#but sometimes ill put stuff away and forget exactly where and its such a pain in the ass

[puppyeared]

31!

31: are you messy or organized?

[lubdubsworld]

Better Man. ( Taehyung x OC)

Chapter 1    Chapter 2

Rated 18 +

Post Divorce, Getting Back Together, Second chances, Angst.

Chapter 3 ~ The problem with marriage is this  : it isn’t worth the pain of divorce. 

Denial isn’t healthy.

 But sometimes it helps you stay sane , at least long enough to get your act together. When you’re in denial, you kind of keep yourself together a bit. You process things a bit more slowly. Take your time examining the facts. 

It helps you make a delayed but possibly more informed decision.

 Impulsive decisions never end well.

 So it’s good to stew in denial for a while ( a short while) and then slowly begin processing what happened, think about it, think how its gonna affect you and then make a choice. 

Unfortunately for Taehyung and I... I wasn’t in denial. 

Maybe I should have been.

 The time between Taehyung turning up drunk and the me leaving the house was less than twelve hours. Taehyung showed up drunk and I just told him I was leaving. That we needed a break and I didn’t know when I’d be back. 

Terrible choice.

 In the first twelve hours, the hurt is so potent and strong , the wound so raw and fresh that you can’t think beyond the pain . Your instinct is to repay the pain, to retaliate and make the other party feel exactly what you’re feeling. So you think of the thing that would hurt them the most and you go ahead and do it. 

Like move out of your shared home of eight years, take away the son he adored and possibly rip the ground right out from under his feet. 

And then after the first twelve hours, reason begins to catch up. 

I had wanted to go back. 

I had wanted to go back to him but I was scared. 

Scared that I was being weak.

 That if I didn’t stick to the choice I made, Taehyung would forever see me as a pushover. That he would take it as some sick permission to do it all over again. That he’d just think I was too weak to walk out on him. 

And i couldn’t have that. I couldn’t have him hurting me and not facing the consequences of it. I just couldn’t.

So I stayed away. 

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

I worked on the seventh floor of a high rise in Gangnam, probably a twenty minute drive from Taehyung’s agency. It was an electronic/ tech company that dealt with everything from mobile phones to home fittings . As the  assistant director of Marketing I dealt with branding and keeping up the image of the company. Annual budgets, endorsements, campaigns and what not. 

I was good at it and i enjoyed it . everyone agreed that i did a good job because the numbers spoke for themselves. But I think the main reason I got the job was because I was married to the biggest brand ambassador in the country. 

“ I need the reports on consumer trends for this month and I want to meet with Social media team before lunch. There’s a drop in our web traffic and that needs to be fixed.” I told my assistant, accepting the hot coffee and muffin that he held in his hand before moving to the corner office, my strides faltering just a bit when i noticed that  someone  was already inside. The figure had his back to me but I could vaguely recognize the broad shoulders and muscular arms. 

“Mr. Jeon’s been waiting for about ten minutes now.” Mingyu said with a smile and I nodded. 

“That’s fine , I’ll handle him.” I waved my assistant off and moved to the  door, unlocking it and stepping in. 

“Morning, Jang Mi.” He smiled, eyes flashing with ill concealed delight and I inhaled to calm myself down. . 

I could already feel a headache coming on. 

“Jungkook.” I said curtly. “ To what do I owe this very early visit?”  I glanced at my table finally taking the bottle of champagne in the small ice bucket. 

“Thought we’d celebrate you finally being free.” He grinned. 

Jeon Jungkook was handsome, intelligent , and annoyingly good at everything he did.

At 34,  He was one of the youngest CFO’s in the industry, and everything he touched turned to gold. I didn’t report to him and he had zero reasons to be in my office at any given time. But , unfortunately he had never gotten that particular memo. 

“I’m not in the mood, Jungkook.” I sighed, moving to the back of my desk and dropping my bag on the small ottoman on the side and my keys in the desk. I plugged my phone into the cable on the side and then went to open the blinds. 

“Come on... You know how sick I’ve been of two years of  hearing ‘ I’m sorry, I’m married.’ .... you’re gonna have to come up with  a better excuse the next time i ask you out.” 

“No. No is a whole entire sentence that you should be able to accept.” I said evenly, fixing the cushions on the couch only to have him plop down on them immediately after. 

“One date. Dinner anywhere you like. i can fly you to Paris if you want.... Macua? Jeju Do? Tell me what you want and I’ll get it done. ?” 

i stared at him. 

“I want you to fire Kang Yeseul from the Social Media team.” I said with a shrug. 

He frowned. 

“The new girl? Why?” 

“She’s been posting nudes that she took in my office when I was on leave last week. My name plate is literally visible.”

“Jesus fuck...these bitches get dumber by the minute.”

I couldn’t even deny it.

“I’ll take care of it.” He said swiftly. “ Anything else?”

“Web traffics gone down and I’m gonna find out why. It’s probably time for us to work out the budget for the Christmas Carnival. I think we should go for something new this time. If you can set up a meeting with all the department heads we can brainstorm a few ideas...” 

“I can’t forget about that night.” 

I froze. 

God. 

i turned around to stare at him as he lounged on the couch. If Kim Taehyung was the most handsome man I’d ever seen, Jungkook was definitely the second.

 He was disconcertingly good looking and where Taehyung’s image was always the clean cut gentleman with the perfect character, Jungkook had a reputation as a bit of a delinquent. Simply because he had a penchant for leather jackets and liked to ride around Seoul on his motorbike on days off. 

Which was ironical because in truth, Taehyung was far from a saint and Jungkook was relatively more put together 

He was also a divorcee and a single parent. His daughter Jennie was easily the cutest two year old on the planet.

His wife and him had fifty fifty custody but she had cheated on him with his best friend. Jungkook had no patience for her. They had a very volatile relationship but he was fighting for full custody and rumor was that he would most certainly be granted it, soon. 

A marathon runner ,  he didn’t drink or smoke.  

Jungkook liked to paint and volunteered at an animal shelter once or twice a month because he loved dogs but couldn’t keep one because of his busy schedule. 

So all in all , a pretty solid candidate if I was looking for a guy. 

Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that I was completely and utterly done with relationships for the rest of my life, I would actually give the guy a chance. 

But , it is what it is. 

“That sounds like a  you  problem. “ I shrugged. “ It was supposed to be  one  night  with no strings attached. And by string I meant awkward conversations three months later .” 

Jungkook groaned and sat up straighter, legs spread and shirt sleeves riding up to show a very sparkly watch. Rich men and their vices. I smirked a little. 

“Come on... its just dinner. I want to get to know you, that’s it.” he held his hands up. 

“There’s nothing to know Jungkook. I’m actually more boring than i appear, which is saying something. I’m not going to be the girl in the leather jacket clinging to your waist when you’re joyriding that motorbike of yours through Seoul. That’s not me. I would hate something that” 

He chuckled. 

“Are you sure? You ever tried it?”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“That’s not the point.”

“I’ll buy you a jacket. Join me this weekend. We’ll go a ride. Then you can make a decision.” 

I opened my mouth to argue when the phone rang. I grabbed it quickly.

“Hello?” 

“This is Lee Taemin from the Advertising Department.”

“Yes?”

“We have a Mr. Jung from HYBE on the phone. They want to talk to us about a possible candidate for our Christmas Campaign.... “

I blinked, surprised. 

“We haven’t even decided on a theme yet. “

Choosing the right actors to endorse stuff was usually the last step. 

“I know but he’s saying they want to talk about Mr. Kim Taehyung as a possible candidate?”

I felt my entire jaw come unhinged. 

I turned to Jungkook stunned. His eyes widened at the look on my face and he mouthed a ‘ What’ 

“Please tell him I’ll call him back in fifteen minutes.” I said quickly.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook demanded. 

“Taehyung’s manager...he... he wants to make him the face of the Christmas Campaign.” I said dully, mind ringing. I was utterly stupefied. 

Taehyung was the face of Gucci and Versace . He was so far out of our company’s league it wasn’t even funny. 

Jungkook stared at me in disbelief.

“No.” He said quickly.

I gaped at him.

“What?” 

“No... we can’t have that. He’s.. he’s obviously doing this to get back with you...”

I shook my head.

“that can’t be it. He’s the one who gave me a divorce. He’s the one who wanted to end it. “ 

It was the shock of what I’d heard. There was no other explanation for why I said that to Jeon Jungkook. 

Jungkook gave me a look.

“Really? But you wanted one too right?”

“Of course I did.” I lied easily, waving him off. “Anyway that doesn’t matter. We can’t say no to him, Jungkook. Our sales would skyrocket if we get him onboard.” 

Jungkook swore.

“Fuck, you’re right. The Ceo will probably piss himself in excitement. You sure you’ll be okay with it?”

Jungkook looked worried. 

“You forget that Taehyung and I are actually quite good friends.” I said gently. 

He grimaced.

“That's just unnatural. If you can stay friends with an ex it clearly means that either you’re still in love with each other or....”He shrugged. 

“Or what?” 

“Or you never loved each other in the first place.” 

I swallowed the remark hitting a little too close to home for comfort. 

“Schedule that meeting Jungkook. We’ll come up with a campaign theme that would fit Taehyung’s image. I’ll take to Hoseok and Taehyung.” 

“You’re going to call Taehyung?” Jungkook asked casually.

“Hoshi’s with him today. I’ll probably go over to his place after work and talk to him in person.” 

“Lucky bastard. He gets to hurt you and yet  still have you.” Jungkook said bitterly. 

I rolled my eyes.

“He doesn’t have me.”

“Doesn’t he? Why else would you turn down dates with anyone who asks? its one date.. a dinner... If you’re not still hung up on your ex husband why wouldn’t     you just go on one date with-”

I’d really had quite enough of it. I threw my hands up in sheer exasperation. 

“Alright fine.” I yelled, “  I’ll go to dinner with you...can you just stop psycho analyzing my relationship with my husband?” 

Jungkook’s smile told me that I’d been played like a fiddle. 

“excellent. Go see your husband after work and I’ll come pick you up at eight.” 

“What...no wait...”

“I know where he lives. Don’t worry about it. I’ll schedule that meeting and maybe after lunch we can go over the kind of budget you’ll want. Okay?”

I felt a little like I’d stepped into quagmire. 

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

I didn’t go see Taehyung after work. 

I didn’t have to. 

An hour before I was due to finish my daily report, he turned up at the office with my son. My assistant let him in and I could only gape at him.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked , completely thrown. 

“Mama I had ice cream with strawberries and sprinkles in a hundred colors.” Hoshi looked excited, eyes shining the way they usually did when he was with Taehyung. 

“That sound incredibly exciting....”

“We missed you mama....can we go again?” He said excitedly.

“I’m sorry honey, Mama’s a little caught up with work...”

“Why don’t we wait?” Taehyung said cheerfully, “ Mama likes blueberry scones so we can get those for her...” 

I stared at him.

“Okay...” I sad carefully, staring him down. What was he doing really?

“Okay... Can I go see the fishies....” Hoshi waved at the large fish tank built into the wall in my office and Taehyung laughed, letting him down.

“Sure bud.. go see how many of the fish you can identify...” He said brightly. 

“ Since when do you pick me up for blueberry scones after work?” I asked briskly and he shrugged.

“Let the kid be happy , Mia. I heard Hobi hyung already spoke to you.”

“What is that all about, Tae?” I said tiredly. 

“All the other offers i got are out of Korea. I want to stay with Hoshi during the Holidays so i thought this way , we could spend some time together..”

“By we, I hope you mean you and Hoshi.” I said drily.

“Of course. I could’ve picked another mall or something but i thought it could be a good thing if we worked at the same place... we can keep Hoshi with us and there wont be all the commuting back and forth nonsense....” 

I nodded. 

“I suppose you’re right. “ I sighed. “But be warned, you’re probably not going to have a very exciting time. 

“I’ll enjoy it nonetheless.” 

I nodded. 

“I won’t tell you how to live your life And I most certainly won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. My Ceo might just give me a huge pay raise for this. He’s been waiting for it since the time he hired me.”

Taehyung gave me a smile.

“I would have done it the minute you asked. You never asked.” 

I shrugged. 

“Like I said, I won’t tell you how to live your life.” 

“Jang Mi?” The knock on the door made us both look up.

Jungkook stood framed in the doorway, jacket off and slung over his arms . He looked bigger than usual, muscles straining against his button down and hair mussed. 

He stepped in casually, holding a hand out to Taehyung.

“The golden boy of Korea. in the flesh. A pleasure to meet you Mr. Kim. I’m Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook” 

The pair of them shook hands and I felt that I would rather be anywhere in the world than there. 

“ Nice to meet you Mr. Jeon.” Taehyung smiled politely. 

“We still on for tonight?” Jungkook asked casually, turning to me with a bright smile. 

This is why i hated men. 

Taehyung’s eyes snapped to me so fast that i was sure he must’ve got whiplash. 

“Sure. I’ll call you.” I said shortly. 

“What’s tonight?” Taehyung smiled, face neutral and smile still in place but his eyes flashed and his voice carried a knife edge to it. 

“Business dinner. We’re going over the budget for the Christmas campaign.” 

“Oh... where?” Taehyung asked with the same smile and I frowned.

“We’ve not decid-”

“I thought I could cook for you. i make a mean steak dinner and I thought I could pick up a bottle of your favorite wine on the way. You have my address right? ” Jungkook smiled. 

Taehyung went still next to me, his entire body taut . 

“A little inappropriate for a business dinner, don’t you think?” he snapped.

Jungkook glared back at him, eyes narrowed. 

“Well, you know what they say about all work and no play-” he began but I’d had enough. 

“I think this conversation needs to end now.” I said loudly. 

They  both shut up but glared at each other.

“I’m gonna make a reservation at the Hyatt for tonight. I’ll meet you there at seven thirty. “ I said, glaring at Jungkook. 

He nodded.

“Pleasure meeting you Kim Taehyung.” He nodded curtly at my ex husband before moving away. 

The silence he left behind was pretty awkward. 

“Bit too much of a douchebag than your usual type.” Taehyung said casually. 

I groaned.

“Don’t start.” 

“ I won’t if you don’t date him.” 

I opened my mouth to argue but then stopped. 

“Lets just get that ice cream ? “ I said tiredly. Hoshi reappeared from the inside room, looking excited and happy and I smiled despite my weariness. 

I could use a little sweetness in my life after a bitterly exhausting day. 

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

Author’s note : Feedback is welcome . Probably going to be a long , terribly angsty fic with a lot of pain for everyone involved. I still haven’t decided who ocs going to end up with so we’ll see... what do you guys think? 

[makeroomforthejolyghost]

In Search of Lost Screws (RQBB '21)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

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

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

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

“Nooo-oooo, come on come on!”

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

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

“What are you looking for?”

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

“Oh.” Jon huffed out a cynical laugh.

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

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

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

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

“Oh come on.”

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

“Do you know that?”

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

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

“Did you check for cobwebs?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm? Oh—no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me.”

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

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

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

“I suppose that does sound pretty nice.”

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

“It is a bit of a waste, I guess.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We might, though.”

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

“Not hungry.”

“A statement, I meant.”

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

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

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

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

“You hate sitting on the floor.”

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

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

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

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

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

Martin snorted. “I’ll risk it.”

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

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

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

“How loud is ‘pretty loud’?”

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

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

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

“You alright?” Martin asked yet again.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I mean—”

“Oh! I blinked!”

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

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

“‘Kay. If you’re sure.”

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

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

“Sure.”

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

“Of course.”

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

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

“Oh. Yeah, good point.”

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

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

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

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

Drowning in debt? We can help!

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

Right. Nope, never mind.

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

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

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

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

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

“Jon? Are you awake?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes.”

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

“How to put the doorknob back on?”

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

“Er…”

“Oh, god, sorry—I didn’t mean—”

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

“Still, I’m sorry about—”

“No, it’s—it’s fine?”

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

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

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

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

“No, Jon. That’s the wrong leg.”

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

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

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

“No, sorry, not all the way off—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s fine.”

“Oh come on.”

“It’s. Fine! It’s not important.”

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

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

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

“Oh? Great!—”

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

“I—I don’t, um. Think we have one.”

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

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

“Y…eah.”

“Any idea where to look?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

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

“Was eaten alive by mosquitoes,” Jon muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said that once,” Jon protested.

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

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

“No arguments here.”

“Where to next?”

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

“Except for the screws.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Somewhere… banal, less posh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon squinted. “Not even remotely.”

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean—I was, but—”

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

“Enlighten me,” Jon said wearily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sort of?”

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

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

“And then?”

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

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

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

“I—what?”

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

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

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

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“I don’t know, look?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon stopped walking and turned around. “What?”

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

“Huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you’re sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

“What fell? Are you okay?”

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

“Oh.”

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

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

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

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

“Do I have to?”

“Humor me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh—no—I didn’t fall; it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

“You—?”

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

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

“Well that’s obviously not true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sooo do you wanna fill me in, or.”

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

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

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

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

“Good night, Jon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here, Annabelle.”

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

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

“She’s already gone, Martin.”

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

“Shhh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“’Til Salesa sobers up, I meant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Unless she wove them out of cobwebs.”

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

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

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

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

“You alright?”

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

“Ha.”

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

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

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

“Right—the spider, yes.”

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

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

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

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

Martin sighed. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not this again—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better make it one of the sealed jars.”

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

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

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

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

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

Big sigh. “Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“I’ll try and be better about….”

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

“I mean, I am—”

“Well yeah but you know what I mean.”

“I do. I should’ve told you.”

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

“No—it’s fine?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ha, ha.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And do you know which screw that is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t know what else you expected.”

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

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

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

“I mean—”

“Wait, hold up, let’s double back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I think so, yes.”

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

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

“Food didn’t help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

“Hfff, okay—ready to get back to it?”

“Mrrr.”

“…Jon, are you asleep?”

He shrugged his hanging shoulder. “No.”

Nose laugh. “Come on, wake up.”

“Mmrrrrrrr.”

“My arm’s asleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

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

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

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

“Here.”

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

“Probably not.”

“Hm.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“Ooookay…! Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” managed Jon around a yawn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I let him go off alone.”

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?” asked Basira.

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

“So they just let you out for this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My first birthday in the Archives, yeah!”

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

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

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

“Except rum and raisin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

“But you never used it.”

“No—surely, I—”

“Not once before Prentiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry?”

“No—it’s.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How could I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just thought.”

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

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

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

“I wasn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

“Sorr—”

“—What do you mean, ‘technically’?”

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

“Well that doesn’t make sense.”

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

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

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

“Well it matters to me,” Martin scoffed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Y—eah. Sure.”

“Is that…?”

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

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

“That in itself is pretty weird, Jon.”

“Fair enough.”

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

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

“Martin?”

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

“You found the screwdriver.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Least our wallpaper’s better.”

“Tsshhyeah, and our view.”

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

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

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

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

“Uhhh.”

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

Jon smiled. “Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Statement time?”

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

“No, I’m alright; I’ll stay here.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you hated statements.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t do this right now, Martin.”

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he said.

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

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

“Hm?”

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

“I don’t think they work here.”

“What?”

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tim did.”

“No, he didn’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re right.”

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

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

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

“Not great?”

“Yeah.”

“I… I feel human, here.”

“Oh wow. That’s—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not great.”

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

“No, of course not; I just meant—”

“You deserve to feel healthy, Jon.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? You don’t seem like it—”

“Not today, maybe—”

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

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

“You sure?”

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

“Oh, god, of course you were—”

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

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

“Of course not—I got kidnapped.”

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Oh. I’m sorry, Martin; I didn’t—”

“Of me, I meant, it wasn’t fair.”

“Oh.”

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

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

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

Jon laughed preemptively. “Yes?”

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

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

“Yup,” concurred Martin at once.

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

“I do—I hate it.”

“I’m sorry.”

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I suppose we do.”

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

“What?”

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

“That’s… Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Do you remember any of it? W-What Salesa said? Annabelle?”

“Some, I think. It’s, uh… do you mind filling me in?”

“Wait, you need me to tell you something for once?”

“I guess so. It’s, er… it’s gone. Like a dream. What was it like?”

After a pause Martin said, “Nice. It was… it was really nice.”

“Even though Annabelle was there?”

“I mean, yeah, but she didn’t do anything,” shrugged Martin. “Except cook for us. That was weird.”

“She cooked?” Jon watched Martin nod and smile around a wince. “And we let her do that? I let her do that?”

With a scoff Martin answered, “Under duress, yeah.”

“Huh.” Jon twirled his cane in circles, wondering why he’d thought he would need it. “Well, she didn’t poison us, apparently.”

“Nope. And believe me, we had that conversation plenty of times already. Er—maybe just let me put that away for you before you take somebody’s eye out, yeah?”

Jon nodded, folded his cane and handed it to Martin, then made himself laugh. “Was I… a bit neurotic about it.”

“About Annabelle?” Again Jon nodded. “Oh, we both were. We kept switching sides—one day I’d be like, ‘But she’s got four arms, Jon!’ and the next you’d be like—”

“She had four arms?”

“Yup. And six eyes. But your powers didn’t work there, so we thought maybe hers didn’t either? Never did find out for sure. God—you remember the day we got locked out of our room?”

“Er….”

“So that’s a no, then.”

“Sorry.”

Martin’s lips billowed in a sigh. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“So… what happened? Who locked us out? Was it Annabelle?”

“No, no, no one locked us out. It was just me, I uh—I sorta broke the doorknob? God, it was awful. Went to open it and the whole thing just came off in my hand, like” (he made the motion of turning a doorknob in empty air, and imitated the sound Jon figured it must have made coming off) “krrruk-krr.” Jon fondly laughed; he could imagine Martin’s horror at breaking something in a historic mansion. “It was just one screw that came loose, though, so you’d think, easy fix, right? Except the bloody screwdriver took forever to find. Turns out Salesa kept them in the library, of all places.”

“S-sorry—what does this have to do with Annabelle?”

“Oh—nothing ultimately, just.” Martin grimaced at his own recollection. “God, we had this whole argument over whether to ask her about it, and when I finally did can you guess what she told us?”

“What?” managed Jon; his throat felt small and weak all of a sudden.

Martin put a finger to his chin, and blinked his eyes out of sync. “‘Perhaps he keeps them next to something that breaks a lot,’” he recited, with an inane, self-congratulating smile. For a fraction of a second Jon could recognize it as Annabelle’s I’ve-just-told-a-riddle expression. But the memory faded and he could picture her face only as he’d seen it in pictures before the change.

“O…kay. And was that… true?”

“I mean, yeah, technically. Useless, though. And after we spent so long agonizing over whether it was safe to ask her….”

Jon allowed himself a cynical laugh. “Are you sure she didn’t orchestrate the whole thing?”

“Ugh—no, it wasn’t her. We had this conversation at the time. You made me check for cobwebs and everything.”

“And you… didn’t find any?”

“Of course not, Jon; it was a doorway.”

“Right. Doorway, yes.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling better? You still seem a bit….”

“No, I’m—I feel fine, I just can’t seem to. Retain anything concrete about… where did you say it was? Upton House? God that’s strange, that it would just be….”

Part of Jon felt tempted to deplore it as a waste of space, on the apocalypse’s part. These stretches of empty land were one thing, but a mansion? Couldn’t they at least get a Spiral domain out of it?

“I mean, not really. He told us all about it, remember? With the magic camera?”

“Right, yes,” Jon agreed.

“Well, we got it all on tape, if you want to listen to it later.”

“Yes, that sounds—all of it?”

“Well not the whole week or anything. It just came on whenever it thought it was important, I guess.”

“So not the part about the doorway.”

“Nope.”

“Pity.”

[dwellordream]

the best laid plans

day 1 for @wayhavensummer because this is the only prompt I'll have time to do this week!

T Rating (for one brief mention of sex and one brief reference to emotional abuse) Felix x Detective Esme Kingston, 2300 words

The migraine cuts her to her core, and Esme can’t even manage the usual dose of guilt and hesitance she’d feel about canceling plans with Tina. They were supposed to go away this weekend, and Esme hasn’t been on a vacation since uni, but right now she couldn’t even make her way out of her flat, never mind into a car for a seven hour drive down the coast. 

She feels like vomiting, the pain is so intense, as if she’d been concussed. Migraines have been a constant for her since puberty; she has a vivid memory of her first one, when she was thirteen, and the long wait in the nurse’s office at the private school her mother paid so much money for. The same mother who eventually sent someone else to pick her up, ninety minutes after the first phone call. 

Esme doesn’t even remember who it was; some Agency intern? A vampire? A demon? Whoever it was, they brought her home, gave her some painkillers, and told her to sleep it off. She woke up hours later, in the middle of the night, to a still empty house. Rebecca had come home briefly to leave a note for her about some leftovers in the fridge and another one excusing her from school the next day if need be, and then gone straight back to work. 

Maybe Esme should have been outraged or hurt by this, but she doesn’t recall feeling much of anything at the time beyond hunger, when the pain had finally receded enough to think straight. She ate the leftovers cold in their sterile, silent kitchen, and put herself back to bed.

The migraines had intensified through high school, to the point where her mother considered putting her on permanent medication, before receding just before she went away to university. After that they were far more infrequent, which was both a blessing and a curse- it was easy to forget what the pain felt like, and to feel like it was weak, lazy of her to let it get the best of her. 

Bobby certainly didn’t help matters; the first one Esme had during their relationship came around shortly after they’d had sex for the first few times, and Bobby quickly became convinced this was her version of ‘not tonight, dear, I have a headache-’. That she was, for some ludicrous reason, exaggerating her migraines. 

If she didn’t want to have sex with him, she’d never had much of an issue saying as much, bluntly, clinically. Another thing he despaired of- her lack of social graces, her insistence on saying exactly what she meant, in her usual ‘ice queen’ manner. Now he had reason to call her frigid in more ways than one. 

Esme still isn’t sure how things between them ever lasted as long as seven torturous months. She assumes they both had a private masochistic streak- why else would two people who made one another so blatantly unhappy stay together? 

Bobby isn’t here now, of course, to whinge and moan about her ignoring him, but there’s still a little voice in her head telling her to get up and stop acting like a baby when the evening rolls around. The pain has greatly lessened, thankfully, and she’s hungry, which is usually a good sign, but she’s also exhausted and cranky and generally miserable, feeling as though an entire day was wasted, one she could have spent with her best friend, on her way to a vacation. 

Now, again, she is alone in a dark room. She slowly rolls over onto her side, bracing for a wave of pain or nausea, then pushes herself up onto her elbows and gropes at her night table for her phone. She has several missed calls and texts. Two from Tina, one from her mother, and one from Felix, which is the most recent, about thirty minutes ago. 

Felix H: omw over to drop stuff off. 30 min???

She checks the time, then jumps, almost bashing her head into the headboard, when she hears a quiet knock at her door. For a moment Esme considers lying back down and not answering it; Felix can be persistent but he would never try to break her door down, especially when he knows she’s ill. 

Then she clambers out of bed, some instinct driving her, a desperate kind of loneliness- for an instant tears spring to her eyes, as if she were a child again, terrified of being left alone, that she will just miss him, that she will pull open the door and he will already be gone-

“Ez?”

He’s right there when she yanks open the door, the chain still in place. Esme undoes it and pulls the door open all the way. Felix is staring at her, a small bag of groceries in hand. Vampires have far better temperature regulation than humans but it’s obvious he is feeling the heat; for once he’s not wearing a beanie or any kind of hat or cap at all. 

He’s gotten his hair braided recently; Esme looks at him for a moment, staggered by the fact, as always, that even in the harsh fluorescent lighting of her narrow hallway. Felix’s dark skin has a sheen all its own, magnified by his golden eyes. 

He prods her shoulder gently with the pad of his thumb. “If you faint on me, I’m gonna drop your gifts.”

“My gifts?” Esme shakes her head, leading the way back into her darkened flat. It’s much more cluttered than usual; she never finished packing for the trip she was supposed to take today. 

Felix does not reach for a light switch; he has perfect vision in the dark, and light from the parking lot is spilling through her blinds. Instead he sets the bag on her counter and sorts through it as enthusiastically as Santa Claus on Christmas, or a child sorting through their Halloween candy. 

“Min tea,” he says, “cold packs, squash, sweet potatoes, brown rice, dried cranberries…”

“Did you just look up ‘what to eat and drink for a migraine’?” Esme manages to ask, bemused. 

He looks up, a sheepish smile quirking at his soft lips. “If I say yes…”

“I’m impressed,” she says. “And.. thank you. Very much. You didn’t have to do this.”

“I didn’t have to supply my ailing girlfriend with nutritious food and drink?” he waves the bottle of mint teat in her face vigorously. 

“Ailing? I’m not eighty five years old, Felix.”

“That’s right, I’m the old man here,’ he cackles, then amends, “Or, will be. Technically we’re not that far apart in age but eventually when you start decaying-,”

“Decaying?” As usual, his word choice both horrifies and amuses her. 

Felix has even less of a filter than her, but with the opposite effect. She comes across as cold and controlling. He comes across as… well, ‘space cadet’ has been used a few times, but Esme likens it to a time traveler. Only, not from the past, and not quite from the future. A parallel visitor. Something out of the Twilight Zone, only… warm and colorful and eager to please. That’s Felix.

He shrugs. “Succumbing to the elements?”

“I’m not a castle,” she mutters, but pours herself a cup of cold mint tea. Will it be as good as if she’d brewed it herself here at home, no, but at the moment she doesn’t care. 

He puts the rest away in her small fridge while she drinks, leaving out the cranberries, then circles warily, as if approaching a wild animal, when she finishes off her cup. “Can I-,” his fingers ghost along the back of her neck. The hairs there raise and she shivers violently, but not in fear or pain. 

“Yes,” she murmurs, then leans back into his embrace as he wraps his arms around her. 

They scuttle over to the sofa like that, and ease down together. Felix is not terribly tall, and she is average height, so there’s scarcely a few inches between them. Esme has always liked that. All the others she’s been with had towered over her, and it made her feel spoilt and delicate in an undesirable, bratty kind of way, as if she were childish, some little princess to be coddled and indulged. Or maybe that’s just her projecting onto everything else that makes up a relationship besides height differences. 

For now, she is content to lie back so her head rests against Felix’s, cheek to cheek. His is silken smooth; she knows he is fastidious about shaving, the same as her. 

“You’re feeling better, though?” he murmurs, and snakes a hand under her pyjama top as if to check. Splayed warm against her belly, it tickles for an instant and she smiles. 

“Yes. It’s mostly passed. I’m just tired. And annoyed. Tina was really looking forward to this trip. She’ll still have fun by herself, but it was supposed to be the two of us, and I’m always canceling plans.”

“You are not,” says Felix, reasonably. “You’re just busy. And you couldn’t help it this time, you were sick. She knows that.”

Esme nods; for all his jokes and quips, Felix is always sensible in a manner that she finds comforting- stating the obvious isn’t such a bad thing when dealing with someone like her. 

“I hate being sick,” she murmurs, rolling onto her side so she can rest her cheek on his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her more securely, even intertwines their legs. Felix sleeps like this too, though at this point he’s only spent the night a few times. 

Esme is taking things as slowly as she dares, given all the other factors at play- her mother, their work, the rest of the team, the fact that he is a vampire from another dimension and she is the human equivalent of dry toast… 

“I kind of like it,” Felix confesses, with just enough lilt in his voice that she knows he’s half teasing.

Esme grumbles vengefully into his shirt. He smells like coconut butter and vanilla. She doesn’t know if that’s his aftershave or just the essence of Felix, refined to the purest degree. Sometimes he smells like cinnamon to her, or lavender and honeysuckle. 

Felix tolerates these assessments but likes to claim that it’s him producing some kind of super pheromones perfectly designed for luring in unsuspecting human prey. Or his girlfriend. Or both. 

Esme has not been anyone’s girlfriend in a long time. Years. It feels very strange. Before him, it’d been so long since she’d even touched anyone, besides Tina or her mother or shaking hands. That absence did not hurt Esme. But being with Felix is like an unexpected delight. Free dessert. Extra sprinkles on your sundae. Any number of juvenile metaphors she should be above, but isn’t. 

“You’re not going to ask why I like it?” He is winding his fingers through her hair, which she let down from its usual tight ponytail to ease the tension on her scalp.

“Because you like to mock me?” she ventures.

“No,” says Felix. “Because you would have gone away with Tina, and now I get to see you. And hold you.” He presses an astoundingly gentle kiss to her brow, like a feather.

Esme feels a queer stab of guilt. “I didn’t know you’d minded so much.”

“I don’t mind,” he says quickly. “I was happy for you to get away for once. I’m not going to third wheel you and your best friend.”

“I think the terms refers to the opposite-,”

“Hush hush,” he interrupts, which gets a giggle out of her. “But this is like… an unexpected delight.”

The back of her neck prickles. “Can you read minds?” she asks, half serious.

“Not yet,” he sounds smug. “I have great intuition.”

“Because you’re a vampire?”

“No, because I’m me,” he boasts. “Look at Ava’s intuition. Terrible.”

Esme laughs again. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“She’s always expecting the worse. And Nat swings in the other direction. Always wants to play nice and hug it out.”

“And Mason?” Esme teases, feeling energetic enough not to raise her head so her chin is on his chest. Their noses are almost touching.

“Eh… he’s alright,” Felix breathes, and then closes the gap with a kiss. 

Esme kisses him back, more passionately than she’d meant to, and only stops it when he starts to sit up so she is straddling his lap. 

“I don’t think I can…”

“Eat some cranberries?” He grins impishly and hands her the bag from the coffee table.

Esme smiles and bumps her forehead against his, something she did impulsively after their first kiss and which he never let her live down. 

“What are we, cats?” he says, on cue, but brushes his nose and lips down her cheek and onto her neck, as if to nuzzle her in turn. “Eat some fruit before your migraine comes back. Do you want me to put some of this stuff away?”

“No,” she says, pushing him back down on the sofa. “Just- stay with me, please?”

“Alright,” he agrees, amiable as ever, and reaches for the remote. “This can be like our vacation, yeah? The Felix and Esme Show. The Fezme Show-,”

“No,” she groans, but wriggles off him to curl up beside him instead, a handful of cranberries rising to her mouth as he flips through the channels.

He settles on an episode of Columbo. Felix hasn’t really seen much in the way of TV, and so reruns mean nothing to him. But it means everything to her. They keep the volume on very low, and he gets up at one point to open the windows more, even as the faint sounds of the parking lot outside drift in- the buzz of the lights, doors opening and closing, the crunch of gravel. 

Esme falls asleep sagging onto him, cranberries in her lap, mouth half open while Felix watches, riveted in the light of the screen, as the detective closes the case.

[idnek83]

ok so i have a long standing trans souda headcanon that i think about daily i know i’m late but i feel like i have to do this still, i just think about him being like a year into his transition, open about it if he’s really close with someone like just about the only person that knows at first is hajime and he only found out beacuse souda needed help with his t shots because he gets too freaked out to do them himself sometimes, and i just think about how he’d come out because it makes me feel better about the idea of coming out, so here’s how i think it’s go down :) he would do it so casually, like so casually you don’t even think anyhting of it he’s just makes a joke about it and eveyone would be like haha weird joke bro and he just assumes they know after that but here’s the thing they don’t, because it wasn’t at all obvious so like a whole year passes and he keeps making jokes and people are starting to think it’s weird and than one day he isn’t in class and like sonia and gundham want to know what happened but the only person that knows where he went is hajime who just says he’s getting surgery and they both literally think he has a terminal illness or he like had an accident when fixing up cars so they demand to know if he’s ok and hajime is like i was gonna go check on him tomorrow if you want you can come so they do, still thinking he like almsot died and than they go visit him and he’s kinda off his ass on pain meds and they ask what happens and he very proudly tells them “i got my titties cut off” and that’s when the finally piece it all togther :)

Oof relatable. I tried to do the ‘casually come out about my sexuality through jokes’ thing with one of my friend groups and... pretty much this lol. I thought they knew, but they didn’t catch on to shit for almost a year lol (Wow, I’m just realizing one guy knew before hand too, and didn’t say shit to anyone else. Anon, you pulled this situation right out of my life? Just with gender instead? How?).

Moving on lol.

Soda literally makes jokes about being trans all the time, but it usually just goes over people’s heads, or they’re just like ‘haha, that cis guy sure did make a funny trans joke. Anyways-’ lol (A few people probably at least kind of catch on, but no one says anything)

And I’m trying to think of good set ups for him to make jokes, but this is literally the only one I can think of:

Mondo is having bike troubles and shows up to Soda’s on campus garage to get it looked at. Soda’s just kind of chilling, tinkering with stuff and chatting with Hajime, so he’s happy to look at Mondo’s bike right away. He asks him if he knows what’s wrong and Mondo’s like ‘pretty sure its the transmission.’ Hajime rolls his eyes cus he knows what’s coming and Soda just smirks and is like “Then fixing your transmission is my trans mission!” and starts laughing. Hajime is choking in the corner and dying, because that joke was just too bad, and Mondo’s just standing there like ‘??? Does that mean you’ll fix it? What are you guys laughing at?’ lol

Hajime knew Soda was trans for a good chunk of time before he started T, so Soda calls him up the first time he’s trying to give himself a shot and is just like “Hajime, I need you to come over and stab me.” Hajime has no idea what he’s talking about but he’s just like “Cool.” and shows up at Soda’s dorm like 5 minutes later lol. He’s used to Soda being over dramatic, so when he shows up he’s expecting to hear about some dumb shit Soda did, thinking ‘stab me’ was Soda’s way of saying ‘end me for being cringe’ lol. When Soda shows him the needle and explains what’s going on, Hajime’s just like “Wow, I didn’t think I’d actually get to stab you” and Soda’s like “Wait, what do you mean ‘get to’? Hajime? HAJIME, PUT DOWN THE NEEDLE!” lol (Hajime is very careful about giving him the shot, he just had to fuck with him first lol)

By the time Soda’s top surgery date rolls around, he’s kind of gotten over the whole simping for Sonia thing, and they’re starting to actually become friends. He’s also been spending a lot more time with Gundham, since he’s one of Sonia’s best friends. He’s been dropping hints that he’s into Gundham, but they’ve been going about as well as the hints that he’s trans lol (Although Gundham has definitely been flirting with him a little too, Soda just doesn’t realize cus he’s hopeless lol).

He probably actually announces that he won’t be in class for a while, but it’s like after a really confusing lesson so when he’s like ‘cool, see you guys in a week, I’ll be in the hospital recovering if you need me.’ they think he’s just making a joke about how hard the lesson was lol.

The next day, everyone’s a little confused when he actually doesn’t show up, but they all just figure he’s sick. When lunch rolls around, Sonia and Gundham decide to ask Hajime where he is and Hajime is like ‘he literally said yesterday he was going to be in the hospital for a while?’ and they both start freaking out and asking if he’s okay and which hospital he’s in and what happened and Hajime’s just like ‘Guys he’s fine, he had his surgery this morning and he’s just recovering now.’ and they’re like ‘SURGERY?!?!?!!’ and that’s when Hajime realizes all of his classmates are just as dense as Soda. He’s like ‘I’m going to see him after school, if you guys wanna come, I’m sure he’ll explain the details to you himself.’ and they both agree and use the rest of their lunch to go buy Soda some ‘get well soon’ gifts.

When they get to the room where Soda’s recovering, Hajime goes in first to see if he’s okay with Sonia and Gundham being there (He already told him in text, but he want’s to double check). Soda’s more than happy to see them and when they walk in he’s just ecstatic (and high off his ass lol). He’s like ‘Wow, look at all these beautiful people coming to see me’ and he reaches out and kisses Sonia’s hand then does the same to Gundham’s, but then he just... keeps holding it after haha (Gundham just accepts it and enters gay panic mode lol). Sonia shows him the little stuffed bear and card they got him (which he cannot currently read but still claims to love lol), and then gestures to the flowers Gundham’s holding. Soda looks at Gundham, holding his hand and offering him flowers and he’s just so in love lol. He turns to Hajime and he’s like ‘Look!! He brought me flowers! That’s so romantic, I told you he’d be a good boyfriend! I’m probably right about him being good in bed too!’ and everyone who isn’t Soda starts blushing super hard cus Jesus. Soda immediately forgets what he said and just reaches for the flowers, but ends up hurting himself cus lifting your arms after top surgery is a big no-no. 

That snaps everyone out of their embarrassment and they’re all hovering around him asking if he’s alright and Gundham is holding his hand a little tighter. After he assures them he’s fine, Sonia finally asks him what kind of surgery he had. His eyes get big and he’s just like ‘Whaaat? You don’t knooow??’ and he’s smiling super big and Hajime is moving closer cus he knows exactly what the idiot is about to try to do. 

“I GOT MY TITTIES CHOPPED OFF!!”

Hajime just manages to stop him from trying to rip his hospital gown off and hurting himself again, reminding him that all Sonia and Gundham would see is bandages anyways lol.

Sonia and Gundham both take a moment to figure out what the fuck he’s talking about while he argues with Hajime about his ‘glorious, flat chest’ and then it clicks and they both realize that they definitely should have figured it out way earlier from all of Soda’s jokes lol. They both congratulate him and he finally stops trying to take off his gown lol.

They spend a few hours just hanging out and chatting in Soda’s hospital room after that.

Gundham holds his hand the whole time. 

[jean-does-not-have-a-horseface]

Before Dawn: Bonus Chapter (1)

Helloooooo, alright listen, I re read a choice with no regrets and uhm here is this, a little insight on what has happened a little while before our story began, I'm sure you'll want to see some nice bonding with Isabel

Warnings: just a few teeny little mentions of intercourse

@hidehaskak of course here's your tag❤️

Turtleneck

"Yehawhaww" The moment you appeared at the entrance to the roof Isabel screamed at the top of her lungs in great enthusiasm. You stood silent after you spared her a smuggling nod pacing your eyes between the two men that accompanied her, awaiting for a signal of approval. "I knew I could get you to come! You guys don't mind her hanging out with us right? She's a friend."

At that sound the males finally gave in, letting Isabel close the distance between the both of you. Her significantly smaller arms wrapped around your frame in a pure hearted childish manner and seeing that you towered over her you placed your hands on the small of her back, almost too reassuringly to the males' liking. Their unforgiving gazes burned holes in your whole body with much rage built in for ruining their fun for the night.

You knew you were practically unwanted, but it was for Isabel that you stepped foot on this rooftop to begin with. Tired of her never ending pleas to join her and her so called bros as they looked at the stars and talked about everything and anything you had decided to violate curfew and join her, not them, just her, because you wanted to share some more moments with her. This young little redhead was growing on you in the best way possible, you thought she kind of reminded you of yourself in times where you needed salvage or just a friend with whom you could share your piece of mind and heart.

She wasn't like that at first. Isabel probably resembled a rose, it occurred to you, with her godly youthful looks and her thorn like personality. It was a result from growing up in a trashhole like the underground, among thugs, being forced to build a rough personality if she wanted to survive, it was merciless for her and any other girl down there. But the bubbly side of her personality assured you she was much more than a badass teen who could hand you your ass in any fight, she had a pure heart and you longed to help her feel like she deserved post childhood experiences. But for now, it felt as if your roles had reversed. Sure, you were -if not just as her- bubbly and kind but sometimes you were frustratingly unresponsive and ill faced that it worried her until she got to know you. You hadn't put yourself in a place to talk about you trauma to her; she had her own demons and there was no point in burdening her with your abusive background, but you managed to explain to her that most of your weird and uptight behaviors, most things you could dispose of to become a better person, were curved into you in ways you could share yet. And Isabel, as respectful as ever had assured you it was fine not to be able to share.

Most girls would shut her out due to her formal nature as a thug, much like your friends who at first were adamant about discouraging you to befriend her. They had assumed she wouldn't be able to be nice and kind or to talk like them, but you were against any pretentious act behind her back. Maybe it was due to egoistical motives that you wanted to salvage this little girl, because she reminded her of you, and Nanaba, the only person who fully knew about your situation was taking a stand against this at first. She didn't want you to hurt yourself or the redhead in the process of trying to project your condition on her. But you didn't give up. With Isabel as your new bunkmate you had many chances of getting it right.

"Did you bring what I asked you to?" Isabel hurriedly asked, reaching her hands to make a quest inside the tote bag that you carried. You showed no sign of holding back as you let her peak into the cream colored bind, but only managed to cover your ear as her squeks got louder. "Thank you thank you thank you! Sit down, show me!

Isabel shooed Levi and Furlan apart, placing herself right next to the blond man while tapping her hand on her left side. You followed her smile hesitantly and proceeded to sit down to where her hand was rested a few seconds ago, next to Levi. You felt his eyes ravaging your whole form, up and down as if you were some dirty pig that seeked to rub its mud onto him. When seated neatly enough as to not touch him you proceeded to pry open your tote bag and toss a share of it insides to Isabel.

With a determined face she got a strong hold of the grey colored yarn and the pair of slightly thick needles you had managed to recover for her. "Okay show me, show me!"

"Oh what's that?" Furlan peeked his head over Isabel's shoulder to inspect of the situation.

"It's yarn and needles."

"Ahh, Furlan don't interrupt, (y/n) show me how to cast on!"

"See that's the easiest part, sweetheart." You watched Isabel coo at the support in your tone while she puckered her lips to a cute kid like pout. She followed your slow movements as if you were a goddess, showing her how to create new wolds with her strained hands.

Levi, even though he was suspicious of you, a member of Erwin's team who tried to coax her way into Isabel's life, felt somehow relieved to see that beloved expression on Isabel's face. He had overheard her once, taking to her self in the mirror, wishing she had a lady friend to spend time with and it pained him that she had a feeling of such lack inside her. Therefore your presence was a little soothing in their company. He would be lying if he said he personally didn't like it. After all he had thought you were a beautiful company to Erwin in one of the many times he had come across him in the Underground, silently watching him from the shadows. Not that he was a creep to begin with, it was just his lack and a response to the question of whether you can ever see a stranger twice, that you were actually a scout.

"Where did you learn to do this (y/n?)" Furlan was set to break off Levi's thoughts for one too many times tonight.

"Old mothers are adamant about these things, you know, good girl stuff and all."

"Oh." He began with a flirtatious tone that made both Levi and Isabel turn to him wide eyed "Good girl huh? Every Bad boys dream, including min- ah shit Isabel, ouch!"

The squint in Isabel's eyes was something that you couldn't see and you even ignored it as a matter of fact. Isabel was aware of your teeny crush on Levi, she had gotten it out of you one day during training after she had caught you gawking and drooling at him for doing the bare minimum. It was simply natural for her to get overly excited at the fact. Ever since then she had been convinced that him and you would be a perfect match, that you wouldn't have to be so uptight with him after all but you would always brush her off. It didn't torment you just get, even if his cold gaze somehow tickled your heart at certain times you were perfectly fine with hanging out around him. But there was no point in trying to convince Isabel to give up, not when she practically lived off of you and the male duo. Perhaps that was why she had squinted her eyes so hard at Farlan, she didn't want the couple in her head to be broken apart before it even started.

For the rest of your time with them you barely speak. You were fine with standing there and knitting away your project, a grey ribbed sweater that you had accidentally managed to make huge up to a certain point when you didn't find a purpose in casting off and undoing. You wondered if Isabel really wanted to knit or if it was her excuse to have you hang out with the ravenette since she had seemed to long forget about her needles and was fixated on a bottle of booze, talking away about some merchants in the underground flee market. You figured you should take your leave being to alienated to break their usual trio, you couldn't even keep up with their conversations, not that they cared to include you.

"So if you're all about playing housewife what are you doing here?" Farlan's voice calls out to you almost strained from any actual purpose, he probably knew it was kind of rude on the part to not include you after Isabel had invited you.

You remained silent for a few moments, tilting your head back to stare at the jewel decorated dark sky. Finding the right words for your purpose seemed unbelievably difficult and suffocating but it perhaps was nothing compared to their previous lifestyle.

"I didn't want to die." Two of the three almost fall to instant, bubbling laughter the moment your thoughts longer in the air as actual words.

"And you came here out of all places?" Levi sternly inquired without ever initiating some sort of eye contact.

"I wasn't top of my class, but even if I was I wouldn't go in the MP. I don't want to live a full life as a bastard you know and Garrison, let's say I have my reasons as to not going there."

Something about that bastard themed sentence caused curiosity to twitch inside Levi's chest but he didn't quest on it, oversharing wasn't in his plans to do so with a practical stranger, even if deep down you didn't exactly feel like one. He couldn't be explain that feeling but he could certainly understand what it was that made Isabel so attached to you. Something about your aura was like fresh, dripping honey, unprocessed yet sweet and endearing and overpoweringly strong to the flavor.

"You're not a bastard you had parents right? You just talked about your old mother."

Conveniently, Farlan's words allowed you to shut up and look away, further away from the former thug trio and into the vast horizon that laid before you. You contemplated what was it that enamored everyone outside the walls. With all that death, the scouts corpses that rot every where, you didn't have anything against the walls or life inside, taking down Titans and following orders was therapeutic enough to you as long as you came back to an eventual cup of milk tea and your knitting and embroidering projects. You couldn't bring yourself to give a damn about your future, but you liked fighting for the future of others, maybe somewhere there was a child, just like you, who wanted to get away from an abusive household and start a new life or pick up on experiences they had never lived. These people deserved not to feel caged inside the walls and plus, the nature of the Titans was very much appealing to you due to Erwin and his constant pep talks.

"Wait so how did you end up in Erwin's squad if you're mediocre?" Farlan pushed again, not wanting to let you stay silent for what's worth it.

"Don't forget I'm a veteran. I've outpassed the years a scout is expected to live so Erwin decided to move me to his squad, Mike insisted since we were from the same district."

"Oh so you fucked your way up huh?"

With the corner of his eye Levi watched as your eyes widened in shock. He couldn't possible know about your past, but you didn't seem the tyoe to go around and fuck your superiors so you could earn a higher rank. You were too ignorant to anything, it was prominent that you didn't care about even receiving your own room for serving well all these years.

"How dare you! As if it's something to open your legs for!" There it was, sweet confirmation that you indeed were ignorant.

"Good girl and all huh?"

"Sure."

There was something tense in the air as Farlan flirted, the subtle roll in your eyes, the unusual monotony of Isabel's voice, even Levi has seemed to bring his shoulders towards his collarbones in any attempt to distance his mind off of the unrequited nature of scenery. You weren't flirting back, momentarily he wondered if you even knew how since the sheer blush on your face betrayed your otherwise distinctive spitfire. You acted more childish than Isabel, in a way that you probably didn't realise caught Levi's attention because he didn't mind to spare you a glare, he'd rather keep it to himself.

____

Next time, it was supposed to be Farlan who approached to help you get your foot out of the muddy hole it was stuck to, Isabel squealed profanities at him, but it was Levi who had managed to push past him and the redhead, exposing his self to the cold pouring rain to run towards you. Just how stupid of your team was to leave you in the pouring rain to make your foot in your own?

His mind was at gaze as he sprint, random thoughts filling empty apathetic species that begged for overthinking to take over them. He knew Farlan didn't really like you, he was just trying to such to their plan and keeping you close was in sole purpose of getting closer to Erwin but for Isabel is want like that. She really liked your company, even he enjoyed some of your company at times and they weren't taking any chances with using you.

Moreover and much to his despise, he found himself in a very murky situation with each extension of his foot to your location. Fuck did you really have to look like that? With one leg stretched, toned bottom swaying in the air, strong veiny hands gripping on your knee, mud on the tips of your fingers and hair wet, making wild moves as you flipped your head upwards to get it out of your face. He twitched at the way a small tress stuck to your chapped lips, almost as if you were a goddess of water, a Nereid, as if you were made to be in this drenched state. Small droplets traveled from your chin down your exposed neck, hiding inside the base of your soft grey turtleneck, it was indeed a magnetising scenery, an alluring unraveling play to his eyes but he dared to rip his eyes away. He wondered if anyone could perceive this scene the way that only he did.

"Tch, try not to get that filth on me." He spoke as his sleek palms wrapped around your torso in delicate force, fitting almost perfectly. He closed his eyes. What the fuck was he even thinking? He wasn't even going to stay here for long.

"Wouldn't dream of it, but I beg of you to help before I get sick"

From a distance Isabel watched with teary eyes. A soft feeling of happiness engulfed her whole, not letting her give some form of attention to Farlan who clicked his tongue.

"Whatever Farlan, Levi is finally going to get some action for once. It's not like it's interfering with our mission!" Her brows forrowed at his sight. "He likes her, can't you see?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that if you don't actually tell him"

Her eyes harded at what Farlan had said. Of course, she knew Levi would deny ever laying his eyes on anyone but she wanted to be there to watch him experience falling in love, hell even falling out of it. Farlan should plainly accept that Levi is not always going to be hang up from their group. Sticking together even after their time at the military was a given, but wanting to have lovers and relationships now that they could enjoy their lives? Isabel was eagerly excited for it.

She watched you and Levi as you freed your leg from the muddy puddle, flying over by the force you had both been laboring and falling on too of each other, Levi's face was contorted in anger, fumingly red as he tried not to tell at you and she was definite about his feelings towards you.

Outside and laid with his back in the mud, Levi felt startled in a way he hadn't experienced before. He could faintly feel the tips of your breasts on his chest and he guessed you were using cloth binds since the impact wasn't enough to get him beyond a little flustered, but he could admit that this was embarrassing. He was angry, for being muddy that is, god knows just how much he despised mud and the smell of filthy rain but there was something about the way you straddled him and it touched a little flicker inside of him that told him it was alright to be muddy for a few more seconds, as long as he was underneath you. Despite his lack of experience in romantic or tense moments, he only had had sex a few times that he could count on one hand and he had despised each one for being disgustingly filthy, he definitely could sense the electric field in the air around you.

But as soon as the moment occured and you took your glistering eyes off of his, you pushed strength into your arms, digging your palms in the dirt to lift your self up and he was once again his normal self. With a click if his tongue he slipped from underneath you, denying your open hand that seeked to offer him a little help. He wasn't here for a sappy little romantic adventure, he was here to find those documents and kill Erwin, you were merely getting in the way of his brain functioning properly.

[neo-shitty]

toffee!

hehe glad i could make you laugh, oooh that sounds awesome! yeah id love to be tagged it sounds great :)

YES the differences are so fucking weird. like, they do know they're the same age right? i feel like its just an exagguration of how much the persons role in the group matters, like we see chan being held up as such a mature, old leader while jungkook who is literally the same age, is still babied etc. like enha hyung line is basically the same age (if a bit younger) as chenle and jisung but somehow the rules are different?? as you point out, still legal but still bizarre. hehe yeah, i mean where else are we going to rant? quora lol. mmm, hopefully more people can just write less smut abt people who are barely adults

ah, no prob it didnt take long. yeah i think thats right (i keep forgetting you know my url lol) mmhmm :( i think if that happened irl there would be some major trauma going on. knock wood it never happens to you or me lol (/hj)

hehe same! oooh glad Redemption For Cheese was realised! yess we cant rllycomplain that theyve written/produced too much good music lol. yeah, ive dragged him into being a stay so *dusts hands off* mission accomplished. mmm yeah, they tend to have a certain vibe but tbh it couldve worked if they were any other group but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ahh ur one step ahead of me on the stages of listening to ssick i think, still not convinced but thats okay! hehe, it had to be said. yesss the itch in the back of my brain is very satisfied by sorry i love you, felixs vocals deserve to be appreciated! (side note i feel like hes trying to sing more like his speaking voice, sorta husky, but tbh i wouldnt be mad if he sang like in glow, his sweet honey vocals made my life lol. but i think ive heard him say he doesnt like singing like that cos it makes his normal voice less husky, so what can you do)

> YES SOMEONE SAID IT. seungmin rap KING, he sped thru that rap like it was nothing, he deserves more rap lines. i do like how they gave minho some melodic rap lines this comeback, my guy deserved to show off those skills that made him not be eliminated (flashbacks to stay collectively wanting to murder jyp) and we already know changbin can sing, my man murdered masked singer. hyunjin can obviously sing as can jisung and felix, and i want to hear chan rap more! i feel like he started as part of 3racha (as a rap unit not producing) and then just became a vocalist (which im fine with, but it could be nice to hear him flex his rapping skills) and was partially replaced by hyunjin. anywayyy

back to album talk. lmaooo sad music to twerk to PERFECTLY describes silent cry. yes secret secret is and will always be, a masterpiece. hehe glad i could make you laugh :) i just felt like they have similar vibes. putting off skz stuff bc of not having time to cry IS the kpop stan life summarised. oh my beloved track, red lights. ahh thats okay, we can have different opinions, but by god the lyrics are *chefs kiss*. *banging on table* TWISTED AU TWISTED AU TWISTED AU. yess id love to see ur take on it! sdfghjkl it would have been glorious

no no! not stupid, just able to predict my brainwaves. ooooh thats so cool! makes me want to go there (wherever there is lol) yeah the waves are pretty good here, but none of my familys a surfer, so we dont rlly enjoy the full potential lol. YES moving on to gone away, it is indeed a heartwrenching track, but the vocals and the bloody key change? makes me want to brave being sad just to listen to it. mmm yeah, good point :( i feel like ive just gotten used to overthinking so much so that it doesnt matter what mood im in, ill do it anyway, so might as well just do what i feel like doing anyway.

yeah i think ur right! it is quite comforting knowing that all the tracks will get the love they deserve. i feel like also people assume kpop is just one genre which is utter bs. there are so many different vibes and feels and songs, i couldnt get into kpop (of which i thought only the bright cheerful present day bts stuff existed smh) until i heard gods menu so... idk where i was going with this but yeah. :)

YES FUCK YG, theyre literally on the brink of being kicked out of the big three and they are holding their salvation hostage without letting them do ANYTHING. idek what thought process goes thru their minds but arghhh its so infuriating. yess lisa's cb will be awesome but ot4 is the gold standard here.

hehe, glad u could get to this point. no no! u dont sound like a cult member at all lol yeah, i loooove some of their songs but the whole 23 members thing is getting to me. thats prob a common problem with nctzens but what can i say? im a simple girl with a limit to how many korean boys i can give my money to. atm im just trying to get into ateez and finish memorising enhypen's faces. also kard is kinda sucking me into their fandom atm, as well as eric name lol. ah what can you do? ooh thats good!

hehe i love it too! its exactly like online penpals, that was rlly well put. aww ty! hmm im okay, recovering from a bad case of rsv so thats fun. im doing okay mentally, starting therapy soon (after having to convince my mother that its not just smth i can brush off). physically i wont go into, basically i should be doing stretches to help but they dont completely fix it so my lazy ass doesnt do them, plus i got told recently im going to be stuck with this condition for the rest of my life so thats fun! ah, before you type smth dw abt me ill be fine. the weather atm is cloudy but warm, its been raining on and off today which is good for the garden. uhh i just finished reading sunburnt veils and im in the middle of prom theory which is rlly good. ummm ive got a concert tonight? that i may or may not be able to sing in (bc of the whole rsv thingo) and uhhhh idk. my dog is cute? im drinking tea rn? ive got a school dance coming up?

wbu? hows ur day going, how are you? whats the weather like on ur end? done anything interesting lately? found smth that makes you rlly happy? just any random thing youve been dying to tell someone?

no no! dont apologise, i love these exchanges. i think im happy to continue them for a long time :) on the other hand, if you get tired of them, feel free to just not answer at any time. goodness gracious this was a long ask haha hope it isnt too annoying

<3 w.a. 🐺

sorry it took me a bit to reply, i was fixing my theme ;n;

yeah, i figured it was because of the roles too. my friends and i still get taken aback when 3rd gen idols are the same age as 4th gen ones. in my head it doesn't add up sometimes. PLS THE RANT AT QUORA SKJDK tbh tho it's just going to be normalized as the years pass? esp that the boys are growing older and the amount of explicit fics will just increase. i might have to start blocking tags.

i had to look up the previous ask to remember what we were talking about xd i hope the events in champagne problems never happens to anyone. realistically, it probably happens a lot. damn i really won't wish that pain on anyone. dragging your brother into being a stay i whEEZED JFKSA additional noeasy music enthusiast o.o and ALL I CAN SAY WITH YOU GUSHING ABT FELIX IS AHA WHIPPEEEED OML can't blame you tho, i also want to hear felix sing more in other shades (if that makes sense HAHA) i really hope they'll do the role exchange in the next comeback :( or like in the near future bc i know they can do it :( the day i hear seungmin rapping it i will respectfully pass away. minho was given more lines this comeback thank fUCK i could rmb my irl being vocal abt her frustration. i don't get why minho barely has center time/lines in title tracks??? like the line distribution in the past eras just made me ???? if seventeen can balance lines with 13 members why cant a group of 8 do the same? moving on. i haven't watched the stray kids show simply bc i don't want to cry HAJS but i've seen clips. imagine if skz debuted without minho and felix?!?!? i rmb another irl catching bias feels towards changbin bc of the masked singer only to find out that the man's a rapper. i love how skz's vocals were highlighted this comeback :c there were a lot of mellow tracks! i find it cute when chan sings/raps bc it gets kinda obvious that he's a foreigner? the accent (im not even sure if it's the accent) it just shows. "putting off skz stuff bc of not having time to cry IS the kpop stan life summarised." CORRECT.

abt the twisted au o.O i'll inquire my irl if she wants to write it or not. if she doesn't want to, i'll do it. i miss writing twisted aus <3___<3 and i also miss going to the beach with my friends :' ) but it's starting to get cold here and i don't think i'll be able to enjoy the beach as much as i would if i went beaching in the summer. so maybe next summer? gone away really has an sm-ballad vibe. the thing about skz being a self-producing group, their songs don't sound like typical jype songs? and i just appreciate that bc in all honesty im not a fan of jyp groups at all. PLS the overthinking. i wish i could mute overthinking.

anyone who assumes kpop is just one genre obv hasn't listened to a single track. if kpop was just one genre why do i like some tracks more than the others??? oh you've only recently become a kpop stan? tbh im not a fan of the bright songs of bts either. i liked their older ones *chefs kiss* really matched high school vibes. yg has good artists and they're just wasting the talent ~.~ that strategy they have will get tiring eventually. people will stop waiting on blackpink and move on to newer more active groups ://

HAHAHAH yeah the 23 members is pretty overwhelming! it was the reason i didn't bother stanning before quarantine started. i don't regret stanning tho, met my ult bias in that group <3___<3 i don't really purchase albums unless i like the tracks xd ohhh getting into ateez just in time for the comeback! let me know what you think about them! i was fond of them at some point but grew out of it. good luck with memorizing enhypen! it took me a while to distinguish to people there XD i haven't checked out kard yet but chan plays their songs during lives and they're sexc hype music me likey *u*

i had to look up rsv im sorry. i'm glad you're recovering! please rest more and don't stress yourself out. bro i wish i could go to therapy too bc i have weird issues i can't justify and i need a professional to tell me what's the reason behind it. stuck with what condition btw? what happened? i'm sorry in case i just forgot. yesterday was a bit rainy for me too :(( it's not the type of rainy that makes me anxious so B) oh concert! good luck and i hope you'll be able to sing but i also don't think it's best for you rn :c what's your dog's breed? and yes i just finished drinking tea too. AAAAA i miss school dances :(( the last one i was supposed to have was cancelled bc of covid.

i was less productive today and i'm teetering between being mentally stable and becoming a hermit again. i'm anxious with a lot of things atm so like : D not the best state. today it was a bit sunny but not hot hot which was nice. i changed my theme today bc i couldn't wait for sept. 1st. and no i haven't found anything that makes me happy HAHAHA shit like that's hard to identify. don't have anything to say too, i'm just thinking about why i'm procrastinating too much atm T_T and i'm listening to this rap song atm and one of the rappers sounded like han.

it isn't annoying! i enjoy the long exchanges but i do admit it takes me awhile to type down a reply. so if i get more busy, it'll prolly take a bit longer for me to reply.

[miracle-sham]

Hold Your Wake Softly, for the Dead Sleep Lightly.

| {MaribatMarch2020, Week 3, Day 17: Grave} |

| [Ao3 Link] | | [Masterlist Link] |

| Triggers/Warnings: Major Character Death, Temporary Character Death, Graveyards/Cemeteries, Mentions of Death, Explicit Language/Swearing, Blood and Minor Injuries. |

| It's been six months since she died, so Jason goes to visit her grave. Only sometimes things aren't quite as they seem, and dreams are merely reflections of reality. |

| Word Count: 1794 |

-<◊>-

| A/N: So this is probably going to be my last Maribat March ficlet. I've been super busy and I got ill again (which is why I've not responded to comments yet, sorry!), so I've barely been able to get any writing done, and most of the fics are turning out not great. This fic is the only one that turned out well and I'm happy with it. I've not really got else much to say, so uhh enjoy! |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics, or a specific Au, then comment or send me a DM/ask! |

| Also side note, Don't Like? Don't Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

-<◊>-

 Jason knows he's dreaming. But what strikes him as odd, is that he's dreaming. He's not dreamt since his dip in the Lazarus Pit. Weathered nightmares and night terrors, sure. But not the stuff of rainbows, sugar plums, and happiness, no. Although, this dream he's dreaming isn't exactly that either, so perhaps it shouldn't be that much of a surprise.

 He can't quite tell where he is. The surroundings are completely unfamiliar. He's on a roof, that much is clear. But it's not a roof in Gotham, no. Jason knows the roofs of Gotham like he knows the back of his hand. If he had to guess, the roof looked European in style, maybe Gothic French/Parisian if he had to guess specifically. There are poles and fairy lights strung up around the roof, and a picnic blanket is laid out with a basket overflowing with sandwiches, pastries, and fresh fruit.

 And as lovely as the scene is, the disconcerting part, is the phantasm sitting beside him. A phantasm in the guise of his lost love. Just sitting there, alive and breathing—with her eyes, so bright, twinkling in the low light—and her dazzling smile, the lovesick one he'd always catch her doing when she thought he wasn't looking.

 Jason can almost imagine the warmth of her. But this is a dream, and she's nothing more than a phantasm. So there's no real warmth. It's just his imagination. Not that that knowledge does anything to ease the aching of his wretched and bleeding heart.

 He's almost tempted to stay here. To indulge in this love-stricken reverie of a dream. But he can't. Not tonight. Not when tomorrow he'll wake with the dawn and trudge over to the cemetery and lay a bouquet of marigolds upon her grave.

 It almost sickens him, to need to leave this place. He'd love nothing more than to hold her in his arms one last time. But she's not real.

Jason feels a need to wake up, for the sliver of peace in the hopes that he'll forget this torturous dream upon waking. It hurts. It hurts so much to be close to her only for her to be a phantasm.

 No sooner does he think this, he feels the darkness of the dream ending pull at him. Tugging him away from the rooftop with her and tossing him into the swirling shadows of dreamless sleep.

-<◊>-

 Except, he doesn't wake up in his bed from a dreamless sleep like he expected to. No, he finds himself in a bleak observatory with a giant window that has a butterfly design in it. The edges of the room are shadowed, as only the window and a circle in the centre of the room are illuminated with faded blue light.

 There's a shimmer in the centre of the illuminated circle, and a young child kneeling on the floor flickers into view. No matter how much he tries to focus, Jason finds himself unable to tell what the child looks like. It's almost as though there's a magical glamour surrounding them that makes it impossible to see their true appearance.

 Jason walks to the edge of the circle and stares at the child. They're holding two pieces of jewellery, one in each hand. In their left hand, is a pair of red and black spotted earrings and in their right hand, is a black and green ring.

 Two strange small creatures float above the child's hands. The one floating over the ring, is a weird-looking purplish-black cat with green eyes. The one floating over the earrings, is an even weirder looking red and black spotted bug thing.

 Jason squints then furrows his brow, the child and the creatures appear to not have noticed him yet. Yet.

 “I want to make a wish.” The child says solemnly.

 The bug creature looks pained at that statement. “There'll be consequences.”

 “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” The cat creature pipes up.

 The child bites their lip. “I know and I don't care. I want to bring the previous Ladybug holder back to life.”

 The bug creature starts to tear up. “Mar—” it pauses. “The previous holder has been dead for six months.”

 A chill runs down Jason's back and his mouth becomes inexplicably dry. Fuck, he thinks weakly. They're talking about her. He drags a hand down his face and bitterly blinks back tears, feeling so fucking conflicted.

 The child tilts their head to the side and closes their eyes for a minute. “I know. I still want to bring them back. Again, I don't care about the price. The previous holder shouldn't have died.”

 The cat creature narrows its eyes at the child. “If you bring the previous holder back with the wish, it won't be an immediate revival. Whoever pays the price for the wish will spend the next six months slowly wasting away as the previous holder returns to life.”

 Jason feels sick because as much as he misses her like a lost limb, he doesn't want to subject her to the trauma of coming back to life and digging herself out of her own grave, like he did.

 The child hums. “Like a portable charger? Drain the power in one object to recharge the other object?”

 Huffing, the cat creature rolls in its eyes. “That's one way of putting it.”

 The child nods. “Do I get to choose who pays the price?”

 “No, the person who pays the price must be of equal value to the previous holder. For example, you couldn't pay the price because you're too young and don't use a power to achieve a goal.” The bug creature explains, shaking its head.

 The child frowns and puts the earrings and ring on. “Okay. Tikki Spots on. Tikki, Plagg, Unify.”

 The following flash of bright light temporarily blinds Jason.

 “Using the power of the Ladybug Miraculous of Creation and the Cat Miraculous of Destruction, I wish that...—”

 The world fades to darkness and silence before Jason can hear the rest of the wish.

-<◊>-

 It's the dawning of the wake, with its claggy skies above and claggier mud underfoot; rain splatters against the pavement in a constant solemn cadence. Rusted wrought iron railings are all that stands between him and his love.

 Jason treads slowly, shoulders hunched, gaze averted. He's walked this path before. Too many times, the others would claim. He bites his lip and blinks back tears. He follows the path to the marble gravestone, her gravestone.

 Falling to his knees upon the grave's soil, he lightly traces the stone's engravings with one finger, silently muttering along.

 When he runs out of words to trace, he closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the stone. Digging his hands into the grass and soil, he can't help but let out a hollow sob.

 The minutes ebb by as he slowly recomposes himself. The cold wet mud of the grave clings to him, both that and the rain chills him to the bone.

 He sighs, then swallows thickly. “Hey, Mari. I know missed visiting you last week, I'm sorry. I got caught in a bit of a scuffle in our—uh night job.” He quickly glances around incase anyone's nearby, but on such a dreary day like this, there's not another soul in sight. “I attempted to bake your signature macaroons last night. They turned out fairly well but they're shit in comparison to how you get them to turn out.” He chuckles hollowly.

 “Last night whilst out on the night job, I found a tiny blue kitten with the most piercing blue eyes ever. Kinda reminded me of you, so I kinda ended up adopting it. I think you both would get along like a house on fire if you met. I was going to bring her today, but well you can see what the weather's like. Don't really want to get the thing sick when it's like this.” Jason rambles idly, not really putting too much thought into what he's saying.

 He huffs and pauses for a second, “Actually speaking about last night, I had the fucking weirdest of dreams. And it wasn't just a weird pit nightmare like it usually is—”

 He's cut off as a swarm of black ladybirds converge around the cemetery. On autopilot, Jason stumbles to his feet and backs away from her grave, eyeing the swarm with calculative apprehension.

 As he does that, the swarm sweep over her grave before dissipating into the sky.

 Jason holds his breath, waiting to see what the ladybirds did.

 A minute passes in silence, and just as he's about to step closer, a muffled and sickening scream emanates from beneath the grave. Fragments of last night's dream rise to the forefront of Jason's mind. “Fuck!”

 He throws himself forwards and starts desperately digging into the mud with his hands. “Come on, come on, come on…” Each second passes as slow as molasses but eventually, the mud starts to gradually give way underneath him.

 A grasping hand breaches the surface and starts frantically clawing at the ground. A wave of nausea hits Jason like a brick wall. He hesitates for a split second before fixating on digging up the mud around the hand. With each scoop of mud dug away, the hole around the hand starts to widen and widen until a second hand breaches the surface. With increased desperation, Jason continues to dig and dig and dig.

 After another couple of minutes digging, the hole's big enough that Jason can see the coffin shards and ripped scraps of clothing among the mud. He grabs at the arms and pulls with everything he has but the resistance is nearly equal.

 Gritting his teeth, he continues to pull until the resistance against him suddenly weakens and he stumbles back, dragging the cor—body of Marinette out of the grave.

 Jason let's go of her after a second and drinks in the sight of her, alive and breathing. Under his breath, he whispers, “Mari…”

 Frankly, she looks awful. Skin pallid, eyes bloodshot and glassy, freckles faded, hair dull, hands bloody. Her clothes are ripped, muddied, and bloodied. Earthworms, as well as other underground creepy crawlies, fall off her.

 Her eyes manage to focus on him for a second but almost immediately after, her eyes roll back and she collapses, unconscious.

 Jason rushes forwards and grabs her, to stop her from hitting the ground. Dazed, he fumbles for his phone and calls Bruce. “Marinette's alive.” He immediately blurts out, “She fucking dug herself out the fucking grave and she's unconscious and injured.” It takes all his willpower not to choke on his words.

 “We'll ready the medbay. Tim will pick you, he'll be there in five.”

-<◊>-

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

| @maribat-march2020 | | @vixen-uchiha |

[su-homebroken-au]

Homebroken Chapter 8

It wasn't often that Steven got any visitors. Sometimes Blue would come to ensure that he was alright, but he was typically left with his court. Unless sometimes they would appear, but he doesn't like to think about them. He doesn't want to. Regardless he wasn't sure if he should be glad for mostly being with his court. He was a social.. Social.. Being.

What was he again?

He cannot recall, he blames the static in his mind that numbed him as he woke up. The blanket the Pebbles had made for him was soft, as were the pillows. He didn't understand how, but he was happy regardless. His bed was a little hideaway, somewhere other gems couldn't see him.

The star decorations on the low ceiling glow continuously, providing a calming and non-intrusive atmosphere. He should stay there.. But there is commotion, and there isn't usually any noise.

He rose like a puppet being pulled by a string. He got out of bed, made the bed and walked to the noise with robotic precision.

Opening the door, Steven is greeted to Yellow Diamond. He spots her instantly as her hue is a contrast to the pink room and even with all of the platforms scattered around to give the court room some interest, she stuck out.

"There you are." Steven doesn't have time to process the whole situation to uncover the most optimal way of proceeding. He's grabbed in a tight unforgiving grasp and quickly lifted.

As he's lifted Steven is able to catch a glance of his guards. Dahlia stood poised and in a perfect diamond salute, meanwhile Freesia had a clear look of what could be described as panic. He does a brief look around but he can't spot Spinel.

"Don't look around, your attention should be on me." Steven's head instinctively snapped to look at her once he's brought to eye level. She's glowing, she's glowing quite a bit actually. It's a little blinding and it gave him a headache. He doesn't look away, he can't.

"I cannot believe you Pink. You're still hiding in there, in that little human." Her hold adjusts in a way that showed his gem, but he was held in such a secure manner he couldn't even wriggle a finger. "Now you're back to your old habits. Goofing off when you should be working!"

"We should be celebrating Era 3 now that you finally decided to stop this whole game, but here you are. Still playing it, because Blue and even White are letting you. I don't even know how you managed to convince her to let you!"

"I'll admit that your presence at least has made Blue a lot more productive, she hasn't been drowning her court in her tears. That makes you a little more worth the trouble, but only a little."

She gave him a sharp jab to his stomach, just above the gem. He remained mute. She loosened her hold, moving Steven so now he was sitting on her hand.

"You will have to throw a party. That is your courts duty, to make the other courts happy. You understand that, don't you?" He nodded, and her expression softened just a little. "Good. At least you can listen."

"Now, unfortunately you will have to choose a member of your court to represent you. You cannot show up looking like." With her other hand, she gestured to all of him. "You'll shatter gems with that appearance."

He wondered briefly if his appearance should have shattered his friends by now.

"Still, I expect it to go well." Steven suppressed a noise upon feeling a jolt of her power coursing through him. "If it doesn't, I'm not above punishing you. If something goes wrong.. You will be to blame."

Another jolt and she stared at him with such an intense expression he felt he was beneath a spotlight. His arms move into a diamond salute and she seemed satisfied. Her hand moved, and Steven doesn't have time to process the next situation.

He is sitting on a warm yellow surface one moment, and face down on a cold pink floor in another. There's a throbbing ache over his body that he wasn't aware of previously, and Yellow's footsteps only strengthen it as she went to exit.

"Don't forget. You have 48 hours."

There's the sound of the door opening and closing. Steven didn't move simply laying there, he wasn't sure if he was supposed to. He stayed still and was able to pick up on the sound of someone squeaky approaching.

Pink hands wind around under his arms and lift him easily. Steven is brought face to face with Spinel who peered worriedly at him. He was able to notice Freesia and Dahlia hurrying over as well but his gaze was drawn back to Spinel.

"Geez, he's bleeding." Freesia stated as she came closer to them. He didn't respond when she carefully pushed his hair back to look him over carefully. Dahlia looked at Spinel then Freesia and finally to Steven. "You'd think Yellow would know that humans are fragile by now."

"Don't speak ill of a Diamond." Dahlia scolded harshly and Freesia stuck her tongue out in retaliation. The rose quartz rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to Steven. He simply stayed still, showing no visual signs of distress.

"Doesn't really give her an excuse to." Spinel grumbled, just loud enough for Freesia to hear but not Dahlia. She glanced at the pink quartz briefly before looking back to Steven. "Can't you do something to heal him?"

"Unlike our Diamond, rose quartz soldiers can only heal gems." She explained quietly, glancing at his gem briefly. "There is no damage to his gem, there is nothing I can do. I'm sorry, my Diamond." She saluted as she spoke, her expression sorrowful.

Steven raised a hand shakily, patting her shoulder briefly before letting his hand fall to its original limp state. Freesia smiled at his attempt of comfort, while Dahlia appeared briefly confused but interested. The purple gem spun, putting her hands on her hips and grinning at the three.

"So, how are we gonna host a party?"

The other two gems glanced at each other uncertainly while Steven remained in a rag-doll like state. Spinel grinned sheepishly, while Dahlia shook her head in disappointment that seemed to be directed towards herself as opposed to the others. Freesia's grin dropped slightly.

"Our Diamond is doomed."

--

They were able to get information from the Pebbles about traditional balls that Pink had thrown in the past. Therefore, it was time to set up the main ballroom. Steven's hood had been pulled up as they hurried to the ballroom to begin set up. Dodging other gems was like a game, one where they'd get in trouble if they were caught.

"Alright, we're here." Spinel announced as she bounced into the empty courtroom. She did a brief few bounces, going higher and higher to ensure that they were alone. When she was satisfied that no-one was around, she gestured for them to follow her in.

Freesia pulled Steven's hood down as they entered, she glanced around and grimaced slightly. The empty bright room was ominous, the lack of any noise or many decorations just added towards a haunting atmosphere.

"Not exactly the most wonderful place, is it?" She stated, her hands on her hips. "I mean, the halls of the Zoo weren't that noisy but at least there was stuff there."

"Well you aren't there anymore." Dahlia reminded with a huff. "We're going to have to decorate, and plan."

As she spoke some of the Pebbles who had followed arrived, carrying items far too big for their bodies. Steven lifted one of the baskets with flowers and ribbons, examining it curiously. Dahlia lifted the basket from him easily, ushering him further inside. He was led to the pink throne, which he jumped upon and looked at her curiously.

"Right, we'll get decorating and make this place look a whole lotta fun!" Freesia looked at Steven with a wide smile. "Lil' Diamond! We got this, you observe and give us that royal touch!"

Following her instructions, Steven sat and observed. He watched as Spinel would bounce high to wrap ribbons and flowers around the columns. Dahlia had began making flower arrangements for the thrones, flowers in the same colour of a diamond were neatly put together into four separate arrangements.

He couldn't spot Freesia initially, but he noticed her helping the Pebbles create little things that were too small for him to understand.

He glances around the room, feeling much smaller than usual. It was like being in the presence of all of the Diamonds. The small being pressed his hands together with a shaky sigh. Steven has been good, so he won't be punished.

The dull throbbing ache over the front of his body suggested that he already had been but he believed it was likely an accident. He should have done better, he deserved that. He is supposed to make them happy, he isn't making them happy.

Sometimes when Blue visits she doesn’t smile at him, even though he tries to cheer her up because that his is role. His duty. Carrying Pink Diamond's gem until she was ready to emerge, he is supposed to fulfil her duties. He is the leader of the court that brought laughter. He's supposed to bring happiness.

But she doesn't smile at him, and neither does Yellow.

Steven shivered, the feeling of phantom fingers sweeping up his back and leaving a painful static sensation in their wake struck him quickly. He feels lightheaded, fatigued. Its hard to keep his head up as they continue to decorate.

He blinks. It's less bland.

He blinks. Life is returning.

He blinks. Colour is bleaching.

He blinks. Everything is fading.

He blinks. Let's play, Pink.

From below, Spinel noticed that Steven had fallen asleep. She supposed that made sense, he had been sat there to watch and watching wasn't any fun at all. It was boring. It was draining enough to make a gem crack. She had been waiting for years and years, watching for any signs of her best friend.

She didn't think she could remain still again like that for so long. Not without that empty feeling returning, endless questions spanning decades of waiting and wondering. Will she come back? When will we play again? Am I doing this right?

Does she still love me?

"Freesia! Those are not laid out in an acceptable manner! You are not on the Zoo ship anymore, you need to show some respect to our Diamonds!" Dahlia yelled, breaking Spinel from her momentary trance. She giggled again, and went back to work listening to the scuffle of the two gems.

This was a party, and those were always fun. Era 3 was going to be full of laughter and celebration! Everyone will be grinning forever and ever.

[v-thinks-on]

Jeeves Gets Sick - Part 1

Next I would be the first to tell you that I’m far from the most chipper fellow in the mornings. It usually takes quite a bit of groaning and blinking to get myself upright at all, and I’m not fit for company until I’ve had my morning restorative in the form of a steaming cup of oolong.

I struggled one eye open, and then the other, and pushed myself in a bit of an upward direction. I had just started to have the presence of mind to begin to fancy a spot of tea, when to my distinct surprise, it did not appear. You may be thinking right now that this is a bit thick, that this Wooster fellow expects, just because he’s thinking of tea, for a cup of the stuff to miraculously appear in hand. But all I can say to that is that you have never employed a man like Jeeves. It’s like a sort of telepathy; as soon as I’m up and conscious enough to be thinking of tea, lo! It appears, and such has been the case since day one of his employment. How I’ll ever manage without the man is beyond me.

Given all that, you can imagine that I was rather put off by the non-appearance of the tea upon that particular m. I was just starting to wonder if I should give it all up as a bad job, go back to sleep, and try again later, or if perhaps my dinner the night before hadn’t been a touch too rich and was giving me strange dreams, when the tea did, at long last, make an appearance. It appeared in a sort of rummy way, however. The tea was there, of course, and Jeeves was there carrying it in, just as usual, but rummy, like the sort of dream where everything is normal, except you’ve forgotten you had a Latin exam the next day and when you go in to take it, it’s all in Greek.

Perhaps I’d do best to illustrate the rumminess of it all with some specifics. Jeeves, as you know, is a silent sort, I don’t mean in speech, though sometimes he can be so taciturn you forget he’s there, but I mean in movement. One moment he’s there, the next he’s not, or vice-versa, and you never hear the coming or going. But on that morning, I could have sworn I heard his footsteps whispering against the carpet as he approached. Or, for another demonstrative example, take Jeeves’s expression; he can give the best stuffed frog impression of the lot, I’m sure he’s won prizes for it at contests, but even when he isn’t wearing the mask, so to speak, there’s always a certain nonchalance to his bearing. I don’t think I’d ever seen a feverish spark dancing in his inky blacks, or seen him glassy-eyed like a fellow after a sleepless night.

I know it wasn’t much to go off of. In all other ways, Jeeves was impeccable as always, with his “Good morning, sir,” and “I hope you slept well, sir.” There was hardly a thing out of place, but between the late appearance and the aforementioned symptoms, I thought I had something of a case.

I was so badly startled by the whole upset to the usual routine that I was mostly coherent even before I’d had my first sip of the oolong. Still, I broached the matter cautiously as I took the cup from his tray, “Jeeves, are you quite all right. You seem a little out of sorts, what?”

“Sir?” Jeeves asked stiffly, with a bit of the air of an offended cat.

“A little peaky, I mean,” I attempted to clarify, “Like you’ve come down with something.”

“Is there something not to your liking, sir?” Jeeves said, as though he’d only heard every other word.

“Not exactly, I just-”

“Will that be all, sir?”

I sipped my tea, defeated. “Right ho, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

With that, he left the room. I could have sworn I heard him go.

I was not to be so easily contented. I ruminated as I readied for the day. You must understand that in all the years I’d known Jeeves, I had never seen the man so much as falter. He’s something of a paragon, if that’s the word I’m looking for; where other men fail, he invariably prevails. He gives an invulnerable sort of impression, as though nothing could ever knock him down. And yet, here he was, late, unsteady, and feverish. The signs were subtle, but I couldn’t deny their presence.

I didn’t like it. It was awfully feudal of Jeeves to keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on through rain or high seas and what not - or whatever the expression is exactly - but for all that I depend on the chap, I could last a day without his services. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could manage it, and for a cause as good as his speedy recovery from whatever it was that ailed him I would do it with pride. But the thought of Jeeves struck ill by some unknown pestilence shook me to the core. I can hardly begin to say how much I value the man and the thought of him wasting away was more than I could bally well take.

I strode out to give him a piece of my mind over breakfast. But where breakfast ought have been, there was nothing in its place.

I made like the cat in the adage, letting I dare not wait upon I would, as Jeeves would say, for but a moment before barging into the kitchen. There, I found Jeeves, a mere shadow of his usually impressive self. He was sitting down on the job before breakfast was out on the table, and he faltered in getting to his feet as I entered his lair. His eyes were undeniably bright with fever and his brow damp with sweat, a few hairs curled out of place. To be seen in such a state, the man was clearly on his deathbed.

“Sir?” he began.

I silenced him with a wave and cut him off besides. This was more than just one of those arguments that inevitably occur with two stubborn chaps living in close proximity; Jeeves’s very life was on the line and I daren’t falter.

“Not a word, Jeeves. You are plainly ill. Even a fool could see it, and I know you are no fool. Even I can see it.” My voice took on something of a pleading note all on its own accord.

“Sir,” he attempted to protest, but even his words came out weak.

“Dash it all, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, startled by my own vehemence. “I won’t have you working in such a state. Call for a doctor!”

He straightened his posture and seemed to strain against the fever. “That’s very kind of you, sir, but hardly necessary.”

I refused to hear a word against it. “Not another word, Jeeves! I’m going to get a doctor and I expect you to go straight to bed and rest until you’re back to your implacable self.”

“Sir, there is no need to call for a doctor; it’s nothing that a little rest won’t cure.” It pained me to see his resistance failing even as I chipped away at it.

Jeeves’s word is usually taken as law, but this was too serious a thing to trust to his stubborn insistence. “No, Jeeves, rest. I’ll be back with a doctor before you know it.”

Jeeves let out the barest suggestion of a sigh. His breathing seemed laboured. “If you must, sir, then permit me to recommend my family physician. I have his London address.”

I stared at the address Jeeves provided. “Are you sure? I could certainly find you a better man on Harley street.”

“He has my absolute trust, sir. I would see no other.” There was something steely in his manner, even glassy-eyed as he was, that made it clear he would make no further concessions, and I didn’t have time to argue. The man has an iron will when challenged and that I had managed to push him so far as I had was evidence of how far he’d fallen.

“Very good, Jeeves. And you’ll rest while I’m gone? None of this working rot?”

“Yes, sir.” He almost sounded relieved, which only confirmed my darkest fears.

He saw me to the door despite my instance to the contrary. I could see his mask cracking all the while. His air of exhaustion would not have looked out of place on me the morning after a night of revelry, but on Jeeves, it looked horribly wrong. I had half a mind to carry the man to bed myself just to be sure he kept his word, but then I doubtless would have had a revolt on my hands, and so I contented myself with finding him a doctor.

The place was easy enough to find. A shiny new plaque by the door boasted the residence of “Dr. John Watson, M.D.” With a name like that, a fellow can only think of Sherlock Holmes’s pal, but there must be countless men with the name John Watson in the metrop., certainly plenty of them doctors, and all tired of being asked how Sherlock Holmes is doing. For my part, I didn’t very well care if the man was the prince of Persia or a patch-coated street kid like one of the Baker Street Irregulars as long as he had the stuff for Jeeves.

I gave the door a pounding that could have been considered frantic, and a maid soon swung it open and ushered me into a parlour. I believe I managed to impress upon her the urgency of my visit, because it wasn’t long before a doctorly fellow came down to see me. He was a broad-built mustachioed sort, regarding me with the utmost seriousness.

I have been quelled by lesser gazes than his, but I had my mission and didn’t even let him get so far as bidding me a terse good morning before I exclaimed, “It’s Jeeves! He’s ill!”

A glint of recognition struck the fellow’s eyes. “Reginald Jeeves?”

“That’s the one! He said you were his family doctor.”

The doctor smiled a little at that, but quickly turned serious. “Then I expect we have not a moment to waste.”

We hurried back to the flat as fast as feet could fly and wheels could spin.

On the way, Dr. Watson asked, “Am I correct in presuming that you must be Mr. Wooster?”

“Right-o!” I exclaimed. “I mean to say, yes, I’m him.”

The doctor nodded as though everything was just as he expected. “I doubt Jeeves would have sent you to me unless it was something serious.”

I twiddled my fingers a little, suddenly realizing something awkward about my position. “It wasn’t Jeeves who asked for you - well, he said he wouldn’t see anyone else - but I was the one who insisted. You see, he was all out of sorts this morning!”

“What were his symptoms?” Dr. Watson asked, his manner suddenly businesslike.

“Well, to start with, he was late with the tea in the morning, and then I swear I could actually hear him walking around, when, well, you know how he usually appears and disappears here and there. And then when it came time for breakfast, I found him sitting in the kitchen before anything was out on the table, and his eyes looked absolutely feverish!”

I’m afraid I made a muddle of the telling of it, but Dr. Watson nodded along as though it was all clear to him.

It felt like ages, but finally we arrived back at the flat. The place was silent and to all appearances empty. I half expected to find Jeeves collapsed on the floor, overcome by a sudden spell of weakness, but I bravely led the doctor on, through Jeeves’s lair, into his quarters. And there the man was, lying obediently in bed, though I noted with some displeasure that he was already sitting upright when we arrived. Jeeves made to struggle to his feet, but I waved him down with the firmest look I could muster.

So he contented himself with a quiet, “Sir,” and “Dr. Watson,” each accompanied by a respectful nod.

Generally, as you would expect, I spend very little time in my man’s quarters. Therefore, I was a little surprised by the cramped spareness of it all. The fellow constantly rescuing me from all manners of soup deserved rather better than what could have passed for a closet furnished with a cot, some drawers, and some shelves laden with all manner of tomes. But alas that was a problem for another day. For the time being, the three of us crammed in to the best of our ability; Jeeves in bed, of course, Dr. Watson on a chair brought in from the kitchen positioned at the bedside, and I hovering at the foot of the bed by the drawers.

“My apologies Dr. Watson, I am afraid there has been something of a miscommunication,” Jeeves said, somehow projecting the very image of a valet, even though he was abed in his brown dressing gown, looking only a little less feverish than when I left him. “Mr. Wooster’s gentlemanly spirit demanded that my recovery be overseen by a doctor, however I assure you that my condition is not at all serious and I find it to be much improved even after a brief respite.”

“Dr. Watson will be the judge of that!” I insisted, drawing myself up to a considerable height - with Jeeves incapacitated, I was by far the tallest chap in the room.

The doctor glanced between Jeeves and myself, no doubt weighing our words, though the only expression I saw cross his features was the suggestion of a smile. “Yes, thank you, Mr. Wooster. May I have a moment alone with my patient?”

“Oh, certainly! I’ll biff off then, toodle-pip!” I hastily ducked out of the room with a final glance at a less than pleased Jeeves, and settled myself in the sitting room for the long haul.

I lit a gasper to ease my rattled nerves and let the soothing aroma wash over me. You may be asking why I would prefer a gasper when I have Italian and Turkish cigarettes close at hand, and to that I can only point to the fact that Jeeves always smokes gaspers, and so I find them to have a similar reassuring effect when the man himself is absent, though certainly nothing equal to the real article.

I confess, I was rather far gone. I kept glancing back at the door to the kitchen, expecting Dr. Watson to emerge at any moment with news that I could only imagine inevitably got worse with every passing second. I felt rather like those Greek chappies; like Damon wasting away in his cell waiting for his pal Pythias - or rather Pythias racing back to wherever it was, absolutely frantic about Damon wasting away in that cell of his, only hoping he wasn’t too late. Not that I had any illusion that Jeeves saw his mentally negligible young master as anything even approaching his Damon or Pythias.

It was difficult not to envision Jeeves like one of those damsels in the pictures, slowly and inevitably wasting away in the sickbed as her family cried around her. I thought I heard a distant cough coming from the other room; the first innocuous symptom before consumption set in. I was just beginning to compose a fitting eulogy for such a great man with a few tears in my eyes when at long last I heard a door swing open and shut, and a steady gait that could only belong to Dr. Watson approached through the kitchen.

I jumped up to greet him, almost as fast as Jeeves when I interrupt him when he’s reading. “Is he…?”

The doctor smiled. “Don’t worry, Jeeves will be all right. He merely has a fever.”

“It’s not consumption?”

“No,” Dr. Watson said gently.

“Right-o!” I exclaimed, significantly braced.

“He should recover completely in a day or two, but I’ve given him an order to rest until then.”

“That’ll be just the thing!”

I hastily bade Dr. Watson take a seat and offered him a drink to toast to Jeeves’s health and what not and the kindly doctor obliged.

I downed my glass perhaps a bit too quickly, but a bracing drink really was the thing to take the edge off of my lingering fears and the jitters of relief.

Just as the need for further conversation began to make itself known - I had some mind to bring it around to Jeeves - the doctor remarked, “Has Jeeves been working himself particularly hard of late?”

“I haven’t been giving him any more work than usual,” I said with some righteous indignation. This chap may have been a friend of Jeeves, but that didn’t give him licence to critique how I ran my household.

“No, I would think not,” Dr. Watson said with just a touch of exasperation. “It is only that I have often had the occasion to observe that when a gentleman is particularly intelligent, he may have difficulty recognizing his own limits and the limits of others.”

“And overwork himself, you mean?” I asked, a bit taken aback.

“Yes.”

“I don’t think Jeeves ever does that. He’s as hardworking a chap as any, of course, but I don’t think he’d over do it.” I hesitated. “Really, he always seems so infallible, like nothing’s too much for him to handle. I don’t think I’ve ever known him to get ill.”

Dr. Watson nodded sagely. “Jeeves has done his best to appear infallible for as long as I’ve known him.”

“You knew him growing up, what?”

“No, Jeeves was a young man by the time I made his acquaintance.”

“Jeeves’s cousin Bunny said he was always particularly intelligent.”

“Yes, he was a very personable young man, but always at something of a distance.” After a moment’s pause, Dr. Watson forced himself to his feet. “I should get on with my rounds, but it was a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Wooster. Jeeves is fortunate to have a friend such as yourself.”

“I say!” I exclaimed, jumping to my feet after him. “You mean it?” I’m usually not met with enthusiastic approval so much as weary disdain by the older element.

“Certainly. Jeeves was a friendless young man, but he seems to have taken a liking to you.”

I may have flushed at his words even as I protested, “What about his cousins? Bunny told me about the games they used to play. I’m just the hapless young master.”

To my surprise, the doctor frowned. “I wouldn’t call them friendly.”

I wanted to protest in Bunny’s defense - he’s not only a cousin of Jeeves’s, but a pal of mine - but then I remembered Jeeves’s cousin Dorian and his airy teasing that had a cruel edge to it, and instead, I asked, “Did Jeeves really say all that?”

“Not in so many words, but I’ve learned to observe a little over the years.”

“Well, I say! It’s really me who’s lucky to have Jeeves, with all he does for me. I only wish I could do enough to repay him.”

“I’m certain that you repay him in your own way.”

If my dubiousness showed, Dr. Watson didn’t comment on it as I showed him to the door. I bid him a cheery “Toodle-pip!” and retired to the sitting room.

Abruptly left to my own devices with no urgent mission at hand, I found myself rather at a loss. I puttered about for a bit, lit another gasper, finished off my s. and b., and even gave the book I had been reading the night before a cursory flip, but all the while my thoughts lingered on Jeeves. The words on the page meant nothing compared to the looming fear of Jeeves’s condition taking a sudden turn for the worse.

Finally, I decided enough was enough.

The floorboards creaked more than they’d ever before had the gall to creak as I toed it through the kitchen, toward Jeeves’s quarters, doing my best not to wake the man from his much needed slumbers. It was only as I stopped at the door, a hand upon the knob, that I realized the bally rumminess of it all. Whether Jeeves had really taken something of a liking to me or not, I couldn’t very well go peeking into my man’s quarters, ill or the very image of health, without a good reason.

And just as I was dithering at the door, my stomach came roaring to the rescue. It wasn’t so much a roar as a gurgle, but it made itself known and the next moment I had a plan of action fully formed. The first order of business was tea. The morning’s oolong had long since gone cold, and so I set about fiddling with the stove.

Perhaps thanks to my Aunt Agatha - that horrible aunt who howls at the moon and drinks the blood of the innocent - you may be under the impression that I have no ability to take care of myself without Jeeves acting as my keeper. That is not entirely true. I am certain I would waste away to nothing without him for a week, but, as I have said, for a day or two with just cause, I can manage. And to whomever has given you the impression that I cannot operate my own stove, I say “tinkerty-tonk.”

That is not to say that I am an expert tea-brewer or have in any way mastered the arts of the home at which Jeeves excels, but I can very well pull together a cup of tea. After a rather lot of prodding and waiting and prodding and waiting again, I emerged with a piping hot cup of just the stuff. It smelled about right, though it was difficult to tell after the steam burned my nostrils. It was with some measure of pride then, that I carried it ho, into Jeeves’s quarters, careful not to spill a drop - I shook some droplets off the saucer for good measure, before gently propping open the door.

Jeeves was, of course, alert and awake upon my arrival, greeting me with an ever formal, “Sir?” his tone just barely beginning to question what I was dashed well doing there.

“What ho, Jeeves!” I proclaimed, gesticulating somewhat more than I ought with the precious cargo in hand - I hastily put a stop to it before all the tea splashed out onto the floor. “Just come with a spot of tea, what?”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” Jeeves said, sounding a little confused, the poor sick lamb.

Once the cargo had been carefully rested upon the bedside table, I took a good look at my man. His state was greatly deteriorated from his usual strength, propped up on a few threadbare pillows, his dark hair in wild disarray, and his eyes drooping. It took him a bit of effort just to push himself far enough upright to have a drink of tea.

I hastily bent over to assist him, but I’m afraid I rather more got in the way.

“Thank you, sir,” Jeeves said softly, giving the cup a tentative sip.

Despite all the chaos around them, his features remained impassive, those dark eyes with their inscrutable infinite depths, regarding me just a foot or so away from my own baby blues - a shiver ran down my spine.

It jolted me into self-awareness and I jumped the rest of the way upright. “Just thought I’d hop by and see how you’re coping, what?”

“Very kind of you, sir.”

“Is there anything else you need, what? A book to read, or any extra blankets or what not?”

“No, sir. As Dr. Watson instructed, all I require now is rest.”

“Oh, yes, right-o then! I’ll let you get back to that, what? I’ll just be popping down to the Drones for lunch then, unless you’d rather I stayed here, that is.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Right-o!”

After bumping into the wall, I backed out the door and closed it behind me before taking a moment to regain my bearings. I had half a mind to wonder where Jeeves kept the cooking sherry, in the hope that it might quell my firing nerves, but thankfully it soon passed, my head righted itself, and I set off for the Drones post haste in search of a more appetizing apéritif.

You may be thinking that being overwhelmed with gratitude when Jeeves miraculously lifts victory from the soup of defeat is one thing, but it doesn’t become a fellow to get all in a tizzy like this over something so simple as bringing his man some tea, but it must be understood that the circs. were rather far out of the ordinary. For one, it was me bringing Jeeves the tea, rather than the other way around. And for another, this was no ordinary man, but Jeeves, the paragon of a valet who had gotten me out of the soup more times than I could count and was an inimitable man besides, and so I dashed well wanted to do right by him in his hour of need, even though it had me well out of my usual depths.

Under the aforementioned circs., it was a somber, serious Bertram Wooster that lunched at the Drones that afternoon. I tossed a bit of bread about with the lads, but my thoughts lingered back in the flat with Jeeves. As I finished my lunch - more picked at rather than devoured, as would have been expected of a Wooster short one breakfast - I asked for some soup to bring back to my indisposed man. As it so happens, the cook at the Drones is acquainted with Jeeves and happily obliged, and so I was sent home bearing his sympathies and a tureen of his own special recipe.

I hurried back to the flat with the precious tureen and carefully ladled out a bowl of still warm soup. With a lot of slow, awkward movements, I managed to maneuver the door to Jeeves’s quarters open, soup in hand, without making a spill, only to find the man himself fast asleep in bed. I felt a small pang of disappointment, shortly overcome by relief that he was finally resting. He looked awfully peaceful; every muscle usually kept at stiff attention, for once allowed to relax. The teacup I had left with him before departing for the Drones now sat empty on the bedside table, and so in its place I put the bowl of soup, ready for whenever he woke.

Just as I was tiptoeing out, I heard Jeeves stirring in the bed behind me. I glanced back to see him hastily drawing himself to attention - as much so as he could manage.

“Thank you, sir,” he said hoarsely.

“Not at all, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, my voice too loud for the sickroom. “Bon appetit, what?” And with that, I stumbled back out into the kitchen.

With nothing more to be done - my bearings quickly regained - I returned to sulk about the sitting room with a gasper in one hand and a glass in the other. I’m not usually a terribly busy chap. I live a life of leisure and I, for one, am content not to be running about at all hours of the day and night, as much as my Aunt Agatha and her ilk may believe I do too little of the former and too much of the latter. No, it’s the quiet life for Bertram W. on all fronts. But on this occasion, I was downright preoccupied and rather wished I had something else to hold up my mind.

I lay about, did a spot of pacing, and lay about some more. I would have poked at the keys of the piano, but if my light tread was enough to awaken Jeeves, the instrument would have been a sure thing. And I couldn’t very well leave the flat in case Jeeves’s condition took a sudden turn for the worse.

I threw myself back down upon the sofa a bit more loudly than I ought and made a half-hearted attempt to reimmerse myself in the mystery that had seemed so captivating the day before. Today, however, each clever remark made me think of Jeeves’s sly, understated wit, each foolish mistake of how he would have doubtless done better, and each description of a corpse inevitably called to mind the image of him huddled beneath the sheets, fighting off death’s icy grasp as I sat reading, whiling away the hours.

I could stand it no longer. I tottered through the kitchen to Jeeves’s quarters just to be certain he was getting his requisite rest and hadn’t been calling out to me, his hoarse voice too quiet to be heard through the walls.

Jeeves lay in bed, to all appearances fast asleep, not at all like a fellow fighting off the icy hand of death. The soup, now lukewarm, sat untouched on the table where I had left it. Jeeves’s eyes fluttered open upon my arrival. 

Met with his sharp gaze, I hastily cast about for an excuse. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you need, what? Any blankets or water or anything?”

“No, sir.” More gently, Jeeves insisted, “You are very kind, sir, but as you said yourself, what I need now is rest.”

“Oh, right-o.”

“Sir, if you would be more comfortable, I would have no objection to you remaining here.”

“I say! Rather! If that’s all right with you, I mean.”

“Certainly, sir. It would be preferable by far to the current arrangement.”

“Right-o! I’ll just get my book then.”

I dashed back to the sitting room, and in two blinks of an eye, I was back in Jeeves’s quarters, perched on the kitchen chair Dr. Watson had left by the bedside, book in hand. Jeeves regarded me a moment with something approaching a smile, before letting his head fall back upon the pillow and his eyes fall shut.

I sat silent and still, not daring to move lest the noise reach his acute senses and jar him from the dreamless. But I didn’t mind the stillness so much. There was something soothing about the sight of the man, peacefully at rest. I fancied I saw the trace of a smile lingering across his finely chiseled features. Even in sleep, there was something undeniably remarkable about the chap. You could see him gleaming with intelligence from miles away, his head sticking out a little in back just to accommodate all of that grey matter.

His eyelid flickered and I hastily turned my attention to my book.

It was much easier reading with Jeeves there beside me, sleeping soundly. I just made sure to turn the pages quietly and on a few occasions had to bite back exclamations, but on the whole, it was smooth sailing. Whenever a corpse showed up, all I had to do was glance down at Jeeves to be sure he was as life-like as ever, and looking healthier every minute for all the rest he was getting.

I don’t know exactly when I dozed off too, but the next thing I knew, I felt a warm hand on my wrist pulling me back into awareness, my back and neck sore as the dickens from sleeping where I sat, in that dratted uncomfortable kitchen chair.

“You may find a chair in the sitting room more to your liking, sir,” Jeeves remarked.

“You don’t say, Jeeves,” I retorted, still a bit groggy as I rolled out my neck and shoulders, and strained my back.

“Yes, sir.”

I rubbed open my eyes, still struggling in the bright light of day. Jeeves was still there in the bed beside me - not that I was so lucky as to have slept in the bed; I having been consigned to that dashed uncomfortable chair. He looked well, less feverish, I mean, his eyes back to their usual luster and what not, though he still seemed a little worse for the wear, tired and worn.

“Sleep well, what?” I asked.

“Yes, very well. Thank you, sir.” He certainly seemed refreshed.

Jeeves regarded me with a sort of rummy soft expression, if you get my meaning, nothing bad, just unusual for the chap, like he was amused by something, but without the amusement, or like I had somehow caught him off his guard, but with none of the startled look of having been caught.

“Feeling back to your old self, what?”

“Yes, sir.” Jeeves pushed himself upright, looking like he was about to get out of bed.

I hastily gestured him back down.

“Sir, your concern is gratifying, but I assure you that it is unnecessary.”

“Not necessary? Now see here Jeeves, you’ll get as much rest as Dr. Watson said if you know what’s good for you! I won’t very well have you suffering a re- what is it, Jeeves?’

“A relapse, sir?”

“I won’t have you suffering a relapse just because you’re fool enough to go back to work before you’re properly recovered and I’m fool enough to let you. And that’s final,” I added, seeing an argumentative glint in his eyes.

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves relented at last.

I was feeling rather pleased with my latest victory and it was with a bit of a Jeevesian flourish that I asked, “Now, is there anything I can get for you?”

“If you will not permit me to get it for myself, I believe a spoon for the soup would be called for, sir.”

“Oh! Yes, of course! Right on it, Jeeves!”

I hopped over to the kitchen, rummaged around a bit, and hopped back with the called for utensil.

I lingered by Jeeves’s sickbed for a few ticks longer, chewing the fat and what not, before finally biffing off to the Drones for dinner and leaving my man to his belated meal - the soup had gone cold, but he stubbornly refused my every offer to reheat it for him on the stove. Dinner was much like lunch; quiet and brief, occupied with thoughts of Jeeves. I saw Bingo and some of the other fellows, but I didn’t have the heart for more than a round or two, before hastening back home.

The flat was quieter than I had left it - silent, in fact - but the mouth-watering smell of something cooking wafted in from the kitchen. However, I found nothing simmering on the stove and, as far as I could discern, not a thing had been touched since I left for the Drones. Jeeves was awake, but not upright when I slipped into his quarters, looking still fitter than when I had left him mere hours before. I noted that the dishes on the bedside table were gone without a trace.

I beamed at the chap and proclaimed, “What ho, Jeeves!”

“Good evening, sir,” he answered with some suggestion of a smile.

“Rested and comfortable, what?”

“Yes, sir. I take it that your dinner at the Drones was satisfactory?”

“Rather!” Back in Jeeves’s company, everything took on a rosier tint, even my hasty supper. “But it’s good to be home, what?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Outside of Jeeves’s cozy little room, the sky was rapidly darkening. It wasn’t nearly a late enough hour for Bertram W. to consider calling it a night under usual circs., but these were hardly the usual circs. I was feeling a bit drowsy myself and I thought I saw Jeeves’s eyes beginning to droop. The chap needed all the rest he could get to make a full recovery.

“Do you need anything for the night?” I asked on a bit of a delay. “I can bring over some blankets from the spare bedroom. Or I could put up another pot of tea.”

After a moment’s consideration, Jeeves replied, “An additional blanket would not be unwelcome, sir.”

“Right-o!”

I yanked the blanket off the bed in the spare bedroom, gave it a quick fold, and carried it proudly back to Jeeves. It was a bit of a joint effort getting the blanket all set up and making sure Jeeves was comfortable for the night. I popped back into the kitchen to bring him a glass of water, and then I lingered, hovering by the bedside, unsure what else to do, but reluctant to leave the man’s side.

“Need anything else, what?”

“No, sir. Thank you sir.” He looked up at me, his usually keen or alternatively empty gaze again strangely soft and earnest, a gentle smile playing across his features.

I could only beam back. I had half an impulse to bend down and brush a stray hair from his forehead, which I hastily restrained, pocketing my hands to keep them from acting of their own accord as they are wont to do.

All was quiet, the square outside the window dark and still. We seemed to be very much alone in the world.

“Good night then, Jeeves,” I said at last.

“Good night, sir.”

“‘Till tomorrow, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good night, then,” I said again, and bumped into the door frame on my way out into the kitchen.

I paced about the flat a bit, picking things up, putting them back down, and what not, feeling rather at a loss - what Jeeves does in the evenings after seeing me to bed is one of life’s great mysteries. But the trials of the day were enough to wear down even the Wooster spirit, and so, with a great yawn, I retreated back into my own bedroom and hastened to bed, hoping the next day would herald a return to normalcy in the Wooster abode.

Part of The Mysterious Mr. Jeeves

[iceamericanoventi]

Love Will Find a Way, Well, Eventually : 2. In Between

“Where are you going?”

If it was inside Cartoon Network’s universe, everyone must be able to see the smoke fuming from both his nostrils and ears. Jinki looks beyond distressed when he’s lifting his ass from the chair. No one on the table was his partner, but Minho decided to throw some ridiculous question then played dumb as if he didn’t just ask one.

“Should I have number one here?”

He started getting irked, but that doesn’t stay long until Kibum casually munched his breadstick while spluttering his witty comments as usual, “Surely Taemin would be delightful.”

Taemin who didn’t do anything almost chocked himself with a piece of tomato and kicked Kibum’s shin under the table, eventually.

“Promise me you won’t run away?”

Dumbfounded, Jinki emptied his pocket and almost smashed the table with his belonging.

“Are you my husband? Here’s my wallet. And my phone!” and with that, he left the other three men finishing their meal.

“Is he always in this temper?”

Lee Taemin gave him another look, pleading him not to embarrass them further, but Kibum just shrugged and muttered ‘I’m just asking’ under his nose.

“He was mad with me since this afternoon. Plus, he has lots of stuffs to think about these days. But don’t worry, he never really got mad unless you disturb his nap.”

“What is he? A bear?”

“Yaa! Kim Kibum!”

Minho couldn’t help but laugh to the scene happened before his eyes. Taemin is famous for being friendly and very expressive only if you know him, even if he’s talkative. To penetrate his bubble is very hard at first, but this man sitting across him, he seems like he’s already inside that bubble since the very beginning. He really is someone closed to him. Kibum looks mesmerizing, even in his grumbling nature. The oversize sweater wrapped his lithe build perfectly.

A phone call arrived to Kibum's phone, he picked it up frantically and excused himself to take it outside.

"What do you think?"

“Eh?” Minho doesn’t even realized he got his eyes entailed Kibum’s silhouette until it disappear by the entrance door.

“You seemed in trance. I know Kibum is beautiful but I didn’t expect you’ll be this amazed with my friend,” Taemin’s sipping his wine, a smirk is very apparent in his devious face. 

“I guess it’s safe to say that you’re not a liar.”

Minho reopened his mouth few minutes after he’s assured that Kibum’s not going back any soon. Taemin is not ecstatic, sometimes he wondered if Minho has a decent sense of humor of a friend.

“For your information, I’m not and never been. I’m the most honest person you’ve ever encountered in your life.”

“Everyone in this room knows that’s not true.”

“Whatever. I might know my ways deceiving people, but I never lie to my friend.”

 “Did you just admit that you’re lying here and there, Lee Taemin?”

Taemin rolls his eyes, again, probably for the nth times already this evening. Without Jinki around, he can be more relaxed on throwing his tantrum on Minho.

“Choi Minho, people lies at some certain points of their life. Get over it.”

He gulped down the rest of his wine, Taemin then called a waiter near them to bring him another one.

“Kibum seems nice. He sounds smart.”

“Sounds? Did you even listen to yourself? No writer is not smart, Choi. Moreover, someone who’s been writing the past decade!”

“I only know him for one night. Who knows he’s just acting?”

“Dude, not everyone is an asshole like you.”

“An asshole wouldn’t agree to bring his best friend along in front of a psychopath like you.”

Taemin snorted and Minho’s smirk reappeared on his face.

“That is literally what a psycho would do, selling their friend for their own benefits.”

Minho wiped his mouth before washed down the dinner with cold water, “And that’s exactly what Jinki accused me for. You two shared a brain or what?”

“Any sane people would say the same, Honey,” this time Taemin’s smirk that made the other scoffed, “By the way, what’s the deal with Jinki? He looks like he’s been sitting on thorny cushion the whole dinner!”

Minho knows Taemin would ask such question eventually. However, he couldn’t say that Jinki hates the whole dinner date plan, it’s impossible. Besides that, knowing him for years, Jinki really is an angel in disguise, well, at least when he’s in the mood.

“People have different, what should I say, defense mechanism? And that’s how he is. What kind of person who talked nonstop during their first meeting, anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know, me?”

“That’s why you’re a freak.”

“A freak who introduced you to your potentially next boyfriend.”

“Ha. Point taken,” Minho raised his hand to ask for the dessert, “Jinki is just not the type of person who will talk a lot and open up in a second. But I guarantee you, he’s a good person. Sometimes a little bit care too much for other at certain time so probably being brazen is his forte.”

“That reminds me of someone.”

Taemin and Kibum spent their high school days together. Separated for some years due to works and educations, their relationship’s all well maintained. They understand each other, including Kibum’s nature to always put others before him at any given situation.

“Appearance wise, though, what do you think about Jinki?”

“Choi Minho, I’m not a teenager anymore. Judging people around by its cover is no longer my habit.”

“But a designer like you must love a beautiful package, don’t they?”

“Well, to be honest, his lips and eyes itself could get me floored in one glance.”

“I knew it.”

“You’re a famous photographer for a reason.”

***

Cold wind slapped Kibum’s cheeks lightly when he pushed the door and parched to the corner near the valet post.

“Okay, now you can speak. Sorry, I don’t know why the reception wasn’t good enough inside.”

“Then I’ll be frankly here. There’s a possibility for making the special edition for the short story collection. But then, we’re still short of two stories at the moment.”

“Wait, wait, but we already have nine! I finished writing nine! Why should I add another two?”

“The publisher agreed to the preposition for at least twelve stories. You should be grateful I could pitch one less story!”

Kibum looks like he’s about to punch anyone passed within radius one meter around him, but nothing in reach besides a huge pot of short palm tree and concrete wall. And he needs his hand to finish his books still.

“But, Amber. Page wise, those are more than enough to make two new books. Are they out of their mind?”

There’s a loud groan banging on his ear drum came from the other line, “Dude, I almost flipped the table when I was at the meeting you have no idea. The board has new man and that guy is a pain in the ass.”

“Would it change the circumstance if I talked to them by myself?”

“Since when do they have time to talk to the writer directly? We’re head to head with bunch of snobs here, did you forget?”

“I should had not agree to let them touched my writings. Now we’re about to face dead end.”

It was a dream to work along this publisher. It was Kibum’s dream since he started writing when he took gap year after graduated high school. And as if it’s a fate, it was the only publisher agreed with his graphic novel concept five years he climbed his career professionally.

“Listen, Kibum. When I met you years ago, I promised I’ll work my ass hard to help you publishing your books. Not because I knew you, it’s because you’re good. You’re amazing writer and I’m not giving up easily. And neither you. Not when anybody can tell that you’re a gem.”

“I haven’t written any book since last year, Amber. I’m in a slump. Writer’s block is not even describing my bad luck at the moment.”

“Honey, you haven’t written any because you’re currently waiting two books released. And if I could do my magic, another one in, let’s say, six months.”

“If I could make up some words into another story within two weeks. If you could convince them to give me mercy.”

“Did you just know me yesterday?”

Kibum’s tired giving sane response, “What do you mean?”

“I’m waiting their secretary to call me in ten minutes. We’re going to discuss some new deals and I’ll make sure one of them is going to be your new nine stories book.”

“I actually have no idea if I don’t have you as my editor slash manager slash friend slash personal ranting partner slash whatever you want to be.”

“Rockstar. That would be cool.”

“You’re going to be a kick ass one to be honest.”

“I bet. Anyway, expect another call from me in the next couple hours. I’m sorry, but tonight we might need video call to resolve some issues.”

“I hate you for confiscating my time but you’re the best.”

“As always, ain’t I?”

The phone call ends already, but he still forlornly looking at his phone’s screen. With that, Kibum remembers all the works he needs to catch up for tonight. With that, he can put aside all the unnecessary anxiety and tension of tonight’s stupid match making session.

He took a glance of his watch and could only sighed, he better hurried inside to his dessert. The faster he finished, the sooner he can hit home and face the real deal. His deadlines.

Two steps away from the entrance however, he caught a familiar face sitting by themselves, staring to the busy street in front of the restaurant.

“Jinki?” he carefully calling the man, “Lee Jinki, right?”

The later tilted his head to the right and gave Kibum a simple smile, didn’t realize it dropped Kibum’s heart by the bottom of his gut.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Everyone would agree this winter is even harsher than last year’s. Jinki just lifted his left hand to make sure Kibum saw a cigarette slipped between his fingers, “Can I sit here?”

Jinki chuckles, “Aren’t you cold?”

Listening to the same question he threw a minute ago, he just rolled his eyes and took a place next to the other man.

“I’m waiting a phone call.”

“Important?”

“Kinda.”

Jinki blew some smoke out, “Hmm, I guess so. You sounded pretty upset over there.”

“Did I scream that loud?!”

“In my opinion? No. but a girl flinched and buzzed off rather hastily, so, you tell me.”

When he saw Kibum’s gaping like a fish in frantic expression, Jinki has no choices beside laughed again, surprising Kibum who’s quite convinced with his aloof personalities.

“I didn’t know you have so many jokes in store.”

“You learn something new every day.”

“Your face doesn’t show.”

“What about my face?”

“It’s handsome but with that attitude inside, seems like you’re the type who woke up at the wrong side of the bed every single morning and could kill someone annoys you at any time.”

“Well, to be fair, I did wake up in the wrong side of my bed this morning. But it’s because a certain dog occupied half of my blanket so I couldn’t disturb her.”

“You have a dog?!”

Kibum’s face lit up thousand times as if he just won some lottery. Strangely, it warms Jinki’s heart. No, scratch that, it would warm any heart, Jinki tried to generalize the situation.

“I don’t, unfortunately. She belongs to my friend. I’m taking care of her while he’s travelling abroad. Her father will pick her up this weekend.”

“Ah, too bad. We could have play date with my boys.”

“I’ll make sure to give you a call when I decided to adopt one later.”

“Do you think my invitation hasn’t expired yet by that time?”

“A man can only dream, can’t he?”

Kibum’s laughter is muffled by his own palm covering his mouth.

“Let’s go inside, you must be shivering.”

“But your cigarette?”

Kibum’s half stuttered caught red handed, Jinki already pressed the half-done cigarette on the sand bowl on his left, “I can always have another one at home. Besides, I doubt you would go inside without me dragging you along.”

Kibum thanked the universe that the place is not well lit, so he could hide the blush creeping his cheeks. Unfortunately, Jinki has a very good eye sight.

***

“Is my baby being a good girl when daddy’s away?”

Jinki scoffed when the man just entered his living room just literally threw his suitcase aside and scooped the little dachshund running toward his embrace. He gathered the suitcase and poor leather bag on the floor and placed it neatly near the saffron color couch.

The man later dropped himself next to Jinki who’s lounged himself there, checking his phone halfheartedly.

“Minho texted me the other day.”

“Why did he keep texting you?”

The man with dark grey hair didn’t catch the frown hanging on Jinki’s face and buried his face to the dog’s belly, making him groaned again. He lightly pushed the dog further and toppled his head on the other man’s laps.

The dog owner realized something’s happened when he’s not around. He put the dog on the ground and tapped her butt to send her back to her small bed near the pantry.

“Minho has my number and I have his name in my contact list. He can text me whenever he wants. Still jealous?”

Jinki closed his eyes when he started playing with his hair, “He’s still one of the reasons we broke up.”

“Baby, the only reason we broke up is because neither of us didn’t want to succumb into marriage. Minho was just a handsome face happened on the wrong time.”

“I have no idea why I still befriend him when it’s clear he wanted to shove his face to yours, all the damn time.”

“And I have no idea that you’re this type who holds the grudge for a long time. We were already out of relationship back then.”

“Still, a friend wouldn’t openly chase after their friend’s ex.”

“A friend wouldn’t, but a best friend would.”

“Whatever.”

He almost lost his control and slapped Jinki’s head of him, “Oh, come on. What’s bothering you this time?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. It’s written all over your face the second I saw you behind the door. And I’m pretty sure it’s not because my daughter misbehaved while I’m on my annual pediatric conference.”

Jinki sighed, nothing he could really hide it from the other man. Since they were in their almost five years relationship, since they became best friends around three years prior.

“Minho invited me for a dinner night.”

“Wow, fancy,” actually Minho already texted him about the dinner a bit, how he wanted to introduce Jinki to some acquaintance he has, “He gave up on me so he went for the only option?”

“For the record, your mom agreed that I’m way much sexier than you.”

“Three years ago, before your cheek bones buried under those mount of fluffy fat.”

“Said a man who came to me and straight ahead told me I looked cute after leaving a piece of paper with their number on my table.”

“I will put aside the fact that I love how romantic you’re for still remembering our first meeting but let’s back to the right path here because I don’t like the upset you. It’s fucking annoying.”

“He introduced me to someone, Jonghyun.”

He let out inaudible gasp and thanked the universe Jinki’s still closing his eyes. Otherwise, he would stop at once and avoided any discussion of the main reason which distressed his ex-boyfriend. Knowing the scenario before hands didn’t prevent him with the sheer pain graze him when it came from Jinki’s mouth himself.

“So? Isn’t that great? Do you think it’s about time?”

“I was about to argue that two years are still not enough to get over you but I guess you’re not in the same page with me so I’d say that I’m not interested into some relationship whatsoever at this point.”

Jonghyun wanted to cry listening to such words. His heart clenched, he inhaled – a very long one – before he continued caressing Jinki’s forehead.

“I am flattered, but I know you’re just teasing me.”

“Ha, you know me so well.”

“I’m not gonna fall on the same hole, Lee.”

“You won’t. You’re too smart to repeat the torture on the loop.”

“It wasn’t a torture, Jinki. I love you as much as you do. Or maybe just slightly more.”

“Not a chance. I love you more.”

“Stop it or I will kiss you.”

“I dare you.”

“I told you I’m not gonna fall on the same hole.”

“Smart, very smart,” Jinki opened his eyes only to find Jonghyun sticking his tongue out, “Okay, so at first, I don’t like the idea already. You know I hate any type of match making method. Even the online one. But being there, I realized that my current focus doesn’t involved other party besides me, my business, and—“

“And your grandfather?”

Jinki looks annoyed, “Remind me to add ‘always-cutting-people-sentence’ on the list of reasons why I broke up with you when I’m writing my journal tonight.”

“It’s true. I think he was also the cock blocker during our relationship back then.”

“Dude, we’re talking about my gramps. And to put him on the same category with Minho is beyond weird.”

“We already broke up when Minho made his move, for Pete’s sake!”

“Okay, okay! No need to raise your voice, you’re so scary when you’re angry.”

“Then don’t make me! Now, now, can you please be a normal human being so we can talk like adults for once?”

Jinki pulled himself from the couch to the pantry, snatching a pack of cigarette on the tea table before slipped one on the corner of his mouth.

“Can you not smoking inside?”

He snorted and padded to the direction of his balcony. It’s in the middle of winter but he doesn’t care a bit to the wind ready to slaughter his bones. If tomorrow the cold prevented him to leave the bed, then let it be. For once, he just wants to free his mind from the business.

“You need to remember that I can only treat patient on certain age,” Jonghyun followed few minutes after with a blanket he spread as wide as possible to cover both of them without feeling suffocated for standing too close.

“The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends people be under pediatric care up to the age of 21, though.”

“Did you just quote Wikipedia? And we’re not in fucking States! Above and beyond, shame on your wrinkles!”

“Rude.”

“You’re the rude one to your lungs!”

“Then tell me how to ease my mind without nicotine! Tell me how to forget all those troubled night and just sleep! Do you think it’s easy taking care of worrisome business and messy family without distraction?! Stop talking non sense if you do know how to save my days!”

Any word seems taboo once Jinki exploded. Both man just staring into the dark evening below Jinki’s unit. People paraded as quickly as possible on the street to fight the harsh weather. It’s not that late, but only few cars passed by. The dim light of the street lamp’s soothing the tense atmosphere in a way.

Jonghyun leaned closer to Jinki’s arm and rested his head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you with that.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you.” 

“You know that you can always talk to me right?”

“I’m tired bothering you. You already have a lot in your hands.”

“Besides my patients and Roo, there’s nothing really confiscated my time.”

Having someone like Jonghyun who would stand next to him, scold him then hug him right after, no matter how awful he behaved and treated the other man, Jinki every so often thinking what kind of good deeds he did in his previous life.

Jinki cocked his head, inhaling the trace of scent of Jonghyun’s favorite shampoo. Initially, he was about to kiss the top of his head, like he used to do when the other man leaned on him for whatever reason it was. He remember, though, the earlier period after their broke up – after settling their feelings for few months of course – the shorter man told him not to do that anymore because it was the doctor’s Achilles heel. So instead, he rubs his cheek over the thick hair, silently telling Jonghyun he’s sorry.

Some nights – especially right after that dinner date – he had thought, maybe one of the reason he reprimands Minho’s idea is just because he still has tiny hope that Jonghyun and him might had another chance in the future.

“From time to time, I was thinking that the more day passed, we’re closer to the image of friends with benefit.”

“Friends with benefit? Tsk,” Jonghyun slapped his forearm, “The only benefit I got from you is you’re the only perfect nanny for Roo when I’m away.”

“Those cups of coffee every single time you stopped by my shop?”

“Pfft. How stingy. I’m leaving.”

“Heartless.”

Jonghyun didn’t say anything more and returned inside to gather his things and called Roo. He desperately needs some hot shower. Somewhere inside him, he was expecting Jinki offering him to stay the night knowing how caring the man and the fact Jinki knows he bolted to the other’s apartment right away after landed.  

When Jinki handed him the leash, that hope vanished in second.

“What if later I really considered this person? Or any other person collided with me on the future?”

Jonghyun smiled, he looks tired, but very sincere, “Then good.”

“Because I’m not gonna bother you anymore?”

“No. Because you’ll have someone to share the happiness with.”

***

cross-posted in my AFF

[jwnbwnjwn]

Entry 4 (3.23.2020)

Its currently 9:40 AM and I haven’t slept. Waiting for my online class to start, by the way, all my classes got moved to online now due to the Corona virus outbreak. Anyways, my sleeping schedule is once again fucked up and flipped, but surpringly I dont feel as lonely in the middle of the night. I did just get a wave of sadness though.

Sometimes I feel like im fine, and lifes fine and everythings fine. My relationship, friendships, family. But i know it still bugs me to the core, i know it still replays in my mind, i know its going to take a long time to forget, or to fully make peace with it. It still runs through my mind the possible ways that couldve gone down. The different positions, the different things you did to her, the different names you called her, all the places you took her, what you told her about me? The degrading stuff you said about me? I still look through her stuff, maybe a hint; the subtlest one. I stare at her photos to try to see the parts of her that caught your eye, the parts of her that you kissed, that you touched. The times you did stuff, did I ever come to mind?, even if it was for half a second? Did you think of me? Did you think of my emotions, my feelings? No right? You didnt even know what I was feeling because we were in a situation where I was too scared to tell you because I would just be ignored or shrugged away. But its okay - the blames not all on you. We were in a really rough patch, im surprised we even made it out alive. I still think of the few times I saw her, if it was going on then, if it was still happening then, if you kissed her before or after, while i was still in the same building, if right after you went to see me or after you dropped me off you went to see her. I think of it so much and I just want it out of my head. I think of how you continued to check out other people, even after everything. After help, after the many tears i shed, after most of the hard work was done. I think of how you had girls nudes, how you had my friends nudes, my bestfriends. How you traded with other disgusting fucking pigs, how you wanted to fuck all these other girls. I think of the stash you had. Deja Vu, DEJA VU. I’ve seen this before, me typing this, all of this. I wonder if you still are like that. If you still have your stash, a stash. I know you’re in groupchats that do that stuff, and I know because you told me. You said it was just photos of girls like Belle Delphine, my fucking queen lol, but even then it kinda hurts when i still have all this overbearing pain left over and  to be so sensitive and insecure about still so many things. It pains me a bit to think youre staring at a girls ass, nudes, etc, whether you know them or not. Anyones. And I wanna see your phone, I wanna see who you text, what you talk about because im looking for these things. Im looking for these messages, these photos. The stuff that will destroy me. The stuff that will make me question why I kept going. I wonder if you still do. I just keep pondering, and I think i will for a long time unless i see proof. I think its going to be long, and difficult process for me in order to solve that. And I know, im scared. Im scared to bring this up because I know its somehow going to be flipped onto my side. I know its going to be somehow turned into my insecurites and on my behalf. And you know if thats what it truly is than be it, but it hurts so much because it doesnt feel that way/. It feels like im always blamed on for it. I wanna ask you to leave the chat, I wanna ask you to leave any chat where they talk about girls in that matter, where they send lewd photos, because its too much for me, its too much for me to know youre there, to know yore watching that. It hurts my heart over and over and everytime i think of it it takes me back to that place where I tried so hard to escape from. I think about you when youre with your friends and the many things you probably talk about. I think of how disgusting those conversations can easily turn into, how easily it is for them to show you, for them to tell you, for them to talk about all these girls to you. Or maybe its worse, maybe you still have photos, maybe youre still a pervert and talk about girls, maybe youre the one still causing the trouble. Maybe you never changed. What if it was just your lies getting better, you faking it better, putting in a little more effort into that. I go insane thinking like this. I drive myself crazy. I know i overthink, and I know I get paranoid, i recently figured that about myself; that im always on edge, that im always paranoid about things in an odd way. But its true. I could see clearly why everything Ive stated so far could be happening, but i always give you the benefit of the doubt so i dont fall further down the rabbit hole. Im tired. Im tired of it all. Im tired of seeing her, seeing you, sometimes when I look at you I cant help but have my mind running over how that exact face across of me that I love so much can do all of that, can do it to me. I constantly think of the time you told me about her, going over it, replaying it all in my head. I go over it so many times in hopes that ill catch a detail i missed, anything. I drive myself insane. I dont know how much longer I could do this for anymore, im getting more and more exhausted by the day. With all this extra free time in my hands thats all I think about. I look and search in hopes that something new will pop up, something that will define anything from that time. I wonder if youve talked about her recently, talked to her. I wonder what you’ve said about her, about me, if you’ve ever compared us and how. Thinking of this just makes me want to apologize about me thinking all of this, of my looks, everything. I feel like i’ll never forget.

Sometimes I think, what if I took the bold move? What if I did was would be considered “right” of me? I hate admiting it and even writing it down anywhere, but I think of leaving you. Leaving you and finding myself, finding my true self; not the version I set of myself for you, the version i struggle to love but learn how to little bit a day. I want to know what its truly like to be able to express myself in my true form, in order to want to do stuff and not get shut down for it, in order to fully be me and be able to defend myself without feeling bad for doing so; without feeling like a loser or like im on the outside looking in. Sometimes i wonder what it would be liked to be loved by someone else, someone who deserves me. They say what I want is out there, and i ponder on that. I wonder if theres someone who will always open the door for me, someone who will walk to my doorstep everytime they arrive and everytime they have to go. Someone who will hold my hand and kiss it, someone who hugs me gently; a hug that will make me feel something again. I want someone who protects me, who will keep me safe. Someone who will prioritize me. Someone who no matter what fights we come across, he will protect me out of love, because thats exactly what I would do. I want someone my parents love, someone my family loves, someone that could get along with my friends that i wouldnt have to be worried about. I want someone who will understand me, and someone who will see me as their world. I want someone to view me the same way i view them, i want someone to be there for me and go the same exact extent that i would for them. I want equalization. I want loyalty, I want someone to come into my life and strip me away from THIS “life” and show me what its like to smell the flowers, to show me what its like to be happy and be in love. I want someone who will appreciate me, someone who wont have to try so hard to do so. I just have to keep wishing.

But I love you, I love you so much. Even after all the ugly, even after all the fights, all of this; I still love you so much, I wish you could be the man i need, and hopefully you will. Im just scared that when you do itll be too late. Im scared that you wont. I wish you would put me first. I wish that over everything. I just want to be loved, and I want that to be real. im scared, im so constantly scared all the fucking time and it eats me alive. I love you, but I want to live. I want to love, and live, and be happy. i want to smell the flowers, dance in the rain, roll in the mud, I want to know what its like to be alive. I just hope its with you. I just hope I can forget, I just hope I can make peace.

Ended this at 3/23/2020 10:25 AM

-jen

[heardrpc-blog]

SECRETS MASTERLIST

i think we’re all tired of having our characters have the same dirty little secrets. so here are some realistic secrets you can use for your characters. i am putting an overall trigger and mature warning on this. they’re in the sections of: lighthearted, hardcore, family, involving others, criminal, embarrassing, sexual, romantic, and other..

scared your secret isn’t creative - change it up! it mentions drugs? change it to sex or alcohol. something mentions family? turn that into a romantic secret! the options are endless if you change details.

lighthearted: these secrets aren’t very harmful, but they’re still secrets. they’re for characters you can’t exactly imagine being bad human beings on the side.

hardcore: these are very hardcore secrets. these are your dirty, life ruining secrets. these could be the ones to get someone accost from their friend group and family.

family: these are family secrets, etc. these are the things nobody outside of the home is supposed to see. 

involving others: these are secrets you could request a character for or get another character involved with the secret. these are any group secrets, etc. THIS HAS SUBSECTIONS OF ROMANTIC & PLATONIC.

criminal: these are for those types that love to do illegal things. there definitely are illegal things in the hardcore and maybe some other sections, but this is where the real root of illegal activity is.

embarrassing: these are for the personal dirty little secrets. these are mostly harmless, but embarrassing. this is more for those who still have silly little habits rather than life ruining secrets.

sexual: this is anything involving sex, sexuality, kinks, and everything in between. this is definitely by far the most nsfw. 

other: this is anything that doesn’t fit into the above categories.

LIGHTHEARTED:

i cheated on every test i’ve ever taken.

i cry out of fear of going to hell every night.

i troll people online constantly. i have nothing better to do.

i never give my real name at any stores/starbucks/etc.

i tell people i donate all the time, but i ever have.

i cry whenever i have to leave my pets.

i inherited a lot of money, but haven’t told anyone.

i make fake ouija boards that move on their own.

i pretend not to speak english constantly to avoid being bothered.

i go to car shops constantly & take cars out on a test drive for fun.

i have to google how to do everything for my job.

i read peoples texts over their shoulder constantly.

i dropped out of college, and never told my parents.

anytime i do drugs i pretend its my first time doing them so people will pay attention to me

i work in IT & know everyone’s secrets because i can see what they do at work.

i lie to people about what i’m doing all the time so i seem more interesting.

i only do basic courtesy things when non-strangers are around (hold doors open, say thank you, etc)

i lie about my first kiss to make it seem more excited.

i pretend to be colorblind to seem more interesting.

i buy 2 movie tickets so the clerk won’t think i’m going alone.

i cry constantly over problems that aren’t even mine. i’m scared i’m too soft for life sometime.

i text people in the middle of the night & say its because i can’t sleep, but i’m really just scared they died

i can never “stop” in the middle of a fight and decide to talk later because i’m petrified of the person or myself dying in between now and then

i lie about voting because i’m scared i won’t know how to work the machine.

i run an anonymous tumblr blog about something i’d never tell anyone irl.

i pretend to like things all the time just because other people do. 

i got plastic surgery, but haven’t told anyone because i want them to think its natural

i’m starting to form religious beliefs, but i’m scared my atheist friends won’t approve.

i go to aa/na meetings to make friends. i don’t excessively drink or do drugs.

i go to a pet psychic whenever my pet is in a mood.

HARDCORE:

i know the killer in a murder, but i’m too scared to say.

i pretended to have a mental illness to fit in.

i forged my transcripts to get my current job.

i accidentally killed someone by not properly fixing their carbon monoxide detector like i said i would.

i tried to kill myself. i’m blackmailing my parents/ex-friend/ex-partner/other family & have been for two years.

i took the fall (or had someone take the fall) or a crime i/they didn’t commit.

i run an anonymous hate site/hate blog/gossip blog.

i ratted out a criminal so i wouldn’t get in trouble for the drugs they sold me.

i found a dead body when i was a kid, but didn’t know it till later in life.

i was the person to clean my dead friends things & found out he was addicted to drugs/a murderer/etc & never told anyone.

i knew someone was going to kill themselves, and didn’t stop them.

i paid someone to beat this girl/guy/person up because i hate them.

i falsely accused someone of assault.

i lie about everything all the time. everyone thinks i live a completely life then i do. i lie about my likes, interests, hobbies, and history. i don’t want to seem boring.

i gambled every cent of my savings away.

i tell people my family are very rich, elite people but they’re actually drug addicts.

while everyone else was going through normal teenage drinking rebellions - i was extremely violent.

i’m 200k in debt.

i break into hotel rooms to sleep some because i’m homeless. 

i have a mental illness, but completely lie about it to my friends and family. i’m seen as someone who is strong and capable, and i don’t want people to know i’m really not okay.

i pretend to be blind so people will give me their seat on the train.

i go to random peoples funerals constantly for the free food. if people ask - i make up some vague connection to them based on what i see around their funeral.

i tell people that my mom died from cancer. i just don’t talk to her anymore. i’m ashamed at how awful she is.

i found out one of my friends died. so the first thing i did was go to their house, into their room, and stole a bunch of their stuff. 

i pretend to be sick and hurt all the time to get the attention of those around me.

i started something as a prank, and its gotten out of control. i spray painted weird symbols on the road, and now everyone in town thinks it has something to do with the random murder on the other side of town.

i lie about being wealthy so i can hang out with rich people. i use buy resold fancy clothes online.

i stole money from a homeless person.

FAMILY: 

i pretend to have religious beliefs because i want my parents to love me.

i didn’t tell my parents i’m in recovery from drugs/alcoholism.

nobody talks about my relative that is special needs. we pretend they don’t exist.

i want my family dead.

i found photos of my parent(s)/sibling having sex and put them on the dinner table during Christmas for everyone to see.

i almost let my younger sibling get killed by setting them on a ledge of our balcony. i caught them moments before they fell. 

my parents had me drop off my sibling at a fire station. i’ve never heard from them again. i barely remember them.

my parent is a serial killer. i know. i haven’t told anyone.

my father committed a hit and run when i was in the car. this was ten years ago. i never told anyone.

my distant family is in a cult. i didn’t find out until a year ago when i pushed to ask more about my non-immediate family.

my dad/mom is gay. i caught them with someone of the same sex. my other parent has no idea.

my parents don’t know i’m gay/bisexual/a lesbian/pansexual/etc.

one of my parents is living with a double life. i found out about their other life, family, kids, etc. i haven’t told them i know, and haven’t contacted their other family.

my mom shot my dad. i pretend to not have seen her cleaning off the gun.

my uncle was accused of rape, and left the country. 

my grandfather didn’t die years after my grandmother. he died two minutes after he shot her, and then shot himself.

i saw my mom had a kink party. i ran out before she saw me.

my parents used to be drug dealers. i found out when my friends parents wouldn’t let their kids hang out with me....because their parents bought drugs from me.

my parents killed their animals growing up when they annoyed them.

i wish my family was less perfect. i feel bad when they talk and i can’t relate at all.

i constantly feel in debt to my mom. i was an awful child.

INVOLVING OTHERS:

i catfish people frequently.

i check my partners phone when they’re in the shower.

i made my best friend/partner hate me by acting awful because i knew they’d leave me first.

i will never love anyone as much as my first love. they’re second best.

i cheated on a past partner.

i’m cheating on my current partner.

i only hate my enemy because people expect me to now. 

i keep all major secrets from my partner so they don’t leave me.

i hate my partner. they’re a pain on my life, and drive me nuts constantly.

my best friend is a compulsive liar. i just ignore it because i love her so much.

i know my best friend runs a hate/gossip blog. as long as she doesn’t talk about me - i don’t care.

i only stay with my current partner because i don’t want to be on the dating market again.

i stopped dating with someone because they wouldn’t hold the door open for me.

you know how when talking about best friends you talk about which friend would help you bury a body? my best friend kept that secret.

i’m secretly unhappy with all of my friends success. i feel left behind.

i really dislike most of my friends. they’re all annoying. i just need people to talk to so i deal with them.

my partner buys so much useless shit then forgets about it. i sell it all online.

i have sex with my best friend.

i’m secretly in love with someone else.

i’m crushing on my best friend super hard. i don’t know how to tell them.

i love my straight best friend.

CRIMINAL:

i used a prostitute to lose my virginity.

i do drugs.

i hired a hit on someone i hate.

i steal non-necessity stuff constantly from stores despite being able to pay.

i committed a hit and run.

i hack for fun. i don’t do anything malicious. i just like finding out secrets.

i broke out of prison.

i steal from grocery stores all the time. i do the self checkout, click ‘cancel’, and walk out.

once my friend was speeding 80 in a 65. when i got pulled over - i forced myself to throw up so he’d think my friend driving was speeding because i was sick. we got out of the ticket.

when i was a kid i used to steal cars - drive around them for a bit, and then just dump them somewhere. they almost always got found.

i’ve stolen from every national park i can.

i used to rob graves.

i embezzled a few million dollars.

i’ve never paid property tax.

the only reason i have a “normal” job is to cover up my illegal job.

i’ve stolen from a church.

EMBARRASSING:

i go to a psychic for every decision, but don’t want to tell anyone about it.

i’m scared of the dark.

i spend all day on neopets/gaia online/etc.

i cried when club penguin shut down.

in my head i still pretend inanimate objects talk to me.

i still run up the stairs whenever i turn a light downstairs off.

i sleep with stuffed animals because i’m scared not to.

SEXUAL:

i run a very popular nsfw porn blog.

i’m addicted to masturbating/porn

i pretend to have sex all the time, but haven’t in a year.

i’ve participated in a glory hole multiple times.

i fuck people constantly for validation that i’m pretty/handsome/great.

i post nudes on reddit all the time so people will send me compliments.

my parents tried to hire a hooker for me when they found out i was asexual.

i go to kink parties semi-frequently for fun.

i’ve hooked up with more people than i can count.

i’ve only slept with one person, but i feel everyone it is more.

[tabziecatanxiety]

Weight

My Weight is a real issue with me - Everyone knows this (not that the councillor seemed to understand this). Being 22 and weighing 18/19 Stone is not the best.

Emma is not in the best physical health, having many long-term health issues. This has made her rather large (around UK size 26-28) for a long time. Recently the doctor’s had a ‘breakthrough’ when it came to helping her. She is not exactly getting better, just in less pain and so can do more things. They have also started her on some seriously low-calorie diets (900 calories a day, but they have been prescribed by a doctor - who they see rather often to be sure its not a problem). Being on these low-calories diets, as you would expect, the weight is dropping off her (she is now in size 16-18 in Yours Clothing). Now don’t get me wrong, I am super Happy for her - she has always had issues being big, even though it was mainly due to medication that she took. However, that does not mean it physically hurts everytime she brings it up (all the damn time when we see her). Hurts even more when she seems to think I am bigger than I am. 

One such case, was a few weeks ago (when they came down for the meal). She asked me what top size I was (it was clear she was going to be offering me some form of her old clothing) I told her ‘18/20 depends where I am buying from. sometimes larger’ (I have rather big Boobs - making some tops either too tight on the Boobs and fine everywhere else, or just right on the Boobs and too big everwhere else) and she offered me a jacket that is size 24-26 from Yours Clothing (their sizes are huge - which is nice when you want to buy yourself a cute top and you can fit in the 16, but Awful when you are offered a 24-26 top as if that will fit someone who is size 18/20 in most clothes). I nearly wanted to cry, somehow she looks at herself and sees size 16-18, but looks at me and see 24-26 (I don’t think I look THAT much bigger than her, although I am shorter by maybe 5 inches?).

It really does not help with my fear of going out in public. I already feel as if I am HUGE (thanks society for thinking anything above a 14 is a fucking Elephant or something), I don’t need someone thinking I am even bigger than I am. As I said at the start, my Weight has always been an issue - even in primary school I was big (I think I weighed more than my age at one point - like 11 stone when I was 10 Years Old). Everyone knows that about me - you just need to say anything about weight or clothes size and you can tell from my face that I have a problem with myself. But so many people seem to think it’s fine to talk about it in front of me. On the plus side, I think Emma is pretty much the only person who has not tried to say that I don’t need to lose weight - whilst they do. Although, having always been bigger than me (until the last year or so) she would have been the only person who I would have accepted that from - As she had needed to lose more than I did and therefore it could be considered truth (at least for some Stone) that she needed to lose weight whilst I did not. (For example, if she was 20 stone, she had to lose 4 stone to get to my weight at the time - last year I was 16 stone, then final year of Uni happened and chocolate was my only saviour. - and therefore to get to 16 stone, she did have to lose weight whilst I did not).

Since she has lost the weight, and started mentioning it all the time, I have started trying to stay away from her (I used to be closer to her than my own Mother, which may show how this has affected me?) as whenever I am near her, I actively consider not bothering to eat again so I can lose the weight.  The most recent time, I decided to start cutting down on carbs to lose some of the weight. When she saw me writing a list of food to eat, she said about using her diet (the 900 calories one) and sent me a copy of the info. I said about how 900 calories is VERY low - especially considering to be staying the same/putting on weight I must be eating over 2000 calories a day, and she said to work my way down to it - as if it’s normal to only eat 900 calories a day (I have had doctors telling me how bad this is). When I look at the paperwork 2 things are brought to my attention straight away - which stop me even considering to use it. 1) The diet is called ‘Food Reintroduction Plan’ - hinting that it is more for people who have not really been eating food, and therefore if more to actually get them eating again - rather than cutting down. 2) There is a Disclaimer ‘Disclaimer: This diet should only be undertaken with medical supervision as a part of your care within Obesity Services. Do not attempt to start this unless your Specialist Nurse / Dietitian had advised that it is safe to do so.’ - This straight away stopped me even considering this. Yes it may help me lose weight and quickly, but my first thought was ‘People will think I am Anorexic if this works, as I will be eating so little and dropping weight rapidly’. 

I have since, however, gone to register at a doctors (I kept forgetting to do this since moving) so I can speak with a professional to help me - not that I expect them to bother trying, my last doctor’s solution to everything was ‘lose weight’ when asked for help it was always ‘eat less, exercise more’ as if that is helpful information. For me, without some actually quantitative data, there are 2 ways of taking both of these options (My brain does not work in sensible and reasonable ways when it comes to weight) - Eating a lot less and becoming ill because you are not eating enough, eating barely anything less but still less than you were. Doing a lot more exercise and likely causing problems because your body is not used to the amount of stuff you are doing, doing barely any more exercise (like 10 more steps a day or something). Hopefully, this time around I will get some actual helpful information - preferably that does not cost a lot as I can’t afford to go to the gym, or pay for expensive ‘health foods’.

[gabriellesteele]

random thoughts part 2 , its a long one

been about three weeks since I last posted how I feel and today feels like a day where I'm drained and tired and need to get stuff off my chest . the reason why I write it on here you ask. I'm usually too scared to say what I'm feeling and don't really have many friends to confide in or feel like I'm a pain and just to give an understanding mental illness and recovery.

since I last wrote I had been written off work for 5 weeks . my first thought was that im fine but in reality I wasn't, I needed a break and the work place I worked for at the time gave me depression and didn't respect anyone, sometimes felt harassed, I used to put on a fake smile and cry on the inside, hide who I really was. I was unstable and i cant help but say i agree although i didn't want to tell myself that as it made me feel defeated .  in the end I quit working there two weeks ago and have now got a lovely new stable job and really feeling a lot happier and relaxed.

Physically and mentally i feel somewhat better as the new meds im on seem to help a bit . Iv seen myself happy a little bit more , the tablets prevent me from crying when i want too which is a pain as letting it out is usually the best way for me . My brain is still cloudy i still cant remember most things i cant write stories or any motivation for all the hobbies i had a passion for i just have a feeling of staying in bed and forgetting the world . I still cant go outside on my own without panicking or even speak to people . And i still have mild cases of ocd or tidying because mess stresses me out . it feels like I'm a ghost on the outside and who I really am trying to escape on the inside.

sometimes I don't know if its Gabz talking or if its my other side Gertrude (I know it might be a silly name but its appropriate for me ). Gertrude's the darker side of me that controls me its like I switch. I could do things and then switch back and don't know what happens , I could hurt myself , smash things or get aggressive not violent but like just a bit or rage. she tells me that I'm worthless and that I have no friends or a life and various other pieces . knower days I see her more than I do myself . I feel persuaded to drink because its the only friend I have and for a while it dulls out the pain I have throughout my entire body however I know its not healthy I don't drink excessively but just a bit .

went to Nottingham for our 7 years and Ashley's birthday the other week. I felt super relaxed whilst in the apartment room as it was our own little bubble where i could relax and forget my problems even if that was only for a little while it helped. However when i went shopping my anxiety kicked in making shopping difficult as i could piece together what i was doing an why i was getting certain items . It also didnt help people walking into me making me feel like i was invisible making me feel like a ghost which was horrible .

I know he loves me but my brain just doesn't acknowledge that its the me i am now only the one who i was before which sucks because it feels most of our perfect memories have been erased and i have to strain or look at photos to remember which also happens alot when im with my family .  I he does love me i cant see why he does , i just dont know , why cant my brain tell me . If only i could read minds like sookie stackhouse it would make my life easier right now .

Another thing on my mind is It makes me feel super lonely at the fact i dont have many friends around me and that the only best friends i have are far away meaning i only get too see them like once or twice which makes me really upset almost everyday .

I miss seeing my best friend in london too . I feel that i help him get better as much as he does to me .I feel attached to him like just being in his presence is like a breath of fresh air and he knows exactly what im going through and how to calm me , protects me from all the demons torturing me and fix it for a little while. I have a need to run and just go and see him when im alone because he makes me feel happy and safe and loved which is what i need to get better and feel is the only one who can help right now . I had such a good time when I was down in London going shopping and just chilling was great :) . right now hes the only friend I have that wants to listen to me .

I feel my mum doesnt trust me and accept what i want to do most of the time and my dad and i have an occasional chat but not enough to get rid of my depression . However i would be lost without my sister whenever i need a best friend shes there holding me letting me cry on her shoulder and helping me with ways to fix my issues and says i have a purpose , im truly glad shes my sister .

I pray that i get better for the sake of myself and those around me as i feel that it hurts for them too see me this way and i cant give them the explanation as too why i am this way. in some ways its a part of me like a leech draining away who i am and leaving shattered memories and fragmented emotions behind.

I hope i will learn to move on from what seems mentally normal to me  and give myself a chance to explore ,have a new job ,be happy and meet new people as i want that badly the chance of pure happiness and bliss .......Only though it seems so far away and too good to be true.

next step for me is too start with some positive thinking and find some methods to help me relax. I want to get back into painting and drawing and start getting back into filmmaking again. go on some adventures and document them and take it from there

[the-dyslexic-blogger]

Me Myself and i....Oh and the rest. 13/06/20

There are multiple of me. 

So the title might confuse some no one still really knows about this condition but I have DID or Dissociative identity disorder I have four alternative personalities which all represent a part of my life its hard having DID especially when one of your alters is a two-year-old.

There are some trigger warnings towards self-harm suicidal mentions eating disorder mentions, with a side of abuse mentions ooh and also sprinkle of sexual assault. WOOHOO, that sounds like a fun one a walk in the park.. .ohh there might be ducks...ill get some bread...

Having DID is weird when you can zone out, and one of your alters can take control over everything you do and say you can zone out in the kitchen and zone back in and you could have destroyed a whole city and blew the world up and be butt naked in front of thousands of people (that was a good afternoon).

I am joking for disclaimer usage.

But there you go I said it I have DID. I haven't wanted to admit it, but I have currently four alternative personalities so five people in me head 

I will talk about the alters and what they represent I will talk about them and use images that my friend drew of them he is the only one that knows.

I have Stripe, Blue, Cody and Eliza they all live in my head and like… (SENTENCE BEGAN DRUNK, MAYBE FINISH LATER?)

Stripe

He represents my depression and suicidal thoughts. He will very often take over and cut me. It's horrible I can be doing a normal thing and then boom he takes over he is a lot like me, but he looks like a demon his red glowing eyes are staring at me right now I wish he'd fuck off. He and Eliza are both bad alters that try to hurt and kill me multiple times. Stripe has taken over and gone on walkies and self-harmed he talks to me most the day lingering over my shoulder telling me I'm better off dead and he is the reason for all of my impulses. It's hard having DID I've said that thousands of times now but it is, okay? I hate it. I wish I never had it. He makes a good impression of me. He's a demon who can fly.

One time he took overtook one of my knives and cut my arm, my friend walked in and stopped it, he tried to walk away from it like nothing had happened. Still, he didn't get away with it as my friend took it away and hugged me until I retook control he's been a part of me for years now I don't remember exactly when I developed my DID, but I think it must have been since I was about 16 so there you go. Four years.

A lot of the time his high pitched squeal penetrates my ears with his whispers of 'you're not good enough' and 'your friends hate you' his claws dig deeper onto my shoulder and grips me harder every time I don't listen to him, and all I'm left with is the shadow of the sheer guilt taking over my whole life.

He looks like a demon he has a stripe all down the middle of his body, and his eyes sometimes glow in the night he says a lot of stuff things he knows will hurt me. He has horns on his head and is constantly trying to get me to cut myself and convince me that I need to feel the relief and pain while the blade kisses my skin and slices my wrists up. He stops me doing things I enjoy like, for example, musical theatre there was this person there who was a snake. He always said she's going to do it again you're going to be sexually assaulted again if you go outside.

I asked what the person that knows about this and what they said it is like when Stripe takes over:

"When Stripe takes over, it's very creepy. I can look in the eyes of my best friend, someone I love, and it's not them in that head. It's someone… something else. Stripe usually tries to pretend to be Dino, but he never expresses any emotion except hate, which is how I know its not my Dino in there. He never says stuff like "love you" or even "I'm alright". He's a dickhead basically."

Eliza

She's a lot like Stripe, but she represents my eating disorders she also doesn't like it when I'm happy she's around a lot when my eating disorders are present she's a skinny demon her ribs are present like she wants me to be she dislikes people who like me and she doesn't think I deserve my friends or my food she's not a good alter and she works with Stripe they work closely together and try to take me down, so I drown in a massive wave of depression and suicide unable to breathe under the weight of living and the weight of my shitty past. So again, all I want to feel is the sweet relief of the pain that they make me think I deserve.

Eliza only recently came back as taking over, so the person does not know anything about her really has never experienced her first hand.

I realized at this point of the blog that I can't add pictures to blogger or tumbler so funnn I'll add my YouTube channel where I will post pictures of them there.

Another update as I'm editing I will upload it when I have a chance.

Cody

He is the protector of my alters he comes out to protect me he's kind caring he took over when terrible events happened in my life he represents my creative side he is also my anxiety the part of me that feels anxious. He doesn't do what Stripe does and make me anxious, but he is forced to feel anxious. He takes over a lot when I'm doing coding or feel very anxious that it's overwhelming. He's friendly and looks after my other alter a lot Blue who is two.

He has only recently come back he was a part of my life in college but when Stripe came in Stripe killed a lot of my alters, and he was the only one left hence why I fell into a deep depression at that point, and Cody went.

Cody enjoys coding drawing music I gave up drawing as I believed I was shit I still do but oh well when Cody takes over that doesn't matter so drawing it is then. He takes over when he feels I'm in pain mentally, or in danger from myself, he cares a lot about me and others.

Cody is again a demon but a nice one, of course, he always is listening to music or drawing or wrestling a two year old oops. Still, he has made friends with a lot of my friends without them knowing his voice is slightly different to mine. He is anxious but very chill at the same time he has never hurt me or anyone he took over when the most traumatizing events have happened to me to save the wrath of the trauma train crashing as there was an overwhelming amount of trauma. Hence, he took some of the wrath for me to save destruction. So in a way, me and Cody share the same trauma, and we can relate even though he's in my head.

It's quite funny sometimes I forget people cannot see them so ill say to my friend 'hey look over there at one of my alters, and they have to remind me that he's not really well to them but are in my head they feel so real.

Here is what my friend said about Cody…….

"Cody is a really cool friend. When we are texting, he usually lets me know if it's him, and in-person he has a slightly different, more chilled-out voice than Dino, even when he is anxious. He also has a cool necklace on a leather cord that Dino never wears, but Cody likes to put on when he takes over. He always calls me "bro" and he's just a really nice wholesome guy, a lot like Dino to be fair, but they're very clearly different people."

                              Blue

Okay so here we go blue is a two year a lot alter shes hyperactive and energetic she is called blue because when she first started to emerge, I used to just laugh and be unable to talk or anything so being a computer nerd, I named her blue after the Blue screen of death every ICT students nightmare…*shivers*

So yeah that's how she got her name, and oh yea did I mention she can set things on fire… well yeah, she can she sets Stripe on fire a lot shes scared of him, but sometimes she gets the courage and will not hesitate to set him on fire…and her attention span oh looks a tree where was  I forgot? Oh yeah, attention span she doesn't have one. I think she's incapable of having one she is very close to my friend and also Cody my other alter I talked about him above unless you lazy bugger have skipped down to this bit then you don't know but find out read above.

But yeah that's blue.

Here is what my friend said about Blue….

"Blue is ADHD as in she is the personification of ADHD. She's a really cute little two-year-old, but she doesn't have any concept of consequences for her actions, and no impulse control so she can be tricky to manage, especially when she's excited. We recently got her a pacifier to suck on and she always tries to get it as soon as she's in control. She's also obsessed with balls, so we got her a big, yellow bouncy ball too. Me and Dino spent hours building a fort once, which Blue managed to completely demolish in about five seconds. Her response was to say "oops" laugh her ass off, and then giggle "bye-bye" with a massive, very proud grin, and collapse, leaving Dino to wake up and be very, very confused about what the fuck was going on. As difficult as she can be to manage (she's a two-year-old with the strength of a twenty-year-old, it's a fight to keep her from tearing the building apart) she is a really, wholesome, and adorable little kid. I love Blue very, very much, and she actually calls me "Dada" which is pretty cute."

So there you go my alters. Welcome to my brain there are five people in my head including me it gets crowded sometimes and annoying when you're trying to rest, and all you can hear is a two year a lot screaming ball every 5 seconds, but they are apart of me, and I would not change them for the world well maybe stipe and Eliza but at the same time they make me who I am today they are me in my head they are my personality.

DID is a strange mental illness to have its strange to have five people in my head anytime another could emerge I used to have more but Stripe killed them I had Rosie and mae. Rosie was like blue and mae was like Cody, but they aren't there anymore who knows they might be hiding like Cody did I kind of hope so I miss mae she was based off of a character out of a night in the woods I do miss her but oh well.

So there you go another blog of reasons I should be institutionalized  because I am a danger to myself and could kill myself at any given moment.

Disclaimer that's a kinda joke…… mostly ……90%......... Nah……….99%... #Mentally unstable...fun.

Stay strong you bootiful bean.

Love you 

Dino the Dyslexic Blogger xxx

 Some helpline as usual for DID

Nhs https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/dissociative-disorders/

This morning (I know I know but it looks helpful… don’t judge me) https://www.itv.com/thismorning/dissociative-disorders-helplines

Mind- https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/dissociation-and-dissociative-disorders/dissociative-disorders/

Survivors network https://survivorsnetwork.org.uk/resource/dissociative-identity-disorder-d-i-d/