#but the raw desolation in these swearing tags are | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 4 years

Text

Cardigan | Jon Snow

Pairing: Jon Snow x Reader

Genre: Angst with fluff at the end

Warnings: —

Words: ~3k

Prompt: Based on Cardigan by Taylor Swift. I’m not sure if that translates, but it’s all I listened to when writing this so there’s that.

Note: Want to be tagged in my future works when I post?? Link is in my Bio! ♡ Also, I like -- love Jon a lot...?? And I want more content, so feel free to request more Jon content.

Winterfell was always unbearably cold, something you never got used to, despite living in the North your whole life. But despite the biting cold that left you feeling like you were seconds away from frostbite and minutes away from turning in a statue of ice, you loved it. You were enraptured by snowflakes that lazily glided down the sky, nearly iridescent when the faint rays of the sun would hit them. They’d land in your hands, melting within an instant, turning to small water droplets that would slip through your fingers. Your dark hair was a startling contrast to the white blanket surrounding you, your pale skin glowing in the light, making you look otherworldly.

As a child you’d run through it, as wild as the direwolves north of The Wall, running through fields covered in ice, no rhyme or reason. A ferocious yell leaving your mouth just because you felt like it, not restrained by the obsession of being civil and proper. But you were older now, no longer that wide eyed naive girl, instead of running freely, you kept it hidden deep inside you, only visible in a glint in your eyes.

You still often find yourself as far from Winter Town as you could, hiding away in the depths of the Godswood. However, instead of chasing imaginary battles against dragons, you chased shadows that were just as distant as your dreams. Their hair so dark it could be mistaken for black, but you’ve seen the sunlight hit it just right, exposing the soft and wild curls as a dark brown. Deep brown eyes bore into your soul, seeing right through every layer that surrounded you and hid your true feelings and ambitions. And his voice was deep, the Northern brogue only enhancing how hoarse it could sound, and sometimes when he spoke, you swore your whole body would tremble. He’d deny it over and over again, but standing in the Godswood, the crimson red leaves dancing around him and crowned by snowflakes, he looked beautiful.

Some days you danced around each other, mimicking the movements of the Lords and Ladies in lavish balls neither of you would ever be let into. You moved towards him and he took two steps back, making declarations about how unhappy you’d be with him, how he’d never give you what you needed. But by the end of the night, when the sun was completely gone, the woods around you plunged into darkness, he’d crack. He’d stop fighting, if only for a moment, and allow himself to drown in you. He’d pull you so close to him that two blended into one. Your lips would meet in soft and slow kisses, stars clouding your eyes. And when you burned from the cold, ice numbing your whole body, he’d pull you even closer, if that was possible, lighting you on fire with a single smile.

And it was nice, sneaking away from your parents and all the noise that surrounded you. Every stolen moment with Jon was built under a delusion that the outside world wasn’t real, an illusion that one day you could be more than an illicit affair. And each time you met, you told yourself that it was the last time, but you lied. Despite knowing everything the two of you built; every quiet moment under the stars, each second tucked away in the Godswood, and every secret glance would crumble until it was nothing but a ruin.

Even with that knowledge, the day you watched Jon leave for The Night’s Watch stung more than ice ever could, burnt you more than dragon fire would have. And as you stood hidden away, watching him with tears threatening to pour down your face, you swore your chest was hollow. He gave you one last look, filled with longing, sorrow, and all sorts of other emotions. You wanted to be furious at him, scream and yell until everyone knew that he was leaving you behind. But you couldn’t. You’d seen the sad look in his eyes, the scars covering his body from the mental and emotional lashing Lady Catelyn gave him with just a glance. How beat down he really was, truly believing he couldn’t be anything more than a bastard. And despite how many times you drew stars around his scars, no matter how permanent the ink was, nor how many you drew, they would bleed again the second you two departed.

So instead of making a scene, you just smiled sadly, wiping away any stray tears as you waved him farewell. To this day, your mother still doesn’t know why you cried so much that day.

Shortly after Jon left, Lord Stark was imprisoned in King’s Landing, accused of committing treason against Joffrey Baratheon. And before you could register what happened, Robb Stark became King of the North and marched off to war. Then Theon came back, declaring that Winterfell belonged to the Iron Islands, forcing Bran and Rickon out of Winterfell. And you wanted to go with if only to keep them safe for Jon, but they didn’t even know who you were. And each day, you regret your decision to stay when the news that Theon killed the Stark boys reached you. Your parents were horrified, your brothers and sisters mortified, and you soaked your pillow in tears that night, knowing the news would reach Castle Black and Jon would be devastated.

But then worst of all was when the Bolton’s came to Winterfell after murdering Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark, and any remaining Stark soldiers at The Red Wedding. They swept into the hold as if it was always House Bolton’s, quickly getting rid of any signs the wolves ever lived there. Statues were torn down, flags burned, and anything with a wolf destroyed. Then came Little Finger with Sansa Stark, marrying her off to Ramsey Bolton, who proved to be worse than his father in every way possible. And every time you saw the fear and desolation in her once sparkling blue eyes, you died a little on the inside. You wanted to help, but what could you do. So you just watched, millions of words caught in your throat.

But then the dark storm that drenched you in heavy rains that nearly swept you away, bringing lightning that nearly stuck you and thunder that frightened away all your sanity suddenly cleared. Warm and bright daylight washed over you, as bright and powerful as a Dornish sun. The sun burned out any signs of rain every being there, the intense heat drying out the water left behind. Suddenly the leaves grew back, more vibrant than ever, and wildflowers in every shade possible blossomed overnight.

Jon came back.

He came back with an army to reclaim Winterfell and the North for House Stark. And he won. Miraculously beating back Ramsay Bolton’s army with the help of the Knights of the Vale brought by Sansa after she escapes from Winterfell. After the battle was won and the dead collected to be buried or burned, the Lords and Ladies of the North gathered with the Wildlings that fought for Jon in the Main Hall. You’re not sure what happened, you weren’t allowed in, too busy trying to return to your old normal before you lived every day in fear.

But what you do know is Jon walked in that hall as a bastard and walked out a King.

You should’ve been elated, beaming so brightly you could’ve been mistaken for the sun. But you were petrified, petrified that you’d spent all these years missing Jon, only for him to have moved on. Scared that all those nights you flipped between crying, reminiscing, and cursing his name would’ve been wasted.

So you hid like a coward. You buried yourself in anything you possibly could, taking on any task no matter how big or small. And it worked for a while, the pain in your chest every time you saw his wild hair and deep brown eyes in your mind wasn’t as raw when you were elbow deep in dishes. But late at night, when you had nothing but your thoughts, he was there. Every second you’d lie awake because whenever you’d close your eyes, he was there, haunting you like a phantom.

So here you are now, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots as you approached the clearing in the Godswood. You moved towards the place you avoided for years, looking for the one person you wanted more than anything but could never have. Except maybe now you could. And maybe you were just sleep deprived, delirious in the brain from the lack of sleep, but you wanted nothing more than to see the face that’s haunted you for years, at least one more time. Because even if he sent you away, you could have a new image to see in your dreams.

Standing in the center of the clearing-- your clearing, it brought a twinge of hope, a warm feeling washing over your body as your heart raced, possibilities and what-ifs running through your head. He isn’t the shadow he was all those years ago, both there and not at the same time, no, he’s too real for that now. Standing in the center of the snow filled clearing, surrounded by barren trees and crunchy leaves that are scattered on the ground, he looks too regal to be compared to a shadow. The heavy fur cloak, similar to the one Lord Stark had worn, and Robb after him, looked good on him, framing his broad shoulders and strong posture. And maybe you were biased, but he wore it the best out of all the previous Lords and Kings of Winterfell.

You're at the edge now, unable to move any closer in fear of breaking the spell he cast on you. But then he turned and your eyes met, his gaze like flint, catching you on fire in an instant. His skin was paler than ever, cheeks flushed and rosy from the cold. Long unruly curls have been cut shorter than it had been all those years ago, contained by a small bun near the nape of his neck. He was older, more scars marring his visible flesh, but it was him and he was real.

You stare at him and he looks back, neither of you doing anything else.

And you swear the world paused, time standing still has you tried to comprehend that he was really here, and not a figment of your imagination. He wasn’t a delusion you created to cope with the lowest points of your life.

He was real.

You were running. And so was he. Within a second, you met in the middle, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you into him, lifting your smaller form off the ground as he spun you in circles. The heavy cloak was warmer than you’d initially thought, the expensive furs immediately warming up your frozen skin. You wrapped your arms around his neck, holding on so tightly because you were afraid he'd slip through your fingers as he did all those years ago. The very tips of your fingers bury themselves into his hair, pulling it free from the leather cord that kept it back. And this moment was better than anything you could’ve envisioned, his smell: leather, sword polish, and something woody, more enthralling than you remembered.

He sets you back on the ground but doesn’t release you from his embrace and you didn’t pull away. A laugh bubbled out of your mouth, it was light and airy and happy, something you hadn’t been for years now. There was a glimmer in your eyes, the same one you’d seen reflected in Jon’s eyes so many times before. Your face hurt from the grin that was on your face the second you met in an embrace and he mirrored you, leaning his head down, resting his forehead against your own.

“You came back to me,” you whispered, moving your hands from his neck to hold his face in yours. As if to further convince yourself that he was here, with you at this moment. Thumbs trace his cheekbones, running over the scar that followed his right cheekbone.

“How could I not?” he replied, his raspy voice low and husky, much older than the boy of seventeen you said goodbye to.

“I hoped you would everyday, but I-- I couldn’t--” your voice trailed off, the words getting caught in your throat.

“But now I’m back.”

“And now you’re back,” you replied, looking up at him with a soft smile. The seconds tick by, silence swallowing you whole as you just bask in his presence, memorizing each new mark on his face.

“I missed you.” Your voice cut through the silence as your eyes grew wet, glistening tears that shined like ice in the sun falling down your face. Jon catches them as they fall, wiping them away with a single swipe of his thumb. And then the small distance that was left between the two of you closed as your lips met. And it was warm and soft and gentle and happy. Everything you missed from your life, returned in a single instant. And it’s like all the sleepless nights, the tear stained pillows, and the fear and horror you’d endured through the years that was muffled by the coming of daylight was completely washed away. The only thing on your mind was Jon and his lips on yours.

He pulled away, but only just enough that the tips of your lips would brush against each other’s and his breath fanned across your face. You kept your eyes closed, wanting to savor every second of this moment.

“You were always there with me, gods I could never get you out of my head,” he whispered, brushing his lips lightly against yours. A shiver overcame your body, starting from the very top of your head until it hit down to your toes. A good tingly sensation that disappeared with him, but also returned with him.

“Glad to know it wasn’t just me, Snow.” You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his in a sweet kiss. It was like drinking a sweet berry wine the Southerners were so fond of or having a sweet tart that you stole from the kitchen. The sensation was addicting. The world could crumble around you; Cersei Lannister could march her whole army on Winterfell and Daenerys Targaryen could swoop down with her dragons and burn everything to the ground. But it wouldn’t matter, it would never matter to you. Not if you had Jon.

“Marry me,” the words left his mouth nonchalantly like he hadn’t just proposed marriage. Your eyes snapped open, looking at him, shock and excitement mingling in your wide eyes.

“What?” Your voice was shaky and unsure, hiding the pounding of your heart and the nerves in your body.

“Marry me, be my wife, and rule the North with me!” he exclaimed, much more confident in his words as they echoed around you, forever imprinted in the trees in the Godswood. And you couldn’t help but compare him to the old Jon you knew, the one who would never dare utter those words to you. Not that you didn’t want him to.

“You're crazy,” you breathed out, laughter and disbelief lacing each word. And he laughed, it was loud and warm and made your stomach twist in the best ways possible.

“Maybe, but I’m crazy for you. Why should I wait when I’ve loved you since I was a boy who didn’t even know what love was,” he said, weaving his arms around your waist and pulling you as close as physically possible. And the scene was similar to all the previous times you stood in this spot, too intertwined in each other to care about the world. Except this time tragedy didn’t hang over you like a storm, this time there was nothing but bright skies and sunlight.

“Okay,” you whispered against his lips. “I’ll marry you.” A beaming smile overtook your face, banishing any negative emotion that lingered on your face. At that moment, Jon wore if anyone ever asked, he’d say he has been to the South. And it wouldn’t be a lie, because the smile on your face and the vibrancy in your gleaming eyes was brighter than the sun could ever be, warming him to the very core. You leaned forward, sealing your promise with a kiss as you got lost in him, over and over again.

And when I felt like an old cardigan, under someone’s bed, you put me on and said I was your favorite.

o0o0o0o

Tags:

@stuckupstucky

#jon snow imagine #jon snow one shot #jon snow x reader #jon snow #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones oneshot #a song of ice and feels

190 notes · View notes

bubonickitten · 3 years

Link

Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 || Tumblr

Chapter 18 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 18: discussion of passive suicidal ideation; unintentional self-harm (scratching at arms as a stim, to the point of drawing blood); brief allusion to childhood neglect; internalized ableism (re: ADHD, but not explicitly stated as such); brief acephobia (past experience & internalized); Jon-typical negative self-talk, guilt, & rejection sensitive dysphoria; discussion of past trauma (including having bodily autonomy overridden, canon non-consensual surgery, & stabbing); internalized victim blaming/comparing victim to their abuser; discussion of self-inflicted blinding/eye gouging (past attempts & potential future attempts); brief mention of Mr. Spider/arachnophobia themes; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 18: Reconciliation

Once Jon opened the door and the Fears rewrote reality, not only was sleep no longer a physiological necessity – it was no longer an option. Much like the Coffin, even a temporary escape via unconsciousness was contrary to a world defined by the ceaseless generation of terror. And just as it did any human in that place, perpetual wakefulness took its toll on Jon’s already ravaged mental health.

The fact that he was no longer plaguing the nightmares of his victims may have been a small consolation, if not for the fact that he was instead witnessing the waking nightmares of billions of new victims: the same scenes looping over and over, layered one on top of the other, an endless soundtrack screaming in the background of his mind. Venting a statement from time to time could only do so much to quell that storm. He’d really had no choice but to learn to compartmentalize on autopilot and dissociate on command.

So when, for the first time since before the world ended, Jon awakens to Martin at his side, his mind cannot immediately reconcile the sight. He might think he was dreaming, if not for the fact that he hasn’t had a pleasant dream of his own since he became the Archivist. And even before then – well, he’d always been more predisposed to nightmares.

Jon feels his heart stutter in his throat when he sets eyes on Martin. Their hands are still clasped together, and despite the sweatiness of their palms and the way Jon’s arm is cramping from the angle, he has no desire to let go. Instead, he lies still, breathing shallow and measured, fearful of any sound or movement that might shatter the almost uncanny peace of the moment.

He really shouldn’t be staring like this, though, should he? Martin has given him permission to stare many times before, but that was in a future where they had Seen each other at their most vulnerable. Being seen, truly seen – as terrifying as it was for the both of them – became a comfort, because of what they had been through together. Here in the past, Martin hasn’t shared that experience. He might not be as keen to put up with Jon’s incessant watching.

Those reservations still aren’t enough to stop him, though.

Martin is still sat in his chair, but bent sideways at the waist to lean halfway on the cot. He’s snoring lightly, his head pillowed on his free arm, glasses askew. The angle is probably hell on his back.

Maybe I should wake him up, Jon thinks idly, one corner of his mouth turning up in a small, fond smile.

He doesn’t. Instead, his eyes remain rapt on Martin, soaking in every detail, as beloved and familiar as always: the length of his eyelashes, the shape of his lips, the spray of freckles across his nose, that particularly stubborn cowlick that always, always stands on end. Jon wants to reach out, sink his fingers into those curls, massage his scalp in that way Martin used to love – but that would be a step beyond staring, wouldn’t it? So he watches: unblinking, aching, adoring, and so overwhelmed that he's at risk of tearing up.

It’s painfully, embarrassingly maudlin of him, he knows, but can he really be faulted for that? Jon surpassed the lifespan of a normal human several times over, bereft and alone in a desolated realm of his own making. He spent much of that time out of his mind with grief, drowning in hopelessness and guilt, cycling between numb dissociation and raw destruction. When he wasn’t wandering aimlessly – near-catatonic, subsumed by the never-ending deluge of fear permeating that world – he was lashing out. Although he couldn’t die, he could still hurt, and so he did, with exacting focus: both himself and all the other monsters going through the motions in that doomed world.

Ending them neither decreased nor increased the net output of fear, but it was the closest Jon could come to some nebulous, fleeting sense of justice. He didn’t enjoy it – in fact, he hated the other Avatars sometimes, bitter that they could attain a release that seemed impossible for him. His first few acts of vengeance in those early days had felt good in the moment, but the high never lasted: just like taking a statement.

Eventually, once the fear began to grow scarcer, it felt more and more like granting mercy – often to monsters who never showed any themselves – rather than meting out justice. A few moments of pain was preferable to slow, torturous starvation. Breekon was the first to request such a favor. He was far from the last.

It made Jon feel monstrous in an all new way, offering escape to predators when he could do nothing to save their victims – at least not without turning them into Avatars themselves, creating more monsters to replace the old. But it also made him feel real – a tangible, active presence interacting with the world, as opposed to a ghost, unseen and unknowable. An undeniable consequence, rather than a detached observer.

Tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes. Jon tries to swallow them back, but his throat has grown thick with emotion. He never expected to escape that place; never expected to see a friendly face or hear a kind word ever again. And now that he has…

This isn’t for you, says an insidious little voice in the back of his head: some twisted chimera comprised of all those who have known him well enough to see him for what he is, to catalogue his failings, to pass judgment. There is no place for you in this world. You don’t belong here. You were made for something greater; eliminate that, and what remains –

A gentle knock-knock at the door startles him out of his thoughts.

“Jon?” Georgie pushes the door open and peers through the gap. “You awake?”

“Yeah.” It comes out as a fractured whisper. He sniffles and rubs his eyes, but Georgie has already noticed his distress.

“Bad dream?”

“No.” Jon clears his throat and props himself up on one elbow. “No, ah – quite the opposite, really.”

“Oh?” Georgie says, probing for an explanation.

Jon's gaze drifts to his hand, still joined with Martin’s. “None of this feels real, and…”

“And?”

“I, uh…” Jon closes his eyes, blinking back tears. “I don’t deserve it.”

“The world doesn’t work that way.”

“Maybe it should.” Jon lets out a wet, clipped laugh.

No one got what they deserved in the world he created, only what hurt them the most. Tempting as it was to find some meaning in it all, to retroactively draw correlations between past actions and current circumstances, Jon Knew from the very beginning that there was no cause-and-effect at play. Not really. Any misery being experienced in that new world was utterly unrelated to the lives people lived before the change. It was indiscriminate. Everyone was afraid and in agony, regardless of any subjective judgment on whether or not they deserved it.

And nothing Jon did changed those material conditions in the slightest. He could shift an individual’s role from subject to object and vice versa, reassign their place on the spectrum of the tortured versus the torturer, but at the end of the day, he was still just facilitating fear, regardless of what shape it took. Despite being one of the most powerful and fearful things roaming that scorched earth, his options were as limited as they’d always been. Every choice led to more or less the same end.

By every measure that could be said to actually matter, he was ultimately powerless.

Would it have been any more tolerable if the suffering was more proportionate? If at least some of the people trapped in the domains could be said to be receiving just punishment for any agony they themselves had inflicted before the end of the world? Maybe. But probably not. Securing vengeance never actually yielded any meaningful catharsis for Jon. Even Jonah Magnus' ultimate fate produced nothing but revulsion. The Archive may feed on such fear, but after all this time, Jon – all the pieces of him that still belong to him – has no desire to behold suffering. He has seen enough for several lifetimes, and he was never once given the option to look away, let alone put an end to it.

Jon shakes his head and begins to fully sit up, slowly and carefully so as not to disturb Martin. He’s hardly expecting Georgie to engage with his newest avenue of brooding, but after a minute, she gives a thoughtful hum and leans against the doorframe.

“Don’t know that I want to see what that would look like,” she says pensively.

“What?”

“A world where ‘deservedness’ was quantifiable – where you could put a precise value on suffering, and every action had a moral price tag on it that stayed the same regardless of the circumstances. Where subjective experiences could be – shoved into neat little categories that everyone could agree on.”

“Like Robert Smirke,” Jon murmurs.

“Sure.” Georgie shrugs. “I don’t know if humanity as we know it could even exist in a world like that. We’d be… unrecognizable.”

“O-oh?”

“Mm. We aren’t equations. Or – well, we are, I guess, at the most basic physical level, if you scale down small enough. Atoms, physics, chemical reactions and all that. But when it comes to the experience of consciousness, personal identity, free will… isn’t the complexity what gives it all meaning? If we could account for every last variable, know the exact effect of every cause, what would that make us?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Life isn’t about the destination, I guess is what I’m saying.” Georgie runs her thumb over her lips as she muses. “We already know the destination. One way or another, everything dies.”

“‘The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one,’” Jon recites, a distant quality to his voice. “There’s no difference between that last moment that ushers us out into oblivion and the one we experience now – everything ends, even the universe, even time. And… that means it has always already ended.”

It takes a moment for Jon to come back to himself, blinking dazedly. It's another few seconds before he realizes what happened – and when he does, a sudden, heavy coldness takes root and blossoms in his chest.

“I’m so– I didn’t – I wasn’t –”

“It’s – fine,” Georgie says, although she sounds a bit rattled. “It was an accident.”

“Still, I’m sorry, I –”

“Apology accepted, Jon. I’m not angry.” When she sees Jon gearing up to belabor the point, she holds up a hand. “You’re forgiven. Let’s just move on, okay?”

Jon bites down on his lower lip, torn between dueling impulses: groveling, berating himself, shutting down, or… simply taking Georgie at her word. With a long, shaky exhale, he settles on trust: Georgie expressed a desire to drop it and move forward. He should respect that, right? Right.

He bites back his protests and nods stiffly. “Okay.”

“Look, what I was trying to get at is – knowing the destination doesn’t invalidate the journey, right? If anything, the inevitability of an ending is what gives meaning to all the rest.”

The End forced Georgie to confront the insignificance of her own birth and death against the backdrop of a vast universe – but rather than allow that realization to immobilize her with despair, she opted to make all the moments in between meaningful. Jon can't help but once again remember the confidence with which Martin countered Simon Fairchild's brand of flippant nihilism: I think our experience of the universe has value, even if it disappears forever.

I might have a type, he thinks to himself, equal parts wry and endeared.

“We all end up in the same place,” Georgie continues, “but that doesn’t have to mean we all follow the same path. What matters is what happens along the way, and – if you could map out every bit of the journey, predict the outcome of every single step you take, then – what else is left?”

“If you already know the answer to every question,” Jon says softly, “what’s the point of being?”

Jon isn’t sure what expression he’s making, but whatever it is, Georgie blanches when she catches his eye.

“Oh, I – Jon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –”

“No, it’s – it’s alright. You’re not wrong.” Jon chuckles awkwardly. “Is it odd that I find the thought…reassuring? Sort of?”

“We’re getting lost in the weeds, aren't we?” Georgie says with a flustered laugh. “My original point was – this obsession you have with deservedness, and establishing dichotomies, and trying to find simple, objective answers to complicated questions – it’s a skewed way of looking at the world, and it’s eating you alive. You have to stop treating your life like it’s a scorecard. Relentlessly punishing yourself isn’t going to change the past. It’s not healthy, it’s not productive, and it just makes you more likely to sabotage your future.”

“I know. It’s just… the things I’ve done, they’re – unforgivable. I can’t leave it behind, and I can’t take it back.”

Jon used to wonder when the Eye would make him too monstrous to feel shame. It never did, never had to: he abetted it regardless of how he felt about it. For the most part, he can’t even apologize: the people he hurt are either dead or have no memory of what Jon did to warrant it. Besides, some consequences too irrevocable, too catastrophic to cushion with remorse.

Sorry that you died because I failed; sorry that I burned a bridge that could have kept us both safe; sorry that you’re trapped here just because I stood too close to you. Sorry for the invaded privacy, sorry for the mistreatment, sorry for all the hunger and fear and nightmares. Sincerest apologies, everyone, for the eternal torment.

He could have composed a personalized apology for every last person in the world had he wanted – he’d certainly had the time to spare, as well as detailed knowledge of each victim’s plight. But any apology he could possibly make, no matter how eloquent or sincere, would have been insulting in its inadequacy. What reparations can be made to soften the blow of a life lost or a world ended?

“S-so,” he says, eyes downcast, “that just leaves… guilt.”

And fear. Fear enough to cram an Archive full to bursting.

“I know,” Georgie says.

“I’m sorry, I –” Jon breathes a bitter laugh. “I’m a broken record, aren’t I? I fall apart every time I see you.”

“Jon,” George sighs, “you don’t have to apologize. You’ve been through unimaginable trauma. You’ve had barely any chance to start to heal from it. You’re still living it. I don’t expect a few heart-to-heart conversations to close the book on… all of that.”

“Still, it’s – annoying, I imagine.” Jon picks nervously at a loose thread on his trouser leg. “To sit through the same conversation over and over again.”

“I’d be more worried if you went back to just – pretending to be okay, refusing to talk about it. It’s been barely a month since you got out of the hospital. Shit, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you crawled out of that Coffin.” Her eyes narrow slightly, intent and searching. “Speaking of which, I should ask: Are you a danger to yourself right now?”

“What?” The question catches Jon off guard. “No? N-no, I’m – why would you –”

“Just checking in. Which I’m going to keep doing. Regularly. So you may as well make peace with that now.”

“It’s not like I’m going to kill myself,” Jon mumbles – aiming for casually unconcerned and instead landing squarely in transparently uncomfortable territory. “I’m fairly certain I can’t die a mundane human death, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still hurt yourself. And being suicidal sucks regardless of whether you actually plan on going through with it.” Jon studiously avoids eye contact as Georgie speaks. “Anyway, I know I sound like a broken record, but I’ll say it as many times as you need reminding: You have a second chance. You said you were going to make the best of it, and you can’t do that if you won’t let yourself have some peace.” Her expression softens, as does her voice. “Just… let yourself be, won’t you?”

There’s truth to what Georgie is saying. Even if he wasn’t mired in guilt, though…

“I’m afraid,” Jon whispers. “Of losing him, of losing everyone, of…”

Of dooming everyone. It was so easy. All it took was his voice, an incantation, and this ceaseless, aberrant hunger. He’s seen the consequences of the destiny for which he has unwittingly been prepared. Like it or not, he is the most dangerous thing in this world – a walking hair-trigger, already having overstayed his welcome on this earth by several lifetimes. One misstep, and…

“I should be grateful to have this, to have him – and I am, but every – every time I come close to letting myself feel – safe, hopeful, content, it… it never lasts. It’s always swallowed up by fear – not of if something goes wrong, but when. It just feels like… any choice I make is bound to end in tragedy. Like there’s no way out. Like nothing I do will change anything. I – I’ll mess it up; I always do.”

It’s a pattern that began long before he became entangled in Jonah’s machinations. Jon was a difficult child who grew into an even more difficult adult, always saying and doing all the wrong things because he’s never been able to fully grasp the invisible rules that other people seem to navigate so naturally. At home he could never shake the feeling that he was an odd guest, secretly unwelcome but with nowhere else to keep him; at school he was a menace, asking all the wrong questions at all the wrong times and prone to following his own lesson plans whenever the curriculum failed to hold his interest. Peer relationships typically failed to take root: he’s too guarded, too abrasive, too annoying and tactless and awkward. Whatever friendships managed to blossom tended to wilt before long, for all the same reasons.

Romantic relationships have historically been even more fraught. There are expectations that he will never meet, forms of intimacy that are traditionally assumed to be required rather than optional for such a relationship to qualify as normal, healthy, and sustainable. In his experience, setting those boundaries have usually been a deal-breaker. Georgie was the first to accept that aspect of him unconditionally; Martin was the second – and although Jon no longer believes that it’s a problem to be fixed, those old, long-held insecurities still rear up from time to time.

He had hoped he could at least prove himself capable as a Head Archivist, but, well… he was inexperienced with the duties of a mundane archiving job, unsuited to managing a department, and his preexisting difficulties with establishing rapport were exacerbated by his need to maintain a professional boundary between himself and his assistants. He tried to make up for those shortcomings with effort and dedication and – in retrospect – frankly obscene levels of overwork, but he never did manage to be a good boss or a good coworker.

It’s a cruel joke that of all the roles to finally excel in, it’s as the Archivist – or, specifically, Jonah’s Archivist. He met every expectation, even – perhaps especially – when he didn’t know what those expectations were. Not like Gertrude. She would doubtless be disappointed by her successor: constantly second-guessing himself, resolving indecisiveness with impulsivity, stumbling around in the dark, pointlessly sabotaging himself and those unlucky enough to find themselves in his orbit – ultimately devastating a world that she had made so many ruthless sacrifices to protect.

Jon has spent most of his life fumbling at being a peer, a friend, a partner, a colleague, an ally. If he couldn’t manage to figure it out when he was still human, how is he supposed to play at being a person now, when he’s…

“This – this isn’t for things like me,” Jon says hoarsely. He can feel more tears teeming as he looks down at Martin: kind and good and so, so deserving of happiness, of security, of a peaceful life that Jon fears he will never be able to provide, no matter how fiercely he loves. “I don’t get to” – end the world – “to become – this, and still get a happy ending.”

“Do you Know that?” Georgie asks.

“N-no, I can’t predict the future, but –”

“Then you shouldn’t assume the worst. You don’t have a fixed destiny, no matter what you’ve been led to believe.” She scowls at him. “And stop referring to yourself as a ‘thing’. It really doesn’t matter how human you are or aren’t, you're still you. You’re still a person.”

Jon doesn’t know how to respond to that without either contradicting her or offering lukewarm, disingenuous agreement. Luckily, he doesn’t have to: Martin begins to stir, and Jon hurriedly wipes away any evidence of tears, fighting to regain his composure. With a snuffle and a sleepy groan, Martin opens his eyes, blinking blearily.

“Hey there,” Jon says with a soft smile.

Martin returns a vague grin, muzzy with sleep. With unfocused eyes, he appears to slowly take in his surroundings, gaze lingering briefly on and then skating over his hand, fingers still interlocked with Jon’s. When his attention drifts towards Georgie, he stares at her for a long few seconds, squinting at the influx of light from the hallway. Another slow blink, another extended stare at his and Jon’s linked hands, and then his eyes widen. Color blooms on his cheeks as he abruptly surfaces into full consciousness, glasses tumbling off his face as he jerks upward.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he says, groggy voice at odds with the panicked embarrassment in his eyes. He pulls his hand back, mumbling apologies about clammy palms. As he straightens in his seat, he lets out a pained hiss.

Jon cringes sympathetically. “You should’ve taken the cot.”

Martin ignores the comment, scrubbing at his face now, hiding it in his sleeve. It does nothing to conceal his reddened ears, Jon notes with amused affection.

“Did you sleep alright, otherwise?” Jon asks.

“Mm?” Martin retrieves his glasses and slips them back on before turning his attention to Jon. “Oh, uh – yes. You?”

“Yes, actually.”

His first routine breakdown of the day notwithstanding, Jon did manage to sleep through most of the night, only waking once after a brief foray back into Karolina’s nightmare.

The rest of the dreams were relatively benign. He spent some time with Georgie. Naomi was pleased to see him and eager as ever to regale him with cat anecdotes. Dr. Elliott was less pleased, but he was at least no more afraid of Jon than he had been during the coma. Seeing Jordan Kennedy was as uncomfortable as ever; Jon doubts he’ll ever know what to say to him. Tessa was more difficult to read. She wasn’t exactly happy to see him again, but she didn't seem angry, either.

Should’ve known it wouldn’t last, she’d sighed to herself – and then promptly changed the subject before Jon could stammer out an apology.

“Learned a lot about the right to repair movement,” Jon says absently.

“What?” Martin asks, bewildered.

“Oh, uh – Tessa Winters. Gave a statement in 2016 about a haunted chatbot. It forced her to watch a seventeen-hour-long video of a man eating his computer.”

Georgie perks up at that.

“Oh, is that the, uh – that creepypasta about that guy who mutilated himself trying to upload his mind to his computer?”

“Sergey Ushanka.”

“Yeah! Something about how he tried to crack open his skull and wire his brain to the motherboard?”

“That is one variation of the story, yes.”

“What,” Martin says flatly.

“I was thinking about doing a What the Ghost episode on that one,” Georgie explains, her sheepish smile doing little to conceal her lingering enthusiasm. “Haunted technology is always a popular topic. Didn’t expect that one to be real, though. I wonder –”

Jon answers her question before she can ask it: “I doubt Tessa would be interested in being a guest on the show.”

“Yeah,” Georgie sighs, “I guess not.”

Martin lets out a nervous chuckle. “What, uh – sorry, what does any of this have to do with right to repair?”

“Oh. Right. Tessa’s one of the people whose nightmares I… invade. Perpetuate, I suppose. She’s, ah, not my biggest fan, considering what I’ve put her through, but she says I’m a decent audience.” Martin gives Jon a blank look. “She basically gives me free lectures sometimes? Technology-related subjects, mostly. Fascinating stuff.”

“God, you sound like a grandpa,” Georgie says.

“Yes, yes, Tessa tells me the same.” Jon rolls his eyes. “Anyway, she has some, ah… strong feelings about Apple. Among other things.”

“Right,” Martin says slowly. “Wait, back up – you know what creepypasta is?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon says with a sigh and an indulgent smile, “I know what creepypasta is.”

“That particular internet rabbit hole was one of his many, many avenues of procrastination in uni, believe it or not,” Georgie says.

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a Luddite. I tried to introduce the Archives to the twenty-first century, remember? It’s not my fault the Beholding has a retro aesthetic.”

“Huh,” Martin says with a bemused smile. Then he yawns. “Sorry. What time is it?”

As soon as the question is posed, the Beholding drops the knowledge into Jon’s head.

“About 10:30,” Georgie answers, just as Jon says, “10:28 and forty-six seconds” – and then, wincing at his own pedantry, “Sorry.”

Georgie looks ready to let loose with a snarky reply, but before she can say anything, Martin is on his feet, the blanket on his lap sliding to the floor.

“10:30? Jon, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I – I wasn’t really paying attention to the time, I haven’t actually been awake for…”

Jon trails off as the Beholding casually notifies him that he woke up thirty-seven minutes and twenty-three seconds ago. He can feel heat pooling in his cheeks as a vague sense of shame sets in. Good lord, was he really just watching Martin sleep for that long?

“I should have been upstairs over an hour ago,” Martin says, frantically scanning the room for –

For his shoes, the Eye informs Jon.

Do you ever mind your goddamn business? Jon shoots back. On impulse, he swats at the air to his side, momentarily forgetting that the ever-present eldritch tagalongs he’d grown accustomed to during the apocalypse are no longer with him. In his dreams, he’d come eye-to-eye with them again for the first time since waking up in the hospital; apparently, that’s all it took to reintroduce this old, reflexive shooing tic to his waking life.

Georgie raises her eyebrows at the gesture, but Martin appears not to notice, preoccupied with his escalating panic.

Jon scrambles for some way to soothe him, but he’s at a loss. In his future, through trial and error and intense observation, he had painstakingly learned how to comfort Martin. Now, though, after so much time spent alone, Jon is out of practice. Moreover, he’s always been more adept at offering comfort through action and touch rather than words – and right now, he’s still uncertain where Martin’s boundaries lie.

So Jon continues to sit there, hands fluttering slightly as his mind rifles through a mountain of inane clichés in search of something, anything that might be able to help. Meanwhile, the Archivist in him is distracted by Martin’s growing anxiety. It isn’t the same as abject fear, per se, but it’s similar enough to pique the Eye’s interest.

Once again, Jon takes a swipe at the empty space beside him – and again ignores Georgie’s amused expression.

“If Peter notices I’m not in the office…” Martin nearly trips over the blanket on the floor as he turns in place to search behind him. “He – he’ll be suspicious –”

That’s when Georgie decides to speak up. Thank god, Jon thinks to himself. She exudes far more confidence than he does in this sort of situation.

“Won’t he already be suspicious?” she says, calm as can be. It’s enough to bring Martin’s fretting to a pause. “It’s not like you can keep this a secret forever, right? Your change in attitude is… pretty noticeable, Martin.”

“I – I – I didn’t really think much further ahead than –” Martin laughs nervously. “I was just – playing along, and it felt right, like if I just kept following the path I’d reach a – a – a conclusion? I don’t know what, but…” His shoulders slump, leaving his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides; he tugs at the hem of his shirt, as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “I don’t think I cared much? I figured I could just – gather information and pass it along, and if nothing else I could keep Peter’s attention away from the Archives, and… that was the whole plan, to just keep doing that until… until whatever was going to happen happened, I guess, and now I don’t – I don’t know where to go from here, and…”

“Martin?” Jon says softly.

“Huh?” Martin finally glances up to meet Jon’s eyes.

“Can I take your hand?”

Cautiously, wordlessly, Martin offers his hand. Jon takes it in his, lacing their fingers together loosely.

“It’ll be alright,” he says. “You don’t have to figure it out on your own. Not anymore.”

Martin’s lips move minutely for a few seconds before meekly saying, “That doesn’t feel right.”

“I know.”

“I’m – I’m not saying you’re lying,” Martin says, rushed and anxious to appease, “it’s just…”

“Hearing something isn’t the same as accepting it. Or trusting it.”

“I do trust you, I do, it’s just… I don’t know. It’s like I can’t wrap my mind around it.”

“It’s alright,” Jon says gently. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin whispers, his voice steeped in guilt.

“You don’t need to apologize.” When Martin opens his mouth to protest, Jon reiterates: “You have nothing to be sorry for. I promise.”

“Okay,” Martin says after a pause, still sounding somewhat doubtful. Then he grimaces. “I, uh, still don’t know what to do about Peter, though.”

“That depends on what you want,” Jon says, squeezing Martin’s hand. “I trust you. I’ll follow your lead.”

“O-okay,” Martin repeats. He blinks several times, surprised, before giving a nervous chuckle. “Only… I, uh, don’t really know what I want, to be honest?”

“Break it down into smaller pieces,” Georgie says. Martin flinches slightly – he must have momentarily forgotten she was in the room. “Do you want to go back to the Lonely?”

There’s only a short delay before Martin says, “No. I don’t… it feels different than before. Doesn’t fit right.”

“Do you want to continue working with Peter?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says slowly. “Not really? I mean, I never wanted to in the first place, it just… seemed like the thing to do.”

“Okay, rephrase,” Georgie says. “Do you want to stop working with him now?”

“I think so.” Another pause. Martin’s brow wrinkles as he stares at the floor in thought before glancing back up at Georgie. “Yeah, I – I think I do.”

“But…?” Georgie prompts, sensing Martin’s uncertainty.

“I worry about how he might react. He’ll probably start paying more attention to the Archives, and…” Martin looks at Jon. “What if he takes it out on you? Or – I mean, I don’t want him to hurt anyone, but I…” He looks down at their joined hands, tightening his grip just slightly. “I think you would be his most likely target.”

“Maybe,” Jon admits. He’s witnessed firsthand how vindictive Peter can be. “But I would rather take that risk than have you torture yourself on the off chance he’ll let me be. And… I think we’ll all be safer if we cooperate as a group rather than stay divided.”

“I guess. I’m not sure how to go about it, though.”

“Well,” Georgie says thoughtfully, “it depends on whether you want to quit all at once or ease into it.”

“I don’t know.” Martin looks to Jon again. “If I continue to work for him in some capacity, would it give us an advantage?”

At this point, they know more about the Extinction than Peter does, and Jon has a decent grasp on Peter’s goals and how he operates. So…

“I… don’t think there’s anything to be gained if you keep working closely with him, no,” Jon replies. “And anyway, I – I would rather that not be the deciding factor? It’s your decision, of course, it’s just – your wellbeing is more important.”

“Hypocrite,” Martin mutters, but there’s a tinge of endearment there.

“I know,” Jon sighs. “I’m working on it. But to the point, I worry that working closely with him might drag you back into the Lonely.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m also worried about you confronting him directly to resign. Especially on your own.”

Peter is patient. Moreover, he enjoys a long game. If he sees Martin’s change of heart as a surmountable obstacle, Peter is likely to take a step back and wait for another opening to regain the upper hand. If, on the other hand, he decides that Martin is a lost cause… well, Peter is a sore loser. There’s every chance that he could drop Martin into the Lonely out of spite again.

“Either way,” Jon says, “I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone with him. Sooner or later, he’ll realize that the Lonely’s starting to lose its hold on you.”

Unthinkingly, Jon tightens his grip on Martin’s hand.

“It’s been slipping for a while now,” Martin says quietly. “I think he’s already noticed.”

“In that case… there’s no telling how he’ll react if he decides your allegiance to the Lonely is too tenuous to salvage.”

“Do you – or…” Georgie appears to grapple with wording for a few seconds. “Can you Know what Peter knows?”

“No,” Jon says. The last time he tried to Know something about Peter, not only did it yield nothing of value, it nearly incapacitated Jon – and he didn’t recover until he gave in and fed on a new victim. He can’t afford to repeat the experience. Daisy’s supply of statements is finite; Jon needs to ration them as much as possible. “I do know that Peter can’t spy from a distance, but that doesn’t mean he can’t just turn invisible to eavesdrop. Or that Elias won’t feed him information.”

“Let’s focus on the immediate question, then,” Georgie says. “Do you want to go upstairs and walk into your office two hours late with bedhead” – Martin runs a self-conscious hand through his hair, eliciting an affectionate smile from Jon – “or do you want to no-call/no-show?”

“Well… Peter isn’t actually around much,” Martin says. “Sometimes days go by before he checks in. He might not realize I’m not in my office yet. Maybe I can just – go about my normal routine for now?” He glances at Jon, almost beseeching. “At least until I have an idea of how much he knows?”

Like everyone who has worked in the Archives, Martin has developed a harder edge over the years. Early in his tenure, he seemed unassuming on first impression. He was by no means a pushover, but he was eager to please and preferred to avoid unnecessary confrontation. It made him an all-too-easy target for Jon’s insecurity-fueled ire.

But rather than roll over in the face of criticism, Martin has always been determined to prove his detractors wrong. Whether it’s risking his life for the sake of doing his due diligence – Jon cringes at the memory – or stubbornly caring for people who deemed him incompetent and didn’t appreciate his attentions, Martin is tenacious. It would be admirable – and it is, to an extent – but all too often it leads to self-neglect, bordering on self-harm.

And right now, despite the thicker skin that Martin has been forced to grow through necessity and loss, his demeanor when he looks at Jon is vaguely reminiscent of those early days in the Archives: cowed, cautious, desperate for approval and dreading reproach. With a pang of old guilt and a desire to soothe, Jon forces a smile and kneads the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb.

“I trust you,” Jon says, “and I know you’re more than capable. Just – when the fog starts to creep up on you, try to remember that there are people who care about you. You’re not a burden; you’re not – unseen, unwanted, undeserving, or – or whatever other lies the Lonely wants to tell you. You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

“Right,” Martin says in a breathless whisper. He gives Jon’s hand another squeeze before letting go. “I guess I, uh – I guess should head upstairs.”

“Text or call if you need a reminder,” Jon blurts out as Martin turns to leave. “S-sorry, I don’t mean to – to hover, it’s just… sometimes it helps.”

In Scotland, once Jon was too hungry to safely visit the village, Martin had to go on supply runs alone. Although he had largely left the Lonely behind, it still lurked in the background, waiting for quiet moments in which it could seep back in through the cracks it left behind. It was opportunistic and insidious, passive until it wasn’t, and it could strike unpredictably. And so, he and Jon would check in with one another frequently whenever Martin had to go into town.

In many ways it was an exercise in codependence, but they were doing their best, considering their particular circumstances.

“Thanks,” Martin says, splotches of pink staining his face again. “I – I will.”

“There’s no service in the tunnels,” Georgie reminds them. “Just in case you were planning on going down there today, Jon. Martin, do you have the rest of our numbers?”

“I have Basira’s. And Melanie’s.”

“Give me your phone. I’ll add my number. And Daisy’s.” Martin makes a face at that, but hands his phone over. “If Jon doesn’t answer, text one of the rest of us. We can make sure to always keep someone up here and reachable, just in case.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Martin says stiffly. “I don’t need my hand held every second of the day.”

“No, but you might need your hand held at any second during the day,” Georgie says, entirely unfazed by the shift in attitude, “and there's no shame in that. Sometimes a bad time sneaks up on you. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“I’ve always taken care of myself. I can handle a few hours alone.”

“I’m sure you can, but that doesn’t mean you have to.” Martin looks ready to object, but Georgie cuts him off. “You’re not going to win this argument; I’ve already heard it all before. I’ve known this one” – she jerks her thumb in Jon’s direction – “for years, and you have near-identical hangups about being an inconvenience or whatever.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters.

“Yeah, this is directed at both of you. People want to help you. The world won’t end if you let yourself accept it without berating yourself in the process.” Georgie looks between the two of them as she hands Martin’s phone back, and then chuckles. “Huh. You two have damn-near-identical scowls, too, by the way.”

Simultaneously, Jon and Martin both roll their eyes.

Compared to the last time Jon saw her, Melanie looks… well, better. The wild, furious look in her eyes has subsided and the bags underneath are no longer quite so heavy. Her posture doesn’t look relaxed, exactly, but she doesn’t seem nearly as overwrought. She's still clearly weighed down by ambient tension, but she always has been – and the Archives have a way of making even the most well-adjusted person feel on edge.

She pauses at the bottom of the ladder, watching Jon with an air of distrust and uncertainty. Then Georgie takes her hand and a little more of that stiffness bleeds out of her. She allows Georgie to lead her over to the circle of chairs where Jon waits, and mirrors Georgie when she sits.

The ensuing silence is thoroughly unsettling. When it becomes clear that Georgie isn’t going to break the ice for them, and Melanie likewise keeps her silence, Jon reluctantly takes the initiative.

“Hi,” he says eloquently. He starts to give a little wave, but doesn’t fully commit to the motion, instead allowing his hand to hang awkwardly in the air for a few seconds before lowering his arm again, self-conscious.

“Hey,” Melanie replies – guarded, somewhat flat, but without any outright hostility.

Melanie scuffs one foot against the ground. Jon bounces his leg, chewing the inside of his cheek as he stares at the floor. Neither of them speak.

“So…” Georgie says after a minute, drawing out the vowel. “Do you two want me to, uh… I can leave, if you’d prefer to have this discussion in private?”

“Stay,” Melanie says abruptly, seeking out Georgie’s hand again. Georgie looks at Jon, a question in her eyes.

“I don’t mind. You can stay, Georgie.”

“If you’re sure,” Georgie says. “Just – let me know if that changes, I suppose.”

More silence. When Jon can’t take it anymore, he blurts out: “H-how have you been?”

“Well,” Melanie says sardonically, “I’m essentially trapped in an eldritch fear prison, doing the bidding of an evil voyeur-god, and apparently the only way out of its unfathomable contract is to gouge my eyes out.”

“Right,” Jon says with a hollow laugh. “Stupid question.”

“How are you?” Melanie asks with mock cheeriness.

“Same as you, really. Well. Except for the eye-gouging clause.”

“What, don’t have the stomach for it?”

“No, uh – it… it just won’t work for me, is all.” Staring down at his lap, Jon occupies himself with tracing circles onto one knee with his fingernail. “The Beholding isn’t keen on losing its Archivist.”

“It didn’t mind losing Gertrude.”

“Gertrude… wasn’t as far gone as I am,” Jon says quietly. “She never fully embraced the power the Eye offered. Not to the extent that I did. Blinding herself would have released her from the Eye’s service. She planned on it, actually, but Elias got to her first. And she was still human enough for a gunshot to kill her.”

And wasn’t that a release, in a way? Is it morbid for Jon to envy the fact that Gertrude even had that option available to her?

“Right,” is all Melanie says. She sounds dubious.

“I’m not just speculating a worst-case scenario to give myself an excuse not to go through with it.” Jon can feel himself bristling now. “I know it won’t work. I’ve tried. Multiple times. It hurts like hell, and then I heal. All I got out of it was an onset of chronic cluster headaches – though, who knows,” he adds acidly, “that may have just been the side effect of becoming a linchpin of the apocalypse and having all the world’s terror crammed into my head. I didn’t bother Knowing. It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“Jon,” Georgie says gently – and all the fight goes out of him, shoulders slumping.

“Sorry,” he sighs. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

“I wasn’t scolding you. It’s just – you’re scratching.”

Oh. Jon looks down to see long, angry red scratches on his forearms, already fading now.

“Sorry,” he says again. “Didn’t notice.”

“It’s alright.”

Another awkward pause, until Melanie breaks the silence.

“Are you sure blinding will work for the rest of us?” she asks. She no longer sounds suspicious. Simply… curious: reminiscent of how things used to be, back when she was an avid investigator, beholden only to herself.

“Yes.”

“Did I…? Last time?”

“Are you sure you want to know?” Jon waits until Melanie gives a firm nod before he answers the question. “You did.”

“And it worked.”

“It worked.”

Melanie nods again. She’s clenching her teeth, if the subtle movements in her jaw are any indication. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly – and her shoulders relax. By the time she’s opened her eyes, there’s the hint of a smile on her face.

“Good,” she says, equal parts relief and determination.

“S-so, do you think you’ll –” Jon stops himself, shaking his head. “No, sorry, I shouldn’t pry.”

Melanie simply shrugs. “I haven’t made a decision yet. Let’s just say I’m strongly considering it.”

Georgie’s hand tightens on Melanie’s, worry lining her face.

“Tell me what happened last time?” Melanie says. “I’d like to hear the whole story.”

Jon takes a deep breath, rubbing his arms as he orders his thoughts.

“Last time, I didn’t know about the bullet until after I woke up,” he begins. “I, ah, only saw you briefly – you were, um… you were convinced that I wasn’t me anymore. Didn’t want me anywhere near you.”

Thought I should have been the one to die, he doesn’t add. Most days, Jon couldn’t find fault in that assessment. He didn’t want to die – most of the time, anyway – but if he could have traded his life for Tim’s… well, it wouldn’t have been a difficult decision.

“So how did you find out about it, then?”

“I just… Knew it, all of a sudden.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melanie narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“It’s an Archivist thing. I mean, you're probably already aware – I just… Know things, sometimes, even without compelling anyone. It started before the Unknowing, but it wasn’t as noticeable. Or as often. And it was typically more vague impressions, rather than specific truths. It got worse after I woke up from the coma. More frequent, more detailed, more – intrusive.”

“Fantastic,” Melanie says sourly.

“Yes, I’m not thrilled about it either. Sometimes I can Know things by choice, but the Beholding has a tendency to withhold answers to the questions I actually ask. Mostly it just airdrops information on me unsolicited. Often without me even wondering about a thing. Just… apropos of nothing. I did have much more control over it after the world ended, but, well…” He shrugs, awkward. “Not anymore. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Melanie repeats.

“Last time, I had – still have, I suppose – a tendency to Know things about specific people. Things they wouldn’t normally share with me. I still remember things I Knew back then. Including some things about you.”

The color rises in Melanie’s cheeks. “That’s –”

“An invasion of privacy, I know,” he says, contrite. “I really will try to avoid it, just… sometimes things slip through the cracks when I’m not paying attention.”

“So, what, you can read minds?” Melanie says, an accusation threaded through the question. “Like Elias?”

Jon visibly recoils.

“Melanie,” Georgie begins, but Jon cuts her off.

“No, it’s – it’s a fair question. Elias’ powers come from the same source mine do.” He pauses, nervously flexing his fingers as he composes an explanation. “I can’t see your thoughts verbatim. It’s just… Knowing things. It’s the same with Elias. Sometimes it seems like he can read minds, b-but that’s – that’s just because he’s very – very good at reading people –”

“– finding you when you’re at your lowest point, when you’re your most emotionally vulnerable. And when you’re at that point it’s astounding what can crawl into your heart and start to fester there –“

Jon bites his tongue, applying pressure until the Archive stops its clamoring. Melanie raises her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“Sorry. Sometimes it just slips out, and…” He laughs and massages his temples. “Well. Still an Archive, in the end.”

His voice cracks and Georgie’s already-concerned expression grows more serious.

“Jon –”

“I’m fine, Georgie,” Jon says, more curtly than intended. “Sorry. I just – I can’t go there right now.”

“We can take a break if you need,” she says.

“No, I… let’s just continue.” He nods at Melanie. “You have more questions.”

Melanie gnaws on the inside of her cheek for a moment, mulling over her words.

“Can you do that…” She wiggles her fingers vaguely. “That thing where you put thoughts in people’s heads?”

“No. Not – not really.”

Not anymore, he corrects privately. During the apocalypse, he was able to make others See and feel things, but… only because he could call upon the Ceaseless Watcher to turn its gaze upon them. Here in the past, the Beholding and all the other Fears remain cloistered behind their door, leeching through the cracks but unable to fully manifest in the world.

“But I, um…” Jon pauses, wetting his lips nervously. “In addition to compelling people to tell me things, sometimes I can compel people to… to do things. Nothing – nothing complex. Simple commands, mostly. ‘Stop,’ ‘leave,’ ‘look,’ ‘don’t look,’ that sort of thing. I haven’t done it often, but the times I have… with a few exceptions, it’s usually been accidental. A sort of – knee-jerk defense mechanism of sorts.”

“Hmm.” Melanie crosses her arms, tapping her foot on the ground.

“I realize that reflects poorly on me.” He swallows, mouth going dry. “It’s… a terrifying prospect, being near someone who can do something like that, and doesn’t have full control over it.”

Jon knows – and Knows via billions of proxies – what it’s like to have something other supplant his will and commandeer his body. Melanie deserves to know the risks of standing too close to him.

“I promise I’ll try to keep it under control, I just – wanted you to be aware of it. I won’t blame you if you’d rather not be around me.”

“Stop being so melodramatic,” Melanie says, rolling her eyes.

“I’m not,” Jon says flatly. “Compelling answers and – and subsisting on a diet of fear has always been more than enough to justify people keeping their distance. Adding more sinister bullshit on top of the pile doesn’t exactly do me credit. I know – Know how people see me.” He laughs, a harsh and humorless thing. “I can’t not Know.”

People tend to naturally give him a wide berth, as if they can sense that there’s something wrong about him, even if they can’t quite discern why. If he’s too careless, if he locks eyes with the wrong person, sometimes they can’t look away – and sometimes he can’t, either, and he’s forced to watch as the terror dawns in their eyes. Just like the nightmares, bleeding into his waking life.

Jon can feel when people are afraid; the Archivist in him relishes it, gravitates towards it like a flower turning to face the sun, soaks it in regardless of whether or not he wants it. And there is always a part of him that does want it, that always wants more – and isn’t that fitting, taking a page from the book of his very first monster? He is, quite literally, a thing of nightmares. Helen is right: he is what he is, and there’s no use denying it.

He’s always been hypersensitive to how other people perceive him. Being able to Know how people really feel about him has historically tended to confirm his customary hostile attribution bias. Vicariously feeling the reality of others’ hatred and fear of him, passively basking in it, being forced to derive sustenance from it – god, it’s like cannibalizing his own vicious self-loathing, a sustainable resource that can be recycled ad infinitum. It takes self-flagellation to a new and perverse extreme.

“I Know when people don’t want to be near me,” he says, unable to suppress the bitterness in his tone. “When someone nearby is afraid, I feel it – as natural as sensing the temperature in a room. I feed on it. It’s an automatic process. So if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not bask in the knowledge of how much the other people in the room can’t stand breathing the same air as me, if I can avoid it.”

“Jon,” Georgie tries again, “I know how things used to be, but –”

“It’s different now, I know. But the Eye tends to prioritize – well, unpleasant impressions. I know it’s only giving me one side of the story. That there’s more, even if I can’t See it. But fear is loud. Doesn’t leave room for mindfulness.”

Georgie has a reply ready, but Melanie speaks first.

“Okay. I get it.” At Jon’s blank expression, Melanie heaves a sigh – aggravated, but not hostile. “It’s like how anger was for me, okay? Rage has a way of drowning out everything else. Reliable, when nothing else can be trusted. Makes things clearer, simpler. Made me feel more… alive, real.” She hesitates, crossing her arms and shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Nourishing. Sort of. I guess.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, picking aimlessly at his sleeve.

“I’ll just avoid being in the same room as you when I’m… having a day,” she continues. Jon nods. “Or you can just tell me to go away if I’m – I don’t know, giving off rancid vibes, or whatever.”

Jon breathes a surprised, amused huff. “Well. Same goes for you, I suppose.”

He’s even more shocked to see a grin twitch to life on Melanie’s face – very small, but present all the same. Then, appearing to take pity on him, she changes the subject.

“So, you Knew about the bullet.”

“Yes,” Jon says, grateful for the opportunity to move on. “But not until a couple weeks after I got out of the hospital. Didn’t even realize I Knew it until I said it aloud.”

“Meaning it had more time to poison me, where you’re from. Was I… worse?”

“Well, the first time I saw you after I came back, you attacked me on sight, so… maybe? But I don’t really have a point of comparison. That was the only time I saw you up until we removed it, so I don’t know how much you deteriorated in the interim. And this time, I only saw you after the bullet had already been removed.”

“I attacked you?” She doesn’t sound surprised, really. More… intrigued.

“In your defense, you didn’t think I was me anymore. Tim died, Daisy was presumed dead, and I was still alive.” He knows that, of the three of them, Melanie wouldn’t have picked Jon to be the survivor. I hope it hurts, she’d said in her testament. Instead, he slept for six months and then woke up wrong. “You were angry, and afraid, and you had a bullet in your leg making it worse. You needed someone to blame, and Elias was beyond your reach.”

So I was the next best thing, he doesn’t say. Bitterness aside, Jon can’t say he blames her.

Melanie narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Then how the hell did you convince me to have it removed?”

“We, uh… we didn’t. I told Basira first. She – didn’t think you would have agreed. So, we…” Jon forces himself to meet Melanie’s eyes as he gives the confession. “We performed some amateur surgery. Without your consent. Basira procured some local anesthetic, and the Eye let me See where the bullet was, how to remove it with… minimal damage. You were using some rather strong sleep aids, at the time, so you slept through most of it. You only woke up once the bullet was out. And you, uh, promptly stabbed me with the scalpel, though I – I probably deserved that.”

“What the fuck, Jon.”

“I – I know, I know. I’m – well, it might be – odd, to apologize for something that never happened from your perspective? But I am sorry. It wasn’t right, for us to do it that way. We should have asked you.”

“I might not have agreed.” Her voice is tightly controlled, but there’s still a quiet sort of fury simmering just under the words.

“No, uh – probably not. You said later that the anger was always there. Motivating you to keep going. Helping you survive. The Slaughter validated that rage. Made it feel like home.” Melanie stares, unblinking. “You told me the bullet stayed because you wanted it, and… we took that choice from you, decided what was in your best interests without asking you how you felt about it.”

Melanie is quiet for a few more moments, glaring at the floor, before her eyes flick back up to meet Jon's. “What would have happened if you didn’t get it out of me?”

“I can’t say for certain, but it’s likely that you would have become a Slaughter Avatar. Reached a point of no return.”

She scoffs. “So it was worth it, in the end?”

“I don’t know. I want to say yes. You saw me as a monster, and I doubt you would have wanted to become like me. Something inhuman, feeding on suffering. But…”

“But?”

“It’s easy to look at how things ultimately worked out for you and use that outcome to justify what we did,” he says, “but I – I’m not fond of the idea that the ends justify the means. I didn’t know at the time that you and Georgie were this close. If I did, maybe I could have asked her to talk to you, except…”

“We weren’t speaking,” Georgie says.

“Yeah. I – honestly don’t know what else we could have done, but… still, the way we went about it was wrong. You were trapped here like the rest of us, and we… we stole the only thing that gave you some semblance of control. What we did was a violation of your autonomy. I know that feeling, I know how it feels to…” Jon shakes his head. “We saved your life, or – your humanity, at least, but in doing so we took away your choice. Subjected you to more trauma, made it so you couldn’t feel safe anywhere. Eventually you quit, and you and Georgie seemed happy together after that, but the fact that you were able to start healing – that doesn’t change the fact that we hurt you in the first place. I’m sorry.”

“This place,” Melanie says with a breathless laugh.

“Yeah. It’s… not known for presenting benign choices. I’m, ah… I’m glad that this time, it was your own choice.”

“And what if I had still said no?”

“I probably would’ve given you the line about becoming a monster like me. I would have told you what happened last time – or, told Georgie and let her tell you, more likely, if only to avoid any, ah… stabbiness.” Melanie huffs, but it sounds amused rather than offended. “And if you still decided to choose the Slaughter after being fully informed… well, it wasn’t my place to take the choice away from you.”

“Even if I wasn’t in my right mind?” she asks.

“Even if you weren’t in your right mind.”

Melanie’s stare is piercing, scanning him for any signs of dishonesty. Eventually, she folds her arms and leads back in her chair with a hmm.

“What?” Jon asks, heart in his throat.

“Just – unexpected. Would’ve expected you to make a unilateral decision.”

Truthfully, Jon doesn’t trust himself to make those kinds of decisions. Last time, he’d let Basira call the shot. Not only did he trust her judgment more than his own – secretly, selfishly, he was relieved to abdicate at least some of the responsibility. He doubts that his conscience would have been able to carry the full burden of that choice.

Later, during the apocalypse, he had made an executive decision on someone else’s behalf: Jordan Kennedy. In that instance, there was no one with whom he could share the blame. Although it was intended as an act of mercy, Jon cannot deny that he created an unwilling Avatar – stripped a man of his humanity and reshaped him into something other, same as had been done to Jon.

The people in that domain would have continued to suffer just the same whether it was controlled by an Avatar or a hivemind of ants. At least this way, one person could be spared the torture. But it didn’t save anyone. It did not even end Jordan’s suffering, only transformed it into a different, hypothetically more endurable but still horrific shape – one that Jon knew all too intimately.

It was done with merciful intentions, and he may have given Jordan the choice to reverse it – a choice that Jon has never been given himself – but making that decision for Jordan in the first place… well, at the end of the day, Jon could never shake the feeling that he’d taken a page out of Jonah’s playbook. It wasn’t the same, but it felt… adjacent, too much so for comfort.

The choice has haunted Jon ever since. It eats away at him every time he sees Jordan in his nightmares, whenever Jordan watches him with the same dread that he does Jane Prentiss. Yet, Jon still cannot say for certain whether he would do anything differently, if faced with Jordan’s agonized pleading a second time.

But as for Melanie’s particular situation…

“I know what it’s like to have someone else decide on your destiny for you,” he says quietly.

Melanie looks thoroughly unimpressed.

“Look, I – I understand why you resent me. Elias used you to further the Archivist’s progress. Same as he used Tim, Sasha, and Martin, and Basira and Daisy, and Helen… even Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Jude Perry – and Jared, Manuela, Peter… everyone, everyone who crosses his path is either irrelevant or a stepping stone. Which means that everyone who crosses my path suffers.”

Stop, Jon tells himself, shutting his eyes tight against the first stirrings of panic lapping at the edges of his mind. It’s pathetic, he thinks, how easily he sinks into this headspace. Jon’s mutinous brain does all of Jonah’s work for him – like prodding at a recent wound, just to see if it still hurts, even knowing full well that it only sabotages the healing process. Stupid, pointless. Just stop dwelling on it.

He can’t.

“All of it – all of it was to create the Archive to his specifications –”

“– bound together – I would look at him, and see a grim sort of destiny for myself: trapped here, until I became him; any future I might have had, sacrificed to his –”

“– and I just – I don’t want people to look at me and – and see him. Or the Beholding –”

“– keeping its prisoners ignorant in pursuit of… knowledge –”

“– I've spent enough time being synonymous with the Eye. I don’t want it. I never wanted it, even if I did choose to – to keep looking for answers –”

“– idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing –”

“– I can’t reverse that, but I can still make it difficult for Elias to get any use out of me. But I’m sorry – I’m sorry that I let him do it for so long –”

“– any idiot could have seen it would play out that way –”

“– I’m sorry you got dragged into all this. I wish I could have gone back to the very beginning, back to the day I took the job, and – god, I thanked Elias for the opportunity, and he – he smiled, because he knew, he knew I would be easily manipulated, knew everything about me – knew all about –”

Thankfully, Georgie interrupts his heated muttering and brings that thought train to a jarring halt. Or – no, she's been saying his name, but he's only just now heard it.

“Jon,” she says, loudly but calmly. She's leaning forward in her seat, hand prepared to reach over to him. “You’re scratching again.”

So he is. Badly. As soon as he stops, the scratches along his forearms heal, leaving only drying blood behind: thin, messy streaks painted across his skin and caked under his fingernails. He should probably clip them shorter, at this rate.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his sleeves down to hide his arms. “I’m just – sorry.”

“Change the subject?” Georgie offers, lowering her arm.

“I think that would be best,” Jon agrees, discomfited and more than a little annoyed with himself. Will he ever be able to spare a thought for Jonah Magnus without completely unraveling in the process? Hell, will he ever be able to go a day without sparing a single thought for Jonah Magnus at all? Okay, no, stop harping, he reprimands himself. “Just – give me a minute.”

Jon forces himself to take several breaths until he can no longer hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Once he regathers his composure, he meets Melanie’s eyes again.

“What I mean to say is – I owe you a lot of apologies, Melanie. I was dismissive of you when we first met, and it just sort of – snowballed from there.”

“It was mutual, I think,” Melanie says guardedly.

“Still, I was – unprofessional, at the very least. And unnecessarily cruel. It was my job to be impartial, but I didn’t have to be callous. Most of the statements that come in aren’t real, but they aren’t impossible, either. And even if a story was due to – substance use, or mental illness, or – or even just an overactive imagination… most people who came in still believed that their story was true. Their distress was genuine. They deserved comfort, not ridicule, regardless of whether or not their story actually happened the way they remembered. And beyond that, it was… poor research methodology, really, to refuse to entertain the possibility of a story’s veracity simply because of my first impression of a statement giver.” His voice grows quieter. “Or because of my own baggage.”

“Your own baggage?”

“I, ah…” Jon deliberates for a brief moment on whether to share this part of himself. It seems only fair, given the personal details he knows about the rest of them. And… telling Daisy had felt cathartic in its own way, hadn't it? “I had a supernatural experience of my own once. Before working at the Institute, I mean. I was a child, so of course it was chalked up to an overactive imagination. And then at some point I was too old to still be afraid of monsters.”

Jonathan, this has gotten out of hand, his grandmother had told him with hands on her hips, exasperated after once again finding every door and cupboard in the house thrown open. Ten is too old to be sleeping with the lights on and checking closets for monsters.

And with that, she had closed the closet doors, flicked the light off, and pulled his bedroom door shut on her way out. He had clung desperately to the hope that she would at least leave the hall light on – but moments later the thin strip of light filtering through the crack under the door was snuffed out. When he heard the click of his grandmother's bedroom door down the hall, he'd dissolved into tears. Turning his face into his pillow to muffle his sobs so as not to alert her to yet another of his childish meltdowns, he spent the rest of the night – and countless nights thereafter – sleeping in fitful stops and starts, plagued by phantom knocking and chitinous clicking and creaking doors. He knows now that such sounds were nothing more than hypnopompic hallucinations, the remnants of nightmares chasing him into wakefulness; knows that the web binding him in place and the hulking presence in the room were only symptoms of sleep paralysis; but at the time…

Jon shakes his head.

“The fear doesn’t go away just because people don’t believe it’s based in truth. So, I learned to hide it instead. To stop talking about it, even though I never stopped searching for an answer –”

“– was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see. After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute –”

“– damn,” he hisses, flustered.

“You okay?” Georgie asks.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Just – one moment.”

Pause, breathe, recollect. Listen to the quiet – which really shouldn’t be so difficult, should it? Aren’t archives supposed to be quiet? Why does this library have to be so horrifically noisy? – and breathe, breathe, breathe. Okay.

“What I’m saying is, I coped with it – poorly – with denial. I could never shake the conviction that what I saw was real, no matter how I tried to rationalize it. But I was still afraid that admitting belief in monsters would – draw their attention to me, somehow. Again. And because of that, I was… unsympathetic, to people who were genuinely afraid. The last thing they needed was derisive skepticism. Or projection. I know what it’s like to not be believed. I shouldn’t have put others through the same thing.”

“Huh.” Melanie looks him up and down. “That’s… unusually insightful for you.”

“I had a lot of time alone to obsess during the apocalypse,” Jon says drily. “Some of it even ended up being productive.” Melanie snorts; Jon gives a cautious smile. “I, ah, also should have tried harder to warn you away from India. Or the Institute in general.”

“And I would have told you to fuck off, because I already didn’t like you, and you would have been just one more in a long line of pompous men acting like they knew better than me.”

Jon laughs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Look, we just – we both treated each other poorly. You were the easiest target to take my anger out on. Martin’s too nice, Basira was basically a hostage, Daisy is Daisy, and Tim… Tim wasn’t around much, and anyway, he would have thrown whatever I gave him right back in my face. You were a prick, but I think I blamed you more than was fair. And I guess… you were – are – trapped as much as the rest of us. So. I’m sorry too.”

“Well, it’s not like I tried to make a good first impression.”

“Neither did I.” She glowers at him, daring him to challenge her. “Accept the apology or don’t, but don’t throw it back in my face.”

“Fine,” Jon sighs. “I accept the apology.”

“There. Was that so hard?”

“Excruciating,” he deadpans.

Georgie snorts. Melanie and Jon both look at her with a combined, “What?”

“Just… watching the two of you. I think I may have a type.”

Another simultaneous, “What?”

“Curious, stubborn, temperamental, cute, short…”

“H-hey,” Melanie protests, “I’m at least a few centimeters taller than he is –”

“One-point-eight, actually,” Jon mutters under his breath – and then cracks a smile, encouraged by Georgie’s bright, surprised laugh. Melanie just glares at him.

“You know,” Melanie says, “you make it very hard to like you sometimes.”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry at all. Shooting Georgie an indignant glance, he adds: “Also, I’m not cute.”

“I’m sure Martin would beg to differ,” Georgie teases. Jon sighs, arms crossed and face uncomfortably warm. “Well, anyway…” Georgie grins, looking between the two of them. “Does this mean… truce?”

Melanie gives Jon another long, searching look, and Jon forces himself to meet her eyes.

“Yeah, alright,” she says after a moment, then looks down, bouncing her heel against the floor. “Seems the only one who isn’t trapped and miserable is Elias. And you’re not him. Or working with him. So.” She shrugs one shoulder. “That just makes you one of us. I guess.” When Jon doesn’t reply, she glances back up at him. “What’s that face for?”

“That, uh…” Speechless, Jon roots around for something substantial to say. Instead, one corner of his mouth quirks up as he says, with tentative daring: “That might just be one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me, is all.”

“Yeah, well…” Melanie scoffs, but there’s a hint of amusement in it now. “I’m still going to call you out when you’re being a dick, mind.”

“A public service, really,” Jon says, wry and more than a little elated.

An invitation to playful bickering as opposed to scathing antagonism is, as far as he and Melanie are concerned, an undeniable olive branch.

End Notes:

Jon: my type is Aggressively Idealistic Existentialists Who Give Amazing Hugs, apparently Georgie: and my type is Short Nerds With Strong Feelings About Basically Everything ~*mlm/wlw solidarity*~ But seriously though,,, I love the idea of Georgie and Martin meeting the End and the Vast, respectively, and basically going "hey why don't you read some Camus and maybe you'll calm down???" I may or may not be projecting. I need them and Oliver to have a philosophy book club. Actually everyone else can come too. Basira strikes me as the type to have some Strong Opinions about Certain Philosophers and yes sure that dude may have died ages ago and maybe she shouldn't take it so personally but if she found a Leitner that let her temporarily resurrect him for an hour she might just do so if only for the opportunity to debate his pompous ass in a Tesco parking lot. (I, once again, may or may not be projecting. I was a philosophy minor and I WILL pepper in the fact that I hate Kant. You cannot hold this against me.)

____

Citations for Jon's Archive-speak are as follows, in order of appearance: MAG 094; 153; 144/101/111/014; 101.

Martin's "I think our experience of the universe has value, even if it disappears forever" quote is from MAG 151 and yes it IS one of my all time favorite Martin quotes, how could you tell

Disclaimer re: how Jon talks about his ace identity: I'm ace & projecting a bit, like I do with Jon's ADHD/neurodivergence. The way I describe ace stuff is not meant to be reflective of all ace-spec people's experiences.

would you believe me if I said the whole 'deservedness' spiel was written before the latest episode??? bc it was and then I read the newest ep transcript and I was like "oh"

Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out, btw. funny story: I accidentally let the prescription for my ADHD meds expire and I had to go like four days without them before I could go get another paper script bc it's one they can't submit electronically or call in, soooo I got fuck-all done for half of that week and it broke my writing flow :0 hoping to get back into my usual flow from here on out and manage to have the next chapter ready in 2ish weeks, but we shall see. Thanks for sticking with me <3 (I might start shortening chapters again, the last few have been 10k+ compared to the earlier 6-8k and I could probably stand to split them up a bit.)

Speaking of the next chapter - yes, I AM planning on moving the plot forward I swear. I realize the last few chapters have basically taken place within a single week and have been mostly People Talking About Things, RIP.

And as always, thank you for reading, and for all your comments! <3 They're basically 50% of my regular serotonin intake. The other 50% is my cat's motorboat purring.

28 notes · View notes

bluejayblueskies · 4 years

Text

i shall come out gold

Part 14 of Whumptober 2020

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Jonah Magnus Tags: Whump, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Character Death, Burning/Burned Alive, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff (I promise)

Read on Ao3

The Archives smell of dust and old paper, and of acrid smoke as the first pages catch alight.

“Are you sure about this, Jon?” Martin had asked as they stood outside what had once been the Institute and had once been the Panopticon, merged into something Jon just cryptically called my domain. “I- I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for burning some statements—Christ knows it was cathartic the last time—but you- you said you don’t know what it’ll do.”

“I imagine,” Jon said, his eyes fixed on the towering structure before them, “that it’ll do precisely what it did the last time: distract El- Jonah.”

“But you don’t know,” Martin pressed. “You see why that scares me, right? The last time you didn’t know something, we almost died!”

The last time had been Melanie and Georgie and corridors that stretched out for what could have been meters or could have been miles, and it had taken a price far too high for either of their comforts to survive. Martin wasn’t particularly keen to do it again.

“This- this isn’t like last time,” Jon insisted, and his eyes moved away from the tower to meet Martin’s. There was a hard determination in them, fostered over what might have been months of traveling through domains of fear and slowly losing everything they held dear. But Martin could still see the fear and uncertainty that lay beneath, because he knew Jon. He also knew there was nothing he could say to change Jon’s mind, not this time. “This place, it- it’s a part of me, Martin. I can’t know what’s inside myself. You just have to- to trust that I know what I’m doing. What I’m risking.”

Softly, Martin said, “I do trust you Jon. I just—I worry, that’s all. We’ve come so far, I don’t want to- to lose you.”

Jon reached forward and placed a gentle hand against Martin’s cheek. “I know. And you won’t. I promise.”

Martin laughed, but the humor wasn’t there. “I’m holding you to that.”

And then Jon handed him the lighter, the gold glinting faintly in the dreary grey light that this world was perpetually bathed in. He pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss to Martin’s mouth, in a way that felt less like a promise and more like a wish, and said, “I’ll see you later, okay? When it’s over. I… I love you.”

And then he was gone, making his way up the stone stairs to whatever lay at the top of the tower, and Martin headed down. To the Archives.

They really haven’t changed at all, Martin thinks as he sets another yellowing page ablaze. The teetering shelves are all still there, overburdened with disorganized boxes of files and crammed too-close in the darkly lit space of document storage. Jon’s office door is hanging slightly ajar, and Martin hadn’t been able to resist looking in, at the desk covered in loose papers and empty coffee mugs and sticky notes of all different colors and sizes. The rib and the jar of ashes were still in his desk drawers. Martin doesn’t know why he tucked them in his backpack, next to the bandages and tea that isn’t tea anymore. He supposes he just doesn’t want Jon to have to lose any other parts of himself.

It’s almost too easy, to allow the flames to consume the entire room in a red-hot blaze that hurts Martin’s eyes as he stares in, watching paper after paper wither and crumble. He swears he can hear them scream as they disintegrate, just once as their stories are lost to the raw desolation of the fire. But then it’s quiet but for the crackle and pop of thousands of stories of fear being consumed as one.

He was right; it does feel cathartic, in a way. But he can’t help but watch the Archives burn, that place where he spent so many years as a prisoner and a tool and a watched man, and feel that it’s not right, somehow. That he doesn’t feel right, somehow. There’s something… off. He noticed it when first walking down the stairs, flicking the light switch and watching the faint bulbs that lined the hallways flicker on. He notices it now, standing just at the base of the stairs, feeling the intense heat radiating from the rooms around him. It’s not until he finally retreats up the stairs and emerges from the Archives that it clicks.

An Eye cannot see inside itself. And in the Archives, he was not watched.

“This place, it- it’s a part of me, Martin.”

“Jon,” Martin says, terror rising sticky and hot in his throat. He drops the lighter. And begins to run.

The Panopticon smells of blood and limestone, and of burnt flesh.

Somewhere above, someone is screaming.

Martin runs faster, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks, and hopes he isn’t too late.

“What,” Jonah Magnus says tightly, “have you done?”

The first thing Martin registers is that Jonah is still alive, and white-hot anger surges through him. He opens his mouth—to say what, exactly, he’s not entirely sure. Perhaps just to call Jonah all the increasingly derogatory names he’d come up for him on their journey here.

Then, he remembers the terror, the running, and the smell of burning. And he looks down.

“Oh, god,” he says, and falls to his knees. “Oh, god, Jon, no, no, no.” He reaches out, as if to touch the blistering skin before him, blackened and charred in places, and pulls his hand back at the last moment when the heat still radiating off Jon hits his palm full-force. “Oh Christ, what have I done?” he whispers, clamping a hand over his mouth in a desperate attempt to contain his shaking sobs.

“Martin,” Jonah says, more forcefully. “What. Have. You. Done?”

“I… I burned it,” Martin says in a small, shaking voice. “The Archives, they’re- they’re gone.” Martin stares at Jon’s face, at the singed-away eyebrows and cracked and bloody lips. Quietly, horrified, he says, “I burned him.”

“You what?” In an instant, there’s a hand, tight on Martin’s upper arm and firmly yanking him off the ground. When Martin looks at Jonah, his eyes are alight with a fury that makes a sudden fear thrum through Martin. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he hisses, squeezing Martin’s arm to the point of pain and beyond, and Martin can’t help the small whimper that escapes him. “You have doomed us all, you foolish, idiotic—"

From the ground, there comes a weak cough, and Jonah’s words grind to a halt. Martin doesn’t waste any time; he pulls, and perhaps it’s the surprise that loosens Jonah’s grip, but then Martin’s slipping free and kneeling on the ground next to Jon again, watching the slight rise and fall of his chest where before there had been none.

“Jon?” Martin says, a bit desperately.

There’s a pause that, to Martin, feels like an eternity. Then, Jon opens his eyes.

Martin remembers, with vivid clarity, the moment he’d returned to the safehouse with the world crumbling into pain and terror around him to find Jon crumpled on the floor, surrounded by blank pages and covered head to toe with spiraling words, inked over every inch of skin Martin could see. He remembers even more vividly the moment that Jon had opened his eyes, and how Martin had seen himself reflected in the shining silver-green mirrors they had become, and how his terror had been reflected in kind and tenfold in magnitude.

He’d looked away, and hadn’t looked back for a long while after that.

“Martin?” Jon says, in a voice made raw and cracked by the heat of a thousand open flames running through his veins, and his eyes are a soft brown that makes Martin laugh, a jerky, hiccupping noise that probably sounds more than a bit unhinged but is raw with relief.

“Jon,” Martin says, and the smile he offers Jon is the most genuine he’s given in a long, long time.

“No,” Jonah says, in a voice that’s just to the left of controlled. When Martin glances up, Jonah’s standing over them, eyes ablaze with equal parts fury and terror. “Don’t you understand? If there aren’t any Archives, then there isn’t an Archivist, and if there isn’t an Archivist, then this world, this- this balance of fear, it’s unsustainable. You’ve removed the linchpin, and there is nothing left to hold this reality together. You have doomed us all.”

In a raspy voice that still manages to sound disdainful, Jon says, “We were all already doomed. You saw to that.”

“We were powerful,” Jonah snaps, the last vestiges of feigned kindness and austerity gone. “We were free. And now we are nothing. This reality is nothing. It will fold, and bend, and break, all because of you.”

“No,” Martin says. “The world will be saved because of us.”

Jonah’s eyes grow impossibly harder. “Is that so? Then I suppose it really has no more use for you, does it?”

His eyes begin to glow, a sickly purple that cuts through Martin to his very soul, and it occurs to Martin that here, now, with the Archivist burned out of Jon and Martin on his knees, Jonah holds all the cards.

And Martin holds a shining gold lighter, still clutched in his right hand.

Paper burns well, Martin thinks absently. And while Jon may have been the Archives, filled to the brim with the fear of others, Jonah is a catalogue of his own, of sights and sounds and everything that has ever been known. The flame licks against Jonah’s ankle, and eagerly swallows him whole.

The safehouse smells of sawdust and pine needles, and of the soft charring of logs on the fire.

Martin recalls the words, spoken long ago by a face lost to time and terror, that knowledge is not the same as understanding. He rewraps one of the bandages on Jon’s arm, bright white covering the rough texture of healing skin beneath, and finds he cannot disagree.

Knowledge, as told by Jonah Magnus: the world as it was could not survive without the Archive that brought it into existence.

Understanding, as felt by the former Archivist and former Forsaken as they stood outside a crumbling tower and watched the red bleed out of the sky: this world was not the only version of itself that could exist. And reality is more flexible than humanity gives it credit for.

Martin finishes wrapping the last bandage and presses a soft kiss to the inside of Jon’s wrist. “All done.”

Jon takes Martin’s hand in his and kisses it in kind. “Thank you.”

Martin smiles, and presses another kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Always.”

They sit, curled within each other’s embraces and staring at the fading sunlight trickling in through the window, and enjoy the delicate peace of a world alongside which they have begun to heal.

#whumptober2020 #no.14 #fire #the magnus archives #fic

2 notes · View notes

gcwcns · 5 years

Text

ROLEPLAY TAGS: HOZIER EDITION

below the cut you will find 100+ (i lost count) lyrics from hozier’s entire discography that could be used as rp (charrie, otp, etc.) tags. they are arranged by song. if you’re looking for a specific song press ctrl (command if on mac) and f to search it!

take me to church

if the heavens ever did speak she's the last true mouthpiece

i'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

i’m a pagan of the good times my lover’s the sunlight

drain the whole sea get something shiny

there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

angel of small death & the codeine scene

shaking the wings of their terrible youths

with her sweetened breath and her tongue so mean

she's the angel of small death and the codeine scene

it's bloody and raw, but i swear it is sweet

the sweet heat of her breath in my mouth I'm alive

jackie and wilson

so tired trying to see from behind the red in my eyes

no better version of me i could pretend to be tonight

she blows outta nowhere roman candle of the wild

every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside

cut clean from the dream at night let my mind reset

someone new

electing strange perfections in any stranger i choose.

there's an art to life's distractions,

the dark caress of someone else i guess any thrill will do

my heart's already sinned.

i fall in love just a little bit every day with someone new

to be alone

never feel too good in crowds

all i’ve ever done is hide

i feel like a person for a moment of my life

to have someone kiss the skin that crawls from you

it's the god that heroin prays to

from eden

something tragic about you something so magic about you

honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago

idealism sits in prison chivalry fell on its sword

innocence died screaming honey ask me i should know

i slithered here from eden just to sit outside your door

in a week

i have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me

our hunger's appeased our heart beats becoming slow

so long, we'd become the flowers

after the foxes have known our taste

they'd find us in a week when the buzzards get loud

sedated

just a little rush to feel dizzy to derail the mind of me

our veins are busy but my heart's in atrophy

you and I nursing on a poison that never stung

free and young and we can feel none of it

i'm somewhere outside my life babe

work song

there's nothing sweeter than my baby

she'd give me toothaches just from kissing me

no grave can hold my body down i’ll crawl home to her

in the low lamp light i was free

heaven and hell were words to me

like real people do

why were you digging what did you bury

i will not ask and neither should you

honey just put your sweet lips on my lips

we should just kiss like real people do

i knew that look dear eyes always seeking

it will come back

i know who i am when I'm alone

you should never know how easy you are to need

don't let me in with with no intention to keep me

give me mercy no more

don't you hear me howling babe

foreigner’s god

she moved with shameless wonder perfect creature rarely seen

her eyes look sharp and steady into the empty parts of me

always a well dressed fraud

screaming the name of a foreigner's god the purest expression of grief

i've no language left to say it every word i've got is foreign to me

cherry wine

her eyes and words are so icy

she burns like rum on a fire

the blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

her fight and fury is fiery

and it's worth it all it's divine

in the woods somewhere

i called your name til the fever broke

night so black that the darkness hums

i prayed my mind be good to me

i spoke no word no sound he made

to save a life i didn't have

run

tare is this love keep it covered

her hungry eyes her ancient soul

a shame without a sin

with as many souls claimed as she

run til you feel your lungs bleeding

arsonist’s lullaby

i learned the voices died with me

all you have is your fire

don't you ever tame your demons but always keep em on a leash

i knew that something would always rule m

but my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake

my love will never die

honey please try to love me

my love will never die

flowers grow where I'm laid to rest

pick a blossom and hold it hold it to your breast

my love bursting loud from inside

nina cried power

it's not the waking, it's the rising

it's the heaven of a human spirit ringing

i could cry power

power has been cried by those stronger than me

rattle your chains if you love being free

nfwmb

give your heart and soul to charity

the rest of you the best of you belongs to me

If I was born as a black thorn tree I'd wanna be felled by you

fuel the pyre of your enemies

ain't it warming you the world goin up in flames

moment’s silence (common tongue)

relax and catch the manic rhapsody

all of me is a prayer in perfect piety

when the meaning is gone there is clarity

since it all begun to it's reckoning

so summon on the pearl rosary

shrike

the words hung above but never would form

remember me love when i'm reborn

as the shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn

all of my goodness is going with you now

grounded and giving and darkening scorn

almost (sweet music)

sweet music playin in the dark

be still my foolish heart don't ruin this on me

let's get lost and let the good times roll

a love supreme seems far removed

reporting russian lullabies

movement

i could never define all that you are to me

shake like the bough of a willow tree

honey you're atlas in his sleeping

in awe of something so flawed and free

when you move i move

no plan

the screaming heaving fuckery of the world

there's no kingdom to come

there will be darkness again

keep my body from the fire hire a gardener for my grave

when I'm lying under marble marvel at flowers you'll have made

nobody

i've been fed gold by sweet fools in abu dhabi

i'd be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint

if i had the choice between hearing either noise

i once warmed my hands over a burning Maserati

i’ve had no love like your love

to noise making (sing)

your head tilt back your funny mouth to the clouds

was it just the act of making noise that brought you joy

you don't have to sing it right but who could call you wrong

put your emptiness to melody your awful heart to song

who could ask you be unbroken or be brave again

as it was

i'd had life enough my heart is screaming of

whatever here that's left of me is yours

but your love was unmoved

just as it was before the otherness came

nights were as dark as my baby half as beautiful too

talk

i’d be the voice that urged orpheus when her body was found

i'd be the choiceless hope in grief that drove him underground

imagine being loved by me

i'd be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love

that's found in the last witness before the wave hits

once atrocity is hoarse from voicing shame

with the same sweet shock of when Adam first came

be the hopeful feeling when eden was lost

when i have no kind words left love for you now

that will grow bold in a barren and desolate land

dinner & diatribes

hell is the talking type

i'd suffer hell if you'd tell me what you'd do to me tonight

a pillar i am of pride

let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised

that's the kinda love i’ve been dreaming of

would that i

love in withdrawal was the weeping of me

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet

i fell in love with the fire long ago

i was fixed on your hand of gold

and it’s not tonight where i’m set alight

sunlight

betray the moon as acolyte on first and fierce affirming sight

a soul that's born in cold and rain

i would gladly be the Icarus to your certainty

strap the wing to me death trap clad happily

your love is sunlight

wasteland, baby!

all the fear and fire of the end of the world

like the bonfire that burns that all words in the fight fell to

be still my indelible friend you are unbreaking

and that day that we'll watch the death of the sun

the death of all things that are seen and unseen

better love

blind to the purpose of the brute divine

Staring in the blackness at some distant star

you whose heart would sing of anarchy

when our truth is burned from history

like fire weeping from a cedar tree know that my love would burn with me

#rp masterlist #masterlist #rph #rpt #rpa #tag masterlist #rp tags

103 notes · View notes

mxmearcstapa · 4 years

Text

Naked Madlions Update #1!

Welcome all to the exciting adventure that is the Naked Madlions, my Maddening playthrough of Blue Lions without New Game+! (All updates are going to be tagged with #Molly's Madlions) As a warning, I've played all 4 routes and as this is a playthrough, it gets pretty spoiler-heavy. I might, and have in previous posts, talk about plot elements, comparisons, and other details.

Basically, spoiler warning for potentially all of FE3H, but most specifically Blue Lions.

With that out of the way, here's how it's going!

Prologue:

GUYS I FAILED THE FUCKING PROLOGUE AHAHAHA. We stole Claude and Edelgards' weapons and shoved them behind a wall to keep them out of danger. I put Dimitri in a bush and said, "yeah, he's sufficiently tanky, he can--" and then he took one hit, and he was okay, and then he took the second hit, and then he wasn't okay. And I thought, "oh, I'll Divine Pul--oh...right." Anyay, I've now seen what the Game Over screen looks like.

With more liberal healing and less aggressive tactics, we succeeded. :P

Mock Battle:

Battle requires Byleth and Dimitri, and I took Dedue, Mercedes, and Ingrid for other slots. Dedue has a swell personal ability which makes him excellent at taking physical hits. Mercie I took because she was the only one who could heal. Ingrid I was really on the fence about, as my past experiences with her have not been the best, but I picked her for her Res, which came really in handy this battle. I made sure to stock up on as many weapons as I could, and I equipped everyone with 2 vulneraries. It did take several restarts to find the right combination of actions, and I admit that Mercedes went down, but because this is like, one of two battles that aren't permadeath, I just left her down. She was out of heals anyway, and we were close to winning. Her survival is, of course, more important to me moving forward. Even so, it took 26 turns (and several swears) to complete three mock battle. Bleh.

"HEY, KOSTAS, REMEMBER US?":

Oh, my Divine Pulses! *cries in joy* oh...there's...only 3 of them. Okay. Cool. I'm used to like...10, but this...this is fine.

This is a tough fight to start out with, because most of these dumb babies are still level 1. No one got to 5 from the practice battle because, like a dingus, I split my exp a little more evenly before thinking about what might happen next. Plus, those Poison Touch Archers are AGGRESSIVE. All the Swordbois have Pass, so we had to watch our backs to make sure no one was sneaking behind us to stab the squishier ones. Most of the battle, we kept to the initial bridge and let the enemies come to us. The bridge gives a nice choke point to control enemy movement. Much to my own surprise, we kept everyone alive and didn't need to use any Divine Pulses (oh me of little faith). As long as you're mindful of archer range, it's workable.

DP Used: 0

Mutiny in the Mist:

CATHERINE IS AN EXP THIEF. WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?

*ahem*

Fog...sucks. About half the army had torches ready, and we only lost of one of our allied soldiers (because he ran himself through an enemy weapon. I cannot help you, sir), so not too bad! About midway through the map, I used a Pulse to pull Sylvain back up (STOP. MISSING.). At this point, Ingrid and Sylvain had learned their basic Reason magic, but their Magic skills are craaaaaaap. Sylvain I know will grow better, and Ingrid we're mostly expecting to crit, but it's a weird progression. I've never gone for straight Magic Ingrid before. When not using magic, she's been proccing her Crest fervently in the hopes that I will reconsider and have her focus on the Lance. *laughs in distance*

At the very least, having Annette, Mercedes, and Dimitri all healing was a boon. Dedue actually crit Lonato to low health, which blew away a lot of his difficulty.

This map is also funny, because I forgot I don't have access to adjutants in the very beginning, so we have to court Ferdinand the old-fashioned way. :P HE SHALL JOIN US YET. If nothing else, his weapon and vulneraries both get restored after each battle, which means "resources I don't have to worry about." As long as he's not stealing exp getting KOs, we're all happy.

DP Used: 1

Gimme My Sword!:

So I was nervous about this because I know there's a lot of mages here, and the Lions aren't super Res-blessed as a whole. But they were okay! I did split the party--Dimitri, Byleth, Dedue, Ashe, Annette, and Ferdie to the left, and Sylvain, Felix, Ingrid, and Mercedes to the right. With Ingrid's Res, Felix's Crest-laced bow shots, Sylvain's raw strength, and Mercie's healing/Res/magic, the right side was only in deep trouble at one point. I was afraid I'd need to reset entirely, but Felix just straight dodged a lethal hit, and they pushed forward. Plus, Ingrid and Sylvain both knew Heal, which was helpful.

Meanwhile, Left Team slowly fed Annette axe kills, and Dimitri and Ashe dispatched the reinforcements. The kids are shaping up well!

DP Used: 1

Closing Thoughts:

it's, uh, it's tough. It's a completely different set of resources to work with. Having 3 Divine Pulses instead of 10 really changes how careful I am: if there's an issue, I am closer to restarting the battle than being able to rewind, which is more time spent. I knew I wouldn't start with a lot of activity points, but I had forgotten how desolately you begin. Mostly I have using my AP for faculty training and cooking for the stat boosts. My truest love, fishing, returns to me as I attempt to raise my professor level. But because I'm not dining with students, they often have low motivation, which prohibits me from training as intensely. With the battle time being longer overall, it's not as prohibitive towards weapons, but magic has limited uses, so if I'm not pumping that in lessons, they learn it much more slowly. AND, even though we're getting weapon exp, it's at the cost of the weapons themselves, and this army is NOT made of money. So striving to find a balance is something of an issue, but I think I'm getting it.

Roster Progression (Post Tomb-Raiding):

Byleth: 10, Mercenary

Dimitri: 11, Priest

Dedue: 8, Soldier

Ashe: 8, Fighter

Felix: 10, Archer

Annette: 8, Monk

Sylvain: 8, Monk

Mercedes: 8, Monk

Ingrid: 9, Monk

Current Professor Level: C

Time Stamp: 14:45

#molly's madlions #fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #blue lions #maddening mode #poison touch archers #fe3h #fe3h spoilers #fire emblem three houses spoilers #fe16 #fe16 spoilers #gamelog #let's play #naked madlions

0 notes

hamilkilo · 7 years

Text

The Little, Blue Hyundai Sonata

Prompt: AS REQUESTED BY ANON: “hamilsquad x reader where reader gets into a car accident and suffers brain damage and kinda resorts to a child like state and the hamilsquad have to try and take care of her”

Paring: Could be interpreted as Hamilsquad with some Laurens X Reader or Poly!Hamilsquad (Whichever sweetens your tea)

TW: Car accidents, swearing, loss of a loved one, abusive father figure, suicide attempt, reference to depression, suicidal thoughts, regression, trauma, panic attacks, nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety, breakdowns, refusing to eat, temper tantrums, mute, robbed, temporary character death, ambulances, vivid description of car accident/blood?

A/N: Thank you so much to the anon who requested this! I hope this is what you had in mind and I really hope you enjoy this! I hope this meets your standards! As always, thank you for all of your love and support! I love y'all! If you want me to tag something, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let me know! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! Please enjoy!

Word Count: 6140

You were fifteen when you got your first car. She was a blue, 2004 Hyundai Sonata, and you called her Sonya. Your father had driven her for a few years before you’d gotten her, and he took the new car. You didn’t mind though, you loved her. She had a few flaws like a busted air conditioner and cracked motor mounts-so she shook sometimes and rumbled when it was cold out-but you didn’t mind that. In fact, you loved her flaws. You found the rumbling of the engine soothing on the cold mornings. And Sonya had the fastest defrost you’d ever seen. You loved your car.

Sonya had seen it all. She saw you at your first job at Taco Bell. She saw the mental break downs and panic attacks that led up to your leave. You’d sit on the cloth seats as the engine rumbled low and cry, barely able to breathe.

She saw you get your driver’s license, and she was always there in the nick of time. You’d had several mishaps-you were really good at driving badly. Somehow, she always managed to keep you safe. Her breaks would work just in time, it seemed. As silly as it was, it almost felt like a partnership to you.

She saw your first kiss, too. She saw you lower your standards and French Charlie Lee in an abandoned church parking lot because you were afraid no one would love you. He moaned into your mouth across her console, and you froze up. After he left, you went straight to Peggy’s place and brushed your teeth. You went home after that and cried with your mom because that wasn’t anything like you’d been hoping.

Sonya saw you get robbed. Well, she was robbed. Some guy smashed her windows in and stood your backpack from the back seat. He stole your copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets with it. She also saw the return of it a month later when the police busted him.

Sonya watched you grow up beside her. She was always there-for the trips to school, the rehearsals, the crying, the screaming, and even the quiet monologues you’d give to the sky from the hood of her car-she saw it all. She was there when no one else was.

Then, your boys came along, and you drove Sonya less because you had no place you desired to go anymore. You’d carpool to work with Alex, go shopping with Laf, you never went alone it seemed, and the boys always insisted on driving. After they’d been with you for a few months, they’d tried to convince you to look for another, safer car. They called Sonya “a tin can” and said you’d be crushed like a sardine if you were ever in a wreck. Of course, you refused. Sonya was your car. You had a partnership with her; she kept you safe, and you kept her safe. And maybe, just a teensy, problematic part of you, wanted to be crushed like a sardine in an accident.

So you kept Sonya, and you drove the way you lived: fast and reckless. You blurred through backroads, jerked and jolted through stops, and you took corners fast enough that you could feel the weight shift… you’d never felt so close to flying before. You rode with your windows down, your hand out to feel the breeze on your skin. Your music was always loud and consuming. It was honestly a gift from God that you never got a ticket in the entire time you drove. Again, you were good at driving badly.

You had stayed late at work that night, finishing up a project that was due tomorrow. The boys wanted to stay up and wait for you, but after a rather long discussion, you had convinced them to go to bed-especially Alexander-and you were glad you did so because you left the office around midnight. It was all going to be worth it though. You were excited to see how your project panned out.

Your car was the only one left in the lot, and you grinned affectionately as you approached. You pressed unlock on the fob, and Sonya’s lights flashed. You got in, and the smell of Lavender Honey hit your senses immediately. Laf had picked that scent out last time you went shopping for an air freshener. You turned the engine over, and Sonya rattled to life, the growl of her engine loud and familiar. You plugged your phone into the aux chord and played your newest obsession, American Pie, over the speakers. You wanted to play it louder, but you couldn’t afford to pay off a ticket for disturbing the peace. It wasn’t too cold out that night, so you rolled your windows down and pulled out of the parking lot. The roads were desolate, and it green light after green light on your way home. You decided to take the back roads so you could crank your tunes and unwind a bit. Work had been stressful, so you decided to treat yourself.

You knew the back roads like the back of your hand. You knew every twist and jut. American Pie blasted out your window as you screamed the lyrics. You pulled to a stop before crossing the main road that intersected the back roads, and you glanced back and forth a few times. You didn’t see any lights coming your way, so you decided to go.

Sonya was there when you first started to hang around your boys. At first, it’d be a short car ride somewhere with one of them, just casual chatter. Then, it turned into longer car rides with the radio down and low voices. At some point, there were late night drives to the middle of nowhere just ‘cause and you’d hold hands on the gear shift. If she could talk, you were sure she’d approve. After all, she knew you just like you knew her.

Metal on metal. Tires screeching. Screaming. Music shorting out. More screaming. Popping noises. Metal groaning. Grinding. Sliding. Crunching. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.

Sonya was there when you sat on her and begged the universe for death. She listened quietly as you sobbed and pleaded. You were tired of the pain… you’d had this discussion before. Then you’d wait for things to get better. You waited years. Half a decade. And nothing had changed. Your tank was near empty. She was also there when you wiped your tears, got back in, and drove home. You were eighteen.

Pain. Blinding. Searing. Screaming. Blood was dripping… splattering. You felt like you were suffocating. The smell of singed hair and burning flesh clawed at your senses Lungs were burning, crumpling, dying. Every nerve in your body was engulfed in flame.

Sonya was there when you cut too deep the first time. You didn’t know it, but you’d missed a spot on the side of the chair where your blood had spilled over that night. She was there when your sobbing mother stuffed you into her passenger seat and drove you to the hospital, despite her fears. You had begged her not to call an ambulance. Everyone would know if she did. You promised you could make it. In retrospect, It was a stupid call, but you’d made it to the emergency room.

“So bye bye, Miss American Pie… Drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry… them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye… singing this’ll be the day that I die…”

Sonya was there when John Laurens first kissed you. He had always been the most affectionate one out of the bunch. You had parked on a backroad after a late night drive, and in the middle of saying something about the stars, he leaned in and kissed you. You had gripped the steering wheel tight in shock, but soon, your hands were in his hair, on his face, down his chest… he was all consuming, and Sonya knew you were happy again because you didn’t speed as fast on the way home.

You couldn’t tell where the metal shrapnel ended and your mangled body began. There was so much blood. Your head was spinning. It was too dark outside. You heard popping of metal settling, dripping of oil and blood. You had to get out of there… but oh, you couldn’t find your legs. Where were they? You couldn’t feel a damn thing but pain in every fiber. You couldn’t locate your legs. You began to panic. Where were they? Did you lose them? Where were you? Everything was disoriented, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you couldn’t find the stars. Blood was running up your forehead. Wait? Up? You must be upside down. But how? You were a sardine… you were trapped in the tin can. You tried to scream, but your voice was hoarse and your throats was raw. Panic strangled you. American Pie was still playing on loop, hauntingly cutting in and out, occasionally screeching. You had no idea how the aux chord stayed in place, but that was the least of your worries. You dug at the seatbelt, but it wouldn’t unlock. Your fingers were trembling, glistening with blood in the very little light available. Little black dots were filling your vision and you could feel your heartbeat, hammering. You began to claw at the seatbelt, desperate and afraid. You had to get out. There had to be a way out of this grave of carnage and warped metal. You didn’t want to die anymore! Things in your life had just gotten better! You weren’t ready yet! Your vision was going black, and you fought and clawed and cried, but to no avail.

Sonya was right by your side when your father screamed at you, calling you useless, pathetic, a disappointment. You had cried so hard and violently that night that you ruptured blood vessels in your eyes. You escaped to Sonya, with a quick lie that you were going to church, and you drove to an abandoned road, where you perched on the hood and swore at the sky. You trembled from the cold and the hurt that tore at you, but you kept screaming until you were hoarse. Then you lied back against her windshield and stared at the sky, wondering when you’d get to finally fly up to the stars.

She was there when your mother died, too. It was a sudden thing. She caught bronchitis. It wasn’t a big deal. You’d left with your father to go get dinner. When you came back, she was dead in the bed. You never recovered from that. You spent countless hours crying alone in your car. Then, you finally stopped crying. You liked to think that when you died, you’d leave an echo of yourself on the backroads, speeding with Sonya and blasting music. You’d blur down an old, forgotten road, and maybe the smell of Lavender Honey would linger after you’d pass. You were still looking for the blur of your mom. She had to be somewhere. But until you found her, you had Sonya. Sonya was a part of who you were. She was an anchor, a constant.

Sonya was there when you died on the roadside in her ribcage of tattered steel, and the paramedics had to bring you back several times. She watched them work, for what felt like hours, cutting away at the little tin can she was with the jaws of life. She was there when they loaded you up on the gurney into the back of the ambulance, unconscious, maybe even dead. Sonya didn’t know. She was just a little, blue, Hyundai Sonata, after all. Then, you were gone, and she was left, completely split in half by the collision caused by a drunk man doing over a hundred miles down the road with his headlights off. He had died on impact, but you weren’t so lucky.

When you came to, you were confused. You didn’t know where you were. Everything was bright and white… a chemical smell singed your nose and burned your lungs. Everything hurt, and you were crippled by fear. You looked around for anything that could be familiar, anything that could explain what was going on.

Your eyes settled on four men, passed out in the hospital chairs. You recognized them. This wasn’t Gilligan’s Island. You didn’t have amnesia. You stared at the boys, wanting to wake them up, but not wanting to put forth the effort to try and speak. So you stared at them. Then you fell back asleep.

When you woke back up, someone was holding your hand and weeping. They kept whispering things you didn’t understand, and every now and then, they’d kiss your face gently. As you became more awake, you recognized the quick, blurry French. This startled you. Laf had never been one to cry. Herc and John were more of the criers. John cried during Nemo, for crying out loud. Herc cried during Old Yeller, but that was expected. You did, too. Laf just shrugged it off. He said it was sad, sure, but he never cried. And then there was your big, strong Frenchman, weeping over you in a hospital. Whatever it was, it had to be bad. You glanced down and sighed in relief when you saw that you still had all of your limbs.

You looked down at him. He had buried his face in the crook of his arm, his hair in a very messy bun. His shoulders shook with sobs, and it pained you to see him like that. You pulled your hand from his, wincing at the fiery pain that coursed through you with each movement, and caressed the side of his face. He looked up at you with bleary eyes, then he cupped your hand to his face and scrunched his eyes closed. His usually carefully groomed facial hair was a bit out of control and his eyes were rimmed red.

“Mon ange,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “Je suis désolé. Je suis très, très, très désolé.”

He began to speak quickly in French, and you watched him, borderline alarmed, as he rambled on and clutched at your hand like a life line.

At some point, the others came back, and Herc pulled Laf into his arms as they both cried together. Your usually verbose Alex was completely silent, the bags under his eyes darker than usual. Laurens had collapsed on the side of your bed, arms draped around you, sobbing. You felt like you should be crying, too. But you couldn’t. You just watched. You felt a sense of cold and withdrawn. It wasn’t a big deal, really. You were still alive.

You got bored of watching them cry and searched for another source of entertainment. You spotted a pen and pad of paper on the table next to your beside, and you quickly scooped it up. Your muscles ached, but your boredom overcame pain. You began to sketch and color absentmindedly on the pad until they finally stopped crying.

“Y/N?” Hercules had whispered, and your hand paused in acknowledgement before you continued to color. “How do you feel?” You shrugged, still not looking up, and continued your work.

“Honey,” John tried this time, cupping your face. You still didn’t look up. You were busy. “Are you in any pain? Do I need to get a nurse?”

When you didn’t reply, John let go of your face and watched you, looking for a sign that you were there.

Even Lafayette tried. “Mon ange, please. We need to know that you are okay. We’re worried about you.”

About thirty seconds passed of silence so tense and tangible that it could be cut with a knife. Then, Alex exploded. “I can’t fucking do this!”

Without any such explanation, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door. John started crying again, but you just kept coloring. They didn’t try to talk to you for a while after that.

You were in the hospital for a week, and you hadn’t spoken a word. The psychologist had come by to evaluate you, but you merely ate soup and stared at her. She eventually explained that you were in a psychosis as a coping method from the accident. You figured she was wrong though, you just didn’t feel like talking. It required too much effort. So you colored on the pad.

The doctors had changed your bandages and sent you for X-rays and follow ups several times. You’d eaten an obscene amount of jello-which you didn’t even really like but were forced to consume-and you’d probably watched the same Friends episode they kept rerunning about ten times. You’d glance at the door every now and then, but Alex hadn’t been by. In contrast, John never left your side unless Herc physically carried him from the room and took him home to make sure he was taken care of. Usually, when that happened, Laf would stay with you, stroke your hair, and talk to you in French. Even though you didn’t tell him, he knew it comforted you and that you enjoyed it.

Eventually, Alex came to see you. He didn’t say very much. He apologized for being away and told you how much he loved you, but most of his visit was spent in silence as he just sat beside you and held your hand. You continued to color with your free one.

They finally released you to go home, and Herc wheeled you from the hospital. However, when he got to the car, panic seized your chest. Flashes came back. The metal. The screaming. The smell. You were trapped in the memories like a sardine in a tin can. You clawed at your hip, trying to get the seatbelt off. It wouldn’t come off. You couldn’t get it off.

“Y/N! Y/N!”

You felt something grab your hands, and you began to struggle, but the grip was too strong. You opened your eyes to see Herc holding your hands, crouched in front of you. You looked down at your hip. There was no seatbelt, just bloody, red lines in your flesh from where you’d clawed just a second ago. Blood was caked under your nails, but Herc didn’t seem to mind.

He held onto your hands as you trembled, wanting to cry, but unable to. The tears were stuck. They wouldn’t come out. “Y/N,” he murmured as he ran his hands up and down your arms. “It’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not leaving you, okay? You aren’t there anymore. You’re here with me, and I promise I’ll keep you safe. Okay? I promise.”

You shook your head, then looked down at your lap. You picked up the pen and started coloring again. Herc sighed and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number, and after a brief conversation, he wheeled you back into the hospital, much to your relief. That was, until the nurse came up beside you and gave you a shot. Within minutes, you were calmed down. They sedated you. Herc had explained it was for your own good, which he was probably right, but it still pissed you off. You fell asleep as they wheeled you back outside.

When you woke up again, you were in your bed, and Alex was wrapped around you. Everything ached, but waking up with him was nice. You’d missed this in the hospital. You’d missed him. You stayed there and stared at him, just watching him sleep. You felt like a total creep, but you loved the way he smiled softly as he dreamed. You found it cute how he would gently nuzzle into you every now and then. He was adorably affectionate in his sleep.

The door creaked open, and Laf peeked in, seeing you were awake. “Mon ange, you’re awake!” He whispered excitedly. Then, he beckoned to you, “Come eat! I’ve made waffles! Your favorite!”

You were indifferent about the waffles, but you were interested in coloring again, so you crawled out of bed. Alex reached out for you, but you were already gone. You followed Laf to the kitchen, where you grabbed your pad and pen and continued your work. He sat a plate down in front of you, but you completely ignored it. You didn’t feel like eating.

“Y/N?” Laf purred as he leaned his chin on his hand and watched you from his seat beside you. “Aren’t you going to eat?” You shrugged, still coloring. He didn’t say anything. He just watched you work as the waffles got cold.

Eventually, John came inside from a jog, and he greeted you with a kiss on the cheek. You didn’t even look up.

“John,” Laf murmured, “Elle ne mange pas.” You may not be speaking, but that didn’t make you deaf either. You knew he had told John you weren’t eating. You didn’t see the big deal. You had better stuff to do.

“Y/N? You need to eat,” John said softly beside you, but you ignored him. Why were they all so keen on interrupting you? You were trying to have a good time.

John sighed before he sat down and began to cut up your waffle. When he finished, he speared a piece and held it up to your lips, but you didn’t react. It was as if he wasn’t even there. Suddenly, the pad disappeared from beneath your hands, and your eyes snapped up to his.

“You can have this back when you’ve eaten,” he said sternly. All logic flew away. You lost it. You slammed your fist on the table in outrage, then you swept the plate to the floor. It shattered, sending waffle and syrup everywhere. You stood in the middle of the carnage, panting and shaking with rage and anxiety. You just wanted to color. Why couldn’t they just let you have that one fucking thing.

“Y/N! Don’t move!” Laf instructed as he rushed to get the broom, glass crunching under his shoes. He came back and began to sweep while you stared at the notebook John had in his hands. John was staring at you in shock.

“Hey, what happened? Is everyone okay?” Herc came into the kitchen, a pair of pajamas slung loosely on his hips, his chest bare. He had just come from the shower. He saw you standing in the middle of the broken glass and glanced at the other two for an explanation.

“She won’t eat,” John finally forced out, exasperated. “She threw a temper tantrum.” It pissed you off, the way he talked like you weren’t there, but you wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t say anything. You might as well not even be there, after all.

Herc glanced at Lafayette, whose head was ducked as he swept. You had a hunch that he was hiding his emotions. Once he had cleared the glass, he put the broom away and didn’t come back. You probably really upset him. You didn’t really care.

“Y/N,” Herc tried as he sat you down st the table. You still stared at the notebook John clutched. “We’re just trying to help you.” You were still mad about the whole sedation thing, but that could be overlooked if you got back to coloring soon.

John sighed and handed you your pad, knowing he was only making things worse. You sighed happily and continued to color as the other two stared at you. They didn’t have to say it out loud for you to know what they were thinking. That car accident really messed you up. Maybe it did. You didn’t care.

A week had passed, maybe two or three… you weren’t sure. All you knew was that you were never alone. The first few days were rough. You’d had several melt downs, you threw things a lot, but they wouldn’t relent until you’d eaten something. You eventually realized it was easier to eat a few orange slices than to throw an entire tantrum. So you ate small portions of what they would put in front of you. Each day they’d rotate in and out. Each one keeping you to the same schedule. You’d wake up, eat a banana. You’d color, they’d watch you and try to talk with you. Eventually, it’d be lunch time, and they’d place a PB&J in front of you with some milk and apple slices, and you’d nibble on the sandwich, eat half the slices, and if you were in a particularly bad mood, you’d throw the glass of milk. Somehow, with all of your rage and aggression, the boys never once yelled at you or lost it on you for breaking all their stuff. They never screamed at you the way your father had. Then they’d lead you to the bed for a nap. You’d sleep until the boys came home. You’d eat dinner with them. You’d all sit together on the living room, you coloring, then doing their own thing… every day was the same thing.

You had nightmares a lot now, too. You’d bolt straight up in a sweat, usually screaming. That was the only time you’d ever use your voice. Even in your tantrums, you were quiet… but the nightmares… you couldn’t stop screaming. You’d wake them all up with your screams and crying, and they’d get you one of your prescribed sleeping pills. They’d hold you, whisper to you, comfort you’d until you fell back asleep. But the nightmares always came back.

Alex was watching you late one night. You always stayed up with him, afraid to go to sleep. Afraid of the nightmares. The boys understood this without you having to say a thing, and they left you beside a typing Alexander as you scribbled away on the pad.

“Y'know, you talk in your sleep,” he had said as he causally typed. Your coloring paused, but then you shrugged it off and kept going. He continued. “It’s the only time I get to hear your voice anymore, aside from when you’re screaming… Sometimes, if I’m really lucky, you’ll breathe my name in your sleep, soft, like a secret… and you’ll whisper about love, and death, and everything in between. Shit, I’m making this sound more poetic than it is. Sometimes, you mumble about penguins in space,” he laughed as his fingers hovered over the keys. “But when you whisper my name… oh,” he breathed, covering his face with his hands, “I think that you’re coming back to me.”

You didn’t say anything when his shoulders began to shake, and his breathing was a bit more jagged. You just let him cry on you, his laptop forgotten on the seat next to him. You just colored.

It had been maybe a month. You could tell that your boys were exhausted. You were a handful. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t feel anything. You liked it that way. They’d spent all of their time and energy taking care of you. The feeding, cleaning, cooking… not to mention the emotional toll it took on them to see you this way. They were trying to be patient. They didn’t want to rush you. But it was hard when you wouldn’t even look at them, let alone speak to them. They were getting tired of sweeping up broken glass… but they loved you, so they kept doing it. They kept hoping that you could somehow come back from this. But as time dragged on, they began to wonder if you ever really would.

You got a phone call one day, out of the blue, from an unknown number. No one had called you when your boys explained your unwillingness to speak. John was out in the yard, gardening, and you didn’t want to disturb him. You answered the call, curious. You didn’t say anything, you just put it on speaker and put the phone on the table as you continued coloring.

“Y/N?” That was all it took. You dropped the pen. He wasn’t calling you. He couldn’t be. He hadn’t spoken to you since you’d left. Not a phone call, text, nothing. Why now? “Hello? Y/N, if you’re there, I want you to know that I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I know we didn’t leave things on good terms… I know that I screwed up…” his voice cracked, and you felt your chest clench. “But you’re still my daughter, okay? And I still love you. When I-when I heard that you had been in a car accident, I couldn’t breathe. It destroyed me. And I know I’ve been a shitty dad, and I know I should’ve called, and I’m sorry. Y/N, I’m so sorry…” he was sobbing on the other end. Something he’d only done at your mom’s funeral. “But I’m calling now, and I’m worried about you. I know how bad you were after your… after she… and I need to make sure that you’re taking care of yourself. You need to be eating, and drinking lots of fluids… and make sure you’re sleeping enough… Don’t forget to take your meds, okay?”

You didn’t say anything. Your chest was too tight. You couldn’t breathe. As much as you hated it, it felt so damn good to hear your father’s voice. That pissed you off, but you couldn’t say anything.

After you said nothing, he sighed, “I don’t expect you to ever speak to me again. I know I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry for that. There’s no fixing that. But I want you to know that I still love you, okay? I do, a lot. So hang in there, take care of yourself. Alright? Love you, Y/N. Bye.” The line went dead, and it felt like a balloon popped in your chest. Air rushed your lungs, and you could breathe again. Then you began sobbing. You cried for the first time since the accident. You looked down at the messy coloring, and your face flushed. How dare he call you and apologize! He thought a call would make up for his years of bullshit? He didn’t even bother to come fucking see you! You died on the side of that road, and he never even thought to come visit you! He couldn’t even be bothered to actually come down to make sure you took care of yourself. He just figured a shitty phone call would get the job done!

In a rage, you began to rip out the pieces of paper, tearing them to bits. The drawings were incoherent swirls and patterns anyway. It all meant nothing anyway. You ripped each page out, shredding it and screaming.

You felt hands on your shoulders and you were pulled into a chest. You stopped ripping the papers and began to sob as John held you.

“Y/N,” his voice caressed you, “Did something happen?”

Your body shook with sobs, and you finally managed to stutter out, “I just really fucking missed you, John.”

And like that, everything broke. You couldn’t keep it together. You wailed and clung to John like a child, who, admittedly, cried as well. You were finally coming back. You just sat on the floor, surrounded by bits of shredded paper, sobbing.

“I don’t know what to do, John,” you rambled, unable to shut up now, “I’m just so scared all the time. I don’t want to be like this anymore. I don’t want to be broken. And I don’t know how to be anything else right now. And I’m sorry that I’ve been such a burden-”

“Stop it,” he blubbered as he grabbed your face between his hands, “You aren’t a burden. Don’t say that. We love you, so taking care of you is in the job description. Okay? Don’t ever think of yourself as a burden.”

You started to cry harder. You didn’t feel like you deserved how kind he was being to you. “It’s just not fair. Everything was starting to get better. I was starting to get better. And then I had to go and fucking die. And now I’m back, but I’m in pieces, and none of it makes sense anymore, and I can’t breathe. I’m still trapped in that tin can, a sardine out of water. I don’t know how to escape. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to do anything!”

John pulled you against his chest and held you there, gently rocking you back and forth. “That’s okay, Y/N. It’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to not know what to do. And yeah, what happened wasn’t fucking fair, but we have to move forward. We have to rebuild. And if words of love were enough to take away every broken bone and scar on your soul, then I would utter every word I know to express to you how much you are loved… but I know that won’t fix it. It’s okay, though. You’re going to get there. I promise. You’re going to get to a place where you’re okay someday, and we’ll be there with you. But for now, it’s okay to be broken. It’s okay for you to be in pieces, just let me hold you here until you’re ready to put yourself back together. We’re not leaving you. Not now, not ever.”

And true to his word, he sat with you on the floor until you managed to cry yourself to sleep in his arms.

Sonya had always been there for you. It had been a while since you’d last seen her. But eventually, you were able to ride in the car without needing a sedative or a paper bag. It had been a few months since the incident. For some reason, the boys had saved the pieces of your totaled car at a junk yard. They knew how much you’d loved little, blue Sonya.

She was a disaster when you saw her your last time, just as you had been a disaster when she saw you her first time. She mirrored who you used to be. She was dented, scratched up, crushed, broken, and all around just a mess of scraps and jagged metal. Still, she was your baby.

The boys hadn’t said so, but you knew they had brought you here to say goodbye. You traced your fingers over her dented and warped hood, the place you used to sit. It was cold beneath your fingers. Usually, It was warm from the engine beneath it when you’d sit on it, but then again, you figured her engine couldn’t run anymore. The driver’s side door was completely gone, and the passenger side was caved in. She was split clean in two in the accident. You saw the gear shift where you had held hands on one of your first dates with the boys. You got flashbacks of who you used to be, where you’d gone, in Sonya. You’d been a lot of places. You’d flown to the sun and back with her.

But you didn’t want to fly anymore. You knew what it meant to fly too close to the sun and crash back to the earth. You couldn’t handle that again. And besides, you had nothing to search for anymore. You had nowhere else you wanted to be. You had your life here. You’d found love. You’d found the ability to move on. You’d found yourself again. You were on your way to being okay. No, scratch that. You were on your way to being happy. You didn’t need Sonya to fly anymore. And her, being the perfect partner in the relationship, understood that because she understood you. She had watched you grow up after all.

You walked back to the car where your boys were waiting, and Sonya sat in the junkyard. She’d seen it all. She was an old car, after all. But she had truly seen it all when she watched you drive away with your boys. She knew you were happy. Well. As much as a little, blue, Hyundai Sonata could know. And you were going to miss that rumble on the cold nights and driving with the windows down. You were going to miss the feeling of flying with the wind in your hair. You were going to miss Sonya. But when you glanced over your shoulder, you realized that it was just a pile of metal scraps; just the shell of the car you loved so dear. She had watched you grow up now, and she was so proud that you didn’t need her. You weren’t fifteen anymore, and you didn’t need to fly when you had your life on the ground. And just like that, she wasn’t your Sonya anymore. She was just a car in the junkyard.

237 notes · View notes