#thinking about how gertrude heard her singing in the water. thinking about how only another woman ever hears her

[sunhalf]

thinking about ophelia and how no one listens to her until she goes mad. thinking about how she says again and again "pray you mark" thinking about how she begs people to listen to her even when she's so far gone she can't remember her brother she knows she wants people to listen to her. thinking about her father and his control and his hovering and his ignoring her except when he can use her. thinking about her brother and how he adores her but his protectiveness isolates her further and all she has is him and her father and the lover she's not allowed to love and they go away one by one. thinking about how she can't bear to disappoint laertes or polonius by disobeying them but breaks into little pieces all over the floor when hamlet is cruel to her because she's obeying them. thinking about how the only scene where she speaks alone she's eloquent and intelligent and a deep thinker but she never gets to talk like that again because every other scene a man is talking over her. thinking about how no one ever hears her, even the people who love her. thinking about how she just wants someone to hear her

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Mabel AU- The Letters

@haberdashing

Martin is an at home care giver, trying to reach the Grandson of his latest client.

This is basically a rewrite of the first episode of Mabel.  There really aren't many direct quotes, only a couple very short ones, everything else is mine.

Thanks for reading!  If you want more of this AU, let me know, or just let me know if you enjoyed!   Another fic of some sort or other will be posted next week!

ARCHIVIST: Hello, you’ve reached Jonathan Sims.  I’m not here to take your call right now.  Please leave a message after the beep.  Thank you.  

[BEEP]

MARTIN: Hey, Jonathan, right?  My name is Martin Blackwood, and I’m with Kings County Home Help?  I’ve been taking care of your grandmother for the past six months.  I’m her at home carer?  I know I probably shouldn’t have your number, but I wanted to check in with you.  Nothing’s wrong.  Nothing’s wrong.  Gertrude Sims is fine.  Good, actually, for her age.  Sorry, is that insensitive?   In any case, I’d like a call back, if you aren’t too busy.  Right.  Let me apologize for how I got your number.  I know it’s probably unorthodox, probably breeching some privacy agreement or something… 

[SIGH]

[ASIDE]

Don’t tell him that, Christ what is wrong with you?

[TO JON]

Right.  Well I got your number from my coworker, Sasha, who’s friends with Tim, who’s friends with you.  And he apparently hasn’t heard from you in a little, and would like him to call you back.  He told Sash to tell me to tell you that, by the way.  That was the price for your number.  Sorry for that.  I’m sure you have …things.  A life in the real world and not in this distant and lovely house.  

…Sorry, that was… Anyways, give me a call back when you can, yeah?  Thanks.  Bye!

[ASIDE] 

Christ!  What’s wrong with you… catch sight of one pretty photo… SHIT, right, hanging up.  

[BEEP]

[MUFFLED THROUGH A POCKET] 

[QUIETLY SINGING TO HIMSELF OVER THE SOUND OF KITCHEN] 

…Onions in the paaaaaan.  Why aren’t you hot enough yeeeet?  The water sizzledddddd, but it isn’t sizzling noooow.  

[NEGLECTED PHONE SOUND] 

[REALIZING]

OH SHIT.  SORRY.  

[BEEP]

[CLEARS THROAT] 

Hi, Mr. Sims.  It’s me again.  It’s Martin.  I… I’m trying to reach you… again.  …As you probably can tell.  It’s just been three days, and I would really like a call back.  I just realized I didn’t give a number or like, I know you can probably figure out that you can reach me through this number, but I didn’t say it and I didn’t tell you when I was available, and maybe that’s why you haven’t gotten back to me.  At least I hope that’s why.  I… I can’t imagine not calling one of my Mum’s doctors back.  Anyways, my number is [CENSORED] in case you can’t just ring back or something.  Maybe your phone blocks unknow numbers and you haven’t even gotten this.  Maybe I was listed as private and you couldn’t call back.  Maybe you’re very polite and didn’t want to bother me when you didn’t know my schedule.  I’m available from 2-5pm and in the evenings after 9pm.  Or maybe you’ve got phone anxiety.  I know I do, heh.  I’m sweating just leaving you this message.  

Or maybe you’re just busy.  

Or maybe you tried to call, and I just didn’t get it.  The reception isn’t great out here, as …you probably know.  Given you grew up here.  But anyways I have made sure I can get your message even with the dead-phone zones.  It’s all set up.  So… just needing a call back when you can.  Well, not needing.  But… I’d like one.  Thanks.  Bye.  

[BEEP]

Hi.  It’s me …again.  Just… trying to reach you.  Whatever.  

[BEEP] 

Call me back and let me know you aren’t dead in a ditch somewhere, okay?  Sash says Tim is really worried… And… I might be too.  Not that I even know you.  Not really.  So if you aren’t rotting in some hole somewhere, give me a call back, please?

[BEEP]

Where did you go?  

[BEEP]

Hi.  It’s me.  …I’ve heard a lot about you, you know?  Mostly from you Grandmother, Gertrude.  

[ASIDE] 

Christ, Martin.  He knows his grandmother’s name.  

[TO JON]

Right.  Anyhow.  She’s told me a lot of stories, you know?  She’s actually pretty sharp.  Most of the time, anyhow.  Mostly lucid.  I’m not sure if that’s all because of her medicine or what.  I’ve… I help a lot of old people, at the end of their lives.  And well… when I say she’s sharp, I mean that she is sharp comparatively, and also just remarkably so.  Her words are confident, and considered.  She doesn’t waste words, but she doesn’t shy away from telling stories.  (I’m sure it’s just because she has no one else to talk to.  Not even you.)  But… you’ve stopped feeling like a real person on the other end of the line.  That’s part of why I wanted to call?  I guess?  The longer that it’s been since my first message, the more I doubt myself for calling, and why I called.  Sorry, then, for wasting your time.  Thinking of you more like a book character, than someone with feelings and thoughts and a life.  Someone who I know too much about for us to be casual strangers, even if I am a complete stranger to you.  It just feels like a weird imbalance, you know?  

Also… it’s a bit lonely out here, you know?  Gertrude has a lot of old photographs of you.  None of them are recent.  And I know it isn’t my business, but… never mind.  It isn’t my business… and I get it.  

But… she still has your photos up.  It’s my job to dust them.  So, every week or so, I get a really good look at them.  There’s one of you on the tire swing out back… it’s still back there, you know?  You have mud all over your dungarees.  And in your hair.  Then there’s one… you look about 7?  Your hair is in pig tails, and you are scowling at something off to your right.  I don’t know what it is, and I know I shouldn’t find that kind of adorable, but I do.  And there’s one of you in uni.  You’re flipping off the camera and your hair is short and you’re wearing eyeliner.  You look some odd combination of pissed off and like you’re having the time of your life.  

[ASIDE]

And really, really, really hot.  Christ, Martin, keep it together.  You are literally on the phone with him, and you haven’t even talked to him.  Jesus!

[TO JON]

I.. wish I could have known you then.  That’s the oldest you look in these.  Most of these are pictures of you when you were little.  Mostly just you.  A few of your dad when he was young, and one of your parents.  She’s pregnant, and it’s sunset.  They look so …happy.  Christ, I’m sorry about what happened to them.  I… I didn’t really know my dad either.  

Sorry.  This isn’t about me.  

I’m calling because this place is… spooky.  Spooky like a dark fairy tale.  

Everything here is a bit… magical and creepy.  

This house is old.  Like a museum.  Dusty boxes in the attic, full of treasures and dust the relics of the past, like the Long past.  Not just the past of one lifetime.  The garden is overgrown, despite my best efforts.  Sometimes, Gertrude comes out and helps me garden.  Usually in her chair.  Mostly I just wheel here out so she can get some sun while I work.  That’s where I hear most of the stories about you.  

It’s overgrown with twisting vines and the most beautiful roses I have ever seen, with scary-long thorns.  

I feel like I’ve walked into the setting for a classic.  Like Jane Eyre or Pride and Prejudice, or hell, even Tolkien.  Or even Grimm’s fairytales.  The original, dark ones.  

It’s… unsettling.  Especially when it’s foggy out.  

The rest of the hills disappear into the fog and the condensation clings to the flowers, desaturated with the thickness of the moisture in the air, and the everything is coated in the most delicate, perfect little water droplets.  

Anyhow.  The reason I’m really calling… are the letters.  

I was helping Gertrude move some things up to the attic.  She’s one of the practical sorts of old people.  She isn’t afraid of her death.  She wants everything to be easy on you, you know?  Make sure you don’t have to go through too much stuff when she passes on.  I’ve lived with a lot of people through their deaths.  It’s nice… making sure no one dies alone.  Making sure they are comfortable.  Making it as painless as possible.  

[ASIDE]

Lord knows my efforts were never good enough for my mother… but if I can help other people…

[TO JON]

I know it’s a little morbid.  But I like it.  I feel… useful.  I’m good at it.  I’m good at keeping up conversations, and at cooking, and cleaning, and providing medical assistance, as needed.  Not that I’m an actual doctor, but I, you know, do have a lot of training.  

Anyway.  The letters.  I was helping her move some stuff into the attic, and bringing down some older boxes so she could go through them and decide what she was ready to toss, when I found them.  This box full of letters.  Hundreds of them.  All unopened.  Sealed with a kiss.  Lipstick red.  Red as dying embers.  Stamped returned to sender.  Slightly scorched around the edges.  Tied in bundles.  Identical envelops.  Identical loose, looping cursive.  All from someone named Agnes?  All addressed to Gertrude.  

That would be fine, I guess?  

But she screamed when she opened it.  An inhuman sound.  

Like the sound was ripped from her.  

And, I have never cared for a more grounded person.  I have never seen her anything but… well not completely calm all the time, but mostly calm, you know?  I’ve seen her sharp, I’ve seen her annoyed.   Heh, half the time it looks like she wants to judge me, but then doesn’t… if that makes sense?  Mostly she looks… like she knows so much more than I do and that she is calm in her knowledge?  I’ve seen so much as a carer.  There isn’t much that rattles me.  Not death, not illness, not panic, but… but this was different.  

After that… she was shaken badly.  Screamed for what seemed like hours, then just stared at me and said “I’m going into the ground for you.”  I… I couldn’t calm her down.  Not until late evening, and I didn’t even have a break because the relief carer was off sick.  

I finally got her to bed, and… I had to take another look.  That’s when I got a good look at the envelopes.  I… I want to open them.  I haven’t.  I know I shouldn’t…. but…. I want to know what could have shaken her that badly?  Someone that stable and grounded, you know?  

Heh, maybe you could call me back and make sure I don’t do something stupid.  And ya know, let me know that you aren’t’ dead in a ditch.  Tim’s started texting me directly now!  He’s… he’s really worried about you.  

Anyhow, I just need to know-

[BEEP]

[CONTINUED BEEPING]

AUTOMATED VOICE: The voicemail inbox for [Jonathan Sims] is full. Please call again later. 

[DIAL TONE] 

[transmascfrankiero]

um thoughts on hamlet?

i’m sobbing thank you and i’m sorry in advance because this is going to be LONG

so my hottest take on hamlet (i have many, many hot takes on this play) is that ophelia’s suicide was a hoax, and that gertrude, the queen, straight up murdered ophelia instead. why do i believe this? many reasons:

1. throughout the play, gertrude and ophelia have almost no relationship in terms of interaction between them. many, if not most, stagings of the play place ophelia and gertrude on opposite sides of the stage when a scene has both of them in it, and gertrude’s dialogue toward and about ophelia heavily suggests that she doesn’t really care for ophelia at all. at best, she tolerates ophelia, and at worst, she treats ophelia like an interloper in her court, a flighty girl who drives her son to distraction and has as much to offer to gertrude as her father. (gertrude’s famous line, “more matter with less art,” is an annoyed outburst directed at ophelia’s father polonius, whom gertrude outwardly loathes.) in ophelia’s last scene before her death, she appears to have lost her mind to grief in the wake of her father’s murder, and wanders through a royal meeting handing out flowers and singing. however, she gives gertrude fennel and columbines, which represent adultery in flower language, and TELLS GERTRUDE AS MUCH, TO HER FACE. in case you’re unfamiliar with hamlet, one of the big conflicts in the play is that gertrude, hamlet’s mother the queen, married claudius, the king’s brother, approximately thirty seconds after the king died and there’s a rumor floating around court that they were hooking up LONG before hamlet senior fell victim to the classic poison-in-the-ear trick. (later it’s confirmed that claudius himself was the one who murdered the king. whoops!) so ophelia accusing the queen of adultery is of course a HUGE slap in the face, and ophelia only gets away with it because ~~~she’s mad with grieeeeef sob cry~~~ which is GENIUS and i have more theories about that particular action on ophelia’s but that’s another post for another day.

2. ophelia dies offstage. she is never seen or heard from again until her funeral in act V. the only reason we find out about ophelia’s death - and in fact, the only way we know how she died - is because gertrude tells us about it. yes, gertrude, weirdly enough! gertrude gives a monologue which describes in excruciating detail exactly how ophelia died, right down to the kind of plants that were getting caught in her dress as she drowned and what songs she sang as she slipped into her watery grave. the sort of details you would only expect a person who was there to witness the death could provide. sketchy, right? what’s even sketchier is that gertrude makes no mention of having heard this from someone else. she’s not like, “oh, this is the hot village goss, take a sip babes,” she doesn’t offer any explanation at all as to how this information got to her. she just dives straight into her ultra explicit account of the drowning. SUPER weird! and furthermore, why is gertrude of all people the one giving us this information when there is clearly no love lost in their relationship? couldn’t this have come from one of those rando shakespeare characters who show up for one scene, deliver a message, and then vanish again? well, sure, but it didn’t. it came from gertrude. and that was intentional on shakespeare’s part - he wants you to be suspicious of this information, beCAUSE...

3. the play itself tells us that the conditions of ophelia’s death are VERY SUS. the very next scene after gertrude’s macabre monologue is act V scene I, wherein two gravediggers are preparing ophelia’s grave for her burial and discussing between themselves why they’re preparing for a christian burial if she killed herself. (in shakespeare’s time, suicide was a sin, and people who committed suicide weren’t given proper burials because of it.) the dialogue goes like this:

GRAVEDIGGER 1: Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she willfully seeks her own salvation? (translation: Why is she getting a proper burial if she killed herself?) GRAVEDIGGER 2: I tell thee she is. Therefore make her grave straight. The crowner hath sat on her and finds it Christian burial. (After examining her, the coroner said she should get a proper burial.) GRAVEDIGGER 1: How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defense? (So what, she drowned in self-defense?) GRAVEDIGGER 2: Why, ‘tis found so. (That’s what they said she did.)

the text here indicates loud and clear that something about ophelia’s death is complicated, enough that there’s DOUBT about it being a suicide. and what’s more, there’s so much doubt that her death was a suicide, she gets to be buried for real in the eyes of God. but the text does not explicitly state what, exactly, is so weird about ophelia’s death. it just wants you to know that the whens and wherefores about it are strange, and that characters who are not emotionally involved believe it’s strange, too. it doesn’t stop there, either! the priest who’s going to perform the funeral ceremony says, in as many words, to the royal family, “Her death was doubtful.” interesting!

4.  gertrude has this TOTAL crocodile tears thing going on at ophelia’s funeral. after spending the entire play openly disdaining ophelia as a silly little airhead, here’s what she has to say at her grave:

GERTRUDE: Sweets to the sweet. Farewell! I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife. I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, and not have strewed thy grave. (I thought I’d be covering your wedding bed in flowers, not your grave.)

kind of a weird, sudden change of heart for her to have about ophelia, right? you could argue that it’s grief-driven, that people gain new perspective after someone dies and maybe she’s just now realizing that ophelia was really a great person all along. but given just how few fucks she gave about ophelia when she was alive, it doesn’t make sense for her to be sad after ophelia’s death, unless she’s being performative about her grief. and yeah, she’s the queen, people are paying attention to how she reacts to shit and therefore on some level everything she does is performative, but it’s in particular how she relates her grief back to ophelia being her son’s girlfriend that gives me pause, beCAUSE...

5. there is, of course, that whole Oedipal reading of hamlet, where the reason hamlet and gertrude’s relationship is fifty shades of fucked up is because they’re sexually attracted to one another. while this reading of hamlet is mostly a freudian analysis that is treated as a sort of embarrassing joke nowadays by scholars and theatre folks alike, when you read the scenes between hamlet and gertrude - in particular the famous closet scene, from which the bulk of this analysis derives - you DEFINITELY get the sense that this relationship is weird and toxic for reasons that have nothing to do with the fact that gertrude married hamlet’s uncle. gertrude is really, really, really wrapped up in her son. but not in a loving, maternal sort of way - instead, it comes across as a narcissistic parent desperate to understand why their child has not turned out exactly the way the parent wanted them to be. gertrude continually accuses hamlet of acting out of pocket specifically to hurt her, and does not consider any other motivation for his actions. when he acts out of turn in court, it embarrasses her. his strange behavior reflects poorly on her as a mother and as the queen, and she doesn’t like it. she has a nervous breakdown over it in the closet scene, where she basically begs hamlet to be normal for her sake.

now with all of this in mind...

i believe gertrude, having gotten fed up with her son acting Weird and making her look bad all the time, decides that in order to exert SOME means of control over the situation, is going to take it upon herself to eliminate anything that could be the cause of his bad behavior. and the most obvious cause, at least to her, is ophelia. why would gertrude believe this? well, in act one, polonius encourages ophelia to break up with hamlet, because he’s worried hamlet’s gonna steal his daughter’s virginity (which, gross, but whatever, we’re not here to talk about that today). because ophelia’s an obedient daughter, she does so. then, in act two, ophelia runs to tell her father polonius about an encounter she had with hamlet in her bedroom, where he did a bunch of weird creepy shit and then left her a letter that expressed how desperately in love with her he was. polonius decides that hamlet’s gone nuts because ophelia dumped him, and the two of them tell the king and queen about their theory. claudius asks gertrude if she thinks the theory holds water, and gertrude responds that it might. later on, in act three scene one (i.e. “to be or not to be”), this theory is apparently confirmed - at least to polonius and gertrude - by the way hamlet treats ophelia.

so, the very first theory posited to gertrude about why her son’s acting weird is that it’s because of ophelia. and we’ve already established that a) gertrude doesn’t like ophelia, and b) gertrude is a narcissist. she’s desperate to make hamlet stop his bad behavior and therefore stop making her look bad. the worse hamlet’s behavior gets, the worse gertrude’s desperation gets to stop it. and everyone else in this play solves their problems with murder, so it tracks that gertrude would solve her problem with murder, too!

gertrude killed ophelia hoping that it would make her son would go back to normal. (and, if for some reason you like the Oedipal reading of hamlet, it could be argued that she was also jealous of ophelia. but i don’t really love the Oedipal reading, so i’m choosing to ignore this argument.) the fact that ophelia was apparently insane at the time just made it easier for her to make up the suicide alibi. that’s why she knows so much about the circumstances surrounding ophelia’s death - because she was THERE and she CAUSED IT. that’s why shakespeare has gertrude delivering the news of her death. that’s why the play tells us, repeatedly, that the circumstances of ophelia’s death are suspicious. because ophelia didn’t drown herself. gertrude totally straight up drowned her!

thanks for coming to my TED talk everyone

[thejoeisthejoe]

OLD WIP: (Almost Complete) PRE-SEASON 1 Joe Bullied

Title: Joe Bullied Idea (because he’s tiny and a lil shit and makes people mad)  Author: Robin Gurl Notes: The idea that Joe got bullied because he can’t keep his mouth shut and he’s small which makes him easy to prey on. Which of course includes over protective angry pissed off older brother. Episode: None. This is a preseason 1 idea Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea. 

“Frank, where is your brother? It’s 4pm, I’m beginning to get worried.”

Frank glanced up from doing his home work to notice that his Aunt was right. “Don’t worry, he’s probably just finishing some stuff up.”

She glanced at him before sighing and walking on down the hallway to put up the clean clothes. Frank just tried to go back to his homework. Joe had something to take care of this afternoon and he knew that pride came before the fall.

Much to the despair of the entire family, Joe had decided to try out for football his junior year of high school. For some unknown reason known to man, the youngest Hardy had made it. However after an entire season of injuries Frank had talked Joe into sticking to singing and quit football.

However, Joe being Joe wasn’t going to just quit with everyone there, so he’d decided to do it after their last practice when no one was around.

*~*

Thud!

Joe slammed against the wall crumpling to the ground in a heap. He groaned propping up on his arm, trying to ignore the pain. “Is that all you’ve got Hardy?” Bradley laughed kicking Joe in the stomach…Hard.

Joe yelped and fell to the ground hugging his stomach coughing and sputtering. “Come on get up.” Bradley laughed. Joe hugged his gut in pain a few droops of blood dripping to the ground. “I said get up!” Bradley growled grabbing Joe by the neck of his shirt and throwing him against the wall. “Look at the baby, awww did it hurt?” Bradley, the captain of the football team asked hovering over the smaller frame of Joe Hardy. Joe was cowering against the wall, bent knees trembling, face bruised, blood running down from his mouth. He wiped it away growling. “So football hurts you or is it just that we beat you up after every game? Or has your idiotic brother finally figured it out?”

“His brother can’t figure out a thing.” Another scoffed.

“LEAVE FRANK ALONE!” Joe shouted shaking with anger throwing his fist out. To their surprise the younger boy punched Bradley.

Everyone stood there in silence and then glanced at one another. Bradley staggered backwards then wiped his mouth. The punch had done nothing.  Bradley looked at his finger where he had touched his lip then to Joe is laughing. “He punches like my sister.” He laughed then turned to Joe, “Actually, I think my sister punches a little harder.” He smiled walking towards Joe.

Joe gulped trying not to shake. “Y-you heard me…Leave my brother alone!” he shuddered holding up his fists.

Bradley grinned evily, “Awww. Does the little baby want his mommy. Oh that’s right… You don’t have one.”

Joe’s eyes widened, pupils dilating as he leapt onto Bradley knocking him back. Bradley fell on his back as Joe punched his face as hard has he could growling with rage. The other boys grabbed Joe and dragged him off and threw him to the ground. Bradley leapt up, “Leave him he’s mine!” he growled. The circle parted and Bradley ran over and sat on Joe’s stomach, knees pressing on his shoulders. He starting punching Joe left and right beating his face.

*~*

The door opened slowly and a small figure walked in limping. Frank heard the noise and stepped out of the kitchen, “Dad? Aunt Gertrude? You back already?!” “F..Frank..”

Frank dropped his glass and plate of food on the floor. It shattered and he stepped over it. “Joe? Joe what happened?” His brother only stared silently wavering unsteadily. Dried blood was on his shirt collar and a stream of it was running down his cheek.  

“Frank- I …I quit football-“ Brown eyes rolled into his head and he fainted falling forwards.

*~*

He woke up to the feeling of a cool cloth running over his cheek. It stung and he winced groaning,

“st..stop.”

“Joe, you’re awake!” Frank dropped the cloth and it plunked in the water. “What happened earlier?”

“God, my head hurts…”

“Who did this to you?”

“Bradley…” Joe replied hoarsely.

“What? Why?”

“I have no idea…” Joe winced and wrapped his arms around his stomach.

“Just lie still, take it easy. I’ve washed off your lip, it’s cut pretty badly. Where else did he get you?” Frank ran a hand through Joe’s blonde hair pushing it away from his eyes. He saw tears were forming. “Joe,” He asked again, this time in a softer tone. “Where else did he get you?”

Joe ignored Frank and the young blonde tried to stand. He figured if he moved quickly the pain wouldn’t hurt as badly. What he’d forgotten was just how hard Bradley had kicked him the gut. He got to his feet with Frank right beside him looking petrified that his brother was moving. “Joe, I really don’t think you need to be on your feet.”

“I just..just wanna go to bed..” The younger hardy replied panting.

“Then sleep down here, Joe. It’ll be alright, I’ll stay with you.”

Once again, Frank was ignored. Joe pushed past his brother and headed towards the stairs. “Maybe a shower would be good to..”

Frank followed silently knowing something bad was going to happen and he was right. Joe collapsed crying out about his stomach hurting. Tears streamed out as his stomach screamed with pain. He felt the presence of Frank and lifted his head slightly, “Joe, you’ve got to lie down.  You want to go back downstairs?”

Frantically Joe shook his head and reached up grabbing the handrail, “Frank- I …I can’t stay down there…y..your bed…ok..?”

“Ok, Joe. Ok. Just let me help you at least.” Frank knelt down wrapped an arm around his brother’s shoulders, “Just take a deep breath and lean on me.”

“F..Frank…i..it hurts..so..so bad…”

Frank could only sigh and help his little brother up the stairs, once off the steep incline Frank relaxed slightly and let Joe put all of his weight on him. He led his brother into his room and helped him lie on the bed, in response Joe just whimpered.

This was what it had been like to an extent the entire year for Joe, after every football game. His brother would come home bloodied and bruises so dark they were green in the middle of the black. It would take Frank most of the night to stop the held in tears and sobs that wracked his brother’s body until morning.

Joe just wasn’t made for a contact sport like foot ball. He was short and tiny for his age as it was. It wasn’t talked about often but because he was born two months premature he was always going to be smaller than everyone else. It was just known.

But that Bradley was going to get it. Frank sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and watched his brother breathe in unsteadily, each breath came out strangled with pain. Thankfully nothing was broken, just sore and bruised.

“Just, relax Joe. I’m here. No one is going to hurt you, I won’t let them. I promise..” This phrase seemed to calm his brother down immensely, “That’s it,” Joe’s facial features relaxed as Frank’s finger ran up and down them. “Shh, I’m here..”

The half broken little sobs were tearing at Frank’s heart and he couldn’t pull away. His heart was pounding and making his hands shake over what Bradley had done to his little brother. Bradley was going to pay.

Then Frank heard the door open, it startled Joe awake slightly. He sat up and twisted to where he was in  Frank’s arms. “Calm down, it’s probably just dad and Aunt Gertrude.”

“D..Don’t let them see me like this…es..especially dad.”

“Joe, he will be able to tell if you’re seriously injured or not.”

The flood gates opened, “I failed him Frank, I can’t let him up here.”

“Failed him? What are you talking about?”

“I’m pathetic. I can’t even play foot ball or defend myself when I’m beat up.”

“Joe, you were attacked it’s not your fault.”

“FRANK? Are you alright up here?” It was their father. “Frank!?”

“No. Frank. DON’T PLEASE.”

Frank just stared down at the shaking bundle of his little brother that was in his arms, “Joe, I have to respond.” Joe only shook his head and Frank sighed into his brother’s hair wrapping his arms around Joe’s waist and just held his upper half in his arms. “Alright, Joe, alright. We’ll just wait then.”

It only took Fenton Hardy around four or so minutes to make it up to Frank’s room. At first he was quite upset that his son didn’t answer him and then he saw the state of his youngest son. He stood there in the entrance to Frank’s room wide eyed.

Frank glanced up at him, Joe had cried himself into a fitful, painful sleep. “Hi dad. Sorry about the mess down stairs…Joe came in…um..hurt and fainted…woke up on the couch and…deliriously walked up here..collapsed on the stairs …then well we’re here.”

“How in the world was Joe hurt? Frank, he looks like he was attacked!” Fenton ran over and took his youngest son’s face in his hands looking it over. “Frank, what happened?”

“Joe quit football today and the captain of the team beat him up for it. Called him names I’m guessing and then he and his little group beat him up.”

Fenton carefully laid Joe’s head back against Frank’s chest then stood up with one hand on Frank’s shoulder to yell down the stairs, “Gertrude, Frank’s unhurt. It’s Joe whose injured. We’re going to need the first aid kit.”

There was an annoyed concerned noise that answered him and then footsteps were heard as their aunt walked up to join them. At sight of one of her nephews in Joe’s condition, she lost it. “My word…” She dropped the first aid kit on the ground and ran over to Frank who was still holding Joe in his arms. “I think this calls for some sort of an explanation, Frank. What happened?”

Fenton Hardy explained what had happened and was trying to decide who to comfort. His sister looked like she was going to faint on the spot and Joe was obviously barely conscious.

“He’s a little embarrassed by all of this so …don’t fret over it to much, ok?” Frank sighed, “Can you watch over him for a bit?”

“Sure, Frank. But where are you going?”

“I left a book at school and while Joe sleeps I’d like to finish my homework.”

Fenton saw right through the lie but knew what Frank was going to do, “Be careful, Frank. We’ll be here.”

*~* “Haha, did you see the way that Hardy kid slithered off?” Bradley laughed loudly to his girl friend as he walked out side, his arm was around her shoulder.

“Brad, you need to be careful, I’ve heard that Frank Hardy isn’t one to mess with.”

“Oh please, Mary. Frank Hardy is even more pathetic than his brother.”

“Oh am I?” Frank asked walking up to the football player. Bradley stood at least a foot and a half taller than Frank.

He grinned down at him laughing. “Come to finish what your brother couldn’t start?”

“You had no reason to hurt him.”

“I did, it’s my warning to the rest of this school, if you’re a pathetic skinny little underweight runt you don’t need to play foot ball. It’s that simple.”

Frank’s temper was rising and it was near boiling. No, he told himself, treat him like a human. There is no need to get physical. He took a deep breath and lowered his fists. “I can get you kicked off the team.”

“For what? Harming your wittle brother? Aww did I ruffle the kitten’s fur? You treat him like a chick, Hardy. Let Joseph take some beatings, it’ll do him some good or maybe he’ll forever be a little momma’s boy. How does your father feel about the loser he bred? At least you have brains. What can Joe do? Sing?”

That did it. Frank’s rationale left. He leapt on top of the muscular football captain knocking him to the ground. Then he began punching him in the face, “How does it feel?!” Frank shouted. “You’re helpless and unable to fight back.”

“Ohhh Frank, get off him!” Mary screamed. “SOMEONE HELP! HE’S KILLING HIM!”

Callie Shaw heard the screams and came running over, surprised to see her boy friend pounding the schools Foot Ball Jock into a pulp. “FRANK! STOP!”

Hearing Callie’s voice pulled Frank out of his daze. He started at his hands, they were covered in blood. Bradley moaned underneath him. “Cal..Callie?”

“Frank? What …why?”

Frank’s glare was hard as he climbed off the mound, “He beat the pulp out of Joe. I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

She tried to approach him, unsure of what to say. He answered for her by shaking her off and walking back inside. She watched him for a second before running after him, finding him in the locker room washing his hands off. “Frank, are you ok?”

“Is Bradley going to be alright?”

“Frank, he’ll live. I’m more worried about you. Why did you do that?”

“Joe is at home in bed with a cut lip, bruised ribs and stomach and God knows what else because Bradley thought it was cute to beat him.” Frank turned around to face her and saw one of the walls behind her had something red on it.

He felt sick to his stomach as he walked over and saw blood splatter on the walls. “T…This was where it happened and no one saw it?”

“Fr..Frank you’re …you’re shaking.”

“Callie, this is where Joe got attacked.” Tears fell down his cheeks and he pulled her close. “I..I couldn’t even protect him…”

“Frank, why don’t you go back home and watch over Joe? I’ll stay and tell the police what happened.”

“Are you sure?” She nodded and reached up and kissed him on the lips. “Thank you, Callie.”

*~*

Back at the house, Fenton Hardy was waiting on Frank. The smell of dinner was on the table as the eldest son walked in the door. He sighed not wanting to talk about what had just happened, he just wanted to get to Joe and stay with him.

“Please tell me you did not do what I think you did.”

Franks gaze hardened as he shrugged off his jacket leaving it in a heap on the floor. “Ask Aunt Gertrude to bring my dinner and a plate for Joe to my room.”

“Frank, what did you do?”

“I did what I had too. He won’t touch Joe ever again.” Frank looked up and saw the terror in his father’s face. “I didn’t kill him. I think I may have broken his nose but that’s nothing compared to what he did to Joe.”

“Frank, I thought I instilled in both of you, violence is never the answer.”

“Dad, I’m not going to sit here and not fight while my brother gets the crap beaten out of him. You can but I’m going to fight. I’m tired of letting my little brother get beat up.”

*~*

Joe woke up slightly when he felt the bed move underneath him.  Any normal time and it wouldn’t have hurt as much as this one did. His stomach was still throbbing from the well placed kick. Then he felt a hand stroke down his cheek and he knew who it was. “Frank?”

“Yeh it’s me. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been beat up by a foot ball player twice my size…” The two brothers were silent for a few minutes before Joe spoke again, “Where did you go earlier? I woke up and dad said you’d left.”

“I had some business to take care of.”

“Yeh like what?”

“Homework . I left a book at school and went to go grab it. I saw Callie and she told you get to better.”

“Frank, you and I both know you didn’t just go to school to get a book.” Joe winced pulling himself into a sitting position.

“Joe, lie back down. I’m fine. It’s you I’m more concerned about.” Frank reached over and placed a  hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Is Bradley ok?”

“Joe, seriously just lie back down.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. What did you do Frank?”

“I got in a row with Bradley. I went back to find him and I did. He insulted you and I lost it- jumped on top of him, we fell to the ground and I just kept punching him.” Frank sighed and sat on the edge of the bed leaning against the headboard.

“Is he?”

“No. He’s alive.”

Joe let out a painful sigh laying his head on Frank’s shoulder. “He’s just going to keep doing it, Frank.”

“You know that’s why I’m taking a year off to stay at home. I’m not leaving unless I know you’re safe and right now you’re not.”

“But, you got in to Yale.”

“They’ll wait. Look at what he did to you because you quit the team, what if you tick him off?” Frank actually sounded frightened and showed it by the gently grip he kept on Joe’s shoulder pulling him closer.

[cruzrogue]

News-Report: Flames

Been one of those weeks where every time watching the news a sadness would take over. Two countries had huge flames that took innocent lives. Makes me so sad.

News-Report: Flames 

Two huge fires not so far from Star City. Oliver unable to help physically it hits him hard. Felicity tries her best to calm him though she too is so devastated at the loss. Oliver writing in his journal.

prompt: at odds

Olicity hiatus fic

 This past week just made him uncomfortable. He can still smell it in the air the unmistakable smell of overpowering, scorching hell. A tear goes down his cheek he doesn’t bother to brush it away. He feels like he’s been crying a lot recently. So many triggers that bring about his fears of impotence. He knows people have been lost and a part of him is surprised he isn’t sensitized yet. He has been in so many fly or die situations that being hyper-aware is second nature.

Felicity turned off the news broadcast on the latest disaster to claim lives. Even though she catches him looking at the news to gather more on the victims she knows it’s doing psychological damage to him. He hasn’t said much about the horrors of the latest disasters around the world. The latest a fire to claim twenty lives only a few miles north of Star City. He has been writing in a new journal they bought together on one of their shopping sprees. It has become his therapy.

Journal entry

The latest victim names of children just gut me. They had no chance and there was no available help. Nothing could be done and that alone makes me miserable. I can watch Felicity sleep for hours and hold her tight because I’m afraid to fall asleep and see that my heart could of died that day in a singe of a mad man.

I have a son I held in my arms and heard him whimper if his mom was okay. God, how to deal with a boy whose world was his mother and having to be strong and keep telling what could have been a lie that his mother was fine. That she was safe with the people I love more than anything else in the world. Being strong and having hope that my kid sister wasn’t going to leave me. That my rock John my brother in so many ways would still be there for me to fumble. Quentin a man I’ve had a turbulence relationship for years but have always held in high esteem. Curtis who entered my orbit to be a rock for the love of my life, can never thank him enough for just being there. Rene and the newest member Dinah for making me believe I don’t have to do everything alone there are those who are meant to make a better difference in the world.

Then there is Evelyn, a girl lost to the darkness that I know so well. Pain, obscure views on justice, latching on to empty promises of mad men how I failed her in so many ways. Then there is Black Siren a carbon copy of Laurel, just when I come to terms with her loss. A loss that I had a part with I knew deep down she was not cut out for this she should have stayed in the legal system where she actually made a difference and she could live a full life. I brought darkness to her door my life style was never meant for her to want as her own we were always at odds with each other. God, I wish I could have stopped her but she was always so headstrong and nothing except death could stop her. It brings me sadness that she was taken from us I know how much Felicity really bonded with her and those loud crazy girl nights have been missed.

Slade what is there to say? I have no idea where he is and I have no idea how worried I should be. I know …

“Oliver?”

“Hmm” he looks up from writing.

“I bring snacks.” She has a tray and is heading his way with a small smile. He closes his journal and stashes it in his nightstand’s draw. He looks at the bowl of fresh cut fruit and little triangle sandwiches that she took the time to cut and he sports a big smile. He for sure thought she would bring him those frozen he can’t even remember what their names are because he considers them gross enough.

Looking at him she gets he figured that she would bring what she considers delicious meat filled appetizers to snack on. “I know how much you love those frozen delectable but you’ll have to make due with fresh cut fruit and some leftover meat from your generous cooking with cheese sandwiches.”

“The horror.”

She was sitting on the bed cross legged as she observed him as he took a triangle and bit into it. “So...”

“I’m fine Felicity.” His eyes leveled with hers, “I really am. I wrote down all that gushy stuff and it made me feel better.”

“If you need to talk.”

“Honey we have been talking. That has been something we have kept up since coming home and you know you also can talk to me.”

She nodded and poured some water into two glasses and took hers and had some sips. She made that little sound that alerted him to a coming question once she figures on how to word it he knew it was important enough because usually she’s comfortable enough to just blurt out her thoughts. He misses her innuendo babbles but in the last two years she has learned to curve them she didn’t want to be a jabbering idiot of a C.E.O. and then she just controlled herself around him. So he waits patiently taking more of the fruit into his mouth.

“I do have something I want to talk about?”

“Okay.”

“The city has been radically fixing all those empty buildings and adding them to the low income city initiation housing.”

“Yep, and once council woman Roberts signs off on her ward we’ll be adding two more units. That’s housing for ten more families.”

“I’m so proud of you. I know you worked hard on it even though we had to deal with Chase.”

“Thanks. Um sweetie what is the question you want to ask?”

“I’ve been approached about the land your family owned.”

“The remnants of the Queen estate, what about it? Doesn’t Palmer Tech own it?”

“Actually it was a part of my severance package.”

“Oh.” He looked semi confused he didn’t know she owned the land. “Well you still own majority shares in the company.”

“Yep.”

“Wait. Are you finally ready to fight to get it all back?”

“I don’t know. But I had an interesting talk with some people from PT and they wondered the same thing but one asked me about what my plans were for the land?”

“Why? Do you have plans?”

“You grew up there its hold memories. I fought to get that. You and Thea already lost so much I wanted...”

“Thank You!” He moved the tray off the bed and as repositioned himself she flew into his awaiting arms. “Are you asking if I want to incorporate that land for the initiate?” She nods at his question.

“As much as it would be great for Housing initiation of low income families the cost of developing that area would be high. There are no public schools in that district. Not to mention the neighbors who would fight tooth and nail to keep this from happening.”

“Okay. That makes sense I remember how reclusive it was just to get to your family’s home.”

“I know right. It was like living in a different world.”

“What about…” They both said in unison both laughing and then asking the other to go first. Oliver waited this was the question she has been waiting to ask in such a roundabout manner.

“What about we build a home there? I know I’m not a Queen but it be fitting and you and Thea…”

“Felicity you are my queen in every way it matters. I’d be honored if you took my last name shoot I’d be a Smoak if you’d have me.”

“Then marry me!”

“What?”

“Seriously why waste any more time in plunging into domesticity? We already have this…” His chaste kiss stops her and he murmurs, “Yes, yes let’s get married.”

“Okay, let me get a few calls in.”

“Yea, Good idea I’ll call my sister and John.”

Felicity already off the bed heading to her phone turns to look at him once more and notices he didn’t grab his phone instead his hand reached for his journal.

“Um Oliver?”

“One moment baby, I need to add a journal entry.”

She lets off a laugh “Will it be as good as the phrase.” She using her index fingers "She slowly took off her stockings, and made sure the cat was out of the room ...” Then her hands back resting at her sides adds, “Which we didn’t and still don’t have a cat.”

“Semantics” he says as he continues writing.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re jotting down?”

He stops and looks at the woman who owns his heart. “Sure, here goes… There is one person in particular that I am grateful for…Someone who stood beside me when times were darkest. She’s the one that lights my way…umm Felicity Smoak. …and not lastly, would you make me the happiest man on the face of the Earth? And she said yes.”

She rolls her eyes. “That is so not what you wrote down mister.”

“Nope, and it between me and Gertrude so my secret is safe.”

“Gertrude? What of Beatrice?”

“New journal new name.”  

Felicity walks out of their room her voice from the hallway “Okay I will leave you with Gerdy, give you guys some privacy.”

“It’s Gertrude.” He mocks back.

“Whatever! Just keep your women from crossing my path or they’ll spill those secrets.”

He’s left mumbling. “Fair enough. Well Gertrude, soon to be off the market Mr. Oliver JQ Smoak is one lucky man, going to get hitched before another dumb incident of because of the life I lead, I just think it’s better to not be with someone that I could really care about leaves this mouth.”

“Agreed”

“Damn Gerdy, you could have said she was back in the room.”

“So you’ve shared quotes with the ladies?”

“Hey didn’t you have calls to make?”

“Mom didn’t pick up and well maybe I missed you a little. It seems you have secrets.”

“What? No.” He looks offended. “Just quotes that I remember I have to write them down. I think some of them are poetic.”

“So… you’re gathered a books on my wisdom.”

“Ha… you wish.” He says as he hides his journal back in his nightstand and waits for Felicity to be in reach so he can hold her he seems that he can’t get enough just holding her in his arms.

She raised her eyebrow at that.

“Okay, fine a lot of the quotes I have written down sporadically I must say are lovely inspirational quotes you might have shared with me through the years.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Can’t wait to be Mrs. Oliver Queen.”

“I like the sound of that.”

i�iii���PC��

@thebookjumper

I will be putting this on Ao3 later.

[stilitana]

stop me if you’ve heard this one before | 5k | complete

Jon returns from his kidnapping to find that his assistants need some training in the proper art of recording statements.

(I thought it would be fun to hear Jon's reaction to MAG 100 and hence, this fic was born.)

Jon slinks through the institute doors looking ragged and threadbare and with such a scorched intensity in his eyes that the receptionist, Rosie, merely nods slowly when he pauses in the lobby to blink at her and then presses a finger to his lips. He slips on by, still the same awkward hunching in his shoulders and swift, jerky step but a new rigid cast to his body, as though during his long absence he has somehow become wound impossibly tighter. Rosie’s finger hovers over the intercom button on her desk phone, ready to dial Elias’ extension. Then she lets it go. She has a feeling that if the boss doesn’t already know his favorite employee has returned, he will very soon. She makes it a point not to become too closely involved in whatever goes on with the archival staff. They all do. 

Jon hurries through the institute’s drab, winding halls, resolutely avoiding eye contact with any other workers he passes, pressing himself to the walls when they go by. He ignores any odd looks cast his way. In the back of his mind, he is dimly aware that he must be quite a sight, but can’t find it within himself to care. He never cared what they thought before he started turning into a – whatever it is he’s turning into. Why start now? 

Michael, or the thing Michael became, or that became Michael, or the thing Michael wasn’t –  its   statement played back in his mind over and over. How Gertrude had burned through her own assistants like they were nothing more than fodder. How they had trusted her, how she had taken their trust and twisted it until they gave themselves over for her designs gladly.   Is a thing evil when it simply obeys its own nature?   Michael had asked. Although Jon had gotten the sense it wasn’t really a question. It was so very much like the sentiment expressed by several statement givers (  But you can’t fight what you are. Or even what you aren’t.  ) that it took his breath away. His thoughts were starting to loop. Nothing like a full picture was coming together, but his mind was picking up the threads of inconsistent repetition – names, places, turns of phrase. He’d said such words himself, once, before he even knew how deep he was in –   How many of these monsters were once people? Unable to resist their new natures. They don’t even think like people anymore.  

Did he think like people? Did people think like this – with the stitched together fragments of a hundred stranger’s voices describing their darkest secrets and the worst moments of their lives? 

Before going into Elias’ office, he steels himself for confrontation. He needs to be relentless. He needs to be strong, have a little backbone, not give in. It is vital that he not bend. Like he always bends. Permitting more and more inhumanity until the bar has shifted so far he can’t see it anymore, and then how will he ever find his way back? 

Elias is a murderer. Jon has never killed anyone. That, surely, must count for something? 

He gives a dry, humorless laugh and barges into the office where Elias is waiting and smiling at him as though he beheld the return of the prodigal son. And he feels his resolve begin to droop and wither. 

Were the stakes not so high, the unknowns so vast, then he knows the only good and sane thing to do would be to turn Elias over to the police, no matter the personal cost. But the stakes just might be the world as they know it, or at least their own lives, and he would very much like to stay alive and never have another person hurt because of him. And the unknowns gnaw on him, a literal feeling of hollow appetite in his gut. So when Daisy barges in to kill Elias, Jon does what Elias says. He stops her. 

In the aftermath, the archives go strangely quiet as everyone drifts away from the commotion, retreating to their separate corners. Jon feels them watching him as he walks from Elias’ office across the floor to his own, eyes fixed on the ground. 

“That it, then?” Melanie says. “You fuck off god knows where for a month, leave us here with that vicious freak, and now we’re just supposed to carry on as though we aren’t prisoners here, as though this place is normal?” 

“I did try to warn you,” Tim says, his voice so dry and brittle it makes Jon wince as he remembers how warm and rich Tim’s laugh had once sounded. 

Jon keeps walking. His whole body aches, his mind feels fuzzy and disorganized, thoughts scattering like beads of oil on water. The odd dissociative see-through feeling that had settled into him while speaking to Michael has yet to fully abate, and he rubs his hands up and down his arms as though to dispel the numb tingling. The pins and needles go deeper than the skin though, and he wonders idly if this is just going to be another new scar to deal with. He feels nothing more than disinterested curiosity at the thought. As though it’s all happening to someone else, someone who doesn’t matter much. He feels unmoored, adrift. Unsure where he ends and thin air begins. Can they see his thoughts, bleeding out into the air? How much do they know? 

The familiar ugly nausea of paranoia makes his breath hitch. No. No, he’s not going to do that again. That time is over. His hand hurts. God, his hand hurts badly. He hasn’t unwrapped the bandages to look at it in a while. He should have gone to a doctor but it’s too late for that now. There was so much physical therapy even after Jane and her infestation, and that had been when he still half bothered taking basic care of his body. It’s never going to be the same. Maybe if he just never unwrapped it, he could go on pretending it was still just burns keeping his hand curled and aching and painful, and not scar tissue. Not the result of his own negligence. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Melanie says. “Don’t you turn your back on me, Jonathan Sims. It’s your fault we’re all in this, the least you could do would be to – but what did I expect? Fine. Go hide in your office.” 

“J-Jon,” Martin says. “What happened to your hand?” 

Jon gets one hand on the doorknob to his office. He can all but hear the statements on his desk singing their wretched siren’s call. His head throbs. He wants nothing more than to get this door shut behind him, a physical barrier between himself and these people who hurt too much to look at, to lose himself for a few minutes in someone else’s story. He stops and says, “You’re right.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out quiet and hoarse, and turns around. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should – say something, try to explain. I wish I could, Melanie. I wish I had something – anything reassuring to say to you, to all of you.” 

He glances at them each in turn, unable to look at them for long before darting his gaze back to the ground, to the walls. He winces when he looks at Basira, thinks of her signing her name while Elias watches her with that knowing smile. It was a look he’d become acquainted with when he first began working for the institute, and Elias took an odd interest in him. He hadn’t known why, then. He’d done his best to hide it, but the truth was that it – it had flattered him. Having his boss notice him, acknowledge his work. It just makes him feel sick now, to think of it. How easily he’d been played for a fool. 

He clears his throat again and makes an effort at affecting the tone he used to take, in the early days, when reading statements. Safe, protected, reserved. Messy emotions hidden neatly away behind crisp enunciation and academic dispassion. “I would have been here – or at least in touch – if I could have. I didn’t mean to be gone so long, but there were – something came up. I was being held hostage, actually. Rest assured I am no happier with our current... situation  than any of you are, but at the moment I think that all we can do is...our jobs. For now. We can talk, but – just give me a moment to – just give me a moment, please,” he says, and then yanks open the door to his office and shuts it behind him, his heart pounding wildly. 

He leans against the door and breathes in the familiar smell. Old paper, the musty close smell of the air in the archives, leather. This office felt like safe haven once. Now it is as discomfiting as it is comforting. He fiddles with the tape recorder in his pocket, runs the pad of his thumb along its grooved side, and ventures to examine the stacks and boxes on his desk. 

He doesn’t have long before Martin comes in, looking hesitant and with such a small, fragile flicker of hope that it's all Jon can do to swallow a lump in his throat and look away, fingers clenching around the tape recorder in his pocket, the one that stops and starts of its own accord these days, just like all the others. And then they talk. Martin is, predictably, worried, but doing his best not to be overbearing, and Jon appreciates the effort. He couldn’t take much fussing right now and doesn’t want to snap at Martin, who is looking at him with such genuine concern. Concern for Jon, not about him. He is beginning to treasure the difference. Martin’s worry is entirely about his well being and not at all about his humanity, as though the latter could still be taken for granted. Jon is so, so grateful he could just – he doesn’t know. Maybe in other times, before Prentiss...but things are different now. He is different. 

And so is Martin. When Jon hears the others have been reading statements, it takes him a moment to parse what exactly his reaction is. Surprise, certainly. And then concern. 

“Are the others helping you?” 

“Oh, well, yeah, you know, when they can.” 

“Make sure they do. Martin, please don’t -- take it easy, with the statements, all right? I don’t care what Elias tells you. They can be...a lot.” 

“Oh.” Martin stares at him for a moment, his look too complicated to read. Or maybe Jon is just too much of a coward to read it. And then Martin gives that nervous, self-deprecating little laugh that used to make Jon grit his teeth but now just makes him sad while simultaneously loosening the knot of tension in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed hearing it. Or that he’d missed it at all. He blinks, blindsided by some great gulf of feeling he doesn’t dare look at head-on. “I know. I mean, I knew, before, what they were about and all, but I didn’t really – I don’t know how you do it.” 

“Someone has to.” 

“Do they, though?” 

Jon just stares at him and Martin laughs again, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Right. No, I – yeah. For now. I get it. But Jon, are you – really, are you all right?” 

“Yes. I will be.” 

“Your hand–” 

“It’s nothing. Just a burn.” 

“Oh.” 

“But I’m – don’t worry about me, Martin. Are – are  you  all right?” 

Martin looks flustered and Jon feels a pang at how surprised and taken aback the other man is, watching Martin look down and wet his lips and huff out another breathy little laugh. Has he really been so callous that Martin thinks he wouldn’t care about his wellbeing? 

“Oh, I’m – you know me,” Martin says. “I just – steady as she goes, and all that. No worries here.” 

“Really, Martin, I–” 

“I’m fine, Jon,” Martin says. His tone shuts Jon up at once. It’s firm and there’s a warning edge to it that he decides to heed, at least for now. If Martin doesn’t want to be fussed over – well, there’s a certain irony there, but he can understand. Martin’s voice is softer as he goes on. “Just -- just tired, is all, like everyone.” He nods at a box on Jon’s desk. “I gathered some of the stuff we’ve been working on there, for if you – for when you came back. Some research and a few statements and such I thought you’d want. Not that the statements are...well. You know. It’s not the same if it isn’t you taking them.” 

The phrase is somewhat odd, but Jon might have let it slide without comment had Martin’s tone not aroused suspicion. It was purposefully light, as though Martin were treading carefully around an exposed nerve he didn’t want to hit. But why? Why did he think Jon would take offense to them recording statements? He knew he could be...perhaps  intense  about the statements, sometimes, but that didn’t warrant this sensitivity on Martin’s part. “What do you mean, it’s not the same?” 

“Well, I don’t – you know, Jon.” 

“I don’t think I do.” 

“It’s just – I don’t know what it is, it’s just a thing, okay? We don’t have to talk about it right now. Do you want tea? I’m going to have some,” Martin says, and then retreats from the office, closing the door behind him. He – well, he fled, really. Jon blinks at the closed door for a moment before letting out a heavy breath. 

“Okay,” he says, and picks up the first cassette and begins to listen. 

 Melanie and Basira are flicking pellets of rolled up notebook paper at each other across a long desk while Tim watches with dull, glazed over eyes and Martin struggles valiantly to focus on his research when Jon’s office door bursts open and they all look up with wary anticipation. 

Jon clutches a tape recorder, looking flushed and flustered. “Excuse me,” he says, his voice comically thin and distraught before he clears his throat and lowers it. He holds up a cassette, schooling his expression into something prim and stern. “What is this?” 

“Something awful, I’m sure,” says Tim. 

Jon takes a breath and lets it out through his nose. “Listen. I know things have been – less than ideal around here, lately.” 

“Is that really how you’d put it?” Basira says. 

“Okay, things have been bad. But I would have still thought that while I was away, you’d have continued to take this seriously. Take – the statements seriously, at least.” 

“You weren’t even here, and you’re going to critique our work performance? Seriously?” Melanie says. 

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d – listen, I know Elias asked you to record, or so I’ve been told, but I’d rather you just – leave the statements alone. Don’t read them, don’t look at them, don’t even think about them if you aren’t going to – just don’t.” 

“You warned us he’d get jealous,” Melanie mutters, looking at Martin, who blushes and shoots her a glare. 

“Fine by me,” Tim says. 

“But, Jon – Elias did ask, and – and well, there are a lot of statements, don’t you think you could – use the help, a little bit?” Martin says. 

Jon licks his lips, looks cornered. “I – I just – one moment, please.” 

He hurries across the floor with quick, jerky steps, knocks primly on Elias’ office door before letting himself in. Melanie walks over to the door and leans close. 

“What are you doing?” Martin hisses. 

Melanie just presses a finger to her lips. In a moment, Basira joins her. Martin looks around, bites his lip, and then goes to hover beside them. 

“–don’t appreciate you delegating work to my assistants without asking me first, Elias.” 

“Well, Jon, you weren’t exactly making yourself available. What would you have them do, just sit there gathering dust?” 

“No, but I – there's other work to be done.” 

“Other than what?” 

“You know what.” Jon’s voice goes high and distressed, and Martin can imagine him wringing his hands. “They’re – the statements, they have to be done a certain way, the  right   way, understand? I don’t like them – they just don’t – they aren’t right, and it’s just not necessary to have other people touching – I mean, recording them, or doing anything with them, I have a – there's a certain way they’re supposed to be – not anybody can just – and it’s like those ones are used up now, and it won’t be the same when I re-record them, which I have to do, but it won’t feel the same, because I already listened to them, they’re – just   less   now. And it isn’t -- I don’t think it’s safe, either. They – get into your head. I would feel better if on just this one thing at least you would   listen  to me.” 

“This sounds like a management issue, Jon. If you haven’t trained your staff properly, well, that’s really your own shortsightedness, isn’t it? I suggest you speak with your assistants and address these concerns yourself.” 

The smug mockery in Elias’ tone turns Martin’s stomach. It’s almost as nauseating as the desperate, helpless confusion in Jon’s voice as he stammered and raved about the statements. Martin feels sick. He wishes he’d never touched those damn papers. But he knows it’s not his fault, Jon’s distress. He doesn’t know who or what’s fault it is, exactly, but he is beginning to suspect that it is the same force which makes him feel the uncomfortable sensation of a heavy gaze prickling the back of his neck nowadays every moment he is in the institute. 

He shouldn’t have told Jon they’d recorded. Should have filed the damn recordings away, never mentioned them. Only it wouldn’t have felt right, somehow. And although it goes against everything in his nature, his need to be of use, he doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to protect Jon from this. To protect any of them from this. 

“Get back,” Melanie hisses, and they all scramble away from the door and try to look busy when it creaks open and Jon steps out. He stands there regarding them for an awkward moment, straightening his shirt and fiddling with the tape recorder. He sniffs and holds up the cassette stiffly. 

“Right,” Jon says. “So. It seems I’ve been somewhat neglectful of my duties in regards to properly training you all.” 

“It’s the best thing about your management style,” Tim says. “Feel free to go on as if we aren’t here.” 

“No. No, let’s – let’s talk about this. I was maybe a little harsh earlier, I was just – surprised. So. Statements. Let’s go over how we record statements.” 

“Not much to it really, is there?” Basira says. “You find one, you read it, done.” 

“Well, that’s – the general idea,” Jon says. “But there’s a little more to it than that if you’re to get it right.” 

“Ah. You mean the voices? Let me just stop you right there, boss, keep you from wasting your time – never going to happen,” Tim says. 

Jon falters, taken aback. “Excuse me? What – what voices?”

Melanie snorts. “God, is that what this is about? We aren’t being theatrical enough for you, seriously?” 

“I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Sure you don’t,” Tim says. “Listen. What you have to do to keep work interesting is your own business, but personally, if I’d wanted to move into the entertainment field, I’d have stuck with publishing. They’re statements, not a radio drama. I’m not going to read them like one.” 

Jon glowers at him, his voice tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Since there seems to be some confusion, let’s have a listen to one of the statements in question, shall we?” 

Jon presses the playback on his recorder and Tim’s long-suffering sigh comes from the machine along with an undercurrent of static. “Statement of, ah...Benjamen Hatendi. Hateendi...ugh...regarding, uh...ah...blanket, a dead friend, monster... Regarding his  unavoidable   and gruesome end. How he tried to hide – he couldn’t. Statement is from...ugh. 1983, March 2nd , and I guess...ugh...I guess I’m doing this one. Tim Stoker. Archival assistant. Archival prisoner...at the Magnus Institute. Statement. My parents never let me have a night light, I was always afraid but they would just – ugh.  Wh  – this is stupid. This is stupid. Look, look, if anyone’s listening to this   useless  tape, it was stupid when Jon was doing it, and it’s stupid now. I mean just – what's the point? We might as well be engraving them on wax cylinders, wh – whoever's listening to this, right now, you’re wasting your time. And if you work for the Magnus Institute, get out. If you can. I mean, that’s what really pisses me–” 

Jon clicks the recorder off and crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. “Well?” 

Tim heaves a rattling sigh. “Are we really doing this? You’re going to take offense at that? Listen, I never made any secret about what a waste of time I thought it was to digitize documents we already have on file. This is petty, even for you.” 

“I don’t care about that,” Jon says, frowning and waving the recorder. “I care that you – that you spoiled the integrity of the statement with your personal grievances.” 

Tim splutters. “Spoiled the integrity of – Jon, seriously, listen to yourself. Who gives a shit? And not to mention, it’s not as though you don’t bitch and whine into those recordings plenty – don’t lie, I’ve heard you doing it.” 

Jon flushes and raises his chin, summoning all the haughtiness he can, however hollow it might be. “I’d appreciate it if you’d watch your language, Tim. This is still our workplace, and I am still technically your boss. You are free to add personal reflections at the beginning or the ending of a recording, if you feel compelled to. That’s not the issue.” 

“Then what, oh almighty archivist, is the issue?” 

“You have to introduce the statement properly, and once you start, you need to set yourself aside. No – no cross contamination. There’s a certain – order, to the words, and you have to – you have to do it right, and the same way, each time, or else – it's not whole, it’s not right.” 

Tim stands, takes a step towards Jon with his hands clenched at his sides. He stops when Jon mirrors him by taking a step backwards, something like fear flashing in his dark eyes. Tim swallows down his sympathy. There was no space for it any more. “Get a grip, Jon,” he says. “Seriously, listen to yourself. You’ve always been particular, but for god’s sake, you’re – you sound  possessed , or something. Don’t you see what he’s doing to you, to all of us?” Tim says, gesturing behind Jon at Elias’ office. “This isn’t you. Or at least, it wasn’t always. This is – something else, and I don’t want any part of it. But I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” Tim says, trailing off in defeat as the fight drains out of him. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

Jon clutches the recorder, staring down at the ugly carpet in silence for a moment. His voice is small and carefully neutral when he says, “I just need them done a certain way, is all.” He gathers his wits and looks up, his gaze sharp and his voice stronger. “Melanie did an all right job, though I have some pointers for her as well. Martin, you too, you did, ah, well. Well enough.” 

Melanie presses one hand dramatically to her chest. “Oh god, what a gift – backhanded praise from our illustrious leader who can do no wrong. I will treasure this moment always, Jonathan.” 

Jon frowns and clears his throat. “Well. I did say it could use a little work.” 

“By all means, oh mighty one,  please  enlighten us poor ignorant inferiors.” 

Jon sniffs and glares at her. “Please stop that, Melanie. You’re making me uncomfortable. But fine, I will show you how I would introduce this statement. You don’t have to do it the exact same way, obviously, but you should – should have your own way of doing so, that’s consistent, and uninterrupted by personal thoughts. All right.” Jon clears his throat and begins, and the tape recorder in his hand clicks on. He doesn’t seem to notice and the rest of them don’t bother pointing it out. “Statement of Benjamin Hatendi, regarding a reckoning with a childhood fear of the dark. Original statement given March 2nd, 1983. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.” 

The moment Jon began introducing the statement, his voice shifted. The strain and uncertainty left it to be replaced by brisk self-assuredness, unhurried and controlled. Once he was finished, he paused for a moment, finger twitching on the recorder as if to switch it off and move on with lecturing them, and then a sort of slight spasm went through him and his eyes glazed over and he continued to speak, his voice altering as he did so. Not to the extent that it was a stranger’s voice coming from his mouth, but close enough to be uncanny, and Martin suppressed a shudder at the sudden impression of Jon as an extension of the recorder in his hand, playing back, mechanical and puppet-like, a ventriloquist’s dummy with a cassette sitting at the back of his throat speaking through him. 

“My parents never let me have a night light. I was always afraid, but they were just that sort of stubborn which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening. So no matter how terrified I might have been, I would always end up sleeping in the dark.” 

“Is he really going to read the whole thing to us?” Basira muttered. “Because if so, I’ve got some filing to do.” 

“I already read that one, and I did a fine job,” Melanie said. “You’ve made your point, okay, now stop.” 

“He’s – he’s not reading,” Martin said. 

“I  wish  he wasn’t,” Tim said, glaring at Jon, who was still speaking the statement. 

“No, he – he doesn't have the statement with him,” Martin said. “He’s just – saying it.” 

“Oh.  Oh ,” Melanie said. “That is – freaky. Jon, stop. We get it. We suck at reading statements, you’re the master of amateur voice acting, lesson learned.” 

“This is sick,” Tim muttered. 

“Jon,” Martin said, stepping forward tentatively. “Would you – can you stop?” 

 Jon’s hazy eyes focused on him and he faltered, then went quiet, blinking at Martin in irritation. It reminded Martin of the look of someone woken abruptly from a deep sleep. “What?” Jon snapped. 

“It’s just – you don’t have to re-record the whole thing. Melanie already did it.” 

“I’m not – of course I don’t, I wasn’t going to – oh. I see,” Jon said, looking down at the tape recorder in his hand. He looked up at Martin with an uncharacteristic hint of vulnerable uncertainty in his gaze, and gave a sheepish, self-conscious laugh. “I guess I – got carried away. That – can happen, sometimes. One of the hazards of, of statement reading, as I’m sure you’ve all – all realized, having done it yourselves.” 

“Nope. Can’t say I have,” Tim said. 

“Well – it happens sometimes,” Jon finished lamely, casting a lost look down at the recorder. 

“How’d you know what it said?” Melanie asked. 

Jon looked up at her, brow wrinkled. “What?” 

“The statement. How’d you know the lines?” 

“I don’t – what?” 

“You weren’t reading off the paper.” 

“Of course I was reading off the – oh. I – well, you already recorded it once, that must be – that must be why. That hasn’t happened before, I mean not with a, a fresh one. I guess I just – just remembered, since I listened to your recording. 

“Hell of a memory you’ve got,” Basira said. “Must be convenient.” 

Jon smiled tightly. “Yes. Yes. Good memory. That’s all.” 

“Oh, definitely,” said Tim. “Not that this place is turning you into some kind of abomination with a tape recorder for a brain and statements coming out your ears. Couldn’t be that.” 

Jon flinched. “D-don’t say that.” 

Tim’s gaze narrowed. “Why? Does that bother you?” 

“Of course that bothers me,” Jon hissed, his voice sharp with undisguised fear. “Don’t you think – don't you know I–” 

“What? It was just a little joke, Jon, about your workaholism, but by all means, please tell us why it’s struck a chord. You don’t have any reason to think this place might be turning us all into monsters, do you? Not like Sa – ugh.” 

“Stop,” Jon says, his voice strained and tremulous. 

He needn’t have bothered. Tim had lost all momentum at his own mention of Sasha and now sat still, looking tired and drained. He sighed. “It...doesn’t really matter, does it? Not like there’s anything we can do about it, I guess.” 

“That’s not happening, Tim,” Jon said. “I won’t let it happen.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, boss. But I don’t really think you have much of a say in what goes on around here. I think it has a say in you.” 

Jon clutched his recorder and looked down. His voice was restrained and stuffy when he said, “I was going to also address your abysmal recordings of statements taken direct from subjects. They were – alarming, to say the least. Alarmingly incompetent, that is. But I think – I think that’s enough for today, I need to...you’ll all just have to work on your interviewing skills, or else leave taking direct statements to me.” 

“My interviewing skills are just fine, thanks very much,” Melanie said. “It was the strangest thing – the statement givers were just incoherent. And then I realized, no, this is  normal  – what isn’t normal is how eloquent they normally are. When they’re talking to you. What...why is that, Jon?” 

Jon wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I-I – I don’t – I’m a good listener?” 

“Daisy and Elias, weren’t they just saying something about you –  compelling  people to tell you–” 

“No,” Jon said, cutting Basira off. “No, that’s – I don’t know what that’s all about yet, it’s not – I don’t  make  people tell me the statements, they want to talk. It’s – it’s completely voluntary. That’s how it’s always been. I don’t have – I can’t – the simplest explanation is the correct explanation. Is it not much simpler to believe that all of you just have poor bedside manner when it comes to statement givers than it is to think that I have some kind of – of power, or something?” 

“No. Not really,” said Tim. 

“It is,” Jon snapped. “This conversation is over. We’ll – continue training later, I have – I have work to do.” 

He crossed the room and went back into his office before any of them could stop him. Not that they would. Why would they? They were all probably glad to have him away. 

He sank into his chair and slumped against his desk, idly playing with the tape recorder. There was an itch at the back of his skull. He bit his lip. He could do some filing to take his mind off the steady compulsion building behind his teeth, beneath his tongue, inside his head. He could organize his paperclips by size and color. He could alphabetize the filing cabinet, he could...but who was he kidding? 

The tape recorder clicked on of its own will and he sank further down in his chair and gave in, released a shaky breath. He clutched the recorder close to his face and murmured, “statement resumes,” and then he finished Benjamin Hatendi’s account through to the end. 

By the end of it he only felt worse – the statement was stale, used, had failed to scratch the itch in his brain. Jon rubbed his eyes, ignored the burning ache behind them, and switched the recorder off, holding his finger on the button for fear that it would click back on and fill the air with its hateful monotonous whirring. He sat very still. If he could be very quiet and very still, then maybe the danger would pass them by overhead without taking notice, and they would all be spared from further harm. If he could only stay very still. 

[brykyo]

WIP that I wasn't gonna continue but still am for whatever reason

        From the moment Elijah first opened his eyes, he was shaped for his future. A future he had no choice but to accept as his own. Being a wealthy son was one thing, but given what his parents were, the rules became all the more strict, another thing Elijah had to accept was just his lot in life as a Van Dahl and as a Vampire. He was controlled from each aspect of his life, from what he studied to who he befriended, nothing wasn't taken out of his hands and micromanaged to make sure that he wouldn't bring shame to his families name. Not to say his life wasn't without its small joys, Elijah had his frivolous pastimes, between his studies and meeting with other elite families, but there was a certain... emptiness to his life that, for the life of him, Elijah just couldn't quite grasp. Well, until he met her.          The day had been like any other, Father had once again drained another of their servants and they were hard pressed to replace them when Father chanced upon a few women coming in from Russia in need of work. Father had his strict rules about who their servants could be, their blood had to be clean, they had to be presentable, and above else, they had to be unable to betray the family's secret. Young girls that could barely speak the language nor find well paying jobs was a perfect fit, as sad as it may be. That particular day, Elijah had been in his room studying, his gaze drifting off to the window to the quiet garden below. What would it be like to just spend a quiet afternoon under that tree by the lake? What would it be like to sit with a friend and enjoy their company right there? Such thoughts distracted him until the sound of music drifting in from the garden caught his attention. The new servants were dancing as they sang sweet sounding songs in their native tongue, the song so captivating that Elijah couldn't tear himself away, and in the middle of this small group was one that shone so brightly Elijah wondered if she wasn't an angel. This was his first sight of Gertrud, the woman that would eventually steal his heart.         Gertrud and the rest were cooks by name, and while they did cook when the family was hosting a party or had guests over for business, their main job was to offer blood to the family. Father had a habit of being rough, his thirst often taking control of his senses until he would leave a half drained girl laying so close to death you could almost see the light fading from her eyes. And this was the best case scenario. Worst case, Elijah would find another dead girl laying abandoned in the hall, waiting for another servant to take her out back and get rid of the body. Elijah tried not to think about how many bodies had been snuck out back and destroyed, but this time, he was determined to keep his angel safe. He couldn't let the girl who sang so sweetly be killed while he could do something to stop it, he just couldn't. So, he began the arduous task of keeping the maiden away from his ravenous father, even going so far as to try and claim her for his own. Though, standing up to his parents was never his strong suit. He still tried and for the first time in his life, he felt like he was actually accomplishing something on his own, it was an exhilarating feeling, to be sure, but he was unaware that his actions had caught Gertrud's attention.         It might've been silly of Elijah to think he was invisible to Gertrud, but he just couldn't picture someone so radiant ever looking at someone as gloomy as he. To him, she was like the sun, and with what he was, he could never hope to get close to her, so he had accepted watching her from a distance. Or well, that was what he had planned until Gertrud closed that distance herself. It was cool outside, so timidly, Elijah had ventured out to test how a picnic under that tree would feel - sans a talking partner, but he had a book, so he assumed it would be alright. Soon, he found himself lost in the pages as he reclined against the trunk of the tree, just relaxing in this rare moment. Both of his parents were out, there were few servants inside, and he had the afternoon to himself, a rare, joyous time to be sure. Until suddenly he felt a presence standing by his side and suddenly looked up to see Gertrud herself looking at the words on the page with interest.          "I... Sorry" she blushed a pretty pink color, her hands fidgeting with her skirt. "I was just wondering..." Elijah had heard her sing a few some out by this same tree, but this was the first time she had ever spoken around him and he found himself dazzled by the musical lilt to her voice. "What you were reading." She finished, her eyes meeting his and if he wasn't what he was, he would have sworn his heart had stopped. Her grey eyes were piercing, but kind, they almost seemed to shine with this light. Golden curl spilled from a tight bun, framing a gentle face. Already his fingers itched to reach up and brush them out of her face, but there he sat, completely speechless. "Mister Van Dahl?" Her head tilted, her brows coming together worriedly.         "E-Elijah." He stammered, closing the book with a loud thud that had even him flinching. "Sorry. Please just call me Elijah." Smooth, he was so very smooth, wasn't he, but she graced him with a small smile.         "Alright. Elijah. I am Gertrud." Elijah bit back the words 'I know', all too aware of how that would sound to anyone. So he just nodded and gave her a tentative smile of his own.         "Gertrud." It's strange to think a relationship could start with that conversation, but something had clicked that day. Instead of spending the afternoon alone, like he thought he would, he spent it with Gertrud, talking about books. The more they spoke, the more confidence Elijah gained. At some point, Gertrud had convinced him to shed his shoes and step into the lake with her. Fumbling, he followed after her into the cool waters, swallowing a rising lump in his throat as she pulled her skirt up higher. It was also then that he took in the shawl that was wrapped around her waist. It was white and almost looked like it was made of feathers if he looked at it a certain way         "Doesn't it feel nice?" He jolted up quickly, silently berating himself for staring as he had.         "Yes! Yes, it does." Gertrud laughed, a tinkling sound that made him feel giddy.         "Whenever we have free time, the girls and I, we like to come out here and play in the water." She told him, like she was letting him in on a secret. Once more, Elijah was nodding like he had no clue what she was talking about. Like he didn't spend those days peering out at them like some stalker. This is how his afternoon was spent, being strung along by Gertrud and slowly rebuilding up confidence, only to have the rug yanked out from under him as something new was introduced, but he didn't hate a second. Gertrud was so full of life, so vibrant and joyous that he found himself smiling even as they parted and he made his way back to his room.         Finding ways to speak to her again wasn't easy, but somehow they found a way. Elijah would make sure to drink a glass of blood, just to make sure he was in full control and would rush out to find her. His father disapproved of nearly everything Elijah would do on his own, so this was his secret and he was determined to keep it that way, at least to keep her safe. Father disapproved of a lot, to be honest. He never was a fan of the way Elijah got his blood, since in his eyes, drinking from anywhere but the vein was wasteful. Elijah, on the other hand had seen far too many drained and broken bodies to even want to try. But, with business booming and father kept busy, Elijah was able to spend his days with Gertrud with relative ease, if only ducking his mother here and there through the rooms. The easiest place to speak was closer to the servant's quarters, though Elijah often found himself wondering if he was hated by some of the servants, the way they would look at him and Gertrud. Gertrud would assure him that it was simply shock, but Elijah just wasn't sure. It wasn't until both of his parents had left for a business trip, leaving Elijah to his own devices, that he got to know a few of the other servants.