks and undoes his belt. It’s cold and the cape is starting to absorb the dew and chill from the solid earth beneath, but he doesn’t shiver as he removes his pants and underwear. He lays on his back, nude, flushed, panting and achingly hard. He doesn’t feel the icy wind that raises goosebumps on his arms and hardens the pink tips of his nipples to little nubs. He is a sacrifice; an offering; a tribute. The cold can’t touch him now. Not with the fire of his lord’s eyes keeping him warm.

       Nandor’s hands paint ribbons of freezing flame on his skin. They brush lightly, teasingly across his belly, his chest, his thighs. The vampire drapes himself over Guillermo and the human realizes that he’s also undressed. They both gasp as their rigid, leaking erections bump against each other. Guillermo bucks his hips in uncontrolled desire and he feels Nandor sink his fingers into the ample flesh of his  thighs to hold him still. A huff of breathy amusement falls from the vampire’s lips. He grabs Guillermo up in another passionate kiss, nipping and licking his lips. A keening, vulnerable moan bubbles up from the vampire’s throat. He clutches Guillermo’s tender body against his cold,, cadaverous  frame. Tears--frigid and laced with blood-- fall down his cheeks and mingle with Guillermo’s. 

       “Guillermo!” Nandor gasps, pulling back. His hands trace patterns on the pulsing hot skin of Guillermo’s neck. The human waits and listens to his master’s labored breathing. A plea hangs in the air between them. “Will you give me this as well, Guillermo? Your blood?”

  “With faith in your love and mercy I eat your Body and drink your Blood.”

       For the first time, Guillermo wonders if Nandor comes here every week with the intention of offering worship just as he does.

       “Take it, Nandor,” he commands. His voice is strong, unwavering, loud in the solitude of their secluded grove. He reaches up blindly and takes Nandor’s face between his hands, guiding him down to the cradle of his neck until the vampire’s cool lips press against his skin. “Drink.”

       Nandor whispers something against Guillermo’s neck before biting down. The words are an unintelligible susurrous. He recognizes them as Al Quolanudarese. And though he’s incapable of parsing them, they feel like secret magic words. Words that finally pulverize the last brick in the wall between them. Guillermo knows their meaning in his bones, in his heart, in his soul.

       Nandor’s fangs pierce and bruise. His bite is brutal and honest. This is Nandor; no hiding, no subterfuge. He is violence and blood and frozen kisses. He is also the tender stroking of fingers along Guillermo’s tear-stained cheeks and the broken sob he makes an instant before the blood begins to flow. Guillermo’s eyes flutter shut and he fists his hands in the cape beneath him. Take me, take me, take me , he begs.

       Blood and body.

       He buries his hands in Nandor’s hair, cupping the crown of his head as nonsense prayers fall from his lips. He invokes every sacred symbol he knows. Nandor’s mouth; his tongue; his hands; his cock. The bedroom under the stairs. The candlelit crypt. The parking lot at the immigration office. The blood-stained robe from Celeste’s orgy. The ancestry reports. Wooden stakes and crucifixes. The claw-foot bathtub. Nandor’s hair oils. His coffin. Bubble gum and mason jars and flashcards and feather dusters and boot polish and ice chips and a portrait made from glitter: two men, impossibly hopeful, naive and in love.

       When Nandor finally retracts his fangs from Guillermo’s neck, he laps at the spilled blood, kissing the soft, torn skin with a grateful, remorseful, worshipful reverence. 

       “My Guillermo,” he cries over and over again, rocking his hips subconsciously and panting as their cocks slide against one another. When he draws up on his elbows Guillermo can see his blood marring those perfectly cruel lips and staining his full beard. His voice is thick with tears. “Your blood, Guillermo. It’s…”

       Guillermo nods, wiping Nandor’s cheeks even as his own tears fall into his hairline. “I know, Nandor. You’re mine now. Always.”

       The vampire bows his head, pressing his lips to Guillermo’s soft chest directly over his rapidly beating heart. “Your blood is rushing, Guillermo. So eager to give me your life.”

       Guillermo sighs, running his hands down the length of Nandor’s sides, squeezing his soft flanks and raising his hips to grind against him. 

       “And what are you eager to give me, Nandor?”

       Nandor brings his hand up to Guillermo’s neck and catches the blood that still flows there. He hovers over Guillermo, balancing on one elbow as he moves his other hand between them and slides his wet, bloody fingers into the cleft of Guillermo’s backside. Guillermo feels the slick of his lifeblood against his sensitive skin as Nandor’s fingers probe and press into his entrance. A shiver wracks his frame at the utter indecency, the absolute sacrilege. 

       “Fuck,” Guillermo hisses as the first finger breaches the tight ring of muscle and enters him. “God! Nandor, yes.”

       Nandor whimpers in gratitude at his human’s praise. He speaks absently, in the grips of religious ecstasy, “Let me show you, Guillermo. Please, let me show you.”

       Guillermo writhes and nods his head, arching his back as another finger joins the first. “Show me you love me, Nandor. Show me you fucking worship me.”

       A strangled growl fills the little grove and Nandor picks up the pace of his thrusting fingers, subtly rocking his erection against the tender skin of Guillermo’s thigh as he goes. His breath mingles with Guillermo’s as he leans in and presses their lips together in a slow, aching kiss. He inserts a third finger, stretching Guillermo out and swallowing the man’s groan.

       “Now, Nandor,” an echo of desperation and sorrow tinges his voice. Nandor scrambles to comply. He removes his fingers, kneeling between Guillermo’s spread legs and placing shaking hands on the insides of his generous thighs, steadying himself.  

       Nandor doesn’t speak, but the sound of his breathing might as well be a love letter. He’s panting, there’s a hitch in his breath, a tremor in his fingers. Guillermo feels the tip of him against his hole and he nearly sobs with relief and joy and loss and guilt and exasperation. Why now? After all these years? Why on the night of his mother’s funeral when he is ragged and raw? Why couldn’t they have had this when Guillermo was still young and so pitifully in love with Nandor that he was willing to tarnish his soul for the vampire’s convenience? He thinks these things with regret, with melancholy longing and wistfulness; but never with anger. 

       This is his Nandor and Guillermo will take him and cherish him until he is buried in the ground. Nandor presses forward, entering him inch by inch. Stars burst in Guillermo’s eyes and amidst the furious physical sensations, a feverish thought flits through his head. When Guillermo is dead he wants to be buried in this very spot, in the soil beneath their naked bodies, on the site of their long-delayed consummation. The idea should repulse him, or sadden him, but instead it just feels right. He pictures Nandor visiting his grave every Sunday for the rest of the time and cants his hips, taking the vampire deeper as the blood trickles from his neck and his cock smears precum onto his belly. 

       Their bodies move together in a rhythm that’s both familiar and wonderfully new. They cling, claw, grab and stroke. Nandor’s length fills Guillermo; the vampire’s fingers wrap around Guillermo’s rigid cock and pump him as he thrusts. The words that fall from their lips are a heady, nonsensical, sacred blend of Spanish, Al Quolanudarese and English. Love is only the beginning. This is yearning, devotion, allegiance, becoming, undoing, transforming. Nandor is god is Guillermo is Nandor. They are whole for the first time in their lives. 

       The climax takes them both at the same time. Guillermo sobs, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as Nandor roars above him. Nandor spills his plentiful vampiric seed inside of him as Guillermo’s cum shoots out in hot ropes that paint his and Nandor’s bellies. He lets his softening cock fall from Guillermo’s body as he collapses down, pillowing his head on Guillermo’s chest and gasping for air that he doesn’t need. Guillermo cards his fingers through his hair and weeps. 

       He’s crying for the boy he once was. The one who loved his amá and wanted to make her proud. The boy who fell in love with a demon. The boy who dreamed and hoped and prayed and was disappointed. He’s crying for Nandor, too, who has lived for centuries without ever allowing himself to acknowledge the soft animal of his own emotions. And he’s crying for his amá, whose heart he broke for a decade and who never, ever stopped believing in him even when he came home at the age of 30, jobless, soulless, and ruined.

       Nandor nuzzles his cheek against Guillermo’s sparsely-haired chest, pressing kisses into his sweat-slick skin and tracing patterns over his stomach with long, elegant fingers. 

       “I can hear your heartbeat, Guillermo,” he whispers. “Did you know I could always hear your heartbeat? It’s not usual. I mean, yes, of course vampires have super hearing, but we learn to tune all that out, you know? But never with you, my Guillermo. I listened to every beat of your little heart for eleven years. I was so afraid one day it would stop…”

       In the soft, sacred dark Guillermo can finally ask the question, “Then why didn’t you ever turn me? You could’ve had me forever, immortal. Why, Nandor?”

       Nandor sits up and his eyes glow as he looks down at Guillermo, a frown in his voice, “I didn’t want it to stop, Guillermo. I didn’t want to be the one to...make it stop.”

       Guillermo shuts his eyes and they are quiet for a long, long time. He holds Nandor in his arms. The chill of the night air finally affects him and he shivers once. Nandor grabs the edge of the cape and pulls it over Guillermo to shield him. They lay beside each other, touching, breathing, listening. Guillermo traces the outline of Nandor’s lips, letting his finger dip inside his mouth and feeling the sharp edge of his fangs. Nandor allows it. Of course he does. He could not deny Guillermo anything. Not in this place. Not anywhere else, either. The knowledge settles in his veins, flows through him like Guillermo’s blood.

       “Guillermo,” Nandor begins, drawing out the last syllable like he used to. “It is not too late…”

       It’s a statement and a question. Guillermo holds his breath, waiting for the vampire to elaborate, but Nandor remains silent. A moment later he feels Nandor’s cold skin pressed to his lips. There’s warmth there, too, borrowed from his body. He tastes blood as Nandor presses his wrist firmly to Guillermo’s mouth.

       “It’s not too late,” he repeats. 

“May this mingling of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, bring eternal life to us who receive it.”

[atths--twice]

After the Credits

Hello there! Today is the 20th anniversary of Hollywood A.D. and I thought I would post my fic set directly after that episode. I’ve posted it before, but with a link to it and not HERE. I was new to Tumblr and didn’t know how to do much. I’m still learning, but I know a bit more now and thought I would reshare it here. 

When I first started to write fanfic, I wanted to change the ending of My Struggle IV. I wanted to do it for ME, but others showed interest when I would make comments regarding what I was thinking, so I started writing it in earnest. It quickly moved to many stories and THAT particular story was posted months later, with many stories in between. 

But this story... this is my baby. I actually posted it near the end of April in 2018 so it’s the anniversary of the story as well. I love this story. It’s fun, funny, lightly angsty, happy, cute, sweet, and sexy--VERY sexy. I’ve written over 100 stories and this one still remains the number one read story. I love that so much as I had an absolute blast working on it. I hope you enjoy it. 

Chapter One  The Limo Ride 

Mulder and Scully spend the night after Hollywood A.D. putting Skinner’s credit card to good use. Fun times and hijinks ensue. Also, sex! Delicious wonderful sex!

They walk off the film set, hand in hand. Both still giggling over the absurdity of the film based so loosely on their lives. What a joke it has become. 

Mulder opens the door that leads them into the main studio lot. He holds the door as Scully passes, letting go of her hand, placing it on her lower back. The lot is busy with people hurrying to different sets. For a second, Mulder loses sight of Scully as a large group of people descend upon them. Dear god, it is a wall of muscly men, very scantily dressed, coming straight at him. Mulder stops walking and waits for them to pass. He has to close his eyes as too much muscled men skin bumps him on all sides. 

Scully turns when she notices Mulder is not at her side. She looks back trying to find him in the crowd of people. She sees him attempting to make himself physically smaller as the throng of half naked men squish past him. She feels a giggle bubbling up as she sees his eyes close, most likely holding his breath, wishing they would hurry. She starts walking back toward him. 

He opens his eyes and comes face to face with more flesh. This time of the female variety. About thirty exotically dressed women are hurrying past him. They all smile as they pass and a few even touch his arms or even his chest. He cannot help the goofy smile that comes onto his face. As they pass, he turns and watches them go. They look back at him, giggling and waving.  He looks his fill and then turns around, face to face with an eyebrow quirked and arms crossed Scully. 

“Coooo!” he exclaims as he stops himself short from plowing into her. “Jesus, Scully! You scared me.” 

“Hmm,” she says with a tilt of her head. “Yeah Mulder, I saw that you were a bit.. distracted. You see something that catch your eye?”

“Me? What are you talk? I was simply waiting for the onslaught of half naked men to pass by,” Mulder says, his face the picture of innocence. 

“Uh huh,” she says, rolling her tongue against her cheeks. “But the uh.. “onslaught” of half naked women was no trouble?”

“Scully, I am certainly not blind to the beauty of a woman’s body. Especially when presented in such.. minimal packaging.” Mulder says as he slides his hands into his pants pockets, a sheepish look on his face. 

She stares at him, eyebrow firmly in place. 

He looks in her eyes. Then down to her lips as he licks his own. Then he leans forward and whispers in her ear, “However, it leaves not much to the imagination. It is so much more titillating wondering what could be under.. say.. a business suit..or even a little black dress... and then getting to use your hands, lips, and tongue to find out.” 

He straightens up and takes a step forward. He hears her quick gasp of breath. He did not have to see her eyes to know they were dark with desire. He has been witness to it often enough recently to recognize it. He has seen it when he kissed her into a daze, when she has trailed her hand down his arm as they left the office- the silent invitation to come over. When he has made an innuendo and she can no longer simply ignore him. And his most favorite, when she looks up at him as he slides his cock into her. Every time her eyes are pools of desire from which he never wants to escape. He would gladly drown in them, if it means he could stay physically connected to her forever. 

She is still standing there, arms crossed, but trying to control her racing heart and breathing. God, he sets her pulse racing so easily. Truth be told, he always could. But now.. now his whispers and closeness are not pushed away and called up later in her fantasies. Now his whispers fill her ears as he trails his fingers down her naked skin. As he squeezes her fingers when they leave work -telling her he will be over later. When he stands so close she can smell him, when he brushes against her and it is as if an electric current passes through them. Imagination no longer is needed because she knows how the crook of his neck smells and tastes. The way his body feels on every inch of hers. She shivers and turns around. 

He has taken a few steps past her but has paused waiting for her to catch up. He is not looking at her, but he has his arm crooked out, knowing she will slip her arm through and join him. He waits and then feels her by his side. She surprises him and slides her hand down his arm and then laces her fingers with his, in his packet. 

It makes him jump in surprise. This is different, they have never done this before. It feels so incredibly intimate. Considering the amount of time they have recently spent naked and sated, this small act should not make his heart pound in his ears. Her small hand in his though, touching his thigh, so close to his groin.. god, he feels his cock start to stir. If she moved her fingers just a little, she might find a surprise. 

He pulls their hands out of his pocket and clears his throat, but keeps their fingers locked together. “So.. uh..” he says as he licks his suddenly very dry lips. “That uh.. credit card.. what did you uh.. have in mind?” 

He glances down at her and sees laughter in her eyes. Jesus, she is so beautiful. She is so happy tonight; her eyes are shining enough to light up a city. 

“Well,” she begins, her voice sounding like it did back in the studio lot; reminding him they were still young and alive. “What do you think about getting some food? That food at the cast party was a little too.. frou-frou for me. And, such small portions- such a waste of time. How about we grab a bite and maybe head to the beach?” 

She suddenly grabs his hand with both of hers and squishes close to him as more people rush past them. He feels her body press against him, her breast against his arm. Any thoughts he may have had, go right out of his head. All he wants to do is fuck her senseless. Food? He could take it or leave it. The beach? He did not care if he ever saw it again. 

If he is honest, all he really wants to do is go back to the hotel and spend the next twenty four hours with her-naked. They could order some room service, that was food, right? Christ, he has spent seven years not being naked with her and he wants to make up for lost time. 

“Scully, you know, they have this amazing invention called room service. We could order in, maybe watch a movie.. whatever.” He says nonchalantly, as if his only thought is not getting her out of her dress, seeing which panty set she had on tonight, taking it off and making her come on his tongue. 

They reach the street where the limos sit waiting. Scully feels so happy and carefree, she needs to do something. As much as she enjoys sex with Mulder, and oh god.. does she ever, she wants more than that tonight. She knows if they go to the hotel, they will end up in bed, no food, until they were both satisfied by each other’s bodies. God.. it makes her wet to think about it, and she almost relents. But, she wants to do something fun with Mulder that did not involve being naked. Spend some time in the California ocean air. 

She takes her hand from his in case someone from the film is out here and is watching. Turning to him, she looks up at him and motions for him to lean down. She stands on tiptoes at the same time and whispers in his ear. 

“Mulder, I want to get some food, take a walk on the beach. Do something fun with this credit card from Skinner. A non-work activity that we can remember and enjoy. But Mulder,” she puts her hands on his chest and trails them down to his waistband. “rest assured, you will definitely be coming inside me tonight. Hopefully, many times. And I am looking forward to coming on your tongue. You know how I enjoy that every time you do it. How wet you make me.” 

Mulder is breathing like a man who has just finished a marathon. As she steps back, she gives him a sultry smile and waves to the limo driver. He grabs her waist and puts his mouth against her ear. 

“Fucking hell, Scully..” he rasps hoarsely. “You don’t play fair. I don’t get to see how your body is responding, but mine is on full display. You’re going to pay for this later.” 

Now it is her turn to breathe hard as she feels her core throb. She feels herself get even wetter. She knows how much the dirty talk turns him on, just as it does to her. God, they have been mind fucking each other for years, no wonder they both get off simply from the other speaking. She had actually come just from Mulder talking to her the first time they had sex. He had not touched her. Just told her what he wanted to do, how he would do it, and how amazing it would feel when he did. After she had had a mind blowing orgasm, he had made good on all he had promised. Slowly and with immense care. 

He begins to straighten up and attempts to conceal his arousal, just as the limo reaches them, she whispers back to him, “You can’t see it, it’s true, but just know that I am positively drenched. It’s a good thing I decided to wear panties..” 

The limo driver stands there and clears his throat. Scully turns toward him with a million dollar smile. Mulder feels his knees actually go weak and he turns his back to the both of them. He is painfully hard and knows it is going to be difficult to hide. He takes off his jacket, commenting on the heat. He keeps his jacket in front of his crotch as he hears Scully and the driver discussing places to eat. 

“Mulder,” she calls in a voice as sweet as honey. As if she had not just told him she wanted him coming inside her later. That she wants to come on his tongue. God, she is a vixen. “What do you feel like eating?” Her eyes are dancing with mirth. She knows exactly what she was doing to him. He stares daggers at her. 

She is trying so hard not to laugh. She knows exactly where his mind has gone with that question. She smiles so happily at him, he smiles back. “Whatever you want is fine with me, Scully,” he says. He really does not care. If she is happy, then so is he. 

After some discussion with the driver, they decide on a Mexican place that boasts serving the best guacamole. Bonus, it is close to the beach. 

Scully climbs in the car and slides across the seat. Mulder slides in after her. He keeps his jacket on his lap, still keeping himself covered. As they began to drive away, she kicks off her shoes and he reaches up and unties his tuxedo tie. This one is worse than the every day ties he has to wear. He pulls the tie out of his collar and puts it in his pocket. He undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, then rests his head on the back of the seat, turning toward Scully. 

She has been watching him. He looks  so handsome in his suit, but watching him loosen himself from the confines of it, is sexy as hell. She recalls all the late nights, on so many cases, when he would sit across from her with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up. She sees him smirk. She knows he knows where her mind has gone. 

Two weeks ago, they barely made it further than her entryway, before they were on the floor engaging in fast, frantic sex. They had been on a case, a tough one. They had agreed to no physical activities while working. God, but it was difficult. This was still so new, it was hard to keep their hands off each other. 

He had walked her upstairs after catching all the flirty sexy eyes she was throwing his way. After they had walked in, she pushed him into the door and shoved her tongue in his mouth. Clothes had been ripped off, bodies caressed, completion achieved. 

After, she held him close, still joined, on the hard floor, uncaring and unwilling to have him move. She stroked her nails up his back and in his hair. Mulder had been surprised by her eagerness, but incredibly pleased. He murmured so to her as he lay on top of her, trying to catch his breath. She had given a low chuckle and told him it had been how he was dressed. His sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging down. All these years how sexy she found him when he had sat there with her, dressed in the same way. How she had had to stop herself so many times from climbing in his lap and fucking him senseless. Now though, she had said with a thrust of her hips, feeling him stir inside her, now she could do something about it. 

She breaks from her memory as she hears Mulder asking the driver a question, never taking his eyes off hers. “So, about twenty minutes?” 

“Give or take,” the driver replies  

“It’s been kind of a long night. Hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to close the partition so we can rest a little,” Mulder says, his eyes burning a fire into hers. He did not wait for an answer, just put the partition up. 

“Mulder,” Scully starts to say, but is cut off by his mouth on hers. 

He kisses her slowly, savoring the feel of her lips. He licks across her lips and pushes his tongue inside. He buries his hand in her hair as she shifts to climb onto his lap. She straddles him as their kiss deepens. He holds onto her hip and keeps one hand in her hair, anchoring her to him. 

God, she loves kissing him. She has spent so long glancing at those full lips, wondering how they would feel on her mouth and her body. Now she has access to them any time. He is  an amazing kisser, making her knees weak and body tingle. 

He breaks away, catching his breath. Then he begins kissing her jaw, her neck, sucking her earlobe. 

“Mulder,” she murmurs as she rocks her hips against him. “You need to move your coat.” 

His head snaps back and he looks at her in surprise.

“What?” she asks looking innocent and sinful at the same time. “Did you think you could kiss me like that and I wouldn’t want more?” 

“Thought about it, but didn’t expect it,” he says as he brings his hand to her inner thigh. His thumb stroking small circles, setting her skin on fire. His hand starts to creep up. Jesus Christ, he can feel her heat already. He pushes her dress up and his thumb brushes across her panties. God, she was not lying, they are drenched. 

She gasps when he touches her and throws her head back. He rubs his thumb across again and she whimpers. His other hand reaches for the zipper of her dress. 

“Mulder,” she says grabbing his hand from her zipper and bringing it to her breast instead. “We don’t have time for that. Fast, hard. I want you inside me. Move your coat. Get your pants open.” 

She climbs off him and stands bent over enough to work her panties off. He watches her with lust in his eyes, but does not move. Goddamn, she is truly the sexiest woman he has ever seen. 

She holds her panties in her hand and looks at him. She raises her eyebrows and looks down at his lap. He grabs his coat and tosses it without a care. He starts to struggle with his button and zipper, never taking his eyes off her. Standing there with her panties in her hand, knowing how wet she was, makes him incredibly hard. 

He finally gets his pants open. He raises up enough to pull them down over his hips, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs out and he grabs a hold of it, stroking. She bites her lip as she watches him touch himself. It is so hot, watching him do that. 

She had urged him to let her watch him one night. Watch how he liked to touch himself so she could learn what he enjoyed. Just before he had come, she had taken him in her mouth and swallowed every drop. Their love making that night had been hot and dirty. They said filthy things to each other and tried many different positions and places in her apartment. Scully had lost track of how many times she had come. It had felt like she had a nonstop orgasm. Never had anyone made her feel so wild and carnal as he did. He knew exactly how to touch her, to make her scream, make her wet, make her come.  It was like he had a guidebook to her erogenous zones. Even from the very first time, he played her body like a well tuned instrument. 

She steps toward him and straddles him again, her knees on the leather seat. She pulls her dress up to her waist, still holding her panties in one hand. Mulder looks down at her body as he continues to stroke his cock. He can see her pussy glistening with her juices and his cock throbs. 

She puts her hands on his shoulders and lifts  up higher and closer to him. He looks back up at her as he runs the head of his cock across her slit. 

“Fuuuuuuuck,” she breathes out, staring down at him. “Jesus, Mulder. Oh my god...” 

He pushes the head in as she starts to sink down. They both hiss at the contact. She is so wet, he slides to the hilt with one thrust. She sits flush against him as they try to control their breathing. 

She wraps her arms around his neck and places her mouth on his ear. “We have about ten-fifteen minutes before this car stops and we need to be presentable. Think you can make me come in about seven minutes, Agent Mulder?” She raises off his hard cock, her pussy slick and tight around him. 

“No, Agent Scully,” he says as he slams her back down. “I think I can make you come in five.” 

With speed and agility she did not anticipate, she finds herself on her back on the floor with Mulder still deep inside her. He begins to pound into her, her legs wrapped around his hips. He bends down and sticks his tongue in her mouth. He knows that she likes that. She had told him, the feel of his tongue in her mouth while his cock was inside her, made her feel like she was being fucked at both ends. She called him, after he had left one night, and told him how she had taken out her vibrator and fucked herself with it while thinking of his cock and tongue. He had stroked himself to an orgasm as she told him how it had felt. 

He strokes his tongue in and out as he did his cock. He feels her tighten her legs around him and her internal muscles grip him. He knows it will not be long for either of them. 

Scully reaches under his shirt and scratches her nails down his back, landing on his ass and pulling him close. She can feel her orgasm coming on. Christ, it does not take much. With other lovers, she had needed more.. everything. But with Mulder.. Jesus.. she seems on the cusp all the time. Seven years was a long time to deny physical needs, true, but it was more than that. They were connected in so many ways, that sex just added to it. Made it better. God.. so much better. 

“Three minutes, Mulder,” she says as she pulls her mouth from his. “I’m close... so close. Talk to me.. I need to hear your voice.” 

“Mmm Scully, three minutes is more than enough time. I’m close too. God, you feel so good, Scully. Every time.. so good. Do you need..” he trails off as he brings his hand to her clit. He starts to rub and she stops him. 

“I.. no.. just.. just..harder.. faster. Talk to me. Your voice makes me come. Your voice..” 

He swells inside her as he starts pounding faster and harder. He moves his hands down and cradles her head. He leans close to her ear. “Scully.. god.. I am so close. Oh.. god.. do that again.. yeah.. do you feel how hard I am? How hard you make me? Oh Scully.. you just got so wet. I felt it.. come on Scully.. come for me. One minute Scully. Come Scully.. come..,” he nips just below her ear as his thrusts became faster and sloppier. 

Scully scrapes her nails up his back and digs them in his shoulder blades. She cries out as his words bring her over the edge. She feels herself coming and him right behind. He keeps thrusting as he empties himself inside of her. He kisses her again as he feels her pulsing and releasing around him. She is humming against his lips, her body thrumming. God, he is so good at this. So good. A couple more thrusts and they are still. 

Mulder raises his head and looks at her. Her eyes are closed and she has a happy smile on her face. 

“Time’s up, Scully,” he says with a smile of his own. 

She opens her eyes and chuckles. “Five minutes on the dot, Mulder. You’re good.” 

He wiggles his eyebrows at her as he begins to pull back and then out of her. On his knees, he looks around and finds some linen napkins. He wipes himself off and then pulls his boxers and pants back up, but does not button them. He then turns and uses the napkin to gently wipe up Scully. He reaches up and takes her panties out of her hand and moves to her feet to slide them back up her legs. They are still damp, but better than nothing. 

“Up,” he says as he got them to her hips. She lifts her hips and he slides them into place. He pulls her up and pulls her dress back down. She feels weightless and blissful. She reaches over and starts tucking Mulder’s shirt back into his pants. 

“I can do that,” he says, as he moves her hands away. She turns and grabs her shoes as she sits down. She slides them on as she watches him tuck his shirt in and button his pants. He puts the napkin he used on them in his pocket, planning to throw it out when he found a trash can. He looks at her and they both grin. She smoothes her hair and starts to take out her headband. 

“Leave it,” he says, reaching for her arm to stop her from removing it. “You look so adorable with it on.” 

She smiles again and leaves it in place. He picks his jacket up and puts it back on, no longer needing to hide his erection. 

She rolls the window down, telling him to do the same. “It’s stuffy.. and it smells like sex in here,” she says as he gives her a questioning look. He nods his head, smiling, obliging her as he sits next to her. She reaches over and locks their fingers together. 

“Thank you,” she says in a low voice. “That’s one..”

“One?” he asks her, confused as he rubs his thumb across the inside of her palm. 

“Of many,” she says nodding, watching his thumb. 

He looks at her with a frown, not understanding her meaning. The limo is beginning to slow down and he turns toward the window. She tugs on his hand, silently asking him to look at her. “I told you earlier..” she leans close, kisses his cheek, and whispers in his ear. “You will hopefully be coming inside me many times tonight... so.. that’s one..” 

She sits back, smiling sweetly, keeping her eyes on him, as the limo stops completely. He leans in and kisses her softly. “In that case, I promise it’s not the last of the night.” 

The door opens and he pulls back from her, reaching for her hand to step out of the car. 

[magnificent-dragons]

Sanvers anniversary

My tumblr is glitching so I'm not sure if this posted right the first time Sanvers fanfic DEO More like DRP department of romantic planning Saturday Just when people thought alex danvers could not get any more terrifying it happened the whole DEO knew that she had been dating detective sawyer for the last eleven months which is the longest Alex Danvers had ever been in a relationship. From the gossip that was going around the base the relationship was still going well then again no one was dumb enough to say a negative thing about that relationship from fear of either party's wrath. Dimples or no dimples detective sawyer could still scare the crap out of a person when she wanted to that is according to mon el who made the mistake of getting on the wrong side of said detective he nearly left with a lead knife in his heart. Alex had started the week on edge first going off on the people working the front desk for taking to long with letting her in. she later snapped at Henry the security guard for the containment units for not having them clean enough ( it’s quite hard to clean a containment cell inhabited by a gelatine based creature and keep it clean) she was going off on anyone and everyone who inconvienenced her in the slightest. Winn and james were currently taking the brute of her wrath. “ you two are going to blow the whole operation at this rate did either of you even think before you stormed into the warehouse!” alex shouted loudly her arms waving in the air in anger she could be heard shouting across the main deo floor. “ oh wait neither of you ever think do those brains of yours even work or do they just come up with ways to ruin deo operations!” J’ohn was leaning against a desk at the other end of the room eliza stood next to him watching quizzically at the confrontation taking place between the guardian duo and alex it was the second of the day, guardian had went into a warehouse where one of the national city gangs was said to have cept some of their tech he had gotten a lead that they were holding captives there it had ended up a bust and nearly gotten an undercover agent caught. “ you know i bet this has to do with the anniversary coming up” Eliza smiled softly chuckling a little while gesturing over towards where her daughter stood still shouting. “ she has never been in a relationship this long that i can remember she’s probably stressed” “ she's never dated anyone for this long?” J’ohn raised an eyebrow surprised by the new information about his earth daughter. “ not that i know of at least” “ that would explain the anxiety radiating off of her” J’ohn calmly stated, he turned around as supergirl landed with a thud on the balcony near them. Kara was holding a bag of take out in one hand she had a smile plastered on her face until she took a good look at the sight of a frustrated alex huffing at winn and James she had stopped yelling and moved to glaring disapprovingly. She walked over to J’ohn and eliza smiling and handing the two each a container of take out. “ She still in a bad mood i see, i brought her food from that place in france she loves maybe it will cheer her up, nobody else needs to be yelled at by her she's scary when she's mad” Kara whispered over to Eliza and J’ohn who held back laughter at the last statement the mighty kryptonian who was still terrified of her older sister's wrath. “ hey! Alex i got you food” kara practically skipped over to her older sister sunny danvers smile on her lips. “ is it from that place in france i like!” alex turned from berating James and winn to smile at her sister and taking the bag of take out from her hands and motioning with her head for them to head down to the DEO cafeteria. “Yupp” Kara stated popping the p. As the duo walked down the halls agents dashed out of their way running from the oldest danvers wrath. “ so you and maggie's anniversary is next week are you excited?” kara was practically vibrating with excitement for her sister’s relationship. Alex seemed to clam up a bit she pursed her lips and shrunk a little into herself. “ yeah, yeah of course i am” alex sounded half hearted in her response, kara quirked her head noticing her sisters hesitance. “ what's wrong you're doing that thing?” kara said pushing open the cafeteria doors and leading her sister to sit at one of the corner tables. “ i'm scared okay this is the first time i've had a year anniversary you know that what am i supposed to do, do i get flowers, is there a restaurant i'm supposed to figure a way into should i get her a present i need to get a present don't i?” alex quickly babbles out nervously looking at Kara with what was close to shame in her eyes. “ okay first you need to chill you will be fine, i can get you and maggie a reservation at a nice restaurant you get the present and send me a list of things you want to do and i will translate from there were a team” Kara smiled over at her sister holding her hand reassuringly. “ really kara i don't know i love you but i don't know if you could set up a romantic dinner for an anniversary.” hesitancy shown on the older sister's face. “ I so can do you know how many events i planned for Miss Grant i can so handle this it will be nothing and i have the connections to clear out a restaurant for the two of you” kara smiled confidently at her older sister who huffed. “ okay i guess you can i will handle the present you just handle the date part i guess don't mess this up for me though or i won't bring you anymore food for at least eight months” Kara swallowed and nodded her head vigorously. ================================================================ Alex had taken off early that day around six from the DEO so gathered around in the main floor in front of the conference table was what had to be a good 30% of the deo staff. Katra jumped up onto the conference table in front of the agents. “ As we all know Alex has been overly,” she grimaced slightly waving her hands in the air “ aggressive this last week, due in part to her upcoming anniversary. I have gathered you all here to help organize the perfect anniversary dinner for her” She was met with a few questioning and confused looks, all of the DEO was aware of agent Some of the crowd nodded following the line of thought, others simply grumbled to themselves J’ohn and eliza seemed slightly surprised by the idea James and Winn simply nodded. “First off i need all of you to make a list of ideas second we need to clear a restaurant J’ohn i assume you can do that.” danvers current relationship partly due to the detective that stops by daily. “ if we mess this up at all we will all be screwed severely screwed.” at this statement the whole room earnestly nodded. No one wanted to be responsible for ruining agent danvers anniversary. ====================================================================== ========================================= Thursday night Alex and Maggie were going to arrive at the restaurant at seven the team had chosen Masterpiece as the restaurant for the twos date it is a high class restaurant situated on the top floor of one of national cities skyscrapers, the place was furnished as a mixture between early renaissance with a new age twist to it it had the elegance of the renaissance and the clean and shiny look of modern to it. The place had been a favorite restaurant of Miss Grant for dates. Kara had gotten the restaurant staff to begrudgingly serve tonight the restaurant had been shut down by J’ohn he had used some sort of national security excuse to get the restaurant cleared. ( he may have called in a favor from the president that may or may not have required supergirl to show up to at least ten birthday parties) the restaurant had a large garden overlooking the city a large pond in the middle of the outdoor venue it had a platform designed similar to a chess board in the middle where people could stand there was a group of classical musicians set up on it. Hector had a friend who worked in the national city orchestra and had pulled some strings to get three of the players from the orchestra to play for the night. Around the garden alcove were set a total of five tables four of which had been cleared the center table had unlit candles and a red tablecloth set on it the other tables had been set with small sculptures on them each surrounded by flowers. The agents had gone above and beyond to create the atmosphere of the restaurant Alex had given them a list of flowers maggie seemed more fond of and had given the idea for the sculptures. (they had all listened to the story of how maggie had loved sculptures growing up, her aunt had taken her to art museums and she thought sculptures showed something special. When she was in highschool she had deven attempted to sculpt she had been okay at it) The outdoor venue was lit with low littin from a few different lights that shone on the pond and up into the sky. There were sheets of cloth hanging from lanterns hund on the overhead covering of the garden. There were agents running around checking everything as Kara checked her phone every five seconds J’ohn was down at the ground floor keeping an eye out for the happy couple. “ they are on there way I repeat They are on there way!” kara began running around informing everyone in the restaurant the staff scurried quickly to the kitchen and the agents darted out of the restaurant leaving Kara and Vasques to prepare the restaurant. ======================================================================== “So danvers what super top secret place are you taking me to now” Maggie said nudging Alex with her elbow she was dressed in a tight fitting floor length red dress it was a similar style to the dress she had worn when they had busted the alien fight ring. “ well i figured since you have taken me all over town i would get us some dinner at a new place” Alex dictated while holding maggie's hand and leading her to the skyscraper which housed their restaurant for the evening. They had gone from a few different places through the day Maggie had spent the day going back to all of the important places they had been together on a scavenger hunt almost to get her present which ended up being a ring with a eight ball designed into it was currently placed on alex’s right hand the small present had made alex smile and laugh at the thoughtful gift it was a nice ring. “ okay so what am i about to walk into” maggie raised an eyebrow at her girl friend who seemed very hesitant at her own surprise. Maggie was wondering if Alex even knew what they were walking into. “ well ive got us a diner at Masterpiece I’m not sure what all Kara has done though for a fair warning” she said the last part quietly almost shyly. She was rewarded with light warm laughter from Maggie. “ she kinda decided that she was gonna set up the dinner for us as i just gave her a list of things she had to have done.” alex sheepishly smiled at maggie. “ Well lets see what little danvers did then i would hate to keep her waiting.” Maggie pulled alex’s hand causing her to walk just a bit faster towards their destination for dinner. She was a bundle of nerves at this point. She was terrified, Kara despite her good intentions could tend to mess things up by overlooking small details or getting distracted it’s part of what made her her. Alex had gotten maggie a small necklaces with a jeweled emblem of a gun on it the same one as the one maggie had wanted from the deo she thought it would be good cause she couldn't get her the actual gun she had tried and J’ohn had shot it down before she could even fully ask. She had spent the last few weeks trying to figure out what to get Maggie, they ranged from more romantic to guns or even beer she had no idea what to do. They walked up to the skyscraper the light of the setting sun reflecting off of the building beautifully casting the perfect image as the two walked in. they headed up the elevator alex was squirming anxiously trying to be subtle as maggie smirked next to her shaking her head at her adorable girlfriend fretting over dinner. “ You nervous Danvers.” “ um pshh no w-why would i be nervous.” Alex stuttered out unconvincingly. “ sure you’re not you nerd,” The detective teased “ i'm not!” Alex exclaimed unceremoniously. Maggie’s face went serious realizing that alex was overly scared over this dinner. She turned to alex her face soft and caring she gently placed her hands on Alex’s shoulders comfortingly. A small smile on her face she rubbed her girlfriend's shoulders. “ hey look at me, I love you whether or not we spend our anniversary in some super fancy restaurant or at a hot dog stand in the park. I’m with you, ride or die remember.” Maggie leaned in gently kissing alex. She pulled back enough for the two to rest their foreheads on each other. Alex was smiling happily her hands now wrapped around maggie’s waist. “ have i mentioned how amazing you are” alex whispered lovingly. “ you could stand to mention it a bit more” maggie teased. Releasing alex's shoulders she took alex’s left hand into hers and leaned her head into the taller womans shoulder as she gently rubbed circles over her hand. They spent the short rest of the elevator ride leaning into each other. The elevator doors opened to reveal a stunningly set up restaurant it was a mix of renaissance style mixed with a modern touch. The front desk was a sheek mahogany wood with stainless steel highlights on the sides of the edges. The waiter stood behind the desk giving them a look that was somewhere between judging and relieved at their presence. They could see where the inside of the restaurant had been cleared of chairs and tables had been moved to create an ambiance there were sculptures on a few of the tables outside. “ right this way please,” the waiter motioned for them to follow him as he made his way to the terrace where the fountain and garden were. Stepping out of what Maggie had already deemed an elegant restaurant she was left breathless at the view of National city's sky line the lights of the buildings shining in the distance. The lights and lanterns shone around them Maggie noticed the small sculptures placed on tables off to the side. She smiled broadly knowing that alex had remembered her off handed comments about sculptures. Music slowly started playing from where there were three musicians situated over the fountain. “ your table” the waiter motioned to the table situated on the other side of the band off to the end of the large terrace. “ wow, just wow” Maggie said as she slipped into her seat looking across at her girlfriend whose nerves seemed to have been replaced by a near cocky smirk. The whole place gave off a feel of romance and elegance. “ your menus ma’ms “ the waiter handed over a menu to each of them. “ they even have fancy menu wow Kara” alex whispered under her breath, maggie laughed happily at her girlfriends obvious astonishment at the menus. “ I said that out loud didn't I” alex sheepishly grimaced. “ yes you did Danvers” Maggie just watched her girlfriend be relaxed and her nerdy self. They looked over their menu’s in comfortable silence. The waiter who they found out is named Andy came back and took their orders. “ so Danvers may I have this dance?” There was a playful teasing tone to the detective’s voice. Maggie stood and extended a hand to Alex, who took the outstretched hand and pushed herself out of her seat. They made their way over to the center of the veranda and began to gently and playfully dance to the music that the small band was playing. They stayed that way moving back and forth trying to find the rhythm to a classical song that they did not know occasionally Alex would spin Maggie around laughing lightly. In that moment the rest of the world had melted away and all that mattered was the beautiful woman dancing with her. To Alex it felt like all of the puzzle pieces of her life had fallen into place. This was what it was about enjoying the company of her girlfriend letting the world slip away, taking all of it's stress and fighting with it, she had an amazing girlfriend who she had been lucky enough to spend the last year with this was all she needed and all she wanted. THE END. A.N. this is my first fic in this fandom I wasn’t able to find many headcanons on maggie alone or any that would help with the fic so I’m sorry if any of my personal headcanons are a bit ooc to you and i haven't been able to watch all of the last few episodes ( mostly due to mon el he tends to be a bit triggering to me reminding me to much of my dad and his emotional manipulation/abuse) so if i skipped any major things i'm sorry constructive criticism is welcome. THANKS FOR READING! Sorry for any spelling or grammar errors

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 26: Jon

When Jon’s grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday, he quickly discovered that her life insurance and savings weren’t enough to cover all the bills that needed to be covered and put the house he’d grown up in on the market. He only vaguely remembers the whole procedure, as he was in something of a state of shock at the time, but he does remember accepting the first offer presented to him despite the realtor’s comments that he could “probably hold out for a bit more” if he wanted. Thus, he’s the only one not really startled at the speed with which he, Martin, and Tim find out that they’ve got the house.

To be clear: He’s not startled at the speed. He is, however, startled that they got it. Surely someone must have been willing to pay more for it, been better qualified. But no. They learn their offer has been accepted less than a week after the Primes’ disastrous encounter with Basira’s partner and the closing is scheduled for the following Friday. Martin theorizes that their position at the Magnus Institute gave them some extra clout. Tim jokes that it’s his charismatic personality. Jon frets that Elias might have had something to do with it for nefarious purposes.

Sasha finally does some research and tells them that it’s being sold by a pair of siblings barely out of their teens whose parents died unexpectedly and probably just need the money fast.

Martin doesn’t have much, just the little he managed to bring with him to the Institute when first escaping Jane Prentiss and the few things he’s re-acquired since then, and Jon’s things are still packed up from when he declined to renew the lease on his flat in August, so it’s mostly just Tim who needs to decide what he’s keeping and what he’s ready to part with or needs to replace. It takes them the better part of two Saturdays, but they manage to get everything boxed and sorted in time to move out the last full weekend of September.

The moving-in process is surprisingly fun. Sasha and the Primes even come to help (Tim suggests the latter so that Martin Prime knows his way around the house from the get-go, which is actually really sensible) and they make a party of it. Tim insists on setting up the sound system first, then gets everyone to contribute a certain number of songs to a playlist on some app he has on his phone. He puts it on shuffle and lets it play while they work together on the various rooms.

“Oh, my God,” Sasha moans after the eighth song that she evidently didn’t pick comes on. “Do any of you listen to a single band that’s put out an album since 1984?”

“Yes,” Martin says indignantly, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Remasters don’t count.”

Martin Prime grins. “None of mine have come up, either.”

“What did you put on?” Sasha asks suspiciously.

She gets her answer a few minutes later when, after shuffle coughs up a Spice Girls song they all tease her mercilessly about, an honest to God sea shanty comes on. Tim and Jon laugh at Sasha’s dramatic, despairing groan, but it’s hard not to respond to the Martins’ enthusiasm as they—surprisingly—harmonize along with the recording while they set up the living room.

They’re almost done assembling the new bed Tim bullied Jon into buying (“You’re not in uni anymore, you don’t need to be sleeping on a futon, and anyway, when was this made, the Thatcher premiership?” “Brown, and shut up, Tim.”), which is the last piece of furniture they need to put together, when there’s a sound from the front door—two firm, solid knocks, audible all the way upstairs. Jon nearly drops the screwdriver as his heart kicks against his ribs. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s stupid, but two knocks like that always makes him think of that book.

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, hope the music isn’t too loud.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Martin says, but he sounds uncertain. “I-I mean, it’s been ages.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll check.”

He hurries out of the bedroom before anyone can comment on the clear break in his voice. He is, and there is no way to deny it to himself, legitimately afraid of what might be outside. The likelihood of it being a being of another entity is slim, but…well, there was Mr. Spider, and Jane Prentiss knocked on Martin’s door more than a few times to keep him off-balance, so there’s always the chance. It’s something he feels he can deal with, though, so he heads out to face it.

He does not, however, expect to open the door and be faced with what is either a small child or a casserole dish with tennis shoes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice says brightly from behind the dish. There’s a bit of shifting, and then two big brown eyes and a mass of curls appear over the rim. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that those words freeze his blood in his veins and make his heart stutter to a stop, but since this might actually be his dying day, he’ll be lying if he tries. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“And a casserole, too,” the child continues, completely oblivious to Jon’s unwarranted panic attack. “That’s not as much fun, though, but Nan says it’s important to eat good, hearty food when you’ve been doing lots of work and that cake shouldn’t be a whole meal. I think there’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t eat whatever you want, but…” The child heaves an enormous, dramatic sigh that seems too large for such a small body. “My Nan’s very, very old, and you don’t get to be old if you don’t do something right, so she must know what she’s talking about. Anyway, we made the casserole with lots and lots of cheese and she said that was okay, so at least it’s a little better.”

“Ah—thank you?” Jon manages. “H-here, let me…take that.”

He manages to extract the casserole dish, which certainly feels as if it’s laden with cheese; it weighs the proverbial ton. Quite possibly a literal one. It’s solid enough to anchor Jon to reality, though, and he studies his benefactor. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, at the most, with a round face and limbs hidden in an oversized, threadbare sweater that looks like it’s been handed down through more than a few generations. Dangling from one arm is a wicker basket that does indeed appear to contain a cake.

“It’s a chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting,” the child says. “I tried to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ on it, but I didn’t put the tip on the piping bag right and it came off, so now it’s just a mess, but it’ll taste just as good, I promise. My Nan makes the best cakes.”

Jon smiles in spite of himself. “I don’t think I have enough hands to take it from you now. Would you mind bringing it into the kitchen for me?”

“Oh, sure!” The child practically hops over the threshold. “I always wanted to see what this house was like on the inside. Tibby used to babysit for me sometimes, but she always came over to our house, never me coming over here. Nan says it’s better that way, and Tibby always said it was laid out exactly like all the other houses, but it’s not the same as seeing it for yourself. Firsthand knowledge is best, that’s what I think. What do you think?”

“I—I think I agree with you,” Jon says. He also feels a bit like he’s staring at his younger self. “I assume you live in one of the other houses on the row?”

“Two doors down,” the child agrees cheerfully. “With the window boxes. My Nan likes to garden a bit, but she can’t bend over so much anymore, so Toby set up the window boxes for her a couple years ago.”

“And, uh, who is…Toby?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Toby McGill. He and Tibby—that’s his sister Tabitha, but everyone calls her Tibby—they were the ones selling this house after their parents died. He’s at Surrey University now and he says he’s going to stay out there when it’s all said and done, and Tibby got a job on a boat.” The child sounds deeply impressed. “I want to be a sailor someday, too. Can you imagine getting to see the whole wide world by water and getting paid for it, too? I’d never want to leave. I told Tibby she has to save a spot on the crew for me and she laughed and promised, so I can’t wait. I’m going as soon as I grow up. I’m not going to university. You don’t need to go to university for everything, you know. I know Nan really wants me to go ‘cause Mum didn’t and neither did Dad and she doesn’t want me turning out like them, but you can turn out well even if you don’t go to university, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Jon says gravely. He casts an involuntary glance in the direction of the stairs, thinking of Martin. “One of my housemates didn’t go to university, and he’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“How many of you live here, anyway?”

“Just three of us.” Jon has no idea how much this child has seen and how many people he knows are in the house at the moment.

“Oh. There used to be three of us in my house, too.” The child scuffs a toe against the carpet just before they step into the kitchen. “And then there was going to be four, but Mum died and the baby did, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly, feeling a pang. “I grew up with my grandmother, too.”

The child looks up at Jon and smiles, in such a way that Jon can’t help but smile back. “And you turned out okay.”

“Debatable,” Jon says. He sets the casserole dish on the counter. “I’m Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Cane.” The child smiles up at him and hands over the basket. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Tell your grandmother we said thank you. I don’t know that any of us will have the energy to cook tonight. We’ll bring back the dishes tomorrow.”

“There’s no hurry. Nan doesn’t go anywhere.” Charlie flashes Jon a grin that’s missing two teeth, then turns and waves to the doorway. Jon glances up to see Martin, looking somewhere between worried and amused. “Hi! I’m Charlie Cane. Welcome to the neighborhood. Do you live here, too?”

“Um…yes. I’m Martin Blackwood. It’s…nice to meet you?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Charlie and his grandmother made us a casserole,” Jon says, gesturing at the counter. “And a cake.”

“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” Martin smiles at Charlie and winks, although Jon doesn’t quite understand why.

“Welcome.” Charlie’s beaming smile could probably light the house for a week. “I’d best go before Nan thinks I’m doing something stupid again. See you later!”

He’s out the front door before Jon can respond, or even blink. He looks back to Martin, who isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Jon. We were just wondering if you were okay. You were gone for a while.”

Jon gestures vaguely at the front door. “I don’t think that child has many people to talk to. Or at least not many people who will listen to him.”

Martin snorts. “I think you’ve got yourself a new best friend.”

Jon almost wants to say something flippant like Just what I need, but thinking on it, he actually doesn’t mind all that much. “Considering how much I would have given to have an adult pay that kind of attention to me when I was his age, I think I can handle that.”

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon lets himself be comforted for a moment, then extricates himself gently and smiles. “Come on. Let’s see if the others are ready to eat.”

As it turns out, the others finished putting together the bed and even made it while Jon talked to Charlie, so they’re all too happy to come into the kitchen for a hearty meal. It’s exactly as cheese-laden as Charlie promised. Jon recounts his conversation, to general amusement, although something flickers briefly across Martin Prime’s face and Jon Prime shoots Jon an understanding and slightly frightened look when he repeats Charlie’s opening words. If anyone else notices, they give no sign of it.

Tim lets the music keep playing while they eat. Jon mostly tunes it out, no pun intended, and he rather suspects the others do too. But just as they’re scraping their plates clean—the food is delicious, and Tim declares he’s going to try and charm Charlie’s grandmother out of the recipe—Martin Prime suddenly tilts his head to one side, as if trying to catch a sound. A smile twitches at his lips, and he stands up and holds out a hand to Jon Prime. “May I?”

Jon Prime looks startled for a split-second, then smiles—no, grins—and places his hand in Martin Prime’s. He lets Martin Prime pull him away from the table and into his arms, and the two of them start slow-dancing.

Jon pauses, fork suspended over his plate, and watches them. Jon Prime lets Martin Prime lead him in a simple box step, one arm draped casually over Martin Prime’s shoulder, while Martin Prime’s hand rests firmly at his waist; their other fingers are laced together in a way that would make it difficult to telegraph intended moves if they didn’t—probably—know each other so well. The space between them is so little it’s a wonder they don’t constantly trip over each other’s feet, and before long their foreheads touch. The song is gentle and plaintive, encouragement from one partner to the other to trust and relax and allow the first to take care of the second, a promise that the second person won’t be considered weak or lesser if they allow themselves to be comforted.

I promise you’ll be safe here in my arms…

Martin Prime lifts his arm and spins Jon Prime around gently, and when Jon Prime comes back into the closed frame, he leans his head against the shoulder where his hand isn’t resting and closes his eyes. Martin Prime pulls him closer and rests his cheek alongside Jon Prime’s as they continue dancing. It’s one of the most intimate and romantic things Jon has ever seen, and he almost has to look away from it.

Almost. Not quite. Something keeps him drawn, and there’s a tiny part of Jon’s brain that suggests it probably isn’t just the pleasure at seeing someone who’s basically him safe and happy and in love mixed with the vague sense of longing for something like that—maybe not that exactly, but something like it. It may also be that watching the Primes slow dancing means he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

The song plays itself out. Martin Prime turns his head slightly; Jon Prime turns his at the same time, and their lips meet gently in the middle. This time Jon does look away. He’s never quite been able to figure out how he feels about kissing, to be honest; it’s one of the things that sent his and Georgie’s relationship down in flames, was the fact that he always acted like you think I’ve got poison in my lip gloss, according to her. But he finds himself wondering for a moment what Martin’s lips would feel like against his, if they’d be as soft and warm as the rest of him. If it might make a difference to kiss Martin instead of Georgie, or Meredith, or Kelly. And that’s not a question he’s comfortable asking himself just then, let alone trying to answer.

The scrape of a chair breaks his attention, and he looks up to see the Primes sitting down like nothing happened, although they’re still holding hands. Tim clears his throat. “Who wants cake?”

The cake is, as promised, a bit of a mess—it looks like someone tried to tease out the blob created by the icing tip popping off with a toothpick or something, but the resultant design looks like the pictures someone showed Jon once of a web woven by a spider that had been fed caffeine, and the fact that the icing is bright red doesn’t help—but it is absolutely delicious.

Afterward, Tim and Jon store the leftovers while Martin and Sasha start on the dishes. Jon Prime glances at the kitchen clock and touches Martin Prime on the shoulder. “We should probably go. The later it gets, the more likely that…someone might cruise by the Institute, and I’d rather not risk that.”

Martin Prime squeezes Jon Prime’s hand gently, and Jon swallows on the sudden surge of nausea. They haven’t seen anything of Detective Tonner, and Basira didn’t say anything about her when she showed up last week to switch out the tapes, but the memory of the Primes’ faces when they stumbled back to Tim’s place to change and return his car is a hard one to shake. Even though Jon Prime swears he and Daisy eventually became friends, it’s the eventually that sticks out, and Jon isn’t sure what he’ll do if Daisy turns up at the Institute. It’s also obvious that the Primes are more afraid of her than they’re letting on.

Tim opens his mouth, probably to invite them to spend the night or something, but Sasha beats him to it. “Can you wait a few minutes? I’d rather not walk to the tube station by myself, if it comes to that, and I think you said there’s an entrance to the tunnels near there.”

Jon Prime frowns slightly. “I…don’t think I did, but there is.”

“We’ll walk with you, Sasha,” Martin Prime assures her.

Tim sighs theatrically. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Sasha hands Martin a plate to dry.

All too soon, everything is cleaned up, just as the playlist comes to an end, and there’s really no way of stalling them further. There’s a round of hugs and see-you-Mondays, and then Sasha and the Primes head out the door, leaving Jon, Martin, and Tim alone in their new house.

It’s not that late, comparatively, so Jon suggests a card game. They’ve played most nights since Sasha went back to sleeping in her own flat; they’ve played a couple of games of Rummy or Go Fish, and Tim once tried to teach Jon and Martin a game he learned from his grandparents that uses a forty-card deck (Martin picked it up quickly, Jon did not), but most of the time they play Crazy Eights. Tim declares that they’re going to keep playing until either he or Jon or both manage to overtake Martin’s score, which is clearly going to be an impossible task, as he’s up by nearly a thousand points and consistently wins at least three or four games a night. Still, they give it a valiant effort. After Martin manages to go out while both Tim and Jon still have an eight each in their hand, though, they decide to call it quits for one night.

“Someday I’ll figure out how you keep doing that,” Jon says, shuffling the deck lightly before putting it back in the box.

Martin shrugs. “Practice, I guess? I used to play with my granddad a lot when I was younger. We kept a running total, too, and I think I was up three thousand points or so when he died.”

Tim gives a low whistle. “How old were you?”

“Nine. We’d been playing pretty regularly since I was five. At least one game every time I went to visit.”

Jon thinks back to the conversation he and Martin had in Tim’s kitchen the morning after Prentiss’s attack. “Is this the grandfather who had the cherry trees?”

“You remembered.” Martin looks pleased. “Yeah, he was my mum’s dad. I never met my dad’s family, that I remember anyway.” He pauses. “You, uh, you told Charlie you were raised by your grandmother. Was that…?”

Jon didn’t know Martin was there, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to figure out how to bring it up. “My father’s mother. She was…formidable. My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died a couple years later. Surgery complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Harder on my grandmother, I think. I was barely old enough to remember them.” All Jon remembers of his father is his laugh, and he’s fairly certain that most of his memories of his mother come from his aunt.

Tim leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Is she still around? Your grandmother?”

Jon shakes his head. “She died just before I started working at the Institute. What about yours, Tim?”

“My dad’s dad is the only grandparent still around. I think.” Tim worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’d like to think someone would call me if something happened, but I don’t know.”

Martin hums sympathetically. “Is he…in a home?”

“Not as far as I know. Last I heard, he was still living with my parents. Moved in when Granny died, just after I left for university.” Tim sighs. “We’re not…close. After Danny…”

Jon reaches over and touches Tim’s arm gently. “It must be hard on them, losing a son. No parent expects to outlive their child.”

“That’s just it. Mum refuses to believe he’s dead.” Tim smiles weakly. “No body, you know? Dad isn’t sure, but he also thinks I know more than I’ve told them. Grandfather all but accused me of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance.”

“What?” Jon blinks, shocked. “How could anyone think you’d—you would never.”

“I know, but…well, Dad’s family was always a bit conservative, blue collar and all that, and I’m…well, me. I think that’s why Dad encouraged my hiking and camping and all that. Hoped it would knock some ‘sense’ into me,” Tim says with a wry twist of his lips. “Once I came out as bi, though, I think they decided there was no hope left for me. It just got worse after Danny died.”

Martin’s expressive face closes down, and Jon’s stomach lurches. This is the most they’ve talked about their families in…ever, he thinks, but from the little bits of information Martin—and Martin Prime, for that matter—have let slip, Jon has formed a very unfavorable impression of Martin’s mother. He’s always kind of had a hazy idea that Tim’s family situation was better, especially after he heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Danny when giving his statement, and finding out that it wasn’t much better than theirs…

“How old were you?” he asks, not sure why. “When you—told them.”

“Seventeen. There was a guy I’d been seeing—nothing serious, really, but we had fun together—and we went out for Valentine’s Day. My parents were confused because they knew my girlfriend and I had just broken up before Christmas and I hadn’t mentioned another girl, so I told them about Steve.” Tim gets quiet for a second. “Mum cried. Dad just…told me to stop upsetting my mother and never brought it up again. Not until Grandfather started in on me.”

Jon swallows. “You’ve a great deal more courage than I have. I—I never admitted to my grandmother that I ever had any interest in boys, let alone dated one.”

“Only one? You’re missing out.” Tim’s grin is a pale echo of his usual one, but it is at least genuine. “How ‘bout you, Martin?”

“A few.” Martin relaxes with a visible effort that makes Jon’s heart ache. “Been out since I was fourteen. Mum reacted…about as well as she reacted any other time I told her something she didn’t like or did something she wasn’t expecting. I never brought anyone home to meet her or…really talked to her about my dating, and she only ever brought it up in relation to herself. Like saying it was a good thing there wasn’t any risk of me passing on any of my numerous undesirable traits to a helpless child.”

“I don’t think your mum understands what ‘bisexual’ means,” Tim points out.

“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gay.” Martin grimaces. “I’m also ace, so no risk there anyway, but…”

Jon wants to say any child would be fortunate to count you as a father or I can’t think of a single undesirable trait about you, but what actually comes out is, “Ace?”

“Uh, asexual. It’s—I don’t…get attracted like that. Romance, sure, aesthetic stuff and all that, but not…” Martin gestures vaguely. “Tried it anyway, for a couple of guys I was with, but i-it didn’t go well.”

Jon’s world view shifts abruptly on its axis. Tim, though, looks suddenly worried. “Are you okay? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” Martin says quickly. “It wasn’t—I just don’t like it. That’s all.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Never bothered telling Mum that part. She wouldn’t…I’ve done enough damage.”

Tim pulls Martin into a quick one-armed hug, and Jon reaches across the table to squeeze his hand as gently as he can, but they change the subject after that.

They end up sitting up for a while in their new living room, relaxing. Tim props his feet up in the recliner and works on a crossword; Jon curls up at one end of the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for years that Jon Prime assures him he’ll love; Martin sits at the other end and knits. It about bowled Jon over completely when he learned that Martin made most of the sweaters he wears, but the sight and sound of him working away has become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, especially after the Primes and the rest of the crew collaborated to get him an array of needles and knitting wool in all colors of the rainbow for his birthday. Jon usually finds the gentle clicking of the needles soothing, but tonight it’s just a hair distracting, and he keeps glancing up from the page to watch Martin’s fingers as they expertly manipulate the yarn or Tim tap the eraser of his pencil thoughtfully against his jaw while he contemplates an answer. He’s not even quite sure what he’s looking at.

Finally, Tim lays down his puzzle with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant. “Long day and all that.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna—” Martin works a couple more stitches and folds up his project. “Probably a good stopping place for tonight.”

Jon considers saying he’s going to stay in the living room and finish the chapter he’s on, but if he’s being completely honest, he’s been on the same page for however long it’s been and hasn’t taken in a single word. Silently, he slides the scrap of paper he’s currently using as a bookmark back between the pages and closes the book. “Well. Good night, then.”

“’Night, Jon.”

The bedrooms are all upstairs, two on one side and one on the other with the bathroom handy, and the three of them wish each other goodnight again before disappearing into their rooms. Jon closes the door and looks around the room, his room.

There’s not much to it, to be honest. A nightstand, a dresser, a battered desk he’s had since he was a child, a lamp and the bed. He sets the book on top of the desk and changes into his comfortable sleep clothes, then crawls into the bed and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

It’s…odd. No, not odd. Jon can’t quite think of the right word for it. But the sheets feel unfamiliar against his skin, and they don’t smell right, either, probably because they’re new. The mattress that felt perfectly comfortable when he tested it out in the store doesn’t seem to afford the same comfort now, and he wonders if the floor model has simply had much of the stiffness tested out of it over time. Even the pillows, which he did retain from his old bedroom setup, seem determined to thwart his attempts to find a comfortable position.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, arm draped over his midsection. He won’t fall asleep like this, he’s always been a side-sleeper, but his mind is a seething roil of emotions and he needs to get his thoughts under control before he can even have a hope of getting comfortable enough to sleep, he guesses.

Asexual. Jon probes at the word, at what it describes. I don’t get attracted like that. I just don’t like it. Honestly, until meeting Georgie, Jon had no idea that sort of attraction really existed; he thought it was just something out of the lurid romance novels his grandmother favored and he’d read once or twice in sheer desperation. It was something she’d wanted, though, so he’d tried a few times, but his efforts hadn’t satisfied her and he never really saw what all the fuss was about. He can take it or leave it, preferably the latter.

He never knew there was a word for it.

Suddenly, he wants to talk to Martin about it, about how he realized, how he knew. Where he found the word. If there are many more like—well, like them, he supposes. If that’s one of the reasons he was reluctant to tell Jon how he felt. He wants to ask about Martin’s experiences, if they were bad just because his body didn’t want them or for some other reason. A part of him also wants to cry from sheer relief. He isn’t broken. There’s nothing wrong with him. Well, not in that respect, anyway.

He sighs heavily and rolls onto his side again, plumping the pillows and curling one arm around them. They’re too flat, he thinks idly, too soft and yielding. Which is odd, because that’s never bothered him before. He can’t seem to get warm, either, which is also bizarre because it’s been an unusually mild day for late September and he’s under the duvet he’s had for years, which suddenly seems too light and insubstantial. The room is too quiet and still. It all feels…wrong, somehow.

Jon closes his eyes and stubbornly tries to force sleep, to no avail. The sense of wrongness pervades his being, curling through him and keeping him tethered to consciousness. He runs through the list of problems he seems to be having and tries to come up with which one might be keeping him awake. The only thing he can think of is the unfamiliar mattress. Everything else is exactly the way it was in his old flat.

And when was the last time you slept there? The thought hits him all of a sudden, and his eyes snap open. He forgot. The last time he slept in his apartment was the night before Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. Ever since then, he’s been sleeping in Tim’s living room…or in Tim’s bed. With the others.

That’s all it is. He isn’t used to the silence of being alone. He’s not used to not knowing, right away, exactly where Tim and Martin are and if they’re safe. He’ll just go and check on them, see that they’re safe, and he’ll be able to get to sleep just fine.

He throws back the covers, slides his glasses back on, and heads into the hallway. Jon somehow ended up in the room by the bathroom, while Tim and Martin are on the other side of the hallway. Martin’s room is first, though, so Jon heads there. He’s as careful as he can be. Martin is probably asleep by now. He definitely seemed tired while they were still in the living room, and Jon wonders if he lingered because the other two were still sitting down there. It makes him feel slightly guilty, like he should have called it a night earlier so Martin can get some sleep. And after all, they did have a very emotionally draining conversation, which probably exhausted him as well. All that runs through Jon’s mind as he slowly, slowly eases the door open and peers around it to see into Martin’s room.

It’s sparsely furnished; nothing but a bed and one of those flimsy pop-up cloth jobs bisected into cubes, which is serving as his dresser. Martin’s laptop and phone sit on the floor, both connected to their chargers. The bed is mussed slightly and shows signs of having been occupied, but Jon’s heart rate accelerates when he looks at it. It’s empty.

There’s no sign of a struggle, he tells himself, and he heard nothing, so surely everything is fine. Martin’s probably just in the bathroom, or downstairs getting a glass of water or something. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Jon will just…go check on Tim and Tim will be fine and then he’ll go find Martin and make sure he’s fine and it…will…be…fine. He pulls the door closed and turns to Tim’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and there’s a faint glow coming from the room. Jon hesitates, then taps lightly on the door three times before easing it open. Tim is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged and leaning forward slightly. And—Jon’s shoulders slump in relief—Martin is there, too, on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked underneath him. They’re talking quietly, but both obviously exhausted. They look up at the sound of the door opening and watch Jon stand in the doorway. He opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Martin asks gently. The circles under his eyes are almost black.

“No,” Jon admits. “I—I just wanted to—” He breaks off, still not sure what to say.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out a hand. Jon lets the bedroom door shut behind him as he comes forward and takes it. Martin wraps an arm around him from behind, and the two of them pull Jon onto the bed and into a lying-down position. Tim rolls over and snaps off the lamp by his bed, then pulls the covers up over all three of them. Jon manages to reach down and snag the middle to help.

“Better,” Tim murmurs.

It’s not a question, but Jon hums in agreement anyway. Trying for levity, he says, “Shame to waste money on new beds, though.”

“We’ll be able to sleep there eventually,” Martin says. Jon only realizes how much stress was in his voice when it’s drastically lessened. “At some point we’ll probably want the space. But for now, there’s this.”

“For now, there’s this,” Jon agrees. He tilts his head back briefly to rest it against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin scoots in closer.

Tim does, too, the two of them sandwiching Jon securely between them. “Get some sleep,” he says. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Jon yawns and closes his eyes, and it doesn’t really surprise him when he falls asleep straightaway. The nightmares are as present as ever, but in the morning, he can almost fool himself into believing they weren’t so bad.

Almost.