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five-and-dimes · 3 months

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Hob Gadling messed up, and he just wants Dream to forgive him. But first he has to convince Dream that he did, in fact, mess up.

AO3

The first problem, Hob thinks, is that Dream ultimately struggles with balance. Left to his own devices, he is a pendulum swinging back and forth, never managing to settle in a comfortable middle. It is endearing, and frustrating, and heartbreaking, and so very sweet, but Dream simply tries much too hard.

The second problem, is that Hob has had a fucking terrible day.

It starts off wrong when he hits ‘off’ instead of ‘snooze’ on his alarm. By the time he’s realized his mistake he’s forced to skip coffee and breakfast in order to have any hope of getting to work only a little late.

Which means he’s hungry, tired, and developing a caffeine headache during his least favorite class of the week. In general he loves his job as a university professor, but every now and then he got groups like this one- who never did the readings, didn’t participate, and overall made it very clear that they didn’t want to be here, no matter the work Hob put into the lesson plans to try to get them engaged.

By the time he finally makes it to the staff break room, he only manages a single sip of coffee before turning a corner and immediately running into another professor and dumping the hot liquid all over himself. It’s about then that he begins to suspect with growing dread that this is just going to be One Of Those Days.

And unfortunately, he’s right. He spends the work day in a coffee stained shirt, a student after class eats up half his lunch break asking questions that were definitively covered in the syllabus, he hits his knee hard on the edge of his desk, and when he finally gets to his car to go home, he finds the battery dead and ends up spending nearly an hour tracking down someone with jumper cables to give him a jump start.

The door to his flat slams shut behind him as Hob practically throws his messenger bag on the floor. Sighing heavily, he ran his hands through his hair as he made a beeline for the shower. You’d think after six hundred years and many days far worse than this one that he’d be less of a mess. But the truth was, as much as he loved life, he was still human, with a human’s temperament and an absolute disdain for stupid days like this one. Especially when he gets out of the shower and realizes he forgot to grab a towel, the minute warmth and relaxation he’d managed effectively killed when he’s forced to run wet and naked through his cold apartment to fetch one from the linen closet.

So yeah. It’s been a terrible day.

He’s frustrated, and annoyed, and just over this damned day. All he wants is something quick and easy for dinner and maybe a drink before falling into bed to make the day end faster, who cares that it’s barely 6pm.

And that’s when Dream arrives.

In hindsight, Hob should have been expecting him. Dream usually stopped by to visit his lover near the end of the night, sitting with Hob to hear about his day even if just for a little before being drawn back to his duties. They scheduled their longer dates, but Hob was accustomed to Dream popping in whenever he had a chance and knew that Hob was free. His appearance now was not unusual.

But Hob wasn’t thinking about his usual routine. All he was thinking about was his own frustration with everything around him. So instead of a small startle that he brushed off with a laugh, the sudden sound of swirling sand and a deep voice greeting “Hello Hob” had him jumping, his heart racing as his hands flailed and knocked over the beer he had just opened.

That is, apparently, the last straw.

"Jesus, FUCK," Hob slams his hands on the counter, face twisted in anger and he misses the way Dream flinches as he snaps around and shouts, "Would it kill you to use the bloody door? At least then I'd have the option not to open it!"

There is a moment where Hob swears the lights flicker, and Dream’s face darkens like a shadow has passed over him. It is there and gone too fast for him to be certain it wasn’t just his own rage warping his vision.

But then, much more blatantly, Dream… shrinks. Although maybe it's just the way he curls in on himself, averting his eyes and clasping his hands in front of him.

"I sincerely apologize, Hob," there is genuine guilt in Dream's voice, and even through the haze of anger it makes Hob's chest clench. "I will return another time more appropriately." He bows his head and between a blink of an eye is gone from the apartment as quickly as he had arrived.

Hob stalks into the living room, grabs a pillow off the couch and screams into it.

~~~

The next morning, Hob feels… good.

Well, physically he feels good. He has vague memories of a pleasant dream, his body feels loose and well rested, his blankets are warm and comfortable, and he has just enough time before his alarm goes off to get up leisurely. It is, all things considered, a perfect morning.

Which makes him feel, emotionally, like complete and utter shit.

In general, Dream does not interfere with Hob’s sleep. The exceptions being scheduled dream dates, and one instance when Hob had had persistent nightmares for over a week and eventually resorted to begging Dream for a night of dreamless sleep. Most of the time though, Dream has expressed that he thinks it’s important for Hob to experience the Dreaming without his meddling, which Hob understands. If anything, he thinks it makes the times he does spend lucid in the Dreaming more special.

But this morning has the unmistakable impression of Dream’s influence.

When they first reunited, Dream spent every other breath offering Hob things. Boons and answers and powerful trinkets, anything Hob might want in order to make up for his actions in 1889, and for his absence in 1989. It had taken several weeks for Hob to convince him that he was forgiven. That he didn’t need to ‘make up’ for anything, didn’t need to pay Hob back in any way.

This- this perfectly peaceful sleep and soft morning- feels the same. An offering Dream has left at his feet in hopes of forgiveness.

Yeah. Hob feels like shit.

Forcing himself to rise, to disentangle himself from the comfort of his blankets, he makes the decision to deal with one thing at a time. He quickly shoots an email out to the class he has today. He knows he has no hope of focusing on lecturing today, and so he apologizes for canceling at the last minute and attaches a file for a worksheet to complete for the next week. He takes a shower, and in a moment of indulgent self-deprecation, keeps the water icy cold, washing away any lingering comfort from his restful night.

Sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of coffee, he sighs and puts his head in his hand. He knows he overreacted, that his words were mean and entirely uncalled for. A small part of him shivers in fear that Dream won’t come back- that his anger with Hob will drive him away just as it did in 1889. But he shakes his head, trying to think logically. Dream has promised him, more than once, to always come back to Hob. Not to mention, Dream’s influence on his sleep the night before suggests that Dream is not gone, but simply waiting for Hob to calm down.

He’s on his second cup of coffee when he looks up and happens to glance at the window. There is, he’s pretty sure, a raven on his windowsill. That raven is, he’s pretty sure, Matthew. They’ve met a handful of times, and he doesn’t think a normal raven could give the impression of glaring quite like this one. Then again, given his luck the past few days, he could very well be about to open his window for a perfectly normal waking world crow.

Approaching the window cautiously, he calls out, “Matthew? That you?”

“No, it’s your mother. Now be a good boy and open the fucking window.”

“Jeez, I was just checking…” Hob grumbled as he unlatched the window, allowing Matthew to glide inside and land on the back of one of his kitchen chairs. “Did… did Dream send you?”

Matthew looks ruffled, “Yes and no. I was just supposed to keep an eye on you from afar, but I have GOT to know what’s going on.”

Hob frowned, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the Dreaming is freaking out. There are these earthquakes popping up all over the place, and when I asked the boss man about it, he just said he ‘wronged Hob Gadling’, which coming from him could mean anything from he broke a teacup to he accidentally started a war. So then he’s all, ‘Matthew’,” he deepened his voice in an impression of Dream, “Go and check on Hob Gadling and bring me news of his emotional state’. Which, I THINK means find out if you’re mad at him? So.” He shrugs as much as a raven is able, “Are you mad at him?”

Hob really doesn’t want to cry in front of Matthew. Still, he can’t keep his voice from cracking with guilt when he answers, “No.” He takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself, “No, of course not! I just… I had a bad day and I overreacted.”

“Oof, we’ve all been there,” Matthew shakes his head sympathetically, “What’d he do to set you off? Cause he feels real bad about it.”

Here, Hob hesitates. Sometimes he feels like Matthew doesn’t really like him, and he has the boyfriend instinct to want, very badly, for Dream’s friends to approve of him. He doesn’t think Matthew will approve of this.

“He… he didn’t really do anything. He, uh, showed up and startled me and I just… y’know… yeah.”

Matthew, expectedly, looks extremely unimpressed, “He ‘showed up’.”

“I mean he, y’know, he did the thing where he just appears, and it always gives me a heart attack but this time I just-”

“Well have you fucking told him that?” Matthew squawks at him, “Jeez, I thought he killed your dog or something the way he was acting. No wonder he didn’t want to check on you himself if he thinks just being here is what made you mad at him!”

“I know!” Hob collapses onto the couch, burying his face in his hands to hide the way his eyes have begun to water, “I feel awful. Could you please, please tell him that? I want to see him so I can apologize properly.”

“Hmf,” Matthew grumbled, looking as annoyed as a raven can, “I’m tempted to let you stew, except for the fact that that would suck for the boss too. Also I’m afraid if I wait too long all those earthquakes are going to turn into a ‘Tremors’ situation.”

Hob let out a sigh of relief, looking up to give Matthew a grateful look, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. But you owe me! I want one of those cakes that’s soaked in rum, got it?”

“Anything,” Hob says without hesitation.

Matthew grumbles a bit more, but looks somewhat sympathetic as he flies back out the window to deliver the message. He knows the raven is right- he’s never told Dream not to do his magic appearing act, he’s always just laughed and greeted him, never gave any indication that Dream should change his arrival. And to be honest, it really didn’t bother Hob. It had just been poor timing the night before, through no fault of Dream’s, and Hob felt awful that his lover got caught in the crossfire of a simple bad day.

So he sits patiently, back straight like a child in the principal's office, mentally rehearsing his apology. Time passes, and he’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he nearly misses the soft knock on his front door. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he stands to answer. He’s halfway to the door before he realizes what is happening, and he sprints the rest of the way.

It feels petty, but he figures Dream has earned a bit of pettiness given Hob’s behavior. Sure enough, when he throws the door open, it is Dream standing before him. He is standing straight and regal, as he always does, but Hob swears he is smaller than usual- shorter, thinner, more delicate. As statuesque as ever, but glass instead of marble.

“Hello Hob.”

Dream’s voice is carefully neutral, and Hob can’t help but wince, “Dream, thank you for coming.” He steps back, gesturing for Dream to enter, which he does after a brief moment of hesitation. As he closes the door, Hob takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself to grovel to one of the forces of the universe. It’s not like he’s never gotten into a fight with a partner, he’s certainly had his fair share of screw-ups, but that doesn’t make it feel any better. Not to mention, there’s always the lingering fear of Dream not accepting his apology and simply storming off to a place Hob can’t follow.

Well, there was nothing for it but to try. So with one last steadying breath, Hob turned to face Dream.

“I would like to apologize.”

Hob blinked. His mouth was open, but it was Dream’s voice that rang through the room.

For a long moment they stared at each other in silence, and then Hob shook his head in confusion, “I-... what?”

Dream stiffened, his hands clasped regally in front of him and his eyes on the floor, “I wish. To apologize. For my behavior yesterday. I will do whatever you require of me to make amends.”

There was another pause while Hob gaped, feeling lost, “Wait, you’re not mad at me?”

“For what?” Dream tilted his head in question.

“For- for snapping at you! I yelled at you, for no reason! I should be apologizing to you!” Hob’s arms flailed as he explained, but Dream remained still and stoic.

“Nonsense.” He replied, “You did no wrong.”

And here, Hob frowns, his confusion of the situation shifting into concern. “Yes, I did,” he states slowly, “Dream, the way I acted wasn’t okay.”

“Why? You are within your rights to admonish me when I am at fault.”

“But you weren’t at fault!”

“Obviously I was, to invoke such ire from you.”

“No, no, no,” Hob waved his hands frantically, “That’s exactly my point. I was in the wrong here, because you didn’t do anything and I snapped anyway. And, and I was mean, it’s okay if you’re mad at me for that.”

Dream blinked slowly, expression blank and unchanging at Hob’s words. Hob ran his fingers through his hair, groaning in frustration and dropping down onto the couch, "Oh my God, I've never had to convince a partner to be upset with me before."

"And you do not have to now," Dream frowned, cautiously moving to sit beside him, "You are allowed to express your displeasure with me. I was the one who misstepped. Tell me what I must do for you to accept my apology. Please."

"You don't have anything to apologize for! That's what I'm saying! I need to apologize because I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that-”

“I would not begrudge you taking your frustrations out on me when I am the cause of such frustrations," Dream interrupted. His voice was even and cool, back straight as he sat still and regal. He was far too put together. Especially next to Hob who was literally pulling his hair out.

"No, see, that's-" Hob paused, breathing deeply and trying to at least somewhat compose himself.

"Okay. First of all, you weren't the cause of my frustrations. I'd had a bad day and snapped when I shouldn't have." Dream opens his mouth to argue but Hob cuts him off, "And secondly, even if you were the cause, that doesn't give me the right to be mean. We're in a relationship, that means we talk about these things. You’re allowed to be mad at me when I fuck up.”

Dream stares at him blankly, brows furrowing ever so slightly in confusion, and Hob throws his arms in the air, “Christ, it wasn’t this hard to make you mad when I called you lonely.”

It’s a low blow and Hob knows it, regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips, but if nothing else he hopes maybe Dream will finally snap back.

He doesn’t.

Lowering his head in shame, Dream seems to wilt in front of him, “Yes. It is precisely that which has lost me any right to shy from your retribution.”

Hob gaped in blatant horror, “You don’t lose the right to your feelings just because you messed up once-!”

“More than once,” Dream interrupts, his voice hardening, and he forces his eyes up to meet Hob’s gaze, “I have wronged you many times in our acquaintance. You have been kind and generous with me, but I have not forgotten that I have earned your retribution.”

It is perhaps not the best response, but all Hob can do is lean forward, put his head in his hands, and breathe deeply.

It’s not like he didn’t know Dream had some messed up ideas about relationships, but it’s still a lot to take in at once, especially after a day of bracing for something completely different. He was prepared for anger and offense. He was not prepared for this shame.

He realizes that he would take Dream’s pride over this any day.

“Dream,” he speaks slowly, turning back to look at where his lover is still sitting rigid and tense beside him, “I forgave you for that. I forgave you for all of it, a long time ago. There’s… there’s no scoreboard between us.”

He wants, very badly, to take Dream’s hands into his own. But a part of him feels like Dream might shatter if he touches him. Dream’s eyes search his face, and when he speaks, his voice is cold.

"It is not. Just you,” he says, “I have made many mistakes during my existence. I have hurt many people. I am greedy, and arrogant, and do not connect well with others. And I was blind to it, for so long. I know it took me too long to recognize that and to begin making amends, but I am trying to do better now,” Here his eyes drop, shame and sorrow and defeat drawing tears to the corners of his eyes, “I am not doing this right. I know I'm messing this up, and it is unfair of me to ask, but I would gladly give you anything if you would give me another chance."

“I’ll give you as many chances as you need,” Hob replies carefully, “but you don’t need one this time. You aren’t messing anything up. You haven’t done anything wrong. This time I messed up.”

“You did not-“

“Yes, I did,” Hob cut in firmly, "I'm not perfect. You know I'm not. Not every fight or argument is going to be your fault. I'm going to make mistakes too, and I'm not going to let you blame yourself for things that aren't your fault. And I definitely don’t want you to just…. let me hurt you.”

Dream blinks, and while his face remains blank, it’s becoming more obvious how much of an effort it’s taking him to keep it that way.

“Even if I deserve it?”

Despite himself, Hob stands in frustration, “You don’t deserve it!” He snaps.

And here, finally, Dream snaps back, “I have hurt you in the past-“

“That doesn’t mean I’m allowed to hurt you!” Hob interrupts, “Come on, you can be mad at me! You can have feelings when I mess up, and then we’ll work it out and move on, but don’t… don’t just wave it away.” There’s a long pause, and Hob asks, “If I mess up later, would that mean I lose the right to be mad at you?”

Dream snaps his head to meet his gaze, “That’s different.”

“How?”

“You’re different.”

“How?” Hob repeats, insistent.

Dream’s jaw tenses, grinding his teeth together as he looks at Hob with something between sorrow and frustration, “You are a person. You cannot hurt me the way I can- and have- hurt others. The rules are different for me because the consequences are different.” His hands are clenched into fists on his lap, his eyes darting to the side as he grinds out quietly, “I have more than proven that I do not learn when I am given leeway.”

There is a stretch of silence, Dream sitting tense and miserable while Hob stands and tries to find the words that will just make all of this better.

Finally, Hob moves to sit beside Dream again, ducking his head to try to catch Dream’s eye, “Being hurt isn’t a lesson for you to endure. Me being mean to you isn’t going to make you a better person or whatever.”

Dream still won't look at him, so he reaches out to lay a hand on one of his tightly clenched fists, “Dream… what are you afraid of?”

For a long moment, Dream simply stares down at where their hands are touching. Hob can feel the slightest tremor in his fingers as he slowly answers.

"Sometimes…” He falters, inhaling deeply before continuing, “Sometimes terrible things happen to good people." Here, he finally looks up to meet Hob's gaze, everything about him resigned and defeated, "You are a good person. I do not want to be the terrible thing that happens to you."

Hob feels his breath leave him like he’s been gut punched, “You’re not a ‘thing’. You’re not terrible, either. And I’m not as good as you think I am. I think, somewhere in there, you know that.”

“Hob-”

“I’ve committed atrocities. You know that, because you talked me out of committing them for longer, and that’s just the ones you heard about. I did a lot of things between our meetings, Love. I think I’m just… younger. Maybe I haven’t had the time to make a list as long as yours, but give it time.”

“Yes, you are younger. And already you are learning from your mistakes. I am ancient. My wrongs are ancient. And only now do I seek to be better. How monstrous would it be, then, to dare feel hurt by my punishment when I have so earned it?”

“I wasn’t punishing you! Not then, not now, not ever. Dream, you’re trying, so hard, I see that. We’re both just two bad people trying to be better, and I’ll forgive you your mistakes along the way if you’ll forgive mine. But I need you to see mine, first.”

There, again, he sees the way Dream’s jaw tenses, a slight shift like he’s grinding his teeth together. Hob realizes, in that moment, that the anger is there, tightly leashed and buried under the heavy weight of shame.

Feeling brave, he reaches out to cup Dream’s face in his hand, stroking his thumb along the tense line of his jaw, “Look, I’m not asking you to storm off again. I’d actually really rather you didn’t. I appreciate that you’re trying to change and react better than before, I do, I think it’s amazing. I think you’re amazing. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be upset with me at all.”

Dream releases a sharp exhale through his nose, his eyes fluttering shut. But he also leans a little heavier into Hob’s hand. He is slow to speak, gathering his words as well as the courage to speak them. Eventually though, he admits to Hob softly, “When you… reprimanded me, I was... Frightened. That I had managed to drive you away without even noticing,” his voice wavers and becomes impossibly softer, “That I managed to make you hate me despite my best efforts.” He swallows thickly before visibly steeling himself to continue, “And then. I was irritated, I suppose.” Opening his eyes, he looks at Hob, and there is frustration, and fear, and confusion, “I would have changed my behavior sooner had you but told me that it bothered you.”

“I know. I know you would,” Hob assures, “The truth is, it doesn’t bother me. Not usually. It was just poor timing and catching me in a bad mood.”

Humming, Dream’s expression is still wary, “I will abstain from arriving unannounced from now on.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I would rather,” Dream interrupts, “not risk catching you in a ‘bad mood’ again.” His voice is a little stronger, a little more of the frustration seeping through, more confidence building the more Hob keeps holding him through it.

Hob nods, giving him a self-deprecating smile, “That’s understandable.”

Furrowing his brows, Dream tilts his head, looking at Hob in awe, “You… truly forgive me?”

“Of course,” Hob replies with no hesitation, “I’ll always forgive you. I’m not dating your past, I’m dating you. Who you are now. Who you’re trying to be.”

Dream searches his face for a long minute, confused and suspicious and still handing his heart to Hob all the same. He nods, “I wish you had not shouted at me. And I forgive you for it.”

Hob smiles, his body sagging in relief as he leans forward to press their foreheads together, “Thank you.”

Looking at Dream, Hob gets the feeling he doesn’t truly understand. That he thinks Hob will change his mind or come to his senses, that this is just something else to get his hopes up and his guard down so it hurts more when it crumbles around him. Hob doesn’t think this one conversation will settle Dream into a balance between his pride and shame.

But they’ve got time.

And Hob’s no saint, so he’s certain there will be plenty of opportunities for them to forgive each other.

#the sandman #dreamling #my writing #I don't know I just needed it to be done lol #That moment when you realize Hob is 100% a Morpheus Apologist lololol

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ursuburbanmother · 9 days

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I’m On Fire, But I’m Trying Not to Show It || Chapter Three

Pairing: Angus Tully x fem!reader

a/n: Mothers and daughters?? Fathers and sons?!?

Word Count: ~4k

Find: Part 1 Part 2

Enjoy!

December 23, 1970

You’ve been stuck in your own mind all day. It's decided to shut down like a panic room and you can see Angus try to crack it open with his attempts at small talk. Mary and Mr. Hunham share uncomfortable glances at each other, slightly humored about the quiet lunch they are having that would usually be filled by chatter from you two.

Angus leans in close to your ear, “You said we would talk today.”

“After this,” you murmur, sinking into the wooden chair.

“If this is about yesterday, it was just a weird moment, it didn’t mean anything.”

“Stop talking,” you say as nicely as you can when you see Mary's eyebrow quirk up at Angus’s comment.

“I have a surprise,” Mr. Hunham suddenly announces. Your eyes snap to him, embracing the distraction. He brings out a platter full of Christmas cookies and places them on the table. “These were a gift to me, and I would like to share them with both of you.”

Angus is unimpressed and by the way he is scowling, he's upset too. “Look at them. Look at all the festive shapes. Snowflakes and gingerbread men. A tree. A little mitten,” Mr. Hunham picks up the red and white frosted cookie and takes a bite. “Mmm,” he looks pleasantly surprised.

“Thank you, Mister. This is really nice,” You reach for the snowflake. You’re not sure how well sloppy joe and sugar will settle in your stomach but you're willing to gamble on it. Mr. Hunham gives you a thin smile.

“May I go to the bathroom, sir?” Angus asks, already pushing away his dish and getting up from his chair.

“You may,” he sighs, watching the boy walk away.

“Well, I’m trying,” he says to the group, defeated.

You give him a weak grin, “These are good cookies though. If that means anything to you.”

Mary chuckles at your exchange. Mr. Hunham gets up and goes the same direction Angus had exited. Your eyes follow him until it is impossible for you to see him without breaking your neck. You turn to Mary who is close to finishing her cigarette. She blows the smoke away from your direction and pushes the packet towards you.

“Want one?”

“Oh. No thanks. That's Angus’s thing.”

“Alright. But don’t go asking for one later.”

“I won’t,” you laugh quietly. You hear voices in the hallway get louder. Angus shouts something you can’t make out and Mr. Hunham's response follows shortly after. Their noise fades away and you rub your tired eyes to snap you awake. You never could get enough sleep. You swear you could sleep for twenty-four hours and still feel groggy.

“What's going on with you two?” Mary asks.

“Angus and I?”

“No. You and the ghost that haunts the infirmary,” she took a sip of her coffee while shaking her head in amusement.

“My mother says I'm a bit of a blabbermouth. I don’t know if you want to hear the details,” you warn.

“Give me the reader's digest,” she pats the seat next to her. Bringing your coca-cola with you, you go cross over to her side of the table. “Okay. Tell me if you think I’m crazy-”

“I will.”

“-But Angus has been acting so weird. One second, he's all moody, a regular Holden Claufield, and the next he’s nice and being the Angus I’ve known all my life. I don’t know… Maybe he’s at the stage where his feelings swing around like a pendulum.”

“That's all-teenagers sweethearts. Even at adulthood, that pendulum never stops swinging. At some point it may slow down only for a gust of wind to return it into motion.”

“I mean he’s always been a little short-tempered, just never towards me. Yesterday,” you wonder if you are getting too personal now, “he called me selfish.”

“Selfish? The girl that just scarfed down a cookie to make an old man feel better.”

You shrug. You never knew how to take compliments. “I know I should just ask him what's really going on, but I don’t want him to blow up on me again.”

“If he does come to me. I’ll whip him into shape for you.”

“Thank you,” you giggle. “What do you think happened out there?” You tilt you heard towards the doors.

“Their usual bickering. That boy is probably paying the price for cursing Hunham out right now.”

“How long have you known Mr. Hunham?”

She paused before answering, “A while now.”

“Has he always been this… strong-willed?”

“Stubborn as a mule you mean? Yes, he has. Although the years have certainly hardened him more.”

“Why’s that?"

“Not sure. He’s a private man. I haven’t been able to pry anything out of him.”

“Not even when he’s,” you make your hand into a fist, extending the pink and thumb. You move it back and forth to mimic drinking from a bottle.

Mary cackles. “Not even then.”

…

The stupidest thing Angus had done was what he had done to you yesterday. He doesn’t know why he said it, why he had called you selfish. It just tumbled out. It was like he was a man possessed. But launching off a springboard in the gym in an act of rebellion was a close second.

He numbed the pain thinking of you. Granted if you were here, you would be lecturing him non-stop and telling him how he should have known better. But at least you would have been here, and he wouldn’t have to watch Mr. Hunham marinate in his misery. At least you would have been there to hold his hand as they popped his arm back into its socket.

Although his mouth had gotten him in trouble the last few days, it had been helpful in getting them out of the hospital insurance issue. And it was about to get him a free burger now too.

They had arrived at the local watering hole. It was jam packed with people getting tipsy with beer. He could hear the clink of billiards and the white noise on the TV.

“I think I’ll start with a beer. How about you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Tully. Get your cheeseburger.”

“They’ve got Miller High Life. The Champagne of Beers.”

“Oh?” Mr. Hunham said, but Angus could tell he was just trying to amuse him.

Angus shut the menu as their waitress came up the stairs to their little booth. “Okay, you ready to order? Oh!” she gasped as she turned to his teacher.

“Miss Crane,” Hunham touched his chest, “As I live and breathe. What-, what are you doing here?”

“Oh hi guys! Yeah, I always pick up a little extra work over Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Miss Crane explained.

It looked as if Mr. Hunham had been snapped awake, “Well, um, this is Mr. Tully,” he motioned his hand towards him.”

“Sure, I know you and your little girlfriend. You two are always glued together like gum on a pole,” Miss Crane said teasingly.

“Y/n L/n," he beamed, "she goes to the girl's school and we’re just friends. But um, we met outside Dr. Woodrup’s office. I was wrongly accused of blowing up a toilet,” he smiled as innocently as he could.

“I didn’t know about the wrongly part,” she shares a laugh with Hunham.

“He’ll have a cheeseburger,” he orders for Angus.

“And a Miller High Life please,” Angus adds quickly.

“Uh. No you will not,” Hunham says sternly.

“Where do you stand on Miller High Life, Miss Crane?”

“Well, like they say, it’s the Champagne of Beers.”

Angus turns to Hunham, “And she’s a professional.”

“Okay, one cheeseburger,” Miss Crane waits for him to fill the blank.

He relents and orders reluctantly, “And a Coke.”

“I’ll have a cheeseburger as well,” Hunham smiled.

“Two cheeseburgers,” she jots down the order on her notepad

“And a Jim Beam. On the rocks. Please.”

“Okay, you got it guys,” She smiles at them before exiting. Paul watches her go and Angus grins at the scene.

“Ouch. You two have chemistry,” he shakes his hand like he had touched a hot plate.

“Okay. That’s the Percodan talking,” Hunham dismisses.

“I don’t know. Seeing her like this, I think she’s pretty attractive,” he hopes his teacher will take the bait.

“Listen, you hormonal vulgarian, that woman deserves your respect, not your erotic speculation.”

Angus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, may I at least go to the bathroom? Sir?”

“You mean the payphone?”

They have a stare off before he runs off to the back of the restaurant. Angus scours any leftover change in his back pocket of his jeans. He finds enough to make a call. He scans the room, making sure that Mr. Hunham isn’t hunting him down like last time. He dials the number to the Barton infirmary and hopes you are lounging in your room.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he chants under his breath. Instead he gets the dial tone. He curses and slams the phone back to its original place.

…

You haven’t seen Angus since the morning. You've been spending all afternoon with Mary instead. You helped with the lunch dishes and are preparing the potatoes for supper later. Mary had a radio in the kitchen which you happily hummed to. Christmas music flooded your ears and reminded you of the holiday. In the halls of Barton there were no decorations, and one could probably convince a kid that the Grinch had stolen them in the dead of night.

“Mary, I'm done,” you proudly show her the bowl of potatoes. In your house most of the cooking was done by private chefs who came in and out so irregularly that you could never learn their names. Understandably, they didn’t have time to entertain a ten-year-olds insistent questions about what it meant to julienne a vegetable.

“Great. Why don’t you start boiling them and get started on chopping those mushrooms.”

“Okay,” you add water to a pot before adding the chomped potato. You find the mushrooms and cut them as thinly as you can. After you place them on the counter next to Mary who has already prepared everything else.

You admire as she adds them to a pan of melted butter. She drops salt, pepper, Italian dressing and other spices you can’t name, without even having to use measuring tools. “You’re Julia Child!” You praise.

“Just years of practice.”

“Hey, when do I get to sauté and mix things?” You get on your tiptoes to get a better look at the mushrooms turning a dark brown.

“When I know you won’t hurt yourself doing it,” she gave a pointed look at the bandaids on your fingers. You may have cut yourself in your first attempts at handling a knife. You hide the hand behind your back. “Sorry.”

You go to sit in a stool by the oven. You open a borrowed copy of a Kerouac book that Angus had in his suitcase. The Subterraneans, written in three days apparently and no offense to Jack but it shows. Mary notices your squinting as you go try to make sense of the writing, inching your face closer and closer to the paper.

“Are you planning to do something with that? The books.” Mary stops her stirring and lowers the heat of the stove. She walks over to you and glances at pages.

“What? Like with writing?” You ask, “I’m not sure. I know I should have figured it out by now but I just never got one of those woosh moments,” you sway your hands in the air.

“Woosh moment?”

“It's like what we talked about with the pendulum. I feel like I've been hanging still and waiting for the wind to send me on my way. I wait for it to push me with the strength of a tornado. Woosh. Almost to flood me with a feeling of knowing? I’m not the best at words…” you trail off.

“You're telling me nothing interests you?” She raised her eyebrow.

“No, a lot of things do. I want to do everything. Right now, for example, I feel like becoming a renowned chef,” you pick up a random bowl and start stirring it slowly.

“Try learning how to handle a knife right first,” she tuts.

“Practice makes perfect Mary,” you smile and look down into the chocolate substance you were messing with. “Cake or brownies?”

“Neither actually. It's more doughy than liquid honey,” she lectures you kindly.

“Right,” you say sheepishly, “I swear I’m smarter when it comes to other things. You should see me in civics class.”

“I believe you,” she winks, “Now get to preheating the oven, Betty Crocker.”

…

Angus goes off to play a game on the Pinball machine and to take his mind off you. It certainly helps him. Avoiding the prospect of getting beat up by locals and injuring another part of his body allows him to momentarily forget the stress he feels when he remembers how pissed you are at him.

Mr. Hunham and Angus eat their burgers quickly. To repay Mr. Hunham for saving his ass, Angus keeps his mouth shut every time he orders a Jim Beam. They leave after Hunham drops a rather generous tip for Miss Crane.

They're walking towards Hunhams car and Angus can’t resist the urge to ask, “Why’d you buy those guys beer? They’re assholes.”

“That’s one way to look at it. Hey. Catch,” he tosses his keys at Angus, who catches them on instinct.

“How many boys do you know who have had their hands blown off? Barton boys don’t go to Vietnam. No, they go to Yale or Dartmouth or Cornell, whether they deserve to or not."

“Except for Curtis Lamb.”

“Were you ever in the military?” Angus’s curiosity peaked.

“I tried to enlist in ‘41, but was rejected,” Mr. Hunham pointed at his eye, as if to say obviously. He tries to unlock the door of the driver's side to no avail. He points towards Angus,“I have to get in through there. Anyways, they made me an air raid warden. Gave me a whistle and everything. Helmet. Arm band.”

Angus opens the door, handing the keys off as Mr. Hunham slides in. He catches a whiff of Mr. Hunham unmentioned scent.

“Before we get going, can I be candid with you?”

“Mm-hmm,”

“You smell,” he states bluntly and Mr. Hunham deflates. Angus joins him inside the Nova, “Like fish. And it’s really noticeable toward the end of the day. I even smell it on your coat. Mind if I crack the window?”

“Trimethylaminuria.”

“Huh?” Angus frowns.

“Trimethylaminuria. Means my body can’t break down trimethylamine. That’s the smell. And, uh, yes, more toward the end of the day.

“Wow. Your whole life? No wonder you’re afraid of women,” he concludes.

“I am not afraid of women,” Hunham says, clearly offended. “Jesus H. Christ.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything. Dr. Gertler says I don’t always give consideration to my audience,” Angus exhales.

“Who’s Dr. Gertler?’’

“My shrink,” Angus wants to disappear.

“Has Dr. Gertler ever tried a swift kick in the ass?”

Angus figures he ought to level the playing field. “Okay, all right, now your turn. Go ahead, tell me something about me. Something negative.”

“Something negative about you?”

“Sure. Just one thing.

“Just one?”

Angus nods and he probably should be offended that he is taking an awful long time to say anything.

“You’re obtuse about your social relationship.”

“What the hell is that supposed mean?”

“You didn’t say I had to elaborate Mr. Tully.”

“Okay well now I want you to. Spit it out.”

“No,” he backs out of his parking spot and hits the road.

“Come on! Explain,” Angus tugs on Hunhams jacket.

“I hope you don’t plan to pester me all the way to Barton. It'll be an awfully long ride.”

He presses down harder on the gas pedal.

…

You had burned the cookies. Not that you could tell when you took a bite of it. The cocoa had disguised it and you had just finished patting your back when you had to spit the whole thing out into the sink. Mary relishes your misery and apologizes through her laughs, wiping the tears in the corner of her eyes.

So your two-course meal had been reduced to just an entree. After thirty minutes of searching and waiting on Angus and Mr. Hunham, you ladies decided to leave the capacious mess hall and have a TV dinner. If your mother could see you now you were sure she would have you arrested by the etiquette police.

Mary was flipping through the channels to tune in to her daily rewatch of the Newlywed Game. You stopped her suddenly, your hand on top of hers to stop her from operating the remote.

“Cactus Flower! I love this movie. Please can we watch it?” You beg, clasping and shaking your hands together.

“What’s it about?” She asks hesitantly, clearly wary about abandoning her favorite program.

“You’ll love it! Ingrid Berman has to pretend to be her boss's wife because he lied to his lover about being married and having kids and shit-,”

“Language.”

“-Sorry. And so now he has to pull off this big con, so she won’t leave his lying as-, butt,” you correct yourself. “Goldie Hawn is sooo good in this. She won an Oscar I think.”

“I supposed I could give it a try. If it bores me we are switching right back though.”

“Deal,” you giggle and scoot the plate balancing on your lap closer so you can dig in.

For the next hour, Mary seems content in watching the characters in the movie ignore and miscommunicate their feelings. Even shaking her head when they do something she finds ridiculous. Your eyes get heavy as the ending nears, your stomach warm and content with the meal you had and the glare of the television tiring your vision. You lean your head back into the couch cushion and close your eyelids. Distantly you hear Ingrid Berman and Walter Matthau confess their love before your world goes dark.

Slumped against Mary, you wake up for the second time that week by the same hands. Angus is shaking your shoulder gently. Your gaze falls immediately to the sling his arm is in.

“Angus! What the hell?” You whisper- shout, fixing your posture and wiping the potential drool off your face. You check to make sure you didn’t wake up Mary.

“It's okay, it's okay,” he reassures. “It’s not broken, or anything just dislocated.”

“What happened?’’ Your arm trails down from where the sling starts to where his hand hangs lazily out. "Is this why you weren’t at dinner tonight? Hunham too?”

“Uh yeah. I jumped off a springboard in the new gym,” he answers bashfully.

“Wow… you are so stupid sometimes.”

“I prefer spontaneous thank you,” he sits down next to you on the couch and lets out a sigh. Using his good arm, he lifts a plastic bag. “We went out to eat and I got you something.”

“Ooh,” You snatch the bag and open it as quietly as you can without crinkling the plastic. Inside the Styrofoam box there's a half-eaten burger with some cold fries. You snack on it anyway offering some to Angus who shakes his head.

“Mr. Hunham thought buying another would be wasteful. He assumed you and Mary would have probably eaten by then so I saved what I could.”

“We did and,” you motion to the plates, “I helped cook it!”

“Really?” Angus's eyes widened, “I’m sorry I missed it.”

“I saved you some cookies,” You pick up the dish of the burnt dessert. You have brought them over believing you had been exaggerating the taste.

You hadn't.

He takes one, clueless, and bites almost half the cookie off. You see him wince but still he continues to chew. He chokes it down and nods, “Not bad?”

“You’re such a liar,” you shove his head lightly. “I forgot to turn on the timer.”

“Yeah I can tell,” he takes your confession as his cue to spit the rest out into a nearby napkin.

“Thanks for this though,” you take a bite of the burger, “I had forgotten what fast food tasted like.”

“Don’t tell him I let you have it. Or that you saw me in fact. The whole arm thing is supposed to be secret.”

“Got it,” you extended your pinky for him to intertwine. He takes it but doesn’t remove his pinky after, instead he lets your connected hands fall between the both of you.

The TV is still on, except the volume is lower and an old black-and-white movie is on. You finish the burger and put the trash aside to throw away in the morning.

“Where is Mr. Hunham now?”

“Crashed as soon as his head hit the pillow.”

“So you want to talk now?” You look up at him.

“Umm, somewhere private though. Incase Mary wakes up,” he gets up, still connected to you by your fingers and pulls you alongside him. You pick up a discarded blanket along with you

“Okay. Where do you want to go?”

He walks you two out of the staff common room and you let him take the lead. Barton is cold even without all the large windows closed. It’s like walking through a haunted mansion, passing by old dusty trophy cases and pictures of past alumni. When you enter what you recognize to be the auditorium, thanks to the plaque next to the door, Angus strolls you two over to the stage. You sit on the piano bench and when he joins you, you cover him with your blanket.

You hear Angus let out a shaky breath and then see the winter air turn it into a small cloud of smoke.

Angus starts to speak, a tremble in his voice, “You’re the only person who thinks of me first know? Even when we were little, and we had a free pass to be totally self-centered you still never-. Like in middle school when you’d give me biology answers, or just now with the blanket! I have a jacket! I should be giving you the entire blanket. In fact, let me give you -, your just-.”

“It’s alright Angus,” you stop his rapid rambling, holding his face between your hands. “I already forgave you a long time ago.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” he chuckles, trying to divert his gaze but the soft hold you have on him keeps him still.

“I forgave you the second you walked in looking like a kicked puppy.”

He laughs at your words.

“Although I just want to ask what has been going on with you? I know you hate school and you're not incredibly fond of Stanely marrying your mom, but I feel like something has been bothering you. Something big.”

“I need to go to Boston Y/n,” he admits, hitting some random piano keys. The notes echo around the room.

“Okay,” you bite the inside of your cheek, “why?”

“It's snowing outside but it doesn’t feel like Christmas. But my dad, he would make it feel that way. So I need to see him and my mom had promised but you see how that turned out.”

“Oh Angus. This is why you kept bringing it up,” you gasp. “Jesus. And I had called you stupid, I’m the dense one for not connecting the dots.”

“No no. You’re not. I was being evasive. I guess I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I would have stolen Jason Smith's car keys had I known! We could be there by now, eating Clam Chowder by the bay. ”

“Nuh-uh. You’re way too of a goody-two shoe for that.”

“Well I would have followed you. Given an hour's notice, of course, to build my confidence.”

“I don't know,” Angus hits a few more keys, “Maybe this was fate like you said. It definitely didn’t deal me a cruel hand having me holdover here with you.”

“Yeah, the universe was certainly on our side for this one,” you move closer to him and put your head on his shoulder. “Hey, you think you can still play even with only one working hand?”

“I’m willing to try it,” he stretches his fingers, “What shall I serenade you with?”

“Something Beach Boys. In My Room?”

“You got it L/n.”

He plays much slower and his jaw is sharp, fully determined to get through the song for your enjoyment. He plays so gracefully you don’t even notice when he slips on occasion. You don’t mind it. It’s almost as sweet as a lullaby.

#angus tully #angus tully x reader #the holdovers

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cubitodragon-moved · 7 months

Text

I feel like Forever will be the one to finally discover and intervene in regards to the soul vultures - and it’s not going to end well for him or BadBoyHalo when he does.

Q!Forever is so worried about Q!Bad, has expressed to multiple people that he knows how fragile he is. And I think many overlook that he told Bad that he remembered everything that happened while he was drugged. A passenger in his own body.

Meaning he knows what he said to Bad, that he likely remembers proposing - and he remembers the exact state Bad was in at the time. His language, his words, the tired stoop and how Bad was collapsing in on himself. Bad is coping just as badly as he is, on the opposite side of the pendulum’s swing.

He’s determined to give him a flower every day to cheer him up (no roses, yet), but he knows it’s not enough, he’s watching his friend fade away before his eyes and he’s scared. The affirmation room was a really wonderful gift, and I think it helped - emotionally. But it too is not enough on its own, a temporary harbour during stormy seas.

Action is what will truly bring change over words for these two - after all, actions are what have cause trust to waver, compared to words and prank wars and lies told with a straight face that both parties know are lies.

In addition, out of game, Forever (the CC) is essentially going to be offline for most of next month due to gatherings, conventions and traveling. so getting his character taken out of play for a bit in a manner that doesn’t directly involve the Federation this time seems likely - retreading the same ground is no fun. And Forever has also expressed excitement over Bad’s plans for Bad’s own character’s arc. They’re a pair of cheeky enablers, and they both love their complicated cat’s cradle tangle of a relationship that they’ve got going on - they wouldn’t indulge so fully if they didn’t. The CCs trust each other to tell a good story together, and I think that’s neat.

Which is why I think in trying to save Q!Bad from himself, Q!Forever is going to take a blow not intended for him. An action with a consequence neither foresee. Coupled with the morals balancing act Bad’s got going on with Baghera, I think the fallout of these respective efforts is going to be a shock to the BadBoyHalo core that finishes what his Skeppy-confided doubts started.

Or maybe it won’t. Bad is so unpredictable.

But so is Forever. And Forever considers Bad his family. That’s a powerful force - one Bad is going to underestimate, because I don’t think he’s had many people in his life willing to go that sort of distance for him.

I have a feeling that today’s streams are going to be interesting.

(Apparently first thing when I wake up and last thing before I sleep is when my brain goes off on meta tangents. Go figure!)

#qsmp #Qsmp meta #qsmp rambling #qsmp speculation #qsmp 4halo if you squint I GUESS #qsmp badboyhalo #qsmp forever #there’s a whole lot of love and a whole lack of trust here #passion cuts both ways #rp meta rambling #I love collaborative storytelling

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darkeraurora · 6 months

Text

Admissions - Chapter 9

Very mild NSFW this time.

Chapter 9 of ??

Status: ON GOING

The ever-present whir of the heaters kept the silent Brit company. Simon sat on a weight bench in the gym, alone with nothing but his thoughts in the twilight’s quiet stillness. Sunrise wasn’t for another few hours and only a small handful of people around base would be awake at this hour. Perimeter wall guards mostly.

He’d woken up quite early, even by military standards, and slipped out of bed once he detangled himself from the warm clutches of his little one, leaving Sereza to continue sleeping. While he’d slept fine last night, his mind wouldn’t fucking shut up about what might potentially happen later today.

Last night he’d told Sereza he’d found his bandana.

Consequently, his anxieties and insecurities were all in overdrive. Even if she had agreed – or rather, offered – to allow him to blindfold her so he felt more at ease, Simon still felt off. Considering what he would be doing to her – or might end up doing, since he wasn’t particularly confident that he’d be able to actually go through with it – it would terrify him if the roles were reversed and he was the one unable to see. What if he scared her? What if she was secretly feeling apprehensive about being blindfolded but was forcing herself to go through with it because of him? God that would kill him.

And also…

Even if she wasn’t able to see him, she would still be able to feel his skin.

What if it repulsed her? His physique was impressive, he knew. Fucking ought to be after the innumerable hours he spent in the gym burning through nightmare-fueled adrenaline rushes. But his body was covered in evidence of things best left forgotten. And he fucking hated it. Every fucking time he saw a glimpse of his skin or his reflection the urge to carve those reminders out himself was overpowering.

The worst ones were under his shirt. So far Sereza hadn’t seen or touched them, but she would when Simon made love to her; or feel them if she were blindfolded. How would she react?

But on the flip side… if Ghost didn’t take her…

What if she grew tired of waiting for him to be ready? He was pushing himself already as it was, and though he’d done more with her than he had with anyone else in what felt like an eternity... what if it wasn’t enough? She had been nothing but patient, understanding, and helpful. Always ensuring he felt safe and in control, but what if she decided he was too much trouble? Simon could certainly see that being a possibility. He was well aware he wasn’t an easy partner to have, not by any means. Or what if she grew tired of waiting on him and she moved on with someone else? Someone less complicated? All because he took too long to fuck her?

Ghost immediately felt horrible for thinking of his girlfriend that way. Complete shit. The one good thing that had happened in his rotten fucking life and this is what he was thinking about her? Bloody hell he was an arse.

Perhaps he should just force himself. Maybe once it was over his mind would decide it wasn’t so bad. An involuntary shiver made him wince. Simon was not at all sure he could do that. Plus, if he didn’t already feel like shit for thinking of Sereza the way he had, he definitely would if her first time ended up being a disaster or something he rushed through. Damn him and his issues.

Oh shit.

That’s right… it would be her first time with a man. Ghost would hurt her when…

Fucking shit; another thing for his mind to obsess over.

Trying to redirect his thoughts – force that mental-emotional pendulum to swing the opposite way for a fucking change – he thought back over the past several months. It had been maybe four months now since he first met Sereza and Simon ate better, was learning to trust touch again, slept peacefully almost all of the time, and felt less anxious… well, generally.

Looking back, Ghost was truly amazed at just how much she had already helped heal him.

No one, aside from his mother, had ever meant as much to him as she did. The rest of the 141 was important to him also, of course, but that was different. They were his family but Sereza… Simon simply couldn’t conceive of a future that didn’t include her in it.

But, his thoughts circling back around, would he lose his chance at that future once she saw all of him?

Ghost paused, blinked then sighed irritably upon realizing he’d long since lost count of his reps. Dammit, he’d have to start over. Veiny forearms flexed as he readjusted his grip on the kettlebell and began again. What a troublesome little one he had. Not even in the room and still she was distracting him. Such a naughty girl, Love. What am I going to do with you?

“Taken to haunting the gym mi amor?”

Ah, speaking of naughty… His beauty was out of bed. Her sleepy voice echoed across the cavernous space, coming from the doors behind him. He could tell by the sound she hadn’t been awake very long. The sleepiness made her voice sound so unbearably precious he couldn’t help smiling under the mask, despite her being the current source of much of his consternation. His free hand rolled the balaclava up to the bridge of his nose as he angled his head backward in her direction in a silent request for a kiss. “Bloody hell your lips are sweet, Love,” he complimented, picking up her hand from his shoulder to kiss her wrist. He looked up into deep hazel eyes, waves of honey tumbled around their faces and obscured the light. An image he tucked away to cherish when they had to be apart. Even from upside-down like this, she was the cutest thing.

Sereza grinned at his words. “Want another taste?” she offered, cocking her head to the side and sliding her palms over Simon’s pecs down toward his sternum. An affirmative groan rumbled through her ghost’s chest. His little one leaned down again and offered her lips.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked once they finally parted, coming around to sit near the opposite end of the bench from him so he’d have space to continue his set.

The half-masked Lieutenant poked her side, a place he’d recently found out was ticklish. “Quit that worrying, Gorgeous,” he reassured her, “I slept fine, just woke up is all.”

She was not at all convinced her ghost was telling her the full story, but let it go for now. Ghost seemed to be handling whatever bothered him well enough so she’d leave him to it, not wanting to nag or hassle him. There would be time to check in with him later if need be. “Mind if I sit and watch you?”

“Don’t mind at all, Sweetheart.”

The windows lightened from pitch black to sapphire to pale blue as dawn came to the Arctic sky. Simon and Sereza chatted about this and that. Simple small talk and making each other laugh with dumb jokes, just enjoying each other’s presence.

“Hey Si, a fish swims into a wall – what does he say?”

“Hm?” he paused, dangling from the grips he was training on.

“Dam.”

The Brit laughed hard at that one. “Not bad,” he chuckled. He’d have to remember it for the next mission with Soap. “Not bad at all, Love.”

XXXXX

Ghost’s shot cracked the stillness of the tundra. Perfect bullseye.

He fired his final shot, splitting the frozen silence and sending birds fluttering. Once more hitting the target dead-center with surgical precision. His little one sat just behind him and kept watch on their surroundings. It was time for Simon to qualify again, which meant a visit to the range outside the protective walls of the base. Which meant polar bears, so Sereza was on guard duty. That left Ghost free to focus on what he needed to.

While he trusted her – she had been out here for years whereas it hadn’t even been six months yet for the lieutenant – he still preferred to finish quickly and take over the role of Polar Bear Guard himself. He knew it might sound chauvinistic and insufferably alpha male-ish of him, but dammit he couldn’t help it. The urge to protect the woman he loved at any and all costs was ferocious.

Naturally Ghost qualified without issue. Not that he had any doubts – as arrogant as that might sound, but his little love being there this time did provide a hint of nervous jitters.

The range cleared not long after, leaving only the petite female and her towering ghost alone with the snow. Simon decided to take the opportunity to see how well his girlfriend could shoot. He had only his M4 with him, which should be fine, and he doubted with her small form she could use a shotgun or some such without risking injury to her shoulder. Sereza was tiny, but she wasn’t some fragile female. However, as the surgeon on base, neither she nor anyone else could risk her being injured.

But to his bewilderment, as soon as the Brit suggested a bit of shooting practice, she began to argue with him.

“I really don’t need to Si,” she refused, waving as stood and made ready to head back to the base. Why did it sound like she was trying to hurry off? “Let’s get back, I’m freezing anyway.”

Ghost knew that wasn’t true. The way she dressed and layered for the cold was impeccable; there was no way she was freezing. Chilly possibly, but not freezing. “You telling me stories, Little one? I think you forgot that I watched you do your layers this morning,” the Brit chuckled from behind his mask, “Come on now. Two shots left in this mag and they’re both yours.”

Sereza shuffled on her feet. “Nooo I’m pretty positive they’re yours actually.”

“Saved ‘em for you because you’re just so damned cute.” Simon took hold of her wrist.

“I-I don’t want to…” she continued protesting, trying to back away further, but the iron grip around her wrist gently pulled her back toward the firing line.

“One shot then,” he attempted to compromise. “Show me what you got, Love.” Ghost held the rifle out for her to take.

“NO!” Sereza shouted, pushing roughly away from him.

Ghost’s strength could, of course, have held her in place but he immediately let go of her wrist at her vehement refusal. She continued taking tiny steps backward from him, hands shaking, eyes wide, arms wrapped protectively around herself. Her behavior stunned him. “Sereza…?” he whispered in concern. She had always been the calm one but right now she looked positively panic-stricken.

Frosty clouds of her breath puffed out rapidly, fearful eyes fixed upon the snow, seeing someplace far from where they both stood as she fought back tears. “I-I don’t, I don’t…” she whimpered incoherently, shaking from head to toe.

Simon hurriedly set the rifle down behind him, out of her line of sight. He held his hands out to her, showing the weapon was gone. “It’s alright Love, it’s gone, and you don’t have to shoot.”

Ghost slowly stepped closer to his love until she blinked, as if only just realizing he was in front of her, then lunged into his chest and clung to him. Strong arms picked her up, smoothing down honeyed curls while he shushed her, sitting them both down on a nearby log and guiding her tiny form into his lap.

As much as he hated to see her cry, seeing her this scared was worse.

What the hell had set her off? Was it the gun? Sure a lot of people were afraid of guns, but it didn’t seem that the cause of her behavior was as simple as that. Everything had appeared perfectly fine and she was acting normally up until the moment he tried to get her to shoot. There was something else she was afraid of. Not the weapon itself.

Ghost slipped her beanie off and kissed her forehead. Once her breathing calmed, he pulled back to see her face.

Instead of the fear from earlier, Sereza now looked self-conscious. Embarrassed. Shoulders slumped, she turned away from him and hid her face in the soft fleece of his jacket. “I-I’m sorry,” his little one dolefully apologized while refusing to meet Simon’s eyes.

His gloved thumb wiped icy tear streaks from her pink cheeks. “Nothing to be sorry for, Love. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Uh… I-n-…”

Simon waited as she uncharacteristically fumbled with her words, never taking his hands from her. It was odd seeing her like this, and it spoke to how scared she’d been since normally Sereza was quite articulate, but whatever had spooked his little one had evidently rattled her enough that she wasn’t able to get her thoughts in order.

“Hey,” he whispered softly, adjusting her so he could see her face better. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Look at me, Sereza.” Uncertain hazel eyes jumped to his at the command and Ghost ran his hands over her arms consolingly. “That’s my girl. Can you listen to me? You are here, with me, and I will not let anything harm you. You know that, right?” He smiled at her small nod. “Good. Please Love, try to tell me what happened. Was it the gun?”

She shook her head.

Ghost inwardly puzzled over her nonverbal response. Looked like he’d have to fish for answers.

“Me holding the gun?”

“No.” A single small word but a step in the right direction. Ghost found the stronger reaction encouraging; maybe they were getting somewhere.

“Is a rifle too much for you?”

“I-I…” Her voice came out in a pitifully small quiver that tore at his heart.

“You can tell me Little one, it’s okay.”

“I… can’t shoot.”

Well yeah - Ghost gathered that much by the way she reacted but it didn’t answer his question. It was clear to him that something had happened to his love just a moment ago, but what? And why? He could almost swear it looked like a flashback, but she never…

That was when it hit him.

It was a flashback. Something had happened that left her with her own scars. Not that he’d believed her life had been all sunshine and rainbows up until now. The lieutenant knew perfectly well very few had such privilege. But he now understood the reason why Sereza could handle him and his laundry list of issues so well. Because she had survived her own personal hell.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she continued, “When I try-” She had to pause when her voice cracked. Ghost wrapped her in his arms as if he was shielding his love from whatever distressed her. “My father… when I was very little… he’d shoot at me. Sometimes he’d sneak up behind me or he’d make me stand still and shoot the ground around me. Just centimeters from hitting me. One time he did graze me,” Sereza paused as she sniffled, “I don’t think he’d intended to; he was just very drunk. He’d laugh as he did it. It was fun for him.”

The lieutenant was beyond enraged. “Where?” his deep baritone rumbled. Sereza gestured at her left shin, about halfway between her knee and ankle. “Your mother didn’t stop him?”

“…my mother was worse,” she faintly admitted. Quietly as though something bad would happen if she spoke any louder.

Sereza's body beginning to tremble again told Simon just how much worse.

He wanted, with everything in him, to know what had been done to his little one so he could arrange a bit of… retribution. But that would have to wait. Now was not the time. Plus he supposed his girlfriend might not want that, and what she wanted was ultimately what mattered most to him.

Still though… it’d make him feel a bit better.

But his vengeance-plotting would have to wait. Right now his little one needed him. Ghost pressed her close, cradling her head to his chest. “I’m so sorry, Sereza. I should have listened the first time you said you didn’t want to. I’m sorry I didn’t. I didn’t recognize what was happening until I pushed too far, and I’m sorry for that as well. I just hadn’t seen that happen when you’ve been at the ranges with us before.”

Small hands squeezed his arm wrapped around the front of her, trying to convey her appreciation as well as forgiveness. “Not your fault, and you can’t notice things you haven’t seen,” she reassured, wringing her gloved hands in her lap. "I should have told you sooner."

Simon lifted the petite body, moving her until she straddled his lap so he could see her properly. “Why do you seem embarrassed about it?” A finger hooked under her chin. “It’s just one skill out of many. You have a lot of other valuable skills.”

She chuckled half-heartedly. “Someone in the military that can’t shoot?” she replied emotionlessly.

“I see where you’re coming from, but you aren’t actually in the military though Love,” Ghost tried to reason, “You’re contracted, and for very different work. It’s quite normal to be afraid of guns. That’s a healthy fear. I think… that you being the surgeon here, putting us back together again after a mission, is a far more important skill.”

Sereza bit her lip and looked away from her ghost again. “A lot of the others don't make that distinction and wouldn’t approve of me being here if they found out I can’t shoot. Not that I care about what they think – I don’t. They don’t know the reason why and don’t need to. But the whole thing frustrates me to no end.”

It angered the Brit to learn that others found fault in his girlfriend. Whether they knew the reason behind her lack of firearms skills or not was irrelevant. Sereza was a person – a human being with feelings and inherent value – whose job was to take care of them after injuries. How that made her somehow less in their opinion Ghost would never understand. And didn’t care to try to understand either.

XXXXX

The pair walked side by side back toward the gates, trudging slowly through the snow, while Sereza told Ghost more about her mental stumbling block. “It doesn’t make any sense,” his little love ranted, airing her frustration. “I’m around guns - big guys with guns at that," she gestured at her massive ghost beside her, "all the freaking time. I’ve gone to the ranges with the guys and watched them shoot… so, so many times. Never a problem. I hold them, I carry them, I’ve helped clean the damn things – also not a problem. It starts right as I aim.”

The skull hummed as he pondered over her words. That was peculiar. It would make sense if the sound of gunshots triggered her, but it was only once she took aim. Was she even able to get off a shot? Probably not, he decided. But she was perfectly capable and comfortable with every other aspect except for firing the weapon herself.

Ghost knew better than most how bizarre the brain could behave when triggered, but what many people didn’t seem to understand was that triggers were never random – not really. Whatever it was, it made sense somehow in the mind of that person. Maybe, for Sereza, when she was aiming and ready to fire, perhaps her mind put her in her father’s place and she was the one shooting at the terrified child.

His heart ached for her.

"Si… will you teach me?”

“To shoot?” His little one looked up at him with hesitant eyes.

He was willing, of course, but he also didn’t want Sereza to feel that level of fear again. Back to that manly-man urge to protect his woman… thing. Besides, there were other ways he could teach her to defend herself that didn’t involve firearms. “You were so afraid Love-”

“That’s exactly why I’m asking,” Sereza interrupted. “I spent years learning to come to terms with all the shit that happened when I was growing up, and this is the last thing. I want to be able to move past this too, but I… I don’t think I can do this one on my own.”

The towering skull thought it over as he held his love’s hand while she struggled through some particularly deep snow. “You're sure about this? I mean, I will, of course – and your brother could also help you,” he questioned.

“He… doesn’t know,” she confessed, finally breaking free with a huff. “My brother’s mom actually cared about being a parent and she escaped with him one night while our dad was passed out. A few years later our dad moved on and started a new relationship. That's when I came along. My brother carries a lot of guilt because I didn’t have a safe or happy childhood while he was the one who did – which I’m very glad of, by the way. That makes me happy. But he blames himself for not knowing about me or finding me sooner.” The skull silently listened, holding her hand warmly within his. “I tell him all the time that it wasn’t his fault, but like any big brother, he doesn’t listen.” Simon chuckled along with her, being an older brother himself.

Sereza hooked her arm through his elbow. “Would you? Please?”

He stopped walking and pulled his mask up. The main road back to base was just ahead so they couldn’t be seen where they currently stood. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Simon lifted her up and kissed her as deeply as he possibly could. “Didn’t need to ask, Love. I’d have helped you anyway.”

Simon sat his little one back on her feet, steadying her by the arm when she swayed. Knowing his kiss had left his love weak in the knees he gave him a satisfied grin.

XXXXX

The lieutenant had a short late afternoon meeting with Price.

And couldn’t concentrate for shit.

He put on a convincing performance though and it didn’t seem Price was aware that his lieutenant wasn’t as laser-focused as he would normally be. Simon was much the same during dinner too. One leg bounced incessantly beneath the table, and he kept forcing his shoulders back down from under his ears.

His distraction didn’t go unnoticed that time however and both Soap and Gaz found it immensely entertaining to tease him about it. They had convinced themselves that Sereza had sent him a text – of a spicy nature that included, perhaps, a spicy picture – thus concluding that the reason their lieutenant wasn’t his normal gruff self was all the blood leaving his brain. Occupied elsewhere, about three feet lower.

The idea had them snickering and cackling like poorly behaved school children. The sergeants both stubbornly kept with their concocted story despite Ghost’s insistence that their story was hopelessly wrong. “Maybe we should lay off, eh Gaz? LT’s got a busy night ahead of him, aye? Don’t wanna tire the ol’ boy out before he can satisfy his lady.” Soap was enjoying himself far too much in Simon's opinion.

He wearily shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his masked nose, grumbling under his breath at Soap’s teasing. Fucking hell, you two. Honestly. Was this how parents with small children felt? Because if so Ghost could understand why they looked tired so much of the time.

It had been a long fucking day and it was nearing the end.

Which was what had him feeling antsy. Last night Ghost had asked Sereza if she would be busy tonight… and told her he’d found his bandana. Now it was getting close to time to use said bandana.

So, yeah…

Antsy was a fucking colossal understatement.

XXXXX

Back in his quarters after dinner, Simon anxiously paced around the small space. An internal debate raged in his head about whether or not he was ready for this. Thus far the negative side was winning out, as per usual.

Bloody hell, I can’t do this! I CANNOT fucking do this!!

Yes you can. With her, you know you can. You need to.

Back and forth, back and forth. Mentally and literally. With all the walking and his thundering heartbeat, the lieutenant felt like he’d just come off the longest ruck march of his life.

Ghost was so jittery when Sereza walked in a bit later that she half-expected to see him start climbing the walls.

“Si?” Her Brit turned to look down at her, her touch relaxing him somewhat as she threaded her fingers through his. “You look like you’re about to crawl right out of your skin mi amor.”

…my skin…

“What has my love so stressed? Wouldn’t have anything to do with you not being able to sleep last night, would it?” she asked rhetorically.

The Brit sighed as he realized she’d seen right through his fib in the gym this morning and found a sudden, singular interest in their entwined hands. Admiring just how much his love was dwarfed by the size of him. Finally he answered her with only an affirming grunt, nerves having made him slightly tongue-tied.

Sereza rubbed her thumbs over the back of his hands as she squeezed them. “Can you tell me now what had you so anxious last night mi amor?”

Her love audibly swallowed. Did she have to be so damn observant all the damn time? She was giving him the opportunity to open up, and he appreciated all of her efforts, but fucking hell that was hard when it came to… this.

Feelings and whatnot.

She kissed along the printed knuckles on his skeleton gloves. “You know that it’s okay to tell me, if you choose to, yeah? It stays between us, and I will still love you and be with you regardless of what it is,” she encouraged.

Well she had certainly proven that to be true. All the emotional baggage he’d heaped on those slender shoulders, yet she was still here, as unshakable as any mountain, willing to put up with him for some unfathomable reason.

Ghost felt like an arse – again – for making her worry like this.

Fucking hell.

It was time to come clean with her.

Scooping up his little one bridal style, Simon climbed into bed and snuggled into her neck. Giving her a few ticklish kisses. The chaotic storm of thoughts in his mind calmed while he breathed the scent of her. Sereza’s nails traced across his neck and upper back while she left small kisses over his hair.

“… I’m scared Love,” her ghost whispered. “Scared I’ll remember… shit I don’t want to. I’m worried... about what you’ll see. But I'm much more scared-," He paused as his voice cracked. Ghost pressed against her tighter, seeking reassurance. “I'm fucking terrified... that- that I’ll hurt you. And it’s going to hurt you anyway. I want you so goddamn much but... I can’t… I can’t fucking stand knowing that I’ll cause you pain.”

Always such a worrier, mi amor. His worrying over her wellbeing she could address quickly enough, but the lingering trauma from his assault would take time. Sereza hugged around his dirty blond head. “Simon, Love – I swear, you have the sweetest heart,” she affectionately whispered before kissing his forehead. “Can I tell you a couple of things, my love?”

Her ghost grunted a reply, flustered at being called sweet like that.

“I absolutely adore your touch. It feels indescribably good to me, did you know that? Whether we’re just relaxing or… doing something else. Even before we were together, you’d touch me in subtle ways or pat the top of my head while you told me how short I am,” they both chuckled at the memory and cuddled each other tighter. “Everyone else who did that I wanted to punch in the face-”

“You couldn’t reach their face Love,” he interjected mischievously.

“Oh shut up,” Sereza huffed, making Ghost chuckle. “…I loved when it was you though, always made my day and left me wanting more. I was happy simply being with you. And I still am.”

Simon was touched. All tingly and warm inside knowing that he made his little one happy, both now and back then without actually trying.

“Please don’t torment yourself mi amor. Talk to me when something’s bothering you, okay? You aren’t alone anymore Si, and you don’t have to deal with everything on your own either. We’re here to help each other, yeah? Just like earlier today.” Sereza cupped his face and guided it up to hers, kissing the scar cutting through his eyebrow. “I love you Si. No matter what your mind tells you, please don’t think you have to force yourself into doing anything physical for me to love you or stay with you. If any memories come up I'll be right there with you and we'll get through it together. But just so everything is clear going forward, I will never be put off by your touch. It’s alright for you to touch me when you want to.” Another tender kiss to a scar along his temple.

Ghost closed his eyes as he basked in the gentle care Sereza was giving him. The feeling of her fingers combing over the shorter hair on the side of his head made him feel slightly drowsy.

“Always,” another kiss, by his ear…

“Anytime,” under his eye...

“And I will love it.” His love ended with a lengthy kiss to a deep scar across his cheek. “You won’t scare me Si, and I know you would never, ever intentionally hurt me. When you feel like it, you have standing permission, does that help?”

Yeah.

Yeah it did actually.

Rules, regulations, and permissions spoke to his military side; something that gave the soldier in him parameters to operate within. That familiarity brought with it comfort and security. Simon’s spirit felt so much lighter now and he was kicking himself for not talking to Sereza sooner.

Right then, Ghost’s mental lightbulb clicked on.

He understood now that when he was happiest… when he felt the strongest and safest… was when he was like this with Sereza. Facing what troubled him with the support of his other half. Not when he internalized or withdrew into isolation to fight his inner wars and mental demons alone in some twisted protective display – whether that was protecting others or himself.

The haunting voice of his father, with his vicious threats and cruel insults, quieted. For the first time, Simon could admit to needing the presence and love of another person and felt no weakness or shame in doing so.

The woman holding him in her arms was the source of his peace.

He didn’t just need her – he also needed her.

Mind and soul, he needed her.

Simon made up his mind.

No more overthinking and obsessing. Tonight, he would take her.

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maddoc05 · 8 months

Text

Jon comes back from America... wrong.

Martin stares. Those eyes have changed from that soft brown that Martin had quietly grown fond of - the subject of his poetry more than once, in fact - into something that glows and glimmers with heat and light drawn into a singular focus, like light passing through the facet of an unworldly lens. There is no name for the colour, because it hurts to look, Martin is sure his retinas would have been burned out by now if not for the fact that Jon's hair often falls over his fringe to cover the face. Even that is the wrong texture. It's the mirage of ash, silver-streaked like- like web, and Jon is older and tired and empty in a way that Martin aches to even exist in the same room as.

Tim doesn't even think its Jon anymore.

But Martin tells himself it is. Because that- because Jon still accepts the cups of tea that Martin presses into his hands, takes it with the same amount of ungodly sugar each time, and offers that same tentative smile that Martin has learnt to know the shape of. Even if it is a pretense, even if it is a lie... he can't meet Jon's eyes anymore. Jon's smile is all teeth.

It hurts Martin. And it wounds Tim, although he's doing a fantastic job at acting otherwise.

Coincidentally, Melanie and Basira barely miss Jon's presence every single time. Realistically one would go for the phone camera, the other most likely reaching for the gun. Yeah, Martin knows exactly how well that would go.

There is hardness on Tim's face. He alternates between simmering with rage or outright stalking out of the room when Jon dares to brush past the threshold from the office to the rest of the Archives. He glares and flinches, trembling, strung out and seething and despaired and furious and shattered, emotions that they can all taste swinging as unevenly as a pendulum. It's a fuse. And Martin's terrified of the trigger, so much so he flits between them. Bitterly, always the mediator, always the peacekeeper.

Mum showed him exactly how malleable anger is. How flexible it can be.

(There's an empty space where Sasha had once been.)

It makes working in the Archives an act of walking the tightrope - and- and sometimes that rope is around Martin's neck - but he thinks he's become very adept at maintaining that balance.

He hears Jon's voice, like a background drone. The office walls are thin. An illusion of safety and privacy. The click of the tape recorder as subtle but unmistakable, the constant press of awareness like a blade to Martin's throat. He listens, helpless. Drawn between a tide, he strains to hear, but it's like he's underwater and the words are there swimming around in his skull but he just doesn't understand what it means.

The wrong door opens. Jon's door.

Oh.

Martin stares, stricken.

That’s new. He is unable to tear his gaze away from the multitude of eyes that Jon’s shadow now casts, over his face, against the wall, highlighted over skin and air and breath, tinting the dark streaks of hair in its warm glow. He senses Tim go absolutely rigid next to him; he hears the hard scrape of nails against wood and knows that Tim is back to gripping his desk, knuckles white with strain.

Jon is not Jon. More silhouette than human.

But all the while, Martin thinks he just looks at them with those sad, sad eyes.

Tim is on alert next to him, face tightening and knuckles pale with strain. He hisses, “What the fuck-“

“Jon.” Martin says, reaching out. The moment seems impossibly fragile, like glass, like ice.

It's stupid, thinking that he- he matters enough that Jon will reach back and grip his hand, crawl back if he has to. Martin sees too much. He sees too little. He stares uncomprehendingly at the blood. At the bout of a dark tide soaked visible through the worn seams of Jon's clothes. Glistening like tears in the corner of an eye, in the pale mournful lights of the Archive. It spills from the open edge of a split throat, from the dime-shaped holes trailing like bruises down his neck.

With every passing second, Jon looks more and more inhuman.

His skin is barely put together, the scars illuminated by that strange harsh light, the same that spills out from his eyes, the glow of power bleeding out into the white, until his pupils have become so dark and hollow that they appear completely black. The light bends and twists and trick reality into a mirage - a halo of bloodied scleras and corneas of every conceivable colour encircling that right eye like the coronet of a crown. Like shackles, like ascension.

Martin is vivisected by the paralysis of being seen down to every ugly scrap. The sensation of being watched, of being known and flayed alive, ripping upwards through the ocean's worth of a life the thoughts and secrets and memory as the hooks and nets trawl and pile the cacophony of consonants behind his scraped teeth. The crawling mass of something so deep and primal that it clogs its lungs, and he cannot think, cannot breathe-

He's more surprised that Tim even has the breath to- to howl.

The reaction is more of an electric shock. Jon lets go immediately, and the release of pressure is like the scream of a radio cord as it is abruptly yanked from the sockets.

“Don’t.” Jon’s voice is harsh and stilted, almost a growl. There is a tremor in his limbs. “Don’t look at me."

And then, finally, to his unending horror, Martin broke. The small gasp that left his lips could have been mistaken for a sob, as his body succumbed to what it had been trying to do ever since the start of this whole fucking nightmare. To his mortification, there are tears cold and wet sliding from the corner of his eyes. He slid to his knees and then further down, his arms resting over his knees as he held his head in his hands.

Tim crouches next to him, hand hovering, the pale of his face gleaming with those same wet tracks.

"You fucking monster," Tim snarls, "Stay the fuck away from us."

"Jon." Martin chokes, "What are you doing?"

The split second of lucidity in Jon's eyes. Wrapped in pity and determination. His chest does not rise and fall, the posture is wrong in the same way his bones have fused into place. He hesitates, then joins them on the ground, folding cross-legged. The tape recorder clicks, but not before the screech of a Geiger counter. "Statement of the Archive, regarding an... undoing."

"Near to the 200th anniversary of both his birth and death, there was Jonah Magnus." Jon continues. "I do so hope he'll forgive me this self-indulgence, but I have suffered so very much at his hands, and well, isn't it fitting for the work of one's hands to surpass the potter. It is rare that a man so close to his god would deign to bow his head to another, to allow the schemes and machinations of the Web so close to his Temple.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

He lies to himself, for immortality and power. It is a truth befitting of the Spiral in all its curious, complicated nature. It is simply because he is afraid. First, the fear of that broken world, of being a mote of dust subjected to the whims and satiation of those Beings beyond. And then fear of his own insignificance. The fear of his own inevitable death. The cruel fear of knowing what came beyond.

Sometimes its not always the thing that you fear that claims you. Sometimes it is because you are running from something else.

I know that fear. It is words scrawled upon the parchment of my bones, and it was in every breath I have taken as Jonathan Sims. And it has shaped me far beyond Jonah Magnus's wildest imaginations.

He once named himself the king of a ruined world.

Yet I am its vessel. I have brought these Beings into its final apotheosis, and so the head that the crown fits is so rightfully mind, isn't it?

Hmm. Are you running, Elias?

No, watch that door. It's smiling. Michael never did like you. Helen despised you.

Jonah Magnus strung his creation, wound it in puppet strings. It was a charitable way to put it, to tell myself and the others that everything we did was to preserve the world. Through desecration, with webs and lies and barbs and writhing worms. But he did not ponder upon those contradictions, simply accepted it for truth. The oppression against free fall. Sending the Known into the Unknowing. The thrill of the hunt, collared. Lies wrapped in truth swallowed in more lies.

Now... what is the world that Jonah Magnus imagines?

It is a feeding ground. Like cattle herded through the slaughter house, like the butcher delighting in his pastures. The Distortion, with all its insanity and twists and fractal glass laughs. The Web with its plays and puppets and its grandest show preparing for a dethronement even as it applauds those dead empty echoes of a throne. The blood of the Slaughter, the evisceration of the Flesh, the pulse of the Hunt. The choke of the Buried, the squirming hunger of the Corruption. The absolution of the Dark, the candle-light turned inferno of the Desolation. The lapping waves of the Lonely, the endlessness of the Vast. The sawdust of the Stranger.

You forget the inevitability of the End.

I have lived those eons in your stead. I have felt every cell on this earth live and die and recycle. This story is Known, and it is my offering to the Beholding. Incense upon an altar. And I have no need of a reprisal."

Jon falls silent for a moment. Then he laughs, a tinkling, melodic sound. "Your Archives call to you, Jonah."

And Elias Bouchard can no more resist the siren call of his god anymore than he can neglect his own desperate need to know what has slipped so deftly and rapidly from his grasp.

The doors to the basement open. The patter of footsteps in the distance. There's a dilation in Elias's eyes, like he's not altogether there. The grey bleeds from his eyes to his skin, his breath shallow and rapid. It's out of place, that expression - the eagerness of one that pushes through the crowd, desperate to catch even the barest glimpse. It's the disquieting awe, the passive hunger churning itself into a frenzy.

He sees Martin and Tim first. "Where's Jon?" He asks unevenly.

"Right where I've always been," Jon says. "Watching over my Archives."

It's almost a comical scene - the cold shock that hits Elias is the flash of a lightning strike. It disappears just as quickly, but that's useless because every flicker of emotion is already catalogued and kept. He looms over Jon who does not bother standing back to his feet. Jon sits, Martin crumpled, Tim barely balancing on the heels of his feet, but it is Elias who says calmly as if defusing a bomb in an attempt to regain that simulacrum of control. "Jon, I believe we have already gone through this. Your friends will die if you kill me. Everyone in this Institute will perish. Do you really want their blood on your hands?"

"Death by hubris." Jon tells him. "It's like poetry, isn't it?"

There is a mutual understanding. Elias stands over Jon so very afraid but paralyzed in that fear because it is hardly the only emotion that consumes him. It offers him communion with his god, with this vessel-carved flesh that inhabits every molecule of space where the man had once stood. It irks him, that displacement.

"For all your bluster, you still bled." Jon mused. "So easy to kill." He tilts his head, curious and bird-like. Politer, 'Would you like to see it? To- Know it?"

The tickle of an undone memory, the blade slicing through organs, the bloom of warm blood. Elias barks, "What have you done-"

Jon clucks his tongue. "But those are not your eyes."

The silence rings.

"Can you hear their song?" Jon asks, the expression on his face the most at peace than he had ever been before. "The sound the earth makes, as it screams. The pluck of a discordant string, that impossibility of insanity crushing its own self, the dichotomy of assigning mindlessness to something sentient enough to play favorites. I can hear your fear. Taste it. Revel in its flavor. It ages, like fine wine. Takes on... that twist of its own."

Jon wonders, "What happens if I- hmm... cut the strings? Pull it out off you. Set a little fire of my own."

Elias laughs harshly, "That won't work-"

"Wouldn't it?" Jon asks, genuine, and watches as Elias falls short. He doesn't know. The doubt creeps in, slow and noxious like the curl of poison gas around pumping lungs.

And then in that shared moment of knowing. The flash of a lighter in the underbelly of the beast.

"Statement of Elias Bouchard, formerly known as Jonah Magnus." Jon says quietly. "Statement begins. Statement ends. Goodbye, Jonah."

Deep below, dry bones ignite. Scraps of cloth and marrow go up in flames, in that stagnation of dust and ashes.

"There's been a change in management." Jon observes after a while, without preamble. Martin stares blankly, having watched exactly how it was like to witness a man unravel and ram through every stage of decay in a matter of seconds. Somewhere, Tim is audibly sick. "You're all fired."

Martin bursts out. "Oh thank god."

#tma #the magnus archives #fic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #elias bouchard #time travel #angst #canon typical violence #slight humour

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peppermint-squirrel · 2 months

Text

cyrae hcs caused by tt (2003) brainrot

they spend a lot of time in the garage. raven'll help cyborg tinker with the t-car, or if they each want to do their own thing, she'll sit in the passenger seat, door open, tea in one hand and book in the other, while he spruces the car up. the latter is very nice for when they want to be alone, but Together

their dates are p low maintenance, no stress, which is what they both like. they go on p lengthy cruises in the t-car — on more than one occasion they park on the coast at night where they can see Titans Tower and listen to the ocean + stargaze. cyborg insists they sit on the ground rather than the hood of the car though, can't risk any scratches, so he usually brings a blanket or two

they also go on "errand dates." they go grocery shopping (which given the sheer Size and Variety of the List that all of the Titans contribute to, is basically an all-day affair) or pick up parts or anything of the like. they usually swing by raven's favorite cafe and cyborg's favorite hobby shop (for video games usually but he does get into racing rc cars w bb and i am a firm believer in the titans sitting down to play at least one session of jump city d&d so that, too) on the way home

they both like history (cyborg recently having adopted a vested interest) — cue trips to antique malls, thrift stores, museums. raven takes her time, listens to the audio tours, and can get a vague sense of the history behind donated items at the shops/malls — cyborg pendulums between reading all of the plaques/tags, absorbing all of the info, and cracking sorta-jokes that everything in the place is absolutely and totally 1000% haunted and/or has been possessed in the past . . . or is in the present

book festivals are a thing!! raven likes them. she's a big believer in supporting Local. she also likes picking up every and any book she can get her hands on, reading the book jacket blurbs, then listening to the author talk. she's not much of a talker or a prompter herself, but she is an Avid Listener, and she likes hearing stories from all walks of life. but book festivals also can be p packed, and cyborg's p spot-on about sensing when raven's getting overstimulated and/or cranky and/or tired (not that she goes to particular pains to hide it, granted) so he'll usher her back to the t-car and load up her totes full of books in the trunk and oops when they get in he pulls out a bag of kettle corn the size of his gd torso out of NOWHERE and raven just STARES at him bcuz where tf did that come from and he just grins at her and offers her a handful and she finally cracks a Small Smile, takes a few kernels, and relaxes as they drive home (making her smile is his version of magic and one of his favorite things to do)

raven Just Doesn't call him cy. but she does and she will call him vic. it's the closest thing to a pet name she has for him. for his part, he tends to stick to rae (ntt vic def calls her witch and some variation of bird/birdie)

not to mix-n-match media but . . . "she's a magical gal in a small town local/he's a hubby who's part machine" from ep 1 of wandavision perfectly encapsulates what it'd be like if they got their own house (with a basement cy converts into a p eclectic study/meditation chamber/etc — he does the bare bones of it and leaves all the decorating up to raven bcuz he knows she knows what she likes better than anyone so). raven tends to float stuff (ingredients for tea, books, furniture, etc) around the house and cyborg becomes v good at ducking and/or snatching things that shouldn't be in mid-air out of mid-air

raven's the first person cyborg talks about his accident — espec his relationship w his father — at length with. i had an au idea for the "crash" episode where the "the only person qualified to repair cyborg is cyborg" line is proven wrong when silas shows up but anyhow. she's a v good listener and (as inspired by the ntt comics) provides the first nudge for cyborg to actually talk to his dad (which is a heated convo that's p heavy and ends kinda uneasily but it's Something)

they don't tell anyone they're together. not at first. they just really, really don't want it to be a big deal. they've always been close tho and the team knows that so it's fairly easy for them to get away with it — until starfire catches a quick, chaste kiss stolen in the hallways and shrieks w delight. cy and rae just swap looks of dull acceptance bcuz they know they're Toast at that point. raven's the one who tells the team — "we're dating. get over it." and after a day of buzz they pretty much do

#teen titans #teen titans 2003 #cyborg #raven #cyrae #hear me out #i'm indulging in nostalgia okay #don't ask me how the teen titans make money that's a logistic i'm not even close to figuring out they just Do #ten year old me is screaming rn #this is a long ass post i'm sorry #i might delete it later tbh #sorry for all the slashes #teen titans headcanons #forgot a tag oops

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cantfightmoonlight · 9 months

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@lunarcovestarters - CLOSED

Option A:

Meena let out a deep breath. To say she was not okay was an understatement of a lifetime. But, she had spent enough time curled up in a ball in bed writhing in pain from the sire bond breaking and now she was in desperate need of clearing any trace of Theo from her house. She had once upon a time, been known for her lavish house parties, but over the past year she had hardly invited anyone over to the manor and that little fact ended today. Swinging her front door open after a prolonged moment, her signature smirk found its way back to her lips. "Welcome! Come in, make yourself comfortable, help yourself to a sledgehammer and a hard hat," She offered up, motioning to the long line of destructive tools and safety gear that lined the far wall. "Feel free to destroy or take anything in the West Wing. I want everything but the structure gone," She explained, having already roped off her side of the house that would remain untouched. "Designer clothes, furniture, light fixtures- you want it, its yours, and before you ask, there is all you can eat food and drinks too."

Option B:

"Boo," Jas said, rolling her jet black eyes over, the temporary consequence from the necromancy, as she watched the kid run away from her screaming. Bringing her arms into her chest, Jas moved to wrap them around herself. It had been less than a day since everything at the Pendulum had gone down and she could feel the dark magic still there, just beneath a skin. A reminder of exactly what she had done, bringing her own sister back from the dead and killing someone in the process. A fact she was hoping the Council would let slide given that two other people had taken lives that night too. But, even if they didn't, she had plenty enough on her plate to focus on. She could practically feel the town's eyes on her as she forced herself to leave her place, wanting nothing more to retreat back inside, but unfortunately, she was out of coffee and groceries for that matter. So, here she was fending off the looks as best she could as she made her way towards the Caffeine Crypt. "Can I help you with something?" She finally asked, followed by an irritated huff as she turned towards the person to her left who had been watching her all this time. She knew she currently looked like she was possessed, but the stares were really starting to grow tiring.

Option C:

"No, I am not having a good day. Do you know how many flambéd rats and insects are in the Pendulum right now? The top of the stage? Completely burnt. A light fixture fell and put a dent in it. Doors were exploded to smithereens. Oh and after spending the entire day on the phone with the insurance company, I had to go to the doctor and get tested for rabies," She exclaimed with an exasperated sigh. "I want a life redo. Preferably one that doesn't involve so much death and destruction. Now, can you please pass the sugar?" She asked as she clenched her hands tightly around her currently bitter coffee in its styrofoam cup.

#c: meena #c: jasmine #c: brielle #lunarcovestarter

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theerurishipper · 9 months

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Do you think Adricat hates himself?

Hi!

I wouldn’t say hate, but he does have very low self-worth. He believes very sincerely that no one could like him as he is, so he has to put on masks and act a certain way around them to please them. So he can never be himself, and he doesn’t think that anyone would like him if he behaved like he wanted to. This is, as all things are, Gabriel’s fault. We see him say many times that Adrien is overly emotional, and Gabriel wants nothing but perfection from him. If Adrien acts out, he gets punished, and if he conforms perfectly to Gabriel’s wishes, he just gets neglected, and maybe gets a scrap of attention from him if he’s really lucky.

Because of Gabriel’s controlling nature and his tendency to deny Adrien any affection unless he acts like he wants, Adrien has internalized the idea that love is conditional and that he has to earn it by pleasing the people around him. Which is why Chat Noir is so healing for him (until Season 4). It’s not the “true” him or anything, because Chat Noir is still a mask. He swings to the opposite end of the metaphorical pendulum there and acts out a lot, so even though it’s part of who he is, it’s still an exaggeration and not all of who he is. But he doesn’t have to please anyone in that role. Ladybug accepts him, cat puns and all, and he gets to be free. It’s an escape from his abusive home.

He occasionally tries to act out and go after what he wants as Adrien, but most of the time, he does listen to his father. Because this is how abusers like Gabriel behave. It’s a cycle. Gabriel is controlling, Adrien listens to him, Adrien gets tired of it at some point and tries to rebel, Gabriel gaslights and manipulates him, Adrien listens to him again. If it gets to be too much for Adrien and he seems very ready to fight for it, Gabriel offers him the smallest of concessions and the slightest bit of attention so that he won’t try to break free of him, and it starts all over again. I don’t have enough faith in the writers anymore to know if this was intentional, but it’s a very accurate portrayal of an abuser. Adrien expresses disappointment with Gabe sometimes in the early seasons, but he still makes excuses for his behavior because he loves Gabriel and believes the best of him, and wants Gabriel to love him.

Gabe is a master at gaslighting. In The Collector, Gabriel had a copy of his book the whole time, and he still pretended that Adrien had hurt him, and threw all that stuff in his office around to make it look like he was deeply distraught, all so that he could hammer it into Adrien that it was his fault. And again in Illusion, when he goes on bemoaning about what he did wrong in raising Adrien when he knew Adrien was listening so that he could make him feel guilty. All this just reinforces in Adrien that it is his fault if Gabriel doesn’t love him, that he’s not good enough as himself because he makes Gabriel sad and hurt by being that way, and that he has to pretend to be perfect for him and everyone else. If someone doesn’t love him, it’s his own fault. If someone is upset with him, it can’t be anything other than his fault.

Gabe says things like “You’re too emotional to be allowed to make decisions, it’s your fault,” and Adrien believes him. He’s not good as himself, he has to be perfect. He has to be exactly who the other person wants him to be. This is what he did in Kuro Neko with Ladybug. He thought she didn’t like him as he was, so he tried to be the partner she wanted him to be. It’s why he always downplays his own emotional needs and feelings, because he’s been told that his emotions don’t matter and that they are a burden, and so he can’t bother other people by having them. That they won’t like him if he shows them his true feelings, and in fact they'll be hurt.

So to actually answer your question, I don’t think he hates himself. Hate is a pretty strong word. But he doesn't have much self-esteem and self-worth. He doesn’t dislike himself so much as he doesn’t really know who “himself” is, because he’s been forced to conform to Gabe’s expectations of who he should be his whole life. I hope this answers your question.

Thank you for your ask!

#MLB #Miraculous Ladybug #Adrien Agreste #Chat Noir #Gabriel Agreste #Meta #My meta #Asks #Abuse tw #Abuse cw

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incarnateirony · 2 months

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she truly thinks she's still in control. funny. i can know about this in theory but it's fucking fascinating to actually watch. like the whole thing is that she disassociates so much she doesn't know who she is, and that's why she's so easy to manipulate, but you'd think there would be like two braincells wondering why she thinks this is so funny to post.

Like, I've never watched a leviathan rot from THIS side of the screen before!

Lady you didn't see it but I deadass just redrew a full binding rune recreating you and brackish's magical suicide while bored on my extra shift.

I'd take pictures but I'm on cam for zoom so, you know.

swing swing goes the spiraling disjointed pendulum that keeps binding herself to my amazing sword.

See now you fucked up and I have to remake it again, to do the spiral into the spiral into the spiral you refuse to stop spinning backwards in. Lady, we ALL have Vertigo from your inability to cope with our breakup. So help me god if I get a stupid repost out of you for every spiral lmaoooo

I aint redoing it back to back sweetheart, fucking you up may be my top priority but aint nobody got time for that even bored at work. I'll surprise you.

youtube

I just realized this retard thinks posting giving henry a comfy nest is an actual argument against "I'm henry, and I'm fucking tired." Or getting to keep her cage, even if she's a shit bird parent, and a crappy person, and the reasons why. Okay, coked up bear lady cowardly maya that misheard her name with the thrice-popped lid.

oh my god I am literally watching her brain rot due to her lack of identity.

damn she really went and tried the hat on.

Just full stop like. popped it on. Cage post into spiral.

You know that actually worked with the virtual pets post too? With the scorpion, aphrodite, and red eyed dog? Wait hold on, if I say Try That Hat On, is she actually having to put the hats on? hold up--

And then she fkin' did!!!

What a comfy little spot while the Real Cage Comes In.

Well. Until the Real One comes in. Let's not confuse words like she does! The Real One is, in fact, coming.

Hope Luna's vet things aren't major, I admit to using her for a lotttttt of spellcasting lately but the bird itself has done nothing wrong. Honestly just swap her and Shea instead of forcing the rest of us with her to make her witness. She could be replaced by the birdbrain and nobody would probably notice. I wonder if that's possible actually.

listen i'm new at this high mage thing ok, i was minding my shit in peace until this coked up stalker in a bear suit came banging down my door for the millionth time. We were working in peace, and she can't tolerate that. So while this is in fact a science, science itself has theories to test and boy howdy have i been running a lot. Like, your whole family can tell you about your uncle's weird hobbies, but actually walking into his basement is a whole other fuckin thing to witness

#Youtube

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chainofclovers · 1 year

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Do you personally think tedbecca will become canon

Short answer is I dunno but I decided to write a lot of S3 speculation under the cut. I don't have any spoilers for how the show ends, nor do I want any, but I've watched a lot of interviews and read a lot of reviews and what I type will be informed by the not-spoilery-but-suggestive-about-the-overall-arc vibes of those.

Will Ted/Rebecca become a canonical romance? I'm not sure! For basically all of the things I have predictions and/or feelings about for s3 (Ted/Rebecca relationship, Nate's arc, whether Ted stays in London or returns to Kansas in the medium term or "forever"...), I have a suspicious lack of gut feelings...or rather, all my feelings are like a swinging pendulum of deep convictions and I can easily feel convinced of one outcome then another within the span of a few minutes.

Since you're anonymous I have no idea how much press you've listened to, what fandom spaces you're a part of, whether you're a T/R shipper or not, whether I'm friends with you or not, etc. So I'm going to write this without worrying about offending you and just go for it from the heart, haha.

The press has been a little bit of a rollercoaster for me, especially in terms of Hannah Waddingham's remarks about why she sees more longevity in relationships that aren't just the typical romantic/sexual route, and some of the other writer-actors' (Jason, Brendan, Brett) statements about audience expectation and their awareness of fandom preferences vs. the intentions of the story they're telling. I've actually loved a lot of what they've said, and I've been really frustrated by some people in the fandom calling Hannah an idiot for being tired of all the romance questions or for daring to call those expectations social conditioning when to me they very much are social conditioning. (Even if romance can also be a deep and beautiful thing! I don't feel like she's saying romance is lame! She's saying it's frustrating to zoom in on this one thing and value it above all others! And as a result of her saying that people have said awful things about her personal life and intelligence and that's absolutely uncool!)

I think it's completely possible that these interviews are at least in part about setting realistic expectations that a canonical romantic and sexual relationship between T/R isn't something we are gonna see on our TVs. I don't think these answers are coyness or lies. Really grappling with that possibility has bummed me out a bit more than I expected it to, honestly. I think a T/R romance would be super beautiful and wonderful and would make perfect sense within the larger story being told here.

That being said, I also think it's true that none of the press we've seen so far has explicitly spoiled any endings of this show. I don't feel like the interviewees are being coy and winking to fans, but I also think they've all carefully prepared ways of speaking about this show because they know the barrage of questions they'll face and they want to protect their story. When reporters directly ask if the relationship will be canon, they speak to expectations and societal structures and the soulmate connection between these characters without revealing any plot points. When the writers or actors have gotten more opinionated about the possibility of romance, it's often in the context of questions about fandom expectations or what is "expected" or "unexpected" about the story, and I think it's completely fair and understandable to express genuine frustration for the obsessive, repeat nature of those types of questions when there are so many other things these people would probably love to discuss about their writing and acting choices. They're all smart people who are extremely close to each other and have spent years constructing this story, and I can see myself responding to the repetition and surface-level stuff in a similar manner.

We know there's gonna be a huge component of Ted deciding what his commitment to AFC Richmond is and how his relationship with his son and his feelings about the family he's left behind impact that decision. We know they're setting up storylines in which other characters are learning how to coach, learning how to balance the emotional side and the tactical side. We know this is a story that simultaneously grapples with "leaving well"/letting go/why quitting isn't always bad AND with the complications of space AND with why burying or running away from your emotions while they fester inside you for 30 years is, um, bad. We know the writers have not deviated from their original plans for any of these characters even as they've rewritten and redefined certain things about this season. And we know the writers and actors all agree that Ted and Rebecca are divinely connected even if they've said many kinda contradictory things about what form that takes.

Even knowing all that, I think it's still possible that T/R will be a factor in s3 in a romantic and sexual sense. I have basically prepared myself to not see it on screen, but every time I watch the actual show I'm watching a show that sets up delicate, beautiful connecting points for these characters with intention and purpose. Which is awesome no matter what. If they don't go the romantic route onscreen, I think we'll still be watching a meaningful relationship that is full of possibilities (especially since s3 canon will end in, like, spring 2022, not spring 2058 or something). Some of the choices they've made are things that I'd probably only write if I was setting up a canonical romance, but if a romance doesn't happen within the show I don't think that means those choices were inconsequential or, worse, designed specifically to torment and make fun of fans. This is a show that is loving towards its audience but removed from its audience.

One of the first posts I made about this show was a straightbaiting joke. That seems extra funny now, knowing what I know. As a queer woman who has mostly been involved in fandoms as a femslash shipper up to this point, I can say that a lot of the shipping culture around this show and around M/F ships in general makes me really uncomfortable. I watch the joy of the show drain away from people as they focus deeper and deeper on "Tedbecca" (even to the point of ridiculing people for shipping other stuff or not understanding why it could be a fun exercise to write fic about people who will never be together in canon...which...what? the queer history of fandom didn't happen for canon-or-bust to be such a prevailing attitude!). I even feel some of that drain myself, being in an interesting place as an enthusiastic multi-shipper who just so happens to love T/R (and want to see it happen in canon) to the point of modding a whole discord about it. I love T/R and I love that it feels like a thing that is real and true in the text, and that is something I've rarely gotten to be invested in textually speaking as a queer woman accustomed to living off little subtextual crumbs. This show makes me feel both privileged and desperate.

The whole T/R thing, and the literal years of suspense it's implanted in my brain, has been a really fascinating journey for me. I can honestly say I've never had a suspended state of suspense and wonder about a single topic for this long before. I've waited for other things for this long, but they've all been matters in my personal life that I had some level of control over. Even things like election cycles take less time than this. I think the healthiest thing to do in this situation is to protect each of our viewing experiences and to respect that we're watching the creation of artists who are brilliant and lovely and fallible. To take what serves us from the text and continue to play with it all in our own spaces.

Watching 3x1 was a fuckin' delight of an experience that reminded me why I love this show and why I'm willing to experience the lows and highs of disappointments and joys in a way that just feels a lot more raw than basically any viewing experience or fandom experience I've ever had in the past with anything.

THAT WAS PROBABLY SO MUCH MORE THAN YOU BARGAINED FOR. YOU ASKED A YES/NO QUESTION AND GOT A DIARY ENTRY. BUT I'M NOT ACTUALLY SORRY BECAUSE YOU ARE AN ANON AND IT FELT NICE TO GET THIS OUT. 😂

#ted lasso #hot dork club #meta by me #ted lasso s3 speculation #ted x rebecca #about me #personal #(but fine to reblog if for some reason you want to haha)#fandom things #queer things #oh wait i guess i should tag this as #tedbecca #ope!

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