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ravenofthefandoms · 2 years ago

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A Bastard’s Happiness

Word Count: 4274

Pairing: Beric Dondarrion x Jon Snow’s twin!Reader

Characters: Beric Dondarrion, Eddard Stark, Jon Snow, Thoros of Myr, Jory Cassel (mentioned), Jaime Lannister (mentioned), Arya Stark (mentioned), Sansa Stark (mentioned), Septa Mordane (mentioned)

A/N: Requested by @futuristicyouthvoid!! Sorry it took so long for me to finish this, just had a long week at work and I was feeling lazy. I finally finished myself to finish it tonight but I haven’t proofread so it might be a bit shitty compared to my normal stuff. I hope you still enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters mentioned. They belong to George R.R. Martin. I do not own any gifs used. They belong to their original creators. I do not consent to my work being published by other accounts or on other platforms.

Being a bastard was never easy. However, being a bastard of Ned Stark and the twin sister of Jon Snow made it significantly easier. Though you were detested by the Lady Catelyn Stark, no one went out of their way to make your life difficult. Your upbringing was fairly peaceful. Jon protected you and your half-siblings were kind. Robb would tease and joke with you, but was never anything less than a gentleman. Sansa was always friendly, bonding over your needlework with her. She was far better than you were, her mother being her teacher, but yours was not shabby by any means. Despite your friendship with Sansa, Arya was also quite fond of you, though not nearly as much as she was with Jon. When she was a bit younger, the two of you would play sword with longer branches you could find in the Godswood.

The Godswood was your favorite place in the entirety of Winterfell. It was quiet and always peaceful. Which is why you had sought it that particular evening. Dusk began to grow, but you could only sob under the watchful eyes of the heart trees’ faces. The godswood, typically a place of peace and sanctuary, was the only comfort you could think of after your brother told you of his plans to leave for the Night’s Watch when your father left for King’s Landing.

You had been aware of this trip as soon as the wheels began to turn for it. You had resigned yourself to the fact that your father was leaving and taking your sisters with him. As long as you had Jon, you could face down Balerion himself. But the Night’s Watch? That wasn’t just someplace you could follow him to. You couldn’t and you wouldn’t. There was nothing at that frozen castle for a woman, let alone a bastard woman. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought of being surrounded by the criminals you knew lurked there. Even Jon couldn’t fight the entirety of the Night’s Watch for you.

A particularly strong wind blew through the trees, making you look up. A large frame was walking towards you, forcing your back ramrod straight. Another anxious beat of your heart resonated in your chest before you recognized the shape. “Lord father, I did not realize it was you.” You relaxed as Lord Stark’s stoic face appeared clearly from the shadows.

“I did not mean to startle you, (Y/N).” He settled down on a log next to you. “I was told that I may find you out here. Jon has told you of his plans.” You nodded in affirmation, teeth finding your lip as you nibbled it anxiously.

“My dear, I do not wish to see you unhappy. But I cannot allow you to go with your brother. I am sorry.” His tone was sincere as he placed a warm hand on your knee. Looking up at him with teary eyes, you nodded. You had no desire to go to the Wall anyways, but this command from Lord Stark only solidified it.

The two of you sat in silence for a short time before you spoke. “Father, may I ask you for something?” He chuckled softly and gave you a curt nod. “Would it be at all possible for me to go with you to King’s Landing? I know that I should not ask since I have asked so much already, but I do not wish to stay in Winterfell without Jon. I think I’d like to explore, see more of Westeros. If you would permit it, of course. I-I-... I can protect myself. Gods know I’ve knocked Robb on his arse plenty. And I wouldn’t need much! I would never ask anything to be a burden on you.” You were rambling, you realized, and cut yourself off from continuing with a shaky breath.

Ned gave you a soft smile before wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You leaned into him and closed your eyes, taking in the feeling. His strong arm was warm and cradled you gently. He smelled of the Godswood and the hall in the keep. Burning this moment into your brain rooted you back to reality and you looked up at him with a smile. “I would not deny you this, daughter. You are a Stark, even if you do not have the name. If it is your wish to accompany us, then it shall be so.” Your face lit up with a grin as you wrapped your arms around him tightly. The action caught Ned offguard, but he returned it nonetheless. “Now, come. You are missing dinner.”

—

The Red Keep was not at all what you had imagined it to be. It loomed over you as the Stark party finished the final leg of its journey. King’s Landing, however, was exactly what you imagined. The stench and crowds as described your lord father had not been exaggerated, making you hate both upon arrival.

It was fairly easy to trudge through the rest of the day, seeking the comfort of a comfortable bed after many months on the road. After all formalities had been seen to, you were shown to your rooms. Here, you had a servant prepare a bath for you as well as bring you food. The woman curstied and scurried away when you thanked her. As soon as she left, you worked on stripping yourself, hands working on their own as your mind strayed to the ride in. It was there, that you saw a familiar yet almost unrecognized face. Ser Beric Dondarrion. A few years your elder, he was someone you had met at a tourney in honor of the betrothal of one of the Tully cousins to one of his own cousins. You were both younger then, you only turning two and ten while Beric had recently celebrated his 17th nameday.

He had gone to the abandoned training grounds that were on the other side of the castle from the tourney field. The day had been long and it was only midday. His father pushing him to find a bride was not something he wanted to deal with all day, so he decided to hack at a training dummy all day instead.

Here, he found you sparring with Jon, still short and awkward and chubby-faced. Despite the small age gap, the three of you became good friends over the duration of the week-long tourney. When you all bid goodbye for the last time, he swore to send ravens and Jon agreed to do the same. Over the past few years, however, the ravens became sparse and the letters not as detailed as when you were children. Seeing his face again had been a slight shock. He seemed older now, his hair cropped short and close to his head and a certain weariness in his eyes that had not been there before. You know, of course, that he had been named Lord of Blackhaven a few years after that tourney, but you were not prepared to see him like that.

Reaching up, you pulled free the few pins in your hair, shaking your mane out as you did. Your fingers pressed lightly into the slightly aching areas the metal had left behind. Once you were free from your confined clothing, you grabbed a robe from one of your chests that had been delivered to your room. It was slightly too warm for the warm climate of King’s Landing. The thick material still smelled of home, however, and it brought a sense of comfort to you. You wrapped it around yourself, burying your nose into your shoulder.

A soft knock broke you from your reverie and had your feet following the sound to your door. “Thank the gods,” you muttered to yourself. The ache in your stomach had begun to grow. You were quite surprised, however, to find someone holding a tray of food that was not your maid. “Lord Beric!�� The shock must have been evident upon your face because he simply chuckled and nodded.

“Lady (Y/N). A pleasure to see you again after all these years.” Still a gentleman, it seemed, given his use of a title that did not belong to you. “I thought I had seen you this morning in the Great Hall but I was not sure. Forgive the intrusion, but I had to see for myself if it was truly you.” There was an almost childlike expression of excitement on his face as he gazed upon you. A beat of breath held silence between the two of you before he realized he had caught you at a stage of undress.

“I was wondering the same, actually.” You admitted, wrapping yourself a bit tighter in your robe. “Forgive my state, I was expecting my maid.” He nodded, holding up the tray he seemed to have forgotten momentarily.

“Yes, that is where I got this. She went off to fetch bathwater, I believe.” He kept his eyes firmly planted on your face, honor not allowing his eyes to drift. The thought made you smile slightly, glad to know he hadn’t grown out of his knightly habits. “Jon is not with you?” In the short time he knew you both, the dark-headed twins were never far from one another.

You shook your head gently, opening the door fully and gesturing for him to come in. He set the tray of food down on the table before turning back to you. “I’m afraid not. He’s actually gone to the Wall. My brother plans on taking the black.” A bittersweet smile graced your lips.

He answered with his own small frown. “I’m sorry to hear that. For you, at least. I know that must not have been easy.” You shrugged slightly but nodded in affirmation.

“I will be alright. It’s about time I got rid of the sack of bones.” You attempted with a lighthearted joke, which he graciously chuckled at. “Truthfully, I am glad he is doing what will make him happy. He deserves it.”

Beric took a few steps closer to you. “And, if I may be so forward, my lady, what do you plan? Hopefully to find your own happiness.”

Your cheeks warmed imperceptibly. “I do hope to find that, yes. I must admit, I have thought quite a bit on what I will do here, but I still do not know.” You chuckled softly, eyes flicking up to his.

“Perhaps we would be able to know each other better while you are here. If you can make the time for me, of course.” His tone was teasing and the glint in his eyes was full of mirth. The soft scuttle of shoes on the stone behind you drew your attention from the knight in front of you. Your maid had returned with two others to fill your bath. “For now, my lady, I will leave you.”

“I think I will be able to make time to see you, my lord. A very thoughtful offer that I would gladly take. A good night to you, Lord Beric.” He now stood right in front of you, bowing to take your hand. His lips brushed your knuckles, light as a feather. Your eyes never left each others, so you curtseyed, the only thing you could think to do.

“Sleep well, my lady.” With that, he was gone and your maid was informing you that your bath was ready. When you sank into the warm water, you blamed the red heat across your face on the steam.

—

Days turned into weeks that turned into months of your time in King’s Landing. Three months, to be exact. You managed to fill your days despite your earlier doubts. You spent your time either exploring the Red Keep with Arya, working your needlepoint with Sansa, or spending time with Beric. Often times, the two of you would spar with one another, There were days, however, when you spent your time with him walking through the gardens or walking the markets of King’s Landing.

“My lady, I hope I have not kept you waiting.” His voice behind you made you startle, but you turned to look up at him with a warm smile.

“Not at all, my lord.” You took the arm he offered to you before your short trek to the palace gardens. “I hope your morning was kind to you.” He had told you before that he prefers to do any and all business that he must as Lord of Blackhaven.

“It was nothing too difficult, my lady. Mostly, I spent my time waiting for a delivery from the marketplace.” Your brow quirked at him but you kept your face forward.

A small smile graced your lips when you felt his eyes on your face. “I hope your purchase was worth your wait and coin, my lord.” He nodded in agreement.

“I suppose you will have to tell me.” The two of you came to a halt as he removed his arm from your hand to reach into his coat. From an interior pocket, he produced a box, just longer than his hand that it sat upon.

Your eyes lit up in surprise as you gazed up at him. “Is it…?” Gifts were not something you were entirely unused to, but they were very unused to handsome young men, even if it was just friendly.

“For you, my lady. I hope you will find it as beautiful as I find you.” His words were spoken gently, though they still brought what you were sure was a pink dusting to your cheeks.

Opening the box, you found the most beautiful dagger that you had ever seen. The hilt had carvings of direwolves on one side, while a small purple jewel, one of his house’s colors, sat in the middle of the engravings on the other side. Your eyes, suddenly watery, turned up to him.”My lord, it’s…” Words failed to come to you. “I don’t know that I can accept this.” He smiled and shook his head, clasping the hand that held the knife gently.

“You can and you will. I insist.” You couldn’t help the grin that grew on your cheeks. The moment your eyes met, however, you swore a spark hit your chest. His gaze drew you in, leaving you nearly breathless. No words were spoken, the heat of his hand on yours suddenly very intense.

“Lady (Y/N), your father sends for you.” The voice of one of your father’s men snapped the pair of you from whatever moment you had just been caught in. A guilty blush engulfed your cheeks as you nodded.

“Thank you. I will be along in just a moment.” You returned your gaze to Beric. “Only because you insist, my lord, I will thank you for this incredibly generous gift.” You dipped into a curtsey before placing the lid atop the box again. He bid you a soft goodbye, which you returned, before you followed your father’s man.

Arriving in your father’s chambers, a bolt of panic struck any floating feelings you held of your moment with Lord Beric into the dirt. “Father!” You cried as you rushed to his bedside, kneeling by your lord father’s head. Sansa stood to your right while Arya, on the other side of the bed, looked almost wrathful. “What has happened?” A gleam of sweat covered your father’s pale face and his leg was propped up under blanket. “There was a… situation with Ser Jaime.” Ned did not wish to delve into the details with your younger sisters around, so he motioned to Septa Mordane, who herded the younger two Stark girls from the room. “He attacked us in the streets. Jory is dead.” His hand found your free one, gripping it gently as a sob racked through your chest. Jory had been the first of your father’s men to train you willingly, acting as another older brother. You held a great amount of love for the man. Gently, your father tugged on your hand and motioned for you to sit on the bed next to him. You obliged, Beric’s gift resting in your lap. “Daughter, I worry. For your safety, especially. You do not have the Stark name to protect you.”

“I can protect myself, father. I can protect Sansa and Arya, too.” Your voice was pleading as you looked at him, scared of his next words. His smile was sad as he looked up at you. “I know, my child, I know. But I would rather you protect yourself somewhere else. King’s Landing is too dangerous. (Y/N), I want you to leave tonight. Ride for Riverrun. Though Cat is not your mother, the Tullys will still protect you. You are family. Hoster and Edmure have always been kind to you and your brother.” He readjusted his position on the bed gently, trying to keep the pain from flaring. “Tonight, you will pack a bag and take some money and food and ride.” His voice left no room for discussion. Though you knew he wanted only to protect you, fat tears still dropped onto your cheeks.

He reached up to pet your hair softly before looking at the box in your lap. “A gift? From who?” His attempts to distract you from tears made you smile softly. You lifted the lid from the box and presented the blade to him. “Lord Beric. He has just graced me with it before I came to you.” Ned’s eyes looked over you with a small, knowing smile.

“I’m sorry I am making you do this thing, but it must be done.” You nodded your agreement before standing. “And, for your safety, I beg that you do not tell anyone that you are leaving. I will explain it to Sansa and Arya.”

You nodded again. “I suppose I shall go prepare then. I shall see you tonight, Lord Father.”

That night, you found yourself pressing a kiss goodbye to your father’s cheek before one of his men whisked you away to the stables. An extra simple gown, a bag of gold, and a few days rations of food weighed your saddle pack while your sword and gifted dagger swayed on your belt.

—

“Lord Beric Dondarrion. You shall have the command. Assemble one hundred men and ride to Ser Gregor’s keep.” The young lord agreed and, after Lord Eddard sentenced Ser Gregor, was ready to leave so he may prepare. “A moment, Lord Beric.” The younger man nodded and approached the Hand as everyone else left the Great Hall. Though the pair received an inquiring look from Littlefinger, they were soon alone. Ned’s voice was soft as he spoke, not wanting to be overheard. “As well as bringing Ser Gregor to justice, I would like to ask something else of you.”

Beric nodded. “Anything, Lord Hand.” Eddard’s gaze flicked to the doors and then to the hall leading to the Small Council room.

“My daughter, (Y/N). I have sent her to the Riverlands for her safety, after I was attacked. I told her to ride for Riverrun, but I fear she shall not go to my good father’s home. I ask that you search for her while in the Riverlands. Protect her, make sure she makes it to the Wall if you can. I imagine that is where she will want to go.” Beric’s heart skipped a beat at the Hand’s request. When you had disappeared a week ago, no note and no goodbye, he feared that he overstepped his boundaries. “I will find her, Lord Hand, and give my life for hers if I must.”

—

Months had passed since you had fled King’s Landing. Eddard’s suspicions were correct. He was taken prisoner and beheaded not long after. The rest of your household was killed with him, the only ones spared being Sansa and, presumably, Arya. When you had heard the news, you were staying at an inn in the Riverlands. Riverrun was nearby, but you had not yet decided if you wished to continue as your lord father had wished or if you wanted to find your brother.

Sitting at a table by yourself, you mulled over your thoughts with a tank of ale in your hands and the leftover remnants of your warm dinner in front of you. So lost in thought, you almost didn’t notice the man who decided to sit across from you. He was pock-faced and stank immensely of piss and ale. Immediately, he tried to get you to lay with him, his words slurred together. His attempt was shortlived, thankfully, as a lithe man with a bun pulling the hair from his face stepped in. The new man boxed the other around the ears, which had the drunk man grumbling before stumbling away.

“I apologize for my man. He’s drunk. My name is Thoros, my lady.” Thoros sat in the now vacant seat across from you.

“I thank you, Ser Thoros. I was worried his smell would bring my dinner back onto my plate.” He chuckled at your sharp tongue. “I am (Y/N) Sn-... Stone.” After recent events, you had to remind yourself that being a Northerner outside of the North was far less safe than being a bastard of anywhere else. Thoros eyes narrowed at you slightly before he smiled politely.

“Well, (Y/N), it is a pity that you’re not a Snow. My men and I have been instructed by our lord to look out for a (Y/N) Snow. My lord is not looking for any Stones, though, so I suppose I shall leave you to your drink.” He stood from the table and started to make his way back to sit with his men.

“Wait!” You turned to stand after him. “Who is your lord?”

—

“Thoros is returning, my lord.” Beric nodded at the soldier before standing from his seat. Resheathing his sword, he walked towards the approaching party. He counted an extra horse, however, and greeted Thoros with a confused look.

“My friend, may I present to you, (Y/N) Snow. Or so she says.” Thoros grinned at his friend teasingly, who gazed up at you with surprise in his eye. You dismounted your horse before approaching him timidly. It was not lost on you that you had disappeared from him, not saying anything about where you were going, and you were worried he would be upset with you, though it would be rightfully.

“Lord Beric,” you murmured before dropping into a curtsey. The man said nothing. Fear crept into your gut as you kept your eyes fixed on the ground in front of you. You were more than surprised, however, when Beric approached you quickly and pulled you into his arms. A small gasp fell from your lips before your own arms wrapped around his neck, face buried in his strong shoulder.

“(Y/N)... I was so worried,” he admitted when he pulled away from you, his hands holding onto your arms gently. Eye flicking around you, he noticed that many of his men were watching the pair of you. “Come. Let us find some privacy.” You nodded in agreement as he lead you to a secluded area of their hideout.

“I’m sorry,” you said as soon as you were alone. “My father was attacked and he wanted me to be safe so I ran. I wanted to say goodbye, truly, but he forbade it and I’m so sorry. Especially after you gave me such a thoughtful gift, I felt most horrible to leave you as I did.” You knew you were rambling but struggled to shut the floodgates as words tumbled from your lips.

Beric did not mind. Instead of letting you continue your rambling, his warm, calloused hand cupped your face before dropping his lips to meet your own. Your eyes shot open in surprise before fluttering closed, returning his soft yet desperate kiss. He was the first to pull away, resting his forehead against yours. “I thought I had scared you away. But your lord father sent me here and he told me everything. He asked me to find you.” Tears welled in your eyes at his words. “I am so sorry for your loss, (Y/N).” His voice was soft as he spoke.

Tears spilled over but his thumbs were quick to wipe them from your cheeks. “I was supposed to go to Riverrun but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” Your voice was watery and trembling as you spoke.

“The Lord of Light. He knew we would find you.” You giggled softly, more in surprise than anything. “My lady, I ask that you forgive my boldness again, but I must admit. You have my heart, (Y/N). When you left, I knew I had to find you again. Now you are here. I beg that you stay with me. Let me protect you. Let me love you.”

Your own hand came up to caress his cheek, his head leaning into your palm. “The old gods and the new would have to drag me away from you, Beric.” He smiled at you, sunshine from his grin warming you through. Pulling away from him slightly, you allowed yourself to take in his appearance. His beard had grown out much more, a patch covered his right eye, and a new weariness made him look older than his 21 years. “What’s happened to you?” Your fingers drifted over the patch.

His shoulders shook with a soft chuckle. “I will tell you everything later, my love. But it was all worth it. I have you back, so it was worth it.”

#request #fanfiction #game of thrones #games of thrones fanfic #reader insert #beric dondarrion #beric dondarrion x reader #thoros of myr #eddard stark #jon snow #twin reader #jon snow twin reader #sansa stark #arya stark #septa mordane #jory cassel #jaime lannister #beric x reader

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ollieofthebeholder · 10 months ago

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to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My website

Chapter 81: June 2017

[CLICK]

[HEAVY BREATHING, SLIGHT WHIMPER]

[SOUND OF A BODY DRAGGING ITSELF ACROSS A FLOOR]

[WHISPERS BEGIN, OVERLAPPING ONE ANOTHER, JUST LOUD ENOUGH TO BE AUDIBLE, ECHOING SLIGHTLY]

GHOST 1

—hurt me, please don’t hurt me, I won’t tell—

GHOST 2

—have any money, I swear, it all went into—

GHOST 3

—think you’re doing with that, you little—

GHOST 4

—away from me, you crazy witch, I’ll have the law on—

GHOST 5

—Bookmaster, she who holds the Keys—

GHOST 6

—feeling better, I promise I am, you can—

GHOST 7

—hurts, it hurts, please make it stop, I’ll do—

GHOST 8

—me say goodbye to Martin—Martin?

[Louder] Martin! Martin—my God, is that you?

ARCHIVIST

Aah! Wh-what—how—o-oh, God.

GHOST 8

I can’t believe…

Oi! Shut up, you lot, he’s not—just—just give us a minute.

[WHISPERS FALL SILENT]

Bloody hell. Like looking in a mirror…not sure where you got those eyes, though. Don’t think mine are that bright, are they?

ARCHIVIST

Who…what are you?

GHOST 8

[Broken laugh] You’re telling me you don’t recognize your old man?

ARCHIVIST

What?!

KIERAN

Look at you. You’ve…(heh) you’ve grown since I saw you last.

[ARCHIVIST GIVES A SOFT GROAN OF PAIN]

ARCHIVIST

I was seven years old…d-did you think I…was going to shrink?

[KIERAN GIVES A GENUINE LAUGH AT THAT]

KIERAN

I see you got my temper as well as my face. That must make your mother happy.

ARCHIVIST

Explains why she…hates me so much.

KIERAN

She doesn’t hate you.

ARCHIVIST

How would you know? You were—nngh—never there.

KIERAN

Are you—you’re bleeding. You’re hurt.

ARCHIVIST

[Through gritted teeth] Brilliant deduction, Sherlock.

KIERAN

Did they do this to you?

…

I’ll kill them. By God, I don’t know how, but I’ll kill them for this.

ARCHIVIST

Don’t pretend to c-care to justify—

[HISS OF PAIN, A COUPLE OF RAGGED BREATHS]

If you want to kill them…f-fine. Fine. Just don’t pretend it’s on my account.

KIERAN

What…Martin.

Of course I care. What makes you think I don’t?

ARCHIVIST

What do you think? You left.

KIERAN

For work. I was—you’re, you’re right, I was never there, not like I should have been, but it was because I was working.

ARCHIVIST

Mum—[gasps] Mum t-told me you…weren’t coming back.

KIERAN

[Deep breath] I won’t deny I…said some things I regret. But I didn’t mean them. I was coming back.

I asked your grandfather to make sure you knew you weren’t why I left early. Didn’t he?

ARCHIVIST

…

Well…yeah, he did, but…I, I always assumed…he was just trying to buck me up.

I mean, I f-figured if, if you really c-cared about me, you…wouldn’t have left me with…her.

KIERAN

Martin. Son, I…

Jesus, that’s bad. Let me see it.

…

Ah. Aye, I probably should’ve expected that.

ARCHIVIST

I-it’s…it’s not that bad.

KIERAN

Not that bad?! You look like a Halloween decoration!

ARCHIVIST

T-trust me, I’ve had worse. (heh) Kind of sucks that—that it’s my…dominant hand, but…I’ll live. I think.

If…if I can g-get out of here, I can…there, there must be a hospital nearby. I just…[deep breath] I d-dont have the…energy.

KIERAN

That tends to be a side effect of major blood loss.

ARCHIVIST

[Faint laugh] I think that’s…the least of my problems right now, actually.

I was��already tired. Used too much of…m-myself in there. If I…had the strength…

KIERAN

[Anguished] What do you need? I—damn it, Martin, I haven’t been able to do anything for you. Tell me—

Oh, fuck.

ARCHIVIST

[Calmly] Okay, that’s…probably not good.

KIERAN

Don’t you dare die on me, you hear me, boyo? I love you, but—

ARCHIVIST

[With a sudden burst of energy] You don’t get to say that. Not yet.

KIERAN

[Sighs] My temper, all right. And every ounce of stubbornness from both sides.

Here, if I can…I can help you. I can—

Okay, maybe I can’t rip up a pillowcase and tie that hand up for you. Wouldn’t trust that bedding anyway. She bathes more often than he does, but I still don’t know what’s on those…

Tell me what to do. Tell me how to help.

ARCHIVIST

I…

Tell me what happened.

KIERAN

What?

[FAINT GROAN FROM THE ARCHIVIST]

[FABRIC RUSTLES, THE BED CREAKS FAINTLY AS THE ARCHIVIST LEANS AGAINST IT]

ARCHIVIST

I’m…it’s, it’s a thing I’m…becoming. It’s…a long story. But when people—when they t-tell me their, things that have happened, their…(heh) their deepest, darkest secrets…I, they kind of…fuel me.

Tell me…why you left. How you…got here.

You’re, you’re dead. I didn’t—

[Realizes] F-fuck! Fuck, he—he was right. You—you were in the Book.

KIERAN

You knew about that?

ARCHIVIST

Aunt M-Mary…showed all three of us. The Book, I mean. To, to scare us into line.

Gerry…Gerry told me that…he thought you m-might have…been in it. But I didn’t…

KIERAN

Gerry?

Wait—not the Gerard those two are always going on about?

ARCHIVIST

Yeah. Gerard Keay. We…we call him Gerry.

What—how did you…

KIERAN

It’s not a nice story.

And I’m not sure—you don’t need to know that. You don’t need to…

ARCHIVIST

Hate Mum?

KIERAN

I didn’t say that.

ARCHIVIST

You didn’t have to.

[A PAUSE, BROKEN BY THE ARCHIVIST’S RAGGED BREATHING]

I work for the Magnus Institute. Taking statements is…kind of what we do. I’m…in the Archives and…I have, the-there are things I can do. Not…nice things. Not really.

KIERAN

…Will it really help you?

ARCHIVIST

Yeah. Fear…I sort of…eat it. That’s a bit of an understatement, but…so-something like that.

And…it might…connect us. Dunno. Never…never taken a statement from a ghost before. But…

Sometimes I dream about them. The, the statements. The live ones, anyway.

Do you…still dream?

KIERAN

I don’t quite know if it’s properly dreaming.

But I remember. Sometimes. When I’m not…fully here.

ARCHIVIST

M-maybe if…you remember…I’ll be there next time. Watching.

KIERAN

I don’t want that. Not for you.

…

But I’m not letting you die, either.

So. Where do you want me to start?

ARCHIVIST

At…at the beginning. I guess.

[Deep breath] Statement of…Kieran Blackwood, regarding his life and death. Statement taken direct from subject, twenty-fifth July, 2017. Recording by Martin Blackwood, Archivist, the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

KIERAN (Statement)

I didn’t know what I wanted as a kid, except that I wanted to be important.

My birthday was—is, I suppose—the second of June, and every year my parents would tell the story, tossing the parts back and forth like a well-rehearsed script until I could practically recite the lines myself—how Mum had tried to ignore the contractions so she and Da could enjoy the procession and the festivities, how it had finally got so bad that they tried to leave their spot watching and barely made it through the crowd, how no taxis were available, how Da tried to carry her himself but didn’t know where he was going because they were only visiting London for the coronation. How I was born right there on the street. Da always laughed and said I was so impatient to see the new queen myself that I couldn’t wait even another hour. I always hated that story, not because it was embarrassing but because it wasn’t really about me. It was about them, and about the coronation. I told Da once that if I’d been able to pick when I was born I’d have picked a day that nothing else was happening so that I was what people would remember, but he just laughed.

I don’t think he got it.

Once I started school, I went out for everything I could, trying to find something I would be the best at and make a name for myself. None of it really stuck. Looking back, I had bought into the idea that if I wasn’t a prodigy and immediately good at something, I never would be—or at least, that I would never be great. Of course everyone eventually improved with practice, but I rather had it in my head that I’d never reach the top if I didn’t start off halfway up the hill. So I would try something for a week or two, then abandon it as soon as I got my first critique. The only thing I was decent at, not even good, but had some talent with, was swimming—and even then it wasn’t necessarily speed or form. I wasn’t winning races or anything. But I could last longer than anyone in my class—even the teacher. Not just floating, either. I could swim for ages and not get tired.

I had a bit of skill with rowing, too, but the problem was that I was bigger and stronger than most of my mates, so in the end I wound up the coxswain for the school team. We won more often than not, but there was a part of me that was dissatisfied, no matter how loud Da cheered or how proudly Mum displayed the ribbons on the walls. I mean, how many famous rowing teams can you name?

I actually wanted to be a politician. I had dreams of being the next Winston Churchill or summat. But I had my heart set on Christ’s College at Cambridge, and my grades weren’t near good enough to get me in without some kind of advantage. And between the fact that Da was a dockworker and I never managed to successfully cover up the Geordie when I talked, I knew I’d never be taken seriously if I didn’t have a really good university degree, so I gave that up. For the first summer after I left school, I worked with Da on the docks.

That’s how I met Mikaele Salesa.

If you work for the Magnus Institute, I’m sure you’ve heard his name, you know what he does. Did, maybe, he might be retired by now, I dunno. Back then, though, he was just starting out. Walked away from some library job, so he told me, assistant to a stuck-up old fool who could afford to indulge a weird hobby. He’d done it with a tidy nest egg, though, and was looking to set up his own business, dealing in antiques. Thought trading by sea was the way to go; it’d be cheaper, after all, and easier to evade customs if need be, although he didn’t say that part out loud. Trouble was, he was a foreigner, in a time when being foreign in England wasn’t the greatest opportunity. And I won’t pretend the sort of lad that hung about docks those days were the most open-minded of fellows.

Me, I never had a problem with them. Partly it was that having wanted to be in politics, where I figured being diplomatic and able to get along with anyone might give me an edge, but partly, well, with my background—not just being in the North, near the docks, where people expected you to be slow and stupid, but also the fact that Mum was from Belfast originally—I had a bit of sympathy for anyone seen as “other”. So when I got off shift and found him being avoided in the local, I sat down next to him and bought him a pint.

He wasn’t much older than I was, maybe ten years at best, and since he’d been born during the second World War, he had some of the same experiences I did about his birthday being overshadowed by historic events. I was fascinated by the stories I told. He was intrigued when I mentioned what skills I’d picked up, said that being able to row if we were becalmed or swim if we capsized were good things for a sailor to know. And after I told off one of my da’s mates for saying something racist, he offered me a job on his crew. Told me he needed a first mate, and if I could help him find a good boat, the post was mine.

We found her, all right, and since it was me doing the talking, we got a good rate on her too. Signed on a crew for the first voyage, provisioned her up, and the Demeter was ready to set sail.

For the first few years, it was…exactly what I’d expected. Finding artifacts, buying them, selling them to rich idiots with more money than sense. The pay was decent, definitely better than I’d have got anywhere else—a kid with no experience, I’d expected to hire on as a seaman, nothing more, and certainly not as first mate—but for me it was about the clout. See, Mikaele—he was Captain Salesa, or just Captain, in front of the crew, but in private he told me to keep calling him Mikaele—tended to treat the crew the way the old sailors did: you signed on for a voyage, you got paid off, and then he’d sign on a whole new crew when he was ready to ship out again. I think it was a way to keep anyone from really knowing what he was doing with some of those artifacts. But I was his partner, so I stayed on. And since I was the only one who’d ever sailed more than one voyage in a row with him, the men in the pubs thought I had something special.

It was what I’d wanted, so I ran with it.

They were just ordinary objects back then, nothing special—well, maybe except for the fact that some of them probably shouldn’t have left the country, if you catch my drift. But one day, maybe eight or nine years after I met him, I came to talk to him about something and found him staring at a sack full of Morgan silver dollars. I knew how rare those were, but after a moment, he looked up at me with the most serious expression I’d ever seen on the man and told me not to touch them, or to let anyone else on the crew near them. If he sold them, he promised, he’d explain everything, but until then it wasn’t safe.

I don’t know what I thought. Maybe that they were radioactive or something? But when we got back to England about six months later, after he’d sold everything and paid off the crew, he asked me to come up to his rooms and discuss “the truth”. That night he laid out everything.

I…I assume from what you said that you know about the Fourteen. That was the first I’d ever heard of them. Mikaele told me the silver dollars he’d been sold belonged to the one called the Slaughter, and that he’d been lucky to be rid of them without it sticking…but it looked like we might have a new avenue of sales. Swore me to secrecy on that front, but promised that if I kept the crew from getting too involved in the…special artifacts, he’d do right by me.

He never let me handle those objects. Said he cared too much about my safety to put me through that. I thought he was just being dramatic until he told me some about what had happened to the other people who’d worked for Jurgen Leitner, and how he’d sworn he would never be that careless with the lives of people who depended on him. Eventually, we worked it out so I handled the men and he handled the purchasing and…acquiring, and that worked well. I got good at spotting the men who’d been touched by the sorts of things that made those objects, too, and would refuse to sign them on. It was a good way to protect the artifacts, or so I thought.

It must’ve been fourteen years later that I met Liliana Koskiewicz. I remember her because she seemed so out of place with the other people that were picking over the cargo, but fit in better with the cargo itself—she looked like a Gibson girl frozen in time. Turned out she was studying archeology at Oxford—there, I bet you didn’t know that about your mum—and had come to see the cargo because she’d heard rumors Mikaele had something that was in her field of study. He had, but it was “special” cargo, so he’d already sold it. I felt bad for her, so I offered to buy her dinner as a consolation prize, and for a wonder, she accepted.

It was a whirlwind romance, which I know must come as a bit of a shock to you, but I tell you I fell head over heels for that woman the moment I met her, and she swore it was the same. Mikaele was a bit disappointed at first, it seemed to me, but after a bit he encouraged it. Said the more connections you had, the safer you were from…certain things. I was willing to take any excuse to keep courting her, and just before we set sail, I asked her to marry me. She said she’d think about it and let me know when I got back.

We were gone nine months that go-round, and when I went to her da’s farm to see her after we made port and sold off the last of the cargo, the first thing she said to me was that she accepted. She wanted a spring wedding, and Mikaele would’ve delayed sailing for it, but I talked her into a late December wedding instead on the grounds that I’d be more likely to be home for our anniversary that way.

If I’m honest, the only reason I went through with it was because of what Mikaele said about needing connections to fight back against the Fourteen. After all, I’d had nine months to think about it too, and I didn’t know her that well. But, well, I reckoned we’d get to know each other well enough, and if it didn’t work out great, at least I wouldn’t be home that much. I bought her a little house, near enough that she could go visit her da when I was out to sea but far enough that we were independent, and I made sure she had everything she might need before we set to sea again.

We’d been married two years when she told me she was pregnant. She…she wanted me to stay, but Mikaele needed me. I was still chasing that sense of being important, so I went. Promised I’d be back before you were born, but…well, you were early. We were in Malta when Alastair called—long distance and all—to tell me Lily’d been taken to hospital and it wasn’t looking good. Mikaele bought me a plane ticket and told me to get home to my family. Before I left, he gave me a talisman, some little thing made of bone and silver. He told me he didn’t think it was one of those, but that it had a bit of power in it and might…make a difference.

We—we almost lost both of you. You were a breech, and when I got there, it turned out the umbilical cord had got wrapped around your neck. Between that and the fact that you were so early they weren’t sure your lungs had developed all the way, they weren’t sure you were going to make it. And Lily…they had to do a C-section on you in the end, and she had a bad reaction to the anesthesia or summat like that. She was in a coma and they didn’t think she was going to ever come out of it.

I looked at the thing Mikaele had given me. There was a notch in it, and I thought if I…maybe it would help you both. So I snapped it in half. Put one side on your incubator and the other tucked under Lily’s pillow and hoped.

You recovered, obviously. Both of you. You were actually fine less than four hours later, and I got to hold you for the first time…I’d, I’d never felt anything like that. I was thirty-five years old and it was like I was living for the first time. Lily took a bit longer, but she eventually came round, and all was well, or so I thought.

Lily never completely recovered. It was gradual, so her da didn’t notice and neither did she—or at least she said she didn’t—but, well, I went out again when you were six months old, soon as the winter storms had passed, like always, and when I got back I could see she not only wasn’t better, she was…getting worse. At the time, I put it down to the fact that you were cutting teeth, and you were prone to ear infections back then too, so you cried unless you were being held most of the time. Your grandfather was a godsend, but he had the farm to take care of, and so most of it fell on Lily. I took over while I was home, but…well, I had to go back out again eventually.

That’s when we started fighting. She wanted me to give up sailing and get a job closer to home. I argued we needed the money—now more than ever, between you getting bigger every day and her getting sicker every week. She said if she was so sick, why wasn’t I there to help her? Round and round we went, and it always ended the same, with her going to bed early with a headache and me stomping out the door and going down the pub.

And through it all, there you were. Staring up at me with those big green eyes of yours—they weren’t so bright back then, but they were always so full of love and wonder and trust. I’d have done anything for you.

Except stay.

The final straw came just after the new year when you were seven. Mikaele had suggested we all, as a family, go out on the water and watch the fireworks on the shore to welcome in 1996. You were…so excited. It was all you’d been talking about for a week, getting to see the Demeter and see what I did for a living and finally meet “Uncle Kay”—that’s what you called him, you had trouble with “Mikaele”. And then, just as we were getting ready to go, Lily said she wasn’t feeling well. I was all set to get her settled on the couch or in bed and offer to spend the night on the boat so we wouldn’t disturb her when she told you to hang up your coat and go make her a cup of tea—the oolong, not the bagged kind. I said I’d do it and for you to go wait by the car, but Lily snapped that she’d told you to do it and you needed to learn responsibility.

I wasn’t being funny when I said you had my temper. I blew up on her, said more than a few things I’d been holding back longer than I knew. I accused her of faking her symptoms for sympathy, or to punish the rest of us, or to manipulate us—hell, I didn’t know why, and I didn’t care. Told her she could be as miserable as she wanted but she had no right to make the rest of us miserable too. She gave as good as she got, saying I’d never loved her, I didn’t have any sympathy for her, I obviously hadn’t meant it when I said “in sickness and in health”, on and on and on. We wound up shouting at one another, and then I saw you standing in the doorway with her cup of tea and tears in your eyes, and I made myself stop. I told you we could go, but you just very quietly said no, thank you, that you would stay and take care of your mother, but for me to tell Uncle Kay you said hello.

I didn’t go to the ship that night. I went over to Alastair’s, and I must’ve ranted at him for an hour. He just sat there and listened—you know what he was like—and at the end of it, suggested I take a short break away from Lily, that things might look better after we’d both had a rest. And I agreed. At first I was going to…I don’t know, stay in town for a bit maybe…but Mikaele got a line on something that, if it panned out, would have let us retire for life after the next voyage, and there was a calm spell, so we got a crew together sharpish and sailed out.

It didn’t. Pan out, that is—someone beat us to it, we never did find out who. And of course the winter storms came back with a vengeance, so we wound up in Gibraltar for six weeks waiting for an opportunity to sail again. During that time, I talked things over with Mikaele, and he agreed with Alastair that a break wouldn’t be a bad thing.

I also talked to him about Lily’s illness. I’d never really mentioned it to him; there was a sort of silent sense that anything that happened on land—well, except you—stayed there, and vice versa. But I laid it all out for him, every symptom and surge, everything that had happened back to your birth. He listened with a curious sort of look on his face, and then he asked the question I’d never thought about. He asked what happened to the talisman he’d given me. I explained what I’d done, and he nodded, said I’d done exactly what I was supposed to, but he wanted to know what had happened after that.

It wasn’t until…later that I found out the answer. Lily found the half I’d tucked under her pillow, recognized it was broken, and…I don’t know. Maybe she’d heard something of the Fourteen before. Her da worked for the Institute himself, you know, so he might have given her a bit of warning. Anyway, she asked the nurses if they’d seen the other half, and they eventually found it and gave it to her.

From what Mikaele told me, what he’d eventually learned or figured out—I never did ask how—was that it was meant to separate and spare two lives. It wasn’t…exactly one use only, but it had an odd sort of catch to it. You weren’t meant to keep it, and once you’d used it, you were supposed to bury the halves together in the earth, where they would…reform? I don’t know. It was all a bit bizarre to me. Obviously Lily hadn’t done that, but…well, we’ll get there.

Anyway, we were out to sea for eighteen months that go-round. I felt bad about missing your birthday that year—I wrote you a letter, sent you a gift, but I don’t know if you ever got it—and worse about missing Christmas, but we’d done well enough by the end of it that I could have retired, and I was considering it. I told Mikaele when we pulled into port that I was going to give it one last go talking to Lily, see if we could reconcile, because I did still love her, just not the same way I had at the beginning. And I never wanted to leave you.

Obviously, you know that when I went back to Devon, there was someone else in the house I’d bought for Lily, and they told me they’d paid cash for it from a lady who’d taken her son to London. I thought that seemed a bit odd, but at the same time, I was hoping there was a specialist she was seeing regularly and she was doing better, so I got her address and headed down. I was looking forward to seeing both of you, so much.

Somehow, she knew I was coming. There was a note on her door addressed to me when I got into town, and when I opened it, it had an address and said she’d be there all afternoon. I assumed the family who’d bought the house had called her, so I went to where it said. Turned out to be a shop—a place called Pinhole Books. The door was unlocked, so I went in.

And Lily was waiting for me. Pretty as a picture, sweet as sugar. With an antique razor in one hand and a cane in the other.

I won’t go into details, but I will say she didn’t do it alone. There was another woman, old enough to be her mother, holding her steady and coaching her through it. Everything went black, and for a while I thought that was it.

If you know about the Book, you know what she did after that. She used to summon me from time to time. Talk to me, taunt me. Tell me what she was up to. That’s how I found out what she’d done with the talisman. She’d figured out how to join it back together, and thought it would protect her from sickness, but…that wasn’t its purpose. And because she tried to keep it, instead of give it away, it was corrupting her. I begged her to get rid of it, and eventually she finally admitted that she’d already destroyed it, after she met Roger, and it hadn’t helped. Mary—who I assumed was the woman who helped her kill me—had ideas that would help her, she said, but she wouldn’t really tell me what they were. Sometimes she’d summon me and just…leave me there. It hurt, and she knew it hurt, and she said she wanted me to feel a little of what she was feeling.

And no matter how much I pleaded, she wouldn’t let me see you.

The last time I saw her was eight years after she killed me, which I only know because I told her fifty looked good on her and I thought she was going to kill me again when she told me, very sharply, that she’d only just turned forty. She looked closer to sixty, but, well, you don’t need me to tell you that. She recovered fast, though, and told me that the next time we spoke, I’d never know how old she was. She had found a way to stay young and beautiful forever, and, she said, when the Bookmaster took the lead, I would know everything. Then she wished me luck, said she would see me soon, and dismissed me.

I can’t tell from looking at you how long it’s been since then, but I reckon that didn’t work out so well for her.

ARCHIVIST

And how are you…here? I thought the Book got burned.

KIERAN

It did. I think.

I don’t know too much about how all this works, but as near as I can tell, all of us who were in those pages—the ones who weren’t summoned, anyway, since I think your Gerard was involved, from what I’ve heard those two say—were set free when it burned, but not all the way. We’re loose in the world again, but we can’t go very far from the Bookmasters.

ARCHIVIST

The Bookmasters?

KIERAN

Those two bastards in the other room. Don’t ask me why, I just…knew that’s what they were when I saw them.

ARCHIVIST

It…it makes sense. I think.

…

Twelve years.

KIERAN

Eh?

ARCHIVIST

Since she—it’s been twenty years since she killed you. She tried to do…whatever it was, I still don’t know…twelve years ago.

And you’re right. It didn’t work. That was when she started needing round-the-clock care, couldn’t leave the house except to see her doctors, the whole nine yards. I dropped out of school and…well, that’s when I went to work for the Institute. Roger got fired around the same time—he had early onset dementia, it was just starting to get bad about then—and Melanie couldn’t fake being an adult like I could back then.

KIERAN

I wish you hadn’t felt like you had to do that.

ARCHIVIST

Me, too, but…I think I needed to be there. Eventually.

KIERAN

Twenty years…so you’re twenty-eight then? No, twenty-nine.

ARCHIVIST

I will be in August. If I live that long. If the world doesn’t end.

KIERAN

[Fiercely] You’re not dying.

ARCHIVIST

Yes, sir.

[More seriously] I’m okay. That…thank you. For, for giving me the statement. It…helped. A lot.

KIERAN

Good. Now you can get that hand—

…Oh.

Blimey, how long was I talking?

ARCHIVIST

Not nearly that long.

Yeah, that’s, um, probably not a good sign, but…[sighs] you know what, at this point, I don’t really have time to worry about it.

KIERAN

What’s your next move, then?

ARCHIVIST

I need to get back to London. Hopefully without the Van Helsings in there sending me back in pieces, or calling Gerry—or Jon.

KIERAN

…Okay, you told me who Gerry is, and Lily mentioned Roger’s girl Melanie, but who’s Jon?

ARCHIVIST

My b—

…

Um…he’s my…boyfriend.

KIERAN

(heh) Does Roger approve?

ARCHIVIST

He died five years ago.

But…you know, I think he would have liked him.

I think you’d like him. If you met him.

…

Maybe you’ll get the chance.

KIERAN

I doubt that, boyo.

ARCHIVIST

I’ll come back. When, when I figure out how to set you all free.

I will figure it out. What’s the good of working for the embodiment of fearful knowledge if I can’t occasionally learn something to my advantage?

[KIERAN LAUGHS. AFTER A MOMENT, THE ARCHIVIST JOINS IN]

KIERAN

Aye, maybe there’s something to that.

Let me rally the others. We can distract the Bookmasters, maybe keep them busy for a while, so you can get away. Do you—no, that window’s a bit small—ah, no offense.

ARCHIVIST

None taken. But believe me, I’ve forced my way through much smaller spaces than that.

…Thank you.

KIERAN

I’m just glad I can help.

And I’m glad to know that I finally became something important after all.

ARCHIVIST

What’s that?

KIERAN

Martin Blackwood’s father.

ARCHIVIST

…

You know…it’s a good thing Mum is the way she is.

KIERAN

Eh? Why is that?

ARCHIVIST

It long ago disabused me of the notion that parents have to love and be proud of their kids no matter what.

Otherwise I might not have believed you meant that.

KIERAN

Martin.

[FAINT FABRIC RUSTLES]

There has not been one single moment since the nurse put you in my arms that I have not been proud of you.

I love you, son.

ARCHIVIST

…

I love you, too, Papa.

[CLICK]

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest)#martin blackwood #death #unreality #injury #bleeding #arguments #mention of murder #implied/referenced emotional abuse #the formatting is better on AO3 #or my website

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leebrontide · 1 year ago

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Secondhand Origin Stories, Chapter 2

Here is this week's FREE chapter of Secondhand Origin Stories! This post is scheduled to go up on my birthday! Reblogs count as birthday presents!

For those of you just joining us, I'm posting a chapter a week of my free near future scifi/low neon cyberpunk YA/NA novel, which has been described as

"-a character driven, compelling story full of family, queerness, corruption, brain altering nanites, secretly teen parenting AIs, and taking aspects of the superhero genre to their very human and rarely-explored natural conclusions."

For content warnings and more, check here:

You can follow along by following #SHOSweekly

Chapter 2

Issac recognized Solomon’s brother instantly. He wasn’t on news streams often, but he was vaguely connected to the family, so Issac had gone out of his way to know what he looked like. He surfaced now and then to address some altered-related event that had people’s undies in a bunch. He was age-stable, like Solomon and Dad, but managed to radiate a certain old-man paternalism despite his unfortunate baby-face. Issac was surprised to see that the guy was barely over two meters-- Solomon and Yael both dwarfed him.

Everybody cut off their ranting mid-sentence, conspicuously silent in front of the interloper. Bridgewater tilted his eyebrows just the tiniest bit to let them know he’d noticed it.

Secretary Nodiah Bridgewater was as physically powerful as anyone in this building, but he was dressed to show off his power in Mom’s world-- the world of money, investments, and political capital. He wore an old-fashioned blue three-piece linen suit, and shoes as high quality as any Issac's dad owned. They clicked deliberately as he stepped off the elevator.

The semi-familiar stranger had chestnut brown hair and reddish brown eyes. It was as if the cultist wackos that had originally assembled the genes for the seven “Holy Kings” of the Heavenly Rule line had specifically not wanted any of them to look too matchy-matchy, and made them look as different as a bunch of burly over-two-meters-tall white people could look within the bounds of conventional aesthetics.

Bridgewater made up for his youthful features with an army-straight back and a dour expression that suggested Issac's whole family were the damn kids that wouldn’t get off his lawn. The jackass was only 36, same as Solomon.

He surveyed the room quickly, the way Issac had learned to expect from superheroes, sweeping through to identify relevant details. The hairs on the back of Issac's neck stood on end as Bridgewater's gaze lingered on him.

Crap.

Martin was never going to let him hear the end of this.

Mom sliced through the dense silence with clipped words. “Secretary Bridgewater. Pleased as ever to see you. May I ask why you felt it was appropriate to show up at our home with fifteen minutes’ warning on a Tuesday morning? I'm fairly sure you know I have a career outside financing the team."

Dad crossed his arms over his chest and loomed politely. Solomon didn’t move a hair, frozen, staring solemnly at Bridgewater. Behind them, Drew halfheartedly suppressed a cringe, but backed Dad up anyway.

Nodiah’s voice was a smooth baritone, with the casual sureness of somebody who’d gotten used to expecting obedience. "Well, then it's lucky I wasn't coming to discuss the team. I assumed that when the subject was your son, you would find the time."

Fuck.

Dad cut in with his LodeStar: Leader of the Sentinels voice, “Is there a threat?" Oh, this was going to go badly. Issac felt his hands start to sweat and his face go red.

Nodiah seemed just as happy to focus on Dad. Which let Issac breathe a little. "Yes. A dire one. I've been getting reports all morning, from universities all over the country, regarding the development of nanotechnology that has the power to alter and reprogram human brain tissue in living subjects. Which, of course, would be considered altering technology. Being developed on US soil, without an ethics committee or bureau’s oversight.”

Oh, what a load of barely accurate crap!

Drew stepped forward. “Issac’s a target?”

Nodiah's tone didn’t falter. “He’s the developer.”

All eyes were immediately glued to Issac, of course. Yael winced and bit xyr lip. Jamie flinched, but looked mostly exasperated. They both knew a little bit about his secret pet project.

He braced for yelling. For reprimands. He readied his counter-arguments-- he had loads. He believed in what he was building. He wouldn’t have sent it out into the world, even partially completed, if he didn’t. And it’s not as if he was publishing blueprints!

All the arguments he might have given died in his throat as he actually registered the expressions on the adults around him. Nodiah was impassive, but he was the only one.

The rest all held varying levels of sharp concern, and under that-- fear. Dad in particular had gone bone-white. Issac had maybe three other memories of him looking like that, and they all involved gunfire.

Drew looked like he was pretending not to be bothered by a punch in the gut. Mom had turned utterly unreadable, the way she did when she’d rather be caught hiding something than let out whatever was going on internally. Solomon, though, had one hand tight around Yael’s arm, and looked like he was preparing to take his brother down right here in their courtyard.

Ice cold anxiety peaked in an instant, then plunged away, leaving him irate. Words were the only defense he personally had at his command.

He opened his mouth, but Dad cut him off. “Look, Bridgewater. This is... it's not like he's been using human testing. Whatever he’s been designing, he’s just a kid.” He sounded…humble. Issac couldn’t remember ever hearing a tone like that before from his dad. Nobody had ever humbled LodeStar.

"He's of the age of majority in eighteen days, according to my records.” Bridgewater looked at Issac again, and Issac had to forcefully remind himself that Nodiah was here as a government official. He wasn’t going to attack Issac.

He raised his chin and looked Nodiah Bridgewater right in those calculating eyes. “It’s a medical treatment I’ve been working on.” He sounded defensive, but he didn’t care. He forced himself to recalibrate, trying to borrow a little of the charm his parents had lost track of this morning. “They’re just prototypes--”

Drew raised his voice enough to talk over Issac. “Look, do you want to talk or do you want to stand in the courtyard?”

Issac turned to glare at Drew. Mom caught his eyes with hers, and shook her head, silently forbidding him from responding. Issac looked back at her questioningly, missing the chance to try and find some kind of expression on Bridgewater as he answered, “I think that would be for the best.”

Issac barely suppressed a frustrated growl, and ran his fingers through his still soggy hair, but he headed towards his front door. Dad’s hand landed on the center of his chest. “Not you. We’ll call for you if anyone wants to talk to you.”

Issac's reply burst out louder than he meant, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “What?!”

Mom backed him up immediately. “You heard him.”

Issac boiled over. “Oh come on! You are all completely over-reacting! This is progress.”

Mom’s jaw set in at an unforgiving angle. “Issac Tillman-Voss. Do not test me on this. You will stay out of sight unless you are called.”

Issac gestured at Bridgewater without looking at him. “I don’t see why some government blowhard should get in the way of--”

“Issac,” Jamie hissed so quietly he almost missed it. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to be content with glaring as hard as he could at his parents. He couldn’t quite work up the nerve to glare at Bridgewater.

Mom’s voice smoothed out considerably, but was starched stiff with formality. “Right this way, Secretary.”

The rest followed. Drew passed him with a quick, commiserating little squeeze to Issac's arm. Yael made a step towards Bridgewater, but Solomon jerked xyr arm back. Xe stopped, looking hurt and confused. He gave xyr a warning look, then let xyr arm go and joined the others. Jamie watched them go with her shoulders curled inward and her arms wrapped tight around her midsection. Issac really hoped she wasn’t going to puke. That was all he needed to deal with today. Plus, if she did, he was pretty sure his stomach would follow suit.

The front door of his own home closed with a quiet but pointed click. Issac and Yael stared at it. Jamie sighed, and looked at Issac with a resigned sort of disappointment. He grimaced at her, and turned on his heel, heading to Jenna’s supposedly empty apartment.

Jamie hissed at him again. “Issac. Issac, you know that’s locked. It’s always--”

Martin let him in without a word.

* * *

Jamie slammed the door, letting it make the bang their parents were expecting, hoping nobody noticed it was coming from the wrong doorway. She turned to stare at her brother. She kept her voice low, even though Jenna’s apartment itself was a dead zone for the internal security systems. “You hacked the tower security? When?”

This would be a devastatingly bad piece of information for Yale’s uncle to find out. Jenna built the MARTIN system. It was supposed to be the best.

Issac glanced back at her, barely more than a rough shape against the windows of the east-facing apartment. “Don’t freak out.”

Jamie found a light switch, which she hadn’t had to do in years, and flicked it on.

Jenna’s living room was frozen in time-- as if a museum was doing a retrospective piece on the private lives of the Sentinels, and doing an eerily good job. The air filtration systems took care of the dust, and everything was exactly where it’d been left-- down to the dishes sitting in the drying rack and the magazines shoved under the navy blue corduroy couch, pages peeking out at the edges. The coffee table was still broken in half, and half the tiles in the kitchen had been pried up off the floor and stacked in a neat pile. Just like the last time she’d seen this room, nearly three years ago. A shiver went up her spine. She’d given up on thinking about this apartment, and about Jenna being gone. It was over. There was nothing she or anyone could do. And it hurt.

There was one change-- a brand new micro-fabrication unit sitting on the dining table, along with old-fashioned paper schematics and a stack of petri dishes. It had scratched Jenna’s table.

“Don’t freak out,” she repeated dully. “You just admitted to building prototype altering technology, in secret, and then started talking like a cartoon mad scientist in front of the head of the Altered Persons Bureau, whose Chicago office we live on top of. And when he comes in here to collect your stuff, he might find out that you’ve hacked one of the world’s top security systems to have a secret lab inside one of the most protected buildings in the US. And you have prototypes? Since when?”

Yael flopped down on the couch, and Jamie squashed down the urge to shout at xyr not to. You weren’t supposed to sit on a museum display. Yael was looking around the room with uncertainty, not looking at either of them as xe spoke. “Seriously, Issac. You, of all people.”

Issac threw them both a quick sneer to signal incoming sarcasm. “Oh yeah. Supervillainy. That’s exactly like medical technology I built to help people recover from, oh, say, brain injuries or nerve damage. I’m so evil.”

Yael frowned at him. “Don’t be glib. Did you two see Papa’s reaction? Wanting to hide Issac I get. He was the one violating international laws, and he’s only got one shoe on. But why would Papa hide me from my own uncle?”

Issac sat abruptly at the dining table. “Right? I’m not the one being weird. They’re the ones being weird.”

Jamie stayed standing, uncomfortable to be walking through a 3-D memory the way her siblings were. “I wish I knew what they were saying.” She glared at the carpet. “They’re talking about us! We have actual confirmation of that. We should get to know what they’re saying.”

Issac flicked a balled-up scrap of paper at her, missing completely. “They’re talking about me and maybe Yael. Not you, pipsqueak.”

She huffed. “Well, it’s still got to do with me!” Didn’t solidarity mean anything to them? Stupid useless older siblings.

Issac made a vague, unconvinced sort of sound, looking at his tech. Not actually rounding it up or anything, just sulking at it. Jamie looked at Yael, who was looking at the opposite wall, engrossed in xyr own little world.

Issac could build brain-altering nanites and could hack the MARTIN system. Yael was only a few months away from being a Sentinel. And their parents didn’t think they could sit in on a conversation. OK, yes, Issac had been making a mess of it, but maybe if they were actually allowed to speak for themselves sometimes--

Her reasoning caught up with her internal ranting. Issac could hack MARTIN. Jenna had destroyed all of the MARTIN scanners in her own apartment, but Jamie’s home was littered with them. She kept her voice low so the sensors in the hallway wouldn’t overhear her. “Just get us the feed on your phone! Then we’ll know what they’re saying! You can do that, right?”

Yael sat bolt upright. “Can you?”

He blinked vacantly at them, the way he did when he was caught completely off-guard by a question and had to reboot. “…No.” Jamie drooped in disappointment. “Not unless you have a sensor completely unconnected to MARTIN stashed in the living room.”

Jamie perked up again. “I left my guitar in the living room. It still has the recorder you made me in it. Would that work?” He’d made it for her himself, for her birthday two years ago, so she could record her practices to replay later and work on her picking.

“That old Z-wave thing? You still have that thing?” he asked condescendingly. She’d been caught with something obsolete. Their family wasn’t big on keeping things once they were obsolete.

Yael’s condescension was even more overt. “You know damn well she does.” Xe stood, joining them. “And I know you already have a feed from it going into your account. Good thinking, Jamie.”

Jamie’s head snapped up at Issac. “You have a feed from my guitar to your account? You-- you bugged my room?” Why? Why would anyone bother? Jamie was so boring-- but she felt her face flush anyways.

Her mouth hung open in shock as he made a distracted noise of agreement, then frowned at his phone as he tapped away at it. “But MARTIN is jamming the damn feed. Tch. Typical. Always sides with them at the worst possible--”

“Issac!” She tried to get his attention, but he stayed oblivious. Did she have any allies at all?

He looked right over her head at Yael. “Bet I can get around it.”

Yael nodded. “Well, hurry up if you’re going to do it. God knows what we’re missing.”

“Yael!” Jamie tried, almost wincing at the high and dangerously close to whining note in her voice. Ugh, she hated her high-pitched voice. “You knew!”

Yael at least had the good grace to give a genuine apologetic smile. “I told him he should tell you! But it really does only send the music to his account. I made him show me, I promise. No voices or anything.” It might have been flattering if he’d actually asked her.

“Ha!” Issac punched the air. “Sucks to be you, MARTIN! That’ll teach you to keep me in the dark.” He grinned triumphantly at them, as if he hadn't just admitted his third or fourth act of treason today. One of them against Jamie specifically. “I got the sensors off. We could walk up and sit right outside the door if we wanted.”

Yael raised an eyebrow. “Almost all of them would hear that.” Xe paused, then startled. “Wait-- you turned off all the sensors? On the whole building?”

There was Issac’s vacant look again. “…Yes.”

OK, maybe she could understand them not wanting Issac to speak for himself, a little bit. “Well, we’re all grounded for the next decade.”

Yael put a massive hand on her shoulder. “Not you. You didn’t do anything. Issac is the one dumb enough to do something like this with my uncle here. And I’m the one who probably should have stopped him.”

Jamie brushed the hand off. “It was my idea. Issac can’t plan his way out of a paper bag.” She straightened up. “And I’ll tell them so. I mean, I’ll tell them it was my idea.” She’d tried to take a stand earlier and been ignored. Maybe this would get her point across.

Issac shrugged easily. “Like Bridgewater said, I’m eighteen in eighteen days. After that, they can’t legally hold me against my will. No more being grounded.”

Jamie looked at him dubiously. “You completely missed his point.”

“I did not. Look, he’s not going to arrest me. This is Nobel prize stuff, here!”

Jamie rolled her eyes.

“It is! This will revolutionize neurology, endocrinology--”

“I know, I know. And I get why you’re making it.” Especially in this eerie diorama of a reminder. How could he stand to work in here? “But it’s still kinda creepy for someone who doesn’t know you. Especially since, apparently, you have actual prototypes now.”

“We could invite Nodiah to stay for dinner, get to know him,” Yael suggested dryly. Then, a little more warmly. “A little family re--” Xe cut off, squinting out the window. “What’s that?”

Jamie turned, and squinted in the same direction, but didn’t see anything but a particular swath of skyline she hadn’t seen in years. Jenna had been the one with the clearest view of Lake Michigan.

Issac followed suit. “Huh?” He leaned, then walked over towards the window.

Now Jamie saw it-- a black smudge, moving right at their height. Too low to be a commercial plane, too high to be much of anything else. Yael moved one arm in front of Jamie to block her from following Issac's example. “I think it’s unmarked.”

The smudge was growing. Yael sounded nervous. “Issac, come back over there.”

He took a step back from the window, tension starting to build in his shoulders. “I’ll just…turn the sensors back on quick.”

“Now, please,” Jamie agreed.

But Issac pulled his phone out of his pocket right where he was standing, and started dinking around on it. The smudge was a lot closer now. Yael took another step away from the window, pushing Jamie further back. Even she could see now that it was a jet-- something old she didn’t recognize. Her voice was a little unsteady. “Hey. Issac. Come on.”

He registered her tone of voice and looked up at her.

The jet was close enough now to see the shape of a pilot through the glass. She wanted to run, get away, but Issac still wasn’t moving.

Jamie ducked under Yael's arm, started to rush towards Issac-- wanting to pull him back. She didn’t even make it two steps before the image in the glass blurred suddenly, and the entire bank of windows shattered inward.

* * *

Opal heard the crying before she made it up the front steps of the house. She bolted the last few steps, letting the door slam against its hinges and almost running Shani over.

Her little sister froze up at the sudden rush, staring at Opal with huge frightened eyes and a wash of muted lavender light flickering from her hairline down, brighter than Opal’s because of her lighter skin. The fear only lasted a split second before recognition hit. Her shoulders slumped in relief. “Opi!” She put pudgy little hands on Opal’s ribs, steering her towards the stairs. “Fix it!”

Opal stopped, turning back so Shani could read her lips. “What happened?”

Opal had grown up with ASL as much as English. Her own hearing was annoyingly sharp, but Daddy’s implant had never been that good, and Mom had learned it as a kid for Auntie. But even though Opal was fluent, she couldn’t follow the furious, emphatic flurry of motions Shani ran through. Shani had no super-strength, but she was far faster than most people, and whatever had happened upset her enough to make her forget to sign slowly enough to be understood.

Opal motioned her to slow down, but then Shani just stopped, chest heaving. She treated Opal to a slightly tearful glare, and pointed sharply up the stairs, where Opal could still hear the uneven, hitched breathing of either Mom or Aunt Tess.

She nodded her agreement, and Shani nodded back, relieved again, before turning to trot out the door and down the front steps. Opal paused long enough to see Shani sit down on the broken concrete steps; away from whatever was happening, but easy to find if anyone needed to.

Opal made her way up the rest of the stairs. Nobody would be bleeding, anyway. Not if that was Shani’s reaction.

Mom was sitting on their couch, still in her scrubs, her eyes reddened by more than the exhaustion of the shift she’d just be coming off from. Mom didn’t have superpowers, and where Opal was “built like a brick shit-house,” as Grandpa used to say, Mom was all soft curves. She had skin the color of a found penny, just light enough to be a little blotchy from crying.

She was leaning against Aunt Tessa, whose eyes were a little pinked but whose even lighter complexion wasn’t puffed from any crying. She was frowning furiously, the hand not holding onto Mom’s hand in a tight fist on her thigh. They were both facing the TV, the sound off and closed captioning on.

On the screen were two serious-faced newscasters in front of an image of a jet hovering far too close to an exploding skyscraper. She could just make out the stationary caption behind the closed captioning. It read “Mystery Jet Attacks Sentinel Plaza: Chicago”. The closed captioning was flashing by-- rife with homonym errors from the cheap voice recognition software they used-- saying something about a mysterious “sonic weapon.”

Opal crossed to the room in a daze and sat down on the couch. Mom put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her in close, and Opal went, resting her head on Mom’s shoulder.

They watched silently for a few minutes. Opal was sure her mom was thinking about what would have happened if Opal had left a week ago, when school let out. She squeezed Opal tight when the news anchor said that LodeStar’s son had been in the explosion. The camera zoomed in on a small figure falling out of the shower of broken glass and debris.

Mom stood suddenly. “Mm-mm. Nope. That’s enough for me. That is enough of airplanes and skyscrapers.” She shook her head, looking away from the TV. “Opal, come help me with the dishes.”

Opal leaned to the side, looking around her mom. “It says LodeStar caught him. He’s in the hospital, but--“

“Opal,” Mom interrupted.

Opal didn’t sigh out loud. She just stood up. Aunt Tessa leaned the other way. “Well at least get out of the way so I can see, Emmy. Your butt’s blocking the captioning.”

Mom glared at Aunt Tessa, but took a step to the side. Aunt Tessa glanced at her. “You oughtta let her stay in here. This is superhero stuff.”

“She knows what she’s getting into,” Mom snapped in answer. “That doesn’t mean I need to look at it.”

Auntie sighed, settling back. “You better not tell her she can’t go.”

“Shut up, Tess,” Mom sniped before storming off to the kitchen. Opal followed, only letting herself drag her feet a little as Mom attacked the dishes. She wedged herself in by the sink before mom handed off the first pan to dry.

She let a few dishes pass in silence, thinking. Sentinel Plaza, attacked.

She’d planned to buy Greyhound tickets to Chicago tonight.

She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Mom. Mom sniffled, glaring down at some ground beef sticking to the plate. “Mom--”

“How’s your daddy?”

“He’s fine.”

“He’ll be less fine once he hears about this.”

Opal hadn’t even been thinking about that. She chewed her lip a second, then put another plate away. “I feel bad for them. With LodeStar's kid being hurt.”

Mom shivered a little. “I can’t remember his name, but he’d be about your same age, I remember that. Just a little bit younger than you.”

Was he that old? The dot had seemed so small. Opal nodded. “And they only lost Bion, like, three years ago. And all those newscasters that’ve been saying Capricorn should retire.” The Sentinels weren’t on TV as much as a lot of the other teams. Maybe they just didn’t need to be. They were too well-respected and too reliable to need to suck up to the press. Plus, she always got the impression they didn’t like it. LodeStar and Capricorn had been on TV just last week, and she remembered thinking that as easily as LodeStar conversed, as enviably comfortable as he was with microphones in his face, there was something tight about his smile, something distant about his eyes. Still, he was funny and charming, and never got riled up, no matter how obnoxious people were to him. He’d been reporting about yet another victory for the Sentinels.

Capricorn was usually with LodeStar in press meetings, but he didn’t tend to say much. Rumors suggested he had a crush on LodeStar or something. Not that Opal listened to rumors. But he did spend half of every interview watching his teammate. And since Helix was notoriously private, that meant LodeStar was the clear frontman of the team.

Was he going to have to do an interview about his son falling off a building?

Mom shook her head resolutely. “Do you have a point? Other than making me think about how underequipped they are, and how dangerous that is?”

“C’mon, Mom. You love the Sentinels. They’re your favorite. And I bet they really need some extra help about now, with LodeStar’s kid being hurt. Like how Auntie moved in when Shani got sick. Maybe they need me.”

Mom put a hand over her face, and was silent for a second. “You’re as crazy as your daddy.”

“No, he thinks I’m crazy, too.”

“He wants you to get better than what he did.”

“I know. I’m trying to.”

“I wish I could go with you.”

“Aunt Tess and Shani would have the house burned down by the time you came back.”

“Excuse me?” Aunt Tess appeared. “Did I just have a malfunction or did I really just hear that? I’m not the one who left the burner on last week, am I.”

Mom put a hand on her hip and glared. “I’d been up for twenty-six hours and still made you all dinner.”

Opal offered a peacekeeping smile. “Sorry, Auntie. I just mean you and Shani would have a lot of parties in here if mom wasn’t telling you no.”

Mom turned off the water, then tossed the soggy dish towel at Opal’s head. She caught it as Mom spoke. “Stop making me sound like such a wet blanket.” Mom looked at her sister. “She wants to go save the Sentinels.”

Auntie rested her elbows on the table and her head on her hands. “Of course she does. She wants to save everybody. That’s why she’s gonna be a superhero. Besides, she might as well deal with terrorists if she’s going to deal with Chicago cops. At least with the terrorists, she’s allowed to hit them.”

Opal raised an eyebrow. “Auntie.” Besides, not like Chicago cops were probably any worse than Detroit cops. The Detroit cops especially were used to dealing with altereds-- they carried high-voltage tasers that Opal and everybody like her were weak to, and had a ton of military-grade equipment. Opal was sort of hoping that since Chicago had way fewer altereds, the cops might be a little less militarized. After all, they had the Sentinels to deal with altereds, if they needed to.

“I’ll buy you some mace as a going-away present.”

Mom goggled at her. “Did you just tell my baby girl to mace a cop?”

“No I did not just tell our baby girl to mace a cop! But people don’t know her in Chicago like they do here. Some dumbass tries to mug her and she hits him, his whole body’ll just explode. Then what’s she gonna do? The CPD and the APB will have her before she even gets to the Sentinels.”

Opal took Mom’s place at the sink, getting the water back on but looking over her shoulder. “I’m not even gonna be alone. I’ll be with Aldis and his crew. And I think ‘explode’ is a little overboard.”

“How do you know? You never hit anybody.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ve got another present for you, too.”

Mom smiled now, tears in her eyes, just like when Opal smiled for her dad, but genuinely proud all the same. “A-hem.”

“We got another present for you.” Aunt Tessa amended. “Even Shani helped a little. Where is that girl?”

Mom looked at Opal. “Front step?” She nodded. Mom sighed. “I’ll get her.” She wiped her hands on the drying rag and headed back down the stairs.

Aunt Tess smiled at her. “Well, do you feel ready?”

Opal shook her head, leaning against the sink. “No. But that won’t stop me.”

* * *

Yael could sit still. Xe was capable of sitting still. Even now. No matter how bad xe wanted to get up and pace all over the room. Even if xe wanted to throw all xyr anxiety, guilt and rage at the ridiculous, unfair comforts of the sub-basement panic room and tear everything apart-- xe would sit still. Xe measured xyr breaths and kept xyrself from denting the metal table xe was sitting at.

Jamie sat across from xyr, emergency inhaler on the table. She was breathing again, but shallowly. Her face had switched from the painful, magenta flush of suffocation to the translucent white of exhaustion and strain. Each of her breaths were as carefully measured as Yael's. If she started crying again, it would set off another asthma attack.

The sub-basement panic room was a mishmash of old furniture-- a dust-scented space that was supposed to be familiar and comforting in times of danger. The only piece of furniture that wasn’t a leftover from a redecoration was the long, metal-topped table xe had never really thought about until xe’d seen it used as an emergency medical table, three years ago. When they’d watched Melissa try to put Jenna back together with blood everywhere and help already evacuated from the building. The room also had an old cabinet full of games and kids’ movies-- distractions, put here for scared kids younger than the ones here now. The stupid chess board on the long metal table gave Yael an anchor to stay by.

Xe moved xyr rook, pretty much at random. Xe couldn’t focus, but wasn’t willing to give up on the distraction that was keeping xyr sister from breathing right.

Unsurprisingly, it was a bad move. Jamie’s watery pink eyes-- the most vivid color in her face-- slid upwards to look at Yael with a guarded expression. She took the rook with her bishop, positioning it to take Yael's last remaining knight in the process. Yael quashed an irrational urge to be angry at her. How could she focus? How could she keep her mind on chess when their brother might be a wet, shattered mess on the sidewalk three stories up?

Maybe LodeStar had caught him. Yael had to focus on that hope. Even though Neil had told them more than once about how hard it was to catch people without snapping their necks or dislocating their arms. Yael would be ecstatic if Issac walked away with only a dislocated arm or two. Xe glanced at the bank of elevator doors. They’d been down here for over an hour. The jet had to be rubble by now. Their attacker had to be dead. Why’d they been left down here to wait, with no calls or contact?

Yael only had a hopeless chess game to buffer xyr from the blisteringly vivid memory of Issac’s face the moment he realized he was going to fall. That xe couldn’t get to him. Watching his hand claw at dust. Watching him mourn for a second what Yael might have to mourn forever. He hadn’t even been able to see that Yael had managed to grab Jamie and get both of them to the safety of the emergency elevators. Maybe he’d thought they’d died with him.

Melissa was painfully silent. She sat as still and focused as her daughter, over on the overly plush red couch that used to be Drew’s. Her back was to Yael and Jamie, head bent forward, waiting for a call. She had cleaned her tear-smudged makeup already at the sink, and might even have looked normal, if Yael had been able to make out her face. Yael didn’t understand how they could be so still.

Nodiah was here, too. Standing far away, with his back to them all, focused on his phone. He’d stayed standing, and had barely said a word the whole hour. He’d kept his his eyes off them, as if their fear and mourning were obscene, and he was uncomfortable around their grief. Even though he was powerful-- so powerful the adults seemed afraid of him-- he’d hidden down here, rather than joining the team above.

So had Yael.

Jamie's hoarse, breathless voice was almost swallowed up by the long, concrete room. “Yael.”

Yael turned back to xyr sister, who gestured minutely at the game with a trembling hand. Yael ground xyr teeth and tried to glue xyr attention to xyr sister’s needs. Xe could do this. There was still one thing xe could do. Jamie was close-- close enough Yael could have reached out and grabbed her again if necessary, could hide her fragile body under Yael's bulk. If there was another attack, Yael could protect her.

The hiss of an elevator sent Yael rocketing to xyr feet. The bench xe’d been on crashed to the floor as xe turned to face the doors. Melissa and Jamie followed suit, silently. Nodiah Bridgewater only turned his head.

The door opened to show an exhausted, dust-covered Capricorn. Not in uniform-- there hadn’t been time-- but still heroic. He was grim, but always was, after a fight. They-- everybody but Nodiah-- raced towards him. He didn’t make them wait. “Neil caught him. He’s at the ER and he’s stable.”

There was a collective exhale. Yael started as Melissa staggered on her tall shoes, and reached both hands to steady her on her feet. Jamie looked for a split second as if she might actually faint, and Yael panicked, trying to figure out how to catch them both at once, but Jamie only sagged, head bent forward and shoulders drooping. Melissa righted herself, touching her fingers gently to Yael's hand as she looked back to Drew. “I need my--”

His voice was gentle. “I’ve got a self-driving cab waiting for you on the east side of the building. I’ll--” he paused briefly, his voice almost catching. “I’ll stay here with the kids.”

She sagged again, lifting her cold hand off Yael and touching Capricorn’s arm instead. “Thank you.”

Jamie cut in, unexpectedly shrill and loud. “What?” She stepped forward. “I want to go to the hospital, too!”

Yael nodded emphatically. “We should be there with him.” Issac was alive. Xe’d failed him, but not fatally. Xe had to get to him.

Melissa shook her head, taking Capricorn’s place in the elevator. “Absolutely not.” She looked up, more sympathetically. “But I will let you know every single development as I hear about it. I promise. I’m not bringing a mob to the ER.”

“But--!” Jamie began, her voice on the verge of cracking.

Drew reached out to Jamie, looping an arm around her shoulders and stepping in to hold her. “He’s stable. You don’t have to hurry. It’s--”

Jamie shoved off him, propelling herself away, coughing violently. He recoiled, suddenly realizing he was covered in dust and the rubble from Jenna’s home. “Shit, sorry...”

Jamie waved him off, walking back to the table to sit down beside her inhaler. She was breathing deeply as she could, so she couldn't talk, but she leveled a glare at the rest of them. Melissa looked from her daughter to Yael, meaningfully. Jamie would stay, and Yael would watch Jamie.

Xe pressed xyr lips tight together and stayed quiet, miserably accepting the instruction.

The elevator door closed, and she left.

Drew sighed wearily, shoulders sagging. He glanced at Nodiah out of the corner of his eye, and straightened again. "Secretary. It's all clear upstairs."

"You killed him?" Yael prompted.

His eyes flicked to xyr for a second, then away. "We arrested him."

Yael's mouth dropped open, but Drew overrode xyr. "He surrendered. We don't kill someone who’s surrendered and subdued. You know that." His voice was steady, but he looked uncomfortable about it. He had to feel the same way Yael did. He had to. He loved Issac.

"But he--”

"That's the rules, Yael. You know that."

Yael’s hands clenched into fists.

Drew narrowed his eyes at xyr, glancing up and down. His voice was low, not quite a whisper, but this room made everything loud. "And cut that out."

His glance was xyr clue. Xe glanced down. Xyr skin was completely glossed over with a dark silver. Prepared for a fight, for danger. To pummel Issac’s attacker into dust. Way too late to be useful.

Nodiah was watching xyr with sharp, considering eyes. His voice was smooth as the flat of a knife, with just the faintest edge of sarcasm. "Well. Membraned thermal superconductive exoskeletal production. What a surprise." He looked meaningfully at Capricorn. "Aren't you surprised? This wasn't in her medical file, so I'm sure it must be the very first occurrence." He looked back at Yael, who was in no mood. Xe had mostly retracted the shielding when he spoke again, but it rushed back into place. "Wherever could you have inherited that, I wonder."

Xe wouldn’t be able to make the shielding hide under xyr skin now. How dare he comment on that, after a lifetime of ignoring xyr? He had no right to break that silence in his first words to xyr.

Drew sounded as rock-steady as ever. "The driver will take you wherever you need to go, Secretary Bridgewater."

Yael's uncle gave Drew a cold, irritated look, and stepped towards the elevator. Then he paused, turning back to xyr. He looked a little less distant, a little more frank. "I have always wondered. Did Solomon ever actually confess it to you, or did he leave you to work it out on your own?"

Yael bristled. Xyr voice came out a low growl. "My father has nothing to confess."

These were the words he’d expected. "Well, then I see you've inherited something from him after all. How much simpler for you both." He cocked his head to the side. "But you understand, don't you. When the public sees you, they won’t play along. Anyone who was alive during the South Dakota uprising will recognize you, or at least your abilities. Solomon’s charade will have to end then. You need to prepare yourself."

A lifetime of not talking about it and a morning full of rage and terror left Yael with no ready response.

He didn’t seem to expect xyr to have one. He looked to Capricorn, professional once again. "I hope you have your best marketing people on this. We can't save her from public opinion, and you know we won't qualify anyone who will make the public feel unsafe."

Drew didn’t speak. He only watched Nodiah with furious, unflinching eyes. Under layers of dust, Yael could see green lights flicker indistinctly. But his lights weren’t taboo like Yael's silver.

Nodiah rolled his eyes slightly, stepping onto the elevator and holding his hand out to prevent its closing-- he wasn’t used to MARTIN. He started to speak, but Drew's phone rang and he answered it immediately. Nodiah dared to look insulted.

Yael had the same exceptional hearing as most altereds. But Neil’s voice, rough and uneven, wasn’t clearly audible from around Drew's ear. Xe watched for clues-- slight relief, then concern, then muted horror and anxious purple lights leading to creases like cracks around his eyes. Still, his voice was steady. "Melissa’s on her way to you now. She'll be there soon. Do they--” He was silent again. Jamie pushed away from the table, avidly tracking every glimmer of emotion on Drew's face, every flicker in his skin. Yael didn’t think xe had ever seen Drew look so lost before. He turned his face, keeping Jamie from seeing it. "I-- I don't." A pause. "Keep me informed. I'll make sure Solomon and I get you the device. Maybe we can--" He winced, as the voice on the other end grew loud for one explosive moment. His voice was quiet, chastened. "OK. OK. Just keep me in the loop. Do whatever you need to. Bye."

He hung up, and collected himself. "Secretary Bridgewater, please consider this the notice that the Sentinels are in possession of damaging altering technology in connection with this morning’s arrest, and that we and Dr. Tillman will further investigate this device and complete a full-length report."

Any frankness from before evaporated. Nodiah was all business. "Altering?"

"Yes, sir. The device--" He cut off, head tilting back towards Jamie, as if suddenly remembering she was there. "I'll file a full report. Right now, I think I need to talk to the kids."

Nodiah was resolute. “Capricorn, an attempt was very likely made on my life this morning in your home. Do you really expect me to go back out there without knowing what it was they were trying to do to me?"

Jamie’s little voice prompted, "Drew?”

Drew dropped his eyes, but only for a moment, then he forced them back up to meet Yael’s. “Whatever that weapon was, it had varying types of attacks, for metal, or for stone. One of them seems to have been designed to cause neurological damage. They're doing an MRI3 on him now, but we won't know much more for a while.”

For a moment, everything was utterly silent. Jamie was the first to speak, her voice thin. "Is he going to be like Jenna was?"

Yael's heart shattered. "You can't send him away!"

Drew's voice rose in anger this time. "We didn't send her away." He moderated his tone. "You two know that. She moved out on her own. She made that call. And no, Issac will come home. We just don't know when yet. We'll take care of him." His eye caught Bridgewater, whose expression was unreadable, but held some kind of secret understanding.

Drew straightened to his full height, leaning almost imperceptibly towards Yael's uncle. His voice was controlled, icy fury. "Do not. Do not say what you're thinking. Not now, and not in front of them. Or to Melissa, or Neil. I swear to God, Bridgewater. If you can't dredge up that much decency now--"

Nodiah returned a small gesture of distant, dignified acquiescence. "I will leave you to your loss. My prayers will be with you."

This mollified Drew some. He still glared at the closed elevator door, even after it was closed. By the time he turned back to them, Jamie was walking away, back towards one of the armchairs beside the couch. She sat down with her back to them, curling her legs up and her arms in, disappearing from view. Only her increasingly uneven breaths gave away her location.

Drew watched her go, then looked at Yael. "We'll take care of him. Whatever comes up, we'll take care of him."

#SHOSweekly #free books #free queer books #scifi #ya books

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 years ago

Text

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Five: Taken

A powerful revelation. An important caveat. Regret.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

-----

CHAPTER FIVE: TAKEN

The morning is hard.

There’s no further reason to stay. They both know it.

They check the goods Martin procured for the Village, but that’s just lingering. There is no crime in this world. They both understand why, now.

And it isn’t better. It’s not, Martin tells himself, repeats, holds on to.

Still, they delay leaving, and hand-in-hand, and take one last walk around a London they’ve never known.

No one gives them a second glance, or cares the tiniest bit about their open affection.

Martin has enjoyed not being judged for loving whom he loves. But the rest of it….

It just isn’t fair, really. None of it is fair at all.

Pepper is in a good mood as they board the cart for their last journey through. Jon keeps looking around as they slowly ride through the streets toward the exit, and it’s not an ordinary looking around.

Martin can’t feel stories like Jon can. Has never felt statements under other people’s skins.

He wishes he hadn’t told Basira about Jon’s… bad behavior, during the worst of things.

Wishes he’d handled it himself.

But he wasn’t grown then. (That’s what it feels like.) Didn’t know how to deal with it. Had no confidence in confronting Jon, in risking Jon’s dislike.

Now, of course, that’s not an issue, and he recognizes the intense, unpleasantly hungry look on his lover’s face. “Steady there,” he murmurs.

And Jon understands, and slides his hand onto Martin’s thigh. Breathes a little funny—too slowly, too deep.

“I thought you said there weren’t statements here. It’s all controlled,” says Martin.

“Not the way we had them back home. But there are stories. Your favorite group has one,” says Jon.

Martin blinks. “Julia, Peter, Mark?”

“And Eloise.”

Martin’s eyes go wide. It takes focus to keep his hands steady on Pepper’s reins, to stay centered and steady-handed. “What.”

“Eloise. She was the fourth. They loved her. She loved them. But she was smart. She asked questions. And the King took her.”

This hurts on a level Martin hadn’t known he could feel since his mother died and he was left at Peter Lukas’ mercy. “Did he.”

“He did. He… he pays attention. Thinks it’s better for everyone. When someone questions, he doesn’t hold back. He makes it very personal.”

Martin has Eloise’s ink.

He breathes carefully, trying not to weep. “That’s not good.”

“No.” Jon exhales, focuses on his feet. “He’s sought them out for so long that it doesn’t happen often, now.”

“What, he’s bred stupidity? People are just born that way?”

“I think we both know this has nothing to do with intelligence,” says Jon. “If I had any, it never would have even gotten that far with Jonah, and we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Of course Jon went there. Of course he did. Martin sighs.

Kayne’s comment about Jon stabbing himself returns. He’s beginning to wonder if he understands just how much Jon hates himself. “Hey. You’re talking about my favorite person. Watch it.”

Jon smiles weakly. “It’s almost funny to think about. Even if I didn’t have that damned tether, he’d still have come to kill me.”

Martin does not think it’s funny.

“It feels like a bullseye on my brain, who I am. What I am. I’m afraid.” Jon looks away.

That’s more than Jon usually verbalizes about feelings. “Well, I’ve got no regrets,” Martin says.

Jon stares at him.

“I got to spend several nights in a feather bed, and my back has never been so happy,” says Martin.

Jon laughs. “There is that.”

“Let’s go south,” says Martin. “Why not? Maybe there’ll be a boat. And it’ll be lovely, anyway.”

And that, Martin thinks, is precisely how fucked they are: just going to find a pretty view, because there was nothing else to do.

Jon sighs. “What about Pepper?”

“I’ll try to make sure she gets back home. I’ll leave a note.”

“I suppose that’s all we can do,” says Jon.

“Yeah.”

They ride in silence for a while, until they pass through the oddly scaly walls, back into the wild outdoors.

Leaving London with its weird tri-hook shape is mostly a relief.

Mostly.

Jon hopes there is nothing left in that library he needs. To believe anything else is unbearably damning.

Martin is more than a little freaked out to find Nyarlathotep’s black book in the cart.

There is zero chance they brought it with them.

Jon doesn’t seem to notice. He’s building a fire, focused, and has been in his head most of the afternoon.

Good, thinks Martin, trying to decide if he’s going to burn this thing, or hide it, or toss it into the woods.

“He’s waiting,” says Jon, softly, into the fire.

Martin goes very still. “What?”

“The King. He’s waiting. We’re heading right for him.”

“Well, we’re turning around!” says Martin.

“He’ll just float over there and wait for us in whatever direction we pick.”

“Stop accepting this!” snaps Martin, who isn’t actually sure what he’s protesting, isn’t actually certain which part is making him mad.

Jon looks at him. “I will do whatever I have to do to keep his attention off of you.”

“Oh, so this whole time you were quiet, you were going insane,” says Martin. “No.”

Jon sighs and (finally) looks away, but his eyes—that expression—that piercing, too-broad, unnervingly inhuman gaze….

It wasn’t like in the apocalypse, no. It wasn’t that bad. But it wasn’t like in the Archives, either, when Jon was truly human, before Jon literally came back from the dead.

This mess has somehow jump-started Jon into going more eldritch, and now Martin knows where to direct his anger—at the King.

There has to be a way to stop this. “We have to run,” says Martin.

Jon just looks at him. “To where?”

Martin grits his teeth.

He tucks the black book into his bag with his notebook, though he’s not sure why. Sits with Jon for a while, eats a little with him; Jon’s bread is really good.

He douses the fire.

When he sits in the cart, he takes Jon’s hand, and urges Pepper the way they were already going.

There was no way out of this moment. But maybe they could do something after the axe finally fell.

“We’re probably near Brighton,” says Jon after what feels like hours. “Funny, that. It’d have been more thematically appropriate to head toward Bournemouth. Beginnings and endings, and all.”

“That’s morbid, Jon. Also way west,” says Martin, trying to lighten the mood. “Think your Yellow King would’ve had that much patience?”

“Probably not.”

They’ve reached some sort of finality, emotionally. Martin’s not sure they went through all five stages of grief, whatever they were (he only vaguely recalled the counselor telling him about them when his mum died), but this has to be some final point.

Acceptance? Sort of?

It doesn't feel particularly good.

The air has been briny for the past twenty minutes. He can almost hear the ocean, sometimes, when the wind is right.

It’s probably amazing. No industrial revolution, everyone so neatly (terribly) controlled. Martin wonders what color the water will be.

But the way Jon is looking ahead, they won’t be given the chance to enjoy that untarnished sea.

“We’re sticking with our decision,” says Jon, voice hoarse. “I’m not bringing the Fears here.”

“Of course not,” says Martin.

Jon’s eyes are wide, and he’s gone very stiff, and his teeth are bared. “No matter what, Martin? You won’t change your mind? Even if I can’t talk to you anymore. You’re certain. You’re certain.”

“I’m certain,” says Martin, but he isn’t, he is not, because he’s suddenly wondering at what point he would give in, at what point the price would be too high, and he hadn’t been thinking like that until this very moment, hadn’t been trying to count the cost the way Jon clearly had been for a while, but what else could he say? What else could he do?

Kayne was right. Jon will choose the way Martin wants, and that is not a power Martin wants to have.

“There,” whispers Jon.

Martin squints.

Ahead, the land drops off in a beautiful blue-gray line, and the thin, dark arches of birds hint at the expanse of the sea, the richness of whatever swims within it.

But there is a shape between them and the ocean.

It doesn’t resolve as a person, not right away. It’s off the ground, and it’s too wide, and it's yellow, and Martin can’t help pulling Pepper to a stop.

Jon looks at him. Into him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” whispers Martin.

Jon slides off the cart.

Martin leaps off, jogs around, stops Jon with hands on his shoulders. “No! Jon!”

Jon looks ill. “I have to go. If he has to come to us, it… it’ll be worse.”

“Don’t you dare do this! Where you go, I go. That is the deal, Jonathan Sims!”

“He could hurt you,” Jon whispers.

“And maybe he can, or maybe Kayne’s going to do it instead, but no matter what, I’d rather be at your side than trying to hide somewhere else!”

Jon leans into him. “All right. All right. It’s your choice. I’m never taking away your choice again.”

Martin exhales. That was an improvement, at least.

It still echoed past events too much.

I won’t have to stab him again, Martin tells himself, swears to himself, tries not to hear Kayne’s dreadful ways out of this—breaking Jon’s mind, or killing him. Why can’t we have… he starts, then stops himself. “Come on. You’re going in style.” He lifts Jon back into the cart like Jon weighs nothing.

That earns a weak smile. “Show-off,” Jon whispers.

Martin smiles. To his surprise, it’s real.

The King lowers slowly, timing his descent with the mule’s approach, and it’s so absurdly dramatic that Martin would laugh if he saw it in some show.

He has to admit it’s effective in real life.

The psychological power of it, the weight of heading willingly toward descending doom—

Yeah. It works. Martin’s a little irritated that it does.

Pepper is the only one who seems normal about all of this. The mule stops when bid, calm, and munches a little bit of grass that still grows before the sand takes over.

No one moves.

Is it a test?

Jon touches Martin’s leg. “I’m ready,” he says softly, and again, gets down from the cart.

So does Martin.

A million missed opportunities flash through Martin’s mind, little moments when they could have touched and didn’t, or when he thought something nice and didn’t say it, or when one of them or both were grouchy and let the silence go too long, or when they should have dug into a topic that needed digging and they did not, or—

Jon takes his hand. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” whispers Martin.

They hold hands and walk toward the end together.

The King doesn’t look toward Martin at all. “I see you’re better prepared this time.”

“Am I?” says Jon, and it’s not a tone Martin likes at all.

It’s too calm, too… too….

Submissive? No. But that’s almost the word.

“Yes. As I’m sure you’ve realized, there’s no point in denying what you are.”

It’s such a big voice.

Martin hates it, feels it. Suspects he’d hear it even if he were buried in the ground.

Wonders if he could somehow grab the Lonely, grab Jon, and vanish.

But no. It’s not near enough, not close enough. And Martin has not fed it at all since he came to this place.

Jon’s grip is almost painfully tight. “Please leave Martin out of this,” he says. “Please.”

“Oh, Jon,” says the King with warmth and fondness (and if Martin had an axe right now he might try chopping). “That’s going to depend on you.” The King in Yellow reveals a humanoid hand—huge, ebony black—and holds it out, beckoning.

It is so condescending, and so superior, a crumb thrown to a starving dog, a penny dropped on a poor man’s head, and Martin feels something rising in him he has rarely felt: rage.

This god is so certain it has Jon that it doesn’t even care how much this is hurting him.

Martin opens his mouth to say something.

“Now, is that really the way to start all this?” says Kayne, appearing as if walking out of a fog (and that was on purpose, and that was pointed at Martin, and he knows it was). “No, no, no—we will only have maximum fun with honesty all around.”

Jon makes a tiny, terrified sound.

Kayne beams at everyone. He just looks like a guy. Attractive in a symmetrical sense, brown hair, tan skin, nothing to write home about.

There’s nothing here that should be terrifying, especially next to the enormity of the King, but… there is.

It’s like he casts a shadow Martin can feel but not see, hungry and grasping.

Jon’s breathing has gone shaky and shallow. He stares.

Martin knows Jon is seeing something that isn’t just a guy.

“Leave!” growls the King, a low and terrible sound.

Kayne winks. “He can’t touch you, muffin-cakes.”

“What?” says Jon.

And Kayne’s fingers suddenly shoot toward them.

Long, thin, like some kind of horrible black spears tipped with flickering purple, they stop an inch from Jon’s face, too fast for anyone to deflect.

Jon cries out and stumbles back. Martin catches him.

“Hey!” Martin cries.

“Any more than I can touch that,” says Kayne. “Ew, by the way.”

“Wh-what?” says Jon, and looks at the King. “You really can’t touch him?”

There is a moment of thick and awkward silence that reminds Martin of nothing so much as the tension between Peter and Elias after he’d refused to stab Jonah’s corpse.

“No,” says the King at last. “I cannot. We have an arrangement.”

“What?” says Martin.

Jon looks at Martin with joy, as though they’ve received a stay of execution.

And Martin is furious.

It’s not enough to do this, to ruin the life they’ve built, to force these things on Jon, but it has to be done in such a humiliating way, making Jon grateful? “Jon, don’t—”

“Jon,” says the King, sounding warm and congenial and utterly demonic. “Come. Let us talk.”

Jon brings Martin’s hand to his mouth and kisses it, then looks at Kayne. “If you leave him unharmed, I… I swear, I’ll….”

“Not to be heartless—oh, who am I kidding, I am heartless—but you have nothing I want. If he’s going to be ‘safe’ (a relative term, don’t you think, if we’re being honest) it’s all on him.”

“Jon,” says the King.

Jon ignores him. He’s breathing too fast. Whatever he sees when he looks at Kayne is almost panicking him, and that—more than anything else—signals warning in Martin’s gut. “There has to be something!” Jon says.

Kayne just laughs at him.

“Jon,” snaps the King.

Is he jealous? Martin thinks, which can’t be, because this thing is old as the universe, not actually a baby, and so it cannot be jealousy he hears in that tone. “Jon, I don’t need—”

“We are done here,” the King suddenly says, and his freakish yellow cloak swarms, grows, swallows Jon and eclipses Martin’s sight, and there is the smell of stone and a weird, not-right heat.

Something trips Martin up. Just catches him like a foot to his ankle, and Martin goes down hard.

Jon’s hand is torn away, and he’s gone.

Martin screams.

“There, there, puddin’ pop,” says Kayne, almost sounding compassionate, close enough to kind that it’s clearly mockery, a joke at the expense of horrible pain.

Martin breathes like a broken locomotive, looks around, but there is no sign of them at all, no distant yellow shape, nothing.

They’re gone.

“No!” Martin cries, and turns to the only option he has. “What do you want? What? I’ll do it! Help him!”

“Mmmm, oh, lemme see, lemme think real hard, no,” says Kayne, and smiles.

Martin wants to hit him.

It’s stupid. It wouldn’t do any good to anyone, and probably wouldn’t even land.

It’s also wildly outside his normal reactions, this violence, and that realization lurches Martin’s heart in a weird, painful way. He curls down over himself, breathing hard.

“Oh, the desire to kill things, the need to hit? It’s not puberty!” says Kayne. “Exposure to something like Hastur makes all kinds of things go haywire. You’re lucky, really. You’ve been sucking down divinity, my boy. Archivist saliva, or whatever you’ve put in your mouth lately (ew, by the way) has given you loads of immunity. DNA, magic, all of that. Most humans just go completely bug-fuck crazy when they meet the Yellow King.”

Martin feels the truth of it. It’s sobering, humiliating, amazing. “That’s why everyone’s minds are blanked when he shows up,” he guesses. “So they don’t go crazy.”

“Very good! So smart. I could just eat you up.”

“And what are you doing to me, then, if that’s what his presence does?”

Kayne just smiles, and it is a wicked thing.

Martin decides he doesn’t give a flip about Kayne right now. “Jon,” he whispers, curling down further, and cries so his tears drip into the grass.

For a long moment, there’s no sound at all beyond his hitching breaths and Pepper’s munching, off to the side.

He’s never hurt this much.

His mother’s death didn’t hurt this much.

His banishment into the Lonely didn’t hurt this much (those first few minutes before numbness took hold were horrible, but this was still worse).

Stabbing Jon….

Okay, yeah, that hurt this much, but there was somehow more hope in that, because wherever they were going, they were going together.

This is not together. This is apart. And nobody even broke any promises this time.

He makes a sound, long and hoarse. He doesn’t know what it is. A wail? A cry? A bellow?

Kayne waits. Humming. Filing his fingernails.

It is ominous. Martin knows without knowing how that Kayne doesn’t do idle, doesn’t do bored.

“Just tell me what you want,” Martin says, his voice so quiet.

“You don’t even know what you want, little biscuit, so no, I don’t think I will.” Kayne sticks his finger in his mouth, then wipes it—wet—on Martin’s cheek.

“Oh, gross!” Martin startles, wrenching away from him.

“Mmm, it’s really not my style to help out,” says Kayne, “and don’t get me wrong, you’re adorable, but not, like, that adorable.”

And Martin says what he’s actually thinking. “If I really didn’t have anything you wanted, you wouldn’t be here.”

Kayne smiles, and it is dark, and final, as if Martin passed some kind of test. “Fair enough, my little dove bar, fair enough. You just keep making me so happy, so tell you what: you go take your cart home, and I’ll check in with you there.”

Martin feels like his heart is burning. “But that’s more than a week’s ride!”

“Sure is, mon petite profiterole.”

“You—look, why are you doing that? Never mind, why do you even know French?”

“Outside, remember?” Kayne says. “And a week is good! Should give you time to think, figure out what’s going on in that wholesome little head of yours.”

“But Jon—”

“Will be having an amazing time. Just imagine the war stories he’ll have!”

Martin knows pleading won’t help. He can’t threaten. He has nothing—except the bare, vague, unfounded hope Kayne will show up after he gets home. “Where did they go?”

“Nowhere you can follow on your own, my love.”

Mart hangs his head. Why does it have to be this way?

“Iunno,” Kayne shrugs. “Ta!”

Gone.

Just gone.

Martin rises and walks forward.

He stands in the surf for a while, boots in hand, letting the absolute aching cold of the ocean eat at his feet and ground him.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if…

If Jon…

If Jon what?

If Jon summons the Fears, Martin will be with him. There’s no doubt of that. Once Jon has the power to keep them together, he will.

But that would cost the world.

If he doesn’t—and Martin is sure he will not—there’s a good chance he’ll never see him again.

And it’s stupid, and selfish, and unwise, but he wishes he hadn’t been quite so firm when Jon asked that last, crucial question.

Not that he wants the Fears here. He does not. But there has to be a third way.

There has to be.

Pepper is waiting when Martin returns, and is more than happy to trot for hours while Martin goes numb.

(part six)

NOTES

Martin's right. It's absolutely not fair.

It's about to get worse.

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casspurrjoybell-17 · 1 year ago

Text

HEART'S FATE - CHAPTER 33

*Warning: Adult Content*

"There's no art show in Sacramento, is there?" Martin Hunter asks, when Skylar West finishes his tale.

His long blond hair is gathered in a loose bun at the back of his head and the rolled sleeves of his crisp white shirt reveal his strong, pale forearms.

He watches Martin with a line of worry between his brows and a look of apprehension in his eyes.

"No. There isn't."

Martin takes a sip of the white wine he'd paired with their meal and sets his glass down with a surprisingly steady hand beside his almost untouched plate.

Skylar had prepared something delicious, as usual, locally-caught pan-seared trout, a salad of fresh produce from a farmers' market and a roasted vegetable medley topped with salted butter.

Not a hint of the sea about it, apart from the salt.

"Martin. Say something. Please."

The single father looks up and realizes several minutes have passed in silence.

"You lied to me," he whispers.

"To protect you," Skylar insists.

Martin leans back in his chair and shuts his eyes.

The house is silent with the children gone.

Noah Hunter and his Mate Dr Ambrose Thorne had been only too happy to take them for the night.

And all Martin can hear is the tick of the antique clock and the whisper of his own breath.

Inside, he feels just as empty and quiet.

If his emotional energy wasn't already depleted, he might have been angry or frightened, disappointed or sad.

Instead, he felt numb.

This, at least, leaves his mind unclouded and clear.

"What would you have done?" he asks, opening his eyes and meeting Skylar’s anxious gaze.

The attractive Merman swallows hard.

He hasn't touched his plate either and the food has gone cold.

"I'd have sought a solution," he says.

"I know a Witch in Sicily and another in Madrid. One in Cape Town, too. I was hoping one of them might help."

"And if not?"

"If not..." Skylar says as he looks away.

The last of the evening light filters through the wide French windows, washing his profile in a ghostly blue.

"If not, then I would have gone back to our beach, to the place where I experienced the greatest happiness I have known and I would have let the sea claim its own."

"Without telling me," Martin states.

Skylar turns to face his lover again, brows pinched.

"To spare you, as I've..."

"It would have killed me, Sky."

Skylar West blinks.

"What?"

"I'm a Wolf, Sky and Wolves mate for life. Usually. Breaking a Mate-Bond is rare and painful. Even with everything Elena did to me, it still hurts. It still broke my heart,and a broken heart..." he rubs his chest. "It's not just a turn of phrase or some romantic idea. The damage is real."

"Are you saying... that you and I...?"

Martin holds Skylar’s gaze.

"You feel it, too, don't you?"

Without hesitation, he says...

"Yes. That night at the beach. I felt it strongly then. And... even now."

Martin nods.

"My heart recognized its true Mate and it Chose. So did yours. That's one reason I've been avoiding my brothers this week. A Wolf can tell when another Wolf is Mated and with the way you've been acting since we got back, I didn't want them to worry. I didn't want them to think... that I'd made another mistake."

Skylar draws a sharp breath.

"Martin, I didn't know. I swear I told you everything I knew at the time. Goddess, if only we'd waited one more night..."

"It wouldn't have mattered," Martin says.

"If you had disappeared, I wouldn't have simply shrugged and moved on. I'd have waited for you. And if you didn't come back... I don't think I'd have survived it. I definitely wouldn't survive it now."

Skylar swallows thickly and speaks in a whisper.

"Can't you let me go?"

Martin studies his beautiful Mer-lover without answering, absorbing the little details of his appearance, the strength of his shoulders, the high bridge of his nose, the little dips at the corners of his lips, the angled planes of his cheekbones and what would once have been called a 'noble brow.'

In a word, Skylar West is 'Princely' and Martin once again wonders how and why such a man would be drawn to one like himself but he concludes at last and despite everything, he can't bring himself to regret that he has.

"No," he says.

"I don't think I can. I'd do my best, if the worse comes to the worst, for my kids. Maybe I could hang on for a while, maybe even until they are grown. But it would be a half life and in the end... I think I'd follow you."

Skylar looks stricken and Martin rises from his seat and go to him.

Reaching for his hand, Martin draws him to his feet, pulling him into a close, light embrace and resting his head against his beautiful lover’s shoulder.

"My heart's been through the wringer, Sky and it's tired. Tired and wounded. But every minute with you is like a blessed rest. Our hearts share a fate now and yours is the stronger of the two, so mine will follow it. But... please don't ever lie to me again."

Martin pull away from Skylar enough to look up into the storm-tossed sea of his eyes.

Skylar nods and swallows hard again.

"You have my word."

"That includes lies of omission," Marin adds.

"If something happens, tell me. I may not have the strongest heart and I'm certainly not the fiercest Wolf but I still want you to rely on me when you need to. Besides, I'm not alone."

The Mer-prince’s brow creases with confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Surprising himself, Martin smiles.

"You've met my family, remember? Besides a pack of Werewolves, there's a man with the soul of an ancient Dragon, a Fae Princeling, an Incubus and a Kitsune who's barely tapped into his full powers. My brother, Noah works in an occult bookstore that apparently gives you whatever knowledge you most need and he's friends with the daughter of a Nagaraja, a Snake-God-King. We've got resources."

Skylar blinks at his Werewolf Mate.

"Oh..."

Martin’s smile falters and he lets Skylar see the raw sincerity in his eyes.

"And if we can't find an answer... then I'll go with you, Sky and maybe we'll find a different solution, in time."

Skylar’s eyes widen in surprise.

"You would leave the children?"

Slowly, the single father nods.

"I'll do everything in my power to stay with them but if I have to leave them for a while, so be it. I'd rather leave them in good hands with hope, than leave them forever."

"Martin..."

Martin sees the regret in his lover’s eyes and the apology forming on his lips and cut him off.

"I finally see where I've been going wrong. I finally understand what everyone's been telling me. Refusing help, not wanting to be a burden. The more I dug in, the more I struggled, the more I hurt the people who love me. I was slowly killing myself while pretending everything was fine. If I hadn't met you, if I hadn't accepted the help you offered me, I don't know how long I could have kept up that act. You saved my life," he add softly.

"At least let me do what I can to save yours."

Skylar startles as if stuck with a pin and pulls away.

For an awful moment Martin wonders if he has said something wrong but his Bond-Mate is not looking at him.

Instead, Skylar gazes down at his own shirt, beneath which something faintly glows.

As he draws forth his amulet, I see that it's now split in two, like the front and back halves of a symmetrical heart, each on its own chain.

Tentatively, he lifts one, his eyes widening with wonder as he successfully removes it from about his neck.

"Well, Martin Hunter," he says.

"It seems like you are right. My heart now belongs to you."

Martin steps closer again and bows his head so Skylar can place the chained gem around his neck.

"As my heart belongs to you," he says, looking up at his Mate, as the new weight settles on his chest.

"Unto death."

"Let us hope it does not come to that. At least not for a long, long time," Skylar says soberly, brushing the side of Martin’s face with the back of his hand.

"In the meantime... where do you suggest we begin?"

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strawtebby · 2 years ago

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TMA AU

The Mr. Spider book takes Jon as a child and he becomes infested, similar to Jane Prentiss. Fast forward a few decades and Martin is the new head archivist after the disappearance of Gertrude. He’s nervous and has no idea what he’s doing but when he learns about Jane’s apartment he decides to go, hoping maybe he can do something to impress Elias and show his colleges that he is right for this job. Queue to a series of entries where it’s Sasha, Tim, and Melanie worrying about him being sick and not being able to come in. Martin is locked in his apartment, much the same as before, and refuses to sleep in fear that the worms will get to him. That’s when he notices… there’s more spiders then usually. He talks to them, asking them nicely if they wouldn’t mind eating the worms for him, after all he’d always thought spider’s were kinda cute! To his delight there does seem to be significantly less worms these days and he finally decides one night, about two weeks in, that he absolutely has to sleep for more then 15 minute, he’ll never think of a way out of here if he doesn’t. So he settles into sleep, and when he wakes up the next morning he’s shocked to see… a little boy with pale brown skin, dark curly hair with a little grey peeking through, and spiders crawling around and nesting on him. What? Was this kid like Jane Prentiss? Shit, wait, speaking of Prentiss where was she??? He looks around but… there’s no worms? He looks at the child who holds out his hand, there’s webs hanging from it and a spider crawls out, setting a single, dead worm in his palm. Had this child… helped him? Martin cautiously stands up, looking nervous, and thanks the boy. He smiles and spiders crawl from the gaps where he’s missing some baby teeth. It’s unsettling to say the least but the smile is… genuine. Martin returns it with a nervous smile of his own and the boy gently grabs his sweater before starting to lead him out of his apartment. “W-Wait, where are we going??” He asks nervously. The boy stops and looks up at him, pointing to his eye and then pulling him once more. “Eye? What about an eye?” But the boy doesn’t respond, pulling him to a door Martin doesn’t recognize, one that makes him feel a deep sense of dread but before he can protest the door is open and he’s pulled through by the little boy into, into… into the archives? Tim and Sasha are amazed and terrified a bit by the child, but he manages to calm them down and tell them about what happened, about what he went through, and that the boy had helped him. Elias greets him but seems more then a little annoyed by the child who seems equally unhappy around him, clinging to Martins leg as Martin explains what happened. Elias just sighs and says he can stay in the archives in case Prentiss goes back to his apartment. Martin thanks him and starts trying to speak to the boy, he obviously wasn’t human, at least not really anymore, but gets nowhere. The boy won’t speak but they have to call him something and it’s actually Elias that suggests the name Jon, he says he just thought of it, but the boy seems responsive to it and happy with the name so long as Elias isn’t the one saying it, so it sticks. Jon refuses to leave, sticking to Martin, Sasha, and Tim like glue, and glaring at Elias wherever he makes an appearance. Martin doesn’t mind too much, he’s actually a very kind, if a bit exasperated and a little know it all, constantly correcting peoples papers and reorganizing the archives after someone puts something away, as if they didn’t do a good job. He doesn’t sleep, but keeps himself busy and as Martin goes to bed one night he thinks about their first meeting, about how Jon pulled him through the door… huh. What had he meant by they were going to the eye back then? Oh well, he didn’t really understand all this supernatural stuff, he probably never would.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma au #jon sims #jonathan sims #do not tag as ship #the magnus institute #tim stoker #sasha tma #tim tma #jon tma #tma martin #martin blackwood #Jon Sims: Avatar of the Web #spider jon AU

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makeitp1nk · 2 years ago

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY GEESE OF MY LIFE ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

@geesenoises is one of the most thoughtful, hilarious people I've met in fandom. She is a fantastic writer, and I s2g that whenever she posts something on Discord, I'm like "her brain, man. HER BRAIN!!!!!!" Mine stills struggles to call a singular person with a plural name, but my heart has zero problems ❤️ Anyway, I wrote this lil' thang to celebrate our beloved geese's bday ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

BIG SHOUTOUT TO @katie-alden FOR THE BETA ❤️

If You're a Bird, I'm a Bird

Drarry | Rated G | No warnings, just fluff | 1.3K

The horn blares so loudly that even Harry cringes from where he stands atop the hill of the reservoir. Once, twice, three times. The fourth lingers like a drawn-out cry for help. He tries to ignore it, he really does. Hermione talked his ear off about his inability to walk away from, well, anything just yesterday. One, two, three steps, and by the fourth he just can’t help himself as he runs down the hill and straight into a sight that brings his eyebrows to his hairline.

The reservoir geese, his favourite of the area’s creatures (because fuck the mean swans that chase him when he runs too close to them), are crossing the street. They’re in a neat line, waddling sweetly in front of an Aston Martin. The Aston Martin in question is blaring its horn and startling the humans (and swans, most likely) at the reservoir, but not the geese. Oh no, not the geese, those lovely creatures of chaos. One of the geese, a baby gosling, pauses in the middle of the road. And sits. His goose mum waddles back quickly. And sits with him.

More below the cut!

“NO GEESE, NO!” he hears as the person inside the Aston Martin screams from their window. The door suddenly opens, and a tall, slender man in a black cap steps out. “FUCKING GEESE!” he screams, and it’s not until he takes his cap and slaps his thigh with it that Harry recognizes him–it’s Draco sodding Malfoy. Harry freezes. He watches as Malfoy takes a sly look around the area. He considers running before Malfoy sees him. But it’s too late, he’s been spotted. Malfoy’s eyes go as wide as saucers when he recognizes Harry, and Harry’s forced to wave awkwardly and walk over–because as Hermione keeps reminding him, he can’t leave well enough alone.

“Erm, hello, Malfoy,” he stammers.

Malfoy slumps and raises his head to the sky–the picture of a man in defeat. He looks back down at Harry. “Potter, Saviour of the wizarding world, are you here to save me from the evil little geese?”

“Hey! The geese are the best!” Harry bristles. “It’s the swans you have to watch out for.”

“What’s wrong with swans?” Malfoy asks, his voice rising an octave in indignation.

“They’re mean, that’s what,” Harry answers as he crosses his arms.

“Swans are regal you philistine,” Malfoy answers with a sneer.

“Let me guess, you have swans at the Manor now instead of peacocks?” Harry says mockingly.

A full-body shudder rocks through Malfoy’s body, his gaze turns to the gravel. “I wouldn’t know.” He pauses. “My Patronus is a swan, you of all people shouldn’t blame me for being fond.”

“Oh,” Harry says softly. A trickle of warmth flows through his body. He’s just as in love with his stag now as he’d been the first time he conjured him. Malfoy had no reason to know the Patronus charm, but Harry was unreasonably pleased that he did… that he could. “Erm, so the geese?”

“Yes! Help me, please! I’m dreadfully late to a dreadful appointment.”

“What could be so important that you were about to do magic to get these poor, sweet geese off the road?” Harry asks self-righteously.

Malfoy rolls his eyes but looks down at the road, chastened. “Mother… Mother’s rather keen on, on seeing me with someone. It’s rather late for a pureblood of my age to be single,” he says as he toussles his hair–it’s longer at the top, and Harry watches, mesmerized.

“Oh,” Harry blushes.

Malfoy looks up at him, his cheeks a faint pink. “Yes, well, I’m not particularly interested in being matched… It’s just, Mother cares, and I should… make an effort.”

“Of course, well let’s see if we can get you to your lady quickly,” Harry says, scuffling over to the gosling and his mother.

“Gentleman,” Malfoy says from where he stands leaning on his car.

Harry looks up. “Gentleman, not lady,” Malfoy says, his cheeks now a shade of red.

Harry nods, feeling like a deer in headlights. Then he faces the geese and takes one step straight back. The mother goose stands. He takes another, and she follows as her baby rises. Another step and they’re moving across the road. Just a couple more and they’re successfully on the other side. He looks back at Malfoy, and he’s shaking his head.

“How are you so fucking good with animals? Wait, I forgot, you are one,” he says with a grin.

Harry rolls his eyes then breaks into a smirk. “If you don’t like it, I can always get them to cross the road back to the reservoir.”

“No, please!” he begs, despair on his face.

Harry laughs then sidesteps the geese and walks back to Malfoy. “Well, it looks like you’re all set here. I’ll, erm, let you get to your date.”

Malfoy’s phone rings at that moment, he fetches it from his pocket and his smile slowly turns into a grin as he looks up from the screen. “I’m free. I’m so late that he cancelled. I’m free!” His entire body relaxes, that edge and tension that Harry was so familiar with from their youth melting away to reveal sparkling grey eyes and lips curled in a soft smile. “Thank you for your assistance, Potter. How could I ever repay you?”

In helpful response, Harry’s stomach audibly rumbles. Malfoy raises one eyebrow, that soft smile still on his face. Harry blushes. “Yeah, um, food would be nice? There’s a spot a quick walk from here that makes massive burgers, if you’re interested.”

“How massive?”

“Close to three kilos,” Harry says, miming the gigantic size of the burger with his hands.

“Even you couldn’t eat that much!” Malfoy cries as he gestures for Harry to get in the car.

“I finished a one kilo one with twelve slices of cheese,” Harry boasts as he hops in the passenger seat.

“You’re a liar,” Malfoy says as he begins an illegal three-point turn in the middle of the road. Just as he’s about to drive, a goose hops on the road.

“You have got to kidding me,” he whispers under his breath. Another goose joins, then another, and another, until the whole gaggle is slowly waddling across–again. A bubble of laughter makes its way out of Harry’s mouth. Malfoy glares, but that only makes things even funnier so Harry starts to guffaw. Malfoy’s gaze turns from the gaggle to Harry and back, and just as the gosling parks its feathered bum on the gravel again, Malfoy breaks into a peal of laughter.

Tears roll from his eyes as he steps out of the car and tries to mimic Harry’s moves, but he’s laughing so hard he’s about to fall over on the road next to the gosling. Harry watches and laughs until tears are slipping from his eyes too. His ribs are starting to hurt from how much he’s laughing, but he can’t stop watching the joy on Malfoy’s face or his white-blond hair shining gold in the sun. He’s as ridiculous as ever, but it’s different now. Softer. Sweeter.

Laughter starts to dissipate as Malfoy finally gets the little gosling to follow him across the road. He turns to Harry and jumps and cheers in triumph. Harry concedes the victory, clapping his hands and bowing his head, and Malfoy’s smile is so brilliant that, for a minute, Harry can’t breathe. He just stares as he takes in the other man’s impressive frame from where he sits in the car. His plump lips as he climbs inside. And his long, pale eyelashes as he turns and says, “Everything alright, Potter?”

“Yeah, erm, everything’s fine,” he manages.

“Good.” That soft smile is back on his face once more, and Harry just knows he’s done for.

“Burgers?”

“Burgers.”

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY GEESENOISES #ALL THE LOVELY THINGS FOR GEESENOISES #p1nk loves friends #p1nk writes #drarry

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helaintoloki · 4 years ago

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Everybody Loves Somebody

pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

warnings: slight language, themes of insecurity, angst, pining, slow burn (kinda?), eventual fluff, over 5k words in length

notes: it’s finally finished! this took forever but I swear I put my entire soul into making this as perfect as it could be. I’ve never used this format before in my writing and it was challenging but also super fun so hopefully you guys like it :) (also yes the title and the fic somewhat is inspired by the Dean Martin song)

summary: Thrown into a blind date against his will, Bucky does his best to prepare in the days leading up to Saturday night, a feat that proves to be much more difficult than expected thanks to his neighbor across the hall.

Sunday

Three quick raps on the apartment door force Bucky to kick back the covers and sluggishly rise from his spot on the floor. He’s exhausted, but his recognition of the evenly spaced knocks on the wooden frame has him feeling compelled to answer, and so he does. Too tired to notice the television is still droning on in the background, Bucky idly wraps his discarded blanket around his form to shield his vibranium arm before opening the door to greet the old man standing on the other side.

“Rough night, huh?” Yori greets with a knowing smile.

“Something like that,” he replies with a tired, lopsided grin. “What are you doing here so early?”

“I set you up on a date,” the man says casually, as if setting Bucky up on dates without his knowledge and against his will is a common every day occurrence, and it is. “Saturday evening at six.”

“What— A date? Yori—“

“She’s a nice girl, very pretty. I think you’ll like her.”

“Now hang on a minute,” Bucky tries to interject, but Yori is already halfway down the hall before the super soldier can get another word in.

“You’re meeting her at the Italian place down the street!” Yori calls behind him. “She likes sunflowers!”

The old man’s shouts are sure to have woken up the entire fourth floor by now, but Bucky is too busy trying to process the jumble of information that has been thrust upon him so suddenly and so early in the morning to care. The last date Yori had sent him on had ended in disaster; Bucky wasn’t ready to get back out on the field, a stable relationship wasn’t in the cards for him. Surely no one in their right mind would stick around once they found out the truth about the man, and if they did it would only be a matter of time before the constant nightmares and extra baggage that came with dating the ex-Hydra assassin sent them running for the hills. But Yori meant well, Bucky knew that, and he also knew he owed the man more than he could ever give him in return, so if sitting through another painfully uncomfortable date would make him happy, then Bucky would just have to suck it up, put on the nicest shirt he owned, and charm his way through another awkward dinner.

“Sunflowers,” he grumbles to himself, quietly shutting the door before returning to his spot on the cold hardwood floor.

Monday

Monday mornings are gym mornings, early workouts that start at five and end at seven. He promptly returns to the apartment building at seven thirty, eight if he stops for breakfast, then goes to check the mail before heading back to the comfort of his sheltered apartment. He doesn’t receive much other than grocery coupons and an odd letter from the government every now and then, but he��s been told that a routine is good, it’s healthy, so on Monday mornings at seven thirty—or eight— Bucky pulls out his keys and opens his assigned metal box with a sense of indifference.

It’s eight o’clock on this particular morning, and with a half finished cup of coffee in hand the soldier opens the little metal compartment to find nothing other than stray specks of dust and the tiniest of spiderwebs in the top right corner of the box. It’s a familiar sight, but Bucky has learned not to let it bother him by now. Remember James, it has nothing to do with you, his therapist always said. You have to learn not to take things personally.

“It has nothing to do with me,” Bucky murmurs quietly before finally shutting his mailbox with a sigh. Coffee cup discarded in the nearby trash can, Bucky turns to make his trek towards the elevator only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of a beautifully familiar face.

Your name is y/n, you live on the fourth floor, and for someone reason you’re always covered in glitter. You’re on your way out the door, art supplies held clumsily in your grasp just begging to jump free from your hold, and despite the rush you seem to be in you still greet the man with a polite smile.

“Good morning,” you chime, honey coated voice filled with warmth and kindness for the stranger. Bucky simply gives you a halfhearted smile in return, watching you walk out the door and wishing he could just muster up the courage to speak to you.

You won the soldier’s heart the day you knocked on his door to drop off a “welcome to the neighborhood” casserole. It had only been his second day in his new apartment, and while he knew some of the other tenants were weary of the mysterious man with the thousand yard stare who had decided to call the building a home, you never once seemed to bat an eye at Bucky or his closed off nature. He had been a little short with you upon your first meeting, his anxiety coming off as annoyance, but still you wore that same kind smile of yours and assured him that if he ever needed anything you’d be happy to help. You were a kind person with a big heart, and Bucky didn’t want to chance snuffing out one of the few lights left in the world, so he let you be. Admiring you from afar was all he let himself have of you, and that was it.

Though, Bucky would be lying if he said you didn’t come across his mind every once in a while. He wondered what you were like, what music you listened to, how you liked your eggs in the morning, if you were an old soul or young at heart, if you’d ever let yourself fall into in the arms of a broken man and help pick up the pieces. It was a pipe dream, but sometimes a friendly smile from you in the morning was enough to get Bucky through an entire day. He hadn’t been with anyone in years, and while he didn’t think he was ready to get back out on the dating scene just yet he knew that if you asked him to he’d take the plunge in a heartbeat. You were an angel, and Bucky would never be able to bring himself to taint you with his touch.

Monday mornings are workout mornings, but they’re also mornings with you.

Tuesday

On Tuesday afternoons Bucky often finds himself in the company of Yori, ensuring the old man stays out of trouble and going out of his way to make sure his newest friend has a nice day out on the town. It isn’t much, and it never will be, but it’s enough for now, at least until Bucky can find the courage to tell the father just what exactly happened to his son on that fateful night. But until then, sushi for lunch will have to do.

He makes his usual trek to the man’s apartment, stomach already beginning to rumble at the prospect of a nice crunch roll, but Bucky’s hunger is soon replaced with nerves at the sight of the woman standing in Yori’s doorway.

You look pretty today, hair haphazardly styled in your rush out the door this morning, colorful stains of dry paint adoring your hands that clutch a bundle of books close to your chest, and a dangly pair of earrings that glint underneath the sunlight pouring through the hallway windows. There’s a smile on your face as you nod along to something Yori says that doesn’t quite register in the soldier’s jumbled thoughts, and the two of you are both too engrossed to notice his lingering presence standing just a few feet away.

“Thank you so much for lending me these. The kids keep me on my toes and I haven’t had any time to settle down with a good book so these were perfect,” you utter gratefully, handing off the pile of poetry books to Yori’s awaiting hands. Names of authors that Bucky doesn’t recognize catch his eye, just as his friend finally catches his presence.

“Of course. I have more if you’re ever interested,” he says before finally addressing the elephant in the hallway. “James, there you are. I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it.”

Bucky stiffens at the sound of his name, heat immediately crawling up his neck as you turn to him with a friendly smile. Clearing his throat, he steps forward and musters up a meager grin in return.

“Like I’d ever miss Tuesday lunch,” he jokes, a nervous chuckle falling past his lips.

“I guess I better get going. Thank you again, Yori,” you chime with a grateful smile. Then, with your attention turned to Bucky, “Have a nice lunch, James.”

“Thank you...” he trails quietly, mentally kicking himself for his stiff demeanor and wishing he could be less pathetic in your presence just once. Just once and he’d die a happy man.

You leave with a polite smile, turning down the hallway and out of Bucky’s grasp once again. Yori elbows his side.

“She’s single, you know.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Bucky replies with a wry chuckle. “You have me set up with one girl already.”

“Right,” Yori notes thoughtfully with a knowing smile and a mischievous glint in his eyes that Bucky can’t quite decipher. “I think you’re going to have a nice time on your date.”

“We’ll see,” is all he says in reply, your smile the only thing on his mind as the two men head out for the day.

Wednesday

Bucky has grown to love rainy days, days in which he can remain tucked away in the warmth and comfort of his own home with a relaxing mug of hot chocolate in one hand and some piece of pop culture media he has yet to catch up with in the other. Today’s pick is a book titled The Outsiders, and Bucky chooses to sit upon the windowsill to read the novel.

Gentle drops of rain trail down the glass window, pattering soothingly in a way that makes Bucky fear he may fall asleep. He sets the book aside with a tired sigh and glances out the window with his warm cheek pressed against the cool surface; the city is quiet and the streets nearly empty, and this makes it easier to spot you.

It’s almost as if you’ve been popping up out of nowhere lately, but Bucky never seems to mind. Watch from afar, that was the deal he made with himself, so who was he to complain if you made the task easier for him? He could never have you the way he wanted to because he doubted you’d ever want an unstable old man like him, and even if you did he’d be no good for you. He knew girls like you back in his day, girls with stars in their eyes and hearts on their sleeves, girls who’d melt in his arms whenever he so much as smiled at them. And yet you weren’t like any girl he’d ever seen; you were an enigma and he wanted nothing more than to spend all of eternity deciphering the mystery of you. But he couldn’t, because he shouldn’t, so he didn’t.

Despite the gloomy gray skies hanging above you there’s a serene smile on your face as you stop to admire the pots of sunflowers outside the building, reminding Bucky he has to buy some for his date on Saturday. God, he was dreading it. Bucky was sure whatever girl Yori picked for him would be nice enough, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t sometimes wish it were you he’d be taking out for a night on the town. A guy can dream, right?

You retreat into a nearby coffee shop when the rain begins to fall harder, and as Bucky turns to his own warm drink he finds that the mug is now cold. Book discarded, he rises from his spot on the windowsill and drowsily drags himself into the kitchen for another cup.

For a moment he thinks sunflowers might surely bring about his demise, and the passing thought brings the smallest of smiles to his face. Only time will tell.

Thursday

“How are you feeling about your date on Saturday?”

The woman stares at him expectantly, pristine notepad resting casually in her lap, pen in hand as a warning, eyebrows raised at the man as he stares down contemplatively at the stitching of his leather gloves. What should be a comforting environment instead only seems to put him on edge, and as the seconds tick by on the clock hung crookedly above the doorway her pen only seems to get closer to the blank page below her. Shoulders sagging, Bucky can only offer a small sigh in response.

“I can’t say I feel too great about it,” he finally says, the tension in his shoulders alleviating slightly as she finally puts the pen down.

“And why’s that?” Doctor Raynor prods curiously.

“I just don’t really think I’m all that ready for a relationship. What person wants to be with someone as screwed up as me?”

“The right person will,” Christina comforts. Your smiling face flashes briefly in his mind in response and he shifts in discomfort— the doctor notices. “But I don’t think you’re telling me the full story here, James. I suspect there’s something else that’s holding you back. Or maybe someone.”

“That obvious, huh?” Bucky retorts with a wry smile.

“Who’s the lucky person?”

“Her name’s y/n,” he says, your name falling past his lips in the softest tone Dr. Raynor has ever heard from him before. “I don’t know her all that well, but she lives in my apartment building so I see her around a lot. She’s... she’s really pretty.”

“Well, what is it about y/n that you like?”

Geez, where do I even begin?

“I don’t know,” Bucky shrugs, picking absently at a loose seam on the end of his shirt, “I guess I like how friendly she is. Every time I see her she’s always smiling, she always says good morning to everyone and lends a hand wherever she can. It’s like she goes out of her way to be nice to me, and I’m not really used to that but it’s a nice feeling. The first time I met her she never even flinched, she wasn’t scared like other people usually are, and even when I blew her off she still made it clear that I was welcome and if I needed a friend she’d be there. That’s the kind of person she is.”

“Did you take her up on that offer?” The woman asks, but by the look on her face Bucky is sure she already knows the answer.

“No...”

“James, we’ve talked about this,” Christina says firmly, “you have to stop closing yourself off from the people around you. Making a friend could really help you, especially if this girl is truly as nice as you say she is.”

“She is,” he reiterates firmly, “and that’s why I can’t be her friend.”

The doctor’s brows furrow with piqued interest at his admission, legs shifting underneath her as she gets comfortable in preparation for what will most likely be a heavy confession. “Can you elaborate for me?” She says. Bucky sighs.

“After everything that’s happened, and everything the world has been through, it just gets harder and harder to find some sort of light in the dark. So when you finally do find it, it’s like you have to do everything in your power to make sure it never goes out.”

“So y/n is a light?” Raynor reaffirms.

“For so many people,” Bucky nods, “and if I try to put myself in the picture I’ll only bring her down. There’s no future with me, and she deserves better than that.”

“How do you know that if you never put yourself out there?” The doctor asks softly, silently stunned by the heavy confession Bucky has entrusted her with; it’s the most he’s ever opened up before.

Pieces of the past dart through his mind, and in the midst of all the heartache and the chaos he sees Yori, the one friendship he’s been able to successfully maintain since his period of healing. The memory of the man is pleasant for a moment, until Bucky is reminded of the basis of their friendship and how one single confession will tear down everything they’ve built together. It doesn’t matter what kind of man he is now or how much control he has over his own life, the Winter Soldier will always have the final say, and nothing will ever change that. Finally, he speaks.

“I just do.”

Friday

“Crap.”

The softly uttered curse sounds from across the hallway and alerts Bucky of his struggling neighbor’s presence. Purse slipping off your shoulder and heavy groceries spilling from your arms, you struggle to maneuver your key into the lock of your front door all while the heat of embarrassment engulfs your body in a suffocating hold. You’re not as put together as you usually are, your belongings in disarray and eyes full of exhaustion rivaling that of his own, your usually meticulously picked clothing replaced by joggers and an old college sweatshirt that’s three sizes too big on you, and yet Bucky still finds himself frozen in your presence.

Don’t just stand there, help her you idiot, his mind screams at him, the soldier harshly swallowing down his nerves before taking shaky steps towards you. An orange slips out of the brown paper bag and rolls towards his feet, and Bucky takes it as his in into a conversation.

“Need some help?” He asks with a crooked smile, one that softens at the look of distress clear in your eyes as you meet his gaze.

“That’s the understatement of the year,” you breathe out before offering a meager smile of your own. “Some help would be great, thank you.”

Bucky takes the heavier bags of groceries from your aching arms and returns the orange to its rightful place, allowing you the chance to take your keys and unlock the door. You don’t spare him another glance as you walk in, leaving it open as a silent invitation for him to let himself in. Bucky swallows nervously but wordlessly follows behind; he’s never been in a woman’s apartment before, and the fact that it’s yours makes the experience all the more nerve wracking.

Your apartment is small but personalized, decorated with little knickknacks and houseplants and old family portraits that Bucky does his best not to stare at in fear of being rude, and the vanilla scented candle that burns on the coffee table makes him feel all the more welcome. You drop your purse by the couch with a tired sigh before directing your attention to the man who stands awkwardly in your living room. His hulking figure makes your apartment seem tiny, oddly comforting in a way, but you hold back your giggles and merely guide him to your kitchen.

“You can set them on the counter,” you say with a passive wave before reaching into one of the cabinets for a glass cup. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you,” the man says politely as he settles the heavy bags down on the marble surface; as much as he’d like to sit and spend the evening with you, he can’t stay long, or more like he won’t allow himself to stay long. Your movements are clumsy as you down your glass of water, and Bucky looks away flustered as little droplets begin to escape the corners of your lips and dribble down your neck. “I hope I’m not overstepping by asking this, but are you alright? You seem a bit... flustered.”

“Is it that obvious?” You joke quietly, your smile barely reaching your eyes as you fidget with the sleeves of your sweater.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky begins to say in fear of overstepping, but you merely shake your head in response.

“I’m just a little stressed out. The kids always keep me on my toes, especially now that there’s more of them, and it’s been hard trying to get some of them to readjust.”

“Kids?” He repeats with furrowed brows. He can’t recall ever seeing you with any children, and there’s no sign of any living with you in your apartment. A genuine laugh leaves your lips this time at his response and Bucky tenses uncomfortably. Did he say something wrong?

“I’m a kindergarten teacher,” you explain with a smile, and everything clicks in Bucky’s mind then. That would explain the constant paint stains and trails of glitter left in your wake, the arts and crafts supplies and stacks of drawings you seem to carry with you everywhere. And here he thought your heart couldn’t get any bigger than it already was— were you even real?

“The effects of the blip have been really difficult for them. It’s hard having to come back to school and see that all your old friends are now five grades ahead of you. I know everyone has been impacted in some way by what happened, but it’s harder for the younger ones to understand. I’m doing my best to make the transition back to normalcy easier for them, but some days are harder than others, you know?”

“Sounds rough,” is all Bucky can manage to say, swallowing his emotions back harshly.

“Yeah,” you sigh quietly, rubbing away the clear exhaustion in your eyes, “but I’m trying my best.”

“Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

You smile then, a genuine smile, one that makes Bucky weak in the knees, and suddenly it’s as if all the weight has been lifted off of your shoulders.

“I really needed to hear that,” you utter softly, “thank you.”

“What are neighbors for?” Bucky jokes lamely, but you must like his sense of humor for you let out the quietest of giggles.

“You’re sweet. I like talking with you, but I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you’re a busy guy.”

“Not really,” he shrugs with a crooked smile, “I just had some errands to run before tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” You ask curiously, brows raising with interest as Bucky awkwardly looks down at your hardwood floor.

“I’ve got a date.”

“Huh, no kidding. Me too,” you smile, and in response Bucky’s heart slowly begins to sink to his stomach. Yori had said you were single, but only an idiot would believe that someone like you could stay that way for long. Maybe if he had taken the doctor’s advice sooner he could be the one you’re seeing instead of the lucky guy that beat him to it.

“I should get going... I’ll see you around.”

“Thank you again for the help, and good luck on your date,” you say with an encouraging smile. Bucky swallows harshly in response, a look of longing in his eyes that he hides well with a meager quirk of his lips.

“You too,” he murmurs in response, casting you once last glance before showing himself out. The lock clicks behind him, and Bucky trudges back to his own empty apartment.

Saturday

The dining patio of the Italian restaurant is pleasantly empty, but the quiet stillness does little to help soothe Bucky’s nerves as he waits for the arrival of his date. He probably should have asked Yori what she looked like, what her name was and what she’d be wearing so he’d know what to expect, but the old man had been adamant on keeping the identity of his date a surprise.

“It’ll be better that way,” he had said, “trust me.”

The bouquet of sunflowers sits before him on the table almost tauntingly, their bright colors and sweet scent sending his senses into overdrive. He almost resented them, but then he thought of your smiling face through the window and the tension from his shoulders began to dissipate— if you could be strong and put on a brave face despite all the bad things that had happened in the world, then so could he.

“James?” A meek voice calls quietly, pulling the man from his thoughts. His blue eyes widen in surprise at the sight of the woman standing before him and he swallows anxiously.

“Y/n?” Bucky replies, quickly rising from his seat and cringing at the way in which the legs of the chair scrape harshly across the floor with his sudden movements. Here he thought you couldn’t get any more beautiful, and here you were proving him wrong with your cute little outfit and styled hair and charming smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for my date,” you explain with a sheepish smile. Bucky deflates— not only would he have to suffer through his own painfully awkward date, but he’d also have to sit and watch you get swept off your feet by someone else all in the same night.

“Oh... well, who’s the lucky guy?”

“That’s the thing,” you say with a nervous laugh, “I think you are.”

“Me?” Bucky repeats flabbergasted. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Yori was the one who said I should try dating again. He thought it would be good for me to spend some time with other adults since I’m always with my students, and when I said I didn’t really know anyone he told me he’d take care of it for me. All he told me was to come to this restaurant Saturday at six and look for the man with sunflowers,” you summarize before gesturing to the bouquet on the table, “and you’re the only one here with sunflowers so...”

A disbelieving laugh leaves Bucky then at the realization, and he isn’t sure whether he should jump for joy or wait for the ground below to swallow him whole. Finally he had a chance to spend time with the girl who had taken over his thoughts and occupied every available space in his heart, and yet he couldn’t help but feel terrified. A date was a big step up from neighborly conversation in your apartment, and all of Bucky’s hopes of developing something more with you were riding on this one date. Yori knew exactly what he was doing by setting the two of you up, and Bucky had no choice but to be grateful for the man who had bestowed upon him the chance to finally win you over.

“If this is too awkward for you we can just skip this whole date—“

“No, it’s not awkward at all,” Bucky is quick to interject. “I mean, this whole thing is certainly a surprise but it’s a good one. It’s an honor to be your blind date.”

He flashes a charming smile that makes you weak in the knees, and he knows then that he’s back in the game— who would have guessed he’d be able to dust off his old moves with such ease? He had to if he wanted any kind of chance at winning you over.

“In that case, why don’t we get out of here? This restaurant is a little stuffy,” you note with a small chuckle, your nerves slowly beginning to dwindle.

“Alright, what do you have in mind?”

The nightlife atmosphere of the plaza square is surprisingly much more comfortable compared to the dining patio, and Bucky considers himself the luckiest man alive to be able to witness firsthand the way your eyes seem to sparkle with the light of the starry sky. A nighttime stroll is right up Bucky’s alley, and you both fall into a comfortable step as you talk about whatever topic seems to come to mind. You speak of your students, about how much their smiling little faces have helped you get through the toughest times, how there’s a stray cat who calls the dumpsters behind your apartment building a home and waits for your arrival on trash days because you always bring the feline a special treat. Alpine, you had named it, and Bucky adored that greatly.

The details are vague but you enjoy the stories he tells you of his childhood and the way his whole face seems to light up at the mere mention of his mother and sister; that look dwindles slightly when he speaks of his old best friend, but you pretend not to notice. As a younger man Bucky worked at the docks before serving time in the army, though he fails to mention where he’d been stationed, and now he works for the government. You feel almost giddy to be learning so much about the man you once believed would rather prefer solitude over your company, and as the night drags on and the conversation begins to dwindle you almost wish you could reverse the clock and do it all over again.

“Thank you,” Bucky says after a moment of silence, prompting you to halt your steps and raise a brow curiously at your counterpart.

"What for?"

“Taking a chance on a guy like me,” he smiles faintly while offering you a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. “I haven’t really done anything like this in a while, and the idea of putting myself back out there scared me shitless, but you just make things so much easier. I guess what I’m trying to say is when I’m with you everything comes naturally, and I really appreciate that.”

“Oh,” you utter softly, a sheepish smile of your own gracing your lips as you turn away to admire the scenery around you. It isn’t until now that you notice you’ve stopped before the fountain, the arches of water flowing overhead illuminated by the fluorescent lights below them. A nervous fluttering occupies your stomach and when you finally meet Bucky’s gaze you feel as if nothing else in the entire world mattress other than the two of you in this moment. “Well, if it makes you feel any better I’m kind of in the same boat, so that just means we can figure this out as we go. Together.”

“I like that,” Bucky affirms with a nod, a look that can only be described as lovestruck taking over his features. Nerves overcome you then as you clutch your bouquet of flowers to your chest, heart thrumming rapidly in your rib cage as Bucky steps closer. The glove that had once shielded his right hand from the cold is now missing as he gently cups your cheek and encompasses you with his warmth. His palm is calloused and rough but comforting all the same, and it takes everything in your power not to melt like putty in his grasp.

“Is this okay?” He murmurs quietly as if raising his voice any higher will ruin the moment.

“Yeah,” you breathe shakily, swallowing back your nerves, “it’s okay.”

Your softly uttered words of confirmation are all Bucky needs to hear before dipping down and gently brushing his lips against your own. His movements are hesitant for only a moment, and it is only once he’s sure you are comfortable and secure that he moves in for more. Your lips are soft against his own, plush and warm and so sweet, and as your eyes begin to flutter shut and the forgotten sunflowers slip out of your grasp you drape your arms securely across his shoulders at the same moment in which his left hand joins his right in cupping your face as if you were a precious jewel in need of the upmost care.

Nothing exists when you are in each other’s arms, you are safe and sound in your own little world, and as you part to take a breath Bucky realizes then that one kiss is all he needs to know that you are the one he’s been waiting for all his life.

And by god, if you aren’t more than worth the wait.

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welcometogrouchland · 3 years ago

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I CAN FINALLY POST THIS!! Introducing the "Sasha lives but it's not a fix-it au" >:)

(please please click for quality, rb>likes, etc)

Image ID by @jadeandquartzes

[ID: A five-page comic. The first page is filled with white text against a black background. Along the top and bottom of the background are two rows of doors, sketched out in yellow lines. A face drawn entirely in pink lines grins eerily upwards from the bottom left corner of the background, while in the top right corner, an oval mirror is drawn in blue. The text of the first panel reads:

SASHA: I couldn’t see it, but I could...feel it. I could feel it coming for me. I thought I was dead. But, in my desperation, I started clawing at the walls, looking for...I don’t know what. Something that felt real under my fingernails. But, when I started to scrape, the wallpaper began to...peel off, is the best word for it, I think, but it peeled...more like skin than paper. Underneath the wallpaper...was a door. Old and rickety, partly sealed into the wall. I didn’t think, I just found the handle and pulled as hard as I could. It wouldn’t budge at first, and I thought for sure whatever was chasing me was going to catch me, a-and...but then, with one last burst of strength, I wrenched the door open and flung myself out of those hallways.

I hit the floor, and lay there for a moment...until I saw the floorboards and recognized a tea stain from a mug I’d dropped once when Tim had me doubled over in laughter from a joke he’d told. I could have cried. I was in the archives, I thought I was finally safe… Of course, then Michael showed up and...well you know the rest, don’t you? Statement ends, I suppose.

The second page shows Jon and Sasha sitting across from each other at a desk.

JON: ….right.

SASHA: I know things have probably changed a lot since I’ve been gone. But Jon…

[A close-up on Jon’s eyes]

SASHA: You do believe me, don’t you?

[Jon reaches across the desk and takes Sasha’s hand, and there is a closeup on their hands

together.]

JON: Sasha - more than anything, I’m glad you’re back. And I believe you.

[A cutaway panel shows Jon glancing to the side, sadly and apprehensively]

SASHA: Thank you, Jon.

The third page shows the door of Jon’s office, with pink swirls indicating motion and onomatopoeia indicating that someone is knocking on the door. Tim peeks his head around the door and then Tim and Martin enter together.

TIM: Hey! Um, Martin and I just wanted to see if Sasha wanted some tea?

MARTIN: Hey, Sash.

TIM: Um, if you’re all done here, that is.

[Sasha stands up to leave, before glancing back at Jon]

SASHA: Coming! …..see you soon.

[A separate panel shows the three of them in outline leaving through the doorway, with a closeup on Jon’s face as he watches sadly].

The fourth page shows a closeup of a tape recorder with white buttons and one red button as it is clicked on. Two panels show Jon speaking into the tape recorder with focus. In the first panel, a purple spiderweb is briefly visible behind him, and in the second, a collection of yellow eyes.

JON: Supplemental: I...it sounds awful but I’m not sure how to feel. I should be happy. I am happy. But something doesn’t sit right...at least Tim and Martin seem happy. Sasha’s account does line up date-wise. She first disappeared sometime in late September, roughly a week after my return to the archives and was...and showed up to the archives again on October 2nd, shortly after Helen Richardson gave her statement...and subsequently disappear-was taken by Michael herself. Sasha describes being trapped for a week. Sasha’s description of the hallways seemingly matches with that of Helen Richardson’s but….I...it’s just too easy. I don’t understand why Michael would let her go. Does he want her in the archives? And if so...why? He said...he said “don’t trust the hunter,” but I have no idea what he means by that. I want to accept this at face value, I want to be glad that my coworker, my friend, is back here safe, but I’m not stupid, and I know that’s the most unlikely-...nobody escapes from a monster twice.

The fifth and final page has a background made up of many colorful spirals swirling behind the comic panels, partially forming the hair and face of a person. A panel shows Jon continuing to record, with yellow eyes against the dark blue background.

JON: I don’t want to be paranoid. I want to be grateful...but in Sasha’s statement, when she talked about peeling back the wallpaper and finding the door. Helen’s statement didn’t mention anything like that.

Three more panels show Jon finishing his sentences, then staring off into the distance, lost in thought. The backgrounds are now pink, with eyes and cobwebs still persisting.

JON: It’s almost like Sasha...I don’t know, had more control? Power? But that doesn’t make any sense.

The final two panels are split diagonally, with the left half showing part of Jon’s face against a blue background with yellow eyes, and the right half showing Sasha’s face against a pink background filled with spirals. Jon’s dialogue starts on the left half and concludes on the right.

JON: I’m not going to antagonize Sasha. She doesn’t deserve that. But I will exercise caution. Until I find proof otherwise, I can’t trust -

JON: - that she is not Sasha. END ID]

#the magnus archives #tma #tma au #jonathan sims #sasha james #tim stoker #martin blackwood #spiral! Sasha #(incase that wasn't clear from the comic)#but yeah! this is essentially an au where the og archive squad does survive but the genre of the show doesn't fundamentally change?#it's still a tragedy- except this time it's a tragedy with my favourite side characters still alive lmao #god i hope there are no spelling mistakes in this. if there are I'll be mortified #anyway if you wanna. idk ask questions abt this au then I'd be ecstatic to answer them #there's a few fun tidbits in my mind i think! i doubt I'd write/draw all of it out because I'm not built for that #but i definitely wouldn't mind some discussion :]#idk what else to say? I'm really fuckin proud of this lmao #I've tried making comics before and the composition and drawings never turned out how i wanted #and it's so encouraging to finally make one I'm proud of? like esp in regards to colour and composition #I'm really proud of page 5 w/ Michael looming in the bg! im really proud of that ok!!#ladel's art #i also feel the need to mention that i made all the dialogue for this. essentially up on the fly?#like I prewrote the big chunks of text but beyond that? i made it all up in the sketch stage this was not scripted #if it doesn't make any sense that's why dhsbshdb #page stretcher #long post

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grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks · 3 years ago

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The penultimate chapter of my Fake Dating AU is up now! Read it below, or check out the whole story on AO3!

Content Warnings for this chapter:

- Internalized Ableism

- Referenced/Implied Child Abuse

Martin made himself a promise, as he and Jon arrived at the wedding. He was going to enjoy this last day as Jon’s fake boyfriend, and not spend the whole time mourning the fact that their fake relationship was coming to an end.

But that, of course, was easier said than done.

They entered the gardens where the ceremony would be held arm in arm, but Jon soon disentangled their hands and pressed a parting kiss to his cheek.

“I think I’m going to check out the bar,” he said, “It’s been awhile since I’ve been to a wedding, but I seem to remember they’re a lot more pleasant with a drink in hand.”

“Just be glad it’s not a Catholic ceremony,” Martin said, grimacing at his childhood memories, “They’re about 10 times longer, and they usually don’t have an open bar.”

“Well, when I meet the happy couple, I’ll make sure to thank them for that.” Jon lingered for another moment, eyes roving over Martin’s face as though he was debating whether to kiss him again, before he left.

“Get me a G&T while you’re there!” Martin called after him, and Jon waved back in acknowledgement.

Martin watched him go, taking in the way the silver streaks in his hair gleamed in the warm afternoon sun. He’d tied his hair back into an elaborate knot for the occasion, but left a few stray curls loose to frame his face. It looked nice, as did his outfit: a simple black suit with a light grey vest - nothing especially fancy, but it fit him well. Martin was going to have a hard time not staring at him the whole night.

Reluctantly, Martin turned away to look at the rest of the crowd gathered. It was still half an hour before the ceremony was due to begin, so there weren’t too many people. Martin recognized a few of his aunts and uncles, and a cousin or two. His mother, he noted, hadn’t shown up yet. Martin had offered to drive her, but she insisted on getting a ride from his cousin instead. He told himself it was nothing personal - James just lived closer to Devon, that’s all - but it still stung.

He felt a tap at his elbow, and turned to see Jon offering him a gin and tonic.

“Remind me how you’re related to the bride?” he murmured as he took a sip of his own drink.

“Rachel’s my cousin on my mother’s side. Her mum is my Aunt Aniela.”

“Right, right, your mother’s younger sister.”

“Correct,” Martin said. As part of Jon’s preparation, he’d studied Martin’s family extensively. He really didn’t have to; Martin wasn’t particularly close with any of his family - if he made it through the whole wedding without forgetting any of his cousin’s names, he’d consider it a success - but Jon had wanted to be thorough.

“She used to work at an art museum, and would always buy you postcards of your favourite paintings.”

“Correct.”

“She and Rachel’s father divorced after she had an affair with that violinist.”

Martin choked on his drink. He didn’t remember telling Jon that. “Correct, but I wouldn’t bring that up today.”

“I wasn’t going to!” Jon’s tone was defensive, but he was smiling. “Is he going to be here today?” he asked.

“Rachel’s dad, or the violinist?”

“Well, either, I suppose.”

“Rachel’s dad will be, the violinist won’t.”

“Makes sense,” Jon muttered, looking out over the crowd, and Martin noticed a strand of hair had come loose from his bun. He turned Jon back to face him with a gentle touch to his jaw, and then tucked the hair behind his ear.

“Y-Your hair,” he explained needlessly. Jon swallowed and gave a nod. Then he glanced at Martin and set down his drink, saying,

“Here, actually, let me fix your collar.”

Martin held his breath as Jon adjusted his collar and then his tie with deft, steady hands.

“There we go,” Jon whispered, smoothing out Martin’s lapels and letting his hands linger on his chest for longer than was probably necessary. “Have I told you yet how good you look today?” That was something a boyfriend would say, naturally, and not necessarily something Jon actually thought, but there was a sincerity in his voice that caught Martin off guard.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, “You don’t look so bad yourself.” And that felt so wholly inadequate for describing how Jon looked today that he had to add, “I mean, God, you look-”

“Thank you,” Jon said quickly, and turned away. Martin cleared his throat.

“A-Anyway,” he said, “That’s Aniela there in the blue dress, talking to my Aunt Irena.”

“Irena…” Jon repeated, searching his memory. “She’s the one who owned the yorkshire terrier that bit you when you were nine?”

God, why had he told Jon so much? “Yeah.”

“Should we go say hello?”

Martin agreed that they probably should, and they walked over to where Martin’s aunts stood chatting by the aisle. Although (or perhaps because) Martin hadn’t seen them in years, they each pulled him into a tight hug when they saw him.

“Martin, dear!” Irena cooed, “It’s been so long! How have you been?”

“Good,” Martin replied, though his chest was still constricted by Irena’s surprisingly strong arms. As soon as she let him go, he gestured to Jon. “This is my boyfriend, Jon. Jon, this is my Aunt Irena and my Aunt Aniela.”

“Lovely to meet you both,” Jon said, extending his hand, but Irena ignored it in favour of giving him a hug. Martin heard Jon let out a soft oof as all the air was squeezed out of his lungs.

“Let the boy breathe, Irenka,” Aniela chastised, swatting Irena’s arm. Once Jon was released from the hug, she held out her hand for him to shake. “Nice to meet you, Jon.”

Jon reiterated that it was nice to meet her, and offered his congratulations.

“Have you been taking good care of our Martin?” she asked.

“I, uh, I-I supposed that’s a question for Martin,” Jon said, and turned to Martin with a hesitant look on his face, as though actually anxious to hear the answer.

“He has,” Martin said. Jon gave him a small, private smile, and Martin smiled back, and he would have given anything, in that moment, for this to be real. Sometimes, when Jon looked at him like that (and held his hand when he really didn’t need to, and whispered I love you in the backs of cabs) he thought that maybe - but he couldn’t let himself think like that. It would only make things worse.

“Aw!” Irena said, startling the two of them out of their private moment, “What a cute couple!”

“Should we expect to be invited to your wedding soon?” Aniela asked.

Martin sputtered. “We’ve only been dating for less than a year!”

“Arthur and I had only been seeing each other for six months when we got engaged,” she shrugged, “Though I guess that’s not exactly a success story.”

“I thought you were disillusioned with marriage, anyway” Irena pointed out, “Shouldn’t you be with Rachel right now, talking her out of this?”

“Of course not! This venue cost a fortune, it’s far too late to change her mind now!” Aniela said. “Anyway, marriage is fine - wonderful, even! - if you find the right person, and Rachel’s found the right person.” She glanced at Jon, eyes sparkling. “And it looks like Martin has, too.”

The words hurt more than they should have. Jon turned to give him another smile, but Martin thought he could see a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.

“You only met him two minutes ago,” he told Aniela, trying to keep his tone light.

“I have a sense for these things,” she insisted, “And I can just tell you two are a good fit.”

Martin cleared his throat, took a sip of his drink, and silently prayed that the conversation would move on to other things. Thankfully, it did. They ended up talking about the weather for quite awhile, and it wasn’t until the second or third time that they all agreed how lucky they were to get such nice weather, and what a risk the couple had taken having an outdoor wedding in early May, that Irena spotted something over his shoulder and said,

“Oh, Martin, your mother’s just arrived.” Her tone was mild, matter-of-fact, but Martin tensed at the news. He followed her gaze to see that his mother had indeed arrived. He could see from a glance that she was worn out from the long drive, and he knew that however hard he tried to get her to rest and stay out of the sun and drink plenty of water, she was going to be tired and irritable the entire night. That still wouldn’t stop him from trying, though.

Jon turned to him, looking nearly as anxious as Martin felt. “I suppose we s-should go say hello.”

Martin could only nod. He slipped his hand into Jon’s as they walked over, and Jon gripped it like a lifeline.

“Hi, Mum!”

In all of the preparation for lying to his mother, all of the worst-case scenarios he’d stayed up worrying about, he somehow had never considered the simple awkwardness of Jon interacting with his mother - or, more to the point, Jon seeing him interact with his mother.

It was embarrassing. There were other words he could use, but none of them were particularly charitable to his mother, and that wasn’t fair, she was ill, so he stuck with ‘embarrassing.’ He pretended embarrassment was the only thing he felt as he leaned down to kiss her cheek and she grimaced the same way she might if an enormous, slobbery dog had started licking her face.

“Yes, yes, that’s enough of that,” she said, brushing him off. Then she waved a hand at Jon. “Is this the man you’ve been hiding from me?”

“I haven’t been hiding-”

She turned to Jon and said, “He never mentioned you, not once in - how long have you been together?”

“Five months,” Martin filled in miserably.

“Five months.” She swung around at Martin, “And don’t try to tell me it wasn’t serious - your cousin paid good money for this venue and this catering, so if he’s here, it had better be serious.”

“It just never came up,” he said, and that was only barely a lie. Even if he’d had a boyfriend, he wouldn’t have had a lot of opportunities to mention him for how rarely she accepted his calls.

Jon took all this in stride. “It’s good to meet you,” he said, extending his hand, “You’ve raised a wonderful son.”

“Well,” she said, slightly mollified by the compliment even if she didn’t agree with Jon’s assessment, “It wasn’t easy.”

“Should we get our seats?” Jon asked, glancing at the time on his phone, “I think the ceremony’s due to start soon.”

Martin took his mother’s arm and tried to help her to her seat (she hadn’t taken her walker or even her cane today, and she was more than a little unsteady on her feet), but she swatted him away.

“I’m not an invalid!” she muttered. “I can walk!”

They found seats near the back, and Martin took a seat between Jon and his mother. It was a surprisingly hot afternoon, especially sitting in the sun, so Martin was relieved that they didn’t have to wait for long. Soon enough, the music started, the crowd hushed, and they all watched as the bridal party made their way down the aisle.

The ceremony itself was mercifully short. Jon grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze as the officiant talked about love and commitment and the sorts of things people always talk about at weddings. As the officiant described the incomparable joy of finding someone who is both your best friend and your true love, Jon smiled at him, and it was all a lie, and that fact hurt Martin more than it ever had before. He consoled himself that people always cry at weddings, so no one would notice if he did now, but no tears came. In time it faded to a dull and distant ache, as Martin played his part and smiled back.

At the cocktail hour between the wedding and the reception, Jon and Martin made the rounds, catching up with family members Martin hadn’t seen in half a decade. He did end up getting one of his cousins’ names wrong, but his guilt was tempered somewhat when a different cousin called him “Marcus” by mistake. The conversations were largely insubstantial, as despite being family they barely knew each other, but all the relatives he spoke to invariably loved Jon.

Martin tried to keep that dull ache at bay as the congratulations for finding such a great partner came to feel more and more like disbelief that he could ever date someone so hopelessly out of his league. He knew that if their lie were true, he’d be preening, and bragging, and showing off his wonderful boyfriend, but as it was, he didn’t want to call attention to it. Because of course, they were right. Jon would never actually want to date him, no matter how much his smiles and glances and near-constant hand-holding sometimes seemed to suggest otherwise.

The phrase I have high standards flashed into his mind, unbidden, and Martin reminded himself of how many layers of falsehood were required to make this “relationship” work.

At dinner, Martin was seated at a table with Jon, his mother, and three cousins that he had last seen at their great grandmother’s funeral. Conversation was, predictably, sparse for much of the meal, but things picked up eventually. When the youngest of his cousins started telling a story about chasing down a runaway kitten during her first week as a veterinary assistant, Martin chimed in with,

“That actually reminds me of my first day in the Archives!”

His mother dropped her fork in distaste. “Your cousins are trying to eat,” she said sharply. “I’m sure no one wants to hear any stories about that ghastly Institute of yours.”

There was a long silence, during which Martin’s cousins looked down at their food to avoid looking at Martin, before Jon spoke up. “I’d like to hear that story, actually.”

“You were there!” Martin said.

“Yes, but I’ve never heard it from your perspective!”

Martin began, haltingly, to tell the story of letting a dog into the Archives on his first day. Jon listened attentively, as though he hadn't lived it, and flashed Martin an encouraging little smile. He gained a bit of confidence as he spoke, and eventually his cousins grew invested in the story as well.

“What did you do?” one of them asked Jon, who flushed and started stammering.

“Well, erm. Well the thing is-”

“Yes?” Martin asked, voice teasing.

“In fairness to myself, it was my first day, and none of the management seminars I watched prepared me for that!”

“So what did you do?” the cousin repeated.

“Well…” Jon started, but showed no sign of spitting it out, so Martin finished for him.

“He threatened to fire me.”

“I didn’t exactly threaten,” Jon protested weakly. “I implied…”

“Not very subtly.”

Jon hid his face in his hands for just a second before collecting himself and saying, “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m - I’m glad I didn’t fire you.”

“Hard to imagine I would have asked you on a date if you had.”

“And where would I be then?” Jon asked, and for a moment Martin could almost swear he saw a flicker of melancholy cross his face.

***

After dinner, there were toasts, during which Jon once again held Martin’s hand and smiled at him as though love were a secret that he and Martin and the bride and groom were all in on.

After the toasts was the cutting of the cake, and the bouquet toss, and what felt like a hundred more wedding traditions that Martin had barely remembered the existence of. Through it all, the wedding photographer moved through the crowd, discreetly asking guests to pose, or to smile, or to not look at the camera. When he came to their table, he got Martin to put his arm around Jon’s shoulders and smile.

“Say cheese!”

There was a click from the camera, and the photographer glanced at the monitor to see how the photo turned out.

“Adorable,” he said, giving Jon and Martin a thumbs up. “Oh, that’s just perfect.”

Martin checked in on his mother periodically throughout the night, though she brushed him off each time.

“I’m fine,” she said when Martin asked if she needed to sit down.

“Are you sure? It’s been a long day-”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she replied firmly. “Where’s that so-called boyfriend of yours? Why don’t you go fuss over him?”

Jon was standing by the edge of the dance floor, looking awkward, and reluctantly, Martin took his mother’s advice and went to see him. He smiled when he saw Martin walking towards him, but dropped the smile quickly when he saw his expression.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Martin lied, but Jon didn’t believe him for a second.

“Was it your mother? She seems…” Jon, very tactfully, didn’t finish the sentence but Martin could guess what was left unsaid and felt compelled to argue with it.

“She’s not well.”

Jon pondered that for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and serious. “That doesn’t excuse the way she treats you.”

“I mean, it does, though, doesn’t it?” Martin insisted. “She’s had a really hard life, and I wasn’t exactly the perfect son.”

“I don’t think perfection should really be the standard you’re held to.” Jon was agitated, but he seemed to gather himself as he said, “You’re a good person, Martin, and I find it hard to believe you aren’t a good son. You deserve better.”

Martin didn’t have anything to say to that, and the silence stretched for a long, tense second before Jon cleared his throat and said, “W-Well. Should we- should we dance?”

Martin sighed. “Nah, I’m a terrible dancer.”

“It’s a wedding, Martin. Being a good dancer isn’t really the point.”

“Still, I hate dancing in front of crowds like this,” Martin admitted, “Always feel a bit stupid.”

“What about a slow dance? Those are easy, all you have to do is sway and look besotted with whoever you’re dancing with.”

And, well, that didn’t sound particularly difficult. “I do have plenty of practice at that.”

“So you’ll dance with me?” Jon asked, and he seemed so genuinely hopeful that Martin couldn’t possibly say no.

“I will.”

“Good,” Jon smiled. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Aside from dancing, the main activity of the reception seemed to be talking to other guests, and as Martin didn’t know many people there, he spent most of the time sitting at the table with Jon as they tried to keep each other entertained. A few weeks ago, that task would have seemed far more intimidating than dancing, but by now it was easy, it was effortless. To make Jon laugh felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Eventually, they found themselves playing a game, wherein Martin would point out a relative and Jon would try to guess who they were.

“That has to be Rachel’s brother Mike.”

“Okay, okay that was an easy one!” Martin said. “What about her, in the red dress?”

Jon studied the woman in question as she danced enthusiastically to Mr. Brightside. “I’m going to say that’s Irena’s daughter Emily.”

“Nope! Guess again.”

“Hmm… Both of Rachel’s sisters were in the bridal party, so it can’t be either of them, I already met your Uncle Antoni’s stepdaughter Diana, she’s too old to be your cousin Quinn… I give up.”

“That’s my second cousin Lindsay - her grandmother is my Great Aunt Magda.”

“That’s not fair! I didn’t know there'd be second cousins here!”

“I definitely mentioned her, though.”

“I’ll have to check my notes,” Jon muttered. Then a thought struck him. “Wait, is she the one whose family lived on a farm, who taught you how to feed the horses?”

“Uh huh.”

“I can’t believe I forgot about Horse Girl Lindsay!”

That wasn’t very funny - it wasn’t even a joke - but something about the phrasing made Martin choke on his drink in laughter. Jon seemed quite proud of himself, though his pride quickly turned to concern as Martin gasped for breath.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Martin wheezed. Jon took a sip of his own drink to hide his grin.

Martin set down his drink and inspected his now-wet shirt. Jon grabbed a napkin.

“Here, let me,” he said, and suddenly his face was very close to Martin’s, frowning in concentration as he dabbed at the stain on Martin’s suit. He glanced up from his work just long enough to shoot Martin a quick smile. One last swipe with the napkin, and then he leaned up to plant a kiss on Martin’s cheek. “That’s better,” he whispered.

“I-I think I’m going to get another drink,” Martin said, though he wasn’t particularly thirsty. He just needed a bit of space from Jon all of a sudden - a chance to clear his head.

Unfortunately, Jon didn’t seem to pick up on this, as he glanced at his own glass and said, “I could actually use one as well.”

Jon was hovering by his elbow as he went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic and a glass of white wine. “And a glass of water,” he added on a whim. His mother never drank enough water at these sorts of events, and it was such a hot day.

He walked to the table in the corner where his mother was sitting, and Jon came with him.

“I brought you some water,” Martin explained, setting the glass on the table, “It’s easy to get dehydrated on a warm day like this, and I thought-”

“You thought I was too stupid to think of it myself.” It was clear from her voice that she was tired, and irritable, and quite possibly coming down with a migraine, and this was precisely why he’d wanted her to drink more water.

“No, I just-”

“You thought I couldn’t walk the two steps to get it myself?”

Martin opened his mouth to protest further, but Jon beat him to it. “He’s just trying to help!”

“I didn’t ask for his help,” Martin’s mother snapped, fixing Jon with a withering glare. “And I don’t appreciate being ordered around like a child.”

“There’s a lot you don’t appreciate, it seems,” Jon muttered, and her eyes narrowed in a way that filled Martin with a deep, instinctual terror.

“What did you say?” she asked, voice quiet and level in what Martin recognized as the calm before the storm.

“Leave it, Jon,” he said. Jon looked at him and softened. He seemed ready to let the subject drop when Martin’s mother said,

“No, I want to hear what he was going to say!”

“I was going to say,” Jon said, struggling to keep his voice from rising, “that Martin clearly cares for you very much, and he’s done nothing but try to look after you all night, and if you can’t bring yourself to feel any sort of appreciation for that, the least you could do is not berate him!”

“How dare you!” she hissed, eyes so wide Martin worried she was going to have a fit. “Who are you to tell me how to treat my son?”

“Why don’t we get some air?” Martin asked weakly, and he pulled Jon away from the conversation and out into the gardens. As soon as they were out, away from the heat and noise of the reception, Jon deflated.

“I’m sorry, Martin,” he said. “The entire reason I came was to impress your mother, and I-”

“You’re fine, Jon.”

“I’m a hypocrite, is what I am.” Jon sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, threatening to pull it out of its bun. “I don’t have room to criticise anyone else for not appreciating all the things you do for them.” He swallowed. “But, well, I have come to appreciate them. Too little, and too late, I know. A-And I know that you deserve so much more than my admiration, but I hope you know you have it. I… I think the world of you, Martin.”

Martin reeled, processing what Jon had said. There was no one around, this wasn’t a performance for anyone else’s benefit. This was just Jon, being honest. And of course Martin had gotten the impression that Jon didn’t hate him anymore, but to hear him say this… It took him a moment to find his voice.

“I… think the world of you, too, Jon.”

Jon turned away, doubt and guilt flickering across his face. “I’d understand if you didn’t.”

“But I do.”

“R-Right.” Jon coughed awkwardly. “S-Should we head back in? I believe you still owe me a dance.”

When they slipped back into the reception hall, the DJ was blaring a very high energy pop song that had most of the guests out of their seats and dancing tipsily. Martin could see Jon’s point about not needing to dance well at weddings - a quick glance at the crowd showed that Martin was unlikely to be the worst dancer there - but he still wasn’t eager to join them.

“Not exactly a slow dance,” Jon pointed out.

“Not quite.”

They grabbed seats by the edge of the dance floor and watched the group in silence for a bit. Martin might have been projecting, but he thought there was a tension between them, neither one quite sure how to move on from the conversation they’d had outside.

“That man at the head of the conga line,” Jon said eventually, pointing to one of Martin’s relatives. “I’m going to guess that’s… Antoni’s oldest son, Charles.”

“You cheated!”

“I did not!”

“You talked to him, you must have, or else you overheard something-”

“I just happen to be very intuitive!” Jon insisted, and Martin snorted, and whatever had hung between them in the garden dissipated like smoke.

***

They did dance, eventually. Near the end of the night, a slow song Martin didn’t recognize came on, and Jon’s eyes lit up as he said, “Oh, I love this song!” and Martin allowed himself to be led by the hand toward the dance floor. They were stiff, at first, and awkward, but as the song went on they grew more relaxed, and slowly melted into each other until Jon was resting his head on Martin’s chest as they gently swayed in place.

“Thank you for coming with me today,” Martin whispered into the top of Jon’s head, his words muffled by his silver-streaked curls.

Jon pulled away just enough to look Martin in the eye as he whispered, “Of course.” He held Martin’s gaze, eyes solemn and sincere, and carefully adjusted his grip on Martin’s hands so that he could tap - once, twice - on the back of one of them.

Martin froze. Jon hadn’t tapped his hand since their conversation at the bed and breakfast (except that once, when he was drunk and had asked Martin’s permission to hug him). I’d rather know exactly what I’m agreeing to, Martin had said, and, well, he knew now. He also knew that he didn’t have to agree, that Jon wouldn’t hold it against him, but he would never be able to forgive himself if he let this opportunity pass him by. He tapped, once, into Jon’s palm, and held his breath.

Jon cupped a hand on Martin’s cheek, pulling his face ever so slightly closer as he rocked forward onto his tiptoes. He leaned forward slowly, oh so slowly, as though waiting for Martin to pull away. Martin didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward as well, and their lips met.

The kiss was long, and slow, and tender, and it felt like saying goodbye. Martin tightened his grip on Jon’s back, afraid he’d pull away too soon, but Jon seemed to be in no hurry. When they finally broke apart, he kept his hand on Martin’s face, holding him close. His thumb brushed across the ridge of Martin’s cheek, as he looked up at him with wide, unreadable eyes.

“Martin, I-” he started, voice thick with emotion, but he cut himself off. He cleared his throat, dropped his hand from Martin’s cheek, and grabbed Martin’s hands to resume the dance. He never said what he was going to say, and Martin never worked up the courage to ask.

***

At the end of the night, Jon walked him home. It really wasn’t much of a walk from the sidewalk where the cab had dropped them off to the Archives, but the worms had been growing in number, so much so that he and Jon had to spend several minutes stomping the ones wriggling on the steps before they went inside, and Martin really couldn’t complain about having company.

“Here you are,” Jon said as they entered the Archives. “Home sweet…” he trailed off, the reality of Martin’s living situation apparently too grim even to joke about.

“Thanks for coming tonight. And for… everything else. I mean, you did so much-”

“Don’t thank me,” Jon said, “I had fun. You’re, uh. You’re good company.”

“You’re good company, too,” Martin said. Jon made a little noise of disbelief and opened his mouth as though to argue, and Martin pressed. “You are! You’re- You’re the best fake boyfriend I’ve ever had.”

It was a joke, of course, but when Jon looked at him, his eyes were wide and soft and painfully earnest. “You’re the best fake boyfriend I’ve ever had,” he said softly, and the sentiment felt, somehow, meaningful.

Jon took a step towards Martin, staring at him the same way he had in the garden, and for a moment time stood still. Then Jon stopped himself, patted Martin stiffly on the arm, and said, “Goodnight, Martin. I’ll- I’ll see you on Monday.” And then he was gone.

(View this chapter on AO3)

#tma fanfic #tma fic #jonmartin #jonmartin fic #long post

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